THE CHILDREN OF SHATILA

Shatila Palestinian Refugee Camp in Lebanon

More than 350,000 Palestinian refugees live in Lebanon, 15,000 of them in the refugee camp of Shatila in Beirut. Through the eyes of two children who live in this camp, Issa and Farah, this documentary explores the determination to keep family and dreams thriving in a landscape that has been sculpted by war, poverty, grief and displacement. 

Issa, a little boy who lives with his grandfather, sustained severe injuries when he was hit by a speeding car and has trouble learning in school. Farah lives with her parents and two sisters. The children’s memories and history are shaped by the violence that surrounds them. Both have lost family in the massacres and attacks that followed the 1948 Diaspora and the 1982 invasion of Lebanon by Israel. An aunt was decapitated, an uncle shot ~ every family and friend they know has lost someone to the violence. 

The filmmaker gives Issa and Farah a small video camera to film their lives and learn how they see their own world. Both children start asking their elders how they felt about leaving Palestine. When queried about what he wants to tell the new generation of Palestinians, an old man asks that Palestine must never be forgotten. “Promise me that,” he tells the children. 

The poverty of Shatila offers little escape. Farah’s mother says that when her children tell her their dreams she feels “awkward and afraid to shock them with the truth,” and wonders about the kind of future that lies ahead. Yet both children inspire viewers with their ability to keep their hearts and minds open. Farah tells a nursery class, “Imagining is the main thing, even if you only draw a bird.” And Issa has a wonderful dream where he is a prince. 

While the focus is on the lives of children, this documentary is not suitable for younger children. It is appropriate for mature young adults, and university and community audiences interested in learning about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, life in the refugee camps, and the lasting effects of war.

What shone through the film is the strength and resilience of the Palestinian people. The warmth of family, caring and belonging, and the underlying gentle humour under severe circumstances are full of insights into the depth and richness of the Palestinian spirit to survive with the inhuman challenges they face every day.  

I found the film flew by so engrossed in these children I became for they are charming, insightful and survivors, their childish hopes and dreams shine through constantly. To me, the saddest part was when a group of young boys tell the camera their aspirations and dreams… the same dreams that little boys around the world have ~ an engineer, a doctor, a mechanic, a fireman…..


PART ONE

I WISH I DIED

By Muhammad Meri

As I watch the news of the Intifada on TV channels, I feel happy and sad. I feel happy to see my fellows in Palestine fighting for their rights for our rights only by stones. But at the same time I feel sad because of helplessness feeling to help my fellows there. I hated myself because of this feeling of helplessness, I wanted to be there in Palestine to fight with my nation, and I wanted to be there so if I died I would die in my homeland not a refugee in the camps.

When I saw the photo of Muhammad El Durra, I thought of Israel, I wanted to kill an Israeli but then I started to think can I kill an Israeli child and I cold blood as they killed Muhammad El Durra? I know they I could not despite my deep hatred to Israel, How could they? I can't commit their crimes, I know that.  I hated the world because they don’t do anything to us, I hated the Arabs too.

When I knew about the trip to South Lebanon I felt happy because I wanted to tell my friends in Dheisheh camp in Palestine that I am thinking of them and that we are all together Palestinians in the Diaspora and inside Palestine. On my way to the south I was very happy. I was holding a stone in one hand and my death in the other hand. I wish I had a gun to kill an Israeli soldier. As throwing stones on the Israeli soldier who lie on my land, my land that I am not allowed to visit, I felt so happy because a soldier with all his weapons did not scare me.

When the Israelis threw the teargas bomb I was in the front, I could not see anything, my friends started to wash my face. I could not breathe too; my chest was full of their gas, their poisonous gas.

Usama and my other friends from Shatila held me, as soon as I could see I used to run and throw stones on the Israelis. When Hassan from Shatila got shot, I felt so sad, when I was told he died I fainted. He is after all my camp fellow and I love him so much. He was great and all the children in the camp loved him for he used to take them on rides on his motorcycles. But when I regained my consciousness I ran again to throw stones n the Israelis. 

This time I was throwing stones with all my strength I was outraged I felt I hated the Israelis even more. I was throwing stones and mourning the death of my friends I felt I did not want to stop throwing stones at all. But then in few hours they asked us to withdraw to go back to Shatila.

