Abstract
This memoir recounts the personal and collective experiences of my Palestinian family from Yasur, a village in the Gaza province, tracing their displacement and survival following the Nakba (catastrophe) of 1948. Through vivid recollections, the narrative captures the peaceful life my parents once led as farmers before Zionist militias (later the Israeli Defense Forces, IDF) violently uprooted them from their homeland. Their forced exile marked the beginning of a life shaped by hardship, resilience, and an enduring longing for justice.
As the fifth child in a family of six, I offer glimpses into my early years as the son of Palestinian refugees, relying on memory to preserve the voices and struggles of those who lived through one of history’s greatest injustices. This memoir is not merely a personal account; it is a testament to the broader Palestinian experience and a call for the restoration of rights, dignity, and justice for the people of Palestine.
Introduction
My family is originally from the Palestinian village of Yasur 1 (ياص ور أو ياسور), located in the Gaza province. I was born into a close-knit household that included my parents, five siblings, two sets of grandparents, and a large extended family of aunts and uncles. My parents grew up in Yasur, where they were married in 1945. Deeply in love, they remained devoted to each other for 50 years, enduring countless trials and tribulations.
In August 1946 – two years before the Nakba – my mother gave birth to my eldest brother, Jamal. After the Nakba of 1948, five more children, including myself, were born into a life of exile. Like most villagers, my parents were farmers. They lived in the family compound, working on the land and raising livestock. Even decades later, they would recall how fertile the soil was, how generously it provided for them, and how they once lived in peace, surrounded by the rhythms of the land.
That peace was violently shattered in May 1948, when Zionist militias stormed the region, forcing the people of Yasur to flee at gunpoint. The village and its civilian population were attacked by the First Battalion of Israel’s Givati Brigade on June 9, 1948, as part of Operation Barak. The ethnic cleansing of our village marked the beginning of the hardest years of my parents’ lives – and, in turn, ours as the children of Palestinian refugees. I was the fifth child in our family, with two brothers and two sisters before me and one sister after.
The Nakba was not just an event in history; it was a rupture that forever altered the course of Palestinian life. More than 750,000 Palestinians were expelled from their homes, over 500 villages were destroyed, and an entire people were scattered across refugee camps in the region and beyond. The new state of Israel was built upon the ruins of Palestinian society, replacing the indigenous population with Jewish settlers from Europe and elsewhere. The trauma of displacement, loss, and exile became a defining feature of Palestinian identity.
This memoir is my attempt to preserve the memories of my family and community, to ensure that their stories are not forgotten. It is a personal account, yet it speaks to a collective experience shared by millions of Palestinians who were forcibly uprooted and denied their right to return. In narrating my story, I have relied on memory, hoping it will not fail me – you deserve an accurate account.
Throughout my life, I have carried with me the weight of history. The struggle for Palestine is not just about the past; it is about the present and the future. The systematic dispossession of Palestinians continues to this day. The same forces that expelled my family from Yasur continue their campaign of ethnic cleansing in the West Bank, Gaza, and across historical Palestine. Just as my parents and grandparents resisted, so too do the new generations, determined to reclaim their land and their rights.
This memoir is a testament to that resilience. It is a reminder that we have never surrendered, never forgotten, and never stopped fighting for justice. My story is one of survival, resistance, and an unbreakable bond to the land of my ancestors.
It is also a call to action – to remember, to bear witness, and to demand justice for Palestine.
Earliest Memories
My earliest memories are shaped by two episodes that continue to influence me to this day. The first is a short trip from the Kalandia (Qalandia) Refugee Camp to the Jerusalem Airport with a group of grown male relatives and a suitcase. All the men were familiar to me, but one of them was the most beloved – my father’s only brother, Uncle Mousa (Moses). He was single and had no children of his own, but our extended family, including my grandparents, my widowed aunt and her two children, my siblings, and I, were his world.
Uncle Mousa was handsome, humorous, tall, blond, physically fit, and full of energy. His wide smile was ever-present, and he bore a striking resemblance to my paternal grandmother. To my siblings and me, he was the father figure in our family.
I remember us walking the 3 kilometers from our home in Kalandia Refugee Camp to the Jerusalem Airport. The men took turns carrying the suitcase on their shoulders, filled with local dried fruit and other treats. The path led through fields of lush green sesame, wheat, and barley. When we arrived at the airport’s check-in counter, I heard the name “Beirut International Airport” mentioned as some men took the suitcase away. A few minutes later, we walked to a gate where the men embraced my uncle, exchanging tearful goodbyes. Tears were common in my childhood. When my turn came, Uncle Mousa picked me up, kissed my cheeks, and promised to tell my father that I was a good boy. He also promised to send me toys.
After he walked through the gate, we joined other families on the balcony, waving goodbye as the propeller plane taxied and took off. It was my first time seeing a plane up close. Its size, wings, and four propeller engines captivated me. As people boarded, they waved, and we waved back. Some on the balcony sobbed loudly. When the plane’s engines started and smoke billowed out, I was startled, but my uncle on my mother’s side, Mohammad, held my hand to reassure me. The plane momentarily distracted me from the painful realization that my beloved uncle was gone.
The next time I saw Uncle Mousa was 17 or 18 years later, when I was 20 years old. It was also the first time I met my father, whom I had only known through photographs. Our reunion took place at Simón Bolívar International Airport in Caracas, Venezuela, while I was a university student in New York. The meeting was emotional yet joyful, and we soon found ourselves catching up through long conversations.
Growing up, I came to understand that employment was scarce for Palestinians in refugee camps. Many countries offered to take in some refugees, and my father was sent to Venezuela. Once he established himself financially, he sent for his brother to join him. Their journey took them from Jerusalem Airport to Beirut by plane, and from there to Caracas by ship. Both worked and lived in Venezuela.
Three years after my visit to Caracas, I was able to reunite my parents in Miami, Florida. However, my father eventually decided to return to Palestine with my mother. Uncle Mousa, afflicted with leukemia, remained in Venezuela, where he passed away among his adopted Venezuelan family. My father lived 18 more years before passing away and being buried in Palestine, though far from his ancestral village by the sea.
Aside from my older brother and me, no one in Palestine ever saw Uncle Mousa again. Nor did my paternal grandparents reunite with my father. They both passed away 40 days apart, just two years before my father returned to Palestine. As I grew older, I came to understand the depth of their grief. Their tears often spoke louder than words.
My grandmother told me two stories that illustrate the simple, tranquil, and witty nature of members of my family.
It involved my father and his best friend in Yasur. The two had an argument – my grandmother was vague on the details – and my father, in retaliation, recruited two friends to help him raid his friend’s onion field. Because my father was the lightest, one friend carried him on his shoulders while the other carried a large jute sack. My father’s job was to pluck the onions and drop them to the ground, while the friend with the sack collected them. By the end, they had gathered 50 kilograms of onions. The next day, the field’s owner surveyed the damage and immediately suspected my father and his strongest friend. To clear their names, both swore an oath on the Qur’an. My father truthfully swore that he had not taken a single step in the field, and his friend swore that he had not pulled a single onion from the ground. Both were technically correct. Just as they completed the oath, their third accomplice walked in with a full sack of onions. Upon hearing the full story, the entire village burst into laughter.
The second story took place after the Nakba and involved my Uncle Mousa. When my father began sending money back home, our family used some of it to buy two large German-made Grundig radios, powered by car batteries. Palestinian families were instructed to listen carefully to the news, as they were told their return to their homes was imminent. That announcement never came.
