Palestine is always on my mind

It’s been nearly six months since I left Palestine and returned back home. Much has happened since then, but Palestine is still on my mind every day. I’ve done my best to write about my experiences and share them with others, but I still feel like a sideline spectator, seeing the streets I loved torn with strife on the news.

It’s worth noting that the family I visited in Jerusalem was evicted soon after I left the country. Huwarra has closed again, and tensions have escalated in the West Bank, Gaza, and Jerusalem. It’s a helpless feeling to see these events unfolding, knowing that they deeply affect people I care about. It’s silly to try and talk about it online or over Skype, I feel like I can just shut my laptop at any time and go for a walk down peaceful streets and watch something diverting on television. They have to continue to resist just by simply trying to live their lives in a somewhat normal fashion. After all, violence and terror are daily parts of life in Palestine.

The only solace I can find is planning to return. I hope to go back this coming summer to improve my Arabic and volunteer more in Nablus. I know this is the path I’m going to go down for a few years. I hope to continue my graduate studies focusing on the conflict. This summer will be a great opportunity to prepare for that. I hope to take more notes, conduct more interviews, and take more photos. I also hope to keep doing my best to work towards a peaceful resolution of the conflict. I might just be one person, but all a movement ever needs is a lot of people and a just cause.

If you’d like to donate to my return fund, you can toss a few bucks my way via paypal.

If all goes well for me, I will be able to pick up where I left off with this blog soon.

Hello Heartbreak

When I was very young, my mother took me to see Les Misérables. I enjoyed it very much, but we had to leave early at the end because I was crying so hard. For months I’d been listening to the cassette of the performance over and over and obsessing over the minute details of all of the characters. My mother surprised me with tickets when we were in New York and I was looking forward to the show more than I’d ever looked forward to anything in my short little life. So when I couldn’t stop sobbing as Jean Valjean lay dying at the end, my mother had to take me out of the theater. What a disappointment! All that anticipation, and I couldn’t even stomach the ending. To this day I’ve never seen the end. The characters and the story was so vivid and so real that I couldn’t bear to think of things reaching a conclusion for me.

Now, here, I am reaching the end of my stay in Nablus. Instead of pitching a fit in the aisle, I have grown older and wiser and now understand that life is not like Les Misérables and nothing about me getting on a plane to go home means that things have to end for me here. I am sad to go, but by no means feel as though this is a good bye. I am looking forward to coming home and preparing myself mentally and emotionally to come again. Now that I know what to expect, I feel like I am ready to enrich myself in the meantime and come back to Palestine more fully prepared.

A good friend here once told me that the worst parts about this place would change your life and the best parts, too. I worry that too many people following this blog may think that my time here has been depressing and miserable. Quite the contrary. I have never been so close to the warm heart of the human spirit as I have been living in Nablus. I have seen and heard a great many things that broke my heart, but just as many things have lifted my understanding of the human experience to heights never before imagined. I need time to think about this. I am not a religious person, but I have witnessed things here that shine brighter and steadier and more true than all the stars in the sky. They are things that shine in the human heart, universal ideas and morals that are found wherever conflict and strife exist. War brings out the worst in people, but then it also brings out the best. Our only hope is to remember the best so it can fortify us through difficult times.

The good news is that not all the bombs, checkpoints, bullets, humiliations, and murder in the world can scare that which is good out of the human experience. Long after the stars in the sky have burnt out and long after the earth has ceased to spin in its seat, all of the good deeds will still shine brightly in the fabric of time. The most beautiful monuments to success, the most fascinating and breathtaking natural formations, and the most majestic celestial miracles cannot compare to making the right decision, to being decent to one another, and to making someone else smile through their tears. In this way the spirit of the Palestinian people is secure. There is always a brave soul to tow the line of human decency and many of them are found in this tiny piece of land. In the physical realm, Palestine’s situation is very dire. The land is in danger and stands against the biggest and strongest forces of decay and destruction, but such a giant is not hard to flip over your shoulder if you know its weakest point. All that is required is a tiny spark to light up the goodness that rests in the hearts of the people here. I’m sure such an ember is sleeping here among the Palestinians tonight. I look forward to that promise being fulfilled.

