SMALL FREEDOMS
AMID UPRISINGS
Childhood cravings and the furtive negotiations of life
under occupation.
ISSUE 1: THE UN/MAKING ISSUEMy parents built this wall, though they didn’t necessarily do it alone. They would not have looked fondly upon the return of my packed, uneaten lunch at the end of the day if I had decided instead to have bought something at school for lunch instead of what they had packed. My typical lunch consisted of a sandwishat za’atar and a cucumber. Za’atar was a standard lunch amongst Palestinian schoolkids, popular because it was compact: You could run around with your half-moons of khubz, slightly brown from having been toasted earlier that day, but softened by the thin layer of olive oil and za’atar packed inside. The sandwishat batata, on the other hand, was topped off with ketchup. If you tried running around with it, you risked getting ketchup down your front or, even worse, the loss of a precious french fry.
My parents built this wall, though they didn’t necessarily do it alone. They would not have looked fondly upon the return of my packed, uneaten lunch at the end of the day if I had decided instead to have bought something at school for lunch instead of what they had packed. My typical lunch consisted of a sandwishat za’atar and a cucumber. Za’atar was a standard lunch amongst Palestinian schoolkids, popular because it was compact: You could run around with your half-moons of khubz, slightly brown from having been toasted earlier that day, but softened by the thin layer of olive oil and za’atar packed inside. The sandwishat batata, on the other hand, was topped off with ketchup. If you tried running around with it, you risked getting ketchup down your front or, even worse, the loss of a precious french fry.
It was my own labor, my family’s:
the olives for the olive oil came from our trees,
and we picked them each fall.
A returned packed lunch was a slap in the face of my parents, not once, but twice. To be wasteful in a time of Intifada against the Israeli occupation ignored our people’s uprising. It ignored the collective effort required to sustain our daily lives. It wasn’t simply my mother’s labor as the sandwich maker or even my father’s labor as the designated drop-off parent navigating an ever-changing occupied landscape. The labor of my sandwich extended to the labor of breadmakers and za’atar harvesters, entire industries in revolt since the uprising began in September 2000. It was my own labor, my family’s: the olives for the olive oil came from our trees, and we picked them each fall. In our household, if I didn’t immediately like something, I would have to find something to appreciate about what was on my plate. My parents encouraged respect for food and its makers.
My brother once nearly returned a packed school lunch. On this particular occasion, he had not coveted the sandwishat batata over the sandwishat za’atar, but rather he forgot to eat entirely: he played right through his lunch period. My parents were not thrilled by the return of the sandwich. So, on our walk home through the Israeli checkpoint between our school and our village, my sunny, jolly little brother reached into his backpack for his slightly droopy cucumber and half-moon of za’atar, zeit, and bread. He munched contentedly as we walked through destroyed asphalt and past olive-green army jeeps with Israeli soldiers in full combat gear sitting securely inside of them.
I was one of a handful of children in my class who walked through a checkpoint to school. We all lived in the villages in the area. Time moves differently for all of us living under the occupation. During this time of uprising, we were told that our minds and bodies were waging constant war against the occupation. Somehow, this logic applied to school life too. In grade school, what was important was taking a break, maybe to play basketball with my friends. I had two hours snatched away from me daily by the presence of a single Israeli checkpoint that stretched across an entire valley. I didn’t want to spend my precious time waiting in line for a sandwich.
So, sandwishat batata and I met only once during my Intifada childhood. On that day, my mother was away, tending to relatives in the US. My father was not used to the way time compresses when a single parent is responsible for two young people. We were running late; in a rush, he handed my brother and me a few shekels and told us to get lunch at school.
Time moves differently for all of us
living under the occupation.
I waited in line at the dukkan, pushed and tugged by the mass of other children, mulling over my decision. A sandwishat batata would be the cheapest and most filling option, unlike a candy bar, which would be far too sweet. Unlike a chicken sandwich, it would leave me with a few coins left for the bank–so I handed over my coins to the stylish, smokey-eyed woman who ran the dukkan and reminded myself to be on the lookout for my change.
Mission accomplished. I took my sandwishat batata back to the playground and stared at it. I had no interest in consuming it, but someone had taken the energy to make it, the energy to make the money that purchased it, and I had spent my time to procure it. I would honor all that cumulative energy.
I clutched the sandwich with two hands and stared at the squirt of ketchup head-on—its shine had dulled slightly. I didn’t want to wait for it to turn a darker shade and crust over, so I chomped down gingerly.
The soft baguette collapsed under the edges of my teeth and the force of my jaw, like I anticipated. Out of that squish came a squirt of the ketchup, coating the top of my mouth. My chewing took on an irregular rhythm—rapid at times so as to get me to the promised french fry bed somewhere in the middle of the sandwich, and slow at others, resisting the soft-on-soft composition of the sandwishat batata. All the while, I was thinking about the times I had gotten to the lunch period early and glimpsed a pile of discarded potato peelings in the dukkan.
I ate the entire sandwich. Even as I fantasized about the za’atar sandwich I would surely be having tomorrow, the softness of the sandwich was something not wholly new. Other soft foods floated to the surface of my mind. They were foods I love, like cauliflower in maqluba, which collapsed in my mouth like these french fries; the bread of a shawarma left to sit for a few minutes, stewing in tahina, onion sweat and meaty juices; a summer apricot. I liked these soft textures. Even if I didn’t like this particular sandwich, other people did and I could understand why.
I reached the end of the sandwich without much pain and the school bell rang.
❋ ❋ ❋
I had two hours snatched away from me daily by the presence of a single Israeli checkpoint that stretched across an entire valley. I didn’t want to spend my precious time waiting in line for a sandwich.
It was perfectly balanced. The kurrat falafel maintained their crunch, despite the generous additions of sauce—shatta and tahina—tossed with both a veggie and pickle mix with flecks of mint and parsley in every bite. And nestled in there, giving the sandwich a soft squidgy, slightly soggy center were a few large fries. It was perfect, all the more perfect because of the batata.
I ate fast and regretted not buying an extra sandwich. Not because I was hungry but because something within me called out for that soft, mealy batata center. That sandwich brought everything back: Childhood conversations with my parents, checkpoints on my way to school, and the lessons of that single sandwishat batata from my childhood.