Överlevarna

- Mina föräldrars äktenskap var inte lyckligt. Mamma fick tre barn med tre olika män, säger Peter Haas.

George Baramki Khury (GBK): “My sister Laura and I lived in al-Quds, near the Mandelbaum Gate. We had two houses, one on each side of St. George Street. I attended St. George’s School. It was a boys’ school, with both Jews and Arabs.” Laura Khury (LK): “Our father rented out the upper floor of our house to some Jews. He heard strange noises—something was going on up there. It turned out they were printing counterfeit banknotes! They were later arrested by the British.” GBK: “The neighborhood was mixed, and shooting between Jews and Arabs on the streets became more and more frequent. In 1947 the situation worsened, and we were forced to leave our house. It was no longer safe to stay. My mother had a cousin in Talbiya, in al-Quds, a very beautiful and quiet Arab area. We moved there without bringing any of our furniture.” LK: “Talbiya was a very elegant neighborhood—like Fifth Avenue in New York. One day there was a terrible storm; it was pouring rain and hailing. We heard an awful noise that we thought came from the storm. But it turned out to be a bomb attack on the Semiramis Hotel in Qatamon. Entire families were killed.” GBK: “After we had stayed with our cousin for three or four months, a Jewish soldier was killed in the area. Just a couple of hours later, an armored vehicle arrived with a loudspeaker on its roof, announcing: ‘Residents of Talbiya! You must leave your homes immediately!’” LK: “The vehicle was a monster, with its headlights taped so that only a narrow beam of light showed.” GBK: “We were alone in the house. We were terrified. When our parents came home, we told them what had happened.” LK: “We couldn’t stay. It was already dark, it was raining, the weather was awful. We left as quickly as we could. The streets were in chaos.” GBK: “We fled to Baqa‘a, in southern al-Quds, to our uncle’s house. Only Arabs lived there. That was the second time we were forced to flee.” LK: “One evening, as I was on my way home, something brushed past my head. At first I thought it was a bird—but it was a bullet. If I had been wearing shoes with higher heels, I would have been killed. The shooting continued when I got home; bullets ricocheted into our house.” GBK: “At the end of April 1948, after only a few weeks at our uncle’s place, we fled to Birzeit. That was the third move. We rented a small house there, where we lived with our grandmother and our parents. Our mother contacted our neighbor in al-Quds, who was a British policeman. Our house was still untouched. He arranged the necessary permits to move our furniture from Mandelbaum to Birzeit. A few weeks later, the British Mandate ended.” “After the war of 1948, the border was drawn straight between our two houses at the Mandelbaum Gate. The houses stood on opposite sides of the street, and barbed wire was stretched between them. One house ended up in Israel, the other in al-Diffa al-Gharbia, which had been annexed by al-Urdunn (Jordan). Our house on the Israeli side became an army post. All the windows were boarded up, and through the gaps they fired at the other side.” “After a few months in Birzeit, our grandmother wanted to visit two of our aunts in Ghazza. Our father rented a car and we went along. We traveled via al-Khalil and Bir al-Sab‘a. It was a long journey, since the shortest route along the coast was now in Jewish hands.” LK: “I didn’t want to go to Ghazza. I cried to avoid it, but it didn’t help. I have never liked Ghazza.” GBK: “We stayed with my aunts for a couple of weeks. Then the Israelis took over al-Majdal, which had previously been occupied by the Egyptian army. We became trapped in Ghazza and could not return to al-Quds. That was the fourth displacement. We were lucky to be able to rent a new house in Rimal, a sandy area near the forest. We shared the house with an Armenian family. We had only one suitcase with us—no furniture, nothing. We used wooden crates and built tables, beds, and wardrobes.”

- Min farmor, Sarah Trus, mördades 1942 i förintelselägret Treblinka. Jag hade velat träffa henne, säger Herbert Trus.

