Abu Ali
By Mike Odetalla
As Israeli bulldozers destroy more homes, trees, orchards, fields, and lives with their plows of destruction; I recall my uncle
(aunt’s husband) Abu Ali and happier, simpler times…
Abu Ali could neither read nor write: education was a luxury that he could not afford. He began working at a very young age
when his father became chronically ill: Abu Ali was the oldest son. He married my aunt (my mother’s sister) at a young age and
soon was supporting not only his father’s family, but also his own. Abu Ali did many back breaking and menial jobs but his
primary income came from plowing the village orchards and fields. Together with his ever present and trusty mule, Abu Ali
made it to difficult places that still boggle my mind. I remember him as a slim yet very strong man, dark, with a face turned
leathery from the strength of the Palestinian summer sun, but that always carried a smile. Abu Ali’s hands were tougher than
leather, and coarse as sand paper from holding the plow all those years; his great strength came, in part, from the years of
carrying the plow everywhere he went.
The subsiding spring rains allowed the earth to dry enough for Abu Ali to begin his work in the orchards and fields each year. .
His day began at daybreak and did not end until the setting of the sun. A thermos of hot tea, a jug of water (for drinking as well
as ablutions before prayer), and a handkerchief wrapping a tomato, an onion, and some olives together with a couple of loaves
of my aunt’s hearth baked bread, is what he took with him every morning. Dinner always awaited him at home when he finished
his work.
Seeing Abu Ali making his way to the fields and orchards was very soothing and reassuring to me as a boy. It meant that spring
was here and soon the village would come to life as people began to work their orchards. I used to climb the hills that
surrounded my village and look for Abu Ali. He was not hard to spot because I could easily make out the straight lines of
freshly turned earth, indicating that he was hard at work. Whenever it was time for him to plow my family’s land, my mother
would make lunch for Abu Ali and I’d bring it to him.
My mother, God bless her, always fed anyone who worked on our land. Until this day, she believes that feeding one who is
hungry is the least one human can do for another. I always looked forward to running whatever food my mother packed to my
uncle. Taking a break from his hard labor, he’d sit in the shade of one of our olive trees and enjoy his lunch while enchanting me
with stories of years gone by: our village, our people, and much, much more.
I loved Abu Ali’s life so much that, one day; I informed my mother that I wanted to quit school and become a harath (one who
plow for a living). She scolded me and told me that that harath was not a good profession and that, if given the chance, Abu Ali
would have gone to school and gotten an education. At 8 years old, I wanted no part of what she was saying. I knew that if I
just asked my uncle, he would delight in teaching me to follow in his footsteps. One day, as we sat under a very ancient olive
tree, I told him of my decision. He was, as I knew he would be, very pleased and agreed to help me attain my goal.
Immediately, Abu Ali invited me to stay with him the rest of the day and immediately began to learn my new profession. I could
not believe my good fortune: this man was going to teach me his profession no matter what my mom thought or said; he would
teach me to be the best harath the world has ever known. .
My first job was to learn to feed the mule: easy enough! Then, told me to clean the plough: I managed, although I’d never seen
him do this before. After a while, he rose and asked if I was ready to learn the trade. “Of course!” I yelled with joy. Abu Ali
instructed me to bring five small point pebbles. Not questioning my teacher, I brought the pebbles and then Abu Ali told me to
take the pebbles in my right hand and grab the plow with the same hand, all the while keeping the pebbles safe against the plow’
s wooden handle. . After a few short passes with the pebbles pressing uncomfortably against my palm and the pain was more
than I could bear: indeed, I was shocked to see that my palm was bleeding lightly.
