Israeli forces attempt to arrest 2-year-old Palestinian child

As published on Electronic Intifada on Wednesday

Mo’men Shtayeh probably owns a John Cena shirt, the WWE wrestler who the Palestinian kids hero worship, their shrill voices echoing in neighborhood streets of Cena’s catchphrase, “You can’t see me!” accompanied with waving a hand in front of their faces.

Mo’men Shtayeh has seen and knows too much. There is a chance — nay, a probability — that due to witnessing the Israeli army’s brutality and severe oppression in his village of Kufr Qaddoum, Mo’men might have grown up to be a warmongering Islamist (or perversely, a Tea Partier).

Mo’men Shtayeh represents a threat to the security of the Israeli racist occupying state. Apparently, it is well known that due to his savvy nature, Mo’men has been involved in drawing up specialized blueprints to attack enemy bases.

So it all makes perfect sense that the most moral army in the world, the Israeli Defense Forces, the fourth strongest army, the upholders of the beacon of democracy and godly light, tried to arrest Mo’men on Monday, 2 April.

The thing is, Mo’men is two-and-a-half years old.

Murad Shtayeh, the coordinator of the popular resistance committeee in Kufr Qaddoum and the father of little Mo’men, told The Electronic Intifada that heavily armed Israeli soldiers raided his house on Monday at 5:30pm. Two soldiers remained outside, two others went in the house, shouting they were going to arrest Mo’men.

“Mo’men was going inside the house,” Murad said, “when the soldiers suddenly took off from where they had been standing. They came running to the house like they were in a marathon, very fast and urgent, like a bunch of crazies.”

The soldiers claimed that Mo’men had not a nuclear warhead, or a submachine gun, but the most dangerous item in the world — a slingshot.

“Of course Mo’men didn’t have a slingshot in his hands!” scoffed Murad. “And even if he did, so what? He’s a kid.” For crying out loud.

The soldiers were adamant that Mo’men hand over his slingshot (which he doesn’t own) because he was using it to aim at the soldiers. What’s more, they wanted Mo’men to hand himself over to them too.

Bashar Shtayeh, Murad’s cousin, was also present at the scene. “The soldiers in the house drew their weapons and pointed them at the family,” he said, “threatening them that they would not leave unless Mo’men was handed over to them.”

A loud, angry arugment persisted for half an hour between Murad, other villagers who had come to see what the commotion was all about, and the soldiers. The soldiers then left, having cemented yet another moral meltdown in the occupation’s history. Not that they had morals in the first place.

But what of the toddler? Needless to say, Mo’men was terrified by what was going on around him.

“What can I say, of course he’s affected by this,” Murad said. “He was very scared. He’s doing slightly better now.”

Kufr Qaddoum began its weekly popular resistance protests in June 2011, against the encroaching illegal settlement of Qedumim that is built on the village’s land and to open the main village road that leads directly to Nablus.

The Israeli oppression against Kufr Qaddoum doesn’t just happen on Fridays. It occurs on a daily basis.

“Obviously, they thought this stunt — whether carried through or not — would serve as a punishment for us, but the truth is that it will not deter us from our protests,” Murad declared.

“Every day and night we have five to seven soldiers in the village harrassing us. Sometimes they come in with their dogs and fetch cars and houses. Yesterday [Tuesday] at 9:30pm the soldiers set up a checkpoint on one of the inner streets of the village.”

Mo’men Shtayeh, your little two-and-a-half-year-old self highlighted the absurdity, the idiocy, the shameful nature of the Israeli occupying army. May the force of John Cena be with you.

Editor’s Note: The family’s name is Shteiwi, not Shtayeh.

Israel’s interrogation of Islam Dar Ayyoub Tamimi, age 14: video reveals rights abuses

As posted on Electronic Intifada

A year ago on January 23, 14-year-old Islam Dar Ayoub Tamimi was arrested at gunpoint after the Israeli army surrounded his house at around 1:30am. A few days before, on January 17, Islam’s house was one of many in the village of Nabi Saleh that were raided by the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF), where the soldiers then proceeded to take pictures of all males over the age of 12.

A month later, Islam’s younger brother eleven year old Kareem was chased down and hauled off by the Israeli police where he was illegally interrogated for two hours before getting released.

During his arrest, Islam was taken out of bed at gunpoint and violently taken to a military jeep, handcuffed and blindfolded. His brother Omar (who remains in detention after getting arrested during the West Bank car protest on Israeli only roads earlier this month) was beaten up as he tried to help Islam.

According to an email interview with Israeli anti-occupation activist Jonathan Pollak:

Islam was then taken to a military base in the nearby Jewish-only settlement of Halamish, where he was kept outside in the cold, still blindfolded and handcuffed, and was not allowed any sleep. He was then taken to a police station in the Mishor Edomim settlement for questioning, where he arrived at around 8:00 in the morning.

He was asked to sign a document in Hebrew, but it was a (flawed) summery of his interrogation. This happened after he was finally allowed to see his lawyer, and he refused to sign it. The video shows that the Hebrew document was read to him in Arabic before he was asked to sign it.

After his interrogation he was taken to Ofer, and then, a few days after to Rimonim prison (which is part of Hasharon prison complex), which is a detention center for minors. To the best of my knowledge, he was imprisoned together with other Palestinians, not Israel criminal prisoners.

The judge didn’t admit Islam was under psychological pressure and felt threatened per se, but rather wrote that indeed his rights were violated (which in some cases, would have rendered his testimony inadmissible) but that in this specific case, from looking at the tape, it seems he was treated well during the interrogation and spoke of his own free will. [In other words] she believes that the impact of the violations on him, in this specific case, was not severe enough.

Islam was released on 4 April 2011, after 71 days in detention, but remained under full house arrest. The conditions of his house arrest were changed at the beginning of the school year (in September) so that he is allowed to go to school. He still remains under partial house arrest.

The military judge, Major Sharon Livnin, ruled that Islam’s confession despite his unlawful interrogation was legitimate enough to be used as evidence in the trial of Bassem Tamimi:

“In my opinion, the infringement on the defendant’s rights in this concrete case, did not amount to a violation of his right in a way that will sufficiently endanger his right to a fair trial […].”

The Popular Struggle website outlies some of the ways Islam’s rights were violated:

• The boy was arrested at gunpoint in the dead of night, during a violent military raid on his house.
• Despite being a minor, he was denied sleep in the period between his arrest and questioning, which began the following morning and lasted over 5 hours.
• Despite being told he would be allowed to see a lawyer, he was denied legal counsel, although his lawyer appeared at the police station requesting to see him.
• He was denied his right to have a parent present during his questioning. The testimony of one of his interrogators before the court suggests that he believes Palestinian minors do not enjoy this right.
• He was not informed of his right to remain silent, and was even told by his interrogators that he “must tell of everything that happened.”
• Only one of four interrogators who participated in the questioning was a qualified youth interrogator.

At the beginning of a video documenting Islam’s interrogation in the presence of two interrogators (uploaded by the Popular Struggle Coordination Committee’s youtube channel), the boy asks if he will be allowed to go home soon. One of the interrogators barks at him, “Wait, we’re doing an interrogation here.” The one at the computer types in “student” as the other affirms that Islam is a reporter’s assistant. At 43 seconds, Islam asks again if he’s going to go home that night, explaining that he has an exam the next day.

At 1:15, one of the interrogators accuses Islam that he along with other youth were throwing stones at Israeli army jeeps and participating in protests, which are “against the law” and (at 2:30) a “breach of public security.” The same interrogator (at 2:58) then proceeds to tell Islam that he has a right to see a lawyer, but that if he chooses not to answer any questions, that can be further used as solidified evidence against him in court. At 3:29 the interrogator says, “You’re a little boy. Inshallah [God willing] we’ll finish with the interrogation soon, but we want you to tell us all the right things. Understand? We’ll show you pictures of people throwing rocks, including you.”

Almost half an hour later, a third interrogator joins the room. Islam is in the middle of explaining an injury to his leg sustained during one of the protests.

At 4:40 Islam gives the name and age of one of the youths in the village. The third interrogator punches his hand into his fist. The video goes to another interval, where one of the interrogators cuts off Islam, who is in the middle of describing how the youth hide in houses when the army surrounds them, by calling them as mice. The third interrogator says in his rolling accent, “Like Tom and Jerry.” He then suddenly shouts, “Those poor things! Those unfortunates!”

