Aunt Jameela's Bread. A Story of Food, Family, and Love..... A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood and baking bread in his homeland.

A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood, family, and homemade bread in his homeland  

Auntie Jameela's Bread

by Mike Odetalla (Author), Jaber Yassein (Illustrator) Format: Paperback

See all formats and editions

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In a small village nestled among golden fields and olive trees, Aunt Jameela baked bread that fills more than just hungry tummies...it fills hearts with joy, stories, and love.

From the wheat grown in the fields to the warm loaves shared with family and friends, every step is a reminder of what truly matters.

A heartwarming tale of tradition, togetherness, and the special memories made around the table.   https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0GXRFK11T/ref=sw_img_1?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&psc=1

Buy a copy, enjoy, savor it... then pass it on to your local library or a child that you know and love 

Growing Gardens for Palestine

Sunday, May 10, 2026

Aunt Jameela's Bread. A Story of Food, Family, and Love..... A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood and baking bread in his homeland.

"My suffering, though severe, was never compounded by denial. The world around me was structured to keep me alive. That distinction matters. Because elsewhere, at this very moment, there are people whose hunger is not the byproduct of illness—but the result of policy. Of decision. Of design. In Gaza, and within the walls of Israeli prisons, hunger is not incidental. It is imposed..." Hunger, By Design By Mike Odetalla

Mike Hanini Odetalla

Hunger, By Design
By Mike Odetalla

At the height of my cancer treatment, I lost 60 pounds in less than two months.
Not by choice. Not by neglect. But because I simply could not eat.

Every swallow felt like fire. Every attempt at nourishment became a negotiation with pain. My body, once familiar, began to disappear before my own eyes—reduced not by lack of food, but by my inability to take it in. I didn't recognize the person looking back at me in the mirror.

And yet, even in that darkest stretch, one truth remained constant:

Food was there.

It sat within reach. Prepared. Available. Waiting for me, even when I could not accept it. Doctors urged me. Nurses monitored me. My suffering, though severe, was never compounded by denial. The world around me was structured to keep me alive.

That distinction matters.

Because elsewhere, at this very moment, there are people whose hunger is not the byproduct of illness—but the result of policy. Of decision. Of design.

In Gaza, and within the walls of Israeli prisons, hunger is not incidental. It is imposed.

There, food is not something a patient struggles to swallow—it is something withheld. Rations are restricted. Access is controlled. Malnutrition spreads not because bodies fail, but because systems ensure they do.

I know what it feels like to weaken. To feel your strength slip quietly away. To measure your days not in hours, but in ounces lost and energy drained.

But I also know this: My suffering existed within a system trying—however imperfectly—to save me.

Theirs exists within a system that does not. 

That is the difference between illness and injustice.

Between misfortune and intention.

Between hunger… and hunger used as a weapon.

And once you understand that distinction, you cannot unsee it.

 https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10165923688376977&set=a.10150390714236977

 [AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine]

Israel Officially Banned the Palestine Flag from 1967 to1993 (Occupation to Oslo) ... WATERMELONS

Artworks using these four colors were banned by Israeli law in the 1980s. This ban ended in 1993.

Early 1900's photo of watermelon vendors in #Gaza #Palestine!

Watermelon market outside Jaffa Gate at the base of the Citadel walls, #Jerusalem, #Palestine...Circa 1900's

Protest for Palestine

After Israel occupied the West Bank and the Gaza Strip in 1967, it banned the Palestinian flag, which was lifted after the signing of the Oslo Peace Accords in 1993. They are routinely confiscated by the Israeli police.^[5] Israel's restriction on the Palestinian flag were criticized by Amnesty International as an attempt to legitimize racism, adding that the Palestinian flag has been used for the past decades as "a symbol of unity and resistance to Israel’s unlawful occupation".

The use of the watermelon as a Palestinian symbol has appeared in the wake of Israel's restrictions of Palestinian flags.

Beesan Arafat (@beesanarafat on Instagram), a Palestinian-Jordanian artist in England, depicts a slice of watermelon on a Hebron plate.

 

The use of the watermelon as a Palestinian symbol has come as a response to Israel's confiscation of Palestinian flags.

Some people have a country they live in. We have a country that lives within us. This collection of essays is a journey into the heart and soul of a Palestinian who shares personal stories, reflections, and feelings about Palestine and the diaspora. Through these writings, you will discover a country that is not just a place on a map but a living presence in the minds and hearts of its people. A SEED IN THE FRUIT OF PALESTINE ESSAYS BY MIKE ODETALLA

Thanks Mike!

