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Mona Halaby, Nov 10, 2006 I am a Palestinian-American residing in California. My trips to Jerusalem help anchor me to the place of my ancestors. My mother and her family were driven away from their home in West Jerusalem in 1948. I have taken several trips to Palestine to recover lost images of my family's past and to show my homeland to my children. I am a teacher and a writer. I have written three books on education and am currently researching a book on my family history. What follows are excerpts from letters I have written during my current six-week trip to Jerusalem. November 7, 2006 October 30, 2006 October 22, 2006 October 18, 2006 October 11, 2006 October 5, 2006 October 2, 2006 September 27, 2006 September 22, 2006 September 18, 2006 September 15, 2006 November 7, 2006
I could dwell on all the things that are going wrong in Palestine, and there are lots of them - the Occupation, the Wall, the checkpoints, the infinite towering settlements, the injustices and inhumanities. However, I would rather remember all the things that make me miss being in Jerusalem, the magical moments that have made me feel at home. Maybe I have felt so at home because I had my own house in the Old City. I wasn't a tourist renting a hotel room, eating at restaurants. Instead, I shopped at our neighborhood grocer or at the Damascus Gate open market, packed our little fridge with cheese, olives, pomegranate juice and Palestinian Taybeh beer, hung our washed clothes to dry in the courtyard, and generally felt a sense of community in our neighborhood. For us, Palestinians in the Diaspora, whose parents have been denied return to their homes lost in 1948, our coming back home and living in Jerusalem was a way to reinstate our connection to the land of our ancestors. It was a way of saying, "We might be far away geographically, but we still belong here." It also gave our parents, families and Palestinian friends a chance to live in Jerusalem vicariously through our experiences. Maybe I felt so at home because I stayed long enough to connect with people. Our Palestinian-Armenian landlords, Rina and her mother, Therese, took us under their wing. We never felt alone with them nearby. Listen to this: The morning after David and Lex left for the States, Rina called to invite me over for breakfast. She didn't want me to feel lonesome at my kitchen table that morning. And every time one of us was departing for Tel Aviv airport, which was always in the middle of the night, Rina would set her alarm clock for 2:00 am to wake us up and accompany us to the shuttle bus. Even though we grew up surrounded by legendary Arab hospitality, we were still completely unprepared for this degree of thoughtfulness and generosity. Maybe I felt so at home because I got to do research for my book and, since my research involved interviewing people over seventy years old in order to capture their memories of the 1948 Naqba, our Palestinian catastrophe, that meant that I was invited to be a part of people's lives. I entered their homes, saw how they lived, ate with them and listened to their happiest and most painful childhood memories. As a writer, this was a uniquely rich experience for me. I felt I walked into a novel every time I stepped inside an elderly person's house or business. I had a lot of learning to do in the art of interviewing. At first I wanted to bring my laptop and shoot off my questions, but then George, my historian friend, taught me how to connect first with my senior interviewees by asking them, "How's your blood pressure today? How did you sleep last night?" I learned how to ask just one question and let them make the connections and spin their own tales. Even though the process was messier and less organized, I ended up getting a lot more information that way. And even beyond the interviews, I loved feeling linked to other people, the casual encounters, the warmth I felt emanating from everyone. When you go shopping in Palestine, the relationship is more important than the transaction. Being so used to the efficient ways we do business in the States, it took me some time to adjust to all the salutations and the greetings: "Sabah el kheir! Sabah el noor! Keef Halkom? Esh Akhbarcom?" ("May your day begin with good blessings! May your day begin with light! How are you? What are your news?") I remember a magical moment when I felt this sense of connection. It was after dinner at my relatives home in Ramallah. The women -- Auntie Madiha, my maternal uncle Daoud's widow, her only daughter and three daughters-in-law with their teenage daughters, happened to sit together after they cleared the table. We were a community of women, a clan. And what amazed me was the way everyone teased and bantered with one another. And even more surprising, was the way Auntie Madiha, at age 85, was the butt of many jabs and jokes. It was all done in the open and lovingly. Rather than talking behind her back about her deteriorating memory, she was a part of it. I thought about how we, in the Western world deal with these delicate matters, how we whisper behind closed doors, exchange awkward looks, how we subtly and tactfully make a gentle remark. I am not saying there is a right and wrong way to deal with these matters. I am only saying I enjoyed the direct, respectful and affectionate ways these women handled the situation.
One day I witnessed a gesture of generosity that brought tears to my eyes. Linda and I were riding on the bus from Ramallah to Jerusalem. It was during Ramadan and just as the muezzin began his call to prayers, a sweet old man with a droopy mustache got out of his seat and opened up a brown paper bag. He walked around the bus, offering all the passengers dried dates, which are traditionally the first thing Muslims put in their mouths when they break the fast. He even offered us some. It touched me that even though Palestinians have so little and are burdened with so much, they've retained their noble character, their kindness, their humanity and hospitality. Going to visit Nadia and Teddy, my mother's childhood friends, to interview them and to photograph some of their vintage black and white photos, was like a dream. Their home in Bethlehem is a perfect example of what our Palestinian home would have looked like had my mother been able to remain in Jerusalem - bookcases packed with art and history books, hanging plants on the balcony, kitties in the garden, comfy couches, and beautiful geometric floor tiles. Sitting comfortably at Nadia and Teddy's dining room table, talking about Palestinian history, while enjoying Nadia's delicious eggplant makloobeh - a typical Palestinian dish of eggplant, meat and rice decorated with roasted pine nuts - was a moment I will never forget. It was the same every time I stepped into Auntie Henriette's courtyard in the Old City. My favorite time to visit her was in the afternoon, when her staff left and she and I had our tea, cookies and chocolates together. Sometimes her table was covered with Palestinian dried flowers, which she was gluing on the stationary she creates, or on the draft of the calendar she publishes each year. I would sit by her side and ask her questions about her past, and she would oblige with little anecdotes and detailed descriptions and dialogues. She always spoke with an evocative and precise language, be it in English or in Arabic. One day I was riding on the bus from Jerusalem to Beit Jala. The minute I hopped onto the bus, I knew I was in for an unusual experience. A young man in his late twenties was sitting in the front seat, facing the passengers in the back, professing parts of the Quran, while adding his moralistic commentaries. At first I was a little annoyed that my privacy was being invaded, but then I looked around and noticed that the passengers were listening attentively. A few were disagreeing with his comments, but mostly the others were agreeing and adding their own, like the moment the preacher said his mother worried about her unmarried daughters, and the veiled woman next to me cried out that she feels the same about her five daughters. It was as though the whole bus was alive and in dialogue. I thought about the infrequent bus rides I have taken in the States and how typically a preacher on the bus would be branded a lunatic. We, in the west, are often cautious, suspicious and hermetic in public places. Everyone stares out the window, rubbing shoulders, yet miles away from each other. Not here in Palestine!
