Palestine April 21st, 1985
Not much happened in the second journal, besides me taking so, so many connecting flights. The stuff worth discussing begins during my final flight from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France to al-Khader International Airport in Lydda, Palestine, named for a saint associated with the city.
I sat, sleeping, in the economy class of the flight, as the plane made its way to what many call the holiest place in the world, if one considers all of humanity. Others call it an exotic land of mystery and magic, part of the unknowable East that many of the colonial powers drooled over at the thought of. To me, though an interesting place and certainly not mundane, it is simply home.
“Any lunch for you, my friend?” asks a flight attendant’s deep, masculine voice in my home country’s Arabic tongue.
I awaken, my eyes creeping open to the sight of a plump, middle-aged man with a thick beard and a flight attendant’s suit. He is pushing a cart of meals, evidently the lunch for today. I groaned quietly, knowing full well the way airline food tended to be.
“Potato Emshaat with cheese,” I make my order, referring to the Palestinian Cheese Latke in Arabic, which we named for being similar to a local cauliflower fritter.
Hopefully this meal would be simple enough for an on-flight cook.
“Here you go!” the attendant says with a wide smile.
He gave me a box wrapped in tinfoil, along with a package of date jam to go with the latkes.
“Enjoy!” is his last word to me.
I put on a fake smile, hoping to ease any guilt he may feel over serving me airline food. As he leaves, I unwrap the tinfoil and frown upon seeing its contents. Though not bad by any means, rather than a deep golden or a nice, crispy brown, the latkes are a greenish gold, with cheese oozing out of the top and sides. Definitely undercooked with too much cheese.
I grimace as I try to eat it, my teeth chewing on tough fibers. Hold on, did they use russet potatoes? Everyone in Palestine knows you only use gold, no matter which community you belong to! It’s fluffier!
“Emshaat’s not great, is it?” asked a woman next to me, her Arabic having hints of a French accent.
I turned to my left, looking face-to-face with a middle-aged woman in a red hijab, or headscarf, and casual clothes. Her gray eyes are watching me with pity.
“Indeed,” I reply. “My father popularized them.”
The woman’s eyes widened.
“You’re Yafa Awad!” she gasped in awe.
I stare at her blankly, an eyebrow raised.
“How do you know my name?” I inquire.
“Oh, everyone in my neighborhood knows it,” explains the woman. “You were that paleontologist who rescued an Amazigh necklace from foreign thieves, back in Algeria!”
“I’m an archaeologist,” I tell her, with a flattered grin. “And only a student. Although my Professors say I’m more of a vigilante.”
She looks puzzled by my choice of words, even in Arabic.
“A vigilante fights injustice outside of legal limits,” I explain.
“Oh yes!” she quietly cheers, her eyes lighting up. “Yafa, my little daughter, Nusi, loves hearing about your exploits!”
“Mama, I was sleeping,” groans a child, sleeping next to the mother.
“Nusi, habibti, look who that is!” her mother points.
I watch with a grin as the child wakes up, her grumpiness soon turning to joy, as she catches sight of me.
“Mama, look!” she exclaims rather loudly. “It’s Yafa Awad!!!”
Bing!
The loudspeaker turns on.
“Please make sure your children utilize an appropriate volume on our flight,” the voice on the intercom says in French, before repeating in Arabic.
“Sorry,” whispers Nusi. “You’re the cool lady who fights the bad thieves who steal people’s stuff!”
I chuckle, before inquiring, “What brings you guys to Palestine?”
“We have family in Jerusalem’s Old City,” explains Nusi’s mother. “Mughrabi Quarter. My husband has already arrived there.”
“Yafa, who did you help this time?” asks Nusi, ignoring my question.
I feel compelled to answer the first fan of mine that I have met or knew existed for that matter. How did I even have fans? I’m just an archaeologist after all. Well one who often beats up imperialists and thieves.
