| The Daily Star |
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| Hajj Ali gathers around an iftar meal with her numerous grandchildren. (Mahmoud Kheir/The Daily Star) |
SHATILA/BURJ AL-BARAJNEH, Lebanon: It’s an hour before the Ramadan fast ends, and Shatila’s children are growing restless. On a street festooned with colorful holiday banners, one boy, surrounded by a group of young followers, places a series of firecrackers inside a traffic cone. His cousin, too young to get in on the action, gleefully anticipates the explosions from a balcony several stories above.
A woman yells over the crackles that she has no electricity. This is hardly a surprise, given how the camp’s electricity cables are twisted in improbable patterns. The lack of regular electricity is only one sign of the poor services and extreme poverty that grips Shatila and the country’s 11 other Palestinian refugee camps. More than 400,000 Palestinian refugees are registered with UNRWA, and most of them live in poor conditions in or around these camps.
But poverty isn’t stopping camp residents from celebrating Ramadan the best they can.
Boushra Hajj Ali, the matriarch of 27 restless grandchildren, leans on a car on the distinctly unpaved street. She says that Ramadan is especially nice for young kids, who find the celebrations a relief from poverty. “They’re happy that it’s Ramadan, so the poverty doesn’t affect them [as much]. After the iftar, they go [outside] and play with the [other] children, they light fireworks, and they play on swings. For them the night is sweeter than the day.”
The cluster of children who gather around Hajj Ali agree that their favorite Ramadan activity is their post-fast playtime.
Latifeh Assaf, Hajj Ali’s adult daughter, adds that the kids are only free to play close to her building. It’s not safe further along, she says. Indeed, a recent shooting nearby left two dead.
Hajj Ali was born in Haifa, but left when she was 2 years old. Her children were born in Shatila. “I’m upset that it’s Ramadan and I’m not home [in Palestine],” Hajj Ali says. “Every person who is away from their home country feels this way. But the young children, their generation doesn’t know this feeling yet. Tomorrow they will grow up and know.”
It isn’t only Hajj Ali who has Palestine on her mind this Ramadan. Kazem Hassan, a Fatah leader in Shatila, says that Ramadan in the refugee camps is not the orgy of sweets that we’ve come to associate with the holiday.
“Ramadan [here] is not luxury … Ramadan in [the camps] always reminds you of the forbidden, of the shortage of all things. It reminds you [how] the nation [acts] toward you as a Palestinian. Ramadan reminds you of your homeland and your country. Ramadan here reminds you of the family that is not around you … [those who have] travelled abroad because of the security situation and the Palestinian situation.”
Iftars are more modest in the camps, where salaries are low. “You find people here who earn $200 a month,” Hassan says. “Most families spend Ramadan at home. There are very poor families here … and some spend their night without food.”
Various charities and popular committees organize mass meals in most of the camps, both for those who can’t afford to make their own, or to honor various political causes. Later in the evening, Hassan attends a meal in Burj al-Barajneh populated almost entirely by men, members of his party. Rows of plastic tables covered with food are accompanied by political speeches and security guards.
For both the outdoor and home iftars, the work of food preparation tends to fall to women, such as Hajj Ali and Assaf. Hajj Ali apologizes that her iftar includes leftovers. She usually prepares Palestinian specialties, and giggles as she describes them, saying that “Palestinian people like fatty food.”
Assaf says Palestinians make their mloukhiyeh like a stew, as opposed to the Lebanese who cook whole leaves without chopping them. “Mloukhiyeh is a favorite food for Palestinians,” she says. “We make kebbe, shish barak … foods that have the taste of old times.”
As it gets a bit darker outside, mother and daughter call for their children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. This iftar is a women and children’s affair. Many men are at the mosque, and some are working. Hajj Ali lays a blanket on the floor, and the family sits around trays of food. The firecracker enthusiast among the bunch insists on setting off one last blast before coming inside. Then the call for prayer starts, and Assaf silences the children with glasses of water.
The streets of Shatila and Burj al-Barajneh empty out, dim, and are quiet for a while. Shopkeepers can be seen munching on the snacks they sell.
