Memorial Day II: Independence Day/Nakba Day

An art installation: "What's Nakba?"

A few days ago, it was Independence Day in Israel.

I had an entire post prewritten in advance ready to share with you about independence day in Israel--I've described this moment in the past to friends as the microcosm of the entire conflict. On this one day, two narratives collide and clash. Israelis celebrate the glory of their struggle and fight to establish an independent nation-state and home for the Jewish people. For Palestinians, it is a day marked as the beginning of the end. Called al-Nakba or The Catastrophe; the Israeli Declaration of Independence announced a return to a land for one people, and an expulsion of another people from that same land. Over 700,000 Palestinians fled, or were expelled during the events of the war.

Prepared as I thought I was, the actual experience of Independence Day in Israel was more than I expected; I was overwhelmed, and what I had written no longer felt adequate. 

The silence of the morning memorials and the poignant remembrance of lives lost to this conflict was suddenly interrupted at sundown by massive patriotic partying. The nationalism of the people around me struck me as offensive. The manipulation of  our powerful feelings of grief towards political  and nationalistic ends was frightening. 

I was in the city center of Jerusalem as this shift took place. Bars had set up large screens to display Israeli television  broadcasts of the Independence Day programming, replete with hundreds dancing the hora in pulsating concentric circles and Air Force flyovers. I walked home, basically fleeing, from the commotion and the crowds who were amassing to drink and celebrate and smack each other with balloon blow up hammers covered with Israeli flags. The full 360-degree shift from a nation in mourning to a nation in celebration left my head spinning.

I had spoken with my great-aunt earlier that day. She moved to Israel with her husband in 1953 as part of a  group that established a kibbutz in the Negev desert. One of the original Jewish pioneers, she came here with an ideological dream. We talked about the impact of memorial day,  of the six graves in the kibbutz cemetery of soldiers who had died in various operations and wars, dating all the way to 1948.

She told me how pleased she was to see so many generations come to the memorial that morning to pay their respects. I asked her what she thought of the fact that Independence Day celebrations were so close to the Memorial Day silences, she told me that that is the only way to live here. We have to celebrate and live our lives fiercely for those who died for us, she told me.

I then spoke with my mom, who lived in Israel during the 1970s-1980s. In 10th grade, she was living on a Kibbutz up north and I asked her, what was Independence Day like for you then? She told me it was a barbecue, and there was Israeli dancing, a big bonfire, everyone was outside on the lawn and was wearing their nice, white shirts. At age 15, she was mostly concerned with where her friends were. It was a big party. Then she got quiet; we didn't know about what else was going on then, she tells me. Or what would happen next. 

I recently watched the film Khirbet Khizeh, based off a book written by a soldier in 1949 of the events of the War of 1948. In the film, produced in 1978, a troop of  young Israeli soldiers takes over a Palestinian village and kicks out the inhabitants.  The book is translated into English and worth reading. The film takes place at a simple, almost slow pace--boredom and heat determine the soldier’s actions more than politics or ethnic superiority. The film toys with the irony of the creation of a new community of refugees in the name of giving a home to Jewish refugees from Europe. I was haunted by shots of the houses left abandoned, kitchen counters still covered with food for tomorrow's meal, pictures hanging on the wall; by the few sentences stated by the soldiers that could have been said yesterday. The parallels were left lingering in the room long after the film ended. I was left with the notion that what started in 1948 still isn’t finished; Palestinians are still being forced out of their homes via evictions and demolitions. It's still not over, and any attempt to live a life of normalcy here is forever underlined by the consequences of 1948.

If you're interested in the history of the conflict and the War of 1948, check out the best history of Palestine and Israel that I have yet come across,  A History of Palestine: From the Ottoman Conquest to the Founding of the State of Israel by German scholar Gudrun Krämer. She focuses on the collision of Zionism and Palestinian Nationalism in the beginning of the 20th century, the historical context leading to those interactions, and the complex ways in which "social grievances were intertwined with national aspirations." Well worth the read.

I lift my glass today, not to celebrate the end of the War of Independence, but rather to a fight that is not yet over. To the struggle that hopes to end with both a safe-home for the Jewish people and a home that honors the dignity of the Palestinian people. Call me naively optimistic, but if we don't linger in a world with slight traces of optimism, what else do we have left?

South Hebron Hills

April 11, 2015

Yesterday I traveled to the South Hebron Hills with All That's Left and Taayush for a day of education about the situation facing Palestinians in this region. Taayush is an organization of "Israelis & Palestinians striving together to end the Israeli occupation and to achieve full civil equality through daily non-violent direct-action." 

For all that we saw, see my tweets here.

The area of the South Hebron Hills is in Zone C of the Palestinian territories, and while approximately 4,000 Palestinians live there now, there is an implicit and explicit effort being made to push the remaining people off their lands to other villages or towns in order to annex the remaining land.

Amiel, our guide, was an Israeli who has worked and volunteered with Taayush for over 12 years. He has dedicated every weekend to coming to the South Hebron Hills. One friend of mine told me that he is a permanent fixture at every protest or event within Jerusalem, Hebron and the surrounding areas. His family is a dynasty amongst lefty activists. Yet he is a modest man, traipsing quietly through the grass, with his two young girls following behind him, leading the way to the house of yet another friend.

Amiel showed us the area on maps and explained how in the hills and within the valleys, there are 24 unrecognized Palestinian villages which each face different threats to their continued existence.These villages have been expelled and demolished over and over again since the second Intifada. Some have been relocated many times due to reasons such as the establishment of a military firing zone through the middle of the valley, or due to the declaration of the land as an archaeological site.

