Blood Brothers

lang=EN-GB>Introduction: This is from David Hazard's
telling of Father Elias Chacour's story in "Blood Brothers" published
by Chosen Books in 1984. It is a true-life account of what really happened
at the birth of modern Israel. And, in the 1984 words of the publishers "in
a world taut with tension and terror, this book offers hope-filled insight into
living at peace." Fr. Elias Chacour has three times been nominated for
the Nobel Peace Prize.

In the book's dedication, Fr. Chacour wrote: "To
my father who will not be mentioned in the world history books, though he is
written in the heart of God as His beloved child: Michael Moussa Chacour from
Biram in Galilee, refugee in his own country and one who speaks the language
of patience, forgiveness and love. And to my brothers and sisters, the Jews
who died in Dachau; and their brothers and sisters, the Palestinians who died
in Tel-azzaatar, Sabra and Shatila refugee camps."

‘Can you help me to say that the persecution and stereotyping
of Jews is as much an insult to God as the persecution of Palestinians?' he
begged. ‘I wish to disarm my Jewish brother so he can read in my eyes the words,
"I love you." I have beautiful dreams for Palestinian and Jewish children together.'

Our encounter sent me on a search for some truth amid the
muddle of violence and recriminations, politics and spiritual claims. The fact
that I was writing the story of one man's life did not make my work any easier.
My strong desire to set Elias Chacour's personal story in perspective made writing
painfully slow. And all the while my political opinions and my long-held beliefs
about Bible prophecy were stretched further than I imagined possible.

What drove me to completing Blood Brothers was the
human drama - the compassion and the rare treasure of peace within Elias Chacour
that I wanted to discover for myself. His is a true account that moved me as
few before - an account of faith in the midst of indignity, hatred and violence
in the furnace that is the Middle East.

Surely
my older brother was confused. I could hardly believe what he was telling me.
I leaned dangerously far out on a branch, my bare feet braced against the tree
trunk, and accidentally knocked a scattering of figs down onto the head of poor
Atallah who had just delivered the curious news.

"A celebration?" I shouted from my tilting
perch. "Why are we having a celebration? Who told you?"

"I heard Mother say--" he called back,
dodging the falling figs, "that something very big is happening in the
village. And" he paused, his voice sinking to a conspiratorial hush, "Father
is going to buy a lamb."

A lamb! Then it must be a special
occasion. But why? It was still a few weeks until the Easter season, I puzzled,
sitting upright on the branch. At Easter-time our family celebrated with a rare
treat of roasted lamb -- and for that matter it was one of the few times during
the year that we ate meat at all. We knew -- because Father always reminded
us -- that the lamb represented Jesus, the Lamb of God. And, of course, I realised
that Father was not going to buy a lamb. We rarely bought anything. We
bartered for items that we could not grow in the earth or make or raise ourselves,
the same as everyone else in our village of Biram.

I must find Father and ask him myself,
I decided. With a recklessness that would have paled my mother, I swung
down from the treetop and flung myself to the ground. Then I was off, running
toward the centre of the village. Surely someone had seen Father. I shot into
the sun-bright square - and nearly toppled to a halt. The square, it startled
me to see, was not abandoned to the clots of older men who usually nodded there
in the afternoon warmth. Men young and old were huddled everywhere, talking
about .. what? Surely everyone had heard the news but me!

Impatiently, my dark eyes scanned the
groups of men for Father's slender form. It was no use. Nearly all the men wore
kafiyehs, the white, sheet-like headcoverings that shaded their heads
from the Galilean sun and braced them from the wind. At a glance, almost any
of them might be Father!

On tip-toe I carefully laced my way between
these huddles, peering around elbows in search of that one lean, gentle face.
The faces I saw looked pinched and serious. Whatever they were discussing was
most urgent. Otherwise they would not be gathered here on a spring afternoon
when fields wanted ploughing and trees awaited the clean slice of the pruning
hook.

Not that I was eavesdropping, of course,
but amid the murmur of discussion I picked up the fact that Biram was expecting
a special visit. But who was coming? Visits by the Bishop were quite
an event, but regular enough that they did not cause this kind of stir.

My sneaking was not altogether unnoticed,
however. Poking my face into one circle of men, I stared up into a pair of black
deepset eyes, belonging to one of the two mukhtars of Biram -- a chief
elder in the village. I tried to duck, but -- "What do you want here, Elias?"
the mukhtar's voice was gravelly with an edge of sternness.

"I .. uh .. have you seen my father?
I have to find him -- it's important." I hoped that I sounded convincing, and
it was true enough since I was about to die with curiosity.

The sternness of his look eased a bit.
"No Elias, I haven't seen him. He's probably--"

"I spoke with him earlier," another man
interrupted. "He went trading today -- I don't know where. Maybe over in the
Jewish village." Then he stepped in front of me, closing the circle again. Thankfully,
I was forgotten.

The Jewish village? Perhaps. As I fled
from the square, I remembered that Father often went there to barter. Many of
these Jewish neighbours came to Biram to trade as well. When they stopped by
our house for figs, Father welcomed them with the customary hospitality and
a cup of tar-like, bittersweet coffee - the cup of friendship. One man was a
perfect marvel to me, roaring into our yard almost weekly in a sleek, black
automobile -- the first one I had ever seen.

Certainly, this was a child-like vision.
Only vaguely was I aware of distant disturbances.

There had been trouble in the mid-1930s,
before my birth. Father told us there had been opposition to the British who
had driven out the Turks and now protected us under a temporary Mandate. Strikes
and riots had shaken Jerusalem, Haifa and all of Palestine, but these were quickly
quelled. It was just one more incident in the long history of armies that traversed
or occupied our land. Then things had settled, so it appeared, into a lull.
Soon, it was hoped, the British would establish a free Palestinian government,
as they had promised. Without a single radio or newspaper in all Biram -- even
then, in the late 1940s -- we had no inkling that a master plan was already
afoot, or that powerful forces in Jerusalem, in continental Europe, in Britain
and America were sealing the fate of our small village and all Palestinian people.

Standing dejectedly on the road from
Biram, with the sun settling low and red on the hills, my only thoughts were
of Father. And Mother .. oh no! I had forgotten about Mother! Surely
she would be home from the fields, upset to find that I'd wandered off again.
My feet were flying before I'd finished the thought.

At the edge of our orchard, the sweet
scent of woodsmoke from Mother's outdoor fire met me, and the steamy sweetness
of baking bread. Mother was stooping over her metal oven which stood on a low
grate next to the house.

Mother looked up at me, the firelight
playing about her pleasant, full face. A brightly coloured kerchief drew her
hair up in a bun. I cringed, expecting a sound scolding. At that moment, however,
she seemed unusually distracted, her gentle eyes clouded in thought. "Go and
help Moussa carry the water," she murmured, waving me away.

I had to know before I exploded. "Mother,
what's happening in Biram? Is Father buying a lamb? Is it a celebration?"

