I Saw Ramallah

In the summer of 1996, Palestinian poet Mourid Barghouti crosses the wooden bridge over the Jordan River into the occupied West Bank for the first time in 30 years. This memoir recounts that crossing and the flood of memories it triggers, weaving together the story of Barghouti's return to Ramallah with decades of exile, family separation, and political dispossession.

Barghouti last crossed the bridge in 1966, traveling from Ramallah to Amman and then to Cairo for his final year at Cairo University. On June 5, 1967, while sitting for his Latin exam, war broke out. The Six Day War, in which Israel defeated its Arab neighbors and occupied the West Bank, Gaza, and other territories, ended his plans to return home. He graduated with a BA in English but had no country in which to hang his certificate. Israel barred hundreds of thousands of young Palestinians from returning, and Barghouti became one of the naziheen, the displaced. He compares displacement to an incurable disease: Once uprooted, a person is uprooted forever.

On the Jordanian side, he waits for permission to cross. His brother 'Alaa, 'Alaa's wife Elham, and his mother drove him from Amman but could go no further. The Jordan River below has become almost waterless. He stares at the West Bank and reflects that what was once an abstraction on news bulletins is now physically real. When he is finally allowed to cross, the short walk becomes a passage through 30 years of memory. On the other side, instead of feeling triumph, Barghouti is visited by ghosts: his brother Mounif, who died in 1993 without ever being allowed to return to Palestine; his grandmother Umm 'Ata, a village poet who lost her sight in old age; his father, buried in Amman; Ghassan Kanafani, the Palestinian novelist assassinated in Beirut in 1972; and Naji al-'Ali, the Palestinian cartoonist assassinated in London in 1987.

At the border post, Barghouti observes the power dynamics of the Oslo Agreements, the 1993 accords between Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO). Palestinian officers are present but hold no real authority; all decisions remain with the Israelis. He boards a bus toward Ramallah and sees the settlements for the first time: solid white-stone buildings on hilltops connected by wide, smooth roads, in sharp contrast to the narrow, worn road Palestinians travel. He reflects that the settlements are not temporary structures but Israel itself, its ideology and geography made physical. He was not allowed to enter or even glimpse Jerusalem; the road to Ramallah has been rerouted so Palestinians cannot see the city from a car window.

On the bus, he recalls the summer of 1968, when his scattered family reunited for the first time since the war at a small hotel in Amman. Everything since 1967 has been temporary: refugees sheltering in neighboring countries, commandos fighting from one capital then another, interim programs for liberation. His mother agreed to alternate between Amman and Ramallah to maintain her identity papers and her right to live in Palestine, a right Israel never extended to Mounif or Barghouti.

He arrives in Ramallah after dark and is received by Abu Hazim (Mughira al-Barghouti), a relative whose family surrounds him with warmth. On Abu Hazim's balcony, the first thing he sees is Mounif's photograph in a black frame. The next morning, he asks about elegant houses on a nearby hill. "A settlement," Abu Hazim replies. Barghouti walks the streets trying to recover old rhythms, carrying the presence of Mounif, who was refused entry at the bridge twice before dying in exile. He questions how West Bankers once called their own people displaced in the 1948 war "refugees" and "immigrants," asking, "Who can apologize to them?" (41). He visits Bir Zeit University, where he finds Mounif's name on a donor plaque, and applies for a reunion identity card at the Palestinian Home Office.

The visit to Deir Ghassanah, Barghouti's birthplace, forms the emotional center of the memoir. He arrives at Dar Ra'd, his family's ancestral home, where his aunt Umm Talal, his uncle Ibrahim's widow, is the sole remaining resident. Over her shoulder he sees that the great fig tree, which once dominated the courtyard, has been cut down. Umm Talal explains she grew old and weak with no one to pick the fruit. The village spring, 'Ein al-Deir, is now overrun with brambles. He pays condolences for the village's young dead. 'Adli, a schoolboy, was shot by Israeli soldiers during an Intifada (the Palestinian popular uprising) demonstration. Lu'ay was killed at the village entrance for throwing a stone. Neither reached 18. Barghouti reflects that the Occupation changed Palestinians "from children of Palestine to children of the idea of Palestine" (62).

In the village square, he gives the first poetry reading in Deir Ghassanah's history. A woman asks what the most beautiful thing he has seen since returning is. He replies, "Your faces" (84). Yet a scolding inner voice reminds him that these people do not know the man he has become, nor does he know the times they have lived through.

Barghouti recounts how the men of the village guesthouse once prevented his mother, Sakina, from continuing her education past fourth grade, decreeing that girls should be "stored" at home. A fatherless child, she was the only girl denied a scholarship to a school in Ramallah. His grandmother Umm 'Ata, widowed before 20, was permitted to remain in her husband's house only because she gave birth to a boy. Sakina later joined adult education classes at over 50 and taught her sons that knowledge was life's most important value.

The memoir ranges across decades and continents. Barghouti recounts his deportation from Egypt, a preventive measure following President Anwar al-Sadat's visit to Israel, based on a false accusation. Handcuffed on the plane, he moved through Baghdad, Beirut, and Budapest. In Budapest, his wife Radwa and son Tamim joined him, but they decided Tamim should be raised in Cairo with Radwa, the "stable party" who had a homeland, a job, and a passport. From that point until Tamim was nearly grown, the family was together only a few weeks each year. Tamim, separated from his father at five months, called Barghouti "Uncle" when reunited at 13 months, eventually settling on "Uncle Daddy."

Mounif's death forms the memoir's deepest wound. On November 8, 1993, Barghouti learns at lunch in Cairo that Mounif is dead. Mounif had been found bleeding on the platform of the Gare du Nord in Paris. Whether the cause was robbery, assassination, or a sudden collapse from liver disease was never determined. Barghouti flies to Amman, where his mother has been told only of a car accident. He embraces her and says: "We want you to stay alive. Promise me that you will stay alive. Put on black clothes, mother" (166).

In his final days in Ramallah, Barghouti reflects on how Israel has claimed even the narrative of victimhood. He recalls Yitzhak Rabin's speech at the White House presenting Israel as the victim of violence. Barghouti articulates a central insight: By starting the story from "Secondly," omitting the original dispossession, one can make the dispossessed appear to be the aggressors.

On his final night, Barghouti prepares his small bag for the journey back across the bridge. He plans to return with Tamim once an entry permit arrives, so his son can see Palestine for the first time. The memoir closes with a question: "What deprives the spirit of its colors? What is it other than the bullets of the invaders that have hit the body?" (182).