<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="yes"?><oembed><version><![CDATA[1.0]]></version><provider_name><![CDATA[Occupied Palestine | فلسطين]]></provider_name><provider_url><![CDATA[https://occupiedpalestine.wordpress.com]]></provider_url><author_name><![CDATA[occupiedpalestine]]></author_name><author_url><![CDATA[https://occupiedpalestine.wordpress.com/author/hajarhajar/]]></author_url><title><![CDATA[Refuge and return]]></title><type><![CDATA[link]]></type><html><![CDATA[<p><strong>Lamya Hussain* writing from Bourj al-Barajneh refugee camp | Sabbah Report | <a href="http://www.sabbah.biz" rel="nofollow">http://www.sabbah.biz</a> | Febr 22, 2011<br />
</strong></p>
<p><img class="alignright : frame" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_8ZLZsV89Ns0/TWPkpgbhqjI/AAAAAAAABd4/4DFug-KhC8k/s400/badil.jpg" alt="" width="314" height="400" />&#8220;Where would you like to go?&#8221; asks a taxi driver a little older than my father, his thick Lebanese accent I barely understand.</p>
<p>I reply politely, &#8220;Off the airport road to Bourj al-Barajneh.&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;The refugee camp? No, I don&#8217;t go there,&#8221; he replies.</p>
<p>Not  understanding how to respond, I nod and keep waiting for a taxi that  will agree to take me. I finally negotiate with a driver to take me to  the main entrance of the Bourj al-Barajneh refugee camp for an  outrageous fare of $20.</p>
<p>As I get into the back seat, I roll down  the window and breathe in a little of Beirut. Like a child curious  towards a new environment, I take in the city, its beauty and its  tragedy. Avoiding conversation, I maintain focus on the road as the  driver chatted away, his voice slowly merging into the city sounds.<br />
<span id="more-9969"> </span><br />
A sudden slam on the breaks mean I had reached my destination. &#8220;Here  you go! God be with you.&#8221; I pull my suitcase from the trunk and settle  my fare. As the taxi drove off I find myself standing at the tip of a  busy bridge; across from it was a city within a city. I stand there for a  moment or so, overwhelmed at its sight, unsure of how to proceed.</p>
<p>In  my work I had visited many refugee camps but somehow Bourj al-Barajneh  had its own way of instigating emotional turmoil. It stood out from the  rest of Beirut and it created a sense of fear onto the outside world. As  if whatever enters is lost in it forever, the kind of fear one has of  drowning in the ocean.</p>
<p>Not sure of how to locate my host family, I  drag my suitcase to the side of the road, kick it to place it in a  horizontal position, and sit on it while I frantically look for my cell  phone. I scroll up and down through my messages trying to find contact  details for a man named Abu Muhammad. I&#8217;ve attracted the attention of a  group of children who stand on the side, intrigued by a foreigner in the  camps. They whisper to each other and giggle. I wave one of the kids  over and ask him to direct me to Abu Muhammad&#8217;s place.</p>
<p>&#8220;Abu Muhammad? The one with the Internet cafe or the one with the shop?&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;The one that owns a small shop in the camp,&#8221; I reply.</p>
<p>He thinks for a minute. &#8220;Will you buy my friends and I ice cream from Abu Muhammad&#8217;s store?&#8221;</p>
<p>I  find his request a fair trade and agree to it. He waves over the rest  of his friends who help push my suitcase through the camp as they yell  and chant: &#8220;Foreigner! Foreigner in the camps!&#8221;</p>
<p>We finally arrive  at a small shop that is almost hidden under a crooked staircase. With no  particular organization in the manner in which it is stocked with  goods, in the center sat an elderly man next to a very dusty television  placed on a three-legged chair supported by a stack of bricks. I can  barely make out his face as it is dark inside the shop and three furious  candles make just enough light to illuminate his shirt and the chair  which he is slowly rocking back and forth.</p>