"A celebration? Well, yes. Perhaps. Father
wants to tell you himself. I said go help your brother."

"Hello, Elias. I'm glad to see such a
happy helper." From the shadowy green darkness beneath the fig boughs, a lean
figure stepped out into the circle of firelight. Behind him, led by a short
cord of rope, was a yearling lamb.

When Father returned home at the end
of each day he brought with him a certain, almost mystical calm. His eyes lit
up in the flicker of firelight and a placid smile always turned up the corners
of his thick moustache. At his appearance, disputes between children ceased
instantly. For one thing, Father was stern with his discipline. Play was one
matter, but rude behaviour did not befit the children of Michael Chacour. More
than that, I believe we all felt the calm that seemed to lift Father above the
squabbles of home or village. Above all, Father was a man of peace.

If some important news was in the wind,
Father did not seem ruffled by it in the least. No matter that I was about to
split in half with curiosity! He accepted a steaming plate of food from Mother,
settling with a regal quietness beside the sputtering fire.

Just when I was certain I would explode,
Father set aside his plate. "Come here, children. I have something special to
tell you." he said, motioning for us to sit by him. It had grown fully dark
and chilly, and I pressed in close at his side.

"In Europe," he began, and I noticed
a sadness in his eyes, "there was a man called Hitler. A Satan. For a long time
he was killing Jewish people. Men and women, grandparents -- even boys and girls
like you. He killed them just because they were Jews. For no other reason."

I was not prepared for such horrifying
words. Someone killing Jews? The thought chilled me, made my stomach
uneasy.

"Now this Hitler is dead," Father continued.
"But our Jewish brothers have been badly hurt and frightened. They can't go
back to their homes in Europe, and they have not been welcomed by the rest of
the world. So they are coming here to look for a home."

"In a few days, children," he said, watching
our faces, "Jewish soldiers will be travelling through Biram. They are called
Zionists lang=EN-GB>. A few will stay in each home, and some will stay right here with
us for a few days -- maybe a week. Then they will move on. They have machine
guns, but they don't kill. You have no reason to be afraid. We must be especially
kind and make them feel at home."

Father saw the sombre look on all of
our faces. With a sudden change of tone, he announced festively, "That's why
I bought the lamb. We're going to prepare a feast. This year we'll celebrate
the Resurrection early - for our Jewish brothers who were threatened with death,
and are alive."

Before the excitement bubbled over entirely,
Father quieted our cheering. As usual, we would finish our mealtime with family
prayers. I crept onto Mother's lap, though I was really too big by then, and
listened as Father bowed his head.

"Father in heaven," he began softly,
"help us to show love to our Jewish brothers. Help us to show them peace to
quiet their troubled hearts." As he continued, I imagined his words rising into
the night sky like the smoky tendrils of incense that was burned at church.
He finished with a soft "amen."

In the coming days, Father would kill
and prepare our lamb, and Mother would prepare vegetables and cakes, accepting,
at least with surface calmness, the coming of the soldiers.

How could they have understood the new
force that was invading our land? It was a force that our Jewish neighbours
did not yet fully understand.

And as for me, a way was opening - a
way of peace through bitter conflict. And I did not know. For now, I edged up
against Atallah. My breathing slipped into a slow rhythm with his. And I slept
for one of the very last nights in my own house.

After the news about the coming soldiers
had rippled through Biram, the village never quite calmed itself again. Among
the adults, I noticed, conversations took on a slightly uneasy edge.

Night after night, Father would gather
all of us under the open stars or around a low fire as the winter wind beat
at our door. For the thousandth time he would carry us back through the dim
ages with his brilliant histories. I loved every delightful word. While Mother
captivated me with her Bible stories, Father was the one who forged an unbroken
chain of history that led from Jesus and his followers to our own family. Like
Abraham or Noah in the Old Testament, Father wanted to be sure his children
knew their rare and treasured heritage. After all, our family were Melkite Christians.
We were not like some weed newly sprung up after rain, but our spiritual heritage
was firmly rooted in the first century.

After Jesus' crucifixion, we learned,
the flame of His Spirit continued to burn brightly in our villages -- though
our ancestors were forced to meet in secret for fear of the religious leaders.
James, the brother of our Lord, became the spiritual overseer of the believers
in Jerusalem.

Not very long after James and the other
apostles died, the Church was split, nearly destroyed by a creeping, cultic
darkness. A certain group, the Gnostics, claimed that Jesus was a mystical being,
and not a man at all. Just when it seemed that these false teachers would scatter
the flock like wolves, the King of Byzantium, newly a Christian, took a strong
stand on the side of the early apostles, asserting that Jesus was the God-Man;
He had bridged the chasm between God and mankind, bringing peace when He took
on our frail, human nature. My family, among many others, sided with the king.
Their angry detractors dubbed them with the derogatory name, "Melkites" -- or
"king's men" -- "melech" being the Arabic word for "king." It was these early
Melkites who united the splintered churches.

Our Melkite family belonged to a spunky
group, it seemed. Many centuries later, after the Crusaders fought bloody wars
to implant the influence of Rome in our soil, the Melkites stood firmly against
such foreign authority. They remained a separate group of believers, holding
to the simple, orthodox teachings of the early church, which angered several
popes. Several centuries later, the Melkites built bridges of reconciliation
with Rome. This ability to reconcile opposing powers seemed to be an historic
hallmark of our Church fathers.

Should Father stray from the familiar
trail, all of us would clamour for the whole story. One part we loved,
with that strange, gruesome tendency of children, was about the horrifying fate
of a certain Chacour generations back.

In the 1700s, a cruel Turkish sultan
named Jezzar Pasha spread his rule over our land all the way to the Mediterranean.
When he took the city of Akko on the seacoast, he decided to raise a fortified
wall against foreign warships. Its design called for secret labyrinthine escape
routes through the enormous stones. One Chacour was among those forced to work
on these sea-walls. While the last bit of mortar was still drying, Jezzar Pasha
rewarded them for their backbreaking labours: every one of the builders was
buried alive beneath the wall. And so the sultan's defence secrets were guarded
forever.

This was Father's most effective way
of teaching us two things. First, we should love and respect our Galilean
soil, for our people had long struggled to survive here. We were rooted like
the poppies and wild, blue irises that thrust up among the rocks. Our family
had tilled this land, had worshipped here longer than anyone could remember.
And second, our lives were bound together with the other people who inhabited
Palestine - the Jews. We had suffered together under the Romans, Persians, Crusaders
and Turks, and had learned to share the simple elements of human existence --
faith, reverence for life, hospitality. These, Father said, were the things
that caused people to live happily together.

Even news about soldiers coming to Biram
with guns could not unsettle Father. Since the announcement of their coming,
the soldiers had sent word to the village mukhtars that they would stay
for only a few days and they would take nothing. They were just looking over
the land. Father accepted their word as a gentleman. If need be, these Jews
from Europe could settle in our village and farm the land that lay open beside
our own fields.

