When memory and reality meet: on my identity

Published on the Electronic Intifada

Two passports of two Palestinians: one from Gaza and another from the 1948 ethnically cleansed territories.

 

When everyone complained about our Palestinian Authority-issued passports many years ago for, humiliatingly, they would say, not bearing “Palestine” on their covers instead of the words “Palestinian Authority,” I used to think of it as so trivial a matter as arguing on the best way to cut potatoes.

In the years that followed, however, I became increasingly aware that whether or not papers and documents define who we are, these labels and designations pose an array of questions that are, I think, personal, political and philosophical.

At the same time, I have grown exceedingly intolerant of the irreconcilable fact that while I was born, and have always lived, in Gaza, I am also Palestinian, meaning that I come from Palestine too. And while I have always sung for the watan, the homeland, every day in the morning as a schoolchild and every now and then as something of an adult, it only existed in the form of images that I managed to extract from the texture of memory bequeathed to us through oral and written biographies and more recently through the experiences of acquaintances in the unreachable parts of Palestine.

When I think about Gaza, it never comes down to me as a watan. It is just Gaza, strictly so. In fact, whenever I hear or read the word watan, I instantly associate it with those faraway places in Palestine that I have never ever seen. Strangely, however, they always feel closer and warmer to me than Gaza, my birthplace. The faces I visualize are not those of my family and friends here, but of others I have learned to know through their writings, commentary and, somewhat randomly, through some encounters with other Palestinians abroad.

When I attempt to analyze and explain the resentment I feel toward Gaza, it seems to me, perhaps unconsciously, that I am constantly at a bitter war with myself, fiercely rejecting the assimilation of Gaza into my idea of a watan. “Gaza is not Palestine, it is not my homeland,” an inner voice insists lest I slip into the awfully wrong definition of myself as a Gazan rather than Palestinian.

Romanticism is what one risks here. “Memory and its representations,” writes Edward Said in Memory and Place, “touch very significantly upon questions of identity, of nationalism, of power and authority.” Since I have no vivid memories of Palestine as my grandmother does for example, I am only left with the representations of, let’s say, her memories of a conservative adolescence in Jerusalem. These representations, presumably the immediate product of memory, are what form my sense of identity. Thus, as Said argues, although memory is not necessarily authentic, it is, nevertheless, useful.

But even identity, deeply rooted as it may be in memory, history, and the representations of these, is put at stake once one is finally confronted by its realities. About a month ago, I happened to be in Turkey for a program for which I received an invitation. There, in a continent as far away as Europe, I experienced my first-ever encounter with Palestinians from every inch of Palestine; from the 1948 ethnically-cleansed territories, Jerusalem, the West Bank, as well as the Diaspora.

I remember once sitting at a dinner table, generously dotted with tasty Turkish dishes and Palestinian-like pickles, along with three young women from Jerusalem who also made it to Turkey for the program, through Ben-Gurion Airport of course. Taking a mouthful of food between every few sentences, we talked generally about politics, life and work.

It was only when the young women started discussing events that took place on Share’ Yaffa, a famous street in Jerusalem known as Jaffa Road, that I started to feel like an outsider to the conversation. I sat back, and, with utter discomfort and agitation, I listened carefully, trying to gather what this road is like and where in Jerusalem it is located. The more the road was mentioned and passionately spoken about, the further I felt from myself, and worse, my Palestinian identity.

That day, my inability to relate to Share’ Yaffa forced me to question my perception of what a homeland is, a term I have for long taken without a grain of criticism. The watan I have always claimed I belonged to felt so distant and foreign. How is it that one belongs to what one has never seen, to something that exists as mere images that hang in the air only to fade away in the blink of the eye?  Am I Palestinian or Gazan? My passport is not the same as that of Palestinians in Jerusalem, it is different from that of the Palestinians of the “dakhil” — the inside — today’s Israel and there are millions of Palestinians in the diaspora with “foreign” European or American passports, or more commonly no passport at all. We don’t even use the same airports. The schizophrenia one feels in one’s identity causes sudden bouts of anger and discontent that are so difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile.

The dislocation of the collective Palestinian identity in line with Israel’s policies of separation was very evident throughout the program, which lasted for five days. I vividly recall how during the first two days, whenever I walked into the dining room, I saw, to my astonishment, geography.  At one table, Palestinians from the West Bank would be sitting together, casually chatting and laughing as if this is how it should be, as if this is how it hasalways been. The same went for the other groups, each sitting on a separate table, but, ironically, without Israeli checkpoints in between.

As the program drew to a close, many confessed to having come with preconceptions about others coming from a town different from their own. That the concept of Otherness is being virtually implemented within the Palestinian society itself is not only tragic but also bears the seeds of a fragmented identity that will further detach the people from each other and annihilate any sense of unity.

The various identities we came with did not melt into one completely; the barriers only lessened. The wounds these identities sustained were too deep to be overcome in five days. I averted any kind of interaction with anyone who came from Gaza; far from it, I spent the days mingling with, and talking to, only those who came from the watan I have strongly established in my consciousness. Gaza remained just Gaza.

Sometimes I regret not having allowed myself to accept Gaza alone as my homeland. The loss of the homeland is a terrible experience. It is the irreconcilable schism between the person and the feeling that they have an identity.

“You’re a lowlife. And will always be a lowlife. Palestinian trash” Twitter user says to me during “Pillar of Cloud.”

Throughout the so-called “Operation Pillar of Cloud” that began on November 14th 2012 and lasted until November 21st 2012, pro-Israel apologists launched another wave of hatred in the cyberspace.

Here are screenshots of some of what I received on my personal Twitter account, timed and dated. I tried to link the screenshots to their users but it seems to me that those apologists either disappeared from Twitter or deleted their posts.

I leave it for you to decide.

And gloating over the murder of women and children

Note the violent language used: “nuke,” “wipe off.”

Text message my dad received on his phone from the Israeli terrorist army on November 16th. It says: “Stay away from Hamas elements, the next phase is coming.”

More than 150 people were  killed and 1,000 wounded in this offensive the majority of which are women, children and non-combatant men. Glory to those who were mercilessly murdered, wounded, and to those who survived.

How we used social media to spread facts about Operation Pillar of Cloud

Before you start off, here’s the link to the full list of my audio-recordings of sounds of explosions, drones, ambulance sirens and apaches that I compiled throughout the offensive. And here is my interview on CNN (a debate with an Israeli reservist):

Since a ceasefire agreement brought a measure of calm back to our lives in Gaza, I have been trying to collect and recollect my thoughts and emotions.