I felt the same sense of oneness the day we all had to descend the bus at the Beit Jala checkpoint, and line up outside alongside the bus with our passports or ID's in hand while a young female Israeli soldier checked our papers. Lex pointed out that however dreadful the Occupation is, there is a sense of equality among the Palestinians who all have to be subjected to the same humiliations. What can I say? Even with all these obstacles, these insensitivities, these affronts, these violations of human rights, even with all of that, I felt right at home. Maybe I have felt so at home because everywhere I went I could see signs of my family history. It felt so good for once to feel I belonged. Every stone, every corner, every building, every person, made me feel connected like I'd never felt connected in my life before. Living in Alexandria, Geneva, Brussels, Cincinnati and Berkeley was okay. I made friends in all these places, but I didn't have a deep connection to these cities and their histories. I was always a stranger. And maybe that's okay. Maybe that's how most people live these days … rootless, transient, disconnected. But now I feel roots sprouting from my heels attaching me to this land. Thank you for reading my letters and for your warm responses. Writing to you gave me a way to integrate and share this incredible experience. Thank you. Love, Mona (top) October 30, 2006
Ehud, along with some of his Kibbutz friends, is trying to be an ally to the shepherds and cave-dwellers of At-Tuwani and Suseya. These villages are small, poor and isolated, which makes them more vulnerable to the Israeli forces and settlers. The latter are trying to force the cave dwellers to move to nearby Palestinian towns in order to annex the territory to the Israeli State. On the way to At-Tuwani and Suseya, I was struck by the scarcity of cars and how swiftly we drove along the road. We barely had to slow down when encountering a checkpoint, and if we did, the soldiers waved us on with a smile. We were driving on by-pass roads built especially for settlers or Israeli cars with yellow license plates. As we drove along the road past Hebron, the scenery began to change. The green terraced knolls laden with grapes turned into wide open dry hills. I thought of the 2.5 million Palestinians living in 600 communities in the West Bank who are stuck in their little enclaves unable to see the beauty of their country. The Wall that imprisons them and the 540 checkpoints that pepper their land have effectively immobilized them into isolated ghettoes. Imagine you lived in San Francisco and weren't allowed to drive north to enjoy a hike in Point Reyes, or south to enjoy fresh seafood in Half-Moon Bay. Why does an occupying force have the power to deny the civilians it occupies the freedom of movement and the pleasure of enjoying their land? Don't tell me it's for security reasons. All these checkpoints do is separate Palestinians from other Palestinians, disrupt their lives and confine them into Bantustans. The checkpoints do nothing to improve Israel's security and we all know it. It took us about an hour to reach At-Tuwani, a distance of 31 miles from Jerusalem. How outrageous that it takes Palestinians one and a half hours to travel to Ramallah (due to the road blocks and checkpoints), a mere 6 miles north of Jerusalem! At-Tuwani, a village of about 150 inhabitants, stood on the side of a hill, reminding me of the dwellings you see in Biblical illustrations - rounded stone houses with domed roofs, children keeping herds of goats, chickens wandering freely between the houses, and a few olive trees sprinkled here and there. It's as though time had stood still for the last two thousand years. Hafez, the village leader invited us into his house. His wife immediately brought us delicious tea steeped in fresh thyme. He told us about the challenges the villagers face every day. The nearby settlers constantly harass them and encroach on their land while the Israeli government does nothing to protect the villagers. On the contrary, it is doing everything possible to make their lives intolerable. Hafez showed us the April 23, 2006 issue of Al-Quds newspaper reporting about a peaceful demonstration the villagers of At-Tuwani had organized against the Israeli forces' new wall, which would affect the herding of their animals. This concrete wall is approximately 9 miles long, 31 inches high and 11 inches thick. Four gates are proposed in the area near At-Tuwani. Each gate would be approximately 13 or 16 feet wide. Vehicles and animals would be able to pass through the gates, while people on foot would be able to climb over the wall at any point. However, there is no guarantee that the gates would remain open all of the time. In total disbelief we peered at the photographs of the peaceful demonstration. In one photo, Hafez's mother, an elderly woman, was attacked and dragged on the ground by Israeli soldiers. In another photo, Hafez is arrested and his mother comes to his rescue. These images made me think of all the times I am angered hearing Westerners moaning that if only the Palestinians knew how to use non-violent peaceful resistance...Palestinians use non-violent peaceful resistance all the time, but it is seldom covered by the press and it is always received with violence from the Israeli forces. Hafez added that the villagers endure daily harassment and hostility. Yesterday, one of his neighbors woke up to the sound of machinery. The neighbor ran outside and saw a settler plowing his, the villager's, land. The villager asked the settler what he was doing and the answer was, "I am plowing my land." The villager was outraged and called the only police force available, the Israeli police. And guess who ended up in jail? The villager who has now also permanently lost his land. Where is the justice in this story? Is this what happens in a democratic state? We visited At-Tuwani's craft shop, which was founded by Kifah and 26 other women from 4 neighboring villages. They sell embroidered dresses and purses as well as brightly colored hand-woven rugs made from their own sheep's wool. The sales of these items help sustain the village economically. We purchased some of their goods for our upcoming Bazaar. Then we took off for Suseya, a small village south of At-Tuwani whose inhabitants are very poor and scattered in tents on the ridge of a hill. Their existence as shepherds and farmers was greatly affected after a large portion of their land was taken over by Israeli settlers. Twenty-one years ago the inhabitants of Suseya lived in caves, but they were evacuated from their original dwellings on the pretext of archeological digs in the area. Some of the refugees went to live on their lands close to the Israeli settlement, which was named Susya. Five years ago the Israeli army came to Suseya and destroyed the caves of these families. Since then they continue to live in tents near their destroyed caves. Up until last year, the occupying forces did not allow the transport of children from Suseya to the school in At-Tuwani, a ten minute drive, and the parents were forced to send their children to schools in Yatta, the largest town in the area. Because of the barriers and long distance, the children had to stay in Yatta all week, and only come home to their parents on the weekends. The children struggled at school because they missed their families, and the parents were considering leaving their lands in Suseya and moving to Yatta to be closer to their children. This was exactly what the Israeli authorities were hoping to provoke, but it didn't happened thanks to Ehud and his group's fundraising efforts. The children of Suseya are now being transported to school daily in a small bus to At-Tuwani and return home each night to their families, who can remain on their land.
