Cynical? Who can bloody help it!

Twelve year old boy shot in the head today. They say the bullet split his head open. Ni'lin, the village my family comes from, the village I've been visiting on weekends and holidays since I started coming to Palestine. It used to be a quiet place, where my family would point to lands in the close distance and say "they will build the Wall here." It was hard for me to imagine. Then I hadn't yet seen the Wall. But now I know what it will look like there, like it looks all over Palestine. That's why there are popular protests in Ni'lin all the time. There was one today. After it finished Ahmad sat under a tree. The protest was over. Not that villagers and activists protesting gives ANY pretense for shooting. Still, it was over. He was just sitting under a tree in his village. And then...dead. 12 years old. Not another day of this unbearable occupation. Funeral is tomorrow. You are all invited.

B'Tselem

B'Tselem: "in the likeness / image of..." I'm not one for religion, but it makes sense in the Holy Land to name an Israeli information and human rights organization B'Tselem. Even if we weren't created, we are so very alike, so very human.

B'Tselem was started in the 80s and was initially focused on gathering information about human rights violations in the Occupied Territories. Clearly, there is a grave need for an organization to document the violations, but B'Tselem also engages in advocacy work--taking their reports to journalists, Israeli and international politicians, other organizations, groups, etc. The organization understands itself as an Israeli organization that aims to hold its government accountable to international humanitarian and human rights law. And while their work may be on the margins of Israeli society, it is at the heart of true democracy. I want to focus on a particular project that is relatively recent, running for only the last year and a half. I'm going to quote directly from their website:

"In January 2007, B'Tselem launched "Shooting Back", a video advocacy project focusing on the Occupied Territories. We provide Palestinians living in high-conflict areas with video cameras, with the goal of bringing the reality of their lives under occupation to the attention of the Israeli and international public, exposing and seeking redress for violations of human rights." Check out some of their footage and more about them on their website.

The director of the video department at B'Tselem said that he has over a thousand hours of video from the one hundred families around the Occupied Territories who have cameras. You can check out some videos here.

Did anyone see/hear/read about the young man at a protest against the wall in Ni'lin who was shot from a just one meter away by an Israeli soldier? Of course, the most "moral" army in the world used a bullet that was coated in rubber. Did I mention that the young man was bound and blind folded, his arm held by another soldier? See for yourself .It's shocking, right? But it's not uncommon. This blatant disregard for human beings...it happens here all the time. The only difference between this and the other tens of thousands of times is that this one you can see. The testimonies haven't been enough, but who can argue with video evidence?

I think the project is brilliant. It's about time we were just the slightest shocked or even outraged about this occupation. As B'Tselem pointed out, international law allows for occupation, BUT there are laws that dictate how the occupier must rule and Israel violates those in every possible way. They (and I here) are not saying occupation is good or right, but their work is arguing that the occupying power must respect human rights. To date, Israel only violates them, but maybe with Palestinians "shooting back" that will change, even if only a little. In the meantime, I take my hat off to B'Tselem!

Neve Shalom

Neve Shalom. A village inside Israel where both Israelis and Palestinians live together. I’ve been to cities like Jaffa which claim to be “mixed” places, but where the inequalities—the lack of mixing—are glaring. Neve Shalom is different; this place is intentionally mixed, which means the housing screening committee, the school admission board, etc. not only consciously accept an equal number of Palestinians and Jews, but the leadership of the village rotates or balances Palestinian and Jewish roles as well. It is very intentionally mixed.

It was amazing yesterday to hang out at the pool and hear both Arabic and Hebrew spoken together. Often, in Israel, if one hears Arabic there’s a sense the speakers are being discreet and certainly that they are being looked at differently. I’ve heard Arabic and Hebrew spoken together at checkpoints where soldiers shout a few words in Arabic or Palestinians are spoke to in Hebrew and respond in Arabic. But here is the first time I’ve ever heard the two languages spoken without a grave and noticeable power difference. It was phenomenal.

Don’t think I’m naïve. The village’s name is in Arabic and Hebrew and yet I introduced it in Hebrew because it is mostly called its Hebrew name. There’s a context for this and for the two languages in the pool, and it is not without power structures. The elementary school struggles to provide a bi-lingual education and talks about the difficulties of teaching the majority the minority language, etc. This village exists inside of Israel, and the battle of languages, and identities, does not remain outside the village.

