MY FOUR WARS
Written on
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The family’s history
My father’s
family, of French descent, owned large parcels of land in their hometown of
Nazareth. After the 1948 war and the formation of Israel, most lands with
absentee owners were confiscated by the state. Since my grandfather was living
in what became after 1948 as the West Bank of Jordan, absent from Nazareth, his
properties including his house were lost.
My mother’s family prior to the war lived in Joppa, which is now part of Tel
Aviv-Yafo, ended up in no better shape. In April 1948 as the hostilities
escalated, and as Zionist settlers killed many Arab Palestinians, civilians
fearing for their lives started leaving their homes hoping to return once the
violence subsided. My mother was seventeen, and her older brother’s wife who
was nine months pregnant and expecting in a couple of days, gave her husband an
ultimatum. If her obstetrician were to leave… she would not stay behind…
wherever he went she had to go, she would not agree to anyone else delivering
her baby. As it happened, her obstetrician did evacuate two days before Easter,
and she found out the next day as the family was preparing their Easter meal.
My uncle was obliged to go find out when the next caravan escorted by the
British army would depart Joppa. He learned by his inquiries that the next
caravan was to leave in a couple of hours, so he rushed to hire a taxi and went
straight home. My mother recalls him rushing into the house and ordering every
one: “leave everything as it lay… grab a sweater and get into the car waiting
outside.” The Easter meal was left in the oven and on the stove as he shut off
the gas while everyone piled into the waiting car. The car sped through the
deserted streets to the meeting point. As the caravan formed, four British army
jeeps, with machine guns mounted in their beds, took position at the front and
rear of the column. It was a seen similar to what we saw on TV during July of
2006 as Lebanese families evacuated the south of Lebanon. As the caravan slowly
made its way to Amman via Ramallah it came under fire several times, and one of
my mother’s cousins, riding in a different car, took several rounds in his left
arm which later had to be amputated. Towards sunset the caravan approached
Ramallah, and the car carrying my mother’s family started to overheat. A
decision was made to leave the caravan to rest the car and make repairs. My uncle
secured a place to spend the night at one of the many shelters set up in
Ramallah for evacuees. They settled for the evening in the cafeteria of the
school for the blind, were my aunt (my mother’s sister) happened to hold a
teaching position.
The next morning the driver found my uncle and informed him that the car’s
engine was burned, and my uncle needed to make other arrangements for
transportation to Amman. As a result of his wife’s condition, a decision was
made to stay in Ramallah for the delivery, and return to Joppa when it became
safe to go back. To this day my uncle’s family lives in the temporary house
they rented in Ramallah. Their house in Jappa, along
with my two uncles’ furniture factory (the largest in the middle east at the
time) were confiscated by an Israeli government entity, and handed over to
Jewish settlers. That was the fate of all properties with absentee owners whom
were denied entry into the newly formed state of Israel after it declared its
independence on May 14, 1948.
That is why I was born in Jerusalem during 1962, to parents with modest means,
although both their families were well to do but with no access to their
wealth.
Prior to my first war
For the
first four years of my life, my parents and I lived in Bethlehem. We moved to
Amman in 1966 after my father took a position with a pharmaceutical company in
Amman, and the one-hour commute form Bethlehem became difficult for him.
Amman, at that time was built on seven mountains, Al-Ashrafiyeh,
Al-Taj, Al-Natheef, Amman, Al-Weybdeh,
Al-Husein, and the exclusive Al-Qusoor
were the royal family’s palaces were built. Downtown
Amman consisted of a small narrow valley that zigzagged between these
mountains, providing a link between the seven communities. If you wanted to go
from one mountain to the next, the road through down town was the shortest
route. The word for mountain or mount in Arabic is Jabal; therefore, every
mountain has the word Jabal as the first part of its name, designating it as
mount so and so.
My parents rented a modest house in Jabal Al-Ashrafiyeh,
a new popular neighborhood where a lot of Palestinians moving to Amman would
settle. Although Jerusalem was the center of all action, Amman was on the rise.
Having now lived in Amman for about a year, my father saw the growth potential
for the young capital city of Jordan, and decided to go into business for
himself rather than work for someone else. He purchased a young pharmaceutical
company called Chemopharma, and leased warehouse
space in Jabal El-Weybdeh, at a strategic location
across the street from the back entrance to the main post office. It took less
than five minutes to walk down a steep hill to get to down town Amman.