The map is now a crisscrossing puzzle of Zones A and B and C zigzagging and undermining each other. He joked with us that he understands the borders better than the soldiers and that they even follow his advice. 

We spoke with a family who lives in Susiya. Susiya is currently made up of only a few tents on top of a hill, with no access to water, a crumbling road, and infrequent electricity. There is a standing demolition order for the village, and the Supreme Court of Israel is currently delaying passing judgement on whether or not the demolition order is legal. One man described to us how his grandfather was expelled from his village by Israel in 1948 and carried his father to the new village. Then in 1986 when the villagers were expelled again, his own father carried him from the second side of the village to where Susiya is located today. He then told us how he does not wish to carry his own children to a new place if they are expelled again. His story was left lingering in the air, and yet the prophetic parallelism seems inevitable.

We visited  with Um Takir who lives down the hill from Susiya. Her and her husband are the last remaining family living on the side of the hill next to the road leading down into the firing zone. She recounted how her husband was shot one year in the eye, and had to be fed through feeding tube through his nose for a year afterwards. She told us how the settlers come in the night to break her solar panels and cut the hose to her water tank. Their last neighbor just moved his whole family to Yatta, a neighboring recognized city, after he was violently attacked by settlers and after returning from the hospital, retaliated against them. His response led to the hospitalization of 3 settlers. He is now waiting for the hearing to his court case, and Um Takir is left alone in the valley. Soldiers are stationed nearby, but the positioning of her house on the hillside hides it almost completely from outside eyes.

It was incredibly dismal to look at the crumbling stone walls of the last remaining house of a village. She and her husband stand as the final barrier to the annexation of a huge section of the valley and the end of an historical identity tied to that land. Um Takir told us that she will not leave this house unless she is martyred. 

I was struck by the labyrinthine and seemingly insurmountable details of the situation. We listened and toured and walked for over 6 hours, and yet I walked away being more confused than when I arrived. It is all a jumble of court-cases, military law overriding civilian law, water pipes, permits, violence, demolitions, donations, systemic oppression and paradoxical objectives; and then it is all bound together by a few fierce individuals with a relentless attachment to their land, a desire to live in dignity, and a refusal to be forcefully pushed out. And in the backdrop, 18 year old soldiers are standing around bored with huge guns.

There was one  surreal moment that stuck with me: as we stood by the side of the road, 5 soldiers came from the nearby settlement and began to walk across a field of flowers. They were wearing all their gear, carrying huge rifles and the birds were singing in the background as if this was the most peaceful nature walk to ever take place. The sky was so blue and spring was so bright. I caught eyes with a friend of mine and we both just shook our heads at the dissonance of the moment.

For a more in depth account of what has happened in the South Hebron Hills over the years and attempts at resistance, court cases, and violence, see here and here. Breaking the Silence also holds tours in the South Hebron Hills. And stay tuned, All That's Left will be organizing an action of partnership this summer with Jews from the Diaspora aimed to alleviate some of the challenges these Palestinians face.

Student Protest @ Hebrew University

November 11, 2014
Palestinian groups on campus organized and received permits for a protest against the death of the 22 year old in Kfar Kana,  an event that some likened to Palestine's Ferguson but with no results. The protest was met by a counter protest of a national Zionist group on campus. Plenty of security, plenty of security barriers, and plenty of students walking to and from classes were suddenly overwhelmed by chanting and crowds. I stood to the side with a Palestinian friend of mine; she translated the Arabic for me and I translated the Hebrew for her. The Palestinian side was chanting for freedom and against occupation. The Israeli side was yelling against terrorism and singing nationalistic songs. Signs shared similar tones: "They kill me because I'm Palestinian."  Or "Terror has descended by foot." "End the occupation" and "We will overcome terror." The Palestinians held up pictures of the young man killed in Kfar Kana, the Israelis held pictures of the young man who died yesterday in the stabbing attack. I was struck by the fact that not only was each group singing and chanting and yelling in a different language, but they're not even talking about the same things. They both hold up images of their martyrs, but it's a different discussion entirely: Freedom and political rights versus terror and nationhood. The narratives are not on the same page, how do you expect anyone that is on the other "side" of the barrier to listen? No one can even agree on what's wrong.

And on that note, back to class...

For video of the protest click here.

Bus Roulette

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November 6, 2014 

Riding the buses has become a bit of Russian roulette lately. Coming home yesterday from the university, which is located right on the border with East Jerusalem, I had to make a choice. Do I take the 19 which goes right by the Old City and will probably be delayed or re-routed due to the current clashes that have erupted over the occupation and access to al-Aqsa mosque? Or do I take the 34, the slowest bus that winds and curves it’s way through the ultra-orthodox religious Jewish neighborhood where everyone is black-hatted and walks in front of buses without looking knowing that their life is in God’s hands? I made the right choice, as the road for the 19 was completely closed with police standing guard. As I stared out the window at religious women pushing their strollers and gaggle of children across the street, I read online about the latest attack on the train stop. An Israeli died. He left behind his wife and 3 year old, he was also a Druze.

Things are taking a turn for madness (more than the usual dose of crazy you find here). But it’s more than just random violence, it’s rooted in a context of oppression and disenfranchisement. Just this week alone, 2 Palestinian houses were demolished in East Jerusalem, 188 Palestinians were arrested in the last 2 weeks, a 5 year old girl was run over by a settler in Hebron, and there was an announcement for an expansion of settlements and a building permit for 500 more houses in Ramat Shlomo. Limiting access to al-Aqsa has just been the match to the fire. No one seems too sure what direction it will take. Some say third intifada, some say it’ll simmer down.

But for now, I’ve begun to feel a different sort of pressure. Which bus do I take to get home?