GO TO YOUR COUSINS IN THE EAST

I do not believe there will be a possible way to forget any details of the events of the 14 th of December 1970 unless being infected with a crippling brain injury or an illness, such as Alzheimer’s disease. A week earlier to this date, I was blind-folded and forcefully seated in a heavily armored vehicle that was drove from city to city gathering and assembling a group of young and old men. While the vehicle was maneuvered between towns and cities, men were not allowed to talk, peak through, or even make a noise. I felt the mile was stretch to over 20 miles distance. Occasionally a man sitting nearby would whisper with an undertone telling me the location of the vehicle; for example, he would announce “ now we are leaving Bethlehem and approaching Jerusalem .” That man took the roads so many times while transported from one jail to another during his life-term sentence and punishment. He knew every stop and every stretch of the roads by heart. As the vehicle was approaching Al-Ramlah, Palestine, I got stomach nausea and began to puke the little water that was retained in my stomach from the last stop. I was almost choking and started making very loud noises similar to the deep-throat sounds generated by the Buddhist monks during their meditation rituals in temples. The vehicle was stopped and shortly afterward the back door was opened and I felt a big whack on my face. My nose started bleeding as I found out at the next stop. That did not help my stomach though, but the wise man who was sitting beside me providing information about the roads passed his jacket and asked me to roll it in a ball and squeeze it in my abdomen and bend slightly forward. It was an excellent relief for my stomachache.

We finally stopped in Al-Ramlah for the night. Going from detention place to another was degrading, undignified, and humiliating to human beings. We were stripped naked and fetched for any illegal weapons as if the guards thought we escaped the armored vehicles, collected weapons of mass destruction, and for no apparent reason we decided to jump back in the vehicles for them to search and explore us. At his detention place I noted that we were fourteen men most of them in their thirties and forties except an older fellow who was over 60 years old. I was the youngest of them all, seventeen years old at that time. Each one of us was forced to sleep into solitary confinements about four by eight feet. The next day we were transported by the same method to a detention camp outside Beersheba in which the fourteen of us spent about a week. We were kept secure in a large room without a shower or running water, but with a few windows on one side. The rules in that camp were somewhat relaxed because it is located in a desert and it would be very difficult for anyone to escape and survive that desert environment. The setting of moving between cities in occupied Palestine was not what I imaged to do freely in liberated Palestine. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my week at the detention camp in Beersheba. I smelled the fresh air of Palestine and occasionally I saw at a distance shepherd herding their sheep and goats. That was my first time to be in the invaded 1948 Palestine that we sworn and dreamed so dearly to liberate. Instead of being free men and liberators, we were guarded and herded like animals.

The setting was not right and the outlook was dim because all the fourteen men did not have the slightest idea about the next move. The unknown was quite frightening, terrifying, and menacing. In an evening group discussion, one of us predicted that we will be executed and shot to death. I did not believe it because I knew at that time and deep in my heart that I have so many things to do before anyone would dare shooting me to death. Even during that dark moment, I found time to reflect and contemplate. I started to imagine, think, and plan and none of those heavily armed guards, staring at us day and night, would stop me. I began gazing at the sand grains and small hills nearby as if they were living beings talking to me. They were whispering into my ears and promising they will eternally remain part of us and no matter what happened they will perpetually remain part of this land called Palestine.

In a cold late afternoon of December 1970 the fourteen of us were lined up in a straight line against the large room wall, blind-folded, and marched forward. We end up in another heavily armored vehicle. From what my senses could tell, the vehicle was moving toward the east in an almost straight line. After about two hours or so we were transferred into what it looks like a noisy military transport vehicle with no cover. I enjoyed the sand spattering against my face, hands, and torso. Half an hour later, the vehicle stopped and the bands used to blind-folded us were removed. After inspecting the surrounding, we found out that these enemy soldiers drove us about five miles in the Jordanian territory. They spread out a large blanket containing several items and gave each one of us two Jordanian dinars (~$6.0 at that time), a canteen full of water, and a clumsy looking hat. Then one of the soldiers looked at us, point to a white building to the east, and spoke with a broken Arabic “ Go to your cousins in the East .” These soldiers with their own vehicles drove us about five miles into Jordan and ordered us under the guns to keep walking to the east. At that time we realized we were expelled from our land and the ferocious Arab army was nowhere to be seen.

We had no choice but to walk toward the white building standing alone on a small hill to the east with high mountains in the backdrop. For every big loss there must be a little gain, I told myself. Perhaps those cousins of us to the east will welcome us as heroes. The white building looked as if it was about two to three miles, but we were fooled by the desert. We walked about fifteen miles to reach the white building. This building turned out to be a Jordanian army early warning check-point. As we were approaching the building we heard sporadic gun shots. We looked at each other puzzled and perplexed. The oldest one of us assumed the leadership and told us to hunker down. We sat there until the sun set while the Jordanian soldiers were shooting at us sporadically from time to time. The bullets came as close as a yard from our legs and feet. We were baffled about why these soldiers were shooting at us, but did not dare to shoot at the enemy vehicle, which violated the integrity of their territory by driving five miles into it. Shortly after the sun set, the shooting was ceased and a few Bedouin soldiers approached us. To our sadness, sorrow, and grief, the Bedouin soldiers followed the same technique that we were subjected to it in Al-Ramlah. We were stripped naked in a cold December desert evening. Some of us were picked up randomly and badly beaten by the Bedouin soldiers using the heels of their guns. “ The enemy soldiers lied to us, these are not our cousins, ” I murmured to myself.

