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Generations of Hardship, Generations of Hope: A Palestinian Grandmother and Granddaughter Tell Their Stories

August 2001

Generations of Hardship, Generations of Hope is part of the MADRE-supported oral history project at the Ibdaa Center in Deheisheh Refugee Camp, Palestine. It is a testimony from Manar Faraj, a 16-year-old Palestinian refugee girl from Deheisheh Camp about her experiences as a refugee and about her struggle to organize with other young people for an end to Israeli occupation, and from Nijmah Jadullah, Manar's maternal grandmother, who is a survivor of the 1948 war in which nearly 800,000 Palestinians were displaced from their homes by Israeli forces.

Nijmah Ahmed Jadullah

My name is Nijmah Ahmed Jadullah and I am 65 years old. In 1948 I was 14. I was pregnant with my first baby that year and life was good. I lived in the village where I was born, where my parents and grandparents before them were born. Ras Abu Ammar village, just 14 miles west of Jerusalem, was beautiful. Surrounded on three sides by a deep river valley, where wild flowers bloomed in winter. We grew olives, grapes and almonds, wheat and barley. The Jerusalem-Jaffa Railroad passed through the northern part of our village. I could stand on a hill and watch the train on its way to Jerusalem. Ras Abu Ammar was tiny: just over eight square kilometers and less than 700 people. We had one primary school for the children. Except for occasional trips to Jerusalem, this village was my entire world as a girl. This was the world that I dreamed I would raise my children in; the world that I myself would grow old in.

On October 21, 1948 this world was destroyed. That day, we were startled by the sound of tanks. We learned from nearby villagers that this was the Zionists' Har'el Brigade with their Operation Ha-har (which means mountain). The soldiers began to fire all around us and we didn't know what to do. We had heard about what the Zionist soldiers had done to the people of Dir Yassin Village in April of that year: a massacre too terrible to speak about. So we ran away and left everything behind. Today I know that this is called ethnic cleansing, but that day, we had no name for our terror. Today I know that three-quarters of a million Palestinians were pushed from their homes that terrible year; that more than 500 villages were totally destroyed. But that day I only knew that we were packing what little we could carry into rucksacks and heading east. I heard the Israelis calling each other by names: Haim, Captain Afif and Jawad. We had to run to the caves in the mountains. There were many of us who were pregnant. We had to give birth on the road. Some women�s babies died because of this. I gave birth in a cave.

For 50 long days we hid in the caves from the soldiers, waiting to return back to our village. Most of the men were off fighting. We were women alone with the children. We kept our sheep and donkeys with us, even sleeping with them inside the caves. We were afraid to leave the animals outside or even make cooking fires for fear that the soldiers would find us. The massacre of Dir Yassin was on everyone's mind.

We went to the village of Al Khader in Bethlehem and stayed there until the winter of 1948. Then the Red Cross collected all of us who were still waiting to go home and brought us to Deheisheh Refugee Camp. It felt like the end of the world. We were packed into the Red Cross tents—whole families under one small tarp. There was no privacy, which was especially bad for the women, and no toilets. It was three years before the Red Cross built toilets in the camp: even by 1952 there were only two toilets for 25 families. But in the first years, we women would wait all day until cover of darkness to go to the edge of the camp and relieve ourselves.

It was winter and mud was everywhere. There was no sewage system at all. When it rained, the tents would flood with freezing, stinking water. We had no electricity or water. The cold and the rain and the filth were our constant enemies, making life miserable, making our children sick. Our other biggest problem was water. Everyday we walked two kilometers through steep terrain to find the small springs in the area. And we collected wood for cooking and heating and picked wild figs and almonds for food.

I think everyone, really, was in shock, living in a kind of nightmare in the camp. But unlike the men, we women had to keep our families alive through this nightmare; we could not give in to it because our children's lives were at stake. So we hauled water and collected wild food. We swallowed our sorrow and invented games for the children. We swallowed our tears and smiled to make the men feel strong. Because without their lands, they were broken.

One day we heard news of what became of our village. The Israelis, we learned, had destroyed our houses to make sure we would not come back. They took our lands and built a new village for themselves, called Tsur Hadassah. Eventually, our men began working as laborers, building houses for the Israelis on our stolen lands; sweeping their streets, washing the cups in their cafes. We became the slaves of our enemy. Do you know the pain of being forced to become the slave of your enemy? We only understood the true violation of this when we saw our children begin to lose respect for their elders.

Even in the refugee camps, the Israelis didn't leave us alone. They entered many times and destroyed tents and the small shelters that the UN eventually built for us. We learned from the UN people that Deheisheh was one of 59 Palestinian refugee camps throughout the Middle East, where people were living in misery, torn from their homes.

Then came 1967. Another war. This time, Israel conquered all of the West Bank, including the area of Deheisheh. The violence increased in our camp. Soldiers patrolled the narrow alleyways. We never knew when they would enter a home, destroy everything in sight, burn the children's schoolbooks, carry the fathers off to jail, beat the mothers to the ground. Night raids terrified our children. Curfews were a special torment for the women because the entire family was forced to remain inside the cramped home. People practically on top of each other, no place to move, to breathe. And always the women holding things together. The Israelis surrounded our camp with a six-meter fence, turning it into a real prison. All but one of the 14 entrances was sealed shut.

During our first Intifada, or uprising to free ourselves from occupation, Israeli soldiers killed 16 boys from our camp. Hundreds were arrested and tortured in the jails, including the infamous Ansar III desert prison, where our young men would be left to a slow death in the blistering desert sun. Many young people were injured and disabled for life. Their disability was a terrible burden for the women of their families, who, of course, have the job of caring for these disabled men.

