“Falesteen, Falesteen, la lala”

Last week I was in Damascus and took a private taxi with a few Syrians
back to Lebanon. The other passengers were going to the village of
Nabatiyeh in the South of Lebanon, and I was going to Beirut. The taxi
driver was “Shadi” a middle-aged Syrian man (he told me he was Syrian
when I got in the car) with a gentle smile and a penchant for sweet
coffee.

After dropping off the family of five sitting in the back seat of the
taxi around 10pm, it was just Shadi driving, and me half-asleep in the
front passenger seat. He slowed down the car on a motorway, turned
left and kept driving.

After a minute or so, Shadi started crying and asked me to wake up,
urging me with some mumbling that sounded like an attempt at singing.
He began gesticulating wildly and at first, I thought he was dancing
while driving. Then I realized he was pointing at the hills on the
left. I tuned in to realize that the word he was repeating was
“Falesteeen, Falesteen” which is the Arabic word for “Palestine.”

There we were, on a starry and cold Sunday night, driving along the
Israeli-Lebanese border, and Shadi then revealed to me, that he was
not Syrian at all. He was a Palestinian refugee in Syria. I asked him
why he didn’t tell me from the beginning? He shrugged and looked
ashamed and I knew that look all too well. Half a million Palestinian
refugees in Lebanon are systemically vilified and rejected by
mainstream Lebanese society for being a “burden” and “nuisance” to the
nation. Shadi was afraid I might feel the same way as other Lebanese.
To the contrary, I told him that I truly love Palestinians and
Palestine with all my heart. His eyes filled with tears and he said,
“Thank you.”

The joy that he got from looking at the hills of Israel at night made
me drunk with joy too. And I looked at Shadi, and I started singing
“Falesteen” with him. I wanted to share his ecstasy at the sight of
the hills of Israel, a land where he has never been allowed to go, but
he knows is his home. “God willing,” I said to him, “You will go home
one day,” and he smiled and replied, “God willing.”

We sang the name of “Falesteen” for two hours back to Beirut. That
night I went home and cried. These are the people I am meeting, who
are inspiring the stories that I’m writing, who are inspiring the
project I’m working on. And I have so many more stories to share with
you, if you ever wanted to hear them.

December 15, 2009. Uncategorized. 1 comment.