Stories From Palestine
by Sohail Dahdal

Two bullets and a data projector
Well, what can I say I'm in Jerusalem!

The week before flying here was a crazy week that included working 20 hours a day to finish a few loose ends before leaving to Jerusalem. This crazy schedule worked well for my 36 hours flight from Sydney to Singapore, to London, and then to Tel-Aviv – I almost slept through the whole trip. Except, halfway through the trip I realized that I was sitting two seats away from a good friend of my, Tiara, that I haven’t seen in two years. Imagine finally seeing her again on a plane heading to London. Two years in Sydney and we meet leaving Sydney!

I arrived at Tel-Aviv airport and as soon as I passed customs I was greeted by an entourage of security officers bewildered by a Palestinian born in Libya, living in Australia, on a UN mission to help setting up some policies for Palestine! After a thorough search and lots of polite questions and lots Hebrew whispering I was released to the outside world - or the inside world of Israel, a country in turmoil. I took the bus to Jerusalem - I have to admit I was a bit scared of the possibility of a suicide bomber blowing up the bus  -me included - I thought wouldn't be ironic - if I get blown up?

The next morning Mounir and Sufian from the UN/DP came to my hotel in Jerusalem to take me to the UN/DP head quarters – which I later found out it was 10 minutes away from the old city. To my relief both men were really intelligent, articulate, nice, and fluent in English. One more thing that made me happy; they were dressed smart casual - which meant that I didn't have to wear a suit. In the office I was told that I'm no longer working on just one project. Instead I will be working on high-level concept development and policy draft for 5 projects! So looks like I’ll be busy.

At this moment I’m setting in my office with a huge window looking at a valley. The other side of the Valley is a huge Israeli settlement of some sort – you can see the rapid construction work to expand it even further.
Part of me is happy to be in this wonderful city where my father was born, and my mother spent her boarding school years in the once Arabic Jerusalem. Part of me is happy to be here, and part of me is wondering if what I’m doing here is going to change anything. After all, this world is built on the laws of the jungle and not the dreams of an expatriate.

Yesterday I went to a meeting in Ramalleh. On the way there I didn’t see any demonstrations nothing out of the ordinary - carrying a UN id and driving a UN car you don’t get hassled by the Israelis nor the Palestinians. The meeting was in the Ministry of Planning and International Co-operation (MOBIC) building. We went in, sat around a round table - Deputy Ministers, UN people, policy makers… and me. The room was dim in preparation for the screening of a presentation about a draft plan for a national Internet Network in Palestine. Someone switches the projector on, the light is projected on the wall, the wall by now is illuminated with a map showing the suggested Internet hubs around Palestine. I notice two large holes on the wall covering some parts of the projected PowerPoint presentation; the light escapes through the holes and leaves a dark shadow in place of two of the cities on the map. The presenter explains that the building had come under Israeli fire the night before - the two holes are bullet holes! After the meeting I’m taken next door to see the office of one of the deputies; his chair has a large hole from a bullet that went from the window through his chair (chest high) to the wall behind him, to the next room and through the window on the other side of the building!

I feel like I'm in the middle of a war zone. It’s going to be an interesting two months. I really hope that I can make a difference and help the Palestinians now that I’m seeing how much help they need.

Many worlds away… same place!
The place, a trendy bar on Jafa Street, the busiest street in the modern European style side of Jerusalem - the Jewish side. The time: Saturday night. The atmosphere, very cosmopolitan, worlds away from the war zone on the other side of Jerusalem where Air-to-land missile were used to demolish hundreds of Palestinian houses, police stations, and trees – all in the name security, retaliation, or “pro-active” self-defence.

We sat at the outside area in Strudel Bar, asked for a Heineken for me, and a Carlsberg for my cousin… I think it was a Carlsberg. Watching passers-by on Jafa Street, people seemed just happy to be out and about– in Israel everyone goes out on Saturday night after two days of Shabbat. Around us were groups of drinkers, mainly young university students – later I found out most were actually senior school kids, no older than 17 years old – even if they looked very mature, and dressed in an explosive kind of way. I shouldn’t use the word explosive here, for I didn’t mean it in its destructive term, more like mind blowing – one thing I have to say: girls in Israel know how to dress to kill.

As I said there was no explosives, no killings and no wars on Jafa street, just young teenagers playing games, drinking, trying to dress like adults – as young teenagers do around the world. Nothing that reminds me where I was – in Jerusalem - but for the odd soldier drinking with his machine gun laying comfortably next to the beer on the table. I must say the drunken Israeli soldiers did encourage me and my cousin to speak only in English and hide our Arabic background. Plus we didn’t want to scare the bar patrons of the possibility of a suicide bomber drinking amongst them – after all, we could end-up a “pro-active” self-defence casualty.

In particular one of the girls attracted my attention, she was dressed sexy, very Israeli style, long curly hair and a top that did not leave much to the imagination, and that wasn’t the only reason she attracted my attention - my cousin told me she was an Arab. I was surprised to see an Arabic teenager in this place, dressed like this, and talking in a fluent American accent to a group of Israeli and American teenagers. She seemed in total denial of her identity. I thought she probably tells them she is American. I thought she might be ashamed of her Palestinian origin. I thought young, and foolish, and part of a new lost generation. How dare she…

Until, one of the guys in the group - he sounded American - asked her if she was from the US. She said “no I’m Palestinian”. I was impressed. This guy proceeded to ask her why don’t Palestinians just stop fighting and start enjoying life! The answer came fast in eloquent English, one of the best arguments I’ve ever heard about the injustices Palestinian kids have to endure. I tell you she was very well spoken - I thought another Hanan Ashrawi. The more logic she expressed the more stubborn our American friend became, he just kept reciting clichés from the media - why do Palestinians throw their kids in the line of fire? Why not accept 95% of the West Bank? And what do you expect the Soldiers to do if the Palestinian kids throw stones at them! The more questions he asked, the more emotional this poor Palestinian kid became. She talked about seeing her 5 year old neighbour being killed, about the Israeli closures, about the occupation, dignity, and justice… no need to say I was the only one really listening.

