From the mountain of olives, look to the mountain across, to the mound of rocks, to the weathered wall that surrounds the old city: a city raised, exchanged by hands and weighed down by his-stories. From where you stand, only the roofs are visible. A golden dome in the centre reflects the sun and announces Day. All around it people are praying, selling and buying, haggling, calling each other names. Beneath it, inside the mountain unseen, are men chiselling, looking for something. Will they find it? Might what they find surprise them?
Between the two mountains is a valley of graves, lined up in order of appearance. Three faiths divided by cemeteries, divided in the name of god, divided over nothing. The tombstones date back a long time, but which go back the furthest?
The trees are the oldest, but few remain. Uprooted to make way for roads to holy sites, they lost their ground to the canopy of cemeteries spreading beneath us.
They say: The dead witness the age. If so, what would they convey? Seek revenge until there is no more, or Irham: forgive and have compassion.
The dead cannot speak, and if they did, they would not be heard nor heeded. And if they were heard, they would be misunderstood and ultimately misinterpreted. Even those with the best intentions could misread things. It has happened before, and this story might not be an exception.
Look around you.
Bint Ibrahim points out:
‘Over there! Just below the wall to the left of the closed gate. That is where my grandparents are buried, next to each other, surrounded by family. Two of their children are keeping them company already, another one tried to join them but his corpse was turned back at the checkpoint, and a third one is waiting her turn. My father wished to be buried there, but he could not. He lost his right to return in sixty-seven, like half of his siblings and thousands of his people.
Nineteen sixty-seven: Palest--
It’s a worn out tale. Who wants to hear it. You’ve just started the story and you’ll lose people right off the bat. Didn’t I edit this part out already, or are you looking at one of the older versions? Besides, there’s so much that’s happened before then – and too much just recently. History is thorny and it’s not your strongest point-
‘Tawakali ala allah,’ Ibrahim whispers in our ear, put your trust in god.
‘But god does not seem to be intervening nowadays—’
‘Istakhfar allah al-atheem’ Ibrahim retorts, seek refuge in god – in other words, do not blaspheme.
Nineteen sixty-seven, bint Ibrahim cuts and pastes.
OK, go ahead then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
[Pour yourself another cup of tea. I won’t dwell here too long.]
1967: Palestine still existed on the map. Israel existed too, but not on Arabic maps. They did not refer to it by name, but as the occupation forces, the enemy, the Zionist entity, or simply the ‘entity.’ That changed after peace treaties were signed and diplomatic ties were established. ‘The Embassy of the Entity’ would not have been polite (Syria and Iraq maintained the nickname - or rather the euphemism until the bitter end and look where that got them, but I am getting ahead of myself.) Back in sixty-seven the entity was still a young state, no more than nineteen years old - officially. And while it occupied most of the coastal, strategic and fertile lands, it was nonetheless contained. Arab nationalism was strong at that time, with Egyptian president Jamal Abdulnasser as its charismatic leader, and the shared Arab dream of thwarting the Zionist agenda as the common denominator. Liberation fighter groups composed of Palestinian refugees and Arab supporters were busy organizing and launching attacks and ambushes. The entity was a temporary reality that would soon be expelled. A common enemy everyone can unite against. But then the war of June came.
‘You can go and Allah be with you,’ grandfather said, ‘but I belong to this land. Just put a mat for me under a tree and I will sit there and be content. I was born here and I will die here and I will be buried here next to my parents and my family.’
‘Where he stays, I stay,’ grandmother said.
‘The Ottomans came and left,’ grandfather continued, ‘Britain came and left. Jordan came and is now leaving. Israel came and will eventually leave. I am not going anywhere.’
He did not see the last one go, but at least he got his last wish, burried under that lone tree with grandmother resting next to him. Allah yirhamhom. God have mercy on their soul.
They died exactly six years apart, to the day, on a Sunday. He went first, she never left his side, ‘Warak warak, in life and death.’ For six consecutive years, she visited his grave every Friday after praying jum'a at al-Haram. She would wake up early and bake her specialty bread with fresh thyme and olive oil, grandfather’s favourite, and give it to the poor who were waiting at the cemetery for such acts of charity. Many women used to visit the deceased loved ones with baked goods. It must have smelt like a bakery there, a place of ’aysh: bread and life.
Calendars repeat themselves every six years, wherein the same date of the month falls on the same day of the week. It's as if she timed her death. But she knew nothing of repeating calendars, she was a simple fellaha, a peasant, functioning out of innate nature, functioning out of love.
What about the trees?
Since 1967 settlers have uprooted more than 800,000 Palestinian-owned olive trees in the West bank. (The Nation)
Almost 50% of tree crops have been destroyed in Gaza. (The Guardian)
From the holy mountain, look to the mountain across, to the groves of olives…
‘What a better view to look upon when you’re dead,’ my father used to say with a sheepish smile to hide a tear.
Gosh, if only I could have made your wish come true, Baba, but it would have taken no less than the return of the messiah.
The messiah!?
Now you’re bound to lose your readers AND the tea pot is empty. So, I suggest we pause, go greet the sun while the water boils and reconvene - another day.