One evening, Uncle Mousa was listening to the BBC and the Voice of the Arabs from Cairo when my grandmother, unfamiliar with the concept of a radio, asked if the people inside the box were not getting tired or hungry. Seizing the opportunity, Uncle Mousa saw a chance for a good meal. He told her, “Certainly, Mom. The people inside the box are shy and do not like to be seen because they are tiny. But if you prepare food and give it to me, I will serve it to them in private.” My grandmother, always hospitable, prepared a meal and handed it to him. He locked himself in his room and devoured the food alone. Moments later, she peered through the keyhole and saw him eating. Laughing, she recalled, “Seconds later, perhaps feeling remorse, he opened the door and invited me to join him.” He was her youngest, and she adored him.
The departure of my father and uncle to Caracas was driven by economic necessity. With 78 percent of Palestine occupied by Israel, there was little land left to farm and no jobs to be had. Many of the children around me grew up only knowing their fathers through photos and letters. Some of us coped by expanding our knowledge of the countries where our relatives had gone. We collected postage stamps, memorized the names of capitals and major cities, and learned about different cultures. Often, this information came from our relatives themselves; other times, it was taught to us by our history and geography teachers.
The Sardine Can Dump Truck
In the early days of our refugee camp, children had no luxury items – no toys, playgrounds, trails, swimming pools, or sports, cultural, or community centers. We played wherever we could, often in hazardous areas strewn with stones, leading to frequent injuries. Our elders did their best to create toys for us from whatever materials were available.
One of my earliest memories involves a sardine can that I transformed into a dump truck. In our camp, there were only three vehicles: two 1956 Chevrolet Bel Airs and a dump truck. Later, I would learn that the truck was a Mercedes-Benz. The Chevys served as taxis, transporting people from the camp to Jerusalem, Ramallah, or other destinations. Their parking spot was near our home, and my family often used them for trips to both cities. The taxis were owned by two brothers from the Palestinian city of al-Ramleh (الرملة), close to Yasur. The dump truck, owned by a Palestinian from the village of Ishu’a (إشوع), about 20 kilometers west of Jerusalem, was rented out with its driver to camp residents. It carried gravel, cement, roofing materials, and iron bars from Jerusalem and Ramallah while also hauling away large rocks and soil. I was fascinated by the truck and instantly drawn to the idea of transporting things. But how could I, a child, achieve this? Too impatient to wait for Uncle Mousa to send the toys he had promised, I decided to make my own.
After Western governments helped establish Israel and supported the ethnic cleansing of most Palestinians – including the 4,000 residents of our Kalandia Refugee Camp – those same governments began providing food aid to Palestinian refugees. Perhaps they felt guilty. One of the aid items was sardines, packed in cans of various shapes and sizes. My family received these cans as part of the monthly rations distributed by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestinian Refugees (UNRWA). One empty oval can spark my imagination. The problem was figuring out how to turn it into a functioning dump truck.
I presented my paternal grandfather with my idea and the sardine can. He smiled and said, “Ask your aunt for a hammer, a nail, and some string.” I quickly retrieved the items. Using the hammer and nail, my grandfather punched a hole in the can and threaded the string through it. Of course, there were no wheels. He then knelt, picked up small pebbles, and filled the sardine can to the brim. Handing me the string, he told me to pull. And just like that, I became the proud owner – and unlicensed driver – of a dump truck, albeit without an engine or wheels.
My new dump truck served me well, transporting all sorts of things to my imaginary construction sites. Until then, my only toy had been a straw-stuffed horse that I carried everywhere and slept with for years. But now that I had a dump truck, the horse was left in its barn next to my pillow. Later, we learned to build moving cars and trucks from iron wire, wood, and ball-bearing wheels. And then, as life became more complicated, simple joys like these began to fade.
Father’s Monthly Check Stopped Coming
One of the more complicated aspects of my life was the absence of my father. He was not present in my daily life or on the family scene, except in the conversations of my elders. They spoke of him lovingly and warmly, telling stories about his generosity and courage. My grandmother and mother would sometimes tear up at the mere mention of his name. Strangely, we had no photograph of him hanging on the wall to serve as a reference for me. Instead, I formed an image of him in my mind, pieced together from anecdotes.
I was just a toddler when my father left our refugee camp in Jerusalem and began his journey to Caracas, Venezuela. My mother was pregnant with my youngest sister, the last of the six children in our family. I have no memories of my father until we met in Caracas in 1976, when I was 20 years old. Until then, he existed only in the stories told to me by my mother, grandparents, and other relatives. Their descriptions painted a picture of a kind and principled man, making our long-awaited meeting even more meaningful.
When my father arrived in Venezuela, he knew little about the country or its culture. He had to start from scratch, as if he had been born the day he landed. At first, he worked as a small peddler, purchasing merchandise – mainly clothing and bed coverings – from wholesalers in Caracas. He packed these goods into a suitcase, carried them on his shoulders, and walked the streets, selling door to door. Many of the wholesalers were also recent immigrants who had managed to establish successful businesses. Once my father built a reputation for reliability, they extended him credit for 90 to 120 days, allowing him to expand his trade and clientele.
My father, in turn, offered credit to his customers, letting them pay in installments over weeks or months, always without interest. This approach enabled him to build a loyal customer base and gradually grow his business. In time, he saved enough to buy a used car, which helped him carry a larger selection of merchandise and reach more customers. Eventually, he took the next step – opening a store specializing in furniture and bed coverings. His customers followed him there, and his business thrived.
Despite his lack of formal education, my father ensured that he remained connected with us. Every month, he dictated a letter in Arabic to someone who could write, enclosing a check drawn on an international bank in my mother’s name for our upkeep. He also sent money to my grandparents and other relatives, though not as regularly. One cousin once told me that my father had sent him money to cover the cost of his wedding – a story that came directly from the cousin himself.
Each month, my mother took us all to Jerusalem to cash the check and buy essentials. On these trips, she treated us to traditional Jerusalemite k’aek (كعك بسمسم) – round sesame bread – along with roasted eggs and duqa (دقه), a mix of thyme and salt wrapped in strips of newspaper. After shopping, we would walk to the compound housing Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock. Sitting in the shade, we would eat our food and then perform ablution before praying. I vividly remember wandering around the Dome of the Rock, mesmerized by its golden dome and intricate inscriptions. At the time, it was under renovation, and my mother gently warned me, “If you keep looking up, you might hurt your neck or fall.” Whether she meant it literally or as a lesson in modesty, I grew up believing that one should always look straight ahead and live within their means.
After prayers, we followed my mother through the Old City to buy whatever else we needed before taking a taxi back to the refugee camp. Once our basic needs were met, she began saving some of the money for the future. Like many Palestinian families, she preferred gold over cash – banks were foreign to her. Over the years, she gradually purchased small gold pieces, knowing their value would increase. These later played a crucial role when we decided to build a new house to replace our cramped two-room shelter provided by UNRWA.
As I grew older, I realized that my mother had sold her gold whenever our family faced a crisis. The first time was to hire a lawyer to defend my father when the British authorities imprisoned him in Palestine for resisting their occupation. The second time was when he was jailed by the Jordanian regime of King Abdullah in 1957–1958. The third and final time was in 1965, when she used the gold to finance the construction of our new home. From then until 1978, my mother owned no gold at all. Finally, in 1978, my father bought her several new pieces to replace what she had sacrificed for the family. In our culture, women are entitled to their own wealth, and before she passed away, my mother willed her six gold bracelets to her three grandsons. I hope they will treasure them and pass them down to their children.