But I sit here this morning, on the patio of my little cottage with a stunning view of valleys that are farmed, hills of pine trees (usually Palestinian villages that were destroyed and covered with trees), and Tel Aviv in the far distance, and I think, seriously, this is what Israel was supposed to be. It’s not paradise; it’s just co-existence, and people are capable of this. And yet, instead there was and is genocide and occupation. This place offers a really striking and successful model, but to whom? So I think about this a bit, and I know that what is happening here, while they say it is an outreach project and not a utopia, is in fact a utopia because it is no where that is relevant to Palestinians in the West Bank, Gaza, or most in the Diaspora.

A Funny Story to Help You Cope With the Despair

I haven't had internet for a few days (can you hear me panicking?!) and when I opened my inbox today, I found several concerned emails that tried to encourage me. I really appreciate these, and clearly people are worried because my blog is so down. So, I decided to write a more upbeat post to show you it's not all tears (but mostly it is and that's just the reality of occupation). Humor plays a really important role in resistance, and Palestinians are the first to claim it as a weapon of resistance! Here's my funny story...

The group I'm working with has to travel through the West Bank a bit, which means checkpoints and assholes with guns (sorry, I meant Israeli soldiers). So, our first day we went to Hebron (I planned that trip, and it was everyone's first day...way to drop them in the middle of it all). I gave everyone a checkpoint warning speech: don't talk or answer phone calls or put your attention elsewhere (soldiers get mean if they feel you aren't respecting them); don't offer your passport or information (they'll demand it if they want it); don't tell them we are doing education or political work, say we want to see the religious sites (they'll turn us away and say it's a closed military zone if we are politically motivated in our work). So, anyway, soldier gets on and wants to see passports. Everyone holds them up. Asks where we are going. Driver says Hebron. Soldier asks if we are anarchists (any leftist political activists are unwelcome). One of the group leaders responds from four seats back, "Yes, we are!" Soldier looks up from the passports, and I say, "No, no we are not anarchists. She doesn't understand you. We are not anarchists." Soldier steps down and waves us one.

Everyone in the bus starts shouting at the group leader: "What?" "We aren't anarchists!" "What the hell?" "Are you trying to get us in trouble?!" She looks horrified and says, "I thought she asked if we were honored guests." And we all burst into uncontrollable laughter. Honored guests / anarchists...it's all the same to the soldiers and government!

Disappearing Palestine/ians

Bear with me on this one. We are in the Galilee, staying in an adorable inn with dozens of cottages and private sea access. Everyone here, save my group, is Jewish. (Excepting, of course, the Palestinians cleaning the place who only deserve parenthetical reference.) Everyone went swimming, and I felt bad being anti-social, so I sat on the beach as they swam and sunbathed. I wanted to cry. Not just because we are in ’48 and looking at the occupied Golan Heights and chucking thousands into the Israeli economic (read war) machine, but because everyone I love in Palestine can’t get a military permit to come and sit with me on the beach that I’m enjoying with my white skin and blue passport. So, I decide to assert a very small act of solidarity with my friends and family on the other side of the Green Line: I dawn my keffiyah. You know that black and white checkered scarf that Palestinian men wear on their heads and women around their shoulders.

I go into the inn’s restaurant. People make friendly comments, and I don’t notice any dirty looks. My group arrives and joins me at the table, and the leader tells me I shouldn’t wear that here. She doesn’t mean Israel, but rather this posh resort that is basically exclusively Jewish. I tell her I don’t think it is a problem since I don’t notice people responding to me with any tension, but, I assure her, if she really wants me to take it off, I will. Not at all because I think she is right, but because it’s not worth the fight that it will provoke with her. She says she’ll get some feedback from another group member and let me know. In the meantime, I sit back down to eat.

Next to me is Khalid, our bus driver who I’ve invited to join us at the table. He asks me if I like the chicken, and I say: “Ana la akl lahama” (I don’t eat meat).

“Ah, vegetarian,” he says, “Very good. You like moulaheeya?” I tell him I love it, and he says it’s very hard to make. Who cooks this for me, he asks. My mother, I say.

