The Horror Of Sheikh Jarrah Reminds Me Of Everything My Family Has Lost
Witnessing Sheikh Jarrah, seeing Palestinians kicked out their homes in the same way my grandparents were during the Nakba in 1948, has lit a spark in me.
73 years ago, my grandparents were violently displaced from their home, Al Lydd, in historic Palestine. Their home, wealth, property, culture, and all ties to the land were taken from them and they spent 35 years in Jordanian refugee camps.
My baba (dad) spent his whole childhood and young adolescence living in these camps, living in a temporary home. I always heard the stories of the Nakba (the catastrophe) growing up — it was the day when all was lost but nothing was forgotten. Stories were shared from generation to generation to ensure that we never forgot what happened to us, what happened to our people and to remember that we are still fighting for our return.
My baba would tell us the stories of his time growing up in a Jordanian refugee camp. He told us that in the camps, there were not a lot of adult men. He says they fought and many of them were not spared by the Israeli authorities, many died protecting their homes, and many were forced to flee to protect their lives. They left behind their loved ones who had to mourn the loss of their homes.
I would see the pain in my baba’s eyes as he told these stories to me. I would always know what was lost, what was not to be forgotten, but in my everyday life, being able to come to a home where I feel safe, and being able to eat a meal at the end of the day, I never fully appreciated what my family had lost.
The author’s late grandfather in Jordan. Photo courtesy of the author.
Witnessing the forced displacements in Sheikh Jarrah made me feel the pain and suffering felt by the Palestinians in 1948. I saw and heard the hurt, the anger, the frustration in the of the residents of Sheikh Jarrah, individuals who are older than the state of Israel itself. I saw the violence the Israeli authorities unleashed on them for simply defending their homes.
Seeing what the people have lost, seeing them fight for it, seeing the images that were no longer just stories, seeing the second Nakba, unleashed all the emotions that I had buried for years. It unleashed my sadness of never getting to know my home, of never getting to grow up in a community surrounded by one unique and historical culture, of never getting to see the Palestinian olive trees and feel a Palestinian sun of my face.
I saw the injustice that may family have experienced; I saw what I had lost as a result of the Nakba and I knew in that moment that my comfort in Australia was deceiving. My true home, the land I am indigenous to was stolen from my family, and I never got to live in our home, to live in serenity on my family’s farm. I yearn for the home that I have never met. Palestinian blood runs through my veins, Palestine runs through my heart but indeed my body is in Australia, and I am far away from home.
I see my pain in the youth of Sheikh Jarrah who are fighting to stay in their homes.
My baba never had a home, everything was temporary. In Jordan, he lived the majority of his adolescence in refugee camps, where as a Palestinian, he was still treated as a second-class citizen. He then immigrated to Australia; he saw it as a place he could give his children a better opportunity at life. I don’t think he ever saw it as his home — and throughout my entire life I cannot remember a day where he didn’t pray for the freedom of Palestine. He always dreamed of the day he could return to his true home.
Unlike my baba, I used to always see Australia as my home. My life, my friends and some of my favourite places were in Australia. I was raised here, some of my most important memories were made here — and I used to think my identity was formed here. Seeing what happened in Sheikh Jarrah this past week and seeing the ongoing disproportionate use of military force in Gaza made me question that identity. How can I call Australia home, when the majority of our leaders fail to condemn the blood baths in Gaza? How can I call Australia my home when my brothers and sisters in Palestine are struggling to survive and our leaders fail to condemn the apartheid? How can I call Australia my home when my leaders fail to recognise my identity, still claiming that Palestine is not a legitimate state?
A big form of my identity is my history and my Palestinian culture, but Sheikh Jarrah made me realise that I cannot call Australia my home if they are abandoning my people overseas, where the crimes happening to them are the same crimes that I see in my family history.
Sheikh Jarrah made me realise how broken my Palestinian cultural identity is. After the attacks to Al Aqsa I saw the people of Sheikh Jarrah sit together and share Iftar, and I saw the people of Al Quds teach their children life and celebration on Eid. I’ve always known that key to the Palestinian identity is community and I realised I don’t get to experience being surrounded by community when I am so far away from home. The Palestinian community in Australia is small and as youth we’ve lost the ability of constantly being surrounded by our history, by our culture and by our community.
The mutual excitement that I constantly experience when meeting another Palestinian always brings me joy but after seeing Sheikh Jarrah, this experience is truly a reminder of our mutual pain. My community has been dispersed, we have all lost our homes, and through that we suffer the pain of losing the pure joy of the Palestinian community. The hospitality, the kindness, the laughter that is brought by living in a Palestinian community was broken by our diaspora and Sheikh Jarrah makes me yearn for the community identity that my family lost.
Sheikh Jarrah made me realise the importance of fighting for the right to return. I knew I had claim to land but it was never at the forefront of my fight. I believed in the right to return — but for so long I didn’t believe it was as important as other issues. I like to believe I buried my emotions, dismissed my valid anger and sadness of never being able to live in the home that my ancestors had built. I felt guilt for being able to live in Australia, for being able to access my basic necessities, and even with the many faults of our state, I had the comfort of going home with full certainty that I wouldn’t be met with the terror of the Israeli military the next day. Witnessing the Sheikh Jarrah events, seeing Palestinians kicked out their homes in the same way my grandparents were, has lit a spark in me. It made me realise that despite my guilt, my anger and frustration of losing my home, of never getting to grow up around my family and community, of never being able to fully appreciate my family history — was valid.
The author’s grandmother and late uncle. Photo courtesy of the author.
I am an internationally recognised Palestinian refugee. In Australia, I have never been asked how it feels to be a Palestinian refugee. Rather, my emotions, which are key to that identity have been simplified into a statistic. 7.2 million Palestinian refugees around the world. Politicians and the media debate whether or not we have the right to return.
Seeing the people of Sheikh Jarrah fight for homes made me recognise I must fight to0. I no longer want my identity to be politicised, to be simplified into statistics. I will no longer allow this number and the political debate that surrounds it compromise my identity. In order to fully achieve peace in Palestine, each and every Palestinian, no matter where they live must have access to all their supposedly guaranteed human rights. I must have access to my right to return.
I am the descendant of Palestinians; my paternal grandmother is the only surviving member of the Nakba in my family. My maternal grandfather fled Jenine on the West Bank after it was occupied by the military. My late paternal grandfather passed before he could witness the freedom of Palestine. Palestinian blood runs through my veins and although I am far from home, I am unapologetically Palestinian, and no one can take that away from me.
I will unapologetically continue to advocate against the State of Israel and their mistreatment of my brothers and sisters back home. I will unapologetically continue to fight for everything my family lost. I will unapologetically pray that Palestine will be free during a time where my paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather will be alive to witness it, so they can live their last days, in their true home, in their place of birth, فلسطين.
Amal is a proud Palestinian living on Gadigal land. She is currently in her third year of studying a Bachelor of Laws and Bachelor of Criminology and Criminal Justice at UNSW and has strong interest in the intersection of the law and the rights of Indigenous persons.’