Bal'a - بلعا: Balaa's Mountains and My Father's Gardens

Homeland is dear to all of us. A parade of pictures emerges in my mind, in seemingly infinite profusion. Lasting impressions in never ending sequence, the strong, sweet fragrance of orange blossoms in the gardens of Al-Khalayel (my father?s land in Balaa); lizards sunbathing on low limestone walls, hot dust on the roads squeezing through the naked toes of boys, living an everyday life of bomb explosions and blood Where does one begin?

Balaa?s mountains are incredibly beautiful, white rock mountains, floating on a sea of blossoms of every shade of white, mauve, lilac and deep pink perfectly set amid the gentle green foliage of the olive, almond and cherry trees. Everything exists in a delicate blending harmony, nothing stands out or contrasts. Everything looks as though it has always been part of the landscape ? like the people themselves as indeed the Palestinian nation has been.

Thousands of olive trees, small and hardy, clothe the hills of Balaa. Sweet; unobtrusive trees, clinging to every impossible spot where a seed can germinate and put down strong roots not unlike the people. These tiny trees, with their exquisite, delicately colored foliage, blend in everywhere with their ancient hills, giving to all, for all of their life.

The mountains are an idyll, a feast for the eyes with their extensive olive; citrus and pomegranate groves. A very rich farmland, for not a mile on which a plant can grow is wasted as far as the eyes can see. Under the trees, carpeting the whole landscape, the bright green of the new grass is like emerald scattered with thousands of cherry anemones, a pre blood-red color matched by millions of white chamomile flowers, blue iris (sawsan) and miles and miles of colorful other flowers.

Mountain rock rises up in steep, horizontal strata of neatly tended traces; colored white terra-cotta, cream and purple. In the spring time the land turns silvery green with stunning beauty, a Persian carpet of grass, scattered with jewel colors of opal, ruby and sapphire made by the dew. It shrines like millions of diamonds to accentuate the mixture of colors perfectly.

From the hills and orchards, you can pick the zaatar (wild oregano) that you dip in olive oil to make delicious sandwiches with. In Balaa the land is very fertile; everything is natural. No fertilizers are used because Israel has banned them.

The greatest pleasure that the fellahin of Palestine enjoy is eating the zaatar with freshly baked wheat bread; Zaatar that we dip in olive oil and make our delicious (zeit & zaatar) sandwiches every morning. It takes a long time before it makes its way to the sandwich. Bread is baked on a smooth round stone aged hundreds of years in ?taboon? or eartern wood-fire oven.

Pomegranates (Rumman) are very special fruit for Balaa.. the poem about the pomegranates of Balaa. They are used as models for the beloved breasts, in Balaa love songs they say, (your breasts, O you is like Balaawi pomegranates, how sweet to pluck it in the morning and to open the garden.)

I remember in my youth, my father talking about the Palestinian birds and told me how he used to play and hunt them. There were birds like the chukar (shunnar), mallard (Khdairi), thrush nightingale (Andaleeb), Bee-Eater (Wirwar), Curlew (karawan), finch (hassoun), thrush (somman), hoopoe (hodhod), sand partridge (hajal). He hated the raven (Ghrab El-Bein).

My father taught me about the long Sarha to the olive groves? this is not just an excursion? this means to wander aimlessly, no restrictions to time or place.. just going where his spirit takes him to nourish his soul and rejuvenate himself. Sarha implies letting go, to feel high, a drug-free high, Palestinian style. My father meandered from the hills of Balaa, to Mahmoud's clan history, through Palestinian history, and finally the foreboding present.

In 1973, he took all the children and we went with him on our first Sarha, we walked and walked.. we accidentally stumbled onto our family land. We went to Al-Aked (dome house), the family?s first home, long abandoned, making it possible for me to reconnect with my dead ancestor through this architectural wonder.

The key to a house in Palestine and the deed to the land of the ancestors are invariably the only concrete residue of the memory that furnishes the proof that the homeland, with its inherited crafts and traditions, was indeed a reality and not some fantasy dreamed up by politicians or ideologists. It dates back to the Canaanite period and was mentioned in the ancient Egyptian tablets. My mother?s pride in her hometown in Um-Khalid has not abated. Netanya did not exist then. Neither time nor geographic dislocation can diminish the pride she takes in her village.


My parents are always transported to the past. The point of no return has truly passed for many hundreds of people. The new beginning in unfamiliar Kuwait was not easy, but they made it. They found their way back from dispersal to rejoin each other. After all the terrible times, fathers and mothers in reunited families told their children about Palestine, about the land whence they had come and which they could not forget.

My father brought seeds from his house in Balaa and planted them in our house in Kuwait.

While most Palestinians in Kuwait in Hawalli lived in slum housing, we were blessed to have the Kuwait Oil Company?s (KOC) housing, in Ahmadi. Our house was a cultural refinement - a paradise on earth.

The birds nesting in the birdhouse, right outside our Garden Room window, totally delighted and fascinated me. When I sat at the dining table inside, my eyes were naturally drawn to the windows of our Garden Room, right into their nesting place. These little birds fluttered about all day long, inspiring many pleasant thoughts and sometimes even a poem or two.

He cared for his charming Jasmine woody climbing shrub with sweetly fragrant, white flowers and glossy leaves that grew in the sandy soil. He built and painted the trellis in white and green. That colour didn?t please him so he painted it white and turquoise and kept polishing it. It was fertilized every spring with stinking manure, carefully pruned in early summer and given plenty of water - water that he smuggled from the bathroom. KOC policy only allowed brackish water, which would have killed his plants.

