October 20, 2007

'Going Home (Part 2) – Phone calls from Beit Jibreen'

by Rich Wiles*

As Salah left the bus realizations set in. Not realizations any of us still on the bus were unaware of, but nevertheless realizations that were painful…

Salah is Lajee Center's Director, he is also like a brother to me. He is a man who has lived a life about which several books could be written. Books filled with stories about time locked up in the Occupation prisons, about working as a leader and organizer of people, of prisoners, and of children. Stories about his time surrounded by tanks, soldiers, and the world's press whilst captive inside the Church of the Nativity for forty days during the 2002 siege. Stories about visiting every prison in the country as a child to see his elder brothers before he himself was later incarcerated. Stories about seeing friends and family members murdered. Stories about resistance, about life in exile, and stories about what it means to be Palestinian. He was leaving the bus not because he didn't want to come on the rest of the trip with us, but because he has West Bank ID and we were approaching a checkpoint to take us out of the West Bank and away from the Wall. He would be stopped at the checkpoint and taken from the bus, and he did not want to jeopardise the chances for the rest of us. The children, being under 16, did not need ID yet and therefore there was at least a chance we could get through. We were going to places many of the children had previously only dreamed about, they were going home…

I spoke to the young IOF soldier in English telling him all the children were young and had no ID, and that I was taking them to swim in the sea at Yafa. It was not the right time to try to convince an Israeli about the Right of Return. He took my passport to be checked but returned within a few minutes, gave me my passport back, and let us pass. The children waited until Hussan checkpoint was out of sight, until they felt safer again, and let out a huge cheer… We had made it.

Before passing the checkpoint we had already visited some of the remnants of Al Walaja village. The original village of Al Walaja was ethnically cleansed in 1948 and its residents crossed the green line which runs alongside the village and after the attacks had subsided established a new village on the West Bank side of this invisible line. In 1967 some villagers, those who had built houses alongside the green line, were forced to flee again and these residents of Al Walaja moved for a second time further into the West Bank. At this time the IOF finished the destruction of the evidence of the original village flattening all houses that still remained in their attempts to erase the memories of Palestine from sight. The village now known as Al Walaja, which is alongside Beit Jala, is the village which was established after the attacks of 1948 but then expanded after the attacks of 1967 as more people fled. So the residents of 'new' Al Walaja are themselves refugees, some of them twice over. Others from the village came to the camps. Abu Fahmi is 83 and one of those who came to Aida Camp:

"In 1948 Zionist Gangs attacked Walaja from three sides, they left the eastern side open to people. The people in the village tried to protect it as much as they could but they couldn't stop the Zionists from occupying their land. Some people fled to the east side of Walaja where the new Walaja is now, near Beit Jala. Some tried to return, many of them were killed. Days after the Occupation occurred in 1967 Israeli forces came and demolished the old Walaja completely. We were watching that but could not do anything…"

Al Walaja's tortured history does not end there however. The Apartheid Wall is currently being built around the new village, this time the village is not so much been moved as being imprisoned. Abu Fahmi remembers life in the original village well, when his grandson Ahmed told him about our trip to the village he made a simple request:

" Oh!!! If you can just bring me a bottle of water from Walaja springs, I will drink from it, and wash to pray, I do not care if I die after that…"

So that is what Ahmed did when we returned to walk amongst the few remaining ruins, the fig trees, and on the rocky ground of Al Walaja. Ahmed drank from 'Ein Al Hanieh' – the same spring from which his grandfather had drunk nearly 60 years earlier, and he filled a bottle from it to take back to Abu Fahmi in Aida Camp.

Soon after passing Hussan checkpoint I asked the bus driver to pull over, we were barely a kilometer further up the road and there was little to see other than evergreen trees and rocks, but I knew that we were now on the land of the village of Al Kabu. For 12 year old Hiba this was the realisation of a long held dream. There were no houses like we had found in Al Walaja, but the knowledge that this was her home combated the sadness of the destruction during Al Nakba:

“I enjoyed the natural views and smelled the fresh air. I ran between the trees, photographed everything my eyes fell on, and picked some fruit. I felt sad and happy at the same time; sad because Al Kabu was occupied, my family was not with me, and I could not see every thing I wanted and had heard about…but happy because I was there, sitting, playing, and dreaming…”

Further on and Yazan explored the land of his ancestors in Beit Atab where we sat together to share some of the delicious figs which his grandmother had described to him nostalgically a few days earlier:

"Figs nowadays and not like in those days, Beit Atab figs are pure honey!"