It was getting late. Before we bid farewell to Nasser, Suseya's leader, he pointed to the star-illuminated sky, "That's another reason why we could never leave our land," he said. "These stars are home. We belong here." When we drove away from Suseya in the dark night, I thought about the lives of these villagers, their strong bond to the land and to their herds of sheep and goats, the warm smiles on their faces. They generously shared their dinner with us, even though they have so little and they are constantly confronted with violations and injustices. Again on this trip I felt ashamed of the life many of us lead in the United States, a life of luxuries, abundance, waste, and ignorance. And as we were driving back to Jerusalem on by-pass roads, I witnessed an entire family of eight - a mother clutching her baby to her shoulder, a father holding the hand of his toddler, four young ones clustered together - all of them waiting by the side of the Beit Jala checkpoint while Israeli soldiers were ransacking the trunk of their car. And we zipped by with the greatest of ease. Love, Mona (top) October 22, 2006
Then we climbed to the Muslim Cemetery, the largest and oldest Islamic cemetery, said to be at least 1,000 years old, which contains the graves of Muslim scholars and many companions of the Prophet Mohammed. Now it sits neglected in West Jerusalem, but that's not all. The Israelis have used a large section of it to build tall buildings, parking lots and roads. And now the irony- they are planning to build a Museum of Tolerance on that same sacred land - violating Muslim tombs and attempting to obliterate yet another piece of evidence of the Arab presence in Jerusalem. I was being taken on a virtual historical tour of Jerusalem; I was in heaven. Walking through the cemetery awakened in me the need and courage to find my mother's house in the German Colony, almost as though the viewing of broken tombstones and neglected graves conjured up my mother's past and the skeletons of her house. Four years ago I thought I had found it, but when I showed my mother the photographs, she didn't recognize it. I blamed it on the changes made to the house by the new owners. However, recently my mother had drawn me an aerial view of her neighborhood. And lo and behold, she drew her house on the opposite side of the railroad tracks. Armed with this new knowledge and with the help of George's fluency in Hebrew, I walked over to my mother's old neighborhood. When George bought a Hebrew newspaper, I didn't immediately realize how clever he was being to help us gain access to the house. We came to a quiet street where the now defunct train used to connect Jerusalem to Jaffa. I pointed out the house to George - a beautiful stone house with a large veranda downstairs and a separate apartment and balcony upstairs. Every arched window had metal shutters and elaborate ironwork. I stood in front of it, feeling like an intruder, knowing quite well that I wasn't welcomed here, yet driven by an indomitable desire to enter this house, our family house.
It was clear that her little apartment upstairs used to be a part of the larger one that in my mother's times belonged to the Nuwayhid family. 'Ajaj Nuwayhid was a renowned lawyer, writer, journalist, translator, and public activist. In hot pursuit we rang the doorbell of the apartment belonging to the Nuwayhids. A small woman with a shaved head and narrow reading glasses poised at the tip of her nose gingerly opened the door. She had heard us talking to her neighbor. She welcomed us in with impeccable English. She explained that they had bought the house from someone who had bought the house from someone else. Of course, it could all be legitimate, but it struck me how much buffering they used. They were not to blame for our loss. Someone else was the original thief. They paid good shekels for the house; their conscience was clear. She showed us around the apartment, explaining that the layout was a duplicate of the house below. I immediately remembered my mother's description - "a big foyer from which on the left through one door you could enter the living room or through another door my parents' bedroom. On the left, a door to my bedroom and the corridor that leads to the rest of the house." The woman took us to the back balcony from which I could clearly see the back porch below with the khosh-khash tree. "The house was so neglected. It was a desert all around here, and there were no houses. It was like farmland," the woman said. Ah, the convenient rhetoric! Your houses were neglected, thus you didn't care about them. It was okay for us to take them. And there were no houses around; no one lived here. Therefore, it was all right for us to settle here. And look how wonderful we are, we made the desert bloom! With an unflappable smile I quickly retorted that I have photos of my mother's house in the '40s. There were neighbors all around - the Haddads, the Farrahs, the Kalbians, the Deebs. My mother had an almond tree and an apricot tree in the front, pots of jasmine, mint, and basil in the back. In that moment I wanted to rip out all the scents and images stored in my memory by my mother and throw them into her face. "Oh, yes, we planted jasmine, too," she offered, as though the fact that we both valued jasmine could turn us into the best of friends. Her husband appeared from his artist studio in the attic. He was a tall, skinny man, with a sharp angular jaw. He was wiping his paint-stained hands with a rag. Quickly the tone changed. From a language of gardens, plants, interior design and décor, he pushed us into the practical world of real estate. "Who were the owners of the house? Arabs? Germans?" He attempted to delicately navigate the treacherous vocabulary of ownership. He never used a pronoun to modify house; it was always the house, as though it was a neutral commodity, not a dearly loved possession. The woman told us that the house sways a bit when they've experienced minor earthquakes. Her husband added they're due for a big one in the next fifty years. I wanted to tell them that it is the spirits of all the past owners, and not the tectonic plates that will make the earth rumble one day, because those spirits are intertwined in the wrought iron fences, they are cast in the stone walls, the balconies, the arched windows and metal shutters.