But my brother Rudah was alarmed at the
talk of machine guns. A few days after Father first told us the news, Rudah
shocked us all by bringing home a rifle -- one of the two or three guns in all
of Biram, a rusted antique used for shooting at wolves that came to prey on
the village flocks. The wolves were in little danger of being hit.

When Father saw the rifle he erupted
in a rare show of anger. "Get it out of here! I won't have it in my house."
Mother and the rest of us stood frozen and mute.

Poor Rudah was wide-eyed, stunned. "I--I
thought we might need a gun to protect ourselves in case--"

"No!" Father would not hear more. "We
do not use violence ever. Even if someone hurts us." He had calmed a
bit, and he took the gun.

Slipping his arm around Rudah's shoulders,
Father replied, "For centuries our Jewish brothers have been exiles in foreign
lands. They were hunted and tormented -- even by Christians. They have lived
in poverty and sadness. They have been made to fear, and sometimes when people
are afraid they feel they have to carry guns. Their souls are weak because they
have lost peace within."

Father smiled, and all the tension seemed
to relax. "Because," he said, "the Jews and Palestinians are brothers -- blood
brothers. We share the same father, Abraham, and the same God. We must never
forget that. Now we get rid of the gun."

It is extraordinary how a voice from
our childhood, even one word spoken at a crucial moment, can bury itself inside
only to reveal its simple wisdom in a crisis our adult minds cannot begin to
fathom. Then our whole life is re-fashioned.

I listened to the exchange between Father
and Rudah, and watched as they went out to dispose of the gun. Then the incident
passed, was locked somewhere inside me with the other jewels of heritage and
faith that Mother and Father had carefully hidden there.

The time was soon coming when I would
have little else to hold onto but these treasures of the heart.

Early one morning, nearly two weeks after
the first word about the soldiers, Biram was still resting, quiet in the mists
and growing light of dawn. And then the hillside was flooded with the unfamiliar
rumbling of trucks and jeeps. Men in drab-coloured uniforms with packs slung
across their shoulders filled the narrow streets. My brothers and I watched
from a corner of our yard, whispering among ourselves as four or five soldiers
strode up to our door. They spoke with Father, who welcomed them, and they lugged
their gear inside. For the next week, we were told, the soldiers would sleep
in the large room beneath the loft where Mother and Father usually slept. My
parents would join us on the roof.

Father had prepared us for house guests
-- but these Zionist soldiers were not at all like our Jewish neighbours who
chatted in the yard with Father over coffee. Not that they were unkind
or rude. When Father killed and roasted the lamb, blessing the feast and the
men, they politely bowed their heads. Mother served them heaping plates of lamb
and vegetables and bread which they ate heartily. But they remained aloof, almost
brusque. To my disappointment, the feast turned out to be much less of a happy
celebration than I had expected. I sidled up to Mother, feeling shy and uneasy
in their presence.

And the second thing I recall was the
guns. All the while, my eyes were drawn by their cold glint. They were always
present, even when we ate. I noticed the small, carved trigger where the finger
would rest, squeezing .. squeezing .. the long, sleek barrel .. the tiny, death-spitting
mouth .. an explosion shook my imagination. I shuddered and looked away.

The guns set us apart entirely, no matter
how polite the atmosphere. I understood even then that the guns were might --
power -- and that my family and the villagers of Biram had no might. In the
coming days the guns were everywhere while our life went on as usual. We went
off to school and the barrels glinted at every corner. At night we lay down
on the roof under the cold, clear-shining spring stars, and the guns were propped
beneath us.

After a week, word passed through Biram
that the military commander had some urgent business with the men of the village.
Father went along to the square, expecting to hear that the troops would soon
be moving on. Instead, the commander, a short, bull of a man, had delivered
some alarming "confidential news."

"Our intelligence sources say that Biram
is in serious danger," he announced tersely. "Fortunately, my men can protect
you. But it would risk your safety to stay in your homes. You're going to have
to move out into the hills for a few days. Lock everything. Leave the keys with
us. I promise nothing will be disturbed."

When Father told us about the order,
he reported that most of the village men were disturbed. They remembered the
turmoil of the 1930s with the occupying British forces. And there had been word
of new bombings in Jerusalem, of trouble between the British and the Zionists.
If there was to be any confrontation between these forces, the men of Biram
decided it would be best to keep their families safely out of the way. The commander
urged them on, saying, "Travel light. Take nothing with you. You must leave
today -- as soon as possible."

To any other people, sudden evacuation
-- leaving home and all the conveniences to live outdoors with a large family
-- would be threatening if not entirely miserable. For us, it did not seem so
difficult. We were accustomed to spending entire days outside, and we often
slept on the ground when travel or work among the flocks and fields took us
away from shelter. Then we would simply huddle together beneath a tree or beside
some rocks and be content. Often, as in times of mourning for a deceased relative
when no one cooked, we relied solely on our land, eating nothing but figs and
olives for several days at a time. Since we children had already been sleeping
on the roof, we accepted it as another part of the adventure.

Quickly, Mother and Father set the house
in order, urging us to hurry and leave behind everything but the heavy clothes
we were wearing. I was the only one permitted to carry a blanket with me. Having
just been in a scrap with my cousin Asad, I was allowed to wrap this over my
face to hide a black eye which was somewhat painful and embarrassing. Then we
were hurried outside.

Father locked the door behind us. Then
he handed the key to one of our soldier-guests who was leaning against the front
wall, his gun hanging casually from a strap over his shoulder.

"I know that God will protect our house,"
Father said sincerely. "And you'll be safe, too."

When we left our yard, I was amazed to
see dozens of people moving through the streets, joining other families and
streaming out of Biram. Father led us down the steep hillsides, toward a grove
of olive trees, with Rudah and Chacour walking manfully beside him. Mother held
my hand as I stumbled along, the blanket held protectively over my bruised eye.

Every family seemed to have the same
idea: The olive grove would be the perfect place of refuge during our vigil.
And from here, the men could best watch the comings and goings in Biram on the
hilltop far above us.

In a day or two, when the pain and swelling
left my eye and I was ready for fun, the novelty of camping had worn off for
everyone else. My brothers were simply sullen. The men, I could tell, were beginning
to feel nervous that they had left their homes and lands under the protection
of strangers. The older people were starting to suffer from sleeping on the
damp, stony ground. Though the days were sunny, the temperature dropped rapidly
at sunset, plunging us from a hot afternoon into a shivering night. Everyone
was thankful that I had brought my blanket. All six of us children would try
to squeeze under it while Mother and Father huddled together uncomfortably on
the ground.

The cold was somehow bearable. The rain
was not. A heavy, grey bank of clouds covered the hills on the fourth day. A
chilling drizzle spattered through the olive leaves, soaking the grass, mixing
the gravel and dirt into mud beneath our feet.

Father led us through the trees to the
grotto at the edge of our land. The inside walls were layered with grey and
green moss, and a faint smell of damp humus and of goats hung in the air. It
was small, but all of us could fit inside, protected from the night drafts and
sudden rains.

