RAMALLAH REMEMBERED

Press, 7 April 1979, Page 16

RAMALLAH REMEMBERED

By

HAZEL KENNY

President Sadat shakes the hand of President Begin in the United States and President Carter hugs them both. The world sighs with relief at the prospect of peace in a tiny corner after all these years. The “Middle East Question” was> and is. as complex. as emotional, and as twisted as Northen Ireland and the Irish Question. I should hate to pontificate on either even though I was born in the latter and married in the former but the present situation does bring back a host of memories.

We belonged to that now defunct once farflung and, I still think, illustrious band His/Her Majesty’s Overseas Colonial Service. Amazing how anything so seemingly necessary, so world-wide, could have dropped out of sight so completely — a stone down a well. But in 1946 we still existed and I was reminded of that era by the fact that at the signing of the Peace Treaty in Washington there were protestors. There is nothing very unusual about protestors in today’s world but they linked up with a programme I saw on television some time ago. It was called “World Watch” and featured a group of vociferous, homesick, bitter, almost bewildered, American-based. Palestianborn Arabs. They came, they said, mostly from Ramallah. At that I sat forward on my seat. Ramallah was an Arab village four miles from Jerusalem. I once spent four days there — days which helped shape the course of my life. Palestine was part of the great Ottoman Empire until the Turks backed the wrong side in the First World War. After that Palestine emerged as a little wedge-shaped country, a tiny country, that was

given to Britain under a Mandate. A mandate, is, I quote: "A commission to act for another, especially one given by the League of Nations to administer certain colonies of the defeated enemy powers for the benefit of the inhabitants.” Britain nursed that thorny baby for 24 years. The trouble was, “the inhabitants” were divided in their opinion as to what was “for their benefit.” In 1936, the Arabs protested that they wanted their country. It had been liberated from the Turks and promised to them by

Lawrence of Arabia. In 1946, the Jews were determined to have their homeland. promised to them by Moses and thereafter by Balfour. No wonder Palestine was referred to locally as “the Thrice Promised Land.” Balfour did in fact promise a “National Home for the Jews” and at one period Britain offered Uganda for just such a purpose. It was considered and rejected, the Zionists would have nowhere but their own “Promised Land.” Uganda would have been a much better deal for it is a large, very

beautiful, very fertile country, but without the impact — historical, emotional, and religious aura — of Palestine. It is interesting to speculate where Idi Amin would have been today and what direction world affairs would have taken had the Jews accepted Uganda. But in 1946 both sides wanted Britain out so that so that they could settle the q u e stion of ownership between themselves. And in 1946, after six years and a half, my husband was given his much over-due leave. It was to this fascinating, murderous, country we returned after three months. Travel during the war was dangerous but organised. Travel for some years after the war was hon-dangerous, but troubled and often chaotic.

Our homeward journey meant four days in an hotel in Alexandria, at our

expense, while we awaited the coming of a little cargo-cum-passenger ship of 4000 tons. It had accommodation for 12 passengers. A delightful, if somewhat slow, trip.

The journey back was something else. We had to travel separately. My husband was ordered to go overland by what was known as “The Medlock Route” and take 12 new police recruits with him. After the overland journey they embarked on a Liberty ship at Marseilles. My ship was a former White Star liner which had been cannablised during the war for troopcarrying. I shared a dormitory with 21 other women. We had two hooks above our bunks and a locker each. These

were our amenities although we were all bona fide passengers.

Food was still rationed and poor; the crew supercilious. The days of the cruise ships were a long way behind and a long way in front. We were caught in the vacuum between.

My husband and I met up at Port Said both somewhat battered and were even more tired when we reached Jerusalem. I looked up at the windows of our Government flat and noted that behind the curtains which I had painstakingly made there was movement.

Another Colonial wife opened the door and regarded us with enquiry. Yes, our furniture was still locked up in the spare room and if we had come to remove it she would certainly be very glad of the extra bedroom.. I have never felt so homeless before or since.

