This is me in Palestine.

One of my students showed me how to wrap the kaffiyah like they often do.

Well readers, it is time to put this subject to rest for the semester. I have loved spending this semester sharing with all of you a subject that is very near and dear to my heart. I hope that if nothing else these posts have made you reconsider some of the ideas you already had about Palestine. Things are not always what they seem and the media does not always tell the whole story. I will be going back to my original format after this post, so thank you everyone who stuck with me this semester and read my stuff even though you probably didn't want to.

I am not sure what makes it on to the main stream media these days, but I'd wager that many, if not all of you are unfamiliar with Mustafa Tamimi. Tamimi was a 28 year old Palestinian who died recently due to be shot in the face by a tear gas canister at a protest he was participating in where he was throwing rocks at an armored military vehicle. This is what he was doing with the jeep opened its rear door and shot out the tear canister. Being only 10 meters away from the vehicle at the time, it is odd that they made such a deadly mistake. Many witnesses claim that is was not a mistake at all but an out and out murder. The Israeli government are said to be investigating it.

In reading articles about Tamini's slaying I came across this article written by one of the witness to the event. It is an incredibly moving and emotional piece that I wanted to share with all of you.

So far, there were three people who had suffocated from the tear gas, and three people injured by rubber bullets. I saw gas, and so assumed that it was another case of suffocation. But the cries got louder, urgent, desperate — quite unlike the previous calls. Along with those around me, we began running to where the injured person lay, 50 meters away.

The author (left) with Ola Tamimi (center) after Mustafa Tamimi was shot at close range by the Israeli military in Nabi Saleh village. ( Anne Paq / ActiveStills )

Screams. “Mustafa! Mustafa!”

I ran faster. I stopped. The youth I was so used to, the same ones who were always teasing and joking and smoking, were crying. One turned to me and groaned, “His head. His head is split into two!”

My stomach plummeted and I forgot to breathe. Exaggeration, I thought. Impossible. Not here. More screams of “Mustafa!”

I saw the man lying on the ground. I saw the medic with one knee on the ground, his face a mask of shock. I saw his bloodied gloved hands.

Mustafa’s sister was screaming his name. I saw Mustafa. I saw the blood, the big pool of dark red blood. I saw the blood dripping from his head to the ground as they carried him and put him in a taxi, since the ambulance was nowhere to be found. I saw other the tear-streaked faces of other activists, and all I felt was numbness.

Mustafa’s sister Ola was still screaming, so I put my arms around her as she buried her head in my chest. I was babbling, “It’s ok, he’s gonna be fine, it’s ok” but she kept on screaming. Her screams and the disturbing reactions of those around me made my legs numb. Ola then left to go to the watchtower where the taxi with her brother was, and my state of shock crumbled as I gasped out my tears in the arms of my friend.

The first protester death in Nabi Saleh

Friday, 9 December marked the second year since the tiny village began its weekly demonstrations protesting the expropriation of their land for the neighboring illegal settlement of Halamish, and the confiscation of the village’s main water supply, the Kaws Spring. It also marked the 24th anniversary of the first intifada. Fittingly, it seemed only natural the Israeli army would react with more violence than usual. But never did we expect someone to be killed. It’s too awful to think about. Nabi Saleh has a population of around 500 people. Everyone knows everyone in this tight-knit community, so when one gets killed, a big part of us dies also.

Mustafa, 28 years old, was critically injured after Israeli soldiers fired a tear gas canister at his face, and died at a hospital after his treatment was delayed by the occupation forces who had invaded the village to repress the weekly demonstration.

One difference that distinguishes Nabi Saleh from other villages with popular resistance committees, like Nilin, Bilin, Biddu and Budrus is that no one has been killed, or martyred in the protests. Beaten up, yes. Arrested, ditto. But never a death. Until yesterday.

My humanity is only human

Just before Mustafa went into the operating room, some good news came through. He had not suffered any cognitive damages to his brain, although he suffered a brain hemorrhage. There was a chance his eye might be saved. Relief washed over us. We tweeted, “please #Pray4Mustafa.”

I had pictured myself going to Nabi Saleh the next day, not the following Friday. I had imagined sitting in a room with weeping women, after passing by the somber men sitting outside. I had envisioned a funeral and an inconsolable Ola with her mother. Thank God there was a reassuring chance he would be ok. We’d make fun of his bandaged face, just like we did to Abu Hussam when a rubber bullet hit him under the eye a few weeks ago.

Then I got the call that Mustafa had succumbed to his wounds.

My humanity is only human. I hate my enemy. A deep vigorous hatred that courses through my veins whenever I come into contact with them or any form of their system. My humanity is limited. I cannot write a book titled I Shall Not Hate especially if my three daughters and one niece were murdered by my enemy. My humanity is faulty. I dream of my enemy choking on tear gas fired through the windows of their houses, of having their fathers arrested on trumped-up charges, of them wounded by rubber-coated steel bullets, of them being woken up in the middle of the night and dragged away for interrogations that are spliced with bouts of torture.

The soldiers laughed. They smiled. They took pictures of us, zooming in on each of our faces, and they smirked. I screamed at them: “Nazis, terrorists, vermin, programmed killing machines.”

They laughed at us as we screamed at them to let us through to where he was, unconscious in a taxi near the watchtower. They threatened us if we didn’t go back. We waved the flag with his blood on it in front of them. One of them had the audacity to bat it away. We shouted, “His blood is on your hands!” They replied, “So?”

I thought of Mustafa’s younger brother, imprisoned all these eight months. I thought of that brother’s broken jaw and his subsequent stay in the prison hospital. I thought of Juju (Jihad Tamimi), he of the elfin face who arrested a few days ago with no rights to see a lawyer after being wanted by the army for more than a year. I shuddered to think of the reactions of these imprisoned men from the village — Uday, Bassem, Naji, Jihad, Saeed – once they received the news.

I got the call just after 11pm Friday night. I was sworn to secrecy, since his family didn’t want to make it public yet. Anger, bitterness and sorrow overwhelmed me. I cried at my kitchen table.

The author (left) with Ola Tamimi (center) after Mustafa Tamimi was shot at close range by the Israeli military in Nabi Saleh village.

(

Anne Paq

/

ActiveStills

)

I hate my enemy. I can’t go to sleep. The images are tattooed forever inside my eyelids. They yells, the wailing, the groans, the sobbing all fill my ears like water gushing inside a submarine, dragging me further into a cold dark abyss.

I sought out religion as a source of comfort, yet it didn’t alleviate the anguish. His life was written in al-Lawh al-Mahfooz (The Preserved Tablet) since before he was born. His destiny was to become a martyr. How sweet that will be in the afterlife! But here on this earth, his sister is beside herself. His mother is hurting enormously. Her firstborn gone, no longer to drink the tea she makes or to make her laugh with his jokes.

The images are tattooed forever inside my eyelids. A bloody pulp on one side of his face. The pool of blood rapidly increasing. (Mama, there was so much blood.) His mouth slightly open, lying supine on the cold road. His sister screaming, her face twisted in grief. The young men weeping, looking like little boys again.