Throughout the latest eight-day long Israeli offensive on Gaza, now known as “Operation Pillar of Cloud,” I had been unable to sit down and calmly tap my commentary or even intuitive thoughts on the attacks.

Instead, I had been involved in social media-based reporting or citizen journalism. I’m not a doctor nor a resistance fighter, just an undergraduate student of business administration at a local university. In fact, I can hardly remember the number of times I cursed and mocked myself for not having enrolled in some first-aid course. What on earth was I thinking?

Gaza is “bliss”

But I was born in Gaza and have lived here my entire life. Although I managed to travel a number of times, I have never stayed out of this tiny, densely-populated enclave for longer than a month. For many, this may sound like something one would ooh and aah over. I, however, find it bliss.

This notion was emphasized last week, when many of my Twitter followers told me that they saw “nothing” of what we Gazans were reporting in their respective state-funded or national media. The first step I took when I decided to cover the attacks was that I would put my views and sentiments aside in order to be “credible.” I couldn’t.

Covering the attacks on Gaza without tapping my own views felt more like being a mainstream journalist striving to keep the image “balanced,” “unbiased” and “appealing” to everyone. It felt more like betraying the blood being mercilessly spilled by all kinds of warfare anyone can imagine, the screams that remained unheard under the rubble until they were silenced by the force of nature.

So by Thursday, 15 November, the second day of the Israeli attack, I surrendered to the fact that I could be credible without being “mainstream.” All attempts to split myself between my real self, an ordinary Gazan who belongs to and shares the feelings of this country, and a “balanced” journalist failed miserably. So I began voicing my “extreme views” (as Haaretzinsisted on calling them) alongside real-time news, publicly and unabatedly.

An unbalanced situation

Since my childhood, I have always dreamed of becoming a journalist, of pursuing a career in one of the most well-known news corporations. However, as I grew up and became more involved, journalism was no less than a huge disappointment.

Bearing witness to the mainstream reporting of last week’s events was a cruel slap across in the face whose effect shall always remain. I was and still am very sickened by the amount misrepresentation we received.

Seeing our rights and blood being sold out as “collateral damage,” as having “caught in crossfire” means one thing to me: I no longer feel the urge to become a journalist of the kind BBC, CNN and others prefer.

After all, this is an unbalanced situation: a US-backed occupation and an occupied people doing everything to liberate their land. How can any reporting be “balanced” when reality itself is so unbalanced?

Mainstream media contact me

I still wanted, however, to make it to the mainstream with the very sentiments my tweets involved. To do this, I took it upon myself to tweet confirmed news only. I was thinking that if I tweet –- and retweet – news and pictures that would be later on proved false, I will lose the opportunity of penetrating the mainstream barrier.

To my great surprise BBC, Al Jazeera English, CNN, The Sunday Times, The Guardian or some of their journalists, either followed or contacted me.

Aided by a media contact list of citizen journalists in Gaza we collaboratively compiled and distributed, it became much easier for us, the people on the ground, to tell and share our experiences from our different perspectives. Indeed, even to win the cyberspace war.

Recording the sounds of destruction

Looking at my room back then with wires splayed all over the place, with the radio rumbling, bombs exploding nearby, phone ringing, windows rattling, I cannot but feel grateful to this country that taught us to love it and endure its boredom and difficulties.

I was teetering between my window, where I hung the iPad out to record sounds of explosions, and Twitter where I posted updates. Because I live just across the road fromGaza’s largest hospital, sirens and screams blended with the relentless buzzing of Israel’s unmanned drones were our everyday lullaby.

Most of the news and tweets that came out engaged only one of the five senses: the sight. The sounds were lacking despite them being at the heart of the experience. In fact, there are countless incidents where the glass on entire buildings exploded as a result of the deafening noise that accompanies the raids. Many people were injured while lying down on their beds as a result of glass pieces falling down on them.

So it came to me that what if I engage the ears, too? Navigating through what I had previously learned in a social media course, audioboo.fm was the right tool. This way, all followers of the worldwide trending hashtags of #Gaza and #GazaUnderAttack could hear real-time soundtracks of the explosions, sirens, screams and cries while reading the live updates pulsed in by young citizen journalists.

Despite the challenges, reaching the world, from Gaza

The number of views and shares I received on these audio-recordings was enormous. Mainstream media outlets embedded them into their live blogs and articles. Meaning, those who do not have Twitter or Facebook accounts were still able to access and listen to these recordings. In many occasions, the recordings were aired on local radios around the world.

However, this was not without challenges. We had to find a way to keep the world updated while the electricity and therefore the Internet are out. Our friends and colleagues in the West Bank offered to tweet on our behalf if we send them the updates through the mobile network.

Using these techniques, we were able to keep in touch with the people who were eagerly following our posts and updates.

Solace and freedom of movement in cyberspace

Being young and Palestinian at the same time means that you should be aware of the resources available around you. Otherwise, you will isolate yourself and your people. After all, Israel is doing everything in its power to further cut Gaza off from the outside world. Since we have limited access to books and travel, we find solace in cyberspace.

There, in the virtual world, we can move freely from country to country and find the information we need. We can establish and expand our networks and as was the case last week, counter mainstream propaganda that is constantly portraying us as the aggressors or “terrorists.”

Despite all the strength and perseverence you try to show, there is always that moment when you’re no longer able to hold back the tears you have suppressed.

That is when you fall short of the strength and preservation of others. A stroll around Gaza says it all. Out in the streets people are cleaning up the rubble, sweeping away dust and glass, extinguishing the fires that remained, and fixing the blown out doors of their homes.

This article was also published on the Electronic Intifada

 

 

خربشات من مصر – الجزء الأول

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“ألف ليلة و ليلة” هكذا غنت كوكب الشرق و أنا على متن طائرة مصر للطيران المتوهجة إلى تونس. الأيام التي قضيتها بمصر كانت فعلا واحدة من حكايات ألف ليلة و ليلة. هنا على ” كورنيش” النيل بين الزمالك و ميدان التحرير و بالقرب من ” ماسبيرو” تحديدا يقف حبيبان من عامة الشعب كلاهما يتأمل المياه التي تلونت بفعل الأضواء المنبعثة من السفن و القوارب السياحية المختلفة. من قال أن باريس فقط هي مدينة الأنوار؟ نهر السين و بغض النظر عن “برج إيفل” الباهر لا يتلون. هنا الشرق او المشرق كما يسميه المستشرقون و هنا عاشت الراقصة ” كشك هانم” التي كتب عنها إدوارد سعيد.

