I was born in 1935 in the city of Safed, in the hills of northern Palestine. My father traded with the Bedouin tribes who lived on the outskirts of the city, pitching their tents all the way to the border with Syria.  I grew up with respect for the simplicity of their way of life.

In my memory of Safed, it resembles a minaret: it towers over its surroundings, with broad vistas in every direction: to the north, Jabal Al-Shaykh (Mount Hermon); to the east, theSea of Galilee and to the west, lofty Mount Jarmak (Mount Meron) with its villages, farmsteads, and winding roads.

Life in Safad was marked by the seasons. Winter was cold and snowy. Spring was bright and blossoming, with the earth and mountains carpeted by a multicolored layer of flowers – reminiscent of a handcrafted Persian silk rug. Summer was hot, but with an invigorating fresh breeze that made it summer attraction for tourists and vacationers. Autumn would roll in with its brisk winds, stripping the trees of their leaves and ushering them into their winter garments.

As a child, I lived with my parents and my brothers and sisters. I was the middle child but two of my brothers and sisters died before our exodus. 

I enjoyed my childhood. I liked school and applied myself eagerly. Outside of of school, my days were spent playing with my friends and exploring Safad’s mountainous peaks. We never could have imagined that one day we would be expelled from our homes and country and scattered far beyond.

One day, when I was in the seventh grade,  the Zionist Haganah gangs took over the nearby village of Ein al-Zeitun. From that time, the western, and then only entrance to the city, was closed. The people of Safad began to consider sending the women and children away to safety, fearing what could happen. My parents decided to send us children to Syria for our safety. My two adult brothers remained in Safed, armed and ready to protect our city. My mother insisted on staying with them.

As we were leaving the city from the eastern side, I felt an overpowering urge to turn and look back. I had a strange feeling. Although my life in Safed was all I had known, I felt as if I might never see it again. I looked back on the city, trying to engrave its familiar details in my mind. As it turned out, I have never set eyes on Safad again.

The road east from the city was dangerous, as the Zionist settlers had built settlements along it. The Bedouins helped us to reach the Syrian border safely.

We arrived first at the Syrian village of Al-Butayha and from there we headed to Damascus. But we knew no one there. Eventually, we traveled to Irbid, in Jordan, where we had a relative. We stayed there for a month until all the members of our family were reunited. We then made our way to Syria, again. We arrived at the village of Al-Tall, near Damascus. The people of the village gave us places to stay and welcomed us to their schools and mosques. After a few months, however, we began to run short of funds. We moved to Damascus to try to look for ways to support ourselves.

We knew then that we were embarking on a long journey of distress and affliction, a journey that we would share with many other Palestinians forced out of their homeland. You cannot recognize the value of your homeland until it’s gone; until you’ve lost it.  A home is not simply a piece of land, a house, a garden and a job. A home is life. Identity. Loyalty. Safety. Everywhere we went, we felt like guests who had overstayed their welcome.  We were citizens of no country, now. We had nothing at all.

We rented a two-room house in the Akrad neighborhood of Damascus where most of the populace lived in abject poverty. My parents and all of us younger children stayed in one room. One of my older brothers and  his wife and children stayed in the other.  All of us, without exception, started to search for work, so that we could have enough to eat and pay the rent. When it came to clothes, we often shared.

One of our neighbors who was a contractor who did tiling. He offered me and my youngest brother work. We accepted his offer with great excitement. From then on, we worked every day from sunrise to sundown, carrying tiles and mixing cement and sand. Our daily pay was 1 Syrian pound for me and 75 piasters for my brother.

At noon we would sit up on the roof and have our daily lunch: a loaf or two of bread and a bowl of molasses. We ate the same meal every day. I would watch children my age walking home from school with a heavy heart. Sometimes I saw children who had gone to school with me in Safad. I felt terribly sad about how our lives had changed, and that I couldn’t go to school like the other children my age.  But deep down, I knew that earning a living was far more important than getting an education at that point in our lives. I kept dreaming about continuing my education, but I kept my aspirations, as well as my keep disappointment, to myself.

The work was strenuous. It was too much for our young bodies. After about six months working for our neighbor, I became very sick, and the doctor told me I needed to stop. I worked various jobs – once for a contracting company, another time for a real-estate company – all of the low-paid. Eventually, I got a permanent job as a waiter at a restaurant, working shifts from early morning to midnight. The weeks and months passed, and my ambition to go back to school slowly withered away.

Then one day - a year and a half later - I started school again.  In the autumn of 1951, I completed my middle school education– a unique and extraordinary accomplishment at that time. I was hired to teach at Al-Ktiefia elementary school, which was located about 40 kilometers to the north of Damascus. I made four times the salary that I had earned at my previous jobs: 126.5 Syrian pounds – which, at the time, was enough money to afford a decent life for a family. I was able to contribute to support my family quite substantially.

