I’m thinking this week that if there’s anything that can help improve this situation, it’s certainly the spirit of the people. The occupation continues, stronger in some places at some times, less noticeable in other places at other times. The village of Marda has been targeted again in the past few days, with soldiers uprooting trees in the middle of the night, throwing sound bombs in the village, and creating checkpoints on a cold afternoon and not letting people return to their homes. It was either a random attack or, if a few boys actually threw stones at jeeps as some soldiers claimed, collective punishment. How anyone can deny this is beyond me (The case of the uprooting of trees is an absurdly clear example. We asked the soldiers if the trees had thrown stones on the road. “No, but the people who own the trees probably know the kids who did”).
So the occupation continues, and the destruction of land in the Salfit region to make way for the Wall also continues. The villagers of Deir Balut have had enough, and on Thursday a few of them went out to their land in an apparently spontaneous action, and successfully stopped the bulldozers from working. One Palestinian was arrested and later returned. In response, the people decided to have a demonstration the following day. We found out about this incident from three different sources, all of whom told us that “the people” want to have a demo. We waited to send out the press release about it until we were sure the mayor knew, but it was wonderful that it was truly a people’s desire, bottom-up resistance rather than top-down.
So we joined the villagers on Friday. The army was ready – they entered the village before the demonstration even began, and soldiers chatted nonchalantly with villagers until just before we started marching. The normality of the situation struck me. Everyone knew what would ensue shortly, that the people would march as a group toward their land that is being destroyed, and the army would intercept them with violence. And this did happen, to some degree. But there was also an air of spontaneity in the architecture of the day. The soldiers seemed less excited about using tear gas, sound bombs, and rubber bullets than I’m used to (though they did use all of these at various points). There were many times during which small groups of Palestinians, international and Israeli supporters, and press would be gathered and a group of soldiers gathered nearby to impede movement, but the scattered nature of the groups seemed to hold creative potential that I usually don’t see. I stood on top of a stone wall watching the whole scene at one point: the men praying on the land (guarded by soldiers), the women who had pushed past the jeeps to sit further up along the road (guarded by soldiers), several small groups of people at various spots dotting the road, and the boys in the distance setting up a roadblock (including an overturned truck) so the soldiers could not pass, then scattering throughout the olive groves as a jeep approached and then threw a tear gas canister directly at a house near where some people had run. It was strange, watching the scene from above, being there and not being there at the same time, feeling safe as I was standing close to so many soldiers who seemed to have no interest other than to watch the same scene I was watching.
And there was time to talk. I managed to squeeze past the soldiers with Fatima to walk half a kilometer up the road to where we could see the bulldozers working in the distance. She told me her youngest daughter Baraa (9 years old) had begged her to come that morning, but Fatima was too scared. “She has no fear,” said Fatima. “She’s like you,” I responded. “Yes,” Fatima said, “but she’s small, and I’m afraid for her. The soldiers won’t care that she is young.” I wonder what it must be like to be a parent here, in the midst of such random violence. Is there really a way to protect your children? And yet parents try, desperately and unsuccessfully at times, but they always try.
Earlier in the day a soldier had asked me if I didn’t have anything better to do than to come to Deir Balut. I returned the question. Another soldier asked, “Why are you here?” I responded, “To support the Palestinians as they try to save their land.” “And I’m here to oppose them,” he responded, not unkindly, just matter-of-factly. I began to think, “Will this occupation ever end?” when again the villagers of Deir Balut breathed new life into the demonstration. A few soldiers were talking to them in Hebrew, and they were responding in Arabic and English, saying “We don’t speak Hebrew and we don’t want to speak Hebrew. Talk to us in our language!” At the same time a soldier was trying to pass through a narrow space between a jeep and a stone wall, and two Palestinian women stood in his way saying, “Fish tariq!” (There’s no road). Using the same phrasing as the soldiers, they forced him to turn around and go around the jeep a different way. A minor victory.
So the Palestinian spirits were high on Friday, and the Israeli activists’ spirits seemed strong as well. Two of them engaged in a political/ideological argument with a group of soldiers for about 15 minutes, at the end of which they were pulled away by a Palestinian friend who was plotting to release another Israeli activist who was being detained 100 meters away. I do not always find ideological arguments with soldiers very useful, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that the soldiers continued the discussion after the activists left. They were all trying to comfort each other, to justify their presence there: “I’m on the left, too. I voted for Meretz. But here it doesn’t matter, I follow my government’s orders.” “Yes, yes, it doesn’t matter.” … But at least they were thinking. At least they felt the need to justify themselves, even to each other.
The epitome of good Israeli spirit this week has come in the form of a letter from a group of high school students who feel that they cannot and should not justify their presence in the occupied territories to anyone. These 250 kids sent a passionate letter to Ariel Sharon and others, declaring their refusal to serve in the Israeli military. The letter follows.
To: Ariel Sharon, Prime Minister Lt. General Shaul Mofaz, Minister of Defence Lt. General Moshe Yaalon, Chief of General Staff Limor Livnat, Minister of Education
We the undersigned, Israeli girls and boys, believing in the values of democracy, humanism and pluralism, hereby declare that we shall refuse to take part in the occupation and repression policy adopted by the Government of Israel. Our backgrounds are diverse, but we are all agreed that these values are the bases of a just society. Every human being has the right to life, equality, dignity and freedom. We are bound by our conscience and as citizens of Israel to act in defence of these rights, by refusing to participate in the occupation and repression policy.
The occupation leads to inhumanity and to a massive infringement of the right to life. It tramples on the basic rights of millions of people and inflicts daily carnage and suffering. It leads to the confiscation of lands, to mass destruction of homes and public buildings, to arrests and killings without trial, to victimization and murder of innocents, to hunger, to a denial of medical assistance, to collective punishment, and to the building and expansion of settlements and the negation of any chance of normal living both in the occupied territories and in Israel itself. This flagrant violation of human rights is opposed to our view of the world, as well as being in contravention of international conventions signed and ratified by Israel.
The occupation contributes nothing to the security of the state and its citizens but on the contrary, it only aggravates it. It deepens the despair and fans the hatred among the Palestinians, feeds terrorism and widens the river of blood between the two sides. True security will only be accomplished by ending the occupation, dismantling the wall of Apartheid around the Palestinians and striving for a just peace agreement between the state of Israel and the leadership of the Palestinian people as well as the Arab world. The present policy is not a result of a military necessity, but the outcome of a nationalistic-Messianic fantasy.
The occupation has corrupted Israel, turning it into a militaristic, racist, chauvinistic and violent society. Israel is wasting its resources on the perpetuation of the occupation and repression in the territories, while hundreds of thousands of Israelis live in shameful poverty. In recent years Israeli citizens have experienced a deterioration of all public services. Education, medicine, welfare, pensions, everything to do with the well being of the citizenry has been neglected and sacrificed for the continued existence of settlements which the majority of the population wishes to be evacuated. We cannot stand idly facing this situation, which amounts to a “targeted liquidation” of the principle of equality.
We wish to live in a society which pursues justice, upholding equal rights to every single citizen. The occupation and repression policy is an obstacle to the realization of this vision, therefore we shall refuse to take part in it. We wish to contribute to society in an alternative way, which does not involve harming other human beings.
We call on all young people facing mobilization and on all members of the Israeli army to weigh again whether to risk their lives in the service of this repressive and destructive policy.
We believe that there is another way.
Source: www.shministim.org
Send messages of support to: shministim@gmail.com
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Spring in Salfit, Palm Sunday in Bethlehem
Spring is here. I guess I’d thought I’d been here enough in the past couple years to be familiar with the landscape, but I’ve never been here after the winter rain, and I’ve never seen so much green. The green of the olive trees is ever-present, but the bright green grass under the trees and the landscape dotted with small flowers are new to me. It’s beautiful.
Yesterday I went to the Palestinian village of Awarta with another woman from IWPS and an Israeli group from Rabbis for Human Rights. The villagers in Awarta and Yanoun are constantly threatened and attacked by settlers from Itamar and its many outposts. On Sunday two men plowing their land in Yanoun were beaten by settlers before Rabbis for Human Rights arrived. Yesterday they went to the police station to file a report, and apparently the settlers are actually being taken in for questioning, which rarely happens. Our purpose in Awarta was to keep one eye on the farmers and one eye on the settlements above, and to do our best to make sure no attacks occurred. Indeed, it was a peaceful day, most of which I spent reading and sleeping under what Palestinians call a “Romani” olive tree, thus named because they are at least 1000 years old.
I continue to get reacquainted with people and places here. I knew one of my first stops had to be Mas’ha, so I went a few days ago to visit Munira and Hani, who live in a house that is completely surrounded by walls and fences. Any of you who have been on my list for a while or have seen me speak know the family, at least through pictures and stories. They’re some of my favorite people here. It’s a little disconcerting sometimes to know people for whom pretense is just that, especially when my Arabic isn’t always quite good enough to get beyond formalities, but it’s also refreshing to know that they’ll both tell me exactly what they think about people, governments, their situation, and life. So we chatted, drank tea and lemonade, ate fruit, and just sat. We heard loud music blaring, clearly a party of some sort, that seemed like it was coming from Mas’ha. We asked the family. “No,” they said, “It sounds like it’s coming from Mas’ha because it’s bouncing off the Wall, but it’s from the settlement.” Can’t these people have any peace? I thought. First the settlers take most of their land and build houses right next to theirs, next the Israeli government demolishes their greenhouses, next they build the Wall for “security” that cuts the family off from their village, and now they have to sit in their home and listen to settlers celebrating with obnoxiously loud music. As we were leaving, we saw a jeep sitting nearby with its doors open and soldiers hanging out, and it seemed the music was actually coming from the jeep. Either way, the Israeli occupation was celebrating itself in surround sound at the expense of the Amer family.
But celebrations come in many forms, and on Sunday I attended one of the best demonstrations I have attended here, if only because I inhaled no tear gas through my already stuffed nose. The Palm Sunday demonstration was organized mostly by Holy Land Trust, the Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem that ran the summer program I did last year [living with a family, volunteering, and learning Arabic. It’s called Palestine Summer Encounter, and they’re running it again this year – if you know people who may be interested, tell them to visit www.holylandtrust.org]. The demonstration struck at two of the most important issues to many Palestinians these days: freedom of movement, and freedom of religion. I reunited with many internationals and Palestinians whom I haven’t seen since last year, all of whom came Sunday to support the people of Bethlehem in their desire to walk from the Church of the Nativity to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, in order to pray.
We gathered in front of the Bethlehem Peace Center in Manger Square near a new installation: and uprooted olive tree. The tree is enclosed by tile walls and the encryption below reads, “I am 500 years old. I was uprooted without my permission from my original site in Bir Ona, Beit Jala, along with thousands of trees all over Palestine, to build the apartheid wall. I am still alive.”
As we prepared to march, members of a Christian international delegation began singing “We shall not be moved” and “Oh Freedom.” I always feel a bit strange about white people singing the songs that defined the African American freedom movement, not to mention the fact that this is a Palestinian struggle and “We shall not be moved” is a concept that seems almost empty if sung by people for whom movement is almost entirely self-controlled. It was nice to hear singing, though, and perhaps this contributed to a spirit that continued later with Palestinian-led singing at Tantur checkpoint.