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جلست البارحة مع بعض الأصدقاء في قهوة شعبية اسمها “بورصة” و هي كما قيل لي من أشهر المقاهي المصرية التي طالما اجتمع فيها المثقفون من عامة الشعب. قالوا لي أن كثيرا من خطابات مبارك كانت تسمع هنا و أن كثيرا من “الجزم” رفعت في نفس المكان بعد خطاب مبارك الذي سبق تنحيه. فاجأني هناك سيدة عجوز ترتدي ثوب مصري شعبي اقتربت من طاولتنا و بدأت تنثر حبات فستق على الطاولة و معها نثرت دعواتها؛ “ربنا ينولك اللي ببالك” قالت و هي تطبطب على كتفي. كان ذلك معناه أن علينا أن نعطيها بعض الجنيهات القليلة مقابل الفستق و الدعوات. لعلها استحقت أكثر من جنيه او اثنان او خمسة، لا أذكر تحديدا. صبي صغير لفت انتباه الجميع حين بدأ يصرخ و يقول كلمات لم أفهم منها شيئا، هو الآخر كان يقدم عرضا و لكن بطريقة غير ” فستقية” إن صح التعبير، رغم أنني أعرف أنه لا يصح. المهم أن هذا الصبي كان يحمل أسياخ نيران يدورها قليلا في الهواء ثم يطفئها في فمه مثل هؤلاء الذين تراهم في” آربس جوت تالنت” إن كنت من متابعيه. بحماس “الأجنبي” الوقح قمت بالتقاط صورة له إلا أنه سرعان ما جاء يطالب بحقه بعد انتهاء العرض.

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“الشرطة في خدمة الشعب” و خلف هذه اللافتة يجلس شرطي نائم.

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في التاكسي و في طريقي من المقطم الى مكتبة ” الديوان” في شارع ٢٦ يوليو في الزمالك حيث سألتقي بأحد الأصدقاء سألني السائق أي طريق عليه أن يسلك، قلت له بلهجتي الفلسطينية “بعرفش أنا مش من هان” عندها منح السائق نفسه دورا جديدا و هو دور المرشد السياحي. “بصي إحنا دلوقتي هنعدي كوبري ٦ اكتوبر و هو أكبر جسر في مصر” و بعد قليل قال “و ده بقى طريق صلاح سالم اللي كان بيتقفل كتير أيام الثورة.” في هذه اللحظة بالضبط كنت أفكر بأمرين: الأول و هو قول السائق ” أيام الثورة” و كأنها ليست مستمرة. فمعظم الشباب الذين تحدثت معهم في التحرير يوم انتصار الدكتور محمد مرسي على منافسه من النظام المخلوع أحمد شفيق أكدوا أن الثورة مستمرة حتى إسقاط الإعلان الدستوري المكمل و معه التخلص من عسكرة الدولة التي يعمل عليها المجلس الأعلى للقوات المسلحة بقيادة المشير حسين طنطاوي. الأمر الثاني فكان خوفي من أن يستغل السائق جهلي بالشوارع فيسلك طرق طويلة فيطلب مني أن أدفع أكثر؛ و هذا فعلا الذي حصل.

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البارحة أيضا ذهبت إلى مسرح روابط الذي اختتمت فيه احتفالية فلسطين للأدب التي أقيمت في غزة في مايو الماضي. في الطريق، و مروراً بشارع طلعت حرب، قال لي أحمد -أحد أصدقائي المصريين- أن المسرح يشبه الكراج و ليس أبدا مثل ما يمكن أن يكون بمخيلتي. للأسف كان المسرح مغلقاً و لم أتمكن من رؤيته. أما ما كان جميلاً فهو فوجود سارة و سلمى و أحمد و المقهى المجاور لروابط.

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“إزاي إزاي إزاي أوصفلك يا حبيبي إزاي” ما زالت أم كلثوم تغني و ما أزال أنا بالطائرة.

كتبت يوم 26/6/2012

They almost killed my grandmother

I spent the most part of my childhood in my grandmother’s arms. My mother was striving to get her bachelor’s degree and my father had to make a living. Whenever I look at my teta,my grandmother, a feeling of shame creeps over my senses; but I compensate for that when I bow before her, kiss her right hand twice, and place it on my forehead; a tradition that has always compelled teta to cite the most embarrassing prayers I could ever get.

“May Allah grant you a blessed life with a loving husband; a husband that will take care of you and keep you in his eyes,” she says, as I walk out soaked in embarrassment.

When I was a child, she crafted a huge swing between two enormous tree trunks that have stood in her garden for many years. It is either that I was so little or that the swing was so huge that I could fit into swing with my body comfortably stretched on it. In cold nights, she wrapped me with a blanket and fixed it around my tiny body with some thick string she tore up from an old, no longer useful shirt. Teta used to, and still believes, that nothing should be placed in garbage; in modern jargon, I’m confident enough to say that she is the most environmentally-friendly person I’ve ever met.

I used to be fat until my mother successfully finished her degree. Teta has a remarkable theory: food is the best way to manifest your love towards someone; so the more she feeds you, the more you are sure of the amount of love she assigns to you. She had knitted blouses and scarves for me. Handmade products, another theory, “are better than those of fraudulent vendors who mix oil with water and use inferior threads to make outfits.”

I almost lost her

I almost lost my grandmother last Sunday. I almost lost a piece of my heart.

The assassination that claimed the lives of two resistance leaders in Gaza four days ago took place in a densely populated area. It happened right in front of my grandmother’s house.

I live quite far from my grandmother and I did not even hear the explosion when it happened. I was alone in the house, leafing through the pages of some book I found in a drawer I do not usually open. My parents and sisters decided to enjoy the holiday (Fridays are holy days in Gaza) and went out for a drive.

I was enjoying the silence when the phone rang. Teta shrieked on the other end.

“I was praying. They bombed. Blood. Glass was going to kill me. Fire.” Her voice was drenched in horror — the peace and tranquility of her voice faded away.

I hardly held the phone. My hands shook and I slammed the phone down.

I don’t know how, but I suddenly found myself standing in a crowd — a circle inside where blood, some piece from a car, and human carnage were piled. Fire engines, police and ambulances suddenly flooded into the scene quickly. People were wild, and the road was covered with very small pieces of glass. I stood still — I was the only girl in the crowd, and in no time somebody dragged me out of the crowd and told me I should go home. He was right; I saw what nobody should see.

I suddenly remembered why I went there. I was there to see my grandmother. Her door was wide open, her house small pieces of glass became carpets and not single window survived the attack. Her curtains caught fire but they extinguished themselves by themselves.

My heart sank.

