Prisoner of the Day: Hazem Elaydi

The Prisoner of the Day Campaign was created as a response to the alarming yet expected media coverage discrepancy regarding the recent prisoner deal arrived at by Hamas and Israel. While the world is holding its breath for that portentous moment when Israeli Corporal Gilad Shalit is back in his mother's arms after five years of captivity in the Gaza strip, the 1027 Palestinian prisoners are treated as an empty numerical entity. This campaign will devote each day for a Palestinian prisoner, either included in the deal or not, as a means of awareness and a reminder that Palestinians will always be humans.

Prisoner of the Day: Hazem Elaydi

Hazem Elaydi is from the Maghazi refugee camp in Gaza. He was a young man who loved to read, and would get his hands on every newspaper he could get. In the summers he would help out at his father's store but would end up reading the stacks of newspapers he took with him instead. He was a highly intelligent knowledgeable person with an interest in knowing what was happening in places around the world. Everyone who knew him recognized that he had great potential. He was generally well-liked and respected by people owing to his pious and conservative nature.

Hazem Elyadi as a young man

He was majoring in Chemistry at An-Najah University in the West Bank, but at the onset of the first intifada he happened to be visiting his family back in Gaza when the borders were closed, thus effectively ending his education as it was impossible to get back.

During the first intifada, it was common policy for Israel to send out orders for random young Palestinian men to report to Israeli officials for interrogation. Usually it meant nothing, but when Hazem went it turned out to be more than just a routine interrogation. He was kept in administrative detention for three months as the Israelis attempted to gather charges against him. Two days before he was due to be released, two inmates who were being tortured told similar stories about Hazem. Back then, policy dictated that if two people gave the same testimony, the person it was concerning had to confess. After being beaten and tortured, Hazem confessed to false claims and was sentenced to four consecutive life sentences without the courtesy of being given a fair trial.

Hazem's niece Fidaa got to know her uncle via secret phone calls. Cell phones of course are forbidden in prisons and are smuggled in. After spending the winter in Gaza, Fidaa wrote an eloquent piece highlighting how love of a family member imprisoned cannot be stunted the cold prison walls. She also drew attention to the conditions the prisoners undergo, and the humiliation they must routinely suffer. Since 2007, Hazem hasn't received any family visits as part of the extensive collective punishment on Palestinians in Gaza, who were forbidden from seeing their loved ones behind Israeli bars.

The amazing news is that today, Hazem Elyadi was released as part of the prisoner swap deal between Hamas and Israel. After 21 years in Israeli jails, he is now back in Gaza in his ailing mother's arms. I asked Fidaa how the celebrations were most likely going to pan out. She replied,

"As far as I know, every relative we have--no matter how distantly related-- will gather to welcome him. I'm assuming over 200 people will gather. It'll be chaos! I'm guessing some animals will be slaughtered for the occasion and a huge feast will take place. I'm also guessing that the women have been working for days making sweets to pass around to family, friends, and neighbor. The celebration will begin with his welcome at the Rafah crossing and then an hour's drive to Khatiba Square in Gaza City where thousands will gather and all of the prisoners will be shown a hero's welcome. My relatives will be travelling in busloads to Gaza City to celebrate and welcome the prisoners. The they will go to my uncle's house where our matriarch, my grandmother, lives. They have decorated the house days in advance. The wedding-like festivities will likely begin at sunset and continue throughout the night."

Fidaa is a law student in Texas. She desperately wishes she was there to welcome back her uncle and to witness the happiness etched on her family's faces in Gaza as they receive Hazem. This is where technology is truly a blessed thing.

"I wish with every ounce of my being that I could be there with them. For the first time in weeks, I won't be spending 8 hours in the library after class. I'm going straight home so my mother and I can video chat with out relatives in Maghazi and Deir il-Balah refugee camps. I will speak to my uncle, screen-to-screen, at 4 pm Dallas time, 12 am Gaza time."

Fidaa will also celebrate the release of her uncle in her own way. She made brownies for her 90 person law school class, a great idea as not only do the rest of the students enjoy the brownies but also opens their eyes to the plight of Palestinian prisoners, and what the released prisoners mean for their families away from the corporate mainstream media that paint the prisoner deal from only one side (that of Israeli Corporal Gilad Shalit.)

So what's next for Hazem? Well, as he was incarcerated as a young man he never married. Fidaa's aunts already have that covered though, as those living in different countries in the Middle East are making travel plans to Gaza as soon as possible. Fidaa thinks that a wedding is already in the making, with a bride already found!

"Rumor has it that the family has already found him a bride, and they're simply waiting for his approval and within a week there will be an engagement. I will not be surprised if his wedding is in less than a month! I'm hoping they will wait until the end of December so that I have a chance to go to Gaza after finals and make it to the wedding."

It seems like the Elyadi family have a lot to celebrate over the next few months. Hazem's return, Eid with Hazem, Hazem's engagement, Hazem's sahra [nighttime party] before his wedding, and Hazem's wedding.

All the best to Hazem Elyadi, an innocent man who spent twenty one oppressive years in the Israeli occupation's jails.

Prisoner of the Day: Majd Ziada

The Prisoner of the Day Campaign was created as a response to the alarming yet expected media coverage discrepancy regarding the recent prisoner deal arrived at by Hamas and Israel. While the world is holding its breath for that portentous moment when Israeli Corporal Gilad Shalit is back in his mother's arms after five years of captivity in the Gaza strip, the 1027 Palestinian prisoners are treated as an empty numerical entity. This campaign will devote each day for a Palestinian prisoner, either included in the deal or not, as a means of awareness and a reminder that Palestinians will always be humans.

Prisoner of the Day: Majd Mahmoud Ahmad Ziada

Majd Ziada was barely out of his teens when he got arrested by the Israeli Occupation Forces. It was at the height of the second intifada in 2002 when the Israeli army during its collective arrest campaign detained Majd on the evening of the Israeli invasion of the twin cities Ramallah and Al-Bireh. He was 19 years old.

Before he got arrested, Majd enjoyed playing basketball at Ramallah's First Club in al-Tira. With the outbreak of the second intifada however, life became more grim. He lost his best friend who was killed by the Israeli soldiers, and Majd himself was once used as a human shield where he was forced to walk in front of the Israeli tanks. Just before he was due to take his final exams of his senior year (tawjehi) the Occupying Army raided his home and dragged him out where he was bundled into a jeep. His family knew nothing about his whereabouts or condition for fifty days after his arrest. They then learned from a newspaper that he had been beaten up in custody.

When he was four years old, Majd witnessed the arrest the of his politically active father, Mahmoud. He told his dad, "Don't worry Baba, I will take care of my mother and baby sister." In the absence of his father, his mother worked to support the young family. It was left up to Majd to look after his baby sister Raya, as he carried her, fed her, put her to sleep. His father was in and out of prison a total of seven times, and was never once convicted of anything. But because of the mangled policies of administrative detention, it was "legal" to arrest him and keep him detained for any period of time without ever knowing the reason why.

In a 2009 interview, Mahmoud Ziada recalls: "The Israeli soldiers searched our home, then they handcuffed me and took me to the military jeep that was standing in front of our house. As I was climbing into the jeep, my five year old son Majd shouted through the window 'Baba Mahmoud, don't lose courage!'"

Majd accompanied his mother to visit his father in prison, and he used to go with her to national meetings. At demonstrations he would shout national slogans and sing national songs.

Majd with his father and sisters making a human tower

Initially, and for absolutely no reason, Majd was sentenced to 15 years in prison. At his appeal, the military court (which tries all Palestinian prisoners) gave him an extra 15 years for a defiant statement he gave:

"I do not believe in this court because it is an unjust one. I am opposed to the occupation and I will remain opposed to the occupation, so go ahead and sentence me. I will join my brothers and sisters in jail and consider it a badge of honor."

Majd suffers from a life threatening condition. He lost his hearing in his right ear due to acute ear inflammation, which could have been prevented had he received adequate medical attention. There is a huge risk that the disease could spread to the rest of his body, rendering it fatal, and so he desperately needs surgery.

His family are granted rare permission to visit him in prison. For the first seven years of his imprisonment only his youngest sister Hurriyah was able to visit him due to her status as a minor. After she turned sixteen, visits became more harder to procure. Afterwards limited permission was given to their mother to visit him once every few months. Last year Majd's father was finally granted permission by the Israeli Prison Service to see his son. The last time Majd saw his family was two months ago, after a five year gap. Hurriyah and her mother were the lucky ones to go, as only two people are allowed on visits.

