This is the End

This is me in Palestine.
One of my students showed me how to wrap the kaffiyah like they often do.

Well readers, it is time to put this subject to rest for the semester. I have loved spending this semester sharing with all of you a subject that is very near and dear to my heart. I hope that if nothing else these posts have made you reconsider some of the ideas you already had about Palestine. Things are not always what they seem and the media does not always tell the whole story. I will be going back to my original format after this post, so thank you everyone who stuck with me this semester and read my stuff even though you probably didn't want to.

Protester

I am not sure what makes it on to the main stream media these days, but I'd wager that many, if not all of you are unfamiliar with Mustafa Tamimi. Tamimi was a 28 year old Palestinian who died recently due to be shot in the face by a tear gas canister at a protest he was participating in where he was throwing rocks at an armored military vehicle. This is what he was doing with the jeep opened its rear door and shot out the tear canister. Being only 10 meters away from the vehicle at the time, it is odd that they made such a deadly mistake. Many witnesses claim that is was not a mistake at all but an out and out murder. The Israeli government are said to be investigating it.

In reading articles about Tamini's slaying I came across this article written by one of the witness to the event. It is an incredibly moving and emotional piece that I wanted to share with all of you.

So far, there were three people who had suffocated from the tear gas, and three people injured by rubber bullets. I saw gas, and so assumed that it was another case of suffocation. But the cries got louder, urgent, desperate — quite unlike the previous calls. Along with those around me, we began running to where the injured person lay, 50 meters away.

The author (left) with Ola Tamimi (center) after Mustafa Tamimi was shot at close range by the Israeli military in Nabi Saleh village. ( Anne Paq / ActiveStills )

Screams. “Mustafa! Mustafa!”

I ran faster. I stopped. The youth I was so used to, the same ones who were always teasing and joking and smoking, were crying. One turned to me and groaned, “His head. His head is split into two!”

My stomach plummeted and I forgot to breathe. Exaggeration, I thought. Impossible. Not here. More screams of “Mustafa!”

I saw the man lying on the ground. I saw the medic with one knee on the ground, his face a mask of shock. I saw his bloodied gloved hands.

Mustafa’s sister was screaming his name. I saw Mustafa. I saw the blood, the big pool of dark red blood. I saw the blood dripping from his head to the ground as they carried him and put him in a taxi, since the ambulance was nowhere to be found. I saw other the tear-streaked faces of other activists, and all I felt was numbness.

Mustafa’s sister Ola was still screaming, so I put my arms around her as she buried her head in my chest. I was babbling, “It’s ok, he’s gonna be fine, it’s ok” but she kept on screaming. Her screams and the disturbing reactions of those around me made my legs numb. Ola then left to go to the watchtower where the taxi with her brother was, and my state of shock crumbled as I gasped out my tears in the arms of my friend.
The first protester death in Nabi Saleh

Friday, 9 December marked the second year since the tiny village began its weekly demonstrations protesting the expropriation of their land for the neighboring illegal settlement of Halamish, and the confiscation of the village’s main water supply, the Kaws Spring. It also marked the 24th anniversary of the first intifada. Fittingly, it seemed only natural the Israeli army would react with more violence than usual. But never did we expect someone to be killed. It’s too awful to think about. Nabi Saleh has a population of around 500 people. Everyone knows everyone in this tight-knit community, so when one gets killed, a big part of us dies also.

Mustafa, 28 years old, was critically injured after Israeli soldiers fired a tear gas canister at his face, and died at a hospital after his treatment was delayed by the occupation forces who had invaded the village to repress the weekly demonstration.

One difference that distinguishes Nabi Saleh from other villages with popular resistance committees, like Nilin, Bilin, Biddu and Budrus is that no one has been killed, or martyred in the protests. Beaten up, yes. Arrested, ditto. But never a death. Until yesterday.
My humanity is only human

Just before Mustafa went into the operating room, some good news came through. He had not suffered any cognitive damages to his brain, although he suffered a brain hemorrhage. There was a chance his eye might be saved. Relief washed over us. We tweeted, “please #Pray4Mustafa.”

I had pictured myself going to Nabi Saleh the next day, not the following Friday. I had imagined sitting in a room with weeping women, after passing by the somber men sitting outside. I had envisioned a funeral and an inconsolable Ola with her mother. Thank God there was a reassuring chance he would be ok. We’d make fun of his bandaged face, just like we did to Abu Hussam when a rubber bullet hit him under the eye a few weeks ago.

Then I got the call that Mustafa had succumbed to his wounds.

My humanity is only human. I hate my enemy. A deep vigorous hatred that courses through my veins whenever I come into contact with them or any form of their system. My humanity is limited. I cannot write a book titled I Shall Not Hate especially if my three daughters and one niece were murdered by my enemy. My humanity is faulty. I dream of my enemy choking on tear gas fired through the windows of their houses, of having their fathers arrested on trumped-up charges, of them wounded by rubber-coated steel bullets, of them being woken up in the middle of the night and dragged away for interrogations that are spliced with bouts of torture.

The soldiers laughed. They smiled. They took pictures of us, zooming in on each of our faces, and they smirked. I screamed at them: “Nazis, terrorists, vermin, programmed killing machines.”

They laughed at us as we screamed at them to let us through to where he was, unconscious in a taxi near the watchtower. They threatened us if we didn’t go back. We waved the flag with his blood on it in front of them. One of them had the audacity to bat it away. We shouted, “His blood is on your hands!” They replied, “So?”

I thought of Mustafa’s younger brother, imprisoned all these eight months. I thought of that brother’s broken jaw and his subsequent stay in the prison hospital. I thought of Juju (Jihad Tamimi), he of the elfin face who arrested a few days ago with no rights to see a lawyer after being wanted by the army for more than a year. I shuddered to think of the reactions of these imprisoned men from the village — Uday, Bassem, Naji, Jihad, Saeed – once they received the news.

I got the call just after 11pm Friday night. I was sworn to secrecy, since his family didn’t want to make it public yet. Anger, bitterness and sorrow overwhelmed me. I cried at my kitchen table.

The author (left) with Ola Tamimi (center) after Mustafa Tamimi was shot at close range by the Israeli military in Nabi Saleh village.
(
Anne Paq
/
ActiveStills
)

I hate my enemy. I can’t go to sleep. The images are tattooed forever inside my eyelids. They yells, the wailing, the groans, the sobbing all fill my ears like water gushing inside a submarine, dragging me further into a cold dark abyss.

I sought out religion as a source of comfort, yet it didn’t alleviate the anguish. His life was written in al-Lawh al-Mahfooz (The Preserved Tablet) since before he was born. His destiny was to become a martyr. How sweet that will be in the afterlife! But here on this earth, his sister is beside herself. His mother is hurting enormously. Her firstborn gone, no longer to drink the tea she makes or to make her laugh with his jokes.