 

Jewish people are AWESOME! Genocidal apartheid regimes that routinely slaughter journalists & kids are NOT AWESOME!

 

Moonlight... a true childhood story of being Palestinian in 1967 by Mike Hanini Odetalla

 

Moonlight...a true childhood story of being Palestinian by Mike Hanini Odetalla

 

As I look outside my window and see a most beautiful full moon, so bright and brilliant; it literally sends golden shards of light through my window shades. I begin to remember that night in June of 1967. Could it have been the same bright and peaceful moon that lit our escape path as we ran for the neighboring hills and caves? I remember it being so big and bright, that the worn dirt path that led us away was clearly visible. The mouth of the cave faced due east and that night, the moon shone like a giant spotlight that seemed to be resting on top of the hill that my family had owned a large chunk of for generations. The moon seemed to be resting on top of that hill facing the west and looking straight into my eyes as I sat there at the mouth of the cave. I was in awe struck as the jets crisscrossed the night sky, their silvery metallic bodies gleaming, and reflecting dabs of moonlight.

 

Could this be really war I wondered? It didn’t seem like it. Except for the brilliant flashes of light that were later followed by the thunder, all seemed “normal”. Yes, we were cramped, more than 25 people were in the cave with us, but I had somehow tuned out all the noise of the women and the cries of the other children. I was totally hypnotized by that gorgeous moonlight. Suddenly, I was rudely snapped out of my hypnotic state, as my mother yanked my arm, yelling for us to run away from that cave. I got up and ran simply because of my mother’s frantic yelling and urging.

 

We ran until we reached a large tree in the middle of an olive grove about 100 yards away. Then I became conscious that my mother was still urging the others to follow. They hesitated at first, but finally relented as it became clear, you see that those jets gleaming in the moonlight were preparing to hit us. Not 5 minutes had passed when I saw them again, flying low over head. After 2 passes, a jet positioned itself and dove at us from the east, the same direction as that brilliant moonlight. The flash from under its wing deployed its rockets directly into the mouth of the same cave where we had taken refuge only a few minutes before. There were powerful explosions as debris flew outward.

 

I began to realize, finally, that this, indeed, was war: a word and a reality that had carried no tangible meaning for me until that moment. There was no electricity in my village of Beit Hanina and thus, I had never watched TV nor ever seen a movie. All of knew of war were the tales that the old people told about their experiences in 1948 and the raids by IDF into neighboring villages. Now, a first hand experience was putting War into my life in bright, vivid colors, accompanied by a very violently booming soundtrack.

 

This, my introduction to war, was also the end of my childhood innocence. The sights and experiences that followed would be recorded by my brain for all of eternity, no matter how horrible they were. The moon continued to light our way as we went through the olive groves and seeking yet another scorpion infested cave. That cave would be our “home” for the next 10 days or so. Our new ‘home’ opened directly overhead, looking into the sky, so I no longer had a view of the moon or of what was going on around us. The only reminder of war was the ever present thunder of the artillery in the background, and the confinement inside that cave.

 

To this day, when I look at a full moon, I wonder if it remembers that 6 year old boy gripped then, as now, in its hypnotic powers on that fateful night in early June of 1967…

 

           Mike Odetalla 2002 All rights reserved.

Ramadan Memories By Mike Odetalla #Palestine #Community #Respect #BeitHanina

Lifta - لفتا: One Of Many From Lifta's Homes Still Stand As A Truth Witness. Palestine Remembered

 Ramadan Memories

By Mike Odetalla

 

The holy month of Ramadan is once again upon us, and its fasting. Muslims will fast from sun-up till sun down, abstaining from food, water, and intimate relationships. 

 

Each year around this time, my memories of Ramadan in our small village of Beit Hanina, a suburb of Jerusalem which was still without electricity, whereby people carried lanterns to light their way in the darkness as they went first to the mosque and from there to visit friends and family: a special part of Ramadan, are once again rekindled. 

 

Beit Hanina had a drummer, charged with the pre-dawn task of awakening the village to sahoor, the light meal whose end marked the beginning of each day’s fast. Closing my eyes and thinking real hard, still brings back the sound of Beit Hanina’s drummer banging away, and the delightful memories of joining the other children, carrying our decorated fanoosia lanterns with candles burning brightly inside them, as we ran along behind the drummer, singing, laughing and shouting to help awaken the sleeping adults and start them on sahoor and their new day. How I admired the drummer; how I wanted his job and to share his fun. 

