One afternoon, I sat at the dining table and drew a map of Palestine from memory. Baba walked by, coffee cup in hand, and said, "You still remember that?" I nodded and looked at the map nervously, hesitant about whether I'd drawn it right. I pointed at the western border and asked, "Is that right?" "Who knows," he said, waving his hand dismissively. He walked onto the balcony and sink into a chair. The steam from his cup rose and made a phantom out of his bearded face. I approached him timidly. I wanted to know more.
"What do you mean, Baba, when you say 'who knows'?"