This article first appeared on Philanthropy for Social Justice and Peace.

On October 12, 2014, a bunch of donors met in Cairo with the Palestinian Authority to discuss and pledge support for Gaza. I can’t find any official statement press release from the conference, so it’s hard to know exactly who came and pledged, but media coverage after the event suggested thatQatar pledged $1 billion, while Kuwait and the UAE pledged $200 million each, as did Turkey, and the United States pledged 212 million dollars. One source reported that the European Union promised 450 million euros while another said EU member states will contribute $570 million including pledges of $63 million from Germany $13m from Norway (or $14.5m from Norway, according to a different source). I guess that the EU promise of 450 million Euros is the same as the promise of the EU member states for $570 million, but I can’t be sure. Also, it was reported that Saudi Arabia pledged $500 million, France $38 million, Algeria $25 million, Italy $22.7 million, and Japan $200 million, while theUK figure came in at a shockingly low $32 million.

I’m not good in math, so I use a calculator to add up these figures and I don’t get anywhere near the $5.4 billion that all media consistently reported as the amount pledged at that conference. So where can I find out who else pledged and how much? Or is money already missing?

I look at OCHA’s Financial Tracking Service and pull a report for the occupied Palestinian territories (dated November 18, 2014) and there is no $1 billion from Qatar either in the commitments or pledges. Maybe that’s because Qatar isn’t transparent? So I decided to look for a donor with a high transparency rating, like the UK. I go back to the FTS and yes, there are paid contributions that could approximate the pledged amount, but there’s no way to tell if those are the same funds because there’s no date of the payment on that report. Grumble, grumble. Or maybe that’s because OCHA tracks only humanitarian funding and these pledges are considered “development” funding? “Aha!” I say to myself. “I should be able to find that info in the International Aid Transparency Index.” I go to the development portal, filter by UK, scroll to Palestine, and, yes! There is 130,856,816 spent and another 171,802,469 budgeted. But how can I find the $32m pledged at the Cairo donor’s conference?

Surely, with all the hulabaloo about aid data transparency, I must be doing something wrong.

Moreover, there’s the question about what the money will be spent on. The PA’s plan, which was submitted to donors as the basis of their request, listed $4 billion for the reconstruction of Gaza; $4.5 billion to support the PA budget from 2015-17; and $7 billion to finance the rebuilding and operation of Gaza’s airport and seaport, building a large water desalination plant and taking advantage of gas fields in Gaza’s sea, among other projects. But if “only” $5.4 billion was pledged against the $16.5 billion requested, then some things will get funded and others won’t. Where is that listed and explained?

The Palestinian Authority did put out a clarification. They said that some of the pledges were re-pledges of earlier commitments and that some of the funding will go to Gaza and some of the funding to the West Bank will also go to Gaza. But shockingly, they too seemed to be piecing data together from other data sources to calculate what money is expected.

Grumble, grumble.

Although I never passed eighth grade math, there is one thing I can be absolutely sure of. The aid data system – even the initiatives designed to make aid transparent – make it impossible for anyone to hold anyone accountable for anything.

If any of you “out there” think that I’m wrong and that you can figure out how much money the 1.8 million devastated Palestinians in Gaza should expect to receive, do let me know. This is not a rhetorical question. I’m really asking.

 

In late August, during the attack on Gaza, an Israeli named Guy Hazan left a comment on this blog, A View From My Window in Palestine, in response to a story called, “When the Gaza Sky Burst into Flames.” The story was a guest post written by Mahmoud Khalaf, a friend of mine from Gaza who poured his heart out about his personal experience living through the Israeli bombardment. In response to Mahmoud’s personal story, Guy left this comment:

Mahmoud, a 19-year-old student of English Literature at the Islamic University of Gaza answered so brilliantly, I didn’t even step in. Mahmoud wrote:

Then Guy Hazan commented a second time, and a third time, always in half-thoughts and unclear English. I wrote him an email suggesting that he consolidate his comments and finish making his points or he wouldn’t have impact. It’s not that I liked what he said or that I wanted him to affect my blog readers negatively. But I had no fear that he could convince anyone that Israel was right to rain bombs on 1.8 million people they’d imprisoned. Moreover, I genuinely believe that questions and comments help deepen discussion–whether I agree with them or not. And as they say, for every question (even ones that are hurtful or ignorant), there are tens of other people wondering the same thing. For this reason, I have always tried to respond to comments respectfully and protect my blog as a space for real exchange.