So I’m leaving soon, and my heart is breaking, but at the same time I consider myself blessed beyond words to witness such nobility of the human spirit. I have been lucky to travel the world and set my eyes on many things, but I have never set my eyes on something so wonderful as Palestine and the goodness that exists here.

H2

H2 in Hebron is a ghost town. It’s silent and dusty, like something out of a western. The shops are closed up and welded shut, Stars of David spray painted on door after door after door. A whole line of bustling businesses shut down arbitrarily. A settler walks by with his friend, talking with a heavy New York accent about some yeshiva business. M16A2 hang at their waists, the M203 grenade launchers bumping lazily against their hips. You are unwelcome here. They want to know what you’re doing. You’re here to see the wreckage of a hateful movement that has welded up all these doors, thrown rocks and trash at the residents of Hebron. The streets are dirty and empty except for the occasional settler and soldier. Tattered Israeli flags whip in the wind.

At the Ibrihimi Mosque people still bend and pray to Mecca where 29 were gunned down by a settler. You can stand up close to the minbar and see where the bullets ricocheted off the marble pillars. Bend down and kiss the grate in the ground where candles burn down low, illuminating the cave where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, and Leah are supposedly buried.

Past the centograph of Abraham, which sits peacefully below a seashell chandelier blowing softly in the breeze, you can see a small pane of bulletproof glass. Through here is where the settlers come to worship in the mosque. They move silently and unseen behind such barriers. After the massacre, the mosque was closed for months. When it reopened, the settlers had claimed this section for themselves. To enter the mosque, you must go through three checkpoints. One in a tunnel, one by the entrance to the mosque grounds, and the final one at the door. Settlers go through no such checkpoints, even though the bullets that scarred the minbar and took 29 lives were settler bullets shot from a settler gun by a settler maniac.

When you walk through the old city, you can begin to see how the locals are treated like animals. Unlike other settlements in the West Bank, Hebron’s H2 zone is smack in the middle of town. You walk by a few ancient buildings welded shut and then by a solitary watchtower.The locals must use donkeys as transportation here, since cars are not allowed in H2 for the settler’s safety.

When you walk by the few brave shops still open, you walk under chicken wire. Above you, caught in the wire mesh, is trash, rocks, human filth thrown down from the settlers living on the second floors. Only a few brave, dedicated souls stay in H2. They refuse to let the settlers have the area to themselves. They risk physical harm, humiliation, and economic ruinby being there. They exist in a tiny enclave — the rest is patrolled by settlers and soldiers who will always shoot first and ask questions later.

The statistics are overwhelming. Hebron used to lead Palestine in terms of economic prowess and population size. Now things are different. In Nablus, the old city is full with life and movement. In Hebron, the old city has been crushed under the boots of a few hundred settlers and the soldiers who accompany them to make sure that their lives are as safe and easy as possible. Before the second intifada, 1,610 shops were open in the old city. Thanks to military closures, settler violence, and lack of business, now there are just 650 shops, of which only 10% are operating. 75% of the residents in the old city of Hebron are under the poverty line and 80% are unemployed.

The residents of H2 are attacked and harassed by the settlers. As a final bit of salt in the wound, the residents are forces to file complaints in a nearby settlement. Internationals are forced to accompany children to school because settlers will throw rocks, beat them, and even shoot and kill them. It’s really quite simple. The settlers want the Palestinians of Hebron to leave. The soldiers stand by to protect the settlers. The residents bear it with dignity and dedication, as they do all over Palestine. They soldier on, with loving dedication for their history and for al-Khalil, waiting for a solution that is so far off in the distance they can hardly believe it exists at all sometimes.

The Hebron Rehabilitation Committee works to restore parts of the old city. They clean up ruined houses, paint the walls, offer economic incentives for residents to return, and even go so far as to pay for water or electricity when things get too bad to cover the bills. If you’re ever around in Hebron, go give them a visit. They can show you the effects of occupation on a once-thriving city center. Also visit the women’s co-op. They are, at some times, one of the handful of shops operating in the old city. They support 160 women in Hebron and their shop is managed and run by local women. It’s a fantastic way to not only show resistance to the occupation but also to enrich and empower the local community. It’s yet another example how the Palestinian spirit shines through no matter how difficult the situation becomes.

I hope one day to visit Hebron once the occupation has been overcome. I would love to see the majestic old city bustling with life once more.

