Today in history, May 14th, 1948: Israel declared its independence.

For many, it’s a moment of statehood. For me, and for millions of Palestinians, it marks the beginning of everything we lost.

My grandparents were among those forced to flee their homes during the Nakba “the catastrophe.” They carried nothing but hope and heartbreak, never imagining they’d never be allowed to return. Homes were taken, villages erased, and generations displaced. What began as a declaration for one people became the permanent dislocation of another.

I was born decades later, in a different land, under a different flag but I carry their memories like heirlooms. I was raised not only with stories of orange groves and ocean air, but with the ache of exile. I am Palestinian because they were. Because they refused to forget. And because I refuse to let the world forget either.

Today is not just a date in a textbook. It’s the anniversary of our disappearance and our refusal to disappear.