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Överlevarna

En podd, fyra ämnen: Om de som överlevde Förintelsen, Andra generationen, Det judiska Högalid samt den palestinska Nakba.
Poddens olika projekt har finansieras av bl. a. Statens Kulturråd, Palmefonden, Victoria AB, Kungl. Patriotiska Sällskapet, Helge Ax:son Johnson Stiftelse, Annika och Gabriel Urwitz ´´Stiftelse, Samfundet S:t Erik, bokförlagen Lind & Co och Ordfront samt privata biddragsgivare.

1946
“When I was four, I used to go with my mother to the stream. There we filled our buckets with water. I remember sitting under a tree eating figs. I was never allowed to go to school; instead I had to help on the farm and take care of the sheep.
There were no Jews in my village. But in Acre (‘Akka), my father had several Jewish friends. Josef and Schlomo used to come and help us during the harvest season. My mother cooked dinner and we sat and ate together. They were Palestinian Jews, so we were truly close.
— What do you mean by Palestinian Jews?
They were born in Palestine. Sometimes we called them patriotic Jews. They were not like the European Jews, not like the Zionists, not like the Haganah.
When the British brought more and more Jews to Palestine by ship, and the Haganah began to organize, the Palestinian Jews felt forced to join the Haganah. Josef and Schlomo asked my father whether he would kill them if war broke out.
‘No,’ my father replied. ‘I will hide you in my heart.’”
1948
“During Ramadan in 1948, the Jews attacked our village three times. Twice our forces repelled the attacks. The third time, the Jews attacked with aircraft and armored vehicles. They attacked from the west and the north. Women, the elderly, and children—we fled eastward to the village of Abu Sinan. I don’t know how many were killed; we had already fled.
My brother Assem, my cousin Hammad, and two of their friends were captured and risked being executed. Among the Israeli forces were our family friends, Josef and Schlomo, and they saved their lives. They told my brother and the others to flee through the bushes so they would not be discovered.
We left Abu Sinan. There were nine of us—me, my six siblings, and my parents. We walked for seven hours before reaching the border. We stayed in Bayt Lif, in southern Lebanon. We thought it would be temporary, but we stayed there for two years. We rented a house. My parents had managed to bring some money with them, and they were content with their life.
I truly wanted to go to school. When we fled to Lebanon and I was ten, I asked my parents if I could start school.
‘In the homeland you couldn’t go to school; here in the refugee camp it is not possible at all,’ my father replied.”
1950
After two years, we ended up in the UNRWA camp in Burj al-Barajneh in Beirut. They gave us a tent and distributed canned food and flour. But we were not allowed to build a house.
— Did you have water and electricity?
No. UNRWA installed water taps and toilets around the camp. At first we had no electricity.
I began working in a factory that produced arak. I earned 30 lira a month; it wasn’t much. I worked there for six years. When I turned 18, I got married and began working as a vegetable vendor. Then I could earn 15–20 lira a day.
When I was little, I often dreamed. And everything I dreamed came true. I dreamed of having a kind wife and kind children. And when I grew up, God gave me both. When I think about the past, I cry.”

