Wednesday 22 February - The Decision
I made up my mind on the spot. I would finally go to Palestine. To many, and sometimes even to myself, this seemed like a spur of the moment decision. In reality, this decision was the fruit of many decades of contemplation, stewing ever so slowly on the back burner in the depths of my soul, resurfacing every so often egged on by my sister-in-law, only to be pushed back to a corner where I stumbled on it again and again. If I were to be completely honest, I would admit that (1) I did not really see how my visiting a country I belonged to but never knew would make any difference to me, or to anyone. (2) I was afraid of coming face to face with “Israeli’s”: the people, the army, the check-points, the machine guns, the occupation. (3) I was afraid of my own reaction: What if I felt numb? What if I didn’t feel that I belonged? What if I didn’t like it? What if I stood out like a sore thumb? What about when I left, what then? I was just afraid; I was too full of apprehension, of mixed emotions, of guilt.
So why now? Is it age, maturity? Seeking my roots? I think I wanted to get over my own fear, and I felt I had to exercise my right to return, even if it were for a visit and a short one at that.
I made up my mind when I met with Iman of PCRF (www.pcrf.net) on Wednesday evening, 22 February 2012. She told me that a group of women were traveling to Palestine in March and asked if I’d like to join them. Yes! I would. In the end, I went alone and I didn’t manage to meet them in Palestine. Looking back, although I’d love to meet these women who seem very interesting, I’m somehow happy that I did go alone.http://eng.babelmed.net/viaggi/208-palestine/13061-8-days-in-palestine.html
Co-translated by Fadwa Al Qasem and Elizabeth Grech
Photos: Fadwa Al Qasem
I’ll Cross That Bridge
The crossing point at King Hussein Bridge (popularly called the Allenby Bridge) was nothing more than a hall with a long counter with about 3 small windows, behind which officers sat or stood. There was also a cubicle barely enough for 4 but where 5 officers sat watching TV, watching us watching them - this was the tourist information office. A group of chairs arranged in an open square served as a waiting area that overlooked a 'cafeteria' offering non-enticing dusty packages of chips and biscuits.
I approached the nearest window and presented my passport. It was passed from one hand to another, quietly, expertly, behind the glass. I followed from the other side, flitting back and forth between windows, until I lost track of it. Apparently I was cleared, but my passport must remain with the officers until I board the bus. I later realized that they stamped a slip of paper instead of my passport.
So there I stood, a Palestinian born in Libya with Canadian citizenship, on my way to enter my country as a tourist. And even though I was going through an Arab country, and crossing the bridge (as opposed to flying to 'Israel's' Ben Gurion airport), any stamp on my passport hinting at an entry into ‘Israel’ (even though I was visiting my Palestinian relatives in East Jerusalem, Palestine) could prevent my re-entry to the country where I reside and to be interpreted as 'normalization'. How and from where else was I supposed to visit my country, then?
I went outside to wait for the bus in the fresh spring air. I was happy to have some of my relatives with me.
We waited and waited and waited.
There were others waiting, too. Arabs, Palestinians, foreigners, tourists; I felt like I was a combination of all four.
The bus will arrive in 10 minutes, we were told again and again.
150 Minutes later, the bus arrived, and I, my bag, my passport, my slip of paper, my nervousness and pounding heart got on.
The Other Side
About 10 people on the small bus. I lost my apprehension and my nervousness; there was only now. Now was the start of everything being normal yet also surreal. I sat facing backwards, I wanted to talk to the man next to me, to the one in front of me. I wanted to ask them what to expect. I didn’t want to mention that this was my first visit. For some reason, I was starting to feel embarrassed by that fact.
“If you’re planning on visiting several places, don’t mention that,” the man in front of me advised. I barely had time to check if there was any water under the bridge (there was none), we’d already crossed it.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it!” came the reply.
Others had already arrived; there was a sort of line-up of people with their bags. When we were permitted to get off the bus, we joined them.
Israeli army personnel to my left; blue jumpers, bullet proof vests, army fatigue trousers, machine guns hanging from their shoulders and reaching their calves. A movie set? A middle-aged man, and a young man and a young woman who looked like teenagers. I suppose they were exercising self-restraint.