Also, there was a chance that he might really be an Israeli who wanted to engage and understand other views. They do exist.

Guy Hazan answered my email very politely. He thanked me and promptly complied by consolidating his points. His comments became longer and more meaty, but also more confusing. For example, in response to my reply to another reader’s comment (this time on my “about me” page), Guy Hazan wrote:

and he continued:

I apologize for subjecting you to that unintelligible tome, but the gist of it is that Israel is great and Arabs hate Jews. At least that’s what I think he’s saying. I let him off easy for his offensive ideas because he clearly doesn’t express himself well in English.

Soon, Guy Hazan found me on Facebook and I accepted his friend request. Everything I do on Facebook is public anyway, therefore, I tend to accept all friend requests unless they look truly suspicious. Still, I remember feeling a bit discomforted that he’d crossed over from my blog to my Facebook where I am more personal.

For a while, Guy Hazan continued his facade of civility and curiosity as he attacked my knowledge, experience, and credibility, but I was only mildly irritated. He made comments and asked questions, always incorporating misinformation or distortion. At first, I tried to reply with an explanation from my point of view, not for Guy Hazan’s benefit, but for the benefit of others who I knew would be reading the thread. Other Facebook friends of mine also tried to give him another perspective.

But quickly, Guy Hazan was replying to everything I posted, replying to all my comments, even commenting on my friends’ posts (my real friends). He seemed to be on Facebook all day and all night. I felt like he was in the room with me. It occurred to me that he was one of those Israelis paid to attack Palestinians and supporters of Palestinian rights on social media. I looked him up on LinkedIn and found that he was an investment banker in Haifa. I felt the tiniest amount of relief.

Then Guy Hazan started to initiate contact directly with my friends in Gaza. My reaction surprised me, though I didn’t share it publicly. I felt furious and ashamed that I had exposed my friends in Gaza (who are traumatized and deserving of support) to nothing less than harassment and from whom? An Israeli defender of the war!  It sounds naïve when I read that back. Of course I know that Facebook is public. I know Israelis read my Facebook. But somehow when Guy Hazan started addressing my friends in Gaza (to whom he had access because of me), I felt violated.

My friends in Gaza held their own. They matched each of Guy Hazan’s comments with historical facts and statistics and quotes and examples. And Guy Hazan got bolder and more offensive. The anger in his comments! The racism!

On September 17 he wrote: “What about the murder of babies in their sleep, With knives, cold-blooded, premeditated? Without regret.” And he posted a link to a video. I didn’t watch it. Before that, there was a back-and-forth exchange with Jason Shawa during which Guy Hazan insisted over and over again that Palestinians hate Jews and Jason insisted over and over again that he didn’t hate Jews. It would have been amusing if it had stopped there.

Now, Guy Hazan seems to be following me full time. In response to everything I share, he puts up links to offensive things. I’m sitting calmly at my computer after a long day, and there’s Guy Hazan’s face flashing across my screen. I feel trapped in a corner. I suspect that’s what he wants. But what’s worse, I’m overwhelmed with concern about what the rest of my friends (my real friends) think about this. People who used to ask questions or express opinions, who sincerely wanted to know my experience, don’t contact me anymore. It’s like Guy Hazan is at my house so no one wants to visit me anymore.

It’s gone beyond Facebook now.

The other day was my daughter’s birthday and she wanted to go to the beach. We went to Herziliya, not far from Haifa where Guy Hazan supposedly works, according to LinkedIn and not far from Nahariya, where Guy Hazan supposedly lives, according to Facebook. I found myself glancing around me to see if Guy Hazan was there. (I am assuming his profile photo is a real photo of him.)

 “When you look at these Israelis, do you wonder if they are soldiers and if they’ve done bad things to Palestinians?” I asked the Palestinian who was with me.

“It’s hard not to wonder.”

