In My Mother's Footsteps: A Palestinian Refugee Returns Home

by Mona Hajjar Halaby

It’s not a conflict about ancient hatred, or religion, as it is a modern struggle over land and who gets to live on that land.

“Refugees are like seeds that scatter in the wind, and land in different soils that become their reluctant homes.”

Israel’s Absentees’ Property Law that passed in 1950 was the main legal instrument used by Israel to take possession of the land belonging to Palestinians who were expelled or fled the country due to war.

Jerusalem was known to be one of the most tolerant places in the world, where different cultures and religions lived side by side, and respected one another, living in balance and harmony.

We know that children who can articulate their feelings can begin to master them.

This hit hard

My mind was abuzz with more questions. What does it mean to raise children in a traditional society? What are the effects of a moralistic upbringing? I noticed that parents and teachers spent a lot of time lecturing children on what was right and what was wrong. I wondered if lecturing children deprived them from developing their own moral construct. And does lecturing retain children in an infantile stage of development? After all, they are not required to decide and choose a course of action or consider the consequences of their actions. When do they get a chance to practice their own moral reasoning?

Children in war zones play out the violence they see around them; they’re impulsive and cannot access critical thinking skills because they’re in the “fight or flight” mode, too busy fending off their fears and anxieties.

When you know you can count on your mother or father’s presence and unconditional love, you grow up able to function in the world with a sense of confidence and security.

“His fear is my fear, too.”

Research suggests that people do not change in isolation, that in fact they need their community to believe in them in order to change.

On the boardwalk a poster, hung from a lamppost, listed the chronological history of the town. Not once did it mention that Jaffa has been an Arab city. Erasure is a form of oppression.

What is your name, Silent Village, Dead Village? I want to know you. I want to whisper your name and hear it mingled with the wind. I can smell your sweet and pungent aromas that mix the acidity of pines with dry weeds. I can feel your warm breeze coming from the sea, caressing my face. Tell me, what’s your name?

“First of all, you’re not arrogant, or a foreigner, and I doubt that anyone sees you in a negative light.” Then his tone changed, and I knew he was about to tease me. “I know you’re a force to reckon with, but you’re no colonial power.” I giggled and squeezed him tenderly.

Najla, one of our veteran teachers, a grandmother of three, approached the soldier. “Please let us pass,” but the soldier ignored her. She pleaded, “Look at me. I could be your mother.” “No,” he snarled, “I have only one mother.”

I’ve never had a problem with Jews having a homeland where they can live in peace and security and have equal rights, but I do have a problem when they deny the same to others.

Zionism, as an ideology, is a product of its time, the time Americans were finalizing the genocide of the indigenous population in America and when European powers colonized, exploited, and oppressed native people all over the world.

A sticker on the back door of the ambulance had a rifle crossed out and the words “Don’t shoot” printed below it. A reminder of the Occupation.

Seeing this line in context with what's happing at alshifa is wild.

As I walked out the door, a thought struck me. How strange that on this trip I’d found myself in situations where I was constantly thanking benevolent Israelis! Was that why I couldn’t get openly angry at them? The young woman on the shuttle invited my mother to visit her in Eilat. Stopping at my mother’s house, the couple was more than kind to show us into the garden. Ariela was going out of her way to give me informative tours of Jerusalem. Tikvah invited me for lunch. In all those situations, I remained silent. Was I worried about making waves? Was I too grateful for their kindness to be angry with them? Or was I afraid of conflict? How ironic if the latter were the case! I was the one who travelled to Palestine to teach children how to communicate their grievances in an open, direct, and non-violent manner, and here I was, shamefully unable to speak my truth to an Israeli.

Our search was over. We had found PBS and the Swedish School, two landmarks that connected my family to this land. For all those years, since 1948, the Palestinians have been holding on to their house keys as proof of their ownership, of their right of return, of the massive home robbery inflicted upon them. And yet how ironic that even though I have the legitimate symbolic keys to Jerusalem it was Ariela, my Israeli friend, who opened the doors for me.

I always tell people who ask about my youth in Palestine, “You can’t understand our life unless you’ve lived it.” No matter how much people read about it, they cannot begin to imagine what it was like. We were not what most people in the world think of us. We were educated, accomplished, modern, and cosmopolitan.

In Palestine, the Occupation was always on our mind. It was part of our daily conversations. We breathed it; we dreamed it; we lived it. It was our daily bread. We couldn’t escape it and didn’t want to escape it. We did indulge in a concert, we appreciated tasty food at the restaurant and the company of good friends, but we always talked about Palestine; we drew parallels between the concert, the movie, the play, and the Occupation. It was always there, like the stars in the heavens that predictably appear each night. Living in Palestine, I didn’t have to walk the fine line I walk each day in California, avoiding discussions about Palestine and Israel or having to defend my opinions, and eventually feeling exposed or misunderstood. In Palestine, I didn’t have to smother my impulse to discuss the fate of my people. In Palestine, I felt part of a community that had the same goal—liberation from Occupation. Period.

“You know, Monmon, now I can die in peace. You are carrying my torch.”

At first, I was annoyed to be led into my family home by the “usurper,” but I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to rock the boat or turn this experience into a political debacle. I’m usually assertive, but I sometimes allow myself to be voiceless in order to make do or gain something in return. It’s something we all do from time to time. I wished I didn’t play this bartering game, but I didn’t want to antagonize Lea. After all, she wielded the power in this context.

I’m content, because entering my mother’s house was like taking a little piece of her that was lodged for all those years inside the walls, a little piece the current residents didn’t even know was there, but which I saw gleaming in every room. Now I carry those pieces and Mama’s stories within me, and I’m broadcasting them everywhere, making sure her story and the story of other Palestinians stay alive.