PALESTINE Memories of 1948 - Photographs of Jerusalem | Page 179

was dismantled and the officials, including my father,
were dismissed. My parents retreated to Nablus.
My grandfather’s large home, at the western entrance
to the old town, consisted of several houses attached
together, in the way typical of traditional buildings in
Nablus. We moved into one of these and my father was
determined to renovate it. The house looked charming,
with its ochre-coloured stones, vaulted ceilings, huge
windows that went from floor to ceiling allowing light
to penetrate into every room, and its garden perfumed
with jasmine, myrtle and musk.
By May 1948, my father knew that he had lost
his orchard in Jaffa. We no longer had any source of
income, and there were thirteen mouths to feed (my
parents had ten children at the time: six boys and four
girls, plus our grandmother lived with us). For about
two years, we ate bread and dates, dates and bread.
Until 1952, Nablus absorbed all the pain of the
Palestinians who had lost everything; they came
from Jaffa, Haifa, Nazareth and the villages taken or
destroyed by Israeli soldiers. They settled where they
could, on the streets, in the mosques and churches,
under trees… The schoolyard next to our house was
home to several families; they lived in miserable condi-
tions, had nothing to eat, no water to wash themselves,
no change of clothes. They stayed there until Unrwa
moved them into camps.
My mother’s family had had to escape from Ramle,
now in Israeli territory. From one day to the next, they
found themselves totally destitute. In order to preserve
their dignity, my aunt, Um Nidal, 9 had welcomed
them into her house. Their presence brought a bit of joy
in a desperate situation. My aunts Samira and Nadira
(20 and 17 years old) were modern, walked around in
shorts, played music and wrote revolutionary poetry.
Samira, the rebel aunt, never missed the chance to
attend a demonstration. We praised them when they
decided to hold classes for us children who were not
attending school.
I still tremble when I think of the moment when the
Zionist planes began to bomb us at night. It was cold
and damp. Like a shepherd with his flock, our father
hugged us close to him under his woollen cloak. We
hurried down to the ground floor where our grandfa-
ther had once had his pharmacy, and stayed there until
the raids were over.
Everything changed in 1950, as soon as the West
Bank became part of Jordan. Money was re-injected
into the society, institutions received funding, employ-
ees were re-employed and collected their salaries again,
and my father had his job back as head of the finance
department for the town of Nablus. The annexation
had been made possible thanks to a few dignitaries
known for their close association with the Jordanian
government. Not all the Palestinians agreed with this:
some were convinced that by being part of Jordan, they
would finally be able to go back home. Others had
doubts: could we have confidence in a Jordan under
British control, knowing that these same British had
helped the Zionists to take over our homes and our
lands…? Was not the Arab Legion (the Transjordanian
army) headed by a British officer, John Bagot Glubb,
known as Glubb Pasha? 10 There were increasing num-
bers of demonstrations against the British in the West
Bank: the Palestinians expressed their anger and frus-
trations on the streets, demanding the right of return
and the withdrawal of the British from Jordan, and
despite my young age, I often participated.
At the same time, our family went through some
dramatic times. My youngest brother, Nael, aged six,
often played on the balcony. One day, his ball bounced
away. It rolled down to the street and he wanted to get
it back… but a passing lorry mowed him down. The
whole family was in shock, but my mother especially
so, and she fell ill. She never recovered. A few years
later, my eldest brother, Nitham, aged 20 and a mem-
ber of the Nablus football team, went to Jerusalem for
a minor operation but the anaesthetic was incorrectly
dosed and my brother did not survive. The hospital
asked my parents to come and take him away with-
out any further explanation. It was too much for my
mother: one night in the winter of 1953, her heart gave
out. She was only 38 years old.
My father, only 42 years old, was inconsolable and
refused to remarry, so my eldest sister, Hiyam, at the
age of 22, became our mother, thereby giving up the
possibility of marriage. The youngest of my sisters,
Shadiya, was only three years old.
My mother had been very strict, but suddenly, after
her death, I found myself left to my own devices, free as
a bird. I rejected all authority, especially that of teach-
ers. At 13, I started smoking and I took wicked delight
in playing tricks on the teachers: releasing cockroaches
as they were passing in the aisles, managing to get all
40 pupils to open their umbrellas inside the classroom
at the same time, or to break glasses by all throwing
Ilham
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