“A tribe of the forest who live like the Bedouins,” I explain, comparing the K’áax Mayans to the nomads of the desert. “I helped them save a special ball.”
The little girl squeals quietly.
“What do you want to do as a grown-up?” I ask her.
“I want to stop bad guys, just like you!” she cheers.
I chuckle. Her professors are sure to have a handful when she goes to university.
“Do you approve of this?” I ask Nusi’s mother.
“Of course,” her mother says, playfully. “What kind of a mother would I be if I crushed her dreams?”
If she weren’t so supportive, what kind of mother would Nusi’s mom be? Perhaps a mother like the most renowned anthropologist in the Arab world, the brilliant, Earth-changing Dr. Yusra Hamad. Thank God for Nusi that her mom is nothing like that.
“Not to promote my father’s business,” I changed the subject, emerging from my mind, “But you guys should really check out his restaurant.”
“Of course,” replied Nusi’s mother. “He spread the Potato emshaat across the Arab world. But are his really the best?”
“Technically not,” I whisper. “My aunt Judith’s are. But his ones are still divine. I think only an airline can mess up the recipe.”
Hours later and suitcases in hand, I exit the automatic doors of al-Khader’s massive, horizontal Terminal 1 building, stepping into a sidewalk shaded by a long, cross-vaulted steel sunroof, modeled after a unique Palestinian architectural style, a blend of both the particular customs of our country and ideas brought in from abroad. On the other hand the Terminal 1 building itself just looked like a modern, square terminal building, though there is nothing wrong with that: I’m just a sucker for people honoring their own culture as well.
“Hey, Yaff!” calls the distinctly teenage voice of my cousin Janna.
I look to my right, catching sight of a teenage girl of moderate height and slender build making a stride towards me. She has shoulder-length straight, dark brown hair and is clothed in a red and striped t-shirt and tight jeans. The girl is wearing sneakers and green sunglasses, her skin relatively fair, like her mother. She is wearing a wide smile on her face, removing the sunglasses to reveal deep-brown eyes full of vibrant life. These are the eyes of my teenage cousin, Janna Faye Kanaan.
“Jeem-Feh-Kaf!” I greet her in Arabic, referring to her initials, roughly translating to “JFK” in English.
As we rush into each other's arms, I give my baby cousin a strong hug. She is now… fourteen?! And she graduated school early! They grow up so fast. I think back to the aspiration she has had since childhood.
“Still want to be Palestine’s Prime Minister, little cousin?” I ask her.
“Of course Yaff,” Janna replies with a beaming grin. “You remember how I organized those protests with other students across our hometown, right?”
She is referring to the student protests in Jerusalem last year, demanding that Sheikh Jarrah, a neighborhood in the eastern side of our city, not be demolished to make way for a foreign company called Nordmann Global. Our Little JFK (as I nicknamed her) stood up for the common Palestinian, together with her peers, eventually convincing the mayor to cancel the foreign business’s contract.
“I do Janna,” I chuckle. “But being Prime Minister is much harder than organizing a protest. Prime Minister Nusaybah lost his left leg during his time. Remember al-Muqawima?”
I am referring to Anwar Nusaybah, one of the founding fathers of modern Palestine, who invited Bundist European Jews as “guests of the land” or “Duyuf al-balad” and eventually as brothers, part of our people. As for al-Muqawima, I refer to this country’s war for independence, roughly meaning “resistance”, against the Hashemites of Jordan, the former Egyptian Sultanate, and various Zionist terror groups (made up of Jews who forced themselves on this land, rather than coming as guests like the Duyuf) among other powers.
“I know this already, cousin,” she replies. “It’s stuff we learn in 2nd grade. Besides, I have to start somewhere.”
I chuckle at the thought of her leading the country and all its communities, from Palestinian Arabs and Jews to Duyuf Jews of Europe to the newly-arrived refugees from Iraq (may God condemn that American puppet Saddam). But then again, Janna is what people call Za’atar, derived from a spice mix widely used in our country. She is mixed from two communities in terms of her heritage.