#9 Abdallah Shahada

1933
“My father worked in the soap industry. The olive oil season runs from November to March. Father used to work for four months. Then he would rest until the soap had dried and could be wrapped in paper. Nablus lies in a fertile area and is surrounded by olive trees and an abundant supply of water springs. Olive oil and water are two prerequisites for making soap. For thousands of years, soap has been made in Nablus.”
1938
“I was the only boy in the family, surrounded by seven sisters. I was the prince of the family. That shaped me. But my father was religious and never spoiled me. Once I was playing with my sister. I was five years old. At one point I pushed her and she began to cry. My father came running from the kitchen and asked her what had happened. ‘He hit me,’ she said. (She didn’t say that I had pushed her.) He slapped me and said a sentence I will never forget: ‘Boy, never believe that just because you are the family’s only son, you are better than any of your sisters.’ I began to cry.”
1940
“I used to rent a bicycle—five minutes cost half a piastre. A friend and I rode around the city. I never learned how to swim. Every Easter my father rewarded me with a visit to a Palestinian city. I knew every city: Haifa, Jaffa, Tel Aviv, Acre, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Hebron, and Tiberias.
- What did you do when you arrived in a new city?
My father was a traditional man. The first thing he did was take me to the mosque. Then we would walk around. In Haifa and Jaffa we went down to the sea. He used to smoke the argileh, the water pipe, outside the ‘Casino’ in Bat Galim in Haifa. On one trip he took me to the zoo in Tel Aviv. After the visit we ate lunch on the beach. I noticed that the women were wearing swimsuits. The bikini had not yet been invented, but I could see their armpits. When I came home, all my friends were impressed that I had visited a zoo. My mother wanted to know where my father had taken me. To the zoo in Tel Aviv, I answered, and added:
‘And then, Mother, on the beach I saw women who were almost naked.’
My mother looked very sternly at my father.”
1948
“When I was about to start school again, it was closed. Why? Because Palestinians from Jaffa had fled to Nablus, which was under Jordanian rule. The refugees were to live in the school. My father rented out a room in our house to a refugee family of six people. Ethnic cleansing had begun. Many of the refugees were poor. They kept to themselves. To us they were foreigners, from the outside. We did not mix.”
1949
“UNRWA had begun distributing milk to the refugees in Nablus every morning. One morning in February, as I was on my way to school, I noticed a refugee girl who was seven years old. She wore only sandals on her feet; her red toes stuck out. She was crying and carrying a bucket of milk on her head. What was I to do with her? I had to arrive at school on time. My duty was to get to school. I left her. I began to cry as well.”
“Nakba has three dimensions. First, we lost our homeland. Second, we became refugees. Third, we were forced to turn away from the Mediterranean and its civilizations. In Palestine we had been neighbors with Greece, Italy, and France. When the border to the Mediterranean was closed, we were forced to turn eastward and southward. We were forced to orient ourselves toward the desert. That is the deeper meaning of the Nakba. I become angry when I think about it. I would rather forget it.”

#8 Adnan Abu Odeh

#7 Rashid al-Haje

Mousa Ghorab, born in Ashkelon, 1944. Recorded 2019 in Helsingborg. Photo: Cato Lein.
”My father was a technician and welder; at first he ran a café by the sea. From 1963 to 1988 I had no contact with my parents.
They thought I had died. It was hard to get in touch—I didn’t want to sit there and become sad and cry.
In 1989 I went to visit my parents in Gaza and also visited someone in the PLO. When I returned, I was detained.
Memories:
In 1948 we were forced to leave Ashkelon.
I knew that airplanes were bombing Ashkelon. The Egyptian army urged us to leave Ashkelon. My father carried me on his shoulders; we started walking along the beach. I heard gunfire and an airplane bombing. We were afraid.
I become sad when I think about my father having to carry me on his shoulders the whole way.
We rested for a while, then the shooting started again. The entire village fled. Most people went on foot; some made it to Gaza in small rowing boats. It took the whole night, and then we arrived in Khan Yunis in Gaza.
We slept with our mother and father; my sister and I lay between them. My father climbed up into a tree and tried to spread out the top.
We were in Khan Yunis for two weeks—no food, nothing—but I had fun. I was a bit mischievous. UNRWA distributed tents.
After three to four weeks they began distributing sugar and flour—it was fantastic. It was the finest bread I have ever eaten. Breakfast was salt and chili pepper.
“We will go back one morning. Soon you will stop shooting. Then we will be back.” Especially on Fridays, after prayers, we would go back. That was the whole idea from the first day: tomorrow we are going back. And then morning came. Everyone hoped for “tomorrow” until 1952. Then it became “next month.” No one wanted to establish themselves if we were going back.
We lived in tents until 1952. Water and toilets? They didn’t exist.
My father opened a tent café. When the wind really blew, the tents flew into the air, like waves.
We moved to Gaza City in 1952 and I started school there.
We were at school when airplanes came back and forth. My father came running—had you eaten anything? No, they had thrown chocolate that was poisoned, causing diarrhea. It was Israeli aircraft.
In 1956 there were several massacres in Gaza.
I saw many warships off the coast of Gaza. We thought the Russians had come to help us, but they were not Russians—they were British, French, and Israeli ships. During the war Israel occupied Gaza. They imposed a curfew after five o’clock. After two or three days they came and knocked on doors. If everything was “okay,” they made a cross on the door. Sometimes they killed entire families with machine guns, sometimes with bayonets. My teacher and his wife were killed. They entered his house, tied his arms and legs with rope, and did the same to his wife—I saw it.
A girl was killed with a bayonet in front of me in the street.
A boy was shot with a machine gun and died in front of our door.
In 1983 I traveled back to Gaza. They didn’t know I was coming. I couldn’t bring myself to call and tell them. I didn’t want to cry.
I flew to Ben Gurion, then took a taxi to Gaza. My father didn’t really recognize me.
My mother jumped with joy.
I avoided contact for 25 years so I wouldn’t have to be sad.
Today I regret it, especially when my son was born.
— How long did you feel like a refugee?

