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“They tried to go back the next day, but the guns behind them forbade a return home. For three days and two nights, they made their way up and down unforgiving hills, under the sun’s glare and the unseen but sure watch of snipers. A diabetic boy and his grandmother fell and died. One woman miscarried and the dehydrated bodies of two babies went limp in their mothers’ arms. Jenin was as far as they could go, and they rested wherever there was space among the flood of refugees converging from other villages. Residents of those towns helped them as much as they could, giving away their food, blankets, and water and fitting as many as possible into their homes in that time of crisis. Soon Jordan, Iraq, and Syria gave out a few tents, and a refugee camp sprang up in Jenin, where the villagers of Ein Hod could stand on the hills and look back at the homes to which they could never return.

So it was that eight centuries after its founding by a general of Saladin’s army in 1189 a.d., Ein Hod was cleared of its Palestinian children. Yehya tried to calculate the number of generations who had lived and died in that village and he came up with forty. It was a task made simple by the way Arabs name their children to tell the story of their genealogy, conferring five or six names from the child’s direct lineage, in proper order.

Thus Yehya tallied forty generations of living, now stolen. Forty generations of childbirth and funerals, weddings and dance, prayer and scraped knees. Forty generations of sin and charity, of cooking, toiling, and idling, of friendships and animosities and pacts, of rain and lovemaking. Forty generations with their imprinted memories, secrets, and scandals. All carried away by the notion of entitlement of another people, who would settle in the vacancy and proclaim it all—all that was left in the way of architecture, orchards, wells, flowers, and charm—as the heritage of Jewish foreigners arriving from Europe, Russia, the United States, and other corners of the globe.

In the sorrow of a history buried alive, the year 1948 in Palestine fell from the calendar into exile, ceasing to reckon the marching count of days, months, and years, instead becoming an infinite mist of one moment in history. The twelve months of that year rearranged themselves and swirled aimlessly in the heart of Palestine. The old folks of Ein Hod would die refugees in the camp, bequeathing to their heirs the large iron keys to their ancestral homes, the crumbling land registers issued by the Ottomans, the deeds from the British mandate, their memories and love of the land, and the dauntless will not to leave the spirit of forty generations trapped beneath the subversion of thieves.”

Global Issue: The physical and psychological impacts of forced displacement.

This passage from page 92 of Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa presents the tragic loss of Palestine as the Israeli occupation began. Abulhawa details the strenuous journey that Palestinian families were forced to take, describing how “a diabetic boy and his grandmother fell and died. One woman miscarried and the dehydrated bodies of two babies went limp in their mothers’ arms.”. Abulhawa focuses on the children, women, and elderly lives that were lost as a consequence of the Israeli occupation. The 3 groups of people mentioned are all harmless and delicate, posing no threat, contrasting the Western media that portrays Palestinian families as threatening savages. Additionally, in the third paragraph of the passage, Abulhawa emphasizes the loss the Palestinian people faced through presenting the generational significance of their land. She repeats the phrase “forty generations” as she lists the aspects of living that occurred for the prior decades: “funerals, weddings and dance, prayer and scraped knees…  charity, of cooking, toiling, and idling, of friendships and animosities and pacts, of rain and lovemaking… memories, secrets, and scandals.” All of these events and actions are universal, allowing the reader to relate to the lives that the Palestinians once lived. Furthermore, Abulhawa presents the idea that the Israeli occupation took the right to live normal, peaceful lives from the Palestinian people. In a similar manner, Abulhawa juxtaposes the generational history of the Palestinians on their land to the “Jewish foreigners arriving from Europe, Russia, the United States, and other corners of the globe” that had now claimed the land. Therefore emphasizing the absurdity of the Jewish settlers. Finally, Abulhawa presents an everlasting sorrow through the line “the twelve months of that year rearranged themselves and swirled aimlessly in the heart of Palestine.” Even the calendar that is constant, unchanging, lost its meaning. It no longer mattered how the seasons changed for there was no land to cultivate nor were there anymore celebrations that had to be documented.