His sister Hurriyah has this to say: "I haven't been able to hug my brother Majd Ziada for ten years because of the Israeli Occupation. When Majd was imprisoned I was 12, now I am 22."

Majd Mahmoud Ahmad Ziada has been on hunger strike for 21 days.

You Might Take My Life, But You Can't Take My Soul*

The Palestinian prisoners’ hunger strike has been going on for seventeen days, at the time of writing heading to the eighteenth day shortly. The Minister of Prisoners Affairs Issa Qaraqe labeled the prisoners’ conditions as a “disaster” with some suffering “complete bodily collapse.” I’ve struggled with writing about this topic. How to blend in the personal, the observations, the analysis, the facts, and the flowery writ all in one cohesive go?

Prisoner statistics and tidbits have ingrained themselves deep inside my brain. Since Israel’s occupation of the East Jerusalem, West Bank, and the Gaza Strip in 1967 over 700,000 Palestinians have been detained by Israel. Each Palestinian family has had at one point or another a member that was imprisoned. Two fifths of all Palestinian males have spent time behind Israeli bars. 7000 children since the year 2000 have been detained. Currently there are 15 members of Parliament imprisoned. Female prisoners who give birth in prison have their arms and legs shackled. 87% of the children arrested have been subjected to physical torture. At the height of the second intifada, there were 11,000 prisoners detained. A UN report published in March of this year puts the number of prisoners at 6000. According to a report released by the Israeli Prison Service (IPS) in October of the same year the prisoners numbered around 5503. 270 prisoners are held on administrative detention, a term meaning “being held indefinitely without ever knowing the reason why.” Most prisoners are denied fair trials and instead are subjected to arbitrary military trials where the occupier is judge, jury and executioner.

Almost every article covering the hunger strikers has a paragraph that starts with the following sentence somewhere. On September 27^th, an open ended hunger strike was announced by prisoners affiliated with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PLFP) to protest the squalid conditions and rights abuse that is their reality. The next few days saw a rapid increase of prisoners from all factions taking part in the hunger strike. Wednesday, October 12^th was a global day of solidarity with the Palestinian prisoners, who had been on strike for 16 days. This story has received little to absolute zero coverage by the western media. Armed with social media, Palestinian and international activists and bloggers used the hashtags #tweepstrike and #HS4Palestine to create more awareness, and one line was retweeted hundreds of times to declare their solidarity by hunger striking for 24 hours on Wednesday: My name is (------) and I will go on a hunger strike on Wednesday in solidarity with the Palestinian prisoners.

I’ve had uncles on both sides of my family imprisoned. My own father was arrested three times. One of my maternal uncles, Bahjat Itayem (God rest his soul) became the youngest prisoner in the West Bank and Gaza when he was arrested in 1975 at the age of sixteen years old. Mahmoud, the youngest of my father’s brother, was also sixteen when he was arrested. The first intifada surged with youth throwing rocks at Israeli armored jeeps and soldiers. One time the soldiers chased a group of youth, Mahmoud included. He took a wrong turn into a road blocked with concrete slabs—a sure tactic from the Israeli army designed for the very purpose of trapping people and making sure they didn’t get away. The soldiers piled army fatigues on Mahmoud so that no one would recognize him and frog marched him to the jeep. When this story was told me years later, one harrowing detail stood out more than the rest. When news of Mahmoud’s arrest reached my grandmother, she took to roaming the narrow streets of the Khan Younis refugee camp in her bare feet, wailing my uncle’s name.

Ramallah, befitting of the bubble it is should consider changing its name to Apathallah. Perhaps people would object to its sacrilegious term. Or maybe they’d be too apathetic to care. Since the prisoners’ announcement of their hunger strike, a symbolic tent was set up in Clock Square. Posters and pictures of prisoners decorated the scene. Banners were hung from building bearing slogans of freedom. A few days later, a group of youth decided to also go on hunger strike in solidarity with the prisoners. They camped out in the tent. Another tent was set up outside the Red Cross building in Al-Bireh and the hunger strikers moved there. The initial tent was ignored, and hardly anyone visited it. At noon, the tent in front of the Red Cross building would have maybe fifty people sitting there, mostly comrades from the PFLP and families of the prisoners. The posters there are mostly of the PFLP’s secretary general Ahmad Saadat, sentenced to thirty years and who has been in solitary confinement since his arrest three years ago. I’ve frequented the tent a few times in the late afternoon for a couple of hours at a time. A handful of comrades or activists sit around, sharing stories of the tear gassed protest at Ofer prison on Tuesday the 11th, shaking their heads in disbelief at an ancient mother of a prisoner who declared that she would also go on hunger strike indefinitely, smoking cigarette after cigarette as they confirmed the increasing number of prisoners joining in. Representatives or supporters from other political factions were not present.

Yet the subject of prisoners is not confined to any political faction. It is a highly significant national issue, highlighting the plight of the Palestinians who refused the shackles of Israeli occupation and colonization. Even before that, when Palestinians resisted the increasingly arbitrary measures of the British Mandate rule, three Palestinian prisoners, Mohammad Jamjoum, Fuad Hijazi, and Atta al-Zeer were hanged in the Buraq Revolution of 1929. Forget Israel’s depiction of those same prisoners as a monolithic entity of terrorists and child killers. It’s not exactly in Israel’s agenda to paint them in a favorable or even neutral light. The prisoners are true freedom fighters who have sacrificed years and years of their lives for a conviction so deeply cemented within their souls. They refused to live in their own homeland as a dirty inferior race. They refused to recognize the occupation’s whitewashed so-called legitimacy, which came off the back of a racist ideology that first settled a tiny white minority on the indigenous lands of the Palestinians who were living there for hundreds of years. Many were arrested for no reason, or judging by Israel’s standards of being either a security threat or an existentialist threat to the poor beleaguered state of Israel. Paltry misdemeanors such as throwing rocks or participating in protests or knowing someone who might be a dangerous person were more than enough reasons to get imprisoned. Prisoners became another icon of sumoud, steadfastness. Injustice will not stand for so long. The prisoners, along with the refugees, became another resolute pillar in Palestine’s struggle for peace, justice and equality.

Tuesday night, the same day as the Ofer protest came the news that Hamas has secured a deal with Israel which would see the release of over a thousand Palestinian prisoners in return for the release of Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit, a corporal who was captured along the border of Gaza five years ago. As more news began to trickle in, I was initially hit with euphoria. All of the women and children would be released. Three hundred prisoners sentenced to multiple life sentences would be released. Even more, hundreds of families would be joyfully reunited with their sons, husbands, fathers, brothers, wives, sisters, daughters, mothers. I still believe that the Israeli government doesn’t care for Shalit. They could have made this deal years ago. Call it a popularity call for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Call it Israel finally adjusting to the recent geopolitical changes around it. The same motives apply to Hamas; a boost in popularity (anyone, UN failed bid for statehood or a thousand prisoners released?), hesitancy to pledge support to Syria’s domestic bloody crackdown on its own people. The scenes in Gaza were of celebratory festivities, with various hacks from Hamas making seminal speeches filled with vows and victory speak, and de facto Prime Minister Ismail Haniyeh throwing sweets to the crowd. Ramallah it seemed couldn’t care less. A few people went to the Manara Square and were met with the PA’s security forces, ready to crack down on any non-PA decreed initiative. The scenario was now flipped on to its other side. A few weeks ago Ramallah was bouncing with bused in Fateh supporters from neighboring villages and towns to support Mahmoud Abbas’ UN bid, while Gaza city was silent.

More details emerged. The release would happen in two stages, one next week either Monday or Tuesday (450 prisoners) and the rest after two months. Marwan Barghouti was going to be released. So was Ahmad Saadat. Wait, no they’re not. Oh yes they are. No, no it’s been confirmed. Are you sure? Barghouti, Saadat not to be released! Barghouti, Saadat are not part of the deal! A thousand and twenty seven prisoners are to be released. They are not leaders of political parties, but they are just as equal. Let’s not forget that. Forty prisoners were to be exiled from Egypt to an unknown third country. This is in direct violation of the Fourth Geneva convention, which prohibits prisoners under occupation from being moved outside the country. Over two hundred prisoners originally from the West Bank are going to be exiled to Gaza, the dumping ground for those bad apples. Who’s to say Israel won’t arrest another thousand Palestinians in the upcoming weeks, months? Discontent raised its head. Is that why Hamas affiliated prisoners didn’t join in the hunger strike under its heading? Are you all happy that a thousand prisoners are getting released? What about the other six thousand? Are you celebrating the fact that one Israeli is worth a thousand Palestinians? Are we that dehumanized? Are we dogs? No, dogs are better off than us. This deal is worth nothing if my sons don’t get out! How did they decide which ones to release? If my sons aren’t on that list…They are no better than my sons! My sons! My sons! Auntie, God willing your sons will be free.