On the weekends we would go visit my grandparents who lived in the small town
of Beit Jala, located 2-km (1 mile) west of Bethlehem and 5-km (3 miles) south
of Jerusalem. We would also visit my mother’s brother who lived in Ramallah and
her Aunt who lived in Jerusalem. I used to always be exited on the way to see
them… driving my parents nuts asking how much longer before we get there, so I
could play with my favorite cousin Randa. On the way
home I would fall asleep in the back seat of the car, and my father would carry
me upstairs to my bed once we made it home.
In September of 1966, I started attending Ecole d’Enfant,
a French curriculum elementary school located in Jabal Amman. Every morning my
father would drive me to school in his forest green Plymouth Baby Valiant, and
he would be waiting for me at the school entrance when school let out. That was
our daily routine for two years, until I started first grade and was able to
ride the school bus.
My First War
I was a
little over three months short of my fifth birthday on Sunday June 4th, 1967
when my parents and I made the routine trip to Beit Jala, but this time it was
not to visit. As the rhetoric increased, and war between the Israelis and the
Arabs became imminent, my father fearing for the safety of my grandparents
decided that they should come stay with us until things calmed down. We arrived
late that afternoon, and it did not take my father long to convince my
grandfather that it would be safer to ride out the war in Amman.
The next morning I was awakened early by the commotion in my grandparents’
house. An argument was taking place between my grandmother on one side and my
father and grandfather on the other side. “I have not slept on another mattress
in eight years… and I do not want to find out what will happen to my back if I
did” my grandmother was arguing passionately. My father responded calmly “mom…
it is only going to be for a few days… and if you do not like my mattress I’ll
go buy one that will make you comfortable”. My grandmother replied with more
passion and a higher pitch voice, “you have no idea what I went through to find
this mattress… it was custom made… I will not be able to sleep on any other
mattress...” My grandfather jumped in with a firm voice “Margaret… if we take
the mattress there will be no room in the car for the kids.”
As I snuck into the den filled with curiosity, wanting to hear the heated
conversation, I heard my mother’s voice coming out of nowhere “good morning
sweetheart.” Everyone turned around and looked at me as my grandmother stormed
out of the room. “Why are you fighting?” I asked, as my grandfather picked me
up and sat me in his lap and said, “good morning chéri…
we’re not fighting… we’re having a discussion about bedtime hang-ups...what
would you like to have for breakfast?” “A Kit Kat bar?” I replied. The early
morning argument was not settled… and my grandmother was in a bad mood the rest
of the morning.
As I played in the front yard after breakfast… I spotted my three cousins,
coming up the mountain, riding the back of a donkey in the middle of the
street. Charley was sixteen, Sam was twelve, and Bill was nine. My excitement
took over as I ran out the gate and down the street to greet them. My
grandmother came out after me, and as soon as she saw them she started rebuking
them. Once again they had borrowed Mr. Awad’s donkey
without permission… “But grandma…it is so hard to carry our bags and walk up
hill,” said my oldest cousin as the other two laughed. They were attending a
boarding school half way down the mountain, and my grandfather the previous day
had walked to the school and requested they be released so they could travel
with us to Amman. After feeding my cousins, my grandmother took the rinds of
the water Mellon she had cut for desert, and placed them on a platter that she
took out to the donkey, along with a bucket of water. As I stood there fascinated
by how the donkey ate the rinds, the mattress argument resumed. I missed most
of it since the donkey was more interesting, but caught up when my father and
my uncle came out of the house carrying a mattress. My father asked me to open
the back door of the car and they proceeded to stuff the mattress into the back
seat, as my grandparents came out to observe. My grandmother asked my father
“and where do you expect us to sit?” and my grandfather replied, “That is what
we have been trying to tell you Margaret.” “Put it in the trunk,” my
grandmother ordered, and my father and uncle exchanged looks. My father walked
to the trunk and opened it, and instructed my uncle, “Alexander… can you please
push from the other side as I pull it out.” By then a crowd was gathering as
the rest of the family and the neighbors came out to enjoy the entertainment.
Every possible scenario was tried, including tying the mattress on the roof of
the car with part of it sagging unto the windshield and obstructing visibility.
After my grandmother was convinced that there was no possible way to take the
mattress, we all piled into the car; it was 10 A.M. My father drove down the
mountain only to be stopped by a Jordanian army barricaded that was being
erected in the middle of the road to block traffic. “The war has started… The
war has started… Turn around and go back,” yelled one of the soldiers as he
walked towards us, after dismounting one of the jeeps with the extra-long
antennas parked on the other side of the barricaded.
