Monday, August 28, 2006

The Final Machsom

I was anxious. My short tenure in Palestine had come to an end, but in order to leave Palestine, one has to navigate the Israeli Occupation Complex one last time. Stakes is high. Not as high as if I were a Palestinian from the West Bank who worked for months to get a visa that is usually denied or a Palestinian with an Israeli Passport, labeled an Israeli-Arab born on the Zionist side of the Green Line, who cannot explain why she doesn’t speak perfect Hebrew as she tries to board a plane to college in the U.S. Stakes were high for me because I want to be able to return and continue doing solidarity work or maybe just visit the family and friends I have made out here.

I spent my final hours with other Internationals and a few Palestinians, in East Jerusalem, quietly admiring their commitment, their love, and their resolve. I packed my bags and stressed out over how to transport fotos that although not very sensitive could prove I am an activist. In this climate of us versus them, subjected to the language of power, activist practically means terrorist. My sheirut picked me up near the hostel I often stayed in. I jumped on and dozed off. When I woke up I saw the tail wings, like shark fins letting me know I had arrived at David Ben Gurion Airport. I almost heard the dun-dun, dun-dun, Jaws theme music throbbing in my head.

I dismounted the sheirut at 1:45 am and took a moment to absorb the thick night air that reminded me of Puerto Rico. I needed to breathe in this warm air and relax before entering the final machsom –the last Israeli security checkpoint.

Once in, I was perplexed by the choice of mazes and the large screens flashing flight numbers like stats on horse races at an OTB. I stood back and tried to buy more time and orient myself before joining a queue; I was early. But, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a female security agent triangulating, surveying me. It was 2:00 am and my ordeal was beginning.

Her approach was awkward, nervous even. She asked me what I was doing there and if she could help me. She was instructed to do so, I presume, through the Nextel she held in her left hand. I spoke slowly, responding in English to her questions in Hebrew and Arabic. She was caught off guard. I pulled out my U.S. Passport and handed it to her and she smiled, probably at her own presumptions. We made small talk, I asked her to show me to my line, and she escorted me. I cleared the first obstacle.

Standing in file, I threw on my iPod, selected reggaeton and decided to bop my butterflies away as I stepped forward. At some point, I was stopped. Only folks with Israeli passports are welcome here; all others are a security risk. At around 2:30 am, I was escorted by a couple of security agents about 20 meters to a table, where I put my backpack down. Two other agents arrived and explained they would ask me questions for my safety and the safety of the flight I was about to board. I was also instructed not to mind the side conversations in Hebrew; this was going to be a training session –yeah, sure.

For over thirty minutes I was asked about when I bought my ticket, why I came, where I stayed, who I met, what I did, how I did it, why I extended my stay, how I extended my stay, when I extended my stay. These questions were asked one after the other and occasionally repeated. Side comments were made between the two women. They started buzzing when I claimed to stay at the Hotel Petra in Jerusalem; I was almost scolded for visiting Petra, Jordan until I corrected them. No, no, the hostel in the old city, not the city in the Arab country. The women weren’t hostile but after standing and answering questions for a little over a half hour, I was getting agitated and visibly exhausted. It was about 3:15 am. I was invited to sit down on the table right in the middle of the main lobby while the agents stepped off discussing my case. Eventually, it was determined that I would move on to the next phase of the gauntlet.

I was asked to carry my bag to another security station in the main lobby where it would undergo a thorough search. Two new women asked me to open my bag as the first two walked away. The next 30 minutes were spent opening every single compartment was and wiping them with a wand-like device which held a disposable cloth at the end. This cloth was then scanned by another appliance to determine if my bag or any of its contents had come in contact with any explosive devices.

The two women were cheerful, if not exhausted themselves. Their superiors were more elusive, giving orders under hushed tones of Hebrew, spoken so that I could not hear the contents of the conversation. The interview agents had apparently instructed the bomb-sniffing agents to guarantee that my bag would be checked in on time; it would not be allowed to fly as a carry-on, the way it came into the country, although I am sure that it was lighter and less bulky than weeks ago.

After the second set of agents finished with my bag and I successfully pleaded my case for at least carrying a few delicate personal items in a small knapsack, I was asked to empty my pockets, including my wallet and passport and place all items in a bucket on the table. I was told I would be searched using a metal detector. A young man approached me with a wand and I opened my arms, but he responded with a hand gesture asking me to follow him. I did expecting to walk through a set of metal detectors Israeli citizens were walking through on the way to picking up their boarding passes, but we passed those. We were headed to the back, to a special room with a brown curtain, benches, and seats giving it the appearance of a cross between a doctor’s office and a police precinct.