When I reached the camp I felt so happy because they the people in the camp were throwing rice on us and singing for our return. When I reached home, my mother and my siblings were crying, they were scared about me. Then I started to cry like a child. Oh how I wish I died on the south and not return to my sad, miserable ugly camp. But then I did not die and here I am in Shatila, Shatila that I hate and I hate my life. I feel lost and lonely, a little guy with no father to take care of him and hold him in his arms. A lonely guy with no house to protect him from the streets, no homeland where he could have rights and live as a human being.  My chest is still full of gas; I still feel suffocated but have no hospital to take care of me. How I wish my destiny would be like my father  or Muhammad EL Durra" DEATH". 


PART TWO

THE TALE OF OUR RETURN

 

By Ismail Zaaroura

The tale began with my grandfather who, upon being evicted from Palestine, found refuge in Lebanon in 1948. My grandfather did not want to stay there. He lived in a tent believing that he would return to Palestine in a day or two. That is why he locked his door well, carried the house’s keys and left all his belongings in Palestine hoping to return soon. 

At the beginning, he was helped by the Red Cross. Then the UNRWA took over the responsibility of aiding the refugees until they return to Palestine. So when UNRWA decided to build cement houses for Palestinians, my grandfather, like all Palestinians, objected because they wanted to return to Palestine and not settle in Lebanon.

My father was born in the camp but my grandfather told him that he was Palestinian and that there were in Al-Saffouriyeh vast fields and big houses awaiting his return. He also told him that the Israelis have usurped our land and that the Arab countries betrayed us. 

When the revolution broke out, my father joined it wanting to return to Palestine. There he would not wait for a United Nations Organization to provide him with educational and health services…The revolution was over and my father died in the Camp Wars.

The Lebanese war was over but a new war flared against us: UNRWA started to cut down its educational and health services gradually. Moreover, the Lebanese state has forbidden the Palestinians who have come to this country around half a century ago from working, while it did not forbid the foreigners who arrived to the country two or three years ago from working in any profession they choose.

The Lebanese government states that the siege imposed on us aims at encouraging us to return to Palestine, as if we are still here willingly. We have never surrendered our right to return; my grandfather called for its implementation and so did my father. 

The Lebanese are showing off now refusing our living on their land, but who told them that we want to stay here. I neither want to stay here nor want the Lebanese identity. I want to return to Palestine. However, to continue what my father started and realize my dream of return, I want to feel that I am a human for me to be able to think of a way to returning to Palestine. I want my civil rights in Lebanon to ask the world for my right to return to Palestine.

PART THREE

SHATILA MASSACRE: ONLY ONE OF MANY

 

BY Mona Zaaroura

 

When Sabra and Shatila massacre was committed I was not yet born. I got to know it through my questions about the reasons of the miserable life we lead in the camp, in Shatila.

I am fourteen year old girl now, I, like all children in Shatila, never enjoyed my childhood, we never felt secure, we never smiled except a refugee smile, a temporary one.

I grew up in Shatila and my parents told me about Shatila's wound, a wound that will stay in my heart forever, the massacre.  I knew from the stories told by those who survived it that thousands of our people were massacred in the cruelest ways and in cold blood.

Darkness overshadowed Shatila for three days; three days of death, of torture of horror and fear. We were told the Israelis besides its allies in Lebanon were responsible for the massacre. But it was neither the first nor the last massacre of Israel. 

Israel first took our grandparents’ land and their dreams and kicked them out of our homeland in 1948.  We became refugees but the dream of return never faded. Horrified by this dream, it followed us to our refugee camp to kill us with its allies in Lebanon.

As I grew up I got to know that massacre does not only mean killing people in one shot. In that way, Shatila massacre is only one of the many massacres committed against us every day. Every day we suffer because we are refugees and we don't have a homeland.

We as youth live every day the massacres of our fading dreams.

Problems at school and drop outs isn't that a massacre?

Illegal departure from the country to the unknown just to escape the unbearable conditions in the camp, isn’t that a massacre?

Deprivation of our civil rights to become dehumanized numbers in the records of the United Nations isn't that a massacre?

A real massacre?

And isn't being refugees living away from our homeland a massacre to our hearts?

As I grew up I got to realize that only return will protect us from all these massacres committed against us every day; just return to Palestine will make us live safely forever. Just return will fulfill our lost humanity. I and other refugees, younger and older living in Shatila or anywhere in the Diaspora are still waiting at the doors of return and crying out stop massacring us outside and inside Palestine every day. 