Samia Nasir Khury recounts: “In 1993, during the First Intifada, my son produced a song and had it copied onto cassette tapes. I paid for the copying, and he borrowed my car to deliver the cassettes. ‘I’ll be back after lunch,’ he said. But he did not return. He was arrested by the police and taken in for interrogation at the Moscobiyeh detention center in al-Quds (Jerusalem). He was accused of distributing music that glorified the Intifada. The prosecutor repeated a line from the cassette — ‘The voice of the Intifada is stronger than the occupation’ — in order to incite the judge so that my son would receive a harsher sentence. He was imprisoned for six months. First he was held in Ayalon Prison in al-Ramla. He went through hell there. We were allowed to visit him, but I was not allowed to touch him; he sat behind a wire mesh. Later he was transferred to Prison Six, outside Atlit. It was an open prison, and there we were allowed to sit across from him at a table. We never got the cassettes or the car back. My son’s lawyer gave one cassette to my husband. After his death, we found it in his safe. The time in prison made my son more enthusiastic and determined than before. He continues to make music.” The lyrics that cost him six months in jail: My life and my honor are the most precious, and from the blood that has been shed, the voice of the Intifada is louder than the occupation. The voice of the Intifada is high and will not be silenced; nothing can mute this voice except for the sake of precious justice. Who longs for death? The goal is not the death of human beings; the goal is love of the homeland. A people that has struggled for a long time seeks independence. We went down to the streets with stones in our hands. We rose like whirlwinds, our flame blazing like fire. With our chests we face the bullets; we resolved upon liberation. Justice must reach the criminal and the occupier. Our people’s rights are denied, yet they do not sleep on their rights. The principles of the enemy are empty, its essence does not endure. O world, look at us: camp, village, and city. Look at the Palestinian army— flowers and lion cubs. They want to storm our village; we stayed awake all night to defend our dignity, no matter how long the night. The massive army advanced, a mountain armed with fire. We filled the road with stones and set the tires ablaze. From the mosque loudspeakers we called out to the people. The awake roused the sleeper, telling him: take up the axe. We spread out along the fronts, revolutionaries skilled in maneuver. And the Zionist, however powerful, kneels before children. من حياتي شرفي أغلى، ومن دمي اللي سال صوت الإنتفاضة أعلى من الإحتلال صوت الإنتفاضة عالي، وما بيخرس هالصوت غير لأجل الحق الغالي، مين بيهوى الموت مش هدف موت الإنسان، الغاية حب الأوطان شعب يناضل من زمان، بدو الإستقلال نزلنا على الشوارع، وبأيدينا حجار هبينا مثل الزوابع، لهلبنا كالنار بالصدر نصد الرصاص، صممنا على الخلاص لازم ينول القصاص المجرم والمحتل شعبنا حقوقه مهضومة، وعن حقه ما ينام مبادئ خصمه معدومة، عنصره ما دام يا كل الدنيا شوفيني، مخيم قرية ومدينة شوفي الجيش الفلسطيني، زهرات وأشبال بدهم يقتحموا قريتنا، سهرنا طول الليل ت ندافع عن كرامتنا، مهما الليل طويل أقبل الجيش الجرّار، جبل مسلح بالنار ملّينا الطريق حجار، وولعنا العجال من سمّاعات الجوامع نادينا عالناس والغافي نبهه السامع، قللو إحمل فاس وتوزعنا عالمحاور، ثوار بنعرف نناور والصهيوني إله خاطر، يركع للأطفال