The group of people flowed slowly to form a queue. We were let in through a small barrier in small batches. The man in front of me had no luggage at all; he was just coming for the day. I jokingly offered him one of my bags (I failed to note that there were cameras everywhere and that such ‘jokes’ are no yet really funny in such situations). I also exchanged business cards with another man behind me. We approached a cubicle; the officer inside looked at our passports briefly but intently. Our luggage was passed through metal detectors. I had already taken the precaution of wearing neither jewellery nor a belt, I had no coins on me and my mobile was in my bag.
My bags were not searched, but some of the others were stopped and their bags opened. I got a flirting smile from one of the Israelis handling the bags; obviously he didn't realize I was Palestinian. I was reminded of Mahmoud Darwish's poem:
He is calm and so am I
He drinks lemon tea, and I drink coffee,
This is the only difference between us.
He doesn't see me as I eye him discreetly
I don't see him as he eyes me discreetly,
I don't tell him: the sky is clear today and more blue.
He doesn't tell me: the sky is clear today and more blue.
I hum the melody of a song; he hums the melody of a similar song.
I wonder: is he the mirror wherein I see myself?
Then I look to his eyes and I don't see him.
I leave the coffee shop in a hurry.
I think: maybe he's a killer, or maybe
He’s only a man passing through and thinking that I was a killer
He's afraid and so am I!
I didn't return his smile. I took my bags and headed towards the barrier counter.
Crocheting Under Their Noses
Please don't stamp my passport. Perhaps because it seemed more like an order than a request, the Israeli officer shot me a defiant: Why?!
Then the questions followed:
Why are you here? Is this your first time? Did you come alone? Yes, alone, I answered. Then who was that you were talking to? Of course, cameras and microphones everywhere. We were in the queue together, we spoke.
Where will you be going during your visit? Only Jerusalem? Where are you staying? Who are you visiting? What are their names? Their numbers? Repeat the number.. 456?? Again. Fill in this form and wait there. Someone will come to you.
I fill the form. I ignore her instructions, I walk back to her; here you go, I say. No, you must sit and wait there.
I sit. I wait.
10 Minutes. A man approaches me. He has a serious face with a tinge of 'friendliness' so as to seem non-threatening. Why are you here? Is this your first time? Did you come alone? Where are you staying? Who are you visiting? My in-laws. Have you come alone? Yes. Visiting your in-laws alone? I think: is there a law against visiting in-laws without your spouse? Or is it just a stupid thing to do? You are visiting your in-laws alone?!. Yes. Where is your husband? .. OK, wait here.
I wait.
10 Minutes. He comes back. What do you work? Is this your company? Where do you live? How long have you lived there? Is this your email address? Can you spell it for me? ... OK, wait here.
I wait.
10 Minutes. Another officer approaches me, the one organizing the queues. Come with me, she says. But I was told to wait here, I say. No, come with me. But he told me to wait here; he might come back and not find me. She is starting to get heated up. This is my job; I know what I'm doing, OK! Come with me. So I come with her. She takes me to a hall with many chairs. There are others standing, sitting, restless, waiting. Wait here, she says.
I wait.
I take out my yarns and hook, and I start crochetting. Although I've nothing to hide, I start to feel tense. My crochetting appears nonchalant but the movement eases my tension. I think that family and relatives are starting to worry by now.
I wait. I crochet.
10 Minutes. The man comes back. What is your husband's name? Do you know his father's name? When was he born? His father? I fain stupidity. No, your husband. Was he a resident of Jerusalem? OK, wait here.
Now I'm worried. I call my husband on my mobile. (Yes, I know, they're watching, maybe listening.)
They're asking me about you, I say. So? He replies. OK, call everyone; tell them I'm waiting here.
I wait. I crochet.
10 Minutes. 20.
Fawda? Calls an Israeli officer. (Fawda means 'a mess' in Arabic). Yes, I say, I'm Fawda. She gives me my passport. I head towards the exit. I pass an old Palestinian man standing in the queue before the barrier counter. Where's the exit? I ask him. He points about two meters away as he mumbles: May God protect you my child, may God be with you, May God guide you ..
