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ghurba
Israel had been striking Lebanon to provoke the PLO into retaliation. In July 1981, Israeli jets killed two hundred civilians in a single raid on Beirut, and Ariel Sharon, Israel’s defense minister at the time, issued a public vow to wipe out the resistance once and for all.
by April 1982, the United Nations had recorded 2,125 Israeli violations of Lebanese airspace and 652 violations of Lebanese territorial waters. Israel amassed twenty-five thousand soldiers on the border and continued to illegally deploy provocative maneuvers to the south of Lebanon. The PLO resisted retaliation and so did the Lebanese government. But Yousef correctly surmised that Israel would find a reason to invade, regardless of whether the PLO took action.
June 6, 1982. Israel attacked Lebanon.
laid siege to Beirut for two grueling months, during which Israel deprived its people of water, electricity, and medical care.
By August, the results were 17,500 civilians killed, 40,000 wounded, 400,000 homeless, and 100,000 without shelter. Prostrate, Lebanon lay devastated and raped, with no infrastructure for food or water.
Dr. Shammaa’s story was a dreadful one and her voice broke as she told it. “I had to take the babies and put them in buckets of water to put out the flames,” she said. “When I took them out half an hour later, they were still burning. Even in the mortuary, they smouldered for hours.” Next morning, Amal Shammaa took the tiny corpses out of the mortuary for burial. To her horror, they again burst into flames.
Five hours later, an Israeli bomb leveled the al-Tamaria, and another leveled the adjacent building.
On September 16, in defiance of the cease-fire, Ariel Sharon’s army circled the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila, where Fatima and Falasteen slept defenselessly without Yousef. Israeli soldiers set up checkpoints, barring the exit of refugees, and allowed their Lebanese Phalange allies into the camp. Israeli soldiers, perched on rooftops, watched through their binoculars during the day and at night lit the sky with flares to guide the path of the Phalange, who went from shelter to shelter in the refugee camps. Two days later, the first western journalists entered the camp and bore witness.
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There had been massacres before in Lebanon, but rarely on this scale and never overlooked by a regular, supposedly disciplined army. In the panic and hatred of battle, tens of thousands had been killed in this country. But these people, hundreds of them, had been shot down unarmed. This was a mass killing, an incident—how easily we used the word “incident” in Lebanon—that was also an atrocity. It went beyond even what the Israelis would have in other circumstances called a terrorist atrocity. It was a war crime.
How does an Israeli soldier, a Jewish man, watch a refugee camp being transformed into an abattoir? Fatima. Falasteen.
saw the photo in the Arab press and first recognized the woman’s pale blue dress. Fatima’s favorite dishdashe, worn thin in nearly two decades of use. The curly-haired little girl behind her was my niece. Falasteen.
Under the heading “Deliberate Murder,” the August 1989 bulletin for the Israeli League for Human and Civil Rights reported that the Israeli army (apparently sharpshooters from “special units”) had targeted an “increasing” number of Palestinian children in leadership roles. “Carefully chosen,” the victim was usually shot in the head or heart and died almost instantaneously.
They threw rocks under an umbrella of abstract politics, which they did not understand, because they were bored with nothing left to do after Israel closed their schools.
Some of their friends had already fallen by Israeli bullets.
Jamal was shot at the age of twelve. Jamil watched his twin brother fade from life as the other boys ran for cover. He was struck by death’s lack of drama. Its matter-of-factness. Its quiet authority. Jamal just closed his young eyes, expressionlessly, simply as if he were falling asleep, and never opened them again.
This knowledge cast David into a gaping chasm between truth and lies, Arab and Israeli, Muslim and Jew.
adan
“The Jews took Osama last month. Jamil, one of my twins, comes often to check on us, but most of the time we don’t know where he is.” She stopped, stored up a breath, and went on. “He’s with the resistance,” she said, opening the metal door of her home. “The Jews killed his twin, Jamal, when he was twelve years old. Jamil never got over his brother dying in his arms like that. Sit down, I’ll make us some tea.”
We knew homes and buildings were being leveled nearby. The scream of bulldozers, like an orgy of dragons, made the earth quake beneath us, and we devised an exit plan for if and when they came toward us. Huda wrapped a small package of family photos along with her family UN identification cards, tucking the small bundle into the chest pocket of her thobe. Sara and I kept our American passports in our respective brassieres. All of us kept our shoes on.
When Israel finally opened the camp, the UN never came. The American congressmen who tour suicide-bombing sites and express eternal allegiance to Israel never came. Jenin buried fifty-three bodies in a communal grave, Amal among them, but hundreds remained missing.
the late Dr. Edward Said influenced the making of this book in no small way. He lamented once that the Palestinian narrative was lacking in literature, and I incorporated his disappointment into my resolve. He championed the cause of Palestine with great intellect, moral fortitude, and a contagious passion that touched so many of us in many ways. To me, he was larger than life, and though we all knew he was sick, I also thought him larger than death. Alas, I was wrong. The sad loss of him, felt by many thousands of us, is echoed in the pages of this story.