For nearly two weeks, the men kept up
their vigil, watching for threatening activity in the village. Occasionally,
a fleet of trucks would arrive in a cloud of dust, and shortly they would drive
out again. Mostly, things remained quiet. The people of Biram continued to camp
under the olive trees, foraging for food, drinking from artesian springs and
getting stiffer each night from sleeping on the ground. Still there was no word
from the soldiers.

At last the elders decided not to wait
for the military commander's signal to return. A delegation of men collected
in the olive grove and climbed the hill to Biram.

Before long, they came running back,
their faces a confusion of anguish and fear. The horror of their report spread
through the grove.

Upon entering Biram and passing the first
house, they had seen that the door was broken in. Most of the furniture and
belongings were gone. What was left lay smashed and scattered on the floor.
At the next house, it was the same, and at the house across the street. Chairs
were smashed, curtains shredded, dishes shattered against the walls.

Then they were stopped by armed soldiers.
The one who appeared to be in charge waved his gun menacingly and barked, "What
are you doing here? Get out!"

Angry, and certain that these impudent
soldiers needed a reprimand from their superior, the men stood their ground.

"Where is your commanding officer? We
are the people of Biram, and we want to bring our wives and children home!"

The one in charge approached them, his
gun held squarely across his chest. "The commander is gone," he said coolly.
"He left us to protect the village. You have no business here anymore."

The soldiers levelled their guns at them,
flicking off the safety switches. Angrily, one of them growled, "The land is
ours. Get out now. Move!"

The betrayal cut like a knife. A few
of the men were bitterly angry, seething with the thought that we had
been tricked out of our village by these European men we had trusted. Others
were simply bewildered. Pain etched every face.

Father and Mother seemed as bewildered
as children by such a callous betrayal. I think it was simply beyond their understanding.

The poor mukhtars were mobbed
with questions: "How can we get Biram back?" "What's going to happen to our
homes?" "Can't you make the soldiers leave?" Of course they could do nothing
-- two ageing, unarmed and bewildered men against the guns of these soldiers.

More immediate was the need for shelter
and protection from the weather. Obviously, we could not continue to live exposed
to rain and the cold nights.

After a brief discussion, it was proposed
that we climb the next hill to Gish, our nearest neighbouring village. Surely
the people there, who were also Christians, could make some provision for us
temporarily while we sorted out this mistake by the rude, young soldiers.

Cresting the hill that rose between our
village and Gish, we felt a strange sombreness. No shepherds greeted us as we
crossed the open fields. The lot where young boys played soccer was vacant.
A frightening pall of silence hung in the streets between the empty houses where
young women and grandmothers should have been chattering among sleeping babies
and old men.

After a long search through the empty
village, we discovered ten elderly people who told us they had been left behind.
From them we learned that these unarmed people had suffered a fate similar to
our own.

Soldiers had arrived in trucks, they
told us. But for some reason, they did not use the ruse with these people that
they had used in Biram. With machine guns levelled, they abruptly ordered the
people to get out, not bothering to drive off these few old men and women who
were apparently too feeble to abandon their homes. One old man was certain that
the soldiers were impatient to get the evacuation over, because he had heard
gunfire just outside the village, "Just to warn the people to move along faster."
Most of them suspected that the villagers had fled into Lebanon, which was only
a few kilometres distant.

Even with this weight of sadness, they
offered us a sort of ruined hospitality. "You are welcome to stay in our village"
they told us, "though little is left here."

He was right. The soldiers had rampaged
through most of the homes, smashing or carrying off the furnishings in their
trucks. At least it was shelter.

Unfortunately, there were fewer dwellings
in Gish than families from Biram. In some homes, two families were cramped into
a single room with old sheets or worn carpets hung for dividers. For families
with ten or more children, conditions were utterly miserable.

Father was fortunate enough to find a
tiny, one-room house for us. He was also able to find a small room nearby for
his aged parents who had suffered terribly during the nights outdoors, as had
all the elderly of Biram. Our room was dilapidated, barely larger than the grotto
on Father's land, and empty but for a few broken chairs. In one corner I found
a smashed toy -- a doll with its head crushed in. Fingering it, I thought of
the child who must have dropped it in fear and confusion and a ghostly feeling
came over me. I drew my hand away suddenly and never touched the doll again.

Straggling groups that had been driven
from other villages carried more distressing news as we settled uncomfortably
in Gish. The soldiers were moving systematically through the hill country, routing
the quiet, unprotected villagers. Many were fleeing on foot for Lebanon or Syria.
And there was talk of violence in the south. A certain, unnameable eeriness
clung to the air with each fragment of information that came.

We wondered, as we tried to piece our
lives together, when the soldiers would return and what they would do if they
found us in our neighbours' village. And though Mother and Father repeatedly
assured us that we were safe, one thought remained fearfully unspoken: What
had happened to the men, women and children of Gish?

A week or more after our arrival, Charles
and I were shuffling glumly through the streets together when we found a soccer
ball. It was slightly soft from the cold, but still had enough life to respond
to a good kick. Immediately, Charles broke into a trot, footing the ball ahead
of him. "Come on, Elias," he called. "Let's have a game!" From side streets
and open doorways, ten other boys joined as we passed.

Dodging through the streets, we reached
a sandy, open lot at the edge of Gish. With the innocent abandon of small boys,
the fate of Biram was momentarily forgotten. We raced up and down the lot, loosing
our pent-up energies in a swift-footed competition.

Charles' team scored two points almost
at once. One boy was lining up for another attempt, eyes riveted on the goal,
when I charged him, roaring, laughing, waving my arms. He kicked hard, and the
ball breezed by my head, high and wild, out of bounds. I pivoted and tore after
it. The other team dropped back to defend their goal, and my team-mates took
their field positions awaiting my return.

I reached the ball where it had thumped
and settled in a stretch of loose sand. Oddly, the ground seemed to have been
churned up. I stooped and picked up the ball, noticing a peculiar odour. An
odd shape caught my eye -- something like a thick twig poking up through the
sand. And the strange colour..

I bent down and pulled on the thing.
It came up stiffly, the sand falling back from a swollen finger, a blue-black
hand and arm. The odour gripped my throat..

Numbness dulled all feeling. The stiff
arm lay in the sand at my feet -- a boy's arm. I imagined the face -- sand in
the sealed eyes -- gagging the slacking mouth. I thought I was yelling. No sound
could escape my throat. Vaguely, I could hear Charles beside me calling..

Later, the shallow graves were uncovered.
Buried beneath a thin layer of sand were two dozen bodies. The gunfire that
the old man had heard had done its bitter work.

The victims were hastily re-buried in
honourable graves. There was seething anger and talk of retribution. But how
could there be any retribution when we had no power against this madness? Most
of the men, Father especially, would have no part of such ugly talk.

As for me, the innocence and durability
of youth were on my side. No one mentioned the incident to me at all. Mother,
Father and my grandparents were overly kind, ignoring my outbursts of impatience
or tears. My brothers and cousins eventually distracted me with more games,
though we avoided the sandlot for quite some time.

