Open Writing

So the Haifa Arabs left. I saw them leave voluntarily. There was no coercion. I saw no Jews pointing rifles at them, no Jews flinging them into trucks or frogmarching them to the border. In fact, there was not a single Jew in sight.

Sadly I watched the first convoy move off, a motley collection of old, battered cars and trucks of antique vintage, their roofs piled high with household goods precariously roped on, beds and bedding, bundles wrapped in sheets, the mudguards of the vehicles loaded with cartons and boxes.

One car pulled a trailer with two cows in it. Another truck followed, overflowing with women and children shouting and weeping; another trailer passed with a cargo of goats. One truck had about twenty fowls in the back and as the truck jotted to start, the fowls all took off, trying to fly away but unable to do so as each had a leg tied to the truck with twine. It would have been a laughable sight, had it not been so tragic.

With a heavy heart I watched them leave. They left because of fear, leaving behind their homes and furniture, lands, possessions, bank balances, their schools, their teachers. And worse, they left behind their history, their heritage, their dreams and plans — never to return.

I thought for a moment of the contrast between the Jewish immigrants, soon to leave Cyprus to settle in the new State of Israel and who would be filled with happiness and hope for the future, and the Arab emigrants, filled with despair and facing an unknown future. They left, saying, Allah kareem (Allah is generous) and we will return, Insh'allah. Their hopes of return, alas, never to be fulfilled. It was very, very sad to see so many poor people leave everything behind.

More than half the Arab population fled from Palestine. Many went to the Lebanon where the poorer ones were housed in canvas camps, which soon became awful, stench-ridden eyesores. Most of the Palestinians still living there today have never lived anywhere else although, el hamdolilah, their accommodation is no longer under canvas. Those Palestinians who were better off spent months of fruitless efforts trying to obtain from the Lebanese Government the necessary Permit de Travail to start looking for work. The Lebanese Government itself was faced with huge unemployment problems from its own nationals, and the large influx of migrants worsened the situation.

For the five of us remaining behind in Haifa, the life was humiliating as well as harrowing. Leaving the house for work I was stopped as I left Mount Carmel, at a British Army checkpoint, questioned and searched. Next, entering the Jewish area, I was stopped at their checkpoint and interrogated while my car was searched, and again on leaving their area. The same procedures took place at the Arab checkpoints.

It was also dangerous. The Jews were arresting and interrogating our Arab employees, holding them, and in most cases releasing them after a day or so. For some it was difficult to travel to work because of hostilities, so I used to pick them up on the way to Six Acres.

One of them, Ibraheim, had not been interrogated, so he lay down flat on the floor in the back of my car, while the other passengers, who had been interrogated and had been given passes by the Jews, covered him up as we came to the Jewish checkpoint. Slowing down, but moving very slowly as the Jewish sentry tried to question me, I would smile broadly and give him a cheery wave while calling, "Shalom! Shalom! Shalom! How are you? English, English, IPC," and waving my IPC identity card under his nose, while the others held up their passes for him to see. Alas, eventually they caught up with Ibraheim, after which the pantomime was no longer required.