The Palestinians who didn't flee during the Nakba
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haaretz.com
hen he was in the fourth grade in elementary
school in the Arab town of Majd al-Krum in Upper Galilee, Adel Manna
took part in the preparations to celebrate Israel’s 10th Independence
Day. At home, he told his father, Hussein, about how thrilled he was to
be in a play about the achievements of the Zionist movement and the
young state. His father’s face clouded over. Sitting Adel, his firstborn
child, by his side, he explained with much forbearance why the event
was not a cause for celebration for the Arabs, rather a day of grief and
trauma. “It is not a day of istiqlal [independence] but of istakhlal
[conquest, occupation],” he said.
“My father told me about the
murders that Israel Defense Forces soldiers committed in Majd al-Krum
in November 1948, and that months after the end of the war, hundreds of
residents were expelled, including our family,” Manna tells me during an
interview in Jerusalem. In January 1949, his family crossed into Jordan
and afterward went on to Ein al-Hilweh refugee camp in southern
Lebanon.
Sixty years have passed
since Manna grasped the difference between those two Arabic words. The
circumstances of his family’s exile and subsequent return to the
ancestral home have haunted him all his life. Now, following a difficult
gestation, those experiences have produced a groundbreaking historical
study, “Nakba and Survival: The Story of the Palestinians Who Remained
in Haifa and the Galilee, 1948-1956,” which first came out in Arabic and
has recently been published in Hebrew. The term Nakba,
or “catastrophe,” is used to describe Israel’s War of Independence,
when hundreds of thousands of Arabs fled or were expelled from their
homes. In the Hebrew version of his book Manna uses the Hebrew word
sordim for survivors, i.e., those who remained (as opposed to the term
nitzolim, connoting Holocaust survivors, which he says has in essence
been appropriated by the Jews).
I begin our conversation by
asking Manna when he arrived at the decision that the book’s
protagonists would be those who survived/remained after the events of
1948-49.
“Survival is strength,” he
replies. “It is the ability to confront a disaster, such as an
earthquake, and to hold on and rescue your family and property. That is
what happened to the Arabs in Israel, and that disaster did not end in
1948 but went on at least until 1956. The Palestinians became a minority
ruled by the Jews, with whose language and laws they were not familiar.
Formally they were citizens, but effectively they were under occupation.
Their rights were trampled, their property was expropriated and
plundered, they could not leave their village without a permit, and so
on. One needs strength, and above all strategies, to survive. I call it
the strength of the defeated: not to yield to despair, and to ensure
that your family remains alive. [Israeli] historian Benny Morris
and others like him hate my book, because I am taking the story from
them and brazenly also claiming that the Palestinians survived, even
though after World War II and the Holocaust, the Jews have a monopoly on
the word ‘survival.’”
Aren’t you actually replacing the [Arabic] term summud – steadfastness – with [the Hebrew] hisardut, or survival?
“In the Arabic version of
the book, I use the word bakaa, which means remaining alive. The
Palestinians did not face extinction in the 1948 Nakba, as I emphasize
in the book. Not everyone managed to come through and rehabilitate his
life; some despaired and left. Families split apart and did not see one
another for years. Some Palestinians preferred to remain in the homeland
under military rule and to bend in order to survive, despite their
private tragedy, which was also a national and political tragedy.
“This is also a story of
rebirth. The term summud is from the 1980s, and connotes a political and
ideological approach: namely, I must hold fast to the land. After the
West Bank Palestinians despaired of the possibility of liberating
Palestine, they spoke of a commitment to cling steadfastly to the
territories that were occupied in 1967.”
When did the Palestinians in Israel grasp that it was incumbent on them to survive?
“At the start of the war in
1948, many fled for their lives, believing they would soon return. But
in short order they understood that central Galilee and western Galilee,
which in the United Nations partition plan were supposed to be part of
the Arab state, would be lost. When you realize that those who left will
not be able to return, and hear that the conditions in the refugee
camps in Lebanon are dire, you realize that abandonment is not an
option.
“The residents of the Arab
city of Nazareth and its 20 surrounding villages were not expelled in
Operation Hiram [in October 1948, aimed at taking control of the Upper
Galilee from the Arab Liberation Army]. When the Israel Defense Forces
reached locales such as Bana, Deir al-Assad, Nahaf and others” as part
of the operation, Manna continues, “the soldiers entered the villages,
put the men in groups, shot a few and ordered everyone: ‘Yallah, to
Lebanon!’ The villagers ostensibly left and started to walk northward.
