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?