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Passage:

“The soldier fired his pistol twice. One shot between Fatooma’s eyes, on her white streak. She fell instantly dead. The other through Darweesh’s chest. His pregnant wife, Basima’s niece who had been betrothed to Hasan, shrieked, screaming by her bleeding husband as people gathered to carry Darweesh a distance away, where someone produced a jar of honey to prevent infection and bandaged him with strips of his own clothing. The bullet lodged in Darweesh’s spine, condemning him to motionlessness, to a life plagued by unsightly bedsores, a life tormented by the burden of his wife’s cheerless fate, bound to a husband who lived only from the chest up. And even from the chest up, he lived on memories of horses and wind.

“Panic rose from the shots and the birds of terror were supplanted by clouds that made Yehya hope for rain. It wasn’t the season yet, but his trees needed water. At times rain had been everything in Ein Hod, other times it was merely precious. Then he saw his son Darweesh and nothing had meaning. Rain be damned. Yehya dropped the basket from his back and began to cry for that strong boy of his, that impressive rider and beloved son.

Dalia still hadn’t caught up. The panicked throngs had separated her from Hasan, but she could still see the top of his kaffiyeh ahead of her. He was taller than most men; she’d always liked that. God, what is happening? The clouds passed as suddenly as they came. The sun stung like a scorpion. Dust was high, cactus low, and Dalia thought of water.

Global Issue:
The life altering affect of violent foreign occupation on the individuals entire life.

This can be considered to occur during the wake of the Israeli occupation as it described the bloodshed that occurred without any remorse. It is the climax of the chapter as it describes the consequences in the passage following. The way in one sentence Fatooma's entire life comes to an end shows how fast the scene played out and how they immediately had to move on to the next thing. It is a visceral description that shows how fast an entire family can be torn apart. When Darweesh gets shot, he instantly becomes paralyzed, and he pictures is life of being crippled and not being able to spend all of his time with his unborn child. It invokes sympathy from the audience as all of his dreams get shot down. The use of the words plagued and tormented show how his entire life from here will be completely lifeless. It shows how he had a life prior to the occupation riding horses, as revealed in the last sentence in the passage. The little things that once gave him such happiness would never come to grasp again.

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Passage (pg35 [i think]):
The villagers sat on the ground in the valley. The land was as beautiful and peaceful as it had always been. Trees and sky and hills and stone were unchanged and the villagers were dazed and quiet, except Dalia. She was mad with anguish, questioning people and uncovering other women’s babies in hope of revealing a boy with a scar down his right cheek, around his eye. She searched with frenzied foreboding, even though Yehya tried to reassure her that surely someone had picked up the child and surely it was only a matter of time before they would be reunited. Surely, Yehya knew, you can’t hold on to words.

Dalia spent the last of her energy on tears, replaying that instant, over and over and over. Little Yousef, not comprehending the sudden hell that had befallen the whole village, agreed to let go of his father and sat in his djiddo Yehya’s arms, both of them dazed and teary. Hazan shuffled restlessly between his wounded brother, Darwweesh; his inconsolable wife; his terrified son; and his bewildered father, until finally he succumbed to exhaustion and slept on the ground among merciless mosquitoes, a stone to rest his head. But not even sleep could assuage the inadequacy he felt. He had failed to protect his family. He could not provide assurance, nor could he bring Ismael back.

“Jiddo, can we go home now?” Yousef asked his grandfather.

Yehya could not lie, nor could he tell the truth. He kissed his grandson, pulled him closer, tighter, to his chest, and said, “Get some rest, ya ibni, get somerest now, ya habibi.” My son, my beloved.

They tried to go back the next day, but the guns behind them forbade a return home. For three days and two nights, they made their way up and down unforgiving hills, under the sun’s glare and the unseen but sure watch of snipers. A diabetic boy and his grandmother fell and died. One woman miscarried and the dehydrated bodies of two babies went limp in their mother’s arms. Jenin was as far as they could go, and they rested wherever there was space among the flood of refugees converging from other villages. Residents of those towns helped them as much as they could, giving away their food, blankets, and water and fitting as many as possible into their homes in that time of crisis. Soon Jordan, Iraq and Syria gave out a few tents, and a refugee camp sprang up in Jenin, where the villagers of Ein Hod could stand on the hills and look back at the homes to which they could never return.