"Then North Africans moved in," he added. "And then the house was in terrible disrepair." The buffered ownership again and this time, let's accuse the North Africans; they're close enough to Arabs. Don't blame us, we didn't steal it from your family; we didn't damage it. I asked about the shutters. "They used to be green," I said. "Oh, we don't know. The fire had damaged everything. We painted them blue." "Did you know there was a water well here?" she asked. "Yes, it was right here," I said, pointing to the right hand side of the back porch. After we left, George told me how he wished more Palestinian children carried the internal images of their parents' homes, that thanks to my mother's detailed descriptions of the house, I knew how to find it and I sounded like the rightful owner. As we were leaving the back garden, I looked up to the second floor and there it was - faded green paint on the outside shutters of one of the windows. George said to the man, "You've learned a lot today about the history of the house." "No, no," he snapped back. Of course, he would have to deny it, or else how could he live with himself? He couldn't admit that he had learned anything about the house from me, because it would mean that I was the true owner, that for the past sixty years I have carried in my heart the history of my mother's house. I had held my composure until the moment I walked away from the house and felt that I was retracing my mother's footsteps the day she was driven out of her home, not knowing she would never return. I felt a big lump growing in my throat, choking me slowly. Tears started to well up in my eyes. Before leaving I had thanked these people for their kindness, for showing me around the house and garden. They had in fact been kind enough. They could have denied us entry as many other Palestinians have experienced. But that's not why I was crying. I was crying because in 1948 when the Zionists drove my mother and her family away and took her home, it was a crime; it was an assault, a rape. So how could I be thanking my rapist for his kindness? How could I shake hands with him and forgive and forget? Love, Mona (top) October 18, 2006
In Jerusalem, the Armenian community is comprised of the original Palestinian Armenians, who had settled in the Old City centuries ago on the one hand, and on the other, the refugees from the Armenian Genocide of 1915 who fled Armenia to find refuge in Palestine. At its peak there were 25,000 Armenians in Palestine, but today only 1,700 live in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City, and another 2,500 in Jaffa, Haifa and Bethlehem. The Armenian Diaspora numbers some 5 million. Linda and I walked into the lobby of St. Tarkmanchatz, and I was instantly reminded of old parochial schools I have visited - wooden desks, long echoing hallways and numerous illustrations of Jesus on the walls with headings that read, "Jesus healing the crippled," or "Jesus raising the dead." St. Tarkmanchatz is a co-educational private school and the only one that teaches Arabic, Armenian, English, French and Hebrew, along with regular school courses. The school was built in 1929 and used to boast several hundred students, with over 60 crammed in each classroom. Today, only some 125 Armenian schoolchildren attend St. Tarkmanchatz. The rest attend local Arab Christian schools. Linda and I climbed up the stairs to the third floor where the principal, Very Reverend Ghevont, and the Headmaster, Elia Dickranian, were waiting for us. They had requested our help in observing and possibly diagnosing two troubled students in their school, a 2nd grade girl and a 5th grade boy. We went into the classrooms and met the children who greeted us with kindness and curiosity. We were very impressed by the thoughtfulness of the teachers, who treated their students with respect and loving care. In the 5th grade, one of the boys said to us, "Welcome to Jerusalem," and another one, while pointing to a flag flying outside the window, said, "You can take a picture of our Armenian flag." You could feel their hospitality and how proud they were of their heritage and traditions. The next day, Afnan, a member of the Palestinian Counseling Center's Socio-Educational Department, took us to visit Bab Al-Silsila School in the Muslim Quarter. The Palestinian public school teachers have been on strike since the beginning of the current academic school year because the government has not been able to pay their salaries since March 2006. It is a direct result of the international sanctions imposed on the democratically elected Hamas government. This past week some of the teachers are returning to teach on a voluntary basis for a few hours a day. When we reached the school, we ducked our heads to enter a low doorway. Afnan told us that the school now occupies part of a neighborhood mosque. It was evident that this was a school that needed some tender loving care. The paint on the walls was peeling, the furniture was chipped and gouged, and the space was so tight that you couldn't move around the desks. We met the two teachers present that day, who were single-handedly teaching about 50 students in five classrooms ranging from the fourth to seventh grades. Before September of this year, 150 students attended Bab Al-Silsila, but because of the teachers' strike, the parents of 50 students transferred their children to the local Israeli-run public schools for Palestinians.
