Reflections on Palestine, 1967 

by Jaleelah Al-Ameenah Ammar

     The last time I saw Sitti’s face was the first time I saw her cry. She didn’t think I was looking, of course. I’m certain that no one else was. My mother and my sisters had the privilege of sitting in the cabin of that dusty silver pickup truck; I, the youngest, was relegated to the back. I pulled my head over the edge for one last glance at my former home. Instead, I saw  Sitti  dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief my sister embroidered for her. As soon as she noticed me staring, she broke away and started back towards the house. 

     Sitti was the thread that tied my family together. The lustrous maroon carpet in our living room was sewn by her hand. She spent hours teaching my sisters and I to embroider, and made sure to reward our work with tea and cookies. When our father left, Sitti took care of us. She kept my sisters and I company when my mother retreated into her own world. Sitti took it upon herself to tend to the grape vines and fig trees on the edge of our land so that we’d have something extra to sell at the market.  

     I always felt calluses on her hands when she tucked me in at night. 

     “No use in crying,” she told my mother. “Get back on your feet and do something about it.” 

     Everything Sitti did was grounded in Yalo. She greeted everyone in the village by name, and remembered to ask after each member of their family. She brought us to the trees with the best shade for picnics. We would walk through the village with her, and she would point out the buildings that had been changed or destroyed by the war. She told me and my friends stories about what they used to be. My classmates loved her. She always packed extra cookies and fruit for me to share with them. I realized years later that she had known many of their families were hungry. 

     Sitti made sure that my sisters and I understood the importance of routine. Wake up. Wash your face. Get dressed. Pick the grapes. After a few years of being reminded of the strict schedule life followed, we performed our tasks automatically and efficiently. I never resented Sitti for her clockwork reminders, especially after I saw the chaos instability sowed in my mother. And Sitti followed her own example. She always followed through on her schedule, on her promises. 

     My mother told us that  Sitti  was too stubborn for goodbyes. She was the first girl from Yalo to graduate high school. It wouldn’t have been difficult for her to get a job in one of the cities, but Sitti stayed home to protect her sisters. Her husband died of tuberculosis when she was twenty-six. She had married him out of love, against the wishes of her parents. I saw her leave to visit his grave after sunrise every day. 

     The soldiers didn’t deter her. Sitti would stare them down as they passed by on patrol. My mother grew anxious when they started coming around more often, but Sitti was confident enough for both of them. Still, she herded us inside the day they spoke with our mother at the gate. I wasn’t old enough to understand why my sisters were spying through the curtains, but I joined in to feel included.  

     I watched Sitti storm back outside. She said something that I couldn’t hear, but couldn’t imagine was pleasant. She pointed at the soldiers with force and precision. At that point, my mother nearly fainted. My sisters started to whisper as she pulled Sitti back to the house by the arm. They proceeded to abandon me to rush back to their room and pretend to play with their dolls. 

     The night before we left, I heard my mother arguing with Sitti in the kitchen.    Between the clanging of the pots and the slamming of the cupboard doors, I could tell that something was wrong. My mother pleaded with her to see reason. 

     “They’ll tear it down anyway,” said my mother. “What do you think you’re accomplishing?” 

     “What I have to,” replied Sitti. “I sent your aunt a letter. She’ll find—” 

     “Why do you always have to make everything out to be so final? You’ll find new people, a new life in Ramallah.” 

     There is no new life for me,” said Sitti. “There are no new people.” 

     The sound of a pot clashing against the counter stung my ears. “Then you’ll find people who can help you return.” 

     “You know that isn’t true.”

     My mother stopped arranging the silverware. The buzzing of the fluorescent light underscored her silence. 

     “They’ll kill you,” she said, her voice hoarse.      I ran back to my room, having been thoroughly terrified. I heard Sitti’s heavy foot-steps behind me. She sat down at the edge of my bed. 

     “Everything is fine,” she assured me. Looking back, this was the first lie Sitti ever told me. 

     “Who’s going to kill you?” I asked. “Where are we going? Why are we going?” We hadn’t left Yalo since my father left us here. I grew even more panicked. I started to cry. 

     “You’re going to visit  Khaltic Mariam to-morrow. I’m staying here.” 

     “Can’t you come with us?” 

     “Someone has to keep up the house while you’re gone,” said Sitti, as though she was pointing out the obvious. She squeezed me tightly. “I’ll be waiting for you when you come back.” 

     It’s been fifty-two years since Sitti first cried in front of me. The maroon carpet in my room is starting to fade. I’d like to think that she really did believe we were coming back, but I know in my heart that reality hit her far earlier than the rest of us. I don’t know whether she died that day in the explosions or spent years wasting away in prison. Either way, decades away from Yalo have helped me understand why Sitti’s home meant more to her than her life.