After waiting, behind the curtain, for what felt like an eternity, two agents entered and asked me to stand so one could run his hands over my entire body. I was tense and tired and oddly enough it felt like a massage. I had no weapons, nothing to be worried about, so I tried to ease into the invasive touch. Next, I was wanded with the kind of metal detector visitors to Rikers Island are familiar with. Apparently there was too much metal near my crotch and I was ordered to drop my pants so that the wand could pass over my genitals -the joy. My pants were thoroughly searched and my shoes were carted off to another room but eventually I was allowed to dress myself as they apologized for the inconvenience, to which I replied with some lie about how absolutely safe I was feeling already, impressed with this level of security. I said this to try and gain some of their trust, to get through the ordeal quicker. I was being treated like such a criminal, as a friend of Palestinians, to Israel, I guess I am.

I was escorted back to my belongings in the main lobby, around 4:00 am, and it seemed that my ordeal was over. The cheerful bomb-sniffing agents became my hospitality service and escorted me past long lines to get my boarding pass and then through regular security assuring colleagues that I was thoroughly searched and passed inspection and brought to Passport Control where I was bid farewell.

At Passport Control, I handed my passport over expecting an exit stamp. The Passport agent never looked up from her computer screen. Something must have come up when she entered my name; I am not sure what. But before I knew it, I turned around and found myself surrounded by three new security agents. They had my passport and boarding pass, it slipped out of my sight and into their hands. They started to walk away with my documents and I was instructed to follow. I was ordered to sit down while they entered an office, had a private discussion about me, and sent a stone-faced and burly plain clothes agent to watch over me.

When I asked, I was told there wasn’t a problem, but clearly there was. At 4:15 am, I was escorted back through the various gates and doorways I had already traversed and brought swiftly to the same special room where my pants had been removed for security purposes. A new and slightly larger team of 3 – 5 agents were waiting for me and I felt sure I was going to be questioned, but time was ticking and their agenda was never exactly made clear to me.

I was frisked, more invasively than before, with fingers pawing at my flesh’s every crease and curve. My pants were removed once again and I was subjected to the metal detecting wand, while standing there, arms extended horizontally, like Jesus on a cross. The irony of being forced into this position by Israeli guards in the Holy Land stung deeply. They found nothing. I was asked if I knew anyone else traveling on my flight; the answer was no. Then they proceeded to remove everything from my small carry-on knapsack. Rosaries and miniature nativity scenes for relatives, a couple of Kuffiyehs for friends, and Palestinian embroidered artisan crafts were laid on the table as a couple of agents hauled of my iPod, cell phones, digital camera, and memory disks to another room.

Tucked away in my digital camera on a folder that should not be easily accessed I had every foto I had taken on my trip. I shouldn’t have brought them with me, but I can be foolish and pig-headed. These fotos prove that I was in Palestine, not Israel but the Occupied Palestinian Territories. They show me playing with Palestinian children and attending anti-war demonstrations. They depict checkpoints and resistance graffiti. They document non-violent protests against the Apartheid Wall and separation fences as well as the damage that settlers and settlements have done to Palestinian farmers and shepherds land and homes and communities.

Time was running out, 5:00 am was approaching, and there was a buzz in the air. Apparently the various security agents wanted to make sure that I did not miss my flight even though they found me suspicious. A progressive Israeli comrade forewarned me of this treatment and reassured me that they would not keep me; Israel has no interest in keeping International activists in, ultimately I would get through this uncomfortable situation. My concern is that they do to me what they have done to dozens, maybe hundreds, of others; place me on a list that denies me reentry. This may be why they have separated me from my electronic devices a second time, even after determining they never made contact with explosives. They weren’t afraid me blowing aircrafts up, but more about the truth leaking out, in the form of pictures and documents, blowing Israel up as a racist and fascist state. Once they determined that I was not a threat to the flight, I was thanked for my cooperation and brought back to Passport Control, where I was asked to stand outside the office while my exit visa was stamped. Agents escorted me through all gates and with a sneer I was told I still had 15 minutes to shop duty-free before boarding.

And that was it, I was free to leave. I am not sure if I am free to come back. I checked my passport naively wondering if they would leave a note saying don’t think of returning. Perhaps they weren’t sure if they would welcome me, regardless of my smile and the huge heart I wear on my sleeves. Maybe they made copies of my photos and files and some drone will look at them and make a note of me for the future -fernando reals, persona non grata. That’s not really that important. The reality is that I only dropped a few tears into that vast ocean of resistance that has been rising up like a hurricane and washing the Holy Land of all of this institutionalized hatred and violence. I believe Palestine will be free and it will be because Palestinians will liberate themselves.

