The refugee and the foreigner

I cannot know the nation of your memory; her history is occupied. Palestine is a name, a just fight, but a human name, ascribed to define not a boundary of earth, but the essence of a people and the home for which they long. There is injustice that I, a foreigner, retain my right to walk upon these sands, while a man expelled does not. Human rights cannot be given, only denied. I am not lucky to have my rights in hand, they are mine, by right, to live and die for. But as your rights are denied, I inherit the responsibility to live and die for them as well. I am a refugee in your Palestine. And like you, I am rooted to her and my blood was spilled into her soil. Perhaps I may come and go as I wish, and perhaps I am a fighter, bound within her memory. The zionist lays claim, binds her in razor wire and punctures her breast with mast and flag. But his presence cannot spoil what will outlast him, and us. When the last of the occupiers is gone, her wounds will heal and she will remember us not by name, but by deed when we were in the company of each other.

Shaden's son

We sipped our coffee and pondered the survived beauty of the city beneath us. Frank's foot rose above venturing ants, hovered undecided on their fate, though he had not begun to consider the implication of ending what he failed yet to recognize as a life. Sa'ed scolded him with the authority of an abrupt poet, the consequences crystalized in that instant. But the poet's voice, halted, could not belie the tenderness of its source.

Memory can scald, inwardly collapsing worlds that condense to unbearable weights bound impossibly within. Legacies are felt with hands, seen on the softened faces caressed by the individual who embodies them. They are carried by the collective, flags relieved in favor of what she gave a generation of sons.

'God willing' is not an expression of doubt, but the sounding of a promise we are being looked after. It is faith, not merely hope, that we will meet on this holy path again, to walk a few more steps together in a changed tomorrow.

-In loving memory of Shaden Abu Hijleh
killed October 11, 2002

The Olive Harvest

Hello! Hello!
Ya Haramiyye!
Allah hu Akbar!

A worn man rises swiftly from a recliner, its muted fabric dusted and torn in the dirt and soil shade of olive trees still alive amidst the discards of this broken city, a remnant orchard boxed in a Rockefeller project.

He’s upon the two women in an instant, pulling at the synthetic burlap of a bag not even half empty. Her old hands are impossibly strong. This woman banished, ventured from the camp. Her hands are rough, as rough as his. Such calluses never relinquish their utility.

He pulls with insistence,
but not violence, his anger tempered by her desperation. His case booms, right but not righteous, not framed within rules worth following. It’s a reverse mugging in Central Park East, after the sun has fallen to earth and burned our homes and skin, everything but the biblical, symbols of hope and promise.

He takes care not to offend this thief. His hands maneuver deftly around her staid grasp. He never touches her, not once, decorum beguiling, colors of our compassionate nature painting the summer faded.

They wind down. He sits and smokes. They sit and listen. In the refuge of stolen provision, his appeals steadily lose bite, a man drowned whose nervous impulses force desultory relent. Kick, spasm and twitch last appeals to the onlookers.

It’s over. He collapsed, defeated and redeemed in his recliner. They, with his scant harvest, up the slope and back to exile.

In returned silence, the police drive slowly past, obligated if not curious. They do not stop.

Human Shields

Apr 14, 2007 – Nablus

During a recent raid on the West Bank city of Nablus, Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) operating in the Sheikh Munis neighborhood surrounded a house and began demolishing it, though the man they had come to arrest was not present. Below the scene, on the main road from Huwarra Checkpoint toward Balata Refugee Camp, soldiers in armored vehicles patrolled in an effort to prevent residents and journalists from accessing the area. Soldiers fired tear gas, percussion grenades and rubber-coated ammunition as local youths responded to the incursion by throwing stones.

As a young man passed a military humvee, soldiers reached out and began attempting to pull him into the vehicle. The boy protested and was soon joined by second man who spoke with the soldiers in an effort to secure his release. Subsequently, both men were made to stand in front of the humvee to discourage the stone throwers. The incident was caught on tape by a human rights activist and has set off a fresh round of intense media scrutiny into the use of human shields by the Israeli Occupation Forces.

Sam Neil, of the Research Journalism Initiative, a human rights organization based in the West Bank, filmed the incident and was shocked by the international reaction.

“I’m surprised by the debate this footage has sparked,” said Neil. “The international community is treating this as if there is a chance the Israeli military might be using human shields. There is no doubt they use human shields, and have as a standard practice for a very long time.”

