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In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.
The Book and the Author
The Book: Clove Thorns The Author: Yahya Ibrahim Al-Sinwar
A Palestinian from a family that migrated from the city of Ashkelon in 1948 to the Gaza Strip.
- Born in 1962 in Khan Yunis Refugee Camp.
- Earned a Bachelor's degree in Arabic Language and Literature from the Islamic University of Gaza, and was among the pioneers of the Islamic Resistance in Palestine.
- Imprisoned in early 1988, sentenced to life imprisonment, and has remained a prisoner in the occupation's jails since that date.
- Wrote this novel, 'Clove Thorns,' blending his memories and the story of his people, encompassing their pains and hopes. He made it the story of every Palestinian and all Palestinians, in a dramatic work with real events and mostly fictional characters, with some based on real people.
- The novel addresses most of the key milestones in Palestinian history since the setback of 1967 up to the early stages of the blessed Al-Aqsa Intifada.
- This novel was written in the darkness of captivity in the occupation's prisons in Palestine. Dozens strived to copy it and attempt to hide it from the eyes and tainted hands of the torturers, exerting tremendous effort in doing so, working like ants to bring it into the light, to be accessible to readers and perhaps to be depicted on screens, presenting a true picture of the reality in the Land of Isra.
Author's Preface
This is not my personal story, nor is it the story of any particular individual, although all its events are real. Each event, or each set of events, pertains to this or that Palestinian. The only fiction in this work is its transformation into a novel revolving around specific characters, to fulfill the form and requirements of a novelistic work. Everything else is real; I have lived it, and much of it I have heard from the mouths of those who themselves, their families, and their neighbors have experienced it over decades on the beloved land of Palestine.
I dedicate this to those whose hearts cling to the land of Isra and Mi'raj, from the ocean to the Gulf, indeed, from ocean to ocean.
Yahya Ibrahim Al-Sinwar
Beersheba Prison, 2004
Chapter one
The winter of 1967 was heavy, refusing to depart and competing with the spring trying to peek through with its bright, warm sun. The winter fought back with clouds gathering in the sky, and then the rain poured down heavily, flooding the simple homes in Al-Shati refugee camp in Gaza City. Streams ran through the camp's alleys, invading the homes and crowding the residents in their small rooms with floors lower than the nearby street level.
Time and again, the winter floodwaters surged into our small home's courtyard and then inside the house where our family had been living since settling down after migrating from the town of Faluja in the Occupied Territories in 1948. Each time, fear gripped me and my three brothers and sister, who were all older than me. My father and mother would rush to lift us off the ground, and my mother would hurriedly raise the bedding before the invading waters soaked it. Being the youngest, I would cling to my mother's neck alongside my infant sister, who was usually in her arms in such situations.
Often, I woke up at night to my mother's hands shifting me aside to place an aluminum pot or a large clay dish on her bed to catch the water droplets seeping through the crack in the tiled roof covering that small room. A pot here, a clay dish there, and a third container somewhere else. I would try to sleep again, sometimes succeeding, only to be awakened by the sound of water droplets hitting the accumulated water in that container rhythmically. When the container was full or nearly full, the water would splash around with each drop. My mother would then get up to replace the full container with a new one and go outside to empty it.
I was five years old, and on a morning during winter, when the spring sun was trying to reclaim its natural place and erase the traces of the winter's dark nightly assault on the camp, my seven-year-old brother, Mohammed, took my hand, and we walked through the camp's streets to its outskirts where an Egyptian army camp was stationed.
The Egyptian soldiers at that camp were very fond of us. One of them got to know us and called us by our names. Whenever we appeared, he would shout, "Mohammed, Ahmad... come here..." So we would go to him and stand beside him, lowering our heads in anticipation of what he usually gave us. He would reach into the pocket of his military pants and pull out a piece of pistachio candy for each of us. We would grab our pieces and start devouring them eagerly. The soldier would pat our shoulders, stroke our heads, and tell us to go back home. Then we would start dragging our feet back through the camp's alleyways.
