Enjoy 7-minutes of laughter, and please comment if you like this video as much as we do!
Every Friday in Jerusalem
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
Five Guaranteed Ways to Profit from Investment in the Palestinian Community
This article appeared in This Week in Palestine’s January 2013 issue on the theme of investment.
Investors want their assets to multiply. They buy shares in companies or funds and expect financial returns in the form of periodic dividends or growth in the value of their shares. Our economy revolves around investment – investors accept stakes in other people’s ventures; entrepreneurs grow their initiatives with others’ resources and support.
“Community investment” is a little different. It also involves inputs, but the inputs are not limited to money. They include expertise, material goods, moral support, and more. Community investment is profitable, but it brings a social return on investment (SROI) instead of simply financial gain.
The social return on community investment in Palestine can be measured in stronger community institutions, lower poverty, better education, improved livelihoods, personal security, hope for the future, and other collective benefits. Moreover, making a profitable community investment in Palestine is less risky than almost any other kind of investment if you keep these five guidelines in mind:
1. Focus on the potential return. If you invest in a community group that becomes empowered and effective, how will it impact children’s life chances, equality for women, sustainable farming, cultural expression? Isn’t it an honour to play a small role in the development of Palestine?
2. Show faith in the management. If managers are credible and if they are learners, support their leadership, even when they take risks. Community leaders are not contractors to be hired to implement activities. They are the dedicated front line of social change. Believe in them, even when they doubt themselves.
3. Consider your capacity. Are the resources you have to invest the ones that are needed? Do you have contacts you can use to mobilise other resources? Never think that what you have to offer isn’t enough. If you listen to local priorities, you will find a valuable way to contribute.
4. Make a long-term commitment. One-time transactions may feel good to the giver, but profits from community investment don’t accrue short term, and they rarely lead to sustainability. Are you ready to participate in Palestinian community development for the long haul?
5. Work collectively. No one investor can solve community problems alone. Are you willing to combine your investment with others’ investments in order to capitalise the Palestinian community? One way to do this is through a philanthropic organisation such as Dalia Association, Palestine’s only community foundation.
Saeeda Mousa, director of Dalia Association, took me to Zawiya, a village of about 5,500 residents on 23,000 dunams in Salfit Governorate to see one of Dalia’s community investments. As the road from Ramallah twisted and turned for nearly an hour, I left pieces of my stomach in each Israeli settlement and in each Palestinian village we passed. But it was worth it when I sat with community members and we started talking.
Dalia had already worked intimately with the village, implementing a small-grants programme that empowers community members to decide which of their own community groups to fund and to hold those community groups accountable. It made sense, then, for Zawiya to be a pilot site for Dalia’s “village funds” concept – a kind of resource bank into which local residents, the private sector, and the diaspora could invest in community-led development.
The first contribution of $2,500 came from The Abraaj Group, headquartered in Dubai, which maintains a “company fund” with Dalia Association. That first contribution was a vote of confidence, but it still took more than a year to inspire enough trust to raise more. The next $400 came from Adam, a local Zawiya resident who wanted to be part of launching the new idea. Then Ismail, a Zawiya native living in Brazil, added $1,000 to leverage more funds, and that was followed by a $1,000 contribution from Abdul Qader Mustafa Abu Naba’a, a philanthropist originally from Zawiya who now lives in Jordan. When Adam submitted the idea to Dalia’s philanthropy contest and was one of three winners, it brought another $1,000 to the Zawiya Village Fund. This example demonstrates that “community investment” means both investment in the community and investment by the community. It’s a model that values the financial contribution of investors and the sweat equity of local community workers. They become true partners in the success of their joint venture.
Zawiya residents considered several ideas before deciding to use the $5,900 in the Zawiya Village Fund to provide revolving loans. Seven men and five women took small loans of NIS 1,300 (less than $450) interest free. The municipality contributes by providing the repayment system: they take NIS 100 every month when loan-takers pay their electricity bills. Those payments are set aside for another round of loans. Dalia Association has already committed to adding another $2,500, also from The Abraaj Group company fund at Dalia Association, for the next round of revolving loans.