 

In Ramadan 1979, my first visit back to Palestine since the ’67 expulsion, my cousin and I, both 18 and living in the US, finally became the Ramadan drummers of Beit Hanina. The Israeli invasion of 1967 and the subsequent occupation made the drummers’ job very high risk and today they are scarce: Ramadan drummers were often stopped, even beaten, and some have been killed by the Israeli occupying army. 

 

By 1979, the village had not enjoyed a drummer in 5 years, so my cousin and I delighted in our job of walking through the village each morning banging away on large tin cans. It must have been a very humorous sight: the elderly were happy to hear us; the younger people thought we were a great joke and made fun of the ‘bored Americans’. But everyone agreed that we had renewed some “life” that had been lost as we broke through the dark still nights of Ramadan. For me, however briefly, I was transported back to a happy childhood whose memories had never left me for a moment.

I still remember sitting by the family’s transistor radio with my siblings listening to the special programs as we awaited the “cannon” to go off, signaling that it was time to break our fast. The “cannon” was a World War I era English relic and merely made a loud bang, which was all that it, was good for. 

 

Ever since my children were very small, I had regaled them with the many stories of my childhood in Palestine, enjoying the look of fascination on their faces as they implored me to tell them yet “another story of when you were young in Palestine”… 

 

This past summer, I took my children to visit the grave of my grandmother which is located on a hillside cemetery off of Salah Eddin Street in the Old City. The cemetery is actually located inside the boundaries of the Palestinian village of Lifta which was ethnically cleansed of its Palestinian inhabitants, which included my wife’s family, by the Zionists in 1948. Many people, including my grandmother and her family members are buried there, although now it is considered part of Jerusalem.

As we made our way through the cemetery gates and up the hill so that we could read Al-Fatiha, which is the opening verse of the Quran at her graveside, I noticed a an old rusty cannon sitting on the top of the hill, virtually buried beneath the overgrown weeds. I decided to head up the hill and take a closer look. Much to my surprise, the cannon was an exact copy of the very same cannon that I had remembered as a youth. I called my children up the hill and showed them the cannon, surmising that the cannon was used to alert the residents of Jerusalem when to break their fast before the city fell under Zionist control. 

 

During Ramadan, my mother would always invite friends and relatives to our home to break the fast with us. As Muslims, we are obligated to share breaking our fast with others, especially those less fortunate than us. It is considered a blessing to do so. It is something that we continue to do here in America as we invite friends and loved ones to share in our blessing on this Holy Month, the essence of which are a time of prayer, fasting, and charity. 

 

Some of the best memories that I carry with me are connected to the month of Ramadan in Palestine when I was a child. The closeness and feeling of “community” that I felt during those times is something that is almost beyond description. The sound of the drummer, the Muezzin call to prayer, the static emanating from the transistor radio, the “boom” of the cannon, the enticing aroma of the special foods that we only ate during Ramadan, the sight of families huddled together on a mat covered floor around the evening meals, illuminated by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern, enjoying their meals, as humble as it may have been, in the company of family and loved ones… 

 

These are my memories of Ramadan before the Israeli invasion and subsequent brutal and inhumane occupation which has destroyed many families and communities and is now in the process of causing further havoc as Israel continues to erect its Apartheid Walls, checkpoints, and roadblocks which have reduced many Palestinian villages and cities to nothing more than walled off ghettos and open air prisons. 

 

Unfortunately, these will constitute the next generation of Palestinian children’s memories and experiences… 

 

Mike Odetalla 2003-2105 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This man is everywhere your bombs have been for the last 19 years, from Iraq to Syria to Yemen to Libya to Somalia and beyond.. and in Palestine he has been standing like this for 70 years in a concentration camp, under your bombs.

from Mike Hanini Odetalla

"      For all those Americans and British who, while bombing the Middle East for 17 years, refuse refugees because they are 'coming here not to work but to live off our benefits and social security' , I'd love to see you work, against all odds, like this man.

       For all my fellow Arabs and Muslims who say we are useless, haven't contributed anything to mankind in decades, take a good look at the determination of your brother here. 

       For all those voters going out to vote on November, have some mercy on this man and the millions like him. He is everywhere your bombs have been for the last 19 years, from Iraq to Syria to Yemen to Libya to Somalia and beyond.. and in Palestine he has been standing like this for 70 years in a concentration camp, under your bombs. 

