The Words of My Father: A Memoir

By Yousef Bashir

In the Gaza Strip, growing up on land owned by his family for centuries, eleven-year-old Yousef is preoccupied by video games, school pranks, and meeting his father’s impossibly high standards. Everything changes when the Second Intifada erupts and soldiers occupy the family home. Yousef’s father refuses to flee and risk losing the house forever, so the army keeps the family in a state of virtual imprisonment. Yousef struggles to understand how his father can be so committed to peaceful co-existence that he welcomes the occupying Israeli soldiers as ‘guests’, even in the face of unfair and humiliating treatment. Over time, Yousef learns how to endure his new life in captivity – but he can’t anticipate that a bullet is about to transform his future in an instant. Shot by an Israeli soldier at the age of fifteen, and taken to hospital in Tel Aviv, Yousef slowly and painstakingly confronts the paralysis of his lower body. Under the ceaseless care of Israeli medical professionals, he gains a new perspective on the value of co-existence. These transformative experiences set Yousef on a difficult new path that leads him to learn to embody his father’s philosophy, and spread a message of co-existence in a world of deep-set sectarianism. The Words of My Father is a moving coming-of-age story about survival, tolerance and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haus Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912208180

Yousef Bashir

Yousef Bashir is a Palestinian-American from the Gaza Strip, the son of Khalil Bashir, a highly respected educator. Still suffering the effects of a near catastrophic injury at the hands of an anonymous IDF soldier, Yousef made his way to the United States where he earned a BA in International Affairs from Northeastern University and an MA in Co-existence and Conflict from Brandeis University. Now living in Washington DC, Bashir has worked on Capitol Hill, and served as a member of the Palestinian Diplomatic Delegation to the United States. Yousef is an accomplished author, a vigorous advocate of Israeli-Palestinian peace, and much sought-after public speaker. Facebook: YousefKhalilBashir Instagram: yousef_khalil_bashir

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deeply."

Part One

PARADISE

"Believers, eat the good things we provided you, and

thank God, if you are truly worshipping Him."

— The Holy Quran, Surat Al-Bakarah (2:172)

1

Our Land, Our Neighbours

My father was as much in love with his land as he was with my mother. And he loved both of them deeply.

He loved the tall date palms along the edges of our farm that marked out an area larger than two football pitches. He loved his olive trees and the oil he produced from them. He loved his hives both for the bees and the amazing honey they produced pollinating his guavas, figs, and dates. He especially loved his greenhouses – long tunnels of plastic stretched over metal frames. They covered almost half the land. He raised tomatoes in them, along with hot peppers, and aubergines that he sold to markets in Israel and Jordan, and sometimes Egypt. He had spent his lifetime enriching the sandy soil with compost to make it immensely productive.

He loved how on almost every piece of the land around his house there was a tree. Some, like his figs and guavas, gave fruit; others brought shade and colour to the open areas around our house. There had once been an orange grove, but my father’s brother had cut down most of the trees to make space for a new house he built for his family. My father never completely forgave him. He loved the memory of those orange trees, which he still saw in his mind, where they had stood for generations.

He had more than two hundred date palm trees. Some grew around the corners of our house while others lined the long driveway from the house to the gate onto Mekka Street. There was a tower for pigeons, a cage for many rabbits, geese, ducks, and chickens, at least two roosters. We tied our gentle old white donkey by a small room which housed the motor that powered the irrigation system and our water well. Next to it was a very large olive tree, a couple of hundred years old. Olive trees can live for centuries. I liked to climb it to find a good hiding spot where I could relax and scrutinise my universe.

We had dozens and dozens of olive trees, and during olive-picking season we all turned into a team. For breakfast, my mother fried eggs mixed with salted potatoes and cheese, and baked bread in her mud oven. My father spread plastic beneath each tree so that any olives that fell could be picked up without getting covered in the dry earth. I enjoyed climbing the trees. The higher I got, the more excited I felt. I came down only when my mother announced that lunch was ready: jasmine rice with beef and okra stew. She served it on a tray with a smashed tomato salad and a plate filled with freshly cut tomatoes, cucumbers, and hot peppers (mostly for my father), all straight from our farms, along with pickled olives from the previous season.