Growing up, I often saw neighborhood women gather around a pot of Arabic coffee. After drinking, they would shake their cups, turn them upside down, and let the thick coffee grounds settle into patterns inside the cups. Then, one of the women would interpret the hidden meanings in the patterns.
The local fortune-teller was Um Hawa, our next-door neighbor and the only Druze woman in the refugee camp. She was married to a successful businessman, and they had no children. Fearful that her husband might marry someone who could bear him children, Um Hawa made sure to spend all their money before the end of each month.
At these gatherings, my mother sometimes had her coffee cup read. As the end of the month approached, Um Hawa would predict, “A bird is carrying an envelope, and inside it are valuable things.” Both women knew what this meant – my father’s monthly letter and check were on the way. My mother often lent money to Um Hawa, who always repaid her in full. They were good neighbors to one another.
For five or six years, my father’s letters and checks arrived like clockwork. And then, one day, they stopped. Even when we met in 1976, we never discussed why the letters and checks had ceased. Sometimes, it is best to let bygones be bygones. However, during one of his visits to the US in the early 1980s, he alluded to the reason when he said to me, “It was nerve-racking to pour out your emotions to a stranger who then put them in writing for your own wife and family.”
Like the Palestinians of Gaza today, the refugees of the Nakba were preoccupied with survival. Food, shelter, clothing, and medical care were scarce. Families were scattered, places were overcrowded, water was limited, and farmland was rare in the remaining 22 percent of Palestine.
Searching for Food and Water
After being ethnically cleansed from their beloved Yasur, my family suffered a devastating blow to their way of life. Once self-sufficient farmers who lived in contentment, they were suddenly dependent on the charity and mercy of others – a reality that painfully echoes the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza and other refugee communities in Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Iraq today. When my father stopped sending the monthly allowance, the situation became even more difficult. But in time, my mother rose to the challenge.
As mentioned earlier, in the aftermath of the Nakba, the United Nations (UN), which had partitioned Palestine and stood idly by as the catastrophe unfolded, established the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) in 1949. One of UNRWA’s primary missions was to provide food rations and set up feeding centers for refugees. Families received basic staples such as flour, sugar, rice, butter, dried milk, cooking oil, and canned food, including sardines, tuna, and corned beef. The feeding centers provided children with hot meals of beans, rice, lentils, beets, spinach, potatoes, tomato sauce, carrots, milk, eggs, and occasional fruit. While children were served lunch at these centers, adults were not included in the program. As families gradually found ways to earn a living, their dependence on these rations decreased. I personally recall visiting the feeding center in our refugee camp until 1965.
Despite the hardship of displacement, my family – especially my mother and grandparents – made every effort to grow their own food, using every available space. Though small compared to their land in Yasur, our garden was a source of sustenance and pride. They planted fruit trees such as figs, grapes, plums, apricots, mulberries, almonds, cherries, pomegranates, and peaches. Our vegetable gardens thrived with potatoes, tomatoes, okra, zucchini, cucumbers, peas, beans, jute (ملوخية), spinach, Swiss chard, lettuce, onions, garlic, eggplants, radishes, carrots, and various pumpkins. Herbs like mint, parsley, coriander, basil, rosemary, marjoram, and sage grew in clay pots, while flowers adorned the terrace of our modest two-room dwelling. My maternal grandmother planted safflower (عصفر) in neat rows, and my paternal grandmother specialized in drying figs from my favorite tree in the far-right corner of the garden facing east. I remember helping her collect safflower petals to dry. I was barely tall enough to reach the top of the prickly plant.
Our trees and gardens were cared for with meticulous attention. Though water was scarce, they provided us with sustenance, beauty, shade, and the pleasure of watching bees and birds visit. But those birds were also our competitors, often feasting on the ripest fruits before we could reach them. During harvest seasons, my elders worked like a beehive – sorting the produce into different categories: some to be eaten fresh, some to be shared with neighbors, and others to be made into jams, pickles, or dried for later consumption.
To generate income, my grandparents expanded their farming efforts. My paternal family specialized in growing and selling seedlings of tomatoes, sweet and hot peppers, cucumbers, eggplants, and zucchini. These seedlings were sold by the dozen or bartered for other goods within and beyond the refugee camp. My maternal family leased land in the villages of Qalandia and Al-Ram, though their lease in Al-Ram ended when Jordan began to expand Jerusalem Airport. On the leased land, they cultivated melons, watermelons, maize, and additional vegetables. As children, my siblings and I helped with farming tasks such as tilling the soil, clearing stones, planting, watering, and harvesting. Their produce was always available for us to enjoy immediately or take home. I do not recall them ever using pesticides – just love, care, and a determination to survive.
Hiking and Food Gathering
As children growing up in a refugee camp with no electricity or running water, we often sought open spaces to study in daylight, especially in the spring and summer. After school, we would gather outdoors, finding shade beneath trees where we could read and review our lessons. My favorite spot was a straight line between two olive trees on land belonging to Palestinian families from Al-Ram, just a short walk south of the refugee camp. Later, I joined my maternal uncle Khadir to study under the pine trees on a hill owned by the Palestinian Screws and Nails Factory. The same proprietor also owned an adjacent dairy farm. Both were looted by Israel in 1967. Years later, Uncle Khadir and I would go on to earn the highest academic degrees – he in nuclear medicine and I in international relations and law.
My study companions were Bajis, Ibrahim, Mihiar, and Yousef. The kind people of Al-Ram village allowed us to sit and study in their fig and olive groves. We always tried to be respectful, taking care not to cause damage. Occasionally, the villagers would offer us produce, bread, or water – a gesture of generosity and respect for learning.
On days when we finished studying early, we would set off on long hikes, venturing toward Nabi Yacoub, Jaba’a, and Mokhmas. These hikes were more than just an escape from our cramped living conditions – they were an opportunity to gather wild plants that my grandparents could not grow in their gardens. We collected khobezeh (خبيزة), hindba (هندبة), alek (عليك), ‘koub (عكوب), jalathoun (جلثون), and s’es’ah (سعيسعه). When I accompanied my uncle, we also searched for mushrooms and gathered pinecones for their nuts, which were used to garnish special Palestinian dishes.
Spending time in nature instilled in me a deep love for the land and a commitment to preserving its beauty. But it also gave me a profound sense of loss. As I walked through the hills and ravines, I could not help but think about what my family and the people around me had endured – the heartbreak of being expelled from their land and homes. This sadness grew heavier as I matured, deepening my understanding of what it meant to be uprooted.
Raising Animals and Birds
To supplement our diet, my mother raised animals for meat, dairy, and eggs. Despite the refugee camp growing increasingly crowded, she saw the need to augment our income while ensuring a well-rounded diet for her children. She did so with remarkable efficiency and ingenuity, making the most of our limited space.
We kept pigeons, chickens, rabbits, and goats. A carpenter neighbor helped my mother construct enclosures for them. I remember we had 40 pairs of pigeons, at least two dozen egg-laying hens and a rooster, and two pairs of rabbits. The mature squabs and rabbits were highly sought after and sold for a good price, ensuring a steady cash flow. Each year, my mother collected hatched eggs to raise new chicks, ensuring a continuous poultry supply. We only ate chicken twice a year, during the two main Islamic holidays, but we always had young chickens to replace older ones or to slaughter for special guests.
