- När jag tagit min bat mitzva håller jag ett tal i synagoga, om vad en judisk kvinna ska göra. Efteråt spelade vi in en skiva med talet i konserthuset. När lampan lyste grönt skulle man tala, säger Renée Hirschfeld.

- Som flicka kommer jag ihåg på Jom Kipur, i synagogan på söder. Det var tungt. Uppe på damläktaren satt kvinnor som överlevt Förintelsen och bara grät och grät. Jag tyckte det var obehagligt. säger Renée Hirschfeld.

1941

“On the eastern side, up toward the mountain, we had planted olive trees and almond trees. On the western side, close to the coast, we grew wheat, corn, and other grains. To the north was the Jewish settlement of Gat, where mostly Polish Jews lived. They tried many times to persuade my father to sell the land, but he refused. He did not want to sell to Jews.

But we were poor and needed money. Instead, my father sold to Azzi, an Egyptian. He bought the land from us but then sold it on to the Jews. Azzi was a traitor. He exploited us. The Zionists also bought land from other nearby villages, including Summil, Jusayr, and Zayta. In the end, they managed to expand their small settlement to 600 hectares.”

1948

“We were besieged by the Israeli army for nine months. Our village was defended by 900 Egyptian soldiers, including Abdel Nasser, and 200 volunteers from Sudan. I met Nasser many times. He lived in my aunt’s house. He later became president of Misr (Egypt).

The Israelis attacked the village from all directions, despite suffering heavy losses each time they attacked.

In February 1949, Israel entered into the so-called Rhodes Agreement with Egypt. The Egyptian army withdrew to the Gaza Strip, which meant that ‘Iraq al-Manshiyya came under Israeli control. The Israelis demanded that we leave the village, but we refused. After two months, they returned.

I was with my parents when we were forced out of our house and gathered together with four other families in a house outside the village. They emptied the village and searched every house. After some time, two young Palestinians went back into the village, but they were shot dead by the Israeli military. There were UN observers from France and Sweden present. They summoned the Israeli leadership and complained about the conduct of the military. I heard it myself, because I was serving the coffee.

The Israelis drove us away in their trucks. This happened in three stages over one week in April 1949. My family was taken away in the last trucks. This happened during the daytime, and the military told us that we could take all our belongings with us. But since we had been under siege for almost nine months, we did not have much left to take.

‘You can take the stones too,’ a soldier said.

We were driven east toward al-Diffa al-Gharbia, toward Tarqumia. The Jordanian army was waiting for us at the border and drove us onward to the Arroub refugee camp, which the Red Cross had prepared a few months earlier. We were told by the Red Cross staff that this was only temporary and that we would be able to return after a couple of weeks.”

Reflection

“One day we will return, even if it takes hundreds of years. What was taken by force will be taken back by force.”

“In 1954, UNRWA reached an agreement with Jordan, which at the time governed East al-Quds, to build 28 houses in Sheikh Jarrah. We were one of the families who were to live there, and when the houses were completed in 1956, we moved in. But everything changed when Israel occupied East al-Quds, and in 1972 they evicted twelve of our neighboring families.

In 2009, I extended our house. The authorities considered it an illegal construction that was to be demolished. When I refused, the police took the keys to the new section and stationed four guards in front of the house—two Druze and two Bedouins. That same year, 1,000 Israeli soldiers with dogs evicted another couple of our neighbors, the al-Ghawi and Hanoun families.

My extension remained sealed off and stood empty for nine years. In 2018, the police gave the keys to some fanatical settlers and allowed them to occupy the new section. My original house has only a few small rooms where we sleep. That is why we are having this conversation outdoors.

After a new court decision in 2021, we—the remaining fourteen families—also risk being evicted from our homes in Sheikh Jarrah. But I continue to fight for what is mine; my home is my fortress. I grew up here, received my education here, and got married here.

The settlers continue to harass me. They attack me physically, and I defend myself with my fists. They stole half of the gate to my plot of land. When I called the police, they did not care. I see them stealing our water and various things from the garden, but the police do nothing.

Itamar Ben Gvir, who sits in the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, has been here and led a demonstration against us.

But I continue to fight for my house, with my fists if I must. I am always on guard. In the evenings, I walk around the neighborhood until midnight. I have installed surveillance cameras to keep watch in case the Zionists come to evict me. How is it possible that a thief can claim ownership of my house?”