I hate them for making us suffer

I loathe my enemy. I will never forgive, I will never forget. People who say such hatred transforms a person into a bitter cruel shell know nothing of the Israeli army. This hatred will not cripple me. What does that mean anyway? Do I not continue to write? Do I not continue to protest? Do I not continue to resist? Hating them sustains me, as opposed to normalizing with them. Their hatred of me makes reinforces the truth of their being murderous machines. My hatred of them makes me human.

I can’t sleep. The shock flows in and then dissipates, before flooding back in again. I see no justification is implementing such violence on a civilian population, no sense in the point-blank murder of a man whose rights are compromised, and whose land is colonized and occupied.

Sure as hell, you will not be forgotten. You will become an icon, a symbol, and the added impetus for persisting and continuing your village’s struggle which reflects the plight of the average Palestinian for its basic rights, equality, and justice.

I hate them for making us suffer. Hating them will give me more strength to shatter their barbaric supremacist ideology, and to bring them under the heavy heel of justice. We’ve suffered so much. I hate them for not giving credit to our sumoud (steadfastness), and so continue to kill and dispossess and imprison and humiliate us.

They killed you, Mustafa. My insides crumple. You, in front of me. My tears are drawn from the depth of my wounded soul. You were engaged to be married. You were wanted by the army because of who you are: a Palestinian who resists the occupation he directly suffers from. I think of your father being denied a permit to be with you, of your mother who had to be granted permission by them to see you in the hospital. I think of your quiet, sardonic expression.

Your screaming sister. Your blood. Your murderers’ smiles.

This article came from the International Middle East Media center.

It's writer, Linah Alsaafin, has a blog that I think everyone should check out.

Life on Bir Zeit Campus

After posting my essay about my own personal experience I thought add some news clips and documentary footage. When I said that Hebron was one of the most depressing places I had ever been, it wasn't hyperbole. The conditions that these people are forced to live in are unforgivable. It is probably the first time in my life I have been personally involved in something that has made me really question the human race and what we are capable of doing to each other.

Hebron: One city, Two Nations

March 1996

From Hebron, two women talk about the tensions of living in a divided city. Ruth Hizmi, one of 400 Jewish settlers, moved to the West Bank 9 years ago. She believes that just being in her kitchen in Hebron is an act of faith. But on her way to work she gets spat on by Arab neighbors. Afifeh, a young Palestinian woman, lives on the 'cease-fire line' between the Jews and 100,000 Palestinians. From her cobbled wall, she overlooks a brand new playground built for Jewish children. Conflict in Hebron begins with the ancient Tomb of the Patriarchs. As the burial Place of Abraham, it holds great religious significance for both Jews and Muslims. Two years ago, a Jewish settler, Baruch Goldstein fired 119 bullets into a crowd of praying Muslims. Ever since worship for both religions has been strictly regulated by tense Israeli soldiers. Noam Arnon, spokesperson for the Jewish community, denounces recent Palestinian elections. He takes politicians to the street where there have been attacks on Jewish settlers. Ruth wants peace but she is passionately opposed to moving out of Hebron. Afifeh is simply resigned to the hard fact that Jews and Muslims can never live together in peace.

Produced by ABC Australia

Distributed by Journeyman Pictures

The following is another documentary about Hebron, in this case the struggle Palestinian kids face in simply trying to go to school. This clip dates back to 2003, during the Second Intifada. Some would claim it is for this reason that the soldiers are being so harsh. If that's the case then leave the kids out if. They are innocents in all of this. When will people realize that by terrorizing the children of today they are creating the "terrorists" they so fear tomorrow.

Thank you to youtube for providing this footage and the synopsis

Palestine was once again in the news today as a result of UNESCO's raising of the Palestinian flag over their headquarters in Paris, France. It has been roughly a month since UNESCO's controversial vote that resulted in Palestine gaining recognition within that particular United Nations body. I thought to share with you some of the articles covering the event. Can you see a difference in tone between the various news agencies? How much of that, do you think, has to do with their country's view of the situation? Can news be reported unbiasedly or will government affiliations and stances skew things? I do not know for sure, but it is definitely things I thought about while reading these articles.