The use of human shields has long been forbidden by international law under the Fourth Geneva Convention, and the practice was even banned by Israel’s own supreme court in an Oct, 2005 ruling. The decision forbids using civilians for military purposes even if they have agreed to do so, as the dramatic imbalance of power in such situations renders genuine consent impossible to obtain. In an affidavit presented by Adallah, an Arab Israeli human rights organization, an Israeli reservist admitted, "No civilian would refuse a 'request' presented to him at 0300 by a group of soldiers aiming their cocked rifles at him." Despite the clear requirements of the court rulings, Israeli forces have routinely violated human rights law and continue to employ civilians during military operations.

Often, the practice can be far subtler than firing over the shoulders of a captive. By confiscating Palestinians’ identity cards, Israeli soldiers are able to detain civilians at length during military incursions. Palestinians accosted by soldiers without ID are immediately arrested. Said Neil, “I’ve personally witnessed Israeli soldiers using human shields in various capacities nearly a dozen times since 2003. I’ve seen soldiers detain adults with their children for hours, forcing them to sit beside military vehicles for their IDs to be returned while soldiers conduct house searches and other operations.”

“One of the fundamental problems is the requirement for video proof of such activities. The West dismisses victims’ testimony immediately. The dismissal is racist and endemic.”

During Israel’s February 2007 invasion into Nablus, human rights organizations documented several incidents in which the IOF forced Palestinian civilians, including children, to serve as human shields during search operations. The Research Journalism Initiative submitted a filmed interview with eleven-year-old Jihan Tahdush to the Israeli Human Rights group B’Tselem, in which she recounted how soldiers had kidnapped her and forced her to lead them into neighboring homes.

In her testimony to B’Tselem, Tahdush said, “I went down the steps leading to the neighborhood. The soldiers walked behind me. The soldier had his weapon aimed in front of him. He said to me, "Slowly, slowly, don't be scared, we're with you."

During the invasion, an Associated Press television crew managed to film Israeli soldiers forcing 24-year-old Sameh Amira to lead them into homes of suspected resistance fighters. The rare footage ignited widespread international outrage over the practice. The Israeli military says it has launched an inquiry, though without a thorough, independent investigation, such an inquiry is inadequate.

“The army launching its own investigation is equivalent to a company conducting its own IRS tax audit,” said Neil. “It is time that the international community hold Israel responsible for its disregard of human rights law.”

For its part, the IOF has released a statement that it will investigate the most recent incident, and that the commanding officer, whose name was not released, has been suspended from operational duties. Palestinian Information Minister Mustafa Barghouti dismissed the announcement.

"They are treating it as an isolated incident," he said. "The problem is systematic and ... they (troops) continued the practice despite the (Supreme) Court order," he said.

Sam Neil is an activist with the Research Journalism Initiative in Nablus. He can be contacted at ripplescross@yahoo.com.

www.ResearchJournalismInitiative.net

Throwing Stones on Google Earth

At this very moment, a corporate imaging satellite is circling Earth in Orwellian orbit, spying the surface and publishing our photos in the grandest of larceny. We fall from Sputnik onto our own roofs, spot our cars, twist our bodies and spread our arms to catch the wind like wounded birds, pull back on air and howl recklessly in screaming descent to the safety of swimming pool suburban splashdowns.

If I looked better in black, I’d vote anarchist. But I like the way Google Earth makes the world feel smaller. I plot fantastically on the White House, hunt nukes in North Korea and prowl African plains in successive instants, grip Sumatra with Mickey Mouse kid gloves, spin the globe East, sail back to Denver and hover over my girlfriend’s apartment. If I had money, an ill-fated illusion I’m only now coming to terms with, I’d upgrade my membership to this planetary community, low angle a live shot and peer through her window to see if my clothes still pile the floor. As a freeloader, though, the picture simply goes flat in an awkward reminder that intimacy comes only to those willing to pay the cost. For now, I’m contented to know that I’m as far from home as I can get, drinking a beer with my friend Faraj in a Palestinian refugee camp.

Unlike me, Faraj didn’t choose Balata Camp. He came with his family from their own camp in Jordan just as the Intifada broke out. At a rally against the newly erected and now infamous Huwarra checkpoint, he bought his residency with a bullet to the hip and the legitimacy that blood on the street affords the foreign. A year and a half later, he was in an Israeli prison for harboring wanted men. Now, desperate to return home to his family, he’s stranded, a secret evidence security risk. Out of one prison and into another.

