Taking
Flight: Memories of Diaspora - Gaza’s Untold Story
8 November 2009By
Ramzy Baroud
[The following is an excerpt from Ramzy Baroud’s
forthcoming book: My Father Was a Freedom Fighter:
Gaza’s Untold Story. The events are situated in
Baroud’s historic home of Beit Daras, one of the
nearly 500 Palestinian villages that were completely
destroyed by Zionist militias in 1948. Baroud’s
father, a very young boy at the time, and his family
are fleeing on foot to their new destiny in a refugee
camp in the Gaza Strip, where they remain to this day.
Gaza was and remains a center stage of the struggle
against Israeli occupation, and the ordinary people of
the strip are major players that shaped past events
and continue to do so to the present day, despite
protracted sieges, sanctions, and every other attempt
at crushing their resistance and forcing them into
submission.]
Spring was one of the most beautiful times of the year
in the countryside of Palestine. With everything in
full bloom, apricots, almonds, oranges and lemons, the
perfume carried itself on the wind for miles. As the
villagers embarked on this rite of passage, many
captured a long moment to breathe in the fragrance of
the fields and orchards, to snatch a large handful of
the earth of Beit Daras, wrap it in a small piece of
cloth and tuck it away for safe keeping. Deeds and
keys were stored safely.
Grandpa Mohammed mounted his faithful donkey with a
few of the family’s belongings and young daughter
Mariam. Ibrahim was in his mother’s arms. Ahmed walked
alongside his father, and my father, Mohammed,
barefoot and confused, trotted behind. It was another
trail of tears of sorts.
Neither parent had answers to the children’s incessant
questions: “where are we going?”
They headed south. That was all they knew. First to
Isdud, then to Hamameh, then to Gaza. Everywhere they
settled, they were chased with mortars and airplanes
and bombs. As the bombardments progressed and more
villages were razed, the roads became more and more
populated, some people carrying on with a great sense
of urgency, others wandering aimlessly and in a daze.
Grandpa Mohammed was a man of faith. He insisted that
if the Arabs were to abandon the Palestinians, God
would not. Muddied, with bloody feet and empty
bellies, the children could hardly argue with their
father’s wisdom, even as they passed an occasional
body in the middle of the road, or a frantic mother
running the opposite direction weeping for her lost
children.
“God will take care of us,” Grandpa Mohammed
encouraged. Yet, there was no one in sight but fleeing
refugees, blown up bodies, starved children, and
crying women. “What kept Beit Daras standing for a
thousand years can always bring it back,” he insisted.
But the many trucks and numerous donkeys walking the
dirt road, loaded with whatever families managed to
salvage told of another story.
The number of refugees was growing by the hour. In
Beit Daras everyone knew everyone. But not anymore.
The number of familiar faces was dwindling. Many died.
Many fled elsewhere, and those heading to Gaza were
now joined by so many new faces, equally pale and
teary, from numerous villages that extended beyond the
world of Beit Daras.
Mohammed the son was hungry and he was tired. The sun
was oppressive and beat down on the back of his neck,
trotting behind his mother he stopped under the shade
of a tree for just a few moments. It didn’t take long
for the boy to regain his strength and he ran ahead to
catch up with his family. Meanwhile, Zeinab, couldn’t
remember the last time she had seen him, discovered
that Mohammed was no longer behind her. She became
hysterical, calling his name and running
directionless; a deep seeded pain in her belly warned
her of losing her boy forever. She asked everyone that
passed, “Peace be upon you, have you seen my boy,
Mohammed?”, or “For God’s sake, have you seen my son?
He is ten years old and he went missing this morning…”
But she was one of so many that had become separated
from their children. Mothers and fathers would express
their commiseration, others would say nothing, but for
a short moment they would share a knowing gaze, and
then sadly move on. After an eternity had passed that
afternoon, Zeinab spotted her son, gently tugging on
the sleeve of another mother, repeating the same
supplications as Zeinab, “Peace be upon you, have you
seen my mother?” In a mix of rage and relief, Zeinab
swept Mohammed up into her arms, chastising him while
smothering him with kisses. For the rest of the
journey, Zeinab would never let anyone fall behind.
Grandpa Mohammed, though he managed to carve a safe
route for his family’s future, lost every sense of
direction, every element of sanity and control. In a
matter of days, he was left with nothing but a donkey
and a few old blankets. The family decided to leave
the new blankets at home in Beit Daras, for they would
be returning soon and didn’t want the new blankets to
be dirtied and damaged while they were away. Did
Grandpa Mohammed know that Beit Daras was no longer
the beloved village he left behind? The houses were
blown up, the fields burned. The great mosque was
razed with dynamite. The diwans where the mukhtars met
to drink coffee with the elders of the village were
gone. The elementary school. Al-Massriyyen
neighborhood. The small mud-brick home with the dove
tower. The citrus orchard that perfumed the village
every spring. It was all gone.
Still standing, however, were two giant pillars
demarcating where the old mosque once stood. Grandpa
Mohammed spent much of his youth, resting against the
mosques’ white-washed walls, seeking God’s mercy and
blessing. “Allah always comes to the side of the
oppressed,” he told his family. Mohammed the son was
worried about his school and his one textbook, the
shattered hopes of an exciting summer, the friends
whom he would never see again.
- Ramzy Baroud (www.ramzybaroud.net) is an author
and editor of PalestineChronicle.com. His work has
been published in many newspapers, journals and
anthologies around the world. His latest book is, "The
Second Palestinian Intifada: A Chronicle of a People's
Struggle" (Pluto Press, London), and his forthcoming
book is, “My Father Was a Freedom Fighter: Gaza’s
Untold Story” (Pluto Press, London), now available for
pre-orders on Amazon.com.
©
EsinIslam.Com
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