As you read this book – which is a descriptive walk through the city and history of Ramallah – I cannot help but feel sorry for the author, Raja Shehadeh, who has dedicated his life and work to resisting the Israeli occupation. Shehadeh’s writing is melancholic, introspective and despondent as he realises the purpose of his life works – to overthrow occupation – will not come to pass and coming to peace that ‘home’ will always feel precarious.
He writes, ‘Part of me is proud to have been part of that struggle, but I remain sceptical that we might have deceived ourselves into thinking human rights activism had real promise because the violations have only continued and indeed increased.’ (p 111).
This book is a study of human geography; a narrative of how Ramallah’s landscape and people have changed over 50 years of occupation, and Shehadeh does not look favourably at the new buildings and people he encounters in his beloved city. ‘Earlier, life was simpler. Perhaps, after fifty years of occupation, we now get drunk on loud noise.’( p92) to block out the reality of an entrenched Israeli presence.
In the book, you are walking alongside the author as he winds his way through familiar roads describing what he sees, hears, and smells at every turn. He talks about his childhood and how he navigated these streets and the drama of the families that occupied the homes. Shehadeh recalls what the space looked like 40 years ago and the characters of the people that resided in the buildings he walks past but also contrasts it with what he sees today.
‘My old stone house by the fig tree, once surrounded by low dry-stone walls and situated in a veritable natural garden of rolling hills crisscrossed by ancient paths that one could take at will and walk all the way to the surrounding villages, has become confined, surrounded by tall buildings on all sides.’ (p51)
Towards the end of the book, he delves into his own story, and how he found the relationship with his father difficult and is willing to introspect on his shortcomings on the deterioration of the relationship.
Shehadeh is surprisingly emotionally aloof when he speaks of the murder of his father and mentions in the book how he is thankful for the wall separating him from the place of his father’s grisly death.
Although this sense of loss is pervasive throughout the book, Shehadeh is trying very hard not to give up on life itself.
‘But no! I will not turn into a withered old man like this mysterious person manning street corners, or like the other old men, so common here, who rant in broken voices about what they did in their youth for the cause and how unappreciated they were and how things would have turned out differently if only the politicians had listened to them. I will live a fulfilled life
. Each year will be better than the one that preceded it. If the practice of law is no longer going to be rewarding, then I will move on to some other pursuit. This man is a warning of what I could become.’ (p67)
This book is a cross between a biography – of a Palestinian living under occupation – but also a brilliant account of how our landscape is impacted by political machinations. Although Shehadeh vehemently refuses to be a victim of his circumstances, the reader comes away with a sense of despondency about the future of the Palestinian state.
I loved the book for its eloquence and intimate knowledge of the strength that comes out of resisting unjust power. His realisation of finding ‘home’ in our relationships is the biggest lesson I took away from this book and would recommend this book to anyone looking to lay down their roots for their ‘home.’
Aasiya I Versi
