by Ghareeba
We will return.
That is not a threat,
not a wish,
a hope,
or a dream;
but a promise.
May 15th, 2013, marked the 65th commemoration of the Nakbah – the Great Catastrophe, described by Mahmoud Darwish as “an extended present that promises to continue in the future.” 65 years back, this day drenched universal human conscience in blood, and continues to expose it in its darkest colour, every year, since 65 years. Only 3 years after the foundation of the United Nations Organisation, on the shining principles of human rights and world peace, with a universal promise to enforce these highest values and do everything for their implementation; only 3 years after the declaration of the sacredness of political borders between countries and each country’s rights to freedom and sovereignty; a new country, in place of an already existing one, was formed.
The word ‘Nakbah’, in its most basic form, means a deviation, an undesired change, an unfortunate fault. The disaster or the calamity is the most unfortunate and undesirable deviation from the smooth path of a normal life. And this particular calamity marked the most striking deviation of the UN from its very basics; rather, a total contradiction.
On May 15th, 1948, Israel declared its independence. Confiscating land from its rightful owners, trespassing on their properties after forcefully displacing them, it declared its independence after bathing the nation in blood; independence from all morals and values, independence from humanity and conscience. A new country was established, and an ancient one declared as non-existent. And humanity watched, as villages were destroyed and villagers were killed with a cold blood; houses were bulldozed upon the residents’ heads, farms were destroyed and trees were cut down and animals were slaughtered; none was spared – neither land, nor people, nor trees nor cattle; none was spared, a whole nation was devoured, and a new state came into being.
The infant state was born from the womb of terror, and fed on blood and humanity and conscience. It was a catastrophic birth of a cold blooded parasite, marking the beginning of an unending series of blood baths and deaths. Death of everything, of every noble value in some, and of every hope and smile in others; death of morals and values somewhere, and of freedom and rights elsewhere.
Death it was, but even more horrifying than the death was that it could still be built upon! This death, the nothingness, the end, has been aggravating all the more ever since. The oppressed have been declared the criminals, the oppressors are granted the right of self-defense; those who were wronged are suppressed and denied the right to even demand for their rights, while the wrongdoers declare that to mention their wrong is an offensive crime. The commemoration of the Great Catastrophe is an offense, punishable by law; the Finance Minister enjoys the rights to cut down the funds of NGOs daring to commemorate the event; the very remembrance of the terror endured by the victims is declared to be terrorising! Those who still dare to remember, are harassed and threatened. But the tragedy of alienation has placed them above futile considerations of residency or citizenship. The pain has united them and made them one, in spite of staying very far away from each other. It has placed them above physical pain and suffering.
And May 15th was just the beginning; it marked the inauguration of an unending series of all that is inhuman. The Palestinians were ousted from their lands and forced to live elsewhere as refugees, only to be chased, again, in all those new places as well. The Palestinian refugee camp massacres again bathed human history in blood enough to shameface humanity for centuries together. Palestinians, after initially losing their lands and properties alongside their loved ones, continued to be victims of the most bloodthirsty events in the refugee camps.
One such person was Rihab, a Palestinian woman who lived with her family in a refugee camp in Lebanon. She lost 54 of her family members in two consecutive massacres, and was convinced that her 8 year old daughter, Maimanah, was the 55th. Maimanah, who was saved by a neighbour, believed that her mother was the 55th martyr of the family. Rihab went through life, mourning her lost daughter, and later left the country and found her solace in poetry and elegies.
When she appeared on TV channels, mourning the lost nation in rhymes and metres, she was recognised by the neighbour who informed her daughter. Later, some friendly TV channels arranged for video conferences between the clamouring mother and daughter, and quite expectedly, these communications were not only extremely touching but heart rending. And finally, the day came when mother and daughter saw each other without the barriers of TV screens. Abu Dhabi TV channel arranged for a meeting between the two, after the UAE government granted them visas, along with Maimanah’s brothers. And the meeting was indescribable! Stones melted, but some hearts didn’t. This tragedy was not the first, nor was it the last; it was not the beginning, nor was it the end. It was just another stage in the long history of persecution. It was just another blow to the already dead human conscience. But the dead don’t feel the novel blows, after all, do they?
Ghareebah is doing her MA in English, a passionate Indian Muslimah, searching for the higher truths.