Leave the Door Open, I Am Coming Back.

Let us enter a tiny Middle Eastern eatery on Beaufort Street beside the Film house. Many Australians come in and wonder about the variety of colourful ceramic plates filled with baba or batata gamoush,

tahouli, falafel, kibbeh, pastille, zahara hara, zatouk, dolmades all accompanied with endless assortments of hummus to dip these delicate vegetable wonders in.

Today is the ‘Day of Friends with Palestine’ the colourful poster in the street window inform us. Some film goers enter with us talking about the beautifully sad movie they’ve just seen as part of the Palestinian Film festival next door. There is something mysterious about the delicately decorated wooden door carved and painted over one hundred and one colourful spices they wait for us inside. You enter the spice palace and the warmth of the exotic dishes prepare your palate for your meal ahead. The intricately designed patterns on the floor feel sacred to walk on so we place our feet carefully on the circles of flowers.

“These ceramic tiles are inspired by Hisham’s Palace in Jericho” My friend who invited me here exclaimed proudly. My grandmother was born next to it, well it is gone now. Palestine doesn’t exist anymore, only here.”

Before I can reply, the beautiful tall Egyptian lady with shiny dark hair comes to greet us. Her long black silk coat decorated beautifully with red pattern flow around her curves like river when she moves. She is holding a big tray filled to brim with small plates of delicious wonders. I recognized prawns. She smiles: “The exotic garlic prawns marinated in chemoula, cooked in olive oil with splash of lemon juice, please try.” She hands us small plates and forks each and while I am filling my plate, our hostess is talking to my friend. They have been both born in the same place that is not their homeland anymore, like millions of others they are displaced, now their homeland has new name, for the last seventy years now. It is called Israel.

Our hostess takes us to sit comfortably next to the ceramic fountain hidden in indoor greenery. The low silk couches are laden with colorful cushions. The low pleasantly humming instrument vibrates very gently in the hands of an old man in the corner. “It is an old instrument my father used to play it for us when we ate our evening meals as kids.” Sarima smiles at me happily. I have not seen her so happy from the time I bumped into her in the Murdoch University where she studies law.

“Welcome to my home, away from home,” she smiles and order us more dishes, apricot chicken, kofta tahini and potato tagine, spicy berber beef, black fez. I start to protest but she smiles and waves her hand: “Everything comes in small dishes for you to try, do not worry I come to help out here after school just like my friend Eszta you already met at the door anyway all Palestinians are offered free meals here today and you are my friend and friends of Palestinians.”

I nodded happily and added: “Eszta looks like an Etyptian queen to me.” Sarima looked at Eszta sadly who was serving other guests now: “Her mother was born in Egypt and her father met her there when his family farm was taken over by Israelis and he was ordered to leave. His father refused, he was shot. He begged on streets of Cairo for years to feed his ailing mother and his seven years old sister, he was a teenager then. Her family is dead now just like mine.”

“How do you feel?” I asked carefully. Sarima’s eyes filled with tears and I quickly hugged her tightly. Sarima’s mum has just died in Gaza.I knew her story well now. I was helping out at the university library then and Sarima spent every hour out of studies on our computers there. She was writing her blog and often broke down in tears. I thought she was having a trouble with her computer. Her trouble was much more deep. Something I could not fix and neither she could.

She was lucky to escape from Gaza where the remnants of her family was stuck left to die out. Sarima excelled in the refugee’s school there and through the Palestinian refugee fund, she was offered the scholarship to study here, at our university. For whole year she had no news from home, and then she got one little smuggled note informing her about her mum’s cancer. Her family in Gaza could not access the medical treatment for her. The Palestinian refugee fund that helped Sarima to study is now closed by Americans. The school she excelled on is in the process to be closed too.

Palestinians do not own passports because after the Israeli occupation the land belongs to Israel now and Palestine ceased to exist that day. Sarima can not travel back. All what she owns is the document of her refugee’s status from the refugee’s fund that is closing down now. Her mum could not leave Gaza either. Sarima told me how her mother kept the Palestinian refugee fund document close to her heart because it was only document left to show she is still Palestinian and Palestine still exists at least on this paper. Still it was not enough for her to move freely and reach the hospital.

Her father in his desperation tried to smuggle her mother through the secret tunnel to Egypt once for her treatment but she fainted inside. They never got to the treatment and the tunnel is closed now too. Israelis refused to give them permit to leave Gaza. For Israelis every dead Palestinian is just one less problem for them. Sarima borrowed money to send the medication to ease her mum’s pain at the end but her mum never got the parcel. So Sarima opened her blog about Palestinian women and their plight and was trying to reach someone who could help her dying mother in Gaza she could not reach.