Thanks for listening, thanks for caring.
 
Love & Peace.

Via Hanaan   "

Nakba and Memories (1967 War) By Mike Odetalla

Nakba and Memories (1967 War)
By Mike Odetalla

May 15th. 2002 - The 54th anniversary of Nakba: the disaster of the people of Palestine. On this date, May 15th 1948, we, the people of Palestine began our long and painful journey into exile. Dispossessed from home and homeland, this was the start of the refugee ‘problem’ that still exists today. More than 3 million Palestinians live as refugees in squalid conditions in camps in Palestine and throughout the Arab world. I sat this week watching old black and white films of my people as they fled their homes, clutching children and what few possessions that they could carry, I could not help but realize that there, but for the grace of God, could easily have been my family as well. But I, it seems, have a different fate, a different responsibility: to tell our story, to document, so that it may never be forgotten.

Shortly after the June 1967 War began, the people of our village, Beit Hanina, realized with grim reality that the Israeli army would be coming here: the realization brought panic; people began to prepare to flee their homes. With memories of the atrocities of Deir Yasein and other Palestinian villages still vivid in their minds, they feared that massacres might once more be carried out. The gruesome stories of death and murder were known by all Palestinians, indeed, by all in the world who chose to know them.

It was against this backdrop that my mother decided to join our neighbors as they fled with their families to the surrounding caves in the hills overlooking our village. I recall my mother frantically trying to gather what she thought we would need and could manage to carry. She instructed me to go across our village and get my oldest sister, Aziza, who, married for a year, had given birth to her first child, a son, on May 20th, 1967. Running as fast as a six year old could, I reached her house and relayed the message. My sister instructed me to tell mom that she would follow us, with her husband, as soon as they were able to gather a few belongings. I returned home and assured my mother that Aziza and her family would join us soon.

Meanwhile, my mom decided that my second sister, Najah, a 13-year-old beauty with long, beautiful, blond hair and striking blue eyes, must be made to look like a boy. She feared for her safety if the Israeli soldiers should happen to come upon us. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she chopped away at that long, beautiful hair, and then she tossed some of my brother, Musa’s, clothes to wear. There! Now she looked just like a little boy.

When my sister, her husband, and infant son arrived, shortly before sunset, we took what we could carry and ran to the hills. After a long and arduous climb, we made our way to a large cave whose opening faced Jerusalem, providing a vantage point for viewing the battle raging in the distance. Already inside the cave were about 17 people, mostly women and children. We brought in our belongings and settled into a niche of the cave. Then, I made my way to the cave’s mouth and sat down to watch the "fireworks show" lighting the night sky. Fear and anxiety could be seen on all the faces of the adults inside, but the only noise was the crying of my infant nephew and the muffled weeping of the women who pondered our fate. We had left our homes and all we had behind, and now we were sharing our fate in a cave infested with snakes and scorpions.

Around midnight, when we’d been in the cave about 4 hours, my mother noticed an Israeli jet circling and buzzing the area of our cave, lit by a very bright, full moon. After a couple of more passes over our heads, my mom instructed us to gather our belongings and get out of the cave. Others pleaded with her, trying to convince her to stay: if she left in the full moon, she would be inviting the slaughter of her children. But, my mother refused to listen and grabbing me by the hand began walking with me away from the cave to a large olive tree about 50 meters away. My mother called out to those still in the cave, begging them to join us: she feared that the Israeli jet was about to strike. Slowly, they began to leave the cave and joined us under the olive trees. Just then, the jet reappeared: it made two passes, before, on the third, it fired two missiles into the mouth of the cave. The explosion and light was beyond anything I’d ever imagined; the ball of fire that blew out of the mouth of the cave was so terrifying that I still hear it today. I realized that, had we not listened to my mother, we would have blown to bits in the cave.

We stayed under the olive trees for about an hour, waiting, lest the jet returned; eventually we headed to the other side of the mountain to seek another cave. We found one whose mouth faced straight up to the sky. Once inside, one could go deeper in any direction. A child of 6, I was no stranger to the caves surrounding my village, none of us children were. We had spent glorious days playing there: flying kites; tagging along as the older boys hunted pheasants; climbing in the olive trees; eating the succulent grapes from the vines all around.