We spent a longer time with the 7th graders who were in the middle of a math class. We asked them if they had any questions for us. They were eager to interact. They asked us about our schools in the U.S. and our students. One boy asked me, "What happens to your class if you cannot come to school in the morning?" Another one, who seemed embarrassed by his surroundings, asked, "What are your classroom facilities like? Not like this, huh?" When I asked them which subjects they liked the best, there was a wide range - from History and Geography to Religion and Math. One thing that surprised me was when several boys said Hebrew was their favorite subject. Later, I asked Afnan about it. She told me that the boys idealize the wealth of the Israelis, and think that if they speak Hebrew or could become Israelis, they, too, will live a better life. Sad, isn't it, how the occupier is raised to the status of a hero in the children's eyes? I think about my classroom in the United States and I am embarrassed by its wealth, its color, its abundance of materials. We have so much. We are spoiled indeed. I am so happy here. It's scary to think that in less than two weeks I will have left my little house in the Armenian Quarter and my new friends. What will I do with my feelings of loss when I return to Berkeley? How will I adjust to life in the States again- cars everywhere, the isolation of our homes, the hectic pace of our work, the incognito of our lives? Now I have friends here with whom I have deep connections about my history and my past. I feel rooted in ways I've never been before. I don't want to leave. Love, Mona (top) October 11, 2006
Like most refugees in the world, Palestinians have to piece together their past from little bits of information. Due to our Diaspora, the loss of our homes, and the political upheavals in the region, it is very difficult to find the threads that connect us to our past. Yet, every day I find a new thread, a new piece of evidence of my family's long-established residence and life in Jerusalem. It is our home and always will be. In this letter I'd like to share with you my quest for pieces from my past and the research I am doing for my book. Yesterday I went to visit my great-grandmother's house in the Old City. Hanneh Tarsha Sidawi was born in Jerusalem on January 3rd, 1851, married and had children in this house. She died in 1943, at the ripe old age of 92. The house is right behind the Greek Catholic Church in a small courtyard shared by several other houses in the Christian Quarter. The houses date from the Crusaders' period when the Franciscan friars established themselves in Jerusalem in the year 1229. The houses have always belonged to the Catholic Church and are subletted free of charge to their parishioners. My mother remembers with fondness her visits to her grandmother's house - skipping down the alley, running up the stone stairs two at a time, her grandmother at the door, greeting her with a big smile and an "Ahlan Wasahlan" (which means "Welcome" in Arabic). I walked up the stone stairs to my great-grandmother's house and entered the now covered courtyard. I walked into what used to be my great-grandmother and great-grandfather's bedroom. It is a big airy room with a domed ceiling, which is called an "ubbeh" in Arabic. The ceilings, in fact, are both domed and vaulted which makes for a very interesting architectural design. The sun streamed through the windowpanes. I looked down to see two cats comfortably nestled on an old sofa in the courtyard below. My eyes scanned the room and I felt my great-grandmother's presence. This was her home, I kept repeating to myself in awe. Here I am 155 years later witnessing her birthplace, the space, where she spent happy years of married life with Yusef Sidawi, the man she loved, and simultaneously the place in which she endured many losses and pains - the deaths of Yusef and three of her six children, the departures of her son, Nicola, to South America, and her daughter, Afifeh, to Egypt. My mother remembers her grandmother best with a rosary in one hand and a prayer book in the other, praying for all her departed loved ones. But despite all of these tragedies, Hanneh was a spry old woman with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
The school, built in 1295, was called Al-Bakriyya (and before that Madrassa Al-Dawadariyya) and is situated on the east side of Tariq Bab al-Atm Street, adjoining the northern wall of Temple Mount, where the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque are located. The building dates from the Mamluk period. A quick history lesson. The Mamluks ruled Egypt, Syria and Palestine from 1250 to 1516. They controlled trade routes between Europe and the East, accumulated enormous wealth, improved methods of agriculture, and commissioned the construction of magnificent buildings. These buildings were primarily madrassas or schools for Islamic studies. Many of these buildings have remained intact to this day and, though worse for neglect, they still retain a past splendor. I crossed the fancy portal with its typical Mamluk red and white alternating masonry called "ablaq." The half-dome above the entrance, which is called the "Muqarnas," is decorated with graduated, three-dimensional stone stalactites. Inside, the madrassa is centered around a large rectangular courtyard surrounded by vaulted rooms to the north, east and west, with an upper floor of halls added at a later date. The lower rooms are entered from the courtyard through doorways with pointed arches. A large classroom topped by three cross-vaulted halls dominates the south side of the courtyard. Today the school houses a program for mentally retarded adults. Every student in the school greeted me with visible pleasure and curiosity. I was guided inside by one of the teachers, a young man with a gelled hairdo and metal-rimmed glasses, who was delighted to show off his school to the granddaughter of one of its early administrators. I took photographs and marveled at this gorgeous building with its elegance and history. I kept seeing my grandmother in every room, carrying her books, running up the stairs for a teachers' meeting, taking the school's superintendent for a tour of her facilities. How I wish I could have known her! We would have had so many conversations about education! I am moved by my connections to my homeland, to its history and its people. Finding these traces of my past makes me realize how much I belong here. Love, Mona (top) October 5, 2006
Nablus lies 39 miles north of Jerusalem, between Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim. The estimated population of the district of Nablus is over 200,000. Before the year 2000, Nablus was the economic center of Palestine, but now it is struggling to survive because the Israeli forces have encircled the city and turned it into a giant prison. Israeli checkpoints all around the city restrict the residents from traveling in and out. In addition, there is a ban on vehicles; only pedestrians can cross the checkpoints. Due to its strong resistance to the Occupation, Nablus has suffered many invasions, incursions and curfews at the hands of the Israeli forces. Our driver dropped us off outside the checkpoint area and we walked into Nablus without any difficulties. We were told that the way out is when the problems arise. We took a cab to the PCC office downtown. On our way we saw signs of destruction by the Israeli forces. The city's headquarters, el-Muqata, was razed to the ground this summer, including the city's prison. The Ministry of the Interior was demolished, including all its archives and civil documents. Two beautiful old soap factories in the Old City were bombed from the air and reduced to rubble. On the other hand we could also feel the commerce and energy of the city, the new construction mushrooming everywhere, and the latest sparkling additions to Al-Najah University. Despite all the destruction, Nablus is a vibrant metropolis that has suffered many blows, but continues to resist the Occupation. At the PCC center we met the wonderful members of the staff and heard about the programs they are spearheading; from the Big Brother/Big Sister program, helping mentor elementary-age students who are at risk academically; to mental health awareness through education, training and referrals, in order to break down the stigma attached to mental health disorders; to the Youth at Risk program where teenagers meet twice a week after school to develop life skills.
