Commentary: My Palestinian parents were made refugees in 1948. This is what they taught me more than 60 years ago

My parents were Palestinian refugees who managed to rent an apartment in the city of Nazareth after their village, Ma’Alool, 10 miles to the west, was destroyed by the advancing Israeli army in 1948. My father, a cobbler, took his trade to Nazareth’s historic bazaar. From the little shop he rented I was able to watch shoppers as they went about their day. In between brewing cups of coffee for friends and family, my father would remind me to take note of all the people who would pass by: Arabs, Jews, Christians and Muslims. The market thrived when people came together.

I was not blind to the second-class nature