PALESTINE Memories of 1948 - Photographs of Jerusalem | Page 207

transaction, Yakub would travel to Jericho, where he
was in the habit of lunching at our house with Hajj
Hussein and his wife Rashida. The Six-Day War cut off
his access to Jericho, but as soon as he was able, Yakub
came to see us. It was in 1968, I think, that one Friday
he knocked at our door. He owed Hajj Hussein some
money and wanted to honour his debt. But our farmer
had died. When he learned this, Yakub’s face fell and
his blue eyes turned grey. Then, taking hold of himself,
he asked for news of Rashida.
‘In one of the refugee camps in Amman,’ came the
reply.
‘A thousand Jordanian dinars… can you get them
to Rashida?’
I took care of taking the money to the widow. One
year later to the day, Yakub came back with 500 dinars
to send to Rashida. This gesture gives some idea of the
relations that could tie us to one another, Arab and
Jewish Palestinians, even after three wars – that of
1948, Suez in 1956 and the 1967 war.
This story fed my hopes for decades. I can still hear
my father telling me:
‘Sooner or later, justice will prevail. Remember the
story of Rashida.’
And I believed in it… despite the sad reality which
kept getting worse: those who had lived together ended
up disappearing, leaving their place to others who no
longer had any recollections in common and who,
because of this, were easily manipulated. It came home
to me in the 1980s, when I went to Qatamun with the
intention of visiting the family house, taken by Israel
in 1948.
A woman opened the door; she was Moroccan. A
Moroccan Jew. In a few words, we explained that this
house had been ours before 1948. Her reply left us
speechless. She and her son had paid several mortgage
payments, had we received the money? It seemed that
she thought that she was buying the house from its own-
ers. Our surprise caused some uneasiness. We had never
sold our house… and we had never received any money.
At that moment, her son came into the room,
dressed in military fatigues and armed. First he lec-
tured his mother in Hebrew without ceremony, then
turned to us and said in Arabic:
‘Out! Go out! This is our house. I paid for it with my
blood! I was in the Six-Day War.’
He was convinced that his participation in the war
gave him the right to occupy a house that did not
belong to him. Like millions of other immigrants are
convinced that war opens up rights to property. An idea
that manipulative authorities know very well how to
instil in people’s souls to sow destruction and hate there.
An idea completely alien to my father and to Sufism,
which he followed and preached all his life. 
Dome of the
Rock, early 20th
century
Mohammad
205