I was three or four years old in that morning, when the village of A-Reineh, where we were living at the time, woke to the sounds of mighty explosions from the direction of Saffuriyeh, some five kms away. I clung to my father and clutched his gown in terror. All around stood the members of my family and the neighbors, rooted to the ground by the fearful sights and sounds. Columns of smoke and dust rose to the heavens above Saffuriyeh. In the evening came the news: there would never be a return. The Jews had blown up the houses with dynamite.