For those who ask me about daily life in Jerusalem, I’m happy to share this collage of clips from recent cultural performances by children. The halls are packed with proud parents. The children beam and clutch their certificates of achievement. I hope you enjoy.
Gaza Diary, Day Two: The Beautiful Beach
I sat on the Gaza beach with a friend. I don’t like the beach, truth be told. But I filled with gratitude for the chance to sit on the Gazan sand– because it is the place of so much history, so much bravery, all the way from the Mavi Marmara to the fishermen who risk being shot so that we can eat shrimp. And because it is a strip of beauty in this very tragic place.
As we spoke I picked out the pretty shells, the multicolored ones, the unbroken ones, and stashed them away for my daughters, or maybe for me.
Twice, my friend jumped in fright when the metal from a truck bed clanged open to unload dirt. I pretended not to notice, not to notice her vulnerability, to memories, of powerlessness.
We chatted about organizations and women and opportunities. We could imagine so many ways to work together, now that we had seen each other for the first time. Now that we could see, not just hear, the sincerity in each other’s eyes.
And when there was a lull, she sighed, a deep sigh, and wished that I could come again, and wished that she could visit Jerusalem, and wished that life wasn’t so hard. Don’t they know that what they deny grows more and more valuable in the hearts of people?
Day One, Morning: Leaving Jerusalem for Gaza
My daughters, their long, curly hair hanging out of the second-floor window, waved furiously as I got into the taxi bound for Gaza. It was a send-off far more significant than when I travelled to Indonesia or Namibia. In those cases, they said goodbye and went back to reading. Today, though, my girls, who I can hardly drag to Bethlehem or Nablus, sent me off with a longing in their eyes. It’s the same look I got from all the West Bank Palestinians I told about my trip plans. It’s a look that encompasses envy and sadness and anger. Because they cannot go to Gaza.
They cannot go meet nephews, nephews who enjoy birthdays without the auntie they know only by name. They cannot visit the graves of their parents who died without their comforting touch at the end. They can’t even go for work, for a meeting with colleagues at the university or to negotiate prices with partners. They can’t go to Gaza because Israel does not allow them. And Gazans, except under rare circumstances, are not allowed to go to the West Bank.
Gaza is only about one hour by car from Jerusalem.
One of my friends was last in Gaza 13 years ago, another 20 years ago, another 8 years ago. I got in (my first visit in 25 years) for a consultancy with an international organization, with my US passport, and lots of international negotiating effort.
The Gaza Strip is a tiny, but integral, part of Palestine. Twenty-five miles long and 7.5 miles wide at its widest, it lays along the Mediterranean Sea coast just south of Israel. Administered as part of the British Mandate since the twenties, the war in 1948, Gaza brought under Egyptian control. In 1967 Gaza was occupied by Israel, and over time restrictions on mobility between Gaza and the West Bank were implemented. The Oslo Accords cemented these restrictions in 1993, and Israeli settlements expanded. In 2005, Israel changed its occupation tactics. It removed the Israeli settlements inside Gaza and hardened control over the perimeter. The Palestinian elections that brought Hamas to power in 2006 triggered an international boycott of the Palestinian Authority, followed by internal fighting that ended with Hamas in charge of Gaza and Fatah in charge of the West Bank. That, in 2007, was excuse for Israel to implement a blockade that has cut Gaza off from the rest of Palestine almost totally.
Now, Gaza is not only physically and politically separated from the West Bank, but culturally and socially, too. Though Palestinians try to work across the divide, the truth is that the Israeli attempt to break Palestinians into cantons has worked – going to Gaza is like going to a foreign country. Even my young daughters know that.
Day One, Evening: Putting Faces to Voices
I ate a lovely meal with a dear, old friend, someone who I care about deeply, whose panic I’ve heard over the phone lines when bombs fell indiscriminately around him and his family. He has been my friend for seven years. We worked together to build an organization, to establish its mission and culture, to build its programs. But since he has always been denied an exit visa by Israel (even to attend a conflict resolution training with a scholarship from the US embassy), and since I could not enter Gaza, today was the first time we ever met.
Sitting there, trying to memorize the face that went with the voice, and thrilling in the sight of his adorable boys riding a bicycle in circles in the living room, I tried to imagine how our friendship might have developed if Gaza had not been under siege.