I exit through a plastic separator. I've arrived. This is Jerusalem. It's warm and dusty. It's 6.30pm. I pull my bag behind me as tears roll down my face.
Tourism Not an Option
You can't come to Jerusalem with your eyes shut, your heart closed and your mind a dried up fossil. If that's what you want, go to Greece. Here in Jerusalem there are huge, and I mean huge, walls separating, alienating, imprisoning, creating ghettos, creating new and constantly changing realities in Palestinian lives. Yes, yes, the wall, we all know the story. But it's not just one wall, there are many walls, and you can’t truly appreciate how imposing these walls are until you stand under them, touch them, smell them, see them from above, stare at them from below. These apartheid walls that are illegal by international law.
I came face to face with one of them when I got off the bus that took me and a group of people on one of its alternative political tours.
There it was, winding its way, bulldozing anything in its path. Concrete slabs, topped with barbed wire piercing the sky, keeping a tight grip on towns and villages like handcuffs burning into your wrists. If you woke up one morning to find yourself 'inside' the wall, then inside the wall you must remain. To get out, you need permits from the Israeli government, permits that are extremely hard to come by. The result is that you find your life governed by an impenetrable cement barrier, forcibly burrowing into land considered by a large majority of humanity as holy; your land, your ancestors’ land.
There are also walls surrounding refugee camps, like Shuafat refugee camp. I was quite shocked to discover that there are Palestinian refugee camps in Palestine; about 19 Palestinian refugee camps in Palestine. 19!
If it's not suffocating the refugee camps, the wall, as it tramples on, may actually be part of your own home. If your home is in the wall's path, the Israeli government may 'generously' give you two options: either they tear down your house (the house that probably belonged to your father, his father, and his father before him) at your expense, or one facade of your home will become an integral part of the wall. Windows are barred and sealed. Suddenly your neighbour might as well be on the moon.
It can be even worse. I visited Umm Nabil (Nabil's mother) and Umm Mahmoud, the first elderly and the second middle-aged, who spent most of their defiantly day sitting on white plastic chairs in the front yard, surrounded by their lady friends. They sat with their backs to a small, one storey house, and facing them across the street was a two storey house. The house to their back used to belong to Umm Nabil and the one across the street to Umm Mahmoud. Looking up from the pavement where I stood, I saw two children, probably aged 4 and 5, dangling their bare feet from barred windows. A car turned into the street and parked at the entrance of the house. A couple of Israeli men got out, ignored us, spoke, said their farewells, then one of them went into the house. Umm Mahmound's house, confiscated by the Israeli government so that a family of Jews hailing from Europe and who, being of European descent, most likely have no historical connection to Palestine, let alone this neighbourhood, this street, this house.
What it is to be Here
Everywhere I went it was as if I were in two places at once. All the time the feeling that everything is normal but truly nothing is normal enveloped me.
Inhale, I hear the familiar Palestinian dialect, exhale I see two Israeli teen army conscripts carrying machine guns, walking the streets, in public areas, at mosque entrances.
Inhale, I see a Palestinian teacher surrounded by young school children – he was telling them about the history of the old city in Jerusalem. Exhale, I see an Israeli teacher, surrounded by young school children – I don't know what he was telling them, but judging by some of the tours advertised on the web, he may have been telling them Israel's version of the history of the old city.
Inhale, I am a Palestinian walking these streets as a foreigner. Exhale, I see foreigners from this land planted here as natives.
Inhale, I was robbed blind. Exhale, I was robbed blind.
Born one place and traveling constantly from one country to another, trying to squeeze into national identities that may have been welcoming yes, but that ended up deranging my idea of belonging. I was not supposed to spend a large portion of my life feeling confused about my identity or my belonging. It was supposed to be something I took for granted, like everyone else. I was supposed to have been born here, breathing in this air that carries the memories and secrets of my ancestry, treading the soil enriched with their remains on which the olive trees grow. I was supposed to have had a normal childhood here. This was supposed to be my playground, and these rocks were supposed to skim the knees of the tomboy that I was in childhood.