“Your mother?! Wait, she is Palestinian?” he asks in confusion. And I tell him that nearly five years ago a Palestinian family took me into their home. He asks where they are from and I say her village name. He gets serious and asks if I came through the Jordan border crossing before one year. He remembers me and recollects that the Israelis kept me there most of the day. And also he remembers that they asked my grandfathers’ names, both on my mother’s and father’s sides. I was so pissed off because I didn’t know their full names and found the question absurd. I was the last person out of the border area, and I tried to haggle down the fixed price! He remembers all this and tells me. I'm so shocked. I can’t believe he remembers me, especially when I think about it and realize it was nearly three years ago that I made this trip.

Khalid leans in to advise me: “It’s not my business, but you should wear this keffiyah only in the Palestinian area. Here it’s not good.” I know what he is saying. I’m starting to notice some stares, and I know. I get it. And he knows why I’m wearing it. For god’s sake, he’s Palestinian. I say, “I get it, but they took the land, they took the water, they took everything. They can’t take you. They have to see that you are here.” And he said, “We will not disappear. This is from God, that we are still here.” The Palestinian has to tell me to lay low. He passes on the lesson he has learned: no Arabs should be seen here. I look around at all the men wearing their skull caps and think really hard: Why is that okay, but I make them uncomfortable? And then I remember, it’s not me. My white skin and American accent make me very, very welcome here. But my solidarity…with the others, that is intolerable. At least keep it to myself. So, I leave the table and come back here to write this story, hoping it will make me feel a little less sad. But I can’t, because it is so fucked up. Out of sight, out of mind. These are human beings and they are erasing them from their reality.

By pass roads and power plays

I'm traveling around in a group of Americans, and god is it painful! I'm more of a solo traveler, but it's not the company because actually there are amazing individuals in this group. I've been coming to Palestine for nearly a half decade, and I've basically always been with Palestinians. So, to be parading around in this group...it really kills me. Actually, the group just started joking about how embarrassed I am by them. But it's not being surrounded by 12 white, loud and camera bearing tourist-educators that does it; rather, for how much we try, we don't really get it--at least not in the way I want to get it.

We are staying on the Mt. of Olives at the guesthouse of an old Palestinian man. For him it is natural to buy whatever water is on the shelf. For me, I boycott the Israeli economy and would never buy Israeli water, which I call stolen water. But that is my choice, and I'm not looking to impose it on the group. For him, he secures us a bus driver from Israel who takes us on settler by pass roads, illegally built in the West Bank and boasting devastating consequences on Palestinians. For me, I protest the illegal and racist roads by always traveling on the Palestinian ones. And when I say for him, I mean for the group also. No one seems to have a problem shooting the shit with the soldiers. They stop us, a bit of racial profiling happens, one gets on board to perform for us. He asks for passports, we flash the blue. He smiles and says thanks, I don't really care. They laugh and say oh thank you! I mean, the problem isn't buying and drinking stolen water, or using by pass roads, or joking with soldiers. The problem is not thinking about how problematic these things are. They are morally problematic, though certainly they are also in other ways, and we are a group of "critical educators" who, I think, should be able to think through these things. And every time I try to start this conversation, I see how much they don't want to talk about it. Because it's easier to find Israeli water on the shelves, and it's faster and smoother to take the by pass road, and it's also sort of enjoyable to flirt with the kid and his gun. At least it speeds up the checkpoint experience, which we would also, surely, choose to avoid if we could.

In Nazareth: the Israeli Arab

Had I known how beautiful the city of Nazareth is, I'd surely have been here five years ago. In addition to being absolutely lovely, it is comforting to see a souq in the old city and hear Arabic and smell mint tea. You know, Tel Aviv showed me that in the midst of the Middle East, in a country with a 20% population of Palestinians (in response to a comment, I'll clarify that I mean a 20% population of Palestinians who hold Israeli citizenship but additionally you have Palestinians with Jerusalem ID--basically residency cards and others who live there "illegally"), one can go through daily life without ever seeing an Arab. That just seems so wrong to me. Israel occupies three territories with a total population of nearly 4 million. How amazing that I could spend two days there and never see a single Palestinian! Even on the way to Nazareth, the largest "Arab" city in Israel, I only heard Hebrew on the bus. But between you and me, the two boys behind me were Palestinian. I know this because I needed help and their English was crap and my Hebrew non existent. There is this tension, and it's really terribly sad. How can one be Palestinian and Israeli? The more I speak with Palestinians who hold Israeli citizenship, the more I realize they can't answer this question either.

