From Palestinian territory to Lebanon, columnist tells of family's plight of displacement

I am the promise.

I was born in Boston and am proud to be American.

Raised around the world, mostly in the United Arab Emirates (UAE), I graduated from New York University. I traveled the world. I go home to Lebanon. I was in Oklahoma City on Aug. 4, 2020, when the Beirut explosion took my family's home away. My dad ran to the bank just in case it was war. "We need cash," he said. Our windows were gone. Our glasses were all broken. My friends were hurt. Some people I knew died. I can still hear the haunting of my mother's words when she finally called, "Joumana, I just need you to know, we're alive."

I swore, never again, not my children.

I am American because I am Lebanese.

In 1984, my father fled Beirut. The night before he fled, he slept in the corridor of their apartment to be safe from the incessant shelling. My grandfather, my uncle, my father’s neighbors and him. All huddled together. A shell exploded in their building. The door flew open in my father’s face and they all got covered with dust and debris.

The Americans came. My grandfather, his brother and my dad asked, "Can we go?" They said, "Now or never."

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Leaving their family and friends behind, they hopped on the Chinook and left. My aunt told me that my father, at 20 years old, arrived with his younger brother at Boston airport. They only had their clothes that they had on, their backpack and their passport. Nothing else. She took them in, and they lived with their cousins for several months until they settled.

America became my father’s home. He swore never again, not my children.

I am Lebanese because I am Palestinian.

My grandparents are Palestinian Christians. My grandfather is from Chafa Amar. In high school, he was one of only two Palestinians selected to study in the UK on a full scholarship. Just before the creation of Israel, his scholarship was canceled, and he ended up in a high school in Lebanon.

The Nakba (Arabic term for Palestinian displacement of 1948) happened while he was in high school. He got trapped in Lebanon, separated from his family. He made it through high school and medical school alone. I don’t remember details, but he never made it back to Palestinian territory. My cousins are still in Chafa Amr, but we can never visit them.

My grandmother is from Haifa. My grandmother’s parents owned their house. They were driven out by fighting and the terror of rolling “barrel bombs” exploding in random neighborhoods. They were supposed to come back when it got safer. Settlers from far away took their home and all their belongings. Our home became theirs. They said it is, and so it was. We still have the key to a home we can never go back to.

Lebanon became my grandparents' home. They swore never again, not our children.

My grandparents. My father. Me.

Maybe I can keep the promise. Maybe my children will be free.

Joumana Christine Asfour, born in Boston, tells of the plight generations of her family have faced living in the Middle East and being displaced from their homes.

This article originally appeared on Oklahoman: Family displaced through history from Palestinian territory, Lebanon