My 12-year-old brother Mazen ran into the kitchen, shouting that the eggplants were sprouting. He held up the tiny green shoots, his hands shaking. My older brother Mohammed and I rushed outside, laughing despite the fear that had become our constant companion. Each sprout was a victory.
Before Gaza’s skies darkened with smoke and the ground shook with bombs, our garden was a lush tapestry of trees and plants, each leaf and branch woven into our family memory. Birds danced above the branches. Five ancient trees stood tall, twisted trunks weathered by sun and wind, branches heavy with black and green olives.
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