Journals

The 'G' Word

1 October 2004

I'm momentarily confused by his question. Eleven months after I first set foot in the country, 'So how was your trip?' Which trip? Oh, that one...

I've become much better at answering the query, giving responses which allow the questioner to drop the conversation at any moment. But this one keeps on and surprises me by his actual interest, his sense of the situation even without much hard information.

He brings up the 'G' word eventually, and I hesitate. I'm shying away from using trigger words like genocide, those that, while perhaps true in a sense, tend to alienate the very people with whom I ought to be interfacing.

But now I hesitate to hesitate, because then, of course, came Sharon's 'Days of Penitence,' which I understand was unanimously approved by the government. The bloodiest day of the last four years. Latest numbers say at least 32 dead and over 100 injured in Jabaliya Refugee Camp, Gaza, in one day alone. Like Jenin, I doubt if we will ever truly know the numbers. Few even care to count. Certainly the Ethiopian man I spoke with yesterday wouldn't, he who insists that Arabs have no good qualities and that all Muslims hate non-Muslims. He thinks that I'm crazy. I just think you can't make those generalisations. And I think that those who don't know shouldn't listen to US media.

I let him have his opinions. Really, what choice did I have? I simply told him that my views come from my experience, as do his, and let it go. Like most days now, I refused to argue much over it. There's too much to take in, too much to process, and too much to say. Better not to begin. Still, I suspect that the placidity of my demeanor has much to do with a silent rage that has no decent outlet here. While much needed healing is happening, every report from Palestinian Hell feeds a fire. Soon, it will be ready to emerge. Like St. Helens, now erupting, it will have to go somewhere, someday.

Like drops of fuel, reports of Nabulsi rumours are trickling through. They are speaking of a 200 hour invasion that is meant to be descending on Nablus. This time I'm not even thinking so much of those that will be shot in the streets, more of the families desperate because they can't even get food. An invasion of that magnitude will likely mean disrupted or destroyed sewer and water, more houses mowed down upon occupants, crushing them under concrete and stone. Those that are simply bombed out once almost seem lucky. And then there're the overflowing hospitals. (How can Jabaliya support the recent deaths? Their morgue can't be that big... they can't possibly have enough staff or beds for the injured... who will die because the infrastructure can't support the load? Or because the ambulances are stopped?)

Meanwhile, the settlers have injured members of the Christian Peacemakers Team hospitalizing several with injuries which extend to punctured lungs. The settlers, dressed in black and armed with clubs and chains, accosted them on a road near Hebron. Near Jenin, another settler murdered a Palestinian simply because he wanted to kill an Arab. The victim had stopped on the road, thinking that the settler needed help.

The days and nights seem to be more brutal than ever.

In the face of all of these power plays of inequality comes another angle from the other side of the world. Yesterday Salahadin, my new acquaintance, spoke at length about power. He told a story of a friend who, when faced with offensive behaviour, confronted the perpetrators. The situation escalated, and he 'kicked their asses' by turning and walking silently away from the situation. His power and strength, instead of being spent battling idiocy, went with him. I'd like to think that the integrity there lies not so much in leaving but in refusing to violate the aggressors the way they'd violated him. I'd like to think that there's a similar strength and power in what we do. 'When you have an opinion,' he said, 'and you stay true to it, no one can take that power from you.'

I like the way Salahadin thinks. It dovetails well with my own musings. The only difference is that I question which is more important, to stay alive or to keep this dignity intact?

Steam rises from St, Helens. Smoke curls from Fallujah. And gas floats over Palestine.

The world is still aflame.

I read an account today, via Linda and Phil, of an ISMer in Balata. She poses a question to global society: Why are there only two Internationals there? Why is it that out of billions of people on this planet, only two are willing to be there now? This same question, one that I've been asking myself and have little more than shame and excuses in response, I still echo. So what gives, world? Why are we sitting pretty in our plastic lives? What's so special about us that we won't stoop so low? I want to know what it takes for people to care about another human being. I want to know what it takes for someone to look beyond their own self. Please tell me. Because these days, looking at my own life, I'm not sure that I know.

Maybe I've been too easy on everyone. And too easy on myself as well.

'Side by side we fought against tyranny, and I'd dare say we'd do it again...' (St. Patrick Battalion, David Rovics)

Underground Rivers

22 September 2004

Finally, things are changing. Not in the world at large; that only seems to worsen. But in me... changes for which the groundwork has been laid for quite some time, changes that are more about who I've always been than anything new.

