Out of Reach

Layla Noor

Description

Layla, a Palestinian woman, witnesses the diaspora of her family during the war in Palestine in 1948. Torn between her culture and the western way of life, Layla chases a dream of love and independence. Her journey takes her around the world, ending with a dramatic love story with a Jewish American man.Out of Reach is a compelling story of an independent woman who learns the harsh lessons of her life through marriage, romance, loss and deceit.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 30 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528973854
• Langue: English

Extrait

Out of Reach
One Woman’s Quest for Love, Family and a Lost Country
Layla Noor
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-10-30
Out of Reach About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement The Catastrophe Al-Nakba Life in Kuwait My Teenage Years in Kuwait Rami My Exciting Life in Paris Back Home for a Break Paris Again Rami Comes to Paris 1970: My Wedding in Kuwait Life in Abu Dhabi First Baby: Walid The Ursula Incident The Boutique Rami’s Downfall The Escape Life in Beirut Peace in Muscat, Oman Life in Sharjah The Israeli Invasion of Lebanon: 1982 Agony, Danger and Escape My Cyprus Paradise Frank To Saudi Arabia George The Bankruptcy The Slap The Graduation The Iraqi Millionaire The Divorce A New Page in My Life The Conference in Tunisia: 1994 The Proposal In Florida Student in London Life in California Fooled Vagabond Life Rami’s Brain Tumour Facing the Realities of Life First Home in America Farida Jake The Trip to Jordan Loss in Jordan Jake’s Mother Doubt The Passing of My Mother The Surprise Mysterious Incident Grandbaby The Dream Home The Problems with Amy The Clash The Shocking Truth October 3, 2011
About the Author
Layla Noor is a Palestinian-American and mother of two. She studied liberal arts at the Sorbonne University in Paris and interior decoration at KLC in London. She is a freelancer and currently resides in South Florida. Since her teenage years, she dreamed of writing her story but put this dream on hold to focus on her family. Finally, in 2011, she had the inspiration to write her story,  Out of Reach.
Dedication
For my loving children, Walid and Yasmine, and my sunshine grandson, Kareem.
Copyright Information ©
Layla Noor (2020)
The right of Layla Noor to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Austin Macauley is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In this spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528973830 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528973854 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
My sincere thanks to my brothers, Munir and Faris, who encouraged me to write my story. My deepest gratitude goes to my father whose strict upbringing made a strong person out of me.
The Catastrophe