At one point, my mother acquired a beautiful white Swiss goat. She provided us with plenty of milk, which my mother used to make yogurt, cheese, butter, and buttermilk. Overnight, I became a herder, taking the goat on outings with my friends, who also helped gather grass and plants for her. Later, I took her to a local shepherd whose prized Shami goats were known for their high milk yield. After mating with his buck, our mixed-breed goats became highly sought after, occasionally providing us with extra income.
Reflecting on the entrepreneurial spirit of my elders, I now realize they were engaged in micro-business ventures that allowed our family to survive without being completely dependent on external aid. This understanding later fueled my involvement in organizing and funding similar projects for Palestinian families in need.
Visiting the Holy Places in Jerusalem and Shopping in Its Markets
Technically, Kalandia Camp is part of the municipality of Jerusalem, located about 10 kilometers north of the city. Before the Israeli occupation forces erected multiple military checkpoints, it was just a 15-minute journey to the Old City. My schoolmates and I often ran part of the way toward Jerusalem, sometimes reaching Beit Hanina, about halfway there. More frequently, we walked the entire distance to the Old City.
My family and I visited Jerusalem at least once a month. We started early, taking one of the camp’s taxis and returning in the late afternoon. Most of our activities were concentrated within the walled city. The taxi stand was a short walk from Damascus Gate, our primary entry point. Upon arrival, we first stopped at the money changer before heading to Bab Khan al-Zeit, a covered market with some of the best stalls in the city. There, we purchased authentic Palestinian food items before making our way to Al-Haram Al-Sharif (the Noble Sanctuary), home to both Al-Aqsa Mosque (also known as Al-Qibli Mosque) and the Dome of the Rock. The vast compound, covering 144,000 square meters – about one-sixth of the entire Old City – can accommodate up to 500,000 worshippers. We usually stayed there until midday prayers between 12:00 and 1:00 pm.
After prayers, we returned to Bab Khan al-Zeit to complete our shopping, carrying whatever we could manage, as cars were not allowed inside the Old City. My mother had favorite shops where she bought clothes and shoes. At the far end of the market, stalls sold secondhand clothing, which I preferred because they were more affordable, while my siblings opted for new items. Depending on my mother’s plans, we might also visit a jewelry store near the alley leading to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the most important Christian holy site in the city. Before leaving, we always stopped at a famous spice shop at the entrance of Bab Khan al-Zeit. It was customary to bring home treats for those who had stayed behind, as well as for our grandparents.
Outside Damascus Gate, a bookseller displayed his collection on makeshift shelves and the pavement. This became a must-visit stop for me. Over the years, I partnered with my classmate Mihiar to purchase Samir, an Egyptian weekly children’s magazine. Later, I regularly bought Al-Arabi, a Kuwaiti monthly magazine covering Arab culture, literature, politics, and society. In the early 1980s, I even contributed an article on Arab brain drain to Al-Arabi. By the time I started working at the age of 11, I saved my earnings to buy books, primarily biographies of political and military figures such as Churchill, Eisenhower, De Gaulle, Ho Chi Minh, Nasser, Omar, Montgomery, Patton, Rommel, and Zhukov. Over time, I built a personal library of more than 200 books.
Additionally, my youngest maternal uncle and I frequently visited Al-Nuzha Movie Theater, which screened Egyptian, Lebanese, and foreign films with subtitles. I was particularly drawn to movies based on true stories. Years later, Al-Nuzha transformed into El-Hakawati, Jerusalem’s leading Palestinian performing arts and cultural center, founded in 1977.
My family’s visits to Jerusalem instilled in me the city’s spiritual, cultural, and commercial significance to Palestinians. To us, it was our uncrowned capital and the heart of Palestinian identity. Jerusalem was the city that Palestinians, Arabs, Muslims, and Christians from around the world longed to visit. Walking its streets gave me an unmatched sense of peace and belonging. In addition to our monthly family visits, my friends – whose families came from three villages west of Jerusalem – and I frequently traveled there, sometimes walking the entire distance, simply because of our deep attachment to the city. In later years, the city was made off limits by the Israel to most Palestinians.
Beyond the vibrant streets of Jerusalem, my education became another crucial battleground where I sought to make sense of our reality.
Early Education
My school years were very pleasant. I enjoyed learning at all levels and from all sources. Studying with my classmates and discussing various subjects with them was always stimulating. Some had an exceptional ability to memorize and recite information instantly, while I needed concepts explained. Once I understood the meaning, memorization became easy. I was known for asking questions, analyzing, debating, and leading discussions. My classmates often called me a dreamer and visionary, and they respected my opinions, frequently agreeing with my conclusions.
My family was uprooted from Yasur on June 9, 1948. Like countless other Palestinian families, they were expelled when Israel was established by European Jewish colonists. They left behind their homes, belongings, fields, and animals, carrying only the clothes on their backs and their memories. Yasur, named after an ancient Palestinian king from the coastal city of Isdod إسدود (Ashdod), was a strategically located village with a population of approximately 1,200 and an elementary school with about 138 pupils. Fertile land sustained its farmers, one of whom had introduced a motorized pump to irrigate his citrus orchard. The village was destroyed in 1948, leaving only one house and the remnants of another, stripped of windows and doors.
Under attack by the Haganah (later Israel’s Defense Forces, IDF), my family was scattered. Some, including one of my grandparents’ two sisters and her family, sought refuge in Gaza, while others fled to Bir Seb’a بئر السبع. My immediate family moved from Bir Seb’a to Hebron’s mountains, then to Jericho, before ultimately returning to Jerusalem. Another of my grandparents’ sisters remained in Hebron. Eventually, my family settled on land belonging to the Palestinian village of Kalandia, north of Jerusalem. Initially, refugees lived in Red Cross/Crescent-provided tents, later replaced by tiny concrete rooms built by UNRWA. The camp had a school, a clinic, outhouses, and water was trucked in once or twice a week, stored in metal tanks connected to public faucets. There was no electricity or telephone service. Over time, families moved from tents to small, concrete-block homes. Schools, first housed in tents, were eventually replaced by permanent structures.
I was surrounded by older siblings who were ahead of me in school. I observed them reading, writing, and solving math problems, closely following their discussions. Often, I accompanied my brother and sister to their classes, where I was welcomed by classmates and teachers. Occasionally, I had to hide under a desk to avoid disapproval from male teachers. Gradually, I memorized letters, learned to write my name, and grasped basic arithmetic. My mother, though unlettered, emphasized education as our only escape from misery. At night, we gathered around a kerosene lamp to study in our two-room home, which also served as our bedroom. The second room functioned as a kitchen, dining room, and guest room, later becoming a stable for our two she-goats once we built a new house in 1965. My mother encouraged us to learn, sometimes borrowing a pencil to sketch in our notebooks. Despite her workload – household chores and embroidery work – she prioritized our education.
When I started school, I was always among the top three students in my class. Our school was overcrowded, with over 50 students per class seated three to a wooden desk. The typical classroom had three rows of desks, a chair and table for the teacher, a large blackboard fixed to the wall, and plenty of windows. Smart students sat in the front rows. Each class had a dedicated teacher who appointed a student to preside in their absence – a role I frequently assumed. Though not physically imposing, I was soft-spoken, kind to classmates, and eager to help resolve conflicts. I never reported students to teachers or the administration.
Most of our education about Palestine came from family discussions and student conversations rather than official curricula, which reflected the government’s version of history – one that contradicted our lived experiences. The Nakba unfolded before our eyes; our grandparents, parents, uncles, and aunts were both the storytellers and the victims. Our refugee camp housed about 4,000 people from cities and villages across Palestine, each with a story to tell.