Winter eventually left after a long stay and severity, and the weather began to warm up wonderfully. The rain no longer ambushed us with its calamities. I thought a long time had passed since the wait for winter, and that it wouldn't return soon. However, I sensed an atmosphere of anxiety and confusion around me. Everyone at home was in a much worse state than those rainy nights. I couldn't comprehend what was happening, but it wasn't normal, not even on winter nights. My mother was filling all her containers with water and placing them in the courtyard. My father borrowed a pickaxe (Torriya) from the neighbors and began digging a large, long hole in the yard in front of our house, with some help from my brother Mahmoud, who was twelve at the time.
After they finished preparing the hole, my father started placing pieces of wood on it and then began covering it with zinc sheets that used to cover part of the courtyard like an arbor. I realized my father was in a quandary as he started looking for something and then I saw him begin to dismantle the kitchen door to cover that hole. But then I saw my mother and Mahmoud descending into the hole through an opening that hadn't yet been sealed. That's when I understood the work was finished. I dared to approach that opening and peered into the hole, finding what looked like a dark room underground. I didn't understand anything, but it was clear we were expecting something difficult and unusual, seemingly much harsher than those stormy rainy nights.
No one held my hand again to take me to the nearby Egyptian army camp for a bit of pistachio candy. My brother repeatedly refused to do so, a significant change for me and Mohammed, which I couldn't understand. Hassan, too, didn't know our secret. Perhaps he did, but he wasn't part of it. I didn't know why he hadn't joined us yesterday. However, my cousin Ibrahim, who was about my age and lived in the house next door, was aware of the matter.
When Mohammed refused to go and take me with him, I went to my uncle's house to be with Ibrahim. I pushed the door open and entered the room where my uncle, whose facial features I could never recall, was sitting with a rifle in his hand, fixing it. I thought to myself that maybe I could do something similar with it. The rifle caught my attention, and I focused on it the entire time.
My uncle called me over and seated me beside him, placing the rifle on my hands. He started talking to me about it in a way I couldn't understand, then he patted my head and ushered me out of the room. I took Ibrahim with me, and we left the house, heading towards the outskirts of the camp to go to the nearby Egyptian army camp.
When we arrived, everything had changed. The soldier who used to wait for us and welcome us was not there. The situation was abnormal, as the Egyptian soldiers usually greeted us warmly. They yelled at us to go away and return to our mothers, so we turned back, dragging our disappointment behind us, having not received our share of the pistachio candy. I couldn't understand the changes that had occurred. The next day, my mother took some bedding from the house and laid it in the hole. She moved a couple of jugs of water and some food there, taking all of us down into the hole and sitting us there. Then my uncle's wife and her children, Hassan and Ibrahim, joined us. I was annoyed by the cramped space we were squeezed into without a reason I could comprehend. We had left our house, its rooms, courtyard, and the neighborhood streets to be placed here against our will. Every time I tried to leave or rush towards the opening, my mother would pull me back and seat me in my place. Occasionally, she would give me a piece of bread and a few olives.
As the sun began to set and the daylight faded, darkness grew in the hole we were sheltered in, and fear crept into our young hearts. We started to cry and push to get out, but my mother and uncle stopped us. They yelled, "Children, it's war out there! Don't you know what war means?" At that moment, I didn't know the meaning of war, but I understood it was something terrifyingly abnormal, dark, and suffocating.
Our attempts to leave and their efforts to stop us continued, and our cries grew louder, but their attempts to calm us were futile. Then Mahmoud said, "Should I bring the lamp, mother, to light it up?" ("Yama, should I get the light to turn it on?") She replied, "Yes, Mahmoud," but as he rushed to leave the trench, my mother's hand reached out to grab him, stopping him from leaving, saying, "Don't go out, Mahmoud" ("Don't go out, Yama").
