Every night I would go to bed, not dreaming of the idyllic beaches and sunsets, about which my brothers and sisters spoke, but of my family in Televiv. I thought of the house, perched upon the hills of farmers, where everything seemed heavenly. I thought of the lamps amongst the roadside trees, dispelling a dark shadow upon the road, and the everlasting memory of the festivals in the streets. But most of all, I thought of the faces of my family, so vivid at first, but growing vaguer as every passing day went. However, when early morning drew upon me, and I was awoken by the disgruntled crows of the camp master, these dreams remained to be continued the next night, and the reality of the routine chores commenced.
Heaving myself from the only luxury I was able to call my own, I tried to make out a path to the door, in the still pitch black shed. Darkness could still be seen outside from the holes in the roof of the shed. In a manner, a blind man would be accustomed to, I felt my way to an exit, stepping tentatively like a mouse, my arms spread out in front of me. Already the beckoning cries of the master could be heard. These had become second nature to me, and I had trained my ears to merely treat them as murmers one would hear if they plunged their face underwater.
I heard the unmistakeable clicking of the master’s shoes on the concrete ground, each step louder and louder until it could not be heard any more. I turned round, looking up at his authoritive stature, all that was visible from the glare of the lamps. Although it could not be seen now, the master’s face was that I had never seen before. His skin complexion was not brown like that of mine or the Israeli workers, but was fairer. He was not bearded as tradition and social acceptance had lead all the other men I had known to be, but was clean shaven, a concept that had always puzzled me. He had a freckled complexion, with an upturned nose and a distraught mouth. His accent was not one I was familiar with, but could easily forget. It had a drone to it, and he spoke our tongue in a pigeon manner. Staring up at him, waiting for further instruction, reminded me of the way in which I would look upon my father. They were both very similar in nature and in structure, but the master lacked the care and compassion Father was never shy to offer me.
“Haifa, Haifa Haifa”, he said, repeating my name 3 times as he was accustomed to doing when he wanted a favour, “Crops look a little long.” I stared back at him blankly, still trying to work out what it was he was intending for me to do. Unimpressed by my lack of initiative, rage overcame him, and his soft and gentle tone quickly turned into something less patient. With his hand gripped around my neck, he dragged me towards the field, using his flashlight as guidance to avoid the other Palestinian children, bent over scrubbing the floors of the camp. Throwing me forcefully to the ground, and leaving his more implicit nature for another time, he ordered me to uproot the crops. Kicking me twice before leaving, he left me to pick myself up and continue with the job at hand, with an Israeli man of about 25 to watch on.
I was not alone in the menial labour of the crops; joining me was another girl. Her face was one I had seen around, but I couldn’t match name to face. She was of a similar age to me, that much was clear by her size and her naivety in the hope that one day she too will one day be returned back to her home. The older girls seemed to have given up hope, fallen in rejection and surrendered to a life within the 4 walls of the camp. The girl I was working with wore a tattered skirt, the colour and texture hidden by the layers of dirt on it. She hummed a tune, one any Palestinian in Televiv would be able to recognise; a tune of great melody and happiness. Her deep profound happiness and optimism in times as dismal and never ending as these astounded me, and before long I found myself deep in conversation with her as I worked, irrespective of the constant glares of the Israeli overlooked.
“I can’t take it much longer, Haifa! I’ve been here almost 2 years and the idea of seeing my family again and leaving the tortures of Israel seem fainter and fainter,” she exclaimed out of excitement, as though these words have been building up over weeks, waiting to be said to anyone. It was an idea I could relate to however, and I saw no way in the near future of the daily routine of the camp coming to an end.
“But there’s nothing we can do, we’re victims in this equation, mere means to an end for the Israelis”, I replied, not intending to limit the enthusiasm she showed, but rather to for I knew that if you didn’t have hope, you really did have nothing. However, having said this, I realised I had sparked an idea in the more replenished and youthful mind of the girl. She nodded in the direction of the gates, trying to imply we make for an escape. Catching sight of the Israeli, menacingly staring back at us, I turned back to the crops and began to pluck them one by one from the soil, momentarily ignoring the gestures of the girl. Having avoided eye contact with the Israeli man for quite some time, in fear he was still staring back at me, I glanced up to notice he was staring thoughtfully into the distance.
Turning back to the girl, I knew in my heart that it was not a thought out idea. I knew in my heart that this would fail and that we would be whipped and beaten until near death. Whilst this is true, I couldn’t help myself from feeling the excitement of the situation that had presented itself to me. I felt 10 again, and it felt as though the weight of the world had momentarily lifted from my shoulders. It was not prepared to lie to myself any longer. I knew that there was going to be very little chance in seeing my family and my beloved Televiv again in the near future, until the war between Israel and Palestine had reached its end.
Perhaps caught in the moment, I nodded back at the girl in acceptance of her wishful idea, to say the least. As I saw her drop her shovels and work tools, before running off towards the gates, I did the same, grasping onto her hand for dear life. There was no looking back now. Either I made it, or I didn’t. Holding her hand, I remembered how I held my mother’s hand as we would run in the gardens or down the road. This was the closest I had come to feeling at peace with myself. I dared not glance back, in fear that the Israeli man was growing ever closer by each second that passed. Even so, I could hear the trodden footsteps of the man, gaining on us, each rhythmic step growing faster and faster. I thought of how I would greet my family when I returned to Televiv, and thought of the expressions of glee they would have spread across their faces as they realised their beloved daughter had returned. Caught in my own mind of glory, and hope of freedom, I had given no concern to the raging voice of the master, just audible from afar.
However, the moment of happiness and freedom, as I ran hand in hand, memories of home flooding me, was short lived. Abruptly, I felt the weight of a body on top of me, and I crumpled to the ground, spread bald-eagled in a heap. I lay there, face pinned against the floor, a hand forcefully grabbing my legs to help stop my frantic resists. I gave up. I looked in submission and rejection to the heavens, knowing this was to be a grave mistake. This lifestyle of Israeli camp was that of which I was bestowed by god, and no stupid moment of self belief and immunity could change this. I glanced upon the face of the girl next to me. She was not showing the franticly worried expression which I was, nor was she resisting. She lay there, still, a smile spread proudly across her face. I knew this was not because she was caught, nor because she was free, but simply because for the few seconds in which we were running, she finally felt like just a child again, a feeling she had almost forgotten.