The glow of the conversation lit the faces of my friends, but at some point I realized that I could no longer see the stuffed zucchini well, and a few minutes later, we were sitting in darkness. I groped for my camera that I remembered putting down near my plate so that it would not be lost.
No one moved to turn on the lights, which I found odd, until I recalled that in Gaza, they only have electricity 8-10 hours a day. The entire neighbourhood was dark. This is Gaza.
We cleared the table in darkness, setting plates on the kitchen counter, and putting soda in the refrigerator, which was now not running.
It wasn’t long before the lights came on again, fuelled by my friend’s brother’s generator. I felt myself exhale, and I felt guilty. Daily life in Gaza—even without bombs falling—presents a level of unpredictability and inconvenience that disoriented me.
We walked to his car passed the roar of the generators and the greasy smell made the zucchini turn over in my stomach.
He drove me back to the apartment where I was staying and he said, with what felt to me like great emotion, “Next time bring the whole family.” And I said, “Really? Will Israel allow that? Can my youngest daughter come here to play with your son?” And looking straight ahead he said, “No.” There was silence and I realized we had hit the limits of normal conversation, where reality makes a mockery of normal dreams.
This poem was published on PeaceXPeace. I would love your comments.
On Fridays,
I feel rested
you feel anxious
I make pancakes
you cut onions
I fold laundry
You tie kafiyehs
I read email
You read danger
I buy fish
You buy time
I contemplate you
you contemplate them
Then,
tear gas stings
shots ring
I cringe
you bleed
I write
My headline for the article I wrote that appeared in The Guardian was “Jilani Family Cautiously Hopeful as Israel Impunity Stands Trial.” Having spoken recently to Ziad Jilani’s widow, I confirm this is true: something feels different about this case, which is currently under consideration by the Israeli Supreme Court.
Please read the article and voice your comments on this blog. Will Israel again protect their police despite violations of human rights? Or will they, in this case, admit that wrong is wrong and hold those responsible to account?
This article first appeared on PeaceXPeace.
Palestinians know what “Ramallah Bubble” refers to, even if they’ve not heard the term. The city of Ramallah is palpably different from the rest of Palestine. It’s the lifestyle, the mindset, the money, and, above all else, the irking feeling that it might suddenly burst.
Inside Ramallah, Israeli incursions are relatively infrequent and movement is unencumbered. Palestinian police stand on nearly every corner in the bustling downtown shopping district; and construction is booming. To outsiders, Ramallah’s appearance of “normalcy” may seem proof that the “peace process” is benefiting Palestinians. But some locals, including some mothers, believe that Ramallah’s fake “good life” dilutes children’s national consciousness.
“It’s really difficult to teach our children what military occupation means while living in Ramallah. Unless an Israeli jeep drives by, we can’t convince them there’s a problem. There are too many distractions,” Iman Assaf said.
Iman sipped espresso at Zamn Café, itself a product of Ramallah’s aid-fueled economic growth, as she chatted with friends about the challenges of mothering in Ramallah today.
Joyce lamented, “Once we invited friends for dinner. We found their four kids and our four kids sitting together in the playroom staring at their iPads – eight iPads in one room!”
Ramallah has been host to a pseudo-government since the Palestinian Authority was established as a result of the Oslo Accords. The five-year interim period, which has now dragged into nearly twenty years, was meant to build trust and resolve final status issues. But hope seems to have dissolved into Walls, fences, ditches and checkpoints and relentless violence. This defines life in most of the occupied Palestinian territory—except in Ramallah.
In fact, Movenpick, a visible symbol of the Ramallah Bubble, runs a five-star hotel in Ramallah. General Director, Michael Goetz, said they became profitable in their second year, even sooner than their financial forecasts predicted. Movenpick’s success, and that of the hotels, restaurants, landlords, and other service providers, is primarily a result of international aid. Palestine receives billions of dollars in international aid, most of it flowing through Ramallah before trickling to more remote areas.
“I was in Gaza recently,” May Kishawy shared. “People in Gaza don’t live like we do. They know what poverty is. They understand from their experience that our political problems are not solved.”
People who enter any one of Ramallah’s refugee camps know that that poverty is real in Palestine, even in Ramallah, and a stroll near the checkpoint, especially on a Friday, will surely find angry boys throwing rocks at the symbols of occupation and being tear-gassed in response. The point is that while Ramallah isn’t free, people in Ramallah may choose not to see. For mothers, the choice is poignant: “Should I protect my children from the horrors of occupation if I can? Or should I show them the truth even if it hurts?”