My mother sat Mahmoud down and then went out to return with a kerosene lamp. She lit it, illuminating our space, bringing a sense of calm and tranquility. Overwhelmed by sleep, just like my siblings and cousins, I dozed off. My mother and my uncle's wife fought against sleep, but it overtook them. The next day was unremarkable; we spent almost the entire day in the trench. Our neighbor, teacher Aisha, constantly listened to the radio, making sure to stay close to the trench opening so the radio could receive transmission signals. She updated my mother and uncle's wife with the latest news, increasing the atmosphere of depression and sadness, reflecting on my mother and uncle's wife's ability to cater to our needs. Their hands seemed heavier on us as they asked for silence. The fiery statements from "Ahmed Said," the commentator on Voice of the Arabs from Cairo, about throwing the Jews into the sea and threats to the state of Israel, began to weaken and fade. In contrast, our dreams of returning to our homelands from which we were exiled began to crumble like the sand castles we used to build as children in the neighborhood. Our greatest wish was to return to the area we came from, for my uncle, who was enlisted in the Palestine Liberation Army, to return safely to his family, and for my father, who had left with the popular resistance, to return safely to us. With each new news bulletin that Mrs. Aisha listened to, the gloom and tension increased, leading to more prayers and hands raised to the sky, asking for safety and the return of my father and uncle. The sounds of explosions grew louder, closer, and more intense. My mother would occasionally leave the trench for a few minutes inside the house and then return with something for us to eat, cover ourselves with, or to reassure my uncle's wife about the fate of my grandfather, who insisted on staying in his room in the house, refusing to join us in the trench.
Initially, my grandfather hoped to return soon to our house and fields in Faluja, believing that the danger would be to the Jews who would be crushed by the Arab armies. But after the new equation of the battle became clear, not in our favor as Arabs, he refused to descend into the trench, seeing no taste or value in life anymore. He wondered how long we would continue to hide and flee from our fate. "Death and life have become the same," he said.
Darkness fell again, and we sank into sleep, intermittently woken by increasingly loud explosions. The next morning, the explosions grew even louder. That day, nothing significant happened except for one incident: a large crowd of people surged in, shouting, "Spy! Spy!
It was evident that the people were chasing the alleged spy, who had something like a wheeled vehicle or similar, and they believed he was somehow connected to the Jews. The explosions increased in frequency and intensity, getting closer and clearly starting to hit the western houses. With each new explosion, our terror and screams increased, despite attempts to calm us down. Every now and then, Aisha would approach the trench opening to listen to the news and inform my mother and uncle's wife of the latest updates. After several days like this, my mother could no longer go out to the house like she did in the first two days. Aisha listened to a news bulletin, and as she heard the news, she started crying and wailing. She collapsed, muttering that the Jews had occupied the country. A moment of silence ensued, broken by my little sister Mariam's scream of pain at what was happening, followed by our collective crying, echoing our mothers' tears.
The sound of bombing and explosions stopped, and we heard only occasional gunfire. As evening approached, the noise ceased, and silence prevailed. In the evening, the neighbors' voices grew louder as they began to emerge from the trenches where they had been hiding or from their homes where they had stayed all this time. Aisha went out to investigate and came back shortly, saying, "The war is over... come out..." My mother and uncle's wife came out first, then called us to join them. For the first time in days, we breathed fresh air, though it was tinged with the smell of gunpowder and the dust of nearby demolished houses. I managed to look around before my mother pulled me into the house, seeing the devastation all around us, with many of the neighbors' homes affected by the shelling. Our house was fine, unharmed. Inside, my grandfather welcomed us, embracing and kissing each of us, muttering thanks to God for our safety and praying for the safe return of our fathers.