“My father worked as a governor for the British government, and the rest of the family followed him. He was later transferred to Safad. There we had good relations with our Jewish neighbors. That was normal. Women exchanged baked goods with one another during different holidays and celebrations. In 1946 it finally became clear to him what the British were doing—that they were preparing the way for the Jews to take over. His job became impossible, and he decided to resign. He went to the King David Hotel to submit his letter of resignation. As he stepped over the threshold of the hotel, he looked at his watch and realized he was early. He decided to visit a friend in Mamilla in the meantime. Shortly after he left the hotel, it was blown to pieces. The man my father was going to visit was not as lucky. He had gone to the hotel and was killed by the bomb. This was in 1946. Irgun was responsible for the attack, but the various Zionist organizations constantly blamed one another. This was only the beginning. Then came the bombing of the Semiramis Hotel and the massacre in Dayr Yasin. That was when people began to feel real fear. After my father resigned, he began teaching physics. We remained in al-Quds. I was a happy teenager. I went to parties, and my aunts and cousins lived there. It was a wonderful time. We used to go to the YMCA, where we were members. They had leadership courses, tennis courts, a gym, and a swimming pool. It was a fantastic place. In 1948, the family moved to Birzeit, where my father taught and where I attended a boarding school—it felt like my second home. Suddenly, rumors spread that something was wrong. People began pouring in from al-Ramla and Lydda. They were fleeing and had been walking for two or three days. I will never forget that sight. Everything was so sad; people were utterly exhausted. Someone told us they had lost a son. One man was confused and rambling; he did not understand what was happening. I especially remember a woman who had lost all her belongings. Despite that, she was grateful to have survived. She said: “Furniture can be replaced, but not people.” My aunt told my cousins and me to cook food for the refugees. We boiled eggs and potatoes, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers—everything we could get hold of. My aunt also helped prepare a school building where some of the refugees could find shelter. My aunts and cousins had come to Birzeit to escape the unrest in al-Quds. Everyone believed this would be over in a few weeks, and that we would be able to return. But in October, we began to understand that this was no picnic. After the war in 1967, East al-Quds was annexed by Jordan. It then became possible again for my mother and me to visit our house. The house had become a daycare center, so it was easy to enter. My mother began explaining to a woman sitting in the office that it had once been her bedroom. It was painful to see our house again. I had hoped, for as long as possible, that we would be allowed to return. We never went back again. The Nakba is still ongoing; the displacement is still ongoing. Everything here is so hard to predict under the Israeli occupation. When you get up in the morning and put your right foot down, you do not know whether your left foot will follow. In 1993, during the first intifada, my son produced a song and made cassette copies of it. He was arrested by the police and taken for interrogation at Moscobiyeh in al-Quds. He was accused of spreading music that glorified the intifada. He was imprisoned for six months. First he was held in Ayalon prison in al-Ramla. He went through hell there. We were allowed to visit him, but I was not allowed to touch him. He sat behind a net. Later he was transferred to Prison Six, outside Atlit. The time in prison made my son more enthusiastic and determined than before. He continues to make music.

1946 “I used to help my father out in the fields. We grew tomatoes, cucumbers, and watermelons. We took the vegetables on our donkeys to the markets in Yafa and Mulabbis. When I had time off, I played football with my friends. I did not have a real football, so I made one out of cloth and string. My mother helped me.” 1948 “We loaded furniture and mattresses onto a donkey and walked the whole way. My father had to carry my grandfather on his back; he was one hundred years old. We left the village in the afternoon and walked for two days, without food or water. Along the way we picked oranges and apples. The first night we rested for only a couple of hours. We reached al-Tira the following night. We had barely settled in when the Israeli military attacked from three directions. We fled, but my father decided to try to return to al-Tira to fetch wheat and food for us. Meanwhile we reached a village between Taiba and Tulkarm. There were caves there where we spent the night. My father returned with wheat flour. There was plenty of water, and my mother baked bread over an open fire. We stayed in the caves for three weeks before continuing to Qalqilya, in al-Diffa al-Gharbia. Eventually our relatives found us. They came with donkeys and took us to their village, Mas-ha. My father began looking for work.” 1967 “I was still serving in the Jordanian army. We had weapons, but I never saw any Israeli soldiers. They attacked us only from the air, with planes, constantly. Many soldiers in the Jordanian army were killed. I was lucky to survive. We retreated to Mount Nebo Mousa, where we were trapped without food or water. We were terribly thirsty. I set off on my own down the mountain to my family in the Akbat Jaber refugee camp. When I arrived at the camp it was almost empty; the houses were abandoned, the doors left open. After Israel’s occupation, most of the camp’s 30,000 inhabitants had fled to al-Urdunn (Jordan). Only 5,000 people remained in the camp, including my family. They could not afford to flee. I had brought my radio equipment with me and heard that the military leadership ordered all Palestinians to cross east of the Jordan River, to al-Urdunn. But I refused. My family was in the camp, and I decided to stay in al-Diffa al-Gharbia.” 2002 “During a clash with the Israeli military here in the Balata refugee camp, my son Khalil was killed. Another of my sons, Jihad, attempted to carry out a suicide bombing together with a companion. They were supposed to pass the border crossing in Qalqilya, but the Israeli army knew of their plans and was waiting for them. Jihad and his companion blew themselves up. I am still waiting to get his body back. It remains in Israel. I have Jihad’s portrait here on the wall, together with his two other brothers. I have paid a high price; in total I have lost three sons. But I am not upset or angry. There are martyrs in the Qur’an, the Torah, and the Bible. God chose my sons to be martyrs. For that I am grateful, not angry.” Interpreter: ‘Abd Yusuf.

