tomorrow, 7 am - 7 pm. if the mainstream media won’t let her story be heard, we will.
america, africa, india, switzerland, denmark, uk, france, egypt, palestine …
reblog and spread the word.
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Edinburgh University SJP are calling for a co-ordinated fast from 7am to 7pm on Friday 16th March in solidarity with Palestinian prisoner Hana al-Shalabi. This is an opportunity to highlight the case of Hana and all Palestinian prisoners and raise awareness around.
Hana al-Shalabi is on day 27 of an open-ended hunger strike she has undertaken to protest the violent and degrading treatment meted out by Israeli forces throughout her arrest and administrative detention, which began on 16 February.
Administrative detention procedures allows the Israeli military to hold Palestinians on secret evidence without charging them or allowing them to stand trial. Military law empowers military commanders to detain a Palestinian for up to six month renewable periods for any security concern. On or just before the expiry date, the detention order is frequently renewed. This process can, and often is, continued indefinitely.
To read more about Hana, visit here: http://www.addameer.org/etemplate.php?id=161
And to watch an interview with Hana’s mother: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=ELiONaP5ggc
people are fasting all over the uk as well as palestine itself, america and africa. GET INVOLVED AND REBLOG. this is going to be massive.
My Darling Jerusalem,
There is no place I will ever love more. From the first time I stepped out into the Ancient City, I knew I was home. The birth place of my mother’s, my father’s childhood, my grandfather’s school. The Mount of Olives. Al-Aqsa. The Old City.
I looked forward to testing here more than any other place. I was motivated by my emotional attachment to the city, my family’s history and because of the daily clashes that occur there.
On18th July 2011, the first day we arrived at the research centre, we made contact with all the Summer Camps we’d be testing at. One was a Summer Camp in the Jerusalem neighbourhood of Sheikh Jarrah, run by the Sheikh Jarrah’s Women Forum.
On 18th July 2011, the first day we arrived at the research centre, we learned about the IOF storming the Summer Camp and keeping the children locked in a room for a few hours. Spurring our curiosity, my research partner and I looked forward to meeting the people at the Summer Camp to hear what actually happened.
We met with the camp leader, a strong, emphatic woman who bluntly addressed us with a cigarette protruding her mouth. On our way to a classroom she barked at some adolescents, who were lounging in the shade of the court yard, to return to their class. She seated us at a table and sat across from us with a Doctor who had come to lecture the children about good health. The woman conversed with the Doctor, her attention wholly focused on him but her brown eyes flitting occasionally over to us, assessing the Strange British researchers.
She began to speak to the Doctor about what happened at the Camp when the IOF burst in. I hurriedly grabbed a notebook and pen to scrawl notes. The woman ranted, taking puffs from her cigarette while the Doctor responded with questions and comments of dismay.
“I wasn’t there - my son was though. They locked 15 of the kids in one room until 3 o’clock,” She gushed, “It was because of some incident with a car that didn’t involve them. It’s no wonder they all have mental issues-“
There was a sudden silence and I looked up from my scribbles. The woman was looking at me with raised eyebrows, “You understand Arabic?”
I nodded, cowering under her harsh gaze.
I thought her eyes suddenly softened a little at this knowledge and she continued, “The kids are all suffering. One drew a really beautiful picture a few days ago but the others ripped it up! They all smoke, they all take hash, they watch porn, they listen to bad music…”
I jotted all of this down, scared to look up from the page in case I missed an out important detail.
“Every child has problems at home,” the leader continued, “Why are only children from the West Bank reported by the media? The kids here are really affected by the Occupation.”
We left the camp with muddled feelings. On the one hand, we had a great place to test where kids appeared to be suffering from their living circumstances; on the other, the camp leader had barely spoken to us nor did we have a chance to meet the kids to explain our research.
My research partner and I were caught a little off guard by the camp leader. All the other camps had welcomed us with open arms, glasses of fresh juice and would have given us their right hands if they could. At this camp we sat for a few hours, listening to a conversation which mostly did not concern us and barely a word in edgeways. Of all my visits to the Middle East there had never been one person who did not fit the typical ‘Arab hospitality” image. We were struck with this thought, walking away from Sheikh Jarrah disheartened, and were apprehensive about our next visit to the camp for testing.
We reached the American Colony Hotel, where we were meeting a friend, just as a police car pulled up across the road. The officers started stopping random Palestinian cars, asking for ID and hassling some drivers. While this was happening, Palestinian pedestrians continued walking by; not bothering to watch the police’s behaviour. It seemed like a normal occurrence. Some pedestrians did however look at us disapprovingly. Judging by our Westernised outfits and standing outside the Hotel, they must have presumed we were tourists staying there. The security guard at the Hotel however had opposite suspicions, stealing glances in our direction every few minutes.
Being a Palestinian myself, I was happy enough to climb into the car as soon as our friend arrived, away from the accusing gaze of my people and the Israeli authorities. Our friend explained the police were stopping cars because of seatbelts.
When we returned to the office we wasted no time telling Dr G about the camp leader. He listened patiently then, without saying a word, dialled a number on his phone. He greeted the woman and thanked her for her time, saying that he was really happy we were acquainted with her. Finishing the brief phone call Dr G looked at us with fathomed expression.
“I would not be offended by her behaviour. This woman has been through a hard time; her brother was imprisoned for 30 years – and died there.”
His explanation was enough for us. It was clear that Jerusalem was a completely different city to the other places we were testing at. Not only did the youth suffer problems, the leader herself had experienced a life of difficulties, different from the West Bank.
Dr G explained that his phone call to her was to reassure her of his trust in us. With his trust, the well-known figure of education, she would trust us too. We hoped on our next visit we would earn her respect.
We spent our weekend off in Jerusalem once more, exploring parts we hadn’t visited before. On Friday we left Ramallah’s deserted streets to go through Qalandia checkpoint. Because it was Friday, the Islamic day of rest and worship, we had to actually go through the checkpoint with the Palestinians (rather than stay on the vehicle on other days of the week). This is because the Israelis believe that there is a bigger security threat on Friday, seeing as it’s the Muslim day of the weekend.
