Bridging the Gap Report: My Father Died Alone in Gaza
Palestinian Refuges in 1948
By Ramzy
Baroud, 04/09/2008 There are No Checkpoints in Heaven
I still vividly remember my father's face - wrinkled, apprehensive, warm -
as he last wished me farewell fourteen years ago. He stood outside the rusty
door of my family's home in a Gaza refugee camp wearing old yellow pajamas and a
seemingly ancient robe. As I hauled my one small suitcase into a taxi that would
take me to an Israeli airport an hour away, my father stood still. I wished he
would go back inside; it was cold and the soldiers could pop up at any moment.
As my car moved on, my father eventually faded into the distance, along with the
graveyard, the water tower and the camp. It never occurred to me that I would
never see him again.
I think of my father now as he was that day. His tears and his frantic last
words: "Do you have your money? Your passport? A jacket? Call me the moment you
get there. Are you sure you have your passport? Just check, one last time"
My father was a man who always defied the notion that one can only be the
outcome of his circumstance. Expelled from his village at the age of 10, running
barefoot behind his parents, he was instantly transferred from the son of a
landowning farmer to a penniless refugee in a blue tent provided by the United
Nations in Gaza. Thus, his life of hunger, pain, homelessness, freedom-fighting,
love, marriage and loss commenced.
The fact that he was the one chosen to quit school to help his father provide
for his now tent- dwelling family was a huge source of stress for him. In a
strange, unfamiliar land, his new role was going into neighboring villages and
refugee camps to sell gum, aspirin and other small items. His legs were a
testament to the many dog bites he obtained during these daily journeys. Later
scars were from the shrapnel he acquired through war.
As a young man and soldier in the Palestinian unit of the Egyptian army, he
spent years of his life marching through the Sinai desert. When the Israeli army
took over Gaza following the Arab defeat in 1967, the Israeli commander met with
those who served as police officers under Egyptian rule and offered them the
chance to continue their services under Israeli rule. Proudly and willingly, my
young father chose abject poverty over working under the occupier's flag. And
for that, predictably, he paid a heavy price. His two-year-old son died soon
after.
My oldest brother is buried in the same graveyard that bordered my father's
house in the camp. My father, who couldn't cope with the thought that his only
son died because he couldn't afford to buy medicine or food, would be found
asleep near the tiny grave all night, or placing coins and candy in and around
it.
My father's reputation as an intellectual, his passion for Russian literature,
and his endless support of fellow refugees brought him untold trouble with the
Israeli authorities, who retaliated by denying him the right to leave Gaza.
His severe asthma, which he developed as a teenager was compounded by lack of
adequate medical facilities. Yet, despite daily coughing streaks and constantly
gasping for breath, he relentlessly negotiated his way through life for the sake
of his family. On one hand, he refused to work as a cheap laborer in Israel.
"Life itself is not worth a shred of one's dignity," he insisted. On the other,
with all borders sealed except that with Israel, he still needed a way to bring
in an income. He would buy cheap clothes, shoes, used TVs, and other
miscellaneous goods, and find a way to transport and sell them in the camp. He
invested everything he made to ensure that his sons and daughter could receive a
good education, an arduous mission in a place like Gaza.
But when the Palestinian uprising of 1987 exploded, and our camp became a
battleground between stone-throwers and the Israeli army, mere survival became
Dad's over-riding concern. Our house was the closest to the Red Square,
arbitrarily named for the blood spilled there, and also bordered the 'Martyrs'
Graveyard'. How can a father adequately protect his family in such surroundings?
Israeli soldiers stormed our house hundreds of times; it was always him who
somehow held them back, begging for his children's safety, as we huddled in a
dark room awaiting our fate. "You will understand when you have your own
children," he told my older brothers as they protested his allowing the soldiers
to slap his face. Our 'freedom-fighting' dad struggled to explain how love for
his children could surpass his own pride. He grew in my eyes that day.
It's been fourteen years since I last saw my father. As none of his children had
access to isolated Gaza, he was left alone to fend for himself. We tried to help
as much as we could, but what use is money without access to medicine? In our
last talk he said he feared he would die before seeing my children, but I
promised that I would find a way. I failed.
Since the siege on Gaza, my father's life became impossible. His ailments were
not 'serious' enough for hospitals crowded with limbless youth. During the most
recent Israeli onslaught, most hospital spaces were converted to surgery wards,
and there was no place for an old man like my dad. All attempts to transfer him
to the better equipped West Bank hospitals failed as Israeli authorities
repeatedly denied him the required permit.
"I am sick, son, I am sick," my father cried when I spoke to him two days before
his death. He died alone on March 18, waiting to be reunited with my brothers in
the West Bank. He died a refugee, but a proud man nonetheless.
My father's struggle began 60 years ago, and it ended a few days ago. Thousands
of people descended to his funeral from throughout Gaza, oppressed people that
shared his plight, hopes and struggles, accompanying him to the graveyard where
he was laid to rest. Even a resilient fighter deserves a moment of peace.
Ramzy Baroud teaches mass communication at Curtin University of Technology
and is the author of The Second Palestinian Intifada: A Chronicle of a People's
Struggle . He is also the editor-in-chief of PalestineChronicle.com . He can be
contacted at:
editor@palestinechronicle.com.
The Brazilian Palestinian National Interest Committee is a non-profit
organization whose principal mission is to work with the legislative body of
Brazil on legislation that strengthens the relationship between Brazil and
Palestinians.
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