| Palestinian Diary Part 3 By Mike Odetalla |
I have written quite a bit in the past about the village of my birth and youth, Beit Hanina, which is located just north of
Jerusalem, in occupied Palestine. Although I had left Palestine in 1969 at the age of 8, my memories of Beit Hanina are as vivid
and fresh as if they had only happened yesterday. In fact, I tended to remember even the mundane and everyday things that
most people take for granted. Even today, when someone mentions a particular date or a person from my village during the
time that I had lived there, I can still recall their features, dress, and mannerisms. Likewise my memories of the village, its
buildings, landmarks, as well as its abundant orchards and its hills, are etched in my brain forever.
My kids have been weaned on stories of my childhood in Beit Hanina and Palestine. Not a day goes by that I do not say
something about Palestine to them. Their thirst to know more about the village of my youth and indeed their forefathers, as well
as the whole of Palestine is unquenchable. I had always dreamed of and planned on taking them back home with me to
Palestine and Beit Hanina and sharing with them the things that made Palestine so special for me as well as millions of other
Palestinians the world over. It had been 8 long years since they had been to Palestine. The last time that I journeyed there with
them was 1995 and they were much too young to remember and appreciate what they were seeing and experiencing. I had
wanted to take them back home to Palestine when they were old enough, so that they may know and remember the sites and
sounds of Palestine. Now at the ages of 15, 13, and 11, the time was right no matter what the “climate” was like back home.
They were as excited as I was when I announced our trip to the homeland of their forefathers. We eagerly counted down the
days for our trip home.
We had been in Palestine for about 6 days when I finally was able to take a break from the relatives and well wishers and take
my children to old or lower Beit Hanina. Beit Hanina in general had grown quite a bit since the days when I was a child. In fact,
it has grown to be one of the largest villages around the Jerusalem area. Most of the construction and growth has been in the
upper part of Beit Hanina. There are also 3 large Jewish settlements built on the lands that were stolen from the people of Beit
Hanina, including land from my own family. The Jewish settlements dominate and confine the entire village. The lower part has
seen some new construction in the past 34 years, but it is nowhere near as pervasive as that in the upper portion. Everyone
who is a Hanini (the name given to a person who is originally from Beit Hanina as opposed to a person who has moved there
from somewhere else) can trace their roots to the lower portion of the village. It is where all of the people of Beit Hanina lived
at one time before moving to the upper part or elsewhere in Palestine and indeed the world. I was born there, as was my father,
his father, his grandfather, and so on. My family’s roots in Beit Hanina run hundreds of years or more.
The trip from our home in the upper part of the village used to be no more than a mere 5 minutes by car or about a 30 minute
walk along the narrow paved road that snaked the 2 kilometers or so. As we had intended on taking a basket of food and
drinks with us, we decided to travel by car. We went to the main road and stopped by one of the many taxi service offices. I
told the man at the desk that we needed a car to take us to lower Beit Hanina. He then asked me how far we wanted to travel.
He could either drop us off at the tumum (the first mound of dirt and car sized boulders that block the road halfway down or
take us all the way. He quoted us 2 different prices. I told him that we intended on going all the way to the heart of the village.
The trip that used to take 5 minutes by car was now going to take us 25 minutes or more as we had to travel through and
around another village, a checkpoint, and some treacherously narrow dirt paths that even in the summer were difficult to travel,
let alone in the winter with the rains and mud. The taxi drivers generally do not like to travel to lower Beit Hanina as the cars
tend to take quite a beating from the rutted and dusty road. Our path took us adjacent to the Jew only by pass road that cuts
right through the heart of the entire village. This concrete monstrosity effectively divides the village into 2 parts and is more like a
wall than a road. The Jews that travel this road are spared the site of seeing the havoc that this road has caused in the heart of
the Palestinian areas by the murals that depict flowers and palm trees that are painted on the huge concrete walls that line the
highway where it crosses directly above where Palestinians live and work. The Palestinians see the ugly concrete and razor wire
barriers, while the Jews see “art”. It is a fitting and all too familiar a contradiction in this part of the world.