At 5:59, the same interrogator snaps at Islam not to breathe in his face. Islam replies that he hasn’t slept. At 6:39 the interrogator asks Islam what the job of the first “brigade” was, before snickering that he was going to catch the flu from Islam.

At 7:05, another interrogator enters the room. At 7:30 Islam announces he wants to go home because of his school exams.

At 7:50 one of the interrogators asks Islam how many people were in each brigade.

At 8:28 Islam asks if the latest interrogator is the one responsible for taking him home.

At 9:18, after almost three hours (2 hours and 42 minutes to be exact) of interrogation, the psychological stress becomes all too evident as Islam breaks down into tears. When asked why he’s crying, Islam replies that he’s afraid he’s going to fail his school year. He elaborates, “If I fail then the school won’t let me come back to repeat the year.”

At 11:08 The interrogator asks, “What did he tell them?” Islam replies, his voice wobbling, “He told us to wait at the intersection and to take the cardboards to the shrine. We’d take them to Uncle Naji and Uncle Bassem without knowing what was in them. Motasem wanted to know what was in them so once he opened one and found gas masks.”

At 11:39, a new addition is in the room: the only qualified female youth interrogator.

At 12:43, the interrogator that rolls his R’s slaps Islam’s shoulders, saying “You’re happy that the officers got hit by stones, right?”

At 13:35 the interrogators order Islam to raise his head and to sit up straight, telling him that it will all be over soon. Islam’s been in interrogation for more than four hours at this point.

At 13:55 Islam asks when the interrogation will be over. One of the interrogators replies, “In half an hour. We have to first check if what you said is all true, and then we’ll see what will happen. I don’t want to see you here again.”

At 14:35 the interrogator flicks Islam’s arms, which are resting his head, and tells him to raise his head up. “When the interrogator is in the room, raise your head up. Yell at him. And if possible, you beat him up!”

The other interrogator shows Islam a photograph and asks him who the person in it is.

After more than five hours of interrogation, Islam yawns and asks for the time. It’s 2:30 pm, answers the interrogator. Islam turns to the stoic female interrogator and tells her he hasn’t slept since yesterday.

At 15:12, Islam is left alone with the female interrogator. He asks if it’s over yet. She replies, “in a little bit.” Islam then asks her if she’s Israeli or an Arab. She answers, “What do you think? I speak Arabic. I’m an Arab.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I work.”

“You work as what?”

“Just work.”

At 16:52, Islam yawns, “Please God, take me home. I am so tired.”

Islam’s unlawful interrogation was used to incriminate and arrest Bassem and Naji Tamimi, who are actively involved in Nabi Saleh’s weekly popular resistance protests, a couple of months later in March. Nabi Saleh began its protest back in December 2009, after settlers from the illegal settlement of Halamish built upon the village’s land further expropriated the village’s main water supply and spring, Al-Kaws. Naji agreed to a plea bargain, and was subsequently sentenced to a year in prison plus a 20,000 shekel fine. Bassem refused to do the same, and has still not been sentenced, despite spending ten months behind bars since his arrest. When Islam was put on the stand in court in November 2011, he admitted that he had given false testimony due to the immense pressure he was under before and during his interrogation.

Back in late November last year, I sat with Bassem’s wife, Nariman Tamimi, who talked about her husband’s trial, the baseless charges against him, why Naji accepted the deal and Bassem didn’t, and the weekly protests in Nabi Saleh in the video below. She rejects labeling her husband or Naji as “leaders of the protests”, maintaining that this was the characterization given to them by the Israeli authorities in order to accuse them of the charges, as any child participating in the protests is capable of leading. She contents that she doesn’t “recognize the occupier’s right to exist to recognize the legitimacy of their courts” and that she attends the trials because she wants to see her husband who “is my best friend and partner.” When asked about Bassem’s morale, Nariman replies, “He’s always been so strong and optimistic. His spirits are so high and make you stronger, instead of the opposite.”



Thanks to Jan Beddegenoodts for the video

Israeli Soldiers' Savagery at Mustafa Tamimi's Funeral

As posted on Electronic Intifada

Video:

For an introduction, I recommend reading the following links: Mourning Mustafa Tamimi as Israeli Soldiers Escalate Violence, and Funeral of Murdered Mustafa Tamimi Ends in More IOF Violence and Savagery.

Every time I look at the picture below, I want to laugh. Call it hysteria, call it exhaustion, call it being subjected to so many cruel emotions over the past few days after witnessing the murder of a true freedom fighter.

The pictures shows Tasneem H, @Tweet_Palestine, @_Watan, and myself among others in a human pile on the ground with Israeli soldiers beating us as we tried to prevent them from arresting us and the other activists we were protecting with our bodies. The following is our testimonies, collected and edited by me.

Me:

The soldiers were in their place, watching us advance. They didn’t fire tear gas; their presence itself was enough provocation. We stood in front of them, and began shouting at each of the soldiers, going from face to face with Mustafa Tamimi’s poster held up by our hands.

Our grief spilled into rage.

“Which one of you killed Mustafa?”

“Which one of you did it?”

“Which one of you has the courage to look in his sister’s eyes, the one you prevented from seeing him?”

“WHICH ONE OF YOU MURDERED HIM?”

@_Watan:

The question was asked a million times that day, and was answered by tons of tear gas, sound bombs, and physical violence. They were afraid of the question, terrified to look at the eyes of the man they killed, and we were not going to be silent any more.

Me:

Chants of “Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!” and then “Animals! Animals! Animals!” The soldiers backed away from us a few steps, perturbed. We wouldn’t let them go that easily. We followed them.

Tasneem H:

We were simply using our words…Our words and our voices of truth to question the Israeli soldiers of the murder of Mustafa Tamimi. I took out a poster with a photo of Mustafa and asked the soldier to look at the man they were responsible for murdering. I wondered to myself if their conscience would be moved at all by this. Did they still have a conscience?

Me:

I had the picture of Mustafa and was demanding them to look at it, to look at Mustafa’s eyes, the man they killed so heartlessly. One of the soldiers grabbed the picture from me and balled it in his fist. I went berserk.

“Give it back!” I shrieked. “Give it back, you animal! You’re not human give it back!” I grabbed at his hand and he shoved me vehemently. I tried again and he threw the torn picture on the ground.

@Tweet_Palestine:

All of a sudden one of them jumped on Jonathan [Pollack] who was standing next to us. They tried to arrest him and we all jumped on him trying to keep the soldiers from taking him. The soldiers kept hitting us everywhere. Then one of them tried to choke Jonathan until he fainted and was carried away.

@_watan:

They were hitting him, and choking him. The rest of the girls and I ran toward them, trying to save him from their murderous hands. His face was starting to get blue and then he passed out, and still the soldier wouldn’t let go of him. Luckily we were able to get him out just in time to save him from being killed too.

Me:

We were over the metal rink, on the road now. The spring was only across the road. The soldiers began shoving and pushing us, as we continued to demand justice for Mustafa’s murder. Sound bombs were thrown right next to us. Then we saw one international activist lying face down on the ground, his hands tied behind him. We tried to stop the soldiers from taking him with our bodies. They shoved us roughly. We screamed back. I felt a rifle butt hit me on the forehead. The commander came over and said we had five minutes to clear off. I told him we wouldn’t and for them to clear off. He pointed at me and ordered for my arrest. I felt myself being dragged by two soldiers and my biggest fear was that if my parents found out I could kiss this world goodbye. Then I felt someone grab my legs, someone else around my waist, and we all collapsed to the ground. The girls, my fellow activists, my sisters were clinging to me as hard as they could, preventing the soldiers from taking me.

@_Watan:

I turned over to see my friend Linah in the hands of two soldiers. They were arresting her, and the only thing I could remember next was holding her in my arms, and I was not alone…the girls gathered making a human pile, each holding the other so strongly to save her from being arrested.

Me:

More soldiers came and began to drag the other girls away. There was a flurry of movement and another international activist was pinned to the ground by the soldiers. We grabbed him as he became buried in our human pile. He clung to my leg. One of my arms was around my friend’s back, the other clutching another friend’s shoulder. My waist and legs were gripped by them tightly. The soldiers hit my friend on her head. One repeatedly slammed his knee in the back of the international activist we were shielding.