“Yafa, it’s so nice to see you again!” called a woman’s voice, her Arabic containing a hint of some Central or Eastern European roots. “Happy late birthday!”
I look beyond Janna to the sight of her mother, a fair-skinned woman with dark brown hair and clear eyes. She is wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, with large, thick glasses on her face.
“Hi Auntie!” I greet the woman, Judith Safir-Hamad, the adopted sister of my mother. “Thank you!”
“Happy birthday,” Janna quickly adds, sheepishly pulling a lock of hair behind her ear.
My aunt Judith walks over to me, putting her hands on my hips and shoulders. She pushes on them, before feeling my neck.
“You’re slouching Yafa,” she says as she fusses over my posture.
“It’s been a long trip,” I explained. “Fought a few thieves in Yucatan. Trying to steal a tribe’s sacred ball. Where’s my dad?”
As if on cue, a heavily beaten, but only few year-old Toyota Camry rushes onto the road beside the sidewalk, eliciting honks from almost every driver in the area. The window rolls down, revealing the face of a well-tanned man with a thick, bushy mustache and balding black hair.
“Peace be upon you, my daughter!” he shouts, cheerily.
I chuckle, noting his use of the full Arabic greeting. He’s been getting so into his faith lately. I wonder if it has to do with my mom and… never mind her.
“And peace be upon you, Baba!” I greet him back. “I can drive us home, though.”
My father furrowed his brows.
“Yafa, you don’t trust me?” he inquires.
“I do,” I reply. “But I am not sure the Palestinian people feel the same way.”
I drive into the city in my dad’s car, with him riding shotgun and Janna and Aunt Judith in the back. I take a moment to admire my hometown, the heir of ancient Jerusalem, city of David, now named al-Quds in Arabic or Elkadesh in Yiddish. We wind through the road into the newest extensions of this ancient city, a residential area for its growing population. Each apartment block resembles a typical apartment building, save for the appearance of Moorish motifs such as horseshoe-shaped windows, especially near the roof.
I turn the steering wheel, taking the vehicle into the most exotic-looking part of the city, something straight out of a foreign artist’s wildest imaginations. Buildings, appearing to be made of limestone, rise from the valley below, seemingly made of thousands of large blocks, flowing from one to another.
As I wind the car into the streets of this section of the city, we drive under the massive, al-Hurriya Arch (also called the Hanukkah Arch), built to commemorate Palestine’s independence on December 26th, 1948, which was also appropriately the first day of Hanukkah that year, so our Duyuf brothers could celebrate our shared victory over those who wished to destroy us. The monument has a horseshoe-shaped interior and is wide, like a Roman triumphal arch, but inscribed with the names of all who fell to protect Palestine’s freedom, whether they be Arab or Jew. The arch appears to be made of limestone, constructed with massive blocks, like the temples of ancient times.
To an onlooker, it might as well be that, but as a Palestinian, I know the truth: these buildings are all recent. Most are concrete, covered by limestone-like blocks to create an allusion to Palestine’s history. As for the exotic appearance, it was part of an early movement in the late 40s to early 60s by Palestinian leaders to preserve the unique character of al-Quds, as best as possible. Frankly, I and many other Palestinians think they overreached; the Old City looks less like the fantastical paintings of foreigners than this part of the city.
However, one place where such a style is indisputably praised can be seen from right around the corner. On a small mountain in the distance is the Bayt Sulayman or Beit Shloyme Synagogue, the largest in the whole city and the heart of Judaism in Palestine. Its massive main, rectangular building is painted white like the Missions of California and their adobe brick buildings (and yes, I’ve actually been to the West Coast, it’s like home but way drier). What sets the synagogue apart though is the roof, which features a wide octagonal tower, crowned by a dome, covered in brilliant teal tiles.
