Nearly eight decades after the Nakba – the mass displacement of Palestinians that led to the establishment of the state of Israel – its impact continues to shape the lives of millions in Palestine and the diaspora.
Historians argue that the Nakba began with the signing of the Balfour Declaration in 1917, in which the British promised Jews a homeland in Palestine.
Others say it began in earnest in November 1947, six months before Israel’s declaration of independence and the subsequent Arab-Israeli War.
While there is debate on its exact starting point, there is no dispute over its legacy: an estimated 500 villages and towns depopulated and partially, if not completely, demolished; more than 750,000 Palestinians – about two thirds of the population at the time – having either fled or been forcibly removed from their homes, and a national trauma passed down through generations.
This year, on May 15, as Palestinians mark 77 years since their dispossession in 1948, The National spoke to three women who lived through the Nakba as children.
These are their stories:
Great-grandmother says Gaza war is worse than Nakba
Aisha Abu Sultan was 11 years old when she and her family were forced to flee their home to escape the encroaching Israeli military and walk to Gaza for safety. It was October 1948, five months after the establishment of the state of Israel and the new army was quickly capturing more and more land to expand the nation’s borders.
“It was dark days when we left,” says Abu Sultan.
From their home in Hamama, they walked to Jabalia in Gaza, where they spent a night. After being told the fighting had ceased, they attempted to return to Hamama but were fired upon by the Israeli forces who had advanced into the area – so they went back the way they came.
Back in Gaza, which was a much larger area at the time when compared to the current diminishing strip, they slept beneath an olive tree beside a school for about 20 days before the approaching winter months meant they had to find somewhere more permanent to live and accept that their home had been lost forever.
The family would move several more times – living in tents they bought in Rafah, in cemeteries by a hospital or in farmland among cows – before settling in Al Shati Refugee Camp. Once she married, Abu Sultan moved to Jabalia.
“No matter how difficult it was, it’s nothing like the Nakba we’re experiencing today,” she says. Abu Sultan is living in the remains of her home in Jabalia, after being displaced at least three times in the past 18 months of Israeli bombardment on Gaza before returning.
“Hunger is killing us, fear is killing us, there’s nowhere to stay,” she says. “There are no nations to take pity on us and no one to acknowledge us. There is no light, no food. Where have the Arabs gone?
“I wish people would just have compassion for us and for countries to stand together and to stop what’s happening,” she tells The National.
Comparing the experience of the Nakba to the current war on Gaza, Abu Sultan says “Initially we were told we would only have to leave [Hamama] for 15 days.
“We experienced hunger, we experienced poverty, but we didn’t experience fear. If someone went into town, they would bring us a bag of wheat or a few things. It’s not like today … we have never seen days like this in all history, not from the British, the Ottomans or the Egyptians.”
During the Nakba, Abu Sultan and her family fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Her mother, who was pregnant, carried her.
“Some were carrying their children, others took their cows or donkeys. We left with nothing. Yes, it was difficult but it wasn’t like this.
“It wasn’t this expensive. There were fewer people and they were kind. [In the Nakba], we were a family of seven that fled, but now, between me and my children and their children, we could be around 100 people.”
Hamama was a Palestinian town with a population of more than 5,000. The vast majority were Muslims, with a very small Jewish community and even fewer Christians, according to a 1945 census. The agricultural village, about 24km north of Gaza, was among hundreds that were depopulated between 1947-1949.
The state of Israel was established in May 1948, once the British Mandate on Palestine lifted. Today, the ruins of Hamama can be found in the north of the Israeli city of Ashkelon.
“It was a paradise. We would see horses in the fields. They would transport the grapes [we grew] in cars to Jaffa along with cucumbers, marrow, bags of pistachio,” Abu Sultan says fondly of her life in Hamama.
Unlike many other villages and towns – including Jaffa, Haifa, Deir Yassine, Al Lydd and Ramle where hundreds of Palestinians were killed or taken captive – the capture of Hamama by the Israeli army and initial Jewish militias was not as violent.
“They told us the village head man was shot and killed,” she says, but many of the villagers left in anticipation of the Israeli advance as the defending Egyptian forces retreated.
