Lorain’s Reflections
Jess first wrote to me about the collection of UNRWA photographs in 2012 asking me to collaborate on an archival project that could help maintain the historical foundation of the content and preserve the stories the images revealed. I looked at the photos and was overwhelmed with the range of the content. There were incredibly romantic scenes that depicted ordinary, everyday life in a Palestine that I was unfamiliar with. And then there were the images of devastation that I grew up witnessing from a screen through satellite television in my childhood home, and later through social media. I could not conceptualize how I could possibly honor the integrity of those depicted. This was an undertaking that I did not have the capacity for and I let it go.
In 2020, I began a personal project of digitizing photographs from the family albums that my grandfather put together during his life. I spent hours sitting with my family learning the stories that were connected to those intimate moments captured. In January 2021, I revisited Jess’ letter and the photos he shared with me 9 years earlier. I printed out the photographs from Jess and arranged them with my own family’s photos. Flooded with shame, I realized that I had deeply internalized the colonial violence I witnessed through screens. I started writing letters to the people depicted in the images and asked questions similar to the ones that I asked my own family when I viewed our albums. I connected with Jess that month to finally embark on a creative process and journey that centers the transformative dream of return.
I memorized the landscapes and the faces through the digitizing process. The experience was slow and intimate, but also anxiety inducing for me. I navigated through the paradoxes of a fear based urgency to preserve as quickly as possible while also reveling in the magnificent qualities of the documents. I am still in the process of exploring and learning and examining my contradictions within my own creative processes.
The act of remembering and dreaming is radical. My intention and my hope is to work with these images by defending the integrity of those depicted, and to create new images that can serve as a visual blueprint to imagine a collective return to a liberated Palestine.
Jess’ Reflections
For Palestinians in the diaspora, the return back home is complicated. It cannot ever be just a physical return home. It always involves a complicated process of negotiating memory, struggle, pain, joy and insistence. My family has documented roots in Palestine for over 500 years and I was part of the first generation to be born outside of Palestine. Although born outside, I always felt I was in Palestine. The daily stories of my extended family, and the constant reminders from my father, uncles, and grandfathers about who we are and where we are from reinforced my conviction. Palestinians all carry the burden of memories – our own personal memories, and the collective ones we inherit from others and the world. It’s complicated.
I began to physically return to Palestine in the early 1990’s, after the Oslo agreements were signed. Although I went under the guise of my professional work as an academic studying the impact of trauma on displaced communities, it was clearly a deeply personal, painful and joyful journey. Mapping the geography from my inherited memories to the realities on the ground was impossible and difficult. I could never – even now – bridge the gap between the wistful memories of my family with the brutal reality on the ground. But the brutal reality on the ground also never fully matched the awesome beauty of the land and Palestinians living in this reality.
My most frequent destination was Gaza. To say that Gaza is full of contradictions is pure understatement. Many times I would sit on the beach in Gaza and stare out, mesmerized by the Mediterranean Sea, the fishing boats, the families enjoying the water with one another and the peacefulness of the moment. I dare not look behind me because the reality of the refugee camps and destruction would shake my soul. But I always looked behind so as not to forget. This chronic back and forth between these emotional and visceral geographies is the story of every Palestinian.
During the course of my frequent travels to Gaza I was made aware of the UN Archive that was situated in the middle of Gaza City. I had been through many clashes, bombings, and the brutal oppressive effects of the occupation and was warned that the Archive was always a target. I had heard stories about the Archive – that it housed a treasure trove of historical photographs that documented life in Palestine from 1948 on. It became my obsession to take a visit there and see if I could bear witness to these photographs and possibly take some.
In 2002, when I finally received permission to get in, it was a very stressful time in Palestine, and especially in Gaza. Getting in and out of Gaza was always difficult and I feared that I would be denied entry. But there is another part of the story here, the part of my own internal struggle and anxiety about going to Palestine – especially Gaza – and leaving. What right did I have to go there, take in these experiences, and have the luxury of leaving when I wanted. I always felt deep guilt about this and this guilt was juxtaposed against a powerful rescue fantasy – I wanted to rescue as many Palestianins as possible, especially children in Gaza.
Going to the Archive was a kind of return, a return to the people, the land and the time in Palestine of my memories. I was floored by what I saw. When I was told I could take some of the photographs, it was like a starving person seeing, “here, you can have whatever food you want”. I wanted all of the photographs. They were these deeply personal, black and white, pictures of my memories and of a life in Palestine. The Archive was closing in 15 minutes and I was told I could take some. I had a panic attack. I wanted every photograph – I wanted to rescue every single person in every single photograph, as if they were my family, my children, and my community. I knew the Archive was always threatened with being bombed. The occupiers have always targeted Palestinian libraries, books, and historical artifacts of proof of life and existence. I couldn’t rescue everyone. So I took as many as I could. I carefully placed them in the UN Archive envelopes, signed a release and left.
My panic attack only got worse. Now I had the evidence, the proof of life and existence. What would happen if I got caught at the checkpoint leaving Gaza? What would happen if I was discovered at the airport? For sure they would be confiscated and I would be interrogated. I lived in this fear until I safely made it out of Gaza and then out of the airport. My rescue mission succeeded. I couldn’t save people, but I managed to save some representations of Palestine in photographs.
The Archive in Gaza was eventually bombed and destroyed. I have carried these photographs with me for over 20 years. From the day I took the photographs to the launch of this project, I could only sparingly and rarely look at them. It was too painful. Seeing the joy, the love, the families, and the land as it was in my memory is overwhelming. The pain was not about seeing them, but about leaving some behind. Not rescuing everyone.
This project of collecting, digitizing, and making available for the world to see is an act of love. But, as we all know, love is complicated. Because my rescue mission succeeded and failed at the same time, I cannot reconcile memory with reality. Sharing these images with the world is a small, bittersweet act of love to those left behind in Palestine, and to those who will eventually live there with freedom and self determination. I hope these images will serve as a legacy for all.