Tears for Tarshiha

by Olfat Mahmoud

  He cried. I tried to calm him.

  ‘I am still a child. I want to play, I don’t want to die.’

  After a few terrible hours he died, but I will never forget his words. This boy’s face and these words and the manner of his killing and his agonising death, often come back to me in flashes of grief-filled memory.

  We had neither a morgue nor place to bury all the dead. Opposite Haifa Hospital there was a very small square for the unknown martyrs. Initially, we dug a big hole and buried all the bodies there. Then, as more people died, we had to find another place. We had to use some empty land in the camp just behind the clothing factory. It was a very dangerous spot, open and exposed. In normal circumstances in our culture we have our funerals at noon or in the afternoon, but now, for safety, people were buried at night or very early morning, with only two or three people from the family present. Even in death we were denied our dignity.

  Throughout this time, we continued to try to contact the Red Cross, but they were still not permitted to enter the camp. A delegation from Iran was given access, though, to witness our plight. When they came through what could only be euphemistically described as a hospital, they were deeply moved by what they saw and the stories told by staff and survivors. They took lots of photos as well, and the next day, local and regional newspapers covered the story using many of these photos. But Nabih Berri, Amal’s leader, accused the papers of using archival photos and even suggested they were from the Sabra and Shatila massacre.

  Many Lebanese Shi’a were strongly opposed to this siege and attack on the camps, and during this time Hezbollah, which had openly opposed this violation against us, started to gain support among the Lebanese Shi’a population. After 10 days of fighting, a two-person delegation from the International Committee of the Red Cross did finally come to the camp and were allowed to take out critical cases. However, all the medicines they were bringing to us were confiscated before they were able to enter the camp. Then, as ambulances carrying the critically injured were leaving the camp, they were stopped by Amal militia and most of the patients were dragged out. Many of the people we sent out that day were never seen again. We believe they were killed, even though we never found their bodies. After that, the Red Cross again stayed away. I wept at this lack of humanity, this cruelty. Why was the world silent as we Palestinians suffered this brutality? As always, my despair soon turned to burning anger, and all my attempts at prayer during this time failed me.

  However, my anger was tempered by the knowledge that not all Lebanese Shi’a were attacking us. Indeed, some risked their lives and the lives of their family members to help us. One Lebanese Shi’a family who lived close to one of the camp entrances was very supportive of the Palestinians. They did not let Amal take their building, and they told these fighters that they did not want any fighting in or around their building. Sometimes, this family would bring us medications and we used to send them money to buy us antibiotics and other drugs. But of course, they were afraid that they would be caught, and indeed, Amal did eventually kill their son, which meant they no longer dared to help us.

  The siege dragged through the month of May into mid-June, with Amal unable to enter the camp or break our meagre defences, despite their superior weapons. Frustrated, one Friday, they eventually threatened us with total annihilation. Amal representatives told us on our walkie-talkie that fire engines stationed around the camp had been filled with petrol and that at midday, they intended to spray the whole camp with petrol and incinerate us, if we did not leave at once.

  We could not believe what we had heard. I began to envisage people burning, dying a terrible death, panicking, terrified. People in the camp came running to the hospital, thinking they might be protected there. I fought to stay calm, but it was impossible. The thought of being burnt alive was too terrifying. There was a big debate among those people who had become the camp leaders during the siege and the ordinary people. Some thought we should surrender and let Amal fighters into the camp, arguing if we did not we would all be burned alive. Others, remembering the Tel al-Za’atar and the Sabra and Shatila massacre, felt that if we surrendered we would all be killed anyway. They felt that it was better to die fighting. Throughout that terrible morning, as this debate raged, one of the camp leaders got in touch with our people in Mar Elias camp and they started work to stop this horrific act. At prayers that Friday, an Imam from the small Kurdish community on the edge of the camp told his congregation what Amal was planning, and that such a crime must not be allowed to happen. He also contacted the other mosques in Beirut as well as all the Muslim religious leaders. After midday prayers, a large group of Lebanese and Kurdish Muslims who were living near the camp demonstrated in support of us. In the end we were saved from being massacred by the actions of these good people.

