Deborah Rohan - The Olive Grove: A Palestinian Story

In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our countrys honour fade,
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom, and not freedoms shade

John Keats

L adies and gentlemen, the soft voice announces, we have been cleared to land at Ben-Gurion International Airport. The plane begins its descent to Tel Aviv. Id planned on spending the last leg of the journey bracing myself for the hours and days ahead. Instead, Im seduced by memories and scarcely notice the forty-five-minute flight from Cyprus. Now the mild anxiety Ive been feeling all week is beginning to escalate into panic. This is a land that, for five decades, Ive visited only in dreams. I am surprised to find my hands trembling. To steady them, I cup my eyes and press my forehead against the tiny, cool window, and attempt to make out anything below a landmark of some kind, a hillside, the glow of a hundred oil lamps in the windows of a hundred sandstone houses, softly illuminating an ancient Arab village. But this is 1998, not 1948. Nothing is the same.

I turn towards my daughter Ruba, trying to look positive.

Baba, she coos, its going to be okay. Youve wanted to do this for so many years. Its time now. Past time.

The aircraft bounces hard on the runway, and the tires screech along the asphalt. I brace myself, clutching the armrests. As the plane slows to taxi speed I release my grip, draw in a deep breath and notice Rubas face still fraught with concern.

Im okay, habibti, I tell her.

Of course you are, Baba.

We gather our belongings and wait. An expectant silence fills the cabin. I scrutinize my fellow passengers. Though I cant be certain, I assume they are mostly if not all Jewish. As I nod and smile politely at the people whose eyes meet mine, I want to tell them I am a Palestinian, not a Jew. My arrival in Israel will not bring tears of joy as it may for you. The tears I shed will be tears of sorrow for my family who had to flee our home, our town, our country, so that you could call it home. And yet I am so very weary of this lifelong struggle; today I want only to remember life as it used to be.

Passports?

I hand the dark-haired young woman at the immigration desk our American passports. She glances up at us after noting our Arab names. Before she can reach for her stamp I cover the passports with my hand.

Dont stamp them.

She raises her eyebrows. Please, I add.

An Israeli stamp would automatically bar me from entering many Arab countries where I conduct business. More importantly, I simply cant bear to have the word Israel stamped there.

The young woman nods wordlessly and slips papers inside our passports instead of stamping them. Then she calls out to a uniformed young man standing nearby, and hands the passports over to him.

With the sterile detachment of a scientist he studies them, then looks up at me. I will require a few minutes of your time. Your passports will be safe here. Please, retrieve your bags and bring them over here.

I nod to Ruba to follow me. When we are out of earshot she pleads, Baba, why is he holding our passports? What does he want to interrogate us?

Dont worry, I tell her, Im sure its routine.

Come with me, he barks, speaking to us as if we are suspects rather than tourists.

Ruba stands there wide-eyed, not moving. All the other passengers have continued on without incident; but the other passengers are not Palestinian Arabs returning home to what is now a Jewish state.

Well be fine, I insist, taking her arm.

We follow him down a highly polished corridor into an office lined with grey filing cabinets. He transfers our suitcases to another room and returns, still sporting his tight grimace. Paging through our passports silently, he pores over mine, thick with added pages. He shifts from one foot to the other and sniffs, rubbing his nose every few seconds as he scans the stamps from various parts of the world, including several Arab countries.

You are Americans? he finally asks with an accent I dont recognize.

I nod. We had to settle somewhere, I think.

And the reason for your visit to Israel?

My daughter and I are touring the Middle East.

He raises his eyes, keeping his head lowered. Yes, he answers crisply, But why Israel specifically?

I was born here. Unlike you, I think.

He glares at me openly. And the reason for your return?

To see my home. To take photographs for my mother. She will want to see how Palestine has changed since she left.

I remind you, you are in Israel, not Palestine.

Our eyes meet and I let them linger. He has summed up my life with those few simple words, and I suspect he realizes this. Showing discomfort now, he lowers his eyes again and resumes his interrogatory dance.

How long do you plan to stay?

One week.

I would stay forever if the Israeli government would let me, I think.

Where do you plan to stay?

At hotels, motels.

Do you have reservations and proof thereof?

Reservations. No proof thereof, I add sarcastically. My patience is dwindling. I am tempted to tell him that Ive devoted the past twenty years of my life to working to repair tattered Arab-Jewish relations, taking substantial risks to do so, but realize this would mean little to him.

He resumes. Do you have relatives living here?

Not any more.

Friends?

I shake my head no, lying.

He takes a deep breath and is beginning to form the next question when he is interrupted by the scraping sound of a young female soldier dragging our bags back into the room. She nods at him wordlessly and he passes the bags back to us through a slit in the counter.

It seems you found nothing incriminating in our luggage? I ask.

Welcome to Israel, he scowls, returning our passports.

Some welcome, Ruba fires angrily as we make our way back down the hall.

Ruba, we will have to adjust,