Abu Majdi was among those very satisfied with his loan. “I had a small store that brought in about NIS 400/month. I expanded it and now it brings in NIS 1,000/month. Now that there’s more work, my mother runs the store. She benefits personally and socially by having something important to do.” Abdel Mi’em used NIS 400 of his loan to buy seeds and dirt, and he planted them in plastic bags that he cut from sheets. “Come back in May and you’ll find 400 small trees; each one selling for NIS 10,” he said proudly.
Zawiya was a philanthropic community before Dalia’s involvement. Abu Naba’a invested $135,000 in a cultural centre that was the first in Salfit. It works closely with the municipality offering sports and cultural activities, Islamic education, and other training courses. Many community members are also involved in the village’s nine active groups. Hiyam, who has served on the city council for seven years, says, “When I give, I feel happy. I sacrifice, but I feel I have made a difference.” They stay in contact with villagers who have moved away through an active Facebook page.
“All villages have resources of some kind. Many local residents are ready to give, but they can’t give a lot and they think that their small contribution won’t matter. Business folk like to give to their villages, but only if they have confidence that their contributions will be used well. And there are Palestinians in the diaspora who love to give to their villages, but they want a safe, easy, transparent way to give,” Saeeda says. Village funds housed at Dalia Association provide these benefits. She adds, “Companies can also open corporate social responsibility funds in the name of the company. Groups or individuals can establish funds in the name of a family or on behalf of a specific issue.”
“But community investment is not only about money,” Saeeda says. “Sometimes you just need to believe in people and help them to believe in themselves. Don’t push them onto your timeline or in the direction you think is best for them. Follow their lead and they will find solutions to their own problems.”
We drove back to Ramallah from Zawiya on a different road. We passed Qarawa Beni Zaid, Nabi Saleh, and so many other Palestinian villages ripe for the idea of a village fund. We passed stunning valleys and terrace after terrace of tenderly pruned olive trees. The clouds, puffy against the baby blue sky, were so low you could scoop them up in your hands. Palestine is truly abundant. There are many resources to be mobilised through investment; there is much potential for high social return.
Things I love about Jerusalem #1
“Extra large?” The shop owner holds up the soft, pink pajamas I’ve brought to the register. “For you?” (He is surprised because I am very small.)
“No, for my friend’s daughter.”
“Is she fat?” he asks. He uses the word descriptively not as an insult.
(I realize this conversation reminds me of buying meat. I point to the cut I want and ask for half kilo, but the butcher insists on knowing what I’m cooking before he agrees to sell it to me.)
“No, she’s not fat,” I indulge the man’s curiosity. “She’s tiny.” I hold up my pinky finger to indicate that the girl is a stick. It’s true. Her eyes have started to bulge over her sunken cheeks. I tremble slightly and the shop owner notices.
“Why, sister, are you buying an extra large pajama if the girl is small?”
“Her mother told me to buy extra large.”
“Is she tall?”
I hesitate. I image her lying in the pale green hospital gown with the hospital sheet over her bony knees. “I’m not sure,” I confess. “I’ve only seen her lying down.” (This is not exactly true. I met her at her aunt’s wedding some months ago. But there were hundreds of women there, and I don’t remember meeting her. Who knew that she would come to play such a prominent role in my life?)
There is a pause.
“The girl is sick?” he says, compassion flooding his face. I nod. “She’s only eighteen,” I say to fill up the silence pressing on my throat.
“You have done me a favor!” he bursts out, startling me. He puts the extra large pajamas in a bag and slides them across the glass counter. “I try to do good every day, but I don’t always find an opportunity.”
I begin to shake my head, embarrassed by what I think he is saying, but he continues: “Please take these to her. Please do it as a favor to me. Let me do this good thing today.”
“No, I can’t accept that. I came to buy the pajamas. I can pay for them.” I fumble with my purse.
“But you are already doing good for her. You are visiting her, right? And you’re going to take her the pajamas?” He’s practically begging.
“Yes, but…”
“So let me do something good, too. Let these pajamas be from me.”
Our eyes meet and I know how he feels: powerless to make a difference, desperate to contribute something meaningful to this suffering world. I nod and clutch the pajamas to my chest so my emotions won’t spill out onto his tile floor.
Two days later, I’m sitting on the edge of the hospital bed and I ask about the pajamas. The girl’s mom smiles awkwardly. “She’s lost a lot of weight,” she says, having discovered for herself what the rest of us already knew.