I was supposed to have had memories of my best friend here
I was supposed to have had my first kiss here.
I was supposed to have had my heart broken for the first time; here.
Here.
And so, I am Palestinian
I was born only to find that I was Palestinian. From my first moments of awareness I have been trying to grasp the fragments of the word Palestinian, and the question of my belonging was what scared me the most from my first visit.
I cried when I reached Jerusalem. I cried when I visited Nablus.
I cried at the Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Nativity, Bir Ya'qub monastery.
I cried at the crossings, the barriers, and the bullet ridden walls.
I took a handful of sand from Jaffa and wrote my name on the beach. I wandered the streets of Ramallah in the pouring rain.
I committed all these clichés in my search; my search for a belonging that would accept me.
But I found my belonging elsewhere.
It was neither in the land nor in the soil; such a belonging takes much time to develop, it takes memories and a very personal history which I plan on building stone by stone with my naked spirit.
My belonging was elsewhere, waiting patiently for me since the day I was born. Waiting for me to reach out to it, to see it as shone through the eyes of the people of this land and this soil.
I found it in the warmth of my family in-law. The kindness of my cousins. The generous hospitality of my mother’s aunt and her children. The bus driver Abu Samir. The taxi driver Fadi. The protection of the whispered prayers by the old man once I was permitted to enter Jerusalem, the gentleness of the man who asked if I was OK because he saw my tears when I was on Palestinian soil.
It was in the overwhelmingly sincere and spontaneous gathering with the most wonderful authors, critics, readers and intellectuals, and the wonderful owners of the wonderful bookshop in East Jerusalem where we all met; in their smart, transparent and deep questions and in their acceptance.
In the beaded Palestinian flag bracelet slipped onto my wrist by its owner after I told him that I liked it.
Belonging to you is the most beautiful belonging. My love for you is my belonging, and from the glow of your humanity I was born to find that I was Palestinian, but today it was my choice to be Palestinian.
Co-translated by Fadwa Al Qasem and Elizabeth Grech
Photos: Fadwa Al Qasem
I made up my mind on the spot. I would finally go to Palestine. To many, and sometimes even to myself, this seemed like a spur of the moment decision. In reality, this decision was the fruit of many decades of contemplation, stewing ever so slowly on the back burner in the depths of my soul, resurfacing every so often egged on by my sister-in-law, only to be pushed back to a corner where I stumbled on it again and again. If I were to be completely honest, I would admit that (1) I did not really see how my visiting a country I belonged to but never knew would make any difference to me, or to anyone. (2) I was afraid of coming face to face with “Israeli’s”: the people, the army, the check-points, the machine guns, the occupation. (3) I was afraid of my own reaction: What if I felt numb? What if I didn’t feel that I belonged? What if I didn’t like it? What if I stood out like a sore thumb? What about when I left, what then? I was just afraid; I was too full of apprehension, of mixed emotions, of guilt.
So why now? Is it age, maturity? Seeking my roots? I think I wanted to get over my own fear, and I felt I had to exercise my right to return, even if it were for a visit and a short one at that.
I made up my mind when I met with Iman of PCRF (www.pcrf.net) on Wednesday evening, 22 February 2012. She told me that a group of women were traveling to Palestine in March and asked if I’d like to join them. Yes! I would. In the end, I went alone and I didn’t manage to meet them in Palestine. Looking back, although I’d love to meet these women who seem very interesting, I’m somehow happy that I did go alone.http://eng.babelmed.net/viaggi/208-palestine/13061-8-days-in-palestine.html
Co-translated by Fadwa Al Qasem and Elizabeth Grech
Photos: Fadwa Al Qasem
I’ll Cross That Bridge
The crossing point at King Hussein Bridge (popularly called the Allenby Bridge) was nothing more than a hall with a long counter with about 3 small windows, behind which officers sat or stood. There was also a cubicle barely enough for 4 but where 5 officers sat watching TV, watching us watching them - this was the tourist information office. A group of chairs arranged in an open square served as a waiting area that overlooked a 'cafeteria' offering non-enticing dusty packages of chips and biscuits.