I'm learning Hebrew, for starters. It's really only in bits and pieces for the time being, and I doubt that I shall ever be fluent, probably never even proficient. But, in hearing the language from the mouth of someone I trust, it's lost it's grating edges, the ones that made me shudder, the ones that I dreaded because that's how bigotry and divisions can begin. I'll probably never be able to use it in the territories — I don't imagine it would aid in winning the trust of broken Palestinian communities — but to be able to embrace it again, finally, feels a bit like flying. Semitic languages are so beautiful to me.

I also was given a homework assignment today. I was charged with finding articles and pictures of Palestinians and Israelis working together. It shouldn't bee too hard, I knew. I'm aware of many programmes, especially for youth, to promote reconciliation. I've heard many stories of friends across the barriers of culture and struggle. But I've also left that realm largely alone, knowing that the work was being done and that I was needed elsewhere.

I'm almost too excited to sit still at the moment. Groups for Israelis and Palestinians who have lost first degree family members, a mosaic project, a youth magazine called Windows written by and for Israeli and Palestinian youth, and, of course, your garden variety assortment of meetings, dialogues, and UN trips.

Sure, most of these dynamics don't work themselves into places like Gaza or Nablus, where you probably can't get the magazine (even if you could afford it) and the realities are perhaps too harsh. But there are a few... Hammoudi, who got to go on a joint trip to Italy. (May it guard him from hatred forever.)

These gestures are, of course, not enough. But I've been worrying for quite some time that once a plan is made that is actually acceptable, and it's enacted, that no one will have the human resources anymore to live together. I'm not sure if these efforts qualify as constructive or just-barely-holding-our-humanness-together, but I'm sure that, at least in some small way, they matter.

This, the week after more friends of dear friend were killed execution style.
This, the day of another bomber in Jerusalem, this one from Askar, of course.

But underground, the river still flows.

'Nablus - A West Bank Hell'

21 August 2004 (?)

From Aaron

All we were trying to do is check up on a family being held hostage by the military in their own house. There were three internationals and a medic. Under international law, the military must allow a medic inside to check on the status of the family. This didn't stop us from finding ourselves kneeling against a wall in the house, rancid smelling bags over our heads, hands tied behind our backs, and M16s pointed in our direction. The soldiers told us that if "one of
us even makes as much as a noise, we will bash your heads into the wall beyond the point of recognition".

We sat like that for over an hour until the soldiers had to leave the house. The three others were arrested. I didn't have my passport on me so they released me and told me that I was the "lucky one". The soldiers asserted, however, that if "you don't turn yourself in at Huwara checkpoint with your passport, we will find you and beat the shit out of you". To clarify, though, I am okay. I am not afraid of the soldiers, and there is no way that I am turning myself in.

This was two days ago, saturday. The soldiers have been getting more aggressive towards us in recent days. I believe this is because we have been stepping up our efforts, making it more difficult for the army to carry out harassment and violence against the civilian population. And secondly, there's been an invasion. The word in Arabic for invasion is "Ishdeah". It's also the main reason why I haven't been sending out these emails for a while.

There's no time. Last time I had the time and energy to send out an email it turned out that the army had shot out the power lines in balata camp, making it impossible to access the internet. That was about a week ago. The one reason that I have the time to write you guys now is that I am sick, stuck in the ism apartment.

To warn about this message, there is no way at this point that I can compile all of the important experiences i've been having in the last couple of weeks into this email. Most of the dramatic things that I have been witnessing will have to wait. I can only give you little samples, hopefully a general picture of what is going on.

An important point to make is that after I first saw a kid get killed, the occupation shifted from an analytical and political thing to a more personal level. I cried. A teenage boy who was around told me "don't cry, this is our life". It did not take long to understand what he meant. I keep seeing people get killed and hurt. The most recent case a ten year old not a stone thrower, he was hiding from the soldiers. Funerals happen the day of or the next day, there is little time for mourning before moving on to the next martyr.

There are a few images that get stuck in my mind. Like the boy who got his arm blown off and held it up with his remaining arm. As medics rushed him to an ambulance I got a dose of blood splattered on my clothing. Then there's the man who was shot in the stomach from a sniper in an occupied house in balata. The family being held hostage in the house told us that the soldiers made them watch as they told them "I will kill an Arab now, and you will hear him scream".
It was a part of a five day long rampage the soldiers made in balata before the Nablus invasion.

There have been more or less 1,700 of these soldiers in Nablus for the past week. An invasion like this is something that happens here about once every three months. The most obvious symptom: enforced curfew for the past seven consecutive days.