The images are tattooed forever inside my eyelids. A bloody pulp on one side of his face. The pool of blood rapidly increasing. (Mama, there was so much blood.) His mouth slightly open, lying supine on the cold road. His sister screaming, her face twisted in grief. The young men weeping, looking like little boys again.
I hate them for making us suffer

I loathe my enemy. I will never forgive, I will never forget. People who say such hatred transforms a person into a bitter cruel shell know nothing of the Israeli army. This hatred will not cripple me. What does that mean anyway? Do I not continue to write? Do I not continue to protest? Do I not continue to resist? Hating them sustains me, as opposed to normalizing with them. Their hatred of me makes reinforces the truth of their being murderous machines. My hatred of them makes me human.

I can’t sleep. The shock flows in and then dissipates, before flooding back in again. I see no justification is implementing such violence on a civilian population, no sense in the point-blank murder of a man whose rights are compromised, and whose land is colonized and occupied.

Sure as hell, you will not be forgotten. You will become an icon, a symbol, and the added impetus for persisting and continuing your village’s struggle which reflects the plight of the average Palestinian for its basic rights, equality, and justice.

I hate them for making us suffer. Hating them will give me more strength to shatter their barbaric supremacist ideology, and to bring them under the heavy heel of justice. We’ve suffered so much. I hate them for not giving credit to our sumoud (steadfastness), and so continue to kill and dispossess and imprison and humiliate us.

They killed you, Mustafa. My insides crumple. You, in front of me. My tears are drawn from the depth of my wounded soul. You were engaged to be married. You were wanted by the army because of who you are: a Palestinian who resists the occupation he directly suffers from. I think of your father being denied a permit to be with you, of your mother who had to be granted permission by them to see you in the hospital. I think of your quiet, sardonic expression.

Your screaming sister. Your blood. Your murderers’ smiles.

This article came from the International Middle East Media center.

It's writer, Linah Alsaafin, has a blog that I think everyone should check out.

Life on Bir Zeit Campus

Hebron Revisited

After posting my essay about my own personal experience I thought add some news clips and documentary footage. When I said that Hebron was one of the most depressing places I had ever been, it wasn't hyperbole. The conditions that these people are forced to live in are unforgivable. It is probably the first time in my life I have been personally involved in something that has made me really question the human race and what we are capable of doing to each other.

Hebron: One city, Two Nations

March 1996
From Hebron, two women talk about the tensions of living in a divided city. Ruth Hizmi, one of 400 Jewish settlers, moved to the West Bank 9 years ago. She believes that just being in her kitchen in Hebron is an act of faith. But on her way to work she gets spat on by Arab neighbors. Afifeh, a young Palestinian woman, lives on the 'cease-fire line' between the Jews and 100,000 Palestinians. From her cobbled wall, she overlooks a brand new playground built for Jewish children. Conflict in Hebron begins with the ancient Tomb of the Patriarchs. As the burial Place of Abraham, it holds great religious significance for both Jews and Muslims. Two years ago, a Jewish settler, Baruch Goldstein fired 119 bullets into a crowd of praying Muslims. Ever since worship for both religions has been strictly regulated by tense Israeli soldiers. Noam Arnon, spokesperson for the Jewish community, denounces recent Palestinian elections. He takes politicians to the street where there have been attacks on Jewish settlers. Ruth wants peace but she is passionately opposed to moving out of Hebron. Afifeh is simply resigned to the hard fact that Jews and Muslims can never live together in peace.

Produced by ABC Australia
Distributed by Journeyman Pictures


The following is another documentary about Hebron, in this case the struggle Palestinian kids face in simply trying to go to school. This clip dates back to 2003, during the Second Intifada. Some would claim it is for this reason that the soldiers are being so harsh. If that's the case then leave the kids out if. They are innocents in all of this. When will people realize that by terrorizing the children of today they are creating the "terrorists" they so fear tomorrow.



Thank you to youtube for providing this footage and for the synopsis of Hebron: One City, Two Nations.

Palestine in the News

Palestine was once again in the news today as a result of UNESCO's raising of the Palestinian flag over their headquarters in Paris, France. It has been roughly a month since UNESCO's controversial vote that resulted in Palestine gaining recognition within that particular United Nations body. I thought to share with you some of the articles covering the event. Can you see a difference in tone between the various news agencies? How much of that, do you think, has to do with their country's view of the situation? Can news be reported unbiasedly or will government affiliations and stances skew things? I do not know for sure, but it is definitely things I thought about while reading these articles.

Palestinian Flag Raised over UNESCO HQ via Voice of America
Palestinians raise flag at UNESCO via The Canadian Press
Mahmoud Abbas raises Palestinian flag at Unesco via the BBC
Palestinian Flag Raised Over UNESCO via The Hindu
Palestinian flag to fly at UNESCO headquarters via Agence France-Presse
Palestinian flag to fly at UNESCO headquarters via Ma'an News Agency
Palestine flag raised at UNESCO headquarters via Al-Jazeera

Hebron

Hebron

It is dreary outside the day Hilda, a fellow Project Hope volunteer, and I decide to go to Hebron. The clouds are dark and look as to threaten us with rain, but the temperature outside makes me think of snow instead. This is something of a revelation to me, who knew it gets cold enough to snow in the Middle East? I mean really, when is the last time you saw a picture of a camel in a snowstorm? Yet instead of staying inside the apartment next to our space heaters watching another episode of our bootleg version of Grey’s Anatomy, Hilda and I decide to venture out to the city of Hebron, known as al-Khalil in Arabic.

Following the Six-Day War, in 1967, which saw Israel fighting against, Egypt, Jordan and Syria, after which Israel gained control over the Gaza Strip, Sinai Peninsula, the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Golan Heights, a group of Israelis, following the teachings of Rabbi Levinger, set out to “settle” this land that had been conquered. Hebron was chosen for their settlement due to what they believe it is its religious significance for Jews.

The central theme running through the Tanakh, the Jewish Holy Scripture, is the sacredness of the land and the convent that God made with Abraham for his chosen people, the Jews. It has not been lost on Rabbi Levinger or his followers that the Tanakh mentions Hebron 87 times, while Jerusalem is only mentioned once. More important, though, is their belief that because the holy covenant causes Abraham to leave his home and settle in Hebron, then it is necessary for Hebron to be settled again “in order to reaffirm God’s covenant with Abraham’s decedents”.

The trouble in Hebron comes not just from the settlers belief that they are entitled to the land, but in their idea of how to go about settling it. Adopted within their movement are the teachings of Rabbi Avraham Kook, a man who believes that the Messiah will only come when “great war grips the world.” These teachings have manifested themselves in such a way that settlers view any conflict, though the bigger the better, between themselves and Arabs as being a good thing.

This attitude has resulted in an unending tension and violence between the Palestinian and Israeli populations within Hebron. Stemming from this was the 1997 Hebron Agreement in which Hebron was divided into two sections, H1 and H2. H1, with a population of 115,000 Palestinians, was given over to Palestinians to control and govern. H2, with 35,000 Palestinians and between 500-800 settlers, was given to Israeli Security Forces to control. Although the bigger part of the city was given over to the Palestinians to control, a sizable section of the city center and commercial district are part of H2 and, thus, under Israeli control. Since the beginning of the Second Intifada in 2000, all of Hebron has been under Israeli control (Roislien).