“I’ll exchange them,” I say, reaching for the bag that she’s put in a box under the hospital bed.
“It’s too much trouble for you.”
“Please…” I say, “let me do something good. Please?”
And she let me.
I sat crying
I pull out of Beit Hanina, the East Jerusalem suburb where I live, and turn onto the main road towards Ramallah. Traffic is light. It is only 6:30 am. In less than one hour, cars will fill the street and spill onto the sidewalks like raspberry, orange and grape candies forgotten to rot and collect dust. They will elbow their way through the roundabout, the space between them only big enough for gusts of black exhaust to escape into the Jerusalem air.
The drivers, having not yet reached the place where the old man sells thick Arabic coffee in plastic cups, will be half-asleep. They will wake briefly to battle for their territory when the lanes merge from three to two, then from two to one. When their tires clang over the row of metal spikes that signal there is no going back, they will blink and see the reality before them: soldiers with automatic weapons on the left ignore cars traveling from Jerusalem to the West Bank but check each car trying to enter Jerusalem from the West Bank. There is a line of Fiats and Fords snaking alongside the separation wall all the way past the refugee camp. Teachers, laborers, secretaries, nurses, salesmen, students. They will light up cigarettes and wait for their turn to enter Jerusalem—if they are deemed legitimate, acceptable, human.
But it was only 6:30 am, and I was spared. The checkpoint was nearly empty. I rolled down my window and enjoyed the crisp October air, a brief respite between the washed out heat of summer and the smell-of-damp-concrete winter. Then I saw him stepping off the curb.
A man, perhaps in his early thirties, slightly overweight, light brown pants, brown-green shirt. In his arms, a full-grown woman, mid-twenties, average height and weight, black pants and black blouse, her eyes tired, a blue surgical mask over her mouth. She looked weak but she was conscious. I stopped my car the second I saw them. The man nodded to acknowledge my courtesy. My mouth dropped open and tears sprung to my eyes. He crossed the street in front of me, a small entourage of women carrying bags behind him.
And then I was crying. Cars behind me honked, but I sat crying. The man and his wife/sister/neighbor/friend had disappeared into the mob of cars going the opposite direction. Was he trying to take her to a doctor in Jerusalem? Was he going to stand in the two-hour line? How would he pass through the turnstyle holding a full-grown woman like a baby in his arms? Had she left children at home? Did they see daddy carrying mommy through the streets? Were they crying?
Should Palestinians Boycott International Aid?
I’m proud to announce that two important articles of mine were published today:
“Should Palestinians Boycott International Aid?” is available on The Guardian. It’s a short piece that argues that international aid actors are not going to reform their policies; Palestinians need to refuse aid that is detrimental. It quickly generated over 100 comments, so they’ve already closed to new comments. Leave your comments here instead.
Also,
“Aid on Palestinian Terms: The Case for a Boycott” is available on the Palestine Studies Group. It’s a longer article that describes how I went from being an advocate of aid to a critic of aid to an activist for aid reform and now to a critic of aid reform.
These articles grew out of conversations with Palestinians in which we drafted criteria that could be used to distinguish between aid that should be accepted from aid that should be rejected.
The Guardian article was reprinted in Al-Quds Online in Arabic and in the print edition on October 19, 2012. There will be an Arabic version of the longer article published soon. Let me know if you’d like a notification.
Thanks for your interest and support.
Are there Alternatives to Dependence on International Aid? Yes!
My latest article appeared in This Week in Palestine, September 2012. Check out the amazing issue on the theme of “Alternatives” in Palestine. For your convenience, I’ve posted the article below. Please tell me, are there alternatives to dependence on international aid?
Most people I know believe that Palestine is changing, and not for the better. Even those who enjoy a higher standard of living than in the past have a lower overall quality of life. The Palestinian commitment to community is eroding, and individualism and materialism are seeping into the void. The main culprit? Palestine is dependent on international aid.
The billions of dollars circulating through the Palestinian economy may lull us into temporary complacency, but without dignity, empowerment, and a just peace, the promise of development is false. I think most people know this, but can’t imagine the alternative. Well, the alternative to dependence on international aid is simple: don’t depend on aid. Want to know how?