Then we drove to Jneid, a small village in the mountains and met a group of mothers at a women's center. They convene regularly to discuss and find solutions to the problems they endure at home due to the Occupation. The women carry a great deal of responsibility. They are frustrated and fearful. It is hard for us to imagine the depths of despair to which the Palestinian people are driven by the ruthlessness of the Occupation. Before we left Nablus, we took a walk through the Old City with its arched souqs, its vegetable vendors standing near their carts, calling out their wares, its bakers scooping out hot round Arabic pocket bread from their stone ovens, and its big copper platters of Knafeh. Nablus is notorious for its Knafeh—a shredded wheat dessert stuffed with sweet white cheese and drenched in syrup. We visited a centuries-old olive oil soap factory that escaped the Israeli raids, where the square soaps are stacked up to dry in tall cylindrical columns. It was like standing in an ice-skating rink. The floors were so slippery from the soap shavings that I had to hold onto the walls and railings lest I lost our balance. Then we continued on to an ancient Turkish bath or Hammam, where the floor tiles are warmed from below with hot coals, and where people lounge on long cushion-covered benches smoking their arghilehs (or hookahs). I thought of my great-grandmother, Hanneh Tarsha, who weekly would walk down to the Turkish bath in the Old City of Jerusalem on "Ladies Night," carrying her bar of olive oil soap, loofah and towel. I can imagine Hanneh the week before her wedding to Yusef Sidawi, when she and her women kin, gathered at the Turkish Baths to luxuriate in the hot soapy baths, giggled and shared secrets about the upcoming nuptials. At the end of the day we took a cab back to the checkpoint to exit Nablus. We lined up under a long rectangular hut covered by a corrugated aluminum roof. There were over 100 people stuffed together, pushing closer and closer to the turnstile at the front where one by one we had to show our ID's or passports to the Israeli soldiers. The sun was slowly slipping behind the mountains and soon the Ramadan fast would break. Everyone in line was on an empty stomach and wanted to rush back home. Only three Israeli soldiers stood at the checkpoint, a few others stood at a distance, yanking on the leashes of their German shepherds who are used as police dogs to sniff and search Palestinian youth. Suddenly as we got close to the turnstile, there was a commotion up front. A young man was in a hurry. That was his only sin. Within seconds two Israeli soldiers aimed their assault weapons at his face. They barked commands in Hebrew and pushed him back with their weapons. Then they pulled his shirt and dragged him to them. They thrust the butts of their weapons to shove him back, confiscated his ID and ordered him to go back to the end of the line, which by then had doubled in size. Without an ID you can't go anywhere in Palestine. You are nothing. Fortunately, a member of the Catholic Relief Services, who was monitoring the checkpoint for human rights abuses witnessed everything, and accompanied the young man to the end of the line. During this entire confrontation, the Israeli soldiers' faces were etched with panic and fright. They seemed to be dreading mutiny. I thought about all the people in my history textbooks, who subjugate others, and oppress them with force and how their empires eventually come to an end. This, too, will pass one day. We passed through the checkpoint and walked away in a stupor. In that moment I knew Israeli soldiers couldn't be sleeping soundly at night after a day's work. They couldn't possibly have pleasant dreams. How can you when you strip people of their dignity and deny them their humanity? Love, Mona (top) October 2, 2006
It's funny how we, in America, take so much for granted. Freedom of movement is something I never have to think about when I pull my car out of the driveway each morning. I never for one second wonder whether I'll be stopped at the Caldecott Tunnel to the East Bay hills, or at the top of Solano Avenue in Berkeley, whether I'll make an appointment on time or get in a long line while a young boy with a hint of a beard on his face and a strong foreign accent gives me permission to go on with my life on my own ancestral land. Not only is denying people freedom of movement a breech of a basic human right, but it also has the psychological effect of boxing you in, of shrinking your horizons both physically and mentally. However, the Palestinian people have the courage to get up every morning and brave this illegal and inhumane system year after year. It's an act of nonviolent resistance to the Occupation. To reenter Palestine from Jordan, you must drive to the King Hussein Bridge, formerly named the Allenby Bridge after the British General Edmund Allenby. Allenby captured Jerusalem in 1917, ending 400 years of Ottoman rule over Palestine and bringing in an era of colonialism, culminating in the establishment of the state of Israel. Yesterday, when we returned to the West Bank from Jordan, a young Israeli soldier at the border asked me many questions—how long I was planning on staying in Jerusalem, what was the purpose of my visit, where was I going to lodge, etc. I was expecting these questions and I answered them truthfully. However, one question came as a surprise. She asked me, "You're not going to the West Bank, are you? You're not going to Ramallah or Gaza, right?" It was clear to me that as an American passport-holding citizen, I was being discouraged to travel to the West Bank and Gaza. But why? What does Israel have to hide? Is it the sight of those numerous checkpoints, 540 to be exact, or is it the fortress-like settlements on every hilltop with big grassy lawns and swimming pools, while the Palestinians barely have a trickle of water from their kitchen faucets? On our way back to Jerusalem, we drove into Jericho with its lush banana plantations and majestic palm trees. It is a little oasis in the middle of a desert, which lies at 846 feet below sea level. We arrived at the hottest time of the day, noontime, in the hottest town in Palestine with temperatures reaching 102 degrees. In the summer the temperatures can reach 120.