Wednesday I went on the global hunger strike in solidarity with the prisoners. It was extremely heartening to read the many tweets from people all over as they declared on Twitter that they too will be on hunger strike. How long does it take for one to die from starvation? Three weeks, I heard. What if you were tear gassed in your cell first, beaten up, and crammed into cells way past its holding capacity? What if you get thrown into solitary confinement and are denied basic medical attention? Such was the reaction from the IPS to the hunger strikers who are not demanding for rainbows to squeeze out skittles, or for luxurious water beds, or for five star dining. They demand an end to solitary confinement. They demand their right to education and access to books. They demand family visits. They demand to be treated like humans, and not like animals with chains bounding their hands and feet during meetings with their lawyers. They demand the right to be able to hug their families, lest their children suffer the same fate as ten year old Areej Skafe who died as a result of being denied permission to hug her imprisoned father.

The world knows who Gilad Shalit is, The Most Important Prisoner in the Whole Wide World. The discrepancy is obvious from the western media’s portrayal of what this prisoner swap deal means SOLELY for Shalit, disregarding the occupied, the inferiors. They know his age, they’ve seen his pictures, and they are familiar with his parents. They have counted every tear his mother has shed. The thousand and twenty seven Palestinian prisoners are treated as a statistic, devoid of any meaning other than a number. They have parents too. Some lost their mothers or fathers while serving long years in prison and never got the chance to say goodbye. No Israeli life is worth more than a Palestinian’s. A campaign has started on Facebook titled “Prisoner of the Day.” Every day will be devoted to one Palestinian prisoner, personalizing his or her story, sharing pictures of them, messages from friends, past hobbies they enjoyed on social media sites. The first prisoner to be shared is Shadi al Shurafa, a 32 year old man from Jerusalem who was sentenced to twenty five years. He has served nine years so far. Shadi used to play on the basketball team of DeLaSalle. He’s a human being too. He wasn’t a soldier. Soldiers run the risk of being captured. Basketball players don’t.

The Battle of Hungry Stomachs will continue until all demands are met. How many Bobby Sands must we have before the world finally pays attention? Solidarity and Awareness are the key ingredients to any just cause.

*The title is a reference to a song by hip hop artist Lowkey, called 'My Soul.'

Mahmoud Abbas: the Second Coming

One could be forgiven for thinking de facto President Mahmoud Abbas seemed like the second coming since Jesus of Nazareth not only by the reception he was given at the UN General Assembly when he spoke there on Friday but by the reaction throughout his speech from crowds amassed in West Bank cities.

Abbas’ speech, calling for admission of Palestine as a full member state of the United Nations, was surprising in that it was unusually strongly worded and lacked the usual skirting of core issues regarding the Israeli occupation of Palestine. Characteristically, Abbas’ public addresses to audiences reflect the interests of the Palestine Authority (PA) and not of the Palestinian people, highlighting the importance of negotiations with Israel to achieve any lasting peace agreement as the sole tactic, effectively undermining resistance in all of its forms to the occupying regime.

At the UN, Abbas used terms like “ethnic cleasning”,“al-Nakba”, “apartheid policies” and “racist annexation Wall”. To the short-sighted and the outsider, the speech was indeed befitting of being a historical platform to voice the issue of Palestine. It encapsulated the suffering the Palestinians have endured for 63 years, from the horrors of their ethnic cleansing in 1948 to the unbearable life under the continuous settlement building which aids the apartheid and racist policies that are inherent in every aspect of Palestinians’ lives.

The speech also mentioned Gaza, which is still suffering under siege and from air raids that account for extra-judicial killings. It was a perfect speech, succinctly and without being overly garrulous capturing Israel’s occupation of Palestine, and making Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s speech sound like the incessant whining of a spoiled kid.

Or was it? The stalwart speech certainly diverted some of the initial skeptical views on the PA’s bid for statehood. For the indifferent, it won their support, and for those opposed it either strengthened their opposition or cracked their resolve. Talk now isn’t about whether the UN bid for statehood is detrimental or beneficial; it has now come to optimistic discussions of what this bid could do for Palestinians.

The argument is now about how the “internationalization” of the Palestine/Israel conflict is a good thing because it is rarely that the world fixes its attention on this small country except when there is bloodshed and misery, and this attention can now be channeled into genuine support for an end to the Israeli occupation.

“A very good speech”

Issa Amro, the director of the Hebron based Youth Against Settlements, was animatedly expressing his approval of Abbas’ speech in between sips of mint tea.

“It was a very good speech,” he told me. “He [Abbas] didn’t leave anything out. He talked about the Nakba, the Naksa, the prisoners, the settlements…it was a speech that was comprehensive of what every Palestinian wanted to hear.”

I asked him about the reaction of the people who had gathered in Hebron’s city center to watch the speech on a large screen. Mainstream media focused their attention primarily on the reaction in Ramallah, where jubilant crowds were celebrating as if they had already been granted statehood.

“The mood was positive. You know, people in Hebron are mostly Hamas supporters, but they were smiling throughout the speech. Thousands of people were present, which is something very rare in Hebron since we barely have large protests or gatherings.”

I pointed out that the proposed statehood bid was based on the 1967 borders, and that partitioning the land wasn’t going to work in the interests of most Palestinians.

Amro looked at me solemnly. “Listen, you think we’re ever going to forget about Haifa and Yafa? Of course not! But first, we have to gather what we have and then work toward regaining the rest.”

A risky approach

Settling for a two-state solution, no matter how temporary, has drastic consequences. Under the title of “State,” Palestine can be attacked by Israel not as an occupied territory (which carries its own legal implications as the Geneva Convention clearly stipulates that the occupier must protect the occupied), but as an equal.

But this is all theoretical of course. The West Bank and Gaza will not be granted statehood as the US president, with re-elections on the horizion, vowed to veto it. In the midst of renewed blind faith in the bid, Palestinians have forgotten or simply ignored the question of the PA’s legitimacy in carrying out such an act.

Legal expert Professor Guy Goodwin clearly pointed out that the PA is a “subsidiary body meaning it cannot break away from the parent body [the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO)], assume greater powers, or establish itself independently from the PNC [Palestinian National Council]. It is only competent to carry out powers conferred to it by PNC.”

The PA’s control is restricted as it has “limited legislative and executive competence, territorial jurisdiction and limited personal jurisdiction over Palestinians not present in areas it is allocated accordingly.” The problem of representation, in which the six million Palestinian refugees in the diaspora could lose if the PLO, recognized and toted as the sole legitimate representative body for Palestinians everywhere (the diaspora, the 1967 occupied territories, the Palestinians living in the 1948 areas) wasn’t such a big deal anymore as Mahmoud Abbas graciously received standing ovations.

Abbas “never popular”

Mahmoud Abbas was never popular with the Palestinian people. Even before his presidency and during his tenure as Prime Minister, the late PA chairman Yassir Arafat was open about his suspicions of Abbas, accusing him of “betraying the interests of the Palestinian people.” Arafat’s associates added to the suspicions by pointing the finger at Abbas, saying he conspired with Israel to keep Arafat under siege in Ramallah during 2002.

It’s not just his lack of charisma either. Abbas never bothered to conceal his frank collaboration with Israel. Whether it was acquiring the services of the Israeli Shin Bet security forces to travel around the West Bank, or having previous knoweldge of and supporting Operation Cast Lead, or calling on Hamas to release Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit whilst neglecting to mention or at the very least equating Shalit with the eight thousand Palestinian prisoners languishing in Israeli jails.

Nor has Abbas been shy about coordinating security efforts with Israel under the guise of avoiding Palestinian confrontations which could end up in violence but which in reality serve the Israeli settlers’ interests more and simultaneously undermines unarmed popular resistance.

Most importantly there were the leaked Palestine Papers, which exposed the length Abbas and the rest of the unelected PA negotiating team were willing to concede the rights of the Palestinians, specifically the Right of Return, and the lands given away for the same “horrific picture of the settlement campaign” he articulated in his speech.

For all these reasons, the Palestinian street never thought much of Abbas where he paled in comparison with the inflated symbolism of Yassir Arafat. With his “historic speech” Abbas may satisfy himself with the knowledge that he has crept up the ladder of icons, cementing his legacy as the (autocrat) who laid the application for a Palestinian statehood at the UN’s feet.

