I accept that while in Palestine my life operates on a very different schedule. I accept that on Friday afternoons, instead of wrapping up the week’s tasks and making plans for the weekend, I will be chocking on Cyanide based tear gas, unpopping my ears from the sound grenade explosions, running from rubber bullets, anrunning even faster from live ammunition. Friday aside, this weekend I went to great lengths to have a “normal weekend.” Let me share with you how I failed.
After the demonstration in Ni’lin Friday, where they shot live ammunition at us and we ran away and ate ice cream (I ate two), I decided that a break from Palestine would be helpful to my mental state. My friend Yotam who lives in West Jerusalem (the Jewish side) had invited me over to cook dinner with him and his roommates that night. I accepted the offer and after a bit of debriefing about Ni’lin and receiving updates from other demos, got on a bus and left the West Bank.
The dinner we were making turned into Shabbot dinner, a religious (but not so much in this case) potluck for Jews. Yotam and I made a really delicious Bundt cake and his roommates made risotto and salad. Friends came over to eat, and then friends of friends joined us. Around midnight, a group showed up with one guy that I got a small strange feeling about. He began with normal introductions then went into normal conversation about where people were from, what they did, etc. I asked the housemates if I should lie about what I do here or tell him the truth. They didn’t know him too well either, and since it is a leftist house, they instructed me to tell the truth.
“I live in Palestine, working with the nonviolent resistance to the occupation,” I replied confidently and calmly. His response was also confident, but not anywhere close to calm. Before I knew it, I was being attacked with unfounded, Zionist and terrorist fueled propaganda about Palestinians, statements like “Palestine isn’t occupied! Israelis are living a mental occupation due to terror attacks!” and the beginnings of a history lesson dating back 2,000 years.
After maybe 13 minutes, and multiple failed attempts by others to rescue me, I found myself sitting on a floor cushion with two 30 someodd men standing over me, pointing in my face, telling me how stupid and uniformed I am. This was not a discussion (obviously), and my participation beyond giving them a direction to point their fingers at was minimal. I thought to myself, “less than 12 hours ago I was shot at, and you are trying to tell me about 2,000 years ago?” This put me over the edge and in a few seconds, tears and hyperventilated breathing overtook me and I ran out of the room.
I was essentially inconsolable for nearly half an hour as I tried to slow down my breathing and use words rather than sobs to express my emotions. I was so overwhelmed by the amount of anger, hate and racism that was being pushed on me. It is too much to come to Palestine, work 7 days a week, sometimes 16 hours a day, always be on call, abide by Palestinian cultural rules, live under occupation, learn a new language, wait hours in checkpoints, visit friends in hospitals, jails and courtrooms only to be told that everything that I do is wrong.
So at 2am on Saturday morning, I found myself in Jerusalem wanting nothing more than to return to Palestine. I remembered earlier in the day when Ellen and I were speaking before the Ni’lin demonstration and I boasted about how I had not had a Palestine breakdown in over one month.
Saturday morning I restarted the “breakdown calendar” and left Yotam’s house around 8, after I got a wonderful wakeup call from Trip back in the States. I made it back to Ramallah and to the new volunteer training for ISM. I presented about sexual harassment in Palestine, cultural miscommunications and watching out for each other.
Since Friday night turned out not to be the “Palestine escape” I was hoping for and one of our volunteers was leaving next week, we decided to go out Saturday night. Again, unfortunately, Israeli Zionists had another thing in mind. The original plan was for me to go to Sheikh Jarrah from 7-10pm, and then have a few other volunteers take over for the rest of the night while some of us went to a queer rave at a local activist bar. Queer parties always play the best dance music and that is what I’ve wanted to do for so long.
When I arrived in Sheikh Jarrah, I found that the day had been really tense and saw a group of young settler boys congregating at the entrance to the occupied Al-Kurd. Apparently, something was wrong with the doorknob and they couldn’t enter their stolen clubhouse. Recent developments to the Al-Kurd property include a playground for the neighborhood kids, olive and fruit tree landscaping and a fence dividing the walkway from the new play area. From its establishment two weeks ago, the fence has been a major point of contention. Settlers have tried to dismantle it several times.
Last night however, their numbers were large and their egos bigger and they began to jump on the fence and play on the children’s toys. Conflict erupted and two settler boys, plus 60 year old Nabil Al-Kurd were arrested.
During a few moments of calm, I found the highlight of the evening. Passing my camera off to 5 year old Elia who’s face is always smiling and every word is sandwiched with a giggle. We walked around snapping photos of shebab, activists, army and settlers. It was amazing. I might have to make a facebook album just for her.
After this, I began collecting video footage showing the illegality of the arrest and property destruction committed by the settlers. At midnight, two hours after my shift was supposed to end, I found myself with a group of Israeli activists, Sheikh Jarrah residents and settlers outside the police station. The activists and residents were there to show our video footage to the police investigators. The settlers waited about half an hour to tell their stories while we waited three and were never allowed inside.
I took a few short naps outside the police station in Ayman Gawi’s car until we finally gave up around 3am and went back to Sheikh Jarrah. I pulled some cushions off a couch, lined them together on the floor of the popup tent, and crawled into my sleeping back for what I hoped to be a few consecutive hours of sleep.
At four, I was awakened by ISM volunteer Robyn yelling my name and telling me to get my camera. Masked settlers were not just dismantling parts of the fence; they were taking down the whole thing. As we filmed they put towels in front of us and physically pushed Robyn back. They took down the fence, then the posts, then removed all of the reusable materials so we could not rebuild in the morning.
With Nabil Al-Kurd in jail, and Nasser Gawi banned from the neighborhood, we didn’t know what to do. It was an angering, frustrating and helpless moment. I was supposed to be dancing to Toxic or Hey Ya!, not pleading with settlers in my socks to stop destroying Al-Kurd property.
I sat awake with Robyn until about 5am and after one hour of sleep was woken up by neighborhood residents who wanted to know what had happened the night before. We spoke carefully, not to say that Nabil had been arrested around his children and tried to clean up the destroyed yard a bit.
And this is the story of my weekend and how the occupation forced me into complete, utter failure.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Silence You Create in Me
My latest frustration is my lack of appropriate responses. Really, this is a symptom of a greater illness-the reality of the occupation. I feel like so frequently I am at a total loss, appalled to the point where my body and mind cannot create what would be interpreted as a “response.” I will share with you the escalation of violence, of occupation, of apartheid, through my incapability to react to those around me.
1. Ellen Stark, 20 years old from Washington State, my friend and fellow volunteer with ISM, shot at point blank range (4 meters) with a rubber coated steel bullet while standing with medics at a demonstration in the West Bank village of An Nabi Saleh. What do I say to someone who has just had a bullet surgically removed from their arm and has broken wrist from the impact? “I’m sorry that the army chose you to ‘make an example of you’ in an attempt to deter internationals from supporting the nonviolent resistance to the occupation?” “I broke my wrist too! Last summer, only I was drinking and fell off a roof; yours is way worse.” “At least they didn’t shot you in the head, like they did to the boy later in the demo. Isn’t he still in a coma? What about the boy last week who was shot in the head, is he still in the hospital? I’m glad that wasn’t you.” “Have you told your parents that the Israeli military shot you?”
2. Ayman Gawi, 19 years old, eldest child in the Gawi family of Sheikh Jarrah, evicted from his home in August, protesting by living on the street since August, working at the Red Cross, attending culinary school, acting as the head of his family when his father is yet again, arrested for their protest by the racist Israeli state. What do I say that doesn’t just state the obvious points that I know he is overworked, overstressed and under more pressure than anyone I have ever met? How do I convey just how fucked up it is that his family watches random settlers walk in and out of their home while they sit, shivering in the cold, on the sidewalk?
3. Nick, 24, friend and ISM volunteer who went into full shock after being with Ellen while she was shot and accompanying her to the hospital and continues to have nightmares about the ordeal. How do I convince him that he did everything right, everything he could do, to navigate Ellen to safety through the raining tear gas canisters, military blockade of her ambulance and medical advocacy in a hospital lacking so much that the doctors used a cell phone flashlight in the surgery room?
4. Mohammad, 3, his father was killed in a car crash near their village of Al Ma’sera. His father was in the car with two others: the driver died instantly, and a French international activist who was swept away immediately in an ambulance from a nearby settlement. The Israeli ambulance refused to take his father because he was Palestinian. His father waited for thirty minutes on the side of the road until a Palestinian ambulance arrived and was further delayed by the military blockade. He died on his way to the hospital from preventable injuries. Mohammad is fully aware of the situation and has developed an intense fear of both internationals and Israelis. When he saw me, he broke out in tears and high pitched screams of fear and anger. No one could console him. I left the room.
I’ll close this overdue blog post with a poem. It conveys an image of the occupation in a way that is strong and beautiful. For this I love and hate it. I love it because Palestinians have every right to convey the unique and intense emotions of occupation in whatever way possible. I hate it because it is beautiful. There is absolutely nothing beautiful about occupation. I feel the same, two-way-dead- end-street emotion about graffiti art on the Apartheid wall.
Sometimes a people is caught in the dream of another people
Zionism is such a dream
Here the dreamer is Israel
The prisoner of the dream is the Palestinian people
Caught in the dream of the oppressor
1. Ellen Stark, 20 years old from Washington State, my friend and fellow volunteer with ISM, shot at point blank range (4 meters) with a rubber coated steel bullet while standing with medics at a demonstration in the West Bank village of An Nabi Saleh. What do I say to someone who has just had a bullet surgically removed from their arm and has broken wrist from the impact? “I’m sorry that the army chose you to ‘make an example of you’ in an attempt to deter internationals from supporting the nonviolent resistance to the occupation?” “I broke my wrist too! Last summer, only I was drinking and fell off a roof; yours is way worse.” “At least they didn’t shot you in the head, like they did to the boy later in the demo. Isn’t he still in a coma? What about the boy last week who was shot in the head, is he still in the hospital? I’m glad that wasn’t you.” “Have you told your parents that the Israeli military shot you?”