Adam at Qalandia

Do you want to go to Jerusalem? You have to go through Qalandia first. Here is a cattle shute two feet wide, forcing everyone into cramped single file. Lined in chicken wire and razor wire. Behind fence, fortifications, and bulletproof glass sits a man in a uniform. He will click a button and let a turnstile at the end of the cattle shute turn. One, two, maybe three people will get through before it locks, trapping you in the turnstile. He clicks another button and a loud voice comes out of a speaker, yelling at you in Hebrew. Step back.

Finally though, you come to another line, wider and more yet cramped and frantic. The 15 km distance between Ramallah and Jerusalem takes you over two hours, and not everyone has two hours to spare. A wall of bodies press you closer. Another turnstile. Click. Click. Two, maybe three people get through again and the mass of bodies presses forward. Children cry and hold their mother’s hands. “Mama, I need to use the bathroom,” a boy next to you says, trying not to be trampled underfoot as another series of clicks lets a trickle of people through. The cameras look on.

“Wait, my darling.”

A man behind you starts praying.

Nearer, now. The crowd presses harder, uncomfortably feeding bodies into the gate towards the next phase of the checkpoint. You feel hot, you feel overwhelmed. Everyone around you feels this way. The voice over the loudspeaker sounds angry, yells some more. A child hits his head on the metal bars of the turnstile and sinks to his knees. “Mind the children!” someone begs. An old woman shuffles closer with a small infant in her arms. You watch as the turnstile swings around dangerously. “Careful! Shway!” you say, trying to keep the baby from being crushed by the crowd. Click. Click. Another three through.

You put your things in an X-ray machine and show a woman behind bulletproof glass your passport. She rolls her eyes and waves you past with a dismissive gesture. You shuffle out through more turnstiles, more fences, until you get to the bus.

The old woman hands you her baby when you sit down and the baby drools on your shoulder all the way to East Jerusalem. He can’t be more than a few weeks old, though you never know here because proper pre and post natal care is so rare. He looks at you with bewildered eyes. “Walid heloo,” you say, a beautiful boy. “Shu ismuh?”

The woman smiles. “Ismuh Adam.”

Adam looks at up at you. You kiss his soft cheeks. Is this the way of the world, you think. Will he do this his whole life, go through Qalandia and onto the 78 or 18 bus? 16 kilometers in two and a half hours. A world of humiliation, of stress and suffering. Of angry faces behind bulletproof glass. Qalandia makes you feel so small, makes you feel like it will last forever. But how is it when you carry another passport? How is it when all you have is a slip of paper in a half shekel green plastic cover?

Adam sleeps peacefully on your shoulder until Damascus Gate. You’ve never held such a baby.

المستوطنات

O those who pass between fleeting words
carry your names, and be gone
Rid our time of your hours, and be gone
Steal what you will from the blueness of the sea
And the sand of memory
Take what pictures you will, so that you understand
That which you never will:
How a stone from our land builds the ceiling of our sky

From you steel and fire, from us our flesh
From you yet another tank, from us stones
From you teargas, from us rain…

It is time for you to be gone
Live wherever you like, but do not live among us
It is time for you to be gone
Die wherever you like, but do not die among us
For we have work to do in our land

So leave our country
Our land, our sea
Our wheat, our salt, our wounds
Everything, and leave
The memories of memory
those who pass between fleeting words!

– Mahmoud Darwish, Passers Between the Passing Words, 1988.

Americana

I was going to write this for Independence Day, but I got tied up with other things. It’s harder and harder to bring myself to write about my time here to a public audience I can’t see or hear feedback from. I figure that everything I would have to say is too depressing or too commonplace for me by now. Nevertheless, I am going to write something today about being an American here in Nablus.

When people ask me where I am from, I do not hesitate to say that I am American. I try and deliver it as neutrally as possible, as if I’m stating the weather or the time. To me it is a fairly neutral issue, after all. I happened to be born somewhere. What of it? And sometimes this is all that it is, something neutral like the weather. Sometimes it is different.

A few people have asked me to teach them the American accent in English. I don’t know why, but it is a pretty silly thing to ask someone. I didn’t even know you could teach accents! One person was very pleased to hear that an Egyptian friend of mine sounds like he was born in New Jersey just after 7 years of being there. “See?” he said to his friend. “Just seven years!” Just!