His friends call him Urdani, (Jordanian) and though he’s Palestinian through and through, I call him Ajnabi. It means ‘foreigner,’ and though it’s not intrinsically derogatory, there remains something harmlessly disparaging to be consistently addressed as an outsider. I would know.

Like a lot of the foreign volunteers here, I find myself embroiled in ceaseless effort to fit in and shed my strangeness. I smoke local cigarettes in harsh quantities and burn successive pots of Arabic coffee, an acquired art for which I have an obvious learning disability. I like that Faraj tells me straight when I’ve blown another attempt. I appreciate his teasing and the look on his face that assures me that although I am still ajnabi, in his flat, that’s a good thing.

Technically, you’re never really alone in a West Bank refugee camp. Twenty-five thousand people share a single square kilometer of cinder block oblivion. Narrow alleys jag across each other, kids pause marbles to pelt strangers in playful trauma, clothes drip from Little Italy’s memory and garbage smolders in the blank spots. It’s an incongruous sort of loneliness to wander the crowd without your friends, your shows, your jokes.

My speech becomes a silly aberration of subconsciously broken grammar. It’s the next best thing to actual Arabic, but regression nonetheless. "I live here since before three months," and so forth, peppered with ‘yanis’ in place of the ums… and proven phrases like Esh Ekbeer! (What’s up big guy!) These make people laugh, but I don’t have to do that with Faraj; he gets it. He gets me. There’s a reason the foreigners find him. We make him happy. Maybe we remind each other of home. But we leave, as foreigners do, one by one, uncertain if we will be blessed Israel’s permission to return. “I become don’t care,” Faraj says. He’s grown used to being left behind by friends, many forever, one by one. Our friends from California look at him, puzzled, and I laugh because to me, he makes perfect sense.

When I start to sleep through the gunfight nights and my dreams turn to television and Chinese food, I turn to my good friend Google Earth. Faraj and I spin the planet and look for his mother’s home, buried in a camp four times Balata’s size, somewhere near the airport between Amman and Zarqa. After seven years, it takes a few minutes to find his way back. He missed his sister’s wedding. He missed a lot of things.

We sail together over the Atlantic, to Colorado, to my mother’s home in Highlands Ranch, where white flights flourish and transplanted trees struggle through foreign soil. Manicured streets wind snaking in successive half circles toward a cul-de-sac at the bottom of the hill. As we fall from heaven toward suburbia, I brace for gasping disbelief at the size of our house. A British girlfriend toured our mansion once, sickened by splendor and awed by a garage door that lifted in magical intuition upon our arrival. Faraj was strangely comfortable with its appearance.

“They’re all in a circle, man. Like big family.” I admitted that of the seven houses within earshot of my mother’s home, I new the name of only one person, Max, the black guy, our own ajnabi. “The houses are so close together,” he said.

“Faraj, you’re a Palestinian. You’re telling me our houses are too close together?” He laughed. “You know,” I said, “people that live in glass refugee camps shouldn’t throw stones.”

For Jennifer

An overdue journey guided me briskly through relentless rain, my brown leather trainers soaked and weighted as I leapt across and into murky puddles. Sweet, charcoal smoke climbed upward and away from the burning embers of a determined grill, stolen from an awaiting chimney by heaving drafts, drenched and denied promises of broiled tomato, onion and za’tar.

I drew and held a tentative breath, passed the butcher with averted gaze, straining as a child when witness to his first paraplegic; a slaughtered, skinned body swayed heavily in segments from steel hooks. The butcher scraped a rubber broom across chipped, spotted tiles, pacing methodically in crimson splashed galoshes. Blood spilled onto the black asphalt in tides, swirled through a meandering spectrum of oily rainbows, and found the piled beaches of a construction site. It pulled at the powdery dunes of unmixed cement and wandered lazily on, a brown, silted concoction, between crowded steel bars, briefly floating the rotting skins of discarded vegetables and an empty cigarette pack before disappearing beneath the road.

I pulled the collar of my wool coat around my neck and peered upward through a thin, stinging veil to a dimly lighted window. Cinderblock walls, pocked by Israeli guns, shown dark grey as they slowly absorbed a days old storm. I wrenched my hands from dewy pockets and pushed through the metal door, punctured and ironic, its sharp, rusting bullet holes inviting the chill fury behind me.