Inside the checkpoint it resembled a place for dairy cows. Tonnes of metal structures barring Palestinians into a cage, forcing them into lines, waiting purely on the IOF checking their ID to allow them to visit the Holy City. This wait can vary any length of time, mostly dependent on the soldier’s mood at that moment in time, in order to assess how much of a “security threat” the traveller is. People are either waved through, have some questions asked or a full interrogation is conducted – these are just a few amongst the numerous possibilities.
Being tourists, we were allowed through straight away after a glance at our maroon British passports. We grabbed our handbags from the x-ray machine and left an elderly Palestinian woman behind us; the soldier’s drawling voice patronisingly questioning her.
“What was the point in that?” I muttered to my research partner, settling back into my seat on the bus.
“Humiliation.”
Inferiority.
Loss of control.
Palestinians and any of their supporters: the scum from the slums, the pest in ‘their’ land.
We drove into Jerusalem and headed straight for the Old City. Despite having been there so many times, the maze of the quarters still excited us. We walked down through Via Dolarosa and took different routes; picking empty alleyways rather than the crowds of tourists, hunting for an adventure we could someday tell.
My research partner suddenly stopped in her tracks.
“What?”
The look of disbelief on her face changed to excitement, “Look!” she whispered.
My gaze followed her point, to a doorway through the stone wall of the Old City where some IOF soldiers were lounging, with guns slung over their shoulders. One was leaning against the wall and the other was slumped on a chair. I lifted my eyebrow at my research partner and looked back at the scene.
Suddenly, there was a glint of gold from the doorway. I stepped forward to inspect: past the waving green branches of trees, I could not mistake that gold for anything else. I’d seen photographs of it, videos on the news, even a model in my living room since I was a child.
The blue intricate tiles stood out against the blazing white sky, the gold beaming in the sunshine. We excitedly stepped closer, having never seen the Dome of the Rock before. The IOF soldiers both stood up straight and then advanced in our path, holding their guns.
“This is for Muslims only,” one said to us.
I took my research partner’s arm to take her away but she asked to take a photograph.
“Only from the doorway,” he instructed.
She took the picture and we immediately left the vicinity. Again, I began to rant and mutter under my breath.
“’Muslims only’ – just because we weren’t in headscarves, we couldn’t go! Who are they to tell us who can go to the Mosque?!”
It was hard to contain the frustration. Al-Aqsa is the third holiest site to Muslisms, after Mecca and Medina. From the same people imposing the oppression on my people, on my family’s city, we weren’t allowed to go to the Mosque.
We resolved to use our next day off to go to Al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock properly, dressed in Islamic outfits.
Whilst I rambled on about the several injustices that had frustrated me throughout the day, we walked past a shop where an old, toothless man beckoned us to enter. His shop was a relieving shade to the merciless sun and we squinted in the shadows until our eyes adjusted to the light. There were photographs everywhere; plastered on every wall, shelves full of them. The old man began pulling ones out and putting them in our hands.
“Look, look,” he encouraged.
The photographs dated back to the early 20th Century, all black and white. One he showed us was of the Dome of the Rock. My research partner sighed, “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, yes,” he eagerly replied, giving us more photos to inspect.
We soon lost ourselves, rummaging through the pictures, sorting through the ones we wanted to buy. The man offered us plums and stood by as we debated over which to take. We eventually decided on a good handful; one of a Palestinian family, the parents standing beside a donkey which was carrying baskets, a twin boy in each. Another was of a small girl and boy, holding hands by the Dome.
The man gave us a reduced price and thanked us profusely for visiting. We made sure to remember where his shop was to tell our friends about it. The photos to this day are breath taking, all new admirers request directions to his shop.
We continued walking down the street and noticed more tourists appearing. It was obvious we were nearing another site. We paused to take a drink of water and take some photographs beside a wizened, lonesome olive tree.
A taxi pulled up beside us and the driver stepped out. “Mount of Olives, Gethsemane, Tomb of Mary,” he offered.
I excitedly looked at my companion, “The Mount of Olives!”
We were soon riding in his car, driving up the road to the Mount of Olives, where my father once lived. The taxi driver was a wonderful man, explaining that from the Mount there was a spectacular view of Jerusalem and the Old City.
Finding out that I was Palestinian the driver refused money, “You are truly home and should not have to pay to see your homeland.”
We insisted and thanked him for his hospitality.
Finally, we were at the Mount of Olives. Eagerly, we began taking photos of each other, admiring the view. The buildings of West Jerusalem, mingling with the old Arab houses of the East. The Old City walls and the Dome, in all her glory, burning magnificently against the trees in the courtyard. We must have spent twenty minutes, staring out at the view. Then my friend nodded down, directly below us.
I had heard of the destruction of the Mount of Olives before. The uprooting of olive trees, the holiest site for the Abrahamic religions. I had heard that the garden was now replaced with a Jewish graveyard. But it did not prepare me for the shock of it all.
A mass of graves stood below us, thousands of cool, cream stone graves. A slap in the face.
While we were taking photos, exploring the view points, we noticed a man following us. He began offering to help us and I made the mistake of saying “Shukran” (‘thank you’ in Arabic), on autopilot from being in the West Bank.
“Not ‘Shukran’,” he said sternly, assuming we were uneducated tourists, “Toda.”
We apologised and walked away, he naturally followed us. We had obviously struck a chord of suspicion with him and quickly lost him along our descent to Gethsemane. We managed to keep bumping into Israelis, advertising various Holy sites we were passing. Being exposed to the Israelis, after having spent a week in the West Bank, made us paranoid and we longed for the shelter of the Palestinians’ open arms.
Eventually we got to the glory of Gethsemane. The glory being a small patch of a garden that was once a Mount. A small courtyard of ancient olive trees, fenced off, beside the Church of All Nations. I thought back to the mass of graves surrounding the garden and how, if the Israeli government had an inkling of consideration, there would be more than this cabbage patch of trees left for people to practice, pray and get lost in a pool of their reflections.