2. Ayman Gawi, 19 years old, eldest child in the Gawi family of Sheikh Jarrah, evicted from his home in August, protesting by living on the street since August, working at the Red Cross, attending culinary school, acting as the head of his family when his father is yet again, arrested for their protest by the racist Israeli state. What do I say that doesn’t just state the obvious points that I know he is overworked, overstressed and under more pressure than anyone I have ever met? How do I convey just how fucked up it is that his family watches random settlers walk in and out of their home while they sit, shivering in the cold, on the sidewalk?
3. Nick, 24, friend and ISM volunteer who went into full shock after being with Ellen while she was shot and accompanying her to the hospital and continues to have nightmares about the ordeal. How do I convince him that he did everything right, everything he could do, to navigate Ellen to safety through the raining tear gas canisters, military blockade of her ambulance and medical advocacy in a hospital lacking so much that the doctors used a cell phone flashlight in the surgery room?
4. Mohammad, 3, his father was killed in a car crash near their village of Al Ma’sera. His father was in the car with two others: the driver died instantly, and a French international activist who was swept away immediately in an ambulance from a nearby settlement. The Israeli ambulance refused to take his father because he was Palestinian. His father waited for thirty minutes on the side of the road until a Palestinian ambulance arrived and was further delayed by the military blockade. He died on his way to the hospital from preventable injuries. Mohammad is fully aware of the situation and has developed an intense fear of both internationals and Israelis. When he saw me, he broke out in tears and high pitched screams of fear and anger. No one could console him. I left the room.
I’ll close this overdue blog post with a poem. It conveys an image of the occupation in a way that is strong and beautiful. For this I love and hate it. I love it because Palestinians have every right to convey the unique and intense emotions of occupation in whatever way possible. I hate it because it is beautiful. There is absolutely nothing beautiful about occupation. I feel the same, two-way-dead- end-street emotion about graffiti art on the Apartheid wall.
Sometimes a people is caught in the dream of another people
Zionism is such a dream
Here the dreamer is Israel
The prisoner of the dream is the Palestinian people
Caught in the dream of the oppressor
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Palestine Realization
“Soldiers have entered the village on foot, I am in hiding, don’t turn on any lights.”
The text message was from my friend Omar, who lives in the tallest house in Al Ma’sera. His 3 story home, combined with his personal experience of being taken in a night raid six years ago and kept in prison for five years without sentencing (he is now 25), means that Omar doesn’t sleep at night. Instead of sleeping, Omar sits awake, on his roof, watching-waiting.
It was nearly one AM and I was in the village of Al Ma’sera near Bethlehem. My body was going through Middle Eastern Montezuma’s revenge (which, in my experience puts its Latino counterpart to shame) and I was up every few minutes, visiting the bathroom. The text came while I was in bed. I read it, looked over at the open window, contemplated waking the ISM volunteer sleeping near me, and listened for the sound of steel toe boots sneaking through the olive orchard. I needed to get up anyway, so I closed the window, walked to the bathroom with only the dim illumination from my cell phone and looked out the small window.
When I looked out the small window of the community center bathroom, I was fully prepared to see a tall, masked man with an M-16 staring back at me. I was not afraid. I kept looking, waiting, expecting.
When no soldier appeared, I relieved my gurgling stomach and tiptoed back to bed. This is when the realization came to me. I have changed. This place has changed me. I better understand the Palestinian struggle, what it means to live under occupation, to see more M-16s in one day than bicycles. But it goes further, I have learned how to speak, yell, plea with soldiers, I have learned how to test my limits, read their uncertain 18 year old eyes, tactfully refuse showing them my identification, treat the wounds from their “nonviolent” weapons and leverage my international activist privilege to support Palestine’s liberation.
I laid in bed, waiting for further instructions regarding the soldiers presence in the village, and thought about all of this. When did I change? My mind flashed back to one night, three weeks ago at Sheikh Jarrah, east Jerusalem.
Ayman Gawi was being led away by a military officer. His mother was trailing him, yelling at the officer. I walked up and started yelling too, slowing the officers step significantly. Moments later, a crowd had gathered and Trip and I had successfully pulled Ayman out of the officer’s grip and were sheltering him away to safety.
I was shaking with adrenaline after Ayman’s de-arrest. I felt strong, scared and slightly invincible. Invincible probably isn’t the right word. I don’t think there is a proper to describe it. It is feeling that justifies your actions in a greater picture. Not illegal vs legal, but occupation vs freedom.
Other moments came to mind, like earlier in the day when I crossed under the barbed-wire barricade at the demonstration, sat down with a group of activists and refused to move until the demo was over and every Palestinian had a chance to speak. And a week ago when I de-arrested a guy all by myself. And two weeks ago when I helped lock a certain someone to an olive tree in the path of the Apartheid Wall. The list goes on. It has been a whirlwind.
Since that night in Sheikh Jarrah, I have experienced Palestine differently. I think, in a more personally empowered and occupation exhausted way (I understand that this probably doesn’t make much sense). But what remains constant, is that I really like being here. I think everyone should come here. The third intifada is brewing and things are political relations are deteriorating fast but, inshallah, resistance is growing faster.
The text message was from my friend Omar, who lives in the tallest house in Al Ma’sera. His 3 story home, combined with his personal experience of being taken in a night raid six years ago and kept in prison for five years without sentencing (he is now 25), means that Omar doesn’t sleep at night. Instead of sleeping, Omar sits awake, on his roof, watching-waiting.
It was nearly one AM and I was in the village of Al Ma’sera near Bethlehem. My body was going through Middle Eastern Montezuma’s revenge (which, in my experience puts its Latino counterpart to shame) and I was up every few minutes, visiting the bathroom. The text came while I was in bed. I read it, looked over at the open window, contemplated waking the ISM volunteer sleeping near me, and listened for the sound of steel toe boots sneaking through the olive orchard. I needed to get up anyway, so I closed the window, walked to the bathroom with only the dim illumination from my cell phone and looked out the small window.
When I looked out the small window of the community center bathroom, I was fully prepared to see a tall, masked man with an M-16 staring back at me. I was not afraid. I kept looking, waiting, expecting.
When no soldier appeared, I relieved my gurgling stomach and tiptoed back to bed. This is when the realization came to me. I have changed. This place has changed me. I better understand the Palestinian struggle, what it means to live under occupation, to see more M-16s in one day than bicycles. But it goes further, I have learned how to speak, yell, plea with soldiers, I have learned how to test my limits, read their uncertain 18 year old eyes, tactfully refuse showing them my identification, treat the wounds from their “nonviolent” weapons and leverage my international activist privilege to support Palestine’s liberation.
I laid in bed, waiting for further instructions regarding the soldiers presence in the village, and thought about all of this. When did I change? My mind flashed back to one night, three weeks ago at Sheikh Jarrah, east Jerusalem.
Ayman Gawi was being led away by a military officer. His mother was trailing him, yelling at the officer. I walked up and started yelling too, slowing the officers step significantly. Moments later, a crowd had gathered and Trip and I had successfully pulled Ayman out of the officer’s grip and were sheltering him away to safety.
I was shaking with adrenaline after Ayman’s de-arrest. I felt strong, scared and slightly invincible. Invincible probably isn’t the right word. I don’t think there is a proper to describe it. It is feeling that justifies your actions in a greater picture. Not illegal vs legal, but occupation vs freedom.
Other moments came to mind, like earlier in the day when I crossed under the barbed-wire barricade at the demonstration, sat down with a group of activists and refused to move until the demo was over and every Palestinian had a chance to speak. And a week ago when I de-arrested a guy all by myself. And two weeks ago when I helped lock a certain someone to an olive tree in the path of the Apartheid Wall. The list goes on. It has been a whirlwind.
Since that night in Sheikh Jarrah, I have experienced Palestine differently. I think, in a more personally empowered and occupation exhausted way (I understand that this probably doesn’t make much sense). But what remains constant, is that I really like being here. I think everyone should come here. The third intifada is brewing and things are political relations are deteriorating fast but, inshallah, resistance is growing faster.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Trip's Proxy blogpost
Hello ya'll, so I have a half finished post and no time to complete it. Trip has been a bit sick lately so he had time to compose a nice mass email. Enjoy! xoxo
Hello family and friends! I’ve been promising myself and many of you that I would send out meaningful updates on my travels. I’ve pretty well failed at this. I apologize, and offer the following 24hours of events to sum up my life for the past few months.
I arrived in Palestine in December and have been working with the International Solidarity Movement since. It has been amazing and very very difficult. The following is not an abnormal 24hours, but it is an average active one. I’ve written the background on Sheikh Jarrah for those who I haven’t told about it yet as well as some background on the wall. Here goes:
Sheikh Jarrah – A neighborhood of East Jerusalem that I’ve spent most of my time in since arriving in the middle east. 28 families were relocated here by the UN and Jordan after being kicked out of their homes which were in what is now Israel in 1948 when the Israeli state was created. In August three families were kicked out of their homes again on the basis that Jews owned this land before 1948. Some of the family members are staying with relatives while others live in a tent on the street outside their house. Ultra-orthodox Jewish settlers now occupy all three homes in an attempt to change the ethnic balance of the neighborhood (ethnic cleansing) to establish a Jewish stronghold around the old city (holiest part of Jerusalem) and connect Jewish West Jerusalem to a Jewish settlement east of the city. This is all on the Palestinian side of the green line and therefore the settlements are illegal under international law. I have been staying with the family on, living on the street, documenting settler violence and aggression, supporting the families, holding night watch. By staying on the street in protest they are the front lines fighting against ethnic cleansing in one of the holiest cities in the world.
The Wall – The wall has many names. Separation fence, separation wall, apartheid wall, etc. It separates people who live on the Israeli side from people who live on the Palestinian side. It steals Palestinian land and cuts through people’s fields, separates people from their olive orchards and their communities and it is a constant reminder of the racist occupation. In some places it dips 5 to 10 kilometers into the West Bank, stealing thousands of hectares of land which Palestinians used for their lively hood. As a result, it is illegal under international law.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010:
6:30PM Dinner is served on the street in Sheikh Jarrah. I’ve been making lasagna all afternoon for the community dinner that Jasmine and I started two months ago to bring Israeli, Palestinian and international activists together. There are 30 or more people here with a mix of dishes from all over the world. Food is delicious and this is the one time each week when everyone smiles for a couple of hours. I love it. It makes me very happy.