A Lecture in Tel Aviv

My group went to the office of Zochrot today to hear a lecture. Zochrot is an Israeli organization which aims to educate the Jewish Israeli population about the Nakba—the Palestinian catastrophe of 1948, the forced dispossession of nearly 80% of Palestinians. Eitan, the man who spoke with our group, commented that Jewish Israelis know virtually nothing about the Nakba. They learn a very simple and particular narrative in which they were a besieged minority who rose from the ashes of the Holocaust to crush the hostile Arabs who attacked them. Eitan said that the Nakba is not only vital to recognize as the narrative of the Other, but also it is a central part of Israeli history, a central part which is wholly omitted from the national narrative. Ilan Pappe, Israeli professor and historian, has asserted a similar message, asserting that Israelis must acknowledge the realities of 1948 if they wish to understand the current situation and think through ways of moving forward.

I sat next to Eitan, and as I listened to him speak, the power of his message and the conviction of his voice moved me. He spoke as an Israeli who is concerned for the future of his nation and personal community, talking a bit about his own children and the dilemma of compulsory military service. But more importantly he spoke as a human being who believes wholly in justice and equality. He spoke of Palestinians as human beings and condemned the racism of a so called Jewish, democratic state. How is it that an Israeli who speaks of a Palestinian with compassion and understanding strikes me as so incredible? There should be nothing brave about Eitan. There should be nothing unique about his work or views, and yet his honesty and willingness to engage in reality, to fight the indoctrination of a lifetime and live his convictions so that he might demand social justice of others moved me more than I can say. Perhaps I am simply tired right now, but in this grain of hope, I see more despair that he and his work should be so striking, so uncommon.

The Question...

Last night I started a conversation with a young Israeli woman who worked in the club lounge at the Sheraton in Tel Aviv. I made conversation, asking if she lived in Tel Aviv. Yes, now she does, but she is not from here. I asked where she was from and she said I would not know it. I said to try me, but, in fact, I did not know her village. I responded, “Sorry, I have a better sense of geography for the West Bank than Israel.”

“The West Bank?!! Why do you go to the West Bank?” I told her we were traveling as a group there, but I live in Ramallah. With her strong guttural Hebrew accent she said “Ramallah?? You live in Ramallah?!!!” I smiled and nodded. The conversation continued. She told me a story about accidentally having walked into Ramallah instead of to her army base when she was stationed there for two years. She didn’t have a gun and they threw stones at her and she says they were two minutes away from killing her. Perhaps. But what she narrated as a young, scared girl being attacked and nearly murdered by savage others I tried to explain was not so innocent. She was in a soldier’s uniform. She said that if she saw a Palestinian here she would not try to kill him, so how could they try to kill an Israeli who was lost? I tried to explain that she saw Palestinians everyday, perhaps cleaning the hotel or sweeping the streets or just walking by (I’m sure she didn’t catch my inherent class / race critique). But a Palestinian in the occupied West Bank sees one Israeli: the young Israeli in military dress who, bearing a weapon, stops, harassing, threatens, beats, frightens, and controls. She was not there as a scared young woman, even as a simple Israeli. She was there as a symbol of all that oppresses Palestinians, and they were offered a unique opportunity to challenge that symbol. I’m not sure how far I got with her. But what I do know is that she wanted more than what she is fed. I know this because she asked me a question: “Is it true,” she said, “that Palestinians teach their children in classrooms how to use guns and to kill Jews?” And she did hear and process my response to that. A glimmer of hope, because at least she asked the question.

Thoughts from Tel Aviv

I find traveling in the area of Israel proper, also referred to as 1948 Israel to distinguish it from the occupied territories of 1967, a terribly challenging experience. I’m sitting now in a fancy room at a fancy hotel a dozen floors up with a stunning view of a sea that most Palestinians are forbidden from even dreaming about. Occupation is not simply checkpoints, walls, and incursions, psychological warfare is alive and well. And when dreams are all you have, they will go after those too, though it doesn’t mean they will succeed in stopping them or you. Sixty years on and people still dream of their sea and their great grandfathers’ houses.

