From Askar Refugee Camp, Nablus
On Thursday night, I went to a graduation ceremony! Of the details, I can't be entirely clear, but I know that it was a celebration of the success of a large number of young people - the event being marked by various performances of Dabka dancing (perhaps the Palestinian equivalent of Morris Dancing), readings, and martial arts demonstrations. A huge banner was erected. All the friends, and family (and anyone with a passing interest) turned out to be part of the huge crowd.
Which would be overwhelming enough, I suppose. But the really striking thing about the event is that it took place in one of Nablus' 3 refugee camps.
I don't know about you, but when I hear the term "Refugee Camp", my mind turns to images of families huddling in canvas tents. I imagine squalid conditions, and food provided by foreign aid being dispensed en-masse. I imagine people waiting for the war to end so they can return to their (damaged or destroyed) houses.
This is not entirely the case in the 59 Palestinian refugee camps dotted around Syia, Lebanon, Jordan and the West Bank. They may still have animals roaming on piles of rubble and litter, but the residents live in concrete flats, drive cars, go to school, and (where lucky enough)have jobs. They, in many ways, lead similar lives to those Palestinians living down the road in Nablus. But with one major exception: they are waiting.
In 1948, thousands of Palestinians were forced out of their homes by the Arab-Israeli war. Moving into refugee camps, they began waiting. Waiting for the conflict to end. Waiting for an opportunity to return to their homes. But the conflict hasn't ended, and four generations later they are still living in a permanent state of temporary housing. There are 4.6 million Palestinian refugees. Unsurprisingly, a key has become the symbol of this state of displacement, and the hope of a return.
This, I imagine, gives those people living in the camps a strange relationship with the concept of "home". From the outside, it's visible in the graffiti of Palestinian resitance and the way that some care for the exteriors of their homes more than others. I wonder how it feels to have grown up somewhere where your parents, and their parents grew up... and to always know that it isn't really "home"?
This really struck me when we were invited to visit the place where one of our friends lives - after the celebrations. We walked quickly but calmly past stray dogs (glad I had a rabies jab), hurried through narrow streets, and at one point interrupted a family wedding (even now I have little idea what was going on).
Eventually, we turned into a doorway, and up some bare concrete stairs. I was mentally preparing myself to encounter their shocking living conditions - how does one behave politely in such a situation? Should I express sympathy? Surprise? Or approach it with the same reserved appreciation I would in anyone's home?
I needn't have worried. Stepping out of the concrete corridor (where the roof was compost of a blue tarpaulin), I stepped into a perfectly fitted, furnished, middle class living room. Ok, so the decor was a little 1970s, but there was a computer in the corner, a plush sofa, and even laminate flooring. Our host provided us with a succession of snacks and drinks (I'm getting addicted to turkish coffee), while we played with their 5 daughters (or possibly nieces. It's hard to say). In the corner, some cousins played Grand Theft Auto.
So, how does this state of living affect a person? It's well documented that growing up on a council estate or in the projects is liable to lower your aspirations, change your worldview. What do you do when there's nowhere you can call home?