@_Watan:

The soldiers pushed us and we fell on the ground. We were literally on top of each other, yet we were not willing to let go. We were hit and kicked everywhere and one of them hit me on the head with the back of his gun.

@Tweet_Palestine:

We lay on the ground holding him while the soldiers hit us in every direction. I remember Linah next to me screaming the same words over and over again “You will not take any of us.” Another girl was screaming “This is for Mustafa, stay strong!” I had lost my voice by then and couldn’t scream but I moaned and cried as one soldier was trying to break my fingers away from one of the Israeli activists buried within us. Another soldier pulled me from my kuffiyeh and choked me with it, and then I let go of the activist because the pain was just too strong. I watched the soldiers pulling him away from me, dragging him on the street while one soldier put his leg above his head.

@_Watan:

They tried to choke her with her own kuffiyeh.

@Tweet_Palestine:

In a split second another soldier screamed “Take this girl!” and someone pulled my legs and I was dragged away from the girls. I knew that it meant it was over: they were going to arrest me. I was on the ground when I heard the girls screaming out my name and I then knew I was safe, I knew they would not let the soldiers take me. One soldier had his leg on me crushing me to the ground and the girls jumped on the soldiers and tried to free me.

Tasneem H:

Our human barrier made things difficult for the Israelis. We were in their way. They began violently pulling, kicking and punching the girls and I as well as the protesters they tried to arrest. I heard cries of anguish as the Israelis tried to wrench the human barrier. And in between these cries of anguish, you could still hear the words of truth continuing to be spoken by each and every single one of us.

Me:

>We were screaming and kept holding on to each other, our bodies pretzeled against each other. The soldiers were beating us as we lay there, and my anger was spent. I whispered, “You have no humanity” followed by repeating, “You’re not taking any one” over and over again.

“You are not gonna take any one of us.” Her voice broke my heart yet also made it stronger. We were sad, angry, hurt, tired, and beaten up. But we were also a pile of determination and each time they hit us we became stronger. I remember the face of the international activist we were shielding. He was looking at us as if we were the safest place on earth. It was us vs. Mustafa’s killers, Truth vs. Violence.

Me:

I looked up and realized more people from our side had arrived. They tried to talk to the soldiers. We finally but very carefully and gingerly picked ourselves off the ground as the people formed a human wall around us and we jumped over the metal rink. Another international activist was getting arrested. We jumped back and tried to grab him but we were pushed back with even more brutal force. The commander kept telling us to go. He added the word “please”. My hands were bruised, my knuckles were blue and bleeding, my body was aching. I was shaking all over. Mustafa’s picture was still in my hand. We turned back to make the long trek up the hill, and they fired tear gas aimed at our bodies to hinder us.

@Tweet_Palestine:

I ran as fast as I could then fell to the ground.

Me:

@Tweet_Palestine fainted. The men carried her and went down to the ambulance on the road.

@_Watan:

We climbed back up the hill, carrying the unanswered question and more determined than ever to continue and bring Justice to Mustafa.

@Tweet_Palestine:

I saw friendly faces around me. I realized I had fainted in the ambulance. I was terrified; what if they took any of the other girls? I should stand on my feet and go back but somehow my brain was no longer in control of my body. I was taken to one of the warm houses in Nabi Saleh, the same house I was taken to when I was attacked the last time. I just wanted to know if the girls were safe and I kept asking “Where is Linah where is @_Watan? Did they take them what happened where are they?” and then they came in from the front door and we hugged each other and started crying uncontrollably.

Tasneem H:

I still can’t comprehend why arrests were made and violence was used by the Israelis. Were our words of truth threatening to them? Were our words of truth threatening their security? Did our words of truth penetrate so deep into their conscience that caused insecurity within themselves?

Me:

They couldn’t even respect Mustafa in his death with this show of savagery.

@Tweet_Palestine:

What had we done I thought. Did it make any difference in the world when we asked these soldiers who killed Mustafa? I don’t know if it did but I felt that my voice again was my only weapon and even if these soldiers did not feel anything even if they beat me up, still I did something I raised my voice. I refused to be silenced by their guns, I refused to be silenced by the Canister that silenced Mustafa. The Israeli army and government and the Zionist movement need to understand that their weapons of murder and their methods of torture will not stop us, will not silence us. We will keep screaming and fighting and as hard as they try to silence us they will never succeed.

An Israeli Soldier Cares For My Safety

The following took place Friday, November 25th in the village of Nabi Saleh during its weekly protest against the Israeli occupation. A group of protesters managed to reach the hill, where a few hundred meters below was the village spring the illegal settlement of Halamish took by force. If you're not an Israeli settler (or their ilk), you are prevented from getting even close to the spring.


“Watch out. You might get hit by a stone.”
For a split second, various images flitted through my mind. One was me throwing my head back, convulsing and positively howling at a full moon in a deserted forest. Another was a perverse natal instinct to hug the soldier, before throttling him into seeing reason. The third was a kaleidoscope of colors. It wasn’t a full scale explosion, but my mouth became unhinged with “dignified” fury.
“You dare to stand in front me, and pretend that you care about my safety? You’re pretending to be worried if a rock hits me? How dare you, when you come here every week—and not just on Fridays but throughout the week— and terrorize this village by spraying them with skunk water, firing tear gas and rubber bullets and live ammunition at their children, at the women, the men! How many children have you arrested? How many houses have you raided? How many have suffocated from the tear gas fired deliberately in their homes, how many kids have you fired at? You don’t care about any of that!”
His little comment solicited the same reaction from the other sabaya/young women around me. We were shouting over each other, then pausing to listen, then picking up on each other’s sentences with added vitriol.
“Anyway,” I added, more calmly. “These stones have a special homing device built into them; they only hit occupiers.”
Two rocks then crashed into the protective shield of one soldier standing to my right. The one in front of me was completely flummoxed.
“Where are you from?” I asked. “Brooklyn?”
“Fuck Brooklyn.” His muddy green eyes were shocked. At that moment, it hit me. I felt so sorry for him.
The commander then marched up. “Go back ten meters,” he barked.
We stayed where we are. If we were guys, there would have been pushing, shoving, anything to provoke us and for them to justify firing from close range. But we were four Palestinian women with a few other Israeli and international activists. Never underestimate the regal wrath of Palestinian women. We will go batshit crazy on you.
“Please go back ten meters.”
Ah, the order turned into a request, which brought about another stab of the kaleidoscope colors.
“You go back! This is Palestinian land, you are the ones encroaching upon this land, and you are the ones perpetuating the colonization of an indigenous people, so you get off this land!”
The commander stared.
My sister and her friend were enjoying themselves a bit too much with their directed banter at them:
“Do you bleed differently from me? We bleed the same blood!”
“Free your minds! Zionism has imprisoned you!”
“You are a victim of your own government’s policies!”
“Put down your gun, we are protesting peacefully!”
A couple of teenagers baffling the Israeli soldiers in front of us by tearing into their state-fed propaganda. I was thoroughly amused, to say the least. I turned to another soldier.
“Isn’t this much better than firing tear gas canisters at us? Look, we’re having a dialogue! We’re talking. We’re not negotiating, since that would imply two equal parties, but we’re conversing!”
One of the girls pointed to another soldier’s face.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“From the rocks you throw at us.”
Kids with guns. This was a new unit. A young, scared unit who broke their own rules by replying back.
It was such a ridiculous situation. I touched his submachine gun. “Look at you, decked out like you’re about to face an army. You’re wearing a helmet, knee pads, bulletproof vest, and this gun of yours that shoots sound bombs and tear gas and bullets. We are armed with nothing. Do you realize how stupid you look?”
“You are armed with rocks.” The eyes shifted, the feet shuffled.
Mr Muddy Green Eyes. I felt so sorry for him.

Ramallah's Revolting Resistance

This can only elicit three reactions.

One: Speechlessness.

Two: Rage. Raaaage. RAAAAGE. A lot of cursing. A lot of fuck-ficking. A lot of angry fists aimed at the screen, followed by a series of drop kicks to anything moving within 50 feet.

