Dear friends,
I realize I haven’t written in over a week, and while some of you may be enjoying a break from my reports, others may be wondering where I’ve gone. I’m still here, still in Palestine, still living and working with people under occupation. I think I’ve done more of the living this week than the working, though, and it’s been nice. I don’t know if it’s a result of last week’s tragedies, but this week I have found myself sitting and drinking tea with friends more than usual. I decided at some point that when I don’t have work outside the house, it’s better to hang out with people than to sit behind a computer (like I am now) looking for another task to do in the list of endless tasks.
And so I’ve been spending time with people. Issa was in the hospital for a few days this week, and came home today. It was wonderful to see him, although he says his infection is not completely gone and he’s not sure he’ll ever fully recover from this last sickness. He and his wife Faisa asked about our friend Karin’s wedding, which happened a couple weeks ago in Bethlehem. I told them it was beautiful, and that Karin and her husband made a nice speech afterwards thanking everyone for coming and saying, “The people who came from furthest are not necessarily the people from Austria and Germany, but those from Salfit and Gaza and even Jerusalem.” “That’s right,” said Faisa sadly, “because of the checkpoints and the soldiers. It’s all because of Israel. If it weren’t for Israel there would be no problem.” She paused, and then added, “But if it weren’t for Israel, we wouldn’t know you.” I cringe to hear this, knowing it’s true. What a strange relationship we have with people. What a strange situation, where people get to know us and want to see us, but know they’re likeliest to see us if there is a problem in their village.
Like the village of Yasouf. I haven’t visited Yasouf yet since I’ve been back, and when my friend Abu Srur found out I had been here for a month without calling and visiting, he was hurt. Tomorrow I’ll go, and I’ll see him, but I’m only going because doctors from Bir Zeit University will be there to talk with the villagers about safety precautions on their land. I wrote in my last report about poison that ideological Jewish settlers had placed on Palestinian land in the south Hebron hills, killing many of their sheep. Well, this same poison has shown up in Yasouf now. Small orange pellets of death. Announcements have been made on mosques throughout the region, but that cannot remove the poison or the system that refuses to prosecute those responsible for planting the poison.
Tomorrow’s visit may not help me change our image from people who show up in problem situations to people who show up because it’s nice to see people, but I’ve been working on it at least in this small part of Hares. Last night my friend Amal dyed my hair with henna. I slept with the dried mud on my head, covered in a head scarf and looking like any other woman in the village. Today I went to return the head scarf and she told me to keep it, that it looked nice on me. I told her she’d get more use out of it than I would, but that next time we dye my hair I’ll wear it again.
Yesterday I took my friend Fatima’s two oldest daughters to the Ibdaa Cultural Center in Bethlehem to record them singing for a project I’m working on. They were amazing, and had a blast. At the ages of 17 and 15, it was their first time traveling without their mother (except for school trips). I picked them up at the roadblock outside the village, where they were waiting hidden away in a car so nobody else in the village would see them leave without their mother. We snuck into another service taxi on the other side of the roadblock, only to find that the two men sitting in front of us were from the same village. We arrived at Zatara checkpoint and Shams noticed the posters plastered all over the bus stops by the settlers in the area. “Sharon,” she said, pointing at his picture. “Yes, it’s against Sharon,” I replied. She was surprised. I told her that many settlers now agree with many Palestinians, but for much different reasons, when they say Sharon is like Hitler. This sign was against the settler evacuation from Gaza. “They will put all the settlers here in the West Bank,” I said. Shams asked, “And the settlers don’t want to be in the West Bank?” “They want to be in the West Bank,” I replied, “but they also want to be in Gaza.” Shams sighed, “They want everything.”
The girls started to relax as we got further south, and we arrived at Dheisheh refugee camp three cars later with no problems. The people at Ibdaa’s radio station / studio thought they were simply doing me a favor by letting me record the girls there, but after the first song, one of them came into the room and asked the girls, “Where are you from?” He was clearly impressed. They opened up completely in the studio – they were in their element, for sure. We recorded five songs, and then one of the men asked if they wanted to read a couple excerpts in English from personal testimonies for the radio program. Shams played a young girl, and Mayisa an old woman. As they were reading, the producer said, “Damn, I wish they lived closer to here.” Apparently it takes some kids an hour to get a good version of just a few lines in English. Shams and Mayisa did everything almost perfectly on their first try.