During military curfew, no one is allowed out of their homes. The army controls the streets with small tanks (APCs), humvees, armored jeeps, and soldiers who after only a couple days of curfew feel safe enough to walk around in groups out of their vehicles. Under Israeli law, anyone caught violating curfew can be shot on the sight. There was constant gunfire, although it wasn't always clear what the soldiers were shooting at.

The army has been raiding houses and completely ransacking them. Every day I see at least
eight houses in which the soldiers have destroyed everything that could be destroyed, although we will probably get much larger number when we can do an investigation. Knives stabbed into beds, framed pictures smashed, furniture broken, money stolen, windows shattered, plants thrown into walls, mutilated children's dolls, clothing thrown all over the place, Hebrew graffiti on the walls with messages like "death to this house"- everything you could imagine completely destroyed.

When this is going on, the family is made to sit together in a small room and wait. In the worst cases groups of people as large as sixty are forced to cram into a small room for hours as the soldiers destroy their house. In one case in the old city the soldiers set fire to the top floor of a house and locked the family in a bathroom. They breathed in so much smoke that some of the family was unconscious when medics finally broke in to get to them. And why?

Because the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade was testing Qassam Rockets in Balata, as claimed by the Israeli Army and dutifully repeated in Ha'aretz. This is supposed to be evidence that palestinians have a rocket factory in the old city of Nablus. I'm having a very difficult time holding back my sarcasm right now, but, like, we live in Balata camp. It's not huge. If rockets were being fired there would be no possible way for us to miss it. We almost certainly would of noticed, or at the very least the locals would be talking about it and someone would mention it to us.

The army virtually imprisoned the city for a week, targeted the civilian population for massive
intimidation and justified it on a blatant lie. And imprison they did, actually making mass arrests. On the 20th in El Ain refugee camp the military police made a call for all men ages 16 to 40 to turn themselves in. 200 plus people were held all day in detention, stuffed together in small rooms at the local school, surrounded by military vehicles.

A couple of internationals interviewed some of the detainees after the fact. They learned of serious abuse stories. There were cases of people forced to take most of their clothes off and wear bags over their heads, hands tied behind a chair for the entire day. An international who was there managed to take a picture of two men sitting like this, having been able to see them through the window. There are also cases of men getting mercilessly beaten, including some in
front of their own family members. Most detainees went without food and water for the entire day. Those who did not turn themselves in were arrested, and are likely to face six months to a year in prison.

Palestinian Medics seem to have become targets. A few of them have been detained and beaten during the invasion. Yesterday I was with a medical team when an army jeep told them to get out of the area or they would open fire. I have seen two cases before that where soldiers have threatened to kill any medic who picks up a wounded person. In one of these cases the
soldier actually added that he would "open fire" and then "fuck your mother". And on four different occasions I have seen soldiers blocking ambulances from picking up wounded or delivering the wounded to the hospital, including one police jeep that deliberately rammed an ambulance in motion.

The Israeli soldiers remind me of the people I knew in High School. To mention it, actually, before I got into the territories I met an Israeli soldier who grew up in Bellevue Washington and went to high school with me. They are completely normal kids, no different than anyone else I've met in the west, but being capable of committing gruesome atrocities.

The other day when a military vehicle pulled up next to me, I was preparing to be arrested or at least to have my passport checked when the soldier just wanted to talk. We had a relatively civil discussion. Although racist and delusional, he was like anybody else, he had a sense of humour, a girlfriend. We only kid ourselves when we see the soldiers as monsters. It's a hard lesson learned perhaps, but all people have this potential given a certain level of indoctrination and uniformity. In this sense, what better breeding ground for war criminals than a high
school?

Maybe that's one of the things that is bothering me the most- that I can picture a lot of people I have known and grown up with act the same way, that the soldiers, however crazy, have an eerie familiarness to them.

Hunger Strike!!

16 August 2004

Palestinian prisoners have begun a hunger strike that is expected to soon encompass more than 7500 prisoners before the end of the week. They are striking for access to public phones, basic sanitation, and family visits. (Some families go years without being allowed to see their loved ones in jail.)

Though Israeli prison conditions are far worse than these issues indicate (extending even to torture), the prisoners are asking for relatively little. Even so, Israeli Public Security Minister Tzachi Hanegbi says: 'The prisoners can strike for a day or a month, even starve to death, as far as I am concerned.'

Wednesday has been called as a day of solidarity with the hunger strikers. I'll be joining them on that day, and spend the extra time calling my senators and reps to put pressure on the Israeli government to meet humanitarian standards in their prisons.

You can find yours at www.house.gov and www.senate.gov .

