Sitting in Syria my heart and mind was still in Lebanon. Not only because of its natural beauty, but because the impressions of the last day were overwhelming. My Facebook status last night stated: "Kamil is living as a Palestinian Refugee in Ein al-Hilweh.” But, it was, at best, only halftrue; I was never a refugee.
The last night in Lebanon was in other words spent in a well-known Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon. "The worst camp in Lebanon" my hotel host in Beirut told me, "You must promise to be careful," a friend plead, and even my boss in Norway had sent a message recommending me to contact the embassy before the trip. I might have exaggerated and given the impression that I was going there by my own, but I wasn’t. I stayed in Ein al-Hilweh with a Palestinian family I got in contact with before my trip to Middle East.
However difficult to describe the impressions, I’ll give it a try from the beginning:
I was picked up by Abu Sharif, (the husband of my contact), after the bus ride from Beirut to Sidon/Saida (South of Lebanon). We drove to the camp, app. 5-10 min. from Saida station, and came to a "gate" or a Lebanese military checkpoint. In the south, the Lebanese army is not allowed to enter the camps opposed to the camps in the north, and therefore, all entering and departures from the camps are firmly checked. I had applied for a permit in advance, so everything should be in order, but of course it wasn’t. There had been a mix up with my permit, and it turned out that I had permission the night before, and not this night. It did not help with ever so little sweet talk, plea or begging, I was simply denied access. Abu Sharif told me to wait there while he drove in and checked what was wrong.
There I was at the checkpoint outside Ein al-Hilweh in the company of two Lebanese soldiers with their M16’s (what do I know?) And all my "prejudices" against the camp had already come true, even if the soldiers were not particularly scary. They just tried to keep me in company with their questions about everything and nothing. What are you doing here? What business? No business, I answered. No business? No. What are you going to do? Just look. That answer had just as little impression on the soldiers as it had had at the boys I met in Burj al-Brajneh refugee camp two days earlier. Are you going on a picnic in the camp? Yes, I said, and we laughed loud all three of us.
Other than that, we just stood there and talked about girls. If I was married or not, if I liked Lebanese girls, Palestinian girls, if I’ll get married in the refugee camp, and so on, and every time a girl passed, regardless of her age, I was asked what I thought of her, but what can you really expect from soldiers in their early 20’s (and many will say, me)?
The wife of Abu Sharif, and my contact in camp, finally came to the checkpoint, called around, and eventually the “misunderstanding” was clarified and I could enter the camp. After the incident in Burj al-Brajneh I didn’t dare taking pictures, so I walked with large eyes, trying to suck every impression and add it to my memory.
On the way to her house, approximately 10 min. of walk, we said hello to almost everyone, giving me the impression that she was “somebody” in the camp. The explanation was far simpler. She was born and raised (now in her 40’s), and most of the people we had greeted were her uncles/ aunts/ cousins/ nephews/ nieces, etc. When we finally arrived at home, I found her family, her daughters that is, in their balcony preparing for what I and the soldiers had laughed of only 10 min. earlier; a picnic.
I was served kebabs, lamb chops, hummus, salad, and I began my life as a refugee with an incredible feast.
An acquaintance of the family, one from PF (L?) P was invited for my sake, and I was told that he'd answer all my questions about Lebanon, the camp, etc. He made it perfectly clear that the camp was not scary, even though all the political groups were represented in the camp, and he was very clear on how his party was the only one open to all, loved by all and worked to unite all the political groups. It got a bit too propaganda-ish, and honestly, had little learning value. Fortunately, A cousin, Dr. Hussein (with a doctorate in philosophy) showed up, and it was he who was my company during my stay.
After lunch he took me on a tour, and I was sure that all their claims about safety would soon fall apart. Out on the Upper Street (that was the name), one of the main streets, I saw lots of people. Just people. They did what people do. Shopping, walking, talking, etc. The whole area was, according to Dr. Hussein, controlled by Usbat al-Ansar, a Lebanon-based Sunni fundamentalist group, but the only thing I saw of it was one militant person. He was in return, quite scary. With a long beard, “Osama bin Laden” cape and a monster of a weapons around his neck. He hurried past us, with only me turning around with big eyes. Besides that, there was little indicating tense situation. I did see some more weapons. There were cars that drove by with easily visible revolvers and that sort of thing, but the picture I had with checkpoints on every street corner and heavily armed militants did not manifest it self.
Walking through the Sooq, down to the Lower Street, I saw children and young people running around with their toy guns playing war. They were in return all over the place. But, as Dr. Hussein told me, yes, there are a lot of weapons in the camp. Most people have weapons at home, but it is certainly not the way I had imagined. We walked past the UNRWA schools and went back home for tea, coffee, card games and water pipe.
