Nakba #39 - Hilwa Iskander

1936 “At the beginning of the Arab uprising against the British, my father was shot in the back. A couple of years later, the British killed my uncle.” 1938 “My mother was called Husn, and she was a good person: wealthy, beautiful, and religious. Her first husband, Mohamed, was killed in 1938 by British soldiers during the Arab uprising. My mother decided that she would remarry. She asked her father to approach Khalil, her brother-in-law. When Khalil was asked, he began to cry. The memory of his murdered brother still haunted him. Finally, he replied: ‘Ask my first wife, Zahr.’ Zahr answered: ‘I have no objection to a marriage. If Husn comes to live with us, this will be her home. I will give her the protection of my wings.’” 1948 “I was born in 1948. I grew up with what felt like two mothers. I called my father’s first wife Mother Zahr, and my own mother I called Mama. Husn and Zahr had a good life together. They lived like sisters. After the massacre in Dayr Yasin, everything changed. In July 1948, I was two months old. The entire family was forced to flee, leaving everything behind and taking only a donkey with them. I know they expected to return soon. My father had difficulty walking because of a gunshot wound in his back. He and my two brothers rode the donkey. My grandmother was disabled, and my mother wrapped her in a blanket and carried her on her back. She carried me on her chest. It must have been terrible. The road from Filastin to Lubnan was rocky and hilly, making it very difficult to walk. At one point, my mother dropped me on the ground without noticing. After some time, she realized what had happened and went back to look for me. In the end, she found me among some rocks. We reached Kana, on the Lubnan side of the border, my grandmother’s birthplace. We stayed there with relatives who took care of us. We remained in Kana for a year and a half. When I was a year and a half old, I suddenly became paralyzed. It happened one day while my father was playing with me. He noticed that I had lost strength in one hand. He lifted me from the ground, and suddenly I could no longer stand on my legs. The doctor told my parents to give me nutritious food. Eventually, it became difficult to stay with our relatives. My parents heard about refugee camps in the Beirut area. We went to the Burj al-Barajna refugee camp. That is where I grew up. We lived in tents—nine people together. In the summer it was hot, and in the winter it was cold. When it rained, water sometimes ran into the tent. Most of the time, we cooked food outdoors. My happiest moments were when I sat outside the tent and talked to people who came and went.” 1982 “The attack on Sabra and Shatila in Beirut began with Israeli aircraft bombing parts of the city. When I came home, all the neighbors had gathered at Mama’s place. Some even slept overnight in our apartment. Most people stayed indoors, both men and women. Some went to hospitals to help. I volunteered at Haifa Hospital in the Burj al-Barajna refugee camp. The management had moved all the equipment to safety in the basement. I worked in the emergency ward. People arrived with severe injuries. One girl had serious burns to her face and body. I helped wash her. She had been my student, but she was no longer recognizable. She died, as did her entire family except for one brother. Another time, a man arrived covered in dust from collapsed buildings. I could not recognize him either, even though he was my cousin. Much of one of his forearms and one foot had been destroyed. One morning there was a knock at our door. When my mother opened it, a man asked for me. ‘There is a massacre going on in Sabra and Shatila. You must come.’”