Al Husseinieh Refugees' stories...

In Arab history chronicles, 1948 is often described as the year of the “Nakbah”, the “disaster”, referring to the creation of the State of Israel in historical Palestine after a UN-mediated international vote (and not a local referendum, as entailed by International Law) and to the resulting forced exile of 700 000 Palestinians from their homeland.

The “Nakbeh” was for me a series of books, conferences, TV documentaries, movies etc… It was the quill of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish and the sweet voice of Palestinian singer Rim Banna, both celebrating their lost homeland.

As we arrived to Al Husseinieh refugees’ camp, in Damascus’ outskirts, I discovered the face of the “Nakbeh”, beyond talks and readings…

Hundreds of children, women and youth were waving olive branches, Palestinian and Syrian flags while singing popular Dabkeh song to welcome us:
"Ya halaaaaaaaaaaaa
"Eshta’na kteer ya Habayeb
"Mahma yessir ya Habayed rah netla’a Sawa
"Ya halaaaaaaaaaaaa
"Frehna Frehna w raf ettayer bejwanehna
"Kan ghiabkom jarehna w’hal rjoôkon halaaaaaaaaaaa

which translates (more or less) to:

“Be most welcome! We missed you, beloved, but were confident that we would meet soon
“Be most welcome! We were so happy that we lent our wings to the birds to fly with
“Your lasting absence was hard for us to cope with but finally you have come!"

As I spontaneously started moving my shoulders up and down following the rhythm of the song, 2 girls from the camp took my hands and dragged me into a fast-widening circle, improvising a lovely Dabkeh with other children beside the UNRWA Health centre. I was way less sure-footed than them and it took me quite a while to duplicate their frenetic steps but I think that I made a decent Moroccan Dabkeh, which got me a round of applauses at the end :-)

The kids were extremely excited and their mothers’ attempts to have them keep quite and stay in the line became quickly useless, which I found really amusing and I really wished I could talk to them all and hug and kiss them all! They were so cute!

Like Sabra and Shatila’s kids, they all answered “Palestine” to the question “Where are you from?” In fact, El Husseinieh shelters 2 different waves of refugees (and their descendants), expelled respectively in 1948 and in 1967, during the 6 Days War. The first ones proceeded from Sefad and Tabariye (Tiberias) and the second ones came from the villages of the Golan Plateau. Again, I was amazed by those kids’ strong attachment to a land they had never seen...

I arrived to the main centre surrounded by a little group of children who were all describing to me their school, friends, favourite cartoons etc in a happy squawk and stopping every now and then to pause for a new picture.
The refugees’centre is a modest building, with a small courtyard in the centre, partially covered by a thin zinc rooftop.
An old men handed me a cup of coffee… “Marhaba ya bneiti fi diar elli ma3endhon dar” (“Welcome my daughter to the home of those who have no more home”)

His greeting was simple, sincere, heart-wrenching…

I took the cup from his hands and spontaneously ducked my head to kiss them, as it is a common sign of respect to elder people in the Arab region.
“Enshallah tseer elkom diar areeb ya Aamo” I answered (Enshallah you will soon have a home uncle). He pat on my head with a bitter smile and lifted his hands to the sky: “Enshallah”… (If God wants)

During my previous visits to refugees’ camps, I had always met with people who were born there, had grown up there and who knew Palestine only through what had been told to them.In El Husseinieh, and for the first time, we met with old refugees who were born in Palestine, who had grown up playing in the shade of its olive and orange trees, and who suddenly found themselves taking the harsh road of exile in a morning of spring 1948.

“I was 10 years-old, said one of the old-ladies wearing the typical Palestinian traditional dress, and I was such a cheeky monkey! My family owned a little house in Sefad and I just loved to climb up one of the surrounding hills facing the Sea of Galilee and sit there, whiffing the delicious breeze coming from the lake.”

“I still have the smell in my nose…” she added, as her eyes watered.

“We didn’t take anything with us, said an other old woman originally from Tabariyye (Tiberias), just a few bundles where my mother - May she rest in piece - had quickly wrapped some clothes. We all thought that by the time the summer would come, we’d be back home. And it’s been almost 60 summers now…”

60 summers dreaming their homeland…

“I wish I could see it one last time before I dye…” and she burst in tears.

I had to make a huge effort to hold back mine. I hugged her tight and tried to comfort her. But I didn’t know what to say…What words could comfort an exiled?

She kept me in her arms for a few minutes and then wiped off her face with the sleeve of her dress and held firmly my face with her hands.

“You are educated and you get to travel and meet people from all over the world. Please tell them about our suffering. The world must not forget us…”

Her voice was imploring…I promised her I would do my best.

Despite the tough living conditions in the camps, I noticed that the situation of the refugees in Syria was slightly better than in Lebanon. But still, they were REFUGEES, vagabonds temporarily hosted by a foreign country that they definitely didn’t want to identify themselves to, and eagerly waiting for the day of the Return. Though the young generation was full of hope, I felt a bit of bitterness in the old one’s thoughts. As time passed, it had become more and more difficult for them to envision a solution, and even if they were convinced that their children or grandchildren would return to Palestine, one could clearly feel their despair and sadness to not be able to see their homeland before they dye...