Where Do We Belong?
by: Muna-Hamzeh Muhaisen
My daughter Iziyeh is getting married" Um Ra'ed tells her neighbor. "Congratulations. "Who is the groom?" the neighbor asks. "He's the son of Hassan Ibrahim, from our village." The neighbor thinks for a moment, "Hassan Ibrahim is from the Ayassa clan, isn't he?" "Yes," replies Um Ra'ed. "Hassan Ibrahim was good friends with my father in Zakaryia [northwest of Hebron]. He was a decent and well-liked man."
Um Ra'ed means, of course, that Hassan Ibrahim and her father were good friends before 1948, when the two were still young men living in the village of Zakaryia. The fact that Hassan's son is marrying her daughter makes Um Ra'ed very happy. "My daughter Amal married a stranger from another village and I'm so glad Iziyeh is marrying one of us. It puts me more at ease."
Although Um Ra'ed has lived in Dheisheh Refugee camp these past fifty long years, she still identifies herself as a Zakaryian. This is just how it is. You sense her identification with Zakaryia in all the stories she tells you. "During the occupation, I worked as a cleaning woman in the dormitories of Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
"About seven other women from Dheisheh worked with me. We were all from Zakaryia except for Um Riad. She was from Faloujeh. Oh yes! I forgot Um Saleh. She was from Beit Nateef. Nice woman."
Although Dheisheh's refugees come from more than 40 Palestinian villages in pre-1948 Palestine, they all still identify themselves with their villages in more ways than one. The refugees of Zakaryia, who make up the majority of the refugees in Dheisheh, live in the same vicinity in the camp. Theirs is known as Harat al-Zakarweh (the Zakaryia neighborhood). In fact, since there are no street names in Dheisheh, each neighborhood is named after the village where its residents come from. There is the Ajour neighborhood, the Walajeh neighborhood and so on.
Until today, residents of the same village maintain close ties. If a Dheisheh refugee from the village of Walajeh dies, all the Dheisheh clans from his village, men and women, go to pay their respects. If a man from Ajour accidentally hits someone with his car, the clan elders from Ajour go visit the victim's family to make amends. If two men from different villages get into a fight and injure one another, clan elders from both villages meet to make peace (sulha) between the two. The examples are numerous.
"The experience of al-Nakba was devastating for people," explains Abu 'Abdullah from the village of Beit Eitab. "When we came to Dheisheh, it was only natural for us to stick together and help each other out. Besides, we have customs and traditions and al-Nakba did not take those away. We still go about our social duties in the same manner that we did back home."
But fifty years is almost a lifetime and there are now third and fourth generation refugees born in the camp. Can a second or third generation refugee, born and raised in Dheisheh, have the same ties to his village as his elders?
Nader Jibreen, 38, doesn't think so. "Why can't we be realistic for a change," he says heatedly. "I don't feel the same about Zakaryia as my father does." Jibreen says he has been visiting Zakaryia with his parents ever since he was a child. "The first time I went there, I was astounded at how beautiful the area is. I looked at the peak of a hill and imagined building a house for myself there. But, it was a very brief and momentary dream. When I looked around and saw the Israeli houses built on Zakaryia's land, the roads and the schools, I said to myself: who are we fooling, this doesn't belong to us anymore."
Jibreen is getting irritated and angry. He is having a heated discussion with friends about their ties to their villages. "Let me ask you something," he says scornfully. "What do we know about our villages? Other than the stories we hear our parents tell us, what information do we really have about our villages?"
Everyone agrees that all they know is what their parents tell them. "Did you ever read about your village in books, to try and educate yourselves?" No one answers. "Well then," reflects Jibreen, "don't you find it odd that we livin close proximity to Zakaryia and yet we are ignorant about it! I mean, for God's sake, it is not as if we have moved to Japan. Zakaryia is only miles away from Dheisheh and what do we know about it, other than it being our village?"
Indeed, why don't refugees like Jibreen know more about the places they call home. Jibreen contends the reason is ignorance. "Our parents were ignorant. Why didn't they teach us about our villages when we were children? If they had, our ties to the villages would certainly be stronger than they are today."
Jibreen's cousin, Yousef Mana' disagrees. "My father told me a lot about Zakaryia and this is why, unlike you, I feel closely connected to it." "Yes, but in your heart, do you believe you are going to return to it?" Mana' grins. It is a sardonic grin. "In my heart I believe that it is either us or them. I don't see that we can both be here on this land. It won't work. It is a struggle to the end, either us or them. I don't accept the fact that my father used to own land in Zakaryia when here I am, only owning the house I live in in Dheisheh, so that an Iraqi Jew, just because he is a Jew, can come live on my father's land."
Everyone in the room falls silent. Everyone is immersed in their own thoughts, thinking of what their lives would be like if they still lived in their villages. "My parents always tell me stories about their life in Zakaryia before 1948," says Jibreen. "Sometimes when my father is going on and on about it, I ask him, 'Did you see the Jews?' He tells me he hadn't. I ask him again, 'When you fled the village in the autumn of 1948, did you see any Jews?' My father still says no. So I ask him, "Why then did you leave? Why the hell did you leave?"
Now it is Mana's turn to be irritated and angry. "All right, so people were ignorant. They were afraid for their lives. They heard about the Deir Yassin massacre and they were afraid they'd be butchered as well. Besides, what sort of weapons did they have to defend themselves against the armed Jews and their British supporters?"
"They could have at least tried," says Jibreen, with a pained look on his face.
Mana's father tried. He fought in several battles in 1948 and lived to talk about it. "The Palestinians had no weapons worth mentioning, they were not organized and did not have a central command. They had no chance," Mana' argues vehemently. "This is why I say, it is either us or them. There is no room for both."
The front door opens and Jibreen's nine-year-old cousin, Malak, walks in. "We're off school tomorrow and the day after," she blurts excitedly. "How come?" someone asks. "They have two marches to commemorate al-Nakba. The children are going to carry keys to their old houses in the villages and go on a march." Everyone smiles at the girl who is happily waving a small Palestinian flag in her hand.
"The teacher told us to hang a flag on our front gate," says the girl. "She also said to hang a black flag because of al-Nakba but I don't have a piece of black cloth." "I'll find you one," offers Jibreen's wife. The girl jumps with joy and everyone laughs. Then the girl innocently asks, "What is this Nakba thing? What does it mean?"
Everyone is too shocked to speak. Moments later, Jibreen asks, "Didn't your teacher explain to you why you are going on the march?" The girl shook her head. "Al-Nakba is when the Jews came and occupied Palestine and.....," Jibreen proceeds to explain. Issa shifts in his seat. Throughout the discussion, he did not say a word. Now he looks at everyone and grins. "There you have it all over again. Ignorance!"