1945

“I grew up in the Romayma neighborhood. My father traveled a lot on business, among other places to Jaffa and Jordan. Jews, Christians, and Muslims lived side by side in al-Quds. My uncle did business with a man named Moshe. He owned a dairy in Machneyuda. Some Jews who came from Aleppo in Syria lived with my uncle. They were businessmen, just like us.

1948

“We used to go to my uncle’s house, and from there we could see how the shooting went on from both sides, day and night. The British helped the Jews against the Muslims, against the Arabs. We heard about Dayr Yasin, that they had killed 90 people and thrown them into the village wells. Life became very difficult; conditions worsened over time. My school was closed, people were murdered. The Jews continued to shoot from Hadassah and the Hebrew University, day and night. We feared for our lives.

We fled north, toward Ramallah. We left at night in buses that the British army had left behind. My younger siblings and I took shelter on the floor of the bus.

Not everyone was as fortunate. It was summer and the grass in the fields was tall. My sister-in-law, who had been so ill that she had been admitted to Saint Joseph’s Hospital in East al-Quds, was forced to crawl on all fours across a field so as not to be discovered and shot.

When we arrived in Ramallah, there were already many others there; they had fled from Lydda, al-Ramla, and Jaffa. People lay sleeping under the trees. Quite soon we received help from UNRWA with food and a tent. My father, my brothers, and I were eventually able to return to our house in Romayma. My mother and my sisters stayed in Ramallah. Life was hard; we had no money.”

1967

“We were forced to flee again, this time on foot, to Ariha (Jericho). Many families walked for a whole day and a whole night across the mountains, along difficult paths. We stopped and rested, each family under its own orange tree. When we arrived in Ariha, Israeli soldiers shot at us. We stayed in Ariha for a week, and after the Six-Day War we were able to return to al-Quds. Our family has lost 150 dunams of land, with olive trees, vegetables, and fruit.”

Reflection

“The Israelis believe in doing everything by force. But they stand only with the support of the USA and Europe. We are free and have the right to live in peace. Since the founding of the state in 1948, Israel has demolished houses, arrested people, killed people. We will never accept being slaves under Israel. I want the world to know that Arabs are human beings. We do not intend to live our lives as slaves.”

1948

”Vi hade ett mycket bra liv i Talbiya, i al-Quds. Min far var affärsman i tryckeribranschen. Familjens verksamhet gick tillbaka till

1920-talet. Vi hade ett vackert hus och en vacker trädgård med dahlior

som växte högre än jag. I trädgården fanns det en damm med guldfiskar.

Vi hade fester i trädgården, med en massa maträtter. Det var ett bra liv.

Mina föräldrar och bröder hade åkt till Yafa på en kusins bröllop.

Men eftersom jag hade mässlingen fick jag stanna hemma med mina

morföräldrar. Jag var ensam och rädd och gick och la mig i mina för-

äldrars säng. Då exploderade en bomb, rummets fönster krossades av

tryckvågen och jag fick glassplittret över mig. Jag hamnade i chock.

Som tur var kom min farbror, som bodde i närheten i Katamon, och

tog hand om mig.

Vi hade en judisk student som hyresgäst och Haganah hade snappat

upp att han jobbade för deras konkurrent Irgun. Vårt hem låg nära den

brittiska arméns högkvarter och för att väcka deras intresse hade Haganah sprängt en bomb i vår trädgård. När britterna kom upptäckte de

att studenten hade sprängmedel under sin säng.

Mina föräldrar återvände hem med en gång och de bestämde att vi

skulle lämna al-Quds. Jag hade börjat skolan ett år tidigare. Vi åkte till

vårt vinterhus i Ariha. Jag kommer inte ihåg om vi åkte bil eller buss.

Vi skulle bara stanna ett par veckor. Lola, min älsklingsdocka i porslin

som min far köpt i London, blev kvar hemma. Jag kunde inte förstå att

han, familjens överhuvud, inte kunde åka tillbaka och hämta dockan

till mig, trots att jag grät.

Jag började i en ny skola i Ariha, som en kvinna hade öppnat i sitt

hem. Där lärde jag mig läsa. Jag ville åka tillbaka till mitt hem, till min

säng, till mina kläder, till mina leksaker. Jag saknade min kompis Ruti.

Hennes föräldrar hyrde ett litet hus i hörnet av vår trädgård. De var

palestinska judar och vi växte upp tillsammans, lekte tillsammans och

åt tillsammans.

Efter ett par månader återvände vi till al-Quds, min far åkte till ‘Amman för att söka jobb. Vi hyrde två rum av franciskanermunkarna på Casanova. Vi väntade och hoppades på att få återvända till vårt hus. Ingen trodde att det skulle bli på det här sättet.