Palestinian Flag Raised over UNESCO HQ via Voice of America

Palestinians raise flag at UNESCO via The Canadian Press

Mahmoud Abbas raises Palestinian flag at Unesco via the BBC

Palestinian Flag Raised Over UNESCO via The Hindu

Palestinian flag to fly at UNESCO headquarters via Agence France-Presse

Palestinian flag to fly at UNESCO headquarters via Ma'an News Agency

Palestine flag raised at UNESCO headquarters via Al-Jazeera

Hebron It is dreary outside the day Hilda, a fellow Project Hope volunteer, and I decide to go to Hebron. The clouds are dark and look as to threaten us with rain, but the temperature outside makes me think of snow instead. This is something of a revelation to me, who knew it gets cold enough to snow in the Middle East? I mean really, when is the last time you saw a picture of a camel in a snowstorm? Yet instead of staying inside the apartment next to our space heaters watching another episode of our bootleg version of Grey’s Anatomy, Hilda and I decide to venture out to the city of Hebron, known as al-Khalil in Arabic. Following the Six-Day War, in 1967, which saw Israel fighting against, Egypt, Jordan and Syria, after which Israel gained control over the Gaza Strip, Sinai Peninsula, the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Golan Heights, a group of Israelis, following the teachings of Rabbi Levinger, set out to “settle” this land that had been conquered. Hebron was chosen for their settlement due to what they believe it is its religious significance for Jews. The central theme running through the Tanakh, the Jewish Holy Scripture, is the sacredness of the land and the convent that God made with Abraham for his chosen people, the Jews. It has not been lost on Rabbi Levinger or his followers that the Tanakh mentions Hebron 87 times, while Jerusalem is only mentioned once. More important, though, is their belief that because the holy covenant causes Abraham to leave his home and settle in Hebron, then it is necessary for Hebron to be settled again “in order to reaffirm God’s covenant with Abraham’s decedents”. The trouble in Hebron comes not just from the settlers belief that they are entitled to the land, but in their idea of how to go about settling it. Adopted within their movement are the teachings of Rabbi Avraham Kook, a man who believes that the Messiah will only come when “great war grips the world.” These teachings have manifested themselves in such a way that settlers view any conflict, though the bigger the better, between themselves and Arabs as being a good thing. This attitude has resulted in an unending tension and violence between the Palestinian and Israeli populations within Hebron. Stemming from this was the 1997 Hebron Agreement in which Hebron was divided into two sections, H1 and H2. H1, with a population of 115,000 Palestinians, was given over to Palestinians to control and govern. H2, with 35,000 Palestinians and between 500-800 settlers, was given to Israeli Security Forces to control. Although the bigger part of the city was given over to the Palestinians to control, a sizable section of the city center and commercial district are part of H2 and, thus, under Israeli control. Since the beginning of the Second Intifada in 2000, all of Hebron has been under Israeli control (Roislien). Hebron is no more than 40 miles from Nablus, where Hilda and I live, and should be no more than an hour’s drive, but it takes us far longer. Without hiring a private taxi, a taxi that is used only by one group or party of people, there are no direct taxi routes between Nablus and Hebron, despite the fact that the two cities are major financial centers in the West Bank. Instead we are forced to travel via Jerusalem, many miles out of our way, and change taxis there. Going through Jerusalem also means going through Qalandia checkpoint, a gray fortress of a building surrounded by miles of barbed wire and a 30-meter high wall, located between Ramallah and Jerusalem. Due to its proximity to Jerusalem, Qalandia checkpoint is rarely without someone waiting to gain entrance into either Israel or the West Bank. Whether the checkpoint is open or closed is a matter that relies solely on the whim of the Israeli government and military. Both Hilda and I have been in situations where we have had to cancel plans due to our inability to get past a randomly closed checkpoint. It is a fact of life in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. We are both fully prepared, at this point, to have to go back home to Nablus should we find Qalandia closed. It is usually a matter of luck and listening to rumors as to whether one should attempt travel, but more often than not, it’s throw caution and time to the wind and give it a try. Qalandia is designed much how I envision a cattle feed lot. Upon arrival, people, like cattle, are faced with a choice of four long, narrow, cage-like metal fencing lanes. At the end of each lane is a turnstile gate, where travelers must wait while an unseen soldier operates the lock, controlling the ebb and flow of the people, much like how a rancher would control the movements of his cattle. Hilda and I see our breath as we chat to pass our time in line behind an elderly woman and a young man. Unlike other checkpoints I have gone through, Qalandia is open air; those of us who hope to pass through, like Hilda and myself, are at the mercy of the elements. Thankfully, everything appears to be running smoothly today. We are commanded by a mechanically-distorted voice to produce our passports and hand them through to the warped face we see sitting behind bulletproof glass. I am always nervous when asked to hand over my passport at checkpoints or road stops. By living in the West Bank, I am doing something wrong in the eyes of the government and military, so I am always fearful that evidence of my guilt and Palestinian sympathies are one day going to magically appear somewhere on its pages. Thankfully, no such evidence makes an appearance today and, after sending our bags through to be x-rayed, Hilda and I are lucky enough to be able to pass right through the checkpoint without any unforeseen delays. Once on the other side, we find a taxi and continue on our journey to Hebron. It’s a shared taxi that Hilda and I take to Hebron. We have the option of hiring a private one for just the two of us if we want, it’s what tourists usually do, but it’s more expensive and both Hilda and I are on limited budgets. More importantly though, I think, the practice of taking private taxis is very limiting for travelers. Sharing a taxi with locals is a great way to see into a country’s culture. I remember when I lived in Africa, women were always placed in the back of the taxi; this practice showed me louder than anyone’s opinion where women were valued in that society. A shared taxi ride can also put a traveler in a position for great conversation and to learn new things about the place that they are visiting. Strangely enough, it is a quiet taxi ride for Hilda and me. Often the presence of someone who is obviously not Arab is enough to perk someone’s interest to ask us where we are from, and what we are doing there. Yet today, there were no such questions asked or stories told about family members who left Palestine for the United States. The taxi drops us off on a busy street in Hebron on the edge of town. I am surprised not to see any signs of the violence and anger that I know exist and have come to associate with the city. Instead, before me is a bustling street that appears to be like any other I have seen while traveling in the Middle East. From the vantage point of the taxi window, I can see the street, bursting at the seams with store fronts, vendors pushing their wooden cart; I can see shoppers trying to pick up their daily groceries, all while moving in and around the cars who happen to be parked on the street or trying to make their way down the road. All of the movement appears to be part of a well-choreographed dance or play. Everyone knows his role and where to be and when. Locals know where to go to find fresh produce and in which spot they will find Muhammad selling his dates because he has been selling them there every day for the last 10 years. If one looks long enough, he will see that there is a continuity here that can easily be missed and thought of as chaos at first glance. Though chilled and slightly damp, neither Hilda nor I are in any particular hurry to get off the busy street. We are content to amuse ourselves by meandering along, pausing from time to time to check out what the various vendors are selling or to enjoy some window shopping. Without even meaning to, Hilda and I find that we have left the busy street behind and are now winding our way through the streets of Hebron’s Old Market. I knew the Old Market was at one time the commercial hub of Hebron but, due to restrictions the Israeli military had imposed on the Palestinians population, that it had all but collapsed. Yet confronting reality is very different than to simply know it exists. The layout of the market is reminiscent of those I use to shop in when I lived in Africa; stalls are little more than square boxes that line the streets with no stall being more than 10 feet from the next. Each shop has a heavy metal door that opens out into the street when it is open for business. I am physically sickened at the sight of stall door after stall door shut tight, with some even having been welded shut. It is late morning, the time when the market should be filled with people laughing and chatting as they good-naturedly push past those around them in their attempt to make their way down the narrow streets as they go about their daily shopping. Instead, the streets are relatively quiet; there is no laughter, no people fighting to get through. The number of doors I see only serves to reinforce the knowledge that this market had one time been a successful cornerstone of the community, but now, with only one out of every ten shops or so open, it has been reduced to a shell of its former self. With so few businesses open, only a few of the most intrepid