Paddy (my husband) volunteered to go to Headquarters and find out what was going on. I was left standing on her/my doorstep. The possessor of the flat could not do otherwise than invite me in. Over a cup of tea we made stilted conversation while I wondered how I could get around to asking this total stranger to take down the curtains and lampshades as they belonged to me and did not “go with the flat.”

At the end of an hour Paddy returned to say we had been transferred to Ramallah and he was now going again to look for a truck to take us and our belongings to that little Arab village. The two wives had another cup of tea and more stilted conversation. I never did get

around to laying claim to the curtains and lampshades; I left them in situ.

Ramallah was regarded as good posting — very near Jerusalem, and yet not of it. A pleasant little Arab village; a good climate with a rather cold winter, Ramallah was not to be sneezed at. We did not get the opportunity to sneeze at it; our stay lasted four days. Jerusalem is 3000 ft above sea level and I remember it as my favourite city. A lovely climate with the four seasons definitely defined, even unto hailstones in winter and the occasional fall of snowj Ramallah was slightly colder. It rained, vicious stair-rod rain, during our four days.

Paddy went about his business, which included finding out what was going on. He found out what was going on all right. The British Govern-

ment had eventually decided to take serious ac< tion against the Jewish Terrorists. No more of what we considered to be, “pussy-footing around,” while our men were being blown-up or shot down. Ail women and children were being sent home; only those without children and with jobs were to remain. Women and children off to Britain and the rest to move into Jerusalem behind barbed whire while the Army and Police straightened the place out. Law and order was to be restored. It was called “Operation Polly” and some of the women and children were already on their way. I sat on my unpacked suitcase and vowed nobody, but nobody, was

going to turn me around and send me back. I had only been in the country two days and had suffered a grievous journey. We had been separated for five years during the war and I was not going back. What was more I had a Government job. I rang up my boss, who was the Head of a Department. and told him his Personal Secretary was back. He asked when I would be behind my desk again. I thought it only fair to tell him what was not obvious, but would eventually be, that I was three months pregnant.

A cautious man, a most conservative man, a man who was wrapped in red tape from head to foot, I shall never know what moved him to make such an uncharacteristic reply, but he said that I could bring the baby in and put it in a basket under my

desk for all he cared, and my job was awaiting me. This man to whom the letter of the law was hot a letter but the whole alphabet was aiding and abetting me in dodging the draft home. We left Ramallah on the fourth day. Once more Paddy took our belongings back to Jerusalem on a truck. He was delayed and I spent four hours in a completely empty flat. Not even a cushion, not even a little foot-stool. An empty flat in an almost empty building. Walls, floors, and ceilings, but not even an out-of-date magazine. The old newspapers had been used for packing. Everything had been tidied up, the floors swept, and the broom put in the truck. I was the only atom of anything left — not even an old tin can to keep me company.

Four hours is an awfully long time with only, walls, floors, and ceilings. For a while I sat on the floor, back to wall and legs straight out, then curled up. Either way a wall and a floor becomes hard and tiresome after a while — particularly if the floor is stone. Then I remembered the toilet. I put the flap down and sat on it. It was not the best of seats but it was a seat... I never realised before how dependent we were on furniture, or cushions, or carpets, or mattresses, or something to complement the dimensions ot a room. In the event “Operation Polly” never came to fruition. America brought pressure to bear on Britain and she decided to relinquish the Mandate. Things dragged on pretty much as they had done before. The wives and

children came back about 12 months later — just -ln time to pack up and ®o again.

Palestine has dropped out of sight, just as the Colonial Service has dropped out of sight, just, as the British Empire half dropped out of sight. It is all overlaid by history; by’ the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, Jordan — new names for old places. It wanders through promises given and promises broken; rights of own? ership, Biblical prophecies, homelands, the dispossessed and the dispossessors, the quick and the dead.

There are only two things I am sure of — that there once was a country called “Palestine,” for I lived in it. That there once was an Arab village called “Ramallah,” for I spent four days there.