Why You Leave Here?
On leaving this place after three months
Two weeks ago, I felt completely exhausted and defeated. I was dreaming of bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches and other western comforts like air conditioning and privacy. But then, suddenly, it hit me that I am leaving soon.
In my last week here, I must make sure I tell everyone that I am leaving and when. It is hard. I hate goodbyes. I’d rather quietly exit, much like I did in Toronto. But I can’t because here in a village, one cannot go anywhere without giving a reasonable explanation of where one is going. There are some spaces here in the village that I go to in order to be alone. To listen to music or write these posts, or even just think about everything. When I get up to go, I’m asked where I’m going, why I’m leaving, and what lll be doing. I’ve learned the word for “resting” in Arabic, but I don’t know how to explain I just want to go chill alone right now.
On my last week here, I’m trying to absorb all the village time I can. I sit outside peoples houses and nod along as they speak Arabic and I sip coffee. Sometimes I even chime in. Today, as my neighbour and her daughters were at work, I joined her second eldest son and his wife and child (and his older sister and her child). As we sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes, we talked in English about what it means for me to leave his family after three months.
Three months of shared laughter and shared meals. Three months of running together towards and away from settler attacks. Three months of being invited into their home and their lives with no questions asked. It feels surreal to just up and leave them. He jokes that after the occupation, I should come back and build a home here next to the one he will build for his family. Because he is married and with a child, he has moved to live in the city. With building permits constantly denied here, even if he had the money to build, the occupation would soon knock it down. And maybe even his mom’s house for good measure.
Because he lives in the city, and the economy under an occupation and genocide is so depleted, he can’t find a job. Every moment of his life is spent figuring out how he is going to provide for his wife, child, mother, and younger sisters. I look across the couch at him and suddenly remember he is only 20 years old. The weight of his world makes him seem much older.
He tells me that it is also hard for them when activists leave after spending time here. One day there are activists sleeping next door and responding to army incursions and the next minute, khallas, they are gone. He tells me what it means for his family to have people here who understand their struggle and come from all over the world to stand with them. It matters to them. Not just because of the safety, but also for the morale of international visits. They feel their struggle is not in vain, that the world feels their pain and stands with them.
He asks me if I will forget about them when I leave? I assure him that this is not possible. I vow to him to tell everyone I know about the people I have met in Masafer Yatta. About their kindness and integrity. About their struggle and sumud. He seems satisfied with this answer. The patriarch of the village asks me in English, “why you leave here?”. He asks (jokingly) if I’m scared of the settlers. I laugh and explain to him that my visa is expiring. He tells me he has family in Windsor and I tell him that I want to go visit them and we will video call the village.
I joke with the people about bringing them to Canada with me. We discuss who can fit in which person’s luggage. I tell them they are welcome to Canada anytime. That I will cook for them and they can stay at my house. We both know they will never come. Israel does not give them this much freedom of movement. We spend our last week in between responding to settlers and having special meals.
We invited the village over to the guest house for dinner and forced them to eat chili and macaroni and cheese. They were skeptical but polite. In turn we were treated to festive lunches and dinners. We tell each other how much we will miss each other and how much we enjoyed each other’s company for the last three months.
I ask myself how I could possibly leave my new family? This village that has taken me in and nicknamed me Mahmoud, son of Abu Jihad. I feel a deep pit in my stomach as I sort through my belongings and try to pack them efficiently. I try to replay in my head what has happened over the last three months. Suddenly they seem like they passed so quickly.