I was mildly confused. Although Dr. Hussein came with a remark that it was all organized for me, and that it was he himself who was the big boss of the camp, and the most funny thing was how he fooled Abu Sharif, the man in the house, more than me. Or did he?
At home, there was ample time for political talk. The Israel/ Palestine conflict, of course, was thoroughly analyzed. With the danger of destroying my future (career and) travelling plans, I think Dr. Hussein’s one question provides a good summary of the discussion: "I was born as a Refugee in 1953, I'm still a Refugee, why?"
I, like the rest of the world, did not have a good answer.
There was not much new that emerged in the discussion. There were arguments, theses, (conspiracy) theories I knew well from before, but it was the first time it became so clear to me that Israel/ Palestine issue can not – if at all – be resolved without resolving the question of the refugees. The approximately 300,000 Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, of which over 50,000 (70,000 was claimed) is in the Ein al-Hilweh camp deserve the right to return home, as much - if not more - as the world's Jews, who now face 'home' to Israel.
During the evening I wondered if the situation in the streets was any way different now, after the dark. I could see a strong resignation in the face of the Doctor when he asked if I would like a new trip out? Well… So, out we went. This time accompanied by their youngest daughter (12) on my way to the store to get some eggs. We didn’t go far, but the place seemed, still, safe enough. I cannot refrain from comparing it with Pakistan. The streets of Burj al-Brajneh reminded me of my mother's home village and the streets of this camp reminded me sharply of streets of the town of Gujrat. The reason for the comparison is that even in Lahore, my hometown in Pakistan, I have experienced to be accompanied by a bodyguard with a Kalashnikov to the store across the street and now I was with a 12-year-old - without a Kalashnikov.
The place is safe, as long as you’re known there, or are accompanied by an acquaintance. I would have hardly made it in the streets by my self (well, regardless the fact that I’d never be let in all alone), but the place is safe enough for known and unsafe for strangers. People who are born and raised on 2.4 square kilometers recognize who belongs there and who doesn’t. Even with over 50,000 people living there.
The night came and I stayed up a long time waiting anxiously to hear some shootings, but all I heard was cats, which sounded like kids getting tortured.
The next day, today, Friday, I had nagged to get to Friday prayers. Dr. Hussein’s skepticism was not due to the security situation, but the fact that he himself never prayed. The problem was solved by him following me to some of his relatives/ friends who then followed me to the mosque. This time we went the other way. Up to the north boundary of the camp, to show me how the army surrounded the camp. In front of the checkpoints and the fence stood 20-year-olds with their Kalashnikov keeping guard. Sometimes within the camp, there were security guards, only Palestinians this time. Apparently, answering my question in advance, in order to prevent Molotov bombs being thrown against the army.
Somewhere on the way to his friends, he suddenly turned left, although he initially intended to go straight ahead, and my immediate thought was: Why? What is hidden from me now? It was like he read my thoughts, and said, "to show you some militants." The place on the left had previously been a battleground, and there they were, young guys, in black military like clothes with weapons in their hands. "Exotic" and "bizarre”.
There was nothing special with the Friday prayers. The Imam, a half-creepy young man, talked about Surat Kaferoon, and although I did not understand so much, one can almost imagine what the main theme was. The Imam (sheikh as they call him) had in fact been to both Pakistan and Afghanistan and was even reported missing (dead) for a period of time before suddenly reappearing, but the small hours after the Prayer were more interesting and sad.
We returned to the family I had accompanied, and new people arrived. I was repeatedly presented as: he is Norwegian, Pakistani and actually working in the immigration (which I did) in Norway. I had thankfully scored some points by joining them to the Friday prayers, but felt somewhat uncomfortable with the immigration stamp. It was a little joke about it, of course, but mainly they told their stories.
The family I was with, was originally from Gaza and so-called without identity, meaning without ID papers. The family father, a highly respected blind man, told me how he wasn’t able to register neither his marriage nor his children. His children (my age) therefore couldn’t go to any school/ university outside the camp, and they could barely move out of the camp, all because they did not have ID documents and did not have permission to get new ones.
In short, the family had no future.
The conversation filled me with sadness. Emptiness. Shortly after the visit with the family, I was safely on my way out of the camp, and my life as a Palestinian Refugee was over. The others did not have that luxury. The over 50,000 people will remain refugees for a long time to come, and they will never disappear, just become more. Their children, grandchildren will grow up there, and will never have more than the narrow streets to hang in, play in, drive their scooters in, play war in, and never, never will they stop dreaming of Palestine.