It’s not only that I can access Palestinians’ heritage—literally, for one of the many indigenous lines of genealogy Palestinians claim is the Philistine people who were a people from the sea and who made their livelihoods of and by the sea—but that I can bathe under a high pressure shower head in this beautiful room and never think twice about the millions of Palestinians who don’t have water to shower or cook or even drink today. Two days ago we were at Dheishah Refugee Camp in Bethlehem. The water tanks were empty, and Dheishah is not at all unique in this dilemma. This is occupation. We are stuffed at this hotel on what the Sheraton proudly calls “Israeli” foods, and in these foods I recognize the remnants of Palestine—the Palestinians animals Israeli soldiers and settlers slaughter for fun, the vegetables the Israeli government denies Palestines the water to grow and the permission to harvest, and the language, dishes, and heritage stolen and appropriated. Should I stop here with my critique? It’s enough for me to think on water and food and the sea. But I couldn’t stop there, so I asked the manager how many Palestinians are working here. He burst out rather too loudly, “I should hope none!” I responded, “That is too bad and very racist.” We talked a few minutes longer. I boldly claimed that I live in Ramallah, and he brazenly informed me that what I see there is not the reality of the situation. And I have to admit, I agree.

The reality of the situation is far worse than what I see in Ramallah. The reality is what I see in Qalqilya. Here is the worst, where an entire city is surrounded by walls and electric fences and has only two points of access, both heavily controlled by Israeli soldiers with all-too-young fingers on all-too-quickly-pulled triggers. In my time here I’ve had dozens of M-16s trained on me; how many times has a single Palestinian looked at the barrel of the gun? I’ve seen a young Palestinian boy of maybe 12 slapped around with full force by stupid 18 year old Israelis in uniforms that symbolize, to me, the worst of humanity.

The worst of reality is in Jayyus where an entire village is cut off from its olive orchards—its life sustenance—on top of which the people are all denied the Israeli military permits to tend and harvest that staple fruit. Instead, the military compensates them with the gift of sight; they can stare through the lens of an apartheid structure—a complex of ditches, fence, barbwire, a patrol road, security cameras and watch towers—at their dying trees and confiscated land. The worst of reality is in Jenin where once lush and famous fields of vegetation are dry and dusty because all the water is stolen and the people are told they must buy back that stolen water but have not the money to drink it themselves. So how can they think of watering their fields? The worst is in the Bedouin camps where a nomadic people live in a cycle of demolition and reconstruction, a cat and mouse game with the Israeli military who wants them gone. But they have no where to go and so they rebuild their shacks from the piles upon piles of debris the Catepillar bulldozers leave behind. The worst of the reality is in Gaza. We read enough to know of Gaza’s incomprehensible suffering. We read and we acknowledge, and I am no different in this. Then I sit in my beautiful room with my beautiful view and I think about one question over and over again: “How can we think this is justified in any way?” A few say it’s not, but by and large, Israel truly believes it is, and the world nods in support.

But a glimmer of hope to end: Palestinians still exist. They struggle, god knows, but they are here and alive. And whether Israelis are brave enough to acknowledge the other or not, the Palestinians are here. And some Israelis are fighting a lifetime of indoctrination to take on the call of the brave. How sad that this should be such a hard task, but alas, America and Americans have done no better. A final thought: I met a 16 year old Israeli Jewish girl yesterday, and she had a message for you and all Americans. She begged you not to believe what you have been told, to recognize that every story has two sides and those two sides have many faces and the faces have shades. Dare to complicate your understanding of the world, of conflicts in it, and of this one in particular. And in that complicated, confused state, imagine that we can make this world better and that you have a responsibility in doing that. And I told her I agree completed and invited her to visit me in the occupied territories. She will come, though from one hour drive away it will be far more difficult for her to do so than it will be for you to come from half way across the world. The boundaries we build and the ones our governments graciously build to protect us from the other are so very high and so very difficult to break down. But this girl inspired me because she is tearing them down with all her strength. She offers a promise of peace, and will all the Palestinian promises I’ve seen, I might just hold on to hope!