As we traveled on our way, I could not contain my excitement as I kept pointing things out to my children. I asked the driver to
drop us off at the base of the hill where my aunt lived. From there we would walk to her home to say hello, then ascend the hill
to the top so that I might be able to show my children the scenery from the top. All along the way to my aunt’s house and up
the very tall and steep hill, memories of my youth kept flashing in my head. Every step brought forth so many memories that I
was now babbling on endlessly as my kids attempted to keep up with the many things that I was telling them. My youngest,
Omar, who is light on his feet, was running up the hill like the many Gazelles that lived there. He was almost at the top before
we were even halfway up. His running around up there reminded me of myself, much younger, in another time of carefree play
and childhood innocence. About three quarters of the way up, I called my children’s attention to the cave that was directly
above us. This was the same cave that my family and I hid in during the first night of the war of 67. In fact, I pointed out to them
the exact spot at the mouth of the cave, where I had crouched as a 6 year old and watched the brilliant flashes of light and
sound of the soundtrack of war. This was also the very same cave that we had to flee because the Israeli Air force jet had
buzzed and then fired a missile at it just after we had fled. I also pointed out to my children where the missile had landed and
where we sought shelter under the nearby olive trees as the full moon shone brightly above us that night. I took pictures of them
in front of the cave and then we continued upwards.
Once at the top, we had a breathtaking view of the village and its surroundings. This part of Beit Hanina was very familiar to me
as a boy. I had spent many days here as a youth. Whether it was flying a kite, grazing a sheep, or just playing and exploring
along with my cousins, this was indeed my favorite part of the village. My mother could always be heard yelling at the top of her
lungs for me to come home as I pretended to not hear her. She would then dispatch my older sister to get me. This greatly
infuriated her and she would then come after me with a vengeance and a stick in her hand. The Jewish settlement of Ramot,
which was built on the hill facing us on land stolen form Beit Hanina as well as my family, was clearly visible, imposing, and
looked as if it is about to swallow the village that it dominated below it. Also, even though it was hot below, up there on top,
the wind blew a refreshing cool blast. There were many children playing and flying kites atop the hill at this tome. I saw that one
of them was having a hard time getting his kite to fly. I went over to him and adjusted the mizan or angle of the string so that the
kite could fly properly. The children all of the sudden wanted to know how I knew so much about adjusting the kite. I informed
them that when I was their age, I too flew kites right up here on the very same hills some 34 odd years earlier. They then asked
me where I had lived. I told them that I was now living in America with my family. One particularly inquisitive youngster then
asked me what was better, America or Palestine? I replied that Palestine was much better; he then asked me why I had
left…Too many piercing questions for me to answer in such a short time…
While high atop Beit Hanina, I took many pictures of the surrounding areas and spent a lengthy amount of time pointing places
and memories out to my kids. My children flew a kite for a while, and then we started our decent down the hill. The path that I
chose took us past my grandfather’s (mother’s side) and uncles homes and orchard. These were located about halfway up the
hill. Also this is the place where my uncles, aunts, as well as my mother were born. The main home, which was in extreme
disrepair since my uncle’s deaths, was built over 100 years earlier over the remains of the house where my grandfather was
born over 150 years before. I was saddened to see the empty ruins of the compound which at one time, prior to the 67 war,
contained the families of 3 of my uncles as well as my grandfather, who was widowed early on in life in 1950’s.
