I went to an Israeli beach at the Dead Sea (on Palestinian land) with a bunch of internationals and Palestinians, just a week or so after I arrived in Nablus. Tourists go and pay Israel money to visit this beach, probably completely unaware that they are in Palestine. I mostly sat in the shade and read and watched the weird tourists walk by, covered in Dead Sea mud. Majed, a Palestinian from Nablus who would soon become a good friend of mine, was listening to music and I asked him what he was listening to. He handed me the headphones, and it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I listened to it as I watched the beach, and I was inspired to take some video footage and make this.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Left
I went to an Israeli beach at the Dead Sea (on Palestinian land) with a bunch of internationals and Palestinians, just a week or so after I arrived in Nablus. Tourists go and pay Israel money to visit this beach, probably completely unaware that they are in Palestine. I mostly sat in the shade and read and watched the weird tourists walk by, covered in Dead Sea mud. Majed, a Palestinian from Nablus who would soon become a good friend of mine, was listening to music and I asked him what he was listening to. He handed me the headphones, and it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I listened to it as I watched the beach, and I was inspired to take some video footage and make this.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Al Quds
I went to Jerusalem yesterday. As it usually does, the entire time there felt like a dream; everything is very surreal in Jerusalem. Surreal and tense. I know I should be in a city that is the capital of two states, but I mostly see tourists. Yesterday was Palm Sunday, so they were all carrying palm tree leaves high over their heads. Packs of tourists, led by a guide in a priest robe, all wearing red scarves tied around their necks, and all holding tall leaves of a palm tree that bob over their heads as they walk.
Standing in the Old City, a man with a long beard wearing a Muslim robe and hat speaks perfect English and tries to lure us into his shop. Somehow, I’m soon standing in front of a mirror and he’s putting a keffiyeh on me. He touches me a little too much in the process, and I think that this man can’t be Muslim. We try to go see the Dome of the Rock, but at the entrance, Jewish policemen tell us it’s closed for tourists. I’ve never been close to it before, and from the stone stairways we stand on I can see its golden dome and blue mosaic walls and I feel some sort of impression from its beauty. I glance to my left, and the Israeli policeman is looking at me.
We visit the City of David, an Israeli archaeological tourist site built on top of the Palestinian neighborhood of Silwan. We walked through the well-maintained façade of the site, somehow almost entirely populated by young Israeli soldiers. A group sat in a row on a bench in front of red potted flowers; they laughed and shoved each other around. One sat alone smelling one of the flowers. A group of Swedish tourists holding bibles spoke about old stones being found in archeological digs.
We left the complex and walked fifty meters down the street to the Palestinian neighborhood. We found the modest Wadi Hilweh information center, run by Palestinians to confront the narrative of the City of David. The center was just a room with walls made of bamboo screens, with photos and maps hanging on them. We learned that they restricted by Israel to build further.
A man named Ahmed, who sat in the doorway as we approached, worked with one crutch to stand and greet us. He told us later that he had been shot in both legs by the Israeli army, while walking with his two children. He was targeted because he worked at the center, and because he often videotapes the actions of the settlers and army.
He sat and told us stories of the settlers who regularly move into Palestinian homes, destroy olive trees and arm themselves with automatic rifles. Any pleas to Israeli court go unheard. The Palestinians are only allowed to build on their houses if they submit to Israeli archaeologists digging beneath their house first. If they find any stones with some archaeological relevance, they will have to give up their home.
“This place has a history that is thousand of years old. Of course they will find these stones they are looking for, and we will lose more homes. So we can’t build.”
A young Palestinian boy came in yelling his name happily. He took Ahmed’s crutch and carried it around the room proudly. Ahmed laughed with a big smile. The boy took the crutch and left it outside. Later, Ahmed had to ask someone to get it for him, still laughing.
I left the center to take the bus to the post office in East Jerusalem, on Salahadin Street. I needed to wait for the bus right outside the City of David complex. I stood in the sun for twenty minutes, watching tourists and soldiers walk in and out, clutching a large bag of books I needed to send home. Some of the Israeli security guards from the complex began to notice me, and came to talk to me. They asked me something in Hebrew, and I told them I didn’t speak Hebrew.
“Where do you need to go?”
“I’m waiting for the bus,” I said.
“What bus? There is no bus here, you need to walk up there,” he pointed up the street towards the Old City. He was tall, and wore a kiippah and sports sunglasses on top of his head.
“I’m waiting for bus 76, does it come here?”
He looked confused. “Are you sure you want that bus? That bus is for Arabs.” He spoke to another security guard in Hebrew, apparently telling him what I said. They both looked at me incredulously. “That bus is dangerous for you.”
I stared at them blankly. I didn’t know what to say. I told them I had been there before, I thought it was okay. We stood in silence for a moment, and I told them I would wait up the road a bit.
Ten minutes later the bus approached. The Palestinian man driving looked at me just as incredulously as the guards. He almost didn’t stop, and when he did he asked where I was going. I told him Salahadin, and he said “Yalla, etla (enter).”
He and all of the bus seemed wary of my presence the whole ride. I wanted to stand and tell them that I wasn’t a settler. I was visiting Silwan, not the City of David. I lived in Palestine and I wanted to see freedom for them. The words sounded stupid in my head and I sat in silence. Later, the bus driver yelled at me for not paying, and I gave him 5 shekels.
