Överlevarna

”My father was a technician and welder; at first he ran a café by the sea. From 1963 to 1988 I had no contact with my parents.
They thought I had died. It was hard to get in touch—I didn’t want to sit there and become sad and cry.

In 1989 I went to visit my parents in Gaza and also visited someone in the PLO. When I returned, I was detained.

Memories:

In 1948 we were forced to leave Ashkelon.
I knew that airplanes were bombing Ashkelon. The Egyptian army urged us to leave Ashkelon. My father carried me on his shoulders; we started walking along the beach. I heard gunfire and an airplane bombing. We were afraid.

I become sad when I think about my father having to carry me on his shoulders the whole way.
We rested for a while, then the shooting started again. The entire village fled. Most people went on foot; some made it to Gaza in small rowing boats. It took the whole night, and then we arrived in Khan Yunis in Gaza.

We slept with our mother and father; my sister and I lay between them. My father climbed up into a tree and tried to spread out the top.

We were in Khan Yunis for two weeks—no food, nothing—but I had fun. I was a bit mischievous. UNRWA distributed tents.

After three to four weeks they began distributing sugar and flour—it was fantastic. It was the finest bread I have ever eaten. Breakfast was salt and chili pepper.

“We will go back one morning. Soon you will stop shooting. Then we will be back.” Especially on Fridays, after prayers, we would go back. That was the whole idea from the first day: tomorrow we are going back. And then morning came. Everyone hoped for “tomorrow” until 1952. Then it became “next month.” No one wanted to establish themselves if we were going back.

We lived in tents until 1952.

- Water and toilets?

They didn’t exist.

My father opened a tent café. When the wind really blew, the tents flew into the air, like waves.

We moved to Gaza City in 1952 and I started school there.

We were at school when airplanes came back and forth. My father came running—had you eaten anything? No, they had thrown chocolate that was poisoned, causing diarrhea. It was Israeli aircraft.

In 1956 there were several massacres in Gaza.
I saw many warships off the coast of Gaza. We thought the Russians had come to help us, but they were not Russians—they were British, French, and Israeli ships. During the war Israel occupied Gaza. They imposed a curfew after five o’clock. After two or three days they came and knocked on doors. If everything was “okay,” they made a cross on the door. Sometimes they killed entire families with machine guns, sometimes with bayonets. My teacher and his wife were killed. They entered his house, tied his arms and legs with rope, and did the same to his wife—I saw it.

A girl was killed with a bayonet in front of me in the street.
A boy was shot with a machine gun and died in front of our door.

In 1983 I traveled back to Gaza. They didn’t know I was coming. I couldn’t bring myself to call and tell them. I didn’t want to cry.

I flew to Ben Gurion, then took a taxi to Gaza. My father didn’t really recognize me.
My mother jumped with joy.

I avoided contact for 25 years so I wouldn’t have to be sad.
Today I regret it, especially when my son was born.

— How long did you feel like a refugee?


I am a Swedish citizen. I am still a refugee from Palestine, absolutely. My blood is Palestinian.

— Who bears responsibility?


The whole world.”

“I was born in Bayt Dajan, a village near Jaffa. In 1936, during the Arab Revolt, the British and the Jews began terrorizing our village at night. They were looking for weapons and resistance fighters. They came to our house while we were sleeping and searched for weapons under our mattresses. Two of my uncles were arrested and sentenced to death by the British. They were imprisoned outside al-Quds. I went with my parents and visited them once. There were many prisoners there, and all of them had visits from their families. My mother was carrying me, and I remember my uncles kissing me. They were later pardoned and allowed to return to the village.

In 1948, the Haganah attacked all the Palestinian villages between Tel Aviv and our village. People fled to us from the surrounding villages; they came from Salama, Yazur, Kafr ‘Ana, and al-Safiriya.

When the Haganah laid siege to the village, it did not come as a surprise. The army surrounded us and arrested people. An officer ordered the men to hand over their weapons, otherwise they would be shot. Our resistance fighters refused and tried to flee. The soldiers opened fire and many were killed. Then they fired at us—children, women, and the elderly. I remember at least ten people who died. A tank also appeared and began shelling us. They killed many innocent people. One resistance fighter who had stayed behind in the village threw a hand grenade at a Jewish officer. He died immediately. The soldiers shouted that there was a curfew. They shot at everything that moved.

When we were finally forced out of our houses, my mother was still wearing her nightclothes. They separated the men from the women and us children. They went into our house and took all valuables, emptied all the wardrobes and threw all the clothes onto the floor, turned the mattresses upside down, and threw large stones into the well in the courtyard. If anyone had been hiding in the well, they would have been crushed.

My mother explained that we were to leave all our belongings in the house. After a couple of days we would return; by then the Arab forces would have defeated the Haganah (begins to laugh).