After we made our way down, we headed directly to the largest of my family’s orchards. This orchard has been the pride and
joy of my family for hundreds of years. At one time, this orchard was the only source of income for my family as we grew and
sold apricots, plums, peaches, as well the ever present olive trees which produced the world's finest oil. As we entered the
orchard through a gate, I could not help the smile that came across my face as I saw my kid’s faces as they started to run from
one tree to the next. My youngest son, Omar, kept asking me all kinds of questions about the trees and the fruits that grew on
them. He also kept asking, in disbelief, if this land was really ours. I kept assuring him that every tree, every rock, and indeed
every spec of dirt, was ours. This was the very same land that many generations of my family had worked. The trees, some of
them hundreds of years old, were planted by their forefathers even before America had become a country. This was also the
place that I had spent so many wonderful days as a youth with my family. The harvests were a total family affair and I eagerly
and joyfully partook in them as a boy. There was not a single tree that I was not intimately familiar with. I could not take a
single step without recalling an event or memory from my childhood. Needless to say, I spent quite a bit of time talking with my
kids in our orchard. They ran, played, threw stones, and climbed trees, just as I had before them and in fact, just as their 73
year old grandfather had before me and so on. The feeling of being on ones land was not lost on my kids.
The kids wanted to stay longer, but I wanted to leave so that we may be able to go to my family’s old home. We made our
way out of the orchard and headed the few hundred yards or so to the house where my grandfather was born, my father, and
myself. I again was overcome with emotion as we made our way through the gate and into the courtyard in front of the house.
This is the same house where I was born. My family no longer lived there, but we still owned the house and land around it and
have people living there rent free in exchange for taking care of it. This house holds far too many memories than I could share
with my kids in one year, let alone in a few moments. I pointed out every nook and cranny to my children. Every stone, every
square inch holds a special place in my memory and indeed in the memory of every living member of my family. The grape vine
that snaked its way up to the upper level and covered the balcony was itself over 75 years old and still produces some of the
best grapes anywhere. I was very saddened to see that the people living there no longer planted the things that my mother did
around the house. When my mother was there, one would think that they had entered the Garden of Eden as they entered the
couryard. She had some of the most colorful and aromatic plants I had ever seen growing there. From the huge, fragrant
Jasmine plant that came up the side of the house, to the many hues of the roses, mint, thyme, artichoke, basil, and just about
every herb and vegetable that could be grown. This is what I was used to seeing around our home up until 1983 when we
finished construction of our new home in the upper part of Beit Hanina. When my mother moved, the people that eventually
moved in did not take care of it like she had. We went inside the house and the memories of my brothers and sisters sleeping
together in the large room kept popping up. Funny how we remember the most mundane and trivial things of our childhood and
the things that trigger those memories…
The view from the balcony of our home was now obstructed by the many new buildings that had been built in the last 10 years
or so. There were many homes built by the people of Beit Hanina after the Oslo agreement. Although the vast majority of the
people of Beit Hanina live in America and elsewhere outside of Palestine, they still own land and build homes there. With the
outset of the Intifada and the closure of the main access road to the lower portion, people have abandoned the projects they
had started and quite a few of the beautiful new houses that were built now stand empty. It is a shame to see the village as
empty as it is. As I was growing up, the village was full of life and people. This was no longer the case. Even the new life that
was beginning to take hold and the revitalization of new buildings, halls and school were now set back by the isolation of the
village from the rest Beit Hanina and much of the outside world. It was very painful to see these things. The Israeli occupation
of Palestine works in insidious ways that are not easily seen but have devastating consequences nonetheless.
The final leg of our tour of lower Biet Hanina took us to the center of the village and outward towards the ancient cemetery.
This is where the people of Beit Hanina bury their dead even some of those that die outside of Palestine, in far away places
such as America, they are sent back to their ancestral homeland for burial. As we entered the cemetery, we recited a passage
from the Quran and made our way between the graves. We made our way to the where my great, great, grandfather, great
grandfather, grandfather, as well as uncles, aunts, and a sibling were buried. The gravesite holds about 200 years or more of my
family’s dead. I took my children to the headstone; where there were at least 10 names etched into it, and led them in saying a
prayer and a passage from the Quran. The hope of having a loved one come to one’s grave and reciting a passage from the
Quran in their memory, is the quintessential wish of every Muslim. It shows that they had left people behind who were of faith
and that they still honored their memory. It is a blessing to have one’s great, great, great, great; grandchildren make the journey
to their grave and recite a passage from the Quran as well as say a prayer for them. As we were leaving the cemetery, I could
not help but look at the many head stones and read the names of those that were buried there. Quite a few of the names were
familiar to me because after all, no matter how large the population of the original people of Beit Hanina had become, we were
still all related to each other in one form or another.
