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Visiting the village ereased from all but a
familys memory
By MARY ABOWD
Special to the National Catholic Reporter Beit Itab,
Israel
On a recent March morning, residents
of Dehaisheh refugee camp south of Bethlehem were busily preparing for the
arrival of the pope, sweeping narrow alleyways, placing pots of flowering
plants on balconies, and painting murals and slogans calling for their
right to return on dingy concrete walls.
When John Paul II arrived in the camp as part of his six-day
whirlwind tour of the Holy Land, he found a people - the Palestinians - still
awaiting their return to the homes and villages confiscated or destroyed in
1948 when the State of Israel was created. Their demand for restitution echoes
the themes of this Jubilee year, a time in the Old Testament when God calls for
a return of land to its original owners. In this year of jubilee,
proclaims Leviticus, each of you shall return to your property.
Just days before the popes arrival, three generations of the
Hemmash family left behind their cramped second-floor apartment in the camp for
a day in their mountain village, Beit Itab. Seventy-two-year-old Abu Kamel, the
family patriarch, was born and grew up there. But in 1948, as Zionist forces
approached, he and the villages 800 residents were forced to flee. For
five decades, he has dreamed of returning. Every now and then, when his longing
gets particularly intense, Abu Kamel gathers his family together and goes to
the village for a day or even a few hours.
His hope is shared by the younger generations: his daughter
Myassar, her husband, Aziz, and three of their children, Majd, Ziad and
Fairouz, who invite me to join them in this family ritual. Honored by the
popes visit to their camp, the family said they were looking to the Holy
Father to call the worlds attention to their plight, so that they and
thousands of families like them might reclaim what is rightfully theirs.
Like many Palestinian refugees, the Hemmash family lives within
walking distance of their village. Beit Itab is only a few miles from
Dehaisheh, but it may as well be on the other end of the earth. The roads
leading from the West Bank, where the bulk of the camps are, into Israel are
tightly guarded by Israeli checkpoints. Soldiers routinely stop cars and demand
to see each passengers ID. Most refugees, especially the men, are
forbidden to set foot inside Israel without obtaining a permit from the Israeli
authorities. Abu Kamel and Aziz have no such papers. If the men are caught,
they could face a fine or even imprisonment.
As our van, equipped with the requisite yellow Israeli license
plates (as opposed to green West Bank plates), pulls up to the checkpoint, a
bespectacled Israeli soldier wearing green army fatigues and a no-nonsense
expression sticks his head in the drivers window and peers into the
vans dark interior. Does everyone have a permit? he asks,
noting Abu Kamels red-and-white checkered headscarf, a symbol of
Palestinian peasantry. A deafening silence falls over the van. Aziz pretends to
fumble for his papers. Seated in the front seat I quickly thrust two U.S.
passports into the soldiers hand in hopes it will distract him from the
fact that we are smuggling illegals into the country.
In a moment of hesitation that seems to last an hour, the soldier
studies the passports. Then, lifting his head, he waves us through, probably
figuring that two Americans and a family with three young children are unlikely
candidates for planting bombs. As our driver steps on the gas, cheers erupt
from the back of the van, and we fly down the winding mountain roads toward the
village.
Beit Itab does not appear on any map. Its name has been erased,
along with the names of some 530 other Palestinian villages that were destroyed
in 1948. Overnight, 750,000 villagers became refugees, one-third of whom were
scattered to 59 camps in the West Bank, Gaza Strip, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan.
Half a century later, the refugees now number nearly 5 million. None of them
has received a penny in compensation, nor have they been allowed to return,
despite a 1948 United Nations resolution calling for both.
As we turn off the main highway, a sign in Hebrew and English
informs us we are approaching the Israeli settlement of Nes Harim. Take a
left, Abu Kamel calls out. The driver makes a sharp turn down a dirt road
past some agricultural land and drops us at the foot of an enormous hill.
