All That Remains 

Exclusive Extract from Part Five

The weeks blurred since that day. Mama insisted I was home before dusk, but school carried on as usual. Amid my tightening fear, Amir settled into the rhythm of my days.  

One early morning, right before the break of dawn, we perched on that hill, our limbs tucked under my grandmother’s red and green blanket when without warning, Amir stood and held out a hand.  

Top left: Pre-Nakba Aerial view of Beit Daras

“Dance with me?” 

“Now?”  

A dull thud sounded far off across the hills. Amir’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing; by then we had all become experts at pretending.  

I rose and let my chin rest in the hollow of his neck as his arms circled my waist. We swayed in silence, guided by the faint noise of unseen wings and legs. 

Bottom left: An Israeli camp at Beit Daras, 1948

I knew, even then, that this would be the moment I carried into old age — when pain stiffened my body, when sorrow hollowed my days, when I lived somewhere far away. Already, neighbors were vanishing overnight; their doors left swinging in the wind. This, I realized, would be all that remained of Beit Daras.  

“Remember me,” he said.  

I drew back, startled. Amir smiled through his tears, and in that small space between us, the truth settled: we would not both survive this place.  

“Forever,” I vowed, and I let him hold me for the last time.