<p>The kids yell out to  him to get his attention while letting me in on the fact that Abu  Muhammad is hard on hearing. He slowly walks in our direction and greets  me with great enthusiasm. He asks the boys to help me take my suitcase  up to the third floor where I would be staying with two other Canadian  volunteers. I linger around to settle my promise to buy the kids ice  cream from his shop. He generously adds candy to the deal and invites me  to come by his place later in the evening to meet his wife.</p>
<p>Over  the next couple weeks I find myself right at home, accustomed to the  daily abrupt power cuts, crooked narrow alleyways and of course the  three dimensions of water. I create a system to store clean water that  could be used to shower and drink, the second dimension for laundry and  finally tap water that could only be used to clean.</p>
<p>Time is a  limited concept when one is working around frequent power cuts and  scarce amounts of clean water. I obsessively back up my work, unsure of  when the power would go out as I typed an email or organized my  research. The tragic ends to conversations with friends and family on  Skype always sting like a bee. On one such evening, I find myself  sitting alone in my flat in Bourj al-Barajneh in total silence and  darkness. I try to recall where I left my flashlight and slowly try to  make way into the bedroom. I look through my suitcase and in the process  knock over my roommate&#8217;s collection of Elias Khoury novels.</p>
<p>&#8220;Are  you okay?&#8221; I hear Abu Muhammad&#8217;s wife yell from her kitchen window,  located directly below my bedroom. I yell back, asking her if she had  spare candles, to which she responded with an invitation to her place.  &#8220;What&#8217;s the point of you sitting alone in the dark up there? The three  of us might as well share the darkness!&#8221; I quickly dress myself in what  later proved to be an uncoordinated color combination and counted each  step down to their apartment.</p>
<p>Abu and Umm Muhammad always extend a  warm welcome accompanied with tea and snacks. As the three of us sat in  darkness, their curiosity turned into a series of personal questions  about my life. Nothing was off-limits; they are at ease asking me about  my marital status, family details and religious beliefs. After having  satisfied their inquisitiveness, they ask me a particularly difficult  question: &#8220;Have you been to Palestine?&#8221;</p>
<p>A sudden hot flash takes  over my face during this awkward pause. I stare down deep into my tea  cup as if trying to focus on the already diluted sugar granules. I  remember the advice from other volunteers: &#8220;Make sure you don&#8217;t tell  folks here that you have been to Palestine; it creates emotional turmoil  for them!&#8221;</p>
<p>I wonder whether I could lie bold-faced to a harmless  and kind elderly couple. I look up to the pair who probably already knew  the truth I was struggling to conceal. &#8220;I knew it! You smell and feel  like Palestine. I hear it in your voice, I sense it in your mannerisms, I  feel it in the way you talk!&#8221; exclaims Umm Muhammad.</p>
<p>She quickly  reaches across the table and embraces me as if taking into her arms a  part of her country. &#8220;Oh! Let her speak. I want to hear stories&#8221; says  Abu Muhammad.</p>
<p>In what seemed like an eternity the three of us  discuss in great detail my experiences in the West Bank. &#8220;Tell me about  the sea, the sea of Jaffa,&#8221; asks Umm Muhammad.</p>
<p>&#8220;It is angry, the waves crash onto the rocks like an army filled with rage,&#8221; I reply.</p>
<p>&#8220;What about Akka?&#8221; Abu Mohammad asks.</p>
<p>&#8220;In  Akka the waters are calm but run deep. The old city is beautiful and  the marketplace has the best of Palestinian cuisine,&#8221; I say.</p>
<p>&#8220;What about Jerusalem, did you pray at al-Aqsa? Did you see the Dome of the Rock?&#8221; they both ask.</p>