1-Focus on priorities not opportunities
We don’t need so many traffic police crowding up the manara, and we don’t need so many democracy workshops. Yes, there are opportunities to get funding for those things, but we should resist being enticed into implementing others’ agendas. Our own priorities, decided democratically, can bring focus and passion back into daily life.
2-Live more simply
Investing in our collective future rather than short-term individual gain requires us to live more simply. When we borrow money for cars and houses that we can’t pay off without inflated, donor-funded salaries, we have relinquished our independence. If we give up our cappuccinos and drink tea with maramiya, we will spend less and need less.
3-Value Palestinian resources
Too many people buy into the myth that Palestinians are deficient. Think about it: Palestinians live all over the world, speak many languages, and are well connected to people with influence. Palestinians are highly educated and experienced in every field of human endeavour, from science to the arts to politics. Palestinians are drawn together by a shared history, a cultural legacy, a shared future, and endurance. Where is the deficiency? If we calculate the value of Palestinian resources, we will realise that international aid is but a small supplement to the resources available in ourselves and in one another.
4-Share
We can spend less and need less simply by sharing. Two part-time employees can share a computer. Two companies can share office space. We can share our time as volunteers. We can use our public spaces for multiple purposes. Eliminating waste and duplication is a big step toward reducing dependence. Also, eliminating “leakage” to Israel by purchasing Palestinian-made products and complying with boycotts is another way keep Palestinian resources in the community.
5-Cultivate alternative sources of funding
We can inspire solidarity and investment rather than charity by ending complicity, stamping out corruption, and consistently acting with integrity. We can increase local giving by establishing systems for small, regular contributions. Private sector philanthropy can be more strategic and should include international companies that sell to the Palestinian market. Diaspora philanthropy can engage Palestinians around the world in service and the building of long-term endowment funds.
6- international aid selectively
In those cases in which we choose to accept international aid, it should be on Palestinian terms and in ways that don’t promote dependence. Most importantly, we should not be complicit in wasting resources! Palestinians should refuse funds that are tied to use of overpaid foreign consultants who bring little added value or to the purchase of unneeded commodities from the donor country. Refusing bad aid is a national imperative.
7-Remember Palestinian history and culture
Some may find it difficult to imagine alternatives to dependence on aid, but Palestinian history and culture are rich with examples of self-reliance. During the first Intifada, Palestinians didn’t ask, “What can I get?” but “What can I give?” Even the most simple of impulses, to send a plate of grape leaves to a neighbour makes the point. Today, many, many Palestinians give money, time, and love for the Palestinian cause. We must remember and celebrate these aspects of Palestinian history and culture.
8-Be even more innovative
While we mine Palestinian history and culture for examples of self-reliance, we can also learn from innovations in other parts of the world. I heard that a young person in Tokyo can help an aging neighbour and “earn” hours that his or her own aging parent can use to buy help from a young neighbour in Osaka. I’ve seen thriving bartering clubs where members offer skills ranging from dentistry and cooking to babysitting and language lessons, and they receive the same number of hours in services from other members of the club. I experienced a listserv where people in a community posted things they no longer need: office supplies, strollers, or computers, and others come by to pick them up off the front stairs-no charge. There is a lot of exciting innovation happening in Palestine, but there is also much room for innovation, so we depend less on international aid.
* * * *
I remember one of my first bus rides after I moved to Palestine. The bus was nearly empty. The driver wasn’t earning much. Maybe he didn’t even earn enough to buy fruit to bring home. Then we drove by an old fellaha walking on the side of the road. She was a short, round woman in a traditional embroidered dress. She carried fruit in a basket on her head in the heat. It was obvious she was taking her wares to the market but didn’t have the money for bus fare. Our near-empty bus passed her by.
This problem is one of unexploited latent resources. The unused seats on the bus are a resource, but they don’t bring value if unused. The fruit the woman fails to sell is a resource, but has no value if it is tossed in the garbage because people don’t earn enough to buy fruit. The answer to this conundrum is simple: the woman should pay her bus fare in fruit. Unfortunately, it’s hard (really hard!) to modify the way we think and live-especially after years of being trained by the international aid system that money is the only resource that has value. Other obstacles include common beliefs that “We are poor; we can’t give. We are entitled to international aid. Why shouldn’t they give us money since we’re occupied?” And, “Why should I help for free when other people are getting rich?” We must think differently about ourselves, our resources, and one another.
