occupation kills

We spoke so quietly. So softly. The near-full moon cast the light off her face just so. There was so much to talk about. I hadn't seen her in a year! As we hopped from subject to subject, I realized that this was perfect. The cool night's breeze. The moon. The stars.

We burned through the various things we had done during the year when she paused and looked into the distance. She could muster no more than a sigh.

The distance at which she stared was where the sound of gunfire was coming from. It's funny how quickly these things become mundane. The guns had barely stopped since sunset. Heavy machineguns. Light machineguns. Tank-shells. Palestinian-made explosives. The strange thing is that this was not a battle. It was just another night.

What follows is an email exchange that started a few days ago with a person very close to me. As the exchange develops, I'll keep posting the remainder.

Note: Plain text is the other person, and bold text is my reply.

Date: Sat, 14 Jun 2003 21:44:03 -0300
Subject: Nothing changes the meaning of truth and justice

Tarek,

I once

"Occupation can only happen with the complicity of the occupied." The man's hands were gesticulating wildly. "You can think in this way for oppression in general."

I nodded as I tried to comprehend these last two sentences. I long ago learned that the "Palestinian Perspective" was a myth -- on most issues, there are twice as many "Palestinian Perspectives" as Palestinians. And yet, in trying to understand the Roadmap initiative currently being passed around like some cheap whore, I noticed that people seemed to generally agree. Their agreement came from a basic analysis of three things: intention, novelty, and historical precedent.

Everything out here is by comparison. And so -- by comparison -- my day yesterday was easy. The "clooowwwwnns" would certainly agree.

I woke up after a few hours' sleep on a couch in a room with 4 other people. Another 5 women were sleeping in another room, and another 3 men in yet another room. Two small bedrooms and one living room were the home of twelve people. By comparison, we had lots of space, and I slept very well.

After a few hours of discussion, the internationals gathered with a few Palestinians, and we all headed out from Ramallah to Nablus.

"Forget about it. Who needs the hassle?" he replied. An international wondered why we weren't going to Calandia - the usual Ramallah checkpoint. It wasn't to avoid the army. It was to avoid humiliation. In the alternate path, we - along with hundreds of Palestinians - walked right in front of an army jeep. If checkpoints were truly about security (and not humiliation), then somebody from the army would have said something. The only reason for any of us to be there was that we were bypassing the checkpoint.. It was just as well. Nobody had a "tasreeh", papers permitting them to go from one city to another.

A taxi dropped us off at one end of the bypass. We walked over several earthen roadblocks over the span of about one kilometer. Getting out of Ramallah, which should have taken no more than 10 minutes, instead took us close to an hour. Still, we all felt extremely fortunate.

We took a minibus-type thing (service - pronounced ser-vees) from the other side of the earthen roadblocks. The service died several times under the heavy strain of the off-roading and hills. Finally, we got to where we wanted to go: the middle of nowhere.

We were dropped off at the base of a so-called hill. I say "so-called" because even though it really was a hill, it was extremely steep and seemed to spring eternal from base to crest. We spent half an hour just hiking to the top. The exhilaration of getting to the top gave me a boost of energy, and so I almost leaped the last little bit. As I climbed over, I saw a flash of brilliant white teeth attached to a beaming smile. Under the smile was a chin-strap which led to a helmet.

"Over there!" The gun was merely an extension of the soldier's arm. The barrel pointed where several Palestinian labourers were sitting. One by one, we were sent to sit with the other detainees. I had actually prayed for this.

About halfway up the hill, sweat was pouring from every part of my body. I was thoroughly soaked. That was me, a man who prides himself on his stamina. I was doing great by comparison. Some of the others around me were not doing nearly so well. I remember looking at the face of one of my companions. Her eyes were bloodshot. Behind the film of tears welling up in her eyes, all I could see was the determination to make it to the top. We both knew that this hill was just the beginning. After it, there would be at least another hour of hiking around the hills. At that moment, as our eyes met, I prayed that we would be stopped by soldiers at the top so that all of this would end.

God heard me.

"We like walking. The scenery is beautiful." So we responded, still out of breath, when asked why we were there. It was obscene, but if we were to get through, this was what we had to do. It didn't work. After everything, the soldiers absolutely would not let us pass. Mercifully, they let us and the detained Palestinian labourers go after only about half an hour.

Light had almost gone, and we still had to get into Nablus. After all of this, we decided to go for the Huwarra checkpoint and try our luck. A few of the labourers -- having no money and nowhere to stay -- asked if they could come with us. We all huddled and decided on a story: We were carnies going from town to town. It was as good a story as any other. We explained it to the soldiers once we got to the checkpoint. I was a unicycle-riding juggler. The other negotiator was the go-to man ("yeah, yeah.. Just like Barnum!"). As we were being checked, we noticed that another four people who we hadn't seen before. So did the soldiers.