In the Church of All Nations, we heard the faint Athan of Al Aqsa. “What I love about here is that you can hear the Athan while in a Church,” my companion whispered.
The illusion of religious segregation in Palestine, stereotyped by the media, could not be argued here. I had never experienced such a beautiful moment; the Christians praying silently in the pews while the Islamic prayer called into the bright blue sky.
We silently exited the Garden and began to stroll back to the Old City. We walked past a sign indicating a pedestrian crossing and once again a jolt of rage injected into our pensive thoughts. It was the little things like that sign which reinforced Israeli ownership of the Blessed Land.
Back at the Old City, amongst the stalls and shops, we passed by a make-shift Mosque. A group of men were bowed in prayer, with pictures of the Dome and Al-Aqsa plastered on the walls. They were a two minute walk away from the entrance to the courtyard but because of their age they were denied entry. Only Palestinian men of over 50 years, and women of over 40 years, are allowed entry to the religious site because of ‘security reasons’.
We continued to walk through the Old City, back towards Damascus Gate. IOD soldiers stood at every corner, sometimes demanding IDs from passers-by, watching all the shoppers and shop keepers alike. Children ran past them, shouting to their friends; old women in thobes carried bags of shopping; men called out deals on watermelons, haggling with customers. This gave me a sense of morbid hope: despite Israel’s best attempts to thrash Palestinians out of Jerusalem, the Palestinians continue to live life as normally as they could. The market would remain alive, even if the poison of the soldiers infected it.
Before long, we returned to Jerusalem to conduct our research. The Summer Camp had ended and instead, we met the adolescents in the camp worker’s house. Also situated in Sheikh Jarrah, the house was well kept and beautifully decorated. We sat in the garden with only a gate separating us from the Palestinian houses which had been stolen by Israeli settlers. We had visited the neighbourhood only the summer before and spent our visit with the Hanoon and al-Ghawi families, who had been thrown out into the street by the IOF. Both homes are now occupied by Israeli settlers, one used as a youth party house for young Israeli adults. The families now live on the street, with a few plastic chairs, a flimsy mattress and a tent for shelter. The story had particularly affected me as I had discovered that my family’s house was in this neighbourhood, we were the first to be evicted. Our home is now a Jewish prayer house.
It was strange to be sitting in the camp worker’s house whilst knowing I could have potentially been brought up only around the corner. The woman and her family were also facing eviction, along with 27 other homes. The neighbourhood of Sheikh Jarrah were given to refugees from ’48 by UNRWA and the Jordanian government. The Palestinians were required to pay money annually, for 3 years, in order to keep their house. But the Jordanian government did not keep its word and abandoned the project, thus the contract was not completed.
Now, the Israeli government claim that the neighbourhood rightfully belongs to Jews. The Palestinian families face many problems from the new Israeli settlers, and the IOF protecting them. These 28 houses in Sheikh Jarrah, which are facing eviction, hold 600 people: 55 families. In turn they will be expelled onto the street while the likes of racist settlers move in, drape Israeli flags over every place possible and spit at the Palestinians as they walk by.
For the families still living in their houses, they do not experience difficulties with water and electricity. The only thing missing from their life is the freedom to live in their house, in their city, and be protected from the threat of living on the streets and from the settlers.
For example, on the Sabbath, Sheikh Jarrah is closed because the settlers pray together in the street. The IOF set up checkpoints to check every Palestinian’s baggage and their ID. Sometimes they are denied entry to their houses. Another example of settler problems is that if Palestinian children play on the street, be it football or chasing each other in a game of tag, the settlers phone the police to remove them.
The Israeli government opened a play park for children – but only Israeli children. Palestinian kids, seeing this new attraction, would excitedly run to play there too but are denied entry and chased away from the playground.
The settlers set their pet dogs on Palestinian women and children if they walk past. It has made the Palestinian residents of Sheikh Jarrah afraid to walk in their own street.
The camp leader’s house is used for community gatherings and was once where the Summer Camp took place (2010) before they moved to the school, which they now use. Instead of a formal meeting where the worker would arrange a meeting time and place with the children, the woman phoned the youth and told them to come round. It was a spontaneous gathering but the teenagers were happy for a reunion, chattering over each other. The boys were teasing the girls, the girls were gossiping away. We could tell that the upright, strict woman we had met in the previous week was just a protective, official barrier. She had transformed before us; sharing laughs with them, her children.
The youth began helping the woman bring out an outdoor table, set seats up and offer a spread of food and drinks to all. Once we were settled around the table, the camp leader began discussing the episode with the IOF in English.
Someone had smashed the lights and windows of a settler’s car. The identity of the person was hidden but there was CCTV footage of the crime. The settlers called the police, who came straight away to the scene of the crime in the morning. They saw some of the children walking down the road and came to the conclusion it was them. The kids began making their way to the Summer Camp and the IOF followed. They then held the children hostage in a room of the Camp.
The camp worker’s son, a man in his late 20s, was with the children. He made the call to his mother and she in turn immediately called journalists, lawyers and UNRWA. The IOF threatened to arrest three boys from the Camp but the young man refused. They then turned on him saying that he was responsible for the behaviour of the youth because he was in his house at the time of the crime. But he, and the children, did not know who had committed the damage to the car. The IOF then put the man under arrest, on the claim that he should have had better control on the children.
We proceeded to ask the woman to tell us about the youth’s troubles that she had seen. All of these children were a part of the 55 families facing eviction. She cracked a cynical smile, telling us that even the 13 year old children smoke. One of these children works in his father’s shop, a grown up responsibility to support his family. Naturally this makes him believe he is an adult, a mistaken identity, and thus the smoking, in part, helps to reinforce this character.
Many girls are forced to marry young and are not allowed to communicate with the opposite sex. One of the camp leader’s aims is to breakdown this societal rule and to encourage them to experience a ‘normal’ adolescence with intergender relations. This goal did raise concern from the local community but because they know the woman well (who is the president of their community) they not only began to trust her but believe her. Whilst we sat and listened to this, I observed a girl interact with a boy. There was obviously a romance blossoming between them; they sat beside each other, laughing and talking, and I was happy to see this encouraged in an Arab community.