Every time I speak in public I tell the story of the women’s rights activist in Nablus who asked me to help her raise money from donors so she could hire doctors to give lectures on health topics to local women. She said she had been trying to fund the project for years without success. I pointed out that there are many, many doctors in Nablus. Each could give a lecture once a month for free as part of his or her community service. There was no need to focus on the resource she didn’t have (money), when the resource she needed (doctors) was available locally at no cost. How come that wasn’t obvious to her? How come it isn’t obvious to us all?
Israeli Mosquitoes and Palestinian Mosquitoes
There are two kinds of mosquitoes.
One kind of mosquito bangs around the corners of my bedroom ceiling, pretending to be a victim of incarceration, but clearly enjoying the attention he’s getting by keeping me awake. This type of mosquito doesn’t have to bite; he just bangs around joyfully until I can’t tolerate his sleep deprivation torture tactics. Then, with great drama, he dive bombs next to my ear, sometimes even playing in my hair! I startle awake just in time to hear (but rarely see) him banging happily against the ceiling again, buzzing in very high volume. This kind of mosquito looks dumb but is incredibly smart. He harasses and harasses until I put the covers over my head and suffocate myself, self-torture. This is the Israeli mosquito.
The other kind of mosquito is Palestinian. He’s completely quiet and invisible. Then he bites. Hard! He bites over and over again, hurting me both physically and emotionally. Why does he bite me? Have I not given my life to the struggle for Palestinian rights? Am I not his greatest ally? Could he really be so stupid to seek to harm his own community?
Both Israeli and Palestinian mosquitoes infuriate me. I become violent. I become someone other than who I want to be. I forget my own priorities and options (I could move to another room?) and shamefully reduce myself to a shallow being with one focus in life – to kill the mosquito. When finally, I see him, laughing at me on the wall near my headboard, I reach for the towel I keep under my bed for this very purpose.
I whack the m-f mosquito and feel a rush of accomplishment, validation, and self-worth as the mosquito splats on my wall spreading my blood in a surprisingly pretty Rorschach pattern. But then, when I wipe off the blood, there is a large white spot where the cheap yellow paint has diluted with a few rubs of water on a tissue. And that’s when I realize that it’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m destroying my own property.
I do not know which kind of mosquito causes the huge, itchy, stinging welts that last for days all over my legs and arms. I suspect they both do.
I wake up exhausted. The mosquitoes have succeeded again in ruining life’s small pleasures and sapping the energy I have for all things other than revenge.
(Yes, in my world, all mosquitoes are male.)
One Palestinian Woman’s Spring
It’s finally time to share some of my actual fiction writing. This is a short piece I wrote for the wonderful online writing community The Write Practice and I am proud to say that it won an honorable mention in their show-off contest, spring edition! Funny, I set out to write a short story about the theme of spring, but a character from my novel-in-progress “One Year in Beit Hanina” was on my mind. As a result, this piece ended up as a draft scene in the novel so you can consider this a sneak peak. All I ask is that IF you read this piece, you comment. And if you like this piece, you tell someone about my blog and encourage them to subscribe. Deal?
One Palestinian Woman’s Spring
By midnight, Christine was burning. Half conscious, she tossed and turned, unrelieved. Finally, she startled awake in a melange of hot and cold. Her face and feet, protruding from the heavy covers, were flush, but the rest of her body shivered on the sweat-soaked mattress. The digital clock read 2:17 am. It was the 96th night in a row that she hadn’t bled.
There was nothing to do at 2:17 am. No familiar body to wrap around and drift back to sleep. No one to sit with in the kitchen over a cup of chamomile tea. She got out of bed. Looking out the window through the gray night, she could see little sprigs of weeds fighting their way through the cracks in the concrete signaling spring for the rest of the world. But for Christine, there would be no new buds.
She scrutinized herself in the full-length mirror. Eyes: kind. Lids: drooping. Mouth: resting. Wrinkles: proliferating. There was a faint muddy spot in the shape of a cashew under her left eye. Her lips, chapped, had not kissed for a long, long time. Overall, many more negatives than positives. Christine felt like a slice of meat left too long in the refrigerator. She needed to be thrown away, uneaten, having failed in her mission to nourish life.
