He asked me why I chose to live in Italy, and not Palestine or Jordan. “I don’t know,” I said, feeling a pinch of guilt for being in Italy and not the West Bank, volunteering with refugees or resisting the occupation, or at least something related to my heritage. Every country outside of my own felt like a luxury, and at twenty-three, I wanted to indulge. In a way I felt I deserved to. “I have no responsibilities here,” I said. “And no ties to anyone.” He smiled, and his white beard spread like smoke. “You’ll find that having someone who has a claim on you, and who you can claim, it’s one of
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