The Contribution of Women to Peace and Reconciliation

A very hard experience with war was in 1980, when we moved to Beirut,
together with my father. There, we experienced the civil war. We
lived in West Beirut, surrounded by PLO militants and by Lebanese military.
But life was also normal: we went swimming in the sea and had
love stories. I was only a teenager, but I clearly understood the situation
in which we found ourselves. I participated in first aid and civil aid train -
ing courses. My father insisted on that, arguing that although we attend -
ed school and lived normal lives, we should be able to help ourselves
and others.
The first time I saw clashes was in Lebanon in 1981. We are three sisters;
I was fifteen at that time, I’m the eldest. We returned from school.
It usually took twenty minutes to get home. As we approached our
house, we heard the Kalashnikovs. We stopped and observed the roads
for some minutes; we couldn’t see anything particular, and decided to
continue on our way home. As we walked down the hill toward a square,
the sounds of the Kalashnikovs got stronger and we saw the fighting. I
have no idea why we didn’t realize that earlier. I remember hiding behind
a Mercedes Benz, but that’s all; from there on, my memories stop. How
we got home. I don’t remember. We never talked about how we got
home. But I remember that the same night, as we slept, all three sisters
in the same room, the shooting started again, and we woke up. We
heard shooting and saw muzzle flashes. We kept awake listening to the
sounds of the shooting. We stayed in our beds, and didn’t go to our fa -
ther’s room. The following morning, we talked about it with him. He
said, “Don’t worry, go to school, I will go to work”, and we continued
with our lives, we went to school, on the same route as always.
The first time I saw injured people was in 1981, when Israeli airplanes
bombed two buildings of the famous Arab University area, which was
then the headquarters of all Palestinian organizations. The two high build -
ings exploded and many injured and dead people were lying on the floor.
A young journalist, a friend of ours, came and asked me to follow him to
the place, and we smelled the smoke and burned meat. I always remember
this smell. I was sad, but I was holding back and did not show emotions;
at the time I felt strong and proud about that, thinking: “Whatever
they do, we keep on fighting”.
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