So it was that eight centuries after its founding by a general of Saladin’s army in 1189 a.d., Ein Hod was cleared of its Palestinian children. Yehya tried to calculate the number of generations who had lived and died in that village and he came up with forty. It was a task made simple by the way Arabs name their children to tell the story of their genealogy, conferring five or six names from the child’s direct linage, in proper order.

Thus Yehya tallied forty generations of living, now stolen. Forty generations of childbirth and funerals, weddings and dance, prayer and scraped knees. Forty generations of sin and charity, of cooking, toiling, and idling, of friendships and animosities and pacts, or rain and lovemaking. Forty generations with their imprinted memories, secrets and scandals. All carried away by the notion of entitlement of another people, who would settle in the vacancy and proclaim it all - all that was left in the way of architecture, orchards, wells, flowers, and charm - as the heritage of Jewish foreigners arriving from Europe, Russia, the United States, and other corners of the globe.

In the sorrow of a history buried alive, the year 1948 in Palestine fell from the calendar into exile, ceasing to reckon the marching count of days, months, and years, instead becoming an infinite mist of one moment in history. The twelve months of that year rearranged themselves and swirled aimlessly in the heart of Palestine. The old folks of Ein Hod would die refugees in the camp, bequeathing to their heirs the large iron keys to their ancestral homes, the crumbling land registers issued by the Ottomans, the deeds from the British mandate, their memories and love of the land, and the dauntless will not to leave the spirit of forty generations trapped beneath the subversion of thieves.

Analysis:

Global Issue:

The detrimental effect of inhumane displacement on a people group’s identity.

Susan Abulhawa's novel, Mornings in Jenin, depicts the plight of the Palestinian people by following the stories of the Abulheja family through four generations. In the very plot of following this family’s life through Ein Hod, their home, refugee camps and the USA, the importance of ancestral heritage is acknowledged. In this particular passage, the global issue explored is that of the detrimental effect of inhumane displacement on a people group’s collective identity. One of the particular techniques used in this passage is the use of juxtaposition in the contrast of peace found in the setting description and turmoil of a “sorrow of a history buried alive”. This technique is used to the effect of emphasizing the shock of the Palestinian people upon realizing their newfound instability - the land, which had been a cornerstone of their identity, had been brutally stolen. An interesting point found in this passage is Abulhawa’s use of intertextuality to emphasize the lack of disparity between human beings. Jacob from the Bible is referenced to have only had a stone to rest his head - as the ancestor of Israelis, this character from the Bible has particular significance to the story of Palestinian displacement. In relating the story of Hasan, the patriarch of a family (contrary to Jacob at the time of his displacement), Abulhawa draws a comparison between the heritage of Israelis, and the importance of ancestry and familial obligations to a people group’s identity. Hence, throughout the entirety of the novel, and especially in this passage, the pernicious effect of inhumane displacement on a people group’s identity is explored and defined through the use of juxtaposition and intertextuality.

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Extract:

“Yehya paused to massage a crick in his neck. It’s nearly noon, he thought, noting the sun’s approach to zenith. Sweat-drenched, Yehya stood on his land, a sturdy man with a black and white kaffiyeh swathing his head, the hem of his robe tucked in his waist sash in the way of the fellaheen. He surveyed the splendor around him. Mossy green grass cascaded down those hills, over the rocks, around and up the trees. The sanasil barriers, some of which he had helped his grandfather repair, spiraled up the hills. Yehya turned to watch Hasan and Darweesh, their chest muscles heaving beneath their robes with every swing of their sticks to knock the olives loose. My boys! Pride swelled Yehya’s heart. Hasan is growing strong despite his difficult lungs. Thanks be to Allah.