I excelled in math, science, history, and geography, participated in student debates, and wrote essays for competitions. I won first place in a writing contest on cleanliness, earning a wool blanket emblazoned with an anchor that kept me warm for years. One side of the blanket was dark blue, and the other was ivory-cream. I edited our student wall newspaper and assisted in teaching younger students when a teacher fell ill for nearly a year. Our school lacked a library or science labs, but UNRWA eventually built a two-story middle school. Behind it, students tended small gardens, reinforcing the reality that I would remain there for nine years, without returning to our family village by the sea.
Sports were an important part of school life. I played football, table tennis, and ran in marathons. Later, volleyball and basketball courts were built, and I learned those sports as well. UNRWA provided uniforms, balls, and other equipment, stored in a locked cupboard and distributed only before games.
Political developments profoundly shaped my childhood. Foreign occupation continued across Arab lands, and military coups – often backed by foreign intelligence –reshaped the region. Nasser’s rise to power in Egypt, the Algerian revolution against French settler colonialism, and the creation of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) in 1965 stirred intense political consciousness. People in my community understood that old colonial powers like Britain and France had been replaced by the US and USSR, which propped up Arab regimes for their own strategic interests. Britain still occupied the Gulf, and its role in establishing Israel was an open secret. Though defeated, Palestinians did not surrender. Underground political debates and organizing persisted despite oppressive Arab regimes.
The 1952 Egyptian revolution, led by Colonel Nasser, inspired hope. At first, Nasser sought cooperation with the US, focusing on economic reforms, land redistribution, and industrialization while adopting a non-aligned foreign policy. Alongside Tito, Nehru, Sukarno, and Zhou Enlai, he championed decolonization and self-determination. Cairo became a hub for global liberation movements, elevating Nasser’s status. In 1956, Britain, France, and Israel attacked Egypt, but US President Eisenhower forced them to withdraw. Egypt then turned to the USSR, escalating tensions with the US. Meanwhile, Egypt supported Algeria’s struggle for independence from French settler colonialism. Even in our poor school, students saved pocket money to donate to the Algerian cause. I remember setting aside my weekly allowance of three cents for this purpose. When Algeria triumphed in 1962, it was a victory for all oppressed peoples.
Emboldened, Nasser sought to organize Palestinian resistance. In 1965, the PLO was founded, but the Jordanian regime, fearing its rise, conspired against it. Protesters in Jordanian-controlled Palestine took to the streets, demanding support for the PLO and access to arms. The regime cracked down violently. At 9 years old, I witnessed horrific human rights abuses by Jordanian security forces against Palestinian civilians – scenes of beatings and screams remain engraved in my memory. In one protest in Ramallah, my maternal uncle was shot under his left rib, requiring surgery. A year later, both of my uncles were imprisoned by Jordan until the eve of the 1967 war.
One day, I asked my paternal grandfather, “Why are you always grumpy?” He beckoned me closer and replied, “Damn these European Jews. Arabs and Jews lived in peace until they arrived with weapons, backed by the British.”
At the time, I lacked the knowledge to fully grasp his words. But years later, I realized he had distilled the essence of the Palestinian struggle: European colonial powers imposing Zionism and Israel onto Palestine, leading to ethnic cleansing, the destruction of Palestinian society, and the denial of our people’s very existence. This was the reality I grew up in – a reality that shaped my education, political consciousness, and unwavering commitment to justice and peace for my people.
Developing My Political Views
Growing up as a Palestinian refugee, I was forced to mature beyond my years. Survival meant understanding the forces that sought to erase my identity and replace it with something I could never accept.
I lived my formative years under two regimes – both determined, in different ways, to suppress Palestinian resistance. From birth until age 9, I lived under Jordanian rule. Though most Jordanians were of Palestinian origin, the monarchy and its security apparatus were trained, funded, and sustained by Britain – the very power that facilitated Israel’s creation in Palestine in 1917. The Jordanian regime ensured that Palestinian history, especially the Nakba, was barely mentioned in our education. It cracked down on all resistance against Israel, banning protests, public expressions of dissent, and any attempts to arm or train Palestinians for the liberation of the homeland. The king’s dealings with Israel were an open secret.
However, unlike Israel, Jordan did not seek to uproot Palestinians from their land. Its strategy was one of enforced assimilation: forget Palestine, be a good Jordanian, and do not threaten the monarchy. In return, the state would largely leave Palestinians alone. But as Jordan struggled with poverty and dependence on foreign aid, Palestinians were left to fend for themselves. Between 1965 and 1967, Palestinians in Jordan rose in protest, demanding to be armed and trained to resist Israel. The regime responded with brutal repression. During this period, my uncle Khadir was wounded and later arrested along with my uncle Muhammad. Before their arrest, my uncle Abdul Majeed was savagely beaten to extract information about their whereabouts. They were held until they reunited with us in the ravine on the sixth day of the 1967 war.
Israel’s occupation of the remainder of Palestine in 1967 revealed a continuation of the Nakba’s two central goals: displacement and replacement. From the outset, Israel sought to dominate all aspects of Palestinian life – confiscating land for Jewish settlement, destroying farmland and livestock, restricting movement, speech, and assembly, and detaining over a million Palestinians, including my two brothers. It dictated what could be printed, taught, and even spoken. The goal was to make life unbearable for Palestinians, forcing them to leave with no possibility of return.
My evolving political views were shaped not only by life under occupation but also by the dynamics of the Arab world, where the Palestinian struggle was often manipulated for regional power plays.
Beyond Palestine, the Arab world offered little comfort. Egypt, Iraq, and Syria were ruled by military officers whose regimes were maintained by force. US-backed coups in Iraq and Syria ensured that Arab unity remained elusive – a fact later confirmed to me by CIA operative Wilbur Crane Eveland. The Gulf states, meanwhile, were firmly in the grip of US influence – except for a brief period when Saudi King Faisal imposed an oil embargo on pro-Israel Western countries. He paid for it with his life.
The Palestinians were trapped in the cesspool of Arab politics – forced to operate within the shifting allegiances of regimes more interested in their own survival than in our liberation. After the Arab defeat in 1967, the PLO grew in strength, but once Arab regimes regained their footing, they worked to weaken it. Eventually, Yassir Arafat of the PLO was forced to capitulate to both Israel and the US.
Throughout my life, I saw Palestinians miss opportunities to organize resistance inside Palestine rather than from exile. I always believed that underground resistance within Palestine was the only viable strategy. By operating within, rather than as guests of hostile Arab regimes, Palestinians could compel those regimes to support liberation rather than suppress it.
I also came to reject the constant splintering of Palestinian factions for reasons unrelated to liberation. I remain convinced that Palestinians should be united under a single strategy until liberation is achieved – only then should political pluralism take shape. While many of my friends joined different factions, I chose to remain independent. This allowed me to bridge divides, maintain a broader perspective, and avoid becoming beholden to any single ideology or leadership.
Another hard lesson I learned was the extent to which the Palestinian national movement had been plagued by incompetence, opportunism, cronyism, and corruption. Many Palestinians made immense sacrifices – giving their lives, careers, and resources to the cause. Some spent decades in Israeli prisons. To honor their sacrifices, the movement must purge itself of the ills that have crippled its effectiveness.
Above all, I believe the liberation struggle must remain singularly focused on freeing Palestine. It cannot afford to be consumed by political games, wasteful negotiations, or sideshows. Israel has an undeniable record of settler colonialism, ethnic cleansing, apartheid, and brutality against Palestinians – one that disqualifies it from any legitimacy on the global stage or as a so-called “peace partner.” The ongoing genocide in Gaza has only reinforced this truth.
