I was born in Qalanswa, when it was still called a village. Mud streets, low houses, everyone knows everyone, and the sun always felt closer there. A small house, a family of seven. I, the youngest, share a room where feet get confused at night and silence is a rare gift. My parents were simple people. My father is a farmer, a strawberry grower with tired hands and a big heart. My mother, at first a social worker, then helped him in the fields, and finally cleaned other people's houses, but kept ours clean to the point of respect.

They prayed five times a day. The house was draped in carpets, smelled of tea with mint, and in a silence that didn't ask too many questions. Only I didn't make an effort to fit in. I always looked around and asked. Why does everyone think the same? Why are there rules that I don't understand? Why do I feel different?

At the age of 12, the second intifada broke out. In the evenings we would watch Al Jazeera. I was glued to the screen, following Shirin Abu Aqla’s reports. Then I noticed that the shadows on the wall were all coming from the same direction – the army killed, the occupation destroyed. And there was no other side. And I, a girl from Qalanswa, started asking: Why? And who started it? And what if there is pain on that side too?