Al-Nakba
I vividly recall my mother’s horrified face as I held tightly onto her hand while my brother and sister clung to the other. I can still see her tired face and trembling lips that were constantly in motion repeating her prayers as we climbed into the Red Cross van that would take us from Gaza to Jerusalem.
Every inch of the van was packed, mostly with women and children. I felt the fear around me; saw it in my mother’s eyes. My face reflected all that I saw, and my eyes held unshed tears as I surveyed the crowd. I can still remember as though it were only yesterday, the many checkpoints and armed soldiers entering the van checking everyone’s papers.
Even at the age of two, I sensed that this was a dangerous journey. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I would never forget it.
That was in 1948, when war had erupted between the Palestinians backed by armies from neighbouring Arab territories and the newly established Israel.
My late sister, Farida, who was four years older remembered so much more. She was smart and curious with a vivid imagination and an amazing memory. She would often tell me about the house we grew up in and about ‘Bayara’, our parents’ estate in Ramleh. She would speak lovingly of the orange trees and other fruit trees, of how she would play in their shade. She told me how the smell of jasmine would drift in on the breeze and fill the air with its purity. She talked of Ali, who had been their gardener for years; he took care of the big well that supplied the estate with water. Farida’s face shone with joy when she talked of the candies that Ali would bring her. She remembered the big balcony that surrounded the house and how she used to sit with our parents and their friends, exchanging funny stories with giggles and laughter.
So what happened to this peaceful, beautiful, holy land?
I was very young when I heard those stories, but I could still sense how much the war had affected my sister. Farida would recall over and over again, days when she, our mother, our other relatives and their children would gather in one room during hostilities; when they heard the siren, parents would pick up their children and run downstairs to the basement. Farida recalled how once, she was left behind amid the chaos and looked around in terror with the sound of guns and explosions in her ears. She started crying, believing she was about to die. Our mother quickly realised that she was missing and rushed upstairs to carry her to the basement.
Years later, I realised how this incident had affected my sister to the extent that it changed her life. Farida would often say, “I don’t want to have children. I cannot stand the thought of them being left behind if anything should happen to me.”
To this day, as an adult, I often stop to wonder, why do we Palestinians have to pay the price for the sufferings of other people and become the victims ourselves?
The impact of this catastrophic event on the lives of Palestinians is still evident to this day.
At the time of this turmoil, my siblings, Farida and Maher (who is two years older than me) and I were with our mother while she paid a visit to her parents in Gaza. My father was in Ramleh, which had been our family home for many generations. Somehow, Father managed to find a house for us in a small town called ‘Al-Toor’ (Mount of Olives) in Jerusalem and he made the necessary arrangements for the Red Cross to transport us there.
When we moved to the small house in Al-Toor, I was the youngest child in the family. My brother, Munir, would not be born until after the move to Jerusalem.
Even as a young child, I sensed the sadness in my parents’ hearts from being forced to leave their home. They would often get together with friends, who also had houses and properties in Palestine, to listen to the radio. They would listen eagerly for news of their homeland, hoping beyond hope that someday they could return to their homes in different parts of the country. They longed to see again the groves of orange and olive trees on the land they had inherited from their grandparents.
One night, sitting around the table with friends, we received the most devastating news: our thirty-acre home in Ramleh had been completely destroyed in the war. Hearing this, my father knew he had to build a new life for his family. He embarked on a new business venture and invested all of the family money into establishing a newspaper with two of his friends in Jerusalem. Then another devastating blow: one of these so-called friends had fled the country with every penny my father had managed to save. Everything was lost, again, and nothing could be done; the country was still at war.
These were challenging times to be growing up. While we children did not fully understand all that was happening around us, every aspect of our lives was affected. I always felt lost as a child. My parents were constantly trying to get their lives back together after losing their roots and their way of life. They had little money to get by on, even though my father worked tirelessly to support our family. Hopes of returning to home, dimmed with each passing day, as Jewish immigrants settled on our lands.
Reluctantly, my father and other displaced Palestinians turned their hopes in another direction.
Several oil fields had been discovered in Burgan, Kuwait, in 1938, but exports did not begin until 1946, after the end of World War II. Before then, pearls had been Kuwait’s only natural resource and, each year, hundreds of pearling ships headed for the lucrative pearl banks, returning at the end of each summer. In winter, large trading ships would set out for India to return with merchandise. Shipbuilding, using imported raw materials, was an important industry.
The oil boom opened up new opportunities for us Palestinians: the oil-rich country needed engineers, teachers, doctors and other professionals to help develop the country. Many Palestinians were eager to seize this opportunity.
With the help of one of his brothers-in-law (who was already working for them as the chief of engineering), my father was offered a good job as head of accounting in the Kuwaiti government. The offer was excellent; it included a good salary, a furnished house, airline tickets to get us there and free education for all his children. In fact, Kuwait was offering free education for everybody. This was a big relief for my parents, especially after living in Al-Toor for four years with nothing to show for all of their efforts. As the plane taxied down the runway, the entire family breathed a sigh of relief. To be sure, we were anxious about the future, but we were more than ready to let go of the tumultuous past.
***
It was 1952 and a time of great change. The Kuwaiti government was moving to modernise its cities; office buildings and housing developments were springing up everywhere. While the dry desert heat was oppressive, the home provided for us was a comfortable one situa