The walk began with donkeys, children, and adults of all ages and nationalities. As we walked with balloons and banners, a truck followed with speakers blaring music, and people came out of their houses and shops to wave and smile as we passed. It felt more like a parade than a demonstration. As expected, we were stopped by soldiers at Tantur checkpoint, our numbers slightly smaller at this point as the children and donkeys had turned back to avoid risk of injury. We thought the soldiers might advance towards the space in the Wall that has yet to be completed, but we reached all the way to the checkpoint without a problem. Jeeps began to advance, soldiers started running towards us and picking up their walkie-talkies to get orders from their superiors, and we continued to walk. I had only a few moments of fear, which quickly subsided as we got close enough to the soldiers that I thought they were unlikely to throw gas (they do not generally gas themselves). I was right. The Palestinians and internationals in the front rows linked arms and approached slowly and peacefully. The soldiers formed a line across the road, linking arms as well. This standoff lasted for quite a while, punctuated by short conversations between some of the Palestinian leaders and the military commanders. One soldier had a few cartoons and the word “FREEDOM” sketched on his back. Somebody asked him, “What does the word ‘freedom’ mean to you when you’re denying these people their freedom of movement and prayer?” “I want freedom, freedom for everybody,” said the soldier. He continued to say he wished he didn’t have to do what he was doing, which led to the all-too-common interaction of “You don’t have to do it, you can refuse,” followed by “Yes I do have to do it, I’m just following orders,” followed by “You should know that argument doesn’t hold up in a court of law,” and so on. Most soldiers did their best to ignore us and not engage in conversation or take the written statement that some Palestinians were trying to give them. I looked into the eyes of some of the soldiers and wanted to cry, which is a reaction I quite often have when I’m so close to soldiers that I can see them as I should, as human beings and as kids who look just like all the kids I knew at summer camp, and who are the epitome of the Zionist ideals I believed, to some degree, when I was their age (which wasn’t so long ago).
When the army announced that the demonstration would become “illegal” in 15 minutes, and that the soldiers would then use force to remove us, the demonstrators sat down on the ground. Palestinians began to sing “We shall overcome” in English, followed by a couple Palestinian freedom songs in Arabic. As the 15 minutes neared their end, Sami Awad of Holy Land Trust stood up and delivered a beautiful statement to the soldiers who were standing right in front of him [see the statement below]. Everyone was quiet, including the soldiers, and I can only assume that some of them were listening. The organizers then announced that we would turn around and head back to Bethlehem, but that the people of Bethlehem would be back again to demand their rights.
I had mixed feelings about this ending. Although I was grateful not to face tear gas, sound bombs, or the threat of arrest, I would have liked to have seen the community attempt to advance further, to enter Jerusalem as it is their long-denied right to do. My thoughts returned to the previous day’s training and preparation, where Ghassan reminded the group that if we reach the checkpoint we must remember that the soldiers are in the way, not we, and that we are not somehow committing an offense by trying to walk to Jerusalem but the soldiers are committing an offense by trying to stop us. And still, it’s true that to some degree we knew what to expect, that if the leaders had decided to continue towards Jerusalem, we knew the soldiers would have used violence against us. Would we have been to blame, then? The clear answer to me is “No!” and yet I know as well as the organizers of the demonstration that tear gas and sound bombs are portrayed in the media as necessary tools to disperse “unruly” crowds, and that Palestinian refusal to obey the rules of occupation are portrayed as a crime, rather than the inherent criminality of occupation being portrayed as such.
So the crowd turned back, and a few of the internationals reluctantly crossed through the checkpoint “legally” to return to Jerusalem, or in our case to Hares. As we began our final shared taxi ride from Kalandia checkpoint to Hares, a man in the back seat with us took out a container of sweets and passed them around the car, making sure to pass them all the way up to the driver. “I love Palestine,” Anna said to me as she took one of the sweets. We continued to Hares in peace. I remembered Munira and Hani behind the Wall, and now the entire city of Bethlehem behind a different section of the same wall, but somehow as I shared sweets with a carload of Palestinians and listened to Arabic music, I was able to temporarily forget the occupation.
May there come a day when we can forget occupations, or remember them only as a history that we vow not to repeat. Inshallah.
Statement from people of Bethlehem to Israeli soldiers, delivered by Holy Land Trust Executive Director Sami Awad on Palm Sunday (March 20) 2005:
Asalaam ‘alaykum, dear friends,
We in the Bethlehem community have come to you today with a message on behalf of our people. We represent the family members and friends who are imprisoned by these concrete walls and wire fences that now create the Bethlehem open-air prison. You, like the prison guards, control our freedom and ability to live as human beings with dignity in this holy land.
Our strong delegation of civilians comes to you without weapons but with great strength and commitment to deliver the message of just peace. In the name of security, you do not permit us to travel to school and to worship in our holy sites in the city of Jerusalem. Your government deprives us each day of basic human rights to self-determination. Each day you keep us from being with our families at weddings, funerals, graduations, birthdays, and religious holidays. Although Al-Quds is only 20 minutes from Bethlehem, we have not been allowed to pray and worship at our holy sites for many years.
Each day as you come to our city, you serve the system of violence that keeps our people imprisoned and without the ability to live a life of a normal human being. With your guns, tanks, and insults, you teach our children to hate.
However, we believe each of you has the power and choice to choose a different ending to this story. We appeal to your conscience and humanity as individuals and as soldiers who may feel there is no way out of this system. Put your guns away—I repeat, put your guns away—and join us in the fight for peace and freedom.
The People of Bethlehem
Yesterday I went to the Palestinian village of Awarta with another woman from IWPS and an Israeli group from Rabbis for Human Rights. The villagers in Awarta and Yanoun are constantly threatened and attacked by settlers from Itamar and its many outposts. On Sunday two men plowing their land in Yanoun were beaten by settlers before Rabbis for Human Rights arrived. Yesterday they went to the police station to file a report, and apparently the settlers are actually being taken in for questioning, which rarely happens. Our purpose in Awarta was to keep one eye on the farmers and one eye on the settlements above, and to do our best to make sure no attacks occurred. Indeed, it was a peaceful day, most of which I spent reading and sleeping under what Palestinians call a “Romani” olive tree, thus named because they are at least 1000 years old.
I continue to get reacquainted with people and places here. I knew one of my first stops had to be Mas’ha, so I went a few days ago to visit Munira and Hani, who live in a house that is completely surrounded by walls and fences. Any of you who have been on my list for a while or have seen me speak know the family, at least through pictures and stories. They’re some of my favorite people here. It’s a little disconcerting sometimes to know people for whom pretense is just that, especially when my Arabic isn’t always quite good enough to get beyond formalities, but it’s also refreshing to know that they’ll both tell me exactly what they think about people, governments, their situation, and life. So we chatted, drank tea and lemonade, ate fruit, and just sat. We heard loud music blaring, clearly a party of some sort, that seemed like it was coming from Mas’ha. We asked the family. “No,” they said, “It sounds like it’s coming from Mas’ha because it’s bouncing off the Wall, but it’s from the settlement.” Can’t these people have any peace? I thought. First the settlers take most of their land and build houses right next to theirs, next the Israeli government demolishes their greenhouses, next they build the Wall for “security” that cuts the family off from their village, and now they have to sit in their home and listen to settlers celebrating with obnoxiously loud music. As we were leaving, we saw a jeep sitting nearby with its doors open and soldiers hanging out, and it seemed the music was actually coming from the jeep. Either way, the Israeli occupation was celebrating itself in surround sound at the expense of the Amer family.
But celebrations come in many forms, and on Sunday I attended one of the best demonstrations I have attended here, if only because I inhaled no tear gas through my already stuffed nose. The Palm Sunday demonstration was organized mostly by Holy Land Trust, the Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem that ran the summer program I did last year [living with a family, volunteering, and learning Arabic. It’s called Palestine Summer Encounter, and they’re running it again this year – if you know people who may be interested, tell them to visit www.holylandtrust.org]. The demonstration struck at two of the most important issues to many Palestinians these days: freedom of movement, and freedom of religion. I reunited with many internationals and Palestinians whom I haven’t seen since last year, all of whom came Sunday to support the people of Bethlehem in their desire to walk from the Church of the Nativity to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, in order to pray.
We gathered in front of the Bethlehem Peace Center in Manger Square near a new installation: and uprooted olive tree. The tree is enclosed by tile walls and the encryption below reads, “I am 500 years old. I was uprooted without my permission from my original site in Bir Ona, Beit Jala, along with thousands of trees all over Palestine, to build the apartheid wall. I am still alive.”
As we prepared to march, members of a Christian international delegation began singing “We shall not be moved” and “Oh Freedom.” I always feel a bit strange about white people singing the songs that defined the African American freedom movement, not to mention the fact that this is a Palestinian struggle and “We shall not be moved” is a concept that seems almost empty if sung by people for whom movement is almost entirely self-controlled. It was nice to hear singing, though, and perhaps this contributed to a spirit that continued later with Palestinian-led singing at Tantur checkpoint.
The walk began with donkeys, children, and adults of all ages and nationalities. As we walked with balloons and banners, a truck followed with speakers blaring music, and people came out of their houses and shops to wave and smile as we passed. It felt more like a parade than a demonstration. As expected, we were stopped by soldiers at Tantur checkpoint, our numbers slightly smaller at this point as the children and donkeys had turned back to avoid risk of injury. We thought the soldiers might advance towards the space in the Wall that has yet to be completed, but we reached all the way to the checkpoint without a problem. Jeeps began to advance, soldiers started running towards us and picking up their walkie-talkies to get orders from their superiors, and we continued to walk. I had only a few moments of fear, which quickly subsided as we got close enough to the soldiers that I thought they were unlikely to throw gas (they do not generally gas themselves). I was right. The Palestinians and internationals in the front rows linked arms and approached slowly and peacefully. The soldiers formed a line across the road, linking arms as well. This standoff lasted for quite a while, punctuated by short conversations between some of the Palestinian leaders and the military commanders. One soldier had a few cartoons and the word “FREEDOM” sketched on his back. Somebody asked him, “What does the word ‘freedom’ mean to you when you’re denying these people their freedom of movement and prayer?” “I want freedom, freedom for everybody,” said the soldier. He continued to say he wished he didn’t have to do what he was doing, which led to the all-too-common interaction of “You don’t have to do it, you can refuse,” followed by “Yes I do have to do it, I’m just following orders,” followed by “You should know that argument doesn’t hold up in a court of law,” and so on. Most soldiers did their best to ignore us and not engage in conversation or take the written statement that some Palestinians were trying to give them. I looked into the eyes of some of the soldiers and wanted to cry, which is a reaction I quite often have when I’m so close to soldiers that I can see them as I should, as human beings and as kids who look just like all the kids I knew at summer camp, and who are the epitome of the Zionist ideals I believed, to some degree, when I was their age (which wasn’t so long ago).
When the army announced that the demonstration would become “illegal” in 15 minutes, and that the soldiers would then use force to remove us, the demonstrators sat down on the ground. Palestinians began to sing “We shall overcome” in English, followed by a couple Palestinian freedom songs in Arabic. As the 15 minutes neared their end, Sami Awad of Holy Land Trust stood up and delivered a beautiful statement to the soldiers who were standing right in front of him [see the statement below]. Everyone was quiet, including the soldiers, and I can only assume that some of them were listening. The organizers then announced that we would turn around and head back to Bethlehem, but that the people of Bethlehem would be back again to demand their rights.