He had another kind of Arabian Jasmine that grew like a vertical bush with shiny dark green leaves and aromatic little white flowers. Some of the evergreen leaves were patterned in whorls of three and others are in opposite pairs. It is called ?Phull?. The waxy white flowers were about 1 in 2.5 cm across, borne in clusters of 3 to 12 flowers, and very sweet smelling and faded to pink as they aged. They began to bloom in May, and as long as it was warm and they were in full sun, they continued to bloom throughout the summer. People who came to our house were greeted with this glorious smell.

I tried to plant the Arabian jasmine ?Phull? in Ottawa house but it did not survive.

My mother tearfully looked at him, remembering how her father dug and hid his precious belongings, under the Jasmine tree, in his garden in Um-Khalid before British soldiers forced him out in 1948, never to return. He never got over it.

My father was fiercely determined to rid himself of weeds. Me, hoping to make a wish, I once tore a weed from the grass and began to blow on it, spreading its spores around the garden. "Don't do that," he screamed, "That will only intensify the problem. The spores plant themselves in the soil and produce more and more weeds and jeopardize all the other plants in the garden."

My father liked to play with his brew of new earth, sinking his hands in to feel its warmth and carefully stir it. He screamed if we messed up his garden. My father's garden was free to flourish and survived along with my father's wishes.

His hand was twice the size of mine, hardened and very coarse. I can still see, and feel his strength and resiliency penetrate the ground as the knife quickly slid deep down into the earth. The weed had no future. Twisting and turning the knife around the roots keeping them intact so as not to break off their endings, the weed was removed entirely.

The Jasmine was the Lady of the Garden without competition. Many children played here, running around and playing games. When they wearied of their play, the many trees invited them to rest under their fragrant and calming foliage.

My daughter Danah was born in 1986 ? she was a dictator baby, crying all night, nothing satisfying her and totally depriving me of sleep. I lost my smile. Nothing satisfied her. We took turns carrying her. We were creative, dancing dabkeh for her, turning 180 degrees - once to the right and once to the left, singing different songs for her. I walked from room to room walking, carrying, singing. I was scared of going to sleep in the office, sometimes feeling faint in front of my computer screen, always too tired. Even when she started to crawl, then to walk at 10 months, she still wanted to be turned, to hear my songs and go through the same rituals.

The only thing that could calm her up was taking her to my father?s garden. As soon as she smelled those jasmines she was mysteriously quiet. She still has very strong nose. Her crying was heart breaking. I resisted my guilt and wasted my time trying to convince her that midnight was not the right time to go to a garden. She got upset, kicking her feet on the door and cried hysterically telling me in her baby language she wanted to go out to the garden. I walked in the garden like a drunken person, tired and exhausted. She enjoyed the birds and the Jasmines and I was forced to watch. If only I could have known, deep inside, how much I loved this garden, I wouldn?t have been upset with Danah doing this because I left Kuwait to Canada shortly after and could not enjoy my father?s garden anymore.

My daughter Rania used to mess up my father?s garden and opened the rabbit cage, releasing the rabbits to run away and dig into his garden. He screamed, ?Rabbits are the worst enemy to the garden. I must catch them, dead or alive?. There started his war against the rabbits. He chased them and returned them back to their cage. They were so smart they could get through chicken wire! We all ran with him to help with the mess my daughter created.

Balaa was famous for (in addition to its olives, peaches and pomegranate) its educated residents who migrated in search of work. Palestinian cities had begun to attract villagers, especially those who could read and write. Jerusalem, in addition to Jaffa and Haifa, was one of the prime destinations for the villagers of Balaa, who usually worked in education or religious institutions. Many migrated to Kuwait.

My mother, from the coastal side of Palestine, could not help but think of the parallel with her own family, who had grown up in the coastal Palestine and was always nostalgic, craving sycamore (jummez) fruit, sycamore tree that does not grow in Balaa mountains.

Gardening is a big deal for my father. It bonded the entire family. He always talked about the mountains in Balaa. He said, ?During the harvest days we used to help each other and work till the last person finished his field. Life would have been impossible if we hadn?t done that. (My daughter, nowadays I sleep on a bed. I don?t work. I eat the best food there is and my body is at rest, but I tell you, I don?t sleep during the night.)

Remembering all these things now as I sit in my harbor front home in St-John?s, I?m inspired, I am reminded of Palestine every time I look out the window and see the craggy rocks that are so alike those in Balaa.

I start dreaming about setting up a rock garden that might be like my father?s garden in Balaa. Rock gardens are very popular in Newfoundland. In that spirit, I stand for a long time admiring garden stones. Perfect for Palestine! They are constant reminders of Palestine, and awaken my dreams of return. I decide I can grow a real garden of Palestine here. I will gather rocks that are plentiful so that I can paint messages of love and return. I will write the names of my ancestors, one rock for each, to inspire me. That terrain is in my blood. I know every tree and every rock from my parent?s stories, repeated so many times. I tell the same stories to my four daughters and they will always live in our hearts.

I will be able to calculate the number of generations who lived and died in my family because this task is made simple for me by the way Arabs names are constructed? Arab names tell the story of their genealogy, inheriting five names.. from the child?s direct lineage and in the proper order.

My father taught me how to count my name until I reach the clan (Mahmoud). I can count up to 20 names. That is 20 generations - 20 generations worth of childbirth, home building, olive planting and harvesting, toiling and idling, friendship and family fights, betrayal and loyalty, punishment and rewards, love affairs, weddings and funerals - they will all be written on my garden stones. With these rocks of history, memories and tradition will always live on!

Rana Abdulla - Canada