Other times it is not so neutral or pleasant. Mostly they talk about Bush. They’ll say his name and spit on the ground or grind their shoe into the dirt. A pharmacist told me he hated Bush and that America was a factory of terrorists. His sister pointed out that now Obama was president. A lot of people ask me about Obama. Do you like him. Do you think he is a good man. Do you think he will help Palestine. “Ya’ani,” I say. Maybe. Sort-of. It’s a cop-out answer, this ya’ani of mine, because I can’t communicate well enough that I don’t think that Obama will help much at all. They think Huwarra is open and the soldiers don’t come as much because of Obama and his pals but it’s really because the people of Palestine are waiting with baited breath for something to happen. They’re so quiet right now you could hear a pin drop. They want so badly for us to understand and empathize with them, but even if we did, it couldn’t change much.

For example, take this recent seizure and arrest of internationals off the coast of Gaza. Other countries have openly demanded the immediate release of their citizens, but the United States stays quiet. “No comment.” Imagine for a moment if Iran had seized a ship full of humanitarian aid and forcibly arrested a former congressman and Nobel Prize laureate. Can you imagine the same reaction? Look at how it is with the settlements. We say stop. The whole world says stop. Israel shuffles their feet.  I’ve had people tell me that if America stops shipping guns, parts to planes, and billions of dollars in aid, that surely Israel would stop their aggression. This is not true. We are not going to stop supporting Israel. Americans can see it when they call our bluffs. We look like fools when they smirk and roll their eyes at our most basic complaints.

Every time a jet screams overhead I can hear the money falling out of my pocket. Every gunshot, every settlement street lamp, every pointed gun, tear gas, tears, bloody stories, every shot of adrenaline I feel.. every time these things happen I think about America. I can’t help it.

I didn’t celebrate the 4th of July not just because it seemed gauche to do so in a country that may never celebrate its own independence but because I’ve been a little uncertain about what there is to celebrate nowadays. When I get home and get into prividleged space again, perhaps things will change. But I don’t feel sad anymore when a translator fails to mention that I’m from America. I understand completely.

After all I’ve seen and heard, I am surprised I’m even welcome here. Americans are as diverse as they come personally, but we stand behind one flag internationally and our government has shamed me while I am here. The people of Palestine would offer anyone the chance to be a decent human being, I am sure of it, mostly because I am received warmly despite the hellfire America has paid for to rain down upon them in places like Gaza and Nablus.

So, despite the despair and shame I feel from America’s involvement with the conflict, at the same time the forgiving attitude I experience is another thing to appreciate about the Palestinians and one more thing to learn about treating others in a decent way.

I am homesick sometimes, though. Don’t get me wrong. I feel that my home and the America I know here are two different places. When I get back I look forward to taking my scooter on that ride I missed in May, to sitting out on the water and eating some fresh seafood and enjoying the sunset. I look forward to spending time with my family and loved ones. I will only wish I could afford the same rights to everyone.

The Good Samaritan

If you’ve read the Bible, perhaps you’ve heard of the Samaritans. One of the mountains that cradles Nablus happens to be Mt. Gerezim, the holiest site to the Samaritans. I went there yesterday to film an interview with one of the elders there. He told me many stories about the Samaritans, their history, and their relationship with the people of Nablus.

Interior of the Synagogue of the Samaritans, Nablus c. 1920

The Samaritans have lived in Nablus for 3600 years and as such are highly respected members of the community. They are prized for being good at math, having a fine sense of humor, and keeping the lunar calendar for the Muslim community. There is a bread here that I’ve been enjoying that is native to Nablus. I call it “elephant ear” bread since it looks and feels (but thankfully doesn’t taste) like an elephant’s ear. Up on the mountain, I discovered it is actually Samaritan unleavened bread used to eat on the Shabbat. It is a fine example of the culture shared between the two communities.

The elder told me a story that stretched back to his grandfather’s days on the Nablusi municipal council. During the British occupation, the Samaritans were caught making Araq, a traditional Arab alcoholic beverage. They were fined $400, a ton of money for the time and the region of the world. The community then was very poor and faced expulsion as a result of not being to pay. The entire Nablusi community banded together and raised the money to pay the British, despite the nature of the fine. They said under no circumstances would they lose such a vital part of Nablus to foreign occupation.