I had mixed feelings about this ending. Although I was grateful not to face tear gas, sound bombs, or the threat of arrest, I would have liked to have seen the community attempt to advance further, to enter Jerusalem as it is their long-denied right to do. My thoughts returned to the previous day’s training and preparation, where Ghassan reminded the group that if we reach the checkpoint we must remember that the soldiers are in the way, not we, and that we are not somehow committing an offense by trying to walk to Jerusalem but the soldiers are committing an offense by trying to stop us. And still, it’s true that to some degree we knew what to expect, that if the leaders had decided to continue towards Jerusalem, we knew the soldiers would have used violence against us. Would we have been to blame, then? The clear answer to me is “No!” and yet I know as well as the organizers of the demonstration that tear gas and sound bombs are portrayed in the media as necessary tools to disperse “unruly” crowds, and that Palestinian refusal to obey the rules of occupation are portrayed as a crime, rather than the inherent criminality of occupation being portrayed as such.
So the crowd turned back, and a few of the internationals reluctantly crossed through the checkpoint “legally” to return to Jerusalem, or in our case to Hares. As we began our final shared taxi ride from Kalandia checkpoint to Hares, a man in the back seat with us took out a container of sweets and passed them around the car, making sure to pass them all the way up to the driver. “I love Palestine,” Anna said to me as she took one of the sweets. We continued to Hares in peace. I remembered Munira and Hani behind the Wall, and now the entire city of Bethlehem behind a different section of the same wall, but somehow as I shared sweets with a carload of Palestinians and listened to Arabic music, I was able to temporarily forget the occupation.
May there come a day when we can forget occupations, or remember them only as a history that we vow not to repeat. Inshallah.
Statement from people of Bethlehem to Israeli soldiers, delivered by Holy Land Trust Executive Director Sami Awad on Palm Sunday (March 20) 2005:
Asalaam ‘alaykum, dear friends,
We in the Bethlehem community have come to you today with a message on behalf of our people. We represent the family members and friends who are imprisoned by these concrete walls and wire fences that now create the Bethlehem open-air prison. You, like the prison guards, control our freedom and ability to live as human beings with dignity in this holy land.
Our strong delegation of civilians comes to you without weapons but with great strength and commitment to deliver the message of just peace. In the name of security, you do not permit us to travel to school and to worship in our holy sites in the city of Jerusalem. Your government deprives us each day of basic human rights to self-determination. Each day you keep us from being with our families at weddings, funerals, graduations, birthdays, and religious holidays. Although Al-Quds is only 20 minutes from Bethlehem, we have not been allowed to pray and worship at our holy sites for many years.
Each day as you come to our city, you serve the system of violence that keeps our people imprisoned and without the ability to live a life of a normal human being. With your guns, tanks, and insults, you teach our children to hate.
However, we believe each of you has the power and choice to choose a different ending to this story. We appeal to your conscience and humanity as individuals and as soldiers who may feel there is no way out of this system. Put your guns away—I repeat, put your guns away—and join us in the fight for peace and freedom.
The People of Bethlehem
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Day 3
Dear friends,
I'm back.
Palestine has welcomed me with open arms, and while I’ve had an exhausting few days running from Jerusalem to Bethlehem to Ramallah and back again, it’s been wonderful to see so many familiar faces and places. The sounds, the smells, the sights of the market on the stairs outside Damascus gate, the crowds of people rushing through, even the boys who sit on the stairs outside the Austrian Hospice trying to sneak in under the pretense of having lost a cell phone or soccer ball – all have been reminders of the vibrancy of life here, despite it all. Despite it all. And the “all” seems to have gotten even bigger.
Everywhere I look I see concrete walls. When I last left, the Wall on the east side of the checkpoint into Bethlehem had been built; now it connects with the pieces that stood alone in the distance, slabs around Ayda refugee camp and the town of Beit Jala. Bethlehem is now almost completely enclosed. My host mother from my last visit in Dheisheh refugee camp can no longer find ways to go north and west to Jerusalem to work, so she goes all the way around and through Abu Dis, and back into Jerusalem. It takes several hours each way.
On the way out of Bethlehem this morning I asked a soldier at the checkpoint what would happen when the Wall is finished. “There will be a checkpoint,” he told me. “Will cars be able to go through?” “Yes,” he said, “there will be enough space for vehicles and pedestrians.” “When will they finish?” “As soon as possible.” Yes, as soon as possible, while the world is not looking, or is only looking at Gaza in anticipation of the “disengagement plan” (“disengagement” meaning removing about 2% of the Jewish Israeli settlers who live in the Palestinian occupied territories, but not necessarily removing the army). As soon as possible the Wall will be built, while the world praises the “cease fire” (what cease fire?) and is “cautiously optimistic” that Sharon and Abu Mazen might reach a deal of some sort.
Never have I seen so much active construction of the Wall. Caterpillar bulldozers drill the path through the ground next to Kalandia, the main checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Aram, a town that saw itself being cut in half by the path, is now almost completely separated. The only break in the Wall is at the checkpoint itself, which according to everyone I’ve spoken with will completely disappear once the Wall is finished, leaving no viable way to travel between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Apparently there’s a plan that starting in July Palestinians with Jerusalem ID will no longer be allowed into the West Bank. It seems the Israeli government is employing even new ways to cut Jerusalem off from the rest of the West Bank, or as one friend said, to choke Jerusalem.
I keep looking for signs of change. Seeing concrete where it wasn’t before is obvious, other things less so. I have noticed the abundance of political posters left over from the election. It’s nice to see them, to see an expression of some sort of democracy, however strong or real it is or isn’t. It’s nice just to see posters other than martyr posters, posters that seem more about life than death. I asked my host family about Abu Mazen and whether the situation is better or still the same. The same, said Najah. The Wall continues to be built, their life continues to be difficult, there’s been no change. Hussein chimed in and said maybe things are a bit better, not on the ground but politically. “Fine,” she responded, “but I wouldn’t know. I don’t see any changes.” Hussein reminded me that 65% of Palestinians who voted cast their ballots for Abu Mazen. “Why?” I asked. “Do they like him?” “Like him?” he responded. “No, we don’t vote with our hearts, we vote with our minds. People thought maybe he could get something done.” He continued to tell me that Mustafa Barghouti had better politics, better speeches, and better programs, but that his work on the ground wasn’t trusted; he wasn’t seen as being in touch with people outside his circle. And while Abu Mazen worked very closely with Arafat, apparently he’s willing to work with people outside of Fatah and is looking to create something “new.” What that is, we don’t yet know.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it takes to hold up an occupation, and what it takes to dismantle it. And in the midst of all that, what does it take to live? I crossed through Kalandia this evening as I came back from Ramallah to Jerusalem. It was late, so there weren’t a lot of people, and the soldiers weren’t being particularly forceful or rigid about their roles and rules. I probably could have gone through without showing my passport, and at times I do, not wanting to legitimize the occupation by acknowledging the presence of the checkpoint. But knowing that Palestinians choose not to defy the occupation in that way, what would it mean if I walked around the few people who were standing in line in front of me, and just passed through? Would it be an act of defiance or an abuse of privilege? Tonight I waited and showed my passport to a soldier who made some joke about it in Hebrew. Another soldier saw that I was annoyed and said in English, “You can go now, miss. Thank you.”
I notice Palestinians in the old city of Jerusalem completely ignoring the border police who are there to keep an eye on them and check IDs at random. Is it good that Palestinians are able to continue with life in all its vibrancy? Or is it bad that the situation has been so normalized that nobody even notices the occupier standing menacingly with weapons at every turn? I’ve seen more Palestinians chatting with the police and the soldiers, lighting the cigarettes of the soldiers checking their IDs. Is it good that they can continue to see humanity in the face of the occupier? Or is it bad that they’re complying with the structures of occupation and making life even easier for the occupier? Do they feel forced into being kind by their situation, or is it an expression of traditional Palestinian hospitality?
I don’t know what’s next. I hear the plan to construct “humanitarian tunnels” under the Wall is going forward, basically putting Palestinian roads underground and making it possible eventually to truly close off the settler bypass roads so only Israelis can travel on them. A friend tells me the new checkpoints at the openings of the Wall are being called “terminals.” Will Israel finish the Wall and these “terminals” and then claim it has removed checkpoints, once again manipulating language for political purposes? It reminds me of one of the proposed peace agreements of the past which would have “given” Palestinians the Palestinian town of Abu Dis, east of Jerusalem, and “allowed” them to make it their capital and call it “Jerusalem.” As though the name Jerusalem is all that matters, and not the place. As though there aren’t actually Palestinians living in Jerusalem, who have lived there for thousands of years and have a connection to the stones and the land that goes deeper than most could know.
What’s next for me is this: Today I go north to Hares to begin three months with IWPS (International Women’s Peace Service). I’m excited to see people, and hoping that some kind of clarity in my work will come to me. And meanwhile, I’ll continue to write to you all and at the very least share a glimpse into the life here. Please share my reports with others, and please be in touch – it’s good and important for me to have contact with the outside world while I’m here. Still no mail service in Hares as far as I know, but you can e-mail and call. My cell phone number, if you’re dialing from the US, is 011-972-547-870-198.
Until next time,
Hannah
I'm back.
Palestine has welcomed me with open arms, and while I’ve had an exhausting few days running from Jerusalem to Bethlehem to Ramallah and back again, it’s been wonderful to see so many familiar faces and places. The sounds, the smells, the sights of the market on the stairs outside Damascus gate, the crowds of people rushing through, even the boys who sit on the stairs outside the Austrian Hospice trying to sneak in under the pretense of having lost a cell phone or soccer ball – all have been reminders of the vibrancy of life here, despite it all. Despite it all. And the “all” seems to have gotten even bigger.
Everywhere I look I see concrete walls. When I last left, the Wall on the east side of the checkpoint into Bethlehem had been built; now it connects with the pieces that stood alone in the distance, slabs around Ayda refugee camp and the town of Beit Jala. Bethlehem is now almost completely enclosed. My host mother from my last visit in Dheisheh refugee camp can no longer find ways to go north and west to Jerusalem to work, so she goes all the way around and through Abu Dis, and back into Jerusalem. It takes several hours each way.
On the way out of Bethlehem this morning I asked a soldier at the checkpoint what would happen when the Wall is finished. “There will be a checkpoint,” he told me. “Will cars be able to go through?” “Yes,” he said, “there will be enough space for vehicles and pedestrians.” “When will they finish?” “As soon as possible.” Yes, as soon as possible, while the world is not looking, or is only looking at Gaza in anticipation of the “disengagement plan” (“disengagement” meaning removing about 2% of the Jewish Israeli settlers who live in the Palestinian occupied territories, but not necessarily removing the army). As soon as possible the Wall will be built, while the world praises the “cease fire” (what cease fire?) and is “cautiously optimistic” that Sharon and Abu Mazen might reach a deal of some sort.
Never have I seen so much active construction of the Wall. Caterpillar bulldozers drill the path through the ground next to Kalandia, the main checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Aram, a town that saw itself being cut in half by the path, is now almost completely separated. The only break in the Wall is at the checkpoint itself, which according to everyone I’ve spoken with will completely disappear once the Wall is finished, leaving no viable way to travel between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Apparently there’s a plan that starting in July Palestinians with Jerusalem ID will no longer be allowed into the West Bank. It seems the Israeli government is employing even new ways to cut Jerusalem off from the rest of the West Bank, or as one friend said, to choke Jerusalem.