Yazan's face was alive in Beit Atab and his energy boundless. The attachment he felt was evident in his every action and word:

"I am not a stranger here in Beit Atab! I feel it belongs to me and I belong to 'her'. Of course I am sad because of the demolished houses, and because Beit Atab has become a big park for Settlers, but I feel safe here between the trees, and happy because those trees are still alive and green…"

Listening to Yazan's words brought a lump to my throat. Children never use sentiments such as 'feeling safe' when articulating about life back amongst the air-less grey narrow streets of Aida Camp. Not even inside there own houses, surrounded by their family, would they dream of making such a bold statement such is the trauma created by the Occupation on their daily lives.

As the bus drove up the rocky road away from Beit Atab 11 year old Athal again squeezed my hand and asked me the same question she had been asking me since I had first seen her at 6.30 am that morning:

"Now? Are we going now?"

When I smiled and nodded my head the sparkle in her eyes made my heart race. We were going to a place that was like a mystical dream in her mind. A village that I have heard more stories about than any other because of my strong bonds with her family, a family I have written about many times. Athal Al Azzeh, and her brothers Miras and Ruwaid, and her cousins Suhaib, Abud and Samah, were all on their way home, we were heading for Beit Jibreen…

When I recently took Miras to visit his grandfather in hospital in Al Quds Abu Waleed (Miras' grandfather) had again begun to tell us stories about Beit Jibreen. I love to listen to his memories and the pleasure he gets from them is clear in the way his face lights up during these discussions. Having heard so much about the village I too was excited but not in the way the children were. It is more than just excitement, it is something indescribable, something beautiful yet saddening in the same moment knowing that this level of attachment has been built up whilst living in forced exile. When we saw the first sign for 'Beit Guvrin' the noise levels exuding from the Al Azzeh children raised several decibels. 'Beit Guvrin' is the name of the Israeli kibbutz built on top of the Palestinian village. All the children knew about the kibbutz, and the name change, so seeing their village described in this foreign tongue didn't dampen their spirits. As we drove up to the village cameras snapped wildly at every cactus, tree, and rock in sight despite my repeated remarks that they didn't need to take photos yet because we would get out and walk around the village. But they were taking no chances of missing anything just incase something went wrong and we were not allowed our visit. When they first saw 'Antica', the ancient Roman ruins in the village, squeals of excitement filled the bus…

It had been a long morning so when the bus finally pulled up alongside the entrance to the kibbutz and ruins we decided to first eat a late breakfast. I was also at pains to explain to the children that we may not be able to visit the ruins or kibbutz knowing they were all fenced off and not wanting the children to build up there hopes only to be let down. Not that the kibbutz was of real interest to the group anyway, we all knew there were still a few Palestinian houses here, and the remains of the mosque, and it was these relics of their history and identity that excited the children, and not the settlers buildings or lifestyles. After eating our first port of call was not the ruined houses but the ancient cacti that had stood steadfastly since well before the days when Abu Waleed had himself been no more than a child in Beit Jibreen. The children had heard so much about sabar (cactus fruit) from Beit Jibreen and it was to prove the most delicious desert with which to finish off our food. Before we could taste the delicious fruit though we had to find a way past its razor sharp natural protectors – the cactus thorns. Suhaib has never been a fan of sabar but that did not stop him taking up the challenge immediately, as he explained to me the day after the trip:

"Although I do not like cactus, I picked cactus… I loved to do that because it is in Beit Jibreen, and they were planted by my great grandparents. Some of its needles got into my hands, one needle is still now in my foot… I wish I could keep it for ever as a memory…"

The cactus is a sturdy plant, a plant which once planted can live through most conditions. Beit Jibreen's cacti had stood firm through so much, they had resisted war and occupation, they were resilient through drought and flood. Their huge flat green shapes twisted in all directions, but their roots never let go of their earth. To the children these historic plants represented all things Palestinian, and these incredible natural structures were every bit as Palestinian as the children themselves. They held onto the village physically much as the children did emotionally.

As we walked towards the entrance to 'Antica' the 'lucky' children laughed at their not so fortunate friends who cursed and squealed whilst plucking thorns from their young hands. I had been warned that an entrance fee was required to enter the Roman ruins, which is why I had explained to the children that we may not be able to enter. This is not because we didn't have the money, the issue was not about finances, it was about principles. There was no way any of us would pay Israeli guards to walk in a Palestinian village whatever its current name may be. The guards approached me with questions but again with some quick talking the children were soon inside the ruins. At the entrance were many black plastic buckets labeled in Hebrew. They contained artifacts excavated from the site and were being stored before being sent off to an Israeli museum. Ancient broken pottery lay sadly looking uncared for and baring ugly stamps of Hebrew writing .  The suspicious eyes of the guards were on us, but Miras' eyes were on his sister:

"Israeli guards prevented my sister Athal from touching any piece of broken pottery, but Athal took one for memory…She did not feel that she was stealing, she was happy and said to me 'It is not theft, this piece is ours. It is from Beit Jibreen, and when we return to Beit Jibreen I will bring this piece with me to its home”.

