My grandmother’s family left Armenia during the Turkish occupation and went to Palestine. The holy and majestic little town of Bethlehem became her home and there she married my grandfather, Nicolas, a Bethlehemite. But in the early half of the twentieth century Palestine became a dream of return. They took a boat to the unknown. Landed in France. Continued. Landed in the Americas. Continued. Landed in the Caribbean. But soon enough, political instability led them to yet another departure, this time to the United States. Meanwhile, my grandparents’ children were in schools in Europe, Chile, Mexico. By then, Palestine was occupied and my grandparents’ families became exiles within their own homeland. Today we are a large family, displaced, scattered all over the world.