Why should they?
The last night in Lebanon was in other words spent in a well-known Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon. "The worst camp in Lebanon" my hotel host in Beirut told me, "You must promise to be careful," a friend plead, and even my boss in Norway had sent a message recommending me to contact the embassy before the trip. I might have exaggerated and given the impression that I was going there by my own, but I wasn’t. I stayed in Ein al-Hilweh with a Palestinian family I got in contact with before my trip to Middle East.
However difficult to describe the impressions, I’ll give it a try from the beginning:
I was picked up by Abu Sharif, (the husband of my contact), after the bus ride from Beirut to Sidon/Saida (South of Lebanon). We drove to the camp, app. 5-10 min. from Saida station, and came to a "gate" or a Lebanese military checkpoint. In the south, the Lebanese army is not allowed to enter the camps opposed to the camps in the north, and therefore, all entering and departures from the camps are firmly checked. I had applied for a permit in advance, so everything should be in order, but of course it wasn’t. There had been a mix up with my permit, and it turned out that I had permission the night before, and not this night. It did not help with ever so little sweet talk, plea or begging, I was simply denied access. Abu Sharif told me to wait there while he drove in and checked what was wrong.
There I was at the checkpoint outside Ein al-Hilweh in the company of two Lebanese soldiers with their M16’s (what do I know?) And all my "prejudices" against the camp had already come true, even if the soldiers were not particularly scary. They just tried to keep me in company with their questions about everything and nothing. What are you doing here? What business? No business, I answered. No business? No. What are you going to do? Just look. That answer had just as little impression on the soldiers as it had had at the boys I met in Burj al-Brajneh refugee camp two days earlier. Are you going on a picnic in the camp? Yes, I said, and we laughed loud all three of us.
Other than that, we just stood there and talked about girls. If I was married or not, if I liked Lebanese girls, Palestinian girls, if I’ll get married in the refugee camp, and so on, and every time a girl passed, regardless of her age, I was asked what I thought of her, but what can you really expect from soldiers in their early 20’s (and many will say, me)?
The wife of Abu Sharif, and my contact in camp, finally came to the checkpoint, called around, and eventually the “misunderstanding” was clarified and I could enter the camp. After the incident in Burj al-Brajneh I didn’t dare taking pictures, so I walked with large eyes, trying to suck every impression and add it to my memory.
On the way to her house, approximately 10 min. of walk, we said hello to almost everyone, giving me the impression that she was “somebody” in the camp. The explanation was far simpler. She was born and raised (now in her 40’s), and most of the people we had greeted were her uncles/ aunts/ cousins/ nephews/ nieces, etc. When we finally arrived at home, I found her family, her daughters that is, in their balcony preparing for what I and the soldiers had laughed of only 10 min. earlier; a picnic.
I was served kebabs, lamb chops, hummus, salad, and I began my life as a refugee with an incredible feast.
An acquaintance of the family, one from PF (L?) P was invited for my sake, and I was told that he'd answer all my questions about Lebanon, the camp, etc. He made it perfectly clear that the camp was not scary, even though all the political groups were represented in the camp, and he was very clear on how his party was the only one open to all, loved by all and worked to unite all the political groups. It got a bit too propaganda-ish, and honestly, had little learning value. Fortunately, A cousin, Dr. Hussein (with a doctorate in philosophy) showed up, and it was he who was my company during my stay.
After lunch he took me on a tour, and I was sure that all their claims about safety would soon fall apart. Out on the Upper Street (that was the name), one of the main streets, I saw lots of people. Just people. They did what people do. Shopping, walking, talking, etc. The whole area was, according to Dr. Hussein, controlled by Usbat al-Ansar, a Lebanon-based Sunni fundamentalist group, but the only thing I saw of it was one militant person. He was in return, quite scary. With a long beard, “Osama bin Laden” cape and a monster of a weapons around his neck. He hurried past us, with only me turning around with big eyes. Besides that, there was little indicating tense situation. I did see some more weapons. There were cars that drove by with easily visible revolvers and that sort of thing, but the picture I had with checkpoints on every street corner and heavily armed militants did not manifest it self.
Walking through the Sooq, down to the Lower Street, I saw children and young people running around with their toy guns playing war. They were in return all over the place. But, as Dr. Hussein told me, yes, there are a lot of weapons in the camp. Most people have weapons at home, but it is certainly not the way I had imagined. We walked past the UNRWA schools and went back home for tea, coffee, card games and water pipe.
