Embracing My Debwani Identity

Enaam Salem

My first trip to Palestine was with my uncle at simplicity in that experience, Deir Debwan at that the age of four. You could say I was his sidekick stage in my life did not satisfy my very American exthroughout my childhood and so when he decided pectations. to take a trip to visit my grandparents in the early ’90s, it only seemed natural for me to tag along. My On one occasion, I recall the excitement my first cognizant memories of my childhood are on the grandfather had as he and my grandmother preflight to Tel Aviv. I recall standing on the seats and pared to take me to the Tel, which sits at one of the trying to force my friendship onto everyone aboard highest points of the town and overlooks the entire that flight. At the time, almost everyone who travlandscape. The adult in me now would describe it as eled into Palestine through Tel Aviv, Arab or nonabsolutely riveting and enchanting. My four-yearArab, used Tower Airlines. Now that I reflect back old self begged to differ. Seeing the excitement on on that moment, I am almost certain my very Palestheir faces meant only one thing: “We were probably tinian presence did not excite all those around me. going to Disneyland!” I recall the disappointment they Upon arrival, we of course received the “royal VIP” “To believe we can disarm our chilfelt when I threw a tantrum at the shock of arriving at treatment and my four-yeardren of their American privilege at what seemed like an empty old self did not feel so welthe gates of Palestine is truly a stretch plot of land. When we arcomed by the condescending soldiers at the airport. of the adult imagination.” rived at the Tel’ I was sorely disillusioned. For one thing, Though I did not understand the political context at we certainly had not arrived the time, I knew there was nothing normal about in Orlando and there certainly was no Magic Kinghaving soldiers question my uncle and I for hours as dom or Cinderella’s Castle awaiting my royal little we tried to enter our homeland. self. What lay there was a plot of agricultural land at the top of a steep hill neatly lined with rows of olive

Arriving in Deir Debwan after what seemed to trees. In fact, the reaction my son had to almost eveme like a week of traveling, everything seemed so rything I was excited to show him during our most small and not as grandiose as my family had hyped recent trip in the summer of 2018 was all too familiar it to be. The streets were narrow and bumpy, the as it was almost identical to my own years ago. To houses seemed so close together, and the air seemed believe we can disarm our children of their Ameristale and dry. In short, the world around me simply can privilege at the gates of Palestine is truly a looked like it had been placed in a dryer for an overstretch of the adult imagination. Nevertheless, those extended cycle. Nevertheless, my grandparents were olive trees I had underestimated years ago were elated as they greeted us and welcomed us home what I later learned to be the source of my late along with an entourage of relatives I had never seen grandfather’s income, as he had sold olive oil or whose presence I had never registered prior and throughout Palestine to sustain his family. In short, whose stories I would eventually become all too fathose olive trees are at the very root of who we are miliar with as an adult. In an ideal world, I’d love to as a family not just in a cultural and patriotic sense describe that trip as the most remarkable but that but in every sense. The adult in me now would pass would be unjust. Almost everyone who interacted no opportunity to spend my summers sipping on a with me throughout that trip can live to tell you warm cup of tea with mint in that very same Tel what a spoiled little brat I was throughout those two overlooking towns over and catching a glimpse of weeks. While I can now look back and appreciate the the Dead Sea from aboard that mountaintop.

My relationship with the town of my parents and ancestors is, like most first-generation descendants of immigrants, intricate. As an adult, I appreciate and value my Palestinian and Debwani identity in ways I did not as a child. That was not always the case. In the late 90’s when my parents decided to move us to Palestine, I protested and fought the move. Little did I know at the time, as I look back at the experiences that made me who I am, those were soon to be the most formidable years of my life. Deir Debwan soon grew on me and became very much a part of who I am. Deir Debwan soon came to mean endless road trips with my parents as my father toured us through every geographical landscape without ever once referencing a map or a navigation system. I know as a child he probably protested those geography lessons but as his offspring, we appreciated his acute command of the discipline, or at least I know I did. Deir Debwan also meant unsupervised playdates with cousins and friends without having to worry about New York City traffic or scheduled playdates, for everyone was simply a short walk away.

Life in Deir Debwan meant walking down to the local dukkana just to buy a Ali-Baba chocolate bar or an ice-cream on the hot sunny days with the shekels my grandfather spoiled me with in exchange for an unsolicited kiss on the cheek or for reciting him a poem I had just memorized for school. It meant passing by people and saying salaam or wishing them a great afternoon because everyone there was somehow related or at least knew who I was. It meant eating the freshest seasonal fruits from my grandmother’s garden, watering plants with my grandfather in the shade of the afternoon right before the sunset and harvesting his tomatoes, cucumbers and green peppers for his traditional evening salad. It meant packing Maklouba picnics under the olive trees during the olive harvest season.

Living in Deir Debwan and attending private schools in Ramallah alongside my brothers also meant facing a disturbing political reality I was sheltered from understanding while living in the United States. Traveling to and from school meant facing sporadic and untimed military checkpoints, unexplained closures, and unforeseen harassment by soldiers half the age of my father. In a matter of two months, my parents had to relocate my brothers and me to three different schools to avoid traveling through checkpoints. In New York, I had been to one school since kindergarten. In short, living in Deir Debwan also exposed me to the most egregious and inhumane military occupation, one that does not distinguish between children and adults but only between Arabs and non-Arabs.

As Palestinian Americans, our generation stands apart in the way we reflect on our Palestinian towns and villages. I believe it takes a certain experience or immersion to romanticize one’s connection with a plot of land the way parents and grandparents do. If we wish to foster that same level of adulation we have to our Palestinian towns and villages onto our children and the generations to come, then the onus is on us to work towards a better future for all of Palestine. Continuing to share our stories and anecdotes with our children, accompanying them on trips to the homeland will hopefully instill within them a fervor and appreciation for Palestine. Perhaps our children will do better than us. After all, it took my son just about two weeks into a five-week trip to appreciate the scenery and soak in the blaad environment. Now, on the top of his summer bucket -list is to spend his summers in Palestine every year. He takes after his mama.