In the coming months, as summer crept
into Galilee, I was little aware of events outside our secluded hills. But major
decisions were being made by nations far more powerful than ours -- decisions
that would soon leave us without a homeland or an identity. Father and the village
elders honed their disbelieving ears to news about the drama that was unfolding
across Palestine and in the world's supreme court of justice -- the United Nations.

The elders learned, as news and rumours
travelled like wildfire through Galilee, that the "question of Palestine" had
come before the U.N. It seemed that the Zionists no longer wanted the British
to control Palestine, and they wanted to establish their national homeland in
place of ours. The British, whose military and financial ability to govern Palestine
were bankrupted by the long war in Europe, could not stop the Zionists from
taking over the land. The Zionist forces, known as the Haganah, had taken
over the munitions factories in the south and were using the mortars, bombs,
machine guns and heavy equipment against British and Palestinian alike. Each
time a Palestinian village was raided, a few of its men would gather in the
hills with their donkeys and antiquated carbines in a pathetic attempt to protect
their land. These ill-prepared bands were subsequently crushed by the Haganah
in further reprisals. It was hardly a contest. And now the United Nations had
been called upon to arbitrate a peaceful solution to the bloodshed.

Certainly, the men of Biram reasoned
hopefully, the powerful nations of the world who controlled the U.N. would reach
a just solution. The summer of 1947 passed, the rains of autumn soaked the earth,
and still we waited as refugees. Month after month in our cramped quarters,
we prayed for the news that we could return to our homes in Biram.

Palestine was to be partitioned in what
the U.N. called a "compromise." Our elders and hundreds of thousands of Palestinians
throughout the land were shocked beyond words, for the terms of the "compromise"
were brutal.

The Zionists were to possess the majority
of Palestine -- fifty-four percent -- even though they owned only seven percent
of the land! In five major areas that were being handed over, well over half
the people -- up to seventy and eighty, even ninety-nine percent -- were Palestinians.
The "compromise" gave the Zionists almost all the fertile land, including the
huge, main citrus groves that accounted for most of our peoples' export income.
It gave away the vast Negev region where the Bedouins produced most of the barley
and wheat grown in Palestine. There was three times more cultivated land in
this one area than the incoming, European settlers had cultivated in all Palestine
in the previous thirty years. name="_ftnref1" title=""> [1]

Such concessions, in the eyes of the
Palestinian people, could hardly be called a "compromise." Our people were being
told to hand over more than half of our well-cultivated lands that produced
our only livelihood.

How had such a sweeping and one-sided
decision been reached? Among the nations of the world, the U.N. vote was accepted
without question or protest.

As an eight-year-old boy, the elders'
talk was just words to me. It would be years before I discovered the truth about
international intrigues and clandestine agreements that had led to this Middle
East tragedy. For now, the eyes of all were blind to these political machinations.
And I was only aware that my peaceful homeland of Palestine, known as the Holy
Land, had become a land of war.

Shortly after the U.N. vote, the British
announced that they would be withdrawing all forces from the Middle East the
following spring -- by May 15, 1948.

Throughout the winter months and into
spring 1948, we heard of more terror, of villages blown up by barrel-bombs while
others narrowly escaped the flaming ruins of their homes. Thousands were now
uprooted, living in the hills and arid wastelands.

Most especially, we came to fear one
name -- the highly-trained and single-minded Zionist organisation called the
Irgun. One of its leaders had been among the ten terrorists most wanted
by the British for his part in bombing the luxurious King David Hotel in Jerusalem.
His name was Menachem Begin and his proclaimed goal was to ‘purify' the land
of Palestinian people.

In April of that year one of these acts
of purification was the destruction of a village on the outskirts of modern
Jerusalem. The scene at Deir Yassin was later recorded by an eyewitness, Jacques
de Reynier, the head of the International Red Cross emergency delegation.

On April 10, Reynier was stopped on the
Jerusalem road by members of the Irgun, who refused him entry to the
village. He bravely pushed through their lines and into homes where he found
"bodies cold. Here the ‘cleaning up' had been done with machine-guns, then hand
grenades. It had been finished off with knives, anyone could see that ... As
I was about to leave, I heard something like a sigh... It was a little girl
of ten, mutilated by a hand-grenade, but still alive... There had been 400 people
in this village; about 50 of them escaped and were still alive..." name="_ftnref2" title=""> [2]

The native Jewish people were shocked
and disgusted. In tears, they protested that such things violated their ancient
beliefs. Upon hearing the news about Deir Yassin, the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem
flew into a fury.

Unfortunately, religious censure was
not powerful enough to stop the military machine.

As May approached, more trucks rumbled
into peasant villages. And daily, refugees swarmed through Galilee bringing
word of more towns sacked. Others drowned in the Mediterranean as they tried
to swim for overcrowded refugee ships leaving from Haifa and Lidda.

Early on May 14, while the last British
were scrambling to get out of Palestine, a young man named David Ben Gurion
assembled more than two hundred journalists and photographers to proclaim the
establishment of the State of Israel. Within hours, the government that the
new Prime Minister Ben Gurion and his comrades had been carefully planning for
months was in place. Within sixty minutes, the United States officially recognised
the new nation of Israel under Zionist rule.

The same journalists and photographers
who attended Ben Gurion's proclamations soon recorded for the world our summer
of tears. Through May, June and July, almost one million Palestinians were driven
out of the newly-proclaimed democracy. Soldiers from surrounding Arab nations
of Egypt, Iraq, Syria, Jordan and Lebanon fought to stop the take-over, but
were driven back. In the confusion and terror, husbands and wives were forever
parted, parents lost small children never to see them again and many elderly
died.

The Jews who had been our neighbours
or friends who lived with us and shared our customs, ached for us. They could
not understand or accept such violence, but they were powerless to help. And
the nations were silent.

By autumn of 1948, the Zionists had swept
north and were close to us again. The forces were "cleansing" the towns around
the Sea of Galilee, almost at our doorstep. As winter set in -- our second winter
in Gish -- the Zionist advance stopped short of the upper Galilee. Thin blankets
of snow fell, and only one question was discussed in low voices around guttering
fires: Would the soldiers find us here in our hill-country refuge -- or would
they think we had fled to Lebanon or Syria or Jordan as had so many others?

Although we had been refugees from our
own home for almost two years, Father never prayed for us, for our protection
or provision. He continued in his simple belief that his children were like
"the birds of the air" that God had promised to feed and he refused to worry
over us -- though I think Mother had a more difficult time when food was scarce.
We had barely survived our first year, eating animals from the abandoned flocks,
making bread from the stores of grain and working small gardens.

I was increasingly aware of Father's
unbelievably forgiving attitude toward the soldiers. He faithfully continued
our times of family prayer and never failed to pray for those who had made themselves
our enemies. Night after night I would lean my head against Mother, fingering
the fish and doves on her necklace, and hear Father pray: "Forgive them, oh
God. Heal their pain. Remove their bitterness. Let us show them your peace."