I approached the nearest window and presented my passport. It was passed from one hand to another, quietly, expertly, behind the glass. I followed from the other side, flitting back and forth between windows, until I lost track of it. Apparently I was cleared, but my passport must remain with the officers until I board the bus. I later realized that they stamped a slip of paper instead of my passport.
So there I stood, a Palestinian born in Libya with Canadian citizenship, on my way to enter my country as a tourist. And even though I was going through an Arab country, and crossing the bridge (as opposed to flying to 'Israel's' Ben Gurion airport), any stamp on my passport hinting at an entry into ‘Israel’ (even though I was visiting my Palestinian relatives in East Jerusalem, Palestine) could prevent my re-entry to the country where I reside and to be interpreted as 'normalization'. How and from where else was I supposed to visit my country, then?
I went outside to wait for the bus in the fresh spring air. I was happy to have some of my relatives with me.
We waited and waited and waited.
There were others waiting, too. Arabs, Palestinians, foreigners, tourists; I felt like I was a combination of all four.
The bus will arrive in 10 minutes, we were told again and again.
150 Minutes later, the bus arrived, and I, my bag, my passport, my slip of paper, my nervousness and pounding heart got on.
The Other Side
About 10 people on the small bus. I lost my apprehension and my nervousness; there was only now. Now was the start of everything being normal yet also surreal. I sat facing backwards, I wanted to talk to the man next to me, to the one in front of me. I wanted to ask them what to expect. I didn’t want to mention that this was my first visit. For some reason, I was starting to feel embarrassed by that fact.
“If you’re planning on visiting several places, don’t mention that,” the man in front of me advised. I barely had time to check if there was any water under the bridge (there was none), we’d already crossed it.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it!” came the reply.
Others had already arrived; there was a sort of line-up of people with their bags. When we were permitted to get off the bus, we joined them.
Israeli army personnel to my left; blue jumpers, bullet proof vests, army fatigue trousers, machine guns hanging from their shoulders and reaching their calves. A movie set? A middle-aged man, and a young man and a young woman who looked like teenagers. I suppose they were exercising self-restraint.
The group of people flowed slowly to form a queue. We were let in through a small barrier in small batches. The man in front of me had no luggage at all; he was just coming for the day. I jokingly offered him one of my bags (I failed to note that there were cameras everywhere and that such ‘jokes’ are no yet really funny in such situations). I also exchanged business cards with another man behind me. We approached a cubicle; the officer inside looked at our passports briefly but intently. Our luggage was passed through metal detectors. I had already taken the precaution of wearing neither jewellery nor a belt, I had no coins on me and my mobile was in my bag.
My bags were not searched, but some of the others were stopped and their bags opened. I got a flirting smile from one of the Israelis handling the bags; obviously he didn't realize I was Palestinian. I was reminded of Mahmoud Darwish's poem:
He is calm and so am I
He drinks lemon tea, and I drink coffee,
This is the only difference between us.
He doesn't see me as I eye him discreetly
I don't see him as he eyes me discreetly,
I don't tell him: the sky is clear today and more blue.
He doesn't tell me: the sky is clear today and more blue.
I hum the melody of a song; he hums the melody of a similar song.
I wonder: is he the mirror wherein I see myself?
Then I look to his eyes and I don't see him.
I leave the coffee shop in a hurry.
I think: maybe he's a killer, or maybe
He’s only a man passing through and thinking that I was a killer
He's afraid and so am I!
I didn't return his smile. I took my bags and headed towards the barrier counter.
Crocheting Under Their Noses
Please don't stamp my passport. Perhaps because it seemed more like an order than a request, the Israeli officer shot me a defiant: Why?!
Then the questions followed:
Why are you here? Is this your first time? Did you come alone? Yes, alone, I answered. Then who was that you were talking to? Of course, cameras and microphones everywhere. We were in the queue together, we spoke.
Where will you be going during your visit? Only Jerusalem? Where are you staying? Who are you visiting? What are their names? Their numbers? Repeat the number.. 456?? Again. Fill in this form and wait there. Someone will come to you.