Athal felt she was safeguarding the village's history. She did not want to see all the artifacts forced to leave against their will and felt she could protect this little piece of history until she could return it to its home when she returned to hers.

The ruins provided a maze of adventure and history for the children. The towering archways, dark tunnels, and defiant walls could have kept them amused for hours but there was more we wanted to explore in the village. Before leaving, Ruwaid used my phone to ring his father, Nidal, back in Aida Camp. He spoke at 100 miles an hour trying to tell his dad everything at once - about the trees he could see, the ruins, and the cactus thorns now stuck in his fingers. About the guards, his sister, the blue sky, the songs he had sung and the dance he had performed for us all to accompany Athal's beautiful singing in an ancient Roman hallway. He had so much to tell. He wanted his dad to know every minute detail and to see it through his eyes as Nidal himself could only dream about such a visit. There was something very uncomfortable and surreal about the realities of this phone call. Nidal has spent so long passing on the history of their families roots to his children and now he was blind to see what his children could. This was not to be the last phone call of the day…

We visited the old mosque which now stands barren and unloved alongside the road. Next to it a large white sign had been placed on the ground. The sign was written in Hebrew but two words in English read 'Gift Shop'. Maybe there are future plans to 'develop' the mosque…

I had seen a beautiful old house up a hill a few hundred metres away on the road out of the village and asked the children if they wanted to explore it before we left. I didn't really need to wait for the answer so pointed the bus driver in the right direction. Pulling off the main road so as to reach the hill on which the house stood defiantly Hebrew signs informed us we were entering an 'Israeli national park'. We pushed trees apart and clambered up the slope eagerly…

Four magnificent and perfectly intact archways graced the front of this now disused and neglected yet still aesthetically stunning abode. The small steps up the front had also remained firm. In one room a tree now stood, it had worked its way determinedly through cracked walls and its braches cast a refreshing shadow where the room's roof had no doubt stood in the days when this home had housed a family who had loved it. In another room we found ancient bullets littering the floor. The casings had long ago lost their colour and their green hue made them look like they had been dredged up from the sea floor. Were these bullets that had been fired in 1948? Then my phone started to ring again…

It was Nidal. He had been unable to talk for long earlier as he was in a meeting:

"Rich, are you still in Beit Jibreen?"

I explained we were exploring an old house up on the hill, he seemed excited:

"Let me speak to Ruwaid again."

I found Ruwaid sitting on a large windowsill in the third room in the house and handed him the phone. He started again to tell his dad about their village, describing everything he could see. Then he began to describe the house we were in, again at breakneck speed, Athal was also in the room. Suddenly he stopped abruptly. His eyes opened wide. His jaw dropped as he turned to look first at me, and then over into the shadows were his sister stood. His eyes were now as wide as saucers. My heart missed a beat, was something wrong?

"Hay dar sidy?" (This is my grandfather's house?)

His mouth was open as he waited for confirmation.

"Sidy Abd Al Rahman?" (Grandfather Abd Al Rahman?)

It was clear from his expression that it was true. He jumped down from the window excitedly and began to walk around the room with the phone still pressed to his ear:

"Zeinab, wein Zeinab?" (Zeinab, where is Zeinab?)

Ruwaid began to look around the walls of the room. Then he stopped:

"Zeinab! Zeinab! Zeinab!"

Zeinab is Ruwaid's aunt and he found the confirmation he was looking for. On the wall in the far corner of the room from where he was sitting he found the name Zeinab etched into the historic walls. His aunt had written this many years ago. As he looked further following instructions from Nidal he continued and found further names, names of more members of his family. We were not just in a Palestinian house, we were actually in an Al Azzeh house, the house of one of Ruwaid's grandparents… That minute or two of realization, or more accurately those few seconds when this young boy first realized where he was, will stay with me for ever. Ruwaid, and Athal, and Miras, Suhaib and Samah, were truly back home…

Once Miras heard the news he was equally proud. Just before we left the house I heard a loud scratching noise coming from one of the rooms. I went to have a look. There in the corner of the room, sunlight highlighting the determined but proud look on his face through an arched window, was Miras, stone in hand. He was writing on the wall. As he finished he turned and looked at me. He looked strong. Etched into the wall behind him were five new letters on the wall. Here in his grandfather's house, alongside the names of many generations of Al Azzeh's, were five new letters…

'M I R A S'

*About Rich Wiles

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