I am a Swedish citizen. I am still a refugee from Palestine, absolutely. My blood is Palestinian.
— Who bears responsibility?

The whole world.”

#6 Mousa Ghourab

Fatima Yanes, born 1935 in Bayt Dajan, Palestine. Interpreter: Ziad Yanes. Photo: Cato Lein. Recorded in Sollentuna, 2019.
“I was born in Bayt Dajan, a village near Jaffa. In 1936, during the Arab Revolt, the British and the Jews began terrorizing our village at night. They were looking for weapons and resistance fighters. They came to our house while we were sleeping and searched for weapons under our mattresses. Two of my uncles were arrested and sentenced to death by the British. They were imprisoned outside al-Quds (Jerusalem). I went with my parents and visited them once. There were many prisoners there, and all of them had visits from their families. My mother was carrying me, and I remember my uncles kissing me. They were later pardoned and allowed to return to the village.
In 1948, the Haganah attacked all the Palestinian villages between Tel Aviv and our village. People fled to us from the surrounding villages; they came from Salama, Yazur, Kafr ‘Ana, and al-Safiriya.
When the Haganah laid siege to the village, it did not come as a surprise. The army surrounded us and arrested people. An officer ordered the men to hand over their weapons, otherwise they would be shot. Our resistance fighters refused and tried to flee. The soldiers opened fire and many were killed. Then they fired at us—children, women, and the elderly. I remember at least ten people who died. A tank also appeared and began shelling us. They killed many innocent people. One resistance fighter who had stayed behind in the village threw a hand grenade at a Jewish officer. He died immediately. The soldiers shouted that there was a curfew. They shot at everything that moved.
When we were finally forced out of our houses, my mother was still wearing her nightclothes. They separated the men from the women and us children. They went into our house and took all valuables, emptied all the wardrobes and threw all the clothes onto the floor, turned the mattresses upside down, and threw large stones into the well in the courtyard. If anyone had been hiding in the well, they would have been crushed.
My mother explained that we were to leave all our belongings in the house. After a couple of days we would return; by then the Arab forces would have defeated the Haganah (begins to laugh).
We were fired upon by the Haganah—adults and children alike. We fled across the fields. I saw a man bent over his son who had just been killed. He was crying.
We traveled by truck to Deir ‘Ammar in al-Diffa al-Gharbia (the West Bank), where one of my uncles lived. We were allowed to stay in the mukhtar’s house. We stayed there for a month. Then we continued on, first to Baytin, outside Ramallah, then to Dara in southern Syria. Finally, we were given permission to go to Damascus.
There, life was good. We were given the same rights as Syrians and rented a house in a suburb. I married in 1955, when I was 20 years old, to my cousin. My father and his siblings met in a family council and decided on our marriage. In 1960 we bought land and built a house.
— When did you come to Sweden?
2012, at 77 years old.
— Why?
Fate.”

#5 Fatima Yanes

“Being in flight means starting from zero.”, says Yusra Shukr. 
She is born 1946 in Tantura, Palestine. 
Recorded in Uppsala, Sweden, 2019. Photo: Cato Lein. Interpreter: Reem Jaar.