The negotiations between the PA and Israel did not start last year in September. That was the timeline given in Abbas’ speech. No, the negotiations have been going on for almost two decades, and while it is nothing short of absurd for Israel and the Quartet, specifically the outraged US, to self-righteously lecture on, nay demand a return to negotiations as the only way to reach a peace settlement, they can rest assured that that it is what Abbas had in mind the whole time.

He wants to use the tactic of going to the UN as leverage that would put the ball in his court once he restarts negotiations, something he has promised to do over and over. Nelson Mandela once said that “only free men can negotiate” and these failed talks between the PA and Israel which have come at the expense of Palestinians and the increasing loss of their rights only give the illusion to the outside world that the relationship is between two partners, two equals, not the occupier and the occupied.

Enthusiasm without analysis

The supporters present at the Muqata’a compound in Ramallah today were bused in from the surrounding villages, most of which support Abbas’ Fatah faction, and other parts of the West Bank. They are lacking in knowledge of the implications and consequences of the PA’s UN bid for statehood, and have become desensitized to the situation on the ground which translates into a positive reaction at face value regarding the subject of Palestine receiving international attention.

This much was clear from my interviews with a number of people representing different aspects of society in Ramallah. They all wanted a state on the 1967 lines, “to be accepted as a country like the rest of the countries in the world”. When asked about the refugees from the 1948 areas (the parts of Palestine on which Israel was established in 1948), they reiterated that no state would be meaningful if the Right of Return was not implemented. When I pointed out this contradiction, most were confused.

Issa Amro indicated that the issue now is trusting the PA. Given its history of corruption and collaboration, this seemed a bit naïve. I believe in a one secular state for all, Muslims, Christians, and Jews. That however, is kryptonite to Zionism whose adherents sees the conflict not as a war or religions, as it slyly paints, but rather as battle of demography over geography.

A long way to go, but hope remains

Accepting the millions of refugees back into Palestine on a human rights approach would mean that the Israeli Jews would become a minority, and fuel the hysterical hasbara notion of “driving the Jews into the sea.” Yet we have a long way to go. The only Israelis who are not morally horrified by a one state solution where Palestinians are treated as equals and where none of this Jewish superiority based on Messianic revelations exists are the anarchists, those completely against the system.

Still, hope remains. The whole UN statehood drama could provide an opening for the Boycott, Divesment, and Sanctions movement to grow even more and become more popular, as it seeks to end Israel’s impunity and hold it accountable for all of its atrocities committed against the Palestinians ever since the months leading up to Israel’s independence.

It is a grassroots movement, similar to the one in Apartheid South Africa, and along with supporting the unarmed popular resistance, the steps for achieving peace, justice and equality in the country become even closer.

As published on Electronic Intifada

Blue Chair

Palestinian song "Blue Chair" mocks PA’s UN statehood bid

A group of Palestinian youth activists who were sick of the western media protraying the Palestinians as a collective entity regarding the Palestinian Authority’s UN bid have produced a satirical video and song titled “Blue Chair”. In its simple sing-song lyrics, the video highlights sarcastically the fact that supporters of statehood have become obsessed with “magical” chairs rather than basic human rights. The lyrics, translated from Arabic, are below.

In one of the many Palestinian Authority (PA) campaigns to draw up support for UN membership, a mock Palestine UN chair was sent to travel around the world before reaching its final destination, naturally the United Nations building in New York. In the increasingly contested discourse about the PA’s bid for recognition of statehood, the symbolism the chair held won over many people as it carried with it the romanticized connotations of the world finally recognizing a Palestinian state.

Unfortunately, the same supporters fail to realize that this is basically just a PR stunt designed by the PA (who have forgotten the little scandal called the Palestine Papers and have vowed to resume negotiations with Israel) as the US will make good on its promise and veto such a request. Additionally, “statehood” is but a nonsensical diversion, drawing the attention of many to belittle the Palestinian cause — either knowingly or not — to a mere question: “Should Palestine be granted the right to statehood or not?”

A state on the 1967 borders is fruitless in that it cancels out the refugees’ right of return and impossible in that the land in the West Bank is not contiguous by virtue of the hundreds of illegal Israeli settlements and outposts. Furthermore, there are no specific “Arab only” roads or means that connect the West Bank to Gaza, which remains under siege. What is most sickening is the fact that the campaign carries the slogan “Palestine 194” signifying Palestine as the 194th member of the United Nations, while simultaneously abusing the number that holds so much significance for refugees as it is UN resolution 194 passed in 1948 that guarantees the Right of Return.

Compounded by the fact that the PA carries no legitimacy over the majority of the Palestinian people, in the diaspora and from within, the bid for statehood is nonrepresentative and fails to address the occupation directly, the crux of the whole conflict.

Translated lyrics:

The blue chair

This is the story of a magical blue chair… A blue chair that will
travel, soar and fly!
It comes in dark blue…and in white, Palestine, is drawn (2X)

This chair…is not just any chair (2X)
This chair is an extraordinary and magical kind!

This blue chair…can rise high
This blue chair…can achieve
It can a bring us a state
This chair is one magical blue chair!

This is the story of a magical blue chair…a blue chair that will
travel, soar and fly
It comes in dark blue…and in white, Palestine, is drawn
This Chair…is not just any Chair (2X)
This chair is an extraordinary and magical kind!

This blue chair… a chair for our refugees
This blue chair…will give us our “Right of Return”
This chair…will give us back Jerusalem and Palestine

This is the story of a magical blue chair…a blue chair that will
travel, soar and fly
It comes in dark blue…and in white, Palestine, is drawn
This Chair…is not just any Chair (2X)
This chair…is of an extraordinary kind

We’ve got our blue chair…with its own number too
An enemy to the settlements it serves

We are the Palestinians…with our magically dangerous blue chair
We are people…not like any other people
We are people… who have fallen in love with chairs!

Originally posted on Electronic Intifada

Settlers Write Racist Graffiti on BZU Walls

On Friday morning around 2am, settlers made their way to up to Birzeit University and spray-painted racist slogans on the walls just outside the West Gate.

Below are the translated phrases under each picture, taken from the university's own Facebook page.

Jews: Let us win

Revenge

Ramat-migron, Revenge, Jewish underground

Wait for the revenge, murder.

Ramat migron, revenge is king, price tag, [a nasty word about the prophet Muhammad pbuh]

The miscreants also left their marks in the town of Birzeit, as they attacked and vandalized the main mosque with racist graffiti.

The university's website has condemned this "cowardly criminal" act. Students have questioned the presence of the university guards, but the guards reassured everyone that the culprits did not manage to get inside the campus itself, adding that the property remained untouched.

Having just got off the phone with one of the guards, it remains to be seen whether the culprits can be identified as settlers or not. The dean of the university has issued a gag order on the incident for the time being, meaning that all faculty members and employees within the university are not allowed to share any information they might have to avoid wild rumors from circulating. Whoever they are, they got into a single car and left the premises at around 2:30 am.

This act of vandalism has all the markings of a settler attack. It is is the latest in a series of upped settler antics anticipating the PA's nonsensical UN bid for statehood, after settlers torched a mosque in the village of Qusra near Nablus and attacked a faculty member of Bethlehem University with rocks while he was driving. A student from the same university was also attacked, and after escaping her car through the passenger door to appeal to the Israeli soldiers nearby for help, she was told to return back to her car. Today, settlers in Hebron attacked a family's tent and set it on fire, with the father still inside.

Israeli-American journalist Joseph Dana noted correctly, in light of a recent settler attack on the IOF's military base (which incidentally also had the words 'price tag' sprayed) that these transgressors are "one of the most dangerous and volatile elements on the ground" and that in order for the state of Israel to be taken seriously by the international community, it must curb its "rogue settlers." Yet the Israeli army only seeks to further fan the flames by training and equipping settlers with heavy duty weaponry in order to prepare them for any Palestinian protests that might turn 'violent', dubbing the move Operation Summer Seeds. It is no secret that settlers largely behave with impunity and have the assured protection of the Israeli Occupation Forces. Settlers are usually armed and harass neighboring villages, more often than not lands they've expropriated from the Palestinians, by setting olive groves and fields on fire or by physically assailing the villagers.

Not a word of condemnation either from Israel or its sycophantic brother the PA has been issued regarding these recent settler attacks. One thing is for certain though: these attacks will only increase throughout the month and with no accountability on the settlers' side, a simple 'heads-up' for the Palestinians simply won't do.

All settlements in the West Bank are illegal.
There are over 280,000 settlers in the West Bank (not counting East Jerusalem).
There are more than 180,000 settlers in East Jerusalem.
In total, that makes almost half a million settlers, a mammoth obstacle for any sustainable peace.