The land is enchanting. A carpet of yellow and purple wildflowers
stretches out to greet us. Poppies dot the hills, and fig, lemon, pine and
olive trees - too many to count - extend their gnarled branches like arms
reaching for an embrace. The scent of wild thyme, sage and mint tempt the
senses. A butterfly flutters past, and the children, deprived of such natural
wonders in the camp, take off after it in delight.
With Abu Kamel as our guide, we begin what will be an hour-long
ascent to the village. Suddenly transformed into a boy, the old man charges
ahead of the group, cinching up his long robe and maneuvering the steep
overgrown paths with the ease of a gazelle. He stops only to pick a few fresh
mint sprigs and pop them in his mouth. Everyone rushes to keep up, as he prods
us along with Yallah! Yallah! Lets go! On our way up the
winding path, we can see the terra cotta rooftops of Nes Harim poking through
the trees across the valley. For some reason, the settlers never built directly
on top of Beit Itab, but beside it. The village, in ruins, instead serves as a
nature area and hiking path for Israeli backpackers.
A small strip of the land is used for farming. We pass a few
Palestinian workers toiling in the fields, and Aziz greets them. Good
day! he says. Dont plant anything. We are coming back
here! Indeed, the land is empty, and returning to it appears entirely
conceivable. Eighty percent of destroyed Palestinian villages are empty and
able to accommodate their original inhabitants, according to the Badil Resource
Center, a refugee rights organization in Bethlehem.
Before long, we arrive - winded - at a vast clearing, a ghost town
of imaginary structures. The homes, town meeting hall, schoolhouse and olive
groves are all long gone. Rocks and a wild, thorny brush cover the area. But
Abu Kamel continues his tour as if everything remained. This was the home
of Muhammad Farraj, he declares, gesturing into the air at a bare plot of
land. And over here lived Ahmed Mousa Abedallah. Prickly cactus
plants demarcate borders where homes once stood. A newcomer is obliged to
imagine the former structures.
We push on, climbing further until we reach a spring. I
remember how the girls would come down from the mountains with clay jugs on
their heads and take their water from here, he says. We didnt
have pipes and plumbing back then. Thirteen-year-old Majd could have been
one of those women. She takes out a plastic Coke bottle and fills it with
spring water, ignoring the fact that the stone well has been converted into a
makeshift dump full of hikers trash.
Typical of Arab hospitality, the family insists I come to their
house. This requires more climbing. We climb and climb until we reach the top
of the mountain. In another clearing, we find yet another pile of rubble and
something resembling a cornerstone. Tip-toeing through the uneven terrain and
underbrush, green and healthy from much spring rain, the Hemmash family is soon
gathered on the remains of the family home.
This is your house, Abu Kamel tells his granddaughter,
8-year-old Fairouz. Feel the breeze. You can smell the ocean from
here. One can imagine the windows that gave out on the spectacular view
of the surrounding hills, the cold winters the people here endured and the
clear spring days like this one that greeted their mornings.
Of course there are skeptics who will refuse to believe that Beit
Itab or any other destroyed Palestinian village was inhabited prior to 1948,
that the Palestinians have a claim to this land. For a glimpse of the past,
skeptics need do little more than visit the village cemetery.
Before we begin our descent back to the van, we come upon a burial
mound, blanketed with tiny yellow blossoms. My mother is buried
here, says Abu Kamel. Her name was Zahra.
I join Zahras three great-grandchildren as we peer at her
remains through a small opening in the earth. The burial shroud long
disintegrated, Zahras bones form a zigzag pattern against the red earth
where she lies resting. All six family members extend their hands over the
grave. In whispered tones, they begin to pray. In the name of God the
merciful Lord of mercy
Just then, three Israeli hikers from the neighboring settlement
accompanied by two huge, furry dogs, slow their pace to watch. I feel Fairouz
slip her small hand into mine. Abu Kamel finishes the prayer. Then, seeing the
hikers walk away, he follows them with arms outstretched. In a loud voice,
almost wailing, he recites a verse from the Quran: This land belongs to
God! The hikers look back at him quizzically, then move on.
They dont understand what that means, he says
softly.
National Catholic Reporter, March 31,
2000
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