Later, after I went to the post office, I walked slowly down the street, outside the walls of the Old City in East Jerusalem. Tourists walked on either side of me, speaking in different languages I didn’t understand. It was warm and the sun reflected off the white Jerusalem stone. I saw a Palestinian boy who was maybe 7 or 8 pick up a stone and raise it over his head as if he was going to throw it at some tourists. He moved in slow motion, so nobody noticed. His hand slowly arced over his head and he maid whooshing sound effects. We made eye contact as I passed him, and he smiled at me, his arm in the air. I smiled back at him.
Standing in the Old City, a man with a long beard wearing a Muslim robe and hat speaks perfect English and tries to lure us into his shop. Somehow, I’m soon standing in front of a mirror and he’s putting a keffiyeh on me. He touches me a little too much in the process, and I think that this man can’t be Muslim. We try to go see the Dome of the Rock, but at the entrance, Jewish policemen tell us it’s closed for tourists. I’ve never been close to it before, and from the stone stairways we stand on I can see its golden dome and blue mosaic walls and I feel some sort of impression from its beauty. I glance to my left, and the Israeli policeman is looking at me.
We visit the City of David, an Israeli archaeological tourist site built on top of the Palestinian neighborhood of Silwan. We walked through the well-maintained façade of the site, somehow almost entirely populated by young Israeli soldiers. A group sat in a row on a bench in front of red potted flowers; they laughed and shoved each other around. One sat alone smelling one of the flowers. A group of Swedish tourists holding bibles spoke about old stones being found in archeological digs.
We left the complex and walked fifty meters down the street to the Palestinian neighborhood. We found the modest Wadi Hilweh information center, run by Palestinians to confront the narrative of the City of David. The center was just a room with walls made of bamboo screens, with photos and maps hanging on them. We learned that they restricted by Israel to build further.
A man named Ahmed, who sat in the doorway as we approached, worked with one crutch to stand and greet us. He told us later that he had been shot in both legs by the Israeli army, while walking with his two children. He was targeted because he worked at the center, and because he often videotapes the actions of the settlers and army.
He sat and told us stories of the settlers who regularly move into Palestinian homes, destroy olive trees and arm themselves with automatic rifles. Any pleas to Israeli court go unheard. The Palestinians are only allowed to build on their houses if they submit to Israeli archaeologists digging beneath their house first. If they find any stones with some archaeological relevance, they will have to give up their home.
“This place has a history that is thousand of years old. Of course they will find these stones they are looking for, and we will lose more homes. So we can’t build.”
A young Palestinian boy came in yelling his name happily. He took Ahmed’s crutch and carried it around the room proudly. Ahmed laughed with a big smile. The boy took the crutch and left it outside. Later, Ahmed had to ask someone to get it for him, still laughing.
I left the center to take the bus to the post office in East Jerusalem, on Salahadin Street. I needed to wait for the bus right outside the City of David complex. I stood in the sun for twenty minutes, watching tourists and soldiers walk in and out, clutching a large bag of books I needed to send home. Some of the Israeli security guards from the complex began to notice me, and came to talk to me. They asked me something in Hebrew, and I told them I didn’t speak Hebrew.
“Where do you need to go?”
“I’m waiting for the bus,” I said.
“What bus? There is no bus here, you need to walk up there,” he pointed up the street towards the Old City. He was tall, and wore a kiippah and sports sunglasses on top of his head.
“I’m waiting for bus 76, does it come here?”
He looked confused. “Are you sure you want that bus? That bus is for Arabs.” He spoke to another security guard in Hebrew, apparently telling him what I said. They both looked at me incredulously. “That bus is dangerous for you.”
I stared at them blankly. I didn’t know what to say. I told them I had been there before, I thought it was okay. We stood in silence for a moment, and I told them I would wait up the road a bit.
Ten minutes later the bus approached. The Palestinian man driving looked at me just as incredulously as the guards. He almost didn’t stop, and when he did he asked where I was going. I told him Salahadin, and he said “Yalla, etla (enter).”
He and all of the bus seemed wary of my presence the whole ride. I wanted to stand and tell them that I wasn’t a settler. I was visiting Silwan, not the City of David. I lived in Palestine and I wanted to see freedom for them. The words sounded stupid in my head and I sat in silence. Later, the bus driver yelled at me for not paying, and I gave him 5 shekels.
Later, after I went to the post office, I walked slowly down the street, outside the walls of the Old City in East Jerusalem. Tourists walked on either side of me, speaking in different languages I didn’t understand. It was warm and the sun reflected off the white Jerusalem stone. I saw a Palestinian boy who was maybe 7 or 8 pick up a stone and raise it over his head as if he was going to throw it at some tourists. He moved in slow motion, so nobody noticed. His hand slowly arced over his head and he maid whooshing sound effects. We made eye contact as I passed him, and he smiled at me, his arm in the air. I smiled back at him.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Right of Return
I travelled Europe for a month and returned to Palestine slightly jaded and confused and ready to start something new. I arrive just before Christmas and planned on starting Arabic courses at Birzeit university in early January.
