Like millions of other Palestinians born and raised in a refugee camp after al-Nakba, the Catastrophe of 1948, my story, too, has several chapters of struggle and survival.My generation was “lucky” in one way: We grew up listening to the stories of those who had lived in those lost villages. They knew every tree, every stone, every street. They left believing they would one day return home. We inherited their memories of Jaffa, Acre, Haifa, their stories, and with them and from them, a deep sense of injustice that we felt in our bones.AdvertisementSo we grew up believing that one day heroes would come — heroes who would save us, free us. Yasser Arafat was, of course, the iconic one for us. However, we were also inspired by global figures such as Jawaharlal Nehru, Ernesto “Che” Guevara, and Patrice Lumumba, alongside Amitabh Bachchan.For my generation, Amitabh was the hero, the iconic, charismatic one. In his films, he always rose from the ashes to fight injustice, to defend his mother, to avenge the humiliation of his family, to resist the corrupt policeman, to stand up for the poor, to dance and sing for love, hope, and the future. He was the orphaned boy who grew into a noble fighter, a rebel who challenged oppression, and a lover who embodied the purest meaning of love. He spoke for us, and we dreamed of becoming him.Amitabh presented the triumph of good over evil and the pursuit of justice — things Palestinians have long been denied. He connected with our values of family, sacrifice, courage, and redemption, delivering it all on screen in just a few hours. When the film ended, the harsh reality of occupation awaited, yet those moments offered brief solace, easing the pain of exile, displacement, and life in refugee camps.AdvertisementIn Amitabh’s stories, we saw our own. Our parents and grandparents had been slapped, humiliated, and driven from their homeland. When he stood up to avenge an insult to his mother, we felt as if he was avenging our mothers too. He was, in his way, a balm, a dreamlike antidote, for our deep pain.And when he leapt into a scene, the gang leader threatening a weak old woman, a poor worker, or some helpless soul, and he fought back, the whole cinema would erupt. We clapped until our hands burned, we whistled until we were hoarse. The saviour had arrived. I didn’t realise it fully then, but he was taking revenge for our eternal misery.His posters were everywhere, the one of him holding the crocodile, the one in the red T-shirt. In Gaza, it was rare to find a teenage boy’s room without a poster of Amitabh proudly displayed. And then there was his hair, that legendary, middle-parted wave, copied everywhere. But Amitabh wasn’t just a style icon. He became part of our patriotic identity.We will never forget what the Israeli soldiers shouted at us then. When they beat Palestinian teenagers, they accused them of “trying to be Amitabh Bachchan”. When they stormed homes, they ripped Amitabh’s posters from our walls, as if his very image was an act of resistance. Alongside many, this association with Amitabh Bachchan was yet another reason for Palestinian teenagers to be resolute even when they were beaten, tortured, and humiliated.And yet, we kept his posters up. We kept parting our hair. We kept dreaming through his films. Because he wasn’t just an actor to us. He was proof that even in a refugee camp, even in the middle of injustice, we could imagine ourselves as heroes too.A few months ago, when President Mahmoud Abbas nominated me as Ambassador to India, friends from Gaza messaged me: “So, you’re going to Amitabh Bachchan’s country.” For my generation, people denied the right to travel, who knew nothing beyond the largest open-air prison in the world — Gaza — he, along with many others, was a symbol of India.most readTime has passed. My life has taken me far from the silver screen in Gaza. I no longer watch films the way I once did. For my generation, for those whom the war machine has granted another day, but left us with no time even to dream of entertainment, the screen feels distant. And yet, we still believe.All the values that the stories — Amar Akbar Anthony and Kaalia — and his image of the Angry Young Man carried live on in us. They embodied what we once dreamed of, and they left us with what we still hold dear — the belief that believers, patriots, and heroes can rise from the ashes. And this, in so many ways, is the story of Palestine.The writer is ambassador of the State of Palestine to India