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ال جل الد لي لل ح ث الدراسا اإ سا ي International Journal of Research and Humanities Studies Issue 1, June Book Review of Susan Abulhawa's Mornings in. Mornings in Jenin follows four generations of the Abulheja family through upheaval and violence in their homeland. The family has deep roots. Read Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa for free with a 30 day free trial. Jenin. AMAL WANTED A CLOSER look into the soldier's eyes, but the.

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Mornings in Florence John Ruskin MORNINGS IN FLORENCE By JOHN RUSKIN, M.A. Mornings in Florence THE FIRST MORNING. Nahtjak89 SUSAN ABULHAWA OGNI MATTINA A JENIN Susan Abulhawa è nata da una famiglia palestinese in fuga dopo la Guerr. [Scar of David] Mornings in Jenin: a novel / Susan Abulhawa.–1st U.S. ed. p. cm. I SBN: (paperback) 1. Palestinian Arabs–Fiction. 2. Arab-I.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. ISBN: paperback 1. Palestinian Arabs—Fiction. Arab-Israeli conflict—Fiction. Refugees, Palestinian Arab—Fiction.

A woman emptied of her past.

Mornings in Jenin: A Novel

But this name reminds her not just of her fate of being a refugee, but also of being a lonely person, deprived of the right to live in a family which is shattered by the ravaging crimes of Israel. I was Amy. A name drained of meaning. She says: I metamorphosed into an unclassified Arab-Western hybrid, unrooted and unknown.

I drank alcohol and dated several men…I spun in cultural vicissitude, wandering in and out of the American ethos until I lost my way. I fell in love with American and even felt that love reciprocated. I live in the present, keeping the past hidden away.

Mornings in Jenin: A Novel

But sometimes the blink of my eyes was a twitch of contrition that brought me face-to-face with the past She realizes that the homeland exerts a strong pull. She cannot forget that she belongs to those people who were deprived of their land and forced into exile.

After getting her master degree, Amal went to Lebanan after receiving a call from her brother Yusef, who married Fatima, a woman he left few years ago in order to join the resistance.

Her brother Yusef was in Tunisia during the invasion. Amal was waiting the arrival of Majid to join her in the US in order to escape violence and raise their unborn baby safely. Before meeting Amal, Majid decided not to marry and to devote his life to the Palestinian cause. But the love of the family in the novel is as strong as the love of the land. This very shocking and monstrous crime was reported in newpapers. He says: They were everywhere, in the road, the laneways, in the back yards and broken rooms, beneath crumpled masonry and across the top of garbage tips.

When we had seen a hundred bodies, we stopped counting. Down every alleyway, there were corpses—women, young men, babies and grandparents—lying together in lazy and terrible profusion where they had been knifed or machine-gunned to death.

Each corridor through the rubble produced more bodies. The patients at the Palestinian hospital had disappeared after gunmen ordered the doctors to leave. Everywhere, we found signs of hastily dug mass graves Sabra and Shatila turned into blood baths. The tragedy of Amal and the Palestinian people is more profound than anything that can be written or published.

Robert Fisk, in his description of the massacres, adds that there were women lying in houses with their skirts torn up to their waists and their legs wide apart, children with their throats cut, rows of young men shot in the back after being lined up at an execution wall.

There were babies—blackened babies because they had been slaughtered more than 24 hours earlier and their small bodies were already in a state of decomposition—tossed into rubbish heaps alongside discarded U. Army ration tins, Israeli army medical equipment, and empty bottles of whisky Israel has greatly benefited from the fervid and unconditional support of the most powerful countries in the world.

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Amal wept bitterly but silently for the death of her husband, and she felt that her soul died with him. There is nothing in the world that can help her heal her wounds, soothe heartpains and pick up the pieces of her broken soul. Despite her deep psychic wounds, Amal could survive the monstrous events Israel committed in Sabra and Shatila. It was as if Dalia felt the tragic fate that was waiting Amal; thus, she wanted her to be a creature with a paralysed ability to feel pain and suffering.

Amal, like Dalia, has grown up to endure pain and to moan in silence.

Like Amal, the heinous violence of Israel has not made the Palestinians give up; they made of them strong and resistant people. After Sabra and Shatila massacres, Amal gave birth to a child she called Sara.

The latter was everything for her after losing the best things in this world. After a long journey, David reconnects with his sister Amal, the only remaining member of his family. Amal returns to Jenin with David and her daughter Sara, who wanted to know about her homeland, the history of her people and their plight.

