Our childhood memories are the events, experiences that we lived with our sisters and brothers; they are the special events that no one can ignore, or forget, the experiences that can be only shared by those have the bounds of brotherhood and not by anybody else.



The memories I had with my sisters and brothers are only for us, and only we as a family will enjoy recalling them, and living again that old experience. However, this can happened when we live together in the same area, or even had the chance to meet again over the years to recall these dear memories of our childhood.



Another hidden part but very painful of the Palestinian sufferings is the story of the families who are scattered around the world, settled in different countries, after their flee in 1948, having different lives, and loosing their childhood memories.



Two of my aunts from my father side lived in Saudi Arabia, and Libya, another uncle died in Lebanon, while other aunts from my mother side live in Saudi Arabia too. Of course neither my parents nor we know anything about their children, their lives, how they look, or how they live except of some rare telephone calls from time to time.



A week ago my mother in-low received the news that one of her brothers died in Kuwait, of course I was surprised, I have never heard about him before, but it seems that he is like many other Palestinians make their own lives out of Gaza, and the result loosing any connection with his roots inside Gaza. My mother in-low though she cant remember how he looks like she was very sad to receive this news, because as she said, she wished to have a chance to share with him again the old memories when they were children and living together. She wished to know him better, or to have the chance to see how he looked after 70 years, she wished that they can make fun of each other about being old.



The same can be told about my father, my mother and about my father in-low, whose brothers are scattered in different Arabic and European countries, a destiny that brought more pain to the Palestinians.



I remember when my uncle passed away five years ago, the uncle I never saw, or talked to, I did not feel anything, I did not feel sad, I did not care, not because I am a stonyhearted person, but because I have nothing to share with this uncle, not a single memory, I even can not recall an image into my mind of how he looked.



The painful fact, that I have two brothers who choose to live their lives outside Gaza, they got married, and have children, the irony that their children will feel the same way I felt toward my passed away uncle, though we talk over the phone, but this can not bring something in common that we can share or even remember, I can not say anything about their hobbies, what they like or dislike, I can not choose them a gift because I don’t know what their favorite colors are, or what they most like. I can’t tell how they think, and they can tell the same about me, about the rest of their aunts, and about their grandparents.



By the time passing, I will even forget the way my two brothers look like, and can not make fun of them when they got old, I can not tell how they will look. One day I will have the same news that my father and my mother in lows received, will I grieve, will I cry, will I be able to tell something about them, about their lives, their children, or I will keep my sadness inside me!!!.