IUP A (Group 5) by Naisya Khalisa Sifa

Naisya Khalisa Sifa – 210110253011

naisyakhalisa16 — 2025-09-25 07:19:28 UTC

Bypassing willowy trees and hushed roads as they steer forward upon, several chicken coops stood on the sideways as her father stopped the car before getting out.

“See this?” he pointed to an aged, stone structure. “This is one of the original homes of the village.”

Reality crashed like an endless wave as her gaze swept over the building. All her life, tales of the tragedy of Palestine buzzed and echoed throughout all the ears could hear. Now, her eyes were witnessing it in its true form.

“They didn’t tear down all the houses,” Her father murmured under hushed breaths. “They kept a few because the newcomers were from Yemen, and they liked the Arab homes. There’s another one…”

After she settled in the village, she would drive back and forth past that site every day.

The houses of Deir el-Qasi, which her father had showcased, would loom over her like a heavy reminder. Which was worse, she wondered – to have one's home gather in ruins or to have it remain upward in all of its glory for others to live in? To see it alive, occupied, and breathing, but one’s banished from it.

Their memories were caged beneath walls, yet they were trespassers serving sentences of their own past.

Taqi Abdillah Ahmad - 210110253010

2025-09-25 07:23:41 UTC

They Rode through deserted roads dotted with houses and slim trees. There were a few chicken hencoops. Her Dad brakes the car into a halt and they stepped out of the vehicle . “See this?” he designated to an old, stone ruins. “This is one of the original homes of the town.”

She look deeply into it at it as reality stroke her. All her life, she had read and heard of the buskin of Palestine. Now, she was viewing at it.

“They didn’t take down all the houses,” Her Dad was saying. “They kept some, because the newcomers were from Yemen and they favors the Arab homes. There’s some other one … ”

After she had enough in the village, she would drive routinely past that site every day.

The houses of Deir el-Qasi, which her father had presented, would glance back at her. Which was worse, she marveled – to have one’s home wiped-out, or to have it in debris, for others to live in? To see it alive, occupied, breathing, but one’s banished from it.

Their remembrance were hid and cant go out behind those walls, yet they were unwelcomed newcomers in their past.

Olivia Kesya Alanise - 210110253015

olivia25001 — 2025-09-25 07:23:49 UTC

They traveled down narrow roads that had houses scattered along them with lot of graceful trees next to them. From time to time along the path were some chicken houses. The father of the girl parked the car and they both got off. “Look at that,” he said, pointing at some ancient stones plastered to a building and a part of the village. “This here is part of the village's first houses. The girl looked and she had an epiphany. Growing up, she did learn about the tragedy of Palestine. Now, she was face to face with it. “They did not end up blowing up all the houses,” her father said. “A couple were still up. The new people who came from Yemen adored the Arab style houses. There is another one…” After her relocation to the village, she began to almost daily pass around that spot. The houses of Deir el Qasi, the ones her father pointed at some time back, were still alive as they watched her walk past with an eerie stillness. “Was it more painful to have a home ruined? Or to have one spared and to see it occupied by people who did not belong there,” she said to herself. There was a sense of life in that home, yet was so clearly not belonging to it.

Memories remained amid those walls; however, coming back felt like being a stranger in the history of your own life.