As spring 1949 pounced upon us, tiger-like
with its ferocious heat, I could see little peace anywhere but in our own home.
An uneasy lull moved in with the blistering days and cool nights. We rose each
morning with the fear that we might not lie down on our mats that evening. At
any moment we, too, might be swept away.

I was playing in some trees near the
road to Gish with a few cousins and some other boys when we heard the ominous
rumbling of trucks. In the distance, rounding the side of the next hill, came
the first of the army vehicles. For a split second we looked at each other in
wordless terror, then scattered.

When I reached home, Father was in the
doorway with Mother and the other children. The trucks had reached the edge
of the village, and a harsh metallic voice rang from a loudspeaker: "All men
must show themselves at once. Young men and old men. Come outside with your
hands on your heads. Do not resist."

I looked at my brothers. Rudah and Chacour
were now young men. Moussa was a teenager. They, too, would have to go. What
about Atallah and me? And what would the soldiers do to the men who surrendered
themselves? My face tingled with a burning fear.

Father looked grim, but as he turned
to my three oldest brothers he spoke with a perfect calm. "Come, boys. It will
be all right."

Wardi clung to Mother, and Atallah and
I stood numbly at her side. The four of us watched Father march bravely, with
Rudah, Chacour and Moussa striding uncertainly beside him, out to a large open
lot where the soldiers stood with levelled guns. Atallah and I crept outside
to watch. I was shaking, nearly choked with tears.

Crouched in a shadow outside the
door, we stared as all the houses of Gish gave up their men and older sons.
Among the sombre throng we saw all of our uncles, their faces riddled with tension.
Young men filled the streets, their eyes a confusion of fear and defiance. Behind
them shambled the old men, not willing in their fierce pride to sit at
home while their sons and grandsons faced the danger alone. As they came, they
were ordered into one large circle that stretched around the entire open lot.

Immediately, the soldiers began to accuse.
"You are rebels. Tell us where your guns are hidden. We know you are fighters
-- Palestinian terrorists."

These words scorched me. Father, my uncles,
cousins and the mukhtars -- "terrorists"?

On and on went the interrogation as the
heat of the day built to a searing brightness. The men began to squirm, drenched
in their own sweat as the sun poured down. There was no water. Neither could
they relieve themselves. Without ceasing, the soldiers demanded that they surrender
their weapons. There was nothing to give up; there were no guns anywhere in
our village. Still the soldiers harassed them through the long afternoon. Men
weakened and some dropped as the heat and accusations pounded at them.

We could see Father at the far side of
the lot. Sweat dripped from his chin. His eyes were shut and occasionally his
lips would move. I knew that he was praying for the soldiers.

And suddenly, as the afternoon sun waned,
it was over. The commanding officer barked abruptly: "Go back to your homes.
But don't try to escape."

Father nearly collapsed inside our door.
He and my brothers rested in the quiet coolness of the house while Mother and
Wardi rushed to bring them water and a little food.

As the darkness settled over us, no one
dared to light fires or to cook a meal. The soldiers remained in Gish, gathered
around their trucks or patrolling the streets. We waited in a misery of silence,
hoping they would leave.

Father seemed to have some inner warning
of what would happen next. He drew close to each of us in turn, with a gentle
touch and an inscrutable look. I suspected that he was praying for us one by
one. His eyes looked weary, and yet some reservoir of calm lay behind them.
When he smiled at me and touched my shoulder I could almost believe that the
soldiers would leave soon and let us live in peace.

And suddenly there was noise and bustling
in the dark streets. I shuddered to the sounds of loud angry voices, gunbutts
thudding at doors and the growl of truck motors starting.

The loudspeaker was blaring again. "Come
out of your houses. We want all men to come out and give themselves up. You
are leaving here at once..."

Mother seized Father's arm, sheer anguish
carving her gentle face. "Michael, what are they doing? Where--?"

"Katoub," he stopped her, drawing her
close. "God is watching us. You have to be strong --" he paused, his voice dropping,
"for the little ones."

For a moment they held each other as
the terrible blaring continued. The wailing outside cinched the knot in my stomach.
Tears streamed down Wardi's face. Then Father turned to my brothers and said
quietly, "We'll go now."

In the glare of headlights and flares,
we stared into the darkness and chaos. Soldiers were hurrying the men and older
boys at gunpoint onto the open-backed trucks. More guards stood at the tailgates
barking orders. In the doorways, women stood weeping, their babies and smaller
children wailing loudly in their arms. Father and my brothers had already been
jammed onto one of the trucks with several dozen other men, and we could no
longer see them.

As the last tailgate slammed shut, the
loudspeaker called out to the women. "We are taking your terrorists away. This
is what happens to all terrorists. You will not see them again."

And then the trucks were rolling, rumbling
away into the night. In the blackness, women flooded into the streets, sinking
to their knees and weeping, calling the names of their husbands and sons.

Mother was too desolate to try to offer
comfort to any of my aunts who came and hung on her shoulder. She walked numbly
inside, and sat holding Wardi, Atallah and me long into the night. I clutched
her skirt, shutting my eyes against the wails and screams. For a long time --
I could not tell how long -- I sat this way. I must have fallen asleep.

When I opened my eyes again, it seemed
to me much later. All was silent but for the barking of a dog far off. Silent,
but for the inner voices that begged inside us: Where have they taken my
father -- my sons -- my husband? Will I see them again -- or never again?

I shifted a little
and looked up at Mother. In the dark I could not see her face, but heard her
slight whispers.

In these, the darkest hours of her life,
Mother would turn again and again to her only source of strength and inner peace.
She stroked my hair, and continued softly praying.

With a solemn innocence, she prayed one
evening, "We know that you watch the sparrows, Lord. And only you know where
Michael and the boys are this night. Will you watch them for us? Guide their
steps? We give them into your hands."

One evening, after prayers, Mother allowed
Wardi, Atallah and me to play outside as usual until bedtime. But at dark, she
hurried us inside, for few remained outdoors then. After she settled us in bed,
Mother moved about quietly in the dim light of a candle or two finishing her
chores for the day. The very last sound I heard each night before drifting into
sleep was the metal click of the heavy door-bolt, our only earthly protection
from unwelcome visits in the dark.

A sharp elbow woke me. Atallah was plumping
his pillow and fidgeting beside me. He was having a hard time settling down.
I could hear Mother preparing for bed. Still groggy, I was about to push Atallah's
knee out of my back when a noise disturbed the quiet. Atallah and I both sat
up, suddenly awake, listening. Mother and Wardi sat listening, too.

The sound came again and drew my eyes
to the door. The bolt rattled in its lock. Someone was trying to open it. A
muffled voice from out in the night hissed, "Let us in. Quickly. Open up."

I shrank back against Atallah, wide-eyed.
Fear ran a cold fire up my spine. Mother had risen to her feet and stood frozen,
one hand over her heart.

