by As`ad AbuKhalil
I am not a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon. UNRWA can go to hell. A refugee becomes one by choice. The Zionist gangs could not intimidate us in Palestine, despite their terrorism. We did not - like you claim- seek refuge in Lebanon, but we were expelled from Palestine. We prefer the thyme of Palestine to the cedars of Lebanon. We were uprooted from our land with rifle butts. We came grudgingly, and some of us died of heartache and thirst on the way. Refugee is a word invented by Zionist propaganda and the propaganda of the gruesome Arab regimes. The goal is to blame the Palestinian victim. I am a rebel, not a refugee, do you hear me?
I will tell you my story. I lived each and every one of its bloodstained seconds. I wrote it on my wounded back, and I painted it on my tearful tombstone; a story that summarizes the history of the Palestinian plight. It contains no braveries of Arab regimes and no plans for the Liberation of Palestine. Series of disappointments, defeats and lies are added to an enormous amount of bad poetry for Palestine and stupid speeches that were a great assistance to the Zionist propaganda. I was uprooted from my land by force, and they stomped on my forehead after I tied my neck to the door of my house in the Galilee. They dyed grey all of my green and red clothes, and they claimed that I wasn’t born yet. They said I was hallucinating about my homeland and that the sky above my head was a fantasy. No vegetables or fruits in my land, they went on repeating. They claimed that my olive evaporated, that my soil melted and that my trees are booby-trapped. They advised me to read Hebrew literature to understand their suffering. I advised them to leave my land so they understand my suffering. They stole a picture of my grandfather and grandmother and hung it in a museum of “Israeli” history. They accused me of anti-Semitism, and I only accused them of Zionism.
I came carrying my home on my shoulders. I carried my children in my pocket. My parents died in my hand. I left Palestine hastily. I made my key with my own hands, and my home ownership paper is stamped with my own blood. My hymns are humming in my ear, and my history is woven on my wife’s dresses. My loved ones died with no obituaries and my comrades have been eating dust for decades. I saw the Arab armies entering Palestine reluctantly, and I saw them fighting each other. I saw them shooting at each other. I saw the soldiers whispering with Zionist soldiers, and I saw some of them receiving moneys from Europe. I did not kill King Abdullah. No, you and I thought that I killed him. I never got the honor. I lived the battle to liberate Palestine and I carried a hunting rifle from a previous century. I saw weapons that looked like remnants from the Levant conquest wars. I squeezed my orchards and came. I shackled my heart and came. I challenged my pride and came. I didn’t see anyone welcoming me. On the contrary, the people of Lebanon received us with humiliation.
They put us in tents of degradation, and we soon heard the Lebanese stance on the Palestinian people. Not a week went by after we arrived until we started hearing the jokes, the humor and the gloating about a people who sold their home and land, like they say about us, and as we’ve been called in the past few years by the “unbiased” newscaster May Chidiac and by Gibran Bassil. If it was up to me, I would make it mandatory for all Lebanese people to learn about the history of the Palestinian cause. What do these know? What do they know about the imminent Zionist threat? Israel threatens them every day, and they threaten the resistance with disarmament. Sa’ad Hariri threatens to retaliate using the internal security forces and the army if Israel attacks. Where were they during the July war? Who prevented them from responding?
We were beaten and questioned in the police dungeons when we spoke politely of the sale of Palestinian land by Lebanese people (of the families: Tayyan, Salam, Tueni and Sarsaq). As soon as we’d open our mouths to tell them about our properties and our crops and how the Palestinian farmer did not leave any fertile ground go unplanted (as narrated by Ahad Ha'am in his visit to Palestine late in the nineteenth century), they’d mock our home, our wounds and our agonies. Zionists later invented the story of “Making the desert bloom”. Our desert bloomed before Theodor Herzl was even born. We embellished the land of Palestine with our blood, sweat and tears. They came later and stole our blood, sweat and tears, and they added more of our sweat, tears and blood to the land.....
An excellent narrative of Zionist created horrors in Palestine and Lebanon, continued here, many of which have been and continue to be funded by Israel's #1 Bitch, the USA.
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