Letters from Palestine (19 page)

As the cars in front slowed, I tried to
avoid looking out the window toward them, not wanting to draw
attention to my eyes. My colleague reassured me, saying again,
“Don’t worry,” as she slowed down.

The soldiers were looking into the windows a
few cars ahead of us, quickly glancing and waving them past without
stopping. I noticed that here they were just checking people’s
faces; whereas in the other checkpoints used by Palestinians, they
usually checked every ID card. As the cars moved forward, our car
approached the gate. I tried to close my eyes and to look to the
left and to the right, feeling somehow that if I did not look at
them they would not see me and would not see how scared I was. When
the car came to where the soldiers were standing, I was surprised
to find that my friend simply glanced at them, waved, said,
“
Boker Tov
,” meaning “good morning” in Hebrew, and continued
driving, drawing on all her privilege as a blonde Jewish person to
speed confidently on.

Her attitude, her fancy car, her Israeli
plates, and her looks indicated to them that they did not need to
stop her, that there was no chance that she was an Arab, that she
could not be Palestinian. Because of this, it was clear to the
Israeli soldiers that there was no need to look in the backseat.
Just this wave of the hand was enough for them: she was qualified
to pass.

As we left the checkpoint, immediately, my
uncle and I let out a deep, audible breath. We smiled, feeling that
we had achieved something, as if we had had a heavy burden on our
shoulders that had suddenly dropped off. My colleagues in the front
seat were smiling. We were inside what is now known as “Israel” to
many, but to us was the land where our families had their roots. It
was so close, just a short drive from the refugee camp where we now
lived, but was so far for Palestinians who were not allowed to
enter the area from which they had been expelled.

I was thinking about this when, after a few
tens of meters, the road suddenly was engulfed by trees, as if we
were entering a forest. My uncle, who had also been lost in
thought, became excited and started explaining where we were,
telling us the Arabic names for the area as if he were a tour
guide. “On the right-hand side, this is Al Qabo Village,” he said.
“Before 1948, there were none of these trees here, none at all. It
was a village with many olive trees. All the trees you see right
now were planted after 1948.” He continued, “They planted trees to
hide that there was a village here, full of people from a different
culture. First they uprooted the people from the village, driving
them out, then they destroyed the village, and then they planted
trees.”

As he spoke, I started becoming aware of
something that I hadn’t noticed before. I didn’t notice that my
uncle saw the area in a different way than I did. I had seen the
forest, but my uncle saw the villages that I could not see.

As we crossed the forest, my uncle continued
telling us the names of all the other villages that had existed
here before. On the left side, we passed huge villas made of
stones, with wide streets and swimming pools, all surrounded by a
high fence. A sign said “Sur Hadassa,” the name of a large
Jewish-only settlement. We were moving straight, and as the car
tipped downward to descend a steep hill, we had a view of all the
area. There were small settlements scattered on the hillsides.

After about two hundred meters, my uncle
became tense and suddenly asked me to ask the driver if she could
stop for a few minutes. My friend parked the car, surprised. My
uncle opened the door and stepped outside, taking a few seconds of
quiet to look around the area.

There were a few big rocks on the left side,
and as he looked at them, I could see on his face a heavy sadness.
I glanced around the area and watched him. I wondered to myself why
he had stopped here.

After a few minutes, my uncle started
speaking in a soft voice. He said, “When we left the village that
day, we came through the mountains. We passed by here. There were
no trees. We sat here, near the rocks, because we were tired. We
stayed near the rocks because we could hear the bullets and the
shooting and the bombing in the area. I was carrying my brother and
carrying a bag of food.”

I looked at the rocks and could see the
plants pushing into the cracks. He said, pointing down the road,
“We hid and rested here, and after that we continued walking this
way.” His hand showed the direction he had taken. It was as if it
had just happened recently, not as if he was an old man remembering
fifty years ago.

We returned to the car and continued driving
down. He told us, “This is the road called Waad Sanna. There are
two directions to the road—one up and one down. One is called
climbing Waad Sanna, the other nzul Waad Sanna.”

My uncle continued as a tour guide, giving
us Arabic names for the area. As we reached the end of the narrow
valley, the mountains opened before us, revealing a view of the
green hills, beautiful green trees, grey rocks, and red earth. The
colors blended together to make an amazing landscape. The three of
us were struck by the sight, all of us exclaiming how amazingly
beautiful it was.

My uncle said, “This is Besit Natif. All of
what you see here used to be planted with wheat. During the summer
harvest, the people came and worked together and supported each
other as a community.”

Some trees seemed to be planted in a
spontaneous way. My uncle kept saying excitedly, “I remember that
tree. And that tree.” As he spoke, it became easy for me to
recognize which trees were planted by Palestinians, and which trees
were planted later by Israelis. The Palestinian trees were old fig
trees, pomegranate, and olive trees that had been planted randomly;
whereas the Israeli trees were pine, planted in organized rows.

As we were driving, my uncle pointed and
said, “Behind this hill, we will get to Zakariah. When we get to
the junction, we need to go to the right.”

I could not believe I was here. I wanted to
go to my father’s village immediately. However, as we approached, I
became scared and more nervous. I did not know what I would find.
This was a trip of discovery, and the tour guide was my uncle.

As he continued to tell us about the area,
we turned to the right, and the hills slid past us and the view
opened again. On the left side were old fruit trees, hooh, fig, and
apple. Other newer trees grew in straight rows nearby. Suddenly
part of a village started coming into view.

My uncle said, ‘There it is. In front of you
is Zakariah.”

There it lay, climbing a gentle sloping
hillside. I could see houses. On the right side, a few big
buildings stood, new construction still being built. As we
approached, we saw a sign in Hebrew and in English: “
Kfar
Zakharrya
,” a Hebrew name. The first moment I saw the whole
village, I realized how very beautiful it was.