Yesterday, we, too, climbed to the Monastery of the Temptation, one mile north of Jericho, but we didn't climb by foot. We took a cable car that carried us up to the Monastery, from which we had the most spectacular views of the city. We thought of our parents and their youth, and how little they understood that their country was being robbed from under their feet, that they would be losing their homes, that their families and friends would be dispersed all over the globe in what is now known as the Palestinian Diaspora. I shut my eyes and let myself experience a sense of this place that was so cherished by my mother. I could almost hear the lively steps of young people dancing to the music from the gramophone. We ended our day in Jericho at the Muslim cemetery, where I wanted to locate my grandfather's grave. In 1951, my grandfather, Adel Jabr, was appointed as a member of the Jordanian Upper House of Parliament. Adel died unexpectedly and alone in Jericho on December 19, 1953. It was an unusually bitter winter that year, and snow covered the town. The eulogy was given by the Prime Minister of Jordan, Fowzi al-Mulqi. No one from our family could attend the funeral due to our dispersion. I walked among the graves and the dried palm fronds that were strewn on the tombs. I searched for his name, but I couldn't find his grave. Too many tombstones were broken or missing. It is sad to think that a part of me lies alone in this deserted cemetery. All Palestinians live with this sense of fragmentation. A piece of me is here in Jericho, another piece is in Jaffa, another in Jerusalem, another in Switzerland and yet another in California. Love, Mona (top) September 27, 2006
Let me start with a short history of Jaffa. Before 1948, Jaffa was the largest and most prosperous Arab city in Palestine with a population of around 70,000. However, after the U.N. Partition Plan, Zionist forces terrified Jaffa's civilian population into fleeing. By May 1948, only 3,650 Palestinians remained in Jaffa and were boxed into the old al-'Ajami neighborhood. So we drove into Jaffa with a heavy heart. Meeting the Bride of the Sea was tinged with sorrow. The first landmark to greet us was the famous clock tower. I took photos and approached the plaque on the side of the tower. I knew from my extensive readings that it was built during the late Ottoman period. However, a young Israeli man who was standing by the tower corrected me. He claimed it was built in 1948 in memory of the Israeli soldiers who were under attack. When I tried to contradict him with the blatant evidence that the tower is ancient and Ottoman in design, he replied as he walked away that everything is old in Israel. I stood there wondering. Are the Israelis duped into believing that every monument, every building is for them, or about them? Is the Arab presence, from its population, to its art form, to its monuments, wiped out to make way to a new Israeli history?
We also looked for the house of David's uncle's wife, Leila. Before we came on this trip, Leila had told us her family home was under an overpass in the 'Ajami neighborhood. Fortunately, there was only one overpass and we found it as dusk was nearing. We took a few photos for Leila and thought about how her childhood came to a sudden end in April of 1948 when she left Jaffa never to return home again. We strolled around the old port and the original Old City of Jaffa, which has now been renovated by the Israelis and turned into a trendy artist colony with boutiques, art galleries and antique stores. I chuckled as I read a store sign, "Licensed to Sell Ancient History." It seems as though history is a commodity here! I looked into the shop windows, wishing to stumble on some family heirloom looted in 1948 from my ancestral home. Whimsy. On the boardwalk a poster listing the chronological history of the town hung from a lamppost. Not once did it mention that Jaffa had been an Arab city. We know so many Palestinians from Jaffa, including our families, that it angered us to be absent from the history of our own country. Finally, after dark we reached Jaffa beach, a beach the Israeli government has renovated just for the Palestinians. You may think it generous, but believe me it stems more from segregation than generosity. The Israelis are willing to renovate this beach only to keep the Palestinians away from the Tel Aviv beaches, but will not give them permits to renovate their homes or improve the infrastructure. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants and gingerly stepped into the waves, and like true northern Californians, we expected to shudder as our toes hit the icy water. Ah, what a pleasant surprise! The Mediterranean Sea was balmy, and its foamy lace gently caressed our feet. After each wave receded, I stood still, feeling the sand pulling at my heels, my toes curling in to hold onto the tiny moving grains. I looked up at the sky and its immensity, my hair brushed back by the gentle warm breeze. "David," I called out, "Smell the air. This is Palestine." Love, Mona (top) September 22, 2006
In 1940, Tante Henriette's mother, Katherine Siksek, founded the first and only medical center in the West Bank and Gaza that specializes in residential services and rehabilitation for patients with profound cognitive and neurological disorders. After Katherine's death, Tante Henriette continued her mother's work. Today we went to visit the center located in Bethany, twenty minutes east of Jerusalem. It houses 90 non-ambulatory residents who are provided with physical and occupational therapy, as well as social, recreational and vocational services. Despite the many challenges, the staff at the center has worked tirelessly over the last few years to improve the buildings, the working practices and the opportunities available to patients. In the face of inconsistent state funding and intense poverty, they remain enthusiastic and determined that the vital work of the center should continue, and hope one day to provide support to the growing number of patients on the center's waiting list. Last night we attended the opening reception of Sunbula's 10-year anniversary exhibition at the French Cultural Center in East Jerusalem. Sunbula is a non-profit Fair Trade organization that supports the economic self-help of Palestinian artisans through the promotion of traditional handicrafts. Over 1,800 women, refugees and people with disabilities earn an income through the sales of their products at Sunbula.