My only hope is that, Inshallah, I can return when this happens; and if the opportunity to return and resist, in solidarity, alongside Palestinians is extended to me during the final years of occupation, I will gladly find a way back. Palante Siempre, En Solidaridad!

Viva, Viva Palestina! Y La Lucha Clandestina!
Viva, Viva Palestina! Y La Lucha Popular!

Monday, August 21, 2006

Solidarity

On Friday, August 11th, 2006, the Christian and Muslim communities in resistance to the Apartheid Wall near Al-Khadr proceeded to march in protest as they regularly do on Fridays after Juma’a prayers. Only this time they had a new idea.

The Israeli Forces have been building a wall to contain the entire West Bank and this construction is furiously under way in the areas near Bethlehem. Ultimately, Israelis would like to cut Palestinians off from the settler roads and highways that facilitate movement to the zionist side of the Green Line. Israel also plans on annexing as much land as possible. This stretch of wall that is under construction west of Bethlehem will imprison around 20,000 Palestinians between the wall and the Green Line. To that effect a one hundred meter stretch of wall stands alone along the road to Jerusalem, seemingly randomly.

In the last few weeks, a stretch of very sharp barbed wire was erected on a ridge seperating the Muslim cemetary and a local fruit grove from the road. The popular committee against the wall of Al-Khadr decided that as the group of children and community folks descended on the Apartheid Wall, a group of International allies as well as Israeli allies whould go remove some of the razor wire as a symbolic act of defiance to these illegal barriers.

Beyond any acts of symbolic solidarity, we successfully removed all one hundred meters of razor wire and sent it down the hill towards the Israeli Occupation Forces who looked on in shock and awe.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Nablus, Balata, and Askar

Nablus is both beautiful and grimey at the same time. Mountains surround massive concrete buildings where business tries to boom, refugee camps are galleries for shaheed posters featuring young men killed protecting their hood, and beautiful parks cradle families who come together to picnic. Nablus is the heart of the Intifada, where communities are pushed to yearn for Paradise Now.

We arrived in the midst of a small rally of support for Hezbollah. Ya Hezbollah, Ya Habib... One of the Internationals I worked with in the South Hebron Hills has been here for a few weeks making connections with local Palestinians and is speaking on the mic, expressing our sorrow at the fact that U.S. tax dollars help fund the tools of the occupation -M16's, F15's, Apaches, and other various and sundry military goods. Kids, especially young girls, are leading the chants against Israel today.

After being introduced to the crew, we head a few blocks through the city center to the Intelectual's Forum, a center where we are very welcome, that hosts people doing "humanist" work. The ISM delgation in Nablus has been scrambling for weeks trying to organize a meeting with local organizers to develop some clear accountability mechanisms for solidarity work. The city has seen an increased level of Israeli military activity in the smokescreen of the war on Lebanon and the constant bombardment of Gaza. The PA's Ministry of the Interior building was completely destroyed by Israeli tanks in mid-July and the rubble containing archives and files was thoroughly whipped to a pulp by Caterpillar bulldozers ensuring a bitter batter of Palestinian civil society's beaten retrospection. A people are eliminated not just through attempts on their lives, but through attempts on their history and culture; Israel knows this tactic well.

Five minutes into the the offical start of our meeting, with organizers, scholars, and representatives of groups such as the Palestinian Women's Union, gunfire erupts on the nearby streets, but nobody bats an eyelash -this is normal- and the meeting continues. Minutes later there is the call to prayer and we manage to still conduct our meeting over the muezzin's call blaring from the minaret.

After the meeting, we headed to Balata Refugee Camp, where the group was staying. Balata is infamous, making Queensbridge, Bushwick, and the South Bronx' reputations, seem like the stuff of urban legends. But on the reals, as I entered Balata passed the chamacos on the corner and the legendary masjid where Islamic Jihad recruits fighters, all I could think of was that line in Enter the Dragon, "ghettos are the same all over the world..." I felt comfortable walking through the crowds of cats stoops, passed the lights of barber shops open late into the night, walking through the alleys that host dozens of brigades on night patrol.

In Balata I met Hamoudi, a charismatic brother always down to hang out, an eight year old boy who runs an internet cafe while his father tends to other business, Mahdy who dreams of being a fashion designer, and a father and son duo who embody the beauty of Islam as they explain their desire for peace and co-existance with Christians and Jews. Unfortunately, every night their lives are interrupted by Israei soldiers coming into the camp and engaging young men forced to be fighters in shoot outs. Every night, 3am, without fail, we heard gunshots.