Till slut flyttade vi efter min far till ‘Amman, där han fått jobb. Jag

och mina syskon började på en internatskola i al-Quds, eftersom skolorna i al-Urdunn var eftersatta, så att säga. På internatskolan var lärarna mycket stränga, de övervakade hur vi gick, hur vi hälsade, hur vi åt. Vi fick inte sitta med armbågarna på matbordet. Det var inte lätt, men mina studier gick bra. När jag var 16 började jag på college i Bayrut. Jag var den yngsta eleven och alla kallade mig för »bebin«. Men jag trivdes mycket bra, jag kände mig nästan vuxen. Efter examen återvände jag till ‘Amman. Jag fick ett stipendium för att åka och studera på ett universitet i USA. Men min mor tillät inte att jag åkte.

2022

”Min barndomskompis Ruti bor fortfarande kvar i stugan, i hörnet

av vår trädgård, som de hyrde av mina föräldrar. Hon har renoverat

stället och byggt på en våning.”

- Har ni fortfarande kontakt?

”(Suckar). Inte egentligen. Det här är mycket smärtsamt. Hon är i

mitt hus, på min egendom. Och jag är på gatan. Varför? Jag skulle vilja

veta varför. Vad har jag gjort?

Ruti blev professor i antropologi och jobbade på Hebreiska universitet. En gång blev jag intervjuad av en journalist utanför vårt tidigare

hem. Och hon kom ut och sa:

»Å, det är den där Claudette igen.«

Jag svarade henne:

»Så länge jag inte fått tillbaka mina rättigheter kommer du att få

se mig. Ruti, du och jag vet att stugan som du bor i tillhör min fars

egendom.«

1936

“There were about 2,500 people living in my village. In 1936, the same year I was born, a general strike took place. It lasted for half a year. It was the longest strike in the history of Palestine.”

1941

“We were divided into two teams. The other team chose seven stones and stacked them into a pyramid. We tried to hit the pyramid with a ball. If we succeeded, the other team would try to hit us with the ball.

At school I sometimes did everything, sometimes nothing. But I was never beaten by the teacher. I respected not only the teacher, but also myself.”

1942

“My father worked as a chauffeur for a British major. After the workday ended, he was allowed to take the car home.”

1947

“The UN divided Palestine into two states. We went to school as usual. We saw Jews celebrating and singing. They drove cars, buses, and even trucks along Jaffa Road, which runs between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. We stopped along the road and watched. Some students, older than me, shouted ‘shut up’ at them and threw stones at the vehicles.

A Jew stopped his car and began shooting at us. From that day on, we never returned to school. It was closed.

Jews lived in a neighborhood very close to our school. After the school closed, our Jewish neighbors began appearing in our area—threatening and armed. Eventually we left our home and drove to al-Jura, a village near Ayn Karim, in my father’s car. We had relatives there and were allowed to stay in one room.

My father stayed behind to guard our house. Sometimes he came to visit us after work, but each time he returned to Lifta, near Jerusalem. Later, Jews blew up a couple of houses near ours.”

1948

“We moved on from al-Jura to Ayn Karim. I went to school there, but only for one month. Then the massacre in Dayr Yasin took place, which was adjacent to Ayn Karim. Refugees poured into our village. But no one dared to stay, and the next day we all made our way to Bethlehem and Bayt Jala.

For two days and two nights we walked, mostly at night. The first night we reached Walaja. But we were afraid the Jews would come after us, so we continued on to Bayt Jala. My older brother and I helped carry our younger siblings. Many, many people were fleeing. In Bayt Jala we rented a room.

When the British left Palestine, my father became unemployed. He joined us in Bayt Jala. The Egyptian army had a camp nearby, and my father managed to get a job there. After a few months we moved to Bethlehem. One of my maternal uncles had moved there and arranged a room for us.

I don’t remember all the details—we moved and moved and moved. I wanted to start school in Bethlehem, but my father was told that the school had no places for refugees. I didn’t take it very hard. I was younger then.”

1955

“My brother, Abdul Karim, was killed by the Jordanian army in Bethlehem. He took part in a demonstration against the Baghdad Pact.”

1967

“For the first time since 1948, I was allowed to return to my home village. I visited Lifta, but I was not allowed to stay. Some people were living in my house; they had rented it from the authorities. They offered me a cup of coffee.

The house was as I remembered it, yet different. I found none of the belongings we had left behind.”

- Were they kind to you?