Nakba #54 - ‘Abd al-Munim Fayiz Sa‘ad by Överlevarna

1939 “My father was a farmer and we had cows. He sold the milk. My mother was from the city, from Jaffa, so she never milked the cows—neither did I. My father died when I was three years old. At that time my mother had just given birth to my little brother, Khalil. When I was a girl, Mahmud, my older brother, did not allow me to go very far from our house. He was a difficult person. The only time I was allowed to leave the house was when I accompanied my mother to visit her brother. In the village there was a school for boys. Teaching took place in a tent. One of my brothers suggested that I should also attend school, but I refused to go to a boys’ school. Besides, I had become the tallest in the class, and I did not want that. Most of the time I stayed at home, helped my mother, cooked, and washed dishes.” 1948 “We heard gunfire between Jews and Palestinians in Sarona, a nearby village. I later heard that the Jews took some young men and shot them out in the fields. Our mukhtar explained that we had to leave Salama, but that we would be able to return after a week or so. Mother decided that we should leave. It was me, my sister—who was pregnant—and my two brothers. We walked on foot through several villages: Sakija, Kafr Ana, Cheirija, Bayt Dajan, Kibja, and Shabtin. We were hungry. We had only a small piece of bread to eat each day. We took water from wells. The water was full of red insects, which my mother strained out between her fingers. We walked for maybe a month—I don’t know. In the end we reached Ramallah. From there we were transported by trucks to Nablus, where we stayed for two months. We slept under the open sky; we had no tent, nothing. Sometimes it rained. Then we were taken to a guesthouse in Askar. They arranged a tent for us in the Askar refugee camp. Later they built a room for us. It was so cramped that my mother slept leaning against the front door. My sister and her husband took over the tent. There she gave birth to a son. He died shortly afterward.” 1954 “When I was 18, I married a man who was 43. He asked my mother and my brother for permission to marry me. We had never met before we got married. It wasn’t like today (laughs).” 1977 “During Ramadan, my son Jihad had the task of walking around the Askar refugee camp to wake people up well before dawn. The Israeli army had been searching for someone in the camp but had not found him. Instead, they spotted Jihad. First they shot him in the leg. Then they killed him. According to the hospital report, he was shot 82 times. When I heard the first shots, I began to scream. He was 23 years old. I visited his grave every day for two months. One night I was sitting on the edge of my bed when Jihad suddenly appeared. I saw him coming toward me together with another man. We embraced and kissed. I said, ‘My son, my love, my son, my love.’ He said nothing. Then he disappeared again. He appeared once more. That time he was riding a white horse in the fields of paradise. After I told others about his second appearance, he stopped appearing to me.” Reflection – Who bears responsibility for your situation? “I don’t know.”

- Mamma fick inte gifta sig med någon som inte var jude. Det var en omöjlighet. Men hon blev aldrig kär i någon av de judiska killarna. När hon var 40 år träffade hon Valter Jansson. De gifte sig och jag föddes något år senare. Men de var inte gifta så länge, säger Yvonne Leff.

Inspelning med Rikard Folkmans förälddrar, Arek och Eva Folkman. Arek berättar som sina upplevelser under andra världskriget. Han bevittnade de tyska truppernas intåg i Lwów (Lemberg), levde under sovjetiskt styre och senare arbetade som tvångsarbetare för den tyska Organisation Todt i Norge. Från Norge lyckades Folkman fly till Sverige 1943. Vid ankomsten ansågs han vara en av de sista judiska flyktingarna som lyckats ta sig ut från det ockuperade Polen. Intervjun med Arek och Eva gjordes 1975 av Judit Horwat-Lindberg. I boken “Den siste juden från Polen” (Bonniers, 1944) berättar Folkman sin historia för den svensk-ungerska författaren och journalisten Stefan Szende. Boken var en av de första böckerna i Sverige som gav en detaljerad ögonvittnesskildring av Förintelsen och det systematiska mördandet av miljontals judar i Polen. Boken har också översatts till tyska och engelska.

- Jag började Hillelskolan för att bli mer judisk, men jag kände mig ensam. Jag åt skinka hemma. Det berättade jag aldrig. Jag kände mig ensam ända fram till högstadiet, då jag bytte skola, säger Rikard Folkman.