After a couple of days, the hunger and thirst began to set in: we were nearly 20 people in the cave; there was not enough food or water for everyone. My mom would sneak into the wheat fields and cut bunches of wheat stalks, still green in mid June. She brought back the stalks and roasted their soft, green grains over an open fire, then rubbed them together to make the roasted grains fall out so that she could give us the grains to eat. Hunger helps enrich the memory of the food we eat for a long time: I remember the taste of that grain to this day. (Author’s note: the practice of roasting green grain is still practiced over much of the Arab world. The grain is roasted and cracked before being cooked in a type of soup called "freaka", usually cooked with lamb or chicken.)

Today, I can’t help being mindful that we Palestinians have our own experiences with the unleavened bread - as is celebrated by the Jews who commemorate their exodus and freedom from Pharaoh. Except, of course, we commemorate our exodus and entry into Diaspora. The Palestinian women, anxious to feed their children, would slip into nearby abandoned homes looking for any kind of food to feed us. Once they returned with flour, water, sugar, and olive oil. They kneaded the dough and immediately baked it over a fire covered with the metal lid of a barrel, the lid providing the surface upon which the bread was baked: there was no time to wait for the dough to rise. As an adult, sharing the Jewish holiday of Passover, with my friends, I am drawn by powerful but ironic parallels between the Palestinian experience of running away in fear into the wilderness, chased by an army, looking for freedom, eating unleavened bread as we ran. For me, Pharaoh’s army was the Israel Defense Forces and we; the Palestinians were the persecuted Jews.

Not 40 years, but a mere 10 days had elapsed since we were forced to flee our homes. Still wearing the same clothes, the clothes, which we had left with, no bath since we fled, our situation was becoming desperate: there was no food or water. What little water we were able to get from the nearby wells was dangerously costly: some of the men had been shot and killed trying to draw water from those wells. Most of the people staying with us in the cave began to speak of heading for Jordan, about 30 Km to the east. We had heard that the Israelis were offering ‘safe passage’ to Palestinians fleeing to Jordan: indeed, the policy of the Israeli government was to ‘facilitating’ the movement of Palestinians into Jordan. My grandfather, uncles, their families, had all made their way to Jordan: none of my mother’s family had remained in Palestine. Still, my mother was hesitant to leave our home. The entire group, we among them, left the cave early that morning, in the already hot, blistering mid June sun. We tied a white piece of cloth to a stick, and marched behind it, a flag of surrender. A neighbor, an elderly gentleman of 75, took me by the hand, carefully instructing me to stay with him: if the Israeli soldiers came for him, I was to start crying and tell them he was my grandfather. He could barely walk without the aid of a cane; I clung to his hand and helped him walk the entire way. We headed due east to Jericho and Jordan. About 6 kilometers into our journey, we came across an abandoned home. The residents had left in a hurry for the door was wide open. One of the ladies went inside and returned a few minutes later with dried loaves of bread, several days old. My mom took a piece from her and gave it to me to eat. She then went to the remains of the vegetable garden and cut some green onions for me to eat with my stale bread. I had one hell of a time trying to swallow that mixture of green onions and stale bread, but my mother noticed and offered me a sip of precious water to help it down.

The sights and smells that greeted this 6 year old boy as we made our way toward Jordan, can never be forgotten: the bullet riddled bodies of Jordanian soldiers, and of Palestinian civilians, mostly women and young children; the putrid stench of the decaying bodies, bloated by the hot June sun. I noticed some medical personnel wearing masks drenched in perfume, trying to bury some of the bodies. My mom urged me not to look, to keep walking, but I could not obey: death and destruction were all around and sometimes; I still see these images in my sleep.

We walked for another 3 hours and suddenly, my mom stopped. She told us we were going to head back: she feared that if we did get to Jordan, we would never be allowed to return home. There was no one to help us in Jordan: our only option there would be a refugee camp. My mom refused the prospect of condemning her family to a refugee camp for the rest of their lives.

Against all the protestations of our fellow refugees, my mother turned us around and headed back to Beit Hanina. The others tried to tell her that she would get herself and her children killed, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. About half of the people with us joined her lead and headed back into Palestine, the rest joined the long, steady stream of refugees headed for Jordan: parents carrying children, men carrying the elderly, poor people clutching their meager belongings. We were human beings, in great pain, trekking in fear and in search of sanctuary. Most were never allowed to return to their homes in Palestine. Some managed to sneak back, but most become refugees in Jordan. My aunt and uncles were among those stranded in Jordan.

