Plight of Palestinians

Memories of a distant home (an article from the Hindu Magazine)

VINITA BHARADWAJ

It’s been 60 years since the Naqba, when Palestinians were forced to flee their homes and land. In the desolate refugee camps of Lebanon, hope still thrives, that their homes will once again be theirs.

Determined still: Elderly Palestinian refugees at the Active Ageing House in the Burj el-Barajneh camp (above); Fadi Dabaja (left top) and Nazmieh Fathalla Abdelaal.

As a young bride in 1947, Nazmieh Fathalla Abdelaal honeymooned in Jerusalem, much against her wishes. It was, at the time, far trendier to be seen in Lebanon. Her husband promised her a holiday in Lebanon after the birth of their first child.

“We had our passports with visas ready,” she recalls of May 1948, “but we left our village, Tarshiha in Palestine, with neither passport nor belongings. We fled. The Zionists came and we left for Lebanon. My holiday in Lebanon was supposed to last two weeks, but it has extended to 60 years.”

Nazmieh is one of about 7,50,000 Palestinians who were forced to leave their lands and homes prior to May 14, 1948, when Israel declared its independence. Sitting in her living room in southern Lebanon and narrating the course of events of May 1948 — or the Naqba (catastrophe), as the Arabs call it — she holds onto a black and white photograph taken during her honeymoon in Jerusalem.

“The photo was brought back to us in 1952 by our neighbours. When we left, the resistance fighters told us not to take anything. They said we would return in two weeks,” she says.

The first generation of Naqba survivors all have the same memories. The “peaceful co-existence of Muslims, Christians and Jews”, “the arrival of the Zionists”, “the promise of a speedy return”, “the deception”, “house keys”, “land papers”, “the long walk to refugee camps” and “hope”.
Hoping against hope

With the nearing of the 60th anniversary of the Palestinians’ forced expulsion from their lands, the belief among the refugee population that they will regain lost homes remains remarkably strong. They know that in most of their villages and former lands, Israeli settlers have built new houses. They are aware that the world around them has lost faith. They also know that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is far from resolution and that the “right to return” does not figure anywhere near the top of the peaceniks’ agenda. However, they still hope.

In Lebanon today, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) estimates more than 4,00,000 Palestinian refugees, excluding the unofficial Palestinians, who haven’t registered with the UN agency.

Unlike their compatriots in other Arab countries such as Syria and Jordan, Palestinian refugees in Lebanon face specific problems. In addition to the loss of their home and identity, they have been excluded from the spheres of social, economic and political influence.

More than half of them live in deplorable conditions within densely populated camps. Lebanon has 12 refugee camps, with official populations ranging from 600 to 46,000. Camps are officially off-limits to foreigners, particularly outside of Beirut. Lebanese army officials man the entry points of the gates to the grim scenario that lies within.

Functioning as mini-cities, the camps are a stark contrast to Lebanon’s natural beauty. The labyrinthine network of alleys is dotted with photos of martyrs and deceased Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat. Tangled webs of electric wiring extend between three-storey houses from which children crying, music playing, mothers cooking and other home sounds can be heard.

Out on the streets, young men smoke hookas and play cards on sofas whose innards are popping out. A former woodwork factory that was bombed by the Israelis in one of the many wars stands and functions as a car park for beaten up third-hand cars.

Although the camps have progressed from tents to concrete buildings, they have not expanded in area despite the growing population. As a result, they grow vertically, with a floor added to accommodate newer generations. Rents are cheaper within the camps as is the interrupted supply of electricity and water, prompting many poor Lebanese nationals to relocate to a refugee camp.

“Life in the camps, what can I say,” says Fadi Dabaja, a 38-year-old refugee living in the Burj el-Barajneh camp in Beirut, as he shows me around his home. Fadi is anything but the conventional refugee, as he was the first man to open and operate a ladies hair salon in the 15, 718 residents camp. “I’ve always tried to make my surroundings happy,” he says.

He works in theatre and the performing arts and is trying to use them as tools to make learning interesting for the camp’s children. A father of three, Fadi simply sticks his tongue out when asked about the quality of schools. “They’re sick. UNRWA schools are bad,” he says.
Vicious circle

Like many Palestinians, Fadi too, doesn’t solely blame UNRWA for the low standards. Limited budgets are compounded by rapidly rising numbers of refugee populations and the increasing costs of living are placing an enormous strain on the funds available for the UN body to administer proper services to the Palestinians in Lebanon.

Fadi grew up hearing about stories of his parents’ Palestine. “The olive trees, the beautiful house, the peace, of course, we are raised on that,” he says fondly of a place he has never been to, yet hopes to go to. “For the Palestinian people like me, we can love it even if we have not known it because our parents have passed on their hopes to us. The hope continues through our traditions — food, culture, music, dance, language. And we pass it to our children,” he says rubbing his son, Khalil’s head, who nods and states: “I’m from Palestine.”

On days when he’s relatively free, Fadi swings by the Active Ageing House in the camp. The centre is a meeting point for 14 elderly men and women, who assemble during the day and part after lunch. All Naqba survivors, they go silent when asked their stories. “For 60 years they’ve spoken of nothing else — to journalists, researchers, TV people, relief workers, oral historians and their families,” Fadi says, understanding their pause.

However, once the narrative begins, the memories overwhelm them and it’s the same pattern. “They came. We left. They stayed. We moved. They lied. We believed. They took our homes. We will go back.”

Robert Fisk, author of The Great War for Civilisation and Middle East correspondent for the British newspaper The Independent explains the invincibility of Palestinian hope as passing through phases. “First it was determination, then it became a desire and now it’s a dream. If they give up the dream it’s like surrendering and accepting that their lands have been taken,” he says.
Unlikely to happen

Fisk is candid in admitting that in his opinion the Palestinian refugees will never go back. “Many years ago, when interviewing Yasser Arafat, I asked him about the right to return [of the displaced Palestinian refugees]. He said, ‘Yes, they’ll be buried there.’ And I asked him again, ‘Can the Palestinians in the camps return to Palestine when they’re alive?’ And he said, ‘Yes, they’ll be buried there.’ So I guess that gives you a sense of the politics surrounding the right to return,” Fisk says.

Fadi smiles at Fisk’s analysis. For Palestinians in Lebanon, the options are few. In addition to the appalling living conditions, the refugees are discriminated against in Lebanon. Permanent settling in the country is close to impossible as the Lebanese fear that granting citizenship to a largely Sunni Muslim population would upset the fragile political and religious balance of the country. Also, many Lebanese still privately blame the Palestinians for the country’s 15-year-long Civil War.

Within this scenario, the Palestinians are officially not allowed to work in about 72 professional occupations such as medicine and law, resulting in high rates of unemployment and limiting them to work as unskilled labourers. They also don’t have the right to own property within Lebanon.

Although many Palestinians have migrated westward or work in Gulf countries to help move their families out of the camps, their laissez-passer [official document for Palestinian refugees] greatly inhibits their travel.

According to Fadi, 60 per cent of Palestinians in the camps live below the poverty line. “Basic essentials are absent. As a people we’ve seen displacement. We’ve seen armed militants in the camps during the Civil War in Lebanon. Many of us don’t have proper access to health and other necessities,” he says.

“For a refugee population with nothing,” he says, “the Palestinian people find great refuge in hope. It’s all we have.”