#4 Yusra Shukr

“Falastin is like the blood in my body. Haifa is like the air I breathe. They live within me”, says Akram Mohammad Ayyash.
Recorded in Amman, 2019. Photo and interpreter: Shereen Nanish

Nakba #3 - Akram Mohammad Ayyash

Mohammed Hassan Hourani is born 1941 in Safad, Palestine. Recorded in Helsingborg, Sweden, 2019.
Photo: Cato Lein and interpreter: Outros Jacob.
”The jews started shooting. My dad took us to a cave in southern Safad. In the Jewish quarters there was a high building. They were shooting with a single shot rifle. Me and my cousin was laying flat on our stomachs on top of the cave. We were almost hit, I heard the shot and saw the whirling dust. We ran and took shelter in the cave. After three, four days we went down to the creek. We were afraid and fled from death. The whole town was fleeing.”

Nakba #2 - Mohammed Hourani

Amman Hassan Banat, born 1931 in Sheikh Damun, Akka, Palestine.
Recorded in Bourj el-Barajneh Camp, Beirut, 2019.
Photo and interpreter: Mona Bibi
Is there anything you’re wondering about before we begin?”
“Where are my four boys?” (points to four photographs on the wall). “Aziz was 30 years old when he disappeared, Ibrahim was 25, Mansur was 22, and then we have Ahmad, who was 13 years old when he disappeared,” says Amman Hassan Banat.
“Yesterday was the anniversary of the Sabra and Shatila massacre, and now they have been missing for 37 years, since 1982. On the same day as the massacres in Sabra and Shatila, the Israeli air force bombed our camp in Bourj el-Barajneh. Many houses collapsed and we fled to a house near the abandoned Kuwaiti embassy. A woman took us in there. When things had calmed down, we sat down to eat breakfast with the woman and her son. The Shatila camp was only 200 meters away. Suddenly two trucks appeared and the soldiers shoved my sons and other men and boys onto the backs of the trucks. They were forced to sit with their heads bowed.”
“My eldest, Aziz, had his upper body bare, so I went up to his truck to give him his shirt. When he heard my footsteps, he lifted his head. An Israeli soldier kicked him in the mouth. Aziz covered his mouth with his hand. Then he was kicked in the stomach” (begins to cry).
“Then the soldier pushed Aziz down onto the ground and the beating continued. Men and boys from the Shatila camp were marched out of the camp and over to the trucks, supervised by soldiers.”
What kind of soldiers were they?”
“Since I cannot read, I didn’t understand what was written on the sides of the trucks, but they were Israeli and Lebanese forces. The trucks were escorted by two tanks, one in front and one behind. I asked a soldier: Where are you taking my boys? I received no answer.”
“I ran around looking for my boys; people told me to seek shelter, but I counted on managing because I was a woman. People lay massacred in the streets; the only way to recognize them was by their clothes.”
“While the Sabra and Shatila massacre was going on, I saw Ariel Sharon, Israel’s defense minister, and Elie Hobeika, the Phalangists’ militia leader, up on the roof of the Kuwaiti embassy. I returned to the woman in the house—what else could I do? My house was destroyed and my boys were gone.”
“In the afternoon a car stopped and a man asked the other woman why she was crying. She explained that her son and husband had been taken away. The driver then said that he had seen her husband at the airport. He explained that the airport was so full of captured men that you couldn’t even put your foot down. The airport was controlled by the Israelis and the Lebanese.”
“It was Friday, September 17, 1982. From that day on, I never saw my four sons again.”

Nakba #1 - Amena Hassan

- Pappa överlevde Auschwitz, men fick TBC. De opererade bort halva ena lungan och några revben, som han sparade i garderoben. Det var äckligt, säger Sylvia Kalischer.
Såg du hans ärr?
- Freig nisht. Jag minns inte.

Det judiska Högalid #23 - Sylvia Kalischer

- Min mamma, två av mina systrar, min bror, mormor och moster åkte till gasen med samma. Det sista jag hörde min nioåriga bror Jakob säga var: "Jag vill inte dö." 
Foto: Cato Lein
Inspelat den 25 oktober 2017.
Lili Jodelsohn och Dora Bodlander är systrar. Dora medverkar i avsnitt #31 https://on.soundcloud.com/gjmMYkwe52PLL0ur5U

Överlevarna #30: Lili Jodelsohn

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