Reports from Amman Jordan
by Samah Sabawi
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VI - The Arab Wound "I carry you on my face like a scar..." |
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September 1, 2004
Amman, Jordan My neighbour Ola remembers Jerusalem. She was in her mid teens when the war of '67 broke out. Her father was away on business travel, and when he tried to come back the Israeli army prevented him from crossing the borders. Her family had a choice: stay knowing they will never be allowed to see their father again, or leave and keep the family unit in tact. They left. They ended up in Kuwait, where Ola began to work as a bank teller. Over the years she became a successful career woman and was promoted eventually to Branch Manager. Then Iraq invaded Kuwait and they fled, as did many other Palestinians, to Jordan. Like other Palestinians here, Ola has been very supportive of our one year sojourn. She has introduced me to the neighbours, sent me plates of Hommos and Beans for breakfast, pickled some peppers in a jar for me, and offered me endless cups of Turkish coffee around her kitchen table. Yesterday, as we sat out on our balcony, we were talking about my diary and I began to read to her some of what I had written. When I looked up there were tears streaming down her face. A wound had begun to bleed. My heart sank as a terrible realization hit me. I can write about the injustices, the oppression and the humiliations that Palestinians endure. I can write about my own diluted Palestinian experience. But no matter how powerful my words are, they will never amount to anything compared with the memory of being uprooted from one’s home and the reality of having to live a life time of being stateless. My words will never express the oozing wound in the hearts of exiled Palestinians. Nor will they convey the depth of the tragedy of being born into a race that the world does not think matters. Ola reminded me of the look on my father’s face when he was denied entry into Gaza after he had spent a day at the notorious Rafah border. Although my father left Gaza in the aftermath of the 1967 occupation, Gaza never left him. He expressed that profoundly when he wrote in a poem , “I carry you on my face like a scar, and when I perfect the disguise you denounce me”. My father was never able to be anything but a Palestinian. Before I came to Amman, I was warned that the residents of Amman are not friendly people, but I have been here for a month and have met the most genuine people I’ve known in all my life. It is not that they are unfriendly; it is only that they are wounded. Amman is mostly made up of refugees. It used to be just Palestinian refugees, but recently it has had its share of receiving new kinds of refugees: Iraqis who also have learned to carry their home in their hearts and to swallow their humiliation and continue on. The Arab wound, whether be it Palestinian or Iraqi, must be acknowledged before we can move on toward a better world. Israel and the US must understand the depth of the injustice they have inflicted on generations before they can dream of peace and a better tomorrow. I felt humbled today by Ola’s tears. I look forward to the rest of my journey and to visiting the Palestinian Refugee camps in Amman, although I am beginning to fear the abyss of sadness this may lead me into. Samah
Sabawi, originally from
Gaza
and whose permanent residence is now
Ottawa, is a writer, playwright and well-known activist. Her articles
appear in several popular online journals. Her Palestinian Diary
is exclusive to YayaCanada.
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