of locals makes the journey to the market. I am saddened by this sight because, when there is no crowd, there is no business being done and, without business being done, no money is being made. I want to run over and hug the few that I see and offer apologies for what they are going through, as if I am personally responsible for all that they have had to endure. I want to ask them if all the stories about the constant violence and humiliations are true. And if they are, why do they continue to stay? I already know the answer, though. Hebron is their home, for better or for worse. I am neither as strong nor as foolish to make those kinds of choices. Typical Palestinian generosity is everywhere for us to see as the few shopkeepers who have managed to make it to work today each ask us about our time in Palestine, all of them inquiring about what has brought us here. What is most humbling is the thanks that they give us for taking the time to understand their situation. Many invite us to sit down for tea with them and, though I know that these shopkeepers see our white skin and think of our western dollars, I also know it is not the motivating factor behind their generosity. Such kindness comes not from a hope that we will spend our money on their products, but a belief that we are guests in their country and, as such, should be treated with respect. Too bad for them, neither of us is ready to shop. Not wanting to give anyone false hopes about a possible sale, we try not to linger over long at any one stall. Hilda and I are walking down street when I look up and see that what little sun there is today is being blotted out by garbage caught in a wire netting that runs not far above our heads. This netting appears to be attached to the buildings on either side of the street and runs along its entire length. My mind cannot wrap itself around what it’s seeing. What possible reason could there be for these nets? The only reason I can come up with is that they are meant to feed the birds in the area. It’s not a particularly attractive way to feed the local bird population, but who am I to judge? A shopkeeper must have seen the look of puzzlement on my face, for she approaches me to offer me an explanation The nets that I see are for protection, she clarifies. Once the settlers took over the rooms above the shopkeepers’ stalls, they began emptying their garbage from their windows onto the street below them, directly onto the heads of anyone passing by. I must have misunderstood what she was saying. I cannot fathom someone purposefully emptying their dirty rubbish and leftover food bits on somebody. “Was it on purpose,” I ask. I am not sure why I ask the question; I already know the answer. The amount of garbage I see currently hanging in the net is already more than what one can rightfully consider an accident. Yet I want to be mistaken. I want to have misunderstood this woman with her broken English. I do not want to face the ugliness that people treat each other with; or to acknowledge that these Isareli settlers have so little regard for their Arab neighbors that they feel no guilt or remorse about purposefully dumping their waste on them. Of course it was on purpose, she retorts, the nets had to be put up to deal with the rubbish as it became a daily occurrence, and the eaves she points to were put up when the settlers started to dump water and other liquids from their homes. She offers us the services of her nephew as a guide around Hebron. Not really sure what this entails or how to politely refuse, we accept. Our tour consists of being brought to the Nazar family home. It is obvious that the reason we have been brought here is to see another example of the settler violence. Neither our guide nor the family speaks the greatest of English, but between their two explanations, Hilda and I are able to get the general picture of what has happened in this home. It appears that the Nazar family, over the past year, has had at least three altercations with settlers forcibly entering their home and destroying their property. This culminated in the final visit with the death of one of the Nazar children. We are led through the house where the family points out the markers of the violence they have had to endure. There is the door that will not latch closed due to the lock being shot out. There is a hole in the ground where a toilet once stood but again has been destroyed, either by being shot or simply knocked down, I cannot understand which. Evidence of gun fire is again seen in the bullet holes in the family’s water storage containers. What disturbs me most about this situation is not that these settlers feel they have the right to barge into these people’s home and destroy it, or even that their actions resulted in the death of a young girl. What upsets me the most, what utterly breaks my heart, is that when I look around their home, I can see the normalcy of it all. Various family members are scattered through the house doing this or that, children chase each other around the house when they are not busy jumping around our feet. These people must live in constant fear that the settlers will return, that their house will once more be violated and maybe another family member taken away from them, yet there is no indication of this. What these children find normal, I find chilling. With our tour of the house complete and our tour guide gone off with 10 more shekels in his pocket, Hilda and I are once again on our own. Not really sure where we are in relation to where we were dropped off, we begin to wander around. By accident, we happen upon s road that I had only heard rumors about. Palestinian vehicles are completely prohibited from driving on this road, and, if Palestinian pedestrians are even permitted to walk on the street, they are segregated to their own sidewalk. This is repulsive. My mind boggles at the fact that Jews, a people who throughout history have been on the receiving end of some of the worst atrocities the world has ever seen, would now be the perpetrators of such injustices. Has their history taught them nothing? Or perhaps it did. Perhaps it taught them it is better to beat and demean others before being victimized again. I am changed by what I see in Hebron. My spirit is damaged by the maliciousness I see in these settlers’ actions. But I am not without hope. On the busy street where Hilda and I first started our trip, we meet Muhammad, a twenty-something shopkeeper whose kindness and generosity astound me. The reason why Hilda and I went to Hebron was to find a women’s co-operative that specialized in the production of hand-made, traditional Middle Eastern kaffiyas, the black and white scarves that Arabs are traditionally shown wearing, and other fabrics. Palestine, like rest of the world, is flooded with cheap Chinese products, so Hilda and I were eager to find something locally made. We were faced with a couple of obstacles, though. Neither of us knew where exactly in Hebron this co-op was located, nor did we know its full name. Armed with little knowledge, Hilda, in her broken Arabic, attempted to ask the vendors and store owners if they were familiar with the shop. Whether they didn’t know or simply didn’t understand what she was saying, I wasn’t sure. Either way, they were unable to help us. All that I could tell was that we weren’t getting very far and, if our luck didn’t change soon, we’d have to go back home empty handed. Feeling sorry, I’m sure, for the two foreigners who didn’t know what they were doing, one shop owner brings us to his friend’s shop, because his friend speaks English and will be able to help us. I feel my spirit begin to lift. We are deposited on this friend’s doorstep with a smile and wave. His friend, Muhammad, though not fluent, does in fact speak English far better than any of the shop keepers we have spoken with thus far. Unfortunately, like the rest of them, he was still confused by what we were looking for. Undaunted, Muhammad took out his cell phone and told us that he knows someone who can speak both English and Arabic who can help us out. I imagined that he was calling someone else in town to come and speak with us, but Muhammad quickly corrected my assumption, informing us that he person he was calling was not in Hebron at all, not even the West Bank; he was calling someone he knew in America! I was bemused thinking he must be joking. There was no way someone would call America simply to help out two strangers. How could he possibly afford it? It is hardly the same as making a local call. Yet call America he did. He handed the phone to me and explained that I could tell his friend in English what Hilda and I were looking for and then hand the phone back to him, after which his friend would explain in Arabic what I had said. I was skeptical about whether this would work or not. I mean, if this guy spoke English on the same level as any of the other people we had met thus far today we wouldn’t get very far. After explaining to the gentleman on the phone what we were looking for, I pass the phone back to Mohammed. Lo and behold, after a few minutes on the phone he knows exactly the place Hilda and I are after. Expecting him to give us directions, I am further surprised when he turns and closes his shop door, effectively closing his business, to personally take us to the shop where the women’s co-operative sells its products. In light of all the cruelty I had seen being purposefully inflicted on the Palestinian population, I half expected to encounter a people made harsh and bitter by their daily reality. Yet I have been met with simple acts of kindness and generosity at every turn. Muhammad calling America just so that Hilda and I can find a store is something I would never have dreamed of happening. This random act of generosity does much to restore my spirits after spending the day in one of the most depressing places I had ever been. References Roislie, Hanne Eggen. “Living with Contradiction: Examining the Worldview of the Jewish Settlers in Hebron.” International Journal of Conflict and Violence.1.2 (2007):169-184. Print

