My grandfather was not a refugee like the 1.3 million Palestinian refugees living in Gaza, which is home to a population of approximately 2 million people. He was a farmer, who worked in cities like Haifa and Aka before inheriting his own farm in Gaza from his parents. Aaccording to him, not being able to go back to work in Haifa and Aka like before, however, made him feel like he was a refugee. This turned him into a completely different person. He fell in love with his farm in Gaza and used to spend more than 50 hours per week on that piece of green land.

It was his refuge for most his life. He made his Arabic salad there, using the tomatoes, onions, and peppers he planted. Green and sour grapes were an option when he didn’t have salt. The olive oil gave his salad a unique taste that I can’t describe in words. My father begged him not to drink the unfiltered water at the farm, but he couldn't be convinced, as he loved everything that came from his land. He once described his farm’s unfiltered water as real and  the filtered as fake.

The shade from the high olive trees that had been planted on his farm hundreds of years ago was his cover from the sun in the summer, and their dark green leaves were an umbrella for him in the winter. Citruses were his fruits, and the huge, local eggplant and cucumber were his vegetables.

I once questioned how he had shaved his beard before his death. I found out later that he had his own, little place for shaving on his farm. He hid a blade, a piece of soap, and a broken mirror behind a rock beside the farm's back fence.

The tough man with green eyes and gray hair, who walked an hour to his farm with a walking stick every day at dawn, was my grandfather. I guarantee he loved his farm more than anything else—not because it’s where he spent his time, but because land means life.

I am not exaggerating when I say that he died from sorrow over the 2012-2013 bombing of his Gaza farm.