On my last night in Balata, soldiers came into the camp, broke into Hamoudi's home and used his living room as a staging ground for an operation aimed at arresting several suspected militants. There were around 70 soldiers and some spies on the street in front of his home and several soldiers and snipers in his living room.

This is life in Balata. No wonder there are hundreds of young men and women joining Al-Aqsa Martyrs, Qassam, Abu Ali Mustafaa, Al-Quds, or any other brigades that promise to resist the occupation through armed self-defense. I do not blame them. Instead I am reminded of Tupac Shakur's proclamation of THUGLIFE meaning The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody.

The streets are lined with hundreds of posters of the latest martyrs in this struggle for dignity in the face of occupation. Noone escapes this reality. Kids wear t-shirts with the faces of lost uncles. Most people carry the picture of a beloved relative who was killed, some wear them around their neck. A tragic ritual here is to have your photographs prepared in the event of your demise, regardless of whether or not you are a fighter. Everyone is a survivor, anyone can be a shaheed.

We also had an opportunity to visit Askar Refugee Camp. Children were celebrating and performing on the final day of their summer camp held at the UNRWA school. I cut out to get a haircut and a shave cause everyone in the refugee camps is looking dipped and I didn't want to be too far behind. You know the saying, When In Rome... but seriously, Palestinian men in the cities come correct and refugee camps are straight hip-hop -everyone is looking on point.

Refugee Camps also happen to be the main places in Palestine where one will come across black Palestinians, descendants of african immigrants before 1948. Given the racial diversity and sheer poverty, places like Balata and Askar feel the most like home, the most like the hood in New York. At the same time, the problems we have with poverty and the sense of occupation by the NYPD make for very asymetrical metaphors with the realities of Palestine. Askar Camp was invaded and homes were demolished a week after I left.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Huwarra And Other Machsoms

In order to enter Nablus you must take a shared taxi to Huawarra Checkpoint, disembark with all your belongings and carry them a few hundred meters, through revolving doors, passed Israeli Occupation Forces, and continue walking or jumping in other shared taxi for another few kilometers. You do this afraid that at any moment a soldier will single you out and deny you entry, or worse yet, detain you.

I have heard of Huwarra before. Its name sends shudders down Palestinian spines. It conjurs up images of crossing the snapping jaws of a crocodile, someone is gonna get hurt. When we arrived, I was taken aback. It seems an entire industry has sprouted up to meet the needs, the needs of Palestinians stuck in this gauntlet, the needs of poor folks trying to make money in this difficult economy. There were hundreds of taxis on both sides and men hawking cheaper rides than the next. You can purchase meals for a few shekels as well as cold drinks, if you have the shekels.

On this day, we got through with no problem and no need for a dialogue with Jeish, but on the other side the line of Palestinians trying to make it to point south was terribly long.

The next day Internationals accompanied Palestinians at Beit Iba checkpoint, the Machsom for points north of Nablus such as Jenin. The line of vehicles was at least a half mile long. I am not sure how that translates into hours wait but we even watched an ambulance with lights on go through a thorough documents search. I wonder if these were the conditions a few weeks ago when a comrades uncle died of a heart attack, while laying in an ambulance, stuck in a checkpoint, awaiting approval to travel to a hospital. This uncles heart stopped, many of ours broke. This is life in Palestine.

On foot, queues of travelers were forming. One for men and another for women and children. The latter is called the humanitarian line. We advocated for yet another, I guess a more humanitarian line. We spent a few hours advocating for people to get through more quickly. We were able to negotiate with soldiers for the release of men who were being held for various non-reasons such as having similar ID numbers as wanted men, although the soldiers knew the men in custody were not wanted, and those who were being punished for trying to circumnavigate this horrific checkpoint and its long lines.

Our efforts were a drop in an ocean.

Our efforts were more politicizing than effective at creating institutional change. It made me understand further how humiliating life can be under occupation. I tip my hat off to Machsom Watch, a group of Israeli women who volunteer constantly and systematically to stop human rights abuses at these checkpoints and watchtowers.

But we also built a sense of solidarity with those who watched us, as odd as we must have looked, a bunch of foreigners talking to soldiers and pleading with them to let people through more swiftly. One uncle, at first, asked why the soldiers weren't letting us through and I told him, we didn't want to go through, we want you to be able to get through faster, we are friends of Palestinians from Amreeka and Britanya and we don't agree with Bush or Blair. The uncle told us he loved us and that many Palestinians know that the people are not reflected by the officials. Salamat.