"Let us in. Hurry ..." the voice hissed
again and was drowned out by others as the rattling continued.

Atallah and Wardi and I were at her heels
as she hurried to the door, slamming back the bolt. With our wits gathered,
there was no mistaking that voice. Mother threw open the heavy door.

Four men pushed inside with the dark
draft. I startled for a moment, as if we had been tricked and these were strangers
crowding in before us in the flickering candlelight. They were very thin --
almost emaciated -- their cheeks sunken behind unkempt beards. Their clothes
were dirty and ragged, and the worn shoes were nearly falling off their feet.
In the eyes of my three brothers was a wary, hunted look. Only Father seemed
as calm as if he had just spent a pleasant day in his fig orchard, though he
was obviously exhausted.

Mother threw herself on them, hugging,
holding, kissing them, laughing and weeping with inexpressible joy. Rudah, Moussa
and Chacour, who at any other time might have shown the reserve of young men,
began to weep and hug everyone -- even Atallah and me.

I threw my arms around Father's waist.
"Hello, Elias," he smiled, gently stroking my tousled hair. "I see you've taken
care of everyone while I was away."

Mother was hurrying about getting food
and water. She was wringing with questions. "How did you get back here? Did
anyone see you? Where did the soldiers take you? Are the other men with you?"

We sat long into the night, Father's
arm around my shoulders as he answered her questions. They had come on foot,
of course. No, they were not seen since they had travelled mostly at night.
I watched his serene face, and it seemed a miracle to me that he and my brothers
were alive and sitting close beside us as the candles burned low. Most amazing
was the story of their survival.

On the night they were taken from Gish,
the men were driven through the dark for hours. It was cramped and cold and
windy in the trucks. They had passed Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee, so Father
knew they were headed south. But where? Toward daybreak, he saw that they were
nearing the hill country that rose up to Jerusalem. The trucks pulled off the
road north of the city near the town of Nablus on the border between the new
State of Israel and the kingdom of Jordan. Hopefully, it was the soldiers' intent
to drop them across the border -- and nothing worse.

As the men staggered from the trucks
in the bleak light of dawn, the soldiers opened fire, aiming just above their
heads. The men of Biram scattered in terror, running like wild men in every
direction. Some fell and were almost trampled. Father and my brothers tore through
the open fields, stumbling through bushes and over stones. At last they distanced
the shouting soldiers and the rifle fire, which was meant to drive them from
their homeland for good. But Father and my brothers had only one plan in mind
from the first moment: They would find their way home again, or die in the attempt.

Gradually, they made their way to a road
that seemed to angle in a north-easterly direction -- first toward Amman, then
toward Damascus in Syria. They had no idea where any of my uncles had gone,
and only occasionally did they find other men from our village on the road.
Many of them were too frightened to consider returning to Gish. Most frightening
was the treatment they received at the hands of other Arab brothers in Jordan
and Syria where Father hoped to find help and the customary hospitality. At
the first town they came to, Father and my brothers were turned away as vagabonds.
Our "brothers" it seemed had no compassion for "dirty Palestinians." At the
next town it was the same, and the next. They were driven out like lepers. For
days they walked with little or nothing to eat, forced out of every town. At
times they were so desperately hungry that they grovelled in the dirt for insects
to eat. Nights they spent in abandoned animal shelters in the hills or sleeping
in the dirt and grass to wake soaked with dew and shivering. Had it not been
summer, they would surely have died.

For days and weeks they travelled until
they were close to Damascus. Then Father struck a south-westerly route that
would carry them through a corner of Lebanon and into northern Israel. Once
he spotted Mount Meron, the highest mountain in all Galilee, Father knew he
was home. When they reached the fields outside Gish, they waited until dark
in the event that soldiers were stationed in the village. Then, furtively, they
crept through the streets until they found the right door; unsure that they
would find us here after all their hardship.

Mother almost blushed when Father teased
her about her stalwart refusal to open the door to her own husband. And he held
her close. Three months of torment were over at last.

As Father prayed with us that night,
I leaned against him, basking in the richness of his deep voice -- I had missed
it so much -- and I was almost too overjoyed to comprehend his words.

"Father," he prayed, "they are treating
us badly because we are the children of Ishmael. But we are true sons of Abraham
-- and your children. You saved Ishmael from death in the wilderness, and you
have saved us. You brought justice for him and blessed him with a great nation.
We thank you now, for we know that you will bring justice for us .."

In the coming months a few more men would
return. One day, a certain village house would be sombre, with a mother and
her babies facing the uncertainty of life on their own -- and overnight, joy
would dawn in that home again. Yet for every family that was reunited, many
more never saw their husbands, sons, fathers, uncles and cousins again.
Mother and Father had both lost several brothers, and some of my older cousins
had simply vanished as well. Only rarely did we hear some word -- and no one
could judge its reliability -- that this uncle or that one was living in a refugee
camp in Lebanon or Syria.

For the rest of that year I lived with
a lingering shadow of fear that the soldiers would surprise us one day, roaring
in with trucks to drag away the men once more. This time, perhaps, they would
finish off their job more forcefully.

The soldiers never did raid Gish again.
In fact, as 1949 came to a close, the new government seemed to undergo a strange,
confusing reversal in its push to drive out the Palestinian people entirely.
The elders began to hear that the agricultural settlements were actually hiring
Palestinian men and boys -- a few at a time and "unofficially" -- to work at
menial jobs. Later we learned why. A cheap work force was crucial to the survival
of their newest kibbutzim, since many of the incoming settlers had lived
their lives in European cities and did not know how to farm. Now we understood
why the soldiers never came back to drive out the men who had returned, for
they were skilled in agriculture and desperate to work, even for low pay, to
support their large families.

Something else was happening behind the
scenes in the new government of Israel, though the village elders had no way
of knowing it yet. Soon they would see strong evidence of internal struggles
within the government, clues that this new nation -- which the whole world was
proclaiming a "modern miracle" -- was actually rife with factions vying for
power.

Early in 1950, more heart-stopping news
reached us. Plans were underway for a new kibbutz, an experimental, agricultural
community set up by the new government for settlers from Europe and America.
It was to be located just across the fields from our still-empty homes, and
strangely, it would be called Biram also. More startling was the news that some
of the fertile land surrounding Biram had been sold to new landlords who had
emigrated from foreign countries and were living in nearby Jewish towns. Now
we understood why the soldiers had stayed on in Biram to "protect" it from our
return.

Most painful was the word that Father's
fig orchard had been purchased from the government by a well-to-do settler as
some sort of investment.

At this news, Father's face furrowed
with grief. I was terrified that he would weep. He was still, his eyes shut,
his moustache drooping above a faintly trembling lip. He had planted those fig
trees himself one by one, straining with heavy clay jars of water up the steep
slopes, caring for each sapling until it was strong enough to survive on its
own. They were almost like children to him.

