Two days ago, I was interviewed on This Week in Palestine, a US-based radio segment.
I was asked to discuss various topics including the reason behind the increasing number of bloggers in Gaza, life under Hamas and under the occupation, the UN bid, and several others.
To listen to this interview, kindly click here.
Olive tree facing Israeli buffer zone.
My story as someone who writes (writer is too good a title for me), emerged from a very small chaotic class some seven years ago. I used to think of myself then as a lion-hearted correspondent who puts on a bulletproof vest and maintains her feet in the middle of ferocious Israeli tanks. I used to imagine my high-pitched tone reporting live-streams that appear as Breaking News on thousands of TV screens. Somehow, I had been playing and re-playing videos of al-Jazeera’s reporters in my naive head all the time.
Thanks to Israel, which is the heart of most of my pieces, I received an unexpected e-mail from The Electronic Intifada editors, asking me to start blogging for the website about a week ago. I bounced up with joy and dashed out of the room to announce the news. While my mother labored to produce an over-ecstatic expression, my younger sisters looked at me from the corners of their eyes and rolled them back to their half-filled dishes.
Israel, without which my correspondence dreams wouldn’t have existed and because of whom I blog today, seems to have brought us, too, a mirage called “the State of Palestine.”
Last Friday, my eyes almost pierced the TV and shot my outdated president, Mahmoud Abbas, a scornful look. With his nose crinkled and a grey broom crawling out of his nostrils, he vowed to resume negotiations with Israel only if he was guaranteed full membership in the unwelcoming bosom of the UN. My mouth exploded with curses and I pulled off my rotted socks, balled them, and hurled them at him. Skillfully, they landed on his face. “I wish you could feel it, expired tuna!” I muttered.
He, in his neat suit and air-conditioned home in Ramallah, will agree to discuss “issues” like borders, refugees, and the status of Jerusalem had his dream of a Palestinian state broke out into reality. How would it be possible to reassess borders when he claims that the state of Palestine will be based on the “indefensible” 1967 lines? How credible is his alleged commitment to the Right of Return when millions of neglected refugees are not even being consulted on their fate? I can clearly see the two faces of the PLO.
When I close my eyes and think of a state, something similar to France winds up my head. A smile escapes my memory and molds itself out on my face. I rejoice at the memory of my legs as they sprinted from Lille (in France) to Brussels, two months ago, unhindered by security-concerned soldiers or humiliating checkpoints.
The complexity of the entire world seems to have crippled off my brain the day I put one leg in Brussels and the other in France. I couldn’t believe that both Gaza and France march over the very same planet. When I came back to Gaza, I often thought of a Palestinian version of the European Union uniting us with the West Bank, Jordan, and Egypt. I did not dare, however, to divulge such alien thoughts to any of my friends.
But one’s eyes cannot but open. And when they do, reality creeps over my body and snatches everything alien from the air. The state they want me to embrace is one disconnected and disjoined by a racist wall. A state on less than 22% of historic Palestine through which illegal settlements snake and swallow up water and other natural resources. Something that one can call a bantustan. Indeed, something I, we, the majority of Palestinians, cannot afford.
One hour following Abbas’ speech, last Friday, I, Huwaida Arraf, the co-founder of the International Solidarity Movement, and another Palestinian girl were interviewed on BBCWorld Have Your Say. Three Israelis were also brought in to the show to present their views over the PA’s statehood bid. I flared up when one Israeli suggested that “a One-State solution means the elimination of Israel.”
Ahead the episode, I had been told that it would be more of a discussion than an interview. But I found myself muted when I died to squirt at the Israeli as he blurted out with lies and baseless information. Arraf, also told me on twitter that she had been gagged at some point.
Coincidently, a few days ago, I was stirred by a comment from someone on a recent piece on my blog accusing me of “yearning for the eradication of Israel.” I think I should learn to accustom myself to such sort of accusations every time I speak in favor of a One State.
Palestine is not Nazi Germany, and the eradication of Israel is not what Palestinians seek to achieve. It is not always right to use statements from history and try to identify them with the present. When Israeli Jews tend to play with history and assume a widespread anti-Semitic fanfare, this is because it serves their vile purposes not because it applies to reality.