Even though I found the whole process exciting, by the second day I was looking for ways to finish faster. One way was to use a stick to shake down the branches without having to pick them by hand. My grandmother got upset with me for this because she did not want the branches to be scratched. She lectured me about how an olive tree is like a human being: its skin is not to be harmed. I just waited for her to get distracted and went back to using my stick.

At the end of the land some distance from the house, my two older brothers had helped my father build a hut from where we could keep watch on the far side of the property. It was a stockade of dry palm trunks with woven palm leaves for a roof. It had a place to make a fire and lay long, thin cushions called freash on the floor, where we sat.

Our land is so big, I never ran out of space to be on my own. It was a paradise. Knowing that I grew up in Gaza, you may be surprised to hear me call it paradise. Today – and my heart breaks to say so – you might be more inclined to call it hell. Believe me, though, when I was a child it was not like that, and I still think of it the way it was then.

When the harvest came and the date clusters were red and heavy, my father’s crews of pickers climbed the trees for weeks, filling trucks that left every day for the markets and packing houses. He saved the best ones for my mother to make her amazing date jam. That was the finest gift we could give anyone, and I always gave a jar to my teachers when I needed to make sure I was on a sports team.

My mother grew up in the city. She had been born in Beirut, where her family owned land, but came back to Gaza at an early age. Her uncle had been the mayor of Deir el-Balah for many years. Her family is one of four original families there. They owned a lot of land. Some of her relatives were uneasy about her marrying my father. They saw themselves as cosmopolitan city people and were dismissive of him for being a farmer and less well off, though the Bashirs are the largest of the four original families. But my mother’s mother, Sitie, liked him. He was handsome, with movie-star good looks. He was immaculately dressed, even when he was working on the farm. When he spoke with somebody he looked directly at them; his dark eyes filled with such sincerity that his listeners were left deeply touched. He tilted his head just slightly as he spoke, chose his words carefully, and treated everyone kindly.

Leave it with me, Sitie told my father. He did. Eventually, he and my mother did marry. Over the next dozen years, they had eight children. I was the fourth, with two older brothers and an older sister, plus one younger brother, then a twin sister and brother, and finally a youngest sister.

He built a house for my mother and made it from the highest quality cement bricks, which looked like stones cut from a quarry. It was a sharp contrast to the humble house that still stood next to it, where he, his brother, and two sisters had been raised by their parents. He remodelled one of the rooms into a garage for his white Opel, and used it as a place to keep some of his farm tools. We stashed large bales of hay in another one of the rooms to feed the animals and birds we raised.

For many years, the new house had had only one storey. In 1997, when I was eight, he started building two more floors using the money he had made from his greenhouses. He and my mother saved their money carefully. They did not believe in taking out a bank loan. They did something only when they had the money to pay for it, and were confident it would remain theirs until Judgement Day.

The work on the new floors kept getting delayed, however, because our neighbours took my parents to court to stop the construction. The neighbours were Jewish settlers and Israeli soldiers living illegally next to and on our land. The two new upper floors would make our house the tallest building in the area. Our neighbours did not want that. On many occasions, my parents left early in the morning for Tel Aviv, across the Israeli border, only to come back from the court late at night empty-handed. In the end, my parents won their case, but it took two years.

A Jewish settlement had been built directly across the Salah al-Din Highway from our house. It was called K’far Darom. Two earlier settlements had been located there, one in the 1930s and another a decade later. In both cases, the settlers had left after only a few years. Following Israel’s occupation of Gaza in 1967, a third settlement was established in 1989 – the year I was born.

When I looked over at the settlement from the upper floors of our house, it was so unlike everything else in Gaza. Their houses were laid out along two sides of a paved road that almost made a circle at the centre of their two hundred and fifty acres. Many of the houses had satellite dishes. Their roofs were sloping and covered with red clay tiles. My mother told me that was how houses were built in Europe.