As my father turned the car around and drove up the mountain, silence prevailed
in the car. I turned around and watched the Jordanian soldiers work on their
barricade until they disappeared from my view. He parked the car by the house
and everyone got out as my grandfather rushed back into the house to turn the
radio on. All of us piled into the den without saying a word as my grandfather
tuned the radio to different stations. After tuning in three stations that had
martial music, he settled on the fourth one that had what sounded like a man
reading a news bulletin. My mother and grandmother went into the kitchen to
prepare lunch. It wasn’t much later before we heard the first explosions, and I
ran to one of the windows to look across the street at the town in the valley below.
I saw piles of dirt splashing in circles, with columns of smoke rising from
them; the dirt resembled the splash water makes when a rock is tossed into a
body of water. My mother came and grabbed me and pulled me away from the window
seconds before the glass started to rattle. “But mom I want to watch… it looks
so pretty…” I objected. She held me in her lap as I strained extending my body
as far as I could to try looking out the window. The explosions continued the
rest of the day. Later in the afternoon the glass in the widows started
rattling continuously, very faint at first that no one noticed it but me. It
was different than the way it rattled when the explosions occurred, and I could
not help but sneak into the window again to investigate. The den windows were
narrow and had a wide ledge that I could sit on; I was the only one that could
fit in that space. As I took my favorite position and squeezed into the space
behind the window I saw a jet wiz by. It flew at eye level no further than half
a block away; it was silver with a strange blue star painted on the tail.
Shortly thereafter the roaring of jet engines was deafening… and I watched as
half a dozen men standing across the street looking at the jet as it descended
on the valley bellow dropping something from its wings. The men broke out into
cheers and were whistling and clapping, as they jumped up and down. Moments
later I saw the explosions down in the valley as I was whisked away from the
window and rebuked. My mother was so harsh with me that I started to cry, and
my grandfather took me into his lap and tried calming me down. After I stopped
crying, I asked him “Jiddo… why where those men
clapping and whistling when that plane dropped stuff from its wings?” “It
dropped stuff from its wings!” he exclaimed. “Yes… it looked like it dropped
two jugs of milk… and I saw them fall into the valley making the dirt splash,
and then smoke came out.” “Ah… those were bombs… and where did you see the men
who were clapping and cheering?” he questioned. “They were standing across the
street” I replied. “Well they must have been happy to see the Jordanian air
force here to defend them,” he said. “Does the Jordanian air force have silver
plains… with a strange blue star on the tails?” I questioned him. “Strange blue
star!” he exclaimed. “I think I can draw it” and with that I jumped out of his
lap, ran into his office and came back with a pencil and paper in hand. I
climbed back into his lap and drew the star and said, “see… it looked like
this.” As he looked at my drawing he explained “Ah… that is called the Star of
David and the jet you saw must have been an Israeli one.” “Are those men across
the street Israelis?” I asked. “Israelis! Stay here… I’ll go look,” he said as
he pushed me off his lap to get up. He cautiously walked to the window looked
outside, and then came back. “No… they are Arabs,” he said, as he sat down and
pulled me back into his lap. “Then why are they cheering? Are the Israelis
defending them too?” “No the Israelis are attacking them,” he explained. “Then
why would they be cheering Jiddo?” I asked, as I was
confused. “Well… they looked like old men to me… maybe they cannot see too
well.” I was still confused but I did not ask any more questions, as I laid my
head on his chest and quietly listed to the explosions rattle the glass.
For the remainder of the war it was much of the same thing, we spent most of
our time in the back bedroom (the safest room in the house since there was no
bomb shelter). During the next two days the Israelis gained ground as the
Jordanian army retreated. By Wednesday June 7th the Israeli army had advanced
all the way to the Jordan River, and their combat engineers blew up all the
bridges across the Jordan River, cutting off the West Bank from Jordan. On the
10th of June the war stopped, and the next day my cousins and I were able to go
out and play in the front yard. I saw no more explosions in the valley below,
but I did see army jeeps flying a white flag with the Star of David on it drive
up the mountain. The occupation of the West Bank of Jordan had started.
Several weeks went by, and every day my parents and grandparents would listen
to the radio with intensity. I never understood why till my father announced
with excitement, “they are going to open up one of the bridges tomorrow,” and I
realized it meant we could go home. As more details were given over the radio
it was revealed that the bridge would only allow for foot traffic. My father
was disappointed, but it was agreed that he would drive my mother along with
the kids early the next morning and drop us off at the bridge, were we would
cross to the other bank and get a taxi to take us home. He was to stay with my
grandparents until a bridge would open for vehicular traffic, and drive the car
home. My grandparents and uncle were to stay behind and sell their furniture
while my father located a place for them to live in Amman.