1948 “The Egyptian army came to our aid. They were 6,000 men. Our house was located on high ground, and we had a clear view of the Jewish settlement of Gat. The Egyptian commander demanded to take over our house because of its strategic location. We had to move to another house. One day the Jews attacked our village with three airplanes. The Egyptians did nothing because they believed the planes belonged to the Egyptian army. After the air raid, my brother and I went out to look for our sisters. They were nine and three years old. But of my sisters, only a few small body parts remained. My parents buried the remains (begins to cry). Fourteen members of our family were killed in the air raid. Everyone was in shock. I remember a dead woman lying in the middle of the village. She had just gotten married and was wearing a beautiful wedding dress, richly adorned with gold jewelry. Her throat had been cut by shrapnel. The Egyptian army forced my father and all the men of the village to stay behind. Women, children, and the elderly—300 people in total—left the village. We set out on foot. We crossed the mountains and arrived in Beit Jibrin, my mother’s birthplace. We were supposed to spend the night there, but the Israeli airplanes appeared again and we were forced to continue. I had no shoes, and my mother had nothing to cover her hair with. We walked almost the entire night. We had neither food nor water. Some children died along the way. We kept walking until we reached the outskirts of Idhna late the following evening. In Idhna, which lies in al-Diffa al-Gharbia (the West Bank), my grandmother lived, but we were too exhausted to look for her house. My mother found a cemetery with an empty grave. My brother and I lay down and slept in the grave, while my mother sat and watched over us. In the morning, we met a man who showed us the way to my grandmother’s house. In the meantime, the Israelis had occupied Fallujah. My father fled together with the other villagers. After a few kilometers, a woman discovered that she was carrying a pillow instead of her baby. She began to scream and cry. My father told the woman to keep going while he turned back. He managed to retrieve the baby in Fallujah and brought it back to the mother (begins to cry). Only after a year and a half were we reunited with my father.” 1949 “The Red Cross built a refugee camp outside Idhna. My father did not want to stay with my grandmother, so we moved into the camp. The Israelis claimed that the camp was too close to their border, and after some time they attacked us. The Jordanian authorities cooperated with the Israelis, and in 1952 they moved us to the Fawwar refugee camp, which is farther from the Israeli border. We have lived here ever since. At first, we were supposed to return to Fallujah after a couple of weeks. Those two weeks turned into 75 years.”

1949 “The Jews tried to force us to leave the village and go away, either toward al-Khalil (Hebron) or the Gaza Strip. But we refused. We said that we would rather be buried in ‘Iraq al-Manshiyya. Then they killed people. The rest of us they expelled. We were allowed to stay in one house by the main road. At first we had no food, no water, nothing. After some time we received a little food. We stayed in the house for three months. Then they came for us with trucks and drove us to the Arroub refugee camp. We had no food, no water. There was nothing here, except stones. 2022 “Our family has been severely affected by the occupation. Both my husband and my brother-in-law have been imprisoned. In 2001, one of my sons was wanted. He was 16 years old. When the military came to our house in Arroub refugee camp to arrest him, he had gone underground, so they attacked my husband instead and began pulling at his beard. Eventually my son was arrested, and they held him for two months. After another three or four rounds of arrests and interrogations, he was sentenced to ten years in the Askalan military prison. He was then deported to Jordan. Only now has he been allowed to return here. Now I have three grandchildren under the age of 18 who are imprisoned. One of the grandchildren was shot in the leg; two are imprisoned in Askalan and one in Gush Etzion. I am too ill to travel and visit them. When the army enters the camp, there are often clashes. Children are not allowed to have toy weapons outdoors, but the military is allowed to aim their laser sights at our grandchildren at night. It is enough for young people to demonstrate against the occupation for them to be arrested. If they are not arrested immediately, the military comes at night and arrests the children in their underwear. Almost my entire family has either been arrested or is imprisoned—both children and grandchildren. Even today, our suffering continues. They fire tear gas at us at night. It is impossible to sleep. The tear gas makes us sick. Sometimes I ask myself: how will I survive?”

- När jag tagit min bat mitzva håller jag ett tal i synagoga, om vad en judisk kvinna ska göra. Efteråt spelade vi in en skiva med talet i konserthuset. När lampan lyste grönt skulle man tala, säger Renée Hirschfeld.

- Som flicka kommer jag ihåg på Jom Kipur, i synagogan på söder. Det var tungt. Uppe på damläktaren satt kvinnor som överlevt Förintelsen och bara grät och grät. Jag tyckte det var obehagligt. säger Renée Hirschfeld.

