The Ghurfa
When Bil’in learned Israel’s Wall would come, it determined to stand against it. It performed non-violent demonstrations every week, and construction continued.
It chained itself to the trees as chainsaws cut away the olive branches, and construction continued.
It brought Israelis and international activists to the village to stand by its side, and construction continued.
It welded itself into steel cages in the path of bulldozers, and construction continued.
It spoke to filmmakers and journalists, and construction continued.
It pleaded with the politicians of the world, and construction continued.
It filed an injunction with the Israeli Supreme Court, and like the unyielding tide, construction continued.
But it too was an unyielding tide, and the court ruled in its favor, agreeing that the construction of Israel’s Wall was illegal. Yet construction was finished, and Israel’s Wall snaked its way onward beyond the village. The judges could do nothing for Bil’in, Israel’s Wall was a fact, newly emerged, but a fact just the same.
So Bil’in built walls of its own. An “outpost” beyond Israel’s Wall, in the groves next to the awakening settlement. A room, four walls, simple and shaking in the wind, but a fact just the same. And it stands there still, alone amongst felled olive branches, against the rising of the tide.
It was here that we spent our New Year’s Eve, in the shadow of Modin Illit, a settlement that will outgrow Tel Aviv within three years. And in the smoke of the fire, bundled away from the wind and the rain, we were warm there; we were in Bil’in.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Lymor
When I first arrived to Abdullah’s home, the place I would be sleeping for the next few weeks, I encountered a faded poster, hanging determinedly to the wall. It’s a picture of a man with long hair, matted by his own blood, in the rubber-gloved hands of a medic. The poster is titled in Hebrew, and I went to bed, haunted and wondering.
Tonight I met the man I saw in the poster on Christmas day. His name is Lymor, a quiet and thoughtful guy the same age as I. His hair is short now, and it refuses to grow over the three inch scar above his right ear. He sat by the fire for two hours, grimmacing loosely, disconnected from our singing.
He came to hours later, newly emerged and talkative. He didn’t remember the time we had all just spent together, and was sad to learn that he missed our songs, Danish, English, Hebrew and Arabic. He would have understood them all. Lymor, though he is shy to admit, speaks nine languages fluently. He is like a musician who picks up an instrument he has never seen and begins playing a soothing tune. Lymor patiently translated our friend Ashraf’s winding and energetic appeal to convert us to Islam, taking care to convey not just words, but intent.
He was shot in Bil’in by Israeli soldiers during a demonstration four months ago. Three rubber-coated steel bullets slammed into him, one embedding deep inside his skull. The soldiers held him for hours in the sun without water or treatment, preventing the ambulance from reaching him. He was finally transported in a military vehicle to the hospital, in a jeep full of soldiers’ gear, riot shields falling continuously over him.
Though several operations have saved most of his eyesight, he is being denied rehabilitation through an elaborate buerocracy that is sending a message to Israelis who cross into the West Bank to challenge the Occupation.
Lymor looks not at you, but into you. He hears something in voices the rest of us do not, and his affectionate understanding lends the chance to express ourselves, not with words, but with intent.
Tonight I met the man I saw in the poster on Christmas day. His name is Lymor, a quiet and thoughtful guy the same age as I. His hair is short now, and it refuses to grow over the three inch scar above his right ear. He sat by the fire for two hours, grimmacing loosely, disconnected from our singing.
He came to hours later, newly emerged and talkative. He didn’t remember the time we had all just spent together, and was sad to learn that he missed our songs, Danish, English, Hebrew and Arabic. He would have understood them all. Lymor, though he is shy to admit, speaks nine languages fluently. He is like a musician who picks up an instrument he has never seen and begins playing a soothing tune. Lymor patiently translated our friend Ashraf’s winding and energetic appeal to convert us to Islam, taking care to convey not just words, but intent.