<p>I  share details of my Jerusalem visits; I tell them how beautiful the  Dome of the Rock is: &#8220;It sits like a gem in the core of Jerusalem, one  can see it from afar as its golden dome reflects the sunlight throughout  the day and moonlight through the night.&#8221;</p>
<p>We share nostalgia and a  mosaic of emotions from joy to grief. &#8220;Take me home; I want to see  Jaffa before I die,&#8221; says Umm Muhammad.</p>
<p>Words escape me — I feel a  sharp pain in my gut and a certain struggle to breathe. I realize my  privilege, my non-Palestinian status, my foreign identity, and my  ability to exist in freedom even in spaces like refugee camps. Ashamed  of this privilege, I fail to offer any consolation to both Abu and Umm  Muhammad.</p>
<p>Sensing my guilt, Abu Muhammad continues: &#8220;Palestine is  not an identity, land, home or some &#8216;right&#8217; in international law! It&#8217;s  this memory we chase of a time that has long gone by, and knowing so we  live in the shadows, chasing what used to be.&#8221;</p>
<p>I ponder his words and ask, &#8220;Would you return?&#8221;</p>
<p>He  opens his mouth to reply but he stops himself. He then reaches for a  pack of cigarettes and lights the last one. I watch him carefully as his  thoughts get the best of him; in that moment he was completely alone  with his conscience.</p>
<p>&#8220;Have you ever loved something so much that it destroyed you?&#8221; asks Abu Muhammad.</p>
<p>I pretended that I didn&#8217;t hear his question and ask, &#8221; Would you return?&#8221;</p>
<p>My  perseverance pays off as I watched him extinguish his cigarette  abruptly. He crosses his arms and leans forward, I can now make out his  face, even through the dark. He chooses his words carefully, as if each  were carefully picked from years of internal debate and thought.</p>
<p>&#8220;I  remember Jaffa well. As a boy I would walk around for hours. I can  smell the oranges of Jaffa. I feel the earth of Palestine under my feet,  the fresh breeze of the sea, how the waves chased me back and forth. I  remember in great detail my home, and in particular the door to my home.  I try and unlock it every time I see it in my dreams. But no matter how  hard I try I can never go inside it.&#8221;</p>
<p>As the power returns, it  brings with it an awkward abrupt pause to our conversation. Abu Muhammad  abandons our discussion and resorts to talking about his shop affairs  and Umm Muhammad returns to asking me more questions about my marital  status, family and religious beliefs.</p>
<p>After I leave their humble  dwelling, I find myself wide awake that night. I remember watching a  home demolition in East Jerusalem, the faces of refugees in the occupied  West Bank and my dear friend Aya. Her radiant smile as she visited the  remains of her village. The journey we made to make her return to her  original village, how she filled an empty bottle with sand to spread on  her mother&#8217;s grave in exile. I remembered how she silently wept at the  loss of her land and marked her coming home. It is in that moment the  lines between memory and return become blurred and in a beautiful summer  sunset there is momentary peace.</p>
<p><em>* Lamya Hussain is a Toronto-based activist and a researcher on issues around Palestinian refugees.</em></p>
<div id="http://sabbah.biz/mt/archives/2011/02/22/refuge-and-return/" class="linkwithin_hook">
<div id="lws_0">
<div class="linkwithin_outer" style="border:0 none;clear:both;margin:0;padding:0;">
<div class="linkwithin_inner" style="border:0 none;width:596px;margin:0;padding:0;"></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><a href="http://sabbah.biz/mt/archives/2011/02/22/refuge-and-return/?utm_source=feedburner&amp;utm_medium=feed&amp;utm_campaign=Feed%3A+SabbahsBlog+%28Sabbah+Report%29">Refuge and return | Sabbah Report</a>.</p>
]]></html><thumbnail_url><![CDATA[https://i2.wp.com/lh3.googleusercontent.com/_8ZLZsV89Ns0/TWPkpgbhqjI/AAAAAAAABd4/4DFug-KhC8k/s400/badil.jpg?fit=440%2C330&ssl=1]]></thumbnail_url><thumbnail_width><![CDATA[259]]></thumbnail_width><thumbnail_height><![CDATA[330]]></thumbnail_height></oembed>