Stories of occupation and resistance should be told by people who witnessed it. Arab countries have been subjected to centuries of colonialism and are living through a phase of new-colonialism. “Freedom” is an abstract concept that doesn’t mean anything anymore. In defying Eurocentric histories, there is a need to record our own history, and thus reclaim our past, pride, and identity. Douaa does exactly this in her historical story. Its title is a lesson that has been transmitted from her grandfather’s generation to ours, and which we need to pass to the next generations. Her grandfather’s wisdom should be a message that we carry, or otherwise it means that we are people who never learn from history!

Douaa Dalle is an Information System major, with a minor in Business Administration. She’ll graduate from Carnegie Mellon University in Qatar in 2011. She is a visual writer, as she is able to capture the complexity of scenes and encapsulate them in words.  She is a Lebanese, which may explain it, being exposed to nature and different landscapes and climates. 

Sheba'a Village, taken by Douaa Dalle

Sheba'a Village, taken by Douaa Dalle

In 1996, in Sheba’a village, donkeys brayed and cocks crowed during the early mornings’ hours. Sheba’a is the very last village in the south of Lebanon, far away from everything and seems to be at the end of the world. My grandfather was sitting on the balcony of our house in Sheba’a drinking his morning Turkish coffee. His eyes scanned the view. The tops of “jabal el sheik” – el sheik mountain- vividly appeared to the eye. The mountain was covered with layers of green and its top was bold like my grandfather head.  Vogue formed around the tops of the mountain like an old man’s beard. I put on my sweeter and sat with my grandfather on the balcony. I asked him “Jedo why do we go under so much regulation when we enter Sheba’s? Why do we have to leave the car and walk for a while and keep waiting until the car comes back and take us? Why do we give our passports to those men holding the klashenkof?  This whole thing is scary. If I didn’t like it here, I would’ve never come and went through all this”.

It was just one day before that morning when we came to Sheba’a. We used to pay Sheba’a a visit every summer. As a kid I really liked it here. For me it was the place where adventures began. I used to play in the stream and splash my cousins. We used to go to the fields wearing farming boots, harvest blackberries, eat them and paint our faces with its juice. After covering our faces with the red juice we used to go to our parents, screaming “Blood! Bloooooooood!” However, as much as I had beautiful dreams about Sheba’a I had nightmares. Entering Sheba’a was a nightmare for me. Before the year 2000 Sheba’a was under the Israeli occupation. The journey from Beirut to Sheba’a was both tiring and terrifying. We couldn’t go with any car as the car and the driver must be licensed and registered with the Israeli authorities in Sheba’a borders. That is why we used to end up with rather an old and uncomfortable vehicle, in which, God only knows, how many people squeezed.  The road to Sheba’a was curvy and bumpy crossing mountains and valleys. As soon as we arrive to the borders, my mother would explain the list of don’ts. The one that really stood out is when she said: “when we’re waiting in the line, don’t throw anything on the ground even a tissue”.  And when I asked her about the reason, she responded: “you will irritate these men with guns. They will think you threw something dangerous.” we used to leave the car so it can be searched extensively and head to a building where we waited in a queue. The scene of men carrying weapons, wearing mirror sunglasses and moving around the place never left my memory.   The queue used to be long and extend outside the building. After having our passports checked, we used to sit in a place outside waiting for the car. The seats were made of rusty copper which absorbed the heat of the summer. There was a rusty sunshade that trembled and squeaked as the wind blew.

