June/July 2002, pages 11, 75

Jerusalem Journal

Going the Extra Mile Does Not Mean Abandoning the Justness of Our Cause

By Samah Jabr With Betsy Mayfield

These are gloomy days in Palestine. Many people feel discouraged, betrayed, and fearful of what the future may bring. The governments of the world have acquiesced to another human atrocity perpetrated against us, this time in Jenin and Nablus, and, once again, allowed Israel to get away with its crimes. We await the attack on Gaza. In the Israeli Knesset, the warlords toast each other for “winning a clean war on terrorism.”

In East Jerusalem, triumphant and provocative crowds of Israeli citizens march with their flags and racist banners, to celebrate “Jerusalem Day,” which commemorates the occupation of the remaining Palestinian land in 1967 and the takeover of East Jerusalem. The political climate these days brings back a painful, yet hopeful, experience.

One day in May 1997, I got up early, showered and took coffee to my study room. Turning on my radio, I began going through the piles of old magazines and newspapers strewn on my desk, the bookshelves and on top of the file cabinet. It was, supposedly, “peacetime.” Nevertheless, I heard the newscaster announce: “In Jerusalem, Israelis have closed the city as a security measure to prevent disruptions during Israel’s 51st Israeli Independence Day celebration.”

“The day of our catastrophe,” I thought, “the Palestinian Nakba.”

I turned off the radio and continued working. Among the seemingly endless pile of things to sort, I found a treasure: a file of articles, poems and pictures about that Independence Day, the Palestinians’ Nakba. I collected the best pieces in three different languages. I looked at my sleeping roommate, Nancy, an American college student who had come to Jerusalem to take a course on conflict resolution and peace. She could not have come to a better place for such a course, I thought, as I quietly closed the door and headed to the Abu Dis campus of Al-Quds University.

On my way to the campus, I saw huge Israeli flags decorating the sides of the roads and smaller ones, moving with the wind, on every Israeli car. The Star of David between two blue strips symbolized the Jewish dream: a religious state between the Euphrates and the Nile.

On campus, I copied the English material and put it aside in a yellow file for Nancy and her friends. Organizing the Arabic-language materials, I made a banner as well. In Arabic, I wrote, “So that we’ll never forget.” There was an empty bulletin board in the hall, and I quickly hung the pictures and stories I had discovered. When the bulletin board could hold no more and I had hung the banner in memory of the Nakba, I went to class.

What the fireworks were celebrating was their loss of freedom and opportunity.

At lunchtime, my friends gathered around the board, thanking me for my simple effort in honor of our unforgettable Nakba Day. One of them, Marwan, asked to meet later for conversation and coffee. He brought two cups and we sat on a shaded bench. “I learned that the American student you’re hosting has Jewish roots.” Marwan said, disapprovingly.

“She is Jewish,” I answered. “So?”

“Under the skin of every Jew,” stated my classmate, “there lies a Zionist.”

“Don’t be prejudiced, man,” I argued. “Nancy is a progressive woman. She is here to learn the truth and experience the reality. It is her chance to examine the stereotypes she learned about Arabs, Palestinians in particular, in her Western Jewish culture. For such people your arms should be outstretched.”

“Even if Nancy enjoys your company and likes her experience with you,” Marwan insisted, “she’ll go back to her folks and rabbis and they’ll tell her, ‘An Arab will hug you with one hand and stab you with the other.’”

“This is awfully prejudiced if it ever happens,” I agreed, “but your inclination that I should not host Nancy because she is Jewish is no less prejudiced.”

We continued our long, long debate until sunset. Perhaps not surprisingly, each of us failed to change the other’s mind.

Finally Marwan got up to go. “It is up to you,” he said, “but I wonder what statement you want to make by outstretching your arms to Americans and Jews. Aren’t they the ones responsible for our catastrophe?”

When I got home, Nancy had left, but my sister was waiting. She wanted me to babysit while she busied herself with dinner. Haibo, my 3-year-old nephew, is a pleasure, and I was delighted to have a “play” break with him. Sitting on the floor and working on a puzzle together, we were suddenly interrupted by loud fireworks. From the window, we could see the colors bursting in air. “Take me out, Samah,” Haibo said, jumping up and down. “I want to see.”

I turned on the TV as a diversion, but my nephew persisted. I knew the fireworks were coming from the Ma’ale Adumim settlement, where they were celebrating their “Independence Day.”

Looking down the hill to Anata Refugee Camp, I saw other children enjoying the fireworks. Like Haibo, they saw only the joy of the display. Neither he nor the kids in the camp, I reflected, realized that what the delightful fireworks were celebrating was their loss of freedom and opportunity. Would theirs be the generation to leave behind my regret and pain, or would it be their children? When would we Palestinians hold our place on this globe and not be full of anger and personal loss?

Celebrating “Independence”

Just after midnight, Nancy arrived home. Happy, as usual, she greeted me and started telling me about her daily adventures as a foreigner in my homeland. “I had such an evening,” she chattered. “I went with my group to West Jerusalem and danced with everybody in the middle of the streets. It didn’t last long enough for me. My friend, Bob, is a party animal, everyone wanted to dance with him, but another guy, David, stayed away. He didn’t want to dance. He always behaves like a grandpa. The Israeli kids knew we were Americans; they sprayed foaming soap on us. Just look at my hair!”

Hiding my feelings, I said, “You’d better shower. Your hair is pretty messy!”

That night as I lay in bed, I struggled with my thoughts—of Haibo, who didn’t know what the celebration was all about; of Nancy and her friends; of Marwan’s concerns. “They are Americans who come here to explore and experience. What they see and feel should not be limited by my biases,” I tried to convince myself. Yet my mind kept saying, “I can’t believe Nancy would choose to stay with a Palestinian family and think nothing of going out and celebrating our catastrophe.”

Overwhelmed by the contradictions, I put the yellow file in the trash can. Sleep released me from feeling.

The next day did not find me refreshed. I felt discouraged, but I decided not to give up. I did not allow that episode to effect my communication with Nancy or any of her friends. They were fine people, but even though they were living with us in East Jerusalem, they could not experience our emotions.

A month passed. Nancy and I grew closer. I met her friends several times and we always talked. Little by little we all grew closer, so that we could talk openly about many things.

During my last meeting with Nancy and her friends, they showed me the results of their course. Liz had written a report on the Palestinian refugees. Karen had published several articles on Palestine in American papers. Mike told me that the American Jews are ill-informed about the situation in our region and that the media distract them. He promised to go home and encourage others to come and experience the reality. Nilly suggested lectures for American college students. Nancy showed me the gift she had bought for her parents: a poster of Jerusalem in bright colors, with “Visit Palestine” written on it.

I was very happy to listen to them; I was proud of them and glad to know that each one of them would be making a “big statement.”

Over the intervening years Nancy, her growing group of friends and I have maintained a regular connection. During the intifada, the people who once marched with the rest of the Israelis in East Jerusalem became advocates of justice for the Palestinians. The time Nancy and her friends spent here has continued to have a positive and truth-inspiring impact on their lives and those around them.

It is now up to us as Palestinians to go the extra mile; we need to close our weeping wounds and keep going. We shall never give up. We do not have might, but we have the moral right on our side. To the governments of the world that moral right may be worthless, but to many people, near and far, moral considerations come first. And it is on that level that, even now, we can toast our victory.

Samah Jabr is a medical intern in her native city of Jerusalem.Betsy Mayfield is a writer living in Ames, Iowa.

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