The world we were born into did not provide us with many options. Everything is a difficult decision. Sometimes it’s either you travel tomorrow or miss the scholarship forever simply because it was an extraordinary opening of the Rafah Crossing that is not likely to occur more often. Even if it was your brother’s wedding or the birth of your first child.
Many people here subsist on charities and many live in uninhabitable shacks. There are times when hundreds of frameless bodies and the fractured dreams they carry dive in sewage to the knees. They would invite neighbors to join them on the rooftops in order to avoid mosquitoes, a scorching weather and an intolerable smell. On better occasions, when the only misfortune is a “normal” power outage, refugees pack the rooftops under the dim light of the moon to share stories and smoke hookah. The lamma (friendly gathering) has always compensated for their wrenches and searing pains.
A refugee’s ultimate dream is to go back to the land on which his ancestors lived respectable lives and feed from the olive groves they cared for. Sometime back into history Palestinians and Jews lived side by side, shared meals, weddings and religious ceremonies. There were times when Palestinians and Jews hoped for a better future alongside each other. Sometime before the state of Israel was created and before hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were displaced across the countries to never return.
—
Dear Readers,
You may want to contact me at: rana-baker-91@hotmail.com or follow @RanaGaza on twitter.
Finest Regards,
Rana Baker
Gaza 08/09
—
Twin Towers 2001
Being Muslim nowadays is difficult. But being both Gazan and Muslim can be of a disastrous impact. As many here see it, Islamophobia is a term invented by racist groups whose purpose is to point an accusation finger at a certain people –Muslims- each time an “act of terrorism” strikes the world. This is an odd generalization that is simply not true.
“The war on terror” that manifested itself in the uncurbed words of George W. Bush –former US president- immediately following the September 11th attacks on New York’s Twin Towers did not spare Gaza.
With Hamas taking control over the Strip in 2007, biased media outlets began waging propaganda hurricanes to influence the world see Gaza a zone of terror where criminal armed gangs seek to wipe Israel off the map. They also took advantage of the Sept. 11th attacks by concocting stories about purported collaboration between Hamas and al-Qaeda. To the west, both Hamas and al-Qaeda pose danger to humankind. Khaled Meshaal, a prominent Hamas political leader, said in an interview done in Syria for US public TV that Hamas is a resistance group that fights Israeli colonization only as opposed to al-Qaeda that is involved in international terrorism.
Backed by the US, in late 2008, the war on Gaza was launched. Twenty two days of relentless aggression against a mostly-civilian population was justified as necessary operation to uproot terrorist infrastructure throbbing through this densely populated area.
In Gaza, Islamophobia features itself through motherless and childless nights many kids and mothers have to swallow. Since Israel proclaimed Gaza a den where terrorists need to be cleansed, hundreds – not to exaggerate- of such innocent lives have been claimed.
One could lean into his window in the morning to look out on an impoverished refugee camp or smear his morning coffee when inhaling sewage-drenched air. It is always obvious that Israel has suspected every standing figure of hiding terrorists no matter how shapeless or worn out these figures seem to be. And more, in disregard to how huge the banners reading “School” or “playground” for both schools and playgrounds are equally suspected whatsoever.
Mohammad Suleiman, 21 years old Gazan blogger thought of the reasons behind this Islamophobia: “If we want to talk about the reasons, of course they are many: some have to do with Zionist agenda and securing the state of Israel against not all Palestinians but all Arabs and Muslims”. But he is optimistic: “I think there is a growing awareness now in Europe in regard to this although Islamophobia reached astonishing levels in the US due to the role of AIPAC and other Zionist groups.”
The truth, although surprising, is that the majority of Gazans, if not all of them, are trying to find solutions where Palestinians and Israelis can live in peace and harmony together. While one part hopes to fulfill this dream by opting for a Two-State solution, the other supports One State. I, the writer, have lived in Gaza all my life, and it never happened that I encountered someone who wants to “wipe Israel off the map”. Even if such minority exists, it’s worth mentioning that in Israel itself, there are people who wish to wipe Palestine off the map.
Here is what Eman Sourani, 22 years old, and a One-Stator thinks: “The issue isn’t about getting rid of people but of Apartheid. We need to end the Israeli Apartheid that is based on Zionism”.