He was shot in Bil’in by Israeli soldiers during a demonstration four months ago. Three rubber-coated steel bullets slammed into him, one embedding deep inside his skull. The soldiers held him for hours in the sun without water or treatment, preventing the ambulance from reaching him. He was finally transported in a military vehicle to the hospital, in a jeep full of soldiers’ gear, riot shields falling continuously over him.
Though several operations have saved most of his eyesight, he is being denied rehabilitation through an elaborate buerocracy that is sending a message to Israelis who cross into the West Bank to challenge the Occupation.
Lymor looks not at you, but into you. He hears something in voices the rest of us do not, and his affectionate understanding lends the chance to express ourselves, not with words, but with intent.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Demonstration
From IMEMC and RJI
Around 200 hundred people, including international and Israeli activists joined together in Bil'in village near the city of Ramallah in the West Bank for the weekly demonstration against the illegal annexation of the village's land. Nearly 60% of Bil'in has been lost as the route of the wall cuts directly through the area.
Soldiers awaited the procession at the gate west of the village, and did not immediately intervene when several Palestinians and activists crossed through the razor wire and began walking the length along the first fence.
Several sections of razor wire were pulled apart along the path of the Wall to allow other Palestinians passage through to the barrier's fence. Soldiers responded intermittently with sound bombs and used batons to strike the hands of Israeli activists attempting to untie sections of wire fastened to the fence. The demonstration remained non-violent throughout.
On the walk back, residents noticed soldiers had occupied three Palestinian homes at the top of a hill. Soldiers had been using these locations to fire tear gas at youths not participating in the main demonstration. Demonstrators chanted to the soldiers who retreated from one house, but remained inside another, and on the roof of the third.
Soldiers fired tear gas, rubber coated steel bullets and sound bombs while Palestinians entered the second home to force an additional four soldiers to leave. In an ensuing scuffle, soldiers attempted to arrest one resident, Farhan Burnat (26), though residents and activists prevented them from removing him in custody.
The military beat those attempting to free Burnat with clubs. Soldiers on the rooftop of an occupied home fired large quantities of gas toward the demonstrators and shot several residents with rubber-coated bullets, including Abdullah Abu Rahme, a local organizer of the Grassroots Popular Committee Against the Wall.
In an exclusive interview with the IMEMC, Abu Rahme stated, “We de-arrested a man, and I was about 100-150 meters away, raising a Palestinian flag when the soldiers shot me with two rubber bullets. They were beating the man they were trying to arrest, and they beat Mohammed Al-Khatib badly.”
Mohammed Al-Khatib, another local organizer with the Popular Committee Against the Wall, is currently receiving treatment for his injuries.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Abu Mein and Mohammad Omar
On Wednesday, a Danish activist named Nina and I went to visit the Abu Mein family. I was genuinely touched by the warm welcome we received. In this home, Nina is like a daughter, and we helped ourselves to stew and fruit. The affection Abu Mein showed his children made a strong impression on me. So far, it’s par for the course in Bil’in, and I can tell that the good humor and love I’ve found in this village extends to each home in a unique and refreshing way.
Thursday we visited Muhammad Omar’s family in their home. We had a huge dinner, homemade sweets prepared for the Eid celebration and great coffee. I need to learn the secret of this particular artform. Arabic coffee goes right into the pot without any filter. Held just right over an open flame, you must manage a rolling boil at the right speed in order to pour it at the last second into the cup without losing the froth at the top. A coffee lover (or addict, less affectionately) such as myself was in heaven in the company of this family. My earlier attempt to make coffee at the apartment had proved less successful.
Nina’s cousin in Denmark is organizing a Danish/Palestinian book of children’s games. Muhammad Omar and his youngest son Hasoum showed us a handful of singing and counting games that she is going to record and send off to include. The games have evolved out of a need to keep the children warm in school and are a handy way to keep the kids focused in a stressful environment that can make education difficult.