7:15PM A car pulls up and plays Palestinian music. People are dabke dancing and a game of hand ball breaks out. Five year olds and 30 year olds play side by side. A few settlers come and go from the Ghawi house but there is little tension. Spirits are high.
7:45PM Settlers are seen on cell phones at the gate of the Ghawi house. This usually means they are calling the police. Fun and games continue.
8:00PM Police arrive and announce on a loud speaker that there is to be no more ball played in the street. People argue with them. The game almost continues but the police arrest a neighborhood teenager. Seriously? It’s illegal to play ball if you’re Palestinian? Have these children not suffered enough, kicked out of their homes, living on the street while ultraorthodox jewish settlers live in the houses they were born in? A cop tells us that this dead end road is a “highway” and no ball is to be played.
8:10PM A neighborhood teenager sets the ball down but before kicking off he is grabbed by two soldiers who walk him towards their car. I am irate. I run in front of them and snap a photo but can’t bare the thought of writing one more report about one more arrest. They’re holding my friend. I loose control; I snap. This is unusual. I jump in front of the soldiers and let out a string of profanity that would make any sailor proud. Jasmine stands by. The soldiers stop and a small crowd gathers. An argument breaks out. I’m bear hugging the 19 year old they want to arrest. Jasmine is picking apart the soldiers grip one finger at a time. A few seconds later we’re walking briskly with our friend towards… anywhere there aren’t cops. He disappears.
8:30PM I’m so angry I’m still shaking, taking deep breaths to calm down, pacing. Kids are crying. How can they understand? Seeing this every day here has gotten to me. I sit around the fire barrel and smoke a cigarette. The occupation has gotten to me.
9:00PM All is quiet. This is normal. This is an improvement from the years of the second intifada, much less violence. We drink tea.
9:15AM Daniel, an Israeli activist arrives and asks us to come to a place where they’ve started construction on a new section of the wall for a demonstration the next morning at 7:30AM. Here, the wall goes through people’s yards. It separates houses from their olive trees, children from their swing sets. Here the wall is a few kilometers from the green line. This means it confiscates hundreds of acres of Palestinian land and is illegal under international law. We’re already planning on going and make plans to meet at 6AM.
10:30PM We go to sleep behind the protest tent. The cops confiscated the tent where the Ghawi family lived making them refugees for a third time. Now, there’s no separate covered space for those who stay up for night watch and those who catch a few hours of sleep before their shift begins. We sleep poorly; young Palestinians are loud.
5:30AM Brush teeth and go. It’s a long walk to the meeting spot.
6:15AM Downtown in the holy city. That means we’re on the Jewish side, west Jerusalem. We meet Daniel and joke about what the popular committee could have meant when they said a “creative” action was planned for this morning. We never know until we get there.
7:30AM The crew coalesces. A mix of Palestinians, some leaders of the non-violent movement, some supporters, a handful of Israelis and eight internationals. We discuss who can and cannot get arrested. A bulldozer is scheduled to uproot dozens of olive trees today. 100 year old trees that will die before they are replanted, roots torn out of the ground. Volunteers are requested to lock down to the trees. More creative than we expected.
8:00AM I’m chained to an olive tree. Two close friends hold sets of keys. The plan is to create a giant bear hug around the tree until I am eventually alone. Seems reasonable.
9:00AM Soldiers gather on all sides. They load tear gas canisters. I laugh about the witty comments I’ll try to make as they try to get me to unlock. I’ll tell them that they’re committing war crimes, that I’ll see them in the Hague, that they’ll come for the soldiers, not the presidents when everyone is tried by the war crimes tribunal. I don’t believe any of this, but I’m not planning on unlocking so I may as well think about something that will make me feel good. Cameras click everywhere. Video cameras roll.
9:30AM We get a call that the municipality has gotten the construction delayed. The bulldozers are called off. This makes me happy because my laptop power chord died and I have to find a mac store. That could take the rest of the day if I have to go to Tel Aviv. I’m glad this action ended earlier than expected.
12:00PM Back in Jerusalem and exhausted. Jasmine and I find a park and lay down in the sunny grass for a nap.
1:00PM We hear children… recess maybe? Roll over. Too tired.
1:30PM Children are too loud… must be surrounding us. Time to sit up. Eyes adjust to the light and HOLY SHIT! Javelin practice. There are 15 12 year olds with Olympic sized spears in front of us and we’re uncomfortably close to their target. We move. This place is crazy.
3:00PM Almost back in Sheikh Jarrah, I eat my daily falafel. I eat two every day, one at breakfast with sweet bread and an egg, one at lunch in a sandwich with veggies and hummus.
3:10PM We are recognized by a journalist from Turkey that I met 4 weeks ago. He and his camera man jump out of a car, they say they’ve been looking for us all week. They want to do a story on us staying in Sheikh Jarrah and supporting the struggle. They think people in Turkey will be inspired. I’m sad to learn that he means now… I’m still exhausted. I finish a coke and realize he’s already filming. Very embarrassing. Occupation makes us do things we wouldn’t normally… like drink coke products.
3:20PM Game on – be charming, convincing, focus on the children, hit all the buzz words – convince the world that the ethnic cleansing in Sheikh Jarrah is worth paying attention to.
3:30PM Interview over, journalist gone. Damn, it’s getting late and I still don’t have a charger.
3:40PM Charger located by another journalist who knew of the only mac store around but it’s on the West Bank side of the wall. That means I’ll have to wait through the line at Qalandiya checkpoint. I hate the checkpoint.
5:00PM I have the charger and I’m waiting in line at Qalandiya. This could take 20 minutes but if the soldiers decide to go on break or mop the floors they could close the checkpoint for hours. What if you have work to get to? Doesn’t matter. This is occupation. There are two kids (6 years old?) that latch on to every white person. If I don’t buy gum they’ll grab my water bottle from my backpack, maybe my cell phone from my pocket. Their parents won’t let them come home until they’ve sold all their gum.
5:15PM I buy “cola” flavored gum. They don’t leave. The others in line help me shoe them away. I hate the occupation.
5:20PM Qalandiya is fast today. The bus leaves.
6:00PM Off the bus, I turn off the main road to Sheikh Jarrah excited about another dinner invitation by a neighborhood activist. There is a TV truck in front of me. This is bad. Something is happening. Something big enough to warrant a live broadcast. Shit shit shit. I’m running.
6:01PM I arrive at Sheikh Jarrah in time to see 40 or 60 Muslim men finish praying. This is odd. People I know usher me into a friend’s yard where everyone has just sat down to dinner. What? Who are these people? I thought there would be 6 or 8 people talking about the demonstration scheduled for this weekend. I’m confused and happy. I eat a ton of food. Muslim leaders from all over Jerusalem have come tonight to support the families of Sheikh Jarrah. A prayer and dabke dancing followed.
Hello family and friends! I’ve been promising myself and many of you that I would send out meaningful updates on my travels. I’ve pretty well failed at this. I apologize, and offer the following 24hours of events to sum up my life for the past few months.
I arrived in Palestine in December and have been working with the International Solidarity Movement since. It has been amazing and very very difficult. The following is not an abnormal 24hours, but it is an average active one. I’ve written the background on Sheikh Jarrah for those who I haven’t told about it yet as well as some background on the wall. Here goes:
Sheikh Jarrah – A neighborhood of East Jerusalem that I’ve spent most of my time in since arriving in the middle east. 28 families were relocated here by the UN and Jordan after being kicked out of their homes which were in what is now Israel in 1948 when the Israeli state was created. In August three families were kicked out of their homes again on the basis that Jews owned this land before 1948. Some of the family members are staying with relatives while others live in a tent on the street outside their house. Ultra-orthodox Jewish settlers now occupy all three homes in an attempt to change the ethnic balance of the neighborhood (ethnic cleansing) to establish a Jewish stronghold around the old city (holiest part of Jerusalem) and connect Jewish West Jerusalem to a Jewish settlement east of the city. This is all on the Palestinian side of the green line and therefore the settlements are illegal under international law. I have been staying with the family on, living on the street, documenting settler violence and aggression, supporting the families, holding night watch. By staying on the street in protest they are the front lines fighting against ethnic cleansing in one of the holiest cities in the world.
The Wall – The wall has many names. Separation fence, separation wall, apartheid wall, etc. It separates people who live on the Israeli side from people who live on the Palestinian side. It steals Palestinian land and cuts through people’s fields, separates people from their olive orchards and their communities and it is a constant reminder of the racist occupation. In some places it dips 5 to 10 kilometers into the West Bank, stealing thousands of hectares of land which Palestinians used for their lively hood. As a result, it is illegal under international law.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010:
6:30PM Dinner is served on the street in Sheikh Jarrah. I’ve been making lasagna all afternoon for the community dinner that Jasmine and I started two months ago to bring Israeli, Palestinian and international activists together. There are 30 or more people here with a mix of dishes from all over the world. Food is delicious and this is the one time each week when everyone smiles for a couple of hours. I love it. It makes me very happy.
7:15PM A car pulls up and plays Palestinian music. People are dabke dancing and a game of hand ball breaks out. Five year olds and 30 year olds play side by side. A few settlers come and go from the Ghawi house but there is little tension. Spirits are high.
7:45PM Settlers are seen on cell phones at the gate of the Ghawi house. This usually means they are calling the police. Fun and games continue.
8:00PM Police arrive and announce on a loud speaker that there is to be no more ball played in the street. People argue with them. The game almost continues but the police arrest a neighborhood teenager. Seriously? It’s illegal to play ball if you’re Palestinian? Have these children not suffered enough, kicked out of their homes, living on the street while ultraorthodox jewish settlers live in the houses they were born in? A cop tells us that this dead end road is a “highway” and no ball is to be played.
8:10PM A neighborhood teenager sets the ball down but before kicking off he is grabbed by two soldiers who walk him towards their car. I am irate. I run in front of them and snap a photo but can’t bare the thought of writing one more report about one more arrest. They’re holding my friend. I loose control; I snap. This is unusual. I jump in front of the soldiers and let out a string of profanity that would make any sailor proud. Jasmine stands by. The soldiers stop and a small crowd gathers. An argument breaks out. I’m bear hugging the 19 year old they want to arrest. Jasmine is picking apart the soldiers grip one finger at a time. A few seconds later we’re walking briskly with our friend towards… anywhere there aren’t cops. He disappears.