A few weeks ago, in a summer camp in Norway, dozens of young Norwegians were sprayed with bullets to end lives of over seventy and wound several others. International press and social media suddenly began blabbering about Muslim perpetrators who were labeled -as usual- as “terrorists”. A few days later, the perpetrator turned out to be just an “extremist”. Indeed, to describe a Norwegian, lighter term becomes a necessity.
This incident and this manipulation of language brought back the pictures of the September 11thattacks. In Gaza, young bloggers began raising many questions.
“If the person who killed 70+ people in Norway was a Muslim, the Press would have declared him as terrorist. For now though, he is just an ‘Assailant ‘, ‘Attacker’ (Reuters), ‘Gunman’ (BBC, CNN & Al Jazeera). Looks like ‘Terrorist ‘ is a name reserved for Muslims? The US Dept of State calls it an ‘Act of Violence’, not an ‘Act of Terrorism’”. Samah Saleh, 22, updated her Facebook status.
Samah is a Muslim, but she’s not a terrorist. She’s a medical-school student and one example of thousands of successful young Muslims in Gaza. Actually, thousands of students graduate from Gaza-based universities every year.
Extremists and terrorists exist within every community regardless of their sects, religions and beliefs. Criminals cannot represent every individual and religion in a given society, but rather the influences that surrounded them as they grew up. Evidently, this singling-out of a people and unreasonably putting them in an isolated category is nothing but an act of racial discrimination.
Shaimaa al-Waheidi, 23, a recent graduate argues that there is lack of understanding in regard to religions especially Islam: “USA and everyone should understand that all religions are innocent from the people’s crimes. For me, as a Palestinian citizen, I feel very sorry for the families of September 11th victims”.
“These attacks insulted us and insulted our religion. Our religion is a religion of peace and we are against these attacks.” Agreed Lara Abu-Ramadan, 19, a writer of Arabic prose. “After the attacks on the World Trade Center, Muslims were treated like terrorists in Europe. Before I traveled to France this year, I had fears that people might be offensive to my Hijab, but they were better than I had imagined despite some scornful looks I received. Sometimes these looks made me feel weird; it hurts being treated this way” she described.
But have the attacks affected the lives of the young people of Gaza?
Sahimaa and Mohammad, both mentioned earlier, had something to say: “I think the September 11th attacks haven’t really affected my life as a Muslim because I do believe that the USA government had already shaped its constant vision about Islam before the attacks happened” said Shaimaa. Mohammad’s answer was a bit different: “They might affect me in person, but I think I can help fight back these prejudices and misrepresentations”.
The current assaults on Gaza, unlike what took place on September 11th 2001, are not being covered by Western media. Three children among six civilians were massacred and yet nothing has been reported. These children killed and women injured are not different from women and children killed and injured on Sept.11th. In either case, the victims are non-combatant civilians and more importantly, not terrorists. Western media, let’s face it, reports discriminately. Blind eyes and deaf ears are always turned toward those who seem to be less important in the eyes of outwitting politicians whose game of power determines victims and murderers in total disregard to the truth.
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.
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.
At a demo against Bait Hanoun's closed zone.
Also addressed in this article: Palestinian youth in Gaza skeptical about PA’s UN bid.
I turn on the fan, aim it right at myself and sit to write.
Throughout the internationally unrecognized but famous Gaza Strip, 1.6 million pairs of eyes are watching the news with fluctuating points of view over the September declaration of a Palestinian state. This is not the only topic hovering overhead within the Palestinian arena. Indeed, Mubarak’s trial is not a less-discussed subject among people gathering around the table at the end of the day to break their Ramadan meals.
A walk through Gaza especially in the few hours preceding Iftar, attests to a life that despite everything thrives to get a sense of normality. Queues flowing out of popular food shops are commonplace in Ramadan. You would find those queuing to get Qettayif for the family, while others think of Hummus as an inevitable component for the perfection of the day’s meal. Special banners promoting different kinds of food “especially prepared for Ramadan” testify to the efforts put forth to induce Gazan consumers buy “the irreplaceable dishes.”
Both complexity and simplicity are inseparable in any Palestinian’s life. While thoughts are buzzing with concerns about the future of their country, they never cease to pretend that everything is fine and by time solutions will prevail. Though, this is not the case of all Palestinians as some insist to seek solutions themselves and criticize current ones.
Just a few days ago I was engaged in two discussions on two different topics. One was the on the September recognition of a Palestinians state, the other was on Mubarak’s trial.