There are few things more frightening to me than traveling through the Israeli security at the airport. It is one experience that truly makes me feel something the Palestinians must feel traveling through checkpoints. The scrutiny and threat of humiliation is terrifying. We are constantly advised to create a story about our reason for entering that doesn't include Palestine, and visiting Palestine is grounds for denial of entering and possible barring from return. So to walk up to a security desk of one of the most powerful countries in the world, put on a smile, and spit out fabrications about your intents on visiting beautiful Israel is not only demeaning in itself but so anxiety inducing that I found myself sweating profusely and nearly shaking. The whole process is ridiculous, only because we are innocent. Yet somehow turned into criminals for attempting to work and live in a place that Israel would prefer remains invisible to the outside world. I was lucky enough to get through unscathed- although for sure the color of my skin and childlike demeanor help me loads. But I think much of it depends solely on the mood of your interrogator. A friend of mine, who I volunteered with in Nablus, wasn't as luck. He arrived for a visit shortly after I did, and his story somehow didn't hold up. He was denied entry and banned for ten years.
So I arrived and made a feeble attempt to move to Ramallah, as it's closer to the university. But I hated living in the city. I've written before that it seems to be trying too hard, and I think this is true. It's a new city that was built by the Palestinian Authority and has come to represent a makeshift capital, taking space that Al Quds (Jerusalem) should inhabit. It's pride is it's neoliberal development, boasting a KFC and a Pizza Hut that greet you when you enter the town. This is not the community I'm interested in. So I went running with my tail between my legs back to Nablus to stay with a friend until my classes start.
Here I've been suffering the extremely comfortable burden of Nabulsi hospitality. Endless coffee, tea, meals, shisha. Coming home late after dinner means you must eat another dinner. Coffee means being offered a cigarette. Sleeping means getting tucked in with blankets. My friend who invited me is an amazing musician, an Oud player, and living and getting to know his large family has given me some of my favorite experiences in Palestine thus far. Out the window, views of the sprawling city are comforting. Soon I have I move to Birzeit, and I know I'm going to leave extremely begrudgingly and miss his house immensely.
There are few things more frightening to me than traveling through the Israeli security at the airport. It is one experience that truly makes me feel something the Palestinians must feel traveling through checkpoints. The scrutiny and threat of humiliation is terrifying. We are constantly advised to create a story about our reason for entering that doesn't include Palestine, and visiting Palestine is grounds for denial of entering and possible barring from return. So to walk up to a security desk of one of the most powerful countries in the world, put on a smile, and spit out fabrications about your intents on visiting beautiful Israel is not only demeaning in itself but so anxiety inducing that I found myself sweating profusely and nearly shaking. The whole process is ridiculous, only because we are innocent. Yet somehow turned into criminals for attempting to work and live in a place that Israel would prefer remains invisible to the outside world. I was lucky enough to get through unscathed- although for sure the color of my skin and childlike demeanor help me loads. But I think much of it depends solely on the mood of your interrogator. A friend of mine, who I volunteered with in Nablus, wasn't as luck. He arrived for a visit shortly after I did, and his story somehow didn't hold up. He was denied entry and banned for ten years.
So I arrived and made a feeble attempt to move to Ramallah, as it's closer to the university. But I hated living in the city. I've written before that it seems to be trying too hard, and I think this is true. It's a new city that was built by the Palestinian Authority and has come to represent a makeshift capital, taking space that Al Quds (Jerusalem) should inhabit. It's pride is it's neoliberal development, boasting a KFC and a Pizza Hut that greet you when you enter the town. This is not the community I'm interested in. So I went running with my tail between my legs back to Nablus to stay with a friend until my classes start.
Here I've been suffering the extremely comfortable burden of Nabulsi hospitality. Endless coffee, tea, meals, shisha. Coming home late after dinner means you must eat another dinner. Coffee means being offered a cigarette. Sleeping means getting tucked in with blankets. My friend who invited me is an amazing musician, an Oud player, and living and getting to know his large family has given me some of my favorite experiences in Palestine thus far. Out the window, views of the sprawling city are comforting. Soon I have I move to Birzeit, and I know I'm going to leave extremely begrudgingly and miss his house immensely.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Drifting
Boys here (shebab) always ask me about drifting; do you like speed? How fast have you gone in a car? Have you ever drifted? Drifting, as in, I don't even know how to describe it... driving fast and slamming on the breaks so your car moves as your tires are still struggling to stop.
I say no, no, this scares me. They say Aww, c'mon, and show me some scars- probably from something innocent like a dog bite or falling off their bike. But they claim the scars are from car accidents,never with details on how exactly they happened.
Once I was sitting on the balcony of a restaurant off Rafidia Street with two Palestinian friends, smoking shisha and eating ice cream- I could hear tires squealing somewhere below on the street. I looked down and saw one of the old, beaten up Fiat's that crowd the streets of Nablus zooming around the empty side streets below us. It would drive up the street, accelerating as fast as it could, then slam on the brakes, jolting the wheel so it the car "drifted" even just a minuscule amount. Then it would begin back down the street the same way and repeat the action. From so high above the car looked tiny and desperate, like it was searching for a way out of the street but couldn't find one.
What is drifting? Acceleration, then speed, abrupt deceleration, a strange and halting attempt to shift direction as the car attempts to stop. It seems stuck, ineffective, dangerous. Where does the impulse for such an implosive movement come from? Maybe it's simple: from any young boy's impulse for speed and danger, from popular movies, like *The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift*. Or maybe its some symptom of the feeling of isolation here in Palestine, isolation from the world that mostly ignores the situation here. From the physical entrapment of the occupation that doesn't allow free travel, barely allows access to Al Quds (Jerusalem).