Muhammad’s oldest daughter is in her last year of high school while his son Khaled has begun his college education at Bir Zeit University in Ramallah. Both were eager to practice their English and have finished with academic honors for their successes in high school. Khaled was awarded valedictorian and placed in the 97th percentile of all Palestinian students. They both attribute their abilities to a fondness of American movies. Khaled prefers comedies, and Jim Carey in particular, while his sister is an admitted action lover and prefers Jean Claude Van Dam. How one can learn English from either of these actors is beyond me, but as they are both tri-lingual and I stammer through basic Arabic comprehension, I thought better than to second guess their strategy.
On the walk home, we ducked out of the rain and into a shop for more coffee. The shabab (young men) were nothing short of jovial. No statement went uncontested in a litany of arguments about everything from geography and imperialism, to the proper pronunciation of English words and the official stance on smoking from the Palestinian Ministry of Health.
For the record, Britian won the contest as history’s most imperialistic nation in a close race against Denmark. Though Denmark has technically presided over a larger empire, England has never been occupied. It’s a topic that holds particular significance in the Occupied West Bank.
Nina, a smoker, was told that the Palestinian Authority has declared smoking a hazard only to the health of women on account of women’s more delicate hearts. Dubious of their sources, she misunderstood the word “qalb” (heart) to mean “kelb” (dog) and figured she’d been the target of a harsh analogy. I think she was only slightly less offended by their rather colloquial medical theory.
After an improvised map drawing contest in which North and South America had merged into a single shapeless blob called “Washeentoon,” and Europe an Arctic archipelago, we headed home, full and laughing as we had been the day through. If I haven’t mentioned yet, I love this village.
Thursday we visited Muhammad Omar’s family in their home. We had a huge dinner, homemade sweets prepared for the Eid celebration and great coffee. I need to learn the secret of this particular artform. Arabic coffee goes right into the pot without any filter. Held just right over an open flame, you must manage a rolling boil at the right speed in order to pour it at the last second into the cup without losing the froth at the top. A coffee lover (or addict, less affectionately) such as myself was in heaven in the company of this family. My earlier attempt to make coffee at the apartment had proved less successful.
Nina’s cousin in Denmark is organizing a Danish/Palestinian book of children’s games. Muhammad Omar and his youngest son Hasoum showed us a handful of singing and counting games that she is going to record and send off to include. The games have evolved out of a need to keep the children warm in school and are a handy way to keep the kids focused in a stressful environment that can make education difficult.
Muhammad’s oldest daughter is in her last year of high school while his son Khaled has begun his college education at Bir Zeit University in Ramallah. Both were eager to practice their English and have finished with academic honors for their successes in high school. Khaled was awarded valedictorian and placed in the 97th percentile of all Palestinian students. They both attribute their abilities to a fondness of American movies. Khaled prefers comedies, and Jim Carey in particular, while his sister is an admitted action lover and prefers Jean Claude Van Dam. How one can learn English from either of these actors is beyond me, but as they are both tri-lingual and I stammer through basic Arabic comprehension, I thought better than to second guess their strategy.
On the walk home, we ducked out of the rain and into a shop for more coffee. The shabab (young men) were nothing short of jovial. No statement went uncontested in a litany of arguments about everything from geography and imperialism, to the proper pronunciation of English words and the official stance on smoking from the Palestinian Ministry of Health.
For the record, Britian won the contest as history’s most imperialistic nation in a close race against Denmark. Though Denmark has technically presided over a larger empire, England has never been occupied. It’s a topic that holds particular significance in the Occupied West Bank.
Nina, a smoker, was told that the Palestinian Authority has declared smoking a hazard only to the health of women on account of women’s more delicate hearts. Dubious of their sources, she misunderstood the word “qalb” (heart) to mean “kelb” (dog) and figured she’d been the target of a harsh analogy. I think she was only slightly less offended by their rather colloquial medical theory.