The appearance of her lost brother David, who new his real identity, revealed her suppressed desire to return to Jenin. Israel bombed our apartment building the night before he was going to leave Beirut to join us.

In Jenin, amother massacre against Palestinians occurred in Sharon was elected on February, In the heinous crimes on , Amal was shot while she was saving the life of her 16 years old daughter Sara. Sad for the boy bound to the killer. Amal died before fulfilling her ultimate dream of returning home. Sara who represents the fourth generation of Abulhija family will carry the burden of the Palestinian cause.

She was overwhelmed with sadness when she heard about the death of Haj Salem, who was buried alive. This man used to tell Amal stories about Palestine. I just want to get an hour start over Salem, that toothless old bugger. Just one hour. Her husband revived that brilliant idea every year.

As the dark sky gave way to light, the sounds of reaping that noble fruit rose from the sun-bleached hills of Palestine.

As they toiled, women 11 sang the ballads of centuries past and small children played and were chided by their mothers when they got in the way. Yehya paused to massage a crick in his neck. Sweat-drenched, Yehya stood on his land, a sturdy man with a black and white kaffiyeh swathing his head, the hem of his robe tucked in his waist sash in the way of the fellaheen.

He surveyed the splendor around him. Mossy green grass cascaded down those hills, over the rocks, around and up the trees. The sanasil barriers, some of which he had helped his grandfather repair, spiraled up the hills.

Yehya turned to watch Hasan and Darweesh, their chest muscles heaving beneath their robes with every swing of their sticks to knock the olives loose.

My boys! Hasan is growing strong despite his difficult lungs. Thanks be to Allah. The sons worked on opposite sides of each tree as their mother trailed them, hauling away blankets of fresh olives to be pressed later that day. Yehya could see Salem harvesting his yield in the adjacent grove.

Toothless old bugger. Yehya smiled, though Salem was younger than he. In truth, his neighbor had always a quality of wisdom and a grandfatherly patience that gave of itself from a face mapped by many years of carving olive wood outdoors. He had become Haj Salem after his pilgrimage to Mecca, and the new title bestowed him with age beyond that of Yehya. By evening, the two friends would be smoking hookahs together, arguing over who had worked hardest and whose sons were strongest.

Nearby, she set another meal for the migrant helpers, who gratefully accepted the offering. Seated around the steaming tray of rice and smaller plates of sauces and pickles, the family waited for Yehya to break the bread in the name of Allah. The meal was over quickly without the usual lingering over halaw and coffee. There was more work to be done. Basima had been filling her large baskets, which the helpers would carry to the olive press.

Each of her boys had to press his share of olives the day of their harvest or else the oil might have a rancid taste. But before heading back, a prayer was offered. The holy Book had belonged to his grandfather, who had nurtured these groves before him. Although Yehya could not read, he liked to look at the pretty calligraphy while he recited surahs from memory.

Basima hoisted a basket of olives onto her head, lifted in each hand a woven bag full of dishes and leftover food, and proceeded down the hill with other women who balanced urns and belongings on their heads in plumb uprightness.

His grandfather had taught him to play that ancient flute and its melodies gave Yehya a sense of his ancestors, the countless harvests, the land, the sun, time, love, and all that was good. As always, at the first note, Yehya raised his brows over closed eyelids, as if perpetually surprised by what majesty his simple hand-carved nye could make from his breath.

There was some oil, but mostly almonds, figs, a variety of citrus, and vegetables. Hasan put the grapes on top so they would not be crushed. Even Haifa is closer, and their markets are just as good.

And you never know what son-of-a-dog Zionist is hiding in the bushes or what British bastard is going to stop you. Why make the trip? Watch yourself on the road. As they drove away, Darweesh cantered alongside on Ganoosh, his beloved Arabian steed. Darweesh was the best rider for miles around, maybe the best in the country, and Ganoosh was the fastest horse Hasan had ever seen. Along the dusty road, the land rose in sylvan silence, charmed with the scents of citrus blooms and wild camphires.

Hasan opened the pouch that his mother filled each day, pinched off a glob of her sticky concoction, and raised it to his nose. He breathed it in as deeply as his asthmatic lungs would allow. Oxygen diffused through his veins as he opened one of the secret books Mrs. He was the son of a German professor who had fled Nazism early and settled in Jerusalem, where his family rented a small home from a prominent Palestinian.

The two boys had become friends in behind the pushcarts of fresh fruits, vegetables, and dented cans of oil in Babel Amond market, where Hasan had sat reading a book of Arabic poems.

