by Mona Ayoub
Time
froze the moment she left Palestine. None of the events that followed in her
life made any sense to her. None of her eleven children, her grandchildren, or
her new friendly neighbors could allay the bitterness in her heart.
In
moments of deep nostalgia, she would sit next to me, recalling the old days.
Her eyes would look far outside the window, as if directing them to the beloved
land. My grandmother would tell me how prominent my grandfather was: “He used
to be a brave soldier, with a grandiose riffle that I hung over the wall”. Sometimes
it felt too harsh to remind her of the reality that my grandfather was just a
regular police officer and not the great soldier she perceives in her mind. My
grandfather was serving in the English army, which, ironically, contributed to
his exile from Palestine. “Teta’s” fancies would continue gushing out as her
head roamed with memories : she would tell me about the grand mansion they owned in “Sheick Dawood”- the
name of my village in Palestine. She would vividly recount all the tiny details
of the house; accurately enumerate all the pieces of furniture she carefully
bought from “Akka” or the other ones she inherited from her mother-in-law. A
big smile would light up her face the moment she would hear the name”Sit Aysha”
from the corners of her memory. This is what she used to be called in
Palestine: She was the “sit” (Arabic word for female master) of the village,
and the poor there used to , without any hesitations, come to her
house asking for help. She never let any of them down as she always generously
shared her meals, pieces of fabric or any valuables.
These
were the good days for my grandma. Slowly, “Teta” would tilt her head and sigh
in despair as the arid breeze awakens her. Sixty years were not enough for her
to fathom that she lost her land, her mansion, and her first husband. They were
not enough to understand how she, in a matter of hours, turned from the “sit”
of her village to an abandoned “refugee”.
I
belong to the third generation of the Palestinians who took shelter in Lebanon
after being fiercely attacked by Israeli troops in 1948. “Where do you come
from?” was a detested question to answer. As a child, it was hard to hear remarks
from friends about my “discriminatory” blue ID, or the fact that I don’t have a
Lebanese “village of origin” to spend vacations in. Being a “refugee” in Lebanon
means that you have to deal with the stigma, hard-to- answer questions, scare
job permits even if they are available and you’re well qualified for, and the
fact that you cannot have any possessions no matter how rich you are. Simply,
being a refugee means that you have to deal with lots of uncertainties.
Sometimes, I feel that being an “outside-camps” refugee is a blessing and a
hardship to deal with at the same time. I miss the precious feeling of
belonging to a group that shares my history, suffering, and future hopes.
By
and by, I got to know how to reconcile my many identities, and how to live with
being a refugee.
One
visit to a Syrian refugee camp stirred too many emotions, and brought a lot of
memories, some of which are a mere construct of my imagination. As I was touring
between the ill-conditioned houses and looking at bare-feet, shreds wearing children,
I remembered “Teta Aysha”. I lived a suffering that I actually haven’t
experienced. Had God willed that I see light some few years earlier than I did,
I would have been just like any of these kids; unschooled, not cared for, and desperately
waiting for a “box of aid” filled with small packages of food.
Should
their stay get prolonged, they might come to a day where they would hold the
same “discriminatory” IDs that mark me as a “refugee”. We would come to share
the same fate.
Sometime
I miss Palestine. Sometimes I miss being a “Palestinian citizen”.