Today, Abu Sultan lives with a few of her children and their families in the remains of their crumbled home. In place of walls, they have hung sheets for privacy.
“Where should we stay? We don’t have money to rent so where would we go? My eye hurts but we don’t have shekels to spend.
“We don’t even have flour. I’ll never forget what has happened here. Who could forget this?”
Abu Sultan has six daughters and five sons – each of whom married and had children. Some of her grandchildren have also since married and had their own children, making her a great-grandmother.
“I always tell them about our home and where we lived. The Israelis came and took everything,” she says, eager for the next generations to know their history.
Many of her family members have been killed in the current war, including one of her granddaughters, her brother, and her niece’s son – though she struggles to keep track of them all at times due to her age, she says tearfully. A further five or so members of her husband’s family were also killed.
Despite the hardship she endured in her youth, she says nothing compares to what they are living through today. It has only made her long for life before the occupation.
“I wish just to return to Hamama and die.”
Family forced to restart lives in Jordan after being expelled from Al Lydd
At 88 years old, Julia Hanna Halteh’s childhood might seem like a lifetime ago, but the memories of displacement, poverty and fear remain fresh in her mind.
Originally from Al Lydd, near what became Tel Aviv, the Haltehs were part of a Christian minority of 1,840 people that made up the city's total population of 16,780. According to a 1945 census, just 20 of the inhabitants of Al Lydd – now known as Lod – were Jewish.
Halteh’s father was a rich merchant. Their house was luxurious with a lush garden that bore fruits such as apples, berries, grapes and apricots to feed the family.
“We lived like kings,” she says.
But the last time she saw her home, or the inside of a classroom, was at the tender age of 12 – in 1948 – when Israeli soldiers invaded her world, and her hometown, which has remained occupied since then.
Her brother’s knowledge of Hebrew bought the family some time before they took what they could from their belongings, just like everyone else around them, and left their home into the unknown.
“My brother spoke to the soldier and asked him if we could stay. The soldier gave us a paper and said we could – but my mother did not trust the way they had been treating the Arabs. So we left out of fear.”
They walked for what seemed like days. Everything was a question. Where would they go? How would they survive? What would their future look like? Everything was a gamble. But they were not alone and only a small part of a wave of mass displacement.
“People would die on the way and get buried where they fell. The soldiers searched everybody who passed through. They shot and killed a man who had been married for three months, when they asked him for money, and he refused to give it to them,” she tells The National.
Eventually, Halteh and her family ended up in Ramallah, where making ends meet was difficult. Her mother encouraged her to learn to sew, in place of a formal education because school was too expensive for the newly-displaced family who lost everything they had during the Nakba.
Her two brothers, who were also forced to drop out of school, found work at a kiosk selling cigarettes. Her father, with no access to his merchandise, had no money to provide for his family.
After losing hope of finding prosperity in Palestine, the brothers decided to find work in Jordan.
“They opened a liquor store,” she says.
The two brothers eventually found success, turning their small shop into a restaurant, which they named after their family. Soon afterwards, the brothers managed to make enough money to pay for an apartment to bring their family from Ramallah to Amman.
Halteh’s new life would begin after leaving behind everything she knew and the life her father had worked hard to create for his children.
Later, she married and resettled in Madaba, Jordan, where she still lives. Life has become relatively peaceful in Jordan. Despite this, Halteh longs for the days of the past.
“Is there anything more valuable than a person’s home and country?”
Even decades after it happened – and the hardship she lived through – Ms Halteh’s rues her lost childhood.
“This is the one big regret of my life that I have to this day. The day I left school.”
Many Palestinians still have the key to the homes they built with their own hands – evidence that they are the rightful owners. Halteh’s family home in Al Lydd has been occupied by settlers.
“It was taken over by the Israelis and divided among them. The living room was split into two parts. They took out the trees and destroyed everything.
“It’s all gone. There’s nothing to go back to.”
'The key is in our pocket and we will return'
Badea Hanna Barhoomeh was born on May 15, 1945 – a date that would, just three years later, come to symbolise the profound loss experienced by Palestinians: the Nakba.