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The small Jewish boy with large eyes and an unsure smile had started toward Hasan. He moved with a limp, the legacy of a badly healed leg and the Brown Shirt who had broken it. He had bought a large red tomato, pulled out a pocketknife, and cut it, keeping half and offering the rest to Hasan. Intrigued, Hasan had taken the tomato. But they quickly found commonality in their mutual sense of inadequacy.

In jenin pdf mornings

Hasan Yehya Abulheja. Thus a friendship had been born in the shadow of Nazism in Europe and in the growing divide between Arab and Jew at home, and it had been consolidated in the innocence of their twelve years, the poetic solitude of books, and their disinterest in politics.

Decades after war had divided the two friends, Hasan told his youngest child, a little girl named Amal, about his boyhood friend. Though Hasan would experience a colossal physical growth, at twelve he was a sickly boy whose lungs hissed with every breath. The labor of his breathing pushed him to the sidelines of the strict confederacies of boys and their rough 15 play.

Both possessed an air of recoil that recognized itself in the other, and each, at a young age and in his own world and language, had found refuge in the pages of poets, essayists, and philosophers. Ari even began to wear traditional Arab garb on weekends and often returned to Ein Hod with Hasan.

Similarly, Hasan learned to speak German, to read haltingly some of the English volumes in Dr. Perlstein loved Hasan and was grateful for his friendship with her son, and Basima received Ari with similar motherly enthusiasm. Fearful that further education would take his son away from the land he was destined to inherit and farm, Yehya forbade it. There will be no school with Ari and that is all I will say on the matter.

But years later, Yehya would reproach himself with deep consternation and regret for denying what Hasan had dearly wanted. And it was for the same decision and subsequent regret and heartbreak that Hasan would resolve, with determined hard labor and its pittance pay, that his children would receive an education. Although Hasan was denied the privilege of formal schooling beyond eighth grade, he received superior tutoring from Mrs.

Perlstein, who sent her eager young student home every week loaded with books, lessons, and homework. The private lessons started as a scheme between Basima and Mrs. Perlstein to lift Hasan from his dejection in the months after Yehya issued his final word on the matter of education. They unloaded the truck, setting the driver up with other street vendors. From Babel Amoud, they walked toward el Qiyameh. The aromas of earthen jars, molasses, and assorted oils drifted from shops as sidewalk vendors called to passersby to stop and sample.

They turned on Khan el Zeit, their heads brushing against leathers and silks hanging from store walls. Perlstein said, taking the sweets.

She was a reserved, long-limbed woman and Hasan thought her appearance gave no hint of her expansive kindness. His instinct, when he saw her, was to look for her family heirloom, pinned on her chest, always.

One, two, three, four. He developed a habit of counting the small pearls of her brooch while she inspected his homework. Over the years, Hasan proved himself an assiduous pupil and quick study.

The mentorship with Mrs. He was a descendant of the original founders of Ein Hod and heir to great stretches of cultivated land, orchards, and five impressive olive groves. Dalia, on the other hand, was the daughter of a Bedouin whose tribe came to work in the village every year during the harvest and eventually settled there.

The youngest of twelve sisters, Dalia was willful and paid little mind to convention. Often, she would forget to empty her pouch of strange new bugs and beetles collected that day, for which her mother would beat her. But the force of nature within her compelled her back to her curious ways.

She relished her time with her six- and eight-legged little secrets until she had a four-legged one, a horse named Ganoosh. Its young master, a boy whom she knew to be Darweesh, son of Yehya Abulheja, offered her a ride when he happened to see her walking the hills. She looked around at the quiet expanse of rolling land. Her heart was pure. Ganoosh allowed the petite figure to mount his back and then he walked slowly on. Suddenly she was overcome with fear of being caught with a boy and his horse.

She demanded to stop, and as soon as she had dismounted she ran off.

Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa

Weeks later she returned to the spot to wait for her magnificent four-legged secret, until it arrived with Darweesh and she experienced the magic again. The secret lasted more than two years and in that time, Dalia learned to ride alone. Darweesh would have done anything she asked, if only she had asked. In all that time, they never exchanged a word except on that first day.

When Darweesh saw her coming, he would avert his eyes to show no disrespect, turn 18 his back to her, and hold Ganoosh steady while she hitched up her thobe, pants underneath, mounted, and rode away. Darweesh would wait until she returned and go through the same ritual of modesty in reverse. To the villagers, Dalia was like a wild gypsy, born of Bedouin poetry and colors instead of flesh and blood. Most assumed the girl would simply grow out of her ways. What shame on her family.

