Tears for Tarshiha

by Olfat Mahmoud

  My place and reputation among my community was disrupted in January 2006 when a group of men moved into the camp near the cemetery. Our security measurements were very weak, and we had no idea who they were. The following month, as a woman-led NGO, we began to experience attacks from different parties who were spreading rumours about us. We were accused of trying to convert children to Christianity and encouraging women to divorce. Our community was being told not to use our services.

  When an article appeared in an extremist newspaper about us, I went to see the popular committee chairperson and demanded a meeting with my accusers. When I arrived with two of my staff members at the meeting there were around 15 men waiting there. They started accusing us of giving children alcohol and allowing them to have sex when they went camping as part of our summer program. I was outraged, asking them where the evidence was for these claims. They told me I would have to shut the organisation down. I refused, saying, ‘Who are you to ask us to close down?’

  After another two days they called me back again and said, ‘We are not here to ask your opinion, Olfat. We are here to tell you what you will do.’

  And again, I said, ‘Who are you to tell me what to do!’

  These accusations and threats went on for four months, during which time they sent me personally threatening letters and distributed leaflets in the camp making scurrilous claims about our group and our work. It became quite dangerous especially because I continued to defy them. At one stage, I was threatened with, ‘We will not kill you, instead we will let you cry all your life’. I saw that as a threat against my family, so for a month I stopped going to work; and was so terrified for the safety of my children that I wouldn’t let my children out of my sight.

  In a bid to fight back, one day, a group of PWHO employees including myself, held a silent protest outside the mosque to coincide with Friday prayers. I spoke directly with the men as they arrived.

  ‘You know my family very well. You know how active we are in the Palestinian cause. You know that during the war I stayed in the hospital working day and night for a whole month. I could have stayed home with my family, but I didn’t.’ I reminded them of all the things we did for them.

  Then they started saying, ‘Yes, yes she is right, we remember when she did this,’ and ‘Yes she’s a good woman. She didn’t leave us.’

  But the threats continued. By the end of a month at home I realised my actions were helping them win, so I decided to see the sheikh at the only mosque in the camp. I said to him, ‘I want to know how this problem started. We have been working here for so many years; I have been through all the wars here. If I am a bad person, why have I stayed here and supported my community.’

  The sheikh admitted he should not have believed the accusations and instead, should have investigated more. In the end, the dispute was solved, and everyone was quite embarrassed by how they had treated us and by the way they were so easily misled by rumour. Later, I found out the group of men who had recently moved into the camp and had started the rumours were Sunni Islamic extremists. They had been trying to recruit young refugee men, so had tried to divide our community and create instability to help their own cause. The easiest way to do that was to attack civil society and the programs and structures that made us a community. The PWHO was an easy target because we were not backed by a political party. Also, as a high-profile woman who does not wear the hijab, I would have been a threat to them.

  The men left as suddenly as they arrived, and the camp was just settling back into a normal routine when our world was, again, turned upside down. In response to the capture of two Israeli soldiers by Hezbollah, during July and August of 2006, Israel launched its heaviest bombardment of Lebanon in 24 years. While we were not the targets of the attacks, we were caught in the middle. By then I was living outside Burj Barajneh camp, in a nearby suburb. When the attack began, we all assumed it would be over in two or three days. But then the airport was closed, and the rockets continued. As soon as the war started, people rushed to the supermarkets for supplies, and within hours the shops were empty. Immediately, I began to think how I could help my people in the camp and provide them with prompt assistance. On July 15, I visited the camp, searching for answers to my question. Despite the danger, people were determined to stay, saying, ‘We are already refugees. Do we need to be refugees again?’

  Three days later when I went back to the camp, I was horrified by the devastation. My car was the only moving vehicle. Every place was in deep silence, destroyed—all the buildings and roads were totally smashed. It felt like a ghost town. I was overwhelmed. The smell of death and destruction was everywhere. People were amazed when they saw me arrive: ‘How did you come,’ they all were asking. We held a meeting of all the NGOs in the camp and, again, people insisted they would not leave the camp, despite the threat they were under. Their reasoning was: ‘We became refugees once, so we are not leaving. If we will die, we will die.’ So, they stayed, and they watched and experienced every minute of that terrible devastating 33-day war.

  The PWHO had a summer activity program ready to go, but the attacks meant it was no longer feasible. I contacted APHEDA in Australia who were funding the camps and asked if I could use the money for relief work instead. They agreed, and also began a fundraising campaign back in Australia to support us. While Israel made it clear the camps were not a target, Hezbollah, which was located in the surrounding areas, was. I began to visit the camp daily, delivering emergency food and hygiene parcels to help residents survive. The camp was isolated because Israeli planes were targeting any vehicles that drove out along the airport road. I decided to take my car and leave the worry about my life in God’s hands—when my time is over, it will be over, no amount of hiding in safe places will help.

