Nakba Day: '48 Palestinians dream of return to their ruined villages stolen by Israel

Throughout her 100 years of life, Hajja Amina Al-Saeed never realised her dream of returning to her birthplace in the now-depopulated village of Al-Damun in the Akka district, from which she was displaced during the 1948 Nakba.

Just a few weeks ago, she was buried in Tamra city, not far from where Al-Damun had been situated. In her final days, Alzheimer's had taken its toll, but memories of Al-Damun and her father remained strong.

Hajja Amina's story is one of the many ongoing tales of the Nakba, the 77th anniversary of which was commemorated this week on 15 May. 

Al-Damun is one of 531 Palestinian villages from which Zionist paramilitaries forcibly expelled residents during the Nakba ("Catastrophe") of 1947-48.

This year, many second and third generation Nakba survivors, who had been active in Nakba remembrance events inside historic Palestine (modern-day Israel), are absent, having passed away.

On the western slopes of the Mount Carmel range is the small village of Ein Hod. Unbeknownst to some, its original location is situated nearby.

Jewish immigrants settled the village after its Palestinian inhabitants were expelled by Zionist gangs in 1948. They named the place Ein Hod, after its original Arabic name Ein Hawd, and today it is known for being an "artists' village".

Samir Abu Al-Hijja, an author, lives in the new Ein Hawd, which was established nearby on part of the original village lands overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and the picturesque Carmel forest. He is a third-generation Nakba survivor.

Every day, he passes his original village (more beautiful than the current one, he says), which reminds him of the Nakba daily.

On one wall in his home, which Al-Araby Al-Jadeed, The New Arab's Arabic-language sister edition, visited, there is a framed photo of his grandfather, and on another, one of his father, a first and second generation Nakba survivor.

He has written multiple books documenting stories and accounts of the Nakba — not only from the displaced who remained within the 1948 borders, which became the Israeli state, but also from those in the occupied Palestinian territories and the diaspora.

"I spent two decades documenting the oral histories because of their vital importance," he explains.

"Today, I would say the Nakba is continuing in various forms, including within the Arab society inside Israel. For example, a few months ago Israeli authorities demolished my son's house under the pretext he hadn't had a building permit, as well as my cousin's house. But no one has a permit in the entire village," Samir adds. 

"One aspect of the ongoing Nakba is Israel's refusal to expand zoning areas and issue building permits. This is part of the Israeli policy toward the Arab community."

Samir believes that documenting Palestinian stories and strengthening the Palestinian narrative blocks attempts by Israeli and international politicians to erase the history and identity of the Palestinian people.

He says that collecting testimonies has convinced him that "people will never forget the Nakba, not even the younger generations in the diaspora, and everyone is committed to the Right of Return."

In addition to writing, Samir organises tours around Ein Hawd where he talks about its history. He believes that while much of the younger generation is keen to visit the depopulated villages their grandparents came from and preserve their memory, others have lost that motivation and need encouragement to spark their interest and raise their awareness.

"There is a movement, which I sense through being invited to give lectures about the Nakba at various institutions and schools, or through people asking me to organise tours to villages like Ein Hawd and others in the Carmel coastal region, which includes around 16 depopulated villages," he says. 

Samir adds that the oral accounts he has gathered over two decades weave together a picture of the thriving culture and society that existed in Palestine before the Nakba.

Ziad Tameesh, who is from the depopulated village of Lajjun, now lives in the nearby city of Umm al-Fahm. He visits the ruins of his former town daily.

Recalling his memories of the 1948 expulsion, he says: "I was less than six years old during the Nakba, but I still have many vivid memories. I remember our house, the colour of its windows, and its green door. We lived near Wadi al-Sitt and Ain al-Khalil.

"There was a place we called the market, and a pergola we would climb with a ladder and sit on top. I remember going to the spring with my mother, and workers trampling wheat and barley on a wooden threshing board studded with stones. They used to put us on the board and toss us into the hay for fun."

He says he will never forget almost being left behind during the expulsion: "My mother was carrying my little brother; my father had already left after a family member was martyred. During the attack, I held onto my mother's dress, but with all the noise of gunfire and children crying, I must have let go," he shares.

"A neighbour found me and brought me back to my mother. She would always say until the end of her life: 'If we hadn't found you, they would have arrested you, or you would have become a Jew.'"

He remembers his mother telling him that the spring was the site where young men went to choose their brides, and was known as the "Path of the Shawls", before they would go to the girls' families to ask for their hands in marriage.

"Today, I visit Lajjun every day. The place pulls me in — I pray there and stay for about two hours before returning to my home in Umm al-Fahm."

Tameesh takes part in events in Lajjun, and leads tours around what is left of the village, the ruined cemetery and mosque of which remain visible.

He describes Lajjun's lands as "breathtaking" in their beauty, and says he is dedicated to preserving and passing on oral histories of the place.

"Sometimes we enter Kibbutz Megiddo, which stands on the village's land, to check on the state of the mosque and clean it, which they don't like. When I talk about Lajjun, my emotions and senses are stirred. Playing a role in passing this history onto groups and younger generations helps ease the pain I feel inside."

This is an edited and abridged translation from our Arabic edition. To read the original article, click here.

Translated by Rose Chacko   

This article is taken from our Arabic sister publication, Al-Araby Al Jadeed and mirrors the source's original editorial guidelines and reporting policies. Any requests for correction or comment will be forwarded to the original authors and editors

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