"Ta'al hone" ordered one of the soldiers (come here in Arabic). The other negotiator went to the soldier and was obviously being interrogated about the four new guys. They're CLOWNS, I heard him say. I walked over.

I arrived in Tel Aviv today to almost no fanfare. I saw Hugh Grant in London's Heathrow airport. For some strange reason, all I could think of was that I really wanted him to know that I saw a freeze-tuition poster once that said "We need Huge Grants" with his picture on it.. When I got into Tel Aviv's Ben Guiron airport, I was given the first taste of the racism imbued within the society. As I went through the security check, I found myself surrounded by fellow Muslims. As I looked around, every Palestinian or Muslim who came through the line was sent for a search. On the same token, not a single person in the "detailed-search" line was not Palestinian or Muslim.. We all just stood in that line, each surrounded by a team of young women (the Israelis are required to serve 3 years of mandatory military service, and the women often carry out their duty in so-called "support" roles). All of us insisted on speaking in English when we were addressed. It was obvious that all of us spoke some other language, but none of us dared utter a word of non-English -- especially to each other. After searching my bags and discovering underwear, a laptop, and my camera, I was asked to go for a body search..

I threw the t-shirt to the side. It had an Ikeda logo on it, and I knew that if I died, I didn't want to die in this t-shirt. So it went as I picked out my wardrobe. This is the reality in which I have chosen to live for the coming two months.

I'm not going to Palestine to die. I'm not even going to resist. I'm going to witness. But who can forget Rachel, Tom and Brian? None of them went there to die. But bullets have no mercy.

Nor does Occupation.

Before I went to Palestine last year, things were complicated. Everything was uncertain. I remember thinking that if the whole world hadn't figure out a way to solve this problem, I sure as hell wouldn't. I was wrong. It was so easy; so simple. It wasn't about religion or history. It wasn't about parents or children. It was about money and power. It was about oppression and dominance. Isn't that what all occupations are? The solution can be summed up in one word: justice. Such a small word, I know. But that's it. Nothing more and nothing less.

"That's it, Tarek.. That's it.. Khalas.. I know I'm going to die now. God has chosen me to be a martyr." It was as though from a Hollywood movie. I told him to shut up. Not my first patient. No way. Despite his protestations, I kept my hand firmly planted on the bullet wound, and I insisted he would live..

I had a terrible vibe about the day from its beginnings. Late the previous night, I - like millions of Palestinians - found out that 15 people had been killed and another 172 wounded in a "targeted assassination" carried out by the Israelis. Earlier that day, Hamas had tabled an offer saying that it would exchange an end of operations inside the Green Line (1967 Israeli borders; Israel proper) for the freeing of political prisoners and withdrawal from besieged West bank cities. The report announcing this offer earlier in the day had ended, almost prophetically, by saying that Hamas was awaiting Israel's response. I think that response was "No!"

I'm so scared. I guess it's normal, but I'm still ashamed.. I have reverted to my 6-year old state. As I walked home today, the single street lamp lighting my way burned out, leaving me in total and utter darkness. I didn't panic, but I was afraid. Very afraid. As I looked ahead, I saw the complete nothingness of the unlit streets in the black night. In the distance I saw both nothing and everything. I clearly played out each way in which I could be killed. Israelis thinking I'm Palestinian. Palestinians thinking I'm Israeli. Anything. Everything. The more I stared into that nothingness, the more I saw.

"Come here!!!! I want to FFFFFUCK you!". I was flattered, and for a moment, I even blushed.. But as appealing as the offer was, I refused. Saying no was itself a gamble. Two guns were pointed at each of our heads. With our hands still up, we started backing out of the situation.. And with every step they took forward, we took two back. We weren't going to be caught by these guys. That was the only thing we knew for sure..

We were almost to the end of the street, and had decided which way we would run when a streak of person came running out of an alleyway, closer to the soldiers than to us. He froze. The Brit was our team cameraman, and had gone to the bathroom just before the situation began. In his rush to get back, he found himself the new target of all the guns. It is more luck than anything that I do not sit here writing his obituary..

I've decided to get a "martyr trading card" for each person who dies in my tenor as a "civil protector". I think each is a badge of my failures here, and a reminder of the costs of making mistakes.. So far, there are two or three that we could have specifically prevented with our presence.. I don't have all of those cards, but I'm sure I'll find them..

As a Muslim, it is a religious duty for me to attend another Muslim's funeral and pray for them. As I went through the motions of this, my first real funeral since I got here, I wondered if there was any way around it.. Funerals, I don't like..