There was a gate in front of the village, so
we turned left and entered. As we turned in, we could see a settler
guard by the gate. To the left, there was a big old building. My
uncle said, “This is Zakariah school. This is where the Palestinian
students of Zakariah used to go before 1948.”

I was amazed by the beauty of the area. We
were driving slowly through the village, and my uncle continued
explaining each tree he saw. As we passed, he would note each one
he remembered, saying, “This is before 1948.”

He used the trees as landmarks to show him
the way to the mosque, and when we approached, we parked the car.
It was a very old building, with part of the minaret destroyed. One
wall of the mosque had a huge hole in it and was nearly destroyed.
The grass surrounding the area was uncut, indicating that the
building was not being used. I could see the area was not being
taken care of.

My uncle said sadly, “This is the main
mosque. Many times I prayed here when I was young, when I used to
come visit your mom.” He told me that the people used to sit down
around the mosque, socializing outside. He said, “Look. No one
takes care of it. They don’t respect it. They don’t allow anyone to
take care of it. It is a mosque. It should be respected and cared
for.”

When we got close, we looked through the big
hole in the wall and could see old machines used for agriculture
thrown away inside. My uncle moved toward the wall, and as just as
he started to climb through the hole and into the mosque, he
stopped for a moment and took his shoes off, despite all the dirt
and old soda cans and trash around him. He cleaned himself a little
bit, and then began to pray.

My friends watched, but did not speak. They
were just observing me and my uncle. For some time now, I had not
paid attention to them. I had forgotten that they were there. I was
lost in my mind and in the past. I was thinking about my father,
who used to stand here, who used to pray here—my father whom I did
not know because he passed away when I was a child.

It was a strange feeling, having the place I
was standing reflect the ideas and feelings inside me. I was struck
by the realization that if there had been no refugees, I would
still be living here. Near the mosque, I saw a house built of red
stones, clearly built in a Palestinian design. I was absorbing the
natural scenery around, the hills, the view, the olive trees, the
fresh air that smelled different than anything I had breathed
before.

My uncle finished his prayer and came out of
the mosque. I looked at his face, and I could see tears in his
eyes. He was sighing deeply. He looked toward the house I had
noticed a moment ago and said, “This house belonged to the Adiwe
family.”

As we walked toward the front, suddenly I
noticed the Israeli flag in one of the windows. It was a beautiful
house, large and well built. To me, it looked like a small
palace.

My uncle said, “I used to come visit your
mom all the time because I liked this village so much.”

As we started walking, I asked him where our
house was. We were walking more quickly now, and our friends
followed behind. Some one hundred and fifty meters from the mosque,
a big building stood behind a sign saying “synagogue.”

My uncle stopped and said quietly, “Your
house used to be here.”

I didn’t see the house. I saw only the
building that stood in front of me. After a moment of silence
between us, my uncle said, “You see, they destroyed all the houses,
and they built new houses and new buildings. They changed
everything.”

He pointed towards the stones that lined the
street and said, “Look at these stones. These were the stones that
came from all the houses that were destroyed. Now they are used for
walls on the road.”

I still do not know how to describe the
feelings that were rushing through me at that moment.

We continued walking. He pointed to an area
where my other uncle had lived, but now his house was gone and you
could only see buildings built by the new immigrants. It was clear
to us that they wanted to expand the village, as they were building
flats instead of large houses, and stores were being built along
the main road. Still, many of the houses were huge, beautiful
villas, with green grass surrounding the house, gardens, and
swimming pools.

In some of the gardens, you could see older
fig trees that were clearly Palestinian. I wondered to myself how
the home owners would answer their children when one day they would
ask, “Who planted these trees?” What would the people living here
now say about these trees, the palm trees, fig trees, and
pomegranate trees? Would they tell them who had built the house,
who was living here before? I was thinking that this question is
everywhere, wherever you go, in Haifa, Jaffa, Jerusalem. You find
Israeli Jewish families, from Russia or America, living in
Palestinian houses that still reflect Arab Palestinian culture. I
was thinking, maybe the new generation in Israel does not care even
to ask who built the house or planted the tree; instead, they just
care to live without understanding.

My uncle was in a hurry. After walking what
seemed like to me for just a few moments, he said, “OK, let’s go to
the other village,” which was my mother’s village. I felt he was
rushing to go to his own roots, where he grew up.

Despite the fact that I would have liked to
spend more time in my father’s village, I agreed, telling him, “OK,
let’s go to my mother’s village.” We started walking back to the
car. I thought that I would come back here more and more, that I
wanted to know everything about this place, my father’s home, his
land, his life.

As we walked back, the atmosphere was quiet,
except for the occasional sound of big trucks crossing the main
road of the village, disturbing the stillness of nature. We arrived
at the car, and my friend who was driving decided to take a quick
tour inside the village by car. We passed the many houses with
gardens that had Israeli flags flying out in front. My uncle was
pointing out many more trees that were planted during the
Palestinian period. When we got to the edge of the village, we saw
cactus.

I remembered my mother telling me about her
work in the fields, and I asked my uncle where our land was. He
told me he would show it to me soon. On our way out of the village,
when we turned left at the gate, we drove one hundred meters when
my uncle asked to stop the car. Looking at me, he said, “Come. I
will show you.”

He pointed at a field with a few olive trees
still remaining. He said, “This is your land. Many times I used to
sit down with your father and your mother when they were working
here. Your father, he was not like some other people in the village
who had a lot of land. Your father did not have that much, only a
couple of dunams.” He continued, “Usually your father would plant
onions, garlic, and some other vegetables.”