Playing Football
As children, playing was always on our minds. In our Palestinian refugee camp north of Jerusalem, as in all camps inside and outside of Palestine, our school was run by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA). The school buildings, teachers’ salaries, books, notebooks, sports equipment, and game balls were donated by various countries to aid Palestinian children whose families had been uprooted, expelled, and prevented from returning to their homes by Israel – only to be replaced by Jewish colonial settlers.
Our school buildings were simple structures made of concrete blocks, without electricity, heating, or sports facilities. Classrooms were overcrowded, as were our small UNRWA-provided homes. To study and complete our homework, we often sought shelter under olive and pine trees. Unlike the rest of the year, Jerusalem’s winters were cold and frigid, and our clothing was insufficient to shield us from the elements. To stay warm, we huddled together and invented games.
Sports equipment was scarce. We were allocated only 45 minutes of playtime per day, and even that did not include winters. We were not allowed to take footballs, basketballs, or volleyballs home, and our families were far too poor to afford them. Left to our imaginations, we created our own games and entertainment.
One summer afternoon, five of us – none older than 7 – gathered after school to study on a small, barren hill beyond the refugee camp, near Jerusalem Airport. The hill was a familiar place, frequented by shepherds and known for an ancient cave. Not far from it, Palestinians who are not refugees lived in large stone houses in comfort. These homeowners were kind, often offering us water.
Each of us had our own narrow study path on the hill, parallel to each other but never crossing. The more we walked these paths, the more defined they became, gradually clearing away thorn bushes. On one sunny day, we discussed our dream of owning a football. We longed to invite other children to play and form teams for friendly matches. But reality always tempered our dreams – a football cost 12 piasters (36 American cents), an unimaginable expense for our families. A Palestinian teacher’s monthly salary was roughly $36, and most people in the camp were unemployed. Knowing our family’s financial struggles, we never burdened them with such extravagant wishes.
Upon arriving at the hill, we took our study paths as usual. Time was precious, as we needed to return home before dark. But that day, our study session was cut short by an unexpected discovery. One of us found a shilling – 15 American cents. We rushed to celebrate his luck. Then another found a piaster (3 cents). The excitement grew. Soon, three more coins were uncovered.
We deduced that the coins had fallen from someone’s pocket, scattered in a straight line. We searched diligently but found no more. Though we felt sorry for the unknown owner, our sorrow quickly gave way to elation. A miracle had happened! We had 17.5 piasters – enough to buy a football, with 5.5 piasters left to spare. We entrusted the money to one of us, deciding to buy not only the football but also a box of oranges to share with the children who would play in our first match.
The next day at school, we excitedly invited everyone to join us for a game that Friday afternoon at an abandoned gravel quarry. The children came – some in makeshift shorts and shoes, others barefoot. We played joyfully, passing around our treasured football and sharing fresh oranges. The ball survived many matches until, one day, it finally ruptured. Our miracle had ended.
Even as we played our friendly games, we continued to return to our ancient hill, walking our narrow paths and studying together. Today, I am still in contact with one of the five children. Two of them disappeared after the 1967 war, and another passed away in the 1980s.
Children deserve to live, to study, and to play.
Building a More Suitable Home
Over the years, our home in the refugee camp became increasingly crowded – with people, animals, and even the trees and plants that surrounded us. Two of my siblings were in their teens, and our goats gave birth to at least four kids a year, providing a stable source of income. My elder brother had also started working, earning a decent wage compared to others in the community. We needed a solution to accommodate these changes.
My mother, ever hardworking, spent months consulting us about the possibility of building a better home. She carefully prepared us for what would be expected from each of us. By that time, my elder brother had quit ninth grade and started working in a high-end grocery store in Jerusalem that catered mainly to UN staff. His generous wages allowed him to save a substantial amount. For the first six to eight months, Jamal handed all his earnings to my mother. His total savings reached over $4,000 – a significant sum at the time. She reasoned that if she sold her gold and combined the money with her savings from selling livestock, we would have enough to build a house. We all agreed, including Jamal.
However, my mother feared that if we didn’t use Jamal’s income wisely, he might develop bad habits – a concern that, unfortunately, proved true. Soon after, Jamal took up smoking and gambling, habits that would trouble him in the years to come.
My mother and older brother entered serious negotiations with a reputable local contractor to build the house. They agreed on its location, size, and price, with the understanding that we children would help at the beginning. The plan was to keep the old structure and construct the new house adjacent to it on the west side. The new building would include two commercial units facing the camp’s main street, a water well to collect rainwater from the roof, two large bedrooms, a spacious glassed veranda that served as a family room, a kitchen, stairs, a balcony, and an internal bathroom. Facing east, it had a beautiful view of the groves and panoramic landscape of Al-Ram village in the distance – an immense improvement over what we had before.
After school, in addition to our regular chores, we were required to carry at least 20 buckets of debris, depending on the pile’s size, to a designated spot. My mother, always leading by example, had already begun clearing rubble long before we joined her. Sometimes, her sister and mother helped as well. Jamal, due to his work in Jerusalem, was exempted from this labor. By the end of each day, we were exhausted and ready for sleep. Years later, we children would agree that everyone in our small family contributed to the building of our new home – each of us had a stake in it.
A few weeks after construction began, my older sister – who was born at the beginning of the Nakba – was engaged and married at an early age to a Palestinian teacher working in Saudi Arabia. Losing her was like losing a second mother and a dedicated helper in the house project. But the groom gained the best wife one could ask for. They treated each other well and lived happily together. Her absence left a deep void in our family, especially for me, as we were particularly close. She had been the one to take me to her classes when I was younger.
The house was built step by step, and each day brought visible progress. Eventually, the long-awaited moment arrived – the house was completed and ready for us to move in. Everything looked beautiful and fresh. My mother and four of the children worked tirelessly to clean the house and make it livable. We took great pride in our accomplishment. Our home was the best-looking and most modern in the refugee camp – with a water well and internal plumbing, a rare luxury at the time.
Little by little, we settled into our new comfort. Moving into our new home was more than just an upgrade – it was the fulfillment of a dream born out of years of struggle. And as we adjusted to our new life, the old UN structure found new inhabitants – our goats, finally enjoying their own space.
Just a year after our house was completed, the 1967 war erupted. During the fighting, an Israeli armed jeep or tank fired at least 12 rifle rounds into the western side of our home. Despite the heavy assault, the sturdy construction held strong. When we returned, the same contractor – proud of his craftsmanship – was outraged to see the damage. Without hesitation, he volunteered to repair it at no cost, determined to restore what had been unjustly destroyed. I took it upon myself to repaint the walls, covering the scars of war with fresh layers of color.
Health is Better Than Money: A Lesson in Morality
Across the street from our house in the refugee camp, at the intersection of the main roads, stood a successful grocery store owned by two refugee brothers from a village west of Jerusalem. Their store was always stocked with essentials for the camp’s residents and their domesticated animals. The brothers were well respected, their goods of high quality and fairly priced. The elder brother and his wife, likely in their 40s at the time, had two little boys. Both children were born with mental challenges that affected their physical appearance and behavior.
I often visited the store to buy necessities for my family or small treats for myself. One day, as I stood there, the father of the boys struck up a conversation.
“You know my little boys?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” I replied.
“I would give up all my wealth if God would give my boys a normal upbringing,” he said.
