TIGblogs TIG | TIGblogs GROUP TIGBLOGS LOGIN SIGNUP
Tamimi Updates
Tamimi Updates
My Father Died Alone in Gaza by Ramzy Baroud
Related to country: Palestine

Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic


Subject: My Father Died Alone in Gaza by Ramzy Baroud
Weekend Edition, Apri1 5 / 6, 2008



My Father Died Alone in Gaza

There are No Checkpoints in Heaven


By Ramzy Baroud

http://www.counterpunch.org/baroud04052008.html



I still vividly remember my father's face - wrinkled, apprehensive,

warm - as he last wished me farewell fourteen years ago. He stood
outside the rusty door of my family's home in a Gaza refugee camp wearing old
yellow pajamas and a seemingly ancient robe. As I hauled my one small

suitcase into a taxi that would take me to an Israeli airport an hour
away, my father stood still. I wished he would go back inside; it was
cold and the soldiers could pop up at any moment. As my car moved on, my

father eventually faded into the distance, along with the graveyard,
the water tower and the camp. It never occurred to me that I would never
see him again.



I think of my father now as he was that day. His tears and his

frantic last words: "Do you have your money? Your passport? A jacket? Call me
the moment you get there. Are you sure you have your passport? Just
check, one last time"



My father was a man who always defied the notion that one can only be

the outcome of his circumstance. Expelled from his village at the age
of 10, running barefoot behind his parents, he was instantly
transferred from the son of a landowning farmer to a penniless refugee in a blue

tent provided by the United Nations in Gaza. Thus, his life of hunger,
pain, homelessness, freedom-fighting, love, marriage and loss
commenced.



The fact that he was the one chosen to quit school to help his father

provide for his now tent-dwelling family was a huge source of stress
for him. In a strange, unfamiliar land, his new role was going into
neighboring villages and refugee camps to sell gum, aspirin and other small

items. His legs were a testament to the many dog bites he obtained
during these daily journeys. Later scars were from the shrapnel he
acquired through war.



As a young man and soldier in the Palestinian unit of the Egyptian

army, he spent years of his life marching through the Sinai desert. When
the Israeli army took over Gaza following the Arab defeat in 1967, the
Israeli commander met with those who served as police officers under

Egyptian rule and offered them the chance to continue their services
under Israeli rule. Proudly and willingly, my young father chose abject
poverty over working under the occupier's flag. And for that, predictably,

he paid a heavy price. His two-year-old son died soon after.



My oldest brother is buried in the same graveyard that bordered my
father's house in the camp. My father, who couldn't cope with the thought

that his only son died because he couldn't afford to buy medicine or
food, would be found asleep near the tiny grave all night, or placing
coins and candy in and around it.

My father's reputation as an intellectual, his passion for Russian

literature, and his endless support of fellow refugees brought him
untold trouble with the Israeli authorities, who retaliated by denying him
the right to leave Gaza.




His severe asthma, which he developed as a teenager was compounded by

lack of adequate medical facilities. Yet, despite daily coughing
streaks and constantly gasping for breath, he relentlessly negotiated his
way through life for the sake of his family. On one hand, he refused to

work as a cheap laborer in Israel. "Life itself is not worth a shred of
one's dignity," he insisted. On the other, with all borders sealed
except that with Israel, he still needed a way to bring in an income. He

would buy cheap clothes, shoes, used TVs, and other miscellaneous goods,
and find a way to transport and sell them in the camp. He invested
everything he made to ensure that his sons and daughter could receive a

good education, an arduous mission in a place like Gaza.

But when the Palestinian uprising of 1987 exploded, and our camp
became a battleground between stone-throwers and the Israeli army, mere
survival became Dad's over-riding concern. Our house was the closest to

the Red Square, arbitrarily named for the blood spilled there, and also
bordered the 'Martyrs' Graveyard'. How can a father adequately protect
his family in such surroundings? Israeli soldiers stormed our house

hundreds of times; it was always him who somehow held them back, begging
for his children's safety, as we huddled in a dark room awaiting our
fate. "You will understand when you have your own children," he told my

older brothers as they protested his allowing the soldiers to slap his
face. Our 'freedom-fighting' dad struggled to explain how love for his
children could surpass his own pride. He grew in my eyes that day.


It's been fourteen years since I last saw my father. As none of his
children had access to isolated Gaza, he was left alone to fend for
himself. We tried to help as much as we could, but what use is money

without access to medicine? In our last talk he said he feared he would die
before seeing my children, but I promised that I would find a way. I
failed.

Since the siege on Gaza, my father's life became impossible. His

ailments were not 'serious' enough for hospitals crowded with limbless
youth. During the most recent Israeli onslaught, most hospital spaces were
converted to surgery wards, and there was no place for an old man like

my dad. All attempts to transfer him to the better equipped West Bank
hospitals failed as Israeli authorities repeatedly denied him the
required permit.

"I am sick, son, I am sick," my father cried when I spoke to him two

days before his death. He died alone on March 18, waiting to be
reunited with my brothers in the West Bank. He died a refugee, but a proud
man nonetheless.

My father's struggle began 60 years ago, and it ended a few days ago.

Thousands of people descended to his funeral from throughout Gaza,
oppressed people that shared his plight, hopes and struggles, accompanying
him to the graveyard where he was laid to rest. Even a resilient
fighter deserves a moment of peace.


Ramzy Baroud teaches mass communication at Curtin University of
Technology and is the author of The Second Palestinian Intifada: A Chronicle
of a People's Struggle. He is also the editor-in-chief of

PalestineChronicle.com. He can be contacted at: editor@palestinechronicle.com

April 25, 2008 | 12:59 PM Comments  0 comments

Tags:
You must be logged in to add tags.


Tareq's Profile


Latest Posts
Who Profits from the...
Not war by other means
Controversial...
The African Union on...
Religious leaders...

Monthly Archive
March 2005
May 2005
June 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
January 2006
February 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
April 2007
January 2008
April 2008
February 2009

Change Language


Tags Archive
africa almort bestseller conflict crime gaza humanrights interfaith islam israel jerusalem jewish leaders nonviolence palestine peace religion religious sea terror union unitednations war


40017 views
Important Disclaimer