“And when you look at these little children,” I said, motioning to a particularly adorable toddler girl playing naked in the sand, “do you wonder if they’ll grow up to be soldiers who do bad things to Palestinians?”

“There are all kinds of Israelis. You can’t make assumptions just because they’re Israeli.” (We both knew that was the right answer, but we both knew how hard it is to keep reality from contaminating human relationships.”

I want to be the kind of person who is open. I want to be the kind of person who engages with different points of view. I want to be a person that others can approach with questions that they aren’t comfortable asking elsewhere. And for that reason, I’ve decided to take the bold move to publicly un-friend Guy Hazan and hope that he’ll stop polluting my space. I would have preferred not to have to do that, but I don’t want Guy Hazan in my life anymore. To the extent that Facebook allows, I will try to prevent his offensive commentary from showing up around my friends. I realize that he’ll “spin” this as “not willing to engage in dialogue” and he’ll be partly right. I do not want to engage in dialogue or anything else with Guy Hazan or anyone—Israeli or not—who uses the guise of “dialogue” to attack and harass, insult and hurt.

Bye Guy.

This article was originally published on Mondoweiss.

I catch a Palestinian woman making googly eyes at an Israeli baby on the train in Jerusalem. She is at that age when a woman’s body aches with evolutionary desire to reproduce. The effort she expends to restrain herself from tickling the baby’s feet is palpable. The baby’s mother chats in Hebrew with two other Israeli mothers-with-strollers. She doesn’t notice her curly-haired baby exchanging a tender smile with the veiled woman.

Behind them stand a few Orthodox black hats, one wearing iPod earphones. My curiosity burns to know what he is listening to. Although it is the middle of a school day, a Palestinian boy with a schoolbag stands near the door. There is a gentle chime, and the train moves. Smooth. No jerking. A middle-aged Israeli wearing a puffy red winter jacket steadies herself on the metal post, her hand nearly touching that of a Palestinian who looks like a laborer heading to work.

I never take this train, though I’ve long been curious how two peoples, their separation enforced in virtually every other sphere, can share such an intimate area.

The physical space, already constrained, dissolves further as the train takes on passengers on its way to the city center of West Jerusalem. Inexplicably and irrationally, my heartbeat quickens.

“Please remember to take your personal belongings when you depart the train,” the recorded message plays in Hebrew. Then in Arabic. Then in English.

As far as I can tell, the rules that Jerusalem lives by don’t apply on the train. There isn’t a discernable Arab side or an Israeli side. There isn’t a nuanced fight for territory. But is it a neutral zone or a standoff? I can’t tell if these folks have acclimated to this moving, time-limited reality or if a flare-up is imminent.

Palestinians are used to being in spaces defined by others as “not for you,” but how do the Jews feel, I wonder, sealed in such close proximity to Palestinians, a proximity that every Israeli policy aims to prevent?

I don’t have the nerve to ask them. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.

I let my eyes wander to the scene passing by outside the window. As we travel west I notice the buildings get newer and taller. The streets get cleaner. There are bike racks and recycling bins on the sidewalk. There is a sidewalk! Every little while I see an old Arab building, a witness both to the fact that Palestinians were here and the fact that they are no longer here. With weeds growing from cracks in stones, these monuments are romantic in their steadfastness in the center of modernity. Other old Arab buildings, renovated and gentrified, host cafes with fancy signs in English. I imagine their shame.

Inside the train, it is quiet. The occasional sound of Hebrew, nasal and harsh sounding to my ears, seems to rise upon acceleration and fall as the train approaches a station. No one is speaking Arabic out loud, but the physical presence of the veiled women with large shopping bags and young men with dark eyes slouching against the door is unmistakable.

Most of the Palestinians get off at the central bus station.

“He-Haluts Station. Yafeh Nof Station. Mount Herzl Station,” the computer announces in due course. Then, “End of the line. Please exit.”

Somehow, I have missed my stop.

I cross the platform to wait for the train heading back in the direction I came from. I get into the train car with some young Jews, layered hair in degradations of blond. Tourists with water bottles sticking out of backpacks cram in with religious Jewish women donning black skirts below the knee, some sporting black flats, others wearing Addidas knock offs. There are a few soldiers, but no guns. Felt kippas. Knitted kippas. Rainbow kippas. More than one young person clutches a miniature prayer book, lips flying over the words of God.

