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" Bashir walked toward a glass cabinet in the dining room. Dalia followed Bashir, and the two stood looking through the glass.
"Look at the cabinet and tell me what you see," Bashir said.
"Is this a test?"
"It is a test. Please tell me what you see in the cabinet."
Books, vases, a picture of Abdel Nasser. Maybe some things hiding behind. And a lemon."
"You won," Bashir said. "Do you remember the lemon?"
"What about it? Is there a story?"
"Do you remember when me and my brother came to visit?...Yes? Do you remember that Kamel asked you for something as we left? And do you remember what you gave him as a gift?"
Dalia was silent for a moment, Bashir would recall. "Oh, my God. It's one of those lemons from that visit. But why did you keep it? It has been almost four months now."
They walked from the cabinet and took their seats in the living room.
"To us, this lemon is more than fruit, Dalia," Bashir said slowly. "It is land and history. It is the window that we open to look at our history. A few days after we brought the lemons home, it was night, and I heard a movement in the house. I was asleep. I got up, and I was listening. We were so nervous when the occupation started. Even the movement of trees used to wake us. And left us worried. I heard the noise and I got up. The noise was coming from this room right here. Do you know what I saw? My father, who is nearly blind."
"Yes," said Dalia. She was listening intently.
"Dalia, I saw him holding the lemon with both hands. And he was pacing back and forth in the room, and the tears were running down his cheeks. "
― Sandy Tolan , The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East
