Monday, September 17, 2007


A dark day in the history of both sides of the Jordanian river. Many of us were too young, or not even yet born to live such era. However, this era left few black dots on our lives. We hope that we have overcome the typical instigating questions of why it happened and who was the aggressor. We are beyond that. We should be beyond that. We ought to be beyond that. Darn it, you need to be beyond that.

Nevertheless, one can not forget how such bad days affected his/her life. We shouldn’t forget. Yes we should forgive, but please don’t ask us to forget. True that the battles lasted for 10 days, but those days were enough to leave such marks.

I sometimes try to drag my father to tell me more about what happened in those 10 days. He always leans back and tells me that he took them off his memory. I don’t buy that at all. I know. I then try the same with my mom. She tells me few details here and there. But not enough to draw a detailed picture of what happened.

The one story that they both tell always, is the attempt on his life on Feb of 1971. Well, they can’t lie about it, as the evidence are still clear in our old house on the edges of tabarboor. Bullet holes on the walls are witness of what happened that day.

As he was driving home one day, two PLO fighters were waiting by our house. As the car approached the home, bullets started flying. The driver was killed instantly. Dad ran to the house, with the two fighters chasing him. They finally got to him, and took away his gun. One of them was waiting by the door guarding the door. The other one demanded that my father kneel down on his knees in the front yard. He put the AK47 to his head. Mom screaming begging for them to let him live. I was one and a half years old in her hands. The fighter was yelling at my mom to shut up. Then suddenly, a bullet hits the fighter guarding the door. A Jordanian army sniper on one of the roof tops got to him. In the panic, the other fighter started shooting in all directions hoping to get the sniper. My father quickly ran inside to his other gun. Bullets allover the place. In the end, two bullets hit my father, one in the leg and one in the stomach. The second fighter was killed.

Sadly, the above incident left a bad reaction on my father. I remember when I left and came to America, dad portrayed Palestinians to be evils. He himself is Palestinian by origin, even though he was born in Jordan. But after maturing, I questioned his feelings toward his own people. He was always angry at the note of me mentioning that not all fingers are alike.

35 years later, he himself matured in this issue. Now, finally, acknowledged that not all fingers are alike.

So, whatever those days left on you, maybe it’s time to reach out to the other side for some reconciliation. War is over. Peace roots are strong in our land….hopefully.

I hope that you folks don’t misunderstand this post to be instigation of an old ladies and gentlemen. It’s an attempt to acknowledge the past, build on it, and look for a brighter future.