The next morning as the sun was starting to rise; I hesitated as we said our
good byes on the bank of the Jordan River. I clung to my father as he hugged me
and told him I wanted to stay with him. He explained, “it will only be a couple
of days and I will be home.” I replied with tears in my eyes, “you said that
when we left our house in Amman, and it has been several weeks now.” He hugged
me tighter and said “I’m sorry habibi, but I cannot
control the war… I promise I will be home the same day they open up the first
bridge cars can drive on.” With that he gave me a kiss on the cheek, and got
into his car as my mother grabbed my hand. He waved and drove off, and I
insisted on staying there and waving until his car vanished into a cloud of
dust down the road.
My mother, my three cousins and I, walked to the waiting area (a large unpaved
lot) that was filling up with people queuing to cross the bridge. Behind us on
an elevated area, I could see the barrel of a big gun pointing at us, sticking
out of a hole in the wall of neatly stacked sand bags. A white flag imprinted
with the blue Star of David flying over it; which, by then I was able to recognize
as the Israeli flag. In front of us, on the other side of the Jordan River I
saw another gun pointing towards us, as it stuck out of another wall of sand
bags with the Jordanian flag flying over it. As the morning progressed the line
behind us grew until I could not see the end of it. At one point, a group of
Israeli soldiers arrived to inspect the area, and stood in front of the wall of
sandbags a few feet away from where we stood in line. They were led by a tall
skinny bald soldier, who wore a black patch over his left eye, held by a black
string that went over the top right side of his bald head and came around below
his left ear. He held a black baton in one hand and continuously tapped the end
of it against the side of his leg, and occasionally against his other hand. He
stood there for a long time, while other soldiers talked to him and pointed
across to the Jordanian guns and sandbags on the other side of the river. Prior
to then, I had never seen a man with a patch over his eye, so I pointed to him
and asked my mother “why does that soldier have a patch over his eye?” and my
mother looked at him and said, “it is impolite to point habibi.”
She then went on to tell me that he may be wearing the patch to cover a missing
eye, and my one thousand and one questions ensued, as I stared at him until he
left with his entourage. I never forgot his face and as time went by I learned
that he was Moshe Dayan, the Israeli minister of defense in charge of the war.
The waiting area had no facilities. It was getting hot and I was getting
thirsty. Every time I would tell my mother “mama I’m thirsty” she would reply,
“we’ll be crossing soon and there will be water on the other side.” The
Jordanian core of engineers was working as hard as they could to make the bridge
passable. Finally it was opened, and as it became our turn to cross, we were
ushered to the bridge. I could see that it was built from old timber that was
used for making concrete forms. My mother held my hand with one of hers, and
she held one of my cousin’s hand in her other one, as she clinched one of their
bags under her arm. As we advanced on the bridge, the roar of rushing water
grew louder. We approached the middle of the bridge, and suddenly a piece of
lumber collapsed from under my feet. I found myself dangling under the bridge,
looking strait down at the falling lumber as it
disappeared into the white caps of the brown turbulent water. All I could think
about was how it looked just like a river of chocolate. As I extended my body
to try and reach with my empty hand for some of that chocolate, I felt my
mother tugging at my other arm. I looked up and saw the bottom side of the
bridge, with my mother’s head and one arm sticking through the hole. She had a
terrified look on her face and her lips were moving frantically, but all I
could hear was the roaring chocolate down below. I reached up with my empty
hand and I felt someone grab it as I was pulled up. My mother clinched me in
her arms so tight that it hurt, but she could not hear my objections as the
roaring of water obscured them. We sat there for another few seconds before a
couple of soldiers reached us, and one grabbed me and my youngest cousin who
was eight, while the other grabbed my mother and took the bag under her arm. We
were escorted to the safety of land on the other side of the bridge. My mother
collapsed to the ground and grabbed me into her lap and said with tears in her
eyes, “are you OK… are you OK habibi…” Aside from a
few scratches I was fine although I was disappointed I did not get any of that
chocolate.
Later that day we finally arrived at our house. My mother fixed us a quick
meal, bathed me and put me in my bed, then left to tend to my cousins. I fell
asleep as I pondered the events of the last few weeks and wondered when my father
would be home, and whether the bridge they build for his car to cross over will
be strong enough. A couple of days later my cousins departed to Qatar to be
with their parents, since that was where my uncle Anthony worked and lived. I
did not see them again until the summer of 1977.