Light from the bedroom reflected off the mirror illuminating her breasts, big and only slightly sagging. They had never filled with milk custom-made for an infant that shared her weak chin. They had never overflowed with love and squirted an infant in the eye. Christine looked at herself sideways in the mirror. Her stomach was round from eating too much sesame-covered Jerusalem bread, but there were no marks. The marks that other women cursed, but that she had coveted. Down below, two or three gray pubic hairs glinted in the light. She stifled the urge to laugh and cry simultaneously.
It was only 2:30 am and Christine had nothing to do. She couldn’t shower. The gurgling sounds of the electric boiler heating the water would wake the neighbors downstairs. It wouldn’t wake the old man upstairs; he slept like the dead. Lucky man. So instead of showering, Christine decided to clean out the spare room.
Although it had never been used as a nursery, it had been used twice as a guest room. Once, a Norwegian girl sat next to her on the bus and confided that she had no where to sleep. Crazy tourists. They came to Jerusalem year after year looking for the Holy Land and found only a cursed land full of other tourists also looking for the Holy Land. Christine welcomed the girl in her virgin guestroom. The next morning she made a huge breakfast of fried goat cheese and onion omelettes with sage tea heavily sweetened. The Norwegian girl was so grateful, she came back a year later and stayed for a week. Christine never saw her again, but she had gotten a letter saying that she was well. Married. Pregnant.
Christine was disappointed that the guest room was already clean and there was only one thing to get rid of. In the last drawer of the dresser there were three matching sets of knitted hats, gloves, booties and blankets. Christine had made hundreds of layette sets over the years and had donated them to the charitable society when they ran their annual Christmas bazaar. She could have rented a table and sold her knitted goods herself, and she might have made a nice sum, but she didn’t want to stand exposed in front of the community like that. They would gossip. Palestinians are skillful gossipers. They can excommunicate a person with casual comments and without a pang of guilt. Or they could attack with self-righteous judgment and lead a person to banish herself. Better to stay away.
Those three layette sets that lay in the bottom dresser drawer were special. They had been touched by the Bishop! According to the lady from the charitable society, the Bishop had come in with several priests and caused quite a commotion in the bazaar. He walked through slowly and looked at the crafts made so carefully by the old ladies who had nothing to do after their children and grandchildren emigrated. He bought several wreaths of plastic pine vines woven with flowers and adorned with small silver bulbs. When he got to the table of knitted goods, he touched them and praised them, but didn’t buy. The woman had given the ones touched by the Bishop back to Christine, and she had treasured them and all that they might mean. Till now.
Her chest felt heavy as she wrapped the layettes in a plastic bag with a piece of pita bread. It wasn’t a custom and didn’t mean anything, but somehow Christine needed something symbolic to make the ritual hurt more. If she could make herself hurt enough, perhaps God, the merciful, might let her die. She snuck down the stairs quietly and into the garden in the backyard where it was even colder than in her apartment. And still. So still.
Dew had made the ground moist and she easily dug under the mint patch in the far corner to bury her small package, and then she sat on the cold earth and tried to cry but couldn’t. It was the path God had chosen for her and she had no right to want something else, no right to feel resentful. But she did.
Why would God create such a world, a world where some children live unloved, while others, loved, are unborn or are born only to die despite their innocence? Why would God create a world where some people never love while others love deeply and are ripped apart from the only person who completes them? Christine’s head pounded while her feet were numb on the cold ground. Why couldn’t she cry?
Suddenly, Christine jumped to her feet. Energy cursed from the back of her legs up her back and through the back of her arms. She climbed into the olive tree that sat in the place of honor in the middle of the garden. “You have no right to live,” she hissed under her breath as she ripped a new shoot from the tree. “You have no right to be with your loved ones,” she spit as she ripped another. With each murderous motion, Christine stung as if she had peeled the skin from her palms.
It didn’t take long for debris to pile up beneath the tree, and when the sun peaked over the high garden wall, Christine saw the damage she had done. Once plump with new life, the tree was as sparse as a monk’s worldly possessions. She mourned more for the new shoots left behind to live lonely lives than for the ones she had relieved of their misery.