When my eyes fell on my teta, she seemed too calm for me to believe that she is the same woman who was screaming on the phone. She even made her usual irritating comments about me, saying I seem to lose more weight every time she sees me and suggesting that I should go eat. Minutes later young men started to flow into the house offering to help and replacing the window-less frames with large plastic bags. I asked my teta if there was anything she needed, but she told me she was fine and started to list the kinds of food and fruits available in her fridge.

Through the plastic bags, I peeked at the road and saw the car had disappeared and the blood had been hosed down with water.

My mom called me many times on her way to teta but I assured her that she was completely fine and asked her not to worry. Late at night, I along with my family drove back home.

The other day, Saturday, relatives told us she was a little strange during their visit. Rather than pinning her headscarf she pinned her lips, and didn’t even feel it. She spoke to them a lot about the assassination and repeated herself time and time again. But they assured us it was because of the shock and everything was just fine when they left.

On Sunday, teta slipped in the bath, and in the afternoon my mother went to check on her. She called her name but there was nobody to answer. She looked for her in each room only to find her lying on the floor mumbling and drenched in sweat. Mama called the ambulance and my teta only got worse. Her muscles cramped, wild noise flowed out. Moments later she threw up foam and fluids and raised her forefinger to spell out the Muslim testimony to the oneness of God, a ritual Muslims are encouraged to do, when possible, in their last breaths.

My mom, hopeless, in utter anguish and pain, seeing all this happening before her eyes, clung to teta, whined, knelt, and asked teta not to go.

Air from heaven suddenly seeped into teta’s hospital room. A doctor rushed in and inserted a cannula intravenously.

Teta began to regain her consciousness slowly. She blinked, her eyes flickered back to life and in almost ten minutes she began to speak. Today, teta is alive because she is the strongest woman I have ever seen. From death she came back to life.

I saw her die. Israel shocked her to death. I almost lost both my mother and grandmother. I almost lost my sanity.

Everything my teta went through is Israel’s fault. Israel kills indiscriminately. And I can’t but think of those who lost their twelve-year old son. The other boy who went to school and never returned.  The sixty five-old man who was murdered. Are they all terrorists? I’m tired; I have asked this question hundreds of times but never received anything but condolences. Action is required.

Also published on the Electronic Intifada

Palestine, my grandfather’s figs and olive groves.

This article was also published on The Electronic Intifada and The Great Book Robbery which I highly recommend you to visit.

Gaza – A church and a mosque that have shared a wall for hundreds of years. Photo Credit: Ruqaya Izzidien

We Palestinians have nothing to cherish more than our roots and ancestral identity. To us, olive trees and the shade in which our grandparents rested or lovers used to secretly meet weave together sweet pre-dispossession memories.

My grandmother’s depleted voice can’t but play and replay the same ecstatic melodies of a womanhood (before 1967) spent between Gaza and Jerusalem, or actually, between Gaza and an Israeli officer and from there to Jerusalem. She would repeat to me again and again how smoothly (compared to now) she and her Jerusalemite relatives could visit each other. According to her, the most difficult part was to find a carriage.

I would nod my head, sip my tea, and contemplate her face. It is really difficult to imagine that the young adventurous woman who could “smoothly” go to and enjoy Jerusalem is the same one as my wrinkled grandmother. Later, I would be struck by the fact that she is eight decades old. Eight decades! Older than the Nakba? Yes.

One of my grandmother’s clearest memories of the few years prior to the Nakba is one of a British officer who stood before a Palestinian crowd that happened to include my grandmother. According to her, everybody was there to celebrate the inauguration of a new British-established school in Gaza.

My grandmother narrates: “Can you see me, Rana? I can see the officer in front of eyes now. I remember him yelling and cheering until he uttered these words: ‘Today we are your guests, but tomorrow you will be ours.’” A deep breath and she continues: “we were too naïve to fathom the demon snoring in his speech.”

My grandmother, therefore, is a living evidence of the irrefutable fact that Palestinians had forged lives in Palestine until Zionist gangs, like the Hagana, Irgun and the Stern Gang, to name a few, viciously drove Palestinians out of their lands.

They destroyed our villages, but not our heritage

In our schools and families, we are raised to identify ourselves with our heritage and the villages or towns from which we originally descend.

It is neither surprising nor is it phenomenal when a seven-year-old boy knows exactly which Palestinian village or town is his home of origin and offers a brief but accurate description of his grandfather’s stolen or destroyed house, even if he’s never been allowed to visit himself.

Our heritage is not only the black or red checkered kufiyyeh scarf and the traditional embroidered dress; it is a scent wafting carried on the breeze from olive groves, vines and figs. Alas, everything was and continues to be subject to Israel’s relentless attempts to loot a deep-rooted Palestinian culture.

To us, especially the young, books are our solace from a life of turbulence and uncertainty. We are more attached to the characters of some novel than to the bombs falling down from the sky. Yet, Israel doesn’t allow that. Every single book I have was smuggled to me by one of my non-Palestinian friends who travel a lot.

Furthermore, more than 6,000 Palestinian books are now languishing on the shelves of Israel’s National Library indexed with the label AP or “Absentee Property.” Those “absentees” are Palestinian refugees whose dream and right to return have been denied for so long.

Israel, however, can never loot a culture of nonviolence and stone-throwing. Frankly speaking, without massacring and dispossessing tens of thousands of Palestinians, Israel could have never come to existence in the first place.

It is almost impossible to imagine a decked-out Israeli soldier picking up a stone to hurl it at Palestinian protestors in Nabi Saleh or Beit Hanoun in the West Bank or Gaza, respectively. On the same note, it cannot be possibly pictured that Palestinian protestors would riddle Israeli “guards” with rubber bullets, tear gas or live ammunition.

Heritage of tolerance

Walking through the roads of Palestine attests to a history of religious tolerance. With Christmas coming soon, Palestinian florists and gift shops, mostly owned by Muslims, are adorned with Christmas trees, Santa Claus costumes and glowing lights. Here, Muslims and Christians are neighbors and friends. Every Christmas, Muslims visit their Christian neighbors and offer warm hugs and outings together.

I was educated in a Christian school; I clearly remember my Christian classmates fasting during Ramadan with us or at least, avoiding eating in front of us. Christians here, despite being a minority, celebrate Eid with us. They even go get new outfits every Eid as is the Muslim custom.

Even the construction testifies to warm relations and deep respect. In the old part of Gaza, you will find a Orthodox church that shares a wall with an ancient Turkish mosque. Both the church and the mosque have stood there for hundreds of years.

