Flight of A Refuge Family

Flight of a Refugee Family 

During the mid nineteenth century, mounting tension between Maronite Christians and the Druze (Arab followers of a sect similar to Islam) culminated in persecution of the Maronites by the Druze, causing my ancestors to flee Lebanon. The backstory is as follows. 

In 1842 the supreme powers in Constantinople, concerned that Lebanon had gone too far in its separatist policy, partitioned the country between the Maronites and the Druze, following the prin- ciple of divide and conquer. The Maronites, who actively embraced the educational and cultural influences of the West, became dis- proportionately influential in financial and state affairs and soon outdistanced the Druze economically and socially. 

They also started to establish themselves in districts that had previously been dominated by the Druze.
Tensions simmered between the two groups until finally, in 1860, violence swept the country. More than eleven thousand Maronite Christians were killed by their Druze neighbors, and many of their buildings were torched. That same year my grand- father’s family moved to the ancient port city of Jaffa in Ottoman- ruled Palestine. 

By 1867, eight years later, about one thousand of Jaffa’s five thousand inhabitants were Christians; the rest were Arabic-speaking Muslims and Arabic-speaking Jews who had coexisted peacefully for many years. Known as “The Bride of Pales- tine,” Jaffa was a hub of activity, linking the people of Palestine with other port cities around the Mediterranean and the western world. 

My father was born in Jaffa, which today is a part of modern Tel Aviv. He told me many stories about his parents’ beautiful home in the neighborhood of Ajami, where his family lived until the 1948 war forced them to flee to Egypt. On that day he had no time to gather his clothes, his toys, or even his beloved collection of stamps from all around the world. 

His parents, thinking the war would end quickly, left everything in their home. They took only the house keys with them, expecting to return in a week or two and resume life as normal.

But there was no returning. Jaffa had become part of the new Jewish state of Israel, and Palestinian refugees—which my father’s family now were—were not allowed to reenter Israel. The Israeli government gave the abandoned Arab houses to Jewish immigrants at no cost. 

Tales of My Life - The Cross of Humiliation

The Cross of Humiliation 

“Ma atah oseh po?” the Israeli soldier demanded of me in Hebrew. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” I replied—and the next instant, he was aiming his rifle at me!
The year was 1987, the year the First Intifada began, and I was twelve years old, playing in the streets of the Via Dolorosa, utterly unaware that a riot was underway in the market. But as I was head- ing home, suddenly soldiers were all around. Some were sitting right at a point I had to pass—and now this one, a man with an ugly reputation, was pointing his gun right at my head!
Click. Click. He pulled the trigger twice. 

The magazine was empty. He was just dry-firing, amusing him- self at my expense, but I was terrified.
Since my only way home in the Old City lay directly past him, I

kept walking as fast as I could, trembling inside and hoping to get by without any further incident.
No such luck. The soldier got up, approached me, and without warning, smack! slapped me hard across my face! I began to cry in earnest. I was hurt. I was afraid for my life. And I guess the man realized I had done nothing wrong, because after that, he let me go. I ran home, crying hard. 

The slap stung all the more because I hadn’t deserved it, and the clicks echoed in my head. My dad, during his years as a policeman, had never slapped me like that, let alone scared me with his gun.
Lest it sound like I’m singling out Israeli soldiers, I assure you that, for a Palestinian Christian, oppression comes from every side. On another occasion, I had finished school at New Gate for the day and gone with my friends to play at Damascus Gate in East Jerusa- lem, the Muslim section of the city. I was standing near a toy shop opposite the gate when one of the local boys approached me—a big, fat, strong-looking kid.
“Are you Christian or Muslim?” he asked.

With a big smile on my face, I replied, “Christian.”
Wham! Out of nowhere he hit me in the face. I reeled back in
pain and confusion but otherwise did not react. I was too stunned to do anything except, instinctively, turn the other cheek, not real- izing I was doing exactly what Jesus said I should do when mis- treated (Matt. 5:39). The pain was intense, and I started to cry. Why did he do that? I thought. I did nothing wrong!
The owner of the toy shop, who happened to be a Christian, saw what had happened. He came out, took my hand, comforted me, and then sent me home.