Please join us in this fight. Call on your friends and family to raise their voices in protest and solidarity.

For my brother Ashraf and all political prisoners in Palestine and around the world,

Rachel

Through Aaron's Eyes

16 August 2004

Here is more from Aaron's correspondence from the West Bank. Apologies, to those of you who depend on this to know how he is, for the delay.

8 August 2004:

'There is a joke that people in Nablus sometimes tell to foreigners involving a phrasebook for Palestinian Arabic. The first three listings under "useful phrases" should be translations of "it is nice to meet you", "where is the bathroom", and "the soldiers are coming".

'It is Saturday night in Balata, one of the original 1948 refugee camps. Balata is considered, I think, a part of the city of Nablus or at least directly adjacent to it. It is sandwiched between an army base up on one hill and two settlements on the other. It is a closed military zone, which means that it is close to impossible to get in through the checkpoints for internationals. To get here, we had to go through the mountains evading patrolling soldiers.

'Less than four hours ago, soldiers occupied a house here in the refugee camp. A normal procedure, the family (an old couple) was held at gunpoint while the soldiers used the elevated vantage point of the house as a sniping position. They know that the Palestinians won't return fire because of the hostages.

'I was in the old city when this particular incursion began. I received a phone call from Philip, another American with ISM. Three army jeeps in a clash with shabab (youth) and one occupied house with soldiers. When I arrived, the shabab were there
throwing stones and I could already smell the tear gas. We attempted to block the jeeps from etering further into the camp by standing in front of them with two large banners. The jeeps drove close to us as to make the rocks fly dangerously close to our heads, so we had to withdraw to the sidelines. When we can't physically intervene, we at least try to be around as witnesses to discourage the army from actually killing
anybody.

'The army left the area (albeit temporarily) and the group paid a visit to the family in the house that had been occupied to ask them if they wanted international protection. Testifying to the undying hospitality of the Palestinians, the old woman whom was only recently released from gunpoint insisted on serving the group tea. The couple said that the soldiers come into their home and hold them hostage like this at least once every week.

'Now the soldiers are back, making circles around the camp. The most frustrating thing is to feel helpless in a situation like this, there is very little to be done when the army starts acting this unpredictable. I feel like I have to be writing this email because I can't just sit down and do nothing while hearing the gun shots as close as this. By far the craziest thing is the roving spotlight coming from the military base on the mountain that is actually a targeting laser, meaning they use it to fire precision shots at people in the camp. Whenever the light comes near a person he runs. It's a weird image, seeing everyone run away from a search light. Sometimes they don't use it to shoot, just to harass people, sometimes they shoot, there is no way to know.

'We received a phone call from medical relief workers who said that in Nablus they identified three other houses occupied and one school. At least three civilians have been shot and seriously injured already at this point. Three of the internationals are leaving to accompany the ambulances to safety. The army is bringing in the apache helicopters, they can be heard flying over the camp and the city. This is also pure harassment, they fly low and make lots of noise, shining lights at people on the ground.

'Altogether it was considered a minor incident, occupation and violence has been absorbed into everyday life here. Last Wednesday I was probably only fifty, sixty feet away when an unarmed twenty-nine year old man was shot fatally by an Israeli sniper just outside the old city, in the commercial center of Nablus. Israeli snipers were shooting from the rooftops of four buildings. People ran in every direction, but there was no where really to run to because the bullets seemed to keep coming from different directions. Nerve gas was dispersed when the soldiers decided finally to leave. The Israeli Army would later claim that they had only fired two warning shots during the entire event, and that all of those injured/killed were shot by Palestinian fighters. There's no way that this could be the case, the few fighters who were there were shooting up, in the direction of the soldiers on the buildings. It was an obvious lie, they had to have been shot by sniper fire.

'Incidents like these may scare the shit out of me but it is normal for people leaving here. Almost a month ago there was a situation in Nablus where over thirty people were killed by the army in one month, almost exclusively children. Every night they would come into the camp and shoot a kid. Even last week an ism volunteer witnessed a soldier kill a kid in Balata camp. People have come to expect it. Like I said, soldiers and violence are a normal part of the routine here.'

10 August 2004 :

'What really can prepare a person? Today in balata camp I watched from across the street as a soldier pointed a gun out of his window from a jeep and shot a bullet into the back of someone's head.

'It was instantaneous. One moment, he was running away with his back turned to the soldiers. Another moment, he lay motionless with blood spewing from his head.

'He was throwing rocks, posing no threat to soldiers in military vehicles. A familiar ritual. His name was Sammi Mustafa. Fourteen years old, he was the third martyr for Nablus today.'

