PALESTINE Memories of 1948 - Photographs of Jerusalem | Page 139

Mother of the return, Um Al ‘Awda
Halima Mohammad Mustafa, about 76 years old
For the 750,000 Palestinians who had to flee from their
homes in 1948 for fear of massacres, memories are sacred.
Without memories, they would lose everything, even their
identity. To begin with, they remembered, but over the
years, the details faded and imagination filled the gaps in
the recollections. The notion of the return, al ‘awda, is inti-
mately linked with these memories, as we see in Halima’s
testimony and, through her, that of her father. By dint of
being loved and far away, Palestine becomes the place that
embodies at the same time the tragedy of its inhabitants,
the most fertile land, the juiciest oranges, the strongest olive
trees… and inaccessible beauty too.
Seventy years after Al Nakba, that return is still dead
in the water. Though it has taken on mythical propor-
tions, it has its foundation in one of the United Nations
resolutions that allowed Israel join the UN on May 11,
1949: Resolution 194 (III), which deals with the right of
return, stipulates that ‘refugees wishing to return to their
homes and live at peace with their neighbours should be
permitted to do so at the earliest practicable date, and
that compensation should be paid for the property of those
choosing not to return’. Israel adopted this resolution in
1949. Thus, the real issue is not to seek recognition of the
right to return but rather, the application of a document
signed by the whole world 70 years ago. 1 Otherwise, what
is the value of signing a resolution?
 I am dreaming. It is a spring day and birds flock
to visit us in Fir’im, our little village near Safad. Their
plumage is multicoloured in tones of blue, grey and
white, their eyes are highlighted by a black streak that
extends down to their neck, making a sort of mask, and
the red of their beak is pronounced. The calls of the
male looking for a female wake me up.
‘Hajal (partridges)!’ my sister cries out happily.
There is nothing more beautiful than a hajal. It is
the size of a small chicken and it sways as it walks. We
have a saying that a man who hunts hajal is a man who
wants to get married. My father, however, hunts them
for their meat.
I dream this dream often. Wherever I am, in Leba-
non, where we found refuge after escaping the massacres
in May 1948, 2 in Syria, and later in Jordan, the hajal
follows me. Doubtless it embodies that naive hope that a
return to normal life in Palestine is possible; the notion,
though more and more confused, that we will find
everything as we left it: the house, the garden, the fields.
The hajal is my little-girl response to the disaster that
has been affecting us individually and collectively for the
past 70 years. It represents our life from before. From the
time when my father, a hunter and farmer, worked the
land to feed his wife, his nine daughters and his son; he
had to give half of his harvest to the landowner. He grew
wheat, lentils, radishes, onions, mint, figs …. My mother
Halima
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