Nablus is quiet and calm now, so it's easy to forget that in the near past it was subject to years of attacks, curfews, isolation from checkpoints. The the Old City, which I experience as a busy and beautiful market, was not that long ago systematically bombed and demolished. Not long ago, a trip to a nearby village would require passing through some fifteen checkpoints, endless waiting, being berated by soldiers. In 2002, a curfew imposed on the city lasted for 104 days- what comes from this experience of imprisonment? This isn't the Nablus I know but this is the Nablus that the shebab grew up in. What come from such an extreme lack of control?
Drifting isn't just recklessly driving- I mean sure, it's reckless and dangerous, but it's something more too. It's searching for a unique feeling, something akin to moving while standing still. Changing directions while the forces of deceleration work against you. Starting again, reckless speed, an abrupt and forced stop that you struggle against. Starting again.
But again, maybe I'm reading too much into it- maybe it's just boys wanting to drive fast.
I say no, no, this scares me. They say Aww, c'mon, and show me some scars- probably from something innocent like a dog bite or falling off their bike. But they claim the scars are from car accidents,never with details on how exactly they happened.
Once I was sitting on the balcony of a restaurant off Rafidia Street with two Palestinian friends, smoking shisha and eating ice cream- I could hear tires squealing somewhere below on the street. I looked down and saw one of the old, beaten up Fiat's that crowd the streets of Nablus zooming around the empty side streets below us. It would drive up the street, accelerating as fast as it could, then slam on the brakes, jolting the wheel so it the car "drifted" even just a minuscule amount. Then it would begin back down the street the same way and repeat the action. From so high above the car looked tiny and desperate, like it was searching for a way out of the street but couldn't find one.
What is drifting? Acceleration, then speed, abrupt deceleration, a strange and halting attempt to shift direction as the car attempts to stop. It seems stuck, ineffective, dangerous. Where does the impulse for such an implosive movement come from? Maybe it's simple: from any young boy's impulse for speed and danger, from popular movies, like *The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift*. Or maybe its some symptom of the feeling of isolation here in Palestine, isolation from the world that mostly ignores the situation here. From the physical entrapment of the occupation that doesn't allow free travel, barely allows access to Al Quds (Jerusalem).
Nablus is quiet and calm now, so it's easy to forget that in the near past it was subject to years of attacks, curfews, isolation from checkpoints. The the Old City, which I experience as a busy and beautiful market, was not that long ago systematically bombed and demolished. Not long ago, a trip to a nearby village would require passing through some fifteen checkpoints, endless waiting, being berated by soldiers. In 2002, a curfew imposed on the city lasted for 104 days- what comes from this experience of imprisonment? This isn't the Nablus I know but this is the Nablus that the shebab grew up in. What come from such an extreme lack of control?
Drifting isn't just recklessly driving- I mean sure, it's reckless and dangerous, but it's something more too. It's searching for a unique feeling, something akin to moving while standing still. Changing directions while the forces of deceleration work against you. Starting again, reckless speed, an abrupt and forced stop that you struggle against. Starting again.
But again, maybe I'm reading too much into it- maybe it's just boys wanting to drive fast.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Tiny pieces
I've been eating these chocolate eggs with toys inside, like Kinder but I buy the off-brand eggs that are only one shekel ($0.25). I like the toys in these better than the ones in Kinder, which seem somehow more ~advanced~, but they lack a certain quality. Something like honesty. They're trying too hard, like many things here do. I like the things that are forgetting to try, just getting by, working hard while they do it. These little toys in the off-brand eggs are working very hard to work, because somehow the small pieces never quite fit together. But once you force them into place, you have a small piece of tired success, nostalgia and fine-tuned pride, all in one small plastic toy.
These are things I see in Palestine everywhere. Like Ramallah: Ramallah is fun, but it's trying too hard to be something it isn't, something that's Western and works. There's always a discord there, like in the Kinder toys, because everyone knows there's something wrong here, so why are we pretending? I love Nablus because it doesn't try to be anything it's not; everything in Nablus is on the surface, easy to see. They work hard here and they seem tired, too tired to pretend to be anything other than proud and tired Palestinians.
I feel the same discord in the stares. Stares from the men here try so hard to achieve something beyond just looking. They ask you to look back, which you don't, because if you look back you're inviting something you don't want. The stares are trying so hard to be something that the men are not- something that reminds me of the worst parts of home. They are stares that make me want to be something I'm not. They make me want to be modest, more modest than I'm already striving to be in this place. They make me ashamed of my hair, because why should my hair attract these stares unless its something blasphemous.
If the men's stares make it all fall apart, the stares of the Palestinian women put it all back together. The women stare too, but in a completely different way. The stares of the women are the ones that I like, that make me feel whole instead of unsure. They stare only at times when they have to, and they stare with purpose, as if they're really trying to figure something out when they look at you. They make me question the stare I give back, because I know it doesn't compare in depth, in substance, but I'm getting better at returning them with confidence. There eyes have that same honesty and pride, the feeling that they know something is not quite working, but they have knowledge to force it into some quasi-working order.
I think the women are the ones who save Palestine from complete chaos. They are handed a world that is being town apart every day by the occupation, and they struggle to make sense of it. They save Palestine because if you can't do what they do, you're just stuck with a lot of tiny pieces that don't quite fit together.
These are things I see in Palestine everywhere. Like Ramallah: Ramallah is fun, but it's trying too hard to be something it isn't, something that's Western and works. There's always a discord there, like in the Kinder toys, because everyone knows there's something wrong here, so why are we pretending? I love Nablus because it doesn't try to be anything it's not; everything in Nablus is on the surface, easy to see. They work hard here and they seem tired, too tired to pretend to be anything other than proud and tired Palestinians.