Crossing Borders

My latest blog post for Electronic Intifada

I stared at the dull curtain in front of me. Moments later, a female Israeli security guard pulled the curtain back and entered the cubicle, drawing it to a close again. She had on plastic gloves and began patting me down, tapping my knees to stand more widely. She slipped her fingers through the top of the inside of my jeans, lest I should have anthrax rolled up in plastic baggies Velcroed there. She told me to take my shirt off. I stared at her, bewildered. She snapped her fingers impatiently. I slowly pulled off my sweater. Being winter, and despising heavy jackets, back then I was a firm believer in layers. I had another long-sleeved shirt on beneath.

“Ishlakhi bot.”

“I’m not taking my shoes off.” And it’s ishlahi you frosty robot, I silently added.

Her eyes bore into mine. “You’ll stay here forever if you don’t.”

I kicked off my Chucks, cursing Theodor Herzl and his ruinous ideology.

“Ishlakhi hijab.”

“No.”

She folded her arms and resumed her cold staring game with me.

“There’s nothing underneath my hijab, just my hair!” Which, thanks to whatever pollutants your government puts in the water allocated to Palestinians, is reducing it to a couple of strands. I pictured myself with only two strands on my head, like Homer Simpson, and giggled. Sighing, I unwrapped my hijab, thinking of this absolute unnecessary situation, and glared at the security agent. In less than half a second, she was out of the cubicle, taking my sweater, shoes, and whatever hidden security threats they so masterfully concealed. I wrapped my hijab back on without a mirror, quite a feat considering that every angle and crease had to be equal and smooth. After ten minutes of staring at my socks and picturing the day the state of Israel gets slapped with karma, the security agent came back in, handed me my stuff and vanished for a coffee break.

Gaza has the Rafah crossing, and the West Bank has the jisir. Our gateways to the indifferent world beyond. Two years ago the Israelis discovered that my father has a Gaza ID which meant that he cannot come back to the West Bank. For now he’s staying in Amman, and whenever we can, my family in Ramallah crosses borders (the Allenby bridge on the Israeli side, the King Hussein bridge on the Jordanian one) so we can indulge in a couple of weeks of family normalcy. Needless to say, I’ve crossed the border way too many times for my liking.

Back in the days when my family were united and living in Ramallah on visas, we would cross the Allenby Bridge as foreigners, taking a whole different route—straight from our house to the Israeli side of the crossing. Everything operated faster and smoother. The buses were immaculate and air-conditioned.

The brown Palestinian version is a lot longer and entails a good deal of patience, something I am not equipped with. The taxi can take you on two courses: Around Qalandiya checkpoint and a relatively level ride, or the mu’arrajat way, a perilous back roads journey along extremely narrow twisting roads just before you reach Jericho. Your survival depends on the driver’s skills and calmness. Had I been the one driving I would have shot the car Thelma-Louise style over the valley of caves and mountains, the setting of the world’s lowest point. Maybe that’s why I still don’t have my license…

Once you reach Jericho, you arrive at the Palestinian side of the border crossing. This merely serves as a prelude to the Israeli side, since they are the ones who actually control the border. If there are a lot of people, you wait in the resting/lounge room which has some of the filthiest seats I’ve ever seen. Most of the products behind the snack stall are Israeli. Two large framed posters of Yasser Arafat and Mahmoud Abbas, each striking a similar pose, smile deprecatingly at the travelers. The Palestinian officials behind the counter stamp your passport and you’re traveling without a matriarch, strike up a conversation. You get on the bus and wait for it to fill. It won’t move even if there’s only one seat empty. The bus then rumbles on to Jericho’s border, and waits for express permission from the Israeli side for the electric gate to open. Depending on the Israelis’ mood, it’s either a few minute wait or a couple of hours of twiddling your thumbs.

Once the gate finally opens, the bus is allowed to progress a few hundred meters before being stopped again. This time, the passengers get off the bus and line up pell-mell under a corrugated tin roof to pass through a security detector. It’s completely unnecessary, but it’s all done for the sake of Israel’s own well-being. The passengers board a different bus and providing that there aren’t any glitches, arrive at the Israeli side. Outside the building, you must pass through yet another security detector in the presence of an armed soldier wearing the coolest shades. Just inside the doorway, you must pass through yet again through another sensitive security detector, with purses, hand bags, shoes etc going through the x-ray machine. Once, the security officials opened a plastic black bag and found toy guns in there. They laughed gleefully to themselves, “Islakh! Islakh!” i.e. islah, weapons in Arabic. Afterwards, you line up in front of six counters, and wait until they return your stamped passport.

Time to get on the bus that will take you to the Jordanian side. Sometimes, the bus is not there and you have to wait. And wait some more. Once aboard, you finally cross the bridge over a spit of water that used to be the Jordan River. You get dropped off where the luggage is, and have to find your own bag, pay the fare, and get on another bus. Usually after that it’s smooth sailing. The Jordanians take the white form which you must fill out on the last bus ride, the green visiting card special to Palestinians, and your passport. Quick stamps here and there, and off you go, temporarily relieved from the many pictures of King Abdullah II’s face in various traditional and western clothes.

On the way back, a lot of waiting is done on the Jordanian side. The fly-infested lounge full of people isn’t so bad compared to the hours and hours of waiting on the bus for Israel to give us the go-ahead to cross over to its side. Once I waited for seven hours. Seven hours on a bus with absolutely nothing to do except envisioning the amount of pain I would have liked to wreaked upon the incompetent Palestinian parent behind me, whose five little monkeys were continuously kicking the back of my seat over and over again. Just before we cross the little bridge, we must once again get out and go through a security detector while an Israeli soldier walks up and down the aisle on the bus to check for anything remotely suspicious. Sometimes they have a dog with them. When you reach the Israeli side, you get your bags from the bus compartments and push your way to the front, where your luggage and passport will be taken from you. Once your passport is given back, you stand in land at another counter and get a sticker with four Hebrew letters on the back of your passport. Most people have the first Hebrew letter circled. Once I got the third letter circled, which I found out was code for “Random Person Search”, which is how I came to be staring at the dull curtain.

It’s not fun crossing the border. I feel like I age ten years every time which makes me nearly as old as Jesus. One of my worst memories was crossing the bridge last August in Ramadan on the hottest day of the year, complete with a broken down air conditioning system and people drenched in putrid sweat. It’s a bitter combination of being subjected to the immense failure of this generation’s Palestinian parenting and having to deal directly with the occupier, in a way that makes you feel like they’re doing you a huge favor by rendering their service to you and allowing you to pass through.

I treat the Israeli officials there like how I was once treated when I visited Yafa. I completely ignore them, answer monosyllabically, and think of them as invisible robots. Even when the Ethiopian Israeli there welcomes me with a cheery “Assalamu aleikoo!” I continue on my way forward without a second glance. It grated me that time when two middle-aged Palestinian women were genuinely laughing heartily with a security agent. The only time I had to actually talk to them is when my British passport was renewed. I already had my West Bank ID out by that time so of course the passport was useless in that I couldn’t get a visa, but I didn’t want them to stamp it thus officially declaring me to be allowed only in the Occupied Territories.

“Do you have another passport?”

I wondered why they bothered to ask, since the fact that I did was clearly in block letters blinking on their computer screens.

Stamp stamp stamp. There goes my chance of seeing Akka again. You never know with the soldiers at Qalandiya checkpoint, which ones scrutinize your foreign passport for the Israeli approved visa, or the ones who jovially try to guess the nationality of the passport before waving you through.

“Do you have another passport?” The second time I was asked that on a different occasion, I lied and said it was in my suitcase where they were in fact in my purse. Unfortunately for me, the Israeli official was a meanie.

“Give them to me,” she ordered.

“They’re in the other bag, let me pass and I’ll bring them to you.”

“YOU WILL NOT PASS UNLESS YOU HAND THEM OVER TO ME.”

My brother angrily stepped forward. “We don’t have them on us, you don’t need them anyway.”

The Israeli official stood up and brought her face close to the glass separating us.

“You stand back!” she barked. She called her supervisor, security agent, another official—God knows who, and they began conversing in Hebrew shooting us dark looks.

I pulled the passports from my bag and threw them under the glass. I wanted to go home and take a long hot shower and sleep. I wasn’t in the mood for petty confrontations. She accepted them with a knowing look, and after stamping them threw them back at me. It was cemented, multiple emblems decreeing our imprisonment in the riddled West Bank. My mother is smarter; she always tells them not to stamp her British passport in case she wants to visit a country that won’t accept Israeli markings.

“You know, like Syria for example.”

“Or Iran,” I muttered.