PART FOUR

INTIFADA MY SALVATION

 

By Ussama Abou El Sheikh

The second intifada started three weeks after my school had started. I was then going to school without books. My mum had paid the money for my younger siblings since she thought that mine was paid from last year. My money was lost between the principal’s office and his assistant and I spent the first three school weeks from that office to the other trying to get my money.

I got fines many times for not paying for my books. In my classes I was usually humiliated for not paying "if you do not have money why come to school?” I did not dare ask my mum to pay the money again. I know she has no money to pay and I am the man of the house as they call me and I am supposed to be helping her raising my younger siblings.

I hated myself and felt angry at the whole world around me! I thought I would steal. Steal yes why not. I went to someone I know is a thief and asked him to go with him that night to get the money for the books. The money that I paid last year was stolen from me. I could not sleep that night. Steal? Me? Why? I did not do it before.

I changed mind and woke up the next morning having decided to quit school and start working. I started searching for work. I went to the carpenters, mechanics construction builders in the camp begging for a work. Nobody encouraged me they all said they would work for a week and stay jobless for months. But what shall I do now?

At that time when I was looking for a job the intifada started. At start I felt that it might be my salvation from Shatila and from the miserable life I lead there ~ my salvation from poverty and my return to my homeland Palestine.

Shatila inhabitants expressed their joy for the intifada by demonstrating every day. I participated in all the marches in the camp we used to walk crying out "our blood and soul is for Palestine!” Palestine is for the Arabs, I used to cry out as loudly as I could but as I go home I used to start thinking of the many generations that cried out those same chants.

I know that at least our grandparents cried out the same slogans since they left Palestine. But Palestine is not back yet; my grandfather chanted for Palestine; my father did; and here I am chanting even the same slogans. But Palestine is never back. I thought that demonstrations would do us any good but again the next day I used to find myself in the middle of the crowds chanting the same slogans that my grandfather and my father chanted to Palestine that is still occupied.

I go back home and decide that I will never share in the demonstrations but again the next day I do out of a need to cry out and vent my anger even if I was shouting slogans I don’t believe in.

One night and after the demonstration was over, news spread in the camp about a trip to the south to demonstrate against the Israelis. I agreed with my friend to go maybe it would be better than those chants every day. I never told my mother about that trip; all that I said was that I was going on a trip with my friends. I truly believed it was trip; I never knew I was going to fight the Israelis. When I was there the leaders informed us that we will throw stones on the Israelis and maybe we will need to cut the wires. Somebody has to die "maybe the Arabs will wake up" as he said.

As we reached Zareit in the south we left the buses, a group of us ran and started to throw stones on Israeli soldiers who were on their posts on my homeland Palestine, the other stayed up in the hill. Manar TV station was waiting for us up the hill. Manar TV was waiting for us and also an ambulance. We started throwing stones on an Israeli soldier who was holding a teapot and heading to his post. As we started throwing him stones he throws the pot and ran away. I thought that the Israelis are coward why could not we defeat them till now?  If only the Arabs had united!

As time was passing I started to feel angry from those who stayed up this hill watching us fighting and I was upset at others behaviors. I thought "are we really going to free Palestine, can we with this mentality we have?"  But then I go back to throw stones and think from time to time whether what I was doing was right or wrong. Is it right to throw stones or not? But then I find myself throwing stones without being sure that I was doing the right thing.

At around noon, Hezbollah brought us food to eat I was again upset from the way my people behaved and I thought how are we going to liberate Palestine? But when they started to throw stones I started with them thinking if that was right or wrong. Hassan died and many were injured but we kept on throwing stones. At around three Hezbollah asked us to retreat. We threw the stones, left the place and started our journey back to Shatila.

On my way back to Shatila I realized that I did not enjoy Palestine and all what I saw on the borders was that Israeli soldier. When I reached Shatila my friends were waiting for me in the neighborhood of Shatila and Sabra cemetery at the outskirts of the camp. I hugged them and ran back home.

My mum and my siblings were waiting for me, they thought I was injured. I kissed my mum who was unable to talk then and then when I saw my little sister Ibtisam I hugged her deeply and started to cry. I cried too much not knowing why maybe because I thought that if I had died who would take care of my younger siblings, or maybe because I did not know whether what I was doing was right or wrong.

I am still thinking till now whether stone throwing from the Israeli borders is an act of heroism?

Did anybody wake up after the death of Hassan and Anas?

I am still thinking till now and I don't know the truth.

If you wish to read more from these extraordinary children please go HERE.