An old man trudged up the hill, his grandson beside him, their breaths visible in the cold. The boy reached up, his small hands brushing the folds of the old man’s keffiyeh, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill around them.

The man paused, his finger trembling as he pointed to a house perched on the hill, its walls scarred and silent, its windows hollowed by years of abandonment. “That was ours,” he said, his voice a low tremor that carried the weight of generations.

The boy tilted his head, his eyes wide with curiosity. “What happened?” he asked.

The old man’s gaze didn’t waver from the distant house. “One day, you’ll understand,” he replied, his words as heavy as the silence the emptiness of fields that once knew laughter.

As they descended the hill, their steps crunching against the frozen ground, they returned to the only shelter they had left—a shack, patched together with scraps, the wind slipping through its thin walls. Inside, the cold pressed against them, but it was nothing compared to the chill that lingered in the oppressors’ hearts.

The old man sat by a flickering flame, its faint warmth barely enough to soften the memories. He closed his eyes, the biting wind outside a reminder of all that had been stolen—the land, the home, the laughter that once filled their days.

But the fire within him remained. As he sat in reflection, he thought of the words he would one day say to his grandson. Words that would carry the story of their suffering, their resistance, and their unyielding spirit. Words to keep alive the truth of what his people endured.

For now, he prepared, hoping he’d be given the chance to pass on their history, their pain, and their unbroken will to survive. On this cold day of the year, it was clear—the cold did not come from the winter, but from those who had taken everything and called it their own.

The Day they Grew Cold

It was the day they divided Them into sects for conflict.

It was the day they betrayed Them, smiling in friendship while stabbing Their backs after years of partnership.

A man handed his olive oil only for them to return the next day with bulldozers.

It was the day they whispered warnings and lies into the ears of the world where fear grew where trust once stood.

“Beware them,” they warned.

It was the day they colonized Their land and drew borders with steel and fire.

“That was our home," an old man told his grandson, as a wall divided the horizon.

It was the day new flags flapped over Their homes and Their language erased from the streets.

It was the day Their names carved into headstones instead of history books.

It was the day they killed Them in cold blood.

The boy had been playing soccer in the alley when the sound of a drone silenced the game forever.

It was the day they conspired against Them for their own victory.

Maps drawn in distant rooms wiped out entire lives, villages reduced to numbers on a chart.

It was the day they lied and fabricated terror so that That Group be labeled out.

“They’re dangerous,” they said.

It was the day they called Them savages and rebels, as though it is savage to defend Their homes, as though rebellion is a crime when all They wanted was to live.

House doors were broken, and windows were shattered.

It was the day they called Them terrorists for defending Their families.

It was the day they turned Their children’s laughter into silence by drone strikes.

It was the day they imprisoned Them for crimes They didn’t commit.

The cell was dark, but the voices of his family echoed in his mind, keeping him alive.

It was the day they stamped Their dead as collateral damage.

It was the day they bullied Them because of the media.

“They are not like us,” they all said and believed.

It was the day they humiliated Them and everyone They cared about.

It was the day they disregarded any law or order on Them because They were labeled subhuman.

It was the day they called Them names and mocked Them in the name of humor.

It was the day they laughed, mocking Them for accents, for prayers, for skin.

It was the day they gave themselves rights over Them.

“They don’t belong here,” said the settlers, as they planted flags on stolen rooftops.

It was the day they invaded Their countries for “peace making and liberation,” but all they brought was ruin.

It was the day they deprived them of basic human rights.

It was the day they turned Their life into a prison without bars.

They said the walls were for peace, but all they did was divide the living from the barely living.

It was the day they shut their eyes and ears if it meant any justice to Them.

Across the border, screens played sitcoms while the cries of bombed neighborhoods went unheard.

It was the day they chose hate and racism over Them—and only Them.

It was the day they tortured and traumatized Them in ways unimaginable.

The nightmares stayed even after the screams had faded, haunting the nights of those who survived.

It was the day they raped Them.

One woman sat in silence, her hands trembling. The other was imprisoned at 19 and was released at 32 with 3 kids from unknown fathers.

It was the day they pushed Them out of their homes.

A place They would never see again.

“You have no place here anymore,” they said.

It was the day they cast Them away.

A man turned back one last time, the key to his home heavy in his pocket, now just a relic of the past.

It was the day they drew lines across our lands, claiming them as their own while the ink of our blood had barely dried.

It was the day they dropped bombs on a school and called it a mistake.

It was the day they had Them run for food dropping from the skies, only for Them to be shot one by one. Then calling Them savages.

It was the day they rejected declaring what was happening to Them as genocide.

It was the day they vetoed a ceasefire in the name of self-defense.

It was the day they witnessed women and children burning in camps and denied any form of aggression that was inflicted on Them and concealed.

The graveyards grew faster than the olive groves, rows of nameless stones filling the land.

An old man stood barefoot in the rubble, his keffiyeh stained with ash and tears.

The coldness wasn’t in the air—it was in their hearts. These were the coldest days.

But the grandson never grew to hear the full story. He was just a boy playing soccer in the alley when the sound of a drone silenced the game forever. His laughter joined the silence of so many before him, etched into the rubble, into the walls of shattered homes, and into the old man’s heart. Now, the old man walks alone, carrying the weight of the stories untold. The keffiyeh still rests on his shoulders, heavy with the whispers of a history denied, a future stolen. Yet, his story will not be buried with him.

Every grandson, every child who stands beside him on the hill, touching the fabric of his keffiyeh, will hear the truth. He will share the story with them all, a story of injustice, resistance, and enduring hope. For even as their children are silenced, their truth resounds louder than the coldest day of the year.

It is not the cold of winter, but the frozen hearts of oppressors that cannot withstand the warmth of memory and resistance.

This is a testament to resistance and the enduring spirit of those who suffer and who we refuse to erase.