The camp worker then told us her love story. She fell in love with her husband, a West Bank resident, and they married. However she and her children must live in their house, in order to keep it and their Jerusalem ID. Despite this being more expensive with the high costs of education and living, they are like any other Palestinian family and refuse to leave their home. Meanwhile her husband lives in the West Bank and, like any other West Bank resident, is not permitted to leave it. He can only see his wife and children on weekends when they go to visit.
We asked the leader what we could do to help her and the community of Sheikh Jarrah. She said she needed volunteers for the women’s centre, preferably Arab speakers. Of course, if you are interested then please do not hesitate to contact me.
After testing, we walked from Sheikh Jarrah back to the Old City. We were stopped by a man and two women handing out Bibles and CDs. He then proceeded to ask questions, faint alarm bells ringing in our ears, “Why are you here? Where are you from? Do you have family here? Where are you staying?” Luckily his telephone began ringing. He motioned us to stay but we listened to our instincts and escaped. Despite my lying replies, I knew we’d had a close shave. One of the most dangerous things in Palestine are spies and double agents – the first rule I’d tell anyone is to always be on guard. Remain suspicious of strangers and never state your true intentions or history until you know that the person can be trusted.
We met with Dr G’s daughter for drinks in the Jerusalem Hotel. She was studying politics in Egypt and we asked her what the country was like post-revolution. She had missed the actual revolution as she had spending her winter break at home, in Palestine. When she tried to return to Egypt for the new semester, she was denied entry. Dr G explained to her it was to be predicted: whenever a country is unstable, Palestinians are not allowed in. The reason being: security.
I lay in my bed that night, utterly frustrated at the world. My sleepy thoughts then led me to a dire conclusion: maybe there is something wrong with being a Palestinian. We aren’t allowed to move freely in our own land and other countries have a right to reject us, the reason being our nationality.
What if we are actually a terrible race? What if we have some infectious mental instability that makes the world hate us?
It may sound like the angst of a pubescent fourteen year old but perhaps it really is the case. Perhaps there is something fundamentally wrong with the Palestinian people.
Dr G’s daughter was eventually allowed entry back into Egypt, after a lot of effort to persuade the Egyptian government. I yawned, turning onto my side in my bed. Images of Sheikh Jarrah, Qatana, children’s faces, the men praying in their make-shift Mosque, the mass of Israeli graves …
Yes, perhaps we are all wrong. The voices of Israel and its allies began to drown out the tiny ounce of belief in humanity I had left. Perhaps the Palestinian people really are wrong, filthy maggots rotting Israel’s soil.
One afternoon in the office, while we were sorting through mountains of paper work and sweating in the sweltering summer heat, Dr G asked me to see him in his office.
“Sit,” he motioned to the sofa in front of his desk.
He asked how our work was going and after a few words of small talk it was clear that he had something important to say.
He pulled out a piece of paper, along with a book from a drawer, and placed it in my hands. He then sat on the sofa beside me.
“It is important that you know what our land was like before the Occupation.”
I took the piece of paper, which was folded like a leaflet, and opened it. A precious map unravelled before my eyes. A full Palestine, complete with no Wall, no borders, no Israeli names; detailed with intricate Arabic writing, lay on my lap. I was not aware documents like this would still exist; I’d seen so much of the old Palestine die and lost faith that maybe remnants like this could still be alive.
But there She was with all Her villages, towns and regions smiling up at me. It was like nothing had been destroyed, like no homes had been bulldozed or stolen, no towns evacuated.
I looked up at Dr G and he pointed to a place on the map, “Read.”
Letter by letter, I pieced together the precious name on my lips ‘Qalqilya’. The Qalqilya my family spoke of, grown up in. There was no ugly Wall suffocating it. It was free and surrounded by other villages, the villages where settlements now lay. I excitedly continued to read: “Yaffa”, “Al Quds” - other settings in my family’s history.
Dr G showed me how close the areas were –for example Qatana and Jerusalem. A ten minute journey, measured out by half a fingertip. “Note how the present day route makes the journey half an hour. In the name of security.”
Glancing up at Dr G once more, I studied the accompanying book. It too was a map, with road details. One map for the pre-1948 Palestine and one for the present day. Again my supervisor flicked to Qalqilya. Instead of one serpent of a road slithering out of the Wall around my family’s hometown, it was suddenly filled with different roads and tracks, a spider web of journey choices.
I sat for a while, studying the page before folding everything back up and handing them to Dr G.
He laughed, “This is for you to keep. Send it to your father; I know how much it will mean to him.” He then pulled out a pen from his pocket and scrolled a message to my parents.
I could not even utter a word of thanks at his generosity. I had no idea how hard it was to find documents like these, nor how expensive. I was totally overcome with immense emotions of gratitude and grief.
He must have noted my sudden, overwhelmed silence and saluted my dismissal from his office.
On my exit, he called my name once more. I turned, holding back my tears.
“I believe that someday you will be great,” he promised.
Originally in the North West of Jerusalem, Qatana is now a village that is completely surrounded by the Wall. Before being caged up, the direct distance between Qatana and Jerusalem was about 15 km however because the Wall causes such a diversion, the distance is now 30 km. There is only one road as an entrance and exit to Qatana, similar to my family’s home town Qalqilya. One friend of ours from Qatana said to us, “our home is like a prison”. The travel restrictions imposed by the Wall has, of course, affected both adults and children psychologically. One resident ranted the Arabic saying, “We cannot smell the air” because of this lack of freedom. 50% of Qatana is Area B and 50% is Area C.
The wall surrounding Qatana is a barbed wire fence which has completely isolated the village and cut off most of its land. Qatana’s remaining holdings lie in between the hills of their stolen farmlands. Even the land inside the Wall – technically, by Israeli law, Qatana’s land – is not for Palestinian use. It is forbidden for the villagers to build upon it for – you guessed it – “security” reasons. Due to building restrictions and to the population booming, the only way to find more space for people is by building vertically. Children are not allowed to play beside the Wall (i.e. outside of their houses) otherwise the IOF throw gas at them. Children over the age of 13 years old are arrested.