Then the night’s business commences. In Burj al-Barajneh, a vendor sells coffee out of the back of a converted red van. Teenagers gather round narguileh pipes. Kids, including Boushra Hajj Ali’s 27 grandchildren, can finally buy the ice cream and Pepsi they have been waiting for. And, in a victory for at least one child, they can get back to their firecrackers.
A woman yells over the crackles that she has no electricity. This is hardly a surprise, given how the camp’s electricity cables are twisted in improbable patterns. The lack of regular electricity is only one sign of the poor services and extreme poverty that grips Shatila and the country’s 11 other Palestinian refugee camps. More than 400,000 Palestinian refugees are registered with UNRWA, and most of them live in poor conditions in or around these camps.
But poverty isn’t stopping camp residents from celebrating Ramadan the best they can.
Boushra Hajj Ali, the matriarch of 27 restless grandchildren, leans on a car on the distinctly unpaved street. She says that Ramadan is especially nice for young kids, who find the celebrations a relief from poverty. “They’re happy that it’s Ramadan, so the poverty doesn’t affect them [as much]. After the iftar, they go [outside] and play with the [other] children, they light fireworks, and they play on swings. For them the night is sweeter than the day.”
The cluster of children who gather around Hajj Ali agree that their favorite Ramadan activity is their post-fast playtime.
Latifeh Assaf, Hajj Ali’s adult daughter, adds that the kids are only free to play close to her building. It’s not safe further along, she says. Indeed, a recent shooting nearby left two dead.
Hajj Ali was born in Haifa, but left when she was 2 years old. Her children were born in Shatila. “I’m upset that it’s Ramadan and I’m not home [in Palestine],” Hajj Ali says. “Every person who is away from their home country feels this way. But the young children, their generation doesn’t know this feeling yet. Tomorrow they will grow up and know.”
It isn’t only Hajj Ali who has Palestine on her mind this Ramadan. Kazem Hassan, a Fatah leader in Shatila, says that Ramadan in the refugee camps is not the orgy of sweets that we’ve come to associate with the holiday.
“Ramadan [here] is not luxury … Ramadan in [the camps] always reminds you of the forbidden, of the shortage of all things. It reminds you [how] the nation [acts] toward you as a Palestinian. Ramadan reminds you of your homeland and your country. Ramadan here reminds you of the family that is not around you … [those who have] travelled abroad because of the security situation and the Palestinian situation.”
Iftars are more modest in the camps, where salaries are low. “You find people here who earn $200 a month,” Hassan says. “Most families spend Ramadan at home. There are very poor families here … and some spend their night without food.”
Various charities and popular committees organize mass meals in most of the camps, both for those who can’t afford to make their own, or to honor various political causes. Later in the evening, Hassan attends a meal in Burj al-Barajneh populated almost entirely by men, members of his party. Rows of plastic tables covered with food are accompanied by political speeches and security guards.
For both the outdoor and home iftars, the work of food preparation tends to fall to women, such as Hajj Ali and Assaf. Hajj Ali apologizes that her iftar includes leftovers. She usually prepares Palestinian specialties, and giggles as she describes them, saying that “Palestinian people like fatty food.”
Assaf says Palestinians make their mloukhiyeh like a stew, as opposed to the Lebanese who cook whole leaves without chopping them. “Mloukhiyeh is a favorite food for Palestinians,” she says. “We make kebbe, shish barak … foods that have the taste of old times.”
As it gets a bit darker outside, mother and daughter call for their children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. This iftar is a women and children’s affair. Many men are at the mosque, and some are working. Hajj Ali lays a blanket on the floor, and the family sits around trays of food. The firecracker enthusiast among the bunch insists on setting off one last blast before coming inside. Then the call for prayer starts, and Assaf silences the children with glasses of water.
The streets of Shatila and Burj al-Barajneh empty out, dim, and are quiet for a while. Shopkeepers can be seen munching on the snacks they sell.
Then the night’s business commences. In Burj al-Barajneh, a vendor sells coffee out of the back of a converted red van. Teenagers gather round narguileh pipes. Kids, including Boushra Hajj Ali’s 27 grandchildren, can finally buy the ice cream and Pepsi they have been waiting for. And, in a victory for at least one child, they can get back to their firecrackers.
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