Around 7 pm last night my aunt Jewhayna (the niece of Halim Habiby—mom's father and my grandfather—and the daughter of Emile Habiby—mom's uncle and my great uncle), her husband rafli, their daughter reem, her two children layal and majd, another of jewheyna and rafli's grandchildren drove to Haifa. It took us about 45 minutes from where they live in Nazareth. The sun was quickly setting over Mount Carmel as we entered Haifa. To east sat the city and to the west sat the mediterranean sea, the port of Haifa and the sprawling oil refinery where Jiddo Halim worked. (This was not the refinery he built was it?). As I noticed the all too predictable Israeli flags perched on the refinery and the port "It is all owned by Jews now" my Aunt Jewhayna opined to me.
From my own assessment and limited knowledge of the city, Haifa has historically been a city whose inhabitants largely work in the port or with some sort of blue-collar industry. And the city looks industrial. And Such old buildings. With stones that were undoubtedly laid by hand and built to last. Within the past several years, there's been a shift, my uncle said, from heavy industry to technology. Haifa is considered one of the more "liberal" cities in "Israel" with Jews and Palestinians (deliberately called Arabs in 48 Palestine aka Israel) living and working side by side. Liberal rhetoric. The land was still stolen. Every single sign is written in Hebrew or Russian. Palestinians who were exiled and came back still had to buy their homes back (at much higher prices ) from Jews.
Several days ago Jewhayna called her sister Rawya who called her Auntie Nada (who is in Canada for three months) to find out what house Jiddo Halim and Teta Linda and Auntie Amal and mom lived in. Jewhayna learned from Rawya who learned from Nada that is was on Abbas street, the same street where Nada still lives. We drove to the street, and Jewhayna, who hasn’t lived in Haifa since she was ten, was initially unsure which house it was. We parked the car and all of us, all seven of us, starting walking down Abbas street (it used to be two-way and is now one-way) with Jewhayna leading the way. We found a Palestinian family sitting on the balcony of their second floor home and she explained to them why we were there. "This is the granddaughter of Halim Habiby. She has come from America to see her grandfather's house. Do you know where it is?" "Halim Habiby… we're not sure...maybe up a little? We have been here for a long time… 20 years." Jewhayna said: "Twenty years? That's nothing… of course you don't know."
As we continued to walk a car drove past us and a woman, maybe 45, recognized Jewhayna. She is a relative. A Habiby. I was unsure of her first name but she said her mother, Nawal, who lived just 3 doors down, would definitely know which house it was. And of course, Nawal did.
At this point, I was nearly silent, only muttering obligatory pleasantries to everyone we met, because I knew if I spoke I would weep. This would not be the worst thing but I wanted to "keep it together" at least for a moment. I gripped my purse, wiped the sweat from my forehead and continued walking. We found the house. Jewhayna recognized it. She remembered the salon. It is two stories. Stone. Beautiful. Old. Built to last. Like all the other buildings. All seven of us crowded by the gate and in both Arabic and Hebrew Jewhayna and her daughter Reem explained yelled hello soliciting the attention of the buildings new inhabitants. I crossed the street and with tears welling up in my eyes took some pictures. It was something to do.
(As I type Jewhayna is telling the same story, from her perspective, to her daughter Haneen who is at an airport in Trinidad heading to Tennessee to visit my uncle, Jewhayna's brother, Salaam)An old woman, speaking Hebrew slowly approached the gate. She was kind, soft-spoken, and had short white hair. I wanted to hate her but didn't, entirely. In Hebrew Jewhayna explained why we were there. At this point, Jewhayna, Reem and I stood with our eyes filled with tears. But not yet crying. Outwardly. As we stood on the outside of the gate and she stood on the inside of
her house, her gate, her garden, she laid her left forearm on the top of the gate. It was at that moment that I noticed faded blurred numbers tattooed on her inner left forearm. She was a Holocaust survivor. And now she had lived, for fifty-five years, I will say that again, fifty-five years, in my grandfather's house.
After that, an old Palestinian woman, who lived on the top floor approached her balcony. Once again, Jewhayna explained why we were there. She asked if we could come in, she said "maybe another time." Jewhayna asked again, and she agreed. We approached the side of the house and walked up the stairs. "These are the stairs you mother and grandfather and grandmother walked on. Do you see the tile, this is the original tile your grandfather put he. He had good taste." I was still entirely silent, only biting my lips and nodding. As we stood at the side door of both houses, we knocked on the Palestinian woman's door. The Palestinian woman did not answer. She never came to the door. She wouldn’t let us in. Perhaps she was scared. Understandably so. People don't forget trauma. Or perhaps her house was messy. Either way, we did not see the top floor. At this point, as all seven of us stood in the stairwell (some other woman appeared… )so eight of us I was weeping loudly. And Reem's children asked her mother why. She explained and then started walking up the second flight of steps to the roof. I followed her. I saw the roof. And wept. And took a picture of the concrete. And it is on this roof that we have a picture of my mother. It is the only one we have. This picture sits on our fridge in Stone Mountain.
More later.