Hebron is no more than 40 miles from Nablus, where Hilda and I live, and should be no more than an hour’s drive, but it takes us far longer. Without hiring a private taxi, a taxi that is used only by one group or party of people, there are no direct taxi routes between Nablus and Hebron, despite the fact that the two cities are major financial centers in the West Bank. Instead we are forced to travel via Jerusalem, many miles out of our way, and change taxis there. Going through Jerusalem also means going through Qalandia checkpoint, a gray fortress of a building surrounded by miles of barbed wire and a 30-meter high wall, located between Ramallah and Jerusalem. Due to its proximity to Jerusalem, Qalandia checkpoint is rarely without someone waiting to gain entrance into either Israel or the West Bank.

Whether the checkpoint is open or closed is a matter that relies solely on the whim of the Israeli government and military. Both Hilda and I have been in situations where we have had to cancel plans due to our inability to get past a randomly closed checkpoint. It is a fact of life in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. We are both fully prepared, at this point, to have to go back home to Nablus should we find Qalandia closed. It is usually a matter of luck and listening to rumors as to whether one should attempt travel, but more often than not, it’s throw caution and time to the wind and give it a try.

Qalandia is designed much how I envision a cattle feed lot. Upon arrival, people, like cattle, are faced with a choice of four long, narrow, cage-like metal fencing lanes. At the end of each lane is a turnstile gate, where travelers must wait while an unseen soldier operates the lock, controlling the ebb and flow of the people, much like how a rancher would control the movements of his cattle. Hilda and I see our breath as we chat to pass our time in line behind an elderly woman and a young man. Unlike other checkpoints I have gone through, Qalandia is open air; those of us who hope to pass through, like Hilda and myself, are at the mercy of the elements.

Thankfully, everything appears to be running smoothly today. We are commanded by a mechanically-distorted voice to produce our passports and hand them through to the warped face we see sitting behind bulletproof glass. I am always nervous when asked to hand over my passport at checkpoints or road stops. By living in the West Bank, I am doing something wrong in the eyes of the government and military, so I am always fearful that evidence of my guilt and Palestinian sympathies are one day going to magically appear somewhere on its pages. Thankfully, no such evidence makes an appearance today and, after sending our bags through to be x-rayed, Hilda and I are lucky enough to be able to pass right through the checkpoint without any unforeseen delays. Once on the other side, we find a taxi and continue on our journey to Hebron.

It’s a shared taxi that Hilda and I take to Hebron. We have the option of hiring a private one for just the two of us if we want, it’s what tourists usually do, but it’s more expensive and both Hilda and I are on limited budgets. More importantly though, I think, the practice of taking private taxis is very limiting for travelers. Sharing a taxi with locals is a great way to see into a country’s culture. I remember when I lived in Africa, women were always placed in the back of the taxi; this practice showed me louder than anyone’s opinion where women were valued in that society. A shared taxi ride can also put a traveler in a position for great conversation and to learn new things about the place that they are visiting. Strangely enough, it is a quiet taxi ride for Hilda and me. Often the presence of someone who is obviously not Arab is enough to perk someone’s interest to ask us where we are from, and what we are doing there. Yet today, there were no such questions asked or stories told about family members who left Palestine for the United States.

The taxi drops us off on a busy street in Hebron on the edge of town. I am surprised not to see any signs of the violence and anger that I know exist and have come to associate with the city. Instead, before me is a bustling street that appears to be like any other I have seen while traveling in the Middle East. From the vantage point of the taxi window, I can see the street, bursting at the seams with store fronts, vendors pushing their wooden cart; I can see shoppers trying to pick up their daily groceries, all while moving in and around the cars who happen to be parked on the street or trying to make their way down the road. All of the movement appears to be part of a well-choreographed dance or play. Everyone knows his role and where to be and when. Locals know where to go to find fresh produce and in which spot they will find Muhammad selling his dates because he has been selling them there every day for the last 10 years. If one looks long enough, he will see that there is a continuity here that can easily be missed and thought of as chaos at first glance.

Though chilled and slightly damp, neither Hilda nor I are in any particular hurry to get off the busy street. We are content to amuse ourselves by meandering along, pausing from time to time to check out what the various vendors are selling or to enjoy some window shopping. Without even meaning to, Hilda and I find that we have left the busy street behind and are now winding our way through the streets of Hebron’s Old Market.

I knew the Old Market was at one time the commercial hub of Hebron but, due to restrictions the Israeli military had imposed on the Palestinians population, that it had all but collapsed. Yet confronting reality is very different than to simply know it exists. The layout of the market is reminiscent of those I use to shop in when I lived in Africa; stalls are little more than square boxes that line the streets with no stall being more than 10 feet from the next. Each shop has a heavy metal door that opens out into the street when it is open for business.

I am physically sickened at the sight of stall door after stall door shut tight, with some even having been welded shut. It is late morning, the time when the market should be filled with people laughing and chatting as they good-naturedly push past those around them in their attempt to make their way down the narrow streets as they go about their daily shopping. Instead, the streets are relatively quiet; there is no laughter, no people fighting to get through. The number of doors I see only serves to reinforce the knowledge that this market had one time been a successful cornerstone of the community, but now, with only one out of every ten shops or so open, it has been reduced to a shell of its former self.

With so few businesses open, only a few of the most intrepid of locals makes the journey to the market. I am saddened by this sight because, when there is no crowd, there is no business being done and, without business being done, no money is being made. I want to run over and hug the few that I see and offer apologies for what they are going through, as if I am personally responsible for all that they have had to endure. I want to ask them if all the stories about the constant violence and humiliations are true. And if they are, why do they continue to stay? I already know the answer, though. Hebron is their home, for better or for worse. I am neither as strong nor as foolish to make those kinds of choices.

Typical Palestinian generosity is everywhere for us to see as the few shopkeepers who have managed to make it to work today each ask us about our time in Palestine, all of them inquiring about what has brought us here. What is most humbling is the thanks that they give us for taking the time to understand their situation. Many invite us to sit down for tea with them and, though I know that these shopkeepers see our white skin and think of our western dollars, I also know it is not the motivating factor behind their generosity. Such kindness comes not from a hope that we will spend our money on their products, but a belief that we are guests in their country and, as such, should be treated with respect. Too bad for them, neither of us is ready to shop. Not wanting to give anyone false hopes about a possible sale, we try not to linger over long at any one stall.

Hilda and I are walking down street when I look up and see that what little sun there is today is being blotted out by garbage caught in a wire netting that runs not far above our heads. This netting appears to be attached to the buildings on either side of the street and runs along its entire length. My mind cannot wrap itself around what it’s seeing. What possible reason could there be for these nets? The only reason I can come up with is that they are meant to feed the birds in the area. It’s not a particularly attractive way to feed the local bird population, but who am I to judge? A shopkeeper must have seen the look of puzzlement on my face, for she approaches me to offer me an explanation

The nets that I see are for protection, she clarifies. Once the settlers took over the rooms above the shopkeepers’ stalls, they began emptying their garbage from their windows onto the street below them, directly onto the heads of anyone passing by. I must have misunderstood what she was saying. I cannot fathom someone purposefully emptying their dirty rubbish and leftover food bits on somebody.