It was obvious she was extremely smart, extremely hurt, and extremely open-minded. By that time I was in tears – tears I couldn’t show to anyone nor did I wish to. Not only had I misjudged a fellow human being but also I have failed to understand her true motives to be on the west side of Jerusalem. Now I understand how she must feel. It must be hard to be an intellectual young Palestinian woman. It would be almost impossible for this girl to sit in a bar in the Palestinian side of Jerusalem and talk on the same level of communication with other fellow Palestinian teenagers - not that there is many bars, and not that this is the time for talking. The average Palestinian kid has only one thing on their mind… how to get out. Yes, how to get out of this hell. Some express their frustration by throwing stones. Most have lost hope, dignity, and any reason to dream.

I can only begin to imagine the pain, inner conflicts, and the last gasps of dignity that a conversation of that kind would bring to this girl’s mind - and to mine. In the distant you can hear the missiles zooming into their targets just miles away in Beit Gala.

Fear… and other catastrophes
I wanted to tell you about a day in Jerusalem as a tourist, but I can never do Jerusalem justice… not using words or images… you really have to be there.

There is no way I can describe the old city… it is the smells that will always haunt me. Once I was told long lasting memories always carry the scent of their days… I now believe it for I have smelled the spices in the Muslim quarter, the bread in the Armenian quarter, the "Bakhour" in the Christian quarter, and the old wood in the Jewish quarter… don’t ask me why old wood.

I’m not describing Jerusalem… nor am I drawing a picture of the old city. I’m just telling you the story of twenty-four hours of my life in Jerusalem… it is true even if you’re not going to believe it.

It’s 2 am in the morning… I’m drinking in a bar in West Jerusalem, the same bar I met the Arabic girl the other day… this time we’re (me and my cousin) drinking inside in a little dim corner, two lounges forming an L shape and an old wooden table, on the table was a backgammon board. There were not many people around so we decide to play a game of checkers. Few minutes through the game the bar comes to life so much, that there is no room for people to sit… a group of four girls, dressed as if they were from the religious school down the road – my cousin tells me, they ask if they can join us and if we can teach them the game!

My cousin starts teaching them how to play. I find myself in the middle of this strange meaningful conversation with one of the girls. She thinks I’m an Israeli. She tells me she is here to study the Torah and that her parents – ultra-orthodox Jews – sent her here to get a bit of culture from the mother land, Israel. She tells me that she is sorry but she has to be honest with me – me, being an Israeli – and that she doesn’t agree with what we are doing here in Israel and that we don’t treat the Palestinians fair! At this point I mention to her that I’m from Sydney and that I work for the UN. I confess to her “I, myself, am the son of a Palestinian.” I expect her to run out of the door, screaming Bomb! She doesn’t. Instead she tells me that she thinks that Israelis really don’t understand Palestinians… they instead fear them! I agree, “Yes true, but it’s the religion that causes all the problems.” By that time her friends get a confession from my cousin that we are Arabs… they get very uncomfortable and they usher my friend to a corner… they gesture to her that she needs to leave with them now… she asks them to leave her and go. I see an animated conversation and my friend comes back saying she has to leave to get a lift back to the university – my cousin was right. They were from the religious school. Before she leaves she slips me a piece of paper with her name and phone number. Her name was Jeanne.

I’m puzzled; here I am left with a phone number, an invitation to call an ultra-orthodox girl… maybe for another conversation about fear and other catastrophes… I decide not to call Jeanne. My cousin looks at me funny. We leave the bar… the backgammon board… and the piece of paper with the telephone number next to it. We walk through Jafa Street on the way to my cousin’s car. I’m still thinking about the fear factor… I ask my cousin to stop… I approach two girls sitting on a bench looking really relaxed… I introduce us, two Australians visiting and I ask about nice bars in the area? One of the girls says in a very strong Israeli accent “Ahh… you not from here? What you do here in Israel? It’s very dangerous” I play along, dangerous! Why? I ask. “There are Arabs everywhere”, she replies. So how come you’re here? Aren’t you scared? My cousin asks the other girl. “Yes, I’m scared but what can I do. And also I now feel safe because they are here.” She points to a group of soldiers. I was tempted to tell the poor girl that I’m an Arab and do I look scary? Instead, worried that I will scare her to death, I say my goodbyes and we go.

On the drive back to the east side, I start thinking about my morning tour of Jerusalem. Mounir the head of my unit in the UNDP has been offering to take me on a real tour of Jerusalem, me being an ignorant expatriate, and he being the son of Jerusalem… a true Jerusalemite. We park the car outside the walls of the old city. And we walk to “Bab al Amod.” Once inside, something strange comes over me. I feel an extension of the city. In seconds I feel 2000 years older. No older is not the word… it’s more like this is my roots… I walk in Jerusalem therefore I exist - not alone but with my father and his father before him… my ancestors walked here for thousands of years, the same streets, the same walls, even the same faces. It an amazing feeling I have never experienced before. It’s a feeling of belonging… its my “being” having just extended to 2000 years of cultural belonging. I have felt I belong before, to Africa, to my local pub, to my family, but never have I felt like this, being part of this great historical city.

Mounir asks if I had breakfast… without waiting for an answer he takes me to “Abu Shaker” Hummus restaurant. We eat Hummus and drink tea with fresh mint leaves – Mounir tells me this is the most famous Hummus in Jerusalem. The restaurant has been open for the last 80 years and is passed on from father to son. Next we walk the streets in the Muslim quarter and Mounir points out the smells… he say they’re unique to the city and they remind him of his childhood. From the Muslim quarter we move to the Jewish quarter and Mounir explains how they, Muslim, Jewish, and Christian lived together within the walls of the old city in perfect harmony before the 1948 war of independence by Israel – when Jerusalem was divided into two sections one under the Israeli control the other under the Jordanian control. Since then the fear has been implanted in the hearts of old friends. In 1967 Israel occupied the other half of Jerusalem but until today the city is claimed by both Palestinians and Israelis. The Muslim Quarter is the same as it was 50 years ago, so is the Jewish and the Christian quarters… only the old friends are now enemies… you can feel the hatred. Walking in the Jewish quarter we were looked at in horror whenever Mounir spoke in loud Arabic to tease a passing rabbi. We get to the Wailing Wall… and yes we were allowed in! We both look very much like tourists so we walk in after being asked politely to put on a Kippur. We walk under the Dome of the Rock were excavations are being conduct looking for the lost temple. The Muslims fear that the excavations will cause the collapse of the Dom of the Rock one of the holiest sites to Moslems - a constant friction point. They’d never dream of letting us in if they knew we were Palestinians!