I feel the same discord in the stares. Stares from the men here try so hard to achieve something beyond just looking. They ask you to look back, which you don't, because if you look back you're inviting something you don't want. The stares are trying so hard to be something that the men are not- something that reminds me of the worst parts of home. They are stares that make me want to be something I'm not. They make me want to be modest, more modest than I'm already striving to be in this place. They make me ashamed of my hair, because why should my hair attract these stares unless its something blasphemous.
If the men's stares make it all fall apart, the stares of the Palestinian women put it all back together. The women stare too, but in a completely different way. The stares of the women are the ones that I like, that make me feel whole instead of unsure. They stare only at times when they have to, and they stare with purpose, as if they're really trying to figure something out when they look at you. They make me question the stare I give back, because I know it doesn't compare in depth, in substance, but I'm getting better at returning them with confidence. There eyes have that same honesty and pride, the feeling that they know something is not quite working, but they have knowledge to force it into some quasi-working order.
I think the women are the ones who save Palestine from complete chaos. They are handed a world that is being town apart every day by the occupation, and they struggle to make sense of it. They save Palestine because if you can't do what they do, you're just stuck with a lot of tiny pieces that don't quite fit together.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Yanoun, the limitlessness of Palestinian hospitality, the experimental lawlessness of occupation
Yesterday, after fully convincing myself that I would stay in and rest and get work done on my day off, I was invited in the morning to visit Yanoun, a village about 12 Km outside of Nablus. It didn't take long to decide to go there instead of stay in. Yanoun is a small, low-laying village that is surrounded by hills, and atop each hill around it is an Israeli settlement or outpost. It is divided into two parts, upper and lower Yanoun; lower Yanoun is in Area B, joint Israeli and Palestinian control. Upper Yanoun is in area C, complete Israeli control, as is the majority of the Jordan valley. This means that Palestinians building in Yanoun is completely forbidden, while in contrast the settlements continue to grow. I joined some other volunteers who were visiting because they had heard that Israel had begun digging up about 20 dunams of land in Yanoun. The information was vague so my friends decided to visit and try to learn some more about what was going on.
The trip to get to Yanoun was interesting- in fact, just the trip to just reach the taxi that would take us to Yanoun was delightful in itself. We were hungry for breakfast but it was Friday, a holy day in Islam, so many places were closed. We went to a bakery and bought some bread and noticed that four or five of the workers were standing and eating felafel with hummus and bread. We asked them where we could find an open felafel shop to take with us on the trip, and instead of answering they just insisted we join them and eat their's. So we spent the next twenty minutes standing with four bakers eating felafel, hummus, bread, and drinking tea. I ate plenty and was full, but the baker kept insisting I eat more. I eventually convinced him I was full, and he seemed appeased, but the next time I looked over he was handing me bread with hummus already on it. Such is the limitlessness of Palestinian hospitality. When we left, he gave us a bundle of free bread.
We finally made it to the taxi, haggled a little bit for a cheaper price, and started on our way to Yanoun- we thought. We made a detour to a junk yard and picked up a brake disc for the taxi, and then made another detour to the auto shop to get the brake disc installed. We sat in the cab as the mechanic jacked up the car and installed the part. It was so absurd we couldn't really bother being annoyed. Luckily, one of the volunteers was able to translate most of what was going on, so we weren't left completely in the dark.
Once on the road, our driver began to tell us that he was from Awarta, a village near Yanoun and near the large Israeli settlement Itamar, where in March of 2011 an Israeli family was murdered. He described that after the murders, the Israeli Defense Forces periodically raided and ransacked Palestinian homes in Awarta, supposedly looking for information on the killers. In reality, they were merely terrorizing the population. He showed us a video on his phone of his entire house completely overturned and destroyed. Eventually, three Palestinians were arrested and are now in prison for thirty years.
Itamar, created in 1984, is made up of mostly ideologically motivated ultra-Orthodox families considered among the most fervent Israeli settlers in the West Bank. The settlers have been accused of burning olive trees, destroying cars and shooting at Palestinian residents. In the last 12-15 years the residents have begun encroaching upon and annexing the hills East of Itamar, often in outposts considered illegal by the Israeli government. These are the outposts that now surround Yanun, which sits in between them in a limbo of being unable to expand, terrorized by settlers, and shrinking in population.
In Yanoun, we went to the house of the Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI) volunteers, who are stationed in Yanoun for 3 month intervals to witness settler violence. Alex, a volunteer, told us that things had been calm lately, but they had noticed some extra activity upon the hill they faced, outpost 777. 777 consists of a watch tower, some trailers, and some agricultural structure. Such a small group of structures imposes such huge amounts of influence and power over the village. I was quite taken with the feeling of constantly being watched from the watchtower on the hill; and later the EAPPI volunteer joked that they call the tower their own experience of Foucault's panopticon. The experience of constantly being watched, without seeing your watcher, so that that feeling comes to shape your lifestyle.
The EAPPI described that the settlers will sometimes come down and walk through the village with dogs and machine guns, but refrain if they know that internationals are there. They said that one night they moved accommodations, and as soon as they moved, the settlers came down. This means that it's quite literally the international presence that keeps them from continually harassing the population. They persist, though. The water supply in Yanoun is undrinkable because the settlers pour trash and dead animals in the well at night. In the past, they have tipped over water containers and lit generators on fire, chased and shot at from their olive trees. The life has become so unbearable that the population in Yanoun has greatly decreased, and international support is struggling to keep it functioning.