“Was it on purpose,” I ask.

I am not sure why I ask the question; I already know the answer. The amount of garbage I see currently hanging in the net is already more than what one can rightfully consider an accident. Yet I want to be mistaken. I want to have misunderstood this woman with her broken English. I do not want to face the ugliness that people treat each other with; or to acknowledge that these Isareli settlers have so little regard for their Arab neighbors that they feel no guilt or remorse about purposefully dumping their waste on them.

Of course it was on purpose, she retorts, the nets had to be put up to deal with the rubbish as it became a daily occurrence, and the eaves she points to were put up when the settlers started to dump water and other liquids from their homes. She offers us the services of her nephew as a guide around Hebron. Not really sure what this entails or how to politely refuse, we accept.

Our tour consists of being brought to the Nazar family home. It is obvious that the reason we have been brought here is to see another example of the settler violence. Neither our guide nor the family speaks the greatest of English, but between their two explanations, Hilda and I are able to get the general picture of what has happened in this home. It appears that the Nazar family, over the past year, has had at least three altercations with settlers forcibly entering their home and destroying their property. This culminated in the final visit with the death of one of the Nazar children. We are led through the house where the family points out the markers of the violence they have had to endure. There is the door that will not latch closed due to the lock being shot out. There is a hole in the ground where a toilet once stood but again has been destroyed, either by being shot or simply knocked down, I cannot understand which. Evidence of gun fire is again seen in the bullet holes in the family’s water storage containers.

What disturbs me most about this situation is not that these settlers feel they have the right to barge into these people’s home and destroy it, or even that their actions resulted in the death of a young girl. What upsets me the most, what utterly breaks my heart, is that when I look around their home, I can see the normalcy of it all. Various family members are scattered through the house doing this or that, children chase each other around the house when they are not busy jumping around our feet. These people must live in constant fear that the settlers will return, that their house will once more be violated and maybe another family member taken away from them, yet there is no indication of this. What these children find normal, I find chilling.

With our tour of the house complete and our tour guide gone off with 10 more shekels in his pocket, Hilda and I are once again on our own. Not really sure where we are in relation to where we were dropped off, we begin to wander around. By accident, we happen upon s road that I had only heard rumors about. Palestinian vehicles are completely prohibited from driving on this road, and, if Palestinian pedestrians are even permitted to walk on the street, they are segregated to their own sidewalk.

This is repulsive. My mind boggles at the fact that Jews, a people who throughout history have been on the receiving end of some of the worst atrocities the world has ever seen, would now be the perpetrators of such injustices. Has their history taught them nothing? Or perhaps it did. Perhaps it taught them it is better to beat and demean others before being victimized again.

I am changed by what I see in Hebron. My spirit is damaged by the maliciousness I see in these settlers’ actions. But I am not without hope. On the busy street where Hilda and I first started our trip, we meet Muhammad, a twenty-something shopkeeper whose kindness and generosity astound me.

The reason why Hilda and I went to Hebron was to find a women’s co-operative that specialized in the production of hand-made, traditional Middle Eastern kaffiyas, the black and white scarves that Arabs are traditionally shown wearing, and other fabrics. Palestine, like rest of the world, is flooded with cheap Chinese products, so Hilda and I were eager to find something locally made. We were faced with a couple of obstacles, though. Neither of us knew where exactly in Hebron this co-op was located, nor did we know its full name.

Armed with little knowledge, Hilda, in her broken Arabic, attempted to ask the vendors and store owners if they were familiar with the shop. Whether they didn’t know or simply didn’t understand what she was saying, I wasn’t sure. Either way, they were unable to help us. All that I could tell was that we weren’t getting very far and, if our luck didn’t change soon, we’d have to go back home empty handed.

Feeling sorry, I’m sure, for the two foreigners who didn’t know what they were doing, one shop owner brings us to his friend’s shop, because his friend speaks English and will be able to help us. I feel my spirit begin to lift. We are deposited on this friend’s doorstep with a smile and wave. His friend, Muhammad, though not fluent, does in fact speak English far better than any of the shop keepers we have spoken with thus far. Unfortunately, like the rest of them, he was still confused by what we were looking for. Undaunted, Muhammad took out his cell phone and told us that he knows someone who can speak both English and Arabic who can help us out. I imagined that he was calling someone else in town to come and speak with us, but Muhammad quickly corrected my assumption, informing us that he person he was calling was not in Hebron at all, not even the West Bank; he was calling someone he knew in America! I was bemused thinking he must be joking. There was no way someone would call America simply to help out two strangers. How could he possibly afford it? It is hardly the same as making a local call. Yet call America he did.

He handed the phone to me and explained that I could tell his friend in English what Hilda and I were looking for and then hand the phone back to him, after which his friend would explain in Arabic what I had said. I was skeptical about whether this would work or not. I mean, if this guy spoke English on the same level as any of the other people we had met thus far today we wouldn’t get very far.

After explaining to the gentleman on the phone what we were looking for, I pass the phone back to Mohammed. Lo and behold, after a few minutes on the phone he knows exactly the place Hilda and I are after. Expecting him to give us directions, I am further surprised when he turns and closes his shop door, effectively closing his business, to personally take us to the shop where the women’s co-operative sells its products.

In light of all the cruelty I had seen being purposefully inflicted on the Palestinian population, I half expected to encounter a people made harsh and bitter by their daily reality. Yet I have been met with simple acts of kindness and generosity at every turn. Muhammad calling America just so that Hilda and I can find a store is something I would never have dreamed of happening. This random act of generosity does much to restore my spirits after spending the day in one of the most depressing places I had ever been.

References

Roislie, Hanne Eggen. “Living with Contradiction: Examining the Worldview of the Jewish

Settlers in Hebron.” International Journal of Conflict and Violence.1.2 (2007):169-184. Print

Hebron: My Heart Breaks

Watching this clip put out by B'Tselem brought tears to my eyes. I visited Hebron back in 2009 and it still to this day remains one of the most depressing and upsetting places I have ever seen. Death to Arabs is written quiet frequently on the doors and walls one passes. In one spot, I saw that someone wrote Gas all Arabs. There are streets completely cut off from Palestinian use and others where they are forced to use their own sidewalks. In the Old Market, Palestinian shopkeepers have been forced to hang mesh netting from one side of the street to the other to avoid the garbage that the settler, who have taken over the building overhead, routinely throw on them.

How can people be so cruel to each other.

Please take the time to watch this.

The Quiet Transfer

Hebron

In doing research for an essay I am writing about my trip to Hebron I came across this article. I think it is worth the look, especially considering the date is recent. Most articles concerning Palestinians in Hebron date back to 2002-2006, the period of the Second Intifada. While knowing what happend back then is important, people often use the uprising to the blame the Palestinian for the Israeli/Settler violence they experience. This article goes to show that the violence against the Palestinians is always there and perhaps it is the cause of the uprising.