Aaron's Missive

23 July 2004

This excerpt is from Aaron K's first letter back from Palestine. He arrived about a week ago and will be there for around two months:

The other day in Ramallah I had the privilege of spending the better part of the day with kids at a youth center run by the UPMRC and Palestinian Initiative, where among the kids' playfulness and laughter it is easy to forget where you are. Kids are kids, and they love to have fun, but here things can turn serious very fast.

'Ahmed, an eleven year old who's experience exceeds his age, is a former resident of Jenin. He and his family barely escaped the infamous massacre there in 2002, when an army incursion resulted in over fifty dead, 4000 homeless, and unprecedented destruction concentrated in a period of two weeks. He remembers seeing at least a hundred tanks as his family was leaving. Ahmed says he knows of at least two friends who were killed.

'Now living in Ramallah, Ahmed and his family are struggling to get by. Ahmed once tried to return to Jenin. For a Palestinian trying to go anywhere, not just out of the country, even out of town, he needs Israel's permission. Even then, there is much difficulty to be had going through the military checkpoints.

'Ahmed, having gotten permission to go back to Jenin, was stopped and detained at a checkpoint by soldiers, who were apparently noticing the Palestinian flag on his armband. Ahmed was told to lay down on the ground. He was searched, and then told to do push ups. The kid, scared, did as he was told. The soldiers asked him how much money he had, and Ahmed told them the truth, ninety shekels.

'The soldiers then told him to give them the money. Ahmed refused, saying that the money belongs to his family, and the family needs it. The soldiers told Ahmed that he had better give them the money or else they would beat him up. At this point, he gave the soldiers the money, but they still would not let him through the checkpoint.

'Another kid, thirteen year old Khalil, told me a story about going through Kalandiya checkpoint outside Ramallah with his father. At random, the kid and his father were caught in a group of some fifty people selected for detention by the soldiers. The had to wait there for hours without explanation. Khalil's father calmly approached one of the soldiers and asked him why they were being held. The soldiers reacted to this by taking both of them aside, and told the father that they were going to break one of his limbs, and he had to choose which one. The end of the story is that Khalil had to stand and watch a soldier break his father's arm.'

__________________________

In other news, a more or less local ISMer was purposely run over by a jeep in Balata Camp. He sustained minor injuries, but will be fine. It's really nothing compared to the nearly 30 deaths in Nablus in a month's time, some of them brutal assassinations of unarmed civilians.

Ashraf has been imprisioned again. There are, as usual, no charges. As always, no one knows when he will be released. I heard this from Kanaan, who had to yell over the sounds of the village. I've never heard his voice so full of joy before, so unburdened by the occupation even when telling such tidings: for once, the noises were not the machines of war, but the celebration of an Asira wedding. 'It makes me so happy to see them all dancing, Rachel. For once, they are not sad. Everyone is in the streets. I'm so glad you called, especially on this day....'

They Say That People From Nablus Don't Cry (the suresimpleplain thing)

15 June 2004

I am exhausted. I feel completely brought to my knees by the events of the last thirty hours or so, so much so that I am not even sure where to begin, what should follow, where to end.

My friend, hamdilallah, is still alive.

Three of his family members are not.

When I first heard news of the missile attack on a car in Balata camp, I didn't think much of it. Besides the horror and the violence and the violation of international humanitarian laws, there is a simple reality that, for the most part, the people being targeted for assassination are not the ones I have become close to. Even the idea of getting the opportunity to sit down with militants for a long conversation, or going visiting, is laughable. They must always be on the move. Therefore their deaths, while deplorable, are not likely to send me into a panic these days.

But I digress. Before long something settled into my stomach, something sure and simple and very plain. Because the surname of one of the Kitaab Al-Aqsa guys that was killed, Marshuud, sounded very familiar. I tried to grasp at my friend and neighbor's family name, but couldn't. I knew that I must find his phone number and call him, because the likelihood was that his brother, who bears his face, is now dead.

A late night phone call to Palestine brought confirmation — Khalil Marshuud was dead, blown up in his car outside Baab a Muheiam, right there in Balata. Khalil, who to me is my friend's other half, his foil, who to me is the one of the two I see in shadows, in corners, in alleys, with kalashnikovs. Khalil, with a dark chiselled face blooming above his dark shebab jacket. Khalil who moves by night, always — until yesterday — one step ahead of the bandits, one step ahead of the missiles. Even his brother rarely knew where he was. It's certain, of course, that he was not in the house, the house to which they came in the night with tanks so many times, invading our street and my deams, the house whose door they blew wide, shattering the glass in our windows, the house from which they dragged the family again and again, the house from which wails rose as they arrested innocent children.