It shouldn’t be called the Israeli/Jordanian crossing. It should be called the Israeli crossing, period. They have all the control over who gets in and out, and coordinate with the Jordanian side accordingly. They have the power to shut down the crossing whenever they want purely based on a whim, as I discovered last summer after a failed attempt to get back to Ramallah. As with the rest of the checkpoints scattered throughout the Occupied Territories, humiliation is a requirement at the border crossing, with the Israelis never missing the chance to remind Palestinians just who exactly controls every aspect of their lives.

Palestine's Rollercoasters

They're big, they're loud, and they're orange. They travel at the speed of light and are known to be suicide friendly vehicles. They strike fear in the hearts of first time drivers and are at the receiving end of a barrage of heavy verbal abuse.

They are...fords.

No Palestinian experience is complete without a life-threatening ride in one of those babies. The semantic history of the designated name is unknown, since they definitely do not bear semblance to any Ford model. Nevertheless, they are the great white sharks on the street, and if you thought that was a bad enough analogy get this: If Hitler was a car he'd be some clunky pick-up truck on a farm next to these venomous Bugattis.

Unless you're bequeathed your own personal car and laugh in the face of the perilous winding roads to Birzeit University, the fords are the only means of transportation. Since I live on the main street, I don't have to go to downtown Ramallah to the ford depot. Rather, I stick my finger out and wait for one to stop. On windy days, as my scarf flutters and my whiteness is laid out for all the world to see, I have no problem in flagging down a ford. For three years I have feared for my life twice a day going to and coming back from the university. They know no other language other than speed. The drivers have no qualms in driving on the wrong side of the road in a bid to reach their destination in the quickest time possible. They especially relish the challenge of facing off with a car coming up on its rightful side of the road, usually winning the challenge by making the other car veer off the road at the last second.

Last time that happened my friend screamed at the driver, "You have ten other people in the backseats whose lives you're responsible for- SLOW DOWN!!"

The reply was offhand and cool: "Don't worry, I have fifteen years of experience."

Some drivers act as if you're not there. Others steal covert looks at you in the mirror before inquiring about personal life, whether you're married or engaged or looking to settle down. Still others tell you their whole life story. One driver kept up a pleasant conversation with me and gave me a stack of business cards to pass out for his niece's new salon. Another driver began to tell me about his village and offered me a bunch of miskawi apricots. I was touched by his kindess, so I accepted politely. He then gave me half the bag to eat. When I went home that day, I relayed to my mother the driver's generosity.
"Inshallah you accepted the apricots?"
"Of course."
"Did...did you eat them?"
"Yes Ma, isn't that the next step to take after being offered food?"
"You ATE them?! Did I raise a fool? Are you out of your mind? Does your smartness only show itself in your studying? What if the apricots were sprayed with something? What if they weren't apricots at all? What if they were laced with drugs? That's it, I'm calling your father."

The drivers come in all shapes and sizes. Kids barely out of their teens, men with wizened faces, most of them smoking addicts. Some are oblivious to their passengers, viewing them simply as money generators, while others give you a sympathetic look as the floozy in front of you shuts the window on a sweltering day so that the breeze won't mess up her hair.

One time the ford I was in stopped to pick up an old man. He looked like a Bedouin, with his abaya and heavy accent. The old man lit up a cigarette and the ashes flew back right at me, getting in my clothes and bag. I sighed waspishly, and the driver caught my eye. He turned to the old man next to him.
"Uncle, you have to put put your cigarette. I'm sorry but that's the law."
"What law is this? I'm going to keep smoking."
"It's a new law, Uncle. We get fined if the police catch anyone smoking in the fords."
"Screw the laws. We don't even have a country and we're putting laws. Who the hell do we think we are?"
"All the same, please put out your cigarette.'
"No. You have your own opinions, I have mine. Who do you think you are telling me to throw my cigarette away? I just put it in my mouth, I'm not throwing it."
"You seem like a wise man, and I'm treating you like a father. Why won't you listen?"
"Stop the ford. I'm getting out here. At least no one will stop me on the street to tell me not to smoke."
"Good riddance," I piped.

The drivers will run over a bunch of people in order to be the first to reach a potential passenger. Another friend of mine climbed into one ford a few weeks ago. The driver in the ford in front of them got out and began arguing with the driver that my friend should have went into his ford. They bickered for a few more minutes, before the driver of the ford my friend went into turned the key in the ignition and started to drive off. The other driver held on to the window, refusing to let go, still arguing passionately, his feet dragging on the asphalt for a good two hundred meters before he finally gave up and let go. Fords cost around two hundred thousand shekels, it makes sense that customers must be rounded up by whatever means.

Almost two years ago, a new all important law was finally passed. Drivers and passengers alike had to wear their seatbelts. Naturally, this law at the beginning was largely ignored, but after hefty fines were imposed it was taken more seriously. The ford drivers only wear their seatbelts whenever a police car is on the road. As soon as they pass by the police, the drivers fling back their seatbelts as if they were straight-jackets. In some remote villages, little kids are taken for rides in the fords. There, without the protection of seatbelts and with the abundance of rocky unpaved roads, the kids have the time of their lives hitting their heads on the roof of the ford, getting thrown to one side, raising their arms screaming with delight as the ford whizzes down a hill. Who needs Six Flag's Superman when we have our very own fords?

The Recurring Let Down of Ramallah Protests

I still haven’t learned how to stay away from a Ramallah protest, despite the detrimental irritating feeling disappointment that never fails to swell inside of me every time I attend one.

Ramadan started, and Bashar Al-Assad showed no sign of mercy as his murdering of Syrians did not let up. Combined with the two previous days, the numbers rose to over one hundred. A protest was needed here in Ramallah, if only to express our anger and horror at the Syrian dictator and solidarity with those suffering under the brutal killing machine regime.

As an oppressed people, we shouldn’t ignore the oppression of others. Other people seem to contend this point, believing that we as Palestinians already have a lot on our plate and don’t need to be involved in whatever shape or form in the affairs of other countries. That sounds exactly like the Palestinian Authority rhetoric, especially highlighted during Egypt’s January 25th revolution. In the most unlikely of all places given the humanitarian crisis gripping it, Gaza has dispelled this view as it actively involved in a campaign to raise money and aid for the starving refugees of Somalia.

Protests in Ramallah follow a certain agenda. They only happen with the full blessing of the PA, which inevitably means that the protests will get hijacked by Fateh thugs, the loudspeakers usurped with Fateh factional songs, and the yellow flags and memorabilia of Fateh will be waved in the air with furious gusto. Sometimes, it’s not that conspicuous. The protest, independently organized, will continue but if there are less than favorable chanting going on (read: calls for resistance) the police—plainclothes or otherwise—will move in to break it up. For the record, the plainclothes police aren’t the brightest light bulbs out there. You can always tell who they are because they stand at the peripheral edges of the crowd, and stare at you in a frank and unsettling manner.

A Facebook page materialized, announcing the Syrian solidarity march to be on Sunday the 14th. It was organized by something called the National Committee in Solidarity with the Arab Revolts, something I’ve never heard of. Searches proved to be fruitless, so I couldn’t tell whether this was independent from the PA or not. Nevertheless, I took my sister and we walked after iftar, deliberately ignoring all the other previous wasted protests we attended.

As we headed toward the Manara Square, Ramallah’s obtrusive schizophrenia tugged at all of my senses. Families, mostly women, were walking in a bid to healthily digest the iftar feast they must have consumed so readily. Young men were walking in couples, making me skirt their outstretched hands lest they “accidentally” brush against mine. Yellow-licensed (Israeli) cars revved their big engines, while the white-licensed cars (Palestinian) blasted their English and Arabic pop music in an attempt to drown out the engines. Lights were strewn all over stores, and a vendor seller shoved three plastic hairbrushes in our faces, before moving on to his next target. Weaving between the cars and the people on the disregarded sidewalks were men selling Barcelona/Real Madrid flags, keeping up a running commentary of only two words: “Barsha, Real, Barsha, Real, Barsha, Real.” It was the first leg of the Supercopa big between the two teams.

The Syrian solidarity protest was moving away from the square and down Rukab Street. I learned a long time ago not to spare a thought for how many were attending, since it was always going to be disappointing. The protesters were mainly from the villages. The ones leading the chants were from Nabi Saleh. We probably numbered around three hundred, a painfully low figure. My sister and I threaded our way to the middle of the chanting group and joined in. Chants against Bashar al-Assad and his cowardice, and his need to fix his lisp grew stronger. Only Palestinian and Syrian flags were waved. During that hour and a half, no one tried to take over the protest with their own factional party nonsense. I was aware of the other people, those who stood on the pavement and watched us pass, like we were a Macy’s Thanksgiving parade on show. Did it occur to them to join in, to protest the killings of thousands of innocent lives? Or were we part of an unscheduled Ramadan festivity?