I keep looking for signs of change. Seeing concrete where it wasn’t before is obvious, other things less so. I have noticed the abundance of political posters left over from the election. It’s nice to see them, to see an expression of some sort of democracy, however strong or real it is or isn’t. It’s nice just to see posters other than martyr posters, posters that seem more about life than death. I asked my host family about Abu Mazen and whether the situation is better or still the same. The same, said Najah. The Wall continues to be built, their life continues to be difficult, there’s been no change. Hussein chimed in and said maybe things are a bit better, not on the ground but politically. “Fine,” she responded, “but I wouldn’t know. I don’t see any changes.” Hussein reminded me that 65% of Palestinians who voted cast their ballots for Abu Mazen. “Why?” I asked. “Do they like him?” “Like him?” he responded. “No, we don’t vote with our hearts, we vote with our minds. People thought maybe he could get something done.” He continued to tell me that Mustafa Barghouti had better politics, better speeches, and better programs, but that his work on the ground wasn’t trusted; he wasn’t seen as being in touch with people outside his circle. And while Abu Mazen worked very closely with Arafat, apparently he’s willing to work with people outside of Fatah and is looking to create something “new.” What that is, we don’t yet know.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it takes to hold up an occupation, and what it takes to dismantle it. And in the midst of all that, what does it take to live? I crossed through Kalandia this evening as I came back from Ramallah to Jerusalem. It was late, so there weren’t a lot of people, and the soldiers weren’t being particularly forceful or rigid about their roles and rules. I probably could have gone through without showing my passport, and at times I do, not wanting to legitimize the occupation by acknowledging the presence of the checkpoint. But knowing that Palestinians choose not to defy the occupation in that way, what would it mean if I walked around the few people who were standing in line in front of me, and just passed through? Would it be an act of defiance or an abuse of privilege? Tonight I waited and showed my passport to a soldier who made some joke about it in Hebrew. Another soldier saw that I was annoyed and said in English, “You can go now, miss. Thank you.”
I notice Palestinians in the old city of Jerusalem completely ignoring the border police who are there to keep an eye on them and check IDs at random. Is it good that Palestinians are able to continue with life in all its vibrancy? Or is it bad that the situation has been so normalized that nobody even notices the occupier standing menacingly with weapons at every turn? I’ve seen more Palestinians chatting with the police and the soldiers, lighting the cigarettes of the soldiers checking their IDs. Is it good that they can continue to see humanity in the face of the occupier? Or is it bad that they’re complying with the structures of occupation and making life even easier for the occupier? Do they feel forced into being kind by their situation, or is it an expression of traditional Palestinian hospitality?
I don’t know what’s next. I hear the plan to construct “humanitarian tunnels” under the Wall is going forward, basically putting Palestinian roads underground and making it possible eventually to truly close off the settler bypass roads so only Israelis can travel on them. A friend tells me the new checkpoints at the openings of the Wall are being called “terminals.” Will Israel finish the Wall and these “terminals” and then claim it has removed checkpoints, once again manipulating language for political purposes? It reminds me of one of the proposed peace agreements of the past which would have “given” Palestinians the Palestinian town of Abu Dis, east of Jerusalem, and “allowed” them to make it their capital and call it “Jerusalem.” As though the name Jerusalem is all that matters, and not the place. As though there aren’t actually Palestinians living in Jerusalem, who have lived there for thousands of years and have a connection to the stones and the land that goes deeper than most could know.
What’s next for me is this: Today I go north to Hares to begin three months with IWPS (International Women’s Peace Service). I’m excited to see people, and hoping that some kind of clarity in my work will come to me. And meanwhile, I’ll continue to write to you all and at the very least share a glimpse into the life here. Please share my reports with others, and please be in touch – it’s good and important for me to have contact with the outside world while I’m here. Still no mail service in Hares as far as I know, but you can e-mail and call. My cell phone number, if you’re dialing from the US, is 011-972-547-870-198.
Until next time,
Hannah
Monday, October 25, 2004
Final Dispatch from Palestine
I don't know quite how I got to the point where I can say this, but after 4 and a half months, this will be my last letter from Palestine this year. This week has been full of olive picking, coordination, strange travels, and goodbyes.
We've had three different delegations here to help with the olive harvest (one from Boston, one from the UK, and one from Austria). Now only the Austrian group is still here, and has been picking in the north of the city of Salfit near the southern fence of Ariel settlement. Moving the group there from Marda took us about 2 hours instead of the half hour it should take. The flying checkpoint I've come to expect under the bridge at Iskaka was nowhere to be seen, but construction workers were paving the only road to Salfit (the only Palestinian road, that is - the army has their own ways of getting there), and it was completely closed. I asked why they didn't do the paving at night. "Do you think the army would let us do that?" one of the workers responded. We switched cars many times and walked several hundred meters right next to the burning tar. At one point we ran into a whole group of 10-15 year old boys. I asked where they were from. Turmus Aya. What are they doing here? They've come to visit their teacher in Yasuf who was beaten up by settlers a few days earlier. I knew the incident. I had spoken with 25-year-old Tariq, who had been attacked on the main road on his way home from work. A settler sprayed gas in his face and a group of settlers kicked and punched him until he was unconscious. A Palestinian car noticed him on the road, picked him up, and took him to the hospital. He suffered injuries to his thigh, ribs, shoulder/back, and nose.
So these kids from Turmus Aya were on their way to visit Tariq. They seemed unconcerned by the delay, and were delighted to have the chance to whip out their American passports and talk to me about Chicago. I've heard that Turmus Aya is a town with large houses and no people, because all the people live outside Palestine. I told the kids this. "Nos nos," they responded (half, half). Some of these children split their time between the US and Palestine, others have never been to the US, but it seems most have family there.
We arrived in Salfit just before iftar (the evening meal to break the fast of Ramadan each day). The farmers were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but not quite as irritable as I would have expected for that time of day. We sat around a table trying to split up which internationals would stay (and therefore pick the following day) with which families. After it was all finished, the mayor took me aside and told me I would be staying with him. "Everyone wanted you at first," he told me, "but then you said you were American, and then you said you wouldn't be picking tomorrow, and now nobody wants you." He said it with his typical joking smile, but I can't help but think there's some truth in it. Wait until they find out I'm Jewish, I thought. Incidentally, one of the coordinators later asked me, "Are you Muslim or Christian?" "No," I responded. "Nothing?" he asked. "Jewish," I responded, and then quickly added, "but not Israeli." "Why do you say that?" he asked. "It doesn't matter. We like you because you are a human being. Jewish, Israeli, it doesn't matter." This is the most common response I get when I tell people I'm Jewish. The other day I met a woman on the bus who, in the midst of telling me that there's no difference between Jews and Israelis, that all participate in an oppressive system, and that Islam is the best religion because it is all-encompassing, also stated that someday we'll realize that we all believe in the same one God, and that we just have different messengers.
The more I find out about Islam, the more I want to know. Someday soon I'll sit down and read the Koran, but until then, I hope to have many more conversations with people and many more experiences like I had that night in Salfit. After dinner in the public gardens the Sheikh gave a speech, which was followed by what I can only call an "Ask the Sheikh" session. Women, men, and children were there, and all were asking him questions about fasting. "How old should children be when they begin to fast?" "Lots of people say they're fasting but they're not. What do you say about that?" "Why are we using plastic plates?" (this was my favorite question). The whole evening seemed very democratic to me. Interaction, interruption, camaraderie. I like seeing democracy in action, especially in religious institutions.
I stayed with the mayor's family, and was excited to get up at 3:30 am to eat the morning meal before sunrise, which I'd never done. I set my alarm, and was up and ready at 3:30. I waited around for a few minutes and didn't see or hear any movement, so I went back to sleep. In the morning, they asked, "Why didn't you wake us up?" They had slept through their alarm.
After a few more errands, I managed to get home and left the next morning for a short 'break' before leaving for good. I had heard from my friend George about a youth center in a building that used to be a prison in Fara refugee camp, in the Tubas region (between Nablus and Jenin, but also on the edge of the Jordan Valley). Kate and I were determined to get there, if only because it seemed like an adventure. And it certainly was. Everything we thought would be difficult about the travels was easy, and everything we thought would be easy was difficult. We snuck around Huwara checkpoint outside of Nablus with absolutely no problem, actually walking with complete confidence in full view of the soldiers, who probably assumed we were settlers or at least walking to the nearby settlement (which was feasible, since it was Saturday and there wouldn't be any settler cars driving). Getting from Nablus to Fara, though, proved to be the real adventure. One driver said he could take us, but after stopping at a broken down amusement park for at least a half hour trying to figure out if his car was strong enough to drive over the roadblock ahead of us, he decided to take us back to Nablus. So we left Palestinian style - that is, over the mountains in a jeep, desperately trying to hold on to our seats as we bounced all over the place, the car speeding over rocks to try to avoid being seen by police or army. We arrived in Fara to a confused crowd of people who kept asking us why we were there (not in an unfriendly way, but they certainly don't get many foreign visitors and were curious, to say the least).
We toured the center, went to the city of Tubas for a few minutes, and then left for Jericho. No, Jericho is nowhere near Tubas, but both are east. Besides, neither Kate nor I had been to Jericho, and we figured we might as well see the oldest and lowest city in the world before leaving. We stopped at Hamra checkpoint, where we encountered hostile soldiers who we're sure are ideological settlers in that area. They wouldn't let us through, claiming that we had to get out the way we came in. Get out of where? we wondered. If we had been near the border with Israel, I would understand that, but seeing as we were in the middle of the West Bank, I was utterly confused. If we had been coming from the other direction would they have forbidden us to pass because we hadn't come through this way? Anyway, our Israeli friend Dorothy made several phone calls for us, and after an hour and a half, the soldiers let us through. Apparently one of the reasons they were worried about it was that if we go through, we might be going to Jericho, which is closed to internationals without special permission. Hamra is nowhere near Jericho, but it is on the same road.
By the time we passed through the checkpoint, it was almost iftar (dark, no cars, etc.). We hitched a ride with a nice settler for a couple minutes, but she was turning off the road, so we got out and began to walk. Kate insisted it was impossible to walk to Jericho, which of course I knew, but at least I needed to feel like I was going somewhere. A couple minutes later, a Palestinian man came out of his house, and we said hello to him in Arabic. He asked where we were going, we told him, and he told us we'd have to come eat with them and spend the night, because there wouldn't be any cars until the morning. I have to say this was a very welcome invitation. And I also have to say that I wasn't surprised. I have come to expect this almost incomprehensible hospitality and trust among Palestinians. Two strange foreigners wandering past his house as it was getting dark - and really, we could have been settlers. How was he to know? Anyway, we stayed, we played with the kids, we talked with the men and women in the house, we slept, and in the morning we got a car to Jericho.
At the checkpoint into Jericho, where we were afraid we'd be asked for our 'permits,' the soldiers just looked at our passports and gave them back to the driver of our car, letting us through with no problem. Jericho is a beautiful city, although it's one of the places where the suffering economy (lack of tourists) is most apparent. The streets were pretty empty, and the cable car operators on the Mt. of Temptation seemed to open up just for us. An article from 1999 hanging in the building said they were expecting the project to pay for itself with Jericho's 500,000 tourists each year. That's over 1,000 a day. I doubt they had many more than 2 the day we were there.
I returned to Hares to the news that Angie, one of our founding team members and a prominent activist in the UK, had been denied entry and was being held at Ben Gurion airport until they could find her a flight back to Britain. We wrote to the press, and I even had a discussion with Abu Rabia last night about an idea that Kate had: Let's get the Palestinian Authority to issue her a visa, to make a statement that if Israel doesn't want Angie in their territory, fine, Palestine wants her in theirs. We'll see where that goes.
I am aware that most of this probably reads more like a travel journal than anything else. I'm not feeling so poetic right now, and I'm a bit overwhelmed with the fact that I'm leaving. I had some wonderful goodbyes yesterday, and realized that people really are going to miss me, and I'm really going to miss them.