Three: Hollow screaming, to the point where the parents run into your room, yell louder than you to find out if you're dying or not, and then deliver a good slap around the head for disturbing their precious Al Jazeera TV time.

I don't drink, but who the hell would want to get drunk from a couple rounds of a Kheibar? Or a Kassam? The pretentious bourgeoisie are at it again, after all didn't that class invent the sex-on-a-beach cocktail?

My eyes. My bleeding Lasik-modified eyes.

It's disgusting, it's belittling, it's completely cheap.

You know those silly little sell-out events that claim to be all about peace thus there's no question of NOT attending because if you don't then obviously you're one for violence and total annihilation of white people? The Dance for Peace festival. Rap for Freedom night. Real Palestinian Food [read what the peasants eat] Resistance Week, let's show the world who hummus and falafel really belong to.

But it's all good, because those Palestinians just want to live their lives dammit, they are so sick of being under occupation when there's barely anything outside that let's them escape that fact, so why can't they just drink a few shots of Gilad, swirl up a kuffiyeh cocktail, and party away instead of working constructively to rid themselves of their present situation?

There are a lot of question marks in this post. WHY Andareen WHY.

via arabagenda.blogspot.com

The Nabi Saleh Children

UPDATE: A more politer version of this article is found over at Electronic Intifada.

Prologue:

[Freedom in Colors. I sent the link to my dad, adding "I know I'm pushing my luck here but can I please go?" The reply was unexpected and sweetly succint: "Yes, you may go, but please take your sister with you." I was ecstatic. All the doom and gloom from the past week disappeared in a puff of smoke. I was going to Nabi Saleh again. I was going to see the other activists. I was going to hug and squeeze and smother my little Spiderman with kisses again.]

Jana, Dana, Rand, 'Ahd. Salam, Areej, Mahmoud, Ahmad. Ranin, Hamada, Osama, Shatha. And of course, Samer aka Spiderman, and Hisham aka Batman.

Ask each child about what happens every Friday and you'll be left reeling at their solemn impassivity. They sound mechanical, a bit put off at having to repeat what they no doubt have already done to other activists. Some look at you, others fiddle with the bracelet you're wearing.

Spiderman doing what he does best

Lara, called by her pet name Lulu. She's two and a half years old, has chubby cheeks (plenty of room to draw on!), and her hair is twirled into pigtails. She doesn't talk and stares either at the ground or past your shoulder. Last year her mother threw her out of the window from the second floor of the house. The IOF were firing tear gas inside the house and everyone inside was suffocating. Lulu, along with the others who managed to escape outside, had to flatten themselves on the ground as the tear gas whistled and exploded over their heads. The incident certainly has its traumatic and psychological scars; for a while Lulu hated her mother, thinking that she threw her out of the window on purpose.

Jana spent a few months in the US, so she understands and speaks some English. Ask her where she lived in America, and she'll reply, "West Palm-en Beach." Ask her what goes on every Friday and she'll reply, "We go out to the maseera [protest]." Ask her to elaborate a bit more, and she'll comply. "The soldiers fire tear gas and live ammunition, and the shabab throw rocks. I'm not scared of the soldiers." I wonder, is it not criminal for "live ammunition" to be part of a five year old's vocabulary?

Samer, my special little Spiderman, climbs on your knees, makes himself comfortable and starts talking. He can't pronounce the 'r' sound and substitutes it for 'y'. "The army comes every Friday. When they leave I throw rocks on their jeeps. I'm not scared of them then."

'Ahd on the left, Areej on the right. Both taunting the soldier. "Shoot me! You're scared, look at you hiding behind your gun! Inta majnoon!" And just to make it more clear, they said it in English: You are CRAAAZY!

Izz is eleven years old but acts like he's forty. He dodges my hand. "What do you want to draw on my face for-do I look like a baby?" He puts his hand on his chest before tapping his head once, in the old man gesture of thanks-but-no-thanks. I watch his skinny figure walk away, his shoulders squared, his voice deepening whenever he raises it.

Salam is the youngest child of Basem and Nariman Tamimi. He's a natural Beiber, straight naturally highlighted hair almost covering his eyes. He was initially very reluctant to share in the fun, latching himself onto his mother like a barnacle, burying his face in her leg. Later I saw him running, holding onto a string of balloons, with a sun and a moon painted on each cheek.

Ranin is ten years old. She doesn't take part in the protests themselves but watches them from her rooftop. "When the soldiers get angry, they start shooting tear gas inside the houses. We're worried about my sister Ro'a, she's only nine months old." I asked her about whether she thinks the protests actually mean anything. "Even if you all didn't come, the army will still be here. Today at least, you made us have fun."

This Friday in Nabi Saleh was planned as a day of color and fun. Balloons, clowns, face-painting, kite-flying, the works. It was dubbed as "freedom in colors." It was a day centered on the children, for them to live one day as normal carefree kids, a day to temporarily make them forget about their reality that consists of soldiers, jeeps, and tear gas. The idea was for the children to take their kites, made from plastic bags and newspapers, and fly them at the spot where the Israel jeeps park, before the children then advance over to the neighboring hill. Because the soldiers won't fire at children, right?

We painted faces, mostly flowers and hearts and the flag of Palestine. I took out my artistic prowess on one face as I drew tiger stripes with aplomb. Nearby Manal Tamimi was getting interviewed about her predictions for today: "No, I don't think the army will be better to us this time, or any less dangerous." The hours leading up to noon prayers were filled with kids playing with hula hoops, little girls comparing their body art, the older boys engaged in a game of football. Prayers weren't even over yet when the IOF pulled in with their jeeps and got out to line up in front of the smattering of children who were at the end of the street at the time.

There's a distinct acridness in the air. The villagers are immune to it, but i could feel it tingling on my upper lip and just inside my nostrils, making me sneeze some fifty times.

One of the kids planted a Palestine flag on the jeep. Woot woot!

This time, the border police, more sadistic than the army, were the ones who faced us menacingly. More children came down, a couple holding their kites. Last week, the IOF gave us at least ten minutes of chanting before unleashing the tear gas. This week, without the presence of diplomatic consuls, their true colors didn't hesitate to come out. The older people barely had time to congregate when the sound bombs began. I was inside Manal and Bilal Tamimi's house, and the women were hurriedly closing all the windows because by then the tear gas had already filled the air. Chancing a look outside, I saw two border police violently pushing and shoving Maath Musleh, the guy behind the Nabi Saleh online live streaming, who was decked out in his usual Press vest.

Things calmed down briefly, and everyone went outside. Hamada, Spiderman's older brother, had a kite in his hand but seemed unwilling to go out. Hamada was once hit by a tear gas canister in his side which caused internal bleeding and damage in his liver and kidney. The injury was quite serious, and his family had feared the worst. Thankfully, he is all healed now. I picked up the tail of the kite and we stepped outside together, his mother encouraging him all the way. There was barely any wind. I had to throw the kite up in the air and Hamada would have to shorten and tug at the string while simultaneously running backwards. He couldn't run more than five steps because the border police, with the army behind them, were standing right there. After a few more tries we finally succeeded in keeping the kite aloft for a few seconds.

We then chanted as usual, singing Fairuz's song about kites, and sat down on the burning asphalt. The commander went to his jeep and the loudspeaker on top crackled in urban Arabic, "This is a closed military zone. You have five minutes to disperse or we start shooting." This was met with jeers and cat calls. A chant then started up, "Show us the papers! Show us the papers!" referring to the nonexistent legal document that specifically states whether Nabi Saleh is in fact a closed military zone or not.

There's a difference between the army and the border police. Essentially they're part of the same wrapper, but while the army soldiers look passive and impervious to our actions and slogans, the border police positively drip with malevolence and hostility. Their eyes don't stare blankly ahead, they rove from one face to another, and whisper to each other little first-world jokes and sneer as our chants become more vociferous.

One minute passed. Their stances shifted, grew more aggressive, so we stood up. "This is a closed military zone. This protest is illegal!" the loudspeaker blared out again. How-and I'm struggling with words here-ironic? Paradoxical? Ridiculous? And so much more. Today was supposed to be all about the children. For them to live one Friday not plagued by tear gas or the frightening explosions of the sound bombs or being confined to their houses. The children were to parade their faces and fly their kites. But the IOF can't differentiate between children and armed threatening forces.

