Susan Abulhawa

a novel

Mornings in Jenin

lae🌀

How was it that a man could not walk onto his own property, visit the grave of his wife, eat the fruit of forty generations of his ancestors’ toil, without mortal consequence? 

“If they had a sense of the land then the land would compel in them a love for the olives,” Yehya said, staring at the palms that had caressed those majestic, beloved trees only hours earlier. Age-dappled and rough, his farmer’s hands were infused with the melanin truths of those hills. The truth that an olive branch flowers only once and if it isn’t pruned back will produce buds that become new slender springs by winter. The truth that an olive’s worst biological enemy is a small lacy-winged fly and that sheep are good to keep around because they supply the soil with needed nitrogen. Yehya’s hands knew those facts from a lifetime devoted to trees and their earth. 

Marion

Toughness found fertile soil in the hearts of Palestinians, and the grains of resistance embedded themselves in their skin.

Endurance evolved as a hallmark of refugee society. But the price they paid was the subduing of tender vulnerability. They learned to celebrate martyrdom. Only martyrdom offered freedom. Only in death were they at last invulnerable to Israel.

Martyrdom became the ultimate defiance of Israeli occupation.

"Never let them know they hurt you" was their creed.

But the heart must grieve. Sometimes pain emerged as joy. Sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference. For the generations born in the camps, grief found repose in a bed of necrophilia.

We were refugees, all of us. Those who had fled had become refugees once again, in another human junkyard dotting Israels brief history. And those of us who had remained became prisoners in Jenin.

In the sorrow of a history buried alive, the year 1948 in Palestine fell from the calendar into exile, ceasing to reckon the marching count of days, months, and years, instead becoming an infinite mist of one moment in history. The twelve months of that year rearranged themselves and swirled aimlessly in the heart of Palestine. The old folks of Ein Hod would die refugees in the camp, bequeathing to their heirs the large iron keys to their ancestral homes, the crumbling land registers issued by the Ottomans, the deeds from the British mandate, their memories and love of the land, and the dauntless will not to leave the spirit of forty generations trapped beneath the subversion of thieves.

Rebecca Lum

“Amal, I believe that most Americans do not love as we do. It is not for any inherent deficiency or superiority in them. They live the safe, shallow parts that rarely push human emotions into the depths where we dwell. I see your confusion. Consider fear. For us, fear comes where terror comes to others because we are anesthetized to the guns constantly pointed at us. And the terror we have known  is something few Westerners ever will. Israeli occupation exposes us very young to the extremes of our own emotions, until we cannot feel except in the extreme. The roots of our grief coil so deeply into loss that death has come to live with us like a family member who makes you happy by avoiding you, but who is still one of the family. Our anger is a rage that Westerners cannot understand. Our sadness can make the stones weep. And the way we love is no exception, Amal. It is the kind of love you can know only if you have felt the intense hunger that makes your body eat itself at night. The kind you know only after life shields you from falling bombs or bullets passing through your body. It is the love that dives naked toward infinity's reach. I think it is where God lives.”

oh my god. language is so fucking insufficient. thinking again about words at mosab’s reading—“if evidence is drained of its semantic use, we must rethink the use of poetry & of the witness.” if I ever teach again this will be on my syllabus forever

cried all through second half, devastating & important & leaves my heart wide open with great grief

Chloe

Sarah Sammis

It feels wrong to compliment a novel based on historical facts all i can say is free palestine. I read this in 2 days and cried when i finished 

Gut wrenching 

It feels wrong to compliment a novel based on historical facts all i can say is free palestine. I read this in 2 days and cried when i finished 

A heart-wrenching, powerfully written novel that does for Palestine what The Kite Runner did for Afghanistan. Mornings in Jenin is a multi-generational story about a Palestinian family. Forcibly removed from the olive-farming village of Ein Hod by the newly formed state of Israel in 1948, the Abulhejos are displaced to live in canvas tents in the Jenin refugee camp. We follow the Abulhejo family as they live through a half century of violent history. Amidst the loss and fear, hatred and pain, as their tents are replaced by more forebodingly permanent cinderblock huts, there is always the waiting, waiting to return to a lost home. The novel's voice is that of Amal, the granddaughter of the old village patriarch, a bright, sensitive girl who makes it out of the camps, only to return years later, to marry and bear a child. Through her eyes, with her evolving vision, we get the story of her brothers, one who is kidnapped to be raised Jewish, one who will end with bombs strapped to his middle. But of the many interwoven stories, stretching backward and forward in time, none is more important than Amal's own. Her story is one of love and loss, of childhood and marriage and parenthood, and finally the need to share her history with her daughter, to preserve the greatest love she has. Set against one of the twentieth century's most intractable political conflicts, Mornings in Jenin is a deeply human novel - a novel of history, identity, friendship, love, terrorism, surrender, courage, and hope. Its power forces us to take a fresh look at one of the defining conflicts of our lifetimes.

A Novel

jooooo-riaan

I adored this book but I had to take a break everytime the pov changed because it was so jarring to not just switch from different characters but to oscillate between first and third person as well.

"Officers of the new state came in their identical tan uniforms, an impenetrable cold contradiction to the heat of July. Baking winds rustled the peppers strung up to dry, and hanging pots clanged as rifle-toting Israeli soldiers, fresh from the glory of victory, moved through the village. The sun clawed at everything it touched while the sumptuous smell of lamb and cumin struggled to seep through the anxiety."

