My Grandfather’s Nakba

May 12, 2011
by Nadine
Source: A Palestinian Dreamer

In 1948, when I lived in the British Mandate of Palestine, my world was so intact. We gathered at the sound of my uncle’s tubla, or drum, and sat around while the women danced. I was twelve years old at this time, and my little sister, Miriam, was seven years old. Our dad was killed resisting British colonization, so she often looked to me for answers that I simply could not give her. Our mom was the toughest woman I’ve ever met. Even in this time where women were oppressed, she made sure no man disrespected her. My small family lived in a big, tan house with green vines growing all over the place.

April came, and death came with it. Irgun Zvai Leumi, a Zionist gang, was led by Menachem Begin, who eventually became Prime Minister of Israel, to attack the District of Jerusalem’s Deir Yassin. This event swung like a golf club hitting every Arab country in the region right in the abdomen. Everyone who didn’t know there was such thing as Deir Yassin found out on April 9th, 1948. The gangs shot at anything or anyone that moved.

The air was stiff when we found out what happened. We were mortified. Mortified is an understatement; we were traumatized. We were exhausted at that point. The men in my village ordered the women and children to leave immediately; they were planning to act as a resistance, if necessary, to defend the District of al-Ramla. For the first time ever, the women didn’t argue.

Miriam and I were terrified. I went into my home and said a few prayers in hopes that God would help us. I locked the door and put the key in my pocket. I kept that key with me everywhere I went expecting to go back home any minute.

When we arrived in Betunia, we waited for news of when we could return to Daniel, or news of relatives that died. One day we got news that my aunt had been shot in the hip for protecting her husband. A gang member knocked on her door and asked her where her husband was. She lied and said that he died so they wouldn’t kill him. Just as she said that, my uncle came up behind her, and the gangbanger shot him to death.

The war ended May 14, 1948, a month and three days after the Deir Yassin Massacre, the Jews of Europe won the war and declared a state on the same day. They made a religious claim to our land and carried it out through violence. They founded a country through the blood of innocents.

Life moves on. There would always be a void in my heart. We moved on to the refugee camps. I remember when Golda Meir told the Sunday Times: “There is no such thing as a Palestinian people… It is not as if we came and threw them out and took their country. They didn’t exist.” She just denied everything. I lined up all my kids and told them to never forget their Palestinian identity. My family was there for hundreds of years. Golda Meir’s was not.

Out of all the losses I have ever endured, losing Palestine was the worst. People come and go, but your country should always be there for you. When you lose your country, you feel cheated out of your way of life, and your heart builds sadness. It builds a big, dark hole of sadness. My grandchild, Nadine, kept asking me why I never smiled and why I never seem impressed by anything. I think she eventually figured out why.

Rest in Peace Abraham Badr. July 30th, 2007. When my grandfather died, he gave me the best gift ever. He transferred his unconditional love and loyalty for Palestine to me.

My uncle took his children to Daniel in the summer of 2009. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the pictures of my grandpa’s home! He always said how beautiful it was, but beautiful just didn’t do any justice. No word can describe the green vines growing around the house, which was the color of the Sahara desert. If heaven doesn’t look like this house, then there should definitely be some revisions. The picture my uncle brought home explained why my grandpa moaned on his deathbed, “Take me home! Please! Take me home!” He only calmed down when his nurse Danielle was with him. He loved her name, considering it was the name of his beloved village. I stared at the picture for about twenty minutes. I started to smell the aroma of awama, sweet dumplings that my grandpa loved. There was a light in this picture, a calming and serene light that gave me a sense of comfort.

700,000 Palestinians were driven out of Palestine during the Nakba, or catastrophe. Israel has made a law banning the remembrance of the Nakba. Millions of Palestinians remain in refugee camps to this day. On May 15, 2011 Palestinians will demand their right of return. The people of Lebanon, Syria and Egypt will march alongside the Palestinians.

*This is a story through the eyes of my grandfather, written by me*