Sitting in the backseat of a taxi heading to Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv, I waved goodbye to my grandmother while trying hard to hold back tears. I was nine years old at the time and I had no idea that this moment would be the last time I’d ever see her again.

My sitto’s name was Myassar – a beautiful name that suited her beautiful persona. Although she faced and endured the horrors of a brutal military occupation on a regular basis, she led a very beautiful life. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I didn’t have many experiences with her; after all, she lived thousands of miles away behind military installations and army-grade checkpoints. But after thinking back upon the few moments I did manage to share with her, I feel nothing short of admiration for the person she was, the kindness she embodied, and her dedication to defying the inherently vile nature of occupation, injustice, and oppression.

The earliest memory I have of Myassar happened in the summer of 2000, just months before Ariel Sharon’s visit to the Temple Mount sparked the Second Intifada. My uncle led Mama, my little sister, and I up the stairs of a humble apartment building in Gaza City to where my grandmother lived. She knew we were coming but she didn’t know when so we took advantage of the circumstances and hoped to surprise her. I peered into the room and found her sitting on a beige-colored couch, but even after calling for her attention, she never turned my way. “She’s praying,” Mama told me, and that’s when I first began to take notice of how spiritually motivated and pure sitto was. [Read more...]