As we stroll through narrow alleys lined with ancient stone houses—echoes of our ancestors—I reflect on how some residents were forcefully displaced. Their homes were taken over by Jews who came under British protection, and whole streets were confiscated. It isn’t that we oppose their presence; we only resist being pushed out and having our homes looted.

Every wooden door tells a story of souls tired from yearning for the past. They live in memories, waiting for life to begin again, even though they do little to revive it. Their faith fills every corner of their homes and lights up their streets. Even a delicate flower along the road, desperate for a glimpse of Jerusalem’s light, was crushed by a Jewish military vehicle—an event seen by its supporters as just a passing phase.