“My father worked as a governor for the British government, and the rest of the family followed him. He was later transferred to Safad. There we had good relations with our Jewish neighbors. That was normal. Women exchanged baked goods with one another during different holidays and celebrations.

In 1946 it finally became clear to him what the British were doing—that they were

preparing the way for the Jews to take over. His job became impossible, and he

decided to resign. He went to the King David Hotel to submit his letter of resignation.

As he stepped over the threshold of the hotel, he looked at his watch and realized

he was early. He decided to visit a friend in Mamilla in the meantime.

Shortly after he left the hotel, it was blown to pieces. The man my father was going

to visit was not as lucky. He had gone to the hotel and was killed by the bomb. This

was in 1946. Irgun was responsible for the attack, but the various Zionist

organizations constantly blamed one another. This was only the beginning.

Then came the bombing of the Semiramis Hotel and the massacre in Dayr Yasin.

That was when people began to feel real fear.

After my father resigned, he began teaching physics. We remained in al-Quds. I was

a happy teenager. I went to parties, and my aunts and cousins lived there. It was a

wonderful time. We used to go to the YMCA, where we were members. They had

leadership courses, tennis courts, a gym, and a swimming pool. It was a fantastic

place.

In 1948, the family moved to Birzeit, where my father taught and where I attended a boarding school—it felt like my second home.

Suddenly, rumors spread that something was wrong. People began pouring in from

al-Ramla and Lydda. They were fleeing and had been walking for two or three days.

I will never forget that sight. Everything was so sad; people were utterly exhausted.

Someone told us they had lost a son. One man was confused and rambling; he did

not understand what was happening. I especially remember a woman who had lost

all her belongings. Despite that, she was grateful to have survived. She said:

“Furniture can be replaced, but not people.”

My aunt told my cousins and me to cook food for the refugees. We boiled eggs and

potatoes, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers—everything we could get hold of. My

aunt also helped prepare a school building where some of the refugees could find

shelter.

My aunts and cousins had come to Birzeit to escape the unrest in al-Quds. Everyone believed this would be over in a few weeks, and that we would be able to return. But in October, we began to understand that this was no picnic.

After the war in 1967, East al-Quds was annexed by Jordan. It then

became possible again for my mother and me to visit our house. The house had

become a daycare center, so it was easy to enter. My mother began explaining to a

woman sitting in the office that it had once been her bedroom. It was painful to see

our house again. I had hoped, for as long as possible, that we would be allowed to

return. We never went back again.

The Nakba is still ongoing; the displacement is still ongoing. Everything here is so hard to predict under the Israeli occupation. When you get up in the morning and put your right foot down, you do not know whether your left foot will follow.

In 1993, during the first intifada, my son produced a song and made cassette copies

of it. He was arrested by the police and taken for interrogation at Moscobiyeh in al-Quds.

He was accused of spreading music that glorified the intifada. He was imprisoned for six months. First he was held in Ayalon prison in al-Ramla. He went through hell there. We were allowed to visit him, but I was not allowed to touch him. He sat behind a net. Later he was transferred to Prison Six, outside Atlit. The time in prison made my son more enthusiastic and determined than before. He continues to make music.