All the boys are staring at her. The jingle of her ankle bracelets bothered the women. The unapologetic force that shone from her skin and floated off her hair reminded them of an irretrievable old bliss that they had willingly discarded. No one would have been the wiser had Dalia not fallen and broken her ankle, sparking a scandal that caught the attention of Hasan. The whole village was abuzz.

Darweesh thought of ways to defend Dalia, but he knew his involvement would bring a far greater punishment to bear on her. To restore his honor, he tied Dalia to a chair in the center of town and put a hot iron to the hand she was forced to admit had been the one that had stolen the horse. Dalia made no sound as the burning metal seared the skin of her right palm.

The crowd gasped. Al Rahma. But a man must be the ruler of his home. It was his right. La hawla wala quwatta ella billah. Dalia pulled the pain inward, the mean odor of burned flesh scorching the life at her core. Her complicity with nature, the intimacy of her hair with the wind, the jangling of her coin ankle bracelets, the sweet aroma of her sweat 19 when she toiled, the gypsy colors of her—all of it that day became an ash heap in the center of town beneath the deep blue sky.

Had she screamed, perhaps the fire would not have reached so deeply into her. But she did not. She spied a rabbit and transfixed them both in an impossible stare. She gripped the torture in her hand and held it there with a clench of her jaw as tears streaked her face. For the rest of her life, Dalia would have the unconscious habit of rubbing the tips of the fingers of her right hand back and forth on their palm while she gritted her teeth, giving the impression that she held something in her grip that was living and trying to get out.

With the determination that would characterize Hasan all his life, and with the reluctant blessing of his father, Hasan faced his mother with his decision. In the drama of scandal, she flailed her arms, tugged at her thobe with pleas to Allah, beat her chest, and slapped her own face. Yehya tried to reason with his wife. We cannot force him. That we promise a girl marriage to our son, then allow him to disobey us? What fault has my innocent niece committed to be rejected for a filthy Bedouin thief?

Let it be, woman! Zionists killing British and Palestinians every cursed day? On the marble steps of their home, Yehya exhaled through his precious nye, moved his fingers, and raised his brow at the first sound. He played for his trees, to resurrect simplicity and peace. She was furious.

She was still muttering her displeasure as she walked across the Persian rugs of her foyer, through the tiled grand arches, into the family room, where she struggled onto her knees to sit briefly on the floor cushion. Years earlier, Yehya had wanted to download sofas, like the British had, but Basima had refused; and now she thought sofas might be better.

Restless, she unfolded her prayer mat to submit to Allah. Ya, Yehya, how can you agree to this marriage! Only Darweesh understood the resolve with which Hasan defied their mother, for he too loved Dalia. On that day, Dalia watched through the little holes in the privacy mesh of her window as a convoy of men brought money and gold to her father. She was less moved by the impressive dowry than by the sight of Darweesh walking among those men. She had no say in the matter, though the idea of becoming an aroosa appealed to her, in the way dressing up like an adult appeals to little girls—but she wished it had been for Darweesh.

Aeeda was repeatedly smeared on and snatched off her legs, thighs, arms, belly, and buttocks. Dalia stretched her neck each time to survey the tiny forests of black hair extracted with every yank that seemed to send electric currents 21 through her skin. The tender flesh between her legs was most painful. Bismillah arrahman arraheem.

The women laughed goodheartedly. Come back to the world of women. She watched in the mirror as lines of kohl shaped her eyes with seduction and sketched on her face the age and maturity that she lacked. She was an aroosa, the pretty center of her culture, and all the little girls watched her as she had watched brides before her being prepared for marriage.

Heavy with glowing gifts hung around her neck and across her brow and dangling from her wrists, ankles, and ears, fourteen-year-old Dalia married Hasan Yehya Abulheja in a grand ceremony. Bejeweled with half her weight in gold, the small bride inhabited her wedding quietly, rubbing her hand unceasingly, her jaw motionless on tight hinges, even when kissed by well-wishers.

Mornings in Jenin

Before joining the women, the men celebrated separately, sacrificing a lamb, dancing, and making joy with song and music. Within ten months of the wedding, Dalia ingratiated herself with the village by bearing a son, whom she named Yousef. She could not help being impressed by the tenacity with which Dalia tackled her chores, the skill with which she helped her own mother deliver babies in the village, or the delight of her new husband in her company.