What more to say? Perhaps I'll write again sometime next week, from the comfort of my parents' home in Pennsylvania. In case I don't, I'll say my thank yous now, to all of you have been reading and writing and passing my messages along and thinking and reconsidering and apprecicating the realities that are so important to face here. Please remember to contact me if you have ideas of where I can present. Boston: Nov. 7, 2:30, Christ Church.
In the spirit of peace, justice, and truth,
Hannah
We've had three different delegations here to help with the olive harvest (one from Boston, one from the UK, and one from Austria). Now only the Austrian group is still here, and has been picking in the north of the city of Salfit near the southern fence of Ariel settlement. Moving the group there from Marda took us about 2 hours instead of the half hour it should take. The flying checkpoint I've come to expect under the bridge at Iskaka was nowhere to be seen, but construction workers were paving the only road to Salfit (the only Palestinian road, that is - the army has their own ways of getting there), and it was completely closed. I asked why they didn't do the paving at night. "Do you think the army would let us do that?" one of the workers responded. We switched cars many times and walked several hundred meters right next to the burning tar. At one point we ran into a whole group of 10-15 year old boys. I asked where they were from. Turmus Aya. What are they doing here? They've come to visit their teacher in Yasuf who was beaten up by settlers a few days earlier. I knew the incident. I had spoken with 25-year-old Tariq, who had been attacked on the main road on his way home from work. A settler sprayed gas in his face and a group of settlers kicked and punched him until he was unconscious. A Palestinian car noticed him on the road, picked him up, and took him to the hospital. He suffered injuries to his thigh, ribs, shoulder/back, and nose.
So these kids from Turmus Aya were on their way to visit Tariq. They seemed unconcerned by the delay, and were delighted to have the chance to whip out their American passports and talk to me about Chicago. I've heard that Turmus Aya is a town with large houses and no people, because all the people live outside Palestine. I told the kids this. "Nos nos," they responded (half, half). Some of these children split their time between the US and Palestine, others have never been to the US, but it seems most have family there.
We arrived in Salfit just before iftar (the evening meal to break the fast of Ramadan each day). The farmers were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but not quite as irritable as I would have expected for that time of day. We sat around a table trying to split up which internationals would stay (and therefore pick the following day) with which families. After it was all finished, the mayor took me aside and told me I would be staying with him. "Everyone wanted you at first," he told me, "but then you said you were American, and then you said you wouldn't be picking tomorrow, and now nobody wants you." He said it with his typical joking smile, but I can't help but think there's some truth in it. Wait until they find out I'm Jewish, I thought. Incidentally, one of the coordinators later asked me, "Are you Muslim or Christian?" "No," I responded. "Nothing?" he asked. "Jewish," I responded, and then quickly added, "but not Israeli." "Why do you say that?" he asked. "It doesn't matter. We like you because you are a human being. Jewish, Israeli, it doesn't matter." This is the most common response I get when I tell people I'm Jewish. The other day I met a woman on the bus who, in the midst of telling me that there's no difference between Jews and Israelis, that all participate in an oppressive system, and that Islam is the best religion because it is all-encompassing, also stated that someday we'll realize that we all believe in the same one God, and that we just have different messengers.
The more I find out about Islam, the more I want to know. Someday soon I'll sit down and read the Koran, but until then, I hope to have many more conversations with people and many more experiences like I had that night in Salfit. After dinner in the public gardens the Sheikh gave a speech, which was followed by what I can only call an "Ask the Sheikh" session. Women, men, and children were there, and all were asking him questions about fasting. "How old should children be when they begin to fast?" "Lots of people say they're fasting but they're not. What do you say about that?" "Why are we using plastic plates?" (this was my favorite question). The whole evening seemed very democratic to me. Interaction, interruption, camaraderie. I like seeing democracy in action, especially in religious institutions.
I stayed with the mayor's family, and was excited to get up at 3:30 am to eat the morning meal before sunrise, which I'd never done. I set my alarm, and was up and ready at 3:30. I waited around for a few minutes and didn't see or hear any movement, so I went back to sleep. In the morning, they asked, "Why didn't you wake us up?" They had slept through their alarm.
After a few more errands, I managed to get home and left the next morning for a short 'break' before leaving for good. I had heard from my friend George about a youth center in a building that used to be a prison in Fara refugee camp, in the Tubas region (between Nablus and Jenin, but also on the edge of the Jordan Valley). Kate and I were determined to get there, if only because it seemed like an adventure. And it certainly was. Everything we thought would be difficult about the travels was easy, and everything we thought would be easy was difficult. We snuck around Huwara checkpoint outside of Nablus with absolutely no problem, actually walking with complete confidence in full view of the soldiers, who probably assumed we were settlers or at least walking to the nearby settlement (which was feasible, since it was Saturday and there wouldn't be any settler cars driving). Getting from Nablus to Fara, though, proved to be the real adventure. One driver said he could take us, but after stopping at a broken down amusement park for at least a half hour trying to figure out if his car was strong enough to drive over the roadblock ahead of us, he decided to take us back to Nablus. So we left Palestinian style - that is, over the mountains in a jeep, desperately trying to hold on to our seats as we bounced all over the place, the car speeding over rocks to try to avoid being seen by police or army. We arrived in Fara to a confused crowd of people who kept asking us why we were there (not in an unfriendly way, but they certainly don't get many foreign visitors and were curious, to say the least).
We toured the center, went to the city of Tubas for a few minutes, and then left for Jericho. No, Jericho is nowhere near Tubas, but both are east. Besides, neither Kate nor I had been to Jericho, and we figured we might as well see the oldest and lowest city in the world before leaving. We stopped at Hamra checkpoint, where we encountered hostile soldiers who we're sure are ideological settlers in that area. They wouldn't let us through, claiming that we had to get out the way we came in. Get out of where? we wondered. If we had been near the border with Israel, I would understand that, but seeing as we were in the middle of the West Bank, I was utterly confused. If we had been coming from the other direction would they have forbidden us to pass because we hadn't come through this way? Anyway, our Israeli friend Dorothy made several phone calls for us, and after an hour and a half, the soldiers let us through. Apparently one of the reasons they were worried about it was that if we go through, we might be going to Jericho, which is closed to internationals without special permission. Hamra is nowhere near Jericho, but it is on the same road.
By the time we passed through the checkpoint, it was almost iftar (dark, no cars, etc.). We hitched a ride with a nice settler for a couple minutes, but she was turning off the road, so we got out and began to walk. Kate insisted it was impossible to walk to Jericho, which of course I knew, but at least I needed to feel like I was going somewhere. A couple minutes later, a Palestinian man came out of his house, and we said hello to him in Arabic. He asked where we were going, we told him, and he told us we'd have to come eat with them and spend the night, because there wouldn't be any cars until the morning. I have to say this was a very welcome invitation. And I also have to say that I wasn't surprised. I have come to expect this almost incomprehensible hospitality and trust among Palestinians. Two strange foreigners wandering past his house as it was getting dark - and really, we could have been settlers. How was he to know? Anyway, we stayed, we played with the kids, we talked with the men and women in the house, we slept, and in the morning we got a car to Jericho.
At the checkpoint into Jericho, where we were afraid we'd be asked for our 'permits,' the soldiers just looked at our passports and gave them back to the driver of our car, letting us through with no problem. Jericho is a beautiful city, although it's one of the places where the suffering economy (lack of tourists) is most apparent. The streets were pretty empty, and the cable car operators on the Mt. of Temptation seemed to open up just for us. An article from 1999 hanging in the building said they were expecting the project to pay for itself with Jericho's 500,000 tourists each year. That's over 1,000 a day. I doubt they had many more than 2 the day we were there.
I returned to Hares to the news that Angie, one of our founding team members and a prominent activist in the UK, had been denied entry and was being held at Ben Gurion airport until they could find her a flight back to Britain. We wrote to the press, and I even had a discussion with Abu Rabia last night about an idea that Kate had: Let's get the Palestinian Authority to issue her a visa, to make a statement that if Israel doesn't want Angie in their territory, fine, Palestine wants her in theirs. We'll see where that goes.
I am aware that most of this probably reads more like a travel journal than anything else. I'm not feeling so poetic right now, and I'm a bit overwhelmed with the fact that I'm leaving. I had some wonderful goodbyes yesterday, and realized that people really are going to miss me, and I'm really going to miss them.
What more to say? Perhaps I'll write again sometime next week, from the comfort of my parents' home in Pennsylvania. In case I don't, I'll say my thank yous now, to all of you have been reading and writing and passing my messages along and thinking and reconsidering and apprecicating the realities that are so important to face here. Please remember to contact me if you have ideas of where I can present. Boston: Nov. 7, 2:30, Christ Church.
In the spirit of peace, justice, and truth,
Hannah
Friday, October 15, 2004
These Are My People
“Welcome to the most democratic country in the world.”
The man, probably in his 50s or 60s, stopped us in the street to say this. Immediately we knew why. Kate and I were heading back towards the Damascus Gate of Jerusalem’s Old City, but a half hour before we had come from that direction and had seen the massive police force that Israel utilizes every Friday. I do not think the situation was more extreme today than most Fridays, just slightly more offensive. On the first day of Ramadan, hundreds come from the West Bank to pray at the Al Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem. Most of them have succumbed to the system and have obtained a permit from their occupiers to pray at the holiest Muslim site in the country, but the Israeli police still seemed to prohibit men under the age of 50 from entering the Old City this morning. When we asked why, one police officer called her commander over and told him we were interfering with her work.
So when the Palestinian man walking up the street stopped us to say, “Welcome to the most democratic country in the world,” we understood exactly what he meant. “Were you turned away?” I asked. No, he lives in Jerusalem. It’s just the sight of all the people waiting, hoping to access their holy site to pray, being turned away by Israeli authorities. “It makes you crazy,” he said. “It makes you wonder why there aren’t more suicide bombings.” We agreed, and all shrugged our shoulders somewhat helplessly and walked away.
I’ve grown up hearing Jews talk about the importance of the Western Wall in the Old City, about how the holiest site was forbidden to Jews for centuries. I wonder if any of the police officers or soldiers think about this as they guard the gates of the Old City preventing Palestinian Muslims from entering. It seems they have no awareness of the parallels, no empathy for the people, no understanding of themselves. And of course, it makes me feel I need to take on the burden of shame even more, on behalf of all of my people, be they ignorant or heartless or both.
The Israeli army’s massacre of Palestinians in Gaza continues as I write, with at least 136 dead and several hundred more injured. The settlers also seem to be getting more and more vicious these days. A few weeks ago a Palestinian taxi driver stopped to help a Jewish settler who he thought was having car trouble. The settler shot and killed him. Attacks on Palestinian farmers are increasing in number and severity. One was killed harvesting last week. Others have been beaten, their olives stolen, their groves set on fire. Very few settlers are arrested for any of these attacks. I wonder if the settlers would think it fair for the perpetrators of these acts to be assassinated without trial, their settlements closed off, their other residents arrested, their houses demolished. Or alternatively, I wonder if they would think it fair for every Palestinian attack on an Israeli to be met with a smile and something between a pat on the back and a slap on the wrist.
We picked olives and almonds last week with a family whose land lies on a hill that is now completely surrounded by settlements. The ownership of their land is the only thing separating the Gush Etzion bloc (halfway between Bethlehem and Hebron) from connecting completely to Jerusalem. They have papers dating back to 1924 from every occupying power that has been in the area, including the Israelis. Still, the settlers show up every once in a while with bulldozers and begin uprooting trees and constructing roads. Occasionally they attack people in the house, or attack the water tower or generator – structures that denote presence and sustainability. The battle over this piece of land has been in the courts since 1991.