The sons worked on opposite sides of each tree as their mother trailed them, hauling away blankets of fresh olives to be pressed later that day. Yehya could see Salem harvesting his yield in the adjacent grove. Toothless old 🤬. Yehya smiled, though Salem was younger than he. In truth, his neighbor had always a quality of wisdom and a grandfatherly patience that gave of itself from a face mapped by many years of carving olive wood outdoors. He had become Haj Salem after his pilgrimage to Mecca, and the new title bestowed him with age beyond that of Yehya. By evening, the two friends would be smoking hookahs together, arguing over who had worked hardest and whose sons were strongest. “You’re going to hell for lying like that, old man,” Yehya would say, bringing the pipe to his lips.

“Old man? You’re older than me, you geezer,” Salem would say. “At least I still have all my teeth.”
“Okay. Get out the board so I can prove once again who’s better.” “You’re on, you lyin’, toothless, feeble son of your father.”

Games of backgammon over bubbling hookahs would settle this annual argument and they would stubbornly play until their wives had sent for them several times.
Satisfied by the morning’s pace, Yehya performed the thohr salat and sat on the blanket where Basima had arranged the lentils and makloobeh with lamb and yogurt sauce. Nearby, she set another meal for the migrant helpers, who gratefully accepted the offering.”

Response:

The tone of the extract above presents a thankful and cheerful sense before catastrophe. The author chooses to write in third person yet still contributes the characters’ perspectives demonstrating Yehya’s freedom and happiness while being content with life. It illustrates the simple pleasures that Palestine brought to families prior to its occupation. Abulhawa implemented dialogue between Yehya and Haj Salem determining a humorous tone, furthermore showing the innocence and pleasures stripped from the Palestinian citizens along with their land.  The powerful diction she used to oppose the reality during the occupation and wars, referring to “his land” and using possessive pronouns to portray the freedom and ownership before it was stolen from him. The use of adjectives defined and described the beauty of the country before it was covered with destruction and violence from yehya’s perspective, relating to the multiple religious references where Yehya gives thanks to god for all that he has been given addressing his content and thankfulness.

Global Issue:

The impact of occupation on the freedom of the individual.

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I chose passage 1 of page 16 in the book because it is such a harmless passage. It is about Dalia’s wedding and preparing for it with her mother, aunts, married sisters and cousins. They were laughing and joking about how great of a wife she will make and getting Dalia all prepared to walk down the aisle. This passage is significant in showing the reader the tranquility and peace and enjoyment of the Palestinians' lives before the conflict in their country takes place. Showing the wealth and time and enjoyment the people had in this passage alone before the suffering of the Israeli control from the quotes ‘ “Looks like your daughter will make a fine wife.” They laughed again’ and also in the quote ‘ Bejewelled with half her weight in gold, the small bride inhabited her wedding quietly’ both show how harmless their lives were laughing at jokes and being able to cover each other in gold. The impact of invasion on the culture of a country is my global issue because the effect that the Israeli had on the enjoyment of the Palestinians culture and freedom of will were ruined and destroyed.

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passage:

Thus and so, by the predawn orchestra of small lives, crickets and stirringbirds—and soon, roosters—the villagers cast moon shadows from their prayerrugs. Most simply asked for forgiveness of their sins, some prayed an extrarukaa. In one way or another, each said, “My Lord Allah, let Your will be doneon this day. My submission and gratitude is Yours,” before setting off westwardtoward the groves, stepping high to avoid the snags of cactus.Every November, the harvest week brought renewed vigor to Ein Hod, andYehya, Abu Hasan, could feel it in his bones. He left the house early withhis boys, coaxing them with his annual hope of getting a head start on theneighbors. But the neighbors had similar ideas and the harvest always beganaround five a.m.Yehya turned sheepishly to his wife, Basima, who balanced the basket oftarps and blankets on her head, and whispered, “Um Hasan, next year, let’s getup before them. I just want to get an hour start over Salem, that toothless oldbugger. Just one hour.”Basima rolled her eyes. Her husband revived that brilliant idea every year.As the dark sky gave way to light, the sounds of reaping that noble fruit rosefrom the sun-bleached hills of Palestine. The thumps of farmers’ sticks strikingbranches, the shuddering of the leaves, the plop of fruit falling onto the oldtarps and blankets that had been laid beneath the trees. As they toiled, women sang the ballads of centuries past and small children played and were chidedby their mothers when they got in the way.Yehya paused to massage a crick in his neck.It’s nearly noon,he thought,noting the sun’s approach to zenith. Sweat-drenched, Yehya stood on his land,a sturdy man with a black and white kaffiyeh swathing his head, the hem ofhis robe tucked in his waist sash in the way of the fellaheen. He surveyed thesplendor around him. Mossy green grass cascaded down those hills, over therocks, around and up the trees. The sanasil barriers, some of which he hadhelped his grandfather repair, spiraled up the hills. Yehya turned to watchHasan and Darweesh, their chest muscles heaving beneath their robes withevery swing of their sticks to knock the olives loose.My boys!Pride swelledYehya’s heart.Hasan is growing strong despite his difficult lungs. Thanks beto Allah.