"You have five minutes."

I kept my eyes on the tear gas canister in one of their hands. But I didn't see it getting thrown, and I was suddenly engulfed in white smoke, with the flurry of people moving all around me. I squeezed my eyes shut and then opened them again-big mistake. They immediately began to burn, really burn, and once again I stumbled blindly into one house, down the stairs, eyes glued together and streaming, trying to inhale deeply, a permanent saw against the back of my throat. You think you don't panic when the tear gas hits you because you don't throw your arms up in the air shrieking with fear and pain, but in all honestly I was thinking about not losing my cool too much to actually pay attention to what's happening around me. Later I was told the canister was right between my feet, and guys were yelling at me to move to the side. Downstairs I paced back and forth, counting down the minutes until everything in my body went back to normal, my heart thudding dully. I was trying to figure out what happened, well that was a no-brainer really but did they just fire tear gas into a crowd filled with children? Where does Shakira's laudable work for children fit in here? Oh that's right, it doesn't.

The tear gas got so bad we had to stay in the houses. The children were kept preoccupied with cartoons but after a couple of hours they grew restless. I went upstairs with Manal to help make tea for over twenty people ("Please use plastic cups," I implored her) and the kids followed shortly after, opening the veranda doors inside the kitchen and going outside.

Kids Vs Army

Jana, Rand and Salam making their voices heard at the Israeli jeeps below

The Nabi Saleh children began singing nationalist songs. The oldest couldn't have been more than twelve years old. A bunch of them went around the back of the house and stood in front of the armored jeeps, peace signs at the ready. Spiderman followed them. Without warning, the fucking IOF shot tear gas at them from a close range. The wiser ones skipped away and ran back to the house, poor little Spiderman stayed where he was and got the full blast. He was obviously terrified and in pain. Later, back in his mother Manal's arms, he had finally stopped crying. Manal asked him how the gas had affected him. He answered, "3adi, zay kul muya [murra]." The same, like always.

That's some profoundness for you.

Some soldiers don't want to be in a village firing at civilians using disproportionate force. They are just there to do their "duty". The border police want to be there, they don't exactly garner up sympathy in court cases once they get exposed for beating up an unarmed Palestinian. We went back outside and asked one of the soldiers, why do you shoot at children? The answer we got was mind-blowing and drenched in sadism: "Because I want to." That statement illustrated itself as once again the tear gas started. One canister hit ten year old Areej square in the back. She fell like a sack of bricks.

Every child has a right to a childhood. The Nabi Saleh children are denied this right. Jana and Rand were watching Cartoon Network when the sound bombs went off yet again. Jana barely raised her head, tiredly saying "Khalas. Stop it." After a few minutes Rand got bored and opened the door. She came back to where Jana was curled up on the couch, tapped her shoulder and said, "Yallah, let's go see the army again." It's cute, it's bitterly funny, it's heart-breaking to see them act this way, as if that's completely normal. I wonder how these kids will turn out to be. I wonder if they ever think of Israeli children whether they are innocent, and if later the bitterness and jealousy over these Israeli children living in such relative comfortableness and security will begin to manifest destructively.

Our own heroes, Spiderman and Batman.

"For decades, the conflict between Israelis and Arabs has cast a shadow over the region. For Israelis, it has meant living with the fear that their children could be blown up on a bus or by rockets fired at their homes, as well as the pain of knowing that other children in the region are taught to hate them."

Dear Obama, fuck you.

Getting to Know the Birawees

So what do you know about Ramallah's twin city, Al-Bireh? More importantly, what do you know about the Birawiya or as they're known in the Arabgaleez (Arabic + Ingleezi) language, Birawees?

First of all, make sure you refer to Al-Bireh as a city, not as a town or a village despite its colloquial rural patois. Birawees are touchy about that. They've got an immense load of pride which gives off the impression that they're full of themselves, which is absolutely true. And before we go on, we must give off the disclaimer that the rest of this post will be full of stereotypes and generalizations to further enrich that Orientalist mind and make the enlightened liberal one shake its head sanctimoniously.

One thing that is quite obvious from the start is that Birawees are a bunch of stuck-up racists. We're both half-Birawees, and our non-Birawee mother and father have always been referred to as ghareeba/ghareeb i.e. strangers. The offspring are then looked at in a condescending manner. Those poor urchins...suffering from the demise of being a half-blood. Jesus Christ we're reminded of Harry Potter, Mudbloods, Purebloods, and Half-bloods. Every year Muntaza Al-Bireh, a public park with a huge fountain in the middle and a building with wedding halls in it host a dinner for all of the Birawee graduates of high school. We weren't invited. We didn't lose any sleep over it of course. That's just their screwball mentality. The women wail when their daughter gets married to someone outside Al-Bireh, and say "gharrabna bintna!" which means we have foreignified (or alienated, to use proper English) our daughter.

Long ago, the Birawees were known for being rich mother-heifers because they owned so much land. This lead to some back-stabbing, double-dealing, and subterfuge as the males in the family swindled the inheritance papers so that their six sisters (and if the male was a real asshole, his four brothers also) wouldn't get a share. The father would die, thinking that even in death his words will be final, not suspecting the craftiness of his youngest son or his good for nothing firstborn who change the will barely after the earth settled on the father's grave. Of course, this birthed very strained family ties and relationships for the future generations, who know no God when it comes to land and money. Til this day, there are grandchildren who do not know their second or third cousins because their grandfathers were at each other's throats over this issue. Nevertheless, it has not lessened the supercilious attitude. That's because the next generation immigrated to the United States, made their money in grocery stores, liquor stores, gas stations, various 7/11's, etc. So they were still filthy rich. Some dragged their families years later back to Al-Bireh, where their children would moan about how boring the "blad" is and how the Palestinians living here are such boaters. The money earned would be showing its class in monstrous architecture that pass for villas. The men who worked for 35 years behind the cashier would die in the States from diabetes, lung cancer, high blood pressure, kidney failure, osteoporosis, rheumatism all rolled up into one package. The smarter ones sell their stores after 30 years and come back to their hometown to open up a pizzeria or some other quaint project, and spend the rest of their lives holed up in the dirty coffee shops right next to the Omari mosque.

The sons of these old men marry American women, have a kid, and then get a divorce. They go back to Al-Bireh to marry a proper Muslim bint il-balad, then return to the States and have five more kids. The kid from the American woman is discarded somewhere. When the five children reach their teens, the parents move the daughters back to Al-Bireh in order for them to remain chaste virgins and not the hoochie mama sluts who dress in short shorts and tank tops, have boyfriends and go to school with. The sons remain in America, finish high school and start working at the respective grocery store/liquor store/gas station etc. They make a little money, grow even more thick-headed, and believe that they are God's gift to everything. They wear jerseys and jeans that can fit a whale, have about five custom made Nike shoes, and shop at Rocawear. "Education, who needs university when I'm making money already. No Ma, I don't want to get married. I tried banging the local stripper and all I got out of it was two freakin kids." They do end up getting married, well into their thirties, and they will not settle for a bride unless she's a 17 year old virgin that lived all her life in Al-Bireh, and who gets sold off by her father because his future son-in-law has US citizenship which automatically means moolah. Those who immigrated to America and breed generations there come back with the same damn mentality of everything is haram and everything is 3eib.

The daughters who are "lucky" enough to be trusted by their parents not to turn into hoochie mama sluts and so continue living unabated in the US come every summer to Al-Bireh, pretending that they hate the chaotic backward lifestyle but secretly kill themselves over finding a husband. These girls take the Ramallah perverts too seriously, curse the taxi drivers because he can't understand their chopped up Arabic, and think that if they wear a knee length skirt they will be branded as Americanized Britney Sbears and so consider it a sacrifice on their part to dress in longer sleeves and not wear capris. They are also the same ones who dress to the nines at every single wedding in the summer, even the ones that they're not invited to, all in the hopes of finding a suitable husband, one that comes from the same mold as they do. The girls are essentially all clones of each other. Sometimes you see them walking in large packs either late afternoon or at night, their Snooki poofs visible from a mile away, their straightened hair lying dead on their shoulders, dressed in the same skinny jeans (Seven if you please) and that inevitable purse swinging from their arms. These girls have devalued what a Coach bag is. The savvier ones are moving on to Michael Kors and Louis Vuitton, but the Coach bag is a staple of the masses' wardrobe. Despite coming here every summer they still don't have the wits to figure out that speaking English (especially their lightning speed nasalized tone) in public will cause store owners to triple their prices and get chased by a greasy haired bunch.