The pictures of the “humane” Israeli army helping people across the Allenby Bridge into Jordan, make great propaganda: the Israeli soldiers carried children across collapsed bridges - a very powerful image for the world to see: I, too, see them helping the poor Palestinian refugees flee, but I also see that this was the intent of the Israeli government –which was fully aware that their job was to maximize the number of Palestinians “ethnically cleansed” from Palestine by helping them to cross over into Jordan. The Israeli government had no intent of ever allowing these people to return to their homes. The Israeli soldiers were not performing humanitarian aid to refugees: they were carrying out the orders to transfer Palestinians out of Palestine. They were merely expediting the departure of the Palestinians, and getting good press from it at the same time. This past month, 35 years later, and the world is again witnessing refugees on the move in Palestine. The pain and anger has resurfaced as if they had never died: old wounds not yet allowed healing.…

Mike Odetalla. Copyright 2002-2011. All rights reserved.

— in Palestine.

Olive trees, Oum Kalthoum, and Jasmine Blossoms By Mike Odetalla

http://www.hanini.org/oumkalthoum.htmlOlive trees, Oum Kalthoum, and Jasmine Blossoms

By Mike Odetalla

www.hanini.org

In my home, sitting in front of a picture window, facing an easterly direction, in order to catch the morning sun, I have two small Palestinian olive trees growing in gold and green ceramic planters. I will not go into detail of how I had managed to get these two small cuttings out of Palestine, but that is where they came from!

At first, when the fragile trees finally arrived from their long journey, I was not really sure that they would survive, but as soon as they arrived, I ran out and purchased two gold and green ceramic planters and quickly transplanted young trees in them with some fresh soil and pebbles that I mixed together.

For the first few weeks, the olive tress didn’t look like they were going to make it. The leaves started to wilt, then began to fall off the tender little branches. I didn’t know what to do, except to make sure that they had enough water and sun light. I even called back home to Palestine for advice and was told to make sure to put them in a place where the morning sun can get at them!

And so, like the Muslims who pray facing the east, my Palestinian olive trees were soon facing the east, toward the land of their birth, in Palestine! After a few weeks of them sitting in front of the big picture window in our living room, I noticed that the trees were soon beginning to look healthier, the leaves stopped falling off, and shortly thereafter, much to my delight, new growth could be seen emerging!

I was like the “proud doting father” as I tended to my “little babies”. My wife and children were now beginning to tease and harass me about the way I paid so much attention to the little “refugees” from Palestine! I could swear that the more Arabic music we played at home, particularly Oum Kalthoum, Abdel Haleem Hafez, and Fairuz, the faster these little guys seemed to grow!

Now, nearly 10 months later, the little olive trees are healthy and vibrant, almost tripling in size, with beautiful shiny leaves.

One day, while listening to Oum Kalthoum (by myself since my kids don’t appreciate her as much as I do, although they love Arabic music in general, they think she is “boring”) and tending to my little trees, my mind started to drift back to the first time that I had ever heard the legendary Oum Kalthoum, the single greatest singer in Arab world, whose popularity was and still is unmatched, even after she had died more than 30 years ago!

Her songs, especially the patriotic and moving songs that I had heard as a child during the 1967 war and after, stirred in me emotions that I had never ever felt before. Grown men would have tears welling up in their eyes and lumps in their throats at the sound of her voice! When it was announced that the Egyptian radio station would be broadcasting her concert, in which she sang “Alfi Leila wa-leila” (thousand and one night) in the spring of 1969 (I was 8 and getting ready to immigrate to America with my mother), I remember the streets being empty in our village as all of the men ran home or congregated in coffeehouses to listen to her sing.

I took our old battery operated radio (we had no electricity) and sat in my favorite place, the huge window sill of our home, whose walls were more than 4 feet thick, and which overlooked the courtyard, where my mother planted a dizzying array of fragrant flowers, spices, and vegetables! I especially loved the soothing delicate scent of the Jasmine plant that ran up the side of the house and right next to my window. When the cool breeze blew, it would fill the house with the pleasant aroma of the Jasmine blossoms!

After hearing that song, which is almost an entire hour in length, I instantly became a fan of Oum Kalthoum, singing the song over and over to myself as I ran and played in the hills and orchards of my village, forever linking the song, the cool breeze, and the heavenly scent of my mothers Jasmine plant! To me, at that exact point in time, I was as close to “heaven” as humanly possible for an 8 years old child!

