I had no idea it would upset her so much… Just like any other child my age, I was a bundle of curiosity. I loved exploring my surroundings. One of my favorite pastimes was imitating my mother, sometimes taking on her persona. I would lose myself rummaging through her wardrobe. I’d pick out clothes I liked, put them on, and spend hours in front of the mirror, admiring my transformation. My small feet would wobble in her high-heeled shoes. Of course, I wouldn’t forget to apply lipstick and paint my nails with pink polish. To complete my look, I’d grab a beautiful necklace from one of the drawers to adorn my neck, trying to resemble a woman in her early 30s. Once I was satisfied with my makeover, I’d rush to the kitchen to surprise her while she was busy preparing food. She’d pause for a couple of minutes, staring at me in silence, before bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
My innocence never annoyed her, nor did my pretending to be a lady like her. I don’t recall her ever scolding me for sneaking into her room and messing with her personal belongings without permission. Instead, she allowed me to explore freely, indulging in the experience until I got tired of the “game” on my own, returning everything to its place and becoming her little spoiled child once again. She always reminded me to embrace each stage of life as it comes, to savor it without pretense or comparison to others younger or older. Days and years passed without change until the day when an exception overturned the rule.
The photo in the middle features my mother
One day, as I sifted through drawers, getting ready for my favorite pastime, a book caught my eye. I picked it up, examined it for a few minutes, and flipped through its pages. I tried to decipher the text and unravel the identity of the person on its cover. Who is this? Who is this man with black glasses? Who is this person covering his head with a white cloth, crisscrossed by black lines both vertically and horizontally?
I grabbed the book and quickly ran to the living room, where my mother was watching the news. She looked at the book in my hand and gave me a strange look, one that did not express approval. This time, her reaction was different from what I was used to. Her face displayed a mix of anger and panic. She snatched the book from my hand and started scolding me for messing with her things without permission. I didn’t understand why my action had ignited a dormant volcano within her. Her reaction shocked me, and I began repeatedly apologizing for what I had done. Years later, as my political and revolutionary awareness began to develop during my high school years, I finally understood the reason for her anger. Gradually, I started to grasp the reality of what was happening around me. I realized that the picture on the cover was of the late Palestinian president Yasser Arafat (Abu Ammar) and that the black-and-white cloth he wore on his head was called a “keffiyeh,” which has since become a Palestinian symbol displayed in markets and bazaars around the world. I found the explanation for my mother’s panic and anger that day: the Israeli military laws imposed by the Israeli occupation after the remaining part of Palestine was occupied in 1967, the year of the “Thunder”, prohibited Palestinians from selling, buying, or possessing books related to the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), considering it a “terrorist” organization.
My mother was neither a leader nor an activist in any secret party, nor a cadre in a political faction, nor a member of a terrorist organization. She was a quiet woman, a responsible mother, and a diligent employee who went to work early in the morning and returned home in the afternoon to manage household affairs. I don’t know how this book about the life of Yasser Arafat ended up in her possession! Did she secretly buy it out of curiosity and a desire to enrich her political knowledge?! Did a colleague at work give it to her, or did someone ask her to hide it out of fear of arrest?! Did one of her siblings or relatives, scattered across the globe after the Nakba of 1948, send it to her by mail?! To this day, I don’t know the secret of this book, but I still remember the anxiety in my mother’s eyes that day.
Published on February 24, 2021