I fill the form. I ignore her instructions, I walk back to her; here you go, I say. No, you must sit and wait there.
I sit. I wait.
10 Minutes. A man approaches me. He has a serious face with a tinge of 'friendliness' so as to seem non-threatening. Why are you here? Is this your first time? Did you come alone? Where are you staying? Who are you visiting? My in-laws. Have you come alone? Yes. Visiting your in-laws alone? I think: is there a law against visiting in-laws without your spouse? Or is it just a stupid thing to do? You are visiting your in-laws alone?!. Yes. Where is your husband? .. OK, wait here.
I wait.
10 Minutes. He comes back. What do you work? Is this your company? Where do you live? How long have you lived there? Is this your email address? Can you spell it for me? ... OK, wait here.
I wait.
10 Minutes. Another officer approaches me, the one organizing the queues. Come with me, she says. But I was told to wait here, I say. No, come with me. But he told me to wait here; he might come back and not find me. She is starting to get heated up. This is my job; I know what I'm doing, OK! Come with me. So I come with her. She takes me to a hall with many chairs. There are others standing, sitting, restless, waiting. Wait here, she says.
I wait.
I take out my yarns and hook, and I start crochetting. Although I've nothing to hide, I start to feel tense. My crochetting appears nonchalant but the movement eases my tension. I think that family and relatives are starting to worry by now.
I wait. I crochet.
10 Minutes. The man comes back. What is your husband's name? Do you know his father's name? When was he born? His father? I fain stupidity. No, your husband. Was he a resident of Jerusalem? OK, wait here.
Now I'm worried. I call my husband on my mobile. (Yes, I know, they're watching, maybe listening.)
They're asking me about you, I say. So? He replies. OK, call everyone; tell them I'm waiting here.
I wait. I crochet.
10 Minutes. 20.
Fawda? Calls an Israeli officer. (Fawda means 'a mess' in Arabic). Yes, I say, I'm Fawda. She gives me my passport. I head towards the exit. I pass an old Palestinian man standing in the queue before the barrier counter. Where's the exit? I ask him. He points about two meters away as he mumbles: May God protect you my child, may God be with you, May God guide you ..
I exit through a plastic separator. I've arrived. This is Jerusalem. It's warm and dusty. It's 6.30pm. I pull my bag behind me as tears roll down my face.
Tourism Not an Option
You can't come to Jerusalem with your eyes shut, your heart closed and your mind a dried up fossil. If that's what you want, go to Greece. Here in Jerusalem there are huge, and I mean huge, walls separating, alienating, imprisoning, creating ghettos, creating new and constantly changing realities in Palestinian lives. Yes, yes, the wall, we all know the story. But it's not just one wall, there are many walls, and you can’t truly appreciate how imposing these walls are until you stand under them, touch them, smell them, see them from above, stare at them from below. These apartheid walls that are illegal by international law.
I came face to face with one of them when I got off the bus that took me and a group of people on one of its alternative political tours.
There it was, winding its way, bulldozing anything in its path. Concrete slabs, topped with barbed wire piercing the sky, keeping a tight grip on towns and villages like handcuffs burning into your wrists. If you woke up one morning to find yourself 'inside' the wall, then inside the wall you must remain. To get out, you need permits from the Israeli government, permits that are extremely hard to come by. The result is that you find your life governed by an impenetrable cement barrier, forcibly burrowing into land considered by a large majority of humanity as holy; your land, your ancestors’ land.
There are also walls surrounding refugee camps, like Shuafat refugee camp. I was quite shocked to discover that there are Palestinian refugee camps in Palestine; about 19 Palestinian refugee camps in Palestine. 19!
If it's not suffocating the refugee camps, the wall, as it tramples on, may actually be part of your own home. If your home is in the wall's path, the Israeli government may 'generously' give you two options: either they tear down your house (the house that probably belonged to your father, his father, and his father before him) at your expense, or one facade of your home will become an integral part of the wall. Windows are barred and sealed. Suddenly your neighbour might as well be on the moon.