1941 “On the eastern side, up toward the mountain, we had planted olive trees and almond trees. On the western side, close to the coast, we grew wheat, corn, and other grains. To the north was the Jewish settlement of Gat, where mostly Polish Jews lived. They tried many times to persuade my father to sell the land, but he refused. He did not want to sell to Jews. But we were poor and needed money. Instead, my father sold to Azzi, an Egyptian. He bought the land from us but then sold it on to the Jews. Azzi was a traitor. He exploited us. The Zionists also bought land from other nearby villages, including Summil, Jusayr, and Zayta. In the end, they managed to expand their small settlement to 600 hectares.” 1948 “We were besieged by the Israeli army for nine months. Our village was defended by 900 Egyptian soldiers, including Abdel Nasser, and 200 volunteers from Sudan. I met Nasser many times. He lived in my aunt’s house. He later became president of Misr (Egypt). The Israelis attacked the village from all directions, despite suffering heavy losses each time they attacked. In February 1949, Israel entered into the so-called Rhodes Agreement with Egypt. The Egyptian army withdrew to the Gaza Strip, which meant that ‘Iraq al-Manshiyya came under Israeli control. The Israelis demanded that we leave the village, but we refused. After two months, they returned. I was with my parents when we were forced out of our house and gathered together with four other families in a house outside the village. They emptied the village and searched every house. After some time, two young Palestinians went back into the village, but they were shot dead by the Israeli military. There were UN observers from France and Sweden present. They summoned the Israeli leadership and complained about the conduct of the military. I heard it myself, because I was serving the coffee. The Israelis drove us away in their trucks. This happened in three stages over one week in April 1949. My family was taken away in the last trucks. This happened during the daytime, and the military told us that we could take all our belongings with us. But since we had been under siege for almost nine months, we did not have much left to take. ‘You can take the stones too,’ a soldier said. We were driven east toward al-Diffa al-Gharbia, toward Tarqumia. The Jordanian army was waiting for us at the border and drove us onward to the Arroub refugee camp, which the Red Cross had prepared a few months earlier. We were told by the Red Cross staff that this was only temporary and that we would be able to return after a couple of weeks.” Reflection “One day we will return, even if it takes hundreds of years. What was taken by force will be taken back by force.”

“In 1954, UNRWA reached an agreement with Jordan, which at the time governed East al-Quds, to build 28 houses in Sheikh Jarrah. We were one of the families who were to live there, and when the houses were completed in 1956, we moved in. But everything changed when Israel occupied East al-Quds, and in 1972 they evicted twelve of our neighboring families. In 2009, I extended our house. The authorities considered it an illegal construction that was to be demolished. When I refused, the police took the keys to the new section and stationed four guards in front of the house—two Druze and two Bedouins. That same year, 1,000 Israeli soldiers with dogs evicted another couple of our neighbors, the al-Ghawi and Hanoun families. My extension remained sealed off and stood empty for nine years. In 2018, the police gave the keys to some fanatical settlers and allowed them to occupy the new section. My original house has only a few small rooms where we sleep. That is why we are having this conversation outdoors. After a new court decision in 2021, we—the remaining fourteen families—also risk being evicted from our homes in Sheikh Jarrah. But I continue to fight for what is mine; my home is my fortress. I grew up here, received my education here, and got married here. The settlers continue to harass me. They attack me physically, and I defend myself with my fists. They stole half of the gate to my plot of land. When I called the police, they did not care. I see them stealing our water and various things from the garden, but the police do nothing. Itamar Ben Gvir, who sits in the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, has been here and led a demonstration against us. But I continue to fight for my house, with my fists if I must. I am always on guard. In the evenings, I walk around the neighborhood until midnight. I have installed surveillance cameras to keep watch in case the Zionists come to evict me. How is it possible that a thief can claim ownership of my house?”