We walk from the Jewish quarter back to the Muslim Quarter and then to the Armenian Quarter - a group of 2000 Armenian Christians that came to the city before any wars started. They never mix with the other quarters and they keep to themselves. Mounir takes me to the Christian quarter and the church of the Holy Sepulchre. I light five candles for my family. I don’t believe in religion but being a Christian and knowing that my mum would like me to… I oblige and light the candles, one for each member of my family. To end my old city tour Mounir takes me to an old sweets shop that makes Moutabak - a pastry stuffed with fetta cheese and honey. The place looks old and dirty; the owner greets us and starts making the pastry sweet. He is very old and Mounir tells me he has been making these sweets for the last 40 years… and his father before him! They were delicious. Before we pay Mounir asks the guy to take us to the back room, I wonder what’s in the back room? The back room opens to an under ground dungeon. As soon as he switches the lights on I’m amazed to see the remains of some 2500 year old Roman ruins! In the back of a sweet shop!

The next day I’m in Taybeh, a Christian village 20 km away from Jerusalem, the only village in Palestine where the population are all of Christian belief, and the only village with a beer brewery “Taybeh Beer” – my village. In the distance I see the twinkling lights of Jerusalem. A city with three religions, but only one soul, the soul of an old beautiful city. I now believe my Jewish friend from the bar… its not the religion that causes problems, it’s the fear. The Israelis fear Arabs want to throw them in the sea… not true – they just want to be equal. The Palestinians fear the Israelis want to take all of their land… they can’t – they just want to be accepted. Don’t misunderstand me… there are forces in the Palestinian camp that want all the Israelis out of the land of Palestine and back to what it was 50 years ago. Some Israelis want to keep all of Jerusalem and all the settlements… these forces are imperialist forces, they are external forces that manage to plant the fear in the public - and now more than ever. Kill the fear and you solve the problem. I believe it.

Kill the fear and you will awaken the soul of the old city. A city with three quarters that has been connected for thousands of years… Suddenly I awaken from my thinking by a flash of light in the distant… in Jerusalem? I run inside, switch on the news, and I hear of a bomb explosion in Jerusalem… the same spot I was talking to the two girls a few hours ago on Jafa Street. That night, I hopped they were ok.  

The bones of a hero
The hero is Abed Al-Kader Al-Husseini, the Che of Palestinians. He was killed in the 1948 war when Israel was created and 80% of Palestine became Israel. 485 Villages were destroyed and millions became refugees. Al-Husseini was killed in an uneven street war between a group of Arab Nationalist hastily assembled army and the well-equipped Jewish gangs. These Jewish gangs later become the backbone of the army of the newly formed Israel.

I don’t intend to give you a history lesson; I just wanted to highlight some background information about the hero of our story.

Before I start, you can choose to believe me… or not. I’m telling you a story… but this story happened to me in its entirety.

The story starts in my UNDP office, Jimmy comes running to me with a sad look on his face, “Fasil is dead”, he says. My reply came fast, “I just saw him on TV last night, in Kuwait!”

Fasil is a very respected politician both by Palestinians and Israeli’s - I mean moderate Palestinians and Israelis. Fasil is more than a politician, he is a fighter for a Palestinian Jerusalem, a promoter of coexistence - so much so that after spending years in the Israeli jails he went on to learn Hebrew and worked hard for years to nurture the concept of peace. Fasil was one of the last honest heroes. I admired him – not for being honest but for being able to be both a hero and a peacemaker. Fasil died of a massive heart attack while on an official visit to Kuwait – naturally in the office every one was saying they gave Fasil a heart a attack, the Kuwaitis  - something I almost believe. Some said he was sick after the Israeli army’s tear gas incident, whatever the reason he died… both Palestinians and Israelis lost a peacemaker.

The next day I went with my cousin to Fasil’s funeral. Yasser Arafat had flown with Fasil’s body from Jordan to Ramallah – tens of thousands marched with the Palestinian-flag-draped coffin to the Ramallah checkpoint where they had to say their final goodbyes and Fasil continued his journey to Jerusalem – Palestinians from the West bank are not allowed to enter Jerusalem. Even Yasser Arafat can’t go past the checkpoint. In Jerusalem I was waiting along with all of East Jerusalem - it seemed. We waited in the heat of the summer for hours waiting for the hero to come back home to the Orient House - the Symbol of an Arabic East Jerusalem.

Palestinian flags everywhere… black flags everywhere, the Koran, famous personalities making speeches, some Arabs, some Israeli leftists… everybody seemed united in their respect for the man… his photos remain – even a week later – in every shop, on every wall, even the cars carry photos of Fasil with the Dom of the Rock in the background. It seems that the city refuses to forget her son, Fasil.

Fasil was buried next to his father in Al-Harem Al-Sharif.  I forgot to tell you Fasil is the son of Abed Al-Kader Al-Husseini. Something tells me that they will both always be symbols of the Palestinian heroism and struggle against the attempt to erase the Palestinian identity , and uproot it from its roots in Jerusalem.

That night coming back from Ramallah I needed to get a sharoot – a shared taxi – to get home from central Jerusalem to the Mount of Olives. It was 9 pm and there was hardly anyone in the streets. Few drivers were hanging around waiting for passengers that never arrived. They tried to make me pay for the whole car but I said I’d wait.