  During the month-long siege more than 600 refugees had died in our camp alone, and more than 1500 had been wounded. In that same time, across all the camps in Lebanon, more than 2500 Palestinian refugees had been killed. In Burj Barajneh we had worked day and night; the hospital was filled to capacity with people in every room on beds and on mattresses on the floors. More than half of those who died did so because we could not evacuate them to receive proper treatment. We were in the middle of Beirut with all its facilities. Yet so many people, all refugees, women and children among them, died because we were under siege and were refused medical evacuation.

  I was 25 years old. My family had been refugees for 37 years. My people had been massacred in Dar Yesin and other towns and villages in Palestine by Jewish terrorists. Thousands had been massacred in the Lebanese camps of Tel al-Za’atar as well as in Sabra and Shatila by Christian Lebanese militia men. Now in Burj Barajneh, and other camps, yet another shocking war crime had been perpetrated against us, this time by people we considered our friends—Lebanese Muslims.

  When the attacks on the camp stopped, the wounded were finally evacuated from the camp to other hospitals across Beirut. Doctors from these hospitals contacted Haifa Hospital and asked who had been caring for these people. They congratulated Walid and me and expressed surprise we had been able to stop femoral arterial bleeding for some eight patients whose lives had been saved by our actions. I explained what we had done: initially I put ice and very hard pressure on the wound with a tourniquet, and I told the family to release the tourniquet every 15 minutes, and then tighten it again. I would check the wound regularly, and if there was no more bleeding when we lifted the tourniquet, we assumed the wound had clotted. I explained to the families that the patient should have complete bed rest; and we gave them party balloons, to exercise their lungs as we didn’t have any physiotherapists to give them the right breathing exercises. In some cases, we kept putting the tourniquet on their femoral artery for days and for one patient it was on and off for 10 days. But we saved their lives and their legs. Our doctors at the PRCS hospital at Bar Ellias in the Beqaa told me when they asked the patients who had helped them they all said, ‘Olfat’. It seems they thought of us as heroes. But God helped them really, because we did not do that much.

  Our misery however did not end when the fighting stopped. The camp remained under siege with Amal militia forming a ring of military checkpoints around the camp at all entrances. People were starving, and the women needed desperately to get food for their families. On the day the attacks ended, women were allowed out of the camp to buy food. But they were told where to shop and forced to buy what the militiamen offered them. Then all the women, my mother included, were herded into one building and told to wait. They waited one hour and then another. By this time, they were convinced that at any moment they would be raped or killed. After four hours of this intimidation and fear, the women were allowed to return to the camp. When my mother came home, she threw the things she had been forced to buy in the bin, saying she would rather we all die from hunger than eat what she had bought. This intimidation and harassment went on for a full week after the military attacks wer
e over.

  That whole summer was tense. There was no fighting, but Amal remained dug in surrounding the camp. It was not easy for women to leave, and entirely forbidden for men. In fact the young men were not able to leave the camp confines for nine years as the siege was not lifted until 1994. As a result, many young men could not go to school. It was a virtual prison, one-kilometre square. Over time the young men in the camp became depressed, sleeping, smoking a lot and just being angry with their situation. They relied heavily on women to leave the camp for food and other essentials, but though frustrated at their confinement they were very appreciative of the work the women were doing. It was also a dangerous time for young women. Two nurses from the hospital were killed. The family of one of these nurses had a flat outside the camp and she went with another nurse to collect some valuables. Neighbours reported that when they were in the flat, they were both arrested. Ten days afterwards, their bodies were found outside Khaldeh. They had both been tortured before being killed.