1945 “I grew up in the Romayma neighborhood. My father traveled a lot on business, among other places to Jaffa and Jordan. Jews, Christians, and Muslims lived side by side in al-Quds. My uncle did business with a man named Moshe. He owned a dairy in Machneyuda. Some Jews who came from Aleppo in Syria lived with my uncle. They were businessmen, just like us. 1948 “We used to go to my uncle’s house, and from there we could see how the shooting went on from both sides, day and night. The British helped the Jews against the Muslims, against the Arabs. We heard about Dayr Yasin, that they had killed 90 people and thrown them into the village wells. Life became very difficult; conditions worsened over time. My school was closed, people were murdered. The Jews continued to shoot from Hadassah and the Hebrew University, day and night. We feared for our lives. We fled north, toward Ramallah. We left at night in buses that the British army had left behind. My younger siblings and I took shelter on the floor of the bus. Not everyone was as fortunate. It was summer and the grass in the fields was tall. My sister-in-law, who had been so ill that she had been admitted to Saint Joseph’s Hospital in East al-Quds, was forced to crawl on all fours across a field so as not to be discovered and shot. When we arrived in Ramallah, there were already many others there; they had fled from Lydda, al-Ramla, and Jaffa. People lay sleeping under the trees. Quite soon we received help from UNRWA with food and a tent. My father, my brothers, and I were eventually able to return to our house in Romayma. My mother and my sisters stayed in Ramallah. Life was hard; we had no money.” 1967 “We were forced to flee again, this time on foot, to Ariha (Jericho). Many families walked for a whole day and a whole night across the mountains, along difficult paths. We stopped and rested, each family under its own orange tree. When we arrived in Ariha, Israeli soldiers shot at us. We stayed in Ariha for a week, and after the Six-Day War we were able to return to al-Quds. Our family has lost 150 dunams of land, with olive trees, vegetables, and fruit.” Reflection “The Israelis believe in doing everything by force. But they stand only with the support of the USA and Europe. We are free and have the right to live in peace. Since the founding of the state in 1948, Israel has demolished houses, arrested people, killed people. We will never accept being slaves under Israel. I want the world to know that Arabs are human beings. We do not intend to live our lives as slaves.”

1948 ”Vi hade ett mycket bra liv i Talbiya, i al-Quds. Min far var affärsman i tryckeribranschen. Familjens verksamhet gick tillbaka till 1920-talet. Vi hade ett vackert hus och en vacker trädgård med dahlior som växte högre än jag. I trädgården fanns det en damm med guldfiskar. Vi hade fester i trädgården, med en massa maträtter. Det var ett bra liv. Mina föräldrar och bröder hade åkt till Yafa på en kusins bröllop. Men eftersom jag hade mässlingen fick jag stanna hemma med mina morföräldrar. Jag var ensam och rädd och gick och la mig i mina för- äldrars säng. Då exploderade en bomb, rummets fönster krossades av tryckvågen och jag fick glassplittret över mig. Jag hamnade i chock. Som tur var kom min farbror, som bodde i närheten i Katamon, och tog hand om mig. Vi hade en judisk student som hyresgäst och Haganah hade snappat upp att han jobbade för deras konkurrent Irgun. Vårt hem låg nära den brittiska arméns högkvarter och för att väcka deras intresse hade Haganah sprängt en bomb i vår trädgård. När britterna kom upptäckte de att studenten hade sprängmedel under sin säng. Mina föräldrar återvände hem med en gång och de bestämde att vi skulle lämna al-Quds. Jag hade börjat skolan ett år tidigare. Vi åkte till vårt vinterhus i Ariha. Jag kommer inte ihåg om vi åkte bil eller buss. Vi skulle bara stanna ett par veckor. Lola, min älsklingsdocka i porslin som min far köpt i London, blev kvar hemma. Jag kunde inte förstå att han, familjens överhuvud, inte kunde åka tillbaka och hämta dockan till mig, trots att jag grät. Jag började i en ny skola i Ariha, som en kvinna hade öppnat i sitt hem. Där lärde jag mig läsa. Jag ville åka tillbaka till mitt hem, till min säng, till mina kläder, till mina leksaker. Jag saknade min kompis Ruti. Hennes föräldrar hyrde ett litet hus i hörnet av vår trädgård. De var palestinska judar och vi växte upp tillsammans, lekte tillsammans och åt tillsammans. Efter ett par månader återvände vi till al-Quds, min far åkte till ‘Amman för att söka jobb. Vi hyrde två rum av franciskanermunkarna på Casanova. Vi väntade och hoppades på att få återvända till vårt hus. Ingen trodde att det skulle bli på det här sättet. Till slut flyttade vi efter min far till ‘Amman, där han fått jobb. Jag och mina syskon började på en internatskola i al-Quds, eftersom skolorna i al-Urdunn var eftersatta, så att säga. På internatskolan var lärarna mycket stränga, de övervakade hur vi gick, hur vi hälsade, hur vi åt. Vi fick inte sitta med armbågarna på matbordet. Det var inte lätt, men mina studier gick bra. När jag var 16 började jag på college i Bayrut. Jag var den yngsta eleven och alla kallade mig för »bebin«. Men jag trivdes mycket bra, jag kände mig nästan vuxen. Efter examen återvände jag till ‘Amman. Jag fick ett stipendium för att åka och studera på ett universitet i USA. Men min mor tillät inte att jag åkte. 2022 ”Min barndomskompis Ruti bor fortfarande kvar i stugan, i hörnet av vår trädgård, som de hyrde av mina föräldrar. Hon har renoverat stället och byggt på en våning.” - Har ni fortfarande kontakt? ”(Suckar). Inte egentligen. Det här är mycket smärtsamt. Hon är i mitt hus, på min egendom. Och jag är på gatan. Varför? Jag skulle vilja veta varför. Vad har jag gjort? Ruti blev professor i antropologi och jobbade på Hebreiska universitet. En gång blev jag intervjuad av en journalist utanför vårt tidigare hem. Och hon kom ut och sa: »Å, det är den där Claudette igen.« Jag svarade henne: »Så länge jag inte fått tillbaka mina rättigheter kommer du att få se mig. Ruti, du och jag vet att stugan som du bor i tillhör min fars egendom.«