8:30PM I’m so angry I’m still shaking, taking deep breaths to calm down, pacing. Kids are crying. How can they understand? Seeing this every day here has gotten to me. I sit around the fire barrel and smoke a cigarette. The occupation has gotten to me.
9:00PM All is quiet. This is normal. This is an improvement from the years of the second intifada, much less violence. We drink tea.
9:15AM Daniel, an Israeli activist arrives and asks us to come to a place where they’ve started construction on a new section of the wall for a demonstration the next morning at 7:30AM. Here, the wall goes through people’s yards. It separates houses from their olive trees, children from their swing sets. Here the wall is a few kilometers from the green line. This means it confiscates hundreds of acres of Palestinian land and is illegal under international law. We’re already planning on going and make plans to meet at 6AM.
10:30PM We go to sleep behind the protest tent. The cops confiscated the tent where the Ghawi family lived making them refugees for a third time. Now, there’s no separate covered space for those who stay up for night watch and those who catch a few hours of sleep before their shift begins. We sleep poorly; young Palestinians are loud.
5:30AM Brush teeth and go. It’s a long walk to the meeting spot.
6:15AM Downtown in the holy city. That means we’re on the Jewish side, west Jerusalem. We meet Daniel and joke about what the popular committee could have meant when they said a “creative” action was planned for this morning. We never know until we get there.
7:30AM The crew coalesces. A mix of Palestinians, some leaders of the non-violent movement, some supporters, a handful of Israelis and eight internationals. We discuss who can and cannot get arrested. A bulldozer is scheduled to uproot dozens of olive trees today. 100 year old trees that will die before they are replanted, roots torn out of the ground. Volunteers are requested to lock down to the trees. More creative than we expected.
8:00AM I’m chained to an olive tree. Two close friends hold sets of keys. The plan is to create a giant bear hug around the tree until I am eventually alone. Seems reasonable.
9:00AM Soldiers gather on all sides. They load tear gas canisters. I laugh about the witty comments I’ll try to make as they try to get me to unlock. I’ll tell them that they’re committing war crimes, that I’ll see them in the Hague, that they’ll come for the soldiers, not the presidents when everyone is tried by the war crimes tribunal. I don’t believe any of this, but I’m not planning on unlocking so I may as well think about something that will make me feel good. Cameras click everywhere. Video cameras roll.
9:30AM We get a call that the municipality has gotten the construction delayed. The bulldozers are called off. This makes me happy because my laptop power chord died and I have to find a mac store. That could take the rest of the day if I have to go to Tel Aviv. I’m glad this action ended earlier than expected.
12:00PM Back in Jerusalem and exhausted. Jasmine and I find a park and lay down in the sunny grass for a nap.
1:00PM We hear children… recess maybe? Roll over. Too tired.
1:30PM Children are too loud… must be surrounding us. Time to sit up. Eyes adjust to the light and HOLY SHIT! Javelin practice. There are 15 12 year olds with Olympic sized spears in front of us and we’re uncomfortably close to their target. We move. This place is crazy.
3:00PM Almost back in Sheikh Jarrah, I eat my daily falafel. I eat two every day, one at breakfast with sweet bread and an egg, one at lunch in a sandwich with veggies and hummus.
3:10PM We are recognized by a journalist from Turkey that I met 4 weeks ago. He and his camera man jump out of a car, they say they’ve been looking for us all week. They want to do a story on us staying in Sheikh Jarrah and supporting the struggle. They think people in Turkey will be inspired. I’m sad to learn that he means now… I’m still exhausted. I finish a coke and realize he’s already filming. Very embarrassing. Occupation makes us do things we wouldn’t normally… like drink coke products.
3:20PM Game on – be charming, convincing, focus on the children, hit all the buzz words – convince the world that the ethnic cleansing in Sheikh Jarrah is worth paying attention to.
3:30PM Interview over, journalist gone. Damn, it’s getting late and I still don’t have a charger.
3:40PM Charger located by another journalist who knew of the only mac store around but it’s on the West Bank side of the wall. That means I’ll have to wait through the line at Qalandiya checkpoint. I hate the checkpoint.
5:00PM I have the charger and I’m waiting in line at Qalandiya. This could take 20 minutes but if the soldiers decide to go on break or mop the floors they could close the checkpoint for hours. What if you have work to get to? Doesn’t matter. This is occupation. There are two kids (6 years old?) that latch on to every white person. If I don’t buy gum they’ll grab my water bottle from my backpack, maybe my cell phone from my pocket. Their parents won’t let them come home until they’ve sold all their gum.
5:15PM I buy “cola” flavored gum. They don’t leave. The others in line help me shoe them away. I hate the occupation.
5:20PM Qalandiya is fast today. The bus leaves.
6:00PM Off the bus, I turn off the main road to Sheikh Jarrah excited about another dinner invitation by a neighborhood activist. There is a TV truck in front of me. This is bad. Something is happening. Something big enough to warrant a live broadcast. Shit shit shit. I’m running.
6:01PM I arrive at Sheikh Jarrah in time to see 40 or 60 Muslim men finish praying. This is odd. People I know usher me into a friend’s yard where everyone has just sat down to dinner. What? Who are these people? I thought there would be 6 or 8 people talking about the demonstration scheduled for this weekend. I’m confused and happy. I eat a ton of food. Muslim leaders from all over Jerusalem have come tonight to support the families of Sheikh Jarrah. A prayer and dabke dancing followed.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
One day from start to finish
Life in Palestine is best described on a daily basis. Here is my Wednesday February 24, 2010:
The sun was warm and strong as it woke me from my couch pillow bed on the floor of the Al-Kurd tent. Normally, the children from the house next door are up and about, screaming and playing beginning around 7am but today I either slept through it or they were inside sick. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, found my shoes (hidden from the settlers under a couch in the tent), checked my watch and walked out into the Al-Kurd/Settler shared walkway. Trip and Bridget were already circled around the remaining warmth of the fire on the sidewalk Gawi camp. Nasser was off to the side chatting with another neighborhood guy. It was almost 11am and the previous night I had made plans for Trip and I to smoke hookah and drink tea with my friend, Hiba, who lives in Sheikh Jarrah.
I gathered my toothbrush, change of clothe, cell phone chargers and Trip for our morning tea party. We walked down the block, past the ever-present police vehicle, took a left at the home that was recently defaced with a tag translating to “Death to Arabs,” continued up the hill, turned right at the now settler-occupied Hanoun house and made our way to Hiba’s home.
Hiba was just getting her morning started so we waited on the deck, picking lemons from the tree, carving off the sweet smelling peel, and dipping the sour flesh into a bowl of sugar. When Hiba emerged from her home, she surprised us by presenting us with chocolate cake with sprinkles! “College! Cake for breakfast!!!” Trip and I laughed aloud in tandem. This was the running joke at the Lorax, where we often had housemates working at local sweet shops and would frequently wake up to day-old delights. Hiba had saved us some cake from last night’s dinner and we were oh-so-happy. We ate cake, sipped tea and smoked hookah. Either the shesha is stronger here or I am so out of practice because while Trip was off practicing smoke rings, I was getting super light headed.
We were soon joined by Hiba’s aunt who fed us nuts and seeds. I impressed everyone (or at least myself) with my ability to crack sunflower and watermelon seeds open with my front teeth, Palestinian style. She told us about her life as a teacher in Ramallah and then about her fear of receiving “the papers.”
In Shiekh Jarrah, “the papers” is an ominous reference to an eviction notice. Unless court battle outcomes change, or international law is adhered to, “the papers” mean imminent loss. I learn that a few weeks ago two more homes in Sheikh Jarrah received “the papers.” A sad silence fell over us all that went unbroken for some minutes.
When the shesha was spent, we went inside to charge our electronics and freshen up a bit. The previous day, Hiba had given me a bag full of her old clothe (the woman in Sheikh Jarrah seem to disapprove of my traveler free-pile-style). So now I am wearing super tight light washed jeans, a blue stripped linen shirt and a pink cartagin with a hood. Later in the evening, Ayman, the 19 year old oldest son in the Gawi family would walk up to me and say “You look beautiful….what’s wrong with you?” hahaha
After the relaxing morning, Hiba and I set off for the market to buy food for the weekly Wednesday night dinner I started back in January. This week, we are making kosahart or summer squash. We buy the squash from one of the old woman who sell produce on the sidewalks. I’ve always wanted to buy from them but have never really needed anything that they sell; squash, grape leaves, zatar spice, leafy greens. Hiba negotiated a good price for the squash, 8 shekels for 2 kilos. We also bought the seasonal delicacy, green almonds, for 5 shekels.
For the past month, almond trees across Palestine have been in full bloom. Filled with small white blossoms, the trees speckle the terraced Palestinian country side and beautifully contrast with the grey-green olive trees. Until now, I have only heard of green almonds and was always a little bewildered by the idea. The whole thing is green, the outer shell and inner baby almond. They have a texture that is not quite as strong as a carrot. The flavor is accentuated by copious amounts of salt and is fresh, slightly bitter and crisp.
We arrive back in Sheikh Jarrah to meet the municipality as they attempt to destroy the Gawi sidewalk camp. They manage to grab a table (I am sad because now we need to find a new table for the dinner that evening) but we act quickly enough to move most of the plastic chairs and benches into a neighbor’s yard.
After the municipality leaves, we are disturbed by the settlers occupying the Gawi home. They have caught on to the idea of having cameras on hand and were standing across the street filming us. Nasser sets the tone by standing up, placing one foot onto the plastic chair, bending forward with his hand under his chin and smiling for the camera. Next, he turns around, lifts up his long jacket and gives them a nice butt shot. The children are rolling on the ground with laughter and Hiba and I decide to join in. We do a few Madonna poses and set up a catwalk. I end my catwalk with a handstand that I was able to hold for what I think is an impressive amount of time.