From the tree, Christine looked down on the garden seeing it–and herself–from a new perspective. Surely Satan had conquered her. Surely there was no redemption. Tears released down her cheeks as she dug up the layette sets and buried the debris from the tree with them. She fought the urge to say a prayer, which she knew she had no right to utter.
Later that afternoon, Basel entered the garden that he had neglected and was struck by the tree. Who had pruned it? Who had so gently lightened its load so that it could grow stronger and bear more fruit? Who had given life so anonymously?
The Literary Scene in Palestine
This post was written for the fabulous blog, “Arabic Literature (in English).” You can find the article here. Subscribe to receive a plethora of excellent information about Arabic literature and follow @arablit.
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I sat holding my breath in a comfy chair in my friend’s living room. Married to a local (like me), she’s lived in Palestine for a million years under the high ceilings of an old, traditional Ramallah home. It was my favorite night of the week – Wednesday. The Writers’ Circle, a group I instigated under the auspices of the Palestine Writing Workshop, was listening to a stunning young Palestinian read her excerpt. It was about the day when her family, after years of suffering exile as “absentees,” returned to Palestine. A cliché, but true nonetheless: you could have heard a pin drop.
For me, this is the literary scene in Palestine – people writing, people reading, awareness growing, and community deepening.
Looking beyond my narrow experience, it does seem that the literary scene in Palestine, like everything Palestinian, fights against fragmentation by geography and politics. And, like everything Palestinian, the same geography and politics that divide also bind people to the place, to one another, and to literature. The literary scene may be sorely under-developed in relation to its potential, but it is vibrant in its own way.
Political Context, Political Content
“There is an intensity here,” one writer told me, “and the literary scene is certainly affected.” The ongoing reality of occupation, colonization, and dispossession gives everything a political significance.
According to Walid Abubaker, prominent novelist, critic and publisher, writers have always been essential to the national movement and the national movement has always been central in Palestinian literature. Since the 1970s, writers have been organized under the umbrella of the Palestine Liberation Organization.
Sophie DeWitt, founder and director of the Palestine Writing Workshop, agrees that politics shape the context for Palestinian writing, and often constitute the topic as well. (I myself have wondered if Palestinians write beyond two genres: political non-fiction and political fiction.) I asked Sophie if open wounds hold Palestinian writers back or push them forward, she said, “perhaps both.” Walid is more definite. He says that the golden age of Palestinian literature was in the 1970s and 1980s. Since the Oslo Accords, he laments, refugees and members of the Palestinian diaspora produce better quality than those inside. “If you feel you’ve lost your dream, how can you write?” But a recent profile of four local authors presents a more hopeful view.
The centrality of political themes in Palestinian writing is not only a function of writers’ experiences but also of readers’ needs. I saw it in a dear friend’s eyes and heard it in the tremble of her voice as she talked about the importance of Sahar Khalifeh in her life. I can picture my friend holding Wild Thorns and inhaling; the words oxygenating her cells, steeling her against the harsh reality. I like to imagine that Sahar is nourished in kind by her readers, and especially the Palestinian ones who, in addition to admiration, offer affirmation.
The Politics of Language
Many Palestinians speak English, certainly among the elite, but not all Palestinians are fluent in Arabic. Therefore, language realities and language politics are an important consideration in local literary activities.
“Even if all the participants in an event speak English, it’s still a political compromise to run the event in English,” Sophie says. “On the other hand, many are making a conscious choice to write in English in order to bear witness.” Some of those books, like Mornings in Jenin, are later translated back into Arabic.
“Writing in other languages, and translation of Arabic texts into other languages, have shown that ours are humanistic experiences that cross national boundaries,” says Renad Qubbaj, Director of Tamer Institute for Community Education. “Brilliant writers like Mahmoud Darwish talk about our local experience in a way that touches everyone. His contribution is greater than merely national. And at the same time, worldwide interest in Palestine has helped propel Palestinian writers onto the world stage.”
Renad notes that Salma al-Jayussi in London, Ibrahim Nasrallah in Jordan, and Ibtisam Barakat in the United States have built international reputations by writing about Palestinian themes. Walid agrees that Palestinian literature in English is important, if only because distribution is so much greater. “We print 1000 copies of a novel in Arabic and it takes 5 years to distribute, even if we give them away for free.”