Watching this clip put out by B'Tselem brought tears to my eyes. I visited Hebron back in 2009 and it still to this day remains one of the most depressing and upsetting places I have ever seen. Death to Arabs is written quiet frequently on the doors and walls one passes. In one spot, I saw that someone wrote Gas all Arabs. There are streets completely cut off from Palestinian use and others where they are forced to use their own sidewalks. In the Old Market, Palestinian shopkeepers have been forced to hang mesh netting from one side of the street to the other to avoid the garbage that the settler, who have taken over the building overhead, routinely throw on them.

How can people be so cruel to each other.

Please take the time to watch this.

The Quiet Transfer

In doing research for an essay I am writing about my trip to Hebron I came across this article. I think it is worth the look, especially considering the date is recent. Most articles concerning Palestinians in Hebron date back to 2002-2006, the period of the Second Intifada. While knowing what happend back then is important, people often use the uprising to the blame the Palestinian for the Israeli/Settler violence they experience. This article goes to show that the violence against the Palestinians is always there and perhaps it is the cause of the uprising.

Anyway, some food for thought.

This is Israel? Not the one I love

I recently wrote a reflective essay on a experience I had at an Israeli checkpoint during my stay in Nablus. I have never written a piece like this before so I am pretty proud of how it turned out. I hope you all like it was well. I apologize for the formatting issues.

On the Road to Nazareth Quietly I sit with my colleagues, my friends, waiting. A faceless voice within the toll booth looking box takes our passports and informs us that we are not yet permitted to leave, so we wait. We try to chat about inconsequential things like lesson plans and the winter weather; too afraid to talk about anything personal, we wait. The gatekeepers offer no chairs or benches to those of us on this side of the line, so we claim spots on the bare concrete floor, waiting. The grimy beige walls, in need of a wash and a bit of sunshine, offer us no source of distraction as they stand empty except for signs written in languages none of us understands. The only noise we can hear is that of a soldier’s footsteps on the catwalk above our heads as he patrols the perimeter of the building, his machine gun ever at the ready. I can feel a building pressure within my chest as my words and actions are watched and recorded, I am waiting. It was my idea to go to Israel during our break. With classes cancelled due to the Muslim holiday of Eid, we were left with no one to teach and nothing to do as shops and stores around Nablus would be closed for the duration of the festivities. Not wanting to waste such an opportunity, I began organizing a trip. "I have passed through Israeli controlled checkpoints before; within the West Bank, several of them slow movement between along roads, but this time it is different. This one is a passageway from what the gatekeepers consider enemy land into Israel itself." I have had to wait before; this is not my first checkpoint. The West Bank is riddled with them, these road stops, these lessons in half-truths and patience purposely designed to control movement. This time it’s different. Now though, I am asking the gatekeeper to allow passage back into his country from the enemy’s land, something I have never had to do before. Twenty minutes we wait. Annoyance builds as I survey the empty room; with no one else here, it is obvious the waiting is a deliberate act on the gatekeepers’ part. We wait. Classes and lesson planning kept most of us busy to the point that opportunities to travel outside the West Bank were limited, so to be given an uninterrupted stretch of time was a prospect not to be missed. Having spent four years in university studying the life and teaching of Jesus, I knew I wanted to take advantage of this break and see the land from which he had come. I stand and attempt to get the blood flowing back into legs that are falling asleep from sitting on the floor when I see what I think is a soldier, another gatekeeper, enter the room. He doesn’t approach us, does not even look in our direction, though we are only yards apart. Instead, he goes and speaks with the faceless voice in the toll booth box. Hoping to be permitted to leave, we pick up our bags and inch our way to the exit, to freedom, only to be brought up short when the man walks away, carrying our passports. Again, nothing unusual; we wait. I began to talk with my housemates, international volunteers like me who teach English, French or Art for the organization Project Hope, about their plans for the break. I had already spent time in Jerusalem and knew I would again as it is the hub for transportation to most destinations within the West Bank and Israel so I was not eager spend my time off seeing things I had already seen. However, I was just as eager not to travel alone so I was willing to go pretty much anywhere. I prepare to sit back down on the ground again when I hear a man yell, “Who is the American?” I automatically look around, even though I am the only American in the group, hell in the room. My heart skips a beat, gets lodged in my throat and sinks to the pit of my stomach all at once. Here is the man who had carried our passports away earlier, standing with mine above his head as if it were the starting flag for the Indianapolis 500. Nazareth was chosen as our group’s destination due to its proximity to home; it was close enough that those interested in a one-day trip could come, yet large enough to make a good jumping off spot to other destinations for those that wanted to travel for a few days. I, along with two others, a Brit and a German, decided to go simply for one day. I pause a moment waiting for the others to be called over as well. But the call for the German and the Brit never come. My stomach clenches and my hands begin to shake, I must face the gatekeeper alone. Whether it’s due to being nervous or the pins and needles racing down my legs from sitting too long, I stumble as I walk over to the man holding my freedom. Unsure of the reason why I have been granted this unexpected “honor”, the first thing I cannot help but notice is that the man who stands there holding my passport is actually a boy of 19 or 20. Who is he to have such power over me? Experienced with the delays usually found at checkpoints and road stops, the three of us left the apartment as early.. Multiple taxi rides and the power of our own two feet brought us to what could only be described as a prison-like military complex looming over the flat empty terrain. We had arrived at the border crossing. The soldier asks, “Where are you going?”. Feeling as if I am going to vomit on his shoes, I smile brightly and reply, Nazareth. Cheerfulness and a smile are my defense against the mind-numbing terror that he is inspiring. I must give him no reason to suspect that I am something other than what I am claiming to be: a tourist, a religious pilgrim. “Where did you come from?” I hesitate a moment before I reply, “Nablus”. Conscious that body language tells a story as clearly as the words leaving my mouth, I try not to show my discomfort, but I can’t help but worry; does this boy sense my hesitation? Can he tell from one brief pause that a dozen different scenarios and outcomes ran through my head as I decided if it was better to lie or tell the truth? He flips through my passport looking at all the stamps I’ve acquired over the years. He pauses on the ones written in Arabic, dashing my hopes that he wouldn’t notice them wedged between Africa and Israel. He demands to know why I was there. Out of the corner of my eye I still see the soldier with his gun walking the perimeter of the building. “I know that he can’t hurt me,” the rational side says, yet emotions and fear have a strangle hold on me. Continuously, I see myself being put in handcuffs, being kicked out of the country, being labeled a terrorist and being unable to return. It happened to Sara and all she did was teach yoga. “Where is your camera?” I can feel the blood leave my face; under a golden tan I become stark white. What is this soldier playing at? My bags had been taken away, emptied out and gone through. My camera examined as a possible explosive device. What more was there to look at? “Can I look at your pictures?” Then I knew. Our last taxi driver, being a Palestinian, had not been permitted to let us off at the border crossing, so we had been forced to walk the last leg of our journey. The weather was beautiful with a brilliant blue sky over head and not a cloud to be seen. Yet the beauty was spoilt with every step that brought us closer to the fortress that loomed on the horizon. I had never witnessed anything like it before, roughly the size of a football stadium if not bigger, the complex appeared to have been dropped there in the middle of nowhere. The land was desolate, gone were the trees and grass, replaced with sandy rock pebbles and low growing shrubs. Barbed wire fencing surrounded it as if it had been gift wrapped by Santa. I wanted to take a picture to show the people back home because I knew I would lack the words to describe it, but I was afraid. Surely I wouldn’t be allowed to. Yet nowhere was there a sign that said such actions were forbidden. The only sign to be seen showed a gun with a big red X through it; being free of any fire arms, I risked taking the picture. The gatekeeper hides his demand in the form of a question, letting it appear as I have choice. We both know better. A refusal will cause greater suspicion to fall on me; why wouldn’t a tourist, a religious pilgrim want to show her pictures? Yet I am unable to remember the last time I erased the memory card. Do I still have pictures of the protest, of the rock throwers? My heart pounds in my ears, I must lie, I must lie, I must lie; the voice in my head chants. Yes, of course, I say. I offer to turn it on for him in a bid to give myself more to time to come up with a convincing lie. And lie I do; I paint for the gatekeeper - the picture of a tourist, young and stupid, who naively finds herself in places she shouldn’t. Mark Twain can be proud of the piece of fiction I produce for this boy. I am afraid to look closely at the gatekeeper’s face to see if he is buying my story for fear that he will see the truth in my eyes. Nerves cause my smile to widen to the point of breaking. My friends are called over at this point by a different gatekeeper. Unlike me, they are questioned together. I try to listen in on their answers so that I can match mine to theirs, but they are too far away. Their responses must earn them a reprieve from further questioning because I see their gatekeeper give them their passports back and allow them to go to the door, to go towards freedom. I cross my fingers and hope that I too will be joining them. Convinced by my answers or tired of toying with me, I am unsure which; the gatekeeper finally grants me permission to enter his land. It is still unclear to me why I was chosen to be questioned. Was it due to the picture they saw me take? Perhaps something about the way I carried myself seemed suspicious. Or maybe they just felt like scaring me, making me afraid to keep doing whatever it was I was doing that brought me to the West Bank. Walking over to meet my friends, I pause as my body is raked with tremors and my stomach rolls. The suppressed emotions hit me all at once. Never have I been so scared. As I leave the dimly lit room of the checkpoint I enter into the bright sunshine and look at my watch; what has felt like days has in reality only been an hour. It’s a beautiful day and I want to get busy enjoying it. It is too soon to begin thinking about how we are going to get back home.