After an improvised map drawing contest in which North and South America had merged into a single shapeless blob called “Washeentoon,” and Europe an Arctic archipelago, we headed home, full and laughing as we had been the day through. If I haven’t mentioned yet, I love this village.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Arrival to Bil'in
What began as a difficult Christmas day has transformed itself. What a gift, this village of Bil’in. The spirit of resistance within this community is clever, human and characterized by hope. The tremendous welcome I received has rejuvenated me and I believe that there is a home for me here.
Bil’in is a small village near Ramallah, in the direct path of Israel’s Annexation Wall. For months now, the people of Bil’in have come together each Friday to protest the annexation of their land, the theft of their olive trees, (which are being transplanted in illegal Israeli settlements in the West Bank) and the destruction of their livelihoods.
On the third floor of a partially finished building, we watched the film, “Bil’in, My Love,” produced by a team of Israeli and International activists working to oppose building the Wall here. After a power outage delayed the start by an hour, we saw the effects this Wall is having on their village and the ways in which they are resisting.
Creative non-violent strategies such as welding metal crosses to which activists locked themselves, chaining human beings to olive trees and conducting “die ins” in the path of soldiers have been met with ceaseless violence from the Israeli Occupation Forces. Many of the residents here have been imprisoned, gassed, beaten and shot in their attempts to stop construction. Yet, they persevere with humor and optimism.
I am taken aback by the welcome extended to International and Israeli activists alike. Many of the residents here are fluent in Hebrew and eager to work with Israelis willing to stand beside them in their efforts.
Construction of the Wall continues, and as stated by former president and Mid-East mediator Jimmy Carter, the slide toward Apartheid is worsening. This village is a beautiful place; smiles abound and the people remain hopeful. The tragedy this Wall manifests is tremendous.
Merry Christmas, it looks to be a very interesting New Year.
From Bil’in, West Bank
Bil’in is a small village near Ramallah, in the direct path of Israel’s Annexation Wall. For months now, the people of Bil’in have come together each Friday to protest the annexation of their land, the theft of their olive trees, (which are being transplanted in illegal Israeli settlements in the West Bank) and the destruction of their livelihoods.
On the third floor of a partially finished building, we watched the film, “Bil’in, My Love,” produced by a team of Israeli and International activists working to oppose building the Wall here. After a power outage delayed the start by an hour, we saw the effects this Wall is having on their village and the ways in which they are resisting.
Creative non-violent strategies such as welding metal crosses to which activists locked themselves, chaining human beings to olive trees and conducting “die ins” in the path of soldiers have been met with ceaseless violence from the Israeli Occupation Forces. Many of the residents here have been imprisoned, gassed, beaten and shot in their attempts to stop construction. Yet, they persevere with humor and optimism.
I am taken aback by the welcome extended to International and Israeli activists alike. Many of the residents here are fluent in Hebrew and eager to work with Israelis willing to stand beside them in their efforts.
Construction of the Wall continues, and as stated by former president and Mid-East mediator Jimmy Carter, the slide toward Apartheid is worsening. This village is a beautiful place; smiles abound and the people remain hopeful. The tragedy this Wall manifests is tremendous.
Merry Christmas, it looks to be a very interesting New Year.
From Bil’in, West Bank
Christmas
My friend Zeiad’s daughter coughed the night through. Her tiny, three-year-old body writhed with each bellow until giving way to vomit again and again. Even now, she tries in vain to sniff back her running nose, and we see our breath as we sit together in a cold room. Her father leaves today for Tel Aviv, where he will seek to work in construction for the next twenty-eight days. When his permission expires, he will return to the camp and attempt to renew his permit in order to stay another month in Israel.
He leaves behind a refugee camp bound by tense desperation and six children. It is his only option, one he would never have taken during the first years of the Intifada. But the situation has deteriorated dramatically, and his fortune to be able to acquire a permit to enter Israel is rare. It is an opportunity he cannot afford to pass.
As for me, I head today to Bil’in where I hope to find the international activists, who like my friend, have left this city I love. Basing our operations here seems unrealistic at this time. Even the NGO’s and Not-for-Profit organizations have suffered the impacts of the embargo, and I feel that we will be more successful in our efforts elsewhere.
