Breaking Bread With My Enemy

By Hala Deeb Jabbour

My enlightenment did not occur in a single incident, but over many turbulent years...

1948: I was born in Jerusalem, Palestine and was only a child when my country was partitioned and my family forced to leave. I spent most of my young adult life hating Jews, Israelis, Zionists and anyone who was on their side, and dismissed the Holocaust as exaggerated Jewish paranoia.

1973: In Beirut, Lebanon, a young married couple moved into the apartment next to mine. They were Jews. At first we just nodded, then the nods turned into whispers of greeting, the greetings became audible, we lingered in the hallway and finally stepped into each other's apartments. It was a slow process and very strange to our Arab way of life, where new neighbors ordinarily became instant family. However, the war in Lebanon put an end to our budding exchanges.

1976: The war for the control of the highrise hotels in Beirut was underway. The Holiday Inn, a sniper's nest until it was burned out, was two blocks away from my apartment. Heavily armed militia roamed our streets. Pack the bags, bundle up the children, and travel for safety to Amman. A few days. We'll be back.

In Amman I was greeted by my sobbing Aunt Aniseh. "Refugees again? Our generation and now yours? When will it end?" Unlike the previous generation of Palestinians, we did go back to Beirut. As the situation intensified, however, we left again, this time for England.

I was in London when my mother called me from her apartment there to tell me excitedly that "Pnina" had just called her and was coming to visit. Pnina was my mother's Jewish friend, about whom I had heard for years as I was growing up. They were high school friends in Jerusalem, had graduated together, married during the same year, and had their children in the same years. They lost touch, however, after the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948.

My mother loved Pnina but in my hot, angry, youthful days I had resented this woman, this Jew. She had stayed on in Palestine because she was Jewish, while my family and I had to be uprooted and exiled because we were not.

No, I did not really look forward to seeing Pnina, who had traced my mother through the grapevine, located her in London and called her from my Jerusalem to announce her impending visit. However, on the day of the visit, I went to meet her, having geared myself for a confrontation.

Pnina was wonderful. Sensitive, warm, teary-eyed as she embraced us all. We talked. We laughed. We ate. They reminisced. I loved her. I did not confront her, or my feelings. I could not deal with the fact that here I was, loving and admiring a Jewish woman! My enemy!

1982: The Israelis invaded Lebanon. Bombardment, siege, and evacuation of the PLO from West Beirut. The massacres. The fear. The whole insecurity of being a Palestinian once again. There is no backing out. One can uproot from a place but not from one's skin, one's history, one's people. The dilemmas. The sense that we had betrayed those we left behind, as we now safely dwelt in the West. Abhorrence of the West for being the cause and the prime financier of our exile and tragedy. The sense of helplessness and total incapacitation,of loss and that immense guilt.

1985: Sitting by my window in the safety of my suburban American home, missing my parents, friends and way of life, out of touch with my culture and my roots. I cried for having lived 40 years over which I had absolutely no control, a life constantly subjected to changing political circumstances, which dominated every level of my being.

I took up my pen and wrote, "Dear Leah," addressing an imaginary Jewish woman. I had pictured her to be of my age. I asked her when it would be over for both of us. That letter, written in utter despair, became the epilogue of a novel, my first, titled A Woman of Nazareth.

Writing was the best therapy for me, as I aired all of my anger, all of my emotions, over the Palestinian tragedy.

1987: 1 was asked to read the "Dear Leah" letter and share a stage with another Palestinian sister, Zeinab Sha'ath, and two Israelis, a traditionalist and a radical, at the Sisterfire Conference in Maryland. Having accepted, I could not then imagine going to the preconference dinner and sharing bread with my enemies. I tried to think up excuses for not going. However, I had been preaching tolerance and understanding. I had stated my views in non-erasable print. I dared myself to go, or be exposed to myself as a hypocrite.

I went and found commonalities which surprised me. The wall between me and anything Jewish or Israeli started to crumble. From then on it was easier to participate in dialoguing with the enemy.

November 31, 1987: I flew to London. My father had passed away unexpectedly. Another Palestinian being buried, in exile, away from his Jerusalem. My hatred rose in oceanic waves. My anger and grief commingled into a crescendo that belied all my recent acceptance of peaceful coexistence. People would be coming to the small London flat, which did not have enough seating space. I went over to the neighbor, Theresa, and asked to borrow some of her chairs. We stood and cried together as she told me how she had been living with death all of her life. She had lost two brothers—17 and 18 years old—to the Nazi Holocaust.

December 9, 1987: The intifada. A resurgence of hope, pride and dignity. The Palestinians had taken their destiny into their own hands. Nothing more magnificent had occurred within our Palestinian national consciousness. As one, we all rose to support our intifada. Yes, we can talk now. Yes, we are paying the price of freedom with the blood of our children. Yes, we have earned our place at the negotiating table. It was a tremendous feeling.

February 1990: I took part in a dialogue conference with American-Palestinian and American-Jewish women. It presented many dilemmas. Is it all worth it? What are the benefits of such an exercise? Will I have regrets next week, next month or next year"

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe tomorrow, next month or next year what has been germinating within me for so many years will suddenly flower into peace.

When I saw one of the American-Jewish women fighting a battle within herself during the conference, feeling the push and pull of both sides of the coin, wanting to be objective yet afraid to betray her people by doing so, I was reminded of myself. I could see deep into her very heart, into recesses of her soul where she, herself, had not yet dared to look. I saw a Leah, responding to her Palestinian counterpart, as they both extended, though fearfully, their hands in peace. Perhaps this is seeing the light

Hala Deeb Jabbour is coordinator of the Washington, DC, chapter of the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee. Her book, A Woman of Nazareth, will be available in May, from the AET Book Club.