The soldiers did not go with them. Often, after going five or 10
kilometers, and without a soldier in sight, they returned and found
people to liaise with the Israeli commanders. People started to develop
survival skills.”
The book, then, focuses on
the Palestinians who were not expelled, and Manna focuses on groups such
as the Druze, who joined the IDF as early as June 1948, and others such
as the Circassians and some of the Bedouin villages in Galilee. In the
main, Manna deals with Nazareth and many of its surrounding villages,
which emerged almost unscathed from the Nakba in the wake of an Israeli
decision of July 1948. The author analyzes the circumstances that
allowed about 100,000 Palestinians to remain in Galilee and Haifa,
whereas another 750,000 were dislocated and fled.
Christians vs. Muslims
“In 1948,” he says, “the
high-ranking political decision makers issued explicit directives to IDF
officers not to harm or expel the residents of Nazareth and many
villages around it. Israel’s policy in regard to the Christians was more
moderate than toward Muslims. There is the well-known case of the
Christian village of Ilabun, where a massacre was perpetrated and the
villagers were expelled to southern Lebanon – but, in a unique instance,
those refugees were allowed to return to their homes and their land. In
contrast, the Muslims in Galilee were victims of ethnic cleansing.”
On what basis do you maintain that most of the deportees were Muslims?
“If we focus on Galilee, the
fact is that many Christians from Acre and Haifa were also expelled.
This contradicts the account of Israeli historians to the effect that
Haifa mayor Shabtai Levy drew up an emotional leaflet, urging the Arab
residents not to leave the city where they had lived for so many years. I
interviewed Haifa residents – members of the Communist Party who are
not nationalists and certainly do not hate Israel. Not one of them ever
heard of that leaflet, and on the day it was supposedly distributed, the
Haganah [pre-IDF paramilitary organization] shelled the Arab
neighborhoods from Mount Carmel. In Haifa there was no expulsion in the
sense of people being forced onto trucks at gunpoint. But when entire
neighborhoods were shelled, people rushed to the port. The same pattern
was repeated in Acre and Jaffa.”
Did Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion pursue a policy or issue an order aimed at getting rid of the Muslims?
“I am not looking for a
directive or a document bearing Ben-Gurion’s signature. He addressed the
subject often, and I quote his statements in the book. For example, on
September 26, 1948, he declared, ‘Only one task remains for the Arabs in
the Land of Israel: to flee.’ The Israeli leadership understood and
also concurred that, for the Jewish state, the fewer Arabs the better.
The subject was mooted already in the late 1930s. Yosef Weitz, a senior
official of the Jewish National Fund, supported extensive expulsion of
Arabs and advocated a population transfer. The IDF commanders at
different levels knew what the leadership wanted and acted accordingly.
Massacres were not perpetrated everywhere. When you shell a village or a
city neighborhood, the residents flee. In the first half of 1948, at
least, they believed they would be able to return. When the fighting in
Haifa ended, many residents tried to return from Acre in boats, but the
Haganah blocked them.”
Does your study confirm, or prove, that ethnic cleansing took place?
“The book’s goal is not to
prove whether ethnic cleansing occurred. My disagreement with [the
review of my book in Haaretz by] Benny Morris did not revolve around the
question of ‘whether ethnic cleansing took place or not,’ but deals
with the question of whether the leadership did or did not make a
decision in a particular meeting to implement a policy of ethnic
cleansing.” In this connection, Manna quotes Daniel Blatman’s response
(Haaretz, Aug. 4) to a review of his book by Morris (Haaretz, July 29).
One might think from Morris’ book, Blatman noted, that “when Ratko
Mladic decided to slaughter over 7,000 Bosnian Muslim men and boys in
Srebrenica in 1995, he made his orders public.”
Indeed, Manna points out,
“The first historian who uncovered the fact that ethnic cleansing
occurred and that there were also cases of massacre, rape and expulsion
was Benny Morris. He reached the conclusion that there was no [official]
policy, in light of the fact that no authoritative archival
documentation exists. In one village, they decided a certain way and in
another, differently. Still, there is a pattern: The soldiers
perpetrated another massacre and carried out another expulsion, and
another massacre and another expulsion, and no one was brought to trial.
If there was no policy, why weren’t these war criminals tried?”
