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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.

“I always slept next to my grandmother. I used to lie there hugging her. One evening, I woke up to gunfire and bombing. There were only children and women in the room. It was crowded. Everyone was lying on top of each other. Then I noticed that my grandmother had been shot in one breast. She was bleeding heavily. Even my twelve-year-old brother Ahmad was shot by the occupation soldiers. He was hit in the chest and shoulder. We screamed and cried and ran out of the house before it collapsed.
My father was a resistance fighter and fought against the Jews. He was always armed with weapons and ammunition. He and the other men defended our village. When the ammunition ran out, he and the other men fled to another village.
My mother held up a flag made of a piece of white cloth and shouted, ‘Salam Salam, don’t shoot at us, Salam Salam, we surrender.’ Then they stopped shooting.
The occupying forces gathered all the women and children in the courtyard of a large house where we were ordered to sit down. The wounded received no care. All men and boys over twelve were gathered elsewhere. We never saw them again. My brother survived because our mother dressed him in women’s clothes.
We left everything and ran up into the mountains. During the escape, I saw many dead and wounded. Eventually, we were reunited with my father and his brother. We were eight siblings, father and mother, and my uncle and his family. We were many.”

Nakba #14 - Dunia Hameed

“My country is not a suitcase, and I am not on a journey.”

Nakba #13 - Hassan Ahmed Jaber

1948
— When was the first time you met a Jew?
“It was when they bombed our village and we were forced to flee with only the clothes we were wearing. Everything else we had to leave behind. But I never actually saw them.
We fled to the Christian village of Rmeisch, on the Lebanese side of the border. Friends of my parents owned a house there. They allowed us to stay for six years. They bought clothes for us and were very generous. After six years we were forced to leave. We had become an economic burden on our hosts.
We moved to another village where my father got a job on a tobacco plantation. Then we moved on to Qana, where I helped my father with the work. We were not paid, but we were allowed to live in a house. I went to school in Qana. In middle school I began attending a school in Yafariya, in Tyre (Sur). We lived in a house and had our own tobacco fields.”
1976
“I got a job as a teacher in the Tel al-Zaatar refugee camp in Lebanon. The camp played a central role in the civil war in 1976 between the PLO and the Israeli-backed Phalangists. They carried out a massacre of the camp’s residents. Five thousand people were killed or disappeared. I was one of the 120 who managed to escape. We were forced to leave the elderly and the wounded along the road. Some were eaten by wild animals. After fifteen days of flight, without water or food, only seventy of us were still alive.
Palestine belongs to us and will be returned to us. Those who do not like my words can go and drink from the sewers of the refugee camps. The British gave Palestine away through the Balfour Declaration of 1917. But how can a guest give away the home to other guests?”

Nakba #12 - Mofid al Sadek

- When were you born?
'How can I remember when my mother gave birth to me? I am 95 years old. As a child, I had a carefree life. We used to collect wood so that my mother could light a fire and bake bread. I helped at home too, preparing food.'

- What did your father work with?
'He was a farmer.'

- Did you go to school?
'No, we laughed at those who went to school. I ought to kill you.'
(Starts laughing)

- Because I am Jewish?
'No, no reason. I just wanted to make you laugh so we could have a fun time together. You do not need to be afraid. You can stay here tonight if you want. But I still want to kill you.'

- When did you get married?
'I was 13 years old. He was 45.'

- Wasn't he a little old?
'It does not matter. My family decided and I had to obey. I cried and cried, but in vain. They have sinned because of what they did to me. My husband died 55 years ago. I had no children. Now I sit here alone.'

- Was he kind to you?
'Yes, very. I wish I could have given him a child, so that he could have lived on.'

- Did any Jews live in your village?
'No, but they lived in some villages nearby. We lived side by side. They were good people. We used to play football together.'

- When did that change?
'They bombed and shot at us. We were forced to move.'

- How long did this go on for?
'For three, four days.'

- Were any killed?
'Yes, many, many, many.'

- How were you affected?
'Be quiet! Why are you asking?'

- Is it hard to talk about these events
'Yes. Until the day I die I will remember this.'

- How did the flight happen? 
"We went on foot to al-Burayj. We stayed there for two months. We settled in Ajanjul. We stayed there for one month. Then we left for Bayt Nuba. We stayed there for three months, and after that ‘Aqbat Jabir by the Dead Sea. We lived in tents. We were not allowed to build houses at first, but later we were. After Israel occupied the West Bank in 1967, they said there was no place for us other than in Jordan. So we continued on foot over the mountains and came to Jordan, to the Baqa‘a refugee camp."
- What has been the hardest part of your life? 
"Everything."