It's a whole Little America in Al-Bireh during summertime. The streets are suddenly flocked with jersey-wearing Amrikan with their sagging jeans and silver chains bouncing off their chests, and the weddings are full of pencil skirt wearing girls who size each other up based on whose got the biggest flash factor.

Now let's get in the clan divisions. I believe there are five in total: Karakra, Tawil, Hamayel, Quran, and Abed. Even within Al-Bireh the stereotypes attached to each clan are well known and well made fun of.

Karakra: Not much is known about this small clan other than that they are an arrogant bunch. The joke is that they put on airs when they number a total of 14 members as everyone else is in the US or dead.

Tawil: This clan is known for its superior, haughty vainglorious nature. It is so true. They point their chins forward, flare their nostrils, and look down their noses at everything and everyone. They can only have nothing but the best. The best houses, the best cars, the designer clothes, the best looking wives and daughters, etc. They make others want to smack the shit out of them.

Hamayel: In Arabic we say "Hamayel are habayel" i.e. Hamayel are stupid. The mean people go a step further and say "Hamayel are hamayel". The "h" in the first word pronounced like the numeric transliteration of "7", as in Hmar/7mar (donkey.) The second "h" is is regular English sounding H. The second word means degenerates, lowlifes, ruffians, etc. Rumors (and overwhelming evidence) has it that some families are into the drug trade. We are so gonna get quartered for this post.

Quran: This clan is one of the largest. It is huge. They are known for being hilariously cheapskates. Like, really cheap. They give the most extravagant weddings, the only time where they will actually spend money, but they sleep on cardboard because they don't want to invest in mattresses, never mind beds. The girls with braces get married early so that their husbands will pay the orthodontist bills. The women have a whole closet full of gold jewelry but whatever happens they will never ever ever sell their stash, even if their nephew back in Louisiana faces up to 5 years in prison if he's unable to pay the 5000 dollar bail.

Abed: Another large clan. Dar Abed are known for being essentially astoundingly stupid. They're, quite simply, airheads. They love the color red, like their Arabic coffee too sweet, and can't mentally add up beyond the number ten. When it comes to another round of "Whose the Best" they are always at loggerheads with Dar Quran, as Dar Tawil are sooo above those trivial matters, Dar Hamayel are busy getting caught with crack stashed behind the embroidered pillows, and Dar Karakra are too busy weeping over their infinitesimal lot.

The Birawee women are a peculiar bunch. They know exactly who your parents are from the first look, even if you've never ever met each other before. One time I was walking home from somewhere. The sun had just set, my crap music was blaring through my headphones, and the lovely breeze put me in a good mood. A bunch of old women were walking slowly in front of me. I passed by them, made the mistake of mumbling good evening-damn my good upbringing-, and a conversation started.

"Inti bint meen? Whose daughter are you?"

"Uh..my grandma is-" I hate that question. It goes without saying that they automatically assume you're from Al-Bireh. It makes me spill out my whole life story, and my parents' too. It's unheard of that a young woman from Al-Bireh would marry a young man from Gaza (a refugee no less).

"Ahhh, I knew you were Manal's daughter! Look, its the blood my dear. It's in your face."

"I'm..I'm kinda in a rush now.."

"We know your aunts too! Didn't they all get married into Dar Tawil? Of course they did! Good for them."

These women find brides for their sons by flicking through high school yearbooks. They start from the seniors' page, then go down to the sophomores'. Their sons can be the most idiotic shithead in the world, with no degree to his name who lives off his parents' money, but the girl must be an angel. She must be young so she can be raised up by her husband and his family. She must be well brought up. She must be docile, doe-eyed, and pure. She must be tall and slender. She must be white with fair hair and blue eyes. The guy can work in a bar, have a few girlfriends back in America, and maybe a kid or two that no one is supposed to find out about. He can drink, he can be abusive, he can do whatever the hell he wants but the girl must fit the upper criterion. A perfect match.

The white skin..dear oh dear. A bride was found for a cousin. She was perfect, had all of the excellent qualities, was educated, demure, religious, had American citizenship. But she was...samra. Too dark for their taste. And by dark I mean cafe au lait dark. Sorry, fsh naseeb!

Weddings are simply an occasion to show off the most expensive embroidered thobe and the heavy weight of gold around their necks, heads, and wrists. When we were younger, we enjoyed going just for the dabke and dancing. Then we quickly found out that we were simply prey for the old wizened vultures. One time when I was 15, a veiny hand shot out and snaked itself around my waist, pulling me from my friends and the dance floor.

"Inti bint meen habibti?"

That time I had figured out the magic word. I felt so smart. I played on their racism.

I shouted, "My dad's from GAZA!"

The veiny hand shot back. "Gaza?!?" She gave me the most disgusted putrefying look.

I was still young enough to feel insulted so I muttered "bitch", a big word for my innocent soul, and went back out on the dance floor.

Heba's had her own share of matchmakers knocking on her house. She's the baby of the family, with three older sisters who at that time were unmarried. The matchmaker wasn't having any of it, reiterating that 16 was a perfect age. The matchmaker finally left, feeling thoroughly insulted.

It gets worse when they find out you have American citizenship, which they call "ceetizen". They will literally HOUND you. Back when I had a heart I actually burst into tears because this woman and her crone of a friend were so fucking relentless. Never mind I was still in high school and had my own plans for the future. What the hell was I waiting for? He's a really good guy, he has his own grocery store here next to Masjid Ali and wants a ceetizen wife. No, of course he's not gonna dump your ass after he gets ceetizen. And if he does, well that's your fault since during the green card months you ran out of ways to entertain him.

What's your father's name?

Please fuck off.

What's his name? Your family's name? Come on.

Ignoring you right now.

Look, write it down, don't be shy now.

[My eyes blur.]

You-you're her friend right? Write down her father's name.

Despite all of this, despite this mountain load of shit, we are privy enough to know that other cities and villages and towns hold the same stereotypical view. The Birawees are loaded, their mother in laws are complete busybody hyenas, the women are known for their sharp tongue and forceful attitudes (she's a kawiya!) and the men are a spiritless lot behind their walls of cash. This may be true in some cases, God knows everyone knows each other's life stories, but again you must dismiss everything that's been said here as a fat generalization. Wait, why the apologetic tone? It's all true man.

PS It's wildly known among the older folk that Elizabeth Taylor, she of the violet eyes Sophia Loren, is originally from Al-Bireh. Her parents died when she was a toddler and so she was sent to some orphanage school in Bethlehem where she got adopted by an American family. True story.

UPDATE: For those spitting at me because "your families aren't like that at all" I wasn't aware I was writing about them specifically. For those who are digging on my mother (one of your own!) stop it immediately. For those who analyzed that I must be an angry jealous bitch because not one single rich Birawee asked for my hand, how the hell did you know that! Best explanation there is. Shucks.

Palestinian Prisoners Boost the Morale of Israeli Guards

Between 1967 and present time more than 700,000 Palestinians have been detained by the Israeli Occupation Forces. That means that every Palestinian family had or has a member in Israeli prisons. We can certainly testify to that since, as we comfortably type this up on beds with the best mattresses in the country, hardcore revolutionary blood is part of our DNA. The 17th of April is commemorated as Prisoner Day, but the families and friends of the 7000 plus prisoners in Israeli jails and penitentiaries do not think of them once a year, but every single day in all waking moments of their lives. The inhumane conditions of the prisoners must be given more coverage, as most are denied medical access, family visits, subject to torture and humiliation, administrative detentions (the longest being Ayed Dudeen), and held indefinitely without any charge. The facilities are poor; overcrowding is a major problem, and many cells are infested with insects and mice that feast upon the skin of prisoners. If we hear another hypocrite scream "Gilad Shalit"...