As the dusk was beginning to set in, we decided that we would walk the 2 kilometers or so back to the upper portion of Beit
Hanina. I had planned this in advance as I had wanted to see for myself and show my children, the cruel and inhumane road
blocks and barriers that had been set up to make the life of the people here as intolerable as possible. I had brought my camera
with me for the express purpose of documenting these things. The main road (a single lane road of about 4 miles) that links the
lower part of Beit Hanina with the upper part has been destroyed by the Israeli army. The road has been dug up in some
places, earthen and rock barricades placed in other places, and finally car sized boulders placed in the middle of the road in still
other places making it more of an obstacle course than a road, one that a car can no longer travel on. It was hard for me, a
reasonably healthy man of 42 to traverse; one can imagine how hard it is for the elderly, the children, and the mothers who must
carry their infants. The purpose of these inhumane roads, of doing all of this damage has little to do with security: it is much,
much more related to efforts at making the life of the residents of villages such as Beit Hanina as unbearable as possible.
As I was walking back to our home with my wife and kids, I could not help thinking about a web site that I had stumbled
across called Eretz Israel or something to that effect. I had typed in a search for Beit Hanina and settlements, when I came
across a result that read “261 new Arab Settlements in Eretz Israel since 1950”. I clicked on the link and it took me to a web
site with the following description: 261 new Arab settlements in Israel after 1950. These settlers came mostly from Iraq, Syria,
and Jordan. As I read further, I noticed that they list these “settlements” by region and name, much in the same manner that
Walid Khalidi did in his brilliantly documented book “All that Remains”. I scrolled down to the area of Jerusalem only to find
that my village of Beit Hanina was listed along with the surrounding villages as being “one of those new Arab settlements” that
was started AFTER 1950…
Mike Odetalla
7-2003
Jerusalem, in occupied Palestine. Although I had left Palestine in 1969 at the age of 8, my memories of Beit Hanina are as vivid
and fresh as if they had only happened yesterday. In fact, I tended to remember even the mundane and everyday things that
most people take for granted. Even today, when someone mentions a particular date or a person from my village during the
time that I had lived there, I can still recall their features, dress, and mannerisms. Likewise my memories of the village, its
buildings, landmarks, as well as its abundant orchards and its hills, are etched in my brain forever.
My kids have been weaned on stories of my childhood in Beit Hanina and Palestine. Not a day goes by that I do not say
something about Palestine to them. Their thirst to know more about the village of my youth and indeed their forefathers, as well
as the whole of Palestine is unquenchable. I had always dreamed of and planned on taking them back home with me to
Palestine and Beit Hanina and sharing with them the things that made Palestine so special for me as well as millions of other
Palestinians the world over. It had been 8 long years since they had been to Palestine. The last time that I journeyed there with
them was 1995 and they were much too young to remember and appreciate what they were seeing and experiencing. I had
wanted to take them back home to Palestine when they were old enough, so that they may know and remember the sites and
sounds of Palestine. Now at the ages of 15, 13, and 11, the time was right no matter what the “climate” was like back home.
They were as excited as I was when I announced our trip to the homeland of their forefathers. We eagerly counted down the
days for our trip home.
We had been in Palestine for about 6 days when I finally was able to take a break from the relatives and well wishers and take
my children to old or lower Beit Hanina. Beit Hanina in general had grown quite a bit since the days when I was a child. In fact,
it has grown to be one of the largest villages around the Jerusalem area. Most of the construction and growth has been in the
upper part of Beit Hanina. There are also 3 large Jewish settlements built on the lands that were stolen from the people of Beit
Hanina, including land from my own family. The Jewish settlements dominate and confine the entire village. The lower part has
seen some new construction in the past 34 years, but it is nowhere near as pervasive as that in the upper portion. Everyone
who is a Hanini (the name given to a person who is originally from Beit Hanina as opposed to a person who has moved there
from somewhere else) can trace their roots to the lower portion of the village. It is where all of the people of Beit Hanina lived
at one time before moving to the upper part or elsewhere in Palestine and indeed the world. I was born there, as was my father,
his father, his grandfather, and so on. My family’s roots in Beit Hanina run hundreds of years or more.
