“‘Alhamdulillah.’”
Cara MariAna
Palestinian Voices
The Floutist
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Ancient terraces, new vineyards. (C.M., 2024.)
21 SEPTEMBER—The morning was already unbearably warm when I walked out of the Jaffa Gate. Pulling my suitcase behind me, I descended a long flight of steps to the road below to catch a bus for Bethlehem. It was the last Monday in April and I was crossing into the West Bank for the first time, where, among many other things that happened that day, I heard the word alhamdulillah for the first time.
This piece is about a word. Alhamdulillah is used frequently in the West Bank and I describe here the first time I heard it. Translated as “praise be to God,” or “praise be to Allah,” or, more simple “thank God,” the word has a special place in the Quran. But it is used among Arabs of all faiths, including Christians, to express appreciation and thanks for all that God provides—the good and the bad—in good times and bad.
Over time I have found this word important to my understanding of Palestinian consciousness, endurance, and resilience—the continued humanity embodied and expressed by Palestinians in the face of ceaseless and increasingly depraved inhumanity.
Alhamdulillah, is an expression of gratitude and also of acceptance for all that is difficult and painful—God is to be thanked in all situations. Inherent in the word is an act of surrender. To my mind it seems comparable to a Zen koan, enabling a person to transcend the ego and the illusion of duality. But these would be questions for an Imam. Still, there is much to contemplate about the use of this word.
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As I left Old Jerusalem I carried in my hand a scrap of paper with a bus number written on it. Standing at the stop I looked from the sign to the paper in my hand and back again. There was no matching number for the bus I’d been told to take. Had I known the word then, it would have been an appropriate time to say “alhamdulillah.”
I approached a man and woman sitting on a bench. “Do you speak English?”
They looked at me.
“I need to get to Bethlehem. I have a meeting there at eleven.”
“Come with me,” the woman said. “I’m going to Beit Jala.” Beit Jala, as I later learned, is a small and predominantly Christian Palestinian town located on the steep hillside above Bethlehem. The woman spoke in a richly melodic Arabic accent. I hadn’t understood much of what she’d said except that I should follow her. And so I did. Onto the next bus that pulled up.
Church of the Annunciation. Beit Jala. (C.M., 2024.)
My decision in that instant to trust Rose—I soon learned her name—set the pattern for nearly every move I made over the next three weeks. The buses I was supposed to take were never where I was told they would be, or, if they were, the numbers were inevitably wrong. It mattered little. Always someone—an Arab man or woman, Christian or Muslim, in hijab or not, and despite a nearly impenetrable language barrier—made certain I arrived safely at my destination, or, if necessary, passed me into the hands of yet another person who did.
As a man in Hebron would tell me, “My mother always said, ‘If you have a tongue you’re never lost.’” Indeed, there seems to be a universal language of human care still spoken by some among us in the world—it should be a cause for hope.
The bus ride that morning was my first glimpse of the olive groves and ancient terraces that defined so much of the agricultural land I would travel through in the West Bank. I tried to relax and enjoy the unfamiliar beauty. But the tension among my fellow passengers was palpable.
Travel is strictly controlled by the Israeli occupation forces. Since 7 October it has become increasingly difficult, time consuming, and fraught with the potential for violence. For Palestinians, even the most mundane experiences are intentional and intentionally humiliating reminders of their subordinate status and apartheid existence. On this morning, the check point into the West Bank was empty and the bus drove straight through without stopping. As we entered into Palestine, it seemed to me that tightly held tensions began to ease.
In general, I found the atmosphere on the Israeli side suffocating and filled with suspicion and fear. I had never been in an apartheid regime before and the arrogance and entitlement assumed by the Jewish majority—however subtly expressed—was everywhere apparent, especially in Old Jerusalem. It was communicated in body language, in who had the right of way and who had to step aside, in who commanded the right to a direct gaze, and who kept their eyes averted, in who was visible and who made to be invisible.
In all, it was a kind of perverse imitation of how the United States was prior to the movement for civil rights. And indeed for many decades afterward. Such is the evil of racism.
It was not so in the West Bank where I felt welcome and certainly safer than in Israel.
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When we were seated on the bus, Rose took my phone and spoke Arabic with the person I was meeting in Bethlehem. I had clearly put myself into competent hands. At Beit Jala we exited the bus together. Rose walked me to a taxi and told the driver where to take me. She then told me how much to pay—ten shekels (or was it twenty?)—and no more. “No more,” she was insistent. I made it to the meeting on time.