Samaritans praying on Mt. Gerezim

Even though their cultures and religions are different, the Samaritans and Muslims of Nablus have deep ties going back for many generations. The current occupation threatens this delicate social fabric woven over thousands of years. Since there are settlements built all around the Samaritan village, a checkpoint has been erected there that restricts the movement and interaction of Samaritans and Nablusians alike. The Samaritan elder expressed deep sadness that the communities were becoming isolated from one another. “We are not neighbors, we are one family,” he said. Every Nablusi resident I have spoken with shares the exact same sentiment.

During the second intifada, the Israelis destroyed the ancient Samaritan synagogue located in the Old City of Nablus, symbolically cutting them off from the beating heart of the region. As any reconstruction could be used as an excuse by the Israelis to settle the Old City, it sadly stands in ruin. The Israelis and the Samaritans are two different people with two different religions, but there has been a movement to co-opt the Samaritan youth into Israeli society. They traditionally affiliate themselves with Palestine — they have been active in government and speak Arabic as opposed to Hebrew — but due to the isolation on top of the mountain, their children have begun to associate with the IDF and settlers in the area.

Walking down the mountain a week or so ago, a curious Samaritan youth began to follow me, asking me what I thought of Mt. Gerezim. “It is a beautiful mountain,” I said.

“Yes, the most beautiful mountain.”

“Nablus as a whole is a beautiful place.”

He curled up his lip. “Call it Schlem,” he said, echoing something I’ve only heard IDF soldiers insist before.

I would love to be here in September for their Passover festival. They always insist on having a cross-section of religions and cultures present and it has always charmed and entranced the local population. It would be nice to record their history and rituals and share them with the rest of the world. Despite their epic historical presence in Nablus, all is threatened under an occupation designed to strangle identity, no matter whose it is.

Children in the Old City

When I first came to Jerusalem, I was enchanted by the Old City. It seemed so much like something from thousands of years ago, something alive and ancient and rich and vibrant. After spending every day since walking through Nablus’ Old City, I am struck by how touristy Jerusalem feels in comparison. Nablus’ Old City is not a relic from the past that still happens to function, the Old City here is the beating heart of Nablus. Buildings stretch up from thousands of years ago, and the youngest hamam around is 800 years old. People live in the Old City, sell their food in the Old City, go shopping and working and playing in the Old City. Children scamper around and play hide and seek, cart pushers yell for you to get out of the way, and the occasional car will slowly and painfully push through the narrow alleyways.

Unfortunately, it’s not becoming for an international to take photographs of the Old City. This is mainly because the Old City has been and still is a primary target for the Israelis when they invade Nablus.

At Project Hope, some children were recently given cameras and sent on a “Photo Safari” of the Old City. As they are locals, they offer a unique and authentic perspective. As they are children, their perspective is priceless.

It’s been a while

When I first got to Nablus, I was writing as much as I could. Everything I saw was a new and shocking adventure. When I first saw the wall at Kalandia checkpoint near Ramallah, a friend of mine instructed me to write about it immediately because the shock of it would fade over time. Everything would become commonplace and life would soon seem normal. I thought for sure I could never smile and make conversation through the sound of gunfire and explosions, but here we are. When I said that wanted this blog to keep me honest, this is exactly what I meant. Even though I no longer see the martyr posters or feel an intense fear in my chest when a soldier points a gun at my service taxi, these are not things I go through in my day-to-day life, nor are they things that the reader experiences. I should record them here even if they seem commonplace now, only 20 days after my arrival in Nablus.

I went from Nablus to Jerusalem for a night a week ago. Even though I only was going to find a bed to sleep in and came back first thing the next day, it served as a stark reminder of the different conditions the Palestinians and Israelis live in. Here is a good example. In Palestine, every olive tree is loved by somebody. The olive trees here produce the main cash crop of the Palestinian economy. Some years ago, I met Amjad Atallah, a former negotiator for the PLO. He told me that the older Yassir Arafat got, the more he would lament the loss of olive trees. They are cut down, uprooted, and burned by settlers and soldiers. There are even cases century-old trees that have been illegally transplanted to backyards in Tel Aviv. It is difficult to imagine the kind of damage this does to the Palestinian people. Not only do they identify so strongly with the olives, but the trees themselves are difficult to replace, with a new tree taking over 20 years to bear fruit. So, every tree in Palestine is cherished. When I crossed over into Jerusalem from Kalandia, huddled in the service and a little spooked by the experience at the checkpoint, I saw olive tree after olive tree woosh by,  planted uselessly and ornamentally in the median.