Protests are all about catharsis. Unless they generate a huge amount of people, it is naïve to think that demonstrating will actually influence the decision making of those in authority. We were helpless, watching the Syrians getting murdered on the streets, wishing we could aid them in any way. For me at least, protesting does not in any way make me feel like I had accomplished something, nor does it content me. It loosens the tightened knot in my heart a bit, mostly at the relief that officially Ramallah is in solidarity with Syria and that the protest was allowed to happen without any hindrances, but in no way is my state of mind placated.

Thursday came around and brought with it news of a three-pronged attack on Eilat, where the casualties were mostly IDF soldiers. Despite having no factual evidence that the assailants came from Gaza, and despite Hamas and the Popular Resistance Committee denying any involvement, Israeli Defense Minister Ehud Barack announced that the source of this terror attack came from Gaza and that they would retaliate accordingly. How can a retaliation be carried out if the source of the original provocation is not yet specified? That didn’t stop Israel from killing five Palestinians in Rafah, among them a two year old boy. As the attacks started to intensify after midnight, I stayed up, checking on my family there from time to time. North Gaza and Rafah in the south were bombarded, as well as Ansar compound and a training ground for resistance fighters in the area of Khuza’a in Khan Younis. There was no chance for my family going to sleep, and the children were once again huddled in one room next to each other, the older ones muttering prayers mixed with curses. By the end of the night, the total number of thos killed were seven, two of them children. How ironic that Israel did not foresee the attack on Eilat, but immediately had confidential precise information where the assailants had come from. How ironic indeed, and what a way to end the laughable apolitical social justice revolution in Israel.

A protest in solidarity with Gaza was quickly organized on Friday. I hoped that the people planning to attend weren’t coming just because of the seven martyrs killed on Thursday. Our memories must extend further than that. On Wednesday a seventeen year old boy was executed, his chest and riddle riddled with bullet holes. His name was Sa’d Al-Majdalawi. This year alone, one hundred and forty three martyrs have been killed by Israel. I was glad something was being done, because it’s been something of a norm for Ramallah, being the bubble it is, to ignore any news that has to do with Gaza. We don’t need another hundred people to be dead until we start thinking about calling for a protest.

The last time a protest for Gaza was held in Ramallah was in January 2009, during Israel’s savage and ruthless invasion of the Strip. On that Friday, I lay in my bed curled up in a ball, wide awake in a state of numbing fear for my family in Gaza. My mother and older brother went. They came back a few hours later, stunned and ashen-faced, reeking of tear gas, and beaten up. The PA has bussed in brainwashed fools from the northern West Bank in addition to its own security forces to deliberately instigate and then attack the crowds who had gathered for Gaza. They held up framed pictures of Mahmoud Abbas and Hosni Mubarak, highlighting the collusion between the two figureheads in contributing to the siege on Gaza, and sang Fateh songs before descending down on the women, men, and young children where they proceeded to assault them viciously.

At the Manara, around fifty people had shown up. In the middle, a group of people were singing nationalistic songs like they were performing onstage. Chanting started sporadically, but people were more eager to sing. Meanwhile, my friend received a text that two more were killed in the Bureij camp. In Ramallah the singing continued. I was recoiling on the inside. It was completely disrespectful. I looked behind me and desperately wanted to laugh at the identical postures of my mother and sister, with their arms crossed and deep scowls etched into their faces. That this protest was organized on such a short notice is no excuse (another protest is set for this Sunday the 22nd). The names of the martyrs should have been up somewhere. A silent candlelit vigil would have been more deferential to the memories of the seven killed in Gaza, not this cringe-worthy festive atmosphere. The men in the middle were now jumping up and down, still singing. As the song died out, one of them yelled, “We want a state in September!” The senseless sheep around him repeated what he said. My friend, sister and I all responded at the same time more than once, “We do NOT want a state in September!” The sheep didn’t know who to repeat after. I was close to throwing up my innards. One of the singing men grabbed the flag from my hand which was handed to me by someone and said, “Ok, we’re done now.”

The sheep dispersed, and my mother shrilly said that it was shameful for us to even say we were at a solidarity protest for Gaza. She and my sister decided to meet my aunt somewhere, so I walked home alone, my feet pounding the pavement, seething the whole time.

Elmaz Abinader Interview

Published by the IMEU .

I had glimpsed Elmaz Abinader a couple of times during my visit to the building in Birzeit that the Palestine Writing Workshop and Palfest jointly share. Her dark curly hair moved enthusiastically as she spoke to her students around the makeshift table in the next room, fitting the lively astute character that one gets an impression from her blog posts on the Red Room online community website. Although Elmaz was born into a Lebanese family, she lived in the US her whole life. Most of her work (Children of the Roojme, a Family’s Journey from Lebanon, In the Country of my Dreams) centers on Arabs or Arab-Americans coping and dealing with antagonistic measures present in their daily lives. It was interesting to see where this particular theme fit within her experience of teaching for the first time in the occupied West Bank, and her perspective on the role of creative writing in Palestine.

You’re involved with VONA (Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation). Explain a bit about how the event pans out.
It happens every year, on the campus of Berkeley, and always the last week of June/first week of July. I was actually one of the founders. People have to apply for it. The workshops run for about two weeks, and each week is different. We have very famous writers of color teaching, and about five hundred people apply every year. We accept around one hundred and twenty applicants. Some of them stay in residency where we have it, and they work on their writing for the entire week with a master teacher. We do a big reading at the end. Yeah it’s very special.

What are the tips or advice that you found most helpful?
What happens in the standard American society is that people of color become exoticized. Some people look at their themes, their topics and their stories and think “oh how unusual, how different.” So the actual work on their writing never gets done. This kind of perspective gets in the way. So at VONA we say “ok, we’re all writers of color and we all have these special types of stories, now let’s get to working.” So it gives them a better opportunity to get the development in their writing.

Have you ever travelled to a different country to teach a workshop?
I taught at Egypt for one year [as a Fulbright scholar]. I had a wonderful time there. I’ve mostly taken my performances out of the country. People get in touch with me that way and learn about me through their questions. I spend a lot of time talking to journalists, teachers, radio and television people.

Has there been a particular environment that you found difficult to teach in?
There are different ways that environments can be good and different ways that they can be difficult. For instance in Egypt, it was difficult because students were oriented to tests. So the idea of a classroom discussion, the idea of free thinking, was very hard for them to grasp. I would tell them a story about my life and they’d ask if that was going to be on the test. On the other hand, they were so enthusiastic and open. They were also very easy to teach. Everything has a particular kind of challenge and a particular kind of advantage.

Have you ever worked with disadvantaged youth or minorities?
I don’t really work with youth that much. I mostly work with university students, adults about creative writing and the theories of teaching creative writing. I teach people so that they can in turn teach or work. My university is located in a town called Oakland which is a very integrated place, and I have a project there. Many of the people of color there are not serviced well (the public school system is not that great), so my graduate students go out to the different populations in the city and offer them writing workshops.

Where did you hear about the Palestine Writing Wprkshop? Explain how your workshop- the Writer Cultivator training worked.
[Palestinian-American poet] Suheir Hammad connected me with [the founder], and it went from there. [For the training] we had three different parts to it. One part was I approached the students as writers. I did exercises and activities that showed different approaches to pulling their writing out of them, (even though they are all well-known published writers here in Palestine) yet there’s always another way to go about your writing. And then I approached them as teachers, and I asked them how they planned on going to a population of a particular age they’ve never met before and teach them how to do creative writing, and what they can find inside themselves that makes them good teachers. The final part the students went to teach at four different refugee camps – Jalazon, Qalandiya, Qaddoura, and the Am’ari. Then they would come back to report to me and we would analyze the way their classes went, how they can prepare for their next class, what the sequence of classes needs to be, etc. Their students (the refugee girls) are going to have a celebration at Sakakini Cultural Center, a big reading on July 30th. I’m not going to be here!

There’s a lot of talk about creative economy. How sustainable do you think that will be, particularly in its creative writing form here in Palestine?
I think the possibility is huge, but the steps are going to be small. First of all, you have a very strong literary community. There are key literary figures like Walid Abu-Bakr and venues like the Sakakini Center. The key figures are the strong pillars of the literary community here, and they recognize this need, along with the Palestine Writing Workshop’s philosophy and mission, to create this need. I think you’re going to get a lot of writers and you’re going to get a lot of classes, but the transition to getting publishers and editors is going to be the difficult part. You can send foreigners in here to teach, but you have to create your own publishing industry, it has to be interior money. The job will be to make it so spectacular that people can’t ignore it, like the music scene here, and then when people can’t ignore it they’d want a piece of it.

