As I was reading The Lemon Tree by Sandy Tolan, I came across a powerful moment at the end of Chapter 9. For the first time, Dalia Eshkenazi visited Bashir Khairi at his temporary home in Ramla. Bashir’s family had been forcefully expelled from the house where he had grown up—now occupied by Dalia’s family, recent Jewish immigrants from Bulgaria who had escaped persecution in Europe.
During their conversation, Dalia asked Bashir how it felt to know that someone else was now living in his home. Bashir, composed but firm, replied:
“How would you feel if you had to leave your home, with all of your belongings, your entire spirit in one place? Would you not fight to get it back with everything you have?”
His response was so powerful and deeply personal that I had to pause and reflect. What would I have done if I were in Bashir’s shoes? Would I even understand what it means to leave everything behind and fight with everything I have to reclaim it?
That moment led me to a broader question: What makes Palestinians so deeply connected to their homes—so much so that they are willing to risk everything to reclaim them? How is their sense of home so profoundly different from the American experience?
The American Experience: A Temporary Relationship with Home
In the United States, homeownership is often seen as temporary. On average, Americans buy and sell houses multiple times before finally settling into what they call their “forever home.” People move for better jobs, larger spaces, financial opportunities, or even a change of scenery. Once children grow up and start their own lives, many parents retire and downsize, selling the home that once held years of memories.
Yes, Americans feel attached to their homes—especially if they have lived there for a long time or built them from scratch. Selling a home can be bittersweet. We take pictures, reminisce about special moments, and sometimes drive by our old neighborhoods just to see how things have changed. But beyond nostalgia, our connection to a house is often practical, not existential. The land beneath it is just another piece of real estate, bought and sold based on market value. We move on.
I have lived most of my life in America. I remember buying my first house as a newly married couple. It was a modest but comfortable three-bedroom, two-bathroom house in a quiet neighborhood, just ten minutes from my workplace. I loved that house—we painted the walls in colors we chose, enclosed the back patio to create a sunroom, and truly made it our own. We lived there for 12 years, and it became part of our story. Our daughter was born in that house. I remember redesigning the landscaping right before bringing her home, as if giving the house a fresh start along with our growing family.
But when our daughter turned two, we sold the house and moved into a rental while we built a custom home. Every detail, from the spiral staircase to the kitchen, was designed to our taste. It was beautiful. Yet just four years later, we had to sell it. A new job, a growing family, and life’s demands pulled us in a different direction. Saying goodbye was hard. My wife even shed tears as we left, but ultimately, we moved on. Even now, when we visit friends in that town, we sometimes drive by and admire the house we built. But that’s where our attachment ends.
For many Americans, home is just a phase of life, a place we pass through as we grow. It holds memories, but it is not inseparable from our identity.
Jimmy Carter: An American Exception
While most Americans move frequently, there are exceptions. Former U.S. President Jimmy Carter is a prime example of deep, unwavering attachment to one’s home. Despite a distinguished career—including serving as the 39th president of the United States—Carter chose to return to his modest house in Plains, Georgia, where he had lived before his presidency.
He remained there for decades, even in his final years, declining the luxury of wealth and power that could have afforded him a grander residence elsewhere. To him, his home was not just a place to live; it was tied to his identity, his roots, and his personal history. It was where he was raised, where he farmed, and where he ultimately chose to spend the rest of his life.
His connection to Plains was so strong that he never sought to leave permanently. This kind of attachment—one that transcends financial value or convenience—is rare in America but deeply ingrained in Palestinian identity.
Palestinian Attachment: A Fight for More Than Just Property
For Palestinians, home is not just a structure. It is not just a financial asset or an address. It is their ancestral land, their history, and their identity. Unlike Americans, who may voluntarily sell their homes and move on, Palestinians are often forcibly expelled—not given a choice, not offered compensation, and often not even allowed to return.
Imagine being forced to leave your home—the place where your parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents lived—without any hope of returning. You cannot simply buy another house elsewhere, because the act of displacement is a severance of your identity and history.
This is why Palestinians hold on so fiercely to their right of return. They are not fighting for a piece of real estate; they are fighting to reclaim a part of themselves.
When Donald Trump and others suggest that Palestinians should simply accept refugee status elsewhere and start over, they fundamentally misunderstand the issue. For Palestinians, home is not something that can be traded for financial aid or a new passport. It is not interchangeable. It is about justice, dignity, and survival.
While many Americans may feel nostalgic about their childhood homes, few experience the generational, historical, and existential attachment that defines the Palestinian struggle.
Jimmy Carter’s unwavering connection to Plains, Georgia, offers a small glimpse into what such an attachment looks like in an American context. But for Palestinians, this attachment is magnified many times over compounded by the trauma of displacement and the ongoing fight to reclaim what was unjustly taken.
Final Thoughts
For most Americans, home is a personal choice—a place we live for a while and eventually leave behind. But for Palestinians, home is a birthright—a piece of land that carries generations of history, culture, and survival. Their fight to reclaim it is not just about property rights, but about preserving their identity, their dignity, and their right to exist.
Understanding this difference is key to appreciating why Palestinians continue to resist occupation and refuse to simply “move on.” Their struggle is not about economics; it is about the fundamental right to return home.