I do not think he expected a response from me, nor was I capable of engaging him at such a level. But now I understand that this man, burdened with deep sorrow, simply needed a human soul to listen. I hope I was that soul. Certainly, he was a great teacher to me. From him, I learned a lesson that would stay with me for life.
Years later, when my mother visited me in the US, I asked about the two boys and their family. She told me that, as teenagers, they were apprehended by Israeli soldiers in the refugee camp and severely beaten in front of their parents. The soldiers held their mother and father at gunpoint as they protested helplessly. My heart sank, but I had come to expect such cruelty from Israel.
The father of the boys eventually passed away in the refugee camp. Recently, I reconnected with his younger brother, now in his late 80s. The pain and struggles of that family remain etched in my memory – a stark reminder that health is a greater blessing than wealth.
Israeli Occupation
The Israeli attack on Egypt, Syria, and Jordan was not a surprise to us. But the outcome was. In the refugee camp, people sensed that a major change was imminent. They were glued to their radio stations, listening intently to their favorite broadcasters and news programs. Conversations were varied – some held onto hope that they would finally return to their original villages, while others speculated on the course of the war before it had even begun.
In my household, my mother – a survivor of the Nakba – had her own intuition and fears. She instructed us to prepare a few essential items in case we had to leave our home. We gathered homemade thin sleeping mattresses (Turahah) that could be rolled and tied like sleeping bags, small pillows, canned food, a water jug, and dried fruit. Each of the five children was assigned a small load to carry. My mother emphasized the importance of staying together and not getting separated. She also communicated with our grandparents, uncles, and their families. Two of my uncles had been imprisoned in Jordan for the past two years due to their political activism. I overheard family members and neighbors discussing the routes they would take to return to their villages west of the camp. Everyone was willing to leave everything behind for the chance to go home. However, deep down, I had a feeling we would be heading east instead. When I innocently voiced this to my mother and uncles, predicting that everyone would be fleeing toward the ravine where I often hiked with friends, they only smiled.
Five days into the war, the reality of defeat set in. The Arab regimes had been overpowered. Jordanian soldiers from military bases in our area began retreating eastward – some were wounded, others exhausted and hungry. The people in the refugee camp provided them with food, water, medical aid, and civilian clothing. Soon, the camp’s residents also started moving east toward the ravine, carrying whatever they could. The ravine became a temporary shelter for those waiting for conditions to stabilize before attempting to return home. Our Druze neighbors refused to leave their house. I am sure they were not the only ones.
A day later, Jerusalem and the remaining 28 percent of historical Palestine fell under Israeli occupation, along with our refugee camp, the Sinai Peninsula, and the Golan Heights. We stayed in the ravine for three days, surrounded by people from well-known villages who settled in distinct areas. The sense of community persisted – people shared food, exchanged concerns, and supported each other. We continued to see a steady stream of defeated soldiers abandoning their posts, discarding their weapons, and heading east.
On the second day in the ravine, we were stunned to see our imprisoned uncles freed by the Jordanian authorities. They had first gone to the refugee camp to look for us, but our neighbor informed them of our whereabouts. They arrived exhausted and starving, their heads freshly shaved. Released at the bridge spanning the Jordan River, they had walked nearly 50 kilometers to reach us.
On the third day, people began their journey back home. When we returned to our house, we learned that our Druze neighbor Aby Hawa had died of a heart attack. His burial was the first order of business at the refugee camp’s cemetery. In the following days, some semblance of normalcy returned for a few, but for others critical decisions had to be made. In our family’s case, my two uncles – the recently freed prisoners – could not risk staying under Israeli occupation. They needed to leave immediately. My mother was also deeply worried about her pregnant daughter in Jordan, who was expecting her first child. A decision was made: my mother would accompany her two brothers to Jordan. One of them, who was married, took his family along. A third uncle decided to join as well. My mother insisted that I go with her. She reassured me that it would only be for a few days and that we would return soon. Neither of us knew that while Israel was allowing people to leave, it would not allow them to return. For more than seven months, my mother and I were separated from our family in the refugee camp.
My sister gave birth to a baby girl. Two weeks later, she and her husband, who worked as a teacher, returned to Saudi Arabia. Meanwhile, my mother, uncle, and I searched desperately for a way back home. There was no straightforward option – no bus or taxi we could take. After much inquiry, we were advised to travel from Amman to Al-Shunah (الشونة), where guides could smuggle us into Jericho and from there, back home.
Upon arrival in Al-Shunah, we expected to travel in a small group. Instead, to our dismay, we were instructed to join a massive crowd of over 3,000 refugees – men, women, and children. Some had even brought mules loaded with belongings. Not far from Jericho, Israeli forces discovered us. Suddenly, flares lit up the sky, and the soldiers opened fire on the crowd. I was holding my uncle’s hand, with my mother on his other side. Amid the chaos, my uncle collapsed – he had been shot in both legs. We refused to leave him behind. The gunfire continued for nearly 30 minutes. The Israeli soldiers knew they were firing on unarmed civilians – there was no return fire. When the shooting finally ceased, we were rounded up and taken to a prison in Jericho. The wounded were transported to the local Palestinian hospital, while the dead were buried where they had fallen. The following morning, those held in the prison were forced onto buses and taken back to the bridge, expelled into Jordan.
Once again in Al-Shunah, my mother and I searched for another way home. Within a week, a woman my mother had befriended secretly advised her to be ready to leave that night. The woman insisted we tell no one. With nothing of value left in our possession, we departed with only the clothes on our backs. We met the woman, her baby son, and her brother – the latter would be our guide. Around 9:00 pm, we began crossing the Jordan River, carrying only a bottle of water. By the time we reached Jericho, it was 6:00 am, and our water had run out two hours earlier. The journey was arduous, made even more difficult by the cries of the baby in the group. However, the full moon illuminated our path, and we found sustenance in the freshly harvested dates of Jericho, which gave us the energy to press on.
In Jericho, we parted ways with the other family and began the final 50-kilometer trek home. A day after our arrival, Israel conducted a census. We were finally reunited with our family.
The war may have ended, but the Israeli occupation had only begun. From the start, Israel instituted a system of military control designed to dominate all aspects of Palestinian life. Land was confiscated for Jewish settlements, roads were built exclusively for Jewish settlers, homes were demolished, and farmland was razed. Movement was restricted, religious sites were desecrated, and Palestinian education was censored. Arbitrary arrests and administrative detentions became common, with thousands imprisoned without charge. Inside detention centers, torture was routine, medical neglect was widespread, and necessities were deliberately withheld.
As Israel tightened its grip on Palestinian life, repression extended beyond land confiscation and movement restrictions – it targeted individuals. My family soon became direct victims of this brutal system, beginning with the arrest of my brothers.
In 1968, my 14-year-old brother Muhammad was among those detained. The charge was belonging to a terrorist organization – a false accusation. He endured a month of continuous torture. During this period, my older brother Jamal was arrested eight times, each time forced to witness his younger brother’s torture. The interrogators demanded land documents proving my paternal grandmother’s family ownership of more than 300 dunums in Yasur, confiscated by Israel in 1948. Realizing this was their goal, we sent the documents to that side of the family in Jordan. Jamal’s arrests stopped, but Muhammad remained imprisoned for over 30 months. Eventually, both brothers left Palestine – Jamal to Germany, then Venezuela, and Muhammad to Lebanon, where he joined the Palestinian resistance. The three of us finally reunited in the US in 1978.