In Yanoun we stopped by the mayor's house, a shepherd with an amazing mustache who served us hot coffee and hot tea. With the help of our friend and translator, who helped us through the taxi adventure, and we had a great discussion with him on the state of things in Yanoun, largely in the context of the Oslo Accords, which cut the land up in the Areas A, B, and C. "Our problem is Oslo", he said. We discussed the level of strategy involved in the carving up of the land; "Where is the water in Yanoun? It's in upper Yanoun, and so upper Yanoun is Area C" (Israeli control), while lower Yanoun remains in area B. And while Area B is under "joint Palestinian-Israeli control", if any part of it is declared a military zone, it is automatically under complete Israeli control. This is how the land we had heard about had been seized and had begun being tilled. While in Area B, it was declared a military zone, the Palestinian inhabitants were evacuated, and now Israelis were beginning to build on it.
Some words that floated around the conversation over and over again were "lawlessness" and "experimentation". Those seemed to sum up the things that were happening in Yanoun. The town seemed small enough that the settlers and military could dick around together and see what they could accomplish in terms of land annexation. The mayor of Yanoun said that sometimes, the settlers would change into military garb and set up a make-shift checkpoint between lower and upper Yanoun. Once, a settler attacked a Palestinian, ran away, and changed into a military outfit in the next few minutes, apparently completely absolved of his crime. So while the outposts are technically illegal and unsanctioned by Israel, they are made up of the Israeli military themselves. Thus, there is no accountability in Yanoun. It's lawless, as the wild west was, and the world remains ignorant.
After we said bye to the mayor, we took an hour walk to Lower Yanoun. The views of the Jordan Valley were breathtaking. In Lower Yanoun I sat in the living room of a woman's house with her two daughters, we tried to communicate through the language barrier but mostly just laughed at the impossibility of it. She told me I needed to eat more if I ever wanted a husband. Our wonderful taxi driver from earlier never showed up to pick us up, so we hitchhiked to Awarta and found a taxi to take us back to Nablus.
The trip to get to Yanoun was interesting- in fact, just the trip to just reach the taxi that would take us to Yanoun was delightful in itself. We were hungry for breakfast but it was Friday, a holy day in Islam, so many places were closed. We went to a bakery and bought some bread and noticed that four or five of the workers were standing and eating felafel with hummus and bread. We asked them where we could find an open felafel shop to take with us on the trip, and instead of answering they just insisted we join them and eat their's. So we spent the next twenty minutes standing with four bakers eating felafel, hummus, bread, and drinking tea. I ate plenty and was full, but the baker kept insisting I eat more. I eventually convinced him I was full, and he seemed appeased, but the next time I looked over he was handing me bread with hummus already on it. Such is the limitlessness of Palestinian hospitality. When we left, he gave us a bundle of free bread.
We finally made it to the taxi, haggled a little bit for a cheaper price, and started on our way to Yanoun- we thought. We made a detour to a junk yard and picked up a brake disc for the taxi, and then made another detour to the auto shop to get the brake disc installed. We sat in the cab as the mechanic jacked up the car and installed the part. It was so absurd we couldn't really bother being annoyed. Luckily, one of the volunteers was able to translate most of what was going on, so we weren't left completely in the dark.
Once on the road, our driver began to tell us that he was from Awarta, a village near Yanoun and near the large Israeli settlement Itamar, where in March of 2011 an Israeli family was murdered. He described that after the murders, the Israeli Defense Forces periodically raided and ransacked Palestinian homes in Awarta, supposedly looking for information on the killers. In reality, they were merely terrorizing the population. He showed us a video on his phone of his entire house completely overturned and destroyed. Eventually, three Palestinians were arrested and are now in prison for thirty years.
Itamar, created in 1984, is made up of mostly ideologically motivated ultra-Orthodox families considered among the most fervent Israeli settlers in the West Bank. The settlers have been accused of burning olive trees, destroying cars and shooting at Palestinian residents. In the last 12-15 years the residents have begun encroaching upon and annexing the hills East of Itamar, often in outposts considered illegal by the Israeli government. These are the outposts that now surround Yanun, which sits in between them in a limbo of being unable to expand, terrorized by settlers, and shrinking in population.
In Yanoun, we went to the house of the Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI) volunteers, who are stationed in Yanoun for 3 month intervals to witness settler violence. Alex, a volunteer, told us that things had been calm lately, but they had noticed some extra activity upon the hill they faced, outpost 777. 777 consists of a watch tower, some trailers, and some agricultural structure. Such a small group of structures imposes such huge amounts of influence and power over the village. I was quite taken with the feeling of constantly being watched from the watchtower on the hill; and later the EAPPI volunteer joked that they call the tower their own experience of Foucault's panopticon. The experience of constantly being watched, without seeing your watcher, so that that feeling comes to shape your lifestyle.
The EAPPI described that the settlers will sometimes come down and walk through the village with dogs and machine guns, but refrain if they know that internationals are there. They said that one night they moved accommodations, and as soon as they moved, the settlers came down. This means that it's quite literally the international presence that keeps them from continually harassing the population. They persist, though. The water supply in Yanoun is undrinkable because the settlers pour trash and dead animals in the well at night. In the past, they have tipped over water containers and lit generators on fire, chased and shot at from their olive trees. The life has become so unbearable that the population in Yanoun has greatly decreased, and international support is struggling to keep it functioning.