Anyway, some food for thought.

This is Israel? Not the one I love

On the Road to Nazareth

I recently wrote a reflective essay on a experience I had at an Israeli checkpoint during my stay in Nablus. I have never written a piece like this before so I am pretty proud of how it turned out. I hope you all like it was well. I apologize for the formatting issues.

On the Road to Nazareth

Quietly I sit with my colleagues, my friends, waiting. A faceless voice within the toll booth looking box takes our passports and informs us that we are not yet permitted to leave, so we wait. We try to chat about inconsequential things like lesson plans and the winter weather; too afraid to talk about anything personal, we wait. The gatekeepers offer no chairs or benches to those of us on this side of the line, so we claim spots on the bare concrete floor, waiting. The grimy beige walls, in need of a wash and a bit of sunshine, offer us no source of distraction as they stand empty except for signs written in languages none of us understands. The only noise we can hear is that of a soldier’s footsteps on the catwalk above our heads as he patrols the perimeter of the building, his machine gun ever at the ready. I can feel a building pressure within my chest as my words and actions are watched and recorded, I am waiting.

It was my idea to go to Israel during our break. With classes cancelled due to the Muslim holiday of Eid, we were left with no one to teach and nothing to do as shops and stores around Nablus would be closed for the duration of the festivities. Not wanting to waste such an opportunity, I began organizing a trip.

"I have passed through Israeli controlled checkpoints before; within the West Bank, several of them slow movement between along roads, but this time it is different. This one is a passageway from what the gatekeepers consider enemy land into Israel itself."

I have had to wait before; this is not my first checkpoint. The West Bank is riddled with them, these road stops, these lessons in half-truths and patience purposely designed to control movement. This time it’s different. Now though, I am asking the gatekeeper to allow passage back into his country from the enemy’s land, something I have never had to do before. Twenty minutes we wait. Annoyance builds as I survey the empty room; with no one else here, it is obvious the waiting is a deliberate act on the gatekeepers’ part. We wait.

Classes and lesson planning kept most of us busy to the point that opportunities to travel outside the West Bank were limited, so to be given an uninterrupted stretch of time was a prospect not to be missed. Having spent four years in university studying the life and teaching of Jesus, I knew I wanted to take advantage of this break and see the land from which he had come.

I stand and attempt to get the blood flowing back into legs that are falling asleep from sitting on the floor when I see what I think is a soldier, another gatekeeper, enter the room. He doesn’t approach us, does not even look in our direction, though we are only yards apart. Instead, he goes and speaks with the faceless voice in the toll booth box. Hoping to be permitted to leave, we pick up our bags and inch our way to the exit, to freedom, only to be brought up short when the man walks away, carrying our passports. Again, nothing unusual; we wait.

I began to talk with my housemates, international volunteers like me who teach English, French or Art for the organization Project Hope, about their plans for the break. I had already spent time in Jerusalem and knew I would again as it is the hub for transportation to most destinations within the West Bank and Israel so I was not eager spend my time off seeing things I had already seen. However, I was just as eager not to travel alone so I was willing to go pretty much anywhere.

I prepare to sit back down on the ground again when I hear a man yell, “Who is the American?” I automatically look around, even though I am the only American in the group, hell in the room. My heart skips a beat, gets lodged in my throat and sinks to the pit of my stomach all at once. Here is the man who had carried our passports away earlier, standing with mine above his head as if it were the starting flag for the Indianapolis 500.

Nazareth was chosen as our group’s destination due to its proximity to home; it was close enough that those interested in a one-day trip could come, yet large enough to make a good jumping off spot to other destinations for those that wanted to travel for a few days. I, along with two others, a Brit and a German, decided to go simply for one day.

I pause a moment waiting for the others to be called over as well. But the call for the German and the Brit never come. My stomach clenches and my hands begin to shake, I must face the gatekeeper alone. Whether it’s due to being nervous or the pins and needles racing down my legs from sitting too long, I stumble as I walk over to the man holding my freedom. Unsure of the reason why I have been granted this unexpected “honor”, the first thing I cannot help but notice is that the man who stands there holding my passport is actually a boy of 19 or 20. Who is he to have such power over me?

Experienced with the delays usually found at checkpoints and road stops, the three of us left the apartment as early.. Multiple taxi rides and the power of our own two feet brought us to what could only be described as a prison-like military complex looming over the flat empty terrain. We had arrived at the border crossing.

The soldier asks, “Where are you going?”.

Feeling as if I am going to vomit on his shoes, I smile brightly and reply, Nazareth. Cheerfulness and a smile are my defense against the mind-numbing terror that he is inspiring. I must give him no reason to suspect that I am something other than what I am claiming to be: a tourist, a religious pilgrim.

“Where did you come from?”

I hesitate a moment before I reply, “Nablus”. Conscious that body language tells a story as clearly as the words leaving my mouth, I try not to show my discomfort, but I can’t help but worry; does this boy sense my hesitation? Can he tell from one brief pause that a dozen different scenarios and outcomes ran through my head as I decided if it was better to lie or tell the truth?

He flips through my passport looking at all the stamps I’ve acquired over the years. He pauses on the ones written in Arabic, dashing my hopes that he wouldn’t notice them wedged between Africa and Israel. He demands to know why I was there.

Out of the corner of my eye I still see the soldier with his gun walking the perimeter of the building. “I know that he can’t hurt me,” the rational side says, yet emotions and fear have a strangle hold on me. Continuously, I see myself being put in handcuffs, being kicked out of the country, being labeled a terrorist and being unable to return. It happened to Sara and all she did was teach yoga.

“Where is your camera?”

I can feel the blood leave my face; under a golden tan I become stark white. What is this soldier playing at? My bags had been taken away, emptied out and gone through. My camera examined as a possible explosive device. What more was there to look at?

“Can I look at your pictures?”

Then I knew.

Our last taxi driver, being a Palestinian, had not been permitted to let us off at the border crossing, so we had been forced to walk the last leg of our journey. The weather was beautiful with a brilliant blue sky over head and not a cloud to be seen. Yet the beauty was spoilt with every step that brought us closer to the fortress that loomed on the horizon. I had never witnessed anything like it before, roughly the size of a football stadium if not bigger, the complex appeared to have been dropped there in the middle of nowhere. The land was desolate, gone were the trees and grass, replaced with sandy rock pebbles and low growing shrubs. Barbed wire fencing surrounded it as if it had been gift wrapped by Santa. I wanted to take a picture to show the people back home because I knew I would lack the words to describe it, but I was afraid. Surely I wouldn’t be allowed to. Yet nowhere was there a sign that said such actions were forbidden. The only sign to be seen showed a gun with a big red X through it; being free of any fire arms, I risked taking the picture.

The gatekeeper hides his demand in the form of a question, letting it appear as I have choice. We both know better. A refusal will cause greater suspicion to fall on me; why wouldn’t a tourist, a religious pilgrim want to show her pictures? Yet I am unable to remember the last time I erased the memory card. Do I still have pictures of the protest, of the rock throwers? My heart pounds in my ears, I must lie, I must lie, I must lie; the voice in my head chants.

