When the first Intifada commenced in December 1987, I had just turned 15. At the cusp of manhood, I had entered my first year at the famed Khaled Ibn Al-Walid High School in the Nuseirat Refugee Camp. Though future opportunities in a refugee camp under military occupation were restricted, my imagination had soared further than the confines of my family’s impoverished existence. Life, of course, had other plans. My father’s rebellious past was overpowered by the daily degradation of life of want under a merciless occupation. My grandfather had recently…
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