Literacy Rates are Not the Same as Literary Appreciation
Does this mean, then, that Palestine is not a nation of readers? Many people are asking this question. Renad says: “We are devastated when people say Arabs don’t read. So we did our own study, which is available in Arabic on Tamer’s website. We found the situation in Palestine is not quite that bad.” She explains: “Literacy has always been considered an aspect of resistance to occupation and a means of resilience. Our literacy rates are among the highest in Arab world, but achievement test scores are lower calling into question the quality of education.”
“We need to develop a value for reading in Palestine,” says Sophie. “Even in university, students read photocopies of books. They don’t know the smell of a public library or how precious it is to build a personal library at home.” That’s why Palestine Writing Workshop has a reading room that is not only a physical space to read, but also a refuge to sit and think and be among books.”
In fact, many NGOs run reading events, organize workshops for writers, host lectures, sponsor contests, etc. But some are critical of the “NGO-ization” of reading and writing. They say it risks prioritizing numbers of participants over substance and quality. “Many people claim to be involved, but,” Walid asks, “do they buy books? Do they read? Do they write? Do they publish?”
The Broken Ecosystem: Reader-Writer-Publisher
Renad points out that there are many diverse sources available, including books, social media, videos, and more. “What we need are promoters that connect the writers with the readers.” In a healthy economy, publishers play this role, but in Palestine, publishing isn’t profitable. “It’s even worse in Gaza,” Renad explains.
“From 2007-2011, the Israelis didn’t allow books into Gaza. They weren’t considered ‘essential.’ Now they do allow books in, but it’s very expensive to transport them. One solution is to reprint books inside Gaza, but the quality can be poor, and this affects interest.”
Moreover, the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry of Education don’t do as much as they should. As a result, most books are produced by NGOs with donations, often from international donors, which is not sustainable.
Mahmoud Muna of the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem agrees that there is a large and growing community of writers and a smaller but growing community of readers. “One problem is that they aren’t connected,” he explains. The Educational Bookshop tries to address this by organizing events that bring people together around literature. For English readers, there are book launches, author discussions, and film showings. For Arabic readers they have a monthly event organized around authors, not specific books, so that readers get excited about authors and about reading and discussing books. Usually a well-known critic is featured and that draws a crowd, though never as large as for English books.
“Like publishers, authors also don’t make enough money to be able to devote their time to writing,” debut novelist Aref Husseini points out. “That’s why writers need more support.” He believes that reading and writing events are good for involving amateurs in literature, and there are venues for them to publish such as Filistin Ashabab. But there is a dearth of help for talented writers who want to polish their craft so they can advance to the professional ranks. The Palestinian Cultural Forum is a new NGO that seeks to fill that void with the support of local publisher Dar Al-Shorok. Literary actors in Palestine seek to build what Sophie DeWitt calls a “creative economy.”
No Shortage of Literary Activity
Even in Jerusalem, where I live, there is a lot going on — despite the fact that West Bank and Gaza participants are prevented entry by military checkpoints. In addition to events at the Educational Bookshop, there are book launches and readings at the American Colony Bookshop and related events at the Press Club and theaters. Authors from around the world come to offer workshops, and books and films are distributed through schools and community libraries.
In May, the Palestine Festival of Literature (PalFest) brings the literary community together in writing workshops, radio journalism training, children’s storytelling, panel lectures, blogging courses, and more that take place in Gaza and the West Bank– enough to keep anyone busy full time just learning about and producing literature. There is, unfortunately, a paucity of activity in the outlying and hard to reach areas.
Regardless of all the challenges, writers will write. They write because they can’t help themselves. Writing is what writers do. Aref says, “I wrote Kafir Sabt because it was a story that had to be written.” Some talented writers may not be able to make the sacrifices that Aref made in order to write his novel. But perhaps over time our collective efforts will enable us to build a literary scene in Palestine that maximizes opportunities for local writers to develop skills, gain recognition, and compete for readership worldwide.
In some places the literary scene might be an enhancement. Here in Palestine it is bread itself — common, coarse, and salty. Writers train and practice and strive to weave words into stories that are uniquely Palestinian, and in doing so, make their experiences universal. For me, it was reading Ghassan Kanafani’s Men in the Sun more than twenty years ago. How could anyone read it and not get involved?