Unlucky

Yesterday--as part of a near daily occurrence--my taxi driver asked me where I was from. When I said I was from America, he replied with a standard Arabic phrase that we learned at school I think within our first two weeks there: "How lucky you are (Niyaalak)!"

While I hadn't heard this particular phrase for some time, the sentiments it represents are nearly as common as the question. So, when I divulge the identity of my home country, besides "How lucky you are," I often hear such comments as, "Why would an American want to come here?" or--preceded by laughter--"All the Jordanians are trying to go to America, but you have come here?" or "I love America," "America is very nice" or simply a wide-eyed "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh."

So, I decided for once I would return the favor.

"And where are you from?" I asked with a smile, obviously aware that the answer would be Jordan or Palestine, depending on if the driver was of Jordanian or Palestinian origin.

But when he said Palestine, and the words "How lucky you are" were beginning to form on my lips, I stopped. Was he really lucky to be from Palestine?

After all, around 60 percent of the population of Jordan is of Palestinian origin, all of whom are refugees or descendants of refugees. Regarding the flight of these people to Jordan, I've heard some version of three different stories. One, in 1948 people were forced out of their homes in what is now Israel and fled to Jordan. Two, in 1948 people were forced out of their homes in what is now Israel and fled to what is now referred to as the West Bank, but in 1967 again were forced to flee, and went to Jordan. Three, either in 1948 or 1967 people were forced out of their homes and fled to Kuwait (why Kuwait I don't know, but many people have told me this story), but in 1990 or 1991 were forced to flee again after the invasion and occupation of Kuwait by Saddam Hussein, and came to Jordan.

So, many from this older generation of Palestinians were forced from their homes not just once, but twice. I have had friends tell me stories of fleeing from Jerusalem amidst the confusion of gunfire and of being evicted from their home near what is now Tel-Aviv by Israeli soldiers, of walking miles to safety, or of packing their household in the back of a truck and driving.

Of course, the younger generation of these Palestinians were born in Jordan, and the majority have never been to Palestine and--unless there is peace--may never go. Yet, look at the place they still refer to as their home. Across the river in Palestine--the West Bank--life includes coping with, among other things, a never ending cycle of violence, a divided and ineffective government, a paralyzed economy, a criss-cross of security checkpoints on the roads, severely limited movement and, finally, a great wall, just like the one in Germany the fall of which 20 years ago we all recently celebrated.

So, back to my question. Was he really lucky to be from Palestine? In that brief moment I decided that maybe "how lucky you are" wasn't the best response after all. Instead, I simply smiled and nodded my head, and put "Niyaalak" back inside. But how sad it is it seemed better to do so.