The trip from our home in the upper part of the village used to be no more than a mere 5 minutes by car or about a 30 minute
walk along the narrow paved road that snaked the 2 kilometers or so. As we had intended on taking a basket of food and
drinks with us, we decided to travel by car. We went to the main road and stopped by one of the many taxi service offices. I
told the man at the desk that we needed a car to take us to lower Beit Hanina. He then asked me how far we wanted to travel.
He could either drop us off at the tumum (the first mound of dirt and car sized boulders that block the road halfway down or
take us all the way. He quoted us 2 different prices. I told him that we intended on going all the way to the heart of the village.
The trip that used to take 5 minutes by car was now going to take us 25 minutes or more as we had to travel through and
around another village, a checkpoint, and some treacherously narrow dirt paths that even in the summer were difficult to travel,
let alone in the winter with the rains and mud. The taxi drivers generally do not like to travel to lower Beit Hanina as the cars
tend to take quite a beating from the rutted and dusty road. Our path took us adjacent to the Jew only by pass road that cuts
right through the heart of the entire village. This concrete monstrosity effectively divides the village into 2 parts and is more like a
wall than a road. The Jews that travel this road are spared the site of seeing the havoc that this road has caused in the heart of
the Palestinian areas by the murals that depict flowers and palm trees that are painted on the huge concrete walls that line the
highway where it crosses directly above where Palestinians live and work. The Palestinians see the ugly concrete and razor wire
barriers, while the Jews see “art”. It is a fitting and all too familiar a contradiction in this part of the world.
As we traveled on our way, I could not contain my excitement as I kept pointing things out to my children. I asked the driver to
drop us off at the base of the hill where my aunt lived. From there we would walk to her home to say hello, then ascend the hill
to the top so that I might be able to show my children the scenery from the top. All along the way to my aunt’s house and up
the very tall and steep hill, memories of my youth kept flashing in my head. Every step brought forth so many memories that I
was now babbling on endlessly as my kids attempted to keep up with the many things that I was telling them. My youngest,
Omar, who is light on his feet, was running up the hill like the many Gazelles that lived there. He was almost at the top before
we were even halfway up. His running around up there reminded me of myself, much younger, in another time of carefree play
and childhood innocence. About three quarters of the way up, I called my children’s attention to the cave that was directly
above us. This was the same cave that my family and I hid in during the first night of the war of 67. In fact, I pointed out to them
the exact spot at the mouth of the cave, where I had crouched as a 6 year old and watched the brilliant flashes of light and
sound of the soundtrack of war. This was also the very same cave that we had to flee because the Israeli Air force jet had
buzzed and then fired a missile at it just after we had fled. I also pointed out to my children where the missile had landed and
where we sought shelter under the nearby olive trees as the full moon shone brightly above us that night. I took pictures of them
in front of the cave and then we continued upwards.