The main problem that the people of Qatana face, aside from the Wall, is water shortages. Their water supplies have been completely diverted to the four illegal Israeli settlements, leaving Qatana to buy water from another Palestinian village. One tank costs six times more than it should; new tanks are only delivered every three to four days.
One striking difference that can be seen between Qatana and beyond the wall is the roads. The Israeli-only road is as good as any road back home – smooth cement gliding through the hills. The Palestinian road leading down to Qatana’s valley is terrifying: call it a “road” but it is really just a clearing amongst the trees made of dust and rocks. It is so dangerous to drive upon that the residents must drive their cars at about 5 miles per hour, just to be safe.
We drove along this road to get a clearer picture of Qatana’s stolen land. A Palestinian house lay abandoned at the top of a hill; the IOF decided to ruin it for “security” reasons. Five houses and their lands were treated similarly; burned down, families kicked out. Beyond the hill they lie on is the settlement of “Nataf”. Another settlement nearby is called “Ma’ali Misha”, translated into English as “Five Soldiers”, which was built a long time ago – perhaps back dating to Al Nakba.
Just outside of the Occupation Wall are tall towers of cameras looking down at Qatana, ensuring no one tries to escape or go near it. The IOF jeeps are present 24 hours and every day, between the hours of 5 and 6 pm, the IOF bomb the villagers with gas.
Beside the Summer Camp (where we tested) is the settlement “Har Adar”, built in 2003. As you look up from the basketball court, you can see all the houses with their red roofs and windows glinting in the sun.
Everyone at the Summer Camp was warm and welcoming. Our first visit to the Camp was the children’s day to rehearse for their annual camp party, where they would showcase their activities to everyone in the village. They invited us to sit in and watch their preparations. Girls danced along to popular Lebanese singer Nancy Ajram’s records and also engaged in the more traditional Palestinian dance of Dabke. One prominent performance was their dance to Fairouz’s “Zharet Al Mada’en” where they patriotically stamped a march and waved their Palestinian flags. It is hard not to remember them every time I listen to that Jerusalem anthem now.
Other girls paraded into the room with fashionable dresses and struck a pose at every enchanting turn. Again, it was a memorable experience; there was one little girl who was adorned in a bright, sunshine yellow dress with a sparkling tiara. She shone more than the other girls, grinning with delight as she strutted across the room like a six year old diva.
Aside from dancing and fashion classes, the girls also learn about chess, sport, culture, health, creative writing, art and drama. Despite having a library for the children in the council building, there is little else for the children of Qatana to do to keep themselves entertained. Thus these classes are beneficial to them; by keeping them off the streets (i.e. beside the Wall) and educating them through fun activities. Qatana will always be my personal favourite summer camp; the children were all so energetic and well behaved.
The workers were, as always, hospitable and wonderful. They welcomed us with open arms and not only showed us around the Summer Camp but around the entire village. My research partner and I observed their great relationship with the children. As we left the Summer Camp for our tour of Qatana, one worker stopped to carefully swoop the boys off of their makeshift climbing frame (the gates of the camp). They would joke with the children, acting like older brothers with them and making sure to keep every child happy. They were well established and respected in the community, greeting everyone we drove past and politely introducing us to all.
On our tour, the workers took us to meet an older man from the village who was also an acclaimed citizen of Qatana, Abu Rafik. He greeted us with a firm handshake by his brown leathery hands, his kind, brown eyes creasing in the sunlight. His home was on the side of a hill, decorated with a lush, animated garden full of a rainbow of flowers, alive with the buzzing and croaking of creepy crawlies. We were seated at his garden table, praised with embracing words of welcome and handed a much needed cold glass of fresh lemonade.
Sitting in the merciful shade, Abu Rafik sat back in his chair and began telling his experience under the Occupation. His house too is towered over by the “Har Adar” settlement, about 100 ft away from his driveway. Like any Palestinian household, Abu Rafik’s large family have suffered attacks from the settlers. The flower beds of his garden are littered with grenades and tear gas canisters, lying only a few feet away from Abu Rafik’s house. This house is home to most of his family, the youngest being a beautiful, innocent one year old child. Looking at these weapons, we were reminded that current politics have little impact locally. No matter how many politicians from different countries sit at a table, debating numerous solutions and their implications, the core problem is being completely disregarded. Present day politics have no influence in a land where illegal settlers throw ammunition at a household containing a young child, justifying their actions as “defence” against a “security threat”.
Abu Rafik and his family are constantly scared; they haven’t done anything to the IOF or the settlers. Knowing how dangerous the Israelis can be, the family avoid any possible contact with them to prevent any potential problems. Despite their efforts, they are still contacted by the other party.
The week prior to our visit two soldiers paid a visit to Abu Rafik. He greeted them and asked how he could help but they shouted in retaliation, “go home and close the door!”
Abu Rafik stood his ground, “But this is my home – you go!”
The 25 year old soldier threatened to beat him if he did not obey his orders.
“The problem is nobody listens,” Abu Rafik stated.
The services that we rely on for protection in the Western world, such as the government or the police, either ignore the cries of the Palestinians or are unavailable completely. “We are always told ‘you are wrong’. The Palestinians are always wrong.”
Despite the difficulties Abu Rafik faces, he is determined to stay in his home: “I would rather live without food than move away from my house”. This attitude is universal to every Palestinian who still resides in the West Bank, Gaza and 1948. Another Qatana resident stated it was ‘haram’ (sinful) to leave because life is supposed to be a challenge; leaving should only be for survival reasons. The Palestinians in Qatana do survive – barely – but they manage the best they can, keeping their heads up and their feet firmly rooted in their soil. But the Zionists will never cease in their efforts to take more land, more farms, more lives.