“When I was growing up in Nablus during the first Intifada,” Iman said, “we couldn’t avoid the occupation and we didn’t want to. We were young, but we cared about social issues like violence against women and attacks on villages. Today, kids are more concerned about the model of mobile phone they carry. We’re still occupied and we have no rights, but the new generation doesn’t understand that.”
The mothers acknowledged that consumerism is global, that peer pressure is universal, and that mother-child conflicts over television time are unexceptional. Still, there is something strange and disturbing about entering Jasmine Café in the late afternoon and finding it crammed with local school children—while their peers in villages and refugee camps are being tear gassed or assaulted, arrested, and sometimes killed.
Naela Rabah, Principal of the Greek Catholic School of Our Lady Annunciation, said that while not all Ramallah families have money, all are subjected to the influence of the Ramallah Bubble. “Many famililes in Ramallah are living beyond their means. They take loans to buy houses and cars. The kids who have access to money put pressure on other kids to wear fancy clothes, too. Parents give in because they don’t want their children to feel self-conscious, but they’re taking a risk. None of us has security. If I lose my job, I have no income. I don’t have health care like they do in other places or old-age pension.”
Some critics assign blame for Palestine’s illusory economy on international donors, who inject money without challenging the fundamental problem of Israeli occupation. Other critics point specifically to World Bank policies that tout private sector-led economic growth as a solution for Palestine’s problems—without admitting that real development under occupation is impossible.
The group of Ramallah mothers stopped short of saying that international actors created the Ramallah Bubble to intentionally lead Palestinians away from their national aspirations, but they did say that systemic forces are pushing Palestinian society in that direction.
An eighth-grade student at a private school in Ramallah agreed that the top layer of Palestinian society does have money to burn, but she disagreed that Ramallah youth have lost touch with their national consciousness.
“Kids in Ramallah are more aware of the occupation than kids in Jerusalem,” she said. “Don’t forget that kids in Ramallah experience the occupation every time they are prevented by soldiers from crossing the checkpoint in order to get to the mall.”
This article first appeared on PeaceXPeace.
I don’t know why I went to watch the Palestinian documentary, “Five Broken Cameras” last night. I was already exhausted from a long, sad week. And I knew that the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem would be packed and there would be no seat. And I’d see people I was too tired to be polite to. But I went. I don’t know why. My car seemed to drive itself down to Salahadin Street. Then I paid too much to park in a lot. I don’t know why I went. I could have just bought the DVD and watched it at home.
I knew the film would be excellent or it would not have been nominated for an Academy Award. I knew it would be so well done that it would keep me up at night, and here I am, as expected, writing about it at 4 am. I knew it would be too much for me, after writing about Ziad Jilani’s death. Each article I write seems to deplete my being in some way that can’t be replenished. Yet I write, hoping it will save me, but fearing it will kill me. Being in touch with so much pain.
That’s what co-director Emad Burnat meant, I think, when he said in a discussion with the audience by skype, “I wanted to tell my story,” and why he braved, and continues to brave, such violence so that he can continue to film. I sensed it hurt him to document the reality that he, like the rest of the world, would prefer to deny. Yet he was compelled. I think I understand that.
The scenes of the movie were all familiar to me. The children said what they always say. The protesters chanted what they always chant. I watched as children vomited from tear gas, as old people were hit with rubber bullets in the face, as people who we’d come to love through the story died almost on cue. There was no new information. Still, the film affected me. It was a compact presentation of the horror that lasted for years, and continues to this day, from the perspective of one man. A regular man.
The sickness and inhumanity of what is happening in Bil’in, in Palestine, is inescapable.
I did try to escape the film, more than once. I wanted to go home, to my children, and to rest. I was so tired. But I stayed, drawn both by deep sadness and utter awe for the steadfastness of the people of Bil’in, and of Emad Burnat.
I’m sure if you watch the film, you’ll feel it too. And I hope it compels you, and me, to act.
This article originally appeared in Electronic Intifada on March 15, 2013.