We picked olives with a different family in a different area last week, whose trees are dying because the sewage from the settlement of Elkana runs right through Azzawiya’s land. I picked olives all day trying not to breathe through my nose, wondering if the donkey that was grazing in the area would get sick, wondering if the children breathing in this waste would get sick. On the way back from the land to the village (a walk that used to take 15 minutes but now takes over an hour because of restricted roads and paths), we saw two settler children on the hill next to us. The older one, who looked about 13, was carrying a handgun. He immediately started to fondle it when he saw us. “How are you?” the Palestinians we were with yelled up to the kids in Hebrew. They didn’t respond, but started walking away. “Don’t be afraid of us,” yelled the Palestinian. The settlers turned around, and the child with the gun yelled, “I’m not afraid! I love problems!” The man we were with seemed visibly disturbed, which surprised me. This type of interaction seems relatively normal to me, but the Palestinian turned to me and said, “It’s really not good that they teach their children to hate like this. They say we cause the problems, but then when I try to say hello they say they love problems. It’s not good that such small children have weapons.”
Perhaps because of the settlers’ ability to get away with anything, they have begun targeting internationals as well. Chris and Kim of the Christian Peacemakers’ Team (CPT) in Hebron were attacked while accompanying children to school two weeks ago. A gang of English-speaking (probably American) settlers in black masks ambushed the group and beat Chris and Kim with chains and bats. Chris suffered a punctured lung and bruised ribs, Kim a broken arm and injured knee. Last week settlers again attacked a group of 5 internationals accompanying the children. The army has responded by saying that if the internationals leave, the problem will stop. CPT points out that violence against the children existed far before the international presence (hence the reason for the presence). The ‘problem’ that the army refers to is clearly the public relations difficulty they might face trying to explain to foreign governments why their citizens are being attacked by citizens of Israel.
I thought of this incident as I was being chased down the street by a settler last night. We had gone to a large pro-settlement demonstration in Jerusalem, partly to join the counter-demonstration and partly just to see what one of these demos was like. The experience reminded me that there is no place I feel less safe and more threatened as a Jew than in Israel, by Israelis. Anger, fear, disgust, and sorrow overcame me all at once, and I walked away from the crowd sobbing. Later I wrote the short piece below. I don’t think it adequately expresses all that I was or am feeling, but it’s a start, and, for now, an end:
These are my people
These are my people
who gather in thousands to support the settlements
whose children plaster Gush Katif bumper stickers on their shirts
and cheer at the mention of a Jewish Israel from the river to the sea.
These are my people
who proudly don their hippie skirts and sandals
who look like everyone I went to summer camp with
who look like everyone I know now
who only by accident of birth are greeting each other with hugs at a settler demonstration and not a peace march.
These are my people
who jump out of the crowd to yell at Kate for wearing a shirt with “Jews for a free Palestine”
who violently push her and scream “Get the fuck out of here, murderer!”
who, upon seeing my camera, raise a fist and begin to chase me down the street, hissing
“Keep moving, you dirty bitch!”
These are my people.
These are my people
who stand around watching
at least a dozen policemen
who chuckle as the settler attacks us
who, as a response, form a line across the street and push us down, down, further and further…
These are my people
who push me away.
The man, probably in his 50s or 60s, stopped us in the street to say this. Immediately we knew why. Kate and I were heading back towards the Damascus Gate of Jerusalem’s Old City, but a half hour before we had come from that direction and had seen the massive police force that Israel utilizes every Friday. I do not think the situation was more extreme today than most Fridays, just slightly more offensive. On the first day of Ramadan, hundreds come from the West Bank to pray at the Al Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem. Most of them have succumbed to the system and have obtained a permit from their occupiers to pray at the holiest Muslim site in the country, but the Israeli police still seemed to prohibit men under the age of 50 from entering the Old City this morning. When we asked why, one police officer called her commander over and told him we were interfering with her work.
So when the Palestinian man walking up the street stopped us to say, “Welcome to the most democratic country in the world,” we understood exactly what he meant. “Were you turned away?” I asked. No, he lives in Jerusalem. It’s just the sight of all the people waiting, hoping to access their holy site to pray, being turned away by Israeli authorities. “It makes you crazy,” he said. “It makes you wonder why there aren’t more suicide bombings.” We agreed, and all shrugged our shoulders somewhat helplessly and walked away.
I’ve grown up hearing Jews talk about the importance of the Western Wall in the Old City, about how the holiest site was forbidden to Jews for centuries. I wonder if any of the police officers or soldiers think about this as they guard the gates of the Old City preventing Palestinian Muslims from entering. It seems they have no awareness of the parallels, no empathy for the people, no understanding of themselves. And of course, it makes me feel I need to take on the burden of shame even more, on behalf of all of my people, be they ignorant or heartless or both.
The Israeli army’s massacre of Palestinians in Gaza continues as I write, with at least 136 dead and several hundred more injured. The settlers also seem to be getting more and more vicious these days. A few weeks ago a Palestinian taxi driver stopped to help a Jewish settler who he thought was having car trouble. The settler shot and killed him. Attacks on Palestinian farmers are increasing in number and severity. One was killed harvesting last week. Others have been beaten, their olives stolen, their groves set on fire. Very few settlers are arrested for any of these attacks. I wonder if the settlers would think it fair for the perpetrators of these acts to be assassinated without trial, their settlements closed off, their other residents arrested, their houses demolished. Or alternatively, I wonder if they would think it fair for every Palestinian attack on an Israeli to be met with a smile and something between a pat on the back and a slap on the wrist.
We picked olives and almonds last week with a family whose land lies on a hill that is now completely surrounded by settlements. The ownership of their land is the only thing separating the Gush Etzion bloc (halfway between Bethlehem and Hebron) from connecting completely to Jerusalem. They have papers dating back to 1924 from every occupying power that has been in the area, including the Israelis. Still, the settlers show up every once in a while with bulldozers and begin uprooting trees and constructing roads. Occasionally they attack people in the house, or attack the water tower or generator – structures that denote presence and sustainability. The battle over this piece of land has been in the courts since 1991.
We picked olives with a different family in a different area last week, whose trees are dying because the sewage from the settlement of Elkana runs right through Azzawiya’s land. I picked olives all day trying not to breathe through my nose, wondering if the donkey that was grazing in the area would get sick, wondering if the children breathing in this waste would get sick. On the way back from the land to the village (a walk that used to take 15 minutes but now takes over an hour because of restricted roads and paths), we saw two settler children on the hill next to us. The older one, who looked about 13, was carrying a handgun. He immediately started to fondle it when he saw us. “How are you?” the Palestinians we were with yelled up to the kids in Hebrew. They didn’t respond, but started walking away. “Don’t be afraid of us,” yelled the Palestinian. The settlers turned around, and the child with the gun yelled, “I’m not afraid! I love problems!” The man we were with seemed visibly disturbed, which surprised me. This type of interaction seems relatively normal to me, but the Palestinian turned to me and said, “It’s really not good that they teach their children to hate like this. They say we cause the problems, but then when I try to say hello they say they love problems. It’s not good that such small children have weapons.”
Perhaps because of the settlers’ ability to get away with anything, they have begun targeting internationals as well. Chris and Kim of the Christian Peacemakers’ Team (CPT) in Hebron were attacked while accompanying children to school two weeks ago. A gang of English-speaking (probably American) settlers in black masks ambushed the group and beat Chris and Kim with chains and bats. Chris suffered a punctured lung and bruised ribs, Kim a broken arm and injured knee. Last week settlers again attacked a group of 5 internationals accompanying the children. The army has responded by saying that if the internationals leave, the problem will stop. CPT points out that violence against the children existed far before the international presence (hence the reason for the presence). The ‘problem’ that the army refers to is clearly the public relations difficulty they might face trying to explain to foreign governments why their citizens are being attacked by citizens of Israel.
I thought of this incident as I was being chased down the street by a settler last night. We had gone to a large pro-settlement demonstration in Jerusalem, partly to join the counter-demonstration and partly just to see what one of these demos was like. The experience reminded me that there is no place I feel less safe and more threatened as a Jew than in Israel, by Israelis. Anger, fear, disgust, and sorrow overcame me all at once, and I walked away from the crowd sobbing. Later I wrote the short piece below. I don’t think it adequately expresses all that I was or am feeling, but it’s a start, and, for now, an end:
These are my people
These are my people
who gather in thousands to support the settlements
whose children plaster Gush Katif bumper stickers on their shirts
and cheer at the mention of a Jewish Israel from the river to the sea.
These are my people
who proudly don their hippie skirts and sandals
who look like everyone I went to summer camp with
who look like everyone I know now
who only by accident of birth are greeting each other with hugs at a settler demonstration and not a peace march.
These are my people
who jump out of the crowd to yell at Kate for wearing a shirt with “Jews for a free Palestine”
who violently push her and scream “Get the fuck out of here, murderer!”
who, upon seeing my camera, raise a fist and begin to chase me down the street, hissing
“Keep moving, you dirty bitch!”
These are my people.
These are my people
who stand around watching
at least a dozen policemen
who chuckle as the settler attacks us
who, as a response, form a line across the street and push us down, down, further and further…
These are my people
who push me away.
Friday, October 08, 2004
All About Land
Dear friends,
I feel like my mind is already halfway back home, which I suppose would put it somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, but I’ll try to keep you posted on my next few weeks nonetheless. Before beginning this report, I want to ask you a favor. I’m wondering what questions and topics you’d most like to see addressed in a presentation from me about Palestine. I’ve started to think about what I’d like to share with people, and I want to make sure I have the right pictures, stories, and information with me before I go. So if you have any thoughts, please respond to this e-mail and let me know.
I picked my first olives of the season last week. It was nice to be out there again, to think about where I was last year at this time (only physically in the same place). I wonder if Palestinians use the harvest as that kind of marker for them – a time to reflect on the year as they bond with their land. Although I suppose they have an almost constant connection to the land, not only during the time of olive harvest… that is, when they can access their land.
So many physical, legal and mental barriers exist in this place that I think every olive picked by a Palestinian farmer (and not stolen by a settler or left to sit on the branches until dead) is an act of resistance. On Monday I picked olives with a family from Azzawiya who has land inside the settlement of Shaarei Tikvah. What I should say is that the settlement of Shaarei Tikvah has been built on land stolen from families of Azzawiya. Ah, the difficulties of language. In any case, the family was attempting to enter through a gate in the Wall (which is fence in this area) that has not been open in almost a year. The army opened it for the first time on Sunday, but only for people with permits. The people in Azzawiya do not have permits, so Ismail and his family did not get through on Sunday, but on Monday the border police who opened the gate in the morning decided to do the farmers a ‘favor’ and let them harvest their olives. The family entered the settlement with no problem, only to find that a new road had been built and the settlement parking lot had been expanded – destroying at least 20 of their olive trees. Additionally, a new fence had been constructed, blocking the family from reaching half of the trees that remained, and also confiscating a working water well. Perhaps the most offensive destruction, however, was the new landscaping along the main entrance road. The settlement had cut down Palestinian olive trees in order to plant imported palm trees along the sidewalk. The olive trees are native to this land; the palm trees have come from outside to replace them, they stand taller and look down at the remaining olive trees, and they’re a bit prickly. Draw your own parallels.