Prior to the Nakba, the above situation applied to relations with Jews; but when the Israeli state was established on 15 May 1948 and declared a “Jewish-state,” Jews were separated from Muslims and Christians. Even those Jews who were not affiliated with the Zionist movement had to be separated.

Palestinians do not come from Mars, but we are constantly alienated and our demands swept off to corners like dust.

I lost faith in the so-called “international community” a long time ago. I don’t even know whether I have ever had any sort of trust in it.

None of the UN resolutions that could have brought us fragments of justice have ever been implemented. The 1947 UN resolution on the partition of Palestine (181), however, was upheld and implemented. This resolution served nobody but the Zionist movement and therefore the perpetuation of our misery.

The cultural war Israel has fueled is aimed at de-Palestinianizing the Palestinians and those who choose to stand on the right side of history. This is why the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel (PACBI) exists. Israel has cultural obligations to meet and must be pressured into complying with them. Until it does, the campaign will not stop.

Released Prisoner: “The freedom of a people and the freedom of a land are inseparable”

Photo credit: Lara Aburamadan

 When dawn marches over the hills of Palestine and the sun begins to cast its light over lemon, olive and orange trees, dusty narratives of hard-working peasants escape their time and ride in the air through history to our lungs. A scent from the past caresses our hair; we stretch our limbs, slip our feet into cheap slippers, yawn, and rise up to make our dawn prayers.

My mother turns on the lights and takes away my pillow and blanket, realizing that tough procedures are the only arrangements that can hold me bound to her non-negotiable wake-up decree. I pout and produce a frown, but my face loosens into a half-smile when I lean into my window and watch houses, no matter how shapeless, as they lighten up in a gradual manner. I feel relieved; mom is not the only one who likes to bother.

And I pray the way Palestinian poets do, asking God to bring us the next dawn along with freedom, and I repeat myself every day with every bothering motherly call. One day, I woke up to 477 freedoms.

Since the day I was born, I have never lived anywhere but in Gaza. And throughout my life here, I have never seen the people as ecstatically chaotic as they were on Tuesday. It looked like every house had a wedding to celebrate — like in every street a sahra (pre-wedding party for the shabab) was taking place. I, being a girl, couldn’t afford to dance down the roads or atop dilapidated vehicles. But I did join the dance at home in accordance with the shabab innovative dancing. Girls in Gaza have always argued that the way our shabab dance is way more joyful than ours. It is for this reason that we spare no effort to imitate their acrobatics when no elderly onlookers are present.

Visiting a released prisoner

One released prisoner, Hazem Alaydi, has a story of his own that was published earlier on The Electronic Intifada. Yesterday’s morning, I had the honor of paying him a visit.

The expression “what a small world” finds no more suitable place to be expressed at than the small, internationally unrecognized Gaza Strip.

I happened to be a Facebook friend of Fidaa Elaydi, the released prisoner’s niece in the US and the author of the EI article. On the day of the release, I stumbled upon her profile to find dozens of congratulations and a status stating that her uncle Hazem had been released. I also found out that he is a resident of the Deir al-Balah refugee camp along the coastline of the Strip.

Coincidently, a week ago, I and my friend reached a deal with her father to take us on Thursday to this particular refugee camp. I have always craved to write a story about life in refugee camps and Lara, my friend, is a photoholic.  When I knew about the niece-uncle relationship of Fidaa and Hazem Alaydi, a surge of excitement swept my body and I found myself contacting Fidaa, telling her what I was up to and asking for her uncle’s address. Fidaa asked me to deliver him a note she had written and to bring him silk flowers.

The next day, I woke up at 8:15 in the morning, late enough to jump off my bed and dash to my wardrobe. I snatched ruffled trousers and a fine blouse, then picked up Fidaa’s note and tucked it in my pocket.

Lara and her father, Ammo Saud, were to pick me up at 9:00. I was struck by the fact that I hadn’t yet bought the flowers. In no time I called a taxi and asked him to take me to the florist. Unfortunately, the shop was closed; I resorted to a nearby supermarket and purchased a tray of sweets.

The moment I returned home, Ammo Saud and Lara arrived. I boarded the car and we drove to the camp. I was overcome by excitement and reverence. It did not feel normal being on my way to a released prisoner, someone who sacrificed enough to be condemned by Israel.

Fidaa gave me this description to her uncle’s house:

“It’s RIGHT off the beach and next to a Nadi [club] (I’ll ask a relative what the Nadi is called) and I’m sure there is plenty of graffiti on the wall to tell you exactly which house it is. (When I was in Gaza last year, it said “beit il aseer” [the house of the prisoner] but I’m sure that’s been replaced!”

The irony is that the house was neither RIGHT off the shore nor next to the club. We drove according to her description but found nothing to suggest a prisoner’s house. We eventually asked people around and they directed us to the right address.

But she was right about the graffiti, and she could not have been more accurate when she suggested that last year’s graffiti must have been replaced.  The first thing I saw when we reached the house was a green welcome tent and a still-concrete wall that read something like this: Greetings to the released prisoner from the occupation’s jails, Hazem Elaydi.

Foolishly I shouted “this is it!” as if it was not too obvious to state.

The door was wide open and we stepped in; a young man approached, welcomed us, and we introduced ourselves and our purpose.

He disappeared in a circle of men then came back with Fidaa’s uncle.

Ammo Saud took him in his arms and they practiced the four-kiss welcome ritual. I handed him the tray and the note. He unfolded the small paper, brought it closer to his eyes, and read. I followed his face. His eyes narrowed and grew moist, his shoulders drooped, and silence encapsulated us all. A few minutes later, Hazem raised his head and allowed a smile that exposed a map of a prison on a man’s face. Israel had convicted Hazem Alayadi to four life sentences and seventy five years without a fair trial.

A recent article on Ynet introduced a comparison between the jail terms of Gilad Shalit and those of the Palestinian prisoners in Israeli jails. The article claims that “In Israel, close relatives of Palestinian inmates are allowed to visit every two weeks. In addition, Palestinian detainees are allowed to hug children aged up to 8” and it goes further to suggest that “Palestinian inmates are entitled to regular medical treatments, including dental work and eye exams” and that: “Palestinian prisoners are given three full meals a day.”

Surprisingly, Alaydi was never allowed any these privileges. Instead Alaydi told us that he was neither allowed visits nor letters nor phone calls. The food that used to be served to him was “indigestible” and so he and his inmates had to pay to get meals from the canteen. A prisoner needed an approximate minimum of 1,000 NIS ($350) every month to survive. Solitary confinement was widespread and many of the released prisoners lost their minds as a result of serving years in solitary confinement with only one hour a day in the sun. Even outdoors both their hands and legs had to remain shackled all the time.