In fact, the Palestinian street is divided into two: those who are for One State and those for the UN September recognition or Two States. I’m for one state.
If the US did not veto our statehood bid and Palestine was recognized by the UN, I will be unilaterally recognizing Israel for the second time since Oslo. A quite compelling question here is: if the PA recognized Israel in 1993 what is the point behind recognizing it again now? I think it is a matter of settlements and borders.
In 1993 when Arafat recognized Israel’s right to exist, Israel did not own as much land as it owns now. The segregation wall was not there to swallow up much of Palestinian land and Arab Maali Adumim was not yet replaced by ardent Zionists. Today 78% of Palestine is in the hands of Israel while the purported Palestinian state will be built on only 22%. Settlements are still being constructed and Palestinian homes are being demolished at the very moment! The second unilateral recognition means accepting Israel as it is now with its current settlements and borders.
But what about more than 5,000,000 Palestinian refugees who dream to return to their lands? The Palestinian government does not have the right to take decisions on their behalf. If they were given the right to vote, they would have voted against this bid. This is definite.
Those who wish to say “I come from the state of Palestine”, think that this recognition will enforce international sanctions upon Israel. Wrong. The UN is the UN and it will always be controlled by the US who will never refrain from backing Israel.
Even when Obama wants to sound like Mother Teresa as he speaks of justice, tolerance and how much he supports the Palestinian-Israeli attempts to achieve a “just” peace, the “audacity of hope” will always be directed at Israel. He will never betray the friendship.
Obama says he will veto the bid. Maybe he can do, but only then will he never be able to veto the One State and his conspiracy with Zionism will be so clear that Hilary Clinton will not be able to deny it.
Mubarak’s trial raised many questions, the most important is: if Mubarak was put on trial, where should we put Netenyahu and those who preceded him in 30 years? Honestly, I have no idea. I think we will need experts to figure out some appropriate answer.
The revolution fever has now reached Israel. 300,000 Israeli were protesting high cost of living yesterday in Occupied Tel al-Rabee’ (Tel-Aviv) but none protested Palestinian high cost of life! They protested high housing costs but not high house demolitions. It is also worth mentioning that the Israeli government did not fire tear gas or rubber bullets at protesters as it does with the Palestinians who protest the Wall.
Yesterday, I stumbled upon an article on Ynet which content brags about the “democratic methods” undertaken by the Israeli government to establish dialogue with the protesters. It goes further to compare between the responses of Arab and Israeli regimes to uprisings. It says: ” As Israel finds a way to deal with a social protest that encompasses several branches of society and present reasonable solutions, its neighbors, it appears, will be stuck in a mode of perpetual upheaval and instability, due to a lack of desire to find peaceful solutions and compromise.”
This “compromise” and those “peaceful solutions” are never applicable when it comes to Palestinians. When we protest Israel’s Closed Military Zone near Erez, we’re usually faced by bullets. The same scenario occurs in the West Bank. Even with children, Israel cannot find a compromise. During the Israeli offensive against Gaza, Israel couldn’t find peaceful solutions with a minimum of 300 kids and killed them. When young people spoke up for Palestinians during AIPAC, they were beaten up and taken to hospitals. Yes, Israel is the “only democracy in the Middle East.”
It is 2:14 AM now, a few days ago around this time, an airstrike struck Gaza. On the occasion, I shared this on Twitter: ”Actually this airstrike saved my mom the daily struggle of waking up all of us for the pre-fasting meal. #Gaza #BrightSide“ thought this would be funny. Perhaps you smiled, perhaps not.
The fan is still on but it’s no more directed at me, my sisters turned it toward them. I think I should join them. It’s pretty late. Good Night. Ramadan Kareem!
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 the 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 who 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 pants 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.
—————
Dear readers,
For further information and comments or any suggestions I can be reached at the e-mail below:
rana-baker-91@hotmail.com
Vittorio Utopia Arrigoni is dead, or so claimed several sources on Facebook and Twitter. I Text a message to an International Solidarity Movement (ISM) activist: Please tell me the news is lying. Reply: Vik is dead.
A stirring pain cuts through the Gaza dawn. A chill runs up my body. Gaza was stabbed.