I was mildly confused. Although Dr. Hussein came with a remark that it was all organized for me, and that it was he himself who was the big boss of the camp, and the most funny thing was how he fooled Abu Sharif, the man in the house, more than me. Or did he?
At home, there was ample time for political talk. The Israel/ Palestine conflict, of course, was thoroughly analyzed. With the danger of destroying my future (career and) travelling plans, I think Dr. Hussein’s one question provides a good summary of the discussion: "I was born as a Refugee in 1953, I'm still a Refugee, why?"
I, like the rest of the world, did not have a good answer.
There was not much new that emerged in the discussion. There were arguments, theses, (conspiracy) theories I knew well from before, but it was the first time it became so clear to me that Israel/ Palestine issue can not – if at all – be resolved without resolving the question of the refugees. The approximately 300,000 Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, of which over 50,000 (70,000 was claimed) is in the Ein al-Hilweh camp deserve the right to return home, as much - if not more - as the world's Jews, who now face 'home' to Israel.
During the evening I wondered if the situation in the streets was any way different now, after the dark. I could see a strong resignation in the face of the Doctor when he asked if I would like a new trip out? Well… So, out we went. This time accompanied by their youngest daughter (12) on my way to the store to get some eggs. We didn’t go far, but the place seemed, still, safe enough. I cannot refrain from comparing it with Pakistan. The streets of Burj al-Brajneh reminded me of my mother's home village and the streets of this camp reminded me sharply of streets of the town of Gujrat. The reason for the comparison is that even in Lahore, my hometown in Pakistan, I have experienced to be accompanied by a bodyguard with a Kalashnikov to the store across the street and now I was with a 12-year-old - without a Kalashnikov.
The place is safe, as long as you’re known there, or are accompanied by an acquaintance. I would have hardly made it in the streets by my self (well, regardless the fact that I’d never be let in all alone), but the place is safe enough for known and unsafe for strangers. People who are born and raised on 2.4 square kilometers recognize who belongs there and who doesn’t. Even with over 50,000 people living there.
The night came and I stayed up a long time waiting anxiously to hear some shootings, but all I heard was cats, which sounded like kids getting tortured.
The next day, today, Friday, I had nagged to get to Friday prayers. Dr. Hussein’s skepticism was not due to the security situation, but the fact that he himself never prayed. The problem was solved by him following me to some of his relatives/ friends who then followed me to the mosque. This time we went the other way. Up to the north boundary of the camp, to show me how the army surrounded the camp. In front of the checkpoints and the fence stood 20-year-olds with their Kalashnikov keeping guard. Sometimes within the camp, there were security guards, only Palestinians this time. Apparently, answering my question in advance, in order to prevent Molotov bombs being thrown against the army.
Somewhere on the way to his friends, he suddenly turned left, although he initially intended to go straight ahead, and my immediate thought was: Why? What is hidden from me now? It was like he read my thoughts, and said, "to show you some militants." The place on the left had previously been a battleground, and there they were, young guys, in black military like clothes with weapons in their hands. "Exotic" and "bizarre”.
There was nothing special with the Friday prayers. The Imam, a half-creepy young man, talked about Surat Kaferoon, and although I did not understand so much, one can almost imagine what the main theme was. The Imam (sheikh as they call him) had in fact been to both Pakistan and Afghanistan and was even reported missing (dead) for a period of time before suddenly reappearing, but the small hours after the Prayer were more interesting and sad.
We returned to the family I had accompanied, and new people arrived. I was repeatedly presented as: he is Norwegian, Pakistani and actually working in the immigration (which I did) in Norway. I had thankfully scored some points by joining them to the Friday prayers, but felt somewhat uncomfortable with the immigration stamp. It was a little joke about it, of course, but mainly they told their stories.
The family I was with, was originally from Gaza and so-called without identity, meaning without ID papers. The family father, a highly respected blind man, told me how he wasn’t able to register neither his marriage nor his children. His children (my age) therefore couldn’t go to any school/ university outside the camp, and they could barely move out of the camp, all because they did not have ID documents and did not have permission to get new ones.
In short, the family had no future.
The conversation filled me with sadness. Emptiness. Shortly after the visit with the family, I was safely on my way out of the camp, and my life as a Palestinian Refugee was over. The others did not have that luxury. The over 50,000 people will remain refugees for a long time to come, and they will never disappear, just become more. Their children, grandchildren will grow up there, and will never have more than the narrow streets to hang in, play in, drive their scooters in, play war in, and never, never will they stop dreaming of Palestine.
Why should they?
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