Here in Ramallah the demonstration lead to as usual Ofer Prison, which is located just on the outskirts. Before that, one woman was extremely upset that the big poster hung around Manara Square did not have her son's picture on it, and as people tried to calm her down she yelled, "They give the priority to put pictures of the sons of those who work in the PA, they are not better than my son!" We're not going to comment on that but this provides an opening for us to snark at the Palestinian "leadership's" casual throwing away of the cause, conveniently forgetting the prisoners, martyrs, and everyone else who has sacrificed their life in face of oppression and terrorism. The Palestine Papers still ring loudly in our ears.

Women brought their framed pictures of their husbands, fathers, sons, nephews, uncles, grandsons, and chanted against the occupation. Israeli soldiers came up to them behind the fence and told them to get out of here, this is not a lawful protest. This inspired rigorous chants of "The occupation is not lawful!" The soldiers warned them a final time, threatening to shoot tear gas at them, but the crowd remained. Firas Badr, whose father is a martyr and his mother a prisoner, was dragged away by the IOF after a slight confrontation when the soldiers starting spraying mace directly into the eyes of the protesters. A small protest was held for him a couple of days ago yet he remains incarcerated in Ofer.

Recently as Israel continues with its dignified policy of collective punishment, hundreds of women was arrested from the village of Awarta on suspicion of harboring any information regarding the murder of the settler family in the very well protected colony of Itmar. A six year old got kicked in the process, but life told her to suck it up because she's a Palestinian. They were forced to sign documents in Hebrew, a language they don't know. But it's all democratic, y'know?

Prisoners are subjected to surprise raids by Israeli forces, usually carried out on the pretext of looking for illegal objects kept in cells (a razor? marijuana? an atomic bomb?) but of course it is meant as another kind of trauma inflicted upon the prisoners.

Here's one such raid, a few years ago.

Who: Israeli Masada combat unit
What: Operation Early Wake-up Call
Where: Ktziot Prison
Why: To boost the morales of the Israeli guards
When: 2007

Turn on the subtitles by clicking on CC at the bottom right.

Ammo was not specified other than it being "not meant to kill". Kind of like how the white phosphorus wasn't meant to burn the skin and bone of Gazan civilians, but used as a smokescreen.

Shlomi Cohen grades the operation a ten out of ten. Mohammad Ashqar died from a head wound in that operation. Excellent work guards, are you all pumped up and renewed with motivation?

"The tougher conditions will remain because this is the only way we can keep you inside." For serial killers, rapists, and psychotics, sure. But show us an unbiased legal trial and sentence and we'll show you a cow that farts rainbows.

Sumoud.

Young Settlers Terrorizing Palestinian Schoolchildren

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Sometimes we see shit that would be totally inappropriate for us to make some sarcastic comment because it would come off as being too crass. We're feeling pretty much disgusted right now, choked up to say anything caustic, ears still ringing with the feral yells and jeers and insults of settler children and the screams and cries of the Palestinian schoolgirls. They shouldn't be terrorized going to school. And those IDF soldiers...what a commendable model for restraint and keeping the order. Shit. FUCK. gah.

The words of Israeli novelist Amos Oz: “A messianic junta, insular and cruel, a bunch of armed gangsters, criminals against humanity, sadists, pogromists and murderers that exited out of some dark corner of Judaism…from out of cellars of bestiality and defilement in order to cause a thirsty and insane blood worship to rule!”

Nuff said. Bestial children. Haters.

March 15th

Empty slogans?

We're just about done wringing our hands. Thank you Egypt for uplifting us with your successful revolution, but the cynicism is back and worse than before.

We've already voiced our thoughts for today. We dared to dream, to hope that March 15th had the potential to become the biggest thing since Tahrir Square captivated the world a few weeks ago. We were aware of our naivety, but we hoped against all hope. Because Palestine is at the lowest point in its history, and it seems just plain criminal to just stand there idly by while the rest of the region is actively attempting and in some cases succeeding in reforming itself. Because the youth were driven with inspiration from the revolutions in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Bahrain, Yemen. Because if the people in Saudi Arabia braved the repercussions by going out to protest, then there really was no other excuse left for us. Because we want, we demand a better present, not a better future. We've been so guilty of living in the past, and so brusque about the future, that we completely forget that the present is what we're currently living through.

Foolishly, we expected thousands and thousands and thousands of people to come out today. The Facebook page "The Third Intifada" has over 170,000 group members. Were they all sympathetic foreigners, activists, refugees in the diaspora?

Yesterday night, a group of about ten young men went to the Manara square on a hunger strike. They planned to spend the night there. One of them is the son of one of my professors, and this morning in class he echoed what I felt when I first heard about their endeavor. It is admirable, yet foolish. We admire their resolve and their commitment, but this is not well thought out. Within our political society, these kinds of things do not serve as a heroic inspirational preemptive solution to ending the division between Fateh and Hamas nor to ending the occupation. If these youths are strong capable intellectuals, then we need them to stay healthy and not waste away in hunger.

Let us turn to Birzeit University for some general context. Yesterday, a rumor spread like wildfire around campus that the dean of the university had approved to host some Zionists and agreed to an exchange program between Israeli and Palestinian students. There was an uproar to say the least. Suspension of classes were once again announced by the student council, to protest against such shenanigans. Then they split themselves into gangs and went to each building, yelling out for the students to leave or the building will be locked. The student council is for the third year running, the Fateh youth group A-Shabiba. The gangs were all wearing the black and white kuffiyeh (their tattoo for membership) and seemed belligerent. We were shocked by the dean's actions. We were angry too. No to normalization, yes to academic boycott. But the information we had from repeated snippets of conversations from others were inadequate. Which Israeli universities? Who were the Zionists? When was this going to take place? Why would such a decision be undertaken, especially one this immoral? The student council had burned tires in front of the Administration building, and were shouting about something or the other with the loudspeakers blaring out nationalistic songs. With no classes, we went home.

This morning on campus I walked a little with a neighbor, who is involved with the student council. I asked her about yesterday, and she launched into an explanation, which filled out a lot of the dark spaces. Apparently, there was some guy (she told me his name, I forgot) who is well known for his extensive normalization with Israel. So much in fact, that Israel gave him citizenship. He spends weekends in Tel Aviv. Well, this guy wanted to study diplomacy for his masters' degree. Birzeit University agreed to including this new field of study in its masters program. The condition was that Zionists had to teach it. And that as the course progressed, for Israeli and Palestinian students to engage in some exchange business. It was only after I made it to my first class when I realized how silly this all sounded. My teachers that day each spoke about this case. When they had first heard the rumor, they went to the department head and in their fervor demanded that they be the first ones to strike. With fire in their eyes, they called up the administration office, got some clarification, rolled their eyes, and proceeded to give classes. Here's the truth: there is some institution backed by the university and sponsored by foreign aid. The sponsors said that they weren't going to fully finance it unless the institution participates in dialogue with Israel. The dean said no. End of story. [UPDATE: the dean put up this announcement on the student portal Ritaj to dispel the rumors officially.] Think of it this way--student elections (so politicized) are in two weeks. A-shabiba merely made up this baseless rumor as part of their campaign to attract more votes for the election. Last year, a total 40 percent of the student population voted, which reflects the disenfranchisement and annoyance with the student council who by the way don't do squat for the students.

Today, those little self-righteous gangs went from classroom to classroom, making a little speech at the beginning by saying how they represent ALL of us, how they are not just acting in the name of Fateh or Hamas or Jabha (PFLP) but are acting in our names. One guy even pointed us out, "You, and you, and YOU, and him, and her, and her, and YOU, and you!" We gave them the once-over in return. How dare they. They do NOT speak for us. They are NOT our representatives. March 15th was a day organized by youth groups, who warned that some political parties or individuals are going to attempt to hijack this day for their own interests, to suit their own agendas. If they were really serious about ending the division, instead of calling people out to congregate around the Manara chanting "No to Division" , they would right off the bat announce that the legislative elections due to happen in September are not to commence without the inclusion of Hamas. I don't buy for a second that these students, who become the big buff liberators of Palestine for the day, have pure intentions and are serious about ending the division. When the schism took place (2006), they and their ilk were the same ones chanting against Hamas and denouncing the so called oppressive tactics used by Hamas in Gaza. Their flaked sincerity is poorly masked blatant propaganda. They discovered they cannot go against the flow.