I'm sorry to be posting so many clips lately, but when I come across soemthing interesting I want to share it with others. A colleague of mine from my days in the West Bank posted this clip on his Facebook page and after watching it I wanted to pass it on to you.

The name of the clip is "Israel/Palestine: Going Beyond the Dialogue of Words". I tried to load the clip on here like I have previously but I keep encountering an error so please follow the link above instead.I think the speaks message is a universal one. Until we step outside of our comfort zones and experience the "other" things will never truely change.

The Wounded Crossing Borders Organization that is mentioned also sounds like an organization that is doing great things and worth checking out.

I came across the website/blog Mondoweiss today.

They describe themselves as being a news website devoted to covering American foreign policy in the Middle East, chiefly from a progressive Jewish perspective.

The site has four principle aims:

1. To publish important developments touching on Israel/Palestine, the American Jewish community and the shifting debate over US foreign policy in a timely fashion.

2. To publish a diversity of voices to promote dialogue of these important issues.

3. To foster the movement for greater fairness and justice for Palestinians in American foreign policy.

4. To offer alternative to pro-Zionist ideology as a basis for American Jewish identity.

What led me to this site was this article:

80 year old Palestinian woman stoned by settlers

by Seham on November 1, 2011 Like 112 Retweet 74

80 year old Palestinian woman stoned by settlers

Settlers stone elderly Palestinian lady

RAMALLAH (WAFA) 31 Oct -- A group of Jewish settlers Monday stoned an elderly Palestinian lady as she was picking olives in Mukhmas, a village southeast of Ramallah in the West Bank, according to local sources. The 80-year-old woman was reported to be injured in the head and transferred to hospital for treatment.Again, I just stumbled upon this site today so I am unable to speak to its accuracy or fairness. I do plan to check back to it from time to time though. As should you if you are interested in this area of the world.

I am tired of focusing on the negative and the depressing. So often when I am preparing a post for this blog or a paper for my Individual Studies of Writing class I get frustrated and angry. Not because of the work, never that, believe it or not I do enjoy writing. I get angry because in the preparation for these assignments I must constant sift through websites and papers full of horrible sickening information.

Well I'm tired of it.

Today's post is going to be about hope. I want to introduce you all to some wonderful organizations that are against all odds doing big things to change the life of young people in West Bank.

The Freedom Theater in found in the refugee camp in Jenin. If you've read my previous posts you know that during the Second Intifada Jenin was pretty much leveled to the ground by the Israeli forces. This included The Stone Theater, which had been created by Arna Mer Khamis a Jew who chose to live and work in the West Bank. Khamis used her theater as a way to give a creative outlet to Palestinian children in order to help them deal with the emotional issues (chronic fears, insomnia, depression)created as a result of years of living under the strain and abuse of the Israeli occupation. Though the Stone Theater was bulldozed during the Second Intifada Arna's son has continued his mother's legacy through The Freedom Theater.

I had the opportunity to spend the day touring the theater grounds and speaking with some of the students (even sitting in on an impromptu jam session) and I was absolutely blown away with the work they are doing there. They are giving kids a voice who are otherwise voiceless. This clip below shows how theater is helping some of these kids deal with the harsh realities of their lives.

The Nablus Guide has this to say about the Nablus Circus School:

Founded in 2004 by a group of enthusiastic Palestinian artistes, the school’s ambition is to develop circus arts in the city. But beyond that they also want to provide a space for self-expression and freedom for the children living under occupation and constant stress. Hence each class is followed by a time for discussion, a moment set aside in order for each one to be able to express their anguish, their doubts, or their success. Furthermore, Assirk Assagir can be proud of being one of the only youth organizations to offer mixed classes open to girls and boys from 6 to 22 years old.

By clicking on the Nablus Circus School link above you will be brought to the blog that is written about the school. Listen and watch some of the students below.

For three months I was lucky enough to be a volunteer with Project Hope. Out of all the things that I have done in my life and all the places I have gone, my experience with them has been the greatest of my life. I feel very lucky to have been able to be a part of what they are doing. If you visit their website which I have linked above you will see that their mission is:

create safe and supportive spaces where children, youth and other community members can learn, thrive, and grow. Through our educational, artistic and recreational programs, we especially aim to empower Palestinian children and youth who have grown up in a context of violence and occupation, giving them the tools they need to access a better future.

My role with them was as an English teacher, however while I was there I saw volunteers involved in a number of different programs ranging from language programs, to art and photography, to IT and blogging classes.

These organizations not only give the children and the communites they are a part of hope but also outsider like myself. I have hope that these children will find creative and positive outlets for their fear and anger and that this will help in breaking the cycle violence we see happening.

In the car today on the way home I heard on the news that UNESCO, which is the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization voted 107 to 14 in favor of a resolution that would recognize and permit Palestine to become a member of their body.

It is not surprising to learn that the US was one of the 14 countries that voted against such an action.

What was also not surprising was the fact that the US will now stop its payments to UNESCO, which comes to a total of $60 million dollars, one fifth of the organizations budget. I thought the government would move to cut funding as a way to try and establish control once again over the organization. But apparently, the reason for financial cut is because we have a law here in America that makes it illegal for us to give money to any UN body that recognizes Palestine as a member before a peace agreement with between them and Israel is established.