It was dark when we walked back home from the exhibit. As we strolled along the busy streets, I marveled at the Palestinian spirit, indomitable and resilient in the face of oppression and occupation. Today we witnessed that spirit in two places -- in the morning, at the rehabilitation center perched on the hills of Bethany, where the staff administers professional high quality care and exhibits ingenuity while performing daily miracles on a shoestring -- and in the evening, at the Sunbula exhibit in a former Palestinian mansion lit up with candles on every windowsill, a magnificent testimonial of Palestinian art and culture. I am so proud of my people and their courage and invincible fortitude. It's hard to believe that we've been in Jerusalem a week already. We have settled into a nice routine -- visiting new places, making new friends and reconnecting with old ones, attending exhibits, and the daily grocery shopping ritual. As children of refugees who have been dispossessed and exiled from their homeland in 1948, my husband and I were eager to experience living in the Old City of Jerusalem -- walking out the door into the cobblestone alleys to buy a bar of Nabulsi soap or Haloumi cheese from the corner market, eating our falafel sandwiches at the Damascus Gate vendor and hearing and speaking Arabic all the time. After hearing our parents' stories - told numerous times about their lives in Jerusalem before 1948 - there was a powerful draw to this place and this land, almost the way birds migrate to warmer places in the winter with an internal compass and an instinct that defies scientific explanation. We, too, have flown here fueled by instinct, the power of our parents' stories and the need to find a place where we truly belong. Love, Mona (top) September 18, 2006
At 4:30 am the muezzin's call to prayer rings in my ear, but doesn't wake me up. It is a languid, melodious chant that is engraved in my unconscious from my early childhood days in Alexandria, Egypt. And now as an adult I welcome it every night. It is soothing and comforting, like knowing that you can reliably snuggle up with your special pillow or stuffed animal. At 6:00 am the first church bells start to chime, and then at 7:00 another, and on and on all morning. I recorded the different church bells sounds-one church has a cheerful ding-dong ring, another a solemn dong, dong, dong, and yet another a chaotic melodious blend. Sunday morning is punctuated hourly by a musical feast. My husband and I decided to attend the 9:00 am service at the Greek Catholic Church in the Old City, my mother's church. I sit in the back pew and soak in the painted murals on the walls, the heavy crystal chandeliers hanging from the large teal dome and the wafts of incense floating through the air. All the saints in the murals are depicted with long Modigliani-style faces tilted to one side. Today I went to the the Palestinian Counseling Center (PCC), where I met with Shadi Jaber, the Director of the Socio-Education Department. Shadi and I had been corresponding via email for the past couple of months to plan for my volunteer work at the PCC. It is so exciting for me to finally meet him and start to organize our work together. At the moment, the Palestinian teachers are on strike because they have not been paid for the past six months. Due to the US and European Union's financial boycott and the Israeli government's withholding of taxes paid by Palestinians, the Palestinian Authority has no money to pay their employees. It is very sad. Shadi explained to me that Palestinian teachers have a monthly salary of 2,000 Israeli shekels, which corresponds to less than $500 a month. To add insult to injury, many of the ones who live on the outskirts of Jerusalem are denied entry at the Wall or are delayed for hours. Because the children are unable to attend school due to the teachers' strike, I will begin my volunteer work this Wednesday by training the staff of the PCC in the facilitation of class meetings. Next week, I will spend the day at the PCC's Ramallah office training both the staffs of the Jerusalem and Ramallah centers in the literacy and social and emotional merits of story plays. The reason we are going to Ramallah for this presentation is because the Ramallah staff of the PCC cannot come to Jerusalem to hear my presentation. The Israelis are not allowing any Palestinians from the West Bank into Jerusalem. Unless you already live in Jerusalem, you are not allowed to come into the city for work or leisure. Imagine that you lived in Oakland and weren't allowed to travel 20 minutes to attend a professional talk in Berkeley! Last night my husband and I went for a walk above the Old City. This walk is known as the "Rooftop Promenade." It's a bit like a magic carpet ride. You climb up some rickety old stairs and find yourself above the souqs and homes of the city. A gentle evening breeze brushed our faces as we sat on a stone ledge and admired the view-- shimmering lights on the Mount of Olives and the church towers, and the Dome of the Rock glittering with its golden cupola. It was as though we were in a different galaxy, away from checkpoints and the Wall, away from settlements and refugee camps. It almost felt peaceful. The sky was vast and wide and I felt little and humbled. In that moment I knew the sky belonged to everyone. It's funny how humans have drawn borders to delineate their land, their spaces, states and countries, but no one can cut up the sky into small pieces and partition them off. No one can put a checkpoint or a wall in the sky. When I saw the first star appear in the heavens I didn't have to wonder if it was in Israel or the West Bank; it was for everyone, for all the Palestinians and Israelis. Love, Mona (top) September 15,2006
We took a nesher sherut (shared taxi or shuttle) to the Old City of Jerusalem. As we drove on the road between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, my sleepy head was leaning on the glass window. The scenery streamed in front of me and I drank in the landscape. I felt moved to tears by the beauty of Palestine. It lay so vulnerable in the early morning light with its rolling hills, terraced fields, and little scattered villages. Every road sign, every town's name bears traces of Palestinian history -- CASTEL, where in April 1948 Abdel Khader El-Husseini, the leader of the Palestinian resistance movement, was killed by the Zionist forces -- LATRUN, where in 1948 a company of the Jordanian Arab legion held off repeated Israeli army attacks, effectively cutting off the road between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem -- and RAMLA, the site of the largest single mass expulsion of tens of thousands of Palestinians from their homes in July 1948. I think of all these stories while yellow license-plated Israeli cars rush off in the morning commute on their way to work. Do they know that their roads are laced with blood and tears? Do they know that every inch of Palestinian land has a story to tell, a story that's conveniently been muted or erased, like the 452 Palestinian villages that have been razed to the ground? The only remaining physical evidence are the cactus hedges surrounding the villages, yet every detail of their existence is still alive in the memory of their former inhabitants. We've settled into our little apartment in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City. It is right behind the Armenian Convent and flanked on one side by the Armenian elementary school. The apartment is simply furnished, charming and quaint. It is quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of the Muslim Quarter where we stayed before, but we can still faintly hear the muezzin's call to prayers, the church bells and the doves and sparrows nesting in the climbing ivy in our courtyard. Today we walked over to the YMCA outside the gates of the Old City where our parents had spent most of their youth playing sports and music with other young people, Muslim, Christian and Jewish. We sat on the outside veranda for lunch facing the majestic King David Hotel. I suddenly lost my appetite. I was overcome by sorrow for the innocent victims of the King David Hotel bombing in July 1946 by the Zionist Irgun terrorists. My husband's uncle, Ibrahim, perished in the rubble, along with a hundred civilians who worked in the British government office in the south wing of the hotel. My throat was dry as I struggled to swallow bites of my sandwich. I can already tell that this trip is going to be different from others taken before. This time I am like a virtual time-traveler, walking in the cobble-stone alleys carrying home my hot loaves of bread, while my heart is being transported to troubled times, to historic moments long forgotten. My heart is being yanked wide open. This trip I will have the time to feel and grieve and hopefully to tell our story. Love, Mona (top)
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On civil disobedience
Gaza families demand answers
Goldstone and the 'peace process'
Fairtrade Palestinian farmers
Palestinian filmmaker at Cannes
Nakba anniversary exhibit