The worst days of my life were those when they arrested my children, even the youngest of them. I did not know what to do. I used to run after the soldiers and curse them and try to free my children from the arms of the soldiers. The soldiers would beat me and kick me. They spit in my face. The Israeli soldiers would search our house, throw me out and destroy our furniture. They would even eat our food. This happened many times. When my son was 12 years old, he was shot by soldiers. Where is the justice in this? The Israelis would throw tear gas into our homes and my children would fall unconscious. Once, they threw tear gas and my daughter had a miscarriage. What could we tell these soldiers? How could we talk to them if they cannot even feel the pain of children?

I often think of the television pictures of the women and children fleeing from Kosovo. I knew their pain because it was my own. I felt very sorry for the families from Kosovo. But who feels sorrow for us? We have now been refugees longer than any other people on earth. More than five million of us throughout the world. Families separated. Torn from their homes. Torn from each other. We have tried everything to be able to return to our homes. And resolutions have been passed by the United Nations protecting our right to return. But what is the meaning of a law if no one enforces it? What is the meaning of justice if it is only words on the page?

I pray God to grant a safe path for my granddaughter Manar. And if I don�t return to my village, I hope that Manar will return and continue to love Palestine.

Manar Faraj

My name is Manar Faraj and I am 16 years old. I am from Ras Abu Amar village. But I have lived all my life in Deheisheh Refugee Camp. I am the one you talk about when you talk about "refugee rights." I am the one in whose name international resolutions are written. I am a refugee. For me, this small word means a big wall between my dreams and my reality. I cannot even go home to my village.

Being a refugee in the camp is difficult, but being a girl in the camp is the hardest of all. That is because of the ways of the camp. The old people who have lost their lands have only their old ways to cling to. They want us girls to live by these old traditions and girls suffer a lot from this.

Since September 2000, we have been fighting a new Intifada. They are attacking our camps, villages, cities, by different kinds of weapons. These weapons are made in the United States, the same weapons that the US used against people in Nicaragua, Vietnam, Yugoslavia and Iraq. Tanks, American Apatche helicopters, F-16. They destroyed houses, mosques, kindergarten, clinics. They jailed all the Palestinian people in their houses--children, women, old people. They shoot at ambulances. Sharon and the Israeli soldiers can destroy many things--really--but the Israeli soldiers cannot destroy our love for Palestine and our freedom.

When the soldiers come, they make a curfew. That means whole families are stuck inside their houses. No one can step outside, even for a breath of air, without being shot. We never know how many days the curfews will last or if we will have enough food and water. During the curfews, I pray that no one gets sick because the soldiers will not allow anyone to be taken to the hospital, even in an emergency. Usually, then, it is up to the mothers and us older girls to try and keep life as normal as possible. We pretend we are not afraid so that the others will be calm. We add water to the food to make it last -- when we have water. And we pray that the soldiers will not come in the night and destroy everything or arrest our fathers and brothers.

After one curfew in April, my grandfather, Ali Faraj, who was 60 years old, was killed by Israeli soldiers. The curfew had already lasted for two weeks and we had no food left in the house. My grandfather said he could not stand see us going hungry. �I am an old man,� he told me. �The soldiers will not hurt an old man like me.�

My grandfather was walking and walking. He was so happy because he found bread for us. He was walking with a smile on his face, holding the bread. Then suddenly, three tanks came and shot him 36 times. He fell down. Our old man was still walking, but to the heavens. All the camp came to us and told us that he had been killed. My grandfather returned carried by his friends. But please, answer me. Did that soldier think that my grandfather was a terrorist? Or that his smile was an F-16? Or that the bread was a tank? What did he think? Did you think that he thought that he was a father and grandfather and he wanted to wipe his grandchildren's tears of hunger? My grandfather--no I will not say that he was only my grandfather because he was my teacher, my friend, and the person who took care of me while my father was in jail--he taught me how to smile, even in our hard life, how to love my country and to struggle to help all of the children and the people who are like us, suffering. He took me to my village, the village that he was forced to leave in 1948. He always said his hope was to be buried there. And this hope goes from generation to generation. So now I carry this hope in my heart: to live in freedom in my village.

But instead of freedom, Israel is building a fence all around us. It will cut the West Bank in two. Half of all of the land will be swallowed by Israel. They will control the water. They will control our money and important decisions that we must make for ourselves. Those of us on the other side of this fence will be living in a very big prison. Last month President Bush told the world that he supports Sharon�s fence and his war against our future.

But we do not want to spend our lives surrounded by tanks and checkpoints and guns. My friends and I want what young people everywhere want: to have the freedom to become who we want to be. To see our families and neighbors healthy and safe. To play and learn and help make the world a better place. That�s why we have the Ibdaa Center and MADRE. At Ibdaa, we are working to achieve justice. Now we girls have a way to reach our dreams. We are developing our talents and speaking up for our rights as girls, as refugees, as Palestinians. At Ibdaa we learn languages and writing. We learn how to use the computer and how to make our own websites. Now we can tell the whole world our story.

At Ibdaa we learn about human rights and how to make our fight against the occupation strong and just. We learn about the struggles of children in other parts of the world. And we talk and dream together about how we want the world to be. Because ending the occupation is only half of our struggle. After that, we will still need to work hard to build the society we want. Ibdaa has given us back our childhoods, with games and singing where before we had only silence and fear. But it is also giving us our future, so that the suffering that began with my grandmother�s generation can finally end; so that we can transform a life of sadness and checkpoints into a life of freedom and joy. For the children of Palestine and for children everywhere.