My grandmother owns the biggest Nakba in our household. It is a white shaped mass that is tied around her waist; she drags it around absentmindedly, almost effortlessly as if it is a part of her body. My grandmother has been always old to me: her back is hunched and her leg vains stick out so prominently that I thought she must skip over them so she won’t fall. There’s one specific memory of her that keeps presenting itself to me: she sits under one of the shady trees in the olive grove during olive seasons and she sifts the piled olives over the black tarps. Her six sons hover around her and hit the Syrian-breed olive trees ruthlessly so a barrage of olives falls to the ground above the tarp. Her husband, my grandfather, also fastens his Nakba around his waist, but different from my grandmother, he moves with so much pride as if it’s tied around his Koufyee. He grooms the trees by cutting their thick branches, and would sharpen them turning them into sticks that his sons would hit the trees with. He rolls a cigarette out of his Arabic tobacco every once in a while. I never saw my grandmother without her Nakba, and I wondered whether she takes a shower with it or without it.
Later in life, I would see my own Nakba blossoming around my waist, just like my mother has explained. She told me that every Palestinian is born with a Nakba, but it is in hibernation state at the beginning, and only later with time and awareness can it grow. It’s like a seed that needs water and sun. I was so excited and so scared at the same time, but my excitement overrode my fear so I asked and read. I read that one inherits Nakba from one’s parents, so I will inherit one for sure since both of my parents are Palestinians. Actually, I know I said that my grandmother (my dad’s mom) owns the biggest Nakba in the family, but after I’ve given it some thought, I think my mother’s dad is the one to own the biggest in our household. After all, he lost all his lands in the Magedo valley, next to Nazareth. People stopped calling him Mokhtar. He carried his Nakba along with his diabetes and died young.
My fear of my Nakba has always been there, I’m afraid of it and of its heaviness. Will it break my back? Will it be a normal extension of my arm? Will it grow in size? Will it get smaller as I get older? Will other people notice it? I mean those who are not Palestinians and don’t drag one like we do? And to be honest with you, my fears stemmed from unanswered, deeper questions: do I have to keep it with me all my life? Can I even get rid of it? Can I love my Nakba? What will happen? And if it indeed does shrink in size throughout the generations, what will my sons and granddaughters have?
With time, I obtained some answers. For example, I observed my parents’ Nakba getting bigger as they got older and more bitter. They had hopes but empty hopes. I also obtained some answers to questions I haven’t asked: I realized that other people who are not Palestinians also carry an ever morphing mass around their necks and waists; it comes in different shape, color and texture, but it’s there nonetheless. It was hard for me to accept this at the beginning. It is this moment of seeing another’s person burden, catastrophe, or their Nakba that made me see the importance of answering an essential question that still haunts me to this day, as I sit on my couch and caress my Nakba: what will happen if all Nakbas are united together? Can we bring all Nakbas around the world in the same spot, maybe next to our olive tree since it has plenty of shade, and create a black hole of potential energy that liberates us from our shackles?
I still wonder.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 