Abu Rafik is no stranger to this theft; he too has lost farming land. To a Palestinian, their land is their life: they spend lifetimes growing olive trees and rely on them to provide for their families. But the way the residents of Qatana have been treated makes Abu Rafik believe the settlers and IOF are heartless, that they create problems for Palestinians just to entertain themselves. Without water he cannot look after his olive trees, which already face attacks of poison sprays from the settlers. Abu Rafik says that he does not hate them; he just wants to live peacefully side by side with the settlers. However, the treatment he receives from them shows just how reluctant they are to comply.
When asked about the good things in his life, Abu Rafik declares his home is his only answer. But when you ask him what he has to look forward to in the future, all he sees is darkness. He has more answers for what is bad about his life than what is good. Should it really be like this?
His children are afraid; they cannot see past the problems of the present to a brighter future. And no matter what the media say about the peace process, there is no help from the UN, there is no democracy. The Palestinians are portrayed as “terrorists” despite not even having their own homes or land. Equally ironic is the lie of the USA, “the land of the free”, feeding Israel’s obese, greedy stomach of ammunition funds. Only the Palestinians pay the price of Balfour signing his document, despite having done nothing to any other country. “The British government is the first to blame,” Abu Rafik sighs.
“The Nazi’s crimes to the Jews were sickening but they are now being repeated to the Palestinians,” He continues, “The justice of the world is that only the strong will be listened to.”
Yet, after all he’s been through, all Abu Rafik hopes for is peace, “It is all the Palestinians have.”
He keeps this hope strong despite Har Adar’s swimming pools lying 100 meters away from his house of drought. He kept this hope as the IOF destroyed his 200 olive trees with their bulldozers; the same olive trees his ancestors dedicated their lives to. He has never travelled anywhere, never desired to see the world, because he has committed his whole life to nurturing them. Yet in less than a day, they were sabotaged by the bulldozers.
Abu Rafik built a greenhouse to grow food for his family, costing 15000 sheckles (around £2500). An IOF soldier visited him, demanding to know where the greenhouse was from, telling him he could only keep the greenhouse if he had permission “from the court”. Abu Rafik proceeded to enquire which court this was but the soldier loudly spoke over him, “You have one month or I’ll take this greenhouse and make you pay”.
Abu Rafik laughed in disbelief, “But it’s not just for me; this greenhouse gives you oxygen – it’s good for you too!”
The soldier didn’t listen; the greenhouse was perceived as a “security threat” by the IOF and Abu Rafik was forced to take it down.
He took a break from his story, sipping on his lemonade. He then made eye contact with the workers and cracked a black grin, “I see tsunamis on television and wish one would come to both the Palestinians and Israelis – it’d be a better fate than this life with no future”. Typical Palestinian dark humour.
Abu Rafik then resumed his story, “We can try to resist the occupation through education”. Most Palestinians see their way of freedom through knowledge and study at university or college. But at the end of this wearisome period of study, they then face the harsh reality of no jobs. This explains the high suicide rates in Palestinians; what is the point of studying so hard, spending all of their family’s savings on university, when there are no jobs?
“We are only civilians! Look: no weapons!” Abu Rafik asserts, his weathered hands outspread in front of him, “You can look at a soldier respectfully and say ‘Shalom’ or ‘Salaam’ – both words meaning peace – but they hold their gun in your face and reply with a swear word.”
He once said to a soldier, “You only know how to kill me so go ahead! I’m only the same age as your father!” They have been brainwashed by Israel’s strong propaganda campaign to hate Palestinians all their life.
Abu Rafik then turns his black crinkled eyes to us, smiling,“Activists are the only ones who help.” He once had two Americans and a Japanese boy stay in his home. He showed them his olive trees, telling his tale and they burst into tears. He was alarmed at making his guests cry, “Please don’t cry. My point was not to make you cry,” he exclaimed and changed the subject of conversation.
Abu Rafik believes that everyone is good; all humans have a humane side. He’d love to meet Tony Blair one day, remarking he looks always pleasant with his constant smiles. But he knows that this humane side of a human cannot do much to improve the Palestinian situation. “No one can do anything unless they’re the head of the government,” he shrugs.
We sit in his garden, each lost in their thoughts. I sat back and looked around the garden and thought of the surreal irony that was slowly becoming a companion to my adventures in Palestine. Here we were, in one of the most beautiful gardens I had visited, running my fingers down my cool crystal glass of lemonade. No one spoke for a while. I could only hear the birdsong from Abu Rafik’s trees, his poultry gossiping around the corner. It was such a peaceful, serene place despite the devastation and destruction this family had faced. All because of a settlement that lay 100 ft away from our table.
On saying our goodbyes, Abu Rafik grasped our hands, “This is your home. You are welcome any time”. The usual phrase one would hear in Palestine, but nobody would ever deny the sincerity of it, looking at the warm faces of a people who’d suffered more than we’d ever know.
We returned to the Summer Camp where the workers let us sit in the shade of an empty art classroom. They then departed to get some lunch for us. The girls at the Summer Camp took full advantage of this; they trickled out of their classroom one by one until there was a whole group of them, beaming at us and shouting English phrases like “How are you?” and “What is your name?”. It only delighted them more hearing my broken Arabic and we soon became acquainted. They wanted to take pictures of us on an older girl’s phone and chattered away about how they’d like to visit the U.K. sometime.
Upon their return, the Camp Workers brought in a large tray of Makloubeh just for us but enough to feed all the girls at the Camp. They placed the banquet in front of us, bringing a range of drinks and appetisers like salad and hummus. The girls retreated back to their classrooms, obeying the requests from the workers to get on with their activities. One four year old girl kept loitering at the doorway, with her big brown eyes shyly looking over at us. A worker called her over and asked what the matter was and she bashfully whispered in her ear that she was hungry. He then scooped her up into his lap and she began to eat from his plate, happily swinging her legs and coyly smiling at us.
We were sad to leave Qatana but the workers refused to see it as goodbye. They gave us their contact details and waved farewell, like we were lifelong friends. “You are family – not foreigners or visitors. Remember you are welcome anytime.”
