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The struggle for Palestinian right of return
By Rich Wiles and Nidal al-Azzeh
15 May 2008
Rich Wiles and Nidal al-Azzeh explain why the Nakba, or Catastrophe, that resulted in the imposition of the Jews-only state of Israel in Palestine is not just a historical event but an ongoing catastrophe for the Palestinian people and a reminder to strengthen the struggle for the return.
The events of 1947-49, and specifically 1948 itself, are known as Al-Nakba – the Catastrophe. It was the time of the forced expulsion of at least 750,000 Palestinians by Zionist militias, but has “the catastrophe” now finished? Another year has now passed, this one marks the 60th since May 1948, and the pain is no less now than it was all those years ago. Once again 15 May has come around without answers and justice. Still millions wait for their rights. Still millions are forced to live crowded together in the refugee camps of Palestine and surrounding countries. But while some are marking this as the 60th year “since” the Nakba, should we not be marking this as the 60th year of the “ongoing Nakba?
For whom has the catastrophe finished? Is it not true to say that forced expulsion continues unabated 60 years on, did the Apartheid Wall not again displace thousands upon thousands of Palestinians, and separate thousands more from their land, families or even from remaining a physical part of the so-called West Bank? Is the ever-increasing expansion of Zionist colonies on occupied land also not part of a steady practice of ethnic cleansing? What about the plight of the Bedouin of the Negev and other areas who continue to see their houses demolished and their land stolen? There is continued land theft of many shapes, itself a policy to strengthen the Zionist and colonialist state, while “encouraging” indigenous Palestinians that they would be better off if they left since they have nothing left to stay for. And none of this takes into account the thousands of Palestinians of all ages killed, injured and imprisoned. The catastrophe continues.
When I visited several of the depopulated villages last year I saw through the eyes of the beautiful children with whom I went quite what these villages mean, not just to those forced out in 1948, but also to every generation since. Among other villages we visited the beautiful village of Beit Jibreen. We saw the remains of the mosque and of Palestinian houses, we felt the space and breathed the air that is noticeable only in its absence in Aida Camp, and we tasted the delicious sweet Sabar fruit from the village’s ancient and immovable cacti before devoting our time to removing the razor-like thorns it left in our fingers. The children had heard so much of the villages from their parents and grandparents; the knowledge is passed on, yet none of the children had themselves lived through the experiences of 1948.
For Rowaidah Abd-al-Rahman al-Azzeh, physical and very vivid memories remain to this day, and it is from the knowledge of her generation that today’s young Palestinian refugees have learnt so much:
“I was 12 years old when we were forced to leave Beit Jibreen, our home-village, in October 1948. This was five months after the creation of Israel and the big cruel massacre at Deir Yassin.”
The massacre at Deir Yassin was one of many. It saw over 100 Palestinians murdered in cold blood. Men, women and children were slain by the invading Zionist militias, and those responsible used the horror of the massacre as a tool to force residents out of other villages, such as happened in Beit Jibreen:
| Residents of Beit Jibreen thought that they were safe until
Israeli aircrafts flew over the village and dropped statements on
pieces of paper. I still remember that day well; three aircrafts threw
hundreds of statements printed on coloured paper. I was the only one
who could read in my family. My father brought me one of those
statements, which was written in Arabic, and asked me to read: “To all
residents of Beit Jibreen, you have only six hours to leave the
village, if you do not leave, you will face the same end as Deir
Yassin.” We fled to a nearby field where we stayed for one day and two
nights. Twenty to 30 men remained in Beit Jibreen with their hand guns
to defend the village and protect the properties. A small battle
occurred in which most of our relatives were killed, so we fled to
Hebron. Suddenly we became refugees, and stateless, with no home, no
nationality and no property. After 60 years of Nakba, we still live here, in a refugee camp, but
we also still believe that we will return. And even if we die before
our time, certainly our descendants will return… |
Rowaidah’s husband Mohammad also has stark images etched into his mind of what Beit Jibreen meant to the Azzeh family:
| Minutes before he died 40 years ago, my father told me: “You
