The Coffeehouse

Refugeeism

Nariman and I were walking through Bayt Lahm, from Aida to Azzeh, Amjad was with us, leading the way in front of us. We passed the murals and the cemetery, the hotel. Nariman asks me, "would you live here, permanently?". We always asked each other such questions, somewhat "hypothetical", half wishful thinking, and half a foreshadow of our future intentions. My heart screamed "YES!", but my mind hesitated for a couple of seconds. There were some minor details to address. "Where 'here' do you mean?". I observed a variety of the living conditions in Palestine. The mokhayamat were hit hard, literally and figuratively, with violence and poverty. People who lived in the city had it somewhat better, but they were still part of the occupied people. Then you had those living in Quds and 1948 land, yet another type of occupation and oppression. "If I decide to move here, I don't think I could live in the refugee camp". I was honest about it. No matter how honest it was, it was a cruel thing to say. I was ashamed to say it, but Nariman would understand. I'm a refugee, but I don't know if I could live the refugee life of those in the West Bank or even Gaza. I wouldn't last a day, a night. My second day in Bayt Lahm, we visited 'Ammo Al Amir's family in Aida. I had never been to a refugee camp before. 'Ammo was our transportation provider, he dropped us off at his house, we got out of the car and landed on his doorstep and went inside. I didn't really take in my surroundings until we finished our visit. It was maghrib time, we started walking back to the school. Ayid led the way, through the alleys, left turn, right. Graffiti. Fateh um el sha3b. Right turn, left. Hamas. Bullet holes. Al Jabha. Handala. It was dark and I felt lost, scared shitless. Any minute now, el jaysh could storm this place. There could be M16s. Katyushas. Metal-rubber bullets. A curfew. I was a nervous mess. Everyone else was taking in the scenery, talking casually. We passed by a house and saw the rest of our gang still talking with the family they were visiting. When we left the boundaries of Aida, I relaxed a bit, breathed a little easier, but my heart grew heavier. Shame. Back in the girl's room at the school, I talked to C. "All I could think of when we were walking out of Aida is when is a soldier gonna start shooting", and C, ever the optimist said, "I was thinking what a beautiful night it was to be walking through Aida and have no attacks for the night". Shame.

It was Nariman's turn to answer the question, when she thought of "living in Palestine", the refugee camp was the first place that came to mind. Really?
That was the ideal, but was it the reality? Nariman, R-E-F-U-G-E-E-C-A-M-P. She understood, but hung on to her idealist thoughts. I don't blame her.

Was I less of a "Palestinian" if I refused to live in a refugee camp? To be a Palestinian is to have the willingness to live alongside your brothers and sisters through the thick and thin, not to take the easy way out, to be willing to fight at any instant, to face all facets of the occupation and the oppression that comes with it. To be a Palestinian is not to pick and choose what and how to suffer, or what not to partake in. Most Palestinians don't get a choice in what type of "occupation package" they get, why should I?

Screw realism. Nariman and I share these views with the kids, "you're crazy, you don't want to live here, just wait and see". That's the "Canadians" in us talking. They're right, I have yet to experience life in a camp, but goddamn it, viva idealism, I will live in a refugee camp because I AM a refugee until I return to Dayr Al Qasi. The boys all want to leave. Hamza wants to leave and never look back. He'll get a scholarship, study abroad, and stay there. Some of the kids' families started out in the camps, and moved out when they were able to. I'll move in.

We visit Linda in Azzeh on our last day in Bayt Lahm. Goodbye visit. "I feel like I'm not LIVING here. I 'live' here, but I have no LIFE". She compares herself with the girls she sees on TV. They have money, nice clothes, go to the mall, hang out with friends, drive cars. They have money. "We don't live LIFE here". She was about to cry. Linda should never have to cry. I didn't want to lecture her, I tried not to. But she had to know. There's more to life than what she sees on TV. Her life has a greater purpose, greater meaning. A purpose and a meaning that could not be substituted with fancy clothes and a car. I would switch with her in an instant. She had to know. I wish she believed me. You can't convince someone who was born into occupation that life in good ole Canada is NOT the life to have. We don't have checkpoints. But still, Linda, don't leave, please, I'll STAY with you.

Yes, in the R-E-F-U-G-E-E-C-A-M-P.