Visitors to Palestine from abroad often ask about personal stories
to reflect on the realities and experiences of Palestinians living
amidst an apparently interminable conflict. I usually hesitate to
refer to my personal story, the story of my family, because it
carries such emotions and brings back memories that are better kept
in the heart. These days, commemorations are taking place: Today,
the 5th of June, marks the 41st anniversary of the June War of
1967. A couple of weeks back, we commemorated the loss of Palestine
and the disintegration of our Palestinian society 60 years
ago.
For me as a young boy in the 1950s, living in a single room in the
Old City of Jerusalem with eight other members of my extended
family, dispossession meant that my parents had been forced to
leave their small home in Qatamon, West Jerusalem, in order to move
to safety- first in Lebanon where they stayed for a year, later to
Bethlehem and, eventually, to the Old City of Jerusalem within a
span of two years after 1948. Conditions in Old Jerusalem during
the early 1950s, the years of our refuge, were a reflection of the
times: no electricity, no running water, no in-house toilet, a zinc
metallic roof on which the rain kept tapping during wintry nights
and made it difficult for my brothers, sisters and me to sleep
soundly and be ready for school the following day. I recall vividly
how my dear mother used to cook, wash and do all the daily
household chores in the one single room. The light of the kerosene
lamps helped for studying and reading, and often we would gather
around the lamps to tell stories or, to review the day's hard work.
One of the most memorable experiences for me is the way we used to
all gather every night to eat a light meal of za'atar (thyme),
olive oil and labaneh (homemade cottage cheese), with cucumbers,
tomatoes and a hot cup of tea. This was the occasion to share with
each other our experiences of the day at school, at work or simply
in the streets of the city.
My earliest recollection of how my father and mother took their
newly acquired predicament of refugee status was gathered through
listening to their conversation in the early hours of the morning
when they were drinking their first cup of coffee. They would talk
about their small home in Qatamon with affection and nostalgia and
reminisce about the people and items associated with it - the pine
tree that stood in front of the house; the backyard where they
would entertain friends; the water plant nearby that used to
produce ice; the Jewish Irgun paramilitary camp that stood on one
side of the house, and the British army camp that stood on the
other. They talked about the bombings by Jewish militant groups of
Arab Palestinian homes in the neighborhood and about the King David
Hotel bombing by a Jewish terrorist group, and how all these had
affected their lives as they lost personal friends with whom they
used to socialize regularly. Surprisingly, though, my parents never
said any bad or harsh word against the Jews, but they were very
critical of Britain, then a weakened world power that was
terminating its mandate over Palestine. And they were critical of
the United States, a post-WWII up-and-coming world power that would
lend unconditional and permanent support to the newly created
Jewish state. My father's criticism of both countries resided in
the fact that they had not upheld Christian ethics and morality-
assuming they were Christian nations - in dealing with the tragedy
of our Palestinian people, as these Western powers allowed the
Jewish people that had suffered a great and unspeakably horrible
tragedy during WWII to inflict a tragedy of disintegration and
dispersal on our Palestinian people. That what transpired in
Palestine, with the creation of Israel, spelled a deep injustice to
my parents and to my teachers at school was clear from what they
said and how they projected their experiences and sentiments. They
were simply a deeply wounded generation.
But in spite of the pain and wounds of my parents' generation, life
in Old Jerusalem during the 1950s breathed of communal solidarity
and of the pleasures of going on with one's life, in spite of
everything. I recall how my mother and aunt would take us children
once a year to buy new clothes and shoes, especially if this
shopping spree took place during winter, mostly around Christmas
time. My brothers, sisters and I would then feel greatly relieved,
as our old shoes had so many holes in them they were a liberal
invitation for rainwater. We were so happy to replace our shoes
and, for us, this was part of our experience of a merry Christmas.
Santa Claus would also visit us and, on Christmas morning, we would
find stashed at the foot of our bed some chocolates and candy, with
a 2-piaster coin, the equivalent of 8 cents at the exchange rate of
those years. The colorful wrapping paper and the extra cash we
received made us very happy indeed as we hurried to spend our newly
acquired wealth.
Most of my peers at the École des Frères (the De la Salle
Brothers) by the New Gate were refugee children - a mix of
Christian and Muslim youngsters whose parents had passed through
similar experiences in 1948. As a result of these experiences, we
were all taken in politically by [Gamal Abdel] Nasser, the emerging
Arab nationalist leader of Egypt, as we often debated whether
Palestinian refugees would ever make it back to their homes and
villages in what was now Israel. We were arguing that the only way
to get back what we lost would be through force, following a famous
statement by Nasser: "What was taken by force can only be returned
by force." Some of us, however, were not so sure that the Arab
countries and their armies were ever a match for Israel and its
Western allies. But aside from the heated political discussions, we
were a spirited bunch of youngsters as we mounted plays and comic
presentations at our different homes. We laughed so heartily that
even our parents and the older generation forgot some of the pain
and wounds of the 1948 War. We were also a socially engaged group
as we joined different sports, culture, and arts clubs,
participated in a variety of summer camps, and organized social
events for the whole community.
The hurt that our parents lived was balanced by their insistence
that we receive a first-class education. The meager salary that my
father touched as an employee in the Finance Department of the Arab
Municipality of Jerusalem was not enough to cover our school fees.
UNRWA helped by giving partial education grants to refugee children
in private schools. The UN organization in charge of Palestinian
refugee affairs also provided us with a daily glass of milk, given
at morning breaks to all the children. At the beginning, the taste
of the milk was awful, but later we grew accustomed to it. Food
rations distributed by UNRWA came in handy, but standing in a long
line of refugees was terribly unpleasant, and I remember how we
were kept in line with a leather belt wielded by a frightful
looking guard. The La Salle Brothers and churches also helped. The
Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land offered the room where we were
living while, thanks to the generosity of local and international
donors, the Brothers would provide the students at school with
winter hats and other essential clothes to counter the
elements.
Our parents gave us a sense of dignity as they were proud in their
poverty and in spite of their refugee condition. They always
managed with their little resources. Elementary things in life were
what counted: good education, minimal food, once-yearly shopping
and, the most essential, love. The model provided - or in fact
lived - by many of our parents in Old Jerusalem was that we have to
restart our lives and move forward. We should never be prisoners of
the past, regardless of how painful it is. With the material
poverty of my parents came the richness of determination not to
succumb. It was not easy but, even today, this is a model that
ought to be followed.
The future is ours if we so determine and insist on our rights as a
people, including the right of return for the Palestinian refugees.
We should remember that, as we cope with the dark side of history,
there is always a compensating parallel bright side. But this
bright side cannot shine through without us ridding ourselves of
feelings of victimhood, of self-pity and helplessness. Otherwise,
it will be difficult to be free and, in the process, to ensure the
achievement of our rights can and will be done without infringing
on the rights of others. Freedom when gained would, thus, be a
tribute to the example set by our parents. Our parents' generation
was the one that had lived first-hand the impact of 1948. It is
also the one that had overcome its initial aftershocks by giving us
a first-rate education and by instilling in us the hope that the
future would always be better, if we will it.