The news might have come as a blow, but I already knew, somehow. My friend on the other end of the phone didn't dabble long in pleasantries — 'Rachel, I have bad news.' He proceeded to tell me what had befallen the family of our friend.

Of course, for me it only got worse this morning when I saw a photo, a photo that made it clear that Khalil's death car was a taxi. A taxi that, from the outside, looks like his brother's. I tried to call Palestine, desperate for some confirmation that they hadn't killed both brothers, or the 'wrong' brother, but I was met with deadened phone lines.

My next successful phone call to Palestine brought relief, and news of more disaster. Khalil's brother, my friend, still lives. Two of his other family members do not, at least one of them shot through the back today. One is ten. The other, Salah, is 20.

My friend tells me that phone calls have poured in from internationals around the world, the ones who lived in Balata, the ones who knew the family. It seems that everyone must be affected by this.

I read once, in reference to the April invasions nearer the beginning of the Intifada, that the people of Nablus do not cry. Beset by wave after wave of would-be conquerors, they know fighting for their freedom as a way of life, and they know all too well the price that comes with it. I know that this isn't strictly true. Perhaps once, perhaps in secret, I may have seen people from Nablus cry. But not so often. And I, too, am starting to get used to it as my own personal death toll marches upwards, starting to become more accustomed to that pure and simple and plain thing that enters the stomach than to the wrenching. Of course, my fear of my own friend's death threw this out the window. I can only imagine what mixture of numbness and loss he must be experiencing now, sitting in those grieving rooms, surrounded by people who loved his brother, people who looked up to him, people who needed him.

Scrounging the internet for more news of Khalil, I found a few of his words immortalised after invading soldiers were attacked in Balata as a revenge for the recent Rafah massacres. And his words were words that I might speak — not words of hatred, nor words of a monster. Words of someone who simply does what one must under extreme circumstances. They did not carry much rhetoric, they did not carry much fire. But they were strength itself, nearly (it feels like exaggeration to say it) the voice of reason and truth speaking into the night. The words flowed from the mouth of a young man who, despite the greater world's perceptions of a Kitaab al-Aqsa leader, was only a few slight years older than I. They come from a man that was called a terrorist by some, a hero by others. And I have no way to know what all of his actions might have been in his life, but I suspect that Khalil deserves a good bit of honour and respect.

Khalil's face — or, more accurately, that of his brother, which is the same face — burns in my mind. This is the passing of a 'terrorist.' The passing of a freedom fighter. And the passing of one who, perhaps, was not so different from me.

I hope it was quick. I had the misfortune to read a scene in a fiction novel where a man is burned to death. I read it last night. I've been horror-struck ever since, horror-struck at the thought that he could have suffered like that. I'd assumed that deaths were quick from this method, from the missile plummeting down from the helicopter, leaving gaping craters in the ground. No one seems to know how fast you go. I hope — dear god-if-there-is-one I hope — that Khalil was simply there one minute, and gone the next.

'I'm a New Yorker. I Don't Like Terrorists'

1 June 2004

There's no occasion quite like a family wedding to get into jousts over politics. My second-cousin's-new-husband's-cousin seemed to think that what I did was pretty cool until he realised who I consort with. Well, it was he who asked, and he who wanted to hear all of my theories on exactly why we shouldn't invade countries all over the world.

Duke explained to me that it was all quite simple. We're invading all of these places for the sake of peace, of course. And how wonderful our military and CIA are. Those CIA, they even speak 'Iraqi.' He went on to illustrate a serious misuse of the Arabic language (even in Iraq, I suspect) as evidence of how well educated our foreign spies are.

It truly wasn't bad conversation, for most of it. He asked what I would do if I was an 'Iraqi Innocent' and heard that the Americans were going to start dropping bombs:
1) Hide out in my house.
2) Run away and come back when it was safe
3) Pick up a kalashnikov and try to 'kill Americans.'
I tried to explain that had I lost a baby sister to sanctions, and my brother was sick because he couldn't get medicine, if I'd already been bombed by the Americans 10 years before, there's a very good chance that I would pick up whatever assault rifle I had handy and protect my town. Duke didn't seem to appreciate my candour much... his face got dark and his eyes narrowed. In his thick New York Italian accent he informed me that he was a New Yorker, and that he didn't like terrorists, clearly implying that I was one.