Among those forced from their homes was Barhoomeh’s family, expelled by militias that would later become the Israeli military.
Though she was only three at the time, the memory of their displacement from Ajami, Jaffa, was passed down vividly through the stories told by her mother, Labibeh, who Barhoomeh, now 80, describes as both a fearless patriot and a great cook.
“It was a very painful and difficult displacement and, even though I only lived it through my mother, it was our life story sitting around the fireplace and hearing her tell us stories about the Palestinian migration,” she says.
Barhoomeh’s family journeyed on foot for three days, leaving behind their home in Jaffa to reach Al Lydd, before continuing to Ramallah and eventually settling in Amman, Jordan, a year and a half later. She has lived there ever since, dedicating the past five decades to volunteer work and leading a relief committee that helps rebuild homes for disadvantaged people in refugee camps.
When they left Jaffa, her father carried her sister and she walked along her pregnant mother, while the rest of her family followed. The trip was long, and the road was unforgiving on their bare feet and tattered slippers. By the time they reached Al Lydd to reunite with her 74-year-old grandfather, he had died.
“People were terrified and they were forced to take their family and leave with dignity, and even then, on the way, we barely survived,” she says.
At first, her family had resisted leaving – despite the growing pressure. But when militias began attacking homes in their neighbourhood, they feared they would be next and fled.
Before the Nakba, Jaffa was a thriving, diverse city. In 1945, it had a population of 94,310, with 50,880 Muslims, 28,000 Jews, and 15,400 Christians. It was designated as part of the Arab state in the 1947 UN partition plan due to its large Muslim population.
But on April 25, 1948, the Zionist paramilitary group Irgun launched an offensive on the city. More than 20 tonnes of explosives were fired into Jaffa, according to historians. Simultaneously, Haganah forces advanced on villages surrounding the city, cutting off reinforcements.
Panic gripped the residents and the majority fled by land or sea. The city surrendered just before a day before what would become Nakba Day. Those Palestinians who remained were confined to the Ajami district and forced to live under martial law. Jaffa was renamed Yafo and merged with the newly established Israeli city of Tel Aviv-Yafo.
Leaving home was heartbreaking, particularly for Barhoomeh’s mother, who often spoke of their two-bedroom house, its beautiful garden, and a kitchen where guests loved to gather. Though just a toddler, Barhoomeh recalls her mother’s sewing machine, draped in a Broderick fabric, used to embroider Palestinian tatreez on to their clothes.
Like many others, the family left everything behind, believing they would one day return.
“A phrase that all Palestinians say is, ‘the key remains in our pocket and we will return and open our houses and live in them’,” she says.
The family left in search of peace and safety but what they found on arrival to Al Lydd was the same catastrophe they had just fled.
“It was a real struggle. On the way, we couldn’t find a drop of water, and we used to sleep as the air strikes went over our heads,” she recalls. Her father scavenged watermelon rinds for them to chew in search of moisture.
She recalls a woman who walked beside them while gently cradling a pillow, only to realise – in her state of shock – that she had left her baby behind. “My mother said many people collapsed and died from hunger and thirst. When my mother told us these stories, it was as if we lived it. We would cry with her and share her grief,” she says.
Despite the pain, Barhoomeh recognised from a young age the importance of these stories. They rooted her in a legacy of resilience and belonging.
“We grew up in a household where my mom breastfed us the milk of Palestine, and we have breastfed it to our children,” she says. “I don’t think a time will come where Palestine will be forgotten, that is impossible. It lives in us, our memory, behaviour, and even in our clothing and traditions.”
She believes every Palestinian displaced in 1948 carries a dream of return. Her parents did until the day they died.
Though she has made a life in Amman – where her family was granted Jordanian citizenship and welcomed with dignity – Barhoomeh still longs for the land her family was forced to leave behind.
“They took us in with respect, opened their houses and helped us,” she says of Jordan and its people.
As war continues in Gaza with no clear end in sight, she mourns the loss of nearly 60,000 lives in what many call the continuing Nakba.
“We are living at a standstill and all Palestinians and Arabs are waiting for the day our country is freed and we return not only to Palestine, but to the holy lands that have been taken away from us.”
