PALESTINE Memories of 1948 - Photographs of Jerusalem | Page 182

archetypal liberal woman and attracted intellectuals
from the world over. Jean-Paul Sartre, Noam Chomsky
and Samuel Beckett went to see her in her “Café Ray-
monda,” where philosophy and politics were frequent
topics of discussion.
‘Ihlam, we cannot stay here doing nothing whilst
there are thousands of refugees coming from all over.
We must help them!’ Raymonda said.
My face was covered in tears, and I wondered if there
was any point, given that we had lost Palestine. But I
managed to compose myself: Raymonda was right, we
had to do something!
Since she spoke Hebrew fluently, having learned it as
a child in Acre, 19 she called the Israeli military governor
of Nablus and asked him for authorization to go out
during the curfew to help displaced people. No doubt
surprised by her determination, the man gave her per-
mission. Unrwa lent us a car, and we went knocking
on people’s doors to collect things that refugees might
need. Because they knew us, people eventually coop-
erated. Raymonda herself took everything she could
find in her own house, carpets, blankets, food, pots and
pans, towels, clothes, lamps etc. There were plenty of
malicious gossips criticizing her behaviour – was she a
philanthropic patriot or a collaborator? But she ignored
them all. What was important was to help people in
need: like the mother of ten, severely wounded, whose
husband had been killed by the Israelis, who urgently
needed a blood transfusion of O negative, a rather rare
blood type in the region. Raymonda searched every-
where, and in desperation she went round all the hospi-
tals – to no avail; in the end, it was a street vendor who
saved her by giving her his blood. Such solidarity from
ordinary people who had nothing left overwhelmed me
and encouraged me to continue.
With so many refugees on the streets of Nablus, it
did not take long for rubbish to accumulate, particu-
larly since the curfew prevented any refuse collection.
Risk of disease was imminent… So, Hiyam, Shadiya
and I went in search of some brooms and volunteers to
clean the streets of our beloved town. Shadiya was soon
joined by dozens of willing hands and, in a few hours,
she turned the broom into an instrument of resistance.
Shadiya and a few friends then started to collect up all
sorts of objects to sell in order to distribute the money
to those most in need. Much later, I learned that she
also took clothes and food to the fedayin, freedom fight-
ers fighting for the liberation of Palestine, hidden in the
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Memories of 1948
caves above Nablus. She would leave the things next to a
tree, and they would come to collect them after she had
gone. At the time, many people were resistant. The fact
that they never had direct contact with Ilham protected
her, in an environment where hundreds of people were
being arrested by the Israelis. They were using denunci-
ation techniques amongst the Palestinians: one of their
favourite methods was known as the kisse (the ‘bag’ in
Arabic). The Israelis would put a cloth bag with two
holes for the eyes over the head of a Palestinian, and
stand him in front of a group of Palestinians. If he did
not collaborate by denouncing someone as belonging to
the fedayin, he, or one of his family would be arrested,
tortured or even executed. This anonymous denuncia-
tion – the kisse could be put over anyone’s head, even
that of an Israeli – succeeded in spreading severe dis-
trust amongst the Palestinian groups opposed to the
occupation, and that was their intention.
Soon after the occupation of 1967, a few groups of
fedayin composed of Palestinians from the diaspora
managed to infiltrate into the West Bank. We heard
about them, but we never saw them. Hence my sur-
prise when I saw, in our living room, a group of Shad-
iya’s friends whom I had never met before. Later, I
recognized their faces on the political leaflets that
were distributed secretly: they had fought against the
occupation and had been killed by the Israeli army.
Amongst the dead were students of civil engineering,
philosophy, physics… all of them Palestinians who
had studied in Germany, Hungary, France – Shadiya
hardly ever invited them to the house for obvious rea-
sons. But my father was not fooled. I can still hear him
saying, as if he knew what was going to happen to us:
‘Be careful, my girls, weapons are dangerous and not
to be taken lightly!’
We were all having dinner together at home on the
evening of October 28, 1968, the day before the begin-
ning of Ramadan. Around the table were Hiyam, Shad-
iya, a young cousin from Gaza who was visiting, and
I; my father had just left the table to go to the living
room, as usual. Dinner was almost over when there was
a knock at the door. It was 7:20 pm. Shadiya jumped up
to go and open the door. That is all I remember.
There was an enormous explosion, the light went
out and fire filled the dining room. When I opened
my eyes, I thought that the cause of the conflagration
was a gas cylinder in the kitchen. I found Hiyam first,
wounded and dazed, but alive. Together we made