Friday’s sun made its way toward a noon scene where a memorial ceremony was held in a public park. Activists, students, youngsters, elders, men, women, journalists, photographers and bloggers were all there for two reasons: to condemn the vicious crime, and to console and be consoled.
I embraced my friend Inge, an ISM activist. Her tears flew like a river onto the burning sand, instantaneously disappearing. Unlike me, who didn’t know Vittorio, Inge knew him and was his comrade – together they worked with the farmers while harvesting their crops. I held Inge and with her I wept.
“I’m so sorry, please be strong” was all I could utter. She was inconsolable.
“Tell me this is not true,” whimpered another young lady on her friend’s shoulder. Photographers snapped shots of her moment of turmoil and for the first time in my life I detested cameras; how could they peek into such a private moment? So insensitive.
A few days later I participated in another memorial for Vittorio organized by the Palestinian Students’ Campaign for the Academic Boycott of Israel (PSCABI). Dr. Haidar Eid, a member in the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic Boycott of Israel, gave a speech in gratitude for both Vittorio and Juliano Mer Khamis, who had been killed outside his Freedom Theater in the Jenin refugee camp just days earlier. Documentaries about their lives were shown. Vittorio’s quote “A winner is a dreamer who never gives up” was the last image in the documentary.
A notebook was passed on which people gushed out their grief to Vittorio’s mother. Tears mixed with ink. I felt shame and unspeakable bitterness: Vittorio did more for our cause than I did. As much as we tried to suppress our agony, pretending to be strong, outstanding fighters, as much as we tried to hide under a mask of false strength, ignoring our weaknesses and fears, thinking that no one notices, thinking that we are mastering our feelings, that we are immune against hardships, proud and determined – it was all an illusion. When it comes to mourning this man, Vittorio, who we love so much, the wall between our “pretending selves” and our “real selves” falls. When it comes to writing in a notebook dedicated to Vittorio’s mother about her son who had dedicated his life to Gaza, we are true to ourselves.
It was the Mediterranean that brought Vittorio to the shores of Gaza. Even though there is so much suffering in Gaza, Vittorio could have imagined it a utopia because of Gaza’s people who he loved so much and who loved him; alas, even in utopia criminals exist. It is the fishermen who sail alone nowadays, it is the fishermen who will have to get used to his absence, facing the bullets alone. It is the children who are missing his muscles; it is the children who miss being held and squeezed. It is the farmers near the Israeli fortified watchtowers who will now have to harvest their crops without him; it is that old peasant who remembers when Vik weeded out grass for him. It is his comrades who are compelled to sleep in the room Vik once occupied, while he is now sleeping in a graveyard.
As I write this, I rush to the terrace and open the window widely to inhale some fresh air. My face is gently thrashed by the sea breeze. My head is scrabbled and my heart pounds in my ears. Vittorio should have been thrashed by the same sea breeze.
I fidgeted and uttered a few words.
My mother, terrorized, would break into my small room and borrow the language women in the neighborhood usually use to win the pity of the soldiers. They would however, terrorize her even more.
I was pounded on my legs with the butts of their machine guns until I collapsed. Bruised, I was ordered to limp out and line up outside against one of the worn out walls of my house. My hands up and my face hit many times against the bricks to make sure I had no bombs stored in my head. My inferior outfit was frisked and my underwear was double checked; perhaps I had arms hidden there too.
Had my wrinkled mother seen her son receiving an advanced type of humiliation before the “eyewitnesses” of our neighborhood and the out-flowing blood of his face, my face, she began begging them frantically to go away exposing to them my “peaceful” school books that “cannot cause harm or damage to an ant.” Alas, to no avail.
I was not the only one privileged. Omar, my childhood friend, myself, and other seven dwellers of the same narrow alleyways in which I was raised, were all herded to where “we shall know when we arrive” as was the answer of the soldiers every time we tried to figure out our fate. Handcuffed, with our mouths repeatedly asked to shut up, blindfolded, and surrounded with arms, we were hauled on a military jeep to a different place somewhat; to where “the state of Israel sees as proper for annoying dogs like ourselves.”
Silence. A stern foreign accent, a roaring jet engine and silence. I fell asleep.
I woke up at an appalling scream followed by a gunshot and, another. A rebuking tone was soon to explain everything. “This is a lesson for you Palestinian scums. This is the fate you will receive if you try to escape; you will be gunned down and thrown away to our hungry dogs” summarized one soldier.