About that meeting—at the Palestine Institute for Biodiversity and Sustainability—I will have something to say in a separate essay. For now, I will skip ahead to subsequent events. On leaving the institute, I declined a second taxi ride preferring instead to find my way on foot to the Alrowwad Guesthouse in Aida refugee camp. It was perhaps a foolish decision but altogether too late by the time I realized it.
I dragged my suitcase up a steep hill. The day was hot, approaching 90 degrees, and despite the printed directions that had been handed to me as I left the meeting, I was soon lost. Even so, I recognized the apartheid wall when I first saw it. I turned a street corner and there it was, looming before me ugly and menacing and covered with graffiti. I stopped and stared as I realized what it was I was looking at.
Apartheid. The wall in Bethlehem. (C.M., 2024.)
I wandered the streets for another twenty minutes and stumbled into Aida refugee camp without realizing it. There again was the wall, pressing upon the camp and its inhabitants, an ever present threat and reminder that the Nakba has never ended.
The refugee camps resemble densely crowded urban ghettos, the streets are a confusing maze. I had no idea which way to turn. “Alrowwad?” I asked a group of Arab men standing at a street corner. They pointed up the street to my left. I wandered in that direction and through a large gate, shaped like a keyhole with a monumental key balanced on top. I was awash in symbols of Palestinian resistance—the key, a symbol of return—and didn’t yet know it. I stopped frequently to take pictures.
Two blocks farther on I approached another group of Arab men. They were standing around a van that appeared not to have moved in a very long time.
“Alrowwad?” I asked.
They also pointed left and I pulled my suitcase down another street, wandering deeper into the camp. And then, as if all along I’d know precisely where I was and where I wanted to be, I saw a sign to my right: Alrowwad Cultural and Arts Society.
Alrowwad Guesthouse occupies the upper floors of the Alrowwad Cultural Center. The affordable rooms, rented to tourists, provide income for the center as well as housing for international volunteers. Usually bustling with classes and activities, Alrowwad was silent and nearly empty when I was there. Everything had stopped after 7 October. With the economy in crisis and many of the men out of work, Alrowwad was focused on providing food for the most vulnerable residents of the camp. As I learned elsewhere, festivals and cultural activities throughout the West Bank had been suspended while the genocide in Gaza continued.
Key to the future. Aida refugee camp and the apartheid wall. (C.M., 2024.)
I ate a simple supper that night, a chicken shawarma at a corner shop up the street. The proprietor, happy to have my business, set me ceremoniously on a tall stool and curious children peeked in as I ate.
Later that night I sat on the bed scribbling notes in my journal about the day’s adventure. My back was to the door when it opened. I turned around and standing in the doorway was a young Arab man. He seemed surprised and embarrassed.
“Hello,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered in broken English. “I didn’t know anyone was in here. I saw a light under the door. I wanted to turn it off.”
“My name is Cara,” I got off the bed and introduced myself.
“My name is Mohammed,” he said. And then, as if the information would ease any fear I might have about a strange man standing in my room he said, “I’m a doctor from Gaza.”
“You’re a medical doctor from Gaza?” I asked. I stared at him as my brain struggled to process this startling information.
“Yes.” he said. “My mother and I are staying here. We’re in room number 18. If you need anything please knock.” He turned and left.
I stared at the door. Then I grabbed my notebook and followed him. The door to room 18 was closed. I knocked. Dr. Mohammed answered. The door opened onto a room that had clearly been occupied for some time. There were groceries in one corner and a pile of clothes that needed laundering. Two single beds, their covers rumpled, were separated by a dresser and lamp.
“I’m a writer,” I told him. “May I ask you some questions?”
“My mother is at the mosque right now. Can you come back in thirty minutes and have a cup of tea with us?”
Thirty minutes later I again knocked on the door to room 18. Dr. Mohammed introduced his mother who was preparing tea and who didn’t speak any English. He invited me to sit in a chair opposite the beds. We drank black tea seasoned with sage leaves and sugar and ate chocolate cookies. Dr. Mohammed told me their story as his mother listened and watched. She had a beautiful, genuine smile that filled a round and innocent face.
“I was sick. I had Guillain Barre. Do you know it?” he asked.
“Guillain Barre Syndrome,” I said. “Yes. One of my cousins had it.” Guillain Barre is a dreadful illness that can leave a person paralyzed and take months to recover from. My cousin, who eventually made most of a full recovery, had required long hospitalization, including assisted ventilation, and ultimately lost the sight in one eye.
Dr. Mohammed nodded. Then he handed me medical records as if to back up his story. They did. I glanced through the many pages. His was a sad and remarkable tale. “I had to come to Bethlehem, for intravenous treatment. I couldn’t get the medicine I needed in Gaza. My mother came with me. We got here one week before 7 October. Alhamdulillah.”