A case in point: the
atrocities that were carried out in the village of Safsaf, northwest of
Safed, on October 30, 1948, which included murder, expulsion and rape.
Manna writes that a member of his wife’s family was raped and murdered
in cold blood by IDF soldiers: His wife, Aziza, is named for the rape
victim. He heard the account nine years ago from a woman named Maryam
Halihal, now 80, who was 10 at the time of the events.
Rape is considered a
dishonoring of the family in Arab society. Did you have qualms about
publishing the story and the identity of the victims?
“Rape generates deep shame
in the victim’s family. Aziza Sharaida is no longer alive – why make her
harsh story public and shame her family? When I met the woman who would
become my wife, she told me that she was named for a cousin, Aziza
Sharaida, without elaborating. As part of my research, I interviewed
members of my wife’s family, and Maryam Halihal decided to talk about
the incident, over her husband’s angry objections.
“The soldiers entered the
family’s house and tried to rape Aziza Sharaida in front of her husband
and children. She resisted. The soldiers threatened to kill her
17-year-old, firstborn son if she went on resisting. She resisted with
force and they shot her son. The soldiers threatened to shoot her
husband, too, but she refused to give in, and they shot and killed him.
The two younger sons, who witnessed the atrocity, went into exile in
Lebanon. My wife’s mother, a relative of the murdered woman, decided 63
years ago to name her daughter Aziza. As I write in the book, even
though Haim Laskov [later a chief of staff] was put in charge of the
interrogation of the perpetrators of the horrors in Safsaf, none of them
paid the price for war crimes, which included shooting prisoners and
acts of abuse and rape.”
Manna began his research in
1984. Over the years, he interviewed 120 men and women and compiled
documents, diaries and letters from the period, which in some cases had
been stashed away in drawers. He also drew on written Palestinian
sources, which helped him confirm oral testimonies. Memoirs published in
Arabic and newspaper articles form the period, in Arabic and Hebrew,
contributed to the research. Manna also made use of many studies by
Jewish Israeli historians. However, he says, he did not resort to the
sweeping preference for Israeli archives that characterizes such
historians as Benny Morris. “The blatant manner in which oral
testimonies are disdained and ignored by researchers in Israel reflects a
domineering attitude,” he writes in the book’s introduction.
He will not deposit the
material he’s collected over the years in an Israeli archive. It will go
either to Bir Zeit University, near Ramallah, or to the Beirut-based
Institute for Palestine Studies. “Palestinian students can’t get to the
Hebrew University [of Jerusalem],” he says.
Palestinian ‘illegals’
As a Muslim born in 1947 in
Majd al-Krum and as a historian who researched the special story of his
village in the 1948 war, Adel Manna decided that it was his obligation
to write the history of the 120,000 Arabs who remained in Israel – the
generation of his parents, Hussein and Kawthar.
“They survived the policy of
a military government under which their rights were trampled, and
despite that were able to raise nine children and instill in us the
message that no one is entitled to treat us as inferior people,” he
says.
Turning to his parents’
ordeal in the 1948 war, Manna relates, “The first person in Majd al-Krum
who was blindfolded and made to stand against a wall in the village
square – before being shot to death by a squad of six soldiers – was the
husband of my grandmother, Zahra,” he explains. Subsequently, “In
January 1949, 536 residents were expelled, including members of her
family and her children, and became refugees in Lebanon. Her brother was
murdered by a resident of [the Jewish community of] Pardes Hannah; her
son, Samih, was killed when he stepped on a land mine. After the war,
she worked as a maid in Haifa with her daughter. For two years, my
father ‘infiltrated’ into Israel to visit them and take back a little
money that grandmother had saved up for him and for his brother in
Lebanon.”
Manna was a year old when he
and his parents were among the many from Majd al-Krum who were herded
onto IDF trucks that took them west to the village of Al-Birwa (today,
the location of Moshav Ahihud), then south toward the Jezreel Valley and
Wadi Ara.
“The trucks stopped there,”
he relates. “The people were ordered to get off amid shouts of ‘Yallah,
go to King Abdullah’ [in Jordan]. My parents spent one night in a mosque
in Kafr Ara and from there walked to Nablus [then part of Jordan]. We
spent the hard winter of 1949 there. People were crowded into tents
under grim hygienic conditions. In April, the Jordanians encouraged the
refugees to leave. My parents decided to go north and reached Ein
al-Hilweh [in Lebanon]. I almost died in the refugee camp, like other
infants.”