Yes, of course, I say. I offer to turn it on for him in a bid to give myself more to time to come up with a convincing lie. And lie I do; I paint for the gatekeeper - the picture of a tourist, young and stupid, who naively finds herself in places she shouldn’t. Mark Twain can be proud of the piece of fiction I produce for this boy.

I am afraid to look closely at the gatekeeper’s face to see if he is buying my story for fear that he will see the truth in my eyes. Nerves cause my smile to widen to the point of breaking. My friends are called over at this point by a different gatekeeper. Unlike me, they are questioned together. I try to listen in on their answers so that I can match mine to theirs, but they are too far away. Their responses must earn them a reprieve from further questioning because I see their gatekeeper give them their passports back and allow them to go to the door, to go towards freedom. I cross my fingers and hope that I too will be joining them.

Convinced by my answers or tired of toying with me, I am unsure which; the gatekeeper finally grants me permission to enter his land. It is still unclear to me why I was chosen to be questioned. Was it due to the picture they saw me take? Perhaps something about the way I carried myself seemed suspicious. Or maybe they just felt like scaring me, making me afraid to keep doing whatever it was I was doing that brought me to the West Bank. Walking over to meet my friends, I pause as my body is raked with tremors and my stomach rolls. The suppressed emotions hit me all at once. Never have I been so scared. As I leave the dimly lit room of the checkpoint I enter into the bright sunshine and look at my watch; what has felt like days has in reality only been an hour. It’s a beautiful day and I want to get busy enjoying it. It is too soon to begin thinking about how we are going to get back home.

Going Beyond the Dialogue

I'm sorry to be posting so many clips lately, but when I come across soemthing interesting I want to share it with others. A colleague of mine from my days in the West Bank posted this clip on his Facebook page and after watching it I wanted to pass it on to you.

The name of the clip is "Israel/Palestine: Going Beyond the Dialogue of Words". I tried to load the clip on here like I have previously but I keep encountering an error so please follow the link above instead.

I think the speaks message is a universal one. Until we step outside of our comfort zones and experience the "other" things will never truely change.


The Wounded Crossing Borders Organization that is mentioned also sounds like an organization that is doing great things and worth checking out.

Website

I came across the website/blog Mondoweiss today.

They describe themselves as being a news website devoted to covering American foreign policy in the Middle East, chiefly from a progressive Jewish perspective.

The site has four principle aims:
1. To publish important developments touching on Israel/Palestine, the American Jewish community and the shifting debate over US foreign policy in a timely fashion.
2. To publish a diversity of voices to promote dialogue of these important issues.
3. To foster the movement for greater fairness and justice for Palestinians in American foreign policy.
4. To offer alternative to pro-Zionist ideology as a basis for American Jewish identity.

What led me to this site was this article:

80 year old Palestinian woman stoned by settlers

by Seham on November 1, 2011

Like 112 Retweet 74

80 year old Palestinian woman stoned by settlers

Settlers stone elderly Palestinian lady
RAMALLAH (WAFA) 31 Oct -- A group of Jewish settlers Monday stoned an elderly Palestinian lady as she was picking olives in Mukhmas, a village southeast of Ramallah in the West Bank, according to local sources. The 80-year-old woman was reported to be injured in the head and transferred to hospital for treatment.

Again, I just stumbled upon this site today so I am unable to speak to its accuracy or fairness. I do plan to check back to it from time to time though. As should you if you are interested in this area of the world.

A Little Bit of Hope

I am tired of focusing on the negative and the depressing. So often when I am preparing a post for this blog or a paper for my Individual Studies of Writing class I get frustrated and angry. Not because of the work, never that, believe it or not I do enjoy writing. I get angry because in the preparation for these assignments I must constant sift through websites and papers full of horrible sickening information.

Well I'm tired of it.

Today's post is going to be about hope. I want to introduce you all to some wonderful organizations that are against all odds doing big things to change the life of young people in West Bank.

The Freedom Theater in found in the refugee camp in Jenin. If you've read my previous posts you know that during the Second Intifada Jenin was pretty much leveled to the ground by the Israeli forces. This included The Stone Theater, which had been created by Arna Mer Khamis a Jew who chose to live and work in the West Bank. Khamis used her theater as a way to give a creative outlet to Palestinian children in order to help them deal with the emotional issues (chronic fears, insomnia, depression)created as a result of years of living under the strain and abuse of the Israeli occupation. Though the Stone Theater was bulldozed during the Second Intifada Arna's son has continued his mother's legacy through The Freedom Theater.

I had the opportunity to spend the day touring the theater grounds and speaking with some of the students (even sitting in on an impromptu jam session) and I was absolutely blown away with the work they are doing there. They are giving kids a voice who are otherwise voiceless. This clip below shows how theater is helping some of these kids deal with the harsh realities of their lives.



The Nablus Guide has this to say about the Nablus Circus School:

Founded in 2004 by a group of enthusiastic Palestinian artistes, the school’s ambition is to develop circus arts in the city. But beyond that they also want to provide a space for self-expression and freedom for the children living under occupation and constant stress. Hence each class is followed by a time for discussion, a moment set aside in order for each one to be able to express their anguish, their doubts, or their success. Furthermore, Assirk Assagir can be proud of being one of the only youth organizations to offer mixed classes open to girls and boys from 6 to 22 years old.

By clicking on the Nablus Circus School link above you will be brought to the blog that is written about the school. Listen and watch some of the students below.


For three months I was lucky enough to be a volunteer with Project Hope. Out of all the things that I have done in my life and all the places I have gone, my experience with them has been the greatest of my life. I feel very lucky to have been able to be a part of what they are doing. If you visit their website which I have linked above you will see that their mission is:

create safe and supportive spaces where children, youth and other community members can learn, thrive, and grow. Through our educational, artistic and recreational programs, we especially aim to empower Palestinian children and youth who have grown up in a context of violence and occupation, giving them the tools they need to access a better future.

My role with them was as an English teacher, however while I was there I saw volunteers involved in a number of different programs ranging from language programs, to art and photography, to IT and blogging classes.

These organizations not only give the children and the communites they are a part of hope but also outsider like myself. I have hope that these children will find creative and positive outlets for their fear and anger and that this will help in breaking the cycle violence we see happening.

In the News Today

In the car today on the way home I heard on the news that UNESCO, which is the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization voted 107 to 14 in favor of a resolution that would recognize and permit Palestine to become a member of their body.

It is not surprising to learn that the US was one of the 14 countries that voted against such an action.

What was also not surprising was the fact that the US will now stop its payments to UNESCO, which comes to a total of $60 million dollars, one fifth of the organizations budget. I thought the government would move to cut funding as a way to try and establish control once again over the organization. But apparently, the reason for financial cut is because we have a law here in America that makes it illegal for us to give money to any UN body that recognizes Palestine as a member before a peace agreement with between them and Israel is established.