By this point, the settlers have gotten the point that, in their attempt to mock us, we have turned the tables. They leave but the fun continues. I put a mattress on the ground and show the kids how to do headstands, backbends and other fun flips. Soon, roller blade and bikes are produced. This scene is sadly missing hula hoops because the previous day they were confiscated by the municipality, AGAIN!
Around 4pm we go back to Hiba’s house to cook kosahart. I chopped, she directed. In a few hours we had a delicious squash, tomato and rice dish to serve. I am not one to brag, but I am becoming quite a good Palestinian wife…at least in the kitchen. Hiba also makes popcorn on the stove-my favorite food in the world.
At 6pm we bring the food down to the Gawi camp. By 6:15 everything is ready to eat, including super super delicious malfoof, a rice stuffed steamed cabbage roll made by Nasser’s wife. I am really excited about the malfoof because it takes for-fucking-ever to roll and stuff each one so it is a special occasion food for sure. I’m glad that she thinks of these dinners as special occasions. It makes me feel like we are doing good things here. In about 20 minutes the crowd of neighbors and internationals have finished all the food. In 20 more minutes, the Israelis show up with their dishes.
The atmosphere is really wonderful. We meet Israeli activists working for Sheikh Jarrah, a doctor from the UK that just got back from a weeklong intensive training session in Gaza, internationals who have come to just check things out and more neighbors who are slowing being drawn out of their homes by the community activities.
When dinner ends, Maisoon, Nasser’s wife, schools us all in jump rope. Adam, their second youngest son, who I recognize as the canary for stress levels at Sheikh Jarrah, is jumping up and down screaming with laughter.
In a few confusing moments later, everything has changed. Adam isn’t laughing. He is crying. A line of 20 settlers, teenage boys and young men, file into the occupied Al-Kurd house. They are preparing for Purim, a big, multiday religious holiday that involves a lot of alcohol consumption. Their egos are high and after a great community dinner, so are those of the neighborhood residents.
Insult slinging rapidly escalates into yelling matches, which escalates into something more physical. Roughly 30 settlers, 30 Palestinians and 60 military and police descend into the 40x40 foot front yard of the Al-Kurds. What happened for the next few hours can only be describe as a riot. A full on riot.
Media, internationals, Israeli activists join the crowd to document and deescalate. Neighborhood kids find empty containers and sticks and drum out what seems like war beats. Chaos can be found in every corner.
Each child in the Gawi family is reacting differently. 19 month old Sara is silently watching everything from her mother’s arms. 4 year old Adam is screaming with tears running down his cheeks. 6 year old Abudullah is drumming. 10 year old Muhammad is wandering around and 19 year old Ayman has so much rage in his eyes that he must get out of Sheikh Jarrah as soon as possible to avoid what could easily be a very bad situation.
I’m taking video and photos of the events. I take a short break to explain what is happening to a Swedish couple who came by to learn more about the situation (nice timing, eh?) and again later to a few Israelis who are on their way home from the gym and saw the police vehicles clogging the streets. I ask the gym-goers if live in Jerusalem. They tell me yes. I ask if they have ever heard of Sheikh Jarrah. They tell me no. I start from the beginning, repeatedly encouraging them to read more about it online. I am unable to finish my discussion because police interrupt us and tell us to disperse.
The other thing distracting me throughout the events is this idea that something must be done for the kids. After this thought nags me for a few minutes, I rush to the corner market and fill a bag with candy bars and juice boxes. When I get back to the Al-Kurd lawn everything is more or less the same. Fight here-fight there-people rushing from one to the other. I seek out the children in the mess of it all and pass them the treats. The first girl I see is peeking over the 2 meter tall wall that divides her home from the Al-Kurds. She seems confused by the offer, but after a few words in Arabic, accepts the candy. Next, I find Adam. He is still crying. I make eye contact with him and hold out a candy bar and juice box. He continues to cry. I place it in the kangaroo pouch of his sweater.
The riot more or less ends when police spray pepper spray into the face of a Palestinian mother holding her one year old girl. Neighbors produce bags of milk (yep-milk in bags, not cartons here) to counteract the sting. We are all coughing. I see the police chief and yell at him “who sprayed pepper spray? why did you spray her???” He flips me off and tells me he doesn’t speak English…in perfect English.
After the riots stop, the Israeli activists gather in a semi-circle around the entrance to the Al-Kurd house and lead pro-Palestinian, pro-Sheikh Jarrah chants. This lifts everyone’s spirits and calms the mood significantly. I make up my own words based on the Hebrew that I hear: Sheikh Jarrah la ki lu-la la leeta sha she shuuuu!!!
After this, I make my way over to the fire where we have been instructed by the police to go if we do not want to be arrested. I take a seat next to Abdullah who was hit in the knee by a settler and now has a bandage going from his mid-calf to mid-thigh. I offer him a juice box and candy bar. He accepts but shows me with a frustrated and exhausted look that he can’t open either because his knuckles have also been bandaged, preventing him from bending his hand. I open the juice and candy and pass it back to him. Soon, his brother Adam emerges and pulls out his candy and juice from where I stashed it earlier in his kangaroo pouch. They sit together, sad, exhausted, hurt. Sipping juice and munching on treats. Maisoon, their mother walks up and asked where they got the snacks. In unison, they look up at me. She and I make eye contact and she gives me a sly wink and a grateful smile. By 11pm, Adam and Abdullah are asleep in the plastic chairs by the fire. A neighbor drives up shortly after and we load them into the car so they can go back to their rented home.
By 1am all is calm in Sheikh Jarrah. The solitary police vehicle is in its spot, the moon is bright, the shebab are smoking cigarettes around the fire and absolutely no sign of the evening’s chaos remains.
This is Palestine.
The sun was warm and strong as it woke me from my couch pillow bed on the floor of the Al-Kurd tent. Normally, the children from the house next door are up and about, screaming and playing beginning around 7am but today I either slept through it or they were inside sick. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, found my shoes (hidden from the settlers under a couch in the tent), checked my watch and walked out into the Al-Kurd/Settler shared walkway. Trip and Bridget were already circled around the remaining warmth of the fire on the sidewalk Gawi camp. Nasser was off to the side chatting with another neighborhood guy. It was almost 11am and the previous night I had made plans for Trip and I to smoke hookah and drink tea with my friend, Hiba, who lives in Sheikh Jarrah.
I gathered my toothbrush, change of clothe, cell phone chargers and Trip for our morning tea party. We walked down the block, past the ever-present police vehicle, took a left at the home that was recently defaced with a tag translating to “Death to Arabs,” continued up the hill, turned right at the now settler-occupied Hanoun house and made our way to Hiba’s home.
Hiba was just getting her morning started so we waited on the deck, picking lemons from the tree, carving off the sweet smelling peel, and dipping the sour flesh into a bowl of sugar. When Hiba emerged from her home, she surprised us by presenting us with chocolate cake with sprinkles! “College! Cake for breakfast!!!” Trip and I laughed aloud in tandem. This was the running joke at the Lorax, where we often had housemates working at local sweet shops and would frequently wake up to day-old delights. Hiba had saved us some cake from last night’s dinner and we were oh-so-happy. We ate cake, sipped tea and smoked hookah. Either the shesha is stronger here or I am so out of practice because while Trip was off practicing smoke rings, I was getting super light headed.
We were soon joined by Hiba’s aunt who fed us nuts and seeds. I impressed everyone (or at least myself) with my ability to crack sunflower and watermelon seeds open with my front teeth, Palestinian style. She told us about her life as a teacher in Ramallah and then about her fear of receiving “the papers.”
In Shiekh Jarrah, “the papers” is an ominous reference to an eviction notice. Unless court battle outcomes change, or international law is adhered to, “the papers” mean imminent loss. I learn that a few weeks ago two more homes in Sheikh Jarrah received “the papers.” A sad silence fell over us all that went unbroken for some minutes.
When the shesha was spent, we went inside to charge our electronics and freshen up a bit. The previous day, Hiba had given me a bag full of her old clothe (the woman in Sheikh Jarrah seem to disapprove of my traveler free-pile-style). So now I am wearing super tight light washed jeans, a blue stripped linen shirt and a pink cartagin with a hood. Later in the evening, Ayman, the 19 year old oldest son in the Gawi family would walk up to me and say “You look beautiful….what’s wrong with you?” hahaha
After the relaxing morning, Hiba and I set off for the market to buy food for the weekly Wednesday night dinner I started back in January. This week, we are making kosahart or summer squash. We buy the squash from one of the old woman who sell produce on the sidewalks. I’ve always wanted to buy from them but have never really needed anything that they sell; squash, grape leaves, zatar spice, leafy greens. Hiba negotiated a good price for the squash, 8 shekels for 2 kilos. We also bought the seasonal delicacy, green almonds, for 5 shekels.
For the past month, almond trees across Palestine have been in full bloom. Filled with small white blossoms, the trees speckle the terraced Palestinian country side and beautifully contrast with the grey-green olive trees. Until now, I have only heard of green almonds and was always a little bewildered by the idea. The whole thing is green, the outer shell and inner baby almond. They have a texture that is not quite as strong as a carrot. The flavor is accentuated by copious amounts of salt and is fresh, slightly bitter and crisp.
We arrive back in Sheikh Jarrah to meet the municipality as they attempt to destroy the Gawi sidewalk camp. They manage to grab a table (I am sad because now we need to find a new table for the dinner that evening) but we act quickly enough to move most of the plastic chairs and benches into a neighbor’s yard.
After the municipality leaves, we are disturbed by the settlers occupying the Gawi home. They have caught on to the idea of having cameras on hand and were standing across the street filming us. Nasser sets the tone by standing up, placing one foot onto the plastic chair, bending forward with his hand under his chin and smiling for the camera. Next, he turns around, lifts up his long jacket and gives them a nice butt shot. The children are rolling on the ground with laughter and Hiba and I decide to join in. We do a few Madonna poses and set up a catwalk. I end my catwalk with a handstand that I was able to hold for what I think is an impressive amount of time.
By this point, the settlers have gotten the point that, in their attempt to mock us, we have turned the tables. They leave but the fun continues. I put a mattress on the ground and show the kids how to do headstands, backbends and other fun flips. Soon, roller blade and bikes are produced. This scene is sadly missing hula hoops because the previous day they were confiscated by the municipality, AGAIN!