After finishing and copying CDs, we went to visit the host family that I lived with for a month last summer. The girls had a great conversation with my host mother, Najah. They asked her about life in Dheisheh, how often the army invades, whether all the girls and women in the camp have to wear head scarves or not, and more. She asked them about their parents’ work, life in the village, what kinds of songs they sing, and more. They talked about resistance against the Wall (the girls argued it was necessary, Najah argued it was futile, they didn’t necessarily disagree with each other).
We returned the same roundabout way we came – through Wadi Nar. It would be much quicker, more direct, and less expensive to go through Jerusalem, but Jerusalem is forbidden for West Bank Palestinians, save for a lucky few with special permits. So we went through Wadi Nar, and I remembered the one spot in the turn where it is possible to see the Dome of the Rock – a tiny gold dot in the distance. I pointed it out to the girls, who looked at it in awe and with sadness. “We can’t go there,” said Shams. The whole way there and back we saw pieces of the Wall snaking through the land. In Abu Dis we watched the Dome of the Rock, slightly closer now, disappear like a sunset behind the Wall as we descended a hill.
We went through Ramallah, though it wasn’t the most direct way home, because the girls were in no rush to get back to their village and I thought it would be nice to extend our trip and return home as close to dark as possible. We arrived in Ramallah and Shams wanted to try to find the dabke (Palestinian folk dance) instructor she had taken a couple lessons from last summer. We stopped to ask someone for directions and Shams said, “I love asking people where things are.” “Why?” I asked. “Because it makes me think people are good,” she replied. “My mother always says people in this century are not good, not honest, and don’t help each other. But when I ask someone where something is, and he gets out of his car and walks me to the next street corner to show me, it makes me feel good about people.”
The cultural center that we were looking for was closed, so we headed back to the center of Ramallah to catch a bus north. Shams and Mayisa stopped at a flower and plant shop to find a gift for their mother. “We cleaned the house on Mother’s Day and cooked,” they said, “but we didn’t really get her a gift.” (Mother’s Day in Palestine was a few weeks ago.) So they went into the shop, and asked about a few things. Fifty shekels, thirty shekels, all too much. “I have 10 shekels,” Shams finally said, “and I want a bouquet.” So the man made her a nice bouquet, and off we went to catch a service taxi home. I crossed the Qarawa roadblock with the girls and we took a taxi towards their house, picking up Fatima on the way. She was so happy to see the girls (I forgot to mention that she called 3 times during the day to see where we were and how we were). So the day ended beautifully.
I don’t have much more to write myself right now, but I can share a couple links and a joke:
1. For those of you planning a Passover seder this year who haven’t yet seen the wonderful Love and Justice in Times of War Haggadah (written a couple years ago), check it out at http://colours.mahost.org/events/haggadah.html.
2. Shministim, the high school refusenik movement, continues to grow, and the number of high school seniors imprisoned for refusing to serve in the Israeli army continues to grow as well. For updates on the kids in prison and their statements to the court before being sentenced, visit http://www.newprofile.org/.
3. If you really want to read depressing and insightful reports about the occupation, since this one is probably neither, you can visit my co-worker Anna’s website at http://annainpalestine.blogspot.com.
4. The joke:
An old Arab lives close to New York City for more than 40 years. He would love to plant potatoes in his garden, but he is alone, old and weak. His son is in college in Paris, so the old man sends him an e-mail.
He explains the problem:
Beloved son, I am very sad, because I can't plant potatoes in my garden. I am sure, if only you were here; you helped me and dug up the garden for me.
I love you,
Your father
The following day, the old man receives a response e-mail from his son:
Beloved father,
Please don't touch the garden. It's there that I have hidden 'the THING'.
I love you too,
Ahmed
At 4pm the US Army, the Marines, the FBI, the CIA and the Rangers visit the house of the old man, take the whole garden apart, search every inch, but can't find anything. Disappointed they leave the house.
Another day later, the old man receives another e-mail from his son.
Beloved father, I hope the garden is dug up by now and you can plant your potatoes.
That's all I could do for you from here.
I love you,
Ahmed