What possible benefit is there to a law like this one, except to black mail these UN bodies with the threat of loss of funds?

Poem by Naomi Shihab Nye

In doing more research on Naomi Shihab Nye and her work I came across this poem she wrote. As I mentioned in a previous post Nye's father is a Palestinian refugee, but Nye herself also lived in Jerusalem in 1967. Her and her family only remained there for a year and moved back to the United States at the beginning of the 1968 war.

Anyway, I found this this piece that she wrote and wanted to share it with all of you.

Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit

Once they started invading us.
Taking our houses and trees, drawing lines,
pushing us into tiny places.
It wasn't a bargain or deal or even a real war.
To this day they pretend it was.
But it was something else.
We were sorry what happened to them but
we had nothing to do with it.
You don't think what a little plot of land means
till someone takes it and you can't go back.
Your feet still want to walk tliere.
Now you are drifting worse
than homeless dust, very lost feehng.
I cried even to think of our hallway,
cool stone passage inside the door.
Nothing would fit for years.
They came with guns, uniforms, declarations.
LIFE magazine said,
"It was surprising to find some Arabs still in their houses."
Surprising? Where else would we be?
Up on the hillsides?
Conversing with mint and sheep, digging in dirt?
Why was someone else's need for a home
greater than our own need for our own homes
we were already living in? No one has ever been able
to explain this sufficiently. But they find
a lot of other things to talk about.

Testimony from Breaking the Silence

On the Breaking the Silence tour I took part in, the organization offered booklets that contained the written testimony from various soldiers regarding incidents that they themselves were apart of or witnessed. Here are some of their stories.

The clip below is an interview with two former soldiers in the Israeli Defense Forces; they are now participants with the Breaking the Silence organization.

Breaking the Silence

One of the greatest, most moving and unfortunately most disturbing things that I did while living in the West Bank was to go on a Breaking the Silence tour. This organization was created after the beginning of the Second Intifada and is comprised of form Israeli soldiers who have decided to share with the Israeli public what is being done in the West Bank and Gaza. Here is the bio they put on their website:

Breaking the Silence is an organization of veteran combatants who have served in the Israeli military since the start of the Second Intifada and have taken it upon themselves to expose the Israeli public to the reality of everyday life in the Occupied Territories. We endeavor to stimulate public debate about the price paid for a reality in which young soldiers face a civilian population on a daily basis, and are engaged in the control of that population’s everyday life.

Soldiers who serve in the Territories witness and participate in military actions which change them immensely. Cases of abuse towards Palestinians, looting, and destruction of property have been the norm for years, but are still explained as extreme and unique cases. Our testimonies portray a different, and much grimmer picture in which deterioration of moral standards finds expression in the character of orders and the rules of engagement, and are justified in the name of Israel's security. While this reality is known to Israeli soldiers and commanders, Israeli society continues to turn a blind eye, and to deny that what is done in its name. Discharged soldiers returning to civilian life discover the gap between the reality they encountered in the Territories, and the silence about this reality they encounter at home. In order to become civilians again, soldiers are forced to ignore what they have seen and done. We strive to make heard the voices of these soldiers, pushing Israeli society to face the reality whose creation it has enabled.

We collect and publish testimonies from soldiers who, like us, have served in the West Bank, Gaza and East Jerusalem since September 2000, and hold lectures, house meetings, and other public events which bring to light the reality in the Territories through the voice of former combatants. We also conduct tours in Hebron and the South Hebron Hills region, with the aim of giving the Israeli public access to the reality which exists minutes from their own homes, yet is rarely portrayed in the media.

Founded in March 2004 by a group of soldiers who served in Hebron, Breaking the Silence has since acquired a special standing in the eyes of the Israeli public and in the media, as it is unique in giving voice to the experience of soldiers. To date, the organization has collected more than 700 testimonies from soldiers who represent all strata of Israeli society and cover nearly all units that operate in the Territories. All the testimonies we publish are meticulously researched, and all facts are cross-checked with additional eye-witnesses and/or the archives of other human rights organizations also active in the field. Every soldier who gives a testimony to Breaking the Silence knows the aims of the organization and the interview. Most soldiers choose to remain anonymous, due to various pressures from official military persons and society at large. Our first priority is to the soldiers who choose to testify to the public about their service.

In the winter of 2009, myself along with two colleagues decided to go one the Southern Hebron Hills tour. I wish I had my photographs and interviews to post along with this information, but due to technical problems they are no longer available.

While this tour takes a person on many stops, what I remember most from the experience was visiting one family who were literally living in a hole/cave in the ground. Their house had been built without an authorized building permit from the Israeli government and as a result it was bulldozed to the ground. What the family had left they gather together in holes they had dug in the dirt. The coverings to keep out the hot sun or rainy weather were old cement sacks that the women had stitched together.

Utterly shocked by the living conditions these people found themselves in, (the people in my village in Africa had a higher stander of living) I was humbled to knees when the family we were visiting offered us tea. Not only did this family have to sleep in a cave/hole they also had no water. Clean water had to be carried in by the family from a great distance. A trip made even more cumbersome by the Israeli settlers who live near by and the laws especially designed to protect them.This family with little to nothing to their name stood their offering everything they had to me, my colleagues as well as the roughly 20 or so individuals on the tour with us. Generosity like that restores my faith in the world, but usually breaks my heart as well. It always seems that the ones most willing to give are the ones who have the least to give.

Arabs aren't Terrorists

For my American Ethnic and Minority Literature class we have been assigned to write a paper over an ethnic or minority American poetry. I can't say I'm terribly excited about the assignment due to the fact that it's over poetry and that is definitely not my strong suit. Anyway, I chose to write about Naomi Shihab Nye an Arab-American poet whose father is a Palestinian refugee and mother is an American of German and Swiss decent.

In researching information for the paper I came across this letter that Nye wrote not long after the September 11th attacks. I am not sure how many people remember or are even aware that one of the reasons given by Osama bin Laden for the attacks was the United States continued support of Israel. I think it is important how she touches on the stereotypes associated with Palestinians and address how the actions committed by these men and others with similar beliefs/attitudes are not helping their cause by committing such crimes. I hope you enjoy.

Letter from Naomi Shihab Nye, Arab-American Poet:

To Any Would-Be Terrorists

I am sorry I have to call you that, but I don't know how else to get your attention. I hate that word. Do you know how hard some of us have worked to get rid of that word, to deny its instant connection to the Middle East? And now look. Look what extra work we have. Not only did your colleagues kill thousands of innocent, international people in those buildings and scar their families forever, they wounded a huge community of people in the Middle East, in the United States and all over the world. If that's what they wanted to do, please know the mission was a terrible success, and you can stop now.

Because I feel a little closer to you than many Americans could possibly feel, or ever want to feel, I insist that you listen to me. Sit down and listen. I know what kinds of foods you like. I would feed them to you if you were right here, because it is very very important that you listen. I am humble in my country's pain and I am furious.