Around 4pm we go back to Hiba’s house to cook kosahart. I chopped, she directed. In a few hours we had a delicious squash, tomato and rice dish to serve. I am not one to brag, but I am becoming quite a good Palestinian wife…at least in the kitchen. Hiba also makes popcorn on the stove-my favorite food in the world.
At 6pm we bring the food down to the Gawi camp. By 6:15 everything is ready to eat, including super super delicious malfoof, a rice stuffed steamed cabbage roll made by Nasser’s wife. I am really excited about the malfoof because it takes for-fucking-ever to roll and stuff each one so it is a special occasion food for sure. I’m glad that she thinks of these dinners as special occasions. It makes me feel like we are doing good things here. In about 20 minutes the crowd of neighbors and internationals have finished all the food. In 20 more minutes, the Israelis show up with their dishes.
The atmosphere is really wonderful. We meet Israeli activists working for Sheikh Jarrah, a doctor from the UK that just got back from a weeklong intensive training session in Gaza, internationals who have come to just check things out and more neighbors who are slowing being drawn out of their homes by the community activities.
When dinner ends, Maisoon, Nasser’s wife, schools us all in jump rope. Adam, their second youngest son, who I recognize as the canary for stress levels at Sheikh Jarrah, is jumping up and down screaming with laughter.
In a few confusing moments later, everything has changed. Adam isn’t laughing. He is crying. A line of 20 settlers, teenage boys and young men, file into the occupied Al-Kurd house. They are preparing for Purim, a big, multiday religious holiday that involves a lot of alcohol consumption. Their egos are high and after a great community dinner, so are those of the neighborhood residents.
Insult slinging rapidly escalates into yelling matches, which escalates into something more physical. Roughly 30 settlers, 30 Palestinians and 60 military and police descend into the 40x40 foot front yard of the Al-Kurds. What happened for the next few hours can only be describe as a riot. A full on riot.
Media, internationals, Israeli activists join the crowd to document and deescalate. Neighborhood kids find empty containers and sticks and drum out what seems like war beats. Chaos can be found in every corner.
Each child in the Gawi family is reacting differently. 19 month old Sara is silently watching everything from her mother’s arms. 4 year old Adam is screaming with tears running down his cheeks. 6 year old Abudullah is drumming. 10 year old Muhammad is wandering around and 19 year old Ayman has so much rage in his eyes that he must get out of Sheikh Jarrah as soon as possible to avoid what could easily be a very bad situation.
I’m taking video and photos of the events. I take a short break to explain what is happening to a Swedish couple who came by to learn more about the situation (nice timing, eh?) and again later to a few Israelis who are on their way home from the gym and saw the police vehicles clogging the streets. I ask the gym-goers if live in Jerusalem. They tell me yes. I ask if they have ever heard of Sheikh Jarrah. They tell me no. I start from the beginning, repeatedly encouraging them to read more about it online. I am unable to finish my discussion because police interrupt us and tell us to disperse.
The other thing distracting me throughout the events is this idea that something must be done for the kids. After this thought nags me for a few minutes, I rush to the corner market and fill a bag with candy bars and juice boxes. When I get back to the Al-Kurd lawn everything is more or less the same. Fight here-fight there-people rushing from one to the other. I seek out the children in the mess of it all and pass them the treats. The first girl I see is peeking over the 2 meter tall wall that divides her home from the Al-Kurds. She seems confused by the offer, but after a few words in Arabic, accepts the candy. Next, I find Adam. He is still crying. I make eye contact with him and hold out a candy bar and juice box. He continues to cry. I place it in the kangaroo pouch of his sweater.
The riot more or less ends when police spray pepper spray into the face of a Palestinian mother holding her one year old girl. Neighbors produce bags of milk (yep-milk in bags, not cartons here) to counteract the sting. We are all coughing. I see the police chief and yell at him “who sprayed pepper spray? why did you spray her???” He flips me off and tells me he doesn’t speak English…in perfect English.
After the riots stop, the Israeli activists gather in a semi-circle around the entrance to the Al-Kurd house and lead pro-Palestinian, pro-Sheikh Jarrah chants. This lifts everyone’s spirits and calms the mood significantly. I make up my own words based on the Hebrew that I hear: Sheikh Jarrah la ki lu-la la leeta sha she shuuuu!!!
After this, I make my way over to the fire where we have been instructed by the police to go if we do not want to be arrested. I take a seat next to Abdullah who was hit in the knee by a settler and now has a bandage going from his mid-calf to mid-thigh. I offer him a juice box and candy bar. He accepts but shows me with a frustrated and exhausted look that he can’t open either because his knuckles have also been bandaged, preventing him from bending his hand. I open the juice and candy and pass it back to him. Soon, his brother Adam emerges and pulls out his candy and juice from where I stashed it earlier in his kangaroo pouch. They sit together, sad, exhausted, hurt. Sipping juice and munching on treats. Maisoon, their mother walks up and asked where they got the snacks. In unison, they look up at me. She and I make eye contact and she gives me a sly wink and a grateful smile. By 11pm, Adam and Abdullah are asleep in the plastic chairs by the fire. A neighbor drives up shortly after and we load them into the car so they can go back to their rented home.
By 1am all is calm in Sheikh Jarrah. The solitary police vehicle is in its spot, the moon is bright, the shebab are smoking cigarettes around the fire and absolutely no sign of the evening’s chaos remains.
This is Palestine.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Storm after the calm
For five days earlier this month, I physically removed myself from the West Bank and occupied east Jerusalem for a vacation with my sister. What I found however, is that it was impossible for me to mentally separate myself. To cope with my physical absence from the occupation, I found a book to read called In the Company of Soldiers; a book about the first months of the invasion of Iraq and how it rapidly evolved from a war to an occupation. Normally, I’m not sure I would find this book so interesting, but being in the state of mind that I am in right now, I ate it up. I couldn’t put it down-it became my lifeline for sanity. Whenever I felt overwhelmed by thoughts, fears and hopes about Israel, about Palestine, I found solace in this book. It served as a way for me to indulge my military-occupation-war-resistance focused mind without thinking about Israel or Palestine. In a previous update, I wrote about the nervous hum I have developed and how I’m starting to wonder if my characteristics now are indicative of lifelong personality traits. I now wonder if after being here my mind will ever fully unwind from this militerized mentality. When Kasey and I were together, I noticed that most of my conversation topics focused on some aspect of the conflict. For me, the conflict topics seemed logical because we were in Israel, rather than Egypt so daily life was not just reminding me, but rather, blinking neon Las Vegas style signs in my face-how could I not think about this?? Dead Sea=boycott campaign against Dead Sea beauty products. Did you know that all of these mountains behind us are Closed Military Zones? Do you think the Border Police would stop me if I floated to Jordan?
Don’t get me wrong, I am so eternally grateful that Kasey came to visit me. It has been a long time since I’ve seen family and I was very glad to spend a large amount of uninterrupted time with my sister. These are just my observations about myself.
Friday evening, after Kasey had safely crossed back into Egypt and was en route back to America, I returned to Sheikh Jarrah in occupied east Jerusalem. It was around 5pm and the weekly demonstration was ending. Police were still blocking access to the street where the tents/homes are located (to guard the settlers from the 500+ nonviolent protesters against the ethnic cleansing of east Jerusalem). I met up with some activist friends and one offered to show me the back way in so I could reunite with the families. We walked up the road, down a few steps, over a wall, down the grassy hillside, over another wall and out the front gate of a neighbor’s home. Military was present in the streets and trying to clear people away. My big backpack and I managed to grab their attention and they started walking towards me. Luckily, I also grabbed the attention of the neighborhood kids and before the military had a chance to speak with me, I was surrounded by a handful of kids under the age of ten showing me their new hula hooping skills. Hula hoop blockade! An extra hoop was produced for me and I set down my pack and joined in. I kept an eye on the military folk and they seemed a bit confused about how to navigate this situation. Eventually, the hoop blockade wore down and they approached me and asked for ID. At this moment, a neighbor and wonderful activist, Salah, saw me and interrupted the military man to give me a hug and welcome me back to the neighborhood. Despite Salah’s insistence that I was a neighborhood resident, the soldier wanted to see ID anyway. Salah and I walked with him to the military truck and I showed him my passport. All the while Salah is still insisting that I live there and they should not bother me. After a few minutes, they got distracted with something else and I just walked away.
I was welcomed back to Sheikh Jarrah with smiles, hugs and hula hoops. It was one of the most heartwarming welcomings of my entire life. I didn’t realize how connected to the community there I had become until I left and I didn’t know how much they appreciated me until I returned. It was an amazing moment and feeling that I will never forget.
I spent 5 of the next 7 days at Sheikh Jarrah. Usually, people get too exhausted after two or three days on the streets but I was so happy to be back there that I remained energetic and excited to be there for almost the whole week. I have really become attuned to the atmosphere at Sheikh Jarrah. When I left for vacation, tensions were high and harassment was commonplace. However, this past week has been very light and calm. The young settler boys seem to not be hanging out so much anymore, severely decreasing the amount of clashes. There were no Zionist real estate settler tours this week either(yes, they are showing property in Sheikh Jarrah before the families are even evicted.
The best night was Wednesday. The weekly Wednesday dinners we host have really taken off and this week was super special because it was the first one after Nasser Gawi was allowed back into the neighborhood after the settler M-16 incident. His whole family was there, neighbors and friends too. All the shebab or young boys showed up as well.
I went to the Shufat refugee camp earlier in the day to cook a main course for the dinner with a friend. This was my first experience in a refugee camp and I was really surprised by what I saw-houses, apartments, shops, bus stops, cafes. I guess it is silly of me to think that after 60 years people would still be living in tents but I guess I didn’t know what to expect. The camp is just like every other neighborhood, except this one has a wall around it and a checkpoint to get in and out. The wall is The Wall (to separate Israel from Palestine) even though Shufat camp is legally in Jerusalem, due to its demographics (Palestinian), Israel has put it on the West Bank side of the barrier. So even though this area is in Israel, it is physically excluded by the Wall and a full military checkpoint (similar to the one you go through getting from Ramallah, Palestine to Jerusalem, Israel. My attempt at dinner was not totally successful and after 5 hours of cooking had only produced 8 vegetarian calzones. Out of time and patience, I slopped the meat calzone ingredients together and called it good. As I was doing this, I remembered that Palestinians eat everything with pita and I asked myself why I went to all this trouble putting things in individual breaded pockets when they would just do it anyway?