  Helen was very concerned about my activities and rang me from Australia to plead with me to be careful: ‘Olfat you know the Israeli drones are always flying overhead. They’ll notice you coming and going every day and will put a question mark on your car. You could be targeted.’

  If I hadn’t been worried before her call, I was now. But we still needed to get supplies to the camp. PWHO staff member and Lebanese physiotherapist, Amal Shammas, and Hiba Izdahmad, who worked with PWHO and had curly, long thick red hair, used to come with me each day. During one of our daily trips to the camp, I remembered Helen’s warning and said to Hiba, ‘Quick, put your head out of the car!’ When she queried my strange request, I repeated, ‘Please put your head out the car, and Amal, rest your arm out the car. I’ll explain later.’

  When we got to the camp they demanded an explanation and I said, ‘So Israelis see your hair is not covered, Hiba, so you are not Hezbollah; and your arm is not covered, Amal, so you are not either’. We kept doing this for the 33 days, driving with our heads and our arms out the car windows.

  18

  MY PERSONAL DIASPORA

  In 2006, I also had to face a fact I had long been dreading—the beginning of my own diaspora. Chaker, who had always done well in his studies, having won a scholarship to go to a private high school in Beirut, was determined to leave and study abroad. This became possible when he won a scholarship to York University in Toronto and moved to Canada, where he has since acquired citizenship. All Palestinians face this problem—my mother had a big family, but by the time she died, they were scattered to the four corners of the world. It is not easy as a mother to have your first child leave home and live in a foreign country, even Canada, but at the same time I was realistic: what would he do if he stayed here with his family?

  Like any parent, I wanted a good and secure future for him, which, for Palestinians, often means trying to move overseas, because in Lebanon there are many professions that Palestinians are not allowed to pursue for various historical and administrative reasons. For instance, you can’t be a doctor, engineer, banker or even a taxi driver. Mahmoud and our family were fortunate because he was working in the media which was al
lowed. The consequence of these restrictions is that most children are no longer motivated to complete their education, so few young people have the opportunity to study abroad. When Chaker told me he was leaving, I could understand, but it didn’t make it any easier.

  Looking to my own future and still in love with academia after completing my Bachelor degree in 1997, I continued my studies in psychology, with a focus on women. In 2010, I was awarded a master’s degree and in September 2016, I finally became the doctor I had first dreamed of being as a teenager, when I was granted a PhD in Psychology from the Beirut Arab University. I am the first in my family to gain a PhD and as I accepted my doctorate I could feel the presence of my parents and grandparents—I know they would have been so proud of my academic achievements as I continued to live out their belief that education rather than war, would free our people.27

  During these years I continued as Director of PWHO but was also able to work as a casual lecturer in Women’s Studies at the Arab University – as academia was not on the list of jobs denied to Palestinians in Lebanon. While our family is well off compared with many other refugees, life remains challenging: regular cuts in electricity makes managing the household and ensuring my boys continue their studies a struggle. In the camp, one of more urgent concerns is the state of residents’ homes. The camp buildings are old and substantially damaged by all the conflict, so are dangerous for residents, often collapsing; in the winter, the streets are flooded. Last year, while in my office in the camp, a large piece of the roof fell on top of me, and I was very lucky not be have been seriously injured. Rebuilding or repairing has been made more difficult since May 2010, when Lebanese security forces banned the bringing of building materials into the camp.

  As the population grows and people expand their homes upward, there is no natural light, no insulation from the winter storms or the heat in the summer. At times it feels like we have made no movement forward since the first refugees arrived. And should we begin to feel at home, there is always another law to remind us we are not welcome. In 2009, the Lebanese government passed an amendment to an earlier Lebanese Nationality Law excluding even those children born to a Palestinian father and a Lebanese mother from the right to nationality, ostensibly to prevent resettlement of refugees.

  The work of PWHO continues but has been affected by regional events such as the war in Iraq and Syria, making funding for our ongoing projects more precarious than usual. Our long-term allies, such as Union Aid Abroad-APHEDA from Australia, continue to support us, but their grants have diminished with the aid demands of the regional conflicts. When I had come under attack in the camps by the Islamist groups, Helen was insisting it was time I emigrated to Australia. It was a temptation. I knew my family and I would have a good life there and could still campaign for my people. But I couldn’t leave. I believed then, and still feel, it is my duty to serve my country, to be a voice when others can’t speak—this is the one way I can serve my people.

  During the Israeli bombing raids of July 2006, I spent a lot of time speaking with media outside—I was interviewed by PBS in America, my letters detailing the situation were appearing on social media sites, and media organisations would ring me for the latest news on what was happening in the camp and to the people there. Whenever I am asked to speak I always say yes, because I want to make sure the world does not turn away. I am like the conscience of the international community—I will not let them forget. I am angry with Israel, but I am angrier with the world community. In 1947, the whole world decided on dividing Palestine into two states; and they have to be held responsible for that decision and the many others that have let Israel prosper at our expense.

