| Date posted: September 08, 2010 By Nijim Dabbour for Miftah | |
 We found it. The place my grandparents fled Palestine from in 1948, the largest stable in the city of Safad near the Syrian border. I found it right where my eldest uncle said it would be, in the shadow of the city’s last standing mosque in the old market district. It was a special type of stable, known as a khan, with two floors designed especially to host merchant caravans on the bottom floor with the traders sleeping up above. The market district was once a bustling center of trade with Safad at a perfect location to serve as a resting place for the merchants coming from East to West on camels or donkeys. I have visited twice so far, first on my own and then with my father weeks later. It was a surreal experience to have two generations of Dabbours return to the site where our family lost everything. The whole town, sitting at the top of the Galilee highlands, looks like a scene from a painting, a painting in which I was out of place. I had a small feeling as I walked through the streets and alleys that I was not quite welcome. The once-mixed city of mostly Palestinian Arabs had Jews making up about a sixth of the population before 1948. Today official statistics show the city to be more than 99 percent Jewish. All of the city’s Palestinians fled or were forced to leave and none were allowed to return. The city is considered to be one of Judaism's four holy cities and the center of Jewish mysticism, and, as such, has a huge orthodox population. I could envision my grandfather, whom I was named after, leading the Arabian horses, camels and mules to their stalls, locking them in for the night with troughs of water and hay. We walked through the halls in which he did business and gave the famous Palestinian hospitality to his guests. Today those halls have been transformed. On my first visit when I came alone, I spoke with the current owner for about 15 minutes and heard him tell the centuries-old story of the building. I told him my name, but I kept to myself the reason I was here. In the back of my mind though, I was thinking about how the last Dabbour to leave the place and the first one to return were both named Nijim. An American Jew from California, the new owner bought the building from the state. He completely renovated it and opened last December as a community center offering lessons, childcare, concerts and recycling programs to the city’s residents. The cement that covered the walls in my grandfather’s day was torn down to expose the original stones, laid by the Mamluks 700 years ago. The entranceway and main hall was remodeled with stained glass, a fountain and hardwood flooring. The floors, ceilings, walls and windows of the main hall were completely redone to give a feeling of earthiness and antiquity. I didn't even have time to explore the downstairs fully on my own, but the current owner said there is an unfinished room behind one of the arched alcoves, untouched and in the same form it was when it was hosting caravans. This is why didn’t tell him who I was, and let him think I was just a curious tourist. I knew I wanted to return with my father and I couldn’t risk him stopping us. Though, I did sign the guest book, "After 62 years, another Dabbour was able to set his feet inside the Khan of Safad." When I returned with my father, we came during a lesson on ecological living and couldn’t go through the entire building. Seeing my father walking in the place that should have been his bread and butter, the place where he should have followed his father to work every day, broke my heart. Instead, he was born in Damascus, as a refugee in a strange land with few opportunities. It was only through his resourcefulness and determination that he managed to find his way to America. He made his own opportunity and opened for me the doors that were always locked for him. The owner was away this time. It was probably for the better because for me, talking with the man who has a “legitimate” claim was difficult enough. I can’t imagine what would happen if my father, who lived the life of a refugee, ever came face to face with the current owner who now lays claim to my grandfather's property. I doubt he would have been able to even stand looking at him much less having a conversation with him. I don't know what will come of this, but I hope to come back more than once. I want to show everyone this place, even if I can't reclaim it. This American-Jew-turned-Israeli owns it now, and all I can do is ask for permission to see it. Though my grandparents locked it more than 60 years ago, expecting to return within days or weeks, this man can tell me to leave on a whim and I would lose any chance of coming back. Nijim Dabbour is a Writer for the Media and Information Department at the Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy (MIFTAH). He can be contacted at mid@miftah.org. | |
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