She was giddy, excited to have a female heir to her empire of enchanted herbs. Ten months after Yousef was born, Dalia gave birth to a stillborn child, for which she suffered a feverish grief, cloistering herself in lockjawed solitude. Bedouins are known to have their hands in black magic. How else could a girl like Dalia have gotten a man like Hasan to marry her? Three years later, when the olive trees were shedding their silver-green color, a bomb exploded in the near distance.

What the hell do they want from us? She took Yousef with her every week to the cemetery to 23 tend to that bed of roses. But as the danger of Zionist incursions intensified, she went to the cemetery alone, leaving her boys to the care of relatives and the protection of the village for a brief while each week.

Everyone in the family had his or her own grotesque version of the injury. Yousef, the only witness to the event, never spoke of it, not even when asked. Yousef was four years old at the time, the state of Israel was not yet born, and Ismael was almost six months. He was fussy that day, crying in the same crib that was once used to sleep his father. Though it was old and worn, Basima had insisted that Dalia use it for her children, for it had been blessed by a Syrian Sheikh, known to heal the sick and perform miracles.

When Dalia became pregnant with Ismael, Basima had taken it upon herself to reinforce the crib rails with cedarwood that she nailed herself. And she bought new lining and padding and nailed that, too, in place. With the unexpected weight of the crying, kicking baby, Yousef dropped Ismael. The weather was clear and crisp on the afternoon when Hasan and Ari left the formalities of mourning that would go on for forty days. They have armored cars and planes, even.

The sound of a nye swirled over the trees and Hasan instinctively turned toward the cemetery, squinting to see if his father was there. No one. Just a melody, its center carved out and filled with silence, as if the nye were crying. They are very well organized and you know the British disarmed the Arabs after the revolt years ago. Some of the orthodox Jews in the city have organized an anti-Zionist campaign.

They say creating a physical state of Israel is sacrilege. But powerful men in America have waged a relentless campaign to persuade Truman to recognize and support a Jewish state here. Father, too. But what happened in Europe. What Europe did. Not the Arabs. Jews have always lived here. He had read about the gas chambers, the camps, the horrors. And it was true: Mrs. One, two, three. Living in refugee camps for many years, yet to settle themselves they got another blow in when Arab-Israel war broke out.

Israeli soldiers carried out their massacre in Jenin, killing a number of innocent people including women and children.

Her brother was taken into prison where he met his lost brother who unfortunately had become an Israeli soldier fighting against his own people.

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When her brother left in to joined PLO for fighting against Israel and her mother died she was send to Jerusalem in a school which was also an Orphanage to study. The air here is too dense for hope. You are being offered a chance to liberate the life that lies in all of us. Take it. In United States, she tried to adjust with the American life while at the same time working and studying in the University.

In , when she was about to complete her graduation at the University of South Carolina she got a call from her brother, Yousef after 13 years.

Yousef had married Fatima and was living in refugee camp of Shatila in Lebanon. Fatima was expecting so they wanted to celebrate with Amal. Amal got happiness in her life as a family by marrying Majid, who was a doctor chosen by Fatima.

But destiny did not favoured her happiness for long as when in , the war broke out and Israel attacked Lebanon then she was asked by her husband and brother to leave for US where Fatima will join her followed by them. But unfortunately her loving husband was killed in an attack and Fatima and her niece, Falasteen was massacred by the Israeli forces and her brother deeply affected by the killing of his wife, daughter and unborn child willing to avenge their death with Israel forces.

His lost brother Ismael who was brought up by a Jewish family came to know about his Arab linking through Moshe, who gave him name; David. After knowing about his lost family he tried to search them and finally after many findings he was able to locate Amal in United States. He gave her a call in , willing to meet her and he did meet her there.

Amal, David with their children, Sara and Jacob decided to visit their Palestinian together to meet their relatives, see their land of birth. Amal tried to lived her childhood again by visiting all the places whom she used to visit with her childhood friend, Huda. But unfortunately again the war began and Israel forces started their operation again in Jenin massacring people. When the war ended, mistaking Israeli forces to be Red Cross Vehicle, Amal came out of the tent just to be killed by them saving her daughter.

Thus Amal died before meeting her brother, Yousef who was still alive. After her death, her brother was also shattered who found her sister at the end of life. A year after her mother died, Sarah was still in Jenin, helping in the rebuilding effort with occasional funds from wealthy Gulf States.