Luckily, the conversation wasn't completely derailed. He insisted that America does wonderful things for the world and no one has cause to hate us. He made it clear to me that all you have to do in this life is clean up your own mess. And then I pointed out that he was speaking from a distinctly American standpoint, rather than that of anyone who lives in a communal society. Perhaps we have some collective responsibility, and will occasionally be judged by the actions of the government which is supposed to be the manifestation of our power. Perhaps we have a history to atone for. Those who do the conquering, the wounding, and pillaging, tend to have much shorter memories than those who are at the receiving end.

Eventually, I guess Duke realised that he couldn't counter the historical arguments I was showing him. His only recourse was racism. I believe his main tactic was to call Arabs 'barbarians.'

Maybe the president doesn't negotiate with terrorists. Well, I don't argue with racists, at least not for fun. Conversation finished. Halas. Though I did point out that many of those 'barbarians' are far more civilised and cultured than a lot of Americans I know. Duke, maturely, managed to get in a few thrusts about whether the fact that I was wearing black meant I had joined the 'dark side.'

I left Duke on the steps of the lounge, a beer clenched in one hand and a cigar in the other. Maybe he was angry. Or disgusted. Or embarrassed. Or afraid. I wonder what he'll think about when he goes back to his navy ship. I wonder what he'll think the next time he's told to make a cruise missile strike on the 'ragheads.' And I wonder if his justifiable (though misdirected) grief and anger is personal or merely that of anyone whose city is attacked.

At least, at the end of the day, two things are clear: Duke is a New Yorker. And Duke Does Not Like Terrorists.

Twisted

28 May 2004

I was just browsing for pictures to put on the website, just to give an inkling of who all of these people are that I've been talking about.

I passed through Getty's photos for December, then November, and continued back past the point of my arrival in Balata Camp.

I have to say that I was confused when I saw the photos of Sabieh's funeral. If he had blown himself up, how was there anything to carry on the litter? My mind swirled through options as I continued through photos — his grandmother carrying an assault weapon, his little sister taking one last look at his body.

Then I found it. There it was. Lying in the road. Head and upper torso only, gaping hole after that. One arm torn off below the elbow. Somehow almost more handsome than in the shahiid poster photo, though I don't quite know how that can be.

My fault for wondering. Curiosity can be a curse.

I never knew him. I never will. But he was always a real person to me, the one through whom I began to glimpse what the process to becoming a suicide bomber might be, the one through whom I became familiar with the mourning and the horror and the desperation that the families of martyrs might experience.

I feel sick. Dizzy, angrier than I have felt in a while, especially after reading that the new Gaza withdrawal plan only includes three settlements. I assume that the agreement (made without the Palestinians) to remain in the West Bank will still hold. At the same time both Kerry and Bush pledge full support for the Zionist agenda, with no other options left for us to vote on. And the three year old girl gunned down in Rafah, and Riadh, and Sabieh — it's all for nothing.

I don't know what to say or how to feel except that it twists something deep inside me, comes close to bringing on a horrid PTSD attack, and has no words to put to it. It's not that I haven't seen photos of Palestinians with arms blown off by Israeli missiles, or seen medics and children hunting for body parts. It's not that I haven't seen blood flowing from children's bodies and gaping holes where teeth used to be. But this is somehow different.

I won't post the photo for now, at least. It's a bit too much. But it can be found at www.gettyimages.com, under editorials. Type in Nablus, look back to around the 3rd or 4th of November 2003.

Welcome to the Land of the Bigots

28 May 2004

Even though it was two days ago, I can't quite shake the memory of it. It was nothing much, really — just a comment, just a moment, just a symptom of the illness of this world.

It was pouring. It was cold. I was just arriving on foot at my workplace, kuffiyeh covering my head to keep in the warmth and keep out the rain. Hamdilallah we have them — they must be one of the best winter clothing items I've ever met with. Anyway, I passed a youngish man, walking toward me on the sidewalk. I'd never seen him before in my life.

'Fuck you!' he snarled at me.

For a minute, I wondered if perhaps I had been looking at him funny, or maybe he was talking on the phone, or to himself.

He didn't look crazy. He didn't have a phone.

Sometimes you don't notice the bigotry in this city where using your car horn is a clear sign that you're not from these parts. It's more obvious in the stares, the rough edges to conversations that seem to have no reason rather than lynchings and bombings. And then there are other days when it is all too obvious...

I don't know what it was he was thinking. Terrorist, maybe. Dirty Arab, perhaps. Damn Muslim.

I can't say. But at the end of the day I can take off my kuffiyeh if I choose to do it. I can blend in with this society, as uncomfortable as it often is. And while that will only disguise it so that the bigots on the street won't know that they should be telling me to fuck myself, I still have the choice. And the hate is still there.