“The most difficult feelings were during the war on Gaza; we were mesmerized by the TV all the time, drowned in bitterness and pain. They deprived us of many things. When I was released I was offered figs. It was the first time I had figs since the day I was imprisoned [in 1991]; figs were forbidden. They do not deprive us of things because they pose a danger; they do so because they want us to experience deprivation,” said Alaydi.

“Solitary confinements are implemented because they want us to lose our mental balance. They want us lose our minds so that in case we’re released, we wouldn’t be capable of engaging ourselves in normal life,” he added.

The International Committee of the Red Cross declared many times that they had not been able to visit jails to make sure jail conditions meet ICRC standards. The Israeli publication Ynet is widely acknowledged to be radically anti-Arab and hypocritical.

Palestinians, no matter how thrilled, still wake up every dawn to make their poetic prayers. We still have more than 5,000 Palestinian prisoners condemned to the harsh conditions of an apartheid state. Hazem Alayadi’s words are probably the best way to end this article:

“We left our comrades behind and they’re suffering. The day we received the news of the deal tears mixed with happiness. We were happy but also sad that our brothers with whom we lived over a decade will not be freed with us. The freedom of a people and the freedom of a land are inseparable. We are under occupation and our ultimate goal is to free the land and the human who sacrificed for this land.”

This article can also be found on The Electronic Intifada

Weddings without a groom; only in Gaza

Velvet blue sky - Gaza.

Published on  The Electronic Intifada with minimal differences.

My disinterest in Zara fashion, Grey’s Anatomy, or even the mouth-watering Brad Pitt (whom I googled to learn how to correctly spell his name), draw me to the most embarrassing words when the only topic of discussion is the untamed grins of my friends, endlessly declaring celebrities as “reserved fiances.” A wild shrill sound usually follows when one girl makes a rival claim to a celebrity coveted by another and a girlish fight erupts between the two.

”Illi!” yells one, usually in an overcrowded campus.

“No! Mine!” retorts the other.

“For both of you,” I add, giggling, as they pretend to lose their tempers. We crack up laughing.

Our lives are not as simple as this. And even if we want to love, we do not allow our hearts commit this sin before forcing the target of our affection swear to God that he is not involved in any kind of resistance groups. This is to assure our hearts that they could be broken because of some pretty girl or by forgetting birthdays, anything, but not martyrdom. Such is life, love and death in Gaza.

I have found myself countless times maintaining my grip around the iron rods of my balcony as if to curb the trembling of my knees and the heart heaving beneath the buttons of my school shirt. The morgue of the Shifa hospital, the biggest in Gaza, lurks near where I live.

Funerals, before swarming into one of the shaheed (martyr) graveyards, pass through Urabi Street — a dingy road named after Ahmad Urabi, who revolted against the European domination of Egypt during the Khedive’s rule. I can see Urabi Street when I look down from my balcony.

A space normally filled by tooting vehicles could turn in seconds into atrocious image of bloody stretchers weighed down by fermented faces or shattered flesh. A Palestinian flag would be wrapped around the shaheed . Worn-out muscles and angry chants would carry him back to a brown soil, like the skin of the woman he loved. The scent of carnage would float up, carrying promises of death to those who would ever dare to bother the high walls of occupation. To “protect” Israel’s citizens, lethal “military orders” become unavoidable.

Every night, as my head falls on my pillow, I think of other heads, also falling on pillows but stuffed with different thoughts. I imagine those visiting and revisiting plans of a summer vacation coming true by the simple booking of a flight. I compare this to my misery; a packed Rafah Crossing and long hours of indignity. I think of Israel and my foreignness to the West Bank, and the West Bank’s foreignness to me. I fall asleep.

The outside world, the checkpoint-less expanse, doesn’t know why wrinkles map our faces so early. Our tears are different, and so is their cause. So, too, are the causes of our moments of happiness.

I would at times contemplate the memory of my mother’s face when I delivered her the news of the departure of Israel’s ambassador in Egypt and compare it to my birthday, a week earlier. Her mouth curved into an ecstatic expression, with a smile that took in the entirety of her face. She did not smile like this when I turned 20. Nor did I. But this time, I too indulged in joy and my mouth stretched until it hurt. Unlike on my birthday.

But I do not blame my mother and do not reproach myself.

It’s the kind of Arab rapture that whisks you away from Gaza and drops you in Tahrir Square. You suddenly find yourself amid dark-skinned crowds and feel your body pushed forwards or backwards, depending on how everyone moves. Flags would breathe in your skin and chants would rush to your ears. Leaflets would be held tight in your grip. Blood would rush to your head and you would be swept up with love and excitement.

All of this would happen without having to cross the unending miles of the Sinai desert or sweating with waiting throngs in a hall drowned in discontent and packed with curses. Such rapture would eventually lift up 1.6 million hearts. They would no longer feel jealous or wish to boast of their contribution in expelling an Israeli ambassador.

Power cuts, and my consignation to darkness, taught me to amuse myself at the thought of having “Arabs” from the “inferior race” kick out an “Israeli” from the “superior race.”  I secretly giggle and draw faces of Mr. Ambassador losing nerves on the some 80 Israeli workers who departed with him.

But it is always the fault of the people in Gaza. Israel’s wrath is always directed at 1.6 million lives teetering between fireworks and firearms.

Yawning, sometime late into the night as I write this, whoosh of heavy bullet-stream riddled dreams and nightmares bubbled by snoring bodies. I was trying to snuggle in a recent wedding ceremony and a gossip seminar few hours ago. But Israel is always there to snub me and kick off any such exciting attempt.

Any awkward reality finds its place in Gaza. “Babe, you missed our wedding,” is a common statement here. It’s not always that a groom can reach his bride on their wedding day. A while ago, my mother was invited to participate in a groom-free wedding ceremony. Unfortunately, the groom was not allowed a stamp on his passport and was turned back to Egypt.

The implications of such absurdity are probably the best thing about our lives. Israel can destroy our houses, but we’re still going to build a shack and live. They can hijack the lives of our sons but we’re still fertile enough to give life. We can deal with anything but definitely not another “voluntary transfer.”

The shabab (young men) of my country have a unique sense of humor. There are special jokes made about the people of Hebron, and funnier ones about al-majadla, the people of ethnically cleansed Asqalan (as Ashkelon was known before 1948). Such jokes usually stereotype the alleged social incompetence or unfavorable characteristics of a certain community. Many jokes traveled through the generations until our older relatives bequeathed on to us the clutter of their laughter.