“Do you have news of your father?” I asked suddenly while we have been munching on all those new dishes served on the small table in front of us. Sarima shook her head in desperation: “I will not see him again I know. All I can expect is another smuggled note any day informing me of his violent death. My parents knew when I was leaving they would never see me again, they hugged me so tightly I was naïve I thought I come back and help them to get our homeland back.”

“Is there any chance for Palestinians still?” I asked gently and she took my hand and we stood up to walk few paces to the bare wall with no decoration just white paint and six maps showing the last map of Palestine from 1946 until today 2018 and beyond when Palestine as state ceased to exist and Palestinians are ordered by Israelis with help of Americans to die out.

Sarima touched each map gently and told me in strong determined voice: “The UN is trying to help but it is too weak with Israel backed with strong America boycotting every its move to help Palestinians. Israel believes with last Palestinians dying out in Gaza Strip and around their problem will be ceased naturally. They even make good money by trying new weapons on still alive remnants of Palestinians in Gaza strip and then selling off those guns as tried out and effective in termination of humans. But Israelis forgot one thing, the young Palestinians around the world may be displaced but they will remain Palestinians and fighting back. They never get rid of us and we never forget to be Palestinias!”

Walking back through Perth nicely lit safe streets we hold our hands and Sarima’s eyes shined with determination to succeed in her studies and to help her Palestinian people not to loose their identity. They already lost everything else.

Let us enter a tiny Middle Eastern eatery on Beaufort Street beside the Film house. Many Australians come in and wonder about the variety of colourful ceramic plates filled with baba or batata gamoush,

tahouli, falafel, kibbeh, pastille, zahara hara, zatouk, dolmades all accompanied with endless assortments of hummus to dip these delicate vegetable wonders in.

Today is the ‘Day of Friends with Palestine’ the colourful poster in the street window inform us. Some film goers enter with us talking about the beautifully sad movie they’ve just seen as part of the Palestinian Film festival next door. There is something mysterious about the delicately decorated wooden door carved and painted over one hundred and one colourful spices they wait for us inside. You enter the spice palace and the warmth of the exotic dishes prepare your palate for your meal ahead. The intricately designed patterns on the floor feel sacred to walk on so we place our feet carefully on the circles of flowers.

“These ceramic tiles are inspired by Hisham’s Palace in Jericho” My friend who invited me here exclaimed proudly. My grandmother was born next to it, well it is gone now. Palestine doesn’t exist anymore, only here.”

Before I can reply, the beautiful tall Egyptian lady with shiny dark hair comes to greet us. Her long black silk coat decorated beautifully with red pattern flow around her curves like river when she moves. She is holding a big tray filled to brim with small plates of delicious wonders. I recognized prawns. She smiles: “The exotic garlic prawns marinated in chemoula, cooked in olive oil with splash of lemon juice, please try.” She hands us small plates and forks each and while I am filling my plate, our hostess is talking to my friend. They have been both born in the same place that is not their homeland anymore, like millions of others they are displaced, now their homeland has new name, for the last seventy years now. It is called Israel.

Our hostess takes us to sit comfortably next to the ceramic fountain hidden in indoor greenery. The low silk couches are laden with colorful cushions. The low pleasantly humming instrument vibrates very gently in the hands of an old man in the corner. “It is an old instrument my father used to play it for us when we ate our evening meals as kids.” Sarima smiles at me happily. I have not seen her so happy from the time I bumped into her in the Murdoch University where she studies law.

“Welcome to my home, away from home,” she smiles and order us more dishes, apricot chicken, kofta tahini and potato tagine, spicy berber beef, black fez. I start to protest but she smiles and waves her hand: “Everything comes in small dishes for you to try, do not worry I come to help out here after school just like my friend Eszta you already met at the door anyway all Palestinians are offered free meals here today and you are my friend and friends of Palestinians.”

I nodded happily and added: “Eszta looks like an Etyptian queen to me.” Sarima looked at Eszta sadly who was serving other guests now: “Her mother was born in Egypt and her father met her there when his family farm was taken over by Israelis and he was ordered to leave. His father refused, he was shot. He begged on streets of Cairo for years to feed his ailing mother and his seven years old sister, he was a teenager then. Her family is dead now just like mine.”