Thanking them for their kindness, we asked them if we could do anything to help them specifically. They asked if we could bring volunteers with us to help at the Summer Camp and play with the children. Remembering all of the girls and their individual personalities, we knew it would not be a problem to persuade others to visit Qatana. It really is a remarkable village, the lone valley surrounded by the Wall and IOF soldiers, with the kindest people we have ever met.
Located in the West Bank, only a distance away from Ramallah, lays the 400 year old village of Kufr Ni’meh. It consists of one long, thin, winding street surrounded by the beautiful hills of Palestine - with, of course, two illegal Israeli settlements and the wall. Geographically it is en route to the neighbouring village of Bil’in: famous for its weekly Friday protests against the wall which, like the rest of the places in Palestine, separates farmers and families from their fields and land.
Naturally the inhabitants of Kufr Ni’meh suffer attacks from the settlers and the IOF. One settlement built is around 10 – 12 years old and the other is 3 – 4 years old. To keep the children off the streets and to occupy their time, the adults of the village set up a Summer Camp filled with activities to keep them entertained. These activities include art, sport, health education and writing. The Summer Camp is part of the local community centre in Kufr Ni’meh, called “Markaz Ayam Zaman” (“Centre of Days Long Ago”).
When we arrived at the camp, all the children were curious and eager to both talk to us and take part in our testing. They wanted to know what British children are like and whether they had things in common. A group of boys were loyal fans to John Seiner the Wrestler and disappointed when my research partner and I couldn’t express a similar love for him – being the typical girls we are. A pair of girls approached us, asking if we would take them to Britain with us and honestly, it took all of our self-control not to gather them in our arms and take them with us. Like every class of children there were the keen girls sitting at the front who answered every question correctly and proudly recited the camp song word for word - while a group of boys at the back attempted to catch our attention. When we had asked for everyone’s names, the boys fabricated new names for themselves and when an older group of boys swaggered into their class with gelled hair and aftershave, they looked up at them admiringly. It was like we were in a classroom in Britain; we told them that they were like British children in every way and they beamed with delight in reply.
We gathered a group of participants for our testing of the appropriate age group which proved to be a rather difficult task. One little boy who wore a cap too big for his head which shielded his eyes, was about a foot smaller than the rest of the children. He was disappointed to leave when he informed us he was only six years of age. On our return to Kufr Ni’meh the following week, I gathered ages from all participants once more to keep a record and met the familiar cheeky faced six year old. When I asked him again his age he looked at me with eyes glinting confidently and said in a clear, proud voice “ten years old”. My research partner and I decided to overlook his white lie and to his delight he was included in our data set … Along with a few other eager six year olds!
The camp workers were affable and with my meagre Arabic skills and their broken English, we somehow managed to get by in terms of communication. One camp worker was not impressed with our testing methods; he informed us that the summer camp was there to help children forget the troubles they face – not to remind them. Of course we apologised but replied that in order to give Palestinians the recognition they deserve, there were some risks in the process (those risks were ethically approved though - just to be clear!).
Three workers, including an Italian Palestinian who was fluent in English, took us for a tour around the village. There it dawned on me that although these children may act like a group of British children, the difficulties they face are very much different and possibly more demanding circumstances.
We visited the community centre where our tour guides presented us with an ever flowing bottle of juice and a delicious lunch including the Arab classics of humous, labneh, baba ganoush along with khubiz tanour. I recalled the stories my father told me of my grandmother who would make the same bread for him and his siblings when they were younger. It delighted me that some of those rare traditions are still alive today under the Occupation.
Unfortunately this is not the case with all traditions as you will see with other entries I will write. Kufr Ni’meh, similar to many places in Palestine, has a rich historical background. It had ancient Roman remains of a village, ageing from around 2500 years ago, which has been destroyed by the building of settlements.
In the office of the community centre was a line of 13 pictures, each a portrait of a young man. The oldest portrait was black and white, possibly several decades old, while the newest looked only maybe a few years old. The youths in these photographs smiled at me, fresh faced and full of life. I learned that they were the Martyrs of Kufr Ni’meh: the young men the IOF had killed. I wondered, as I often do when I see Martyrs’ photos, if they ever knew of their destiny – or if they had ever thought that they would pass away in the hands of the world’s “most moral” army.
We learned that Kufr Ni’meh suffers from poor water supplies. The reason is definitely the most ridiculous one I have come across over my time in Palestine. One settler – as in one person living in one of the settlements – has cut off all of the village’s water supply … And for two other neighbouring villages as well. This is just one person – one – who has stopped water supply for three villages worth of people. Kufr Ni’meh’s population is 5000: assuming the rest of the villages have a similar population then that ONE settler has cut off the water supply for about 15000 people. Kufr Ni’meh has to buy water which is delivered from a truck weekly. So no readers accuse me of bias, I have deliberately left all of my personal views out of this paragraph: only your wit can judge this fact and decide what’s right and wrong.
Kufr Ni’meh is an Area B – this means that it has no Israeli nor Palestinian authorities, leaving the villagers to deal with their problems alone. It does not suffer economically, thankfully, but because of the lack of governmental help the village has had to raise money by themselves in order to make it habitable. One school they built was funded by the villagers going door to door in the village, around neighbouring villages and internationally (eg Jordan) asking for donations. They have managed to get by however; they now have two schools and a health centre.
Not all places in Kufr Ni’meh have been built by the villages however. Our tour of the village lead us to a public park donated by USAID and Italy: a garden full of exotic flowers, palm trees and a waterfall display, with tables and chairs overlooking the spectacular view of the hills surrounding Kufr Ni’meh. One of our tour guides told us that the place is wonderful at night; they turn on the water fall and lights and have evening concerts. Dotted around the park are play areas for children: complete with swings, slides and a paddling pool.