“It wasn’t important whether they were kind. What mattered to me was seeing my house. But I was not allowed to stay.”

- Did you try to reclaim your house through legal channels?

“No. I already knew the answer would be ‘no’. It had already been decided.”

2005

“In 2005, the Israelis blew up my house and 30 others in order to build new houses for themselves, with a road and pleasant landscaping.”

- Why?

“Ask the Israelis. I pass the remains of my village three times a week on my way to medical treatment. Every time, I am reminded. It is not good for my mind. When I see it, it feels bad. But what can I say? What can I do? Screaming doesn’t help.

I still feel like a refugee. I cannot forget Lifta.”

1937

The family settled in Bayt Lahm. I started at a new boarding school, this time in Ramallah. It was run by the Quakers, and I felt very much at home there. In Ramallah, all women wore beautifully embroidered dresses. If they carried a bag, it too was embroidered; on their heads they wore an embroidered scarf. The teachers taught us embroidery, so we learned their patterns, which they had brought with them from the United States.”

1948

“The boarding school in Ramallah distributed our graduation certificates a couple of months early. Then we were sent home. Everyone was afraid that war would break out when the British left Filastin. People were waiting for something to happen.

The Jordanian girls in my class did not know how they would get home. They were picked up by a Jordanian military vehicle. We found that very exciting.

The road to al-Quds was not safe. There was gunfire between the two sides. Four or five of us girls shared a taxi. I got off at Bab al-‘Amud and went to the social welfare office. My father had good connections there. I found a woman who knew us, and she offered to drive me home to Bayt Lahm.

Gradually, everything returned to normal. Peasant women began coming back to Bayt Lahm to sell their vegetables. There was a market on Saturdays, and that was when I got to know these women. They wore beautiful traditional clothing and silver jewelry.

I used to talk to them and took an interest in their garments. They were beautifully embroidered in cross-stitch. When the dresses wore out, they sold parts of the garments: vegetables on the left, pieces of fabric on the right. The embroidery in Bayt Lahm is completely different from that in Ramallah—different stitches and different thread. The tradition is more closely linked to church embroidery, since there are so many monasteries in Bayt Lahm.

When the war broke out a steady stream of refugees arrived from al-Quds and the surrounding villages. Everything was turned upside down. We had upper-class refugees from al-Quds who rented houses, and we had those who had nothing, who lived in camps. Poor refugees sometimes worked for the wealthy refugees. On market days, the refugee women had no vegetables to sell. Yet despite their poverty, they had intact clothing and looked healthy.”

1952

“The pieces of fabric grew into a collection of traditional Palestinian dresses. As soon as I heard that a Palestinian village had been destroyed by the Israelis—another piece of our Palestinian cultural heritage—I reacted by wanting to buy more dresses. I wanted to show how beautiful the textiles are.

And not only that—the work required system and discipline. The women who embroidered strove for perfection. How could they remember the patterns? They had no templates to copy from. Perhaps they looked at their mother’s dress. I found this ability astonishing. The embroidered textiles are an important part of our cultural heritage.

The women stopped embroidering these magnificent dresses when they ended up in refugee camps. Instead, they made simple refugee dresses with simple embroidery.”

1967

“After the occupation of al-Diffa al-Gharbia, the refugees’ situation worsened even further. Bayt Lahm was surrounded by Jewish settlements.”

2022

“In the Al Makhrur Valley, between Bayt Lahm and Bayt Jala, lies the Saint George Monastery. They make very good wine. Now Jewish settlers have seized half of the valley, and there are rumors that they will also take over the monastery.”

Afterthought

“I have been collecting these garments for over 70 years now. The collection amounts to 2,000 dresses, objects, and silver jewelry. My children want me to stop, but I continue to buy dresses in secret. As recently as today, I bought two dresses—one very simple and one more elaborate.”

1949

“A voice over a loudspeaker announced that we were forced to leave al-Tayyibah, but that we would be allowed to return after a couple of days. I lost my clothes, books, and toys. Some people who had money fled by taxi.

My family—we were twelve people—made our way to al-Jabliya in Jaffa. There we stayed with an uncle for three or four days. We were then picked up by buses. On the way to the bus, I passed a bank next to a police station. It had been blown to pieces, and banknotes were scattered all over the street. I did not dare stop and pick up any of the bills.”

1945

“My father died when I was three. I remember two things about him; I remember riding behind him on the donkey. And I remember him lying dead on a mattress.”

1948

“We passed a field of cucumbers and my father picked one. When the farmer realized that we were Palestinians, he threw stones at us.”