“How do you feel?” I asked carefully. Sarima’s eyes filled with tears and I quickly hugged her tightly. Sarima’s mum has just died in Gaza.I knew her story well now. I was helping out at the university library then and Sarima spent every hour out of studies on our computers there. She was writing her blog and often broke down in tears. I thought she was having a trouble with her computer. Her trouble was much more deep. Something I could not fix and neither she could.

She was lucky to escape from Gaza where the remnants of her family was stuck left to die out. Sarima excelled in the refugee’s school there and through the Palestinian refugee fund, she was offered the scholarship to study here, at our university. For whole year she had no news from home, and then she got one little smuggled note informing her about her mum’s cancer. Her family in Gaza could not access the medical treatment for her. The Palestinian refugee fund that helped Sarima to study is now closed by Americans. The school she excelled on is in the process to be closed too.

Palestinians do not own passports because after the Israeli occupation the land belongs to Israel now and Palestine ceased to exist that day. Sarima can not travel back. All what she owns is the document of her refugee’s status from the refugee’s fund that is closing down now. Her mum could not leave Gaza either. Sarima told me how her mother kept the Palestinian refugee fund document close to her heart because it was only document left to show she is still Palestinian and Palestine still exists at least on this paper. Still it was not enough for her to move freely and reach the hospital.

Her father in his desperation tried to smuggle her mother through the secret tunnel to Egypt once for her treatment but she fainted inside. They never got to the treatment and the tunnel is closed now too. Israelis refused to give them permit to leave Gaza. For Israelis every dead Palestinian is just one less problem for them. Sarima borrowed money to send the medication to ease her mum’s pain at the end but her mum never got the parcel. So Sarima opened her blog about Palestinian women and their plight and was trying to reach someone who could help her dying mother in Gaza she could not reach.

“Do you have news of your father?” I asked suddenly while we have been munching on all those new dishes served on the small table in front of us. Sarima shook her head in desperation: “I will not see him again I know. All I can expect is another smuggled note any day informing me of his violent death. My parents knew when I was leaving they would never see me again, they hugged me so tightly I was naïve I thought I come back and help them to get our homeland back.”

“Is there any chance for Palestinians still?” I asked gently and she took my hand and we stood up to walk few paces to the bare wall with no decoration just white paint and six maps showing the last map of Palestine from 1946 until today 2018 and beyond when Palestine as state ceased to exist and Palestinians are ordered by Israelis with help of Americans to die out.

Sarima touched each map gently and told me in strong determined voice: “The UN is trying to help but it is too weak with Israel backed with strong America boycotting every its move to help Palestinians. Israel believes with last Palestinians dying out in Gaza Strip and around their problem will be ceased naturally. They even make good money by trying new weapons on still alive remnants of Palestinians in Gaza strip and then selling off those guns as tried out and effective in termination of humans. But Israelis forgot one thing, the young Palestinians around the world may be displaced but they will remain Palestinians and fighting back. They never get rid of us and we never forget to be Palestinias!”

Walking back through Perth nicely lit safe streets we hold our hands and Sarima’s eyes shined with determination to succeed in her studies and to help her Palestinian people not to loose their identity. They already lost everything else.

We met another Australian student from Murdoch waiting for our train. He has seen our ‘Friends with Palestians’ flag in our hands and smiled: “It is such a complicated issue hey, the conflict between Palestians and Israelis. I mean between Muslims and Jews yes?”

Sarima looked at him crossly: “It is complicated for people like you who have been fed bullshit for seventy years through media. First of all, it is not conflict of religions. Palestinians have always been Christians and Muslims and Jews living in one state of Palestine before the Israel’s occupation in 1946. Secondly, Israel was forcefully created on Palestinian land after the war because Jews needed to be settled somewhere. Do you know that Argentina was also mentioned as place of resettlement of Jews? And some other African country. The worlds’ powers decided on Palestinians’ land because of the Jews’ religious ties to the region and thus it was easier to explain the forceful occupation of the land.”

Our friend blinked at us and said: “Why the western world doesn’t know all of this?”

Sarima smiled: “Because the western world wants to be left in peace and not to repeat the world war two. Jews needed the place to call their own and Palestinians have been sacrificed to give them that place simple as that.”

All three of us hop on the train to take us home. Then our Australian friend looked at us sadly and said: “Do you know that my mother’s side of family are Aboriginals? Once upon a time this land belonged to them but then English came and claimed it as their own. The land of no one where they have every right to settle for free. It looks like a similar story to me.“