Ten minutes and a Palestinian youth came by. He was dressed smartly, and fashioned a very trendy haircut. He looked smart, educated, a typical Jerusalemite Arab. He looked around and asked the drivers if they were leaving soon. “No” the answer was. I could feel that although this guy looked quite normal, walked normal, smiled normal, something was wrong… his glassy eyes, his slow manner of speech, soft spoken but very spooky and dreamy voice that you don’t want to hear. He kept talking about anything and everything, he wouldn’t stop. Asking the driver about the tyres on his car, the food he ate, the number of his children and why would he wait so long? Why not go home if there are no passengers? Questions just kept coming in the same manner! Some were directed to me: “Why wait?” “Do you want to walk with me?” “Its not a long walk to the Mount of Olives”. No need to say I said no. By that time we were all annoyed or rather spooked from this guy. Slowly he takes something out of his jeans Jacket. It’s a plastic bag. He opens it slowly and unfolds a bunch of white tissues.

“Look”, he stretches his hands open to show us what he has, “It’s Abed Al-Kader Al-Husseini’s bones,” he said in the same slow casual voice. The drivers and I didn't know what to say, it was all just too strange to even comment. The youth went on to grab one of the bones – a rib – he points it to his chest and says, “Look a rib… it comes from here.” He points to his chest. One of the drivers asked him half bemused, half bedazzled: “where did you get them?” “I was helping when they digged Fasil’s grave and these bones came out from the soil we dug out to make Fasil’s grave,” he says casually. Another driver says “you should bury them” so our friend grabs a stick and heads to little bushes on the side of the road and starts digging, he then places the bones one by one. “You should dig deeper” someone comments. We are all still in shock, half believing, half bemused.

I decide to pay for the taxi and I go home wandering if these bones were really the bones of a hero… if they are then I know where they’re buried. Right there in the taxi station, in East Jerusalem, where he hoped to live a free Palestinian… so did his son, Fasil. And so do I. And so does every Palestinian in Palestine or anywhere around the world.

The bones are only symbolic, so are the flags flying on top of the Orient House. Only one true thing in this world… it's history. History will always remember Fasil, his father, and Palestine.

“A Bloody Zeinib” in Beirut
Sitting on the balcony of the gatehouse where I’ve been staying in Jerusalem for the last five weeks, a breath taking view of the city stretching in front of me to as far as the eyes can see, the Dom of the Rock shining in the distant sparkling lights of the old city, a certain charm, a glass of whiskey, and the mix of “Um Koulthume” music from the radio and the chattering of the guards below me talking politics – the balcony is right on top of the gate of the Augusta Victoria Hospital.

Living in the gatehouse of the hospital is certainly an experience. The hospital sits on a prime real estate position on top of the Mount of the Olives. The balcony provides the best view to the old city… no better place to sip my whiskey, unwind from the busy day at the office.

Now I feel like writing.

I don’t know if I should write about my trip to Lebanon and Jordan – I just got back two days ago and still have a vivid image of downtown Beirut - or should I write about my hectic day at the office, my encounter with an Israeli soldier this morning, or should I just write about how I feel about the cease-fire and the current strange political climate?

It was 1973, I was 3 years old then. I have this clear vivid memory of holding my dad’s hand walking on a bustling street of lights, carnival, and lots of people. I remember pulling my dad’s hand and pointing to a clown walking on two wooden legs. It’s amazing why this memory has stuck in my head. My mum tells me the street was Al-hamra Street, one of the most famous streets of Beirut – we had lived there in a hotel for a whole six months waiting for a visa to Israel that never came.

Since 1973 Beirut has gone through a lot of stuff, a civil war, massacres, an Israeli invasion, Hezb-Allah liberation of the south, and now a process of rebuilding.

I arrived at Beirut airport and found a UN driver waiting for me with a name sign. On the way to my hotel in Al-hamra Street I wondered if it’s the same hotel I stayed in with my mum, dad, and baby sister 28 years ago? I feel old for a second. I tell the driver about my clown story and he tells me that it must have been around the same time of the year as they have an annual carnival.

The next three days in Beirut taught me a lot about the spirit of the Lebanese people. Coming out of a twenty years of bloody fighting, they certainly know how to party and enjoy life. I thought maybe it’s a post war effect but I’m told it was even more so before the war. Only in Beirut you would be I taken to a restaurant at 12am for dinner! That night I had just spent an evening in downtown Beirut in one of the trendy bars in Solidire. Solidire is the rebuilt downtown area in Beirut, a very strange place with strange architecture - a mixture of North African, Parisian, and Italian designs. All of these new buildings, trendy bars, and lush plazas mix strangely with a bunch of war damaged buildings that remain untouched as a witness to the ugliness of war.

What a strange feeling to sit in the terrace of a trendy bar sipping my “Almaza” Beer looking into a plaza with a clock in the middle of it, and a stretch of paved streets with new buildings strangely designed, barely occupied. At the end of the paved street and between the two lines of the new building you can see the remains of huge building totally damaged by the bombs, the thousands of bullet holes, and the half hanging, half demolished balconies. I sat there thinking and listening to Moa'taz telling me about his experience of the war. He tells me this plaza was the centre of some of the most fierce battles between the fighting militias; thousands got killed in the same spot we’re sitting. He points at the clock: “See the clock? This was used by the artillery as a marking target”.

Next we visit Moa'taz’s Children’s Art Centre in Shatilla, a tiny office with lots of videos, books, computers and some video editing equipment, oh, and posters everywhere. We watch a few videos made by the children in the camps and Moa'taz explains these kids have no hopes, and they even don’t dare to hope. He says he is frustrated by how disheartened the kids are – he offered them some scholarships but the kids reject it fearing the disappointment of not finding a job afterwards. The movies were good but I was getting hungry so I was more than happy when I was taken to "Abed Al –wahab” traditional Lebanese restaurant.