Due to an intestinal
ailment, Manna did not stand or walk until he was 2 and a half. “A woman
in the camp deduced that this was why I couldn’t stand and made me a
potion from herbs and castor oil. It eradicated the parasites, and
within a day or two I was walking. We returned to Israel in 1951 in a
fishing boat that set out from the port of Tyre in Lebanon and brought
us, the Palestinian ‘illegals,’ to the beach of Shavei Tzion [returners
to Zion], north of Acre. How symbolic,” Manna says with a smile.
How did you manage to get back?
“Like many Galilee
Palestinians, my father had repeatedly ‘infiltrated’ into Israel. On one
such occasion he learned that a lawyer, Hana Naqara, had petitioned the
High Court of Justice on behalf of 43 Majd al-Krum residents, each of
whom had returned to the village more than once but had been expelled
back to Lebanon each time. Naqara argued that these people had [Israeli]
ID numbers – a population census had been conducted in Majd al-Krum in
December 1948, the month before they were originally deported. [Those
who received an official ID number were considered citizens.] Like them,
my parents also had ID numbers. Back in Lebanon, my father told my
mother: ‘Prepare what’s needed – tonight we’re going back to the
village.’
“My mother was seven months
pregnant, how was she going to walk 40 kilometers? Father told her that a
Palestinian fisherman from the village of Az-Zeeb [Hebrew name: Achziv]
had discovered that transporting refugees by boat was more profitable
than fishing. As a child I believed that my father was a great hero, who
had thought up the idea of our return by boat. While researching the
book I learned that many Galileans had returned to Israel via the sea – a
subject that awaits historical research.”
‘Don’t be a donkey’
“Nakba and Survival” is
dedicated to the memory of Manna’s father. His mother, Kawthar (“pure
water”), 89, lives in the family home in the village, and contributed
considerably to the book.
Manna recalls that the first
Jews he met as a boy were women. At the time, he traveled to the Haifa
suburbs of Kiryat Motzkin and Kiryat Bialik to sell figs from the family
grove. There he discovered not only that the Jews lived in apartment
buildings and that shade trees had been planted along the road, but also
that Jewish women were very affable. One of them, Mrs. Miller by name,
treated him warmly, and when police officers showed up to confiscate
wares of Arab peddlers, she hid his baskets of figs in her home.
Adel remembers his father
telling him, “Don’t be a donkey like me, who works as a manual laborer
all his life from morning to evening and has a hard time providing for
his nine children. Get an education, so you can get a job with a good
salary.”
Manna obtained a B.A. in
history from the University of Haifa, then his master’s and doctorate
from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, writing his dissertation on the
history of the Jerusalem district in the Ottoman period. His adviser,
Gabriel Baer, advised him to steer clear of issues such as the Nakba and
the conflict, he recalls: “Prof. Baer intimated that the topics I had
in mind would not help a student like me forge an academic career. In
retrospect, I appreciated his advice.”
Manna’s political awareness
was honed in the 1970s, when he was a student in Haifa, living in the
dorms. He was elected secretary of the Arab Students Union, whose
activity included organization of cultural and political events. His
political activity exacted a price, he says: “I came under pressure from
Shin Bet [security service] agents, who tried to recruit me as a
collaborator and promised that in return I would be allowed to become a
teacher. ‘What are you going to do with a B.A. in history?’ a Shin Bet
agent named Carmi said to me. Instead of giving in or being afraid, I
told Gideon Spiro, the editor of the student newspaper, about it.
“The newspaper published a
report headlined ‘Shin Bet harassing Arab student,’ on February 2, 1972,
a week before I received my degree. The article stirred a furor in the
university and in the Hebrew press. In its wake, the weekly magazine
Haolam Hazeh ran a follow-up article. I didn’t panic. I began M.A.
studies at the Hebrew University and was elected to the Arab Students
Union there, which led the resistance to the forced ‘protection’ of Arab
students in 1974-1975.
“All along I was haunted by
the story I’d heard from my father and from others in the village. When I
told [Jewish] students about it, I always got the same response: ‘We
didn’t expel anyone and the only massacre was in Deir Yassin [outside
Jerusalem, in 1948]. The Palestinians simply fled.’ The silencing and
denial of the Nakba prompted me to write an article titled ‘Letter to an
Israeli Friend,’ which was published in Haaretz in June 1984.”