What possible benefit is there to a law like this one, except to black mail these UN bodies with the threat of loss of funds?

In doing more research on Naomi Shihab Nye and her work I came across this poem she wrote. As I mentioned in a previous post Nye's father is a Palestinian refugee, but Nye herself also lived in Jerusalem in 1967. Her and her family only remained there for a year and moved back to the United States at the beginning of the 1968 war.

Anyway, I found this this piece that she wrote and wanted to share it with all of you.

Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit

Once they started invading us.

Taking our houses and trees, drawing lines,

pushing us into tiny places.

It wasn't a bargain or deal or even a real war.

To this day they pretend it was.

But it was something else.

We were sorry what happened to them but

we had nothing to do with it.

You don't think what a little plot of land means

till someone takes it and you can't go back.

Your feet still want to walk tliere.

Now you are drifting worse

than homeless dust, very lost feehng.

I cried even to think of our hallway,

cool stone passage inside the door.

Nothing would fit for years.

They came with guns, uniforms, declarations.

LIFE magazine said,

"It was surprising to find some Arabs still in their houses."

Surprising? Where else would we be?

Up on the hillsides?

Conversing with mint and sheep, digging in dirt?

Why was someone else's need for a home

greater than our own need for our own homes

we were already living in? No one has ever been able

to explain this sufficiently. But they find

a lot of other things to talk about.

On the Breaking the Silence tour I took part in, the organization offered booklets that contained the written testimony from various soldiers regarding incidents that they themselves were apart of or witnessed. Here are some of their stories.

The clip below is an interview with two former soldiers in the Israeli Defense Forces; they are now participants with the Breaking the Silence organization.

One of the greatest, most moving and unfortunately most disturbing things that I did while living in the West Bank was to go on a Breaking the Silence tour. This organization was created after the beginning of the Second Intifada and is comprised of form Israeli soldiers who have decided to share with the Israeli public what is being done in the West Bank and Gaza. Here is the bio they put on their website:

Breaking the Silence is an organization of veteran combatants who have served in the Israeli military since the start of the Second Intifada and have taken it upon themselves to expose the Israeli public to the reality of everyday life in the Occupied Territories. We endeavor to stimulate public debate about the price paid for a reality in which young soldiers face a civilian population on a daily basis, and are engaged in the control of that population’s everyday life.

Soldiers who serve in the Territories witness and participate in military actions which change them immensely. Cases of abuse towards Palestinians, looting, and destruction of property have been the norm for years, but are still explained as extreme and unique cases. Our testimonies portray a different, and much grimmer picture in which deterioration of moral standards finds expression in the character of orders and the rules of engagement, and are justified in the name of Israel's security. While this reality is known to Israeli soldiers and commanders, Israeli society continues to turn a blind eye, and to deny that what is done in its name. Discharged soldiers returning to civilian life discover the gap between the reality they encountered in the Territories, and the silence about this reality they encounter at home. In order to become civilians again, soldiers are forced to ignore what they have seen and done. We strive to make heard the voices of these soldiers, pushing Israeli society to face the reality whose creation it has enabled. We collect and publish testimonies from soldiers who, like us, have served in the West Bank, Gaza and East Jerusalem since September 2000, and hold lectures, house meetings, and other public events which bring to light the reality in the Territories through the voice of former combatants. We also conduct tours in Hebron and the South Hebron Hills region, with the aim of giving the Israeli public access to the reality which exists minutes from their own homes, yet is rarely portrayed in the media. Founded in March 2004 by a group of soldiers who served in Hebron, Breaking the Silence has since acquired a special standing in the eyes of the Israeli public and in the media, as it is unique in giving voice to the experience of soldiers. To date, the organization has collected more than 700 testimonies from soldiers who represent all strata of Israeli society and cover nearly all units that operate in the Territories. All the testimonies we publish are meticulously researched, and all facts are cross-checked with additional eye-witnesses and/or the archives of other human rights organizations also active in the field. Every soldier who gives a testimony to Breaking the Silence knows the aims of the organization and the interview. Most soldiers choose to remain anonymous, due to various pressures from official military persons and society at large. Our first priority is to the soldiers who choose to testify to the public about their service. In the winter of 2009, myself along with two colleagues decided to go one the Southern Hebron Hills tour. I wish I had my photographs and interviews to post along with this information, but due to technical problems they are no longer available.

While this tour takes a person on many stops, what I remember most from the experience was visiting one family who were literally living in a hole/cave in the ground. Their house had been built without an authorized building permit from the Israeli government and as a result it was bulldozed to the ground. What the family had left they gather together in holes they had dug in the dirt. The coverings to keep out the hot sun or rainy weather were old cement sacks that the women had stitched together.Utterly shocked by the living conditions these people found themselves in, (the people in my village in Africa had a higher stander of living) I was humbled to knees when the family we were visiting offered us tea. Not only did this family have to sleep in a cave/hole they also had no water. Clean water had to be carried in by the family from a great distance. A trip made even more cumbersome by the Israeli settlers who live near by and the laws especially designed to protect them.This family with little to nothing to their name stood their offering everything they had to me, my colleagues as well as the roughly 20 or so individuals on the tour with us. Generosity like that restores my faith in the world, but usually breaks my heart as well. It always seems that the ones most willing to give are the ones who have the least to give.

For my American Ethnic and Minority Literature class we have been assigned to write a paper over an ethnic or minority American poetry. I can't say I'm terribly excited about the assignment due to the fact that it's over poetry and that is definitely not my strong suit. Anyway, I chose to write about Naomi Shihab Nye an Arab-American poet whose father is a Palestinian refugee and mother is an American of German and Swiss decent.

In researching information for the paper I came across this letter that Nye wrote not long after the September 11th attacks. I am not sure how many people remember or are even aware that one of the reasons given by Osama bin Laden for the attacks was the United States continued support of Israel. I think it is important how she touches on the stereotypes associated with Palestinians and address how the actions committed by these men and others with similar beliefs/attitudes are not helping their cause by committing such crimes. I hope you enjoy.