The sabaya (young women), for their part, have unrivaled skills for gossip. In a few seconds, the historical record of their “victim” falls open and no detail remains undisclosed.

Both the shabab and sabaya might be accused of all kinds of things, but definitely not the will to abandon their country.

Many times in my life, I have cursed Gaza and questioned my fate. My heart, however, has always failed to skip beats at the hearing of any name, any city, but Gaza.

Mornings in Jenin

Refugee boys live in a shack 350 far from Israel's boundaries.

Also published on Mondoweiss.

Far away from my noisy sisters fighting over a broken remote control, a desperate attempt to escape my death-entrenched life seeped through a rusty window as I gazed at a glittering sea. Somewhere on the other end, live another people with no “collateral damage” or “Rafah Crossing” or, indeed, on goes the list.

I have always thought of the insignificance of my life hanging at the mercy of uniformed Egyptian officers, M-16 steel rifles, closed zones, or swift but long-lasting power cuts. Always ready to be doomed the worst of fates and looming uncertainty.  Never in my life have I basked in the independency enjoyed by “outside girls” in my age. “Outside girls” a term we use to refer to those who get their hair dried without fearing power will be cut off before the hurricane swirling their heads is smoothed.

Still leaving my eyes unleashed at the human velvet covering the sea sand, I thought how fast sand can become sand again with one deafening airstrike from Israel.

Sometime this past week, I was weaving through the events of Mornings in Jenin, taking a handful of new vocabulary to my steadfast black electronic dictionary with every page I turn. It was a starry mild-weathered night where people ditched whatever lodge they carried and flocked to inferior sea-overlooking cafes.

“Absurd is the life that made heaven out of a sewage-flooded sea” I mumbled wishing my words could reach the idling throngs on seashore.

Back into the novel, deeply taken by its characters, I was reading: “Our terror in the kitchen hole had only strengthened the bond between me and Huda. She possessed a…” when a massive explosion shook the walls of my worn-out room. My heart sank and in no time I found myself bent over my baby sister as if offering protection from an F-16 missile. My sister screamed beneath, asking me frantically in an extremely babyish tone what the sound was. “That was thunder habibti it’s going to rain” I lied.

That night Israel killed three. One child was among the dead and the idling throngs flowed out to the streets in aimless directions. Everyone was desperately trying to find a safe place, a place Israel does not suspect of holding terrorists. In a moment, seashore cleared. I turned off the lights and consigned to my thoughts. That day I realized how short life can be and how easily blood can be spilled, yet unnoticed.  I brushed my forehead against the pillow trying to push away death pictures invading my head. It killed me how innocently my sister believed the “thunder and rain”.

My life had taught me to hate anything red. I can hardly remember the last time I purchased a red dress, t-shirt, purse or even a pen. Sometimes, colors bear bitter meanings. This particular color makes me automatically think of martyrs and forget all about Valentine’s Day.  Not that I do not feel grateful for Israel allowing my sight to remain intact, but that I feel shallow when colors tend to be something vicious and bloody.

A few days ago, I received an invitation for an iftar along with child victims of the 08/09 war on Gaza.  I fidgeted and decided not to go. Selfishly, I thought I’m already drooped with much pain and unfulfilled dreams to put on more weight. One hour before the adan, I prodded my conscience and rushed to the sleazy restaurant where the iftar was to be held. On my way, I was thinking how much I deserved the shower of bahdala, reprimand, my mother had guaranteed for me when she knew I had told them “I can’t make it today, really sorry”.

Dressed in my Tahrir-Square t-shirt, I dragged my feet to a hall where tables stood in rows and children fussed around wildly. Dozens of arms were recklessly thrown to the air, and noise swarmed into my ears like irritating jazz. My eyes blurred at the little excited bodies surging through the hall. I felt relieved that not only child victims attended the event. Relieved. Not for a long time.

Among the fuss, one brown-haired child was leaning on another boy’s shoulders as they ran across with other boys. Both faces bore gloomy expressions. The brown-haired is blind. The other was his chauffeur. Something painful pulled me back to my seat.  Later on, I learned the child’s name is Luai.

Half way into the event, following the iftar, it was time for competitions. A young lady announced that everyone should pick a number between one and thirty once they were selected to participate. Sympathetic to his condition, Luai was the first to be selected. “What is your favorite number, habibi Luai? came the lady’s empathetic tone. Luai wordless. “Allah is one, Luai, pick number one” a girl’s voice rose up from a plastic chair and successfully made its way through the silence.  Convinced by the brief suggestion, Luai consigned to one.

Colors again. Luai was now obliged to utter colors he doesn’t know, or, he once knew before Israel had decided to take away his sight forever. Back in 2008, Luai was playing soccer along with cousins and friends when mercilessly, Israel raided a bunch of playful terrorists –kids-.

Twisting with embarrassment, Luai haltingly listed the colors of the flag because of which he lost his sight. Black, White, Green and red. All black in Luai’s blank eyes. Colors.

During the remnant hours of the event, I had peeked at Luai’s scribbled forehead thinking how he might have looked like when Israel believed he posed a danger to its existence. Nothing could make sense to me and I found myself holding back a tear struggling at the edges of my eyes.

Life here has taken me aback and turned me into a vigorous reader thriving to find place within numerous books. Within the black-streaked pages of Mornings in Jenin, I swung between Gaza, where bombings are relentless, and Jenin’s refugee camp where lifeless bodies persistently cling to the “dream of return”.

Every night, as Israel’s bombs rock Gaza, I hold to my book, Mornings in Jenin, and tray away from everything including myself. I wear Amal, the orphan whose fear, uncertainty and complicated life turned into courage, success and love.  Things we long, and yet long for here in this little unrecognized spot. I tread along with Amal’s absurdity and stoicism until sun perks up and I wake up the other day finding Jenin still nestled in my neck.

My Jerusalem Diaries

Also published on The Electronic Intifada and The Palestine Chronicle.

What a pity being asked if you have ever been to your capital and all that you utter is a mere “I would love to go there one day” or that the last time you had been to it was when you were only nine. There could be a third way to answer this embarrassing question: yes you have passed by it but they didn’t let you put a step out of the bus because you did not have a special permit that allows you to do so.  I wonder which answer I should opt for as all of them, luckily, apply to me.

Have I listed all possible answers, I feel compelled to make you stop at every station and ponder the view as I roam the streets of Jerusalem with my parents, my grandmother and my  sister in 2000. Later on, you will ponder me, a sample of a typical Palestinian, as I cross Bait-Hanoun border or “Erez Crossing” as being called nowadays by the Israelis.