I was able to continue my own education by studying at home,  and completed my high school education in the scientific stream in 1953. At that time, Palestinians saw education as their only hope: we no longer had farms to tend, industries to manage, or trade to develop. Education, therefore, was the only path available to us to face up to the challenges that life had handed to us.

My dream was to become an engineer. But enrolling for an engineering degree was expensive, and required being a full-time student. This meant that I would have to give up my job, which would leave my family without financial support.  I couldn’t do this. So I tried to forget about my dream. I tried, instead, to find joy in the fact that my brother, and eventually my nephews and nieces, became engineers. Eventually, there were 18 engineers in our family!

I continued to work as a teacher. I began to mull over what role I could play to fight for the rights of Palestinians and returning home. I carefully watched and considered the initiatives that others were engaging in around me, wondering how I could most effectively serve my homeland. Although I was young and inexperienced, I could see that none of the different groups that were forming, with different ideologies and strategies, could be effective on its own. I realized that that there would need to be a movement that transcended all these ideologies and the prevailing traditional mindset, and united all Palestinians.

At that time, Palestinian refugees in Syria were barred from engaging in any political activity. So a group of us began to meet covertly. We founded the first clandestine Palestinian resistance organisation in 1954. We were driven by the belief that if the Arab nations were going to liberate Palestine, we as Palestinians should not just wait, passively, but should make a substantial contribution. To equip ourselves to fight, we needed military training. Therefore we espoused the slogan: "Compulsory Conscription of Palestinians" and we called for allowing them to enroll into military schools.

In late 1954, I enrolled for a degree in law. I continued to work as an elementary school teacher and regularly attending the meetings of our secret organization. I also developed a passion for music and began to take private lessons to learn how to play the oud. However, my father was infuriated at the sight of an Oud at home. He was so upset, that I abandoned this pursuit. I also explored my interest in literature and poetry. But I relinquished this interest, as well, as my life was absorbed with my career, our covert political activities, and my studies.  I eventually competed my law degree.

Our organization met frequently with several senior Syrian government officials, including state ministers, lawmakers and military leaders, urging them to allow Palestinians to join the Syrian military academies. In 1956, the Syrian government agreed. Several members of our organization – around twenty, at the time – met and  resolved that we should be the first to enroll for training. Yet, the majority of members declined study at military school; only three of us accepted, myself and two others.  I left my job, and dropped out of my university studies in the third year of my program.

I enrolled at the military academy in the city of Homs. Three months into my training, the director called me in and told me that I was not fit for the academy. So I left, and returned to my previous job and my studies.

In the autumn of 1957, I was hired for a teaching job in Qatar. There I met Kamal Adwan, Muhammad al-Najar and Suleiman Al-Shurafa.  All three were from Gaza. I was amazed to discovered that we shared the same ideas, views, and aspirations.  We found that we instantly understood each other. We were of one heart and one mind. Together, we started a new organization, building on what we had started in Damascus.

In 1958, I earned my credentials to practice law. Amina and I were married the same year. I left teaching and was hired by a state oil company as a human resources manager. This position gave me the opportunity to gain practical legal experience defending the interests and rights of workers. I developed strong relationships with my employers and with the employees I represented. I felt fortunate beyond anything I could have hoped for.

After working for the oil company for a year, I was hired as a human resources manager at the Qatari Ministry of Education, where I tailored a unique social solidarity system for the staff. The system is in use until this day and has no match in other organizations.

We continued our work with the organisation we had founded in Qatar, whose numbers remained small. We were eager to connect with other organizations operating across the Arab world, particularly in Kuwait, as several of the activists from the original Damascus group had joined the Fatah movement there. This facilitated our efforts to work together under one umbrella to launch the liberation struggle.

Between 1960 and 1966, our three children were born. My wife, Amina, took the lead with raising the children and managing our home, while I juggled my career and my political activities, which fully occupied my time.

When the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) was founded in the summer of 1964, we, as leaders of the Fatah movement, met to discuss the launching of the armed struggle. Deliberations continued from early July until mid-August, with an even split between two opposing camps: one advocated that we should wait until we were completely equipped before launching the armed struggle, while the other argued that we should start with what we had and develop our capacity as we went. I was with this second camp – the side that won by one vote. Accordingly, we agreed that we would launch the armed struggle on September 1st, 1964. Yasser Arafat was tasked with laying the groundwork for the launch and he pledged full commitment to that goal. But the launch did not take place as scheduled. On January 1st, 1965, however, the armed struggle was launched.

In 1969, I resigned from my job in Qatar to join the liberation movement in Amman, Jordan. My family moved there with me. I was responsible for mobilization and organization. Following Black September in 1970, we moved back to Damascus. My colleagues had gone to Lebanon, but I remained in Damascus and didn’t join them.