Well, the food proved too “hippie” for the neighborhood residents but they ate some of it anyway and still expressed gratitude. Luckily, one of the neighborhood girls made devils food cake and that really saved the meal. The kids brought out the hoops again, the shebab started playing anther one of their super creative and slightly violent games of tag and the little neighborhood girls let me pick them up and spin them around. Overall, this evening was another time when I felt very connected to the community and very glad to be here.
I ended my marathon stay at Sheikh Jarrah with the Friday demonstration. It was smaller than normal because thousand had flocked to the West Bank village of Bi’lin for their 5th anniversary protest against the Apartheid Wall which stole over 60% of their land. I went up to the demo for a bit, then back down to the Gawi camp (the back way, of course). It was a calm demo, without the tear gas, rubber coated steel bullets, Skunk water, sound bombs and live ammunition that I have become accustomed to on Friday Demo Day. When it ended I went to a neighbor’s house and we made another devils food cake and smoked hookah.
That evening, I did what I’ve wanted to do for the last 6 months-dance party!!!! I went out with some of the Israeli activists and shebab to a bar in West Jerusalem (Muslim east Jerusalem is not surprisingly lacking in the bar scene). We danced to old hip hop, took shots of arok (a licorice like liqueur common in the Middle East) and talked activist talk. By 3 though, the music quality had deteriorated significantly and now they were trying to get us all to the Macerana. Nope. I’m leaving.
After a super long and rewarding stay at Sheikh Jarrah I’ve made it back to Ramallah where I’m working on the ISM volunteer schedule for next week. We are sending people to Nabalus where ISM mostly responds to settler violence, to Bir Al-Eid where two Palestinians were shot at a checkpoint a few days ago and now villagers are afraid to access their fields unaccompanied, to Hebron where there is a demonstration Thursday to open the main road, Shuhuda Street to Palestinians instead of just settlers (in a town where the Palestinian to settler ratio is 4:1) and of course, Sheikh Jarrah.
This is the second night that I’ve stayed here since the raids occurred. When I finish typing this I will prepare for bed. This includes not just brushing my teeth but also putting my shoes where I can access them quickly, taking the SD card out of my camera, putting my passport within arms reach and lastly, stashing this computer so it does not get stolen.
Don’t get me wrong, I am so eternally grateful that Kasey came to visit me. It has been a long time since I’ve seen family and I was very glad to spend a large amount of uninterrupted time with my sister. These are just my observations about myself.
Friday evening, after Kasey had safely crossed back into Egypt and was en route back to America, I returned to Sheikh Jarrah in occupied east Jerusalem. It was around 5pm and the weekly demonstration was ending. Police were still blocking access to the street where the tents/homes are located (to guard the settlers from the 500+ nonviolent protesters against the ethnic cleansing of east Jerusalem). I met up with some activist friends and one offered to show me the back way in so I could reunite with the families. We walked up the road, down a few steps, over a wall, down the grassy hillside, over another wall and out the front gate of a neighbor’s home. Military was present in the streets and trying to clear people away. My big backpack and I managed to grab their attention and they started walking towards me. Luckily, I also grabbed the attention of the neighborhood kids and before the military had a chance to speak with me, I was surrounded by a handful of kids under the age of ten showing me their new hula hooping skills. Hula hoop blockade! An extra hoop was produced for me and I set down my pack and joined in. I kept an eye on the military folk and they seemed a bit confused about how to navigate this situation. Eventually, the hoop blockade wore down and they approached me and asked for ID. At this moment, a neighbor and wonderful activist, Salah, saw me and interrupted the military man to give me a hug and welcome me back to the neighborhood. Despite Salah’s insistence that I was a neighborhood resident, the soldier wanted to see ID anyway. Salah and I walked with him to the military truck and I showed him my passport. All the while Salah is still insisting that I live there and they should not bother me. After a few minutes, they got distracted with something else and I just walked away.
I was welcomed back to Sheikh Jarrah with smiles, hugs and hula hoops. It was one of the most heartwarming welcomings of my entire life. I didn’t realize how connected to the community there I had become until I left and I didn’t know how much they appreciated me until I returned. It was an amazing moment and feeling that I will never forget.
I spent 5 of the next 7 days at Sheikh Jarrah. Usually, people get too exhausted after two or three days on the streets but I was so happy to be back there that I remained energetic and excited to be there for almost the whole week. I have really become attuned to the atmosphere at Sheikh Jarrah. When I left for vacation, tensions were high and harassment was commonplace. However, this past week has been very light and calm. The young settler boys seem to not be hanging out so much anymore, severely decreasing the amount of clashes. There were no Zionist real estate settler tours this week either(yes, they are showing property in Sheikh Jarrah before the families are even evicted.
The best night was Wednesday. The weekly Wednesday dinners we host have really taken off and this week was super special because it was the first one after Nasser Gawi was allowed back into the neighborhood after the settler M-16 incident. His whole family was there, neighbors and friends too. All the shebab or young boys showed up as well.
I went to the Shufat refugee camp earlier in the day to cook a main course for the dinner with a friend. This was my first experience in a refugee camp and I was really surprised by what I saw-houses, apartments, shops, bus stops, cafes. I guess it is silly of me to think that after 60 years people would still be living in tents but I guess I didn’t know what to expect. The camp is just like every other neighborhood, except this one has a wall around it and a checkpoint to get in and out. The wall is The Wall (to separate Israel from Palestine) even though Shufat camp is legally in Jerusalem, due to its demographics (Palestinian), Israel has put it on the West Bank side of the barrier. So even though this area is in Israel, it is physically excluded by the Wall and a full military checkpoint (similar to the one you go through getting from Ramallah, Palestine to Jerusalem, Israel. My attempt at dinner was not totally successful and after 5 hours of cooking had only produced 8 vegetarian calzones. Out of time and patience, I slopped the meat calzone ingredients together and called it good. As I was doing this, I remembered that Palestinians eat everything with pita and I asked myself why I went to all this trouble putting things in individual breaded pockets when they would just do it anyway?
Well, the food proved too “hippie” for the neighborhood residents but they ate some of it anyway and still expressed gratitude. Luckily, one of the neighborhood girls made devils food cake and that really saved the meal. The kids brought out the hoops again, the shebab started playing anther one of their super creative and slightly violent games of tag and the little neighborhood girls let me pick them up and spin them around. Overall, this evening was another time when I felt very connected to the community and very glad to be here.
I ended my marathon stay at Sheikh Jarrah with the Friday demonstration. It was smaller than normal because thousand had flocked to the West Bank village of Bi’lin for their 5th anniversary protest against the Apartheid Wall which stole over 60% of their land. I went up to the demo for a bit, then back down to the Gawi camp (the back way, of course). It was a calm demo, without the tear gas, rubber coated steel bullets, Skunk water, sound bombs and live ammunition that I have become accustomed to on Friday Demo Day. When it ended I went to a neighbor’s house and we made another devils food cake and smoked hookah.
That evening, I did what I’ve wanted to do for the last 6 months-dance party!!!! I went out with some of the Israeli activists and shebab to a bar in West Jerusalem (Muslim east Jerusalem is not surprisingly lacking in the bar scene). We danced to old hip hop, took shots of arok (a licorice like liqueur common in the Middle East) and talked activist talk. By 3 though, the music quality had deteriorated significantly and now they were trying to get us all to the Macerana. Nope. I’m leaving.
After a super long and rewarding stay at Sheikh Jarrah I’ve made it back to Ramallah where I’m working on the ISM volunteer schedule for next week. We are sending people to Nabalus where ISM mostly responds to settler violence, to Bir Al-Eid where two Palestinians were shot at a checkpoint a few days ago and now villagers are afraid to access their fields unaccompanied, to Hebron where there is a demonstration Thursday to open the main road, Shuhuda Street to Palestinians instead of just settlers (in a town where the Palestinian to settler ratio is 4:1) and of course, Sheikh Jarrah.
This is the second night that I’ve stayed here since the raids occurred. When I finish typing this I will prepare for bed. This includes not just brushing my teeth but also putting my shoes where I can access them quickly, taking the SD card out of my camera, putting my passport within arms reach and lastly, stashing this computer so it does not get stolen.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Top 40s Will Bring Us Together
Things of mine that the Israeli police stole after a raid on our apartment in direct violation of the Oslo Accords: laptop, two cell phones, my ipod. Last week they stole my hula hoop from Sheikh Jarrah! BOOO!
Story time:
It is raining. I am in Ramallah donning my head-toe northwest certified rain gear. I’m on a street corner across from the Stars & Bucks Coffee shop waiting for someone to give me some money to deliver to someone else in Jerusalem for an ISM volunteer in Gaza. I have her passport in my pocket, by the way. Across the street, Akron’s Right Now (Na Na Na) plays from the shoe store speakers rapping about things I know would be so unspeakably inappropriate in Arab culture and probably not allowed on the loud speakers if the songs were translated. I however, am indulging myself in this top 40 ear paradise, singing along in my head because, yes, I know all the words. Then without warning, in the middle of the chorus, the music stops. Quickly replacing Akron in the shoe store speakers is the Muslim call to prayer, a 5 times daily moan set on a volume so high that everyone in the entire city, inside and outside of buildings, can hear it. Just a few moments later, a fellow in his mid thirties approaches me. “Are you waiting for something?” he asks. “Yes” I reply. Without another word, he pulls out a handful of Euros. “One, two, three….ten, one thousand Euros. You count it.” I do. I nod. He walks away. The call to prayer still blares from my top 40 speakers.
Fast forward four days-I’m sitting at a super posh hostel in the super posh border town of Eliat, Israel with my sister (she is still sleeping). The sun is shining and I’m in sandals. Britney Spear’s new video is playing on MTV on the television mounted to the ceiling.