1936 “There were about 2,500 people living in my village. In 1936, the same year I was born, a general strike took place. It lasted for half a year. It was the longest strike in the history of Palestine.” 1941 “We were divided into two teams. The other team chose seven stones and stacked them into a pyramid. We tried to hit the pyramid with a ball. If we succeeded, the other team would try to hit us with the ball. At school I sometimes did everything, sometimes nothing. But I was never beaten by the teacher. I respected not only the teacher, but also myself.” 1942 “My father worked as a chauffeur for a British major. After the workday ended, he was allowed to take the car home.” 1947 “The UN divided Palestine into two states. We went to school as usual. We saw Jews celebrating and singing. They drove cars, buses, and even trucks along Jaffa Road, which runs between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. We stopped along the road and watched. Some students, older than me, shouted ‘shut up’ at them and threw stones at the vehicles. A Jew stopped his car and began shooting at us. From that day on, we never returned to school. It was closed. Jews lived in a neighborhood very close to our school. After the school closed, our Jewish neighbors began appearing in our area—threatening and armed. Eventually we left our home and drove to al-Jura, a village near Ayn Karim, in my father’s car. We had relatives there and were allowed to stay in one room. My father stayed behind to guard our house. Sometimes he came to visit us after work, but each time he returned to Lifta, near Jerusalem. Later, Jews blew up a couple of houses near ours.” 1948 “We moved on from al-Jura to Ayn Karim. I went to school there, but only for one month. Then the massacre in Dayr Yasin took place, which was adjacent to Ayn Karim. Refugees poured into our village. But no one dared to stay, and the next day we all made our way to Bethlehem and Bayt Jala. For two days and two nights we walked, mostly at night. The first night we reached Walaja. But we were afraid the Jews would come after us, so we continued on to Bayt Jala. My older brother and I helped carry our younger siblings. Many, many people were fleeing. In Bayt Jala we rented a room. When the British left Palestine, my father became unemployed. He joined us in Bayt Jala. The Egyptian army had a camp nearby, and my father managed to get a job there. After a few months we moved to Bethlehem. One of my maternal uncles had moved there and arranged a room for us. I don’t remember all the details—we moved and moved and moved. I wanted to start school in Bethlehem, but my father was told that the school had no places for refugees. I didn’t take it very hard. I was younger then.” 1955 “My brother, Abdul Karim, was killed by the Jordanian army in Bethlehem. He took part in a demonstration against the Baghdad Pact.” 1967 “For the first time since 1948, I was allowed to return to my home village. I visited Lifta, but I was not allowed to stay. Some people were living in my house; they had rented it from the authorities. They offered me a cup of coffee. The house was as I remembered it, yet different. I found none of the belongings we had left behind.” - Were they kind to you? “It wasn’t important whether they were kind. What mattered to me was seeing my house. But I was not allowed to stay.” - Did you try to reclaim your house through legal channels? “No. I already knew the answer would be ‘no’. It had already been decided.” 2005 “In 2005, the Israelis blew up my house and 30 others in order to build new houses for themselves, with a road and pleasant landscaping.” - Why? “Ask the Israelis. I pass the remains of my village three times a week on my way to medical treatment. Every time, I am reminded. It is not good for my mind. When I see it, it feels bad. But what can I say? What can I do? Screaming doesn’t help. I still feel like a refugee. I cannot forget Lifta.”