By this point, my political activities  and professional career consumed my time to the extent that I no longer had a personal life. This was true of many others involved in the struggle. We had been born during the al-Qassam revolution era, grew up in the midst of World War II and had experienced the trauma of being expelled from our homeland.. During the fifties, we found ourselves adrift in struggle and in a state of bewilderment. Having devoted our lives to the liberation struggle since the early sixties, we could no longer lead normal lives. We had to carefully calculate every single move and decision. It was virtually like living in a prison, utterly cut off from normal social life.

Unlike Beirut, the atmosphere in Damascus was relatively calm, which allowed me to read extensively about Israeli society. I dedicated a great deal of my time to this, concerned that both leaders and participants in the liberation struggle had not made it a priority to study the entity we sought to liberate ourselves from. This was true of the leadership across the Arab world, as well.

Based on my extensive research, I wrote several books. Zionism: The Beginning and the End dealt with Jewish immigration and the ethnic groups that comprised Israeli society. The Cause: New Prospects focused on Israel’s political landscape. Between Understatement and Overstatement discussed the Arab view of Israel. My other writings include Israel is America's Bridge of Evil, The Secret Relationship between Nazism and the Zionist Movement and Arab Keren Haysod Wanted, as well as other publications that address a range of issues pertaining to the Israeli society.

In 1977, I made a call for Arab Jews in Israel to return to their respective countries of origin. My call was well received on theoretical, official, and legal levels. Despite some Palestinian opposition, I garnered the approval of Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Iraq, Yemen and Sudan.

In 1978, I initiated the twinning of Palestinian cities with cities in other Arab countries. The idea received resounding success, with twinning initiatives carried out successfully between sixteen Palestinian cities and partner cities in Morocco, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Bahrain, United Arab Emirates, and Libya. This brought significant benefit to Palestinian cities: 80 million USD were allocated by partner cities to Palestinian municipalities for vital projects such as schools, roads, health, water, and electricity. 

In 1980, I was selected by Fatah’s Central Committee to sit on the PLO’s Executive Committee. I was not present at the National Council meeting when my selection took place. Had I been given the choice, I would have declined. In fact, I was informed of this decision while I was in Moscow, and refused the nomination. However, when I returned to Damascus, I found myself inexplicably appointed to the Central Committee. I did not take part in the work of the committee for two years, however, until the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982.

Before this, I presented my PhD thesis, titled The Secret Relationship between Nazism and the Zionist Movement at the Moscow Institute of Orientalism, where I was studying.

When Israel invaded Lebanon and beseiged Beirut, I realized that it was the end of an era and the dawn of a new one. As a result, I relocated to Tunisia, the lifeline of the Palestinian revolution, following its government's approval to host the PLO.

In 1988, I launched an initiative for the Palestinian National Council to endorse UN Resolutions 242 and 338. I championed this initiative to Palestinian, Arab and international audiences, and regard its approval by the PNC as a personal victory.

After U.S. President George Bush announced his initiative on March 6th, 1991, I strongly advocated for our participation in the peace process. I led a committee to conclude an agreement with Jordan concerning the Palestinian representation in the Madrid peace conference. After that, I chaired the Negotiations Follow-Up Committee in Washington and  took part in the Oslo negotiations that started in December 1992. Those negotiations continued until August 20th, 1993, when we signed the Israeli-Palestinian Declaration of Principles in initial form. Later I signed the agreement in Washington. 

We guided our people in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip through the first steps on the road to ending the occupation through the Declaration of Principles. However, this road is very long and filled with obligations and obstacles. The future will be unlike both the past and the present.  Every stage has its own leaders, ideas and strategies. The mindset of the liberation struggle is different from that of the state, and it is the responsibility of our people to build something out of nothing. This is the challenge we are faced with. Having contributed to the achievements that placed our people at the forefront of history, I remain deeply concerned that we could get swept away by history, lose control, and suffer an unrecoverable setback.

We planted a seed with the faith that God would protect it against turbulent winds. God's providence is found in the hearts and souls of the honest, righteous and virtuous. I pray to God that he will bestow his providence and blessings on our people.

As we stand at the threshold of a new era in history, realizing the aspirations of our people, we remember all those who have given their lives for our liberation struggle:  the fighters, cadres and leaders who carried the struggle forward and sacrificed their lives for its sake. We remember the names of the first fallen heroes of the Fatah Central Committee: Abu Jihad – who I wish had lived to see the children he brought up for the long-awaited day; Abu Iyad – who was a shrewd politician; Abdulfatah Hmud; Abu Ali Eyad; Abu Sabri; Abu Yousif an-Najar; Kamal Adwan; Majed Abu Sharar; Saad Sayel; Abu al-Hol; and so many others whose blood continues to water the tree of our freedom.