From Askar Refugee Camp, Nablus, West Bank
He leaves behind a refugee camp bound by tense desperation and six children. It is his only option, one he would never have taken during the first years of the Intifada. But the situation has deteriorated dramatically, and his fortune to be able to acquire a permit to enter Israel is rare. It is an opportunity he cannot afford to pass.
As for me, I head today to Bil’in where I hope to find the international activists, who like my friend, have left this city I love. Basing our operations here seems unrealistic at this time. Even the NGO’s and Not-for-Profit organizations have suffered the impacts of the embargo, and I feel that we will be more successful in our efforts elsewhere.
From Askar Refugee Camp, Nablus, West Bank
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Arrival to Nablus
I arrived to Nablus today and took a service (shared taxi) from the checkpoint toward the city, getting out at the top of the hill above Balata Refugee Camp. I walked down the steep road from Jerusalem street, past the pungent cattle stable and made my way toward the main entrance and market. I headed straight for the restaurant of my good friend Muhamad, and our happy reunion marked the first of many throughout the day.
The most significant change I noticed in the journey from Jerusalem was the ease by which the Israeli military directs and controls the flow of Palestinian movement. This does not mean that Palestinians were free to move about, but rather that droves of Israeli soldiers, roving patrols and makeshift (bulldozed) roadblocks have been largely replaced by permanent checkpoints, the Annexation Wall and its many watchtowers. Palestinians wishing to enter Nablus walked the long, fenced corridor through Huwarra Checkpoint just south of the city unimpeded; those wishing to leave stood motionless in line.
From Nablus, men between the ages of 20-40 years are uniformly banned from exiting, save the few who are able to obtain temporary permits to enter Israel in search of work. Even then, those who are able to reach Israel must obtain a work permit through the endorsement of the trade unions there. For many who choose to leave their families in favor of employment, the decision to work within Israel is distasteful and made of desperation.
The isolation imposed on Palestinian population centers in the West Bank, and Nablus in particular, in combination with an international economic embargo has left this once thriving city in poverty. Work is extremely scarce, unemployment endemic, and hope for relief the only currency readily available.
A functioning Palestinian Authority (PA) was difficult to identify in Nablus three years ago, now it is non-existent. The militias are the only visible remnant. Men from Ktab-al Aqsa (the military wing of Fateh) and the military arm of Hamas passively patrol the streets of whichever areas they enjoy support. They provide no real public service in the traditional sense of governmental security forces. Though these militias were founded under the auspices of organized resistance to the Occupation, now they are largely biding time.
Since the beginning of the Second Intifada, Israel has been relatively successful in its efforts to dismantle organized, armed resistance. Thousands have been imprisoned or killed, and six years on, the will to fight has greatly diminished. What is left of the militias is reluctant to engage Israeli troops when they invade Palestinian areas to make arrests or destroy infrastructure. If either side expends too much of its resources in such fighting, it will be that much weaker if a dominant party emerges from the current Palestinian political crisis. In this vain, they have turned the guns on each other, and many believe the division to be so deep, that if Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas is successful in pushing through new elections, the result could be civil war.
Their rivalry has intensified since the international boycott of the Hamas led PA, and many feel that Abbas’ continued dealings with Israel to be nothing short of appeasement, even accusing Fateh of deliberately sabotaging Hamas’ ability to govern. In turn, critics of Hamas point to an unreasonable stubbornness and an inviable approach to democratic governance. American endorsement of Abbas is seen by some to be an attempt to stoke these tensions.
But the real pressures are largely external, led by Israel and the United States in their efforts to coerce Palestinian cooperation.
Cessation of international financial aid has devastated the Palestinian economy. In Nablus, once busy and crowded marketplaces are closed. People here are becoming ever more desperate to sustain themselves, worried they may be headed toward a situation akin to Gaza, with its humanitarian crisis of unprecedented scale in Palestine.