It was 12am and we went straight up to the roof. The restaurant is right on the line dividing East and West Beirut where the fighting was concentrated. From the roof I could see all the buildings around us, all were badly damaged by the war and still remain so. Moa’taz and his friend Mai - a doctor interested in witchcraft – take it upon themselves to order. First a bottle of Lebanon’s famous drink, Arak – a very strong white spirit. Then a collection of maza: Hummus, Tabouleh, Fattoush, Raw minced meat, Raw veal, Labeneh, Hot Hummus with pine nuts, Grilled Haloumi cheese and much more! Moa’taz asks for three large tomatoes, a lemon and a collection of spices, “I will make you a Bloody Zienib, the Lebanese version of Bloody Mary” he smiles.

You carve the tomatoes, empty the pulp and leave the juice, add Arak, lemon, salt, and chilli, more spices, and drink a very refreshing cocktail. By 4am I’m through my fourth Bloody Zienib, and Moa’taz declares that it’s time to leave because he has to start work at 8am. I nod agreement.

I love Lebanon, from the Mountains near Bybilos to the Beaches, to the old women smoking Argyle on the side of the street by the waterfront, to the beautiful dark skinned women in the famous extravagant clubs… I love it all. But I have to say that Beirut to me is a holiday place and I could never live there.

I arrive at Tel Aviv airport. A smile from the girl at the passport control, she stamps a visa for me, and I walk through without being searched. For some strange reason they usually assume that I’m an Israeli! Other tourists are being questioned and search, including angry American tourists. I walk through without even being asked any questions - me, the Palestinian arriving from Lebanon! 
 
Reaching the skies
It’s not that I never saw them, I just never paid enough attention to why they fly.

How often did you walk a street, everyday, going to work… and one day you discover that there are things on that street that you have never seen before… they were there, you just weren’t looking.

I walked the streets of Jerusalem for the last two months. Everyday I would walk by Damascus Gate and walk up the street alongside the walls of the old city to the New Gate, where my Auntie lives.

I walked by the wall many time without even stopping to notice it. Today, as it’s my last week here in Jerusalem my beloved city, I was taking my time examining the huge wall while walking down from the New Gate towards Damascus gate. You know, its amazing to think the same wall has existed for thousands of years, just imagine the bloody wars that this place has witnessed, and the future bloody wars this place will witness. The wall remains there, silent but strong, always ready to protect the old city from any invasion whether it’s a cultural invasion or a military occupation. Wars come and go and the old city remains, charmed by age as it is charmed by its hidden gardens and busy Souks.

As I looked up to the height of the wall I saw them flying. They are little kites, white and red, made of plastic. They remind me of the Red Cross – and they should have reminded me of the Austrian flag but they didn’t at the time. You follow the strings and you see a few Palestinian kids trying their best to control their flying machines, it looks to me like it’s an art they have mastered. The kites fly really high as if they’re angels watching over Jerusalem. If I was a kite I would see the walls of the old city, and inside I would see the churches, the mosques, and the synagogues all next to each other. In between them I would see the heritage stone houses with their hidden gardens.

For a second I stop and watch the kids. They are totally concentrating, unaware of the soldiers meters away from them, unaware of the tourists, unaware of me. I wonder if this is their escapism from the unbearable effect of occupation – everybody needs a way to escape reality, especially the Middle East realities. Often, it’s hard to ignore the bullets – the rubber coated ones - or to escape the closures, the uprooting of trees, and so forth, things that we all know about, and I have no desire to lessen their stark injustice by casually listing them here.

I look at one of them – the kids - he is no older than ten years old. His kite is flying higher than the others, you can see it on his face at this moment of time he is the king. For that moment of time he doesn’t have to answer to anyone, not even the soldiers.

I think maybe this kid and others come here to fly their kites as an act of defiance – “You can arrest me, you can stop me from going anywhere but you can’t stop my kite from flying higher than you can reach”. For the Palestinian kids it’s only natural that they would want to fly kites. We all long for freedom but no one longs for it more than a nine year old born in an Intifada, and living another one, still under occupation, still can’t travel, still can’t see the future. His kite flies high and for a moment he is free, as free as the wind of the Sahara’s, as free as his kite would be if he let go of the string. Only he wouldn’t, for the kite is his only friend. With the kite he can fly higher than the walls of his imprisonment. For a moment he is a king, I feel it, and I wonder is this kid going to throw some stones tomorrow? Is he going to get killed? Or is he, one day, going to fly his kite over Jerusalem, a free man.  

I leave the kids, the kites, and the walls of the old city and continue my walk contemplating my last day at work tomorrow. Tomorrow I finish my UN mission and I will have to leave Jerusalem to go back the Western World were people will ask me, was it dangerous? I will answer no; it was beautiful and sad, majestic and wounded, restless and occupied. I will answer no it wasn’t dangerous, it was where it is worth living, and it is worth dying.

What lies beyond your gaze?
A friend of mine emailed me this question: “what lies beyond your gaze?” 

This morning, on my way to a meeting in Ramallah, there, in the bus, the only thing I could see from my window is the grey cement of the security wall separating the city from Jerusalem, no matter how high I look up, I could only see a wall... we drove and the wall seemed to be stretching forever. 

The night before I had been to the German colony café, a café on the Israeli side of Jerusalem, very cool bohemian style café. I was there having a beer with a Spanish friend talking about love, life, and politics, she was asking why can’t we have cafes like this on the Palestinian side? 

Right now I am sipping my Arabic coffee in a beautiful Arabic rooftop restaurant in the Christian quarter of the old city – so high up that you can see all of the old city quarters, the Jewish , the Muslim, the Christian, and the Armenian... if you look past the old city to the east you can see the beautiful historic mount of olives, look to the west and you see the modern tall buildings... what a beautiful land this is... I ask myself, will there ever be peace? 

In the last few days no matter where I go I can’t seem to get my friend’s question out of my mind... My gaze can’t seem to travel beyond the earthiness of where I am, now, today.

I guess what I am trying to ask is why can we only think of creating a temporary peace?

How could a peace based on fear and walls,  be long lasting? 