Leaving to Study in the US
During my last three years of high school in Palestine, I began considering my academic future – what subject to study and where to pursue my education. At the time, educational opportunities in the West Bank were extremely limited. There was only one two-year college, Bir Zeit (now Bir Zeit University), four trade schools for men, and a teacher’s college for women, which one of my sisters attended. Palestinians from Gaza and the West Bank were barred from enrolling in Israeli universities, leaving few viable options. None of the available programs appealed to me, so I started thinking about studying abroad.
For a Palestinian, studying abroad required either money or political connections – I had neither. Pursuing higher education in the US was particularly costly, but I had heard that students could work while studying, making it a possibility. However, obtaining a US visa posed additional challenges. One of the key requirements was proving that my family owned a home, as it demonstrated financial stability. Fortunately, we met this condition.
Determined to pursue my education, I began studying English in preparation for the Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL), a prerequisite for admission to US universities. I also started researching institutions abroad. I remember visiting the American Cultural Center, where I copied the names and addresses of universities. I sent inquiries to approximately 40 institutions and, after taking the TOEFL and achieving the required score, I was accepted to two universities in the US and one in Canada. One of the American universities had a financial aid program specifically for international students, making it my top choice.
In the two years leading up to my departure, I managed to save around $600 – a significant sum at the time – after covering the costs of the TOEFL exam and university applications. My family’s entire savings were just enough to purchase my airfare.
To improve my English further, I enrolled in a summer course at Bir Zeit College. Three weeks into the program, Israeli military authorities abruptly ordered the college to shut down. In response, student leaders organized a peaceful act of civil disobedience: hundreds of students would sweep the streets of Ramallah, challenging the military’s control over the city. The sight of so many students taking to the streets forced the Israeli military to reverse its decision. Classes resumed the following day, and I was able to complete my course.
Another hurdle remained – securing travel documents. Palestinians did not have their own passports and had to petition the authorities controlling them for travel permits. Under Israeli occupation, we were issued special identity cards different from those given to Israeli Jews. These could be exchanged for a one-year travel document, which was supposedly renewable. I managed to obtain one of these documents.
Once I had university admission, a valid TOEFL score, proof of home ownership, and an Israeli travel document, I applied for a US student visa at the American consulate in Jerusalem. My application was approved. Shortly after, I left for the United States, embarking on a journey that would shape the course of my life.
Conclusion
My journey, like that of so many Palestinians, has been shaped by exile, resilience, and the enduring struggle for justice. From my earliest memories in the refugee camp to my education in the US, the threads of my life have always been intertwined with the larger history of my people – one of displacement, loss, and an unyielding determination to reclaim what was stolen.
The Nakba was not just a singular event in 1948 – it has been an ongoing process of ethnic cleansing, land theft, and systematic oppression. My family’s forced exile from Yasur was just one story among millions. The Israeli occupation that followed in 1967 only deepened the dispossession, replacing hope with repression, and home with exile. Yet, even under the harshest conditions, my family and our community refused to surrender our dignity. We built homes, planted trees, raised animals, and ensured that education remained our pathway to a better future.
Education became my form of resistance. At a time when Palestinian voices were silenced, I sought knowledge as a means of empowerment. The decision to study in the US was not just about personal advancement – it was about ensuring that our history and struggle were not erased. Despite the challenges of being a refugee, navigating life under occupation, and later adjusting to a foreign country, I carried with me the lessons of my mother, my uncles, and my community: perseverance, self-reliance, and an unwavering belief in justice.
But survival is not enough. The Palestinian struggle is not only about memory – it is about the future. Israel’s policies of displacement and replacement continue, and the world must recognize that the settler-colonial project in Palestine has not ended. Just as the world stood against apartheid in South Africa, it must now stand against Israeli apartheid, ethnic cleansing, and ongoing genocide.
Throughout this memoir, I have sought to preserve the voices and experiences of those who lived through one of history’s greatest injustices. This is not just my story; it is the story of my family, my people, and a homeland that refuses to be forgotten. The struggle for Palestine is the struggle for justice, dignity, and the right to return home. And until that right is fulfilled, our resistance – through words, through memory, and through action – will continue.
The journey does not end here.
Note
1.
Yasur (Arabic: ياصور) was a Palestinian village located 40 kilometers northeast of Gaza and west of Jerusalem, near the Mediterranean coast. On June 9, 1948, the village was ethnically cleansed by the First Battalion of Israel’s Givati Brigade as part of Operation Barak.
According to British records from 1948, Yasur consisted of 244 houses, an elementary school for boys, and a mosque. The village’s total land area was approximately 16,390 dunums, of which 15,860 were arable and 494 were classified as non-arable. It had 1,377 dunums of citrus groves, 193 dunums of irrigated plantations, and 14,290 dunums planted with cereal crops. More than 94 percent of the land was owned by Palestinian Arabs, while less than 6 percent had been purchased by European Jewish colonists from foreign land speculators and absentee landlords.
Yasur had a long and strategic historical presence. Pottery and ceramics from the Canaanite and Byzantine periods have been found at the site. During the Mamluk period (1205–1517), Yasur housed a mail station on the route between Gaza and Damascus before it was later relocated to the nearby village of Bayt Daras. In 1517, Yasur was incorporated into the Ottoman Empire along with the rest of Palestine. Ottoman tax records from 1596 show that the village, located in the nahiya (subdistrict) of Gaza within the Sanjak of Gaza, had 55 Muslim households – an estimated population of 303. The villagers paid a fixed tax rate of 25% on agricultural products, including wheat, barley, fruit, and sesame, as well as on livestock such as goats, beehives, and water buffaloes, generating a total revenue of 16,000 akçe or $213,920 in today’s money (akçe is a silver coin which was the chief monetary unit of the Ottoman Empire). All tax revenues were allocated to a Muslim charitable institution.
Throughout history, several scholars and travelers documented Yasur:
In 1838, American scholar Edward Robinson noted Yasur as a Muslim village in the Gaza district.
In The City of the Great King or Jerusalem as It Was, and as It Is (1858), James Turner Barclay mentioned passing through Yasur, Bayt Dajan, and al-Sarafand during his travels between Jaffa and Haifa.
In 1863, French explorer Victor Guérin described Yasur as a village of 450 residents, with sunbaked brick houses surrounded by tobacco plantations and olive groves. He observed only one ancient remnant – a column of mutilated, gray-white marble near a well.
An Ottoman village list from about 1870 recorded Yasur as having 103 residents living in 72 houses, though the population count included only men.
In 1882, the Palestine Exploration Fund’s Survey of Western Palestine described Yasur as an “ordinary adobe village” with a well to the south and large gardens to the north and east.
The village was also mentioned in The Life and Letters of Thomas Hodgkin (1918).
According to Walid Khalidi (1992):
The village is a closed, fenced-in military zone. At the village entrance, there is a sign: “TAT Aircraft Parts Industrial Firm.” A single undemolished house stands some 10 meters from the entrance, next to a demolished one and a cluster of cactuses. A dirt road, lined with cactuses, olive, and almond trees, runs along the southern boundary of the fence. The area inside and outside the fence has also been planted with eucalyptus trees.
Following its destruction, Yasur’s land was used to establish the Israeli settlements of Talmei Yehiel and Bnei Ayish. The village’s built-up area, spanning 35 dunums, was completely demolished. The remains of its homes, school, and mosque now lie beneath an industrial park situated between Bnei Ayish and Hatzor Airbase. Today, this area plays an active role in Israel’s military operations, including attacks on refugees in Gaza during the ongoing genocide.