The lack of activity has encouraged most of the international activists to seek out new communities where they can be more effective. Groups such as the one in Bil’in near Ramallah conduct weekly demonstrations against the Annexation Wall cutting through that village’s land. In Balata Camp, I was struck by my ability to blend in. Hardly a single child came running to ask, “What’s your name?!” and I sensed the lack of an organized and consistent team of international activists here had left its mark. I plan to visit with several Nablus-based NGO’s and evaluate the situation here before I make a decision about the best location to base RJI’s activities.
From Askar Refugee Camp, Nablus, West Bank
The most significant change I noticed in the journey from Jerusalem was the ease by which the Israeli military directs and controls the flow of Palestinian movement. This does not mean that Palestinians were free to move about, but rather that droves of Israeli soldiers, roving patrols and makeshift (bulldozed) roadblocks have been largely replaced by permanent checkpoints, the Annexation Wall and its many watchtowers. Palestinians wishing to enter Nablus walked the long, fenced corridor through Huwarra Checkpoint just south of the city unimpeded; those wishing to leave stood motionless in line.
From Nablus, men between the ages of 20-40 years are uniformly banned from exiting, save the few who are able to obtain temporary permits to enter Israel in search of work. Even then, those who are able to reach Israel must obtain a work permit through the endorsement of the trade unions there. For many who choose to leave their families in favor of employment, the decision to work within Israel is distasteful and made of desperation.
The isolation imposed on Palestinian population centers in the West Bank, and Nablus in particular, in combination with an international economic embargo has left this once thriving city in poverty. Work is extremely scarce, unemployment endemic, and hope for relief the only currency readily available.
A functioning Palestinian Authority (PA) was difficult to identify in Nablus three years ago, now it is non-existent. The militias are the only visible remnant. Men from Ktab-al Aqsa (the military wing of Fateh) and the military arm of Hamas passively patrol the streets of whichever areas they enjoy support. They provide no real public service in the traditional sense of governmental security forces. Though these militias were founded under the auspices of organized resistance to the Occupation, now they are largely biding time.
Since the beginning of the Second Intifada, Israel has been relatively successful in its efforts to dismantle organized, armed resistance. Thousands have been imprisoned or killed, and six years on, the will to fight has greatly diminished. What is left of the militias is reluctant to engage Israeli troops when they invade Palestinian areas to make arrests or destroy infrastructure. If either side expends too much of its resources in such fighting, it will be that much weaker if a dominant party emerges from the current Palestinian political crisis. In this vain, they have turned the guns on each other, and many believe the division to be so deep, that if Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas is successful in pushing through new elections, the result could be civil war.
Their rivalry has intensified since the international boycott of the Hamas led PA, and many feel that Abbas’ continued dealings with Israel to be nothing short of appeasement, even accusing Fateh of deliberately sabotaging Hamas’ ability to govern. In turn, critics of Hamas point to an unreasonable stubbornness and an inviable approach to democratic governance. American endorsement of Abbas is seen by some to be an attempt to stoke these tensions.
But the real pressures are largely external, led by Israel and the United States in their efforts to coerce Palestinian cooperation.
Cessation of international financial aid has devastated the Palestinian economy. In Nablus, once busy and crowded marketplaces are closed. People here are becoming ever more desperate to sustain themselves, worried they may be headed toward a situation akin to Gaza, with its humanitarian crisis of unprecedented scale in Palestine.
The lack of activity has encouraged most of the international activists to seek out new communities where they can be more effective. Groups such as the one in Bil’in near Ramallah conduct weekly demonstrations against the Annexation Wall cutting through that village’s land. In Balata Camp, I was struck by my ability to blend in. Hardly a single child came running to ask, “What’s your name?!” and I sensed the lack of an organized and consistent team of international activists here had left its mark. I plan to visit with several Nablus-based NGO’s and evaluate the situation here before I make a decision about the best location to base RJI’s activities.
From Askar Refugee Camp, Nablus, West Bank
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