  For example, in 1949 the international community allowed Israel to take its seat at the UN, ignoring that an original requirement for its membership was that Israel fulfilled the Right of Return accorded to Palestinian refugees in UN Resolution 194, passed in 1948. If Israel had been forced to implement Resolution 194 before it took its seat on the UN, the Palestinian refugee problem would not exist today, and descendants of the 1948 exiles, who have inherited their parents’ refugee status, would instead, have inherited the citizenship accorded to their parents in historic Palestine. This is why we are suffering.

  Sometimes my anger with our situation is hard to contain, especially as it affects us individually. In 2009, I was invited to Sri Lanka, but looked likely to miss the event because I could not secure a visa. When I visited the embassy to know why there was a delay, I soon realised they were concerned I would try to remain in Sri Lanka. I could not stop myself, ‘Because I am a refugee you are frightened to give me a visa? Look at my UNRWA refugee travel documents and see where I have been—Australia, Norway, the UK. They all gave me visas, and you will not?’ The officer was very embarrassed and immediately stamped my papers.

  In 2012, I was again faced by a similar humiliation. I was flying with Qatar airlines to Nairobi for a course on gender-based violence. The plane was late, so we missed our connection in Doha and were provided with an overnight stay before the next flight was due to leave. I had already missed a night’s sleep as our first flight was at 3 a.m. so I was exhausted. The airline offered vouchers for accommodation. One by one passengers were called forward and directed to their hotel. However, when my name had not been called, I asked an airline official what was happening, and was told that I could not leave the airport as I had no passport and was a refugee.

  It felt as though a lifetime’s anger suddenly erupted inside me. ‘Where am I meant to stay the night?’ I asked. ‘At the airport? I am a woman. I need my privacy! Would you accept this if I was your mother, or your wife?’ He replied that I was not allowed to enter the country. Again, I burst out, ‘Who are you to allow me or not allow me? It’s not your country that rejects me, I reject your country.’ And with that, leaving some very confused staff in my wake, I demanded they get me a flight out of Qatar. So, I found myself flying back to Jordan and then on to Nairobi. By the time I landed in Jordan I was laughing about the incident, but it just emphasised to me yet again the ultimate betrayal of a world community that created our problem in the first place yet is happy to wipe its hands of our situation.

  My tours and speeches around the world culminated in June 2015 when I was invited to represent Lebanon’s Palestinian refugees at a ceremony marking the formation of UNRWA, with UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon in New York. It was an incredible honour to be there on the world stage and I carried the spirit of my parents with me, knowing how incredibly proud they would have been to see me there. I wanted to make the audience understand the reality of our life by asking them to re-imagine their world.

  It’s the 21st century and we are here in New York. Try to imagine an area of about one square kilometre in this city—the size of some of the camps in Lebanon—into which 37,000 people are squeezed. That is a population density 50 per cent greater than Manhattan, which has the highest population density in the whole of the US. This one square kilometre has limited clean water, electricity installations that are unreliable and unsafe; a maze of alleyways that are so narrow only one person can walk down them; and a sewage system that cannot meet the needs of the population.

  This is the 21st-century experience of Palestinian refugees. For us the phrase ‘human rights’, and the right to be ‘free from statelessness’ have all lost their meaning.

  Of course, people always ask, ‘What do you think the solution is?’ I say, ‘It’s the right of return’. That is the only solution. I didn’t choose to be a refugee. I didn’t choose to come to Lebanon. My grandparents did not come to Lebanon to live; they came for what they thought would be a few weeks until things settled down in Palestine. It was not their decision to leave Palestine—they were forced away at gunpoint. I was born to refugee parents. I am still a refugee and my children are refugees. But I believe we will return. I have not given up hope, but I like to say my hopes are frozen. The day we lose our hope, that will be the real
al Nakba; that will be our real catastrophe.

  My words received a great response, but of course, nothing has changed. And while my hopes may be frozen, unfortunately my life is not. I grow old and my children have grown up. Like any mother I have immense pride in the adults my children have become; and despite the horrendous experiences of their lives, they are generous and tolerant human beings. Chaker has taken his place in the world: he has worked out of Dubai in a not-for-profit company giving refugees remote employment in areas such as e-marketing, social media and web development. In 2016, Arabian Business Magazine named him as the most important Arab aged under 40. He is an advocate for refugees and aspiring young writers, and has published two books: Confessions of a War Child and Tale of Tala—both books being about the lives of refugees. I often reflect that his success flows back to my mother’s insistence that I put my studies first: it would be through education that we could win back our homeland, but it is also education that has given us a path out of the poverty of the camps.

  Thanks to Hadi and Fayez, Mahmoud and I finally have the daughters we craved as they both became engaged in 2017. Sadly though, they live away. Fayez, who has completed his accountancy studies lives in Bahrain and works in auditing, and Hadi is in Kiev where he is studying for his master’s in communication. Hani, my youngest, remains in Lebanon and is completing his degree in communications.