We were fired upon by the Haganah—adults and children alike. We fled across the fields. I saw a man bent over his son who had just been killed. He was crying.

We traveled by truck to Deir ‘Ammar in al-Diffa al-Gharbia (the West Bank), where one of my uncles lived. We were allowed to stay in the mukhtar’s house. We stayed there for a month. Then we continued on, first to Baytin, outside Ramallah, then to Dara in southern Syria. Finally, we were given permission to go to Damascus.

There, life was good. We were given the same rights as Syrians and rented a house in a suburb. I married in 1955, when I was 20 years old, to my cousin. My father and his siblings met in a family council and decided on our marriage. In 1960 we bought land and built a house.

— When did you come to Sweden?


2012, at 77 years old.

— Why?


Fate.”

“Being in flight means starting from zero.”,

“Falastin is like the blood in my body. Haifa is like the air I breathe. They live within me”,

”The jews started shooting. My dad took us to a cave in southern Safad. In the Jewish quarters there was a high building. They were shooting with a single shot rifle. Me and my cousin was laying flat on our stomachs on top of the cave. We were almost hit, I heard the shot and saw the whirling dust. We ran and took shelter in the cave. After three, four days we went down to the creek. We were afraid and fled from death. The whole town was fleeing.”

Is there anything you’re wondering about before we begin?”

“Where are my four boys?” (points to four photographs on the wall). “Aziz was 30 years old when he disappeared, Ibrahim was 25, Mansur was 22, and then we have Ahmad, who was 13 years old when he disappeared,” says Amman Hassan Banat.

“Yesterday was the anniversary of the Sabra and Shatila massacre, and now they have been missing for 37 years, since 1982. On the same day as the massacres in Sabra and Shatila, the Israeli air force bombed our camp in Bourj el-Barajneh. Many houses collapsed and we fled to a house near the abandoned Kuwaiti embassy. A woman took us in there. When things had calmed down, we sat down to eat breakfast with the woman and her son. The Shatila camp was only 200 meters away. Suddenly two trucks appeared and the soldiers shoved my sons and other men and boys onto the backs of the trucks. They were forced to sit with their heads bowed.”

“My eldest, Aziz, had his upper body bare, so I went up to his truck to give him his shirt. When he heard my footsteps, he lifted his head. An Israeli soldier kicked him in the mouth. Aziz covered his mouth with his hand. Then he was kicked in the stomach” (begins to cry).

“Then the soldier pushed Aziz down onto the ground and the beating continued. Men and boys from the Shatila camp were marched out of the camp and over to the trucks, supervised by soldiers.”

What kind of soldiers were they?”

“Since I cannot read, I didn’t understand what was written on the sides of the trucks, but they were Israeli and Lebanese forces. The trucks were escorted by two tanks, one in front and one behind. I asked a soldier: Where are you taking my boys? I received no answer.”

“I ran around looking for my boys; people told me to seek shelter, but I counted on managing because I was a woman. People lay massacred in the streets; the only way to recognize them was by their clothes.”

“While the Sabra and Shatila massacre was going on, I saw Ariel Sharon, Israel’s defense minister, and Elie Hobeika, the Phalangists’ militia leader, up on the roof of the Kuwaiti embassy. I returned to the woman in the house—what else could I do? My house was destroyed and my boys were gone.”

“In the afternoon a car stopped and a man asked the other woman why she was crying. She explained that her son and husband had been taken away. The driver then said that he had seen her husband at the airport. He explained that the airport was so full of captured men that you couldn’t even put your foot down. The airport was controlled by the Israelis and the Lebanese.”

“It was Friday, September 17, 1982. From that day on, I never saw my four sons again.”

- Pappa överlevde Auschwitz, men fick TBC. De opererade bort halva ena lungan och några revben, som han sparade i garderoben. Det var äckligt, säger Sylvia Kalischer.

Såg du hans ärr?

- Freig nisht. Jag minns inte.

Betraktar du dg som överlevare?

- Jag föddes 1941 och hade under andra omständigheter kunnat ha mördats, som många i min familj. På det sätter är jag nog en överlevande och hör hemma i de överlevandes krets, säger Lasse Dencik.

- En gång bjöd mamma de svenska grannarna på ett kaffekalas. Hon bakade centraleuropeiska kakor, fyllda med vallmo. Men det blev ett väldigt fiasko. Hennes kakor, som hon hade arbetat så mycket med, låg kvar ouppätna. Grannarna hade väl väntat sig kanelbullar. Efteråt satt mamma vid bordet och grät.

- 1957 blev det skilsmässa. Min mor och jag och bror Paul, kallas Palle, flyttade till Långholmsgatan 24. Min mor gick bort alldeles för ung, jag var bara 17 år. Palle och jag bodde kvar i lägenheten själva, säger Lennart Mankowitz.