"Children," he said softly, turning those
sad eyes upon us, "if someone hurts you, you can curse him. But this would be
useless. Instead, you have to ask the Lord to bless the man who makes himself
your enemy. And do you know what will happen? The Lord will bless you with inner
peace -- and perhaps your enemy will turn from this wickedness. If not, the
Lord will deal with him."

I could scarcely believe it! His life's
work had just been torn from his hands. His land and trees -- the only earthly
possessions he had to pass on to his children -- were sold to a stranger. And
still Father would not curse or allow himself to be angry. I puzzled at his
words to us.

Inner peace. Maybe Father could
find this strength in such circumstances. I doubted that I could.

I am certain that Father had a strong
voice in what happened next. Immediately after the distressing news, the remnant
of our village elders convened and decided to submit a petition to the new Israeli
Supreme Court of Justice. In short, the petition welcomed the settlers to the
new Biram. What had been taken could be considered as a gift from our people.
However, they asked, could we return to our homes in the old Biram to live peacefully
beside our new neighbours and farm the remaining land?

In a few weeks we heard that the new
owner of our property wanted to hire several men to come each day and dress
the fig trees, tending them right through till harvest. Immediately, Father
went to apply for the job, taking my three oldest brothers with him. They were
hired and granted special work passes, the only way they could enter our own
property.

When she heard what Father had done,
Mother stared at him incredulously. "How can you do this, Michael? It's so awful.
So wrong."

Father replied simply, "If we go to care
for the trees, we'll do the best job. Someone else won't know what they are
doing. They'll break the branches and spoil the new growth." This was something
Father could not bear to think.

And so, three years after our expulsion
from Biram, Father and my brothers were hiring themselves out as labourers --
just for the chance to touch and care for Father's beloved trees. I did not
know the word irony then, but I could understand pain.

In the closing months of 1950, we received
joyous news from the Supreme Court of Israel. An official letter arrived in
Gish, postmarked in Jerusalem. The elder's hands fairly shook with excitement
as he read it aloud. The letter said we could return to Biram immediately by
order of the Supreme Court! Hurriedly, with great rejoicing, plans were made
for the move home.

While the women were gathering up the
few things they had acquired in our three years of exile, some of the elders
crossed the hill to Biram and there displayed our letter to the soldiers.

The commanding officer shook his head.
"This letter means nothing to us. Nothing at all. The village is ours. You have
no right here."

Though the elders argued with him, he
would not honour the order. They were turned away.

For the first time our elders realised
that something was seriously wrong within the new government. They already had
ample evidence that these Zionists were not at all like our peaceful Jewish
neighbours. The new Israel seemed to be a nation where the military ruled, ignoring
the will of the country's judges and lawmakers, powerful enough to do whatever
it wanted. The elders were devastated by this revelation.

Upon hearing the soldiers' refusal, I
saw the pain in Mother's eyes, felt the ache in Father's heart for his lost
land and fig trees. As Christians, they would accept their lot. Yet I could
see the joy draining from their lives. And still rumours of violence whispered
through the hills, bloodshed and terrorism everywhere in the land.

Were there only two choices left to us
-- surrender to abuse or turn to violence?

lang=EN-GB>Early in 1951, the elders agreed to petition the Supreme Court a second
time. In their letter of appeal, they explained the Zionist soldiers' defiance
of the court order. Again we would wait in hope for many months, innocently
believing that the court could somehow make the military obey its legal decisions.

Sometime in early December the Court
again granted the people of Biram approval to return to their homes. For the
second time, the village elders marched across the hill and presented the order
to the Zionist soldiers. This time, the elders were pleasantly surprised.

Without question or dispute, the commanding
officer read the order. He shrugged. "This is fine." And as the elders stood
in stunned silence he added, "We need some time to pull out. You can return
on the twenty-fifth."

On Christmas! What an incredible Christmas
gift for the village. The elders fairly ran across the hill to Gish to spread
the news. At long last, they would all be going home. The Christmas Eve vigil
became a celebration of thanksgiving and joyful praise.

On Christmas morning, broken grey clouds
rolled across the Upper Galilee, and the still air was crisp and cold. Bundled
in sweaters and old coats supplied by the Bishop's relief workers, the villagers
gathered in the first light of day for the march to Biram. Though they were
ragged looking, their spirits were high. Mother, Father, Wardi and my brothers
all joined in singing a jubilant Christmas hymn as they mounted the hill. It
was the first time in nearly six years that such joy had flooded those ancient
slopes.

At the top of the hill, their hymn trailed
into silence. The marchers halted uncertainly. Far below them, Biram was surrounded
by Zionist tanks, bulldozers and other military vehicles. But this was December
25, the morning they were supposed to return home. Why were the soldiers still
there? In the distance, a soldier shouted, and they realised they had been seen.

A cannon blast sheared the silence. Then
another -- a third. The soldiers had opened fire -- not on the villagers, but
on Biram! Tank shells shrieked into the village, exploding in fiery destruction.
Houses blew apart like paper. Stones and dust flew amid the red flames and billowing
black smoke. One shell slammed into the side of the church, caving in a thick
stone wall and blowing off half the roof. The bell tower teetered, the bronze
bell knelling, and somehow held amid the dust clouds and cannon-fire. For nearly
five minutes, the explosions rocked Biram, home collapsing against home, fire
spreading through the fallen timbers.

Then all was silent -- except for the
weeping of women and the terrified screams of babies and children.

Mother and Father stood shaking, huddled
together with Wardi and my brothers. In a numbness of horror, they watched as
bulldozers ploughed through the ruins, knocking down much of what had not already
blown apart or tumbled. At last, Father said -- to my brothers or to God, they
were never sure -- "Forgive them" then he led them back to Gish. Another village,
Ikrit, was also bombed at about the same time.

Alone that night, I was frightened by
my own thoughts. I did not know how to handle the anger. More than anger. Rage.
The bombing was worse than any physical beating I could have suffered. I could
not face my journal, ashamed to pour out my dark feelings there. I lectured
myself, wishing that I could be just like Father, who was my indelible example
of spirituality. But I was me - a young man with a growing awareness that the
world seemed bent on my destruction.

So it was that I buried my feelings,
denying the anger that was too ugly to admit. And in that moment a small gap
began to widen inside me, an internal battle that I would one day have to reconcile.

In another week, I lost myself again
in the journal, posing questions to which I had not the vaguest answer.

"How can we ever find again the peace
we used to share with our Jewish neighbours? I wrote. "How can I help
my parents - my Palestinian people?" As with all the people of Biram, I
would continue to eat the bread of the homeless and the orphaned.

name="_ftn1" title=""> [1]
Jonathan Dimbleby , The Palestinians, Quartet Books, New York,
1979, p.86

name="_ftn2" title=""> [2]
Jacques de Reynier, A Jerusalem un Drapeau Flottait sur la Ligne
de Feu, Editions de la Baconnier, Neuchatel, 1950, pp.71-76. Cited
in Walid al Khalidi (Ed.) From Haven to Conquest, The Institute of
Palestine Studies, Beirut, 1971, pp. 353-356.