Sixty years of occupation.
I grew up to my mother’s stories about our homeland. My mother’s soft voice recalls the fields of Nablus, the churches of Jerusalem, the black tulips of Ramallah, the orange trees of Yafa and the sandy beaches of Gaza. As a little girl, I look up at her with shining dark eyes and draw a colorful picture of home.
As I grew up, reality became clearer day by day. The blood, the broken bones, the yells, the cries, the demolition, the bullets, the martyrs, the prisons, the torture, the wall, the scars: my homeland, shredded into pieces by a ruthless monster. I realize that people’s hearts are empty and brotherhood is a dream.
The colors fade away from my picture.
Sixty years of refuge.
I walk down the dingy narrow alley. Children pop up from every corner laughing and chasing one another. They stop at one corner and invent their own toys using wooden sticks and metal scraps. They look up at me curiously, smile and ask me to take a picture of them. I look at their faces through my camera lens: boney cheeks, innocent smiles, bright eyes … unknown future.
I keep on walking through the narrow alleys, jumping over sewage water puddles and bending down to avoid tangled electric wires. Two old ladies in the traditional “toub” sit together in front of a tapered door, chatting the hours away. They greet me as I walk by and offer a bite to eat. Despite all desperate conditions, traditional hospitality and generosity never fade away. I decline politely and walk on.
A group of teenagers huddle together in front of a wall that’s decorated by graffiti. They chat, smoke and stare into space dreaming about untouchable ambitions. A group of men set off to work in a near by construction site. A doctor, an engineer and a lawyer work together, under the scorching sun, to assemble the bricks and paint the walls of a brand new building.
I draw a new picture of humiliation and faded dreams.
Sixty years of identity loss.
With a fizzy drink in hand, I look around at the cozy gathering at a friend’s place. A new acquaintance approaches me and asks me where I’m from. “Palestine” I respond. My answer raises interest as the questions start flowing rapidly: where do you live in Palestine? How’s the situation there? How did you end up here? Etc. I quickly explain the existence of my Jordanian passport and my childhood spent in the Gulf. The acquaintance raises one eyebrow in bewilderment and states “So you’re Jordanian not Palestinian! How come you’re wearing a kaffiyeh though?! You don’t even have a Palestinian ID!!”
I walk away, wondering if identity is branded by a little black book and roots are discarded as soon as you hold a foreign ID card in hand. If a kaffiyeh is what it takes to revive my roots in front of others so be it.
I add people wearing kaffiyehs to my original picture of home.
Sixty years and counting..
We sleep and wake up with the Nakba everyday. Our identity has been contaminated by the rape of Palestine. We are disgraced by the shame of ignorance and indifference towards the holy land. On the other side of the border, Palestinians stand honorable, solid and strong despite 60 years of hardship. We owe our existence to their courageous struggle against a merciless enemy.
I head southwards to the border. I walk down the small hill and stare at the other side. It looks so close, yet it is very far away. I close my eyes; let my self dissolve through the boarder’s electrified wires and run through the meadows of Palestine. I open my eyes and settle for a small jug of Palestinian soil. I turn my back to the boarder and walk away.
I sprinkle the soil over my picture of home … and hope.
Beirut
15.5.2008
I grew up to my mother’s stories about our homeland. My mother’s soft voice recalls the fields of Nablus, the churches of Jerusalem, the black tulips of Ramallah, the orange trees of Yafa and the sandy beaches of Gaza. As a little girl, I look up at her with shining dark eyes and draw a colorful picture of home.
As I grew up, reality became clearer day by day. The blood, the broken bones, the yells, the cries, the demolition, the bullets, the martyrs, the prisons, the torture, the wall, the scars: my homeland, shredded into pieces by a ruthless monster. I realize that people’s hearts are empty and brotherhood is a dream.
The colors fade away from my picture.
Sixty years of refuge.
I walk down the dingy narrow alley. Children pop up from every corner laughing and chasing one another. They stop at one corner and invent their own toys using wooden sticks and metal scraps. They look up at me curiously, smile and ask me to take a picture of them. I look at their faces through my camera lens: boney cheeks, innocent smiles, bright eyes … unknown future.
I keep on walking through the narrow alleys, jumping over sewage water puddles and bending down to avoid tangled electric wires. Two old ladies in the traditional “toub” sit together in front of a tapered door, chatting the hours away. They greet me as I walk by and offer a bite to eat. Despite all desperate conditions, traditional hospitality and generosity never fade away. I decline politely and walk on.
A group of teenagers huddle together in front of a wall that’s decorated by graffiti. They chat, smoke and stare into space dreaming about untouchable ambitions. A group of men set off to work in a near by construction site. A doctor, an engineer and a lawyer work together, under the scorching sun, to assemble the bricks and paint the walls of a brand new building.
I draw a new picture of humiliation and faded dreams.
Sixty years of identity loss.
With a fizzy drink in hand, I look around at the cozy gathering at a friend’s place. A new acquaintance approaches me and asks me where I’m from. “Palestine” I respond. My answer raises interest as the questions start flowing rapidly: where do you live in Palestine? How’s the situation there? How did you end up here? Etc. I quickly explain the existence of my Jordanian passport and my childhood spent in the Gulf. The acquaintance raises one eyebrow in bewilderment and states “So you’re Jordanian not Palestinian! How come you’re wearing a kaffiyeh though?! You don’t even have a Palestinian ID!!”
I walk away, wondering if identity is branded by a little black book and roots are discarded as soon as you hold a foreign ID card in hand. If a kaffiyeh is what it takes to revive my roots in front of others so be it.
I add people wearing kaffiyehs to my original picture of home.
Sixty years and counting..
We sleep and wake up with the Nakba everyday. Our identity has been contaminated by the rape of Palestine. We are disgraced by the shame of ignorance and indifference towards the holy land. On the other side of the border, Palestinians stand honorable, solid and strong despite 60 years of hardship. We owe our existence to their courageous struggle against a merciless enemy.
I head southwards to the border. I walk down the small hill and stare at the other side. It looks so close, yet it is very far away. I close my eyes; let my self dissolve through the boarder’s electrified wires and run through the meadows of Palestine. I open my eyes and settle for a small jug of Palestinian soil. I turn my back to the boarder and walk away.
I sprinkle the soil over my picture of home … and hope.
Beirut
15.5.2008
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