Realizing this is my chance, I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and start at one end of the train car. “Do you speak English?” A middle-aged Israeli man shakes his head. A younger Israeli man shakes his head before I ask. I sit next to an Israeli man in his twenties. He is eager to talk about the train. I pull out my notebook. “People were angry at first,” he says, “but they got used to it.” “Angry at what?” I ask, surprised to find such easy disclosure. “The traffic, of course,” he clarifies. “Jaffa Street was blocked for so long during the construction. The shop owners said they lost customers.”

“And what about the Arabs?” I ask. “Are people angry because there are Arabs on the train?” (I hear myself avoid saying the word “Palestinian” in favor of the less threatening term, “Arab.”)

For a second he looks surprised by my question, but then he smiles. “Why would they be? Both Jews and Arabs ride bus #19 from the hospital.” (Proving what? I don’t know.) He goes on to say that unlike most Jews, he speaks Arabic. He likes being in a public place where he can hear Arabic.

“I don’t see any Jews talking to Arabs,” I note glancing around. “And the Arabs aren’t even talking to one another,” I point out.

“Well, nobody really talks to anyone on the train,” he admits. “But at least we hear the announcements in Arabic.” As if on cue, the chime rings and the computer voice announces the name of the station, first in Hebrew, then in Arabic.

A Palestinian woman is even more upbeat. “The first time I rode the train it was strange to be so close to Jews. There were some problems. Some Palestinian boys got beat up. But now it’s normal for us to ride together. One time a Jew stood up to give me a seat! There was a Palestinian boy there, and he didn’t get up, but the Jew did.”

I move further down the car and find an Israeli woman. I approach. I sense an invitation to sit next to her. Too late I realize that we were past the Jewish part of town, almost at the entrance to the Palestinian station of Shu’fat. After a few more stops in Palestinian neighborhoods, this train will reach the Israeli settlements that choke Jerusalem. This woman has to be traveling to the settlements. She is a settler. It takes all my nerve to sit next to her and ask her about her experience on the train.

“At the beginning, when it first started operating, the train was too crowded. Now it’s okay.”

“And you don’t mind riding with Arabs?”

“There are security guards at every station in the Arabic neighborhoods,” she says. (I had never noticed that.) “Besides, Arabs are happy to be able to ride to Damascus Gate,” she continues. They wouldn’t jeopardize that by doing something violent. And they are happy because now more Jews shop in Arab neighborhoods.” (I really don’t think that’s true, but I don’t say anything.)

“So you are completely comfortable?” I look around, reminding her that we are traveling through the heart of Palestinian Jerusalem.

“Well…” her voice drops, “…sometimes I do wonder if the little boys that get on the train and run up and down the cars are doing that because they are Arab and want to bother us, or just because they are little boys.”

(I confess. This question has also crossed my mind.)

I sit down at the end of the car to process what I’m learning. Next to me, a Palestinian woman with an unusually fat boy in a stroller reaches her hand across the car to tap an Israeli woman picking up her daughter from a stroller. “What’s her name?” the Palestinian woman asks in broken English. The Israeli woman answers with a mother’s proud smile. It is a French name, I think, but I don’t hear it. “Mine is Odai,” the Palestinian woman offers.

“Odai?”

“Yes, Odai.”

“Bon chance,” the woman says courteously in French.

I’m sitting down, but I feel off balance. Is she not an Israeli? Or is she a French Israeli? For some reason, I feel I must know. I must know who she is or I don’t know who I am.

The Palestinian woman gets up as her stop approaches. She walks out backwards, easing the stroller onto the platform. “Toda raba,” the Palestinian woman says to the (Israeli?) woman in Hebrew, though I don’t know why she is thankful.

I get off at the next stop and watch the silver capsule glide away. No one else seems to find it a bit notable. But I stand a long time trying to figure out what it means to me, to Israelis, to Palestinians, and to prospects for peace with justice. But I can only conclude one thing for sure even if I can’t quite grasp the implications. What I conclude from my foray into ambiguity is this: A stroller can be a powerful thing on the train in Jerusalem.