  In late June 1985, volunteer nurses from Norway came to the camp to work with us, and the Norwegian government donated some money to the PRCS to fit out an operating theatre and emergency room in Haifa Hospital. Our own doctors were now allowed back in the hospital, which with the new facilities, was a great relief and made us feel ready for whatever happened next. In August 1985, Helen came to discuss APHEDA projects with us, and as usual, stayed in our house. There were still a lot of clashes in and around Beirut so it was dangerous for her to travel. The camp was still surrounded by sandbags and checkpoints were everywhere. Things were very tense indeed. The night she arrived, the men were calling from the mosque loudspeaker system, warning us of the dangerous situation. We heard shelling on the edge of the camp and one person who was killed was carried past our house. We had absolutely no idea what would happen, but sleep was hard to come by that night as Amal started to shell around the camp.

  The next day, Helen was supposed to go to Syria but stayed with us instead. We were glad of the moral support and incredibly grateful that people such as Helen and others from western countries could bear witness to our suffering and daily humiliations. We still had no electricity and no running water and every time we left and re-entered the camp through the Amal checkpoints, we suffered harassment and abuse. Helen was able to see, firsthand too, the destruction by Amal shells during the first siege, of the first APHEDA project, a children’s day care centre to support working women. We had just started it, but afterwards we were able to fix the building and restart the project.

  Not long after Helen left, in early September 1985 a second major attack with its associated siege and closure of the camp started. There was intense fighting as Amal tried every tactic to enter the camp. With the civil war in Lebanon raging no one could stop Amal. There was no effective government. From outside Lebanon the PLO was lobbying to try and stop this fighting. Again, many people were injured and killed, but while we felt afraid and threatened, this time we were better prepared: with some small arms that had been smuggled into the camp. Lebanon was awash with arms so buying them was not difficult. The shelters were also cleaned so that people were better protected, and we now had an operating theatre in the hospital and both foreign and Palestinian surgeons as well as more nurses. Although we were in a much better situation, we still had no rest from this attack for 10 days.

  I continued to work at Haifa hospital and on the APHEDA projects until May 1986. But by then I knew I had to get away. I was so angry. I hated Beirut. I hated Lebanon. I just wanted to run away. I loved nursing, but I remember feeling I could not bear to see any more dead bodies or more blood or more wounded or more suffering. I constantly felt as though I was holding back a scream of overwhelming grief at all the loss of life I had witnessed. I was in a terrible dilemma. I was very attached to my family, my friends and my community but at the same time I had this urge to flee the horror that was our daily life. I was boiling with anger and humiliation and at the same time depressed. I was sleeping a lot, feeling very low and used to cry at night when my family could not see me. Around that time my brother Amer, then 18, decided to migrate to Sweden. I actually did not want to migrate, but I just wanted to get away. My other brother, Nader, had gone to the Gulf to work in order to support my family; and at that time it was relatively easy to get a short-term working visa in Dubai, especially as a registered nurse and a woman. So, Nader made the necessary visa arrangements and I prepared to leave.

  On the day of my departure, I took a new pair of shoes with me to the airport, and just before I boarded the transit bus for the plane, I took off my old shoes, threw them in a garbage bin and put my new ones on. I did not want to carry so much as a grain of soil from Lebanon with me. The trauma of what I had seen and what I had experienced seemed to drive me to these extreme feelings, not just towards Lebanon, but towards the whole world. My life had been devoted to caring for people, but it had been full of blood, death and killings. I was at once overwhelmed by a sense of failure and despair, but also, with hatred and loathing. I can now understand what despair, desperation, and trauma can do to one’s soul.

  13

  BAR ELIAS

  Ihad hardly set foot in Dubai, before I regretted leaving Lebanon. Again it was events back home that caused this misgiving. After a few weeks, Amal imposed another siege on Burj Barajneh. This time, it lasted for 45 days. During the previous attacks, I had always been inside the camp and was aware of what was happening. But when I was away, I had no peace; I was glued to the television. This was worse in a way than living under the siege itself. I was in a constant state of heightened anxiety and apprehension.