On the subject of domes, I look ahead on the road, catching sight of a shiny copper one in the distance, the initial inspiration of the Synagogue’s domed tower. While hard to make out from where we are, the image of the colorful tiles and the perfectly divine geometry pop into my head. Of course I am talking about the crown on al-Quds’s head, the Dome of the Rock on the Noble Sanctuary, built on the site of the ancient temple.
The Old City is near. I am home.
“Sana Helwa ya Gameel!” my family chants. “Sana Helwa ya Gameel!”
I grin, as they sing, all of us surrounding a birthday knafeh on the table, lit with three candles, each for nine years of my life. My father Yusuf, my aunt Judith, and Janna are present. Absent is my Uncle Omar, who I excuse, since he’s been busy helping his fellow workers at their blacksmithing cooperative. Besides, he helped me craft that Crusader sword I use all the time. The only absence that hurts is… never mind.
“Sana Helwa, Sana Helwa!” everyone but the absent Dr. Yusra Hamad sings. “Sana Helwa ya Gameel!”
I huff and I puff and I blow out the candles. As for my wish… Well, it is said that one’s wish won’t come true if it is revealed.
“What’d you wish for, cousin?” asks Janna.
“It’s a secret,” I explained, as I cut into the knafeh with a knife, serving a slice for her.
She takes the plate, nodding in thanks, beginning to eat the sweet, cheesy pastry, chewing through its fine layers.
“My little sister?” asks Aunt Judith, referring to the woman I had been wishing to come. “Your mother may have never shown it, but part of her loved you.”
“Great, now she isn’t going to show up Auntie,” I sigh.
“And you laugh at me for believing in the evil eye,” scoffs my father.
“That superstition won’t bring Mama back home,” I explained. “But this one might have.”
“At least she’s alive somewhere,” added Aunt Judith, empathy in her tone. “Remember my birth mother and your grandmother?”
I sigh, recalling how Aunt Judith lost her birth mother to the fanaticism of Adolf Hitler and his Nazi thugs. The monsters. My mind then shifts to how my mother’s mother, who adopted Judith after the war, had died in the war of independence, skinned alive by far-right Zionists, as they all let out a chilling cackle. And then, as an adult, she lost her husband, an Arab Christian man named Faisal Kanaan, before their daughter, our little JFK was born.
“Well, to Yafa’s defense, I’ve missed Yusra as well,” my dad admits.
“I don’t miss that woman, Baba,” I snapped. “I just wish Aunt Judith were my mother. She certainly filled the role that Dr. Hamad should have played.”
Everyone stares at me silently, their mouths wide. I sigh.
“I’m sorry guys,” I apologize. “I, I-”
“We know it’s been a lot, Yaff,” Janna expressed her sympathy.
“Waarf!” a medium-pitched bark echoes from down the hall of our home.
We all turn to see a black-coloured greyhound trotting over to the table. Our little princess, Ghazala, emotional support for my father, was demanding her share of the Knafeh. With a chuckle, I spread some of the pieces of my slice, which I had taken during our discussion, onto my fingers and let Ghazala lick away with her long tongue.
I distributed knafeh to the rest of my family I had with me, making sure to save some for my Uncle Omar, next time I went to his cooperative in Old Yaffa. As I looked at the last piece, I felt the temptation to just add some more to my plate. Dr. Yusra Hamad wouldn’t come back to the family. That was certain. Yet still, I chose to ignore the piece and continued chatting with my dad, Janna, and Aunt Judith.
Author's Note:
Hello everyone,
Unlike the alternate history alluded to by Yafa and Janna in this Journal, Palestine in real-life is facing a genocidal campaign against them, the culmination of a brutal colonial occupation that has lasted since 1948. As with previous Journals, the links below will be useful in educating oneself on the issue. While we may not be able to do much alone, together all of us can move mountains, affecting change in the world.
Best wishes,
-Benedict Sky
Links:
https://decolonizepalestine.com/
https://bdsmovement.net/
https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/