If we gaze past the stupidity of trying to find a solution that will solve the problem temporary by walls. If we try to REALLY solve the problem by creating social change that can accommodate for co-living, only then we can create a long lasting peace.

I might sound like a pessimist but in fact I am optimistic that there is an undercurrent, a new wave of people that understand the need to look past the immediate quick fixes.

To answer my friend, what lies beyond my gaze is honesty... When we can be honest with ourselves for once... And what lies beyond my gaze is passion that I feel in this land... and would love to even convey a grain of it to all the sceptics... to all whom have given up and started building walls.

In fact, I am feeling very optimistic... It must be this beautiful sun, and this fresh air... And this amazing view.

So,  my friends, what lies beyond your gaze?
 
Fortune Teller
Do you believe in predicting the future?

I do. I am a believer, not because I believe in the paranormal or anything like that, it’s just that I am a true believer in the power of the imagination… what you imagine - if you imagine it hard enough and with strong convection - it will be. This sounds like a motivation tape or something… and you might ask what does that have to do with me and my recent trip to Palestine! My intention is to capture a moment that changed my conviction and my whole believe system – moments tend to do that.

It all started last week in Ramallah, and before I go any further let me explain to you what and where Ramallah is. Ramallah is a Palestinian city under the Israeli occupation, its inhabitants live in a total city arrest situation – that is they can’t travel outside the city, not even to Jerusalem 20 minutes drive. Ramallah is a beautiful mountainous city situated roughly in the middle of occupied west bank, it is widely considered the second most cosmopolitan city in the Middle East after Beirut – many will argue that but I tend to agree. Just imagine a city that has seen its share bit of occupation and is still surrounded by Israeli check points… and yet every day the markets are busy, the nights are enchanted with people walking the streets or hanging out in coffee shops and restaurants. Ramallah is alive in spite of it all.

That afternoon I was in Ramallah, my Australian passport allows me to travel daily from Jerusalem to Ramallah unlike most Ramallians - my term for people living in Ramallah - who are stuck there and have been for years.

That afternoon in Ramallah, I was sitting in a coffee shop by myself waiting for some friend. To pass time I decided to take out my trusted set of playing cards and practice my luck - something I often do.

I noticed two girls smiling towards me, they came and sat on the table next to mine… my mind was absent so I just went back to my cards… few minutes later one of the two girls asks me out of the blue “can you read the future?”

I was shocked for many reason, one I didn’t think Palestinian girls are that forward, two what makes them think of fortune telling in Ramallah? But more important is how did they know I read cards! It’s true I used to read cards, and although I had no interest in reading their cards I couldn’t lie so I said “yes, I used to, but not anymore”

“Why not? Please read ours” the answer came fast… with a bit of giggling…

“I just don’t anymore”

“Please read our cards, we don’t believe in it but would like it very much”

“Ok, I’ll read your cards but just for fun… not a serious reading… what are your names?”

“I am [I forgot her name], second year engineering student at Bierziet University”
“And I am Amal, third year Social science, also at Bierziet University”
So I read their cards… and they listened with slight amusement and a lot of interest.

I was interested too, and wanted to talk to them more find out about life in Ramallah but my friends came and we had to leave… as I left they both followed me to the door with their eyes as to say thank you but we want to know more.

The day got busy with meetings and dinner, drinking, and smoking the Argyle – I tell you they know how to have fun in Ramallah.  By 8:30 pm I had to excuse myself so I can make it to the check point… the Israeli’s close the check point by  9 pm, and if I was late I would have been stuck in Ramallah.

Once I got to the check point the soldier, a young army boy, was rude to start with but once he found out that I was an Australian he became so friendly telling me about how much he is looking forward to visit Australia when he finishes his Army service. And he added “What are you doing in Ramallah this late?” “I was out with some friends, enjoying a drink”, I replied.

I’ll never forget the look on this guy’s face; he was genuinely surprised “They have places to go out in Ramallah!” I answered politely as there was no point of making a point of it: “Yes, Ramallah is a party town.” For this soldier that deals with Palestinian day after day on a check point, must of them either humiliated and begging to cross or angry and would never smile passing a check point, who would blame this soldier if he thought of Ramallah as a town full of angry Arabs that are waiting to get him if they are let out… he is the prison officer and they are the prisoners.

As I walked across the check point my mind went back to the two girls… how ironic that they ask me to tell them the future… what does the future holds for them… I shall be thinking of them the next time the Israeli’s bomb Ramallah.

What does the future hold? Suddenly it hit me… before I had been disappointed from all Palestinians and Israelis thinking they are fighting for what? A right wing Israeli government, a corrupt Palestinian authority?

I felt very close to those two Palestinian girls… I felt that those girls looked at the future with an open mind and an open heart, in spite of their imprisonment, their being born under occupation; they still want to know about the future… and live their life. Yes that is what we need to fight for, not the land, and not the name but the identity, the Palestinian identity, and the Palestinian Native and modern culture, both in Palestine and in the diaspora.

We need to fight so that the region gets united into one big free borderless land (no mater what we call it), not an unstable Jewish state, and an unrealistic Pseudo Palestinian state. I mean really who thinks this is a workable long term solution?

What we should look for is to preserve the two cultures the Israeli culture, and the Palestinian culture under one modern secular state that is sorry for its resent past and very proud of its native past and its dual cultural future.

All around the world borders are diminishing and yet anti-globalisation will insure that local cultures are preserved. So why build walls in Israel? Why not embrace the two cultures and make a future that is both free and proud.

Dr allan
He sat down on the balcony of his huge mansion, the ocean stretched ahead... a clear blue ocean connected by a thin orange horizon to a clear blue sky. It was a beautiful sunset, this is life, he thought, sipping his coffee, thinking of his next destination.

Dr Allan is a 65 years old retired paediatrics heart surgeon, he has worked hard all his adult life, earned so much respect and money. Now that he is retired, he will damn do what ever he wanted, time to really live life. His next destination was the pacific islands, he had just bought a new yacht and he planned to sail for few months. His wife, will be in Europe shopping so it’s his chance to be alone, enjoying his new life style.