The article began with a
concise description of the events in his village in 1948, his
philo-Zionist schooling and the shock Manna endured when he learned,
while taking part in demonstrations against Israel’s 1982 invasion of
Lebanon, that two of his cousins from Ein al-Hilweh were incarcerated in
the IDF detention facility at Ansar in southern Lebanon. Shattered by
the news, he decided to abandon his doctoral studies and devote himself
to writing a book about the Nakba.
“My wife was shocked,” he
recalls. “‘Are you out of your mind? What will you do with a book like
that? You have to finish your doctorate,’ she insisted. It was a rough
year, 1984. There was a stormy campaign for the Knesset elections, the
members of the Jewish underground who perpetrated terrorist acts in the
territories were arrested – all of which diverted my attention from [the
thesis topic of] the administration and society in the Jerusalem
district between two invasions: Napoleon in 1799 and Muhammad Ali in
1831.”
Nevertheless, Manna received
a Ph.D. degree cum laude, and subsequently did postdoctoral research at
Princeton, where his daughter, Jumana, was born, in 1987. He and Aziza
then spent another year abroad, at Oxford, before returning to Israel in
1989. At this point he realized that an academic career was not in the
offing: “The Hebrew University offered me a one-year untenured
lectureship in the Middle East Studies Department, and I would write a
research paper on 19th-century Egypt, and then ‘we’ll see.’ I decided to
concentrate on my research of the 1948 war.”
The Mannas’ first priority
was their children’s education. They both worked, and one salary went to
pay the high tuition for their three children at the Anglican
International School in West Jerusalem, where the lingua franca is
English. Manna notes that he and his wife aimed to provide their
children with more languages and intellectual tools than Arab children
in Israel generally receive. Possibly they had an inkling already then
of what the future held for the three.
Manna frequently mentions
the support he has received from Aziza. They met in 1974, at the Hebrew
University’s Mount Scopus campus, where she was taking Islamic studies.
After her marriage she studied early-childhood education and worked a
coordinator and instructor in that sphere in the Arab community under
Hebrew University aegis. Adel, currently a senior research fellow at the
Van Leer Jerusalem Institute, was initially involved in the
administration and management of the Center for the Study of Language,
Society and Arabic Culture at Beit Berl College in Kfar Sava. Afterward,
he headed the Center for the Study of Arab Society in Israel at Van
Leer until 2007. From 2009 until 2012 he was the director of the
Academic Institute for Arab Teacher Training at Beit Berl.
“From my perspective,” he
says, “that was the closing of a circle with regard to the Shin Bet,
whose agent in Haifa assured me in 1972 that I would never be a teacher
in Israel because of my political activity.”
He and his wife live in
Shoafat, a Palestinian neighborhood in East Jerusalem. Ironically, their
children have not remained here: All three left the country. The
eldest, Fadi, 41, a lawyer who has three children, lives in the United
States, where he is vice president and associate general counsel at HP.
Shadi, 37, is a software engineer; he and his wife live in Barcelona.
Jumana Manna, an artist and film director, divides her time between
Berlin and Jerusalem. Her 2015 documentary film, “A Magical Substance
Flows into Me,” is a look at musical traditions of ethnic communities in
Jerusalem in the 1930s, as compiled at that time by Jewish-German
ethnomusicologist Robert Lachmann.
“We’ve remained alone,”
Manna says. “It’s part of the harsh reality here. My son Fadi advanced
to a professional level that an Arab in Israel cannot attain. Shadi
worked in Israel for a time, but felt that he was constantly being
reminded of the ‘privilege’ that had befallen him as an Arab to be
employed in software engineering. Finally he got fed up and told me, ‘I
don’t want to be the Jews’ Arab.’ He went to the U.S., earned an MBA and
got a job with an American company.”
Do your children think that you’ve stayed in Israel at the price of being “the Jews’ Arab”?
“Our children understood
that few options were available to us. As a member of the old
generation, I am one of those who remained. In their perception, I
somehow got used to the Jews and to their treatment of Arabs. They think
that despite my origins in my father’s house, as the son of a
construction worker who raised nine children, and even though I worked
very hard and received a doctoral degree cum laude, perhaps I didn’t get
tenure because I’m a Muslim. I don’t know. The children did not want to
go through a similar experience or feel inferior to the Jews.”
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