There Will Be Peace in the Holy Land

Abstract

a ESSAY I n the late 1950s, in the middle of the United States (we lived in Ferguson, a quiet, leafy community barely known even by people on the other side of St. Louis), my Palestinian father, Aziz Shihab, received many speaking invitations—from church groups, civic organizations, and schools. The word “holy” often figured into his presentation titles as it became known that my charismatic, thin father, who resembled a Palestinian Desi Arnaz, was able to “create a scene” in his melodious English and maintain his optimistic hopes about a better day coming soon, for all. He talked about his simple childhood, his lack of toys, the echoing streets of Jerusalem, the friendliness of people from different backgrounds and faiths, the openness of his own Muslim family when he wanted to march, as a boy, with candlecarrying pilgrims to Bethlehem. Palestinians played bagpipes. Kids traded desserts. The world was full of mixing and mingling. He spoke of Jesus and Mohammed, priests at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre vying for the best spots to erect their own shrines, and the fragrance of pita cooking in a fire, and yes, he was sure the people would figure it out, understand how to live together, and the Holy City would be holy again, for Palestinians, Jews, and Christians all together. He had come from a magical, spartan world full of mystical stories and twining histories, and even a waft of incense could spirit him away. I recall people asking him how he could speak English so well. There was a British mandate, he said. I worked for the BBC starting at age fourteen. I learned it in school. His parents could not speak English. He liked short sentences. No, they had no camels. It was more a donkey kind of place. Some people had camels, Bedouins, maybe. My grandmother remembered cowering in a ditch as a child, when Turkish soldiers came blazing through on horseback during the Turkish mandate. Why were there so many mandates? In retrospect, it shocks me that my father’s high hopes were so firmly entrenched despite the 1948 Balfour Declaration being so recent in memory for him. Colonization was still an aberration. There Will Be Peace in the Holy Land by Naomi Shihab Nye In memory, Aziz Shihab 1927–2007 He would actually pitch his well-described suitcase into the New York harbor upon arrival on a ship. WORLDLIT.ORG 43 SLIMAN MANSOUR / COURTESY OF THE ARTIST COVER FEATURE THERE WILL BE PEACE IN THE HOLY LAND | BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE Second-class citizenship could not stand. We lived in Ferguson. His family had been thrown out of their middle-class home in old downtown Jerusalem and skedaddled to a West Bank village where my grandmother had inherited a ruin of an ancient house. She would live out her 106 years there. My father’s best friend had been killed right next to him by an armed Jewish commando as the two young men sat on a bench. My own mother, whispering in the kitchen, did not ever ask him about that. How could anyone be so hopeful? Everything was in turmoil. One person’s victory, another person’s tragedy. My father had stared at the horizon, fixated, applied for a Palestinian-studentsabroad scholarship from somebody, and fled the country. I think he felt guilty about leaving. He hadn’t stayed to help fix things up. Carrying the word “hope” with him in his pants cuffs and jacket sleeves and the slim satin pocket of his beat-up suitcase, he would actually pitch his well-described suitcase into the New York harbor upon arrival on a ship. Why, Daddy, why? Why would you throw your clothes away? I was tired of them. I was starting over. That’s really sad, Daddy! No, it isn’t. It was—hopeful. I thought it was terrible because he had also thrown away family photographs, family memories, which he only remembered later. He told the religious hopefuls of greater St. Louis that things would be solved very soon if only outsiders would stop intruding in the Holy Land’s affairs. My Palestinian grandfather, whom I never met, died when I...