My uncle's wife and her children spent that night with us. My father and uncle did not return that night, and it seemed it would be a long time before they did. With the morning, life began to stir in the camp's alleys. Everyone was looking for their children, relatives, and neighbors to check on them and thank God for their safety, and to find out the fate of those whose homes had been hit and destroyed or partially damaged.
There were limited cases of death in the neighborhood since most people had fled to the beach, nearby orchards, or open spaces, or had taken refuge in the trenches they had dug. The occupation forces faced fierce resistance in one of the areas and withdrew, but soon after, a group of tanks and military jeeps waving Egyptian flags appeared. The resistance fighters, hopeful of support, emerged from their hiding places, firing into the air in celebration and gathered to welcome them. As the convoy approached, it opened heavy fire on the resistance fighters, killing many, and then raised the Israeli flag instead of the Egyptian flags on the tanks and vehicles.
People swarmed the nearby schools, which had been Egyptian army camps before the war, scavenging what remained. Some carried chairs, others tables, a third a bag of grains, a fourth kitchen utensils, and so on, rather than leaving these for the occupation soldiers. Some people, caught up in the chaos, looted nearby shops, taking goods and merchandise. Others focused on weapons and ammunition left in the camps. This state of chaos lasted several days, with everyone engrossed in their own concerns and interests. Just before noon one day, distant voices over loudspeakers in broken Arabic announced a curfew, warning that anyone leaving their home risked death. People began to stay indoors as military jeeps with loudspeakers circulated, announcing this and then ordering all men over 18 to gather at the nearby school, warning that anyone who disobeyed risked death.
My father and uncle had not returned, and my older brother Mahmoud was younger than 18. When my grandfather went out to head to the school, a soldier shouted at him to return home after seeing his old age and frailty, so he left, confused and troubled. Soon after, large groups of occupation soldiers, armed with rifles, began storming the houses one by one, searching for men who had not gone to the school. When they found some, they shot them without hesitation.
The men of the neighborhood gathered in the nearby school where the soldiers seated them on the ground in tightly packed rows, with the soldiers surrounding them, rifles aimed at them. After all the men were assembled, a military jeep with a covered back arrived. A man in civilian clothes, clearly part of the occupation forces as the soldiers obeyed him noticeably, stepped out. He started ordering the men to stand up one by one and walk past the recently arrived jeep. As the men complied, a soldier signaled them to move. Occasionally, a horn (the "zamour") would sound as a man passed, and the soldiers would violently grab and drag him to a more heavily guarded area behind the school.
It became clear that those who caused the horn to sound were identified as dangerous and were thus seized. This process continued until the last man had passed. Those who passed without the horn sounding were seated on the other side of the courtyard.
When the task was complete, the man in civilian clothes, who introduced himself as "Abu Al-Deeb," an Israeli intelligence officer responsible for the area, addressed the seated men in heavily accented but understandable Arabic. He spoke at length about the new reality following the Arab defeat, expressing his desire for calm and order. He warned that anyone disrupting security would face execution or imprisonment, and he invited anyone needing services from the Israeli Defense Army to approach his office. After he finished speaking, he instructed the men to leave one by one, calmly and without chaos. The men began to leave the school for their homes, each feeling as if they had escaped certain death. About a hundred men from the neighborhood had been separated out by the soldiers.
The officer moved with the jeep he had arrived in to the courtyard where the selected men were gathered. He ordered them to stand up one by one and pass in front of the jeep again. Each time the horn sounded, the passing man was seized again and made to stand near a nearby wall, facing it, while the others sat at the edge of the courtyard.
Fifteen men were chosen from this group and lined up against the wall. The officer ordered several soldiers to aim their rifles at these men. The soldiers, kneeling, fired at them, causing them to fall in agony. The remaining men, sweating profusely, had their hands tied behind their backs, and their eyes blindfolded. They were then loaded onto a bus that headed towards the Egyptian border. The soldiers accompanying them ordered them to cross the border into Egypt, warning that anyone who hesitated or looked back would be shot to death.