In Yanoun we stopped by the mayor's house, a shepherd with an amazing mustache who served us hot coffee and hot tea. With the help of our friend and translator, who helped us through the taxi adventure, and we had a great discussion with him on the state of things in Yanoun, largely in the context of the Oslo Accords, which cut the land up in the Areas A, B, and C. "Our problem is Oslo", he said. We discussed the level of strategy involved in the carving up of the land; "Where is the water in Yanoun? It's in upper Yanoun, and so upper Yanoun is Area C" (Israeli control), while lower Yanoun remains in area B. And while Area B is under "joint Palestinian-Israeli control", if any part of it is declared a military zone, it is automatically under complete Israeli control. This is how the land we had heard about had been seized and had begun being tilled. While in Area B, it was declared a military zone, the Palestinian inhabitants were evacuated, and now Israelis were beginning to build on it.
Some words that floated around the conversation over and over again were "lawlessness" and "experimentation". Those seemed to sum up the things that were happening in Yanoun. The town seemed small enough that the settlers and military could dick around together and see what they could accomplish in terms of land annexation. The mayor of Yanoun said that sometimes, the settlers would change into military garb and set up a make-shift checkpoint between lower and upper Yanoun. Once, a settler attacked a Palestinian, ran away, and changed into a military outfit in the next few minutes, apparently completely absolved of his crime. So while the outposts are technically illegal and unsanctioned by Israel, they are made up of the Israeli military themselves. Thus, there is no accountability in Yanoun. It's lawless, as the wild west was, and the world remains ignorant.
After we said bye to the mayor, we took an hour walk to Lower Yanoun. The views of the Jordan Valley were breathtaking. In Lower Yanoun I sat in the living room of a woman's house with her two daughters, we tried to communicate through the language barrier but mostly just laughed at the impossibility of it. She told me I needed to eat more if I ever wanted a husband. Our wonderful taxi driver from earlier never showed up to pick us up, so we hitchhiked to Awarta and found a taxi to take us back to Nablus.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Framed-Unframed
I wrote a review of an art show here in Palestine for Electronic Intifada, here's the text or click the link to see it.
Framed-Unframed: the Changing Representation of Women in Palestinian Visual Arts explores complex facets of Palestinian feminism, religion and the woman’s role in the liberation struggle. The show is now touring Palestinian universities.
At An-Najah University in the occupied West Bank city of Nablus, where Framed-Unframed shows through Monday, the exhibition begins in the foyer of the fine arts building, where colossal black chiffon dresses hang from a wire strung across the room. The dresses make up Mary Tuma’s “Homes for the Bodiless” (2000), and the vacant female forms they create point to the grief caused by the continued displacement of Palestinians. This theme continues throughout the show.
Equally thematic to the show is the strength of Palestinian women. In An-Najah’s gallery, the show features artwork made in the 1970s, most commonly depicting women as resolute, sturdy symbols of motherhood, nationhood and resistance. Generally made by male artists, the section represents the foundational and ideologically strategic symbolism structured around Palestinian women after 1967.
Defiantly rooted
Mary Tuma’s ”Homes for the Bodiless” installed in the foyer of An-Najah University’s fine arts building. The female figure in a 1975 image made by Burhan Karkutli demonstrates this blend of militant heroism and cultural bonds to the nation — the woman is dressed in a traditional Palestinian dress (thob) and holds a rifle behind her back. Around her neck is a chain holding the shape of Palestine, on her head is the crescent moon found on the top of minarets. She appears defiantly rooted, physically a part of the land of Palestine, decorated in its symbols. As the show progresses chronologically, the work is increasingly created by women. The modes of representation become more layered, as in Mona Hatoum’s video piece “Measures of Distance” (1988). Hatoum narrates letters to and from her mother that were sent from Beirut to London; her voice recordings are played over images of Arabic script and images of her mother’s body.
Her mother’s words explain the anger of Mona’s father after he once found them naked, taking photographs of each other in the bathroom. “He was seriously angry. He still nags me about it, as if I had given you something that only belongs to him.”
Extremely personal, the work not only discusses distance and loss, but the relationship of a mother, father and daughter. “Anyway, whatever you do with the pictures, for God sake don’t tell him about it,” the artist narrates.
Waiting for change
Hatoum’s piece is an example of the show’s theme of the female body, a remarkable subject for a show dealing with Palestinian women, but a theme that Palestinian female artists have utilized in bold and thought-provoking ways.
A moving video piece by Jerusalem-based artist Jumana Abboud, “Holding my Breath” (2006), highlights the feelings of suffocation and entrapment caused by the occupation of Palestine. In the piece, the artist stands almost motionless with her head in a bowl or her face hidden behind a curtain. Her body becomes a useless tool as the artist holds her breath and waits for a change.
Inversely, “Wish Tree” by Raeda Saadeh uses the female form as a symbol for hope. This piece involves a video of a performance at Birzeit University as part of the exhibition’s opening ceremony.
In the performance, the artist stands on the campus wearing a white dress with a skirt that extends in a huge circle around her. Saadeh stands with her arms outstretched for three hours while students write wishes on colored pieces of paper and throw them to the “tree.”