My Palestinian father became a refugee in 1948. He came to the United States as a college student. He is 74 years old now and still homesick. He has planted fig trees. He has invited all the Ethiopians in his neighborhood to fill their little paper sacks with his figs. He has written columns and stories saying the Arabs are not terrorists, he has worked all his life to defy that word. Arabs are businessmen and students and kind neighbors. There is no one like him and there are thousands like him - gentle Arab daddies who make everyone laugh around the dinner table, who have a hard time with headlines, who stand outside in the evenings with their hands in their pockets staring toward the far horizon.

I am sorry if you did not have a father like that. I wish everyone could have a father like that.

My hard-working American mother has spent 50 years trying to convince her fellow teachers and choir mates not to believe stereotypes about the Middle East. She always told them, there is a much larger story. If you knew the story, you would not jump to conclusions from what you see in the news. But now look at the news. What a mess has been made. Sometimes I wish everyone could have parents from different countries or ethnic groups so they would be forced to cross boundaries, to believe in mixtures, every day of their lives. Because this is what the world calls us to do. WAKE UP!

The Palestinian grocer in my Mexican-American neighborhood paints pictures of the Palestinian flag on his empty cartons. He paints trees and rivers. He gives his paintings away. He says, "Don't insult me" when I try to pay him for a lemonade. Arabs have always been famous for their generosity. Remember? My half-Arab brother with an Arabic name looks more like an Arab than many full-blooded Arabs do and he has to fly every week.

My Palestinian cousins in Texas have beautiful brown little boys. Many of them haven't gone to school yet. And now they have this heavy word to carry in their backpacks along with the weight of their papers and books. I repeat, the mission was a terrible success. But it was also a complete, total tragedy and I want you to think about a few things.

1. Many people, thousands of people, perhaps even millions of people, in the United States are very aware of the long unfairness of our country's policies regarding Israel and Palestine. We talk about this all the time. It exhausts us and we keep talking. We write letters to newspapers, to politicians, to each other. We speak out in public even when it is uncomfortable to do so, because that is our responsibility. Many of these people aren't even Arabs. Many happen to be Jews who are equally troubled by the inequity. I promise you this is true. Because I am Arab-American, people always express these views to me and I am amazed how many understand the intricate situation and have strong, caring feelings for Arabs and Palestinians even when they don't have to. Think of them, please: All those people who have been standing up for Arabs when they didn't have to. But as ordinary citizens we don't run the government and don't get to make all our government's policies, which makes us sad sometimes. We believe in the power of the word and we keep using it, even when it seems no one large enough is listening. That is one of the best things about this country: the free power of free words. Maybe we take it for granted too much. Many of the people killed in the World Trade Center probably believed in a free Palestine and were probably talking about it all the time.

But this tragedy could never help the Palestinians. Somehow, miraculously, if other people won't help them more, they are going to have to help themselves. And it will be peace, not violence, that fixes things. You could ask any one of the kids in the Seeds of Peace organization and they would tell you that. Do you ever talk to kids? Please, please, talk to more kids.

2. Have you noticed how many roads there are? Sure you have. You must check out maps and highways and small alternate routes just like anyone else. There is no way everyone on earth could travel on the same road, or believe in exactly the same religion. It would be too crowded, it would be dumb. I don't believe you want us all to be Muslims. My Palestinian grandmother lived to be 106 years old, and did not read or write, but even she was much smarter than that. The only place she ever went beyond Palestine and Jordan was to Mecca, by bus, and she was very proud to be called a Hajji and to wear white clothes afterwards. She worked very hard to get stains out of everyone's dresses -- scrubbing them with a stone. I think she would consider the recent tragedies a terrible stain on her religion and her whole part of the world. She would weep. She was scared of airplanes anyway. She wanted people to worship God in whatever ways they felt comfortable. Just worship. Just remember God in every single day and doing. It didn't matter what they called it. When people asked her how she felt about the peace talks that were happening right before she died, she puffed up like a proud little bird and said, in Arabic, "I never lost my peace inside." To her, Islam was a welcoming religion. After her home in Jerusalem was stolen from her, she lived in a small village that contained a Christian shrine. She felt very tender toward the people who would visit it. A Jewish professor tracked me down a few years ago in Jerusalem to tell me she changed his life after he went to her village to do an oral history project on Arabs. "Don't think she only mattered to you!" he said. "She gave me a whole different reality to imagine - yet it was amazing how close we became. Arabs could never be just a "project" after that."

Did you have a grandmother or two? Mine never wanted people to be pushed around. What did yours want? Reading about Islam since my grandmother died, I note the "tolerance" that was "typical of Islam" even in the old days. The Muslim leader Khalid ibn al-Walid signed a Jerusalem treaty which declared, "in the name of God, you have complete security for your churches which shall not be occupied by the Muslims or destroyed." It is the new millenium in which we should be even smarter than we used to be, right? But I think we have fallen behind.

3. Many Americans do not want to kill any more innocent people anywhere in the world. We are extremely worried about military actions killing innocent people. We didn't like this in Iraq, we never liked it anywhere. We would like no more violence, from us as well as from you. HEAR US! We would like to stop the terrifying wheel of violence, just stop it, right on the road, and find something more creative to do to fix these huge problems we have. Violence is not creative, it is stupid and scary and many of us hate all those terrible movies and TV shows made in our own country that try to pretend otherwise. Don't watch them. Everyone should stop watching them. An appetite for explosive sounds and toppling buildings is not a healthy thing for anyone in any country. The USA should apologize to the whole world for sending this trash out into the air and for paying people to make it.

But here's something good you may not know - one of the best-selling books of poetry in the United States in recent years is the Coleman Barks translation of Rumi, a mystical Sufi poet of the 13th century, and Sufism is Islam and doesn't that make you glad?

Everyone is talking about the suffering that ethnic Americans are going through. Many will no doubt go through more of it, but I would like to thank everyone who has sent me a consolation card. Americans are usually very kind people. Didn't your colleagues find that out during their time living here? It is hard to imagine they missed it. How could they do what they did, knowing that?

4. We will all die soon enough. Why not take the short time we have on this delicate planet and figure out some really interesting things we might do together? I promise you, God would be happier. So many people are always trying to speak for God - I know it is a very dangerous thing to do. I tried my whole life not to do it. But this one time is an exception. Because there are so many people crying and scarred and confused and complicated and exhausted right now - it is as if we have all had a giant simultaneous break-down. I beg you, as your distant Arab cousin, as your American neighbor, listen to me. Our hearts are broken, as yours may also feel broken in some ways we can't understand, unless you tell us in words. Killing people won't tell us. We can't read that message. Find another way to live. Don't expect others to be like you. Read Rumi. Read Arabic poetry. Poetry humanizes us in a way that news, or even religion, has a harder time doing. A great Arab scholar, Dr. Salma Jayyusi, said, "If we read one another, we won't kill one another." Read American poetry. Plant mint. Find a friend who is so different from you, you can't believe how much you have in common. Love them. Let them love you. Surprise people in gentle ways, as friends do. The rest of us will try harder too. Make our family proud.

naomi shihab nye
Clicking on her name will bring you to the website where this letter was posted.