Just last year Dr Allan was still working doing heart surgeries, at the age of 64, it was older than the usually retiring age for heart surgeons – heart surgery is a very demanding job, mentally and physically but Dr Allan had worked hard to the last day. Now he was enjoying the rewards of his hard work.

I am telling you lies.

First time I met Dr Allan, a frail 67 years old man, was in the guest house - where I am staying in Jerusalem - he was scavenging in the communal fridge for some food. He found half a piece of pita bread with some feta cheese, made a cup of tea, and sat on the table silently eating, a little smile to acknowledge me – but no words - I got the feeling this man had a long day... It was 9 pm, and I’ve just finished my dinner and was about to go out. So I said my good night and left.

Later I find out that Dr Allan is a retired heart surgeon from New Zealand. I am told that he spends 6 months a year volunteering in the west bank and Gaza. Every year Dr Allan leaves his home in New Zealand, leaving behind him his retirement life and comes to Palestine to work in the Palestinian hospitals, volunteering his time, working for free, treating as many children with heart problems as he could, problems that need a top expert paediatric heart surgeon. Children from all around Palestine are brought to his expert hands to work miracles and save lives.

The next day I saw Dr Allan, back at 7 pm this time. I was eager to find out more, I introduced myself, and he looking a bit more relaxed, introduced himself and apologized for not saying much the night before, he said he was literally not able to speak, he told me that yesterday he operated on 3 children. 5 hours an operation, that is 15 hours in total, standing, performing very complex operations. What a far cry of what other retired top surgeon are doing – I thought.

The more I know Dr Allan, the more I admire him. He is a modest man, always polite, always with a smile, never talks about why he is doing this. To him this is a matter of fact. The thing to do when you retire!

One day I asked him about his wife. He said that she usually comes with him, but this time she is staying with her sister who is dieing of cancer, usually she comes and does volunteer work teaching the children in the refugee camps, he tells me, this time she needed to be near her sister.

Well, last week Hazel, Dr Allan’s wife arrived. She had young at heart aura, always beaming, very chatty. She told me she is here because her husband was feeling tired, overwhelmed and lonely... And that her sister was in stable condition so she taught her time would be better spent here. From her I find out that the last trip they were here they were in Gaza just at the time of the assassinations. In fact Dr Allan had saved the life of the son of Dr Rantisi head of Hamas. The son had multiple shrapnels impeded in his heart when a rocket hit Dr rantisi’s car in an attempt to assassinate him – later Dr rantisi was killed in a second attempt by the Israelis, but before that he had thanked Dr Allan for saving his son, and invited him to his house.

True Dr Allan is a retired surgeon. But he is not sailing the pacific. He is living in a modest guest house, his room has two single bed, no TV, and  little blackened fan. He eats bread & cheese, he works endless ours saving lives that would have not been saved otherwise. Him and his wife married for 40 years are as happy and loving as I have never met. They are both modest...

I guess, to me, this is a good example of an unsung hero.

Poetry... in the attic
On Sunday I went to Taybeh... taybeh is a small village 20 minutes from Ramallah and Jerusalem... situated high on the mountains so you can see Jericho and Jerusalem in the distant... very beautiful village... and unique in being inhibited only by Christians... and have the only beer brewery in Palestine... Taybeh beer... go to any Israeli bar and you can buy it.

So my family comes from there... and we still have a house that my father grew up in as a child before immigrating to Sweden... currently one of my uncles lives there - my only relative living in Taybeh...

So I arrived their for lunch... but before lunch I went to the church which happens to be next door to our house in Taybeh... it is said that my grandfather was there every single Sunday... his entire life! His seat left unused till today...

After a huge huge lunch... I felt that the heat, the food and the breeze... and my uncle's boring stories... required me to retire for a siesta and some reading... so I asked my uncle if he had any books I can read... he said he doesn't read much but pointed me to an attic with a book shelve... and to my delight and total surprise I find... lots of old yellowish books from the 30s and 40s... some in English... some in Arabic... I even found a magazine from the 40s with colored ads in Arabic! but what attracted my attention was a poetry book half torn... with the first page a poem for Gibran Khalil... so I picked up and went to the guest room...

Are you ready for this? well, I found among its pages... writings.. not just any writings.... but my dad's ... in fact his signature... in many styles... looks like it was my dad's when he was 10- 12 years old... wanting to create a signature... there was also comments on the poetry... wow... how amazing is it when a book finds you...

So all the way to Jerusalem I was holding tight to my bag... worried about my torn yellowish poetry book... especially going thru check points... if I had common sense I would have known that soldiers are not really interested in books... not while they on duty anyways.

My home is my heart
Writing this will not be easy, how do you write about emotions, passion, and children’s laughter? I will start with a story:

The story starts few years ago while walking in Jerusalem by the walls of the old city, as I did for many time during that summer 2002,  that day an image struck me as a normality and yet it evoked and stirred me, and made me question my goals. It was a young Palestinian child flying a kite, right there by the walls of the old city, the kite flew high looking proudly beyond the walls of the old city, next to the child stood an Israeli soldier, not an uncommon scene in Jerusalem, the child looked up to his high flying kite, glanced at the soldier and smiled to himself… he was proud, free, and strong – even if it was for a minute while the wind provided height to his kite.

I, too, smiled to myself. I had just found my calling. I love Palestine, I am Palestinian, but until now I had not known what I could do that can help, and I mean really help. I as an outsider, an Australian, who has not lived in Palestine, who am I to know what is good for Palestinians? Me living the luxury of the west, me the Australian – did I say Australian! I mean Palestinian Australian, or Australian of Palestinian background… or… or…

Identity is a strange thing, it occupies a hidden part of our psyche yet it is unique for all and each one of us. Me, Sohail Dahdal, born in Libya, living in Australia of Palestinian parents, I always knew that my heart lies in Palestine. But I had not yet felt worthy of being here. Seeing that child flying his kite made me determined to come again, yet on an other TOKTEN mission.

