Almost everything in New York was different. We were used to living in an area where everyone knew everyone else’s business, but here no one seemed to take any notice even of their neighbours. Instead of having a common culture, the people around us dressed in different styles, ate different kinds of food, even spoke different languages. It was a complete puzzle to me how they could be so various yet still call themselves Americans.
I was born in 1942, so I must have been about six or seven when the 1948 catastrophe (Nakba) happened. As a result, thousands of Palestinian families, including mine, were forced to leave Palestine. We spent a short time in Jordan before we children were taken to America by our aunt and uncle. Being so young, I saw our new life mostly as an adventure, even though I missed my friends and our old home. My parents had important work to do, but they had promised to join us as soon as possible. My older brother went through a period of anger, saying he hated everything about America. My uncle had his job at the newspaper and was quite fluent in English, so he managed fairly well. My aunt, though, never got used to life in America.
I now realise that this was mostly a choice she made herself. She refused to learn any English, so she found herself stuck in the house most of the time, only going out to buy ‘food like we had at home’, for which she would walk miles rather than use the stores in the neighbourhood. She also refused to make any changes to the tiny apartment we rented, apart from spending hours keeping it clean. This meant that it was very hot in the summer and freezing in winter. I’m sure we could have afforded a fridge, but she wouldn’t have one, preferring to keep things cool in the traditional way.
At the time, I remember feeling annoyed with her stubborn attitude, but now, looking back, I know I should have realised what it was: a sign of her deep feeling of loss. In one way, I now understand, she was clinging to the way of life that had been taken from her. Mainly, though, her refusal to become accustomed to living in America was an expression of her conviction that our situation was only temporary. ‘Don’t get used to all this,’ she often told us, ‘because it won’t last. We’ll be going home soon.’