We were filed one after another and commanded to march forward toward the white building. The building itself is a large skeleton of four walls without a roof. In one of the corner of the building, there was a smaller room, which appears to be a bedroom for the soldiers. We were allowed to build a bonfire to keep warm. The wispy cloths we had on were not meant to be for winter desert nights. It was like a torture and no one of us slept for a moment. We were offered water, but no food. In the morning, an old pick-up truck came toward us from the east roaring down the mountain on a dirt road leaving a huge dust storm that build behind it for at least a quarter of a mile. We were ordered to mount the back of the pick-up truck and the driver gave us a loaf of bread to share. I thought that was a long way to go for us. The enemy soldiers were actually more generous than those Bedouins.

The early warning Jordan army post was about 50 miles west of Ma’an, a city located in the Jordan desert. This town is settled mostly by Bedouins and the civilization appeared to have forgotten it. In the mid 1960’s a torrential rain storm hit this town and a flash-flood destroyed most of the buildings. Several hundred people perished in this storm. I recall the news of this storm of a biblical proportion because a whole family from Bani Na’im who was living in Ma’an was deceased by it. When the pick-up drove us to Ma’an, I noted the residual destruction of that storm as if it was the punishment from god. I thought the storm was the wrath of god on this nasty, brutal, and pitiless punch of people. We were paraded in the main street of Ma’an toward the penitentiary, which was built by the Ottoman Empire in the late 19 th century. The fourteen of us were crammed into one small, humid, and cold room that was fit for animals. We stayed in that room for ten long days waiting for the army to clear our records. Everyday a policeman or two would come and lecture us about the nationalism and how to salute the big boss. We were treated as if we were prisoners of war and yet we were interrogated with the same method as the occupiers in Palestine used on us. Almost the same questions were asked of us to answer, which made me wonder who those guys were. Some of us complained that the enemy treatment was much better than our cousins deeds and wished if they could go back to the enemy.

At the end of the tenth day we were asked to leave and directed toward the downtown of Ma’an where one may find transportation method to take to the capital city of Jordan (Amman). The fair was too expensive and all of us do not have enough cash to pay for one of us half way to Amman. It turned out there was a Palestinian merchant in town who was aware of our ordeal. That old man came running to us giving hugs and kisses and welcoming our freedom. He paid the fair for all of us and it was the first time I had a big sigh when the car started moving toward the north. I thought I was coming out of a true never ending agonizing nightmare.

The feeling of loss, hopelessness, hurt, and failure settled on me while we drove to Amman far away from family, friends, and loved ones. At that time, I could not imagine that anybody would endure this torture until I read the stories of about thirty Palestinian men who were expelled late last century by the enemy to the Lebanese border. They spend a few years in the no-man land between Palestine and Lebanon going through a similar ordeal of mine in Ma’am every day for several hundred days. I could not imagine how one can draw any strength from any source to sustain a life in these conditions without reaching the breakdown point. They survived and unlike me they were fortunate to go back to their hometowns. As for me, I am still living day to day in hope of getting to the point where I could say “ I am finally coming home .” Home is a place where one goes to when feels insecure. Among all places I lived in during the last a few decades, none of them appealed to me as a place where I felt secure regardless of the comfort and worldly luxury I create around them. I do not seem to grasp and capture those moments of security I experienced in Bani Na’im during my childhood. To me this little town is my home. My soul will continue wandering and drifting aimlessly in the four corners of the universe until it settles in this rocky and rugged place called Bani Na’im.

Driving from Ma’an to Amman was like carrying the cross for a thousand mile with Roman soldiers thrashing my back. I felt that I was carrying all the pain, suffering, and anguish that were inflicted and imposed upon the Palestinian people. As we were approaching Amman, I started to think about where I am going to spend the night, the night after that, and every night from now on. We were dropped on the south side of the capital city of Jordan and the fourteen of us were dispersed and farmed among relatives. In my case I could not reach anybody who might recognize me. I started walking toward the north on the east side of the city where I was told inhabitants from my region could be found. After walking about five miles per the instruction, I started knocking on doors of poor looking buildings. Several doors were slammed into my face as I was thought of as a beggar, tramp, or a vagabond. I finally knocked on a door where a man peaked at me and started welcoming as he was expecting me. It turned out a few days earlier rumors were reached the locals that Palestinian men were expelled and they were coming to Amman. I end up at the house of my youngest sister who migrated to Jordan after the six day war.

It is difficult for me to describe the emotions, sensations, and the strange feelings I had at that time. The feeling of being free at last and the feeling of hopelessness are two powerful and opposite emotions that could break or make someone. In my case, I learned how live day by day and perfect all parts of every day. I was withdrawn and spent days and days without talking to anybody trying to piece and work out my life together without interruptions. I learnt that hope is more powerful emotion than anything else for a human being. I came to the conclusion that losing hope meant death to both the soul and body, so I lived on nothing but hope and all events went around me as if they were nothing but ripples of distractions. I grew up and matured much faster than my peers. I felt that I was older than all of my siblings and even my parents. I was living much faster than the trickling seconds, minutes, hours, and days. The determination at that time was much greater than anything else that I had experience in my life. Nothing will stop or knock me down again. I learned how to live, deal, cope, and survive among these bastards called “ our cousins in the east .”

Omar Manasreh
02 July 2008