On the Road

After weeks in the south of the West Bank, and before heading home, I needed to travel north to learn something new. The Al Aqsa Intifada has been described as having died down in the south but being very much alive in the north to this day.

In the Hebron region,we have been accompanying farmers to their land around Beit Ummar who face constant terrorism from settlers with Israeli military backing. We also have had the opportunity to sit on the street near Tel Rumeida settlement in Hebron to document and disrupt any settler attacks on Palestinian children. We have attended anti-war demonstrations in the south that show support for Hezbollah as it takes on Israel, the bully. And we have stayed with Bedouins, forced or indigenous, to offer some security from midnight raids by settlers in masks who beat families and burn down homes.

But we also work in other regions. ISM has been supporting Non-Violent Direct Action for at least 5 years in various regions of the West Bank and Gaza and a crew has begun to reengage work in Nablus. A couple of us headed north to support the efforts underway and to learn about life and resistance in another region.

The north is much greener than the areas near the South Hebron Hills for instance, but not all villages are as lush as Beit Ummar. On the ride up you can still see olive trees whereas in the south many fields have been leveled by Israel. I also notice that villages seem farther away from each other and on this day there isn't much military visible on the roads heading north.

As we pass a bend, another International shares with me the legend of a Palestinian sharpshooter who sat in the hills patiently waiting for a soldier to pass by. He then used an inherited Jordanian rifle to eliminate his enemy, cleanly and quietly. The sniper is said to have dropped 7 Israeli soldiers in one day but within 7 days he himself was eliminated by Israel.

This sense of sacrifice and patience pushes many Palestinians.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Halla Ya

Everywhere you go in the West Bank there is an infectious beat driving people. Timbaland didn't produce it and its not a post-mortem treat from the one J-dilla. From car stereos, shawarma shop radios, and televisions from Al-Khalil to Nablus, speakers blare:

Halla Ya Sagir Lebanon,
Halla Ya Hasan Nasrallah,
Halla Ya Hezbollah...

Palestine has suffered so much at the hands of the Israeli state that one would be hard-pressed to find Palestinians who aren't a little excited by the fact that there is a force strong enough to slap the Zionists with a couple of bofetas.

I am not sure how this war will end. Israel has one of the strongest militaries, very advanced weaponry, and the world's most influential benefactors. But one thing is certain, Hezbollah is welcome in Palestine. Hassan Nasrallah is loved by many who see his dedication to the Palestinian people and his audacity as qualities that are missing from other arab leaders.



In communities across the West Bank there have been dozens of demonstrations in support for the Hezbollah fighters. This solidarity with the underdog freedom fighters cuts across party lines. Fatah as well as Hamas are expressing support.

In a world where a non arab-speaker is often limited to understanding everyday people's politics by using the terms 'good' or 'not good,' one finds an overwhelming amount of people of all generations who smile, give thumbs up, and proclaim that Hezbollah is 'very, very good.'

Palabras...

At times I can't find the palabras to express what I am seeing.

It is getting harder and harder as time passes. Someone I met here said that an International once visited Palestine and was so moved they wanted to write a book, so they returned to start the interviews and research for their book and could only manage to write an article, then they learned even more and couldn't sit down to write an e-mail.

I never took a moment to consider how dangerous apuntes can be; I want folks to read these and read the tons of other blogs and books on Palestine. I want people to do something beyond reading and writing. When will more people start rebeling?

One of my dearest comrades forwarded me these words from one of my favorite writers:

We all know that there are language forms that are considered impolite and out of order, no matter what truths these languages might be carrying. If you talk with a harsh, urbanized accent and you use too many profanities, that will often get you barred from many arenas, no matter what you’re trying to say. On the other hand, polite, formal language is allowed almost anywhere even when all it is communicating is hatred and violence.

Power always privileges its own discourse while marginalizing those who would challenge it or that are the victims of its power.

Just watch what’s happening in Palestine.

I find the language of Israel, for example, the language of an occupying army that practices collective retaliation, that drops bombs on villagers because someone utterly unconnected to them kills an Israeli soldier, this language is considered (by many in the world community) as rational and civilized, yet the language of a Palestinian revolutionary, fighting to end the occupation, with whatever limited means he or she has at their disposal, is considered the language of savagery and of barbarism and of terrorism. It would seem to me that the Israelis deploy their language privilege to cloak the reality of what they’re doing and distort what the Palestinian struggle for liberation is all about.


Gracias Junot Diaz, for your palabras...