The gang came in, about 6 or 7 of them, some scrawny some brawny, all trying their best to look intimidating. They huddled in the doorway glaring at us, memorizing our faces, while one of them stepped in and politely called us out to join them at 11 am in front of the Administration building, and at noon a bus was going to come to drop them off at the Manara. He appealed to our sense of nationalism, "If you truly care about yourselves, if you truly want to see an end to division, please come out with us right now to show and strengthen our support for each other. We are not suspending classes so that the students can hang out in the cafeterias." The class looked back at him skeptically. The other guys from the doorway started shouting at us before a guard stepped in, indicating that they had made their point. We went on with our class, which was actually a discussion of these very same students who fail to use their minds critically. They expect us to be sheep, happily following their every lead. Suspending classes is such a stupid move. Right now, the most powerful tool we have in our hands is Education, something that is clearly lacking in our society. Lack of awareness about our history, our literary culture, BDS, other oppressed countries, resistance movements such as Otpor, etc. People need to engage in critical thinking, and not swallow up everything spoon fed to them. The Palestine cause is not black and white. Sure, you have the occupiers and the occupied, but in the middle there's a large vortex of so many grey areas. We are of course against the division. Every self-respecting Palestinian is. The lowest point in our history was when we brutally turned our guns against each other. No one gains from the division except for Israel and its proxies. However, we want to protest in our own way, not because someone is telling us that we must and the only way to do that is to schlepp along behind their questionable footsteps.

Another gang came by. Another nice little introductory speech, which was interrupted by one of the henchmen pointing to the teacher and pugnaciously disclosing to us all that "She can't stop you from leaving the class!" The speaker hushed him up and continued to babble on. "We come to you, in the name of Hamas, in the name of Fateh, in the name of Jabha and all other political factions and parties, in the name of the students, in the name of you all, to join us, right here right now, to end the division." One girl quipped, "You do not represent Hamas, since Hamas are excluded from the student body." He flustered a bit, then changed tacts. "If you really are Palestinian, you would join us." There was no doubt that we would be at the Manara today, but not pigeon-holed by any sort of group. It intensely grates us when the 'Prove You're a Palestinian' card is played, worryingly a lot these days. It is insulting, and demeaning, and highly unnecessary. It pertains to a sense of fascist desperation, which is the last thing we need.

We went to Ramallah, still encased with hope. A niggling thought that we had forcibly pushed to the back of our minds surfaced. How exactly are we going to end the division? A la Tahrir style? What about our own originality? Are we seriously expecting to end the division when there are different characters and groups who suffer not just from short-sightedness but from other crippling discrepancies? If we wanted to be united once again, we wouldn't have waited for five years. We wouldn't have needed the recent revolutions in the Arab world as a stimulus. We smelled some kind of farcical entity. Yet we dismissed all of that. We walked toward the Manara sqaure, our steps faltering a bit. Where was the massive crowd? We expected the streets leading to the Manara to be half clogged up at the very least. I was reminded by that line in one of the songs by the Arctic Monkeys, "Anticipation has a habit to set you up/ for disappointment in evening entertainment but..."

There were some three thousand people there. Three thousand. To end the division and to end the occupation. Inwardly we laughed scornfully, but our expressions were bleak. Is this the best we can do? The large banners certainly outdid themselves, hanging over the sides of buildings, a couple depicting Yasser Arafat and Sheik Ahmad Yasin (the people in the buildings cut out squares in the posters so that they could see). The problem, we quickly found out, was the loudspeakers. They kept playing songs over and over again, so that anyone chanting had little chance of being heard, and those small crowds who nevertheless resolutely chanted were drowned out. It was a washed out Arab version of Woodstock. The guys on the stage draped over the speakers were dancing and cheering the crowd on. Most of the people were just standing there, holding their Palestine flags. Foreigners darted through here and there snapping award winning pictures. Our hearts dropped somewhere below our toes. To one side, there was some jostling as a group of teenage boys formed a circle and dropped on their backsides for a "sit-in". One of their friends stood in the middle dancing inanely. We edged away, numb to it all. In front of us, more guys were starting to do dabke. Our insides squirmed and the space where our hearts were supposed to be cleaved itself into two. The loudspeakers encouraged them, belting out a couple of popular dabke songs. Was this a demonstration or a sahrah? Did we miss the cause for celebration? For this flippant atmosphere? We circumvented the Manara twice. It was mostly empty on the other side. We both wanted to go home, but we held on, hoping for a miracle to happen.

It never came.

The handful carrying their own posters. HANDFUL.

For something that was planned from weeks on end and organized on Facebook, this event was outstandingly anti-climatic. There was no element of seriousness about it at all. We saw more heart, passion, fortitude, and genuineness from the protests in solidarity with Egypt last month (February the 5th) than today. Abbas and Haniyeh are breathing more freely now. A colossal waste of time, a heart-rendering disappointment. We were shocked because we honestly had reason to believe that today, March 15th, was going to be a groundbreaking day. How silly of us.

So we had a bit of a moan and treated ourselves to some ice cream.

A sticker "Let Us End the Occupation" discarded on the street, trodden on

Now, to think critically. Reasons for the low turnout? Laziness, fatalistic attitudes, lack of faith, danger to one's health, ignorance, indifference, acceptance of present reality, realism, numbness to occupation (hey, we have food on the table every day), not being 'Palestinian' enough. etc. Where were all those people commenting on the Facebook page of Let Us End the Occupation? (Last I checked, busy bickering on cyberspace.) Where were the youth leaders? Where were their demands on this much toted 'seminal' day? Where is the communication between ourselves? What are the plans from now?

Is this a serious movement? By today's standards, the answer is a resounding hellllll to the no. Will anything happen tomorrow? Next week? WHAT IS GOING ON? Have we just demonstrated to ourselves and the world that nonviolent protesting definitely does not work with us? And that the fatuous campaign of writing on bank notes is definitely not the way to start our long process of liberation? Tunisia is not Egypt, and Palestine is not Egypt. What this protest succeeded in is to disorient many people, placing the thought that what was taken from us by force will only be reclaimed again by force. Is this what we're reduced to now?

Ramallah's finest brand of fafis

Are we going to end the occupation by procuring tents and settling indefinitely around the Manara square? That'll be a grand thing to do, as settlers expropriate more land, our yells and demands will get louder, all the while languidly sitting there. Or shall we turn rebel fighters and aided with the defected colonels of the PA's security forces, go forward in reclaiming each city one by one, until the mighty IDF bests us with their superior weaponry? So many questions. Too many questions. Call this a state of confusion.

One raging disgusted voice (which I'll leave anonymous), mostly mirroring our own, well expressed:

It's clear to me that we Palestinians are totally confused! El-Inkisam [Division] is probably the least of our problems right now! Personally I think we've lost our ability to create our unique way of resistance! so now we're just imitating and reproducing wotever is thrown upon us....we're not Egypt..Tunisia or Libya....we have Israel AND Qadhafi/Benali/Moubarak....we have one of the few left old forms of colonization in the world...peaceful demonstrations don't work to lift injustice (that's merely my opinion)

I think we should start over....wot is going on! wot has happened!where have we lost our path! wot have we lost and wot do we want now! I think we need to redefine US...who are Palestinians! In the Deffe [West Bank] they want the authority of the people....which people....what about the refugees.....why don't we reconnect with them....how many of us know about Ein elHilwe, Bourj elBarajneh, elYarmook.....that's our identity.....that's the only clear path...we forgot the basics and the redlines have turned gray.....there is Israel, an occupation.....it needs to go.....there are red green and white/black political parties...their agendas are proven incapable...they need to go.....an authority stumbled in weakness and confusion.....it needs to go....another authority full of religious crap and hypocrisy...it needs to go......flowers and candles DON'T WORK here.......only violence and power....physical power not verbal......don't go on food strike....STRIKE!

wot has been taken by force can only be restored by force.....indeed Israel has taken so much...but those who are in control have taken much more...our spirit to resist.....our path....Force is the only solution to Inkissam and to I7tilal [occupation]....(merely my opinion)....we need awareness and i don't think that could be found in the amounts needed....we're confused....i am :s

All i know now is that i don't blv in an peaceful protest here....Peace has done us alotta harm.

Peace has done us a lot of harm.