"Balady"...Homegrown By Mike Odetalla
“Are you going to Al Aqsa today for Friday Prayers”? My mother asked. “Of course”, I replied. I wouldn’t consider not taking the opportunity to pray at the Al Aqsa when millions of my Palestinian brethren, dispersed to the four corners of the earth, or living a mere few kilometers away under occupation, can only dream of such a privilege. “After prayers, pick up some fresh fruits and vegetables, especially Faqoos (a type of cucumber that is grown in the Palestinian villages), make sure that everything you buy is “balady” (home grown Palestinian, not from the Israeli farms). “Yes mother”, I replied as I kissed her hand and walked out the door with my wife and children. Since childhood I have always kissed my mother’s hand and thus asked her blessing before leaving the house. No matter how near or far I travel, my mother’s prayers and blessings have always offered me comfort.
“Balady”, is a term that we use to label the products that are grown by the Palestinian Fellaheen (farmers): fruits and vegetables grown on small family farms and orchards; each with their unique flavor, and easily distinguished from the bland mass grown Israeli crops which have been flooding the Occupied Territories, thus endangering the survival of the Palestinian farmers. Unlike the Israeli irrigated produce, balady produce receives its only moisture from the early morning dew that gives life to the Palestinian countryside in the absence of summer rains. One can only get balady produce by using their seeds for planting. These plants, which have been grown in Palestine for centuries, have adapted to its unique soil and atmosphere. They in essence have become indigenous to Palestine. As far as I am concerned, the red soil, dew and loving tender care of working the lands by hand, all combine to produce the best tasting fruits and vegetables on the planet.
Balady fruits and vegetables are not always biggest or best looking: the hallmark of these locally grown produce is the imperfections that they carry. These imperfections have not been genetically modified out of these plants. One can easily tell the difference between what balady is and what is not simply by visual inspection. The uniform, perfect, plastic ones are definitely not balady. Their taste is bland and they tend to spoil much faster than the balady ones. All of these things, I have been taught since a young age. I was after all, a fellah child who grew up on my family’s fields and orchards. We grew every type of fruit, olives, and just about every type of vegetable. My taste buds were spoiled by my ability to pick fresh, vine ripened fruits and vegetables and eating them right there on the spot. There was never any need to scrub chemicals from the fruit that I ate off of the trees, only to rinse the dust and dirt (what harm can the soil of my homeland do to me, it could only help). We never sprayed any chemicals on our orchards or vegetables.
As I walked through the streets of the Old City, I noticed a comforting, familiar sight that the Israelis have been trying to erase for 36 years now. They have been doing everything possible, to discourage and in fact stop the Palestinian women, who come from the outlying Palestinian towns and villages to sell their homegrown fruits and vegetables. These brave women are the bedrock of Palestinian society.
The people cannot leave the villages through normal roads and must often travel back roads, hills, and other venues so that they may be able to get their produce to market in neighboring Jerusalem. The women, who endure a great deal of hardships and risk, are the ones that manage to get there. They risk much and often times have their baskets of produce, vegetables, and other items dumped and destroyed by the soldiers who come across them. Their life is not an easy one, yet they persist, like the majority of Palestinians, because they have to. This is why when I go to Jerusalem to shop; I buy whatever I could from these women. I always ask them where they're from and am often surprised at just how far they travel. Much time and effort is exerted to get their crops to market. Often, it is the family’s only source of income. I have purchased the world’s best tasting figs, apricots, plums, cucumbers, faqoos (a type of cucumber), imlookhia, and other of Palestine’s bounty from these wonderful and courageous ladies. They have a special place in my heart for their bravery, perseverance, and the patience that it takes to keep on going in the face of such oppression.
The women of Palestine are the silent soldiers of our struggle for freedom. They must be the brave face, no matter how much their loss, warm heart, and nurturing spirit from which springs forth our steadfastness. Their life is a life of much hardship, toil, and heartache, which the outside world rarely sees.
I walked to a particular lady with a basket of fresh apricots, and could not help call her, yama (Mother) for she reminded me much of my own Palestinian mother, carrying heavy baskets laden with fruit on her head as she made her way to market. We, all of my brothers and sisters, spent late afternoons in the orchards selecting and harvesting ripe fruits and placing them in the large round, goat skin wrapped baskets. Once full, we'd pick green leaves from the trees and spread them across the face of the baskets to help the fruits retain their freshness and taste until the next morning when they would be taken to market. My mother rose at dawn and prepared for her trip to Jerusalem. When there was no school, as in the summer, I went along: a skinny 7 year old boy, still in pajamas, never far from my mother's side. I carried the scale used to weigh the purchases of our customers. As the morning wore on, my mother would buy me kaaq (a kind of round sesame topped bread), some zatar (dried, powdered thyme), and oven baked eggs (much better tasting than boiled eggs). This and a cup of hot tea made breakfast. I looked forward to this special treat each time I accompanied my mother to the market in Jerusalem and its suburbs.
We usually finished selling our fruits before the hot afternoon sun reached its peak because my mother always did her best and took great steps to ensure that we were already selling as the sun was rising. She was always one of the first to get on the village bus as it made its first run of the morning to Jerusalem. It is difficult to believe how much weight she would carry on her head: her hard work and dedication to her family remains unmatched: she was the epitome of the Palestinian mother.
My mother, along with the many hardworking women of Palestine was ''independent'' before the West knew the meaning of the word. Although now well into her seventies and robbed of her mobility and movement by arthritis, she remains my hero. A Palestinian mother is unlike any other. And the women of Palestine will always have a special place in my heart and in the history of our people.
Mike Odetalla 9-2003