It can be even worse. I visited Umm Nabil (Nabil's mother) and Umm Mahmoud, the first elderly and the second middle-aged, who spent most of their defiantly day sitting on white plastic chairs in the front yard, surrounded by their lady friends. They sat with their backs to a small, one storey house, and facing them across the street was a two storey house. The house to their back used to belong to Umm Nabil and the one across the street to Umm Mahmoud. Looking up from the pavement where I stood, I saw two children, probably aged 4 and 5, dangling their bare feet from barred windows. A car turned into the street and parked at the entrance of the house. A couple of Israeli men got out, ignored us, spoke, said their farewells, then one of them went into the house. Umm Mahmound's house, confiscated by the Israeli government so that a family of Jews hailing from Europe and who, being of European descent, most likely have no historical connection to Palestine, let alone this neighbourhood, this street, this house.
What it is to be Here
Everywhere I went it was as if I were in two places at once. All the time the feeling that everything is normal but truly nothing is normal enveloped me.
Inhale, I hear the familiar Palestinian dialect, exhale I see two Israeli teen army conscripts carrying machine guns, walking the streets, in public areas, at mosque entrances.
Inhale, I see a Palestinian teacher surrounded by young school children – he was telling them about the history of the old city in Jerusalem. Exhale, I see an Israeli teacher, surrounded by young school children – I don't know what he was telling them, but judging by some of the tours advertised on the web, he may have been telling them Israel's version of the history of the old city.
Inhale, I am a Palestinian walking these streets as a foreigner. Exhale, I see foreigners from this land planted here as natives.
Inhale, I was robbed blind. Exhale, I was robbed blind.
Born one place and traveling constantly from one country to another, trying to squeeze into national identities that may have been welcoming yes, but that ended up deranging my idea of belonging. I was not supposed to spend a large portion of my life feeling confused about my identity or my belonging. It was supposed to be something I took for granted, like everyone else. I was supposed to have been born here, breathing in this air that carries the memories and secrets of my ancestry, treading the soil enriched with their remains on which the olive trees grow. I was supposed to have had a normal childhood here. This was supposed to be my playground, and these rocks were supposed to skim the knees of the tomboy that I was in childhood.
I was supposed to have had memories of my best friend here
I was supposed to have had my first kiss here.
I was supposed to have had my heart broken for the first time; here.
Here.
And so, I am Palestinian
I was born only to find that I was Palestinian. From my first moments of awareness I have been trying to grasp the fragments of the word Palestinian, and the question of my belonging was what scared me the most from my first visit.
I cried when I reached Jerusalem. I cried when I visited Nablus.
I cried at the Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Nativity, Bir Ya'qub monastery.
I cried at the crossings, the barriers, and the bullet ridden walls.
I took a handful of sand from Jaffa and wrote my name on the beach. I wandered the streets of Ramallah in the pouring rain.
I committed all these clichés in my search; my search for a belonging that would accept me.
But I found my belonging elsewhere.
It was neither in the land nor in the soil; such a belonging takes much time to develop, it takes memories and a very personal history which I plan on building stone by stone with my naked spirit.
My belonging was elsewhere, waiting patiently for me since the day I was born. Waiting for me to reach out to it, to see it as shone through the eyes of the people of this land and this soil.
I found it in the warmth of my family in-law. The kindness of my cousins. The generous hospitality of my mother’s aunt and her children. The bus driver Abu Samir. The taxi driver Fadi. The protection of the whispered prayers by the old man once I was permitted to enter Jerusalem, the gentleness of the man who asked if I was OK because he saw my tears when I was on Palestinian soil.
It was in the overwhelmingly sincere and spontaneous gathering with the most wonderful authors, critics, readers and intellectuals, and the wonderful owners of the wonderful bookshop in East Jerusalem where we all met; in their smart, transparent and deep questions and in their acceptance.
In the beaded Palestinian flag bracelet slipped onto my wrist by its owner after I told him that I liked it.
Belonging to you is the most beautiful belonging. My love for you is my belonging, and from the glow of your humanity I was born to find that I was Palestinian, but today it was my choice to be Palestinian.
Co-translated by Fadwa Al Qasem and Elizabeth Grech
Photos: Fadwa Al Qasem
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