Perhaps pop music diplomacy is a strategy we should try.
I am still spending most of my time at Sheikh Jarrah in east Jerusalem. Winter has arrived in full force and I’m more grateful for the treated-wood bonfires than I ever thought imaginable. The chemical scented smoke is in my hair, jacket, and jeans and I love it…to an extent. There seems to be an ongoing battle at Sheikh Jarrah between those of us who do not think a smoky fire should be brought inside the tent and others who want the fire to follow them wherever they go, including inside a poorly ventilated tent. It usually plays out like this: I go inside the tent, sit down, make myself comfortable, then a few minutes later a smoke-loving guy comes in and tells me I must be freezing. He will fetch the fire. “No no no I’m fine. I promise!” I say. But, in just a few minutes, he has dragged in the fire barrel and I’m putting on my shoes to go back outside, into the cold.
The tents are not holding up so well against the wind and rain. We have resecured them with wood boards, duck tape and even string. Luckily, lashing and knot tying is one of Trip’s favorite activities, so he is right at home and I have a chance to practice my newly acquired knot tying survival skills!
When the tents do manage to withstand the night’s wind, they must next withstand attempts by the municipality to take them. Last Monday, they were not so lucky and the police took the site and cleared the site. Police took the tent, a couch, chairs, and HULA HOOPS! Damn them. Hula hoops have no security threat whatsoever! Boo. Trip and I were not there the morning they were taken but we got the call the moment it started and got to work on a media push to get media and activists to come to the tent building event later in the day. An awesome press release was written and sent out to an extensive list. By 4pm at Sheikh Jarrah there were over 2 dozen media outlets covering the event. A few settlers were in front of the house in the pre-tent building period and the press were addicted to them like they were endangered species at a zoo. It was so funny; 20+ journalists snapping photos of the settlers in there “non native” habitat.
I have started to do more community organizing in Sheikh Jarrah. This has been great, however it is a change from the environmental work that I’m used to. I find that I cannot hold onto my environmental values so tightly. When I try to do this, my intentions are lost in translation (figuratively and literally). For example, we started doing Wednesday community dinners in Sheikh Jarrah. I spent all afternoon a few Wednesday’s back cooking maklube or “upside down.” It is a rice dish that you flip over at the end onto a big tray and everyone eats from the tray. First, you deep fry all the veggies, then you soak the rice, then you put the veggies and meat on the bottom of a big pot, cover in rice and add the super special and tasty Palestinian rice spice and cook. While I have taken to eating meat that is cooked for me in situations where it is rude to turn it down, buying and cooking meat is a whole other level. For the first weekly dinner, we made a vegetarian maklube full of super great veggies. While the Israeli vegan activists were pleased with the meal, the locals in Sheikh Jarrah were not so keen on it. Most just ate at their homes and milled around politely. Upon evaluation, we decided that at the next dinner, we would cook one chicken and one veggie maklube. The dinner was much more successful, despite the near freezing temperatures and rain. Score one for community organizing, minus one for the environment and giving into the factory farmed animal torture industry.
One Israeli activist told us that he was glad to have come to the dinner because he does so much work against the occupation, but rarely has an opportunity to just hang out with his Palestinian peers. This made me feel really good about what we had organized. We also had face painting and I made a bunch of new hoops for the kids. But it was too cold for parents to let their kids come out and play. Maybe next week.
This week in action news included a settler/solider starting a fight with the Palestinians in Sheikh Jarrah by throwing rocks at the tent then grabbing a kid. When Nasser Gawi pulled him off the kid, a fight ensued that led to the settler/solider (living in Nasser’s home) to loading, cocking and waving his M-16 at everyone, including me. I filmed it all. To see the video and read the full report: http://palsolidarity.org/2010/02/11104
Upon review of the rest of the video (not posted) from the incident, I learned that I have developed a nervous hum. Great. I hum a Rainbow song that I learned from the Germans I met in Spain. It goes like this:
Deep inside my heart I’ve got this
Everlasting love that’s shinin
Like the sun it radiates on everyone
And the more that I give
The more I’ve got to give
It’s just the way that I live
It’s what I’m living for..na na na….repeat.
Ohi. I wonder if this is one of those things that will stick with me forever. I’m probably old enough to be developing habits that will stick with me throughout my lifetime. I remember my parents telling me I hummed a lot as a kid. Perhaps this is just my old trait coming back out again and in that case, I will probably do it for the rest of my life. hummhuummmmhummmmmmmmmmm. goodbye.
Story time:
It is raining. I am in Ramallah donning my head-toe northwest certified rain gear. I’m on a street corner across from the Stars & Bucks Coffee shop waiting for someone to give me some money to deliver to someone else in Jerusalem for an ISM volunteer in Gaza. I have her passport in my pocket, by the way. Across the street, Akron’s Right Now (Na Na Na) plays from the shoe store speakers rapping about things I know would be so unspeakably inappropriate in Arab culture and probably not allowed on the loud speakers if the songs were translated. I however, am indulging myself in this top 40 ear paradise, singing along in my head because, yes, I know all the words. Then without warning, in the middle of the chorus, the music stops. Quickly replacing Akron in the shoe store speakers is the Muslim call to prayer, a 5 times daily moan set on a volume so high that everyone in the entire city, inside and outside of buildings, can hear it. Just a few moments later, a fellow in his mid thirties approaches me. “Are you waiting for something?” he asks. “Yes” I reply. Without another word, he pulls out a handful of Euros. “One, two, three….ten, one thousand Euros. You count it.” I do. I nod. He walks away. The call to prayer still blares from my top 40 speakers.
Fast forward four days-I’m sitting at a super posh hostel in the super posh border town of Eliat, Israel with my sister (she is still sleeping). The sun is shining and I’m in sandals. Britney Spear’s new video is playing on MTV on the television mounted to the ceiling.
Perhaps pop music diplomacy is a strategy we should try.
I am still spending most of my time at Sheikh Jarrah in east Jerusalem. Winter has arrived in full force and I’m more grateful for the treated-wood bonfires than I ever thought imaginable. The chemical scented smoke is in my hair, jacket, and jeans and I love it…to an extent. There seems to be an ongoing battle at Sheikh Jarrah between those of us who do not think a smoky fire should be brought inside the tent and others who want the fire to follow them wherever they go, including inside a poorly ventilated tent. It usually plays out like this: I go inside the tent, sit down, make myself comfortable, then a few minutes later a smoke-loving guy comes in and tells me I must be freezing. He will fetch the fire. “No no no I’m fine. I promise!” I say. But, in just a few minutes, he has dragged in the fire barrel and I’m putting on my shoes to go back outside, into the cold.
The tents are not holding up so well against the wind and rain. We have resecured them with wood boards, duck tape and even string. Luckily, lashing and knot tying is one of Trip’s favorite activities, so he is right at home and I have a chance to practice my newly acquired knot tying survival skills!
When the tents do manage to withstand the night’s wind, they must next withstand attempts by the municipality to take them. Last Monday, they were not so lucky and the police took the site and cleared the site. Police took the tent, a couch, chairs, and HULA HOOPS! Damn them. Hula hoops have no security threat whatsoever! Boo. Trip and I were not there the morning they were taken but we got the call the moment it started and got to work on a media push to get media and activists to come to the tent building event later in the day. An awesome press release was written and sent out to an extensive list. By 4pm at Sheikh Jarrah there were over 2 dozen media outlets covering the event. A few settlers were in front of the house in the pre-tent building period and the press were addicted to them like they were endangered species at a zoo. It was so funny; 20+ journalists snapping photos of the settlers in there “non native” habitat.
I have started to do more community organizing in Sheikh Jarrah. This has been great, however it is a change from the environmental work that I’m used to. I find that I cannot hold onto my environmental values so tightly. When I try to do this, my intentions are lost in translation (figuratively and literally). For example, we started doing Wednesday community dinners in Sheikh Jarrah. I spent all afternoon a few Wednesday’s back cooking maklube or “upside down.” It is a rice dish that you flip over at the end onto a big tray and everyone eats from the tray. First, you deep fry all the veggies, then you soak the rice, then you put the veggies and meat on the bottom of a big pot, cover in rice and add the super special and tasty Palestinian rice spice and cook. While I have taken to eating meat that is cooked for me in situations where it is rude to turn it down, buying and cooking meat is a whole other level. For the first weekly dinner, we made a vegetarian maklube full of super great veggies. While the Israeli vegan activists were pleased with the meal, the locals in Sheikh Jarrah were not so keen on it. Most just ate at their homes and milled around politely. Upon evaluation, we decided that at the next dinner, we would cook one chicken and one veggie maklube. The dinner was much more successful, despite the near freezing temperatures and rain. Score one for community organizing, minus one for the environment and giving into the factory farmed animal torture industry.
One Israeli activist told us that he was glad to have come to the dinner because he does so much work against the occupation, but rarely has an opportunity to just hang out with his Palestinian peers. This made me feel really good about what we had organized. We also had face painting and I made a bunch of new hoops for the kids. But it was too cold for parents to let their kids come out and play. Maybe next week.
This week in action news included a settler/solider starting a fight with the Palestinians in Sheikh Jarrah by throwing rocks at the tent then grabbing a kid. When Nasser Gawi pulled him off the kid, a fight ensued that led to the settler/solider (living in Nasser’s home) to loading, cocking and waving his M-16 at everyone, including me. I filmed it all. To see the video and read the full report: http://palsolidarity.org/2010/02/11104
Upon review of the rest of the video (not posted) from the incident, I learned that I have developed a nervous hum. Great. I hum a Rainbow song that I learned from the Germans I met in Spain. It goes like this:
Deep inside my heart I’ve got this
Everlasting love that’s shinin
Like the sun it radiates on everyone
And the more that I give
The more I’ve got to give
It’s just the way that I live
It’s what I’m living for..na na na….repeat.
Ohi. I wonder if this is one of those things that will stick with me forever. I’m probably old enough to be developing habits that will stick with me throughout my lifetime. I remember my parents telling me I hummed a lot as a kid. Perhaps this is just my old trait coming back out again and in that case, I will probably do it for the rest of my life. hummhuummmmhummmmmmmmmmm. goodbye.
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