  Meanwhile, I tried desperately to adjust to a normal life in Dubai. I went to the Ministry of Health, did the nurses’ registration exam and started work in the local hospital. But I could not stay. I could not work in this hospital, with all its facilities, electricity, water, food, sterile equipment, everything that in the camp my people were dying for lack of. I couldn’t work when I had all this and knew my people had nothing.

  Helen and I had done what we could to keep in touch over the months, so she knew I had gone to Dubai in April 1986. During this time she had made another project review visit to Beirut and had again experienced my people’s situation for herself. Still in Dubai, I wrote to her after she returned to Australia about how depressed and deeply traumatised I was feeling—I knew she would understand. She rang me as soon as she received my letter, very worried. and suggested I see someone for treatment; and that it might be better for me to go somewhere closer to my family and friends. She advised me to go to the Syrian capital Damascus where I could be with my old nursing and medical friends who had relocated from Beirut, and where I could hear news of my family more easily. She also suggested it might be possible to work on the nurse training project that APHEDA had established for refugees in Damascus and in the Beqaa Valley. My brother supported those suggestions as he could see how depressed I had become. I had arrived in Dubai in May desperate to be free of the nightmare of life in Beirut, but the distance and the comfort in Dubai had made it worse. In August 1986, after just three months away, I went to Syria to again work with my people.

  An old friend was waiting for me at the airport in Damascus. Initially I stayed with him and his family, which was not only a salve to the soul, it was also practical. Unaccompanied, single women in Syria faced many hurdles, chief among them finding accommodation in Damascus. In spite of these little difficulties, my depression began to lift. I started sleeping properly; I was back working with my people and had contact with people coming and going from Beirut to Damascus. As Helen had suggested, I was able to work with the APHEDA projects in Damascus and the Beqaa Valley, using my nurse training and community health experience I’d gained in the UK and in Australia. I went to the Beqaa Valley on Fridays and Saturdays and I worked in Damascus for the rest of the week.

  On one of my first days in Damascus, I ran into Dr Mahmoud Shehadi, a friend
of mine, who was just about to return to Russia. He asked if I had any messages for anyone that he should take back with him. I answered, ‘No, just say hello to friends there’. I had not kept in touch with Mahmoud since we’d met last in 1982 in Bar Elias, but of course I would think of him often, and knew from his family that he was still in Russia. So, while I did not mention Mahmoud by name, naturally I wanted Dr Shehadi to send him my greetings. And indeed, on his first day back in Kiev, Dr Shehadi saw Mahmoud and teasingly asked him, ‘Guess who I saw yesterday in Damascus?’ Mahmoud told me that he thought of me immediately. ‘What is Olfat doing there? Where’s she working?’ he quizzed his friend, frustrated that Dr Shehadi did not know anything. But because it was difficult to be a single woman in Syria, he just assumed I had married and was working there.

  Ten days later Mahmoud flew into Damascus. He was on his way to Beirut, but flying directly was difficult, so he came via Syria. By this time, he had been in Kiev for eight years studying and had graduated in cinematography with a master’s degree.

  Having found out from the student union in Damascus where I was staying, he knew I was not married, and rang immediately. It was around 10.30 at night; I was already in bed and my friend’s daughter told me in the morning that he had rung and was in Damascus. At first, I thought she was mistaken and that it was Ahmed, his brother, who’d rung, but she told me it was definitely Mahmoud, just arrived from Russia, and that he wanted to see me. We met for coffee at the student union and caught up on all our news. We were both extremely happy to see each other. Neither of us was married, engaged or even in a relationship. We’d had no contact, but in my heart—even if I didn’t know it—I had always loved Mahmoud. I was in love with him before and was in love with him still. My heart had always been engaged to him really and I was overjoyed to see him again. He was my dearest friend and I felt very happy when I was with him and I also felt safer and more secure. While my friends had been kind and generous I was still very lonely in Damscus.