Once at the top, we had a breathtaking view of the village and its surroundings. This part of Beit Hanina was very familiar to me
as a boy. I had spent many days here as a youth. Whether it was flying a kite, grazing a sheep, or just playing and exploring
along with my cousins, this was indeed my favorite part of the village. My mother could always be heard yelling at the top of her
lungs for me to come home as I pretended to not hear her. She would then dispatch my older sister to get me. This greatly
infuriated her and she would then come after me with a vengeance and a stick in her hand. The Jewish settlement of Ramot,
which was built on the hill facing us on land stolen form Beit Hanina as well as my family, was clearly visible, imposing, and
looked as if it is about to swallow the village that it dominated below it. Also, even though it was hot below, up there on top,
the wind blew a refreshing cool blast. There were many children playing and flying kites atop the hill at this tome. I saw that one
of them was having a hard time getting his kite to fly. I went over to him and adjusted the mizan or angle of the string so that the
kite could fly properly. The children all of the sudden wanted to know how I knew so much about adjusting the kite. I informed
them that when I was their age, I too flew kites right up here on the very same hills some 34 odd years earlier. They then asked
me where I had lived. I told them that I was now living in America with my family. One particularly inquisitive youngster then
asked me what was better, America or Palestine? I replied that Palestine was much better; he then asked me why I had
left…Too many piercing questions for me to answer in such a short time…
While high atop Beit Hanina, I took many pictures of the surrounding areas and spent a lengthy amount of time pointing places
and memories out to my kids. My children flew a kite for a while, and then we started our decent down the hill. The path that I
chose took us past my grandfather’s (mother’s side) and uncles homes and orchard. These were located about halfway up the
hill. Also this is the place where my uncles, aunts, as well as my mother were born. The main home, which was in extreme
disrepair since my uncle’s deaths, was built over 100 years earlier over the remains of the house where my grandfather was
born over 150 years before. I was saddened to see the empty ruins of the compound which at one time, prior to the 67 war,
contained the families of 3 of my uncles as well as my grandfather, who was widowed early on in life in 1950’s.
After we made our way down, we headed directly to the largest of my family’s orchards. This orchard has been the pride and
joy of my family for hundreds of years. At one time, this orchard was the only source of income for my family as we grew and
sold apricots, plums, peaches, as well the ever present olive trees which produced the world's finest oil. As we entered the
orchard through a gate, I could not help the smile that came across my face as I saw my kid’s faces as they started to run from
one tree to the next. My youngest son, Omar, kept asking me all kinds of questions about the trees and the fruits that grew on
them. He also kept asking, in disbelief, if this land was really ours. I kept assuring him that every tree, every rock, and indeed
every spec of dirt, was ours. This was the very same land that many generations of my family had worked. The trees, some of
them hundreds of years old, were planted by their forefathers even before America had become a country. This was also the
place that I had spent so many wonderful days as a youth with my family. The harvests were a total family affair and I eagerly
and joyfully partook in them as a boy. There was not a single tree that I was not intimately familiar with. I could not take a
single step without recalling an event or memory from my childhood. Needless to say, I spent quite a bit of time talking with my
kids in our orchard. They ran, played, threw stones, and climbed trees, just as I had before them and in fact, just as their 73
year old grandfather had before me and so on. The feeling of being on ones land was not lost on my kids.
The kids wanted to stay longer, but I wanted to leave so that we may be able to go to my family’s old home. We made our
way out of the orchard and headed the few hundred yards or so to the house where my grandfather was born, my father, and
myself. I again was overcome with emotion as we made our way through the gate and into the courtyard in front of the house.
This is the same house where I was born. My family no longer lived there, but we still owned the house and land around it and
have people living there rent free in exchange for taking care of it. This house holds far too many memories than I could share
with my kids in one year, let alone in a few moments. I pointed out every nook and cranny to my children. Every stone, every
square inch holds a special place in my memory and indeed in the memory of every living member of my family. The grape vine
that snaked its way up to the upper level and covered the balcony was itself over 75 years old and still produces some of the
best grapes anywhere. I was very saddened to see that the people living there no longer planted the things that my mother did
around the house. When my mother was there, one would think that they had entered the Garden of Eden as they entered the
couryard. She had some of the most colorful and aromatic plants I had ever seen growing there. From the huge, fragrant
Jasmine plant that came up the side of the house, to the many hues of the roses, mint, thyme, artichoke, basil, and just about
every herb and vegetable that could be grown. This is what I was used to seeing around our home up until 1983 when we
finished construction of our new home in the upper part of Beit Hanina. When my mother moved, the people that eventually
moved in did not take care of it like she had. We went inside the house and the memories of my brothers and sisters sleeping
together in the large room kept popping up. Funny how we remember the most mundane and trivial things of our childhood and
the things that trigger those memories…
The view from the balcony of our home was now obstructed by the many new buildings that had been built in the last 10 years
or so. There were many homes built by the people of Beit Hanina after the Oslo agreement. Although the vast majority of the
people of Beit Hanina live in America and elsewhere outside of Palestine, they still own land and build homes there. With the
outset of the Intifada and the closure of the main access road to the lower portion, people have abandoned the projects they
had started and quite a few of the beautiful new houses that were built now stand empty. It is a shame to see the village as
empty as it is. As I was growing up, the village was full of life and people. This was no longer the case. Even the new life that
was beginning to take hold and the revitalization of new buildings, halls and school were now set back by the isolation of the
village from the rest Beit Hanina and much of the outside world. It was very painful to see these things. The Israeli occupation
of Palestine works in insidious ways that are not easily seen but have devastating consequences nonetheless.