First of all, before we plunge into the grief and despair I felt as I went through this hell-filled chapter, I would like to laud Abulhawa's ensnaring writing; the quiet terror, the restless apprehension of the people of Ein Hod watching conquerors of their home eat the food they've fed them, the disbelief and shock... "Like her, other survivors roamed in a wordless haze. It was a rotten quietude, devoid of fury, love, despair, or even fear. Dalia surveyed the land, burnt, lifeless."

Everything transpired so quickly; it was only yesterday that these Jewish officers feasted on their offered meal, came to "inspect" the village upon the truce they had called. I was in a daze as I read, stunned into the same unprocessed sorrow Abulhawa has snared me in. Deaths, disappearances, the intangible echoing sound of a god "distributing destinies" and conducting movements, the concealed snipers cocked at bowed heads, unquiet, thundering hearts. "...he hollowed the earth in such shock that he was unable to grieve. Al Fatiha. Dust to dust..." The repeating question, "Is this a dream?" haunts every grim event.

And this paragraph, ending the chapter, which had so much packed into it I felt as if I had read the entire story in several pages: "In the sorrow of a history buried alive, the year 1948 in Palestine fell from the calendar into exile, ceasing to reckon the marching count of days, months, and years, instead becoming an infinite mist of one moment in history."

fairuza hanun

"Officers of the new state came in their identical tan uniforms, an impenetrable cold contradiction to the heat of July. Baking winds rustled the peppers strung up to dry, and hanging pots clanged as rifle-toting Israeli soldiers, fresh from the glory of victory, moved through the village. The sun clawed at everything it touched while the sumptuous smell of lamb and cumin struggled to seep through the anxiety."

First of all, before we plunge into the grief and despair I felt as I went through this hell-filled chapter, I would like to laud Abulhawa's ensnaring writing; the quiet terror, the restless apprehension of the people of Ein Hod watching conquerors of their home eat the food they've fed them, the disbelief and shock... "Like her, other survivors roamed in a wordless haze. It was a rotten quietude, devoid of fury, love, despair, or even fear. Dalia surveyed the land, burnt, lifeless."

Everything transpired so quickly; it was only yesterday that these Jewish officers feasted on their offered meal, came to "inspect" the village upon the truce they had called. I was in a daze as I read, stunned into the same unprocessed sorrow Abulhawa has snared me in. Deaths, disappearances, the intangible echoing sound of a god "distributing destinies" and conducting movements, the concealed snipers cocked at bowed heads, unquiet, thundering hearts. "...he hollowed the earth in such shock that he was unable to grieve. Al Fatiha. Dust to dust..." The repeating question, "Is this a dream?" haunts every grim event.

And this paragraph, ending the chapter, which had so much packed into it I felt as if I had read the entire story in several pages: "In the sorrow of a history buried alive, the year 1948 in Palestine fell from the calendar into exile, ceasing to reckon the marching count of days, months, and years, instead becoming an infinite mist of one moment in history."

Während die Welt schlief, ja alles was auf falastin passierte, geschah und die Welt schlief im tiefen Schlaf. Ohne wissen wie viel schaden und unrecht dieses Stück Land leiden musste. 

Man liest und verspürt Schmerz bei jeder Seite, wie ist es wohl für die Menschen dort die es Tag täglich erleben?

Wenn wir kein Stück von deinem Land befreien können filistin, dann lass uns wenigstens die Geschichten lesen, die uns den Duft von deinen Orangen und Oliven schenken.

Ob ich die Geschichte weiterempfehle? Auf jedenfall. Liest es und fühlt mit filistin die immer noch blutet seit 75 Jahren.

Fatima

Während die Welt schlief, ja alles was auf falastin passierte, geschah und die Welt schlief im tiefen Schlaf. Ohne wissen wie viel schaden und unrecht dieses Stück Land leiden musste. 

Man liest und verspürt Schmerz bei jeder Seite, wie ist es wohl für die Menschen dort die es Tag täglich erleben?

Wenn wir kein Stück von deinem Land befreien können filistin, dann lass uns wenigstens die Geschichten lesen, die uns den Duft von deinen Orangen und Oliven schenken.

Ob ich die Geschichte weiterempfehle? Auf jedenfall. Liest es und fühlt mit filistin die immer noch blutet seit 75 Jahren.

Jule

Oh my heart 💔 this was heartbreaking and important and should be on your radar.

Prashanth Srivatsa

A crushing tale sweeping the Israel-Palestine conflict. It's raw and brutal, stopping just short of polemic. The tragedy is laid plain to see, and harder to swallow.

mercy

god how do i even sit here and find the words to describe how this book made me feel

Dany

5 stars!
One of most heartbreaking books I’ve read 😭 I wish I was a good reviewer cause it’s an excellent book! It’s about the life of four generations of a Palestinian family! It’s feels like never ending loss and sadness 😭 it’s written very well and a must read imo!

jinad

i can't form sentences to describe what this book made me feel. i laughed, i cried, i saw myself in the pages, and i felt a numb nothing and an all-encompassing everything both at the same time. susan abdulhawa hurt me and healed me with every word and every chapter, and yeah idc 5 stars

Mornings in Jenin a novel

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