Are you aware of any writing communities here in Ramallah/West Bank?

Other than PWW and Palfest? No, I just met individual writers and they all seemed to know each other. On Wednesdays we have our classes at La Vie. Last week it was over at 4pm, and my students hung around, they didn’t leave. I left, but they went into the garden and started doing writing exercises with each other. It was so nice. They took advantage of the moment of being together –there were six of them here—and when I came back someone told me that the last student just left. People are hungry for that establishment of community. I have that back at home, where I have five people come over, and we sit and write, then break for lunch, then go back to working on our stuff.

Do you think that writing especially in oppressed societies is used as an outlet to escape one’s reality or as a platform to convey to others what they endure on a daily basis?
One of the things that literature can do is all of those things, but it is better, for me at least, if they do it through narrative and poetic forms. For instance, I know more about World War One from good stories I’ve read and films I’ve seen. When you see peoples’ lives inside a political situation and they tell a story, whether it be a love story or a story about their garden, everything has got to do with how often they’re going to see their lover or how much water their garden needs respectively. In this way literature actually corrects history by bringing it to the people level off of the government level. One problem with getting Palestinian literature outside of Palestine is that you need a range of voices, not just one person or a character that people come to rely on as representing the story of Palestine. We need a variety of voices, for them to be complex and complicated and not always about the political situation, but about everything such as whatever people are dreaming about. I learned the most about Palestinian literature by talking to Walid [Abubakr]. He gave me a really good perspective on who the uppercomers are, and the dearth of writers of the last generation.

What has been the most striking aspect of your current crop of students?
They’re very smart. One of the things I always say in my teaching world is as soon as I stop learning from teaching I will stop teaching. These writers are so creative and so smart and even though they needed some guidance on how to teach, as soon as the door was opened they just took off. They’re also so sweet, offering to take me places on my first day here. I feel like I’ve made friends even though I’m a hundred years older than everybody.

How important is the potential in creative writing in society under occupation?
I think it’s where the most potential is. In the mainstream societies they’ve written themselves into a corner. I feel like I’m reading the same crap over and over. One of the things I’ve fantasized about was creative writing teaching articles, and teachers and creative writers throughout the world would show for example how a story from Palestine and a story from Sri Lanka can have a dialogue in a classroom. Because we have online capabilities, we can go global. There’s a kind of democracy to it that the publishing industry never had, which also means that the crazies can get through [laughs].

Your upcoming memoir The Water Cycle deals with the shaky concept of identity and cultural relationships. Did you feel as a child/teenager that you had to compromise a part of you in order to fit in? Or was it mainly confusion?
My whole childhood. My family lived in a town where there were no other people of color. The pressure to be part of the society, to look like part of the society, act like part of the society, to hide things about our home life was enormous. It was that time in American history where people were ‘assimilationists’, and so my name was changed when I went to school to Alma-Ann, I was dyed blond for a wedding, there were all kinds of pressure. But of course the more you push something the more it pushes back. My Arab ties would be stronger if I spoke Arabic, but I believe that I feel as much part of the Arab diasporic literary community as I do in the American literary community.

What has been the best thing you’ve learned from your students so far?
The best thing I’ve learned from my students is that you can write under any conditions. One of my students was teaching at the Sakakini Center. Her family arrives, she picks up her baby, and she continues teaching. There’s a hunger to be heard.
Writers in the US including myself are always saying I don’t have time I don’t have the space I need to be spoiled but people here have to go through checkpoints, and wait for all kinds of crap before they get to sit down and do their writing.

Gaza Blackout

When I finally got home yesterday it was already around 1 am. After having iftaar at a great aunt's house, we then went to another aunt's house to welcome back her son from the ghurbeh-six years spent studying in Russia. I was dying for internet access. I've become somewhat of an addict, and for some reason the internet in my aunt's home wouldn't work on my laptop. The hours spent drinking tea and coffee and eating qatayif were a bit marred by the black looks I was shooting my mother. Yallah Ma are we planning on sleeping over?

I had planned on cobbling another informal post about the second PalTweetUp meeting. Instead, news across Twitter quickly spread about a mass communications cut in the Gaza strip, entering its seventh hour. My heart dropped somewhere between my toes. The first thought I had was "Ground Invasion. Air Raids. Naval Attacks." In short, another Operation Cast Lead.

Less than three years ago, my family in Ramallah were gripped by frustration, helplessness, and total despair. My father's family in Gaza were witnessing firsthand Israel's murderous onslaught that lasted for twenty two days, and all I could offer them was a watery phone call imploring them, rather stupidly, to stay safe. I'd start off with false cheeriness before my voice would break, the tears gushing down my face. If half the Samouni family were wiped out, who's to say my family won't be next? My uncles and their wives over the phone would be doing what I was supposed to be doing to them, comforting me, trying to downplay the risks and their suffering: "We're fine, the explosions are only shaking the building. Of course the children are terrified, but that means that we're all sleeping together, good for staying warm. Chin up Linah."

Quickly, news came in that the mass cuts were caused by Israeli bulldozers that destroyed a fiber-optic cable near the border, thus severing land lines, the internet, and cell phone connectivity. That didn't stop me from calling my uncles though. I tried both their land lines and their cell phones, over and over again. I tried to stop myself from overreacting. Why else would there be a massive communication breakdown? It's not a mistake. Mistakes on this large scale don't last for eight hours now. I pushed images of ground troops stealthily infiltrating Gaza from my mind. It was a scary notion, a cruel fact that Gaza was completely isolated from the whole world.

The only other explanation was an oversimplified one, that it was just a technical problem. That still doesn't deter from the real issue at hand: Gaza is still being effectively occupied. Israel controls all border crossings, including the Rafah border, and has the power to turn on and off the electricity that 1.7 million people depend on. It supplies water, and also can cut that off whenever it feels like it. For Gaza to become a black hole for those hours was a terrifying concept to grasp because no one know what was going on. Yasmeen Elkhoudary, probably the only one tweeting -- albeit from a shaky connection -- from Gaza via her Blackberry, provided information that land lines were working, and that to the best of her knowledge, there were no air strikes or anything of that kind.

My finger was still pushing the redial button religiously. Sixty miles separate Ramallah from Gaza, but it seemed like sixty thousand miles. Around 2:40 am, my uncle Mohammad from Tal il Hawa district picked up. I screamed, "'Amo!"

"Ahlain, ya 'ami. How are you?"

He sounded groggy. It suddenly dawned on me that I might have woken him up.

"Don't worry about it," he yawned. "I have to get up for su7oor anyway."

"What's going on? Why are all the telephone lines down? What's happening?"

"The land lines work."

"No, I think they only work within Gaza itself. Because I called you and Amo Mahmoud and Amta Najat and all I get is a busy signal."

"Yeah well..we don't really know what's going on. No one knows the reason for the power cuts. We've heard something about Israeli bulldozers digging too far and hitting a few cable lines, but that's about it. I'm surprised you managed to get through to me. You're probably roaming on the Orange network."

"Are you safe? Do you hear any drones? Missiles? Any news of anyone killed?"

"We're fine. The sky is quiet tonight. Nothing's happening on the ground. People got bored because of no electricity and went to sleep early."

"Are you sure there's nothing?"

"Yes habibti. Go to sleep."

"What time do you go to work? I'll call you then."

I tried my other uncle's cell phone. It was turned off. Relief flooded through my body. Nothing is happening, yet. A couple of hours later I finally crashed.

I woke up at 9am and immediately called Mohammad. He picked up and said something before the line disconnected. I swore under my breath as I realized my phone's battery died. Half an hour later there were confirmed reports that the communication lines were working again. The night had passed smoothly, relatively speaking. I called my uncle again at 2:45pm. He had went home because there was no work in the bank without the internet. People are still bewildered. He told me Jawwal's service connection was back on fifteen minutes earlier, not at 9:30am as some initially reported. I suppose it depended on the different districts and areas. A fifteen hour blackout is no different from a twenty hour blackout. He hadn't heard anything, not even rumors. I called my other uncle a few hours later. I heard waves crashing in the background. He was standing on a hill in Khan Younis overlooking the sea. He seemed convinced that what happened was just a technical problem, but the cynic in me won't shake off the feeling that there must be an ulterior motive on Israel's part.

The psychological warfare inflicted was just another used tactic of Israel's. My family and Gaza were safe, for now.