The final leg of our tour of lower Biet Hanina took us to the center of the village and outward towards the ancient cemetery.
This is where the people of Beit Hanina bury their dead even some of those that die outside of Palestine, in far away places
such as America, they are sent back to their ancestral homeland for burial. As we entered the cemetery, we recited a passage
from the Quran and made our way between the graves. We made our way to the where my great, great, grandfather, great
grandfather, grandfather, as well as uncles, aunts, and a sibling were buried. The gravesite holds about 200 years or more of my
family’s dead. I took my children to the headstone; where there were at least 10 names etched into it, and led them in saying a
prayer and a passage from the Quran. The hope of having a loved one come to one’s grave and reciting a passage from the
Quran in their memory, is the quintessential wish of every Muslim. It shows that they had left people behind who were of faith
and that they still honored their memory. It is a blessing to have one’s great, great, great, great; grandchildren make the journey
to their grave and recite a passage from the Quran as well as say a prayer for them. As we were leaving the cemetery, I could
not help but look at the many head stones and read the names of those that were buried there. Quite a few of the names were
familiar to me because after all, no matter how large the population of the original people of Beit Hanina had become, we were
still all related to each other in one form or another.
As the dusk was beginning to set in, we decided that we would walk the 2 kilometers or so back to the upper portion of Beit
Hanina. I had planned this in advance as I had wanted to see for myself and show my children, the cruel and inhumane road
blocks and barriers that had been set up to make the life of the people here as intolerable as possible. I had brought my camera
with me for the express purpose of documenting these things. The main road (a single lane road of about 4 miles) that links the
lower part of Beit Hanina with the upper part has been destroyed by the Israeli army. The road has been dug up in some
places, earthen and rock barricades placed in other places, and finally car sized boulders placed in the middle of the road in still
other places making it more of an obstacle course than a road, one that a car can no longer travel on. It was hard for me, a
reasonably healthy man of 42 to traverse; one can imagine how hard it is for the elderly, the children, and the mothers who must
carry their infants. The purpose of these inhumane roads, of doing all of this damage has little to do with security: it is much,
much more related to efforts at making the life of the residents of villages such as Beit Hanina as unbearable as possible.
As I was walking back to our home with my wife and kids, I could not help thinking about a web site that I had stumbled
across called Eretz Israel or something to that effect. I had typed in a search for Beit Hanina and settlements, when I came
across a result that read “261 new Arab Settlements in Eretz Israel since 1950”. I clicked on the link and it took me to a web
site with the following description: 261 new Arab settlements in Israel after 1950. These settlers came mostly from Iraq, Syria,
and Jordan. As I read further, I noticed that they list these “settlements” by region and name, much in the same manner that
Walid Khalidi did in his brilliantly documented book “All that Remains”. I scrolled down to the area of Jerusalem only to find
that my village of Beit Hanina was listed along with the surrounding villages as being “one of those new Arab settlements” that
was started AFTER 1950…
Mike Odetalla
7-2003
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