I ascended a narrow corridor towards the blaring explosions of an Egyptian action movie and collapsed unto a crushed velvet cushion. In the corner, an elderly man stroked his wiry, metallic beard and kneeled eastward upon a faded rug. Next to me, a boy with Coke bottle glasses squinted intently at a television mounted high on the wall, secretly anticipating the change of channel and hippie-era Speed Racer cartoons during commercial breaks, impossibly tiny feet hanging motionless from his perch on the couch’s edge.

Three cracked mirrors reflected a disguised man, a foreigner’s face hidden beneath squalid black shrubbery, neglected tan curls protruding from beneath a stretched winter cap. I waited, a stranger unto myself, until beckoned to the stiff rose leather of a motorized chair, my dingy jeans wiping oily hair from its surface.

It is here that the ritual and clanship of men transcend nations. This fraternity of artisans lifts itself from the currents of three worlds, pauses solely on its universal day of rest, and invites only those who know the way as Tuesdays dawn.

He scanned the crowded counter. Scissors, an oversized comb, a brush, thick with shorn black hair, a towel to drape over his shoulder, its worn cloth drenched with heavy shaving cream and subtle after shave.

Trust is releasing Western vanities to the mercy of Eastern considerations, without the luxury of language, bound beneath nylon and vicars’ stretched white paper.

It is letting a declared enemy of state brush through your dusty hair; pull through tangles and examine moles cautiously; advise you as a doctor with the concurrence of waiting patrons; cut through American brown amidst Palestinian black; grasp your jaw and tilt your head with rough, steady hands; examine, evaluate, strategize; touch you prone; set a razor blade to your throat and deftly scrape away self neglect; return you to a vaguely familiar self. It is trust that opens wide the heart, without the longing of expectation.

“The radical, committed to human liberation, does not become the prisoner of a ‘circle of certainty’ within which reality is also imprisoned. On the contrary, the more radical the person is, the more fully he or she enters into reality so that, knowing it better, he or she can better transform it. This individual is not afraid to confront, to listen, to see the world unveiled. This person is not afraid to meet the people or to enter into dialogue with them. This person does not consider himself or herself the proprietor of history or of all people, or the liberator of the oppressed; but he or she does commit himself or herself, within history, to fight at their side.” --Paolo Freire

Paper Bags

My mother is afraid to go alone into her own basement. As a girl, three brothers waited patiently for her to descend the carpeted stairs of their parents’ home, hidden in the darkness. As she groped nervously for the light switch, they prepared their boyish attacks. Her few years had already taught my mother through arduous repetition what lay ahead, yet despite her brothers’ constancy, in each startling detonation of an air-filled paper bag, terror emerged anew, embedding itself deep within her psyche. Her burgeoning confidence betrayed, even into adulthood she remains trapped within pervasive readiness. This is the sound of a low-altitude sonic boom wrought by an American built F-16 fighter plane.

In the activity center, I joined a grammar school dance and drama class. Between laughter and applause, hand-in-hand I was ushered about, clung to by small fingers with sure grips. Children climbed into my lap, wrapped their arms around my shoulders and recited their names excitedly. Unable to be close enough, cheek-to-cheek they whispered to me their brief histories and offered gag candy with spring loaded rubber beetles glued to sticks of gum. Diminutive dancers fumbled the steps of the Dabke, unwilling to shift their gazes, beaming eyes lavishing the delights of being watched. They took proud and eager turns introducing me to dead older brothers, cousins, fathers – tiny photographs tied with shoelaces to their necks.

We wake throughout the night to deafening percussions, windows rattling, pressure pounding against our chests and clapping our ears. Silence. Then in thunderous waves, wraiths shake the cinderblock walls and torture our wary solitude. Babies cry, children wet beds. Kids peer over dusty windowsills, searching the sky for the fading blue afterburners of jets long since passed. We flinch but internally, terribly revived, then resheathe our bodies beneath readiness and sink trembling back to sleep.

The soldiers came last night for Fadi’s older brother. Amidst a barrage of stun grenades and automatic gunfire, he took refuge inside a partially destroyed building. They attacked the structure with an American built armored bulldozer, its throaty diesel engine heaving as steel tracks cackled laborously over the asphalt. M16 assault rifles cracked sharp brass rounds through shattering concrete, severely wounding him in the abdomen as he made his escape. The hours-long operation began on the street below my window, less then thirty meters from where I slept. I awoke only when a sonic boom shook the camp just before sunrise.