The Floating House
A prose poem by Hala.
In the afternoon of Monday 9 September, Israeli military forces stormed the Palestinian Bedouin village of Umm al-Khair, located in the South Hebron Hills of the occupied West Bank, once again. This is a village which has suffered 17 demolitions in the past three months alone; a village which is subject to routine and relentless harassment by both Israeli settlers and the military – often in coordination with each other. Soldiers pinned a notice to a house, informing all village residents that 767 square metres of Umm al-Khair land is due to be confiscated, to enable the neighbouring Israeli settlement of Carmel to build a separation wall. The Floating House is a prose poem by Hala – a resident of Umm al-Khair, and mother to two young children – written in response to the looming threat of yet more demolitions, yet further land appropriation, yet deeper entrenchment of the apartheid.
Another demolition decision, but this time it is different. It is for my father’s house, the house in which my brothers and I grew up. A house made of tin and fabric. A tent that has sheltered more than twenty people in its time. When I heard the news, in my heart I embraced all twenty with love and affection. My beloved house is not one metre away from the checkpoint of the settlement that is sitting on our land. A house of pride, generosity and kindness. A house that witnessed the life of a brave and generous man who spent his life fighting the settlements and the occupier. A house whose owner refused millions of dollars to give it up and the land around it. A house that means the world and more to everyone who knew my father in his life and in his death. The house of my beloved father. I write with tears streaming from my eyes. I see all my childhood in this house. I see twenty people, I see eighteen years inside it. I see all of my father’s tenderness in it. A house that has always comforted me in my sadness since the loss of my father.
I sit in this house for hours, crying sometimes and rejoicing sometimes, as I feel that my father is still present, his embrace still floating somewhere in this house. A house that I am simply unable to describe, at the entrance to my village, Umm al-Khair. It is there, on the main street. Immediately, passersby will see a beautiful tin house, open to everyone, with a coffee pot in the middle, exactly like the houses of our ancestors in the past. A house that makes anyone who passes by feel at home, as if the house says to its owner, “Welcome.”
A house that has always sheltered guests, from both near and far, and others who have been stranded here. A house whose every corner bears witness to the pride and generosity of its owner, a house whose owner always sleeps soundly because he knows he is in the right. A house that is older than the Israeli occupation.
Words cannot describe this house. I am always content with its presence. I remember my father in it and I feel that he is close. The house of the beloved and of the friend. My father’s house, the house of pride, honour, and history. My father was one of the leaders of his people, known for reconciling people and solving problems. A house known for the generosity and courage of its people. A Bedouin house in every sense of the word.
Today, at exactly four o’clock, I received a message from my sister indicating the presence of the Israeli civil administration, right here, in front of our house. They hung a piece of paper on the outside of the tent and left without making a single statement. I felt confused and dizzy because I know, we all know what this paper symbolises. We are the product of years of experience of living here. The whole afternoon I didn’t want to understand what was going on, all the miserable information, all I wanted was to sit in my own silence. A tape of my entire life passed over me in this house. In every memory there is my home. In every detail of my life there is the floating house.
Hala is a mother and member of the community of Umm al-Khair in the occupied West Bank.
