Whenever the word "refugee" is uttered, I think of my mother. When Zionist militias began their systematic onslaught and "cleansing" of the Palestinian Arab population from historic Palestine in 1948, she, along with her family, ran away from the once peaceful village of Beit Daras.

Back then, Zarefah was 6. Her father died in a refugee camp in a tent provided by the Quakers soon after he had been separated from his land. She collected scrap metal to survive.

My grandmother, Mariam, would venture out to the "death zone" that bordered the separated and newly established state of Israel from Gaza's refugee camps to collect figs and oranges. She faced death every day. Her children were all refugees, living in shatat — the Diaspora.