The reason internationals accompany farmers to their groves is to stand in solidarity and possibly to intervene or document abuses by settlers and soldiers. About an hour after we began picking on Monday, we noticed a settler and Ismail having a conversation. The settler’s wife came out to her porch as well. I walked a little closer, only to find that the settler was offering Ismail the olives from the 3 olive trees in his yard. He didn’t need them, he said, so Ismail was welcome to pick them and take the fruit. Ismail said thank you, but we have our own olives to harvest. I asked the man how long he had lived there. Twenty years. How old is the settlement? About twenty-five years. All of the land was bought, he insisted, and not stolen. Ismail said differently. Some of the land was bought, he admitted, but certainly not all of it, and not his family’s land. The woman then offered us water. Ismail accepted, and she brought a pitcher of cold water with cups. Ismail’s wife was approaching at this point, and turned to me to comment, “They take our land and give us a glass of water.” What to do? Many of the individual settlers are fine human beings, as Ismail was so intent on reiterating to me all day, but what good does it do when they’re part of a system that steals tree after tree, life after life? I think of the American parallel of a white person trying to disassociate her/himself from institutional racism by claiming, “I’m not racist; I have a black friend.”
Monday was actually a wonderful picking day. For the first time in the olive groves, I was able to have full and deep conversations in Arabic and to translate for a non-Arabic speaker. The family asked me what my work is in the US, which is even a more complicated question these days than “where are you from” or “where do you live”. I told them about the afterschool program I worked with last year, and that this time when I return I hope not to need much money and to speak about Palestine as much as possible to as many people as possible. They were curious about this, but their question was different than the first question I usually get from people. Usually people ask me, “What do you say about Palestine?” Perhaps this family trusted me enough not to ask that question, and instead asked, “What do people in America say when you tell them about Palestine?” I explained that there are activists and others who understand the situation, and they appreciate hearing more information. I also explained that I’m Jewish, and that I think it’s very important for me to talk to American Jews, but that it’s difficult. They immediately began giving suggestions: “You have to show them photographs and videos so they can really understand.” I responded that this is exactly what I do, and that certain people thank me and tell me they’ve never known anything about Palestine before, while others call me a self-hating Jew. [For those of you who speak Arabic – I was quite proud of myself for thinking of the following: ‘Inti yahudiyye, bass inti dud ilyahuud. Inti maa bithuubi nafsik.’]
David, the other international picking with us that day, commented that he had travelled through Israel about 20 years ago, before knowing too much about the situation. He could have sworn he was in the West Bank, he said, but he didn’t remember any checkpoints. I asked the family. No, they said, 20 years ago there weren’t any checkpoints. They could go to the beach in Tel Aviv and come back home at 1:00 am. They could go wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and easily make friends in Israel. The permit system was first introduced during the first Gulf War, they said. Early 1990s. The end of the first Intifada, the beginning of the Oslo process that turned out to be so disastrous for the Palestinian people. I’ve heard people talk about going to the beach late at night, even in the late 1990s. I suppose they had to have permits at that time, but the point is that they felt at least a bit more free than they do now. Abu Rabia told me recently that he doesn’t feel any differently now than he did when he was in prison for 13 years.
Often I wish I would have come to Palestine earlier, or had some of the awareness I now have when I spent a year in Israel in 1997-1998. I want to understand how things have changed in a way I can’t quite understand by reading and talking to people, or even by seeing pictures. What does it mean to have your land constantly disappearing before your eyes? I think often of Munira and Hani Amer, who live with their 6 children in the house in Mas’ha that is enclosed on all four sides by fences and walls not of their making. Recently I’ve looked through their photo albums at some incredible pictures taken just 5 years ago of the greenhouses in front of their house. There are no longer any traces of these greenhouses, and a monstrous concrete wall stands in their place. My favorite picture is one of Munira lying on a hill posing for the picture amongst flowers and grass. The picture was taken during her first week of marriage, about 20 years ago. Now the houses of Elkana, a settlement established in 1986, sit on that land.
There’s one amazing Israeli organization I know that goes back even further in history and confronts its nation’s own birth – Zochrot. Their brochure explains the name: “In Hebrew, ‘Zochrot’ is the plural feminine form for the words ‘remembering’ or ‘rememberers.’ Although Zochrot activists are men and women, we chose the feminine form of this word to represent an alternative, less militaristic, and more humanly inclusive conception of collective remembering.” Zochrot (www.nakbainhebrew.org) works to raise awareness of Al Nakba (‘the catastrophe’ – referring to 1948) by visiting and marking destroyed Palestinian villages within the current boundaries of Israel (although I can’t quite say ‘boundaries,’ since Israel is still the only country in the world that has not declared its borders).
A few of us in IWPS went with Zochrot to the village of Al Lajun on Tuesday. Megiddo kibbutz now sits on some of Al Lajun’s land, and the rest of the land remains unoccupied. We were joined by over 100 Jewish and Palestinian Israeli citizens, several of whom were born before Israel and remember being kicked out of their homes in 1948. They didn’t even know about the war until it came to them, the Palestinians told us. They had little awareness of Europe’s plans for the area, and simply lived their lives. They were mostly farmers, but were also quite ‘advanced’ for their time, running a bus company that travelled to all parts of Palestine – Jenin, Tulkarem, Haifa, Yaffa, Jerusalem, etc. Hearing about pre-1948 life in Palestine is a simple act, but one that remains so important for me. I still remember the Zionist education that taught me that no people, no towns, no civilization was here before the Jews came. I looked around at all the trees that had been planted on this ‘state land’ in the last 56 years in order to ensure that the Palestinians can never return. I wonder if any of my tzedakah money given to the JNF (Jewish National Fund) years ago planted any of these trees, or whether that money went to the theft of a different piece of land. (Over 90% of Israel’s land is considered ‘state land’ and is mostly owned by the JNF. Non-Jews are not allowed to purchase or build on this land.) I looked into the eyes of the men from the village who live only a few kilometers away now, but who still remember their childhood in Al Lajun and still have dreams of returning. And hope. Something I noticed among the Palestinian population of Israel that day, at least among the folks that joined us, was a true hope, and even a certainty, that things will change and that Palestinians and Jewish Israelis will live in peace someday. Perhaps the urgency isn’t as great as in the West Bank, perhaps there’s another explanation, but for whatever reason, a certain calmness (even if a little sad, even if a little eerie) filled the air of Al Lajun as we planted signs of recognition in the ground and listened to traditional Palestinian music. Zochrot has published an account of the day with pictures on their website: http://www.nakbainhebrew.org/index.php?id=168.
So what’s my conclusion? It’s all about land. Um Rabia asked me the other day if I can find her a copy of the Torah in Arabic. She wants to understand how much of this conflict is religious, to know whether the Jewish scriptures really tell Jews that this land is theirs and only theirs, and that removal of Palestinians by any means necessary is a religious mandate. I told her that people use religion in different ways, but that at its roots I think this conflict is more about land than religion. And goddamn, this land is precious.
I feel like my mind is already halfway back home, which I suppose would put it somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, but I’ll try to keep you posted on my next few weeks nonetheless. Before beginning this report, I want to ask you a favor. I’m wondering what questions and topics you’d most like to see addressed in a presentation from me about Palestine. I’ve started to think about what I’d like to share with people, and I want to make sure I have the right pictures, stories, and information with me before I go. So if you have any thoughts, please respond to this e-mail and let me know.
I picked my first olives of the season last week. It was nice to be out there again, to think about where I was last year at this time (only physically in the same place). I wonder if Palestinians use the harvest as that kind of marker for them – a time to reflect on the year as they bond with their land. Although I suppose they have an almost constant connection to the land, not only during the time of olive harvest… that is, when they can access their land.
So many physical, legal and mental barriers exist in this place that I think every olive picked by a Palestinian farmer (and not stolen by a settler or left to sit on the branches until dead) is an act of resistance. On Monday I picked olives with a family from Azzawiya who has land inside the settlement of Shaarei Tikvah. What I should say is that the settlement of Shaarei Tikvah has been built on land stolen from families of Azzawiya. Ah, the difficulties of language. In any case, the family was attempting to enter through a gate in the Wall (which is fence in this area) that has not been open in almost a year. The army opened it for the first time on Sunday, but only for people with permits. The people in Azzawiya do not have permits, so Ismail and his family did not get through on Sunday, but on Monday the border police who opened the gate in the morning decided to do the farmers a ‘favor’ and let them harvest their olives. The family entered the settlement with no problem, only to find that a new road had been built and the settlement parking lot had been expanded – destroying at least 20 of their olive trees. Additionally, a new fence had been constructed, blocking the family from reaching half of the trees that remained, and also confiscating a working water well. Perhaps the most offensive destruction, however, was the new landscaping along the main entrance road. The settlement had cut down Palestinian olive trees in order to plant imported palm trees along the sidewalk. The olive trees are native to this land; the palm trees have come from outside to replace them, they stand taller and look down at the remaining olive trees, and they’re a bit prickly. Draw your own parallels.
The reason internationals accompany farmers to their groves is to stand in solidarity and possibly to intervene or document abuses by settlers and soldiers. About an hour after we began picking on Monday, we noticed a settler and Ismail having a conversation. The settler’s wife came out to her porch as well. I walked a little closer, only to find that the settler was offering Ismail the olives from the 3 olive trees in his yard. He didn’t need them, he said, so Ismail was welcome to pick them and take the fruit. Ismail said thank you, but we have our own olives to harvest. I asked the man how long he had lived there. Twenty years. How old is the settlement? About twenty-five years. All of the land was bought, he insisted, and not stolen. Ismail said differently. Some of the land was bought, he admitted, but certainly not all of it, and not his family’s land. The woman then offered us water. Ismail accepted, and she brought a pitcher of cold water with cups. Ismail’s wife was approaching at this point, and turned to me to comment, “They take our land and give us a glass of water.” What to do? Many of the individual settlers are fine human beings, as Ismail was so intent on reiterating to me all day, but what good does it do when they’re part of a system that steals tree after tree, life after life? I think of the American parallel of a white person trying to disassociate her/himself from institutional racism by claiming, “I’m not racist; I have a black friend.”
Monday was actually a wonderful picking day. For the first time in the olive groves, I was able to have full and deep conversations in Arabic and to translate for a non-Arabic speaker. The family asked me what my work is in the US, which is even a more complicated question these days than “where are you from” or “where do you live”. I told them about the afterschool program I worked with last year, and that this time when I return I hope not to need much money and to speak about Palestine as much as possible to as many people as possible. They were curious about this, but their question was different than the first question I usually get from people. Usually people ask me, “What do you say about Palestine?” Perhaps this family trusted me enough not to ask that question, and instead asked, “What do people in America say when you tell them about Palestine?” I explained that there are activists and others who understand the situation, and they appreciate hearing more information. I also explained that I’m Jewish, and that I think it’s very important for me to talk to American Jews, but that it’s difficult. They immediately began giving suggestions: “You have to show them photographs and videos so they can really understand.” I responded that this is exactly what I do, and that certain people thank me and tell me they’ve never known anything about Palestine before, while others call me a self-hating Jew. [For those of you who speak Arabic – I was quite proud of myself for thinking of the following: ‘Inti yahudiyye, bass inti dud ilyahuud. Inti maa bithuubi nafsik.’]
David, the other international picking with us that day, commented that he had travelled through Israel about 20 years ago, before knowing too much about the situation. He could have sworn he was in the West Bank, he said, but he didn’t remember any checkpoints. I asked the family. No, they said, 20 years ago there weren’t any checkpoints. They could go to the beach in Tel Aviv and come back home at 1:00 am. They could go wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and easily make friends in Israel. The permit system was first introduced during the first Gulf War, they said. Early 1990s. The end of the first Intifada, the beginning of the Oslo process that turned out to be so disastrous for the Palestinian people. I’ve heard people talk about going to the beach late at night, even in the late 1990s. I suppose they had to have permits at that time, but the point is that they felt at least a bit more free than they do now. Abu Rabia told me recently that he doesn’t feel any differently now than he did when he was in prison for 13 years.
