There are words bursting to come out of our throats, bubbling angrily like magma. They melt away our guts and veins, every part that keeps us alive. The anger has been boiling since we grew up as refugees in a dusty old camp in the Gaza Strip, walking barefoot in the mud, queuing up every month waiting for our rations of flour, dried milk and corned beef from the United Nations.
It has been boiling since we started work at the age of 9, since we saw Israeli jeeps and bullets. We saw them before, during and after an intifada. We saw them when “peace” talks were taking place and when there were no such negotiations. We saw them regardless of whether the Oslo accords had been signed or not. Now all these things are part of our memories, jumbled up with images of curfews, checkpoints, fences, walls, helicopters, F-16s.
They come back to us as we watch something new happening in Gaza, as we see our friends and families marching peacefully for their right of return.