It took a couple of very long weeks before my father was to make it home. I
would spend most of those days sitting in the window of our living room
watching the street… waiting to see him drive up. Finally one day towards dusk
I saw his car approaching the house… I recognized it immediately, although it
looked different… white instead of forest green. “Baba is here… Baba is here…”
I hollered. My mother came rushing to the window, looked out and said, “that’s
not him… his car is green.” I argued “it is him mama… it is him.” As we looked
on we saw a man, the same color of the car, climb out of the driver side. I
rushed to the door unlocked it swung it open, and ran half way down the stairs
to greet him. He was covered with white dust from head to toe, he planted a
kiss on my forehead, and as he stepped through the door and kissed my mom, he
said, “boy do I have a story to tell you.”
After taking a shower, as we sat down to eat our evening meal, my father told
us the story of his journey from Beit Jala to Amman: “Yesterday they announced
on the radio that this morning the northern bridge would be open for vehicular
traffic. I packed the car and said my goodbyes before we went to bed last
night. I got up at four this morning, and left Beit Jala at the break of
daylight. I drove through many Israeli checkpoints, until I got to the final
stretch of highway leading to the bridge. I was hoping that I would not be
stopped again, but about ten miles away from the bridge, an Israeli soldier
came out onto the road, out of no were, holding his gun and carrying a back
pack. He flagged me down, and as he walked up to the car he said, “I have
military business and I need to confiscate your car… but if you will wait here
I will bring it back as soon as I can.” There was no alternative but to get out
of the car, as I watched him stick his backpack and gun into the passenger
side. He got in behind the wheel, and drove off the highway into the empty
field as I watched the white dust cloud he left behind. I thought about what I
should do. Traffic on the highway was light, and for the most part it was
Israeli army vehicles, that I knew I should not stop. It was still mid-morning;
so, I found a big rock on the side of the road and I sat on it and waited. By
around four o’clock I started to get concerned… I did not want to spend the
night on the side of the road with a dusk to dawn curfew in effect. I decided
to stop the next civilian car that would pass me, but then I saw a cloud of
white dust on the horizon. I decided to wait and see if it might be the soldier
with my car. Sure enough I recognized my car as it got closer although it
looked white instead of green.” “I recognized it too when I saw you driving up
to the house baba… but mama did not believe me when I told her it was you” I
interrupted. My father smiled at me as he continued, “I did not recognize it
either when I saw it at first habibi, but when it got
closer, I was sure it was my car that was being followed by an Israeli army
jeep. The soldier pulled up and parked it next to me, as the jeep parked behind
him. I walked around the car to get to the driver side and saw gasoline leaking
out from under the back of the car. The soldier said, “I told you I would bring
it back!” as he climbed out of the car. I thanked him for keeping his word, and
pointed out the leaking gasoline, as I asked him for his opinion as to how far
I could travel with it leaking like that. He walked around to the passenger
side and got out his backpack and his gun. He laid his gun up against the car,
and sat his backpack on the trunk as he reached in to pull out a bar of soap.
He handed it to me and said, “rub it onto to the gas tank where it is leaking,”
as he got into the waiting jeep. Will it hold I asked, and he yelled out the
window as the jeep drove away “yes it will… don’t worry.” I got under the car
and rubbed the soap onto the spot where the gas was leaking, then I drove all
the way to the bridge. I pulled over after crossing the bridge and checked the
leak and the soap was holding. I stopped again in Irbid to get gas to be on the
safe side, and then drove all the way home.”
“I don’t want you to ever stay away from us again baba” I ordered as my father
tucked me into bed that night. “I won’t habibi… I
promise” he replied as he kissed my cheek. I went to sleep with a big smile on
my face, as he turned off the light and said “good night habibi,”
before walking out of the room.
My Second War
My second
war provided a more intense experience of the cruelty of war.
The rest of My
second war, will be added at a later time....
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Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Introduction
to My Four Wars Video
Two minute introduction to Kyle Qubrosi’s
speaking engagement at Esperanza Peace and Justice Center during the October
2006 event: A Platica With Families Who Have Lost
Loved Ones To Political Violence. Kyle
is introduced by journalist and author Barbra Renaud Gonzalez
Click To
Play:
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My
Four Wars Video
Click To Play:
Kyle
narrates the events of his first war experience during the 1967 six-day war,
and then leads into the events of the 1970 Jordanian civil war, the dramatic
killing of his father, and what transpired afterwards. His chilling conclusion
is riveting!
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All video
clips displayed above were produced by 411 Productions, www.411show.blogspot.com
© Copyright
2006