will not be able to take my grave to Beit Jibreen, but definitely you
will be able to plant a tree… name it Hasan’s tree. After the Nakba, my grandfather tried to return to our home
village. He was caught three times by Zionist soldiers and forced to
leave. On the third attempt he was led to the armistice line (the green
line), shot in his leg and told that he has to tell the others
(Palestinian refugees) that anyone who attempts to comeback would be
killed. A year after his injury my grandfather died and was buried in
Hebron. Days before his death, when I was just 14 years old, he told me
“do you know why I was interested in teaching you? So you could take
care of the 583 dunums we own in Beit Jibreen… when you return, take
care of Um al-Haiyat’s land, the most fertile piece of land there… I
paid a lot to have it." |
Mohammad is now 74 years old but his belief in return has not lessened with age, it is not something he would ever give up:
| Return for me means existence itself; it is not only a piece
of land, it represents our history, culture, humanity and future. If I
could not return then my grandson, Miras, has to plant two trees in
Biet Jibreen! For sure, when he does so my soul will be there and will
again be relaxed … even if my grave is still in Aida Camp. |
Generations pass away and continue to pass on these beliefs in “Return”; it doesn’t falter and it will never pass away as the Zionist entity had hoped all those years ago they did not foresee the resilience of the Palestinian people or their nation. In fact, in many ways the belief develops as does the understanding of Nakba in the context of it being seen not as an event from history, but as something that perhaps began many decades ago but continues to this day. Ask Mohammad’s grandson about Nakba and what it means to him, and Miras will demonstrate the same articulation as the family patriarch but with a contemporary awareness and contextualization. He was one of the children through whose eyes I had the honour of learning of Beit Jibreen last year. At just 14 years old, Miras now talks of his understanding of the term “ongoing Nakba”, and what it means to him:
| I heard the term “ongoing Nakba” several times before
understanding and using it. In fact, my father uses it while he speaks
to international visitors about Aida Camp where we live, about the
Apartheid Wall which surrounds the camp and about refugees’ rights.
However, I had never paid attention to the meaning of that term until
December 2006… |
Friday 8 December 2006 is a day none of us will ever forget, and it is a day about which Miras thinks often:
| It was sunny as with most of Palestine’s days, but I will
never forget it. We were seven kids, having some fun and playing in my
sister’s bedroom before starting the final exams of the first semester.
I was the oldest among us children at 12 years old, and the youngest
was my cousin Ansam she was only three years old. Since this day my
family and friends have started to call me “lucky boy”. I became
“lucky” not because I won in Lotto, but because I did not die from the
Israeli bullets shot by a soldier hidden in one of the
watchtowers! |
The bullet that passed through Miras’s young body should have killed him, according to the doctors who saved his life, but it didn’t. Miras again was just too full of Palestinian resilience and strength to give up. He is one of many thousands of Palestinians injured, much as his great-great-grandfather had been nearly 60 years earlier, and as several other family members have been in the years in-between. Miras has also seen and felt land confiscation and theft like his grandfather’s grandfather:
| The construction of the Wall around Bethlehem and Aida Camp
has resulted in the confiscation of the Armenian Church land that was
the only space available to play in near Aida Camp. For me it was not
only a piece of land; it was something I connected to as a human being
as a child I used to play football there. The ongoing Nakba, and living as a refugee, has become clear
for me. For me, ongoing Nakba means continuous
violations of my human rights, no peace and no future. |
So today, 15 May 2008, is not just a day to commemorate a historical event. It is a day that marks 60 years of “ongoing Nakba” for the Palestinian people but not purely in the context of simple remembrance; it is a day to be retrospective but also a day on which to make proactive steps forward. For Miras and his grandparents, and for the millions of other Palestinian refugees, it is a day to continue and strengthen the struggle for “Return” for only when the day of Return comes can anybody, and God willing everybody, find a real peace that is based on justice and not on the empty rhetoric of immoral politicians.
There can be no peace without justice. There can be no justice without return.
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