My grandfather who witnessed the first Nakba did not survive a second one. After a year of suffering, hunger and the absence of medical care, he passed away in October. He had lost half his body weight in a matter of months. His once-strong frame – he had been a proud athlete – was reduced to skin and bone. In his final days, he lay bedridden, silently enduring strokes and pain with no medicine, no proper food and no relief. I still remember our final embrace on October 11. It was a silent farewell. A tear slipped down the wrinkled cheek of a man who had witnessed too many wars and buried too many dreams. That tear said what words never could: it was time to go. And I ask myself: Would he have survived had there been no war? Could his last months have been filled with care instead of hunger?