You will hear a story of expulsion, the neverending gunfire, the olive trees burning. The walk through the desert is long, the gold a heavy weight, the children abandoned on side roads as their caretakers grow weary, or die. You remember the march of your own people, across the tarmac, on asphalt, into mountains. You will imagine every march of the displaced, the soldiers unrelenting in their cruelty, your grandmother blinded by the end of a bayonet.