My worst thought is that they shot her dead. Most likely, the dog, who was supposed to guard the house, barked and growled at the intruders. Perhaps this girl wouldn’t have liked meat either and would have also sneaked it to the dog. In my daydreams, I wish that there had been another 12-year-old girl, who might have fallen in love with the dog and protected her. I wonder how the dog felt when strangers entered the house. It is easier to feel sad for the dog than for the Palestinian people, homeless and destitute. Why was she barking? What might she have known that they didn’t know? Could she have known what was coming, the betrayal and deception? How did she fend for herself when they left? What happened to her? In dark moments, I imagine her roaming the streets emaciated looking for food. She thinks if someone tries to enter, the hammer will fall, and they’ll get scared, thinking the house is occupied.”įor days following this conversation with my mother, I think about the dog, my heart heavy. My mother has placed the sewing machine behind the entrance door, with a mortar and hammer on top. My mother has a dissociated look on her face, as if she doesn’t understand or something is amiss. “But how will the dog survive if there is no one left behind to care for her?” And my mother says the dog needs to stay to guard the house.” As we pull away, she runs after us until she can’t catch up.” When we finally are seated in the car and close the doors, the dog stops barking, lays her head between her paws and begins to whimper, as if she knows she won’t see us again. Left to right Hala, Nadia, Mother, Cousin In front of the house they lost in 1948 She makes a space of about an inch with her fingers. Two weeks earlier a stray bullet entered the house and missed my head by this much.” I feel the heaviness in my parents’ hearts but I don’t particularly care to know why. Nadia hated meat and would sneak her lunch to the dog.Īfter a moment of silence, my mother continues, but as if she hasn’t heard my question. My mind stays with the dog, as if it is too painful to think about the betrayal which the Palestinians would have had to contend. My two sisters and I sleep in my parents’ room and my two brothers in the living room.” When we return a year later, we have to live in a one-bedroom apartment in East Jerusalem and barely scrape by. We are told that we cannot go back to the house, because it is occupied by someone else. But, when we get to Amman, we receive news that the Zionists have invaded West Jerusalem and taken it over. I sing to myself: ‘Ami bi Amman, ou kullo aman’. My uncle, aunt, and their daughter left to go to Amman a couple of months ago to seek safety. My father asks her: ‘why winter clothes, when we will be back in two weeks?’ She doesn’t respond. “I think my mother knows that it will be longer than that because she has packed winter clothes. She stops talking, lost in thought for a moment, then goes on. They said we can come back in a week or two when the danger has subsided.” The situation is becoming increasingly dangerous. Yesterday morning, British soldiers knocked on our door and told us to leave for two weeks. We were told that the bellies of pregnant women were slit open. “The Zionists have bombed King David Hotel, which was owned by the British, as if to say: ‘even the British won’t stop us.’ The last straw was when we got news about a massacre in Deir Yassin - hundreds of Palestinians murdered, and in the most atrocious ways. When the sun sets, we run back home and pray to be alive the next day.” Left to Right: Mother, Lily and Nadia in 1948Ĭrossfire. Going to school is dangerous – we could be caught in the My mother spends the night on the roof of our house to make sure no mines are laid in ours. They are laying mines in markets and in the backyards of houses. She is barely two and not allowed to play outside.” My father is roaming around, seemingly busy, but doing nothing. At 15 and 17, they aren’t getting into mischief, as they used to do. Maybe she knows what we do not anticipate.” Every time a suitcase is loaded in the car, she barks at the bag and her whole body shakes, as if the bag is a collaborator in some conspiracy. Our dog is strangely excited or agitated, I’m not sure which. Your grandfather and grandmother are going in and out loading the car and getting ready to head to Amman. Nadia, our neighbor Lily, and I are playing hopscotch in front of the house. My mother is finally mustering the strength to tell me about the day she left the home of her birth.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |