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It was seventeen years ago that I was born. I grew up in Lebanon not knowing my grandparents. Two of them died during the war twenty years earlier, and the other two passed away due to natural causes when I was still a toddler. I was never certain whether to be thankful or sad that they were taken away before I could sense the true pleasure of having them in my life. I could only imagine what it would be like to sit on their laps and run my fingers over their wrinkled faces, to listen to their back-in-my-days stories, and to be stuffed with food out of love. Grandparents are said to be more tender to their grandchildren than parents are to their own kids. I wasn’t lucky enough to experience any of those.