Though K’far Darom looked beautiful, the settlers themselves gave me an uncomfortable feeling every time I saw them. They just did not seem friendly. I had watched on TV how violent settlers had been towards Palestinians, how they showed no regard for children or women. Those images hung at the back of my mind when I saw the men always working with small machine guns strapped around their bodies. They scared me even though I had never seen them fire their weapons.

I never saw children, only older people and women in long black dresses with their heads covered in black turban-like hats. We had heard that the residents of K’far Darom were among the most religiously conservative of the eight thousand illegal Israeli settlers in Gaza.

They had greenhouses like ours, but hired Filipinos to work in them. They built a cement footbridge across the Salah al-Din Highway – not far from our house – to connect their homes on the far side to their synagogue, which was on our side. The footbridge was open only to the settlers.

Between our land and the synagogue was an Israeli military base. It had two high watchtowers, where soldiers with machine guns were stationed twenty-four/seven. The towers were about forty feet tall, just slightly lower than our house. They were made of metal girders, and each had a small room at the top. We could see one of them from our formal living room and the kitchen, and the other from our bathroom and my parents’ bedroom.

The soldiers stationed in the towers had binoculars. Whenever we looked at the towers we could see the soldiers watching us. Because they were always there, we presumed we were always being watched.

Despite this, the soldiers on the base for some reason were less intimidating to me than the settlers – maybe because they always seemed to be enjoying life more. Every Saturday the soldiers turned their music all the way up; most of their music sounded very Arabic to me. We heard them as they clapped and cheered to the Egyptian pop singer Amr Diab’s Habibi ya Noor El Ein [Baby, You Are the Light of My Eyes].

They often played football and sometimes kicked their militarylooking footballs across our fence. Sometimes, they came and asked for their ball back, though that was rare. Sometimes I kicked their ball back on my own. Sometimes I played with it a little before kicking it back. Sometimes I just kept it, because the palm trees had thorns that punctured my own balls. A new one was always welcome.

One of the watchtowers had been built right above the shed where we kept our animals. I thought that was funny because the roosters crowed so loudly that any soldier posted in that tower would have had to hate his life. Sometimes a soldier would decide that he’d had enough early-morning crowing and start jeering in Hebrew at the roosters, before he shut all the windows in the tower and disappeared along with his agitation.

When the settlers first came, my mother told me one afternoon as she was making one of her tasty meals, it was just us and the settlement. There was no base. No soldiers. The settlers had their guns, but we did not pay much attention to them. They went to buy fruit and vegetables from the market and the same shops where we bought our food. The Jews hated the Arabs, but they still went to Arab shops. The Arabs hated the Jews, but they still sold to them. I found that a bit ironic, even humorous.

I liked working with her in the kitchen. I was a foodie even then and was curious how she made things. Plus, it was a good place to talk.

After the UN built their school just over there in front of our gate, she told me another time, "the students sometimes snuck into our greenhouses and grabbed cucumbers to eat on the way home. Your father used to go do some farm work near the road when their classes ended, to keep them away. One day while he was digging green onions, a settler parked his car on Mekka Street for some reason and the students started harassing him. The settler decided that Khalil was encouraging them. So, the next thing you know, he was aiming his gun at your father and forcing him into his car. For some reason, he made Khalil take off his shoes and leave them by the side of the road.

"I was in the house. I didn’t see anything, but you know Mariam who lives next to the school, she saw what had happened and came running to tell me. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know what to do or who to call. How can a man be taken at gunpoint from his own land?

"Luckily, some soldiers in an Israeli military jeep had spotted the incident and drove after the settler. They rescued Khalil, but instead of bringing him home, they took him to the military base. They let the settler go, of course.

"The soldiers gave him problems about not having his ID card with him. He tried to explain that he was wearing his old jeans to work in the field and was not carrying his wallet. So, I had to go to the base and bring him his