So, here the story begins, I decided to come back teach children in Palestine what best I can do that is filmmaking, my goal was beyond that of teaching them the craft, it was more giving them the power to feel that THEY CAN. I have full trust in the ability of Palestinian children (later you will see that they surpassed all my expectations). So my goals were simple: Come back and bring other TOKTEN volunteer artists of Palestinian origin, teach the children the craft, and let them take the initiative and create artworks.

As an added bonus I was set on inviting elders to come and tell positive stories from the old days and hoped that it will inspire the children to create, feel proud of their heritage and inspire us the TOKTENs to feel Palestinian.

The camp was to be a creative experience, the camp was to be a cultural experience, the camp was to be open structure and the children were to be given the chance to lead us the adults. The camp was called Hakawati.

In Jenin, or to be exact north of Jenin at the Arab American University campus. I was greeted by a sun like no other defiant as the mountains that lay ahead of me, orange and alive like the people I had met on my journey to get here. Now I had just finished the first day of Hakawati camp. We are 82 children, 18 supervisors, management, and artists, and us the four TOKTENs, Sallwa Hourani, a 30 years old sculpture artists from Sydney her father comes originally from Safsaf, a village destroyed when Israel was created, Rand Hazou, a 28 years old from Melbourne, father a Jerusalemite, he comes here to teach the children Drama, a bit intense, until he laughs, instantly you relax and can’t help it but like this tall blond half Palestinian. And the youngest of us Soraya Asmar, the beautifully modest painter from Sydney, her father comes from besieged Nablus, and I thought to myself… what a journey this will be for her.

The following happened on the 6th day of the camp, Soraya who spoke no Arabic was setting outside by a tree playing the Oud, I was setting next to her listening and enjoying, soon one child after an other joined our group, within 10 minutes there was about 15 children, they were signing to the tunes of the only Arabic song Soraya knew how to play… we were one unit… no language was needed… and no words can describe how beautiful togetherness can be.

So every day I watched the sunset, and every day passed, as exhausted as I was, I had lots of beautiful rewards, seeing children smile, seeing how smart they are, how creative, how polite, how spirited, how responsible, how naughty these children were. Is it possible to describe how gentle, smart, and alive Palestinian children are? In the west we are portrayed as savage, terrorists… I can’t even begin to tell you the level of sophistication and sprite these kids possessed and how wrong the west’s impression of us is.

I’ll just tell you one story: of Osama. He is ten years old, lives near Jenin in the small town of Kabatia, first night I met Osama he was watching me intently while I was videoing the night events, so I said to him “would you like to video?”

“Yes, … do you press this to record?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I know… my uncle has one, it goes red when its recoding, and now its green”, he points at the indicator at the LCD screen”

So I give him the camera and he sets of videoing… as he passes me I see him skillfully using the zoom, then adjusting brightness, I notice he changed the camera to manual focus, he stops by me and says that he prefers hand-held as it give more natural feel! I was dumb struck, how do you know I ask… he smile beautifully, playfully and say to me, “and how do you know?”

The same kid comes crying to me the next day because he feels that his sister Lara is not happy in the camp and wants to go home, He is 10, she is 12 and he is worried about her state of mind – mind you, not that she complained to him.

I say to him if she wants to leave she can

“No she doesn’t want to leave me alone, she will stay because she doesn’t want to leave me alone”

“Ok, so you can go with her”

“No, I want to learn here, I like it… will you teach me video editing on the computer” [he changes the subject]

“Yes, I will, how do you know about that”

“I don’t. That is why I want you to teach me….” [he hands me the camera and runs away to play with some other child – Khaled I think]

The next day I notice Osama’s sister Lara looking tearful, but not crying.

“What’s wrong habibti?”

“Nothing” [she starts crying]

“Tell me”

“I miss my mum”

“You want to call her? Use my mobile”

“No, thank you, I will wait for her to call”

“Please it’s ok, use my phone”

“Ok, thank you umo… I will call her and she will call me back… we have caller ID at home”  [how happy and grateful she looked]

I thought to my self this 12 years old (who is tiny, sweet, and looked more like 8), misses her mum so much, and yet she was worried about using my phone!

Ten minutes passed, and Lara has disappeared away with my phone… I go looking for her, I find her in the kitchen talking to her mum, her tears pouring down her cheeks “ I want to go home mum, I miss you… No, I don’t want to leave Osama alone”

I leave her… I have so much respect for this gentle caring child that I decide to give her privacy, later on, she comes out, hiding her tears, she smiles and gives me the phone.

“Thank you umo”

“Pleasure habibti”

“I am going home”

“Why, don’t you like it here?”

“No, I love it here, but I have been with my mum every night all my life, now I have been away for three night, I miss her so much” [she starts crying]

“Yes but you’ll miss out on all the activity”

“I did well, didn’t I? Staying three night away, next time I stay longer. Now I want to go home… to Kabatia”

“Here is fun isn’t?”

“YES!  But when I leave Kabatia, I am like a fish out of water, when I return my whole psyche changes, I am alive again… I can’t stay away from my Kabatia”

“What happens when you grow up and you want to work in the city?”

“I can work in Kabatia… I don’t want to go anywhere else… my heart is there”

YES! These were her exact words. From her and from every child in Hakawati I learned so much, every sunset, every day passes, and every night of late celebration, music, and dance… I learned so much. I came to teach… but I learned more than I could imagine… I am sure Sallwa, Rand, and Soraya would share my feeling… just judging from the smiles on there faces while watching the children deliver an amazing closing ceremony.

In here, in Palestine, there is hardship, but also there is life, there is passion, and I learned that my home is my heart. To be Palestinian is to love the land, to be Palestinian is to love your past… but more important Lara taught me… more important is to be ourselves, to know our heart. Hakawati was a chance for me to meet Palestinian children all and each of them taught me love.

Note:  TOKTEN is short for Transfer of Knowledge Through Expatriate Nationals.