A MERE three months ago, we had the rare privilege of visiting our family in the Gaza Strip, a place I’ve always romanticised despite the more than 16-year-long blockade, preceded by 55 years of Israeli military occupation.
Even though we were displaced to Gaza as refugees from Ashkelon, it still represents home to me. As a Palestinian-American who holds a Gaza ID, I can’t enter Gaza through Israel and I can’t exit without Israel’s permission.
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