“My legs and arms were burning, my muscles weren’t working,” Dr. Mohammed described some of his symptoms. “Guillain Barre affects the nerves,” he explained. “I was in the hospital for many weeks. The medicine finally worked,” he said. “I’m better now. Alhamdulillah.”
He continued with his story, “My wife was pregnant when we left. She gave birth to my son one month ago. Alhamdulillah.” Dr. Mohammed passed his cellphone to me. On the screen was a picture of a handsome newborn baby.
“My wife and children are living in a tent in Rafah. Most of our family are still in Khan Yunis. Alhamdulillah.” A photo of his three other children showed them standing in a tent on a dirt floor—and smiling. They were almost certainly smiling into the camera for their father.
“I went to medical school in Egypt for five years. I was working in Al–Shifa hospital when I got sick. Do you know Al–Shifa?” he asked. When I nodded yes he said, “They took the head of our hospital.” He looked at me with something like disbelief. Indeed, I think at that time, many of the Palestinians I met were numb and in shock from the magnitude of the violence being unleashed on Gaza.
“Yes. I know.” I wondered then how recent Dr. Mohammed’s news was. On the evening we spoke, Al–Shifa was already in ruins, a mass grave had been found at the hospital and there was evidence that people had been tortured and executed. Like other Palestinians I would meet, Dr. Mohammed was unwilling to discuss in any detail the horrors then unfolding in Gaza. Perhaps it was deemed pointless or was simply too painful—or too evil to utter aloud.
“Now we can’t leave Bethlehem. We can’t get back home.” Mother and son were stuck in Bethlehem with no way to return to Gaza and no income. Alrowwad Cultural Center was hosting their stay.
“They are letting us stay here. Free. Alhamdulillah.”
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Here is another story about the word alhamdulillah.
Ten days after my encounter with Dr. Mohammed, I met a woman I will call Rania, not her real name, in Hebron. Rania, a U.S. citizen, is married to a Palestinian, a pediatrician who spends several weeks a year working in the U.S. where he obtained his medical degree. Several months before we met, while her husband was in the U.S., Rania had had to renew her visa.
Unbeknownst to most U.S. citizens, Israel imposes a humiliating and Byzantine visa renewal process on Americans living in occupied Palestine, made more difficult because they won’t allow Americans access to the American embassy. “I’m a U.S. citizen,” she told me, “but I can’t get to my own embassy in Jerusalem.”
Rania waited for weeks to get an appointment with Israeli authorities in the West Bank. A few days before her visa was to expire she received a phone call. “We need you here in two hours,” she was told. Rania was summoned to an Israeli military base near the settlement of Beit El to process her visa papers, some 40 kilometers north of Hebron where she lived. All of what is reported here is a violation of international law. There should be no Israeli settlements, military bases, or administrative buildings or functions of any kind anywhere in Palestine.
“My kids were with me when they called. My husband was in the U.S.” she explained. “I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t reschedule the appointment. I had to leave my kids with a neighbor.”
Rania described her experience in some detail, “It was an obscure building with high walls and barbed wire. There were no windows. I rang a doorbell and was told to go someplace else. When I got there they sent me back to where I was originally.” There was anger in her voice as she spoke. “They do this to make our lives difficult, to inconvenience us.”
It doesn’t matter whether a person is a U.S. citizen or not. “I had to go through multiple locking chambers with turnstiles. They are so afraid. Only one person at a time can enter. Everyone is armed with assault weapons, even the janitor. My escort was armed. Everyone in the office was armed.”
Cat and mouse games are typically played by Israelis to humiliate and torment Palestinians. “They scanned me and made me leave everything behind before they took me to the office. Then I was told ‘I can’t renew your visa. There’s no visa in the records. You’re not in our computer.’ The woman was yelling at me because my visa wasn’t in their computer. Someone had made a mistake. Mistakes aren’t supposed to happen to them. It makes them feel vulnerable.”
Rania was detained for hours before her visa was finally renewed. “I was so scared,” she said. “I kept repeating ‘alhamdulillah.’ You know, like a mantra, ‘alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.’”
A Buddhist these past twenty five years, I recently began reciting alhamdulillah as part of my own mantra practice. For me it is a prayer, an act of solidarity, and an expression of my certainty that one day Palestine will be whole and free from the river to the sea.
Note: In a recent text I learned that Dr. Mohammed and his mother are still in Bethlehem. It has been nearly a year since they left Gaza. Dr. Mohammed is now volunteering with a hospital in the West Bank. He has still not met his infant son.
Cara MariAna is a an artist and writer.
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