One week before he shot Palestinian motorist Ziad Jilani in the head at point blank range, Israeli border policeman Maxim Vinogradov expressed on Facebook his wish to kill Arabs and Turks. And on his profile on another social media site, Vinogradov identifies himself as belonging to the extreme right, expresses his love for violence, names “undocumented Arab workers” as his favorite sport, his hobbies as “hitting and destroying things,” and for the category of favorite food, he lists “Arabs.”
The Israeli border police claim that on 11 June 2010, Jilani attempted to run them over in a terrorist attack in the Wadi al-Joz neighborhood of Jerusalem, and, fearing for their lives, they shot to kill in accordance with police procedures. The Israeli state prosecutor agreed with police claims and refused to press charges against Vinogradov and Police Superintendent Shadi Har al-Din, both of whom admitted to shooting Jilani. Jilani’s family is now pursuing justice for Ziad in Israel’s highest court.
This article was written for PeaceXPeace.
A lot of people hate going to the dentist because it hurts. I hate going to the dentist in Jerusalem because it hurts, but not in my mouth. It hurts my sense of belonging.
We go to an Israeli dental clinic.
Many Palestinians in Jerusalem go to Israeli dental clinics. Why shouldn’t they? Palestinians who have residency in Jerusalem are entitled to Israeli health insurance. It’s one of the few benefits they got when Israel illegally annexed Jerusalem.
Nearly all the approximately 300,000 Palestinians living in East Jerusalem are “residents.” They were born in Jerusalem (like their parents, and their parents’ parents) but despite Israel’s annexation, they are not citizens of Israel. They have no voice in the Israeli elections that determine their fate. Not that they necessarily want to vote in the Israeli elections. But I digress.
Last time I took my children to the Israeli dental clinic, the receptionist waved us to the x-ray room and a technician hurried my middle daughter into the big faux-leather chair.
“Wait! Why does she need an x-ray?” I intervened.
The woman had straight blond hair and a pink hair extension that matched her pinkish lipstick. She looked at me with a totally unreadable look on her face.
“She’s having her teeth cleaned. She doesn’t need an x-ray,” I repeated in English. My middle daughter was looking uncomfortable in the chair, embarrassed. The other two had backed into the waiting area and were pretending not to know me.
The technician shouted to the receptionist and there was soon a small congregation of Israeli women around me, all speaking Russian. They were trying to figure out what my problem was.
The dentist herself came out from her room in the back carrying my daughter’s dental records. I could understand her Hebrew despite her heavy Russian accent, “If you want to see the dentist, you have to have an x-ray,” she proclaimed, as if it were a law of nature.
I tried to explain in my few words of Hebrew: “Teeth cleaning. Last time we came, the hygienist wrote in the file that we needed to come back.” I tapped the file in her hand. It would all be clear if she would just read the dental record.
But she didn’t. The dentist turned on her heel and walked through the reception area talking loudly. “This lady wants me to write in the file that her daughter got an x-ray but she doesn’t want her daughter to have the x-ray!”
I was livid, frustrated, powerless.
“She doesn’t need an x-ray!” I raised my voice, following her to her office.
“I decide!” she countered.
By then, all my children were ready to crawl into the medicine cabinet with shame.
And I made it worse.
I approached a Palestinian woman sitting with her children in the waiting room. I asked her in Arabic if she knew enough Hebrew to explain to “those crazy people” (yes, I was angry) that my daughter needed her teeth cleaned, not an x-ray. She didn’t look too happy to be associated with me in any way, but she stood up to help.
Then the door to the hygienist’s room opened and she stepped out, interested in all the commotion. I ran to her. Her long bouncy curls had changed colors since our last visit.
“Do you remember me?” I asked in English.
“Of course!” She smiled at my children and I felt a wave of relief. She is the reason why we go to that clinic. She makes flossing and mouthwash and fluoride fun.
“Can you please tell them I want you to clean my daughter’s teeth? I told them you wrote it on her dental record, but they don’t understand.”
A few minutes later, my middle daughter was reclining in the hygienist’s chair having her teeth cleaned.
“Apparently the person who scheduled your appointment at your last visit thought you wanted to see the dentist,” she said as she worked. “And everyone who sees the dentist for the first time needs an x-ray.”
“You provide services in Hebrew and in Russian,” I said. “Why not in Arabic? Isn’t Arabic also an official language of Israel?”
There was a pause and the hygienist looked at me, humanity shining in her eyes. She didn’t respond to me, but she spoke to my daughter. I think she said: “Spit.”