April 26, 2008	Saturday	Rabi-us-Sani 19, 1429

JALAZOUN REFUGEE CAMP (West Bank): Mohammed Shaikha was nine when the carefree rhythm of his village childhood going to third grade, picking olives, playing hide-and-seek was abruptly cut short.

Uprooted during the 1948 war over Israel’s creation, he’s now a wrinkled old man. He has spent a lifetime in this cramped refugee camp, and Israel’s 60th foundation day, to be celebrated with fanfare on May 8, fills him with pain.

“For 60 years, Israel has been sitting on my heart. It kicked me out of my home, my nation, and deprived me of many things,” he said.

And each Israeli birthday makes it harder for 70-year-old Shaikha and his elderly gin rummy partners in the camp’s coffee house to cling to dreams of going back to Beit Nabala, one village among hundreds levelled to make way for the influx of Jewish immigrants into the newborn state.

Israel’s joy over its creation after two millennia of Jewish exile has been the Palestinians’ “naqba”, their catastrophe. The state they were to have in a partitioned holy land was made stillborn by the 1948 war. The 1967 war that brought the West Bank and Gaza under Israeli rule doubled the catastrophe. And the negotiations that are meant to bring about a Palestinian state are bedevilled by constant violence and distrust.

Perhaps even more dispiriting for the Palestinians is the acrimonious ideological battle between Hamas’ religious radicalism and Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas’ embrace of Western ideas.

This year, the two sides couldn’t even agree on joint “naqba” commemorations. Instead, on May 15, the date Palestinians mark the “naqba”, Abbas’ Fatah movement will sound sirens in public squares and hold large rallies, while Hamas plans a separate event.

A poll finds one-third of the young would emigrate if they could, weakening the social bonds that have held Palestinian society together.

The dreamed-of Palestinian state was always an unwieldy notion, uniting the West Bank and Gaza with Israel in between. Now the divide is more stark.

After last year’s civil war, Hamas militants run Gaza, while Fatah moderates control the West Bank, separated by an Israeli travel ban and a Western boycott of Hamas.

As Abbas and Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert pursue a peace deal, negotiations move at glacial pace and the idea of a Palestinian state alongside Israel looks ever more distant.

Gaza’s 1.4 million people are getting poorer and more militant, three-quarters living on $2 (euro1.30) a day and scrambling for such basics as cement, winter shoes and painkillers. So acute is an Israeli-induced fuel shortage that donkey carts are back.

The West has placed its hopes for peace in the West Bank, where Abbas rules, and is injecting massive foreign aid that has restored a limited sense of stability after eight years of fighting with Israel.

Israeli troops still carry out nightly raids in the West Bank in search of wanted militants and enforce stifling travel restrictions. But civil servants the largest group in the labour force get paid regularly, West Bank cafes are crowded on weekends, a hunger for education is packing universities, and there’s a small building boom.

It all testifies to a determination, by a generation raised under Israeli occupation, to keep going.

This perseverance takes many shapes.

Iyad Hmeidan, a former Fatah supporter, has turned to religion and Hamas in his disappointment over the broken promise of statehood. “In this period, I rely on God,” said Hmeidan, a 36-year-old accountant and grandson of a refugee from Jaffa near Tel Aviv. “Hamas relies on religion, the words of God.”

In the West Bank, another Fatah activist disillusioned with peace efforts has started a microcredit bank, making grants and loans to small businesses, including 12 village women who produce olive oil soap.

“This is the only way to try and create some changes for the people ... and some hope,” said the 52-year-old banker, Sami Saidi.

As Israel celebrates its achievements robust economy, democracy and army Palestinians look back on a history of failures. “We were the losers over the years ... and we will keep losing,” said Luay Shabaneh, head of the Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics.

The refugees and their descendants number 4.5 million today, or nearly half the world’s 9.3 million Palestinians. Few refugees can realistically expect to go home again, because Israelis fear being swamped by a mass repatriation.

That makes the Palestinian predicament especially harsh, said Karen Abu Zayd, commissioner of the UN Relief and Works Agency which helps the Palestinian refugees.

Refugees can usually expect to go home once the crisis dies down, but here, she said, “we don’t know when they’ll go home. ... there is a lot more hopelessness.”

About one-third of the refugees and their offspring live in 58 camps, some of them sprawling shantytowns, in the West Bank, Gaza, Syria, Lebanon and Jordan.

Mohammed Shaikha, his parents and five siblings settled in Jalazoun north of the West Bank town of Ramallah in the early 1950s, living first in a tent, then a two-room shack. He married, had eight children and worked in the laundry of a UN teachers’ college. In 1980, he built a bigger house.

While he clings to the mantra of return to Beit Nabala, his native village, his son Wajih, 42, has put down deep roots in Jalazoun, now home to 13,000 people squeezed into 65 acres (26 hectares) of drab box-shaped houses.

He bought a supermarket and is building two large homes with money earned in 11 years as a supermarket clerk and limousine driver in Paterson, N.J. He says he returned to Jalazoun for a sense of community that was lacking in Paterson.—AP