Saadeh, based in Jerusalem, is known for using her own body to bring attention to the circumstances of her life and the lives of Palestinians. Also included in the show is her work “Penelope” (2011), a large-scale photograph of the artist sitting atop the rubble of a demolished house, knitting from a giant ball of yarn. A Palestinian version of the character from Homer’s Odyssey, the woman is depicted as patient, persevering through years of hardship.
Lipstick limits?
Perhaps the star piece of the show is Amer Shomali’s rendition of the iconic image of Leila Khaled holding a Kalashnikov and wearing a kuffiyeh (checkered scarf) made out of 3,500 tubes of lipstick. Different shades of red and yellow are arranged to create a large, pixilated and pointillist image of Khaled, a member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine who is often considered the poster girl for Palestinian resistance.
What is the intent behind creating an image of Khaled using make-up? Perhaps it speaks to the limits in representation of Palestinian women based on gender roles, or perhaps it is a statement on consumerism.
Both historical and ideological in different ways, the show touches on a vast number of issues. But by always keeping Palestinian women as its main subject it remains constant. By highlighting their resilience and patience, as well as displaying their grief and sorrow at the continued trials of the occupation, it gives a voice to a dynamic community so often stifled or kept silent.
Framed-Unframed: the Changing Representation of Women in Palestinian Visual Arts explores complex facets of Palestinian feminism, religion and the woman’s role in the liberation struggle. The show is now touring Palestinian universities.
At An-Najah University in the occupied West Bank city of Nablus, where Framed-Unframed shows through Monday, the exhibition begins in the foyer of the fine arts building, where colossal black chiffon dresses hang from a wire strung across the room. The dresses make up Mary Tuma’s “Homes for the Bodiless” (2000), and the vacant female forms they create point to the grief caused by the continued displacement of Palestinians. This theme continues throughout the show.
Equally thematic to the show is the strength of Palestinian women. In An-Najah’s gallery, the show features artwork made in the 1970s, most commonly depicting women as resolute, sturdy symbols of motherhood, nationhood and resistance. Generally made by male artists, the section represents the foundational and ideologically strategic symbolism structured around Palestinian women after 1967.
Defiantly rooted
Mary Tuma’s ”Homes for the Bodiless” installed in the foyer of An-Najah University’s fine arts building. The female figure in a 1975 image made by Burhan Karkutli demonstrates this blend of militant heroism and cultural bonds to the nation — the woman is dressed in a traditional Palestinian dress (thob) and holds a rifle behind her back. Around her neck is a chain holding the shape of Palestine, on her head is the crescent moon found on the top of minarets. She appears defiantly rooted, physically a part of the land of Palestine, decorated in its symbols. As the show progresses chronologically, the work is increasingly created by women. The modes of representation become more layered, as in Mona Hatoum’s video piece “Measures of Distance” (1988). Hatoum narrates letters to and from her mother that were sent from Beirut to London; her voice recordings are played over images of Arabic script and images of her mother’s body.
Her mother’s words explain the anger of Mona’s father after he once found them naked, taking photographs of each other in the bathroom. “He was seriously angry. He still nags me about it, as if I had given you something that only belongs to him.”
Extremely personal, the work not only discusses distance and loss, but the relationship of a mother, father and daughter. “Anyway, whatever you do with the pictures, for God sake don’t tell him about it,” the artist narrates.
Waiting for change
Hatoum’s piece is an example of the show’s theme of the female body, a remarkable subject for a show dealing with Palestinian women, but a theme that Palestinian female artists have utilized in bold and thought-provoking ways.
A moving video piece by Jerusalem-based artist Jumana Abboud, “Holding my Breath” (2006), highlights the feelings of suffocation and entrapment caused by the occupation of Palestine. In the piece, the artist stands almost motionless with her head in a bowl or her face hidden behind a curtain. Her body becomes a useless tool as the artist holds her breath and waits for a change.
Inversely, “Wish Tree” by Raeda Saadeh uses the female form as a symbol for hope. This piece involves a video of a performance at Birzeit University as part of the exhibition’s opening ceremony.
In the performance, the artist stands on the campus wearing a white dress with a skirt that extends in a huge circle around her. Saadeh stands with her arms outstretched for three hours while students write wishes on colored pieces of paper and throw them to the “tree.”
Saadeh, based in Jerusalem, is known for using her own body to bring attention to the circumstances of her life and the lives of Palestinians. Also included in the show is her work “Penelope” (2011), a large-scale photograph of the artist sitting atop the rubble of a demolished house, knitting from a giant ball of yarn. A Palestinian version of the character from Homer’s Odyssey, the woman is depicted as patient, persevering through years of hardship.
Lipstick limits?
Perhaps the star piece of the show is Amer Shomali’s rendition of the iconic image of Leila Khaled holding a Kalashnikov and wearing a kuffiyeh (checkered scarf) made out of 3,500 tubes of lipstick. Different shades of red and yellow are arranged to create a large, pixilated and pointillist image of Khaled, a member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine who is often considered the poster girl for Palestinian resistance.
What is the intent behind creating an image of Khaled using make-up? Perhaps it speaks to the limits in representation of Palestinian women based on gender roles, or perhaps it is a statement on consumerism.
Both historical and ideological in different ways, the show touches on a vast number of issues. But by always keeping Palestinian women as its main subject it remains constant. By highlighting their resilience and patience, as well as displaying their grief and sorrow at the continued trials of the occupation, it gives a voice to a dynamic community so often stifled or kept silent.
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