Why do we have to suffer to enter our own land? This question never left my mind.  To answer my questions, my grandfather gazed at el Sheik Mountain and said “well my dear, because our land hasn’t been ours for a long time.” He paused and by looking at me, he spotted the bewilderment into my eyes.   He said “see now it is the Israelis; before them was the French and before them the Turks.” I didn’t really get what he was saying but I knew there will be a story to hear. My grandfather continued “my dear kid never be fooled like your grandfather. When the French came in 1922, they told us they were saving us from the Turks and protecting us. Many people believed that including me. They built hospitals and schools, offered jobs and distributed some home supplies. We Arabs are really simple people or at least I know we were. We seek peace of mind and do not want any problems. We worked to support our families and as long as our families were safe and happy then we were as well. Most of us were pleased with what the French had offered us. I, for example, had enrolled myself in 1941 in the French army. For me, it was a good position. I got good incentives and money, plus it was in the radiotelephone unit. The radiotelephone unit was only for internal security, basically just like policemen, which didn’t include all the serious fighting in the battle fields. Year after year under the rule of the French, numbers of rebels were increasing. People started recognizing that the French were here as occupiers not protectors. I, on the other hand, was satisfied with my position in the French army and didn’t want any problems.” My grandfather shook his head with downcast eyes in embarrassment and said “how foolish of me.”

My grandfather lowered his head for a while, gazing at the floor. Then he took a deep breath, rose up his head and continued: “once in 1946, there was a protest that the French government allowed, because most probably they thought that this way the rebels can release their anger in a safe manner. My unit was responsible of keeping the protesters away from critical governmental areas. There were too many protesters at that day that we couldn’t restrain them. When our officer saw that the protesters were going out of control, he shouted at the top of his voice “tuez les, shoot them! Shoot them now!” I was terrified, ya jedo (grandpa), I didn’t sign up for this. Killing one of my people wasn’t an option for me, neither allowing my colleagues to do so. I started screaming in Arabic to my Arab colleagues “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! They are Arabs just like you”. The French officer in command suddenly said to me in a broken accent “sme’atak ya Dalle…… I heard you”.  The slavish officer understood what I said. He sent me to my barrack and issued a rule of disobeying direct orders against me. I was sent to jail for a month. I’m proud of those thirty days more than anything.  After I was released, the French army offered me my job back; they also offered me a French passport. This incident and spending time in jail with men of honor opened my eyes to the ugly truth. Without hesitation, I rejected both their offers and joined the resistance army. Unfortunately I was a little bit late because I only spent 2 years fighting until we got our independence from the French. I regret the years that I didn’t spend with the men in the resistance army. My dear daughter what they gave us were lies. They were an occupation with all the ugly meanings that this word holds.  They took our land, they stole our blessings, and worst of all they tried to occupy our minds.”

My grandfather’s last statements left a questioning looks on my face, therefore he continued “when the French came, people has been suffering from the corruption of the Turkish rule. Turks in their last days had banned the use of Arabic, and had started gathering high taxes from people or in other words they robbed us. Turks soldiers sometimes would get into our houses against our well and steal the moneh-stored food – like the bags of wheat and rice. I believed France was coming in our rescue,” my grandfather laughed in bitterness.  “But the school they opened was an attempt to detach us from our roots. They gradually attempted to erase everything that signified who we are. They also banned Arabic in schools and fought our heritage and religion. See my kid they were smart and we should give them credit for that. My dear daughter if they erase our language and heritage they’ll erase our past. With no past, our present disappears and we become like clay with no shape or definition. Then they’ll be able to shape us and define us, and there is no worse form of occupation than the occupation of a human’s soul.”  My grandfather paused and looked straight into my eyes, he leaned so that his face met mine and placed his palms on my shoulders and said “now my dear child this will happen over and over again, so don’t be fooled”

Fifteen years later, in the same balcony in Sheba’a I stand facing el-sheik Mountain. Half of Sheba’a is now free; we no longer have to suffer to enter our house. However, Sheba’a’s farms are still under Israeli occupation. In fact I can see, the Israeli military base standing on the bold top of the mountain. It is the only thing spoiling its beauty. As I breathe the air, look at the blackberry trees, and gaze at the military base wishing that it never existed, I hear a voice coming from the T.V saying “we are here to liberate the people of Iraq” and I remember my grandfather saying “Don’t be fooled!”.