Nakba #11 - Ghalia Thahir Al-Harbishi

1946
”As a boy, I remember the beach in Tantura. I was five or six years old. The sand was soft, clean, and white. The water was shallow far out. The coast consisted of alternating coves and small islands. I used to swim in the sea with my father. That is an important memory.
1948
”I started school in March 1948, but three months later we were forced to flee. Tantura was occupied on May 24, 1948—the same day I turned seven years old. I remember how the bloody night began. I heard bursts of gunfire and the deafening thunder of cannons. The Haganah attacked from three directions.
Our family—my aunts on my father’s and mother’s sides and their families—gathered in my grandmother’s house. Everyone was afraid; everyone was screaming and crying. My mother held my three youngest siblings in her arms. That night I could not sleep. Some prayed to Allah; others cursed the Jews. Even the dogs were afraid.
More than one hundred villagers were killed that night.
In the morning, the streets were filled with bodies. My father and some male relatives went to the school to organize resistance.
Around noon the Zionists entered Tantura. The village raised a white flag; there was nothing else to do. The Jewish soldiers gathered the women and children in the square. In the chaos I spotted my mother and my younger siblings. They were searched by female soldiers looking for gold and money. They took everything—rings and necklaces. They tore off earrings so that blood spurted from the women’s and girls’ ears.
The soldiers went into the houses and emptied them of everything of value—furniture, valuables, and money. The items were hauled away by horse and cart. Other soldiers collected the dead bodies scattered in the streets. They dumped the bodies in front of the women and children, as a final act of humiliation.
Then some of the village’s snipers began shooting at the Zionists again, despite the white flag. They killed some Haganah soldiers, which resulted in the Jewish soldiers, in blind fury, shooting every man who came in their way. People fell like bowling pins. Meanwhile, people from a nearby Jewish settlement joined the Haganah.
When things calmed somewhat, we were ordered down to the beach. On the way I saw several dead bodies, among them my maternal grandfather, Abu Hamek Jidek, and one of my uncles, Ami Abdel Aziz. Crying women wandered around looking for men and children among the bodies.
The May sun was mercilessly hot. When we reached the beach, the sand was hot like fire. Everyone was barefoot. We began hopping like grasshoppers. We were hungry and thirsty, but the soldiers gave us nothing to eat or drink.
My grandfather was the village mukhtar. He had smuggled weapons from Syria to Palestine, and now the Haganah wanted to make an example of him. Two soldiers took him to a house by the beach. They pushed him inside and closed the door. Shortly afterward, two pistol shots echoed out over the sea.
The men—those aged sixteen and older—were lined up on the beach. A soldier whipped those who did not keep the line straight. The soldiers marched them away, ten at a time, a few hundred meters down the beach. There they were shot. The remaining men were taken to the village cemetery, lined up, and ordered to dig their own graves. When a line had finished digging, the men were shot in the back of the head and fell into the graves they had dug.
We remained on the beach, paralyzed with terror. For some, their stomachs turned.
Those of us who survived the massacre were forced to go to Fureidis, a neighboring village about four kilometers away. We walked on foot, and I still remember how badly my legs and feet hurt. We were guarded by soldiers. Some pleaded with the soldiers to be allowed to return to their houses to fetch clothes and other belongings, but in vain. When we arrived in Fureidis, the villagers gave us food and drink. We stayed there for a few days. We learned that the military had blown up all the houses .”

Nakba #10 - Mohamad Zarra

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.”

Nakba #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.”

Nakba #8 - Adnan Abu Odeh

“For many years I wished that just once I could return to Palestine—for a single hour—and then I could die. But as a refugee, that was impossible. When I became a Swedish citizen and received a Swedish passport, I was able to go back to Palestine. In 1989 I returned for the first time. I traveled as if in a heavenly ascent, like Jesus or like Muhammad. My body and my soul were united. My body became electric; it cannot be described. I did not understand what was happening—I did not understand what was happening—but I believe it was my soul entering all the cells of my body.
Being forced to flee has affected my entire being. It is extremely difficult to describe. I have thought about it a great deal. Even small children are affected; even unborn children can be affected. If I see a woman carrying a child under Nazi rule, or a Kurdish woman with a child, or in Afghanistan or in Syria, I begin to cry immediately. Immediately (begins to cry).
I so deeply want to get back my house that was stolen from me by force. I wish to experience it for just one day—to be able to feel and breathe freedom—and then die there. I want to experience freedom.
I still feel like a refugee—from Palestine, from Syria, and even here in Sweden. My room in Sweden feels like a refugee camp. Why am I denied my rights? I only want my rights back. Period.”

Nakba #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.”

Nakba #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.”

Nakba #11 - Ghalia Thahir Al-Harbishi

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