Asking permission to stop for a moment, I looked at my aching and injured little hand. Bewildered, I asked my uncle why I
must hold these pebbles in my hand, when I knew that he plowed without them. With a wizened smile, Abu Ali gently informed
that only thus can one “toughen” his hands to endure the harsh conditions of plowing, and asked me if I was ready to continue. ”
Not really,” I said, having a change of heart about this profession. Abu Ali laughed out loud and told me to go to my mother
and tell her that Abu Ali had indeed taught me all I needed to know about plowing. Little did my young mind know to be
grateful for the collaboration between my mother and Abu Ali in a very simple, but important lesson that day…
Abu Ali passed away about 10 years ago. With his passing, we lost much more than the man who plowed our land: we lost a
small part of us and our way of life…God have mercy on his soul…
Mike Odetalla 3-2003 All Rights Reserved
By Mike Odetalla
As Israeli bulldozers destroy more homes, trees, orchards, fields, and lives with their plows of destruction; I recall my uncle
(aunt’s husband) Abu Ali and happier, simpler times…
Abu Ali could neither read nor write: education was a luxury that he could not afford. He began working at a very young age
when his father became chronically ill: Abu Ali was the oldest son. He married my aunt (my mother’s sister) at a young age and
soon was supporting not only his father’s family, but also his own. Abu Ali did many back breaking and menial jobs but his
primary income came from plowing the village orchards and fields. Together with his ever present and trusty mule, Abu Ali
made it to difficult places that still boggle my mind. I remember him as a slim yet very strong man, dark, with a face turned
leathery from the strength of the Palestinian summer sun, but that always carried a smile. Abu Ali’s hands were tougher than
leather, and coarse as sand paper from holding the plow all those years; his great strength came, in part, from the years of
carrying the plow everywhere he went.
The subsiding spring rains allowed the earth to dry enough for Abu Ali to begin his work in the orchards and fields each year. .
His day began at daybreak and did not end until the setting of the sun. A thermos of hot tea, a jug of water (for drinking as well
as ablutions before prayer), and a handkerchief wrapping a tomato, an onion, and some olives together with a couple of loaves
of my aunt’s hearth baked bread, is what he took with him every morning. Dinner always awaited him at home when he finished
his work.
Seeing Abu Ali making his way to the fields and orchards was very soothing and reassuring to me as a boy. It meant that spring
was here and soon the village would come to life as people began to work their orchards. I used to climb the hills that
surrounded my village and look for Abu Ali. He was not hard to spot because I could easily make out the straight lines of
freshly turned earth, indicating that he was hard at work. Whenever it was time for him to plow my family’s land, my mother
would make lunch for Abu Ali and I’d bring it to him.
My mother, God bless her, always fed anyone who worked on our land. Until this day, she believes that feeding one who is
hungry is the least one human can do for another. I always looked forward to running whatever food my mother packed to my
uncle. Taking a break from his hard labor, he’d sit in the shade of one of our olive trees and enjoy his lunch while enchanting me
with stories of years gone by: our village, our people, and much, much more.
I loved Abu Ali’s life so much that, one day; I informed my mother that I wanted to quit school and become a harath (one who
plow for a living). She scolded me and told me that that harath was not a good profession and that, if given the chance, Abu Ali
would have gone to school and gotten an education. At 8 years old, I wanted no part of what she was saying. I knew that if I
just asked my uncle, he would delight in teaching me to follow in his footsteps. One day, as we sat under a very ancient olive
tree, I told him of my decision. He was, as I knew he would be, very pleased and agreed to help me attain my goal.
Immediately, Abu Ali invited me to stay with him the rest of the day and immediately began to learn my new profession. I could
not believe my good fortune: this man was going to teach me his profession no matter what my mom thought or said; he would
teach me to be the best harath the world has ever known. .
My first job was to learn to feed the mule: easy enough! Then, told me to clean the plough: I managed, although I’d never seen
him do this before. After a while, he rose and asked if I was ready to learn the trade. “Of course!” I yelled with joy. Abu Ali
instructed me to bring five small point pebbles. Not questioning my teacher, I brought the pebbles and then Abu Ali told me to
take the pebbles in my right hand and grab the plow with the same hand, all the while keeping the pebbles safe against the plow’
s wooden handle. . After a few short passes with the pebbles pressing uncomfortably against my palm and the pain was more
than I could bear: indeed, I was shocked to see that my palm was bleeding lightly.
Asking permission to stop for a moment, I looked at my aching and injured little hand. Bewildered, I asked my uncle why I
must hold these pebbles in my hand, when I knew that he plowed without them. With a wizened smile, Abu Ali gently informed
that only thus can one “toughen” his hands to endure the harsh conditions of plowing, and asked me if I was ready to continue. ”
Not really,” I said, having a change of heart about this profession. Abu Ali laughed out loud and told me to go to my mother
and tell her that Abu Ali had indeed taught me all I needed to know about plowing. Little did my young mind know to be
grateful for the collaboration between my mother and Abu Ali in a very simple, but important lesson that day…
Abu Ali passed away about 10 years ago. With his passing, we lost much more than the man who plowed our land: we lost a
small part of us and our way of life…God have mercy on his soul…
Mike Odetalla 3-2003 All Rights Reserved
| STORIES |