The first picture my mind summons for Jerusalem, was 11 years ago when I went there for the first time. It is the  picture of myself staring at a crowd Rabbis through the window of the bus that carried us to Jerusalem. They all were the same: dressed in black outfits and black hats with straggling beards and two curls dangling from their whiskers. I asked my mother who these were. Her answer was that they were “religious Jews”.

I remember my parents holding my tiny hands as we got out of the bus with my grandmother and my older sister among other “tourists.” Many were Palestinians just like us. I was too naïve to realize that this visit could be the first and last time I walk in The Holy Land for many years to come.

I don’t know what happened next, but I remember that we went to the mosque of al-Aqsa where I was fascinated by the grandeur of the Dome of  the Rock as it proudly basked in the sun that made it look even more beautiful. I still remember when my mother handed me the prayer rug and the prayer gown and told me to pray. I unrolled the rug, wore the gown and made my prayer on the yard of al-Masjid al-Aqsa under the blue sky of the Old City.

One, even if only nine, could speak of the serenity of the place, the purity of the atmosphere, and above all, one could feel the genuineness and depth of the relationship between the Palestinian and the land. A relationship that had been originally created and developed by our ancestors and those who followed. It is the story of ancient Canaan and his Philista, of a peasant and an olive tree, of the love and tolerance between the Crescent and the Cross. Generations prior to the desecration of Zion, generations similar to the one that gave birth to Salah al-Deen al-Ayoubi.

My mother took me and my sister to see the mosque from inside. The only part I remember is my mother, my sister and I taking off our shoes and leaving them on a shoe rack, then entering the mosque where I saw the stone upon which The Prophet Muhammad’s sacred feet were printed when he ascended to Allah during the incident of al-Israa Wal (and) Miraaj.

I remember enjoying the special flavor of Jerusalem reflected upon its Nabulsi Kunafeh (an Arab Palestinian well-known dessert) at an old shop of one the Souqs within Jerusalem’s famous seven-open-gates Old City.

The last scene I can summon is my mother,  sister and grandmother trying hard to remember the name of the gate by which my we were to meet my father at a particular hour. “Al Qat… , al-Qat… , al-Qataneen!” I yelled with ecstasy for being the one who reminded them of the name. They cheered for me.

After all, I had to go back to my house in Gaza the same day in accordance to the conditions stipulated on our permits. I was not more than a tourist in my own land.

The second trip was in 2007. The year the siege on Gaza was imposed. I was accompanied by a group of young “privileged” Palestinians who were given permits to leave Gaza through the Bait Hanoun Border (Erez Crossing), travel via The Occupied Palestinian Territories (the so-called Israel) to Jordan, then fly to Cairo from Amman. It was impossible with Mubarak’s regime to spare a lot of humiliation at Erez by allowing us to cross to Egypt directly through Rafah crossing point.

I was the oldest among the group that had been chosen to spend three weeks in the Arab Digital Expression Camps in Cairo. Under the Palestinian law, and the Israeli law I suppose, one who has not yet completed 16 years of his/her life and doesn’t have an ID card is known to be a minor.  Our adult leaders were banned from accompanying us. We were faced by two options: either to withdraw from the trip and spend the summer in Gaza or to make it from Erez to Jordan on our own. The second won all votes.

To reach Erez, your taxi will have to drop you meters away from the gate. We dragged our feet and pulled our luggage under a hot August sun until we arrived at the gate. Not necessarily a gate like the one you might be picturing. It was more like jail rods than a gate of a crossing point. Beyond the gate you could see at first glance that the whole area was bugged. Cameras were everywhere to tell you that they are there to punish you if you acted in a way that might bother the Israeli officers. Large posters were glued to the walls to offer millions of dollars to those who will agree to “cooperate” with Israel and report the location of Shalit, the abducted Israeli soldier.

Behind the gate or the jail rods, there was a long fenced road that led to many searching machines at checkpoints. You have to leave your luggage on the machine, take off anything that contains metal even if it is a necklace and pass through the checkpoint. If it beamed, you’re in trouble, if it didn’t go to the next.

One machine was a bit more interesting and much larger than the checkpoints I had gotten used to. It was the one with the X-rays that causes cancer. The one I had always heard about. Once I got inside this machine I was ordered to raise my hands and stand still through a loudspeaker. The machine too was bugged!

There was something wrong with me. The woman’s voice, with a distorted English accent, ordered me to get out of the machine and get inside again. She screamed at me saying that I was not raising my hands the way I should have been doing. She made me go in of and out of  the machine five times. When she let me out, I thought there was no doubt I will get a cancer.

Through many gates we were then meant to pass. If the gate beamed a green light, push it and go to the next. If it beamed red, what will happen to you is identical to what happened to me.

I was taken to a special room with a searching machine, a table, a female officer and a searching device on the table. The officer ordered me to take off my pants. All of a sudden I thought I did not understand.

“Have you heard me?” She inquired. “Take off your trousers and put them in the searching machine.” She explained. I was feeling humiliated to the extent that made me force myself to pretend that I’m totally fine with this. She picked the searching device from the table and approached me. “Are you scared?” She sarcastically asked. “No” I retorted although I was soaking in fear.  The device ran across my body. At that point I was wondering what one could hide under his/her skin or underwear!

When she let me out, I found the rest of the group waiting on a bench. I burst out with tears, it was tormenting to an animal and I was a human.

Suddenly I burst out with laughter; it was the absurdity of the situation.

Our luggage was totally unpacked and mixed together. We spent hours separating our stuff and putting them again inside the bags. In the end, we walked out of Erez and rode the bus to Allenby Bridge that leads to Jordan.

My 2007 permit. Note the “From” – “To” in Hebrew in the last orange box

In the bus we screamed out of excitement, of ecstasy and of shock. We were on the other part of our home. We were in the Occupied West Bank. We asked the driver to take us to Jerusalem and let us make our steps on the ground of the Holy Land. Alas, to walk on our land we needed a permit from the stranger. We could only pass by Jerusalem and see a little spot of the Dome of the Rock. That day, that spot was capable to make me ignore, at least for a while the treatment I had received at Erez.

And thus, we were carried to the Bridge, Jordan and eventually flew to Egypt.

I still wonder how a minor’s body can be threatening to the security and well-being of the state of Israel. The only democracy in the Middle East.

Dear world, I’m a Palestinian. I was born in Palestine and since then I have lived there. I cannot go to my capital Jerusalem. Non-Palestinians can go. If I want to go there I have to ask for a special permit which I will not be given. Could you please justify this for me? I always fail to clarify it to myself.

 Sincerely, a Palestinian.