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.