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Did the depiction of events in your memoir come strictly from
your childhood memories or did you ask that your family also recount their
recollections for you; and were you able to speak with your Grandma Fatima
about her memories, or any of the other people that were a part of your
landscape (the neighbors, fellow refugees, other school kids) in preparation?
Will you briefly explain some of the process of research and preparation that
went in to writing your memoir?
For a very long time, I investigated my memories and compared them
to the memories of others who lived the events I lived. When there was a
difference, I expanded the research. I spoke with everyone I could speak with —
my mother, my father, my siblings, friends my age, people older, people younger;
I took notes for years, read the newspapers from that time and various books
from all sides of the issue. I read about what was happening in other countries
around that time, the weather during that summer, the moon phase during the day
of the war because it happened at night, the UN reports, and anything that was
even remotely related, I read it. I looked at a lot of photos, especially the
faces of refugees. I worked at a kindergarten school for two months to interact
with children who are 3 and 4, the age I was during the war and in the
beginning of the book. It was not just for the book, but I was completely
interested in knowing for myself. So I did an extensive research process, and
it was like finding light drops here and there, and then the light became good
enough for me to see the story, and feel it, and think it and write it. By the
end, I felt that I was contributing to history by offering the piece that is my
personal history that many people have lived, too, but few wrote about what it
did to them. I feel happy that I could offer that to life.
How have your experiences growing up in a war-torn region
affected your lifelong sense of security, and do you feel those experiences
allowed you greater insight and understanding into human nature?
Growing up in war shattered my inner world and my sense of
security. In order to survive, I found myself needing to find ways to repair my
inner world and learn as much as I could about trauma and healing. That allowed
me to understand a lot about suffering — my own and that of others. And in the
process, I discovered many insights. Mostly, I believe that art is the biggest
healer of trauma because art permits the freedom to express, and to discover
what is inside of us, without a pre-set idea about what a piece of art should
look like. Writing is a wonderful art because one can write many drafts, edit
and edit and change the text as much as the text changes the writer in the
process. It also goes right to our unconscious, where all of the banished
feelings and thoughts reside, patiently waiting for the inner war to be over
and for one to give those banished feelings attention and voice and set them
free. That setting free of old feelings means moving to the present time. It's
wonderful freedom to set all of the prisoner feelings free…especially the mean
ones! And discover that they are really just reactions to terrible events, and
the energy needs to be let out rather than be kept trapped forever.
Have you had a chance to share your memoir or speak of your experience
in your homeland, in Ramallah, or is it too dangerous for you to share your
writings in the Middle East? If you have shared your memoir, what was the
experience like?
Many people have read Tasting the Sky in Ramallah
and in Jerusalem. I get letters from people back home telling me that I told
the story of their Palestinian childhood by telling my own. I called and found
out that the bookstore at the American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem carries Tasting
the Sky. That was wonderful to know. I would love to give signed copies
to all of the people who are mentioned in Tasting the Sky — such as
Hamameh and her children, the family we fled the war with, and the radio
announcer of the program Rasael Shawq that aired voice letters from
refugees; the announcer's name was Kawthar Al-Nashashibi, but sadly I found out
that she died a few years ago. And many Jewish people have expressed interest
and excitement about Tasting the Sky, as it's a book that tells the
story of a Palestinian childhood without going into politics and without
assigning blame to anyone. It simply tells a story of a child in war and
maintains the child's viewpoint all along.
As opposed to modern-day American society (where time is ever
counted and things are often easily expendable), have the traditions and
beloved objects of your childhood allowed you to maintain a greater sense of
appreciation for simplicity in life? Do you find that the traditions and
customs of your childhood are lost in present day society? If so, which
customs?
I love simplicity, and that is both a Palestinian tradition as
well as a personality trait, I think. My top foods remain the Palestinian foods
— zaatar (oregano), which all Palestinians eat often for breakfast, is a top
taste. When I see Palestinians divided over politics, or this or that, I think
zaatar can easily unite Palestinians, any morning, just like stuffed grape
leaves — wara' dawali — can unite them any day at dinner time.
My favorite flower continues to be the blood-red poppy of
Palestine. And the olive and fig trees are loved ones for me. I miss them
dearly. But living in America is wonderful as well, and I love my life here. I
see both worlds as two wings for me. So I think it's not either-or, but a life
that is composed of elements from different worlds finding harmony together in
one person's life.
You mentioned that your Great-Grandmother Jamila had tattoos on
the backs of her hands, her chin, and her forehead. Would you explain a little
further the custom of this display? Was this form of body art common to the
Palestinian women of her generation?
Tattoos are an ancient Arabic tradition. Great Arab poets used the
tattoo as a metaphor; and the Arabs loved tattoos on the chin, the face, the
forehead, the hands, and the feet. I personally prefer henna tattoos because
they are not permanent. But my grandma Jamila looked wonderful with the dark
tattoos. Her look connected me with my Arab self from a thousand years ago. I
am answering this question and wondering if I should get a tattoo, actually! To
honor my grandma Jamila. And I am remembering that Angelina Jolie has a tattoo
on her arm with the Arabic word العزيمة
— meaning the “will power.”
It's always wonderful to see this Arabic word in the middle of all the
Hollywood photos I glance at here and there. It gives me a good feeling to see
Arabic words and to know that they are loved and appreciated. More safety
occurs in the world because of that. This is giving me the idea to write a
letter to Angelina telling her how that one tattoo makes a difference to me as
an Arab, and maybe to millions of other Arabs. If I don't do so, I hope that
she reads your e-zine!
You expressed a special affinity to the animals that peppered
your childhood during the occupation. But through each animal, you again had to
let go of something you loved. How has such great loss early in your childhood
influenced your relationship to loss?
It taught me to know that loss occurs in life, but the gain is
always a very important lesson; and also to know that as a human being, I don't
own animals. And when loss occurs, it does not erase the fact that I've had the
relationship for the time I've had it; and that, in itself, is an indelible
gift.
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