PALESTINE Memories of 1948 - Photographs of Jerusalem | Page 183

our way to the living room: the walls, the ceiling, the
arches had been blown up, debris filled the place, fire
surrounded us. Above our heads the roof was now a
gaping hole: there was only sky.
A faint moaning led us to our father. He was lying
on the floor amongst the debris, his armchair on top
of him and on the armchair was an enormous stone.
By some miracle, his eyes were open and he was still
breathing. As quickly as we could, we freed him and
took him out of the flames and smoke. Our neighbours
were arriving from all directions, known and unknown
faces, as well as Israeli soldiers. We looked for Shadiya
and our cousin, climbing over furniture and slabs of
stone, going through the thick smoke from the hun-
dreds of books being consumed by tongues of fire. We
had to be quick and get away from the house. I was
relieved to see my cousin, distraught, wondering about
in shock, but alive. But Shadiya was nowhere to be seen.
It was the rescue workers who eventually found
what was left of our youngest sister, in pieces under the
rubble. We were told later that someone (a young man,
17 years old, according to the Israelis) had come to give
Shadiya a bomb containing 22 kilograms of explosives
(TNT). But there was never an inquiry into the cir-
cumstances of the explosion and no one, ever, gave us
a satisfactory explanation of what actually happened.
The Israeli army sent bulldozers and what was left of
our house was completely razed. At 19 years of age,
Shadiya was the first woman to die for Palestine after
the Israeli occupation of 1967.
Before being taken to hospital, my father was inter-
rogated by the Israeli army. My aunt Um Nidal took us
in and the whole town helped us so that we would not
become beggars and made it possible for us to get back on
our feet again. Condolences came from all over Palestine.
A few weeks later, at midnight, an armoured car
stopped with all its lights blazing outside Um Nidal’s
house and armed soldiers burst out of it. They barged
their way into the room where my father was sleeping
and forced him out of bed, then took him away in his
pyjamas, his woollen cloak thrown quickly round his
shoulders. It was winter time. I still remember how I
shook. Where were they taking him? What were they
going to do to him? The whole neighbourhood came
round to support us and to wait with us for his return.
Five long hours later, some soldiers finally left him in
front of the door. He was very pale, and his wrinkles
had darkened. He was crying – it was terrible. They
had taken him as he was in their jeep to the front of
his nephew Mohammad’s house, his favourite nephew
whom he loved like a son, who had studied pharmacy
in Switzerland before coming back to Palestine. They
had shown the neighbourhood that this was indeed
Shadiya’s father here, in the Israeli jeep, telling them
where the one that they were looking for lived, even
though it was clear that they had known it for a long
time. This was one of the Israeli army’s classic tech-
niques. And so they broke a man who was already
broken by the loss of his youngest daughter, convinced
that this was a victory for them.
I often thought that the violence that I felt that day
would destroy me too. And, even though I still tremble
wherever I see soldiers or weapons, I eventually man-
aged to hold my head high, as do all Palestinians who
still believe in a country called Palestine, as do all those
who still want to go home. 
Ilham
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