It’s strange to be writing from a different computer today, from a different house, from a different country. That’s right, I’m back in the US, and other than suffering from a bit of a cold, I’m doing pretty well.
I’ve spent the past couple days in Boston, reading and hearing about all the wonderful anti-Wall activities that happened there on November 9 in honor of the International Day of Action against the Wall. It struck me how incredible it is that I was actually at the Wall on November 9.
We had several planning meetings for November 9. Would we go to a place where the Wall is completed? Where it’s not yet started but scheduled to come? Would we do direct action? Demonstration? Vigil? Fatima and the newly formed Salfeet Women’s Committee against the Wall decided on a demonstration in Mas’ha. We would march silently along the path next to the fence, approach Munira’s house with signs, and visit her and her family. This may seem simple and non-confrontational (we didn’t physically tear down several meters of fence, the way some Palestinians, Israelis, and internationals did in a town near Jenin), but the action was incredibly powerful. Many of the fifty women who participated had never seen the Wall, and almost none had seen the concrete part. There were tears in some of their eyes as we approached and Munira came out of her house to wave across the gate. Two soldiers tried to stop us from crossing, but the women in the front stood their ground and simply shook their heads as the soldiers yelled in Hebrew, “Go back!” After only a minute, the soldiers moved aside and we finished our journey to Munira’s house. Munira greeted the women, some of whom she knew and some of whom had never been to Mas’ha. People gathered in a circle holding hands as Fatima spoke to the crowd. A few people tried to hang the signs on the Wall, but it was wet with rain from the morning, so we hung them on Munira’s house instead.
When we dispersed, there was a sense of peace and satisfaction, and at the same time a sense of deep sadness and anger, accompanied by the energy to continue to resist the construction of the Wall. I was sad to have to leave the following day, but hopeful that this could be the beginning of a grassroots movement against the Wall in the region of Salfeet, which will be so drastically affected by the already-approved Phase 2 of Wall construction.
I go back and forth between despair and hope when I think about Palestine. On the one hand, Palestinians’ lives have been so disrupted by 36 years of occupation, and 3 years of intensified occupation that is worse than ever, that I don’t know whether the infrastructure even exists anymore for a viable independent state. At the same time, the fact that people continue to live, continue to survive and enjoy life, despite this intense occupation, gives me immense hope. It’s difficult to describe exactly how life continues to function in Palestine at times. It’s difficult to understand how even during closure, we can somehow get from place to place; how when there are very few cars on the road, a taxi pulls up just as it’s getting dark; how people seem to communicate with each other without words and the necessary elements of people’s lives get figured out day by day by day. If they can live like this, I think, imagine how they could live with the noose removed.
As I sat on the plane and flew across the Atlantic, my eyes filled with tears. I was remembering only the beautiful, magical parts of Palestine, and none of the ugliness. I remembered the party on my last night, when Fatima and her five children joined us for dinner and helped to cook the meal. Shams, the oldest daughter, filled the room with her beautiful voice, which both Fatima and Shams agree is the only trait she inherited from her father.
I remembered the last time I visited Ayman’s family, and that when I announced my departure, 5-year-old Aya grabbed my hands while 6-year-old Ramee locked the door to keep me in. I remember the care with which their mother wrapped the olives and olive oil she gave me to take to my family in the US.
I remembered walking by Zajid (our not-yet-3-yr-old neighbor) a couple weeks ago, and hearing him say “Tfaddalu” to me and a friend of mine as we passed the house. “Tfaddalu” is a very adult thing to say, and in that context generally means, “Come join us for tea.”
I remembered all these snapshots and I thought, there is such joy in this life. To a certain degree, I think the lack of control over one’s future brings a necessary joy to each moment. I do not wish to over-romanticize, and I certainly do not wish to mask the tremendous suffering of my friends and others in Palestine. But their lives are more complicated and more full than the newspapers would have you believe. Indeed, the resistance present in their insistence on life is the strongest and most sustainable form of resistance that exists.
So I do have hope. The women in Salfeet are organizing. Internationals continue to go to Palestine to show solidarity with the Palestinian people. Four more high security officials in Israel have denounced the occupation and Sharon’s policies. Some people who are accustomed to power are starting to realize that it’s impossible to control every aspect of their own lives, not to mention several million other people’s lives. This admission of lack of control can open so many doors to justice.
May we remove the guise of security from Israel’s policies, and think instead, “How can Israel act in a just way that will lead to a long-term peace?”
May Palestinians retain/regain hope in change, and act accordingly.
May the resistance of daily life continue, and may magic blossom.
With deep love for this fragile world of ours,
Hannah