Towards the end of summer, in 1969, much to my anger and dismay, my mother and I immigrated to the US to join my father and the rest of my brothers and sisters who had gone there earlier!

Upon arriving in Detroit, Michigan, I was no longer exposed to Arabic music, let alone Oum Kalthoum, hearing it only when I rode in my father’s car. Most of the time, I had to listen to Motown Music, which was the rage at that time, especially in the predominately African American neighborhood where my dad owned a small grocery store.

After a many months of listening to that type of music, I soon stopped humming the Arabic songs of Oum Kalthoum in my head and was now trying to sing along with the Supremes, Stevie Wonder, Smoky Robinson, Marvin Gaye, and the host of popular singers that Detroit was producing at that time!

Later on, when my dad sold his store and brought another one, this time in predominately white ethnic neighborhood in Detroit, I started to listen to more Rock and Roll, again, forgetting all about the music that I had loved as a child in Palestine. The stereo in the store played Rock and Roll, day and night, and I was now singing along to the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Jimmy Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Aero Smith, and the rest of the popular rock bands of the 1970’s! This lasted all the way through my high school years, until the summer of 1979…Also in 1975, Oum Kalthoum died. Four million people were on the streets of Cairo for her funeral. Grown men, like my own father, cried at the news of her death. Although I saw the large funeral in the streets of Cairo on TV, I didn’t really “feel” anything at that time!

In the summer of 1979, right after I graduated from high school, I made my first trip back to Palestine since I had left in the summer of 1969. My mother had returned to Palestine in the spring of 1971, electing to give birth to my brother in Palestine, rather than in America!

Upon my arrival, I noticed that many things had changed, some for the better, but quite a bit more for the worse. Our village was finally connected to the Jerusalem electric grid and now had electricity. Television antennas, which were non-existent as I was growing up, were now on every roof top. Also, the Israeli policy of building settlements on lands confiscated from their Palestinian owners was now in full swing after the Israeli/Egyptian accords at Camp David. Already, in Beit Hanina, the Jewish settlement of Neve Yacouve was being built as well as the large settlement of Ramot Allon, which loomed menacingly above Beit Hanina, having been built on the village’s hills to the south!

I awoke early the first morning “back home” and walked around our home, inspecting every tree, plant, and flower in my

mothers’ overcrowded courtyard garden! Much to my pleasure, the things that I had remembered fondly as a child were still there, including the magnificent Jasmine plant, which was more like a tree now as it snaked its way up and around the window to the roof of our ancient home!

After a breakfast, I went out to center of the village and then made my way to our orchards, which were filled with apricots, plums, and other fruit trees, and then finally, to my favorite part of my village, the hills that dominated our landscape, where as a child, I had spent countless hours playing, flying kites, and exploring!

After a few hours in the hot summer sun, I decided to head back to our house and get a cold drink and cool off. My mother greeted me with a pitcher of homemade lemonade, made from the fresh squeezed lemons that grew on the tree in her garden, and for added flavor, fresh mint leaves!

I poured myself a large glass and made my way to the window sill, which now didn’t seem quite as large as I had remembered. I sat down in front of the open window, relishing the cool Jasmine scented breeze that was wafting through the window and plugged in the new radio that I had brought with me as a gift for my little brother! I fumbled with dial, trying to find Arabic radio stations in the midst of the many Hebrew and English stations that weren’t around when I was a kid!

After a few moments, I finally dialed in a radio station from Cairo, Egypt. Soon after a song by Abdel Halim Hafez had

finished, the unmistakable beginning of Oum Kalthoum’s song, “alfi Leila wa-Leila” was emanating from the radio! Goose

bumps and a shiver ran through my body. I was, in an instance, transformed to a place, ten years earlier in my life.

Memories, suppressed for nearly ten years, but never the less, were just bubbling near the surface for that whole time, were now gushing forth like a tidal wave!

I sat there for nearly two hours, reflecting, thinking, and most of all, remembering…Remembering my childhood, the war, my village, our trips to Jerusalem, remembering Palestine!

Like the olive trees in my home in America when I placed them in front of the window, facing east, I too started to experience a “new growth and appreciation” of my homeland, of its earth, rocks, trees, and the scent of delicate Jasmine tree’s blossoms, carried by the cool afternoon breeze through an ancient hand built home in Palestine, while the Great Lady from Egypt sang, “a thousand and one night”!