So tell me, how does this story end?

The Long Distance Connection

16 April 2004

I have been quite busy making calls lately. The first call was to the Abu Sallal family, the day after I saw Riad's photo on the internet. They were far more light-hearted than I expected them to be, but I imagine that hearing from a close friend they hadn't spoken to in several months may have had something to do with that, combined with the numbness that the elapsed time may have brought. Nevertheless, there was a deep undercurrent of loss — and anger.

In a recent conversation with Omar, I gleaned a few more details. Riad was killed by a single bullet — to the back. This alone should be pretty clear proof for all of those who say that the boy deserved it, for those who believe that every murdered Palestinian is an aggressive combatant, whether or not you recognise their rights of resistance under the Geneva Conventions. I don't yet know if he suffered much, if it was mercifully quick, or if he lay dying while the army blocked an ambulance, like they so often do. Omar has video footage of the event. He's offered to send the video to me, which I have very mixed feelings about. On one hand, it might be helpful for closure. On the other, I don't know that I can ever bring myself to watch such a thing. To be honest, I was pretty flabbergasted by the offer. What can you say to such a thing?

I also called Mahmoud... I've never heard his spirits so low. He didn't have much to say at the time; I am still trying to get through to him again. Apparently Omar was right beside Mohammed when he was killed. He has video footage of this murder, too.

The demolished house did indeed belong to the family of the teenage shahiid.

I spoke to a Palestinian friend about the PTSD flashbacks I've been harrowed by these last weeks. Though he wouldn't come out and say it, I understood that he has them also. I guess those that are in the trauma aren't immune to such things.

As usual, when speaking to Palestinians about the murders of people I love or about the flashbacks, they say the same thing that I have heard so many times: 'This is the/our life.' It sounds callous at first — coming from a society that isn't usually wracked by such things, we expect empathy. But really — how much of your own losses can you relive? Delving into empathy is, I'm sure, bound to bring up far too many horrible memories, and probably the PTSD that accompanies them.

I spoke the other day to a girl who believes that Palestinians are immune to grief from losing their loved ones because they are so accustomed to it. I didn't even know any words to say to her... in some ways you do get used to it. Maybe that makes it better. Maybe it makes it worse. But the loss of losing a child, a parent, a sibling, a friend is always just as deep. It's just another form of dehumanisation to imagine that people can avoid caring about their families' deaths just because everything has been taken from them.

Other news that I ought to have posted earlier is regarding the attack on the Mental Hospital in Bethlehem. There were no shots fired from the hospital. Around 12 people were arrested: doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, and patients. One of the two buildings of the hospital is now unusable. The reason I have this information is that my friend's uncle was arrested for use as a human shield. (This is as an actual human shield. Though people use this term to refer to ISMers, it is extremely inaccurate. Human shields are used to protect shooters from enemy bullets.) He is the director of the hospital, and knew useful information about the layout of the campus. Several tanks, some APCs, and seven jeeps surrounded the family home in the morning. The army burst in and searched the house and the extended family's houses. They hauled him into the street in his pyjamas. My friend went to bring him a jacket, and was thrown to the ground and beaten with rifles for his efforts. Thankfully, it sounds as though they are both doing alright.

Dire as it sounds, not everyone is being killed or wounded. I've spoken with many of my contacts over the past weeks. The folks in Asira are well, and when asked if there is any army, they respond, 'Oh, well, not too much.' People are still living their lives, laughing, eking out what existence they can. Essam, Hisham, Ghassan, the Sawalhas, the Titis, Sameh... they are all relatively well and have no major new personal losses to report. Insha'allah, our luck will hold.

No Place to Sit

14 April 2004

Today Sabiah Abu Saud's family home was demolished by the army.

I am 99% sure that this is the same 16 year old boy that made a failed bombing attack in the start of November. The photographs show the same placement of the house, some of the same faces I seem to remember, and the same pictures from the walls. It could be, of course, that memory fails me after so many months, and that the similarity of circumstances plays tricks. Still, how many Sabiahs from Nablus with such a home attempted bombings in November? I think perhaps not so many.

Sabiah's former home sits(sat) on a hillside at the outskirts of Rafidiya. It overlooks(ed) a valley, and is graced by trees in the front yard. The house stands (stood) alone, unlike the homes in the refugee camps.

This is not the first time they have lost their home. And perhaps it won't be the last.

Were this to be the occasion of another death, we would go to sit in their home. But where do you go to sit when there is no home left?