In the peaceful quiet of the park, our conversation turned from politics to getting to know each other. I was complimented on my Arabic (a rare occurrence I assure you) by one of the camp workers who was pleased that Palestinians living abroad were keeping up the language. The Italian Palestinian pointed out that it is easier learning the language if both parents speak it; his daughter does not speak a word of Arabic as his wife is Italian. Just like the ancient Roman remains being destroyed by the settlements, the language is slowly being diluted too. The Israelis have planned out the death of Palestine to a T.
Italian activists visit Kufr Ni’meh often, staying in the villagers’ homes and showing solidarity through volunteering and providing support for the residents. The Italian Palestinian had met his wife through an activist group who were staying in Kufr Ni’meh at the time. They instantly fell in love and got married.
When we returned back to our flat, my research partner and I reflected on our day as usual. The conversation turned to the public park in Kufr Ni’meh. At the time while we were in the park, we were at rest and enjoyed our conversations with the camp workers. However looking back the International donation to Kufr Ni’meh was not the most useful. They had built a park with the intentions of having a place for the villagers to hang and socialise. Surely before that should be the three main basics to a life: a roof to live under, food and water supplies (_______). If Italy and USAID were so eager to help, why didn’t they donate their money to the lack of water supply? Instead they built a park with a water fall display and a paddling pool for the children which was covered in dirt and dust; it hadn’t been used in a long time. It didn’t seem likely to be used soon either; during our second visit to the camp the village had run out of water so one camp worker left to buy juice for the children, who had been playing sports and needed hydration.
As we had sat, looking at the view from the park, the camp workers told us that those hills belonged to Kufr Ni’meh. But because of Israel’s security policies, they can no longer go to their land nor farm them as they once did. It seemed ironic that USAID and Italy had wanted to help Kufr Ni’meh but instead built a park that looked over the land which had been stolen from them. What a relaxing, pacific place indeed.
Kufr Ni’meh showed us that there is no logical, plausible reason to the way they have been treated by Israel or to the help they have received from governmental organisations. The park, with its colourful flowers and exhilarating views, is nothing short of a reminder to the residents that they are deprived of their land and water – to the point where their children cannot play with water nor roam the land freely like the older generations of Kufr Ni’meh once did. The settler, with his/her sea of water, is depriving thousands of people the right to water – where is the justification?
The Italian Palestinian, with dual citizenship, is a further example of this lack of logic. He told me that it is easier going through Israeli border control with his Palestinian ID than with his Italian passport. Once he had forgotten his Palestinian ID at his relatives’ house in Jordan and was denied entry with his Italian passport into the country, without a reason given to him. He returned the next day to the same border control – where the same staff worked away – showing them his Palestinian ID instead where he was let in without any questions. Surely if Israel had such a problem with him entering the country border control wouldn’t have let him pass – regardless of his ID? When they typed his name onto the system they would’ve seen that he had Italian-Palestinian dual citizenship and when they asked him their “security” questions they would know he lives in Palestine.
There is no logic in Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians – or of any race. Entry into the country depends purely on the moods of those working at border control and whether they want to play a game with you. Of course they would never admit this; it is all in the name of security.
The claims of “security” Israel cries are blatant lies both to those they claim are threatening their security and to those enforcing it. All of Israel’s schemes are there to shape the country into a Palestinian-free zone. With international governmental aid to Palestinians, few countries are genuine in their contributions to the Palestinian people. As long as they give some pennies here and there to projects which don’t make much of a difference, they will claim that the Palestinians are living happily. I am no political figure and only know the political basics but I can guarantee that with Israel’s dragon breathing down their necks, there are few countries openly willing to help the Palestinian people efficiently. It is only the people in the countries, with no political power (like the Italian activists), that have a logical explanation to their aid to the Palestinians, by giving their time and energy – their all – to Palestine’s struggle.
Throughout our trip in Palestine, we kept hearing about Jericho and its sweltering heat – while being roasted in the 30 – 40 degrees in Ramallah and neighbouring areas. We thought if there was time, we would go there to catch some rays and dip in the pool…
There was time – but only enough to conduct our study. We decided that the earlier we go, the better the temperature would be so we could get working. So we jumped off the bus at 8.30 am … And were hit with the force of the heat; it was around 40 degrees – at 8.30 in the morning.
We spent half an hour looking for the Summer Camp; the directions we were given and the actual place we were in didn’t seem to match. After about ten minutes of looking through the streets, the soaring temperature had got to us and we grumpily sat in a shaded area of the road.
It was only then that we took in our surroundings. We were directly across from the Intercontinental Hotel and just beyond that was a flying checkpoint at the entrance of Jericho. On our side of the road the place seemed deserted; a ghost town of empty buildings, a derelict café with boarded windows and there was no one around apart from some spare taxis driving passed us on the road. Piles of rubbish lay everywhere.
My research partner and I looked at each other, wondering where on Earth we were. “I cannot believe I am getting a tan at 8.40 in the morning,” she said in disbelief, her words drawling out from dehydration.
Before long, and after many phone conversations with useless directions that led us back to our shaded spot, two camp workers came to meet us and take us to the camp. Naturally it was only a short walk away – but the directions really didn’t match the location. I came to the conclusion, once again as I often did in these situations, to never ask an Arab for directions.
Jericho’s Summer Camp is flourishing. As we entered the camp, the desolate ghost town had transformed into a colourful building with a play area and children running wild with happiness. The atmosphere was completely different from any other camp we had visited. Instantly we knew that these children were in the best of hands and on questioning about the living situation in Jericho, the camp workers replied that they don’t suffer in the slightest. Their water supplies and electricity is as it should be and there is very little poverty. They don’t even suffer attacks from the IOF or settlers because they’re so far away from the wall and there are no settlements near them.
Jericho strives upon its historical and cultural background for tourism. It was the first place of civilisation on Earth from 10,000 years ago. Amongst the other activities of sports, arts and health, Jericho’s Summer Camp aims to teach children about the history of their town.
We left Jericho contentedly and as we journeyed back to Ramallah, I wondered whether it was the nearest example of what Palestine would be like if the Israelis left us alone. It was one of the happier places I’d visited in Palestine and I am pleased to report that, for once, nobody seemed to be suffering – Alhamdulillah.