Instead of gutted cars sitting idle outside of a multitude of garages, there were car dealerships. The radio quality increased inside of the taxi. Immediately, my cell phone service from Palestine was cut off. Road signs in Hebrew, the lack of military jeeps everywhere, shopping malls and fast food restaurants… it was very overwhelming. It’s less than half an hour from Ramallah to Jerusalem, but the differences in life can’t be tallied — they are too great in number. The old city seemed miraculously clean and remarkably touristy from what I’d experienced just weeks before. I felt uncomfortable walking around, even in the Muslim quarter. When the morning arrived, I was quickly on my way back to the service station in East Jerusalem. When you tell people where you’re from, in Nablus they will tell you “this is your home, you are always welcome.” On the hike up the hill towards the yellow mini buses to Ramallah, I felt this in my bones. I didn’t feel overwhelmingly guilty for coming to Jerusalem, even though the Palestinians I’ve met can hardly dream of such a journey, but I did feel uncomfortable experiencing the ease of movement, the cleanness of the streets, and the general ambiance of a place that exists as it does off the backs of the people of Nablus and Palestine in general.

I finished my summer camp with the children of Beit Wazan on Thursday. We had a lovely picnic for the children, played games, and watched them go swimming. Their English has improved and they’ve learned it can be fun to speak in different languages. My classes at the state hospital are going well, and I am starting to see some real improvement in the quality of English there as a result. Next week I will start teaching children at the circus school in Nablus, which is as far as I know, the only circus school in Palestine. I am really looking forward to this, and will upload more pictures and video as they become available. I am also updating the links section of this blog to reflect more organizations that may be useful to those interested in life in Palestine.

Hopefully I will be updating this blog more frequently. Please make an effort to bug me if I do not!

Let’s talk about the people of Nablus

The Project Hope Office

Most of the beauty of Nablus is found in the people who live here. It is the same all over Palestine so far as I have seen, but I will talk about the people of Nablus. I have never felt so welcome in any city on Earth, even in my own hometown. When you go out on the streets children say hello to you in English, shopkeepers offer you dates or falafel and invite you in for tea and coffee. You will meet people for the first time and then end up spending the whole day with them. They will invite you to their family gatherings and out to dinner. They say nice things to each other and to you. Instead of saying “thank you” or “stop here” when you get out a cab, you say “يعطيك العافية” (yaTik alafiya) which means “May God give you strength”.

Beit Wazan Center

I’ve been teaching at a day camp in a village just down the road from where I am called Beit Wazan. Here the children come every day to learn English, do arts and crafts, and play in the street with whatever we can find. I do this through an organization called Project Hope. Unlike a lot of NGOs, which are run out of some office in Geneva or New York, Project Hope is run by a group of local individuals who work tirelessly to bring education and activities to over 2000 people in the Nablus area. They pair up local volunteers with internationals and send us off to do everything from teaching English to painting murals to organizing performance theater. It is a great relationship between both groups of people and is educational for everyone.

The handsome boys of Beit Wazan

Nablus is very important to the Palestinian people. It has been a major cultural and economic center for the area for thousands of years. Unfortunately, since the checkpoints and incursions, more and more people are forced out of the city due to sky-high unemployment rates and little chance for advancement within their field. Many are going to Ramallah, but some go further. I have met many people who want to leave Palestine to find a better future elsewhere, but not one of them is from Nablus. The people here feel an intense pride towards their heritage and are eager to share it with outsiders when they show up.

Here are some photos from my classes. The children here are brilliant and eager to learn despite their lack of focus and steady structure in their lives. They love to play outside and they love to fly kites. I am in love with them and always talk to them when they stop me on the street.

The girls are beautiful and proud of their olive trees

These kids are metal

The view from Beit Wazan, like most other places in Palestine, is breathtakingly beautiful