Nothing was all I knew. I could sense a human leg sticking to mine; it might have been a comrade’s, perhaps it belonged to an Israeli. I would at some points venture to ask about the time and how much time had passed, but what difference would time make? It was dark anyway.
A few hours later, or minutes, I couldn’t accurately determine, the jeep slowed down and eventually stopped. We were prodded apparently by arms to mount down; there was too much noise and a lot of Hebrew. I was recalling verses from the Quran, ones I had been taught to recite at times fear conquers our hearts.
Atrociously, a hand from behind tore my eye band and thus did to my skin. My eyes beamed with pain; it was night. An officer was aiming his torch at my eyes. And, the flag of Israel was fluttering.
“Oh Omar!” I said hailing him with hugs as my sight recognized him. But we were spit upon and ordered to queue back like others. “The rules are strict and none is above these rules, you will languish in our prisons until you get a fair treatment” clarified the officer.
We were forced to walk straightforward; those who resisted were whipped like animals, I wasn’t spared too.
A sound of creaking doors crept to our ears as we made our way down through a narrow staircase. We were separated and pushed down into jails; square, dark, stench, bed and window-free but of that of the door’s. I curled up and reminisced over the view of the Israeli flag fluttering vigorously. I was in the “state of Israel.”
Some light. The executioner’s candle.
Just a quick notice, before I dip into the chants and the roaring throats of yesterday’s protesters and before I come to a point where I could be misinterpreted, there is actually, at least in my point of view, a two-way definition to the popular demand to “end the Palestinian internal division.” One is the ostensible call for a national reconciliation or “unity” as banners say; a call that requires the opponent parties of Fatah and Hamas to give up hatred, forget each other’s political scandals and reunite. A solution that appears to be desired by many people but would absolutely fail to bring about 6 million Palestinian refugees back to their confiscated lands in 1948. The other way of definition is as simple as demanding both ruling parties, Hamas and Fatah, in Gaza and the West Bank respectively to step down; a definition that I highly endorse, where fair elections can be held and the Oslo Accords can be relinquished forever.
At 10 o’clock in the morning of March 15, I headed to The Unknown Soldier Square along with Nalan, Seba and Lara, my best friend. Each of us carried the one flag of Palestine to join thousands of comrades who in one voice sang for a united Palestine.
Hamas also joined the demonstration but they carried either green flags that represent their party, or flags that were made up of two pieces of cloth sewn together: the Palestinian flag and the green “Hamsasian” flag! They kept throwing us with speeches, claiming their will to end the division and the intention to abide by the people’s legitimate demand. But the claim was soon refuted when they attacked my camera. I was trying to shoot a security man; he was unarmed and seemed to be nonviolent. But when I aimed my camera at him he hit his fist against it and began shouting at me; I shouted too, he had no right to do what he had done. Guys from the demo hurried to help the situation and in a matter of moments peace was restored.
Some protesters danced, some were held on the shoulders to lead a new chant, and other protesters carried paper-made coffins, on which was written: “Conspiracy” and “Siege.” And we all sang the Palestinian national anthem.
Dancing at the Unknown Soldier Square
Paper-made coffins
Some banners read: “Gaza and The West Bank are stronger by unity” and “Even concessions never bring the rights of the refugees down.”
Even concessions never bring the rights of the refugees down
First four lines say the same the last says: "Just tell us what language you speak"
We marched, we cried, and once again we fell in love with Palestine.
As we raised our flags up, those Hamas affiliates infiltrated themselves amongst us in an attempt to turn the protest into one that functions in their favor. A bus for Hamas tried to pass when I, Nalan and Lara intercepted its way; they would have had to run over our bodies if they insisted to go. Other youths tore the Hamas part of the aforementioned pieces away, turning them back into the one flag of Palestine.
Hamas joins
Later on, the dominance of Hamas’s followers over the Square became unbearable; we were told to move to The Al-Kateebah Square, a larger one that was not yet taken over by Hamas. When I arrived with a group of people, there were already tens of thousands protesting, and a huge Palestinian flag was already stretched proud across one of the buildings.
