LYDD: THE
NEED FOR ROOTS
On
Saturday Omar and I left for the town of Lydd with two
Mennonite Central Committee workers.
Lydd is in Israel, near the Tel Aviv airport, just off
the four lane road between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.
Omar’s mother was born in Lydd and had been
baptized in the Orthodox church of St. George. One of the
tombs of Saint George is in the church crypt.
The church of
St. George and a mosque in Lydd
In July1948 Omar’s mother, an infant less than a
year old, was forced to leave in the arms of her family
after Jewish troops stormed into town. Some of the Muslim
families fled into a mosque where they were killed. Many
Orthodox families went to Saint George’s for
safety. Later, they fled on foot to Ramallah, more than
three days away. Some of his family settled in Ramallah,
others finally settled in Jordan.
The Palestinians call the relocation of the Palestinians
”the Catastrophe.” As we walked in Lydd I
found myself moved by the plight of refugees – here
and throughout the world.
We searched for the neighborhood where Omar’s
grandparents had lived. We found it near the Greek
Orthodox cemetery and a fairly new Greek Center.
We found a few houses there, inhabited by an extended
Bedouin family, some of whom had lived there for more
than fifty years.
One of the men showed us around, pointing out the only
remnant of the old houses that had existed in the 1940s.
He also talked about the Greek Center which had been
built in the 1990s on part of the site of Omar’s
grandparents’ homes and the Greek cemetery.
He spoke of the beauty of the place in the past with
olive trees and many other fruits trees. He pointed out
the Jewish cemetery next to the road. It was established
there he told us, because the farm land had been soft,
due to the care that Omar’s relatives had given it
for many years.
But that fertile land and beautiful neighborhood had only
olive trees and poor houses. But the Bedouin told us that
they were being pressured to move.
Yet in the midst of this we experienced what I have
experienced among the poor. We were welcomed as guests
and given coffee to drink.
With Tim and
Omar beneath an olive tree
on the lands Omar's grandfather once
cultivated
THE SMELL
OF POVERTY
Poverty
has a distinctive smell. But my nose hadn’t
detected it in Palestine in my first four days. But on
Saturday, we went to Lydd, in Israel.
As we sought out the Orthodox cemetery, we passed through
a block of apartment buildings. They reminded me of poor
buildings I’ve seen in El Salvador. And I smelled
poverty.
Was it a smell of garbage, left to rot? Was it the smell
of urine and poor plumbing systems? Was it the smell of
trash and garbage?
But it was there. It is a smell that may turn one’s
stomach. But that day it burnt my heart.