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this passage shows the life that the people of Palestine had before the introduction of the Israeli's. This passage came from the first chapter which was about a family who was living in Palestine and was living quite comfortable. This passage shows bits of happiness most noticeably it talks about how the women would be singing as they were doing their jobs. the children were also shown to be happy as they were playing. Most of the people were able to have normal prayers and none of them majority had big concerns that they needed. The husband and wife were also shown as very connected and happy as in this time of year the couple were able to do this yearly event as they look over the country and examine the dark sky that would come from sunset. The passage shows the joyfulness that the people had which makes the inevitable israeli occupation that would occur soon seem so much worse because the people got stripped of everything.

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global issue: the impact of invasion on an individuals wellbeing.

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Page 11: “Books will do nothing but come between you and the land. There will be no

school with Ari and that is all I will say on the matter.” Yehya was certain he

made the right decision. But years later, Yehya would reproach himself with

deep  consternation  and  regret  for  denying  what  Hasan  had  dearly  wanted.

For  this  decision,  one  day  Yehya  would  beg  his  son’s  forgiveness  as  they  all

camped at the mercy of the weather, not far from the home to which they could

never return. Yehya, a withering refugee in the unfamiliar dilapidation of exile,

would weep on Hasan’s forgiving shoulders. “Forgive me, son. I cannot forgive

myself,”  Yehya  would  cry.  And  it  was  for  the same  decision  and  subsequent

regret and heartbreak that Hasan would resolve, with determined hard labor

and  its  pittance  pay,  that  his  children  would  receive  an  education.  For  this

decision, Hasan would tell his little girl, Amal, many years later, “Habibti, we

16

have nothing but education now. Promise me you’ll take it with all the force

you have.” And his little girl would promise the father she adored.

Although Hasan was denied the privilege of formal schooling beyond eighth

grade, he received superior tutoring from Mrs. Perlstein, who sent her eager

young student home every week loaded with books, lessons, and homework.

The private lessons started as a scheme between Basima and Mrs. Perlstein to

lift Hasan from his dejection in the months after Yehya issued his final word

on the matter of education.

“Hey, brother!” The young men embraced, locked hands, and kissed each other

on each cheek, the Arab way. They unloaded the truck, setting the driver up

with other street vendors. Weaving through narrow cobblestone paths of the

Old City, the friends headed for their usual treat before walking to Ari’s house.

This passage shows the reality of life in Palestine before Israel took over and attacked.

The passage focuses on education being an important part of their culture as Amal's father Hasan, wants Amal to be given an education so she can use it for her future. It also shows the old city and how simplistic their lives were, in comparison to later on in the book when the family are forcibly moved into the refugee camp. The impact of forcibly being displaced on children's education, the children were then not able to strive and live their life because of the effects of the massacre and invasion. Their simple lives, talking about private tutoring and homework and books, a normal privileged child's life. Abulhawa focuses on children as they are the future generations that must use their education. Hasan the father says; “Habibti, we have nothing but education now. Promise me you'll take it with all the force you have”. This shows the encouragement that Hasan strives to push his daughter to do well because she has been given the opportunity to succeed in life.

The impact of forcibly being displaced on children's education