The Al-Kateebah Square
I was overwhelmed by the view; people were driven to tears, others to anger, and so mixed patriotic sentiments in one bowl. A young girl sat on the ground in a circle with others her age. She volunteered to draw our flag on their faces, hands or arms – a phenomenon that attracted all cameras and softened the atmosphere.
Here, keep scrolling down, to see how girls dressed themselves in the national Palestinian embroidered dress and how they covered their heads with Kufeyyehs. Here in Palestine, you inhale the aroma of history and exhale a revolution!
As night peacefully descended, protesters lit fires here and there to avoid the biting cold from creeping into their bodies. Tents were set, ready for a quiet sit-in night demonstration but unfortunately, not for long.
I was at home, on Twitter, reading the most recent updates from the Square when suddenly someone posted the following: “Tents are set on fire and protesters are being beaten up by the Hamas forces.” A few minutes later, I was informed that the forces were in plain clothes and that even women and girls were not spared the attack. Male youth were arrested as well as a number of journalists who were documenting the incident. The square was totally emptied.
I was ashamed of myself, feeling the disgrace of being at home and the pain that had occupied my chest. And without leafing through the 6th chapter of “My Father was a Freedom Fighter” I went to bed.
The next day –which is today-, everything looked calm as if nothing had taken place the night before. I took a taxi to The Islamic University, my university, and on the way I asked the driver if anything was happening in The Al-Kateebah Square. He said: “they were forcibly quelled yesterday, nobody is there, the uprising is finished!”
But he was mistaken! At 11:00 in the morning, thousands were protesting at the campus of The Al-Azhar University. It was soon encircled by the regime’s forces and student girls and boys were again beaten with clubs.
When I heard about the escalation, I called my friends who study there, I could hardly understand what they were saying due to the noise around them. They only thing I could get was: “if you want to protest come to our university!”
When I arrived, there were crowds and crowds of young students being expelled from their own university and hit harshly with batons. Others were receiving threats and an ambulance was evacuating a causality. Actually a couple of ambulances were outside but people were talking about only one casualty.
And running away
It was the most difficult time for pictures. Whenever they found out that someone is documenting, they would attack him/her at the moment. My camera was sneaking quietly, quickly and carefully to steal a picture here of a plain-clothed Hamas policeman and a picture there of a jeep! They were cutting down branches from a tree to beat the youth with them! Students who were able to see it, asked me to stop taking pictures or “I will be dead.”
Cutting branches
All tension I had seen was nothing compared to the girl who fainted in front of my eyes as The Hamas Security Forces kept beating her on the legs.
- “You’re Zionists” I told one of the security men.
- “Are we?” He replied sarcastically.
A while later they caught me taking pictures… They chased after me with guns and clubs, two men or three… I unleashed my feet to the air, I ran hysterically until I was able to mislead them, and I was safe again!
I might look foolish now, but I came back later again, only this time with my cell phone’s camera. I approached a jeep full of armed men, I asked them: “Are you really the wise policemen who protect the noble citizens as you claim?” A man aimed his machine gun at me and the other said: “We are on the right.”
I stepped back, turned on the phone’s camera, shot a couple of pictures, and then I was caught again…
-”Hand me your phone now” The man ordered.
-”No, I will not” I answered.
- “Well turn it off and get out of here now” he intimidated.
- “I’m not moving away, the road is not yours!” I shouted.
And this time, a group began waging their clubs and hurried after me. I ran breathlessly, unconscious of where I was going, but I misled them again, and my tears were no more stubborn; they broke out and rolled on my cheeks…
The above was what I witnessed in the first two days of the uprising. What I’m going to witness in the coming days might be the same less or more, but in any case, here’s my advice to any Zionist or pro-Zionist who’d dare to say something about me, the writer of this story, or post a filthy arrogant comment: Do not think twice, but tens of times before you say a word about Hamas, simply because the armed resistance against the occupiers of this land will remain legitimate and needed whether Hamas stayed or left. The most repressive regimes across the globe are not worse than “the only democracy in the Middle East” that recently passed a bill criminalizing Israelis and Palestinians in Israel who call for cultural, academic and economic boycotts against Israel and in the 08/09 war on Gaza used phosphorous bombs. And in the face of Israelis we always unite.
Relative Links:
http://www.haaretz.com/news/national/bill-to-punish-anti-israel-boycotters-passes-first-knesset-hurdle-1.347734
