Home Away from Home / Roots, 2017

"The idea of 'roots' was inspired by a conversation I had with my cousin Akram, my fifth American cousin, as we were driving in his car. Akram was telling me about the reasons why he decided to leave Florida and move to California—where he considers it easier to live out one’s Islam and according to Muslim traditions—and the importance for him that his children be aware of their origins, their culture, their religion, and their roots.

The concept of roots was very much present in this conversation, and became the leitmotif throughout our various exchanges during my visit.

Over the course of my stay in the United States, I was struck to see how my cousins, though distant, had preserved their ties with Palestine and their culture of origin. Despite comfortable, quiet, and peaceful lives, especially for my cousins in California, they keep up with what is happening in Palestine and in the Arab world: Ahmed often watches Al Jazeera; Sobhi reads the Arab and Palestinian press on his iPad. Kamal became the founder and first president of the Arab American Medical Association. In their homes, the food was one hundred percent Palestinian. I tasted typical Gazan dishes that I hadn’t eaten for years . . . Not to mention the political debates that animated nearly every family gathering.

My extended family’s conception of Islam and of religious practice is close to that of our parents, open yet discreet. I was surprised to find that religion-related restrictions were somewhat relaxed—for example, it was sufficient to pronounce the name of Allah before eating for the meal to become halal, a flexibility required in the absence of halal meat. No one asked me questions about my beliefs, no one tried to force anything on me. For my part, I remained somewhat evasive on the topic. Perhaps for fear of upsetting them or disrupting my position as an ostensibly neutral “outside observer.”

In fact, I did as if I were at home, in Gaza."

Home Away from Home / Uncle Seleem’s House, 2017

"Once I had finished my travels in the United States, I felt that I wanted to turn again toward Gaza, where everything had begun. I wanted to see what was left of our memories—my cousins’, as well as my own—and to assess the current situation.

I asked my niece Rehaf, who is a talented young photographer, to locate our family photos and to take pictures in Khadra and Ahmed’s family home—the house that once represented the center of all gatherings and attachments for the extended Batniji family. This is where my cousins were received and stayed during their summer visits to Gaza. It is also the place where a large part of my childhood occurred—a place that looms large in my boyhood memories.

Until a few years ago, the only inhabitants were Aida and Intisar, Ahmed’s daughters from his first marriage to Nada, another cousin who died more than twenty years ago. Aida left once she got married, so only Intisar, who is deaf and mute, remains in the family home.

I encouraged Rehaf to try to look through my eyes. She photographed fragments of the house and the backyard, as well as portraits of Aida and Intisar. The house appears to be in a state of further deterioration. Family photos that once hung on the walls have disappeared and been replaced by this Quranic verse: 'In the name of God the Merciful.'"
^{Photos by Rehaf Batniji}