Often I wish I would have come to Palestine earlier, or had some of the awareness I now have when I spent a year in Israel in 1997-1998. I want to understand how things have changed in a way I can’t quite understand by reading and talking to people, or even by seeing pictures. What does it mean to have your land constantly disappearing before your eyes? I think often of Munira and Hani Amer, who live with their 6 children in the house in Mas’ha that is enclosed on all four sides by fences and walls not of their making. Recently I’ve looked through their photo albums at some incredible pictures taken just 5 years ago of the greenhouses in front of their house. There are no longer any traces of these greenhouses, and a monstrous concrete wall stands in their place. My favorite picture is one of Munira lying on a hill posing for the picture amongst flowers and grass. The picture was taken during her first week of marriage, about 20 years ago. Now the houses of Elkana, a settlement established in 1986, sit on that land.
There’s one amazing Israeli organization I know that goes back even further in history and confronts its nation’s own birth – Zochrot. Their brochure explains the name: “In Hebrew, ‘Zochrot’ is the plural feminine form for the words ‘remembering’ or ‘rememberers.’ Although Zochrot activists are men and women, we chose the feminine form of this word to represent an alternative, less militaristic, and more humanly inclusive conception of collective remembering.” Zochrot (www.nakbainhebrew.org) works to raise awareness of Al Nakba (‘the catastrophe’ – referring to 1948) by visiting and marking destroyed Palestinian villages within the current boundaries of Israel (although I can’t quite say ‘boundaries,’ since Israel is still the only country in the world that has not declared its borders).
A few of us in IWPS went with Zochrot to the village of Al Lajun on Tuesday. Megiddo kibbutz now sits on some of Al Lajun’s land, and the rest of the land remains unoccupied. We were joined by over 100 Jewish and Palestinian Israeli citizens, several of whom were born before Israel and remember being kicked out of their homes in 1948. They didn’t even know about the war until it came to them, the Palestinians told us. They had little awareness of Europe’s plans for the area, and simply lived their lives. They were mostly farmers, but were also quite ‘advanced’ for their time, running a bus company that travelled to all parts of Palestine – Jenin, Tulkarem, Haifa, Yaffa, Jerusalem, etc. Hearing about pre-1948 life in Palestine is a simple act, but one that remains so important for me. I still remember the Zionist education that taught me that no people, no towns, no civilization was here before the Jews came. I looked around at all the trees that had been planted on this ‘state land’ in the last 56 years in order to ensure that the Palestinians can never return. I wonder if any of my tzedakah money given to the JNF (Jewish National Fund) years ago planted any of these trees, or whether that money went to the theft of a different piece of land. (Over 90% of Israel’s land is considered ‘state land’ and is mostly owned by the JNF. Non-Jews are not allowed to purchase or build on this land.) I looked into the eyes of the men from the village who live only a few kilometers away now, but who still remember their childhood in Al Lajun and still have dreams of returning. And hope. Something I noticed among the Palestinian population of Israel that day, at least among the folks that joined us, was a true hope, and even a certainty, that things will change and that Palestinians and Jewish Israelis will live in peace someday. Perhaps the urgency isn’t as great as in the West Bank, perhaps there’s another explanation, but for whatever reason, a certain calmness (even if a little sad, even if a little eerie) filled the air of Al Lajun as we planted signs of recognition in the ground and listened to traditional Palestinian music. Zochrot has published an account of the day with pictures on their website: http://www.nakbainhebrew.org/index.php?id=168.
So what’s my conclusion? It’s all about land. Um Rabia asked me the other day if I can find her a copy of the Torah in Arabic. She wants to understand how much of this conflict is religious, to know whether the Jewish scriptures really tell Jews that this land is theirs and only theirs, and that removal of Palestinians by any means necessary is a religious mandate. I told her that people use religion in different ways, but that at its roots I think this conflict is more about land than religion. And goddamn, this land is precious.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Haikus from Palestine
Dear friends,
I can’t believe it’s October already, the month that I come back to the US. I’ve started to think about my presentation, so you’re welcome to start thinking about where and when you’d like me to present. :)
I think I’ve been boring myself with articles, but from boredom springs creativity, right? So for this e-mail, I’ve composed 17 haikus (they’re 17 syllables each, so it seemed an apt number). I’m afraid they’ll be quite incomprehensible to those of you who are not here with me, but hopefully you’ll understand and/or appreciate some of them. There are a few Arabic words in them. “Alhamdulilah” means “Praise God” and is said all the time here. “Nos nos” literally means “half half” but can be translated as “so-so.”
On a more serious note, I’ve included at the end only a few of the names and ages of those killed in Gaza in the past 48 hours. I just heard that Israeli security forces have dubbed the operation “Days of Penitence,” as they supposedly try to force militants to repent. I find this gross misuse of the Jewish tradition absolutely disgusting.
Enjoy the haikus, and please don’t ignore the growing list of victims of this war and occupation.
Child in Jayyus
She sings for us in English
“We Shall Overcome”
Demo in Budrus
All arrestees get released
Alhamdulilah
Does the donkey have
a name, I ask. “No,” she says.
He: “His name is Bush.”
Fatima comes in
Sheds her hijab and her coat
Sprawls out on our couch
Settler women
Called by soldiers at checkpoint
Come to harrass us
Bus stopped for hours
Why? I ask the soldier there
“Bureaucratia”
“Hamil.” Lovely word.
Pregnant. Used both for women
And the olive trees
Zajid sweeps the floor
Three years old, he’s almost four
Hope in Palestine
Border policeman
“How my English?” he asks me.
“Nos nos,” I respond.
Killing in Gaza
The army shoots randomly
Forty, forty-one…
On the birth of our friends’ twins:
Ward’s two new siblings
Cousin Zajid wants to share
“No, they’re both for me.”
Faisa brings home twins
Says to me about the girl
“Heba looks like you”
On Sounds:
Vehicle blares sound
In the village, jeep or truck?
Curfew or veggies?
Gunshots in Hares
A wedding or invasion?
Laughter. A relief.
On Yom Kippur:
Waiting for nightfall
Our landlord searches for stars
Asks, “Does the moon count?”
Houses demolished
Kate: “Did the soldiers repent
Before or after?”
Writing my haikus
Lesson in being concise
Palestine in brief
The following is a list of 18 people killed yesterday in Gaza. Overnight last night and throughout the day today, the toll has risen to 40-something dead and at least 130 wounded:
“The Ministry of health released the following list of residents killed in the military raid conducted on Thursday; the ministry said that the list is not final yet;
1. Tawfiq, Al-Sharafi, 24, Jabalia.
2. Saed Mohammad Abu Al-Eish, 14, Jabalia.
3. Mos'ab al-Barade'ey, 21, Jabalia.
4. Fathi Al-Sawaween, 23, Jabalia.
5. Khalil Abu Naji, 23, Jabalia.
6. Ahmad Madhi. 16 Jabalia.
7. Usama Al-Barsh, 21 Jabalia.
8. Abdul-Hai Al-Najjar, 21, Jabalia
9. Rafat Jadallah, 23, Jabalia.
10. Sofian Abu Al-Jedyan, 40, Jabalia.
11. Mohammad Al-Habal, 60, Beit Lahia.
12. Hamza Ahmad, 24, Jabalia.
13. Mohammad Al-Jabeer, 17, Jabalia.
14. Mohammad Al-Hilo, 60, Jablia.
15. Mohammad Al-Masrey.
16. Rami Thaher. Jablia.
17. Atef al-Ashqar, Jablia.
18. Sofian Abu Al-Jidyan, 33, Jablia.”
I can’t believe it’s October already, the month that I come back to the US. I’ve started to think about my presentation, so you’re welcome to start thinking about where and when you’d like me to present. :)
I think I’ve been boring myself with articles, but from boredom springs creativity, right? So for this e-mail, I’ve composed 17 haikus (they’re 17 syllables each, so it seemed an apt number). I’m afraid they’ll be quite incomprehensible to those of you who are not here with me, but hopefully you’ll understand and/or appreciate some of them. There are a few Arabic words in them. “Alhamdulilah” means “Praise God” and is said all the time here. “Nos nos” literally means “half half” but can be translated as “so-so.”
On a more serious note, I’ve included at the end only a few of the names and ages of those killed in Gaza in the past 48 hours. I just heard that Israeli security forces have dubbed the operation “Days of Penitence,” as they supposedly try to force militants to repent. I find this gross misuse of the Jewish tradition absolutely disgusting.
Enjoy the haikus, and please don’t ignore the growing list of victims of this war and occupation.
Child in Jayyus
She sings for us in English
“We Shall Overcome”
Demo in Budrus
All arrestees get released
Alhamdulilah
Does the donkey have
a name, I ask. “No,” she says.
He: “His name is Bush.”
Fatima comes in
Sheds her hijab and her coat
Sprawls out on our couch
Settler women
Called by soldiers at checkpoint
Come to harrass us
Bus stopped for hours
Why? I ask the soldier there
“Bureaucratia”
“Hamil.” Lovely word.
Pregnant. Used both for women
And the olive trees
Zajid sweeps the floor
Three years old, he’s almost four
Hope in Palestine
Border policeman
“How my English?” he asks me.
“Nos nos,” I respond.
Killing in Gaza
The army shoots randomly
Forty, forty-one…
On the birth of our friends’ twins:
Ward’s two new siblings
Cousin Zajid wants to share
“No, they’re both for me.”
Faisa brings home twins
Says to me about the girl
“Heba looks like you”
On Sounds:
Vehicle blares sound
In the village, jeep or truck?
Curfew or veggies?
Gunshots in Hares
A wedding or invasion?
Laughter. A relief.
On Yom Kippur:
Waiting for nightfall
Our landlord searches for stars
Asks, “Does the moon count?”
Houses demolished
Kate: “Did the soldiers repent
Before or after?”
Writing my haikus
Lesson in being concise
Palestine in brief
The following is a list of 18 people killed yesterday in Gaza. Overnight last night and throughout the day today, the toll has risen to 40-something dead and at least 130 wounded:
“The Ministry of health released the following list of residents killed in the military raid conducted on Thursday; the ministry said that the list is not final yet;
1. Tawfiq, Al-Sharafi, 24, Jabalia.
2. Saed Mohammad Abu Al-Eish, 14, Jabalia.
3. Mos'ab al-Barade'ey, 21, Jabalia.
4. Fathi Al-Sawaween, 23, Jabalia.
5. Khalil Abu Naji, 23, Jabalia.
6. Ahmad Madhi. 16 Jabalia.
7. Usama Al-Barsh, 21 Jabalia.
8. Abdul-Hai Al-Najjar, 21, Jabalia
9. Rafat Jadallah, 23, Jabalia.
10. Sofian Abu Al-Jedyan, 40, Jabalia.
11. Mohammad Al-Habal, 60, Beit Lahia.
12. Hamza Ahmad, 24, Jabalia.
13. Mohammad Al-Jabeer, 17, Jabalia.
14. Mohammad Al-Hilo, 60, Jablia.
15. Mohammad Al-Masrey.
16. Rami Thaher. Jablia.
17. Atef al-Ashqar, Jablia.
18. Sofian Abu Al-Jidyan, 33, Jablia.”
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