Green and Yellow: Two lines that separate me from my land

Israel can draw as many lines as it wants, but we will not give up the right to our land.A Palestinian writer from Gaza.Published On 30 Mar 2026A photo of the author's neighbourhood in Khan Younis, Gaza Strip taken on April 28, 2024 [Courtesy of Refaat Ibrahim]It is Land Day today in Palestine, a day when we commemorate our special bond with the Palestinian land. And I cannot help but think about my grandfather, his dispossession, and the repetition of that trauma in my own life.My grandfather, Hamdan, was 12 years old when Zionist forces began the campaign of ethnic cleansing that we now call the Nakba. He lived with his family in the village of al-Faluja. They were peasants who got by working their land, raising farm animals, and selling their seasonal crops at local markets.Starting in early 1948, al-Faluja came under attack from Zionist militias. It was a strategic target due to its location at the centre of a network of roads leading north to Jerusalem and Jaffa and south to Gaza. As the brutal Zionist assaults intensified, my grandfather fled with his family to nearby villages.They did not take anything with them, thinking they would return soon. The only thing they carried was the key to the door of their home. An Egyptian brigade held on to al-Faluja, besieged by Zionist forces well into 1949. The armistice between Egypt and the newly established Israel forced them to abandon their positions.The Green Line was drawn, leaving 78 percent of historic Palestine in Zionist control and cutting off my grandfather from his ancestral village for the rest of his life.It is in the nature of colonisers to fear anything that reminds them of the land’s rightful owners, because it exposes the fact that they have taken what does not belong to them. Israeli militias therefore set out to destroy what remained of al-Faluja, along with other Palestinian villages, and in the 1950s established several settlements on its land, including Kiryat Gat, Shahar and Nir Hen.In Gaza, my grandfather’s family struggled to build a new life. Although the idea of return never left their imagination, the harsh reality forced them to adapt. They settled in an area east of Khan Younis, where they planted olive and citrus trees and built a home.My grandfather made it a point to teach his children and grandchildren about agriculture. But he did not just tell us how to plant and grow; he taught us how to root ourselves in a land that is our historical right. He always told us that if it was taken from us by force, it would not be returned as a gift. It would come at a heavy price, because Israel knows it has taken something it has no right to, and will therefore respond with brutality when we demand it back.I was just eight years old when I got a taste of what my grandfather had lived through. During the 2008-09 Israeli war on Gaza, I was displaced with my family for the first time.Five and a half years later, when I was 13, the Israeli war machine attacked again. This time, it destroyed my home and the homes of all eight of my uncles. That experience was the final blow for my grandfather, who had carried the burden of almost 70 years of displacement and destruction in his heart. He passed away just days after seeing our olive trees and homes destroyed.But we had learned the lesson well from my grandfather. We stayed on the land. We rebuilt our homes. We replanted our trees and put our roots deep into the soil once more.In October 2023, the occupation launched its genocide against the people of Gaza. Amid death and destruction everywhere, we were forced to flee our homes once again.Once again, Israeli forces destroyed our homes and uprooted the trees, killing many of our relatives and neighbours.Last year, Israel drew the so-called Yellow Line, swallowing nearly 60 percent of the Gaza Strip. This line now stands between me and my home, just like the Green Line stood between my grandfather and al-FalujaWhen I think about it, my heart feels heavy with the weight of all the years of occupation, even those I did not live through. I feel the suffering of those who came before me, of my ancestors longing to go back to their homes.Today, I carry the key to my house, just like my grandfather did. I carry it even though I know my home has been completely destroyed. I have seen it myself reduced to rubble, its remains taken away by the machinery of destruction. Still, I keep the key.Despite all this loss and suffering, we have no intention of leaving. For 77 years, Palestinians have been given various incentives to abandon their homeland. Israel has offered money, tickets and promises of a better life in exile. When that failed, it resorted to terror, imprisonment, home demolitions and economic siege in an attempt to break the Palestinian will.Yet the Palestinians have stood firm. Their relationship to the land goes beyond ownership. It is an existential belonging.Perhaps the clearest response to this colonial project lies in the demographic reality. Palestinians in Gaza numbered about 80,000 in 1948; they received nearly 200,000 refugees, including my grandfather’s family. Today, even after two years of genocide, we are two million people, holding on to our land, resisting expulsion and feeling more attached than ever.No matter the lines drawn by the occupier, whether green, yellow, or any other colour, they will fade in the face of our deeply rooted existence. No matter how long it takes, no matter how violent the colonial war machine becomes, we will remain here. Palestine is us, and we are it.The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.