Letter from Naomi Shihab Nye, Arab-American Poet: To Any Would-Be Terrorists I am sorry I have to call you that, but I don't know how else to get your attention. I hate that word. Do you know how hard some of us have worked to get rid of that word, to deny its instant connection to the Middle East? And now look. Look what extra work we have. Not only did your colleagues kill thousands of innocent, international people in those buildings and scar their families forever, they wounded a huge community of people in the Middle East, in the United States and all over the world. If that's what they wanted to do, please know the mission was a terrible success, and you can stop now. Because I feel a little closer to you than many Americans could possibly feel, or ever want to feel, I insist that you listen to me. Sit down and listen. I know what kinds of foods you like. I would feed them to you if you were right here, because it is very very important that you listen. I am humble in my country's pain and I am furious. My Palestinian father became a refugee in 1948. He came to the United States as a college student. He is 74 years old now and still homesick. He has planted fig trees. He has invited all the Ethiopians in his neighborhood to fill their little paper sacks with his figs. He has written columns and stories saying the Arabs are not terrorists, he has worked all his life to defy that word. Arabs are businessmen and students and kind neighbors. There is no one like him and there are thousands like him - gentle Arab daddies who make everyone laugh around the dinner table, who have a hard time with headlines, who stand outside in the evenings with their hands in their pockets staring toward the far horizon. I am sorry if you did not have a father like that. I wish everyone could have a father like that. My hard-working American mother has spent 50 years trying to convince her fellow teachers and choir mates not to believe stereotypes about the Middle East. She always told them, there is a much larger story. If you knew the story, you would not jump to conclusions from what you see in the news. But now look at the news. What a mess has been made. Sometimes I wish everyone could have parents from different countries or ethnic groups so they would be forced to cross boundaries, to believe in mixtures, every day of their lives. Because this is what the world calls us to do. WAKE UP! The Palestinian grocer in my Mexican-American neighborhood paints pictures of the Palestinian flag on his empty cartons. He paints trees and rivers. He gives his paintings away. He says, "Don't insult me" when I try to pay him for a lemonade. Arabs have always been famous for their generosity. Remember? My half-Arab brother with an Arabic name looks more like an Arab than many full-blooded Arabs do and he has to fly every week. My Palestinian cousins in Texas have beautiful brown little boys. Many of them haven't gone to school yet. And now they have this heavy word to carry in their backpacks along with the weight of their papers and books. I repeat, the mission was a terrible success. But it was also a complete, total tragedy and I want you to think about a few things. 1. Many people, thousands of people, perhaps even millions of people, in the United States are very aware of the long unfairness of our country's policies regarding Israel and Palestine. We talk about this all the time. It exhausts us and we keep talking. We write letters to newspapers, to politicians, to each other. We speak out in public even when it is uncomfortable to do so, because that is our responsibility. Many of these people aren't even Arabs. Many happen to be Jews who are equally troubled by the inequity. I promise you this is true. Because I am Arab-American, people always express these views to me and I am amazed how many understand the intricate situation and have strong, caring feelings for Arabs and Palestinians even when they don't have to. Think of them, please: All those people who have been standing up for Arabs when they didn't have to. But as ordinary citizens we don't run the government and don't get to make all our government's policies, which makes us sad sometimes. We believe in the power of the word and we keep using it, even when it seems no one large enough is listening. That is one of the best things about this country: the free power of free words. Maybe we take it for granted too much. Many of the people killed in the World Trade Center probably believed in a free Palestine and were probably talking about it all the time. But this tragedy could never help the Palestinians. Somehow, miraculously, if other people won't help them more, they are going to have to help themselves. And it will be peace, not violence, that fixes things. You could ask any one of the kids in the Seeds of Peace organization and they would tell you that. Do you ever talk to kids? Please, please, talk to more kids. 2. Have you noticed how many roads there are? Sure you have. You must check out maps and highways and small alternate routes just like anyone else. There is no way everyone on earth could travel on the same road, or believe in exactly the same religion. It would be too crowded, it would be dumb. I don't believe you want us all to be Muslims. My Palestinian grandmother lived to be 106 years old, and did not read or write, but even she was much smarter than that. The only place she ever went beyond Palestine and Jordan was to Mecca, by bus, and she was very proud to be called a Hajji and to wear white clothes afterwards. She worked very hard to get stains out of everyone's dresses -- scrubbing them with a stone. I think she would consider the recent tragedies a terrible stain on her religion and her whole part of the world. She would weep. She was scared of airplanes anyway. She wanted people to worship God in whatever ways they felt comfortable. Just worship. Just remember God in every single day and doing. It didn't matter what they called it. When people asked her how she felt about the peace talks that were happening right before she died, she puffed up like a proud little bird and said, in Arabic, "I never lost my peace inside." To her, Islam was a welcoming religion. After her home in Jerusalem was stolen from her, she lived in a small village that contained a Christian shrine. She felt very tender toward the people who would visit it. A Jewish professor tracked me down a few years ago in Jerusalem to tell me she changed his life after he went to her village to do an oral history project on Arabs. "Don't think she only mattered to you!" he said. "She gave me a whole different reality to imagine - yet it was amazing how close we became. Arabs could never be just a "project" after that." Did you have a grandmother or two? Mine never wanted people to be pushed around. What did yours want? Reading about Islam since my grandmother died, I note the "tolerance" that was "typical of Islam" even in the old days. The Muslim leader Khalid ibn al-Walid signed a Jerusalem treaty which declared, "in the name of God, you have complete security for your churches which shall not be occupied by the Muslims or destroyed." It is the new millenium in which we should be even smarter than we used to be, right? But I think we have fallen behind. 3. Many Americans do not want to kill any more innocent people anywhere in the world. We are extremely worried about military actions killing innocent people. We didn't like this in Iraq, we never liked it anywhere. We would like no more violence, from us as well as from you. HEAR US! We would like to stop the terrifying wheel of violence, just stop it, right on the road, and find something more creative to do to fix these huge problems we have. Violence is not creative, it is stupid and scary and many of us hate all those terrible movies and TV shows made in our own country that try to pretend otherwise. Don't watch them. Everyone should stop watching them. An appetite for explosive sounds and toppling buildings is not a healthy thing for anyone in any country. The USA should apologize to the whole world for sending this trash out into the air and for paying people to make it. But here's something good you may not know - one of the best-selling books of poetry in the United States in recent years is the Coleman Barks translation of Rumi, a mystical Sufi poet of the 13th century, and Sufism is Islam and doesn't that make you glad? Everyone is talking about the suffering that ethnic Americans are going through. Many will no doubt go through more of it, but I would like to thank everyone who has sent me a consolation card. Americans are usually very kind people. Didn't your colleagues find that out during their time living here? It is hard to imagine they missed it. How could they do what they did, knowing that? 4. We will all die soon enough. Why not take the short time we have on this delicate planet and figure out some really interesting things we might do together? I promise you, God would be happier. So many people are always trying to speak for God - I know it is a very dangerous thing to do. I tried my whole life not to do it. But this one time is an exception. Because there are so many people crying and scarred and confused and complicated and exhausted right now - it is as if we have all had a giant simultaneous break-down. I beg you, as your distant Arab cousin, as your American neighbor, listen to me. Our hearts are broken, as yours may also feel broken in some ways we can't understand, unless you tell us in words. Killing people won't tell us. We can't read that message. Find another way to live. Don't expect others to be like you. Read Rumi. Read Arabic poetry. Poetry humanizes us in a way that news, or even religion, has a harder time doing. A great Arab scholar, Dr. Salma Jayyusi, said, "If we read one another, we won't kill one another." Read American poetry. Plant mint. Find a friend who is so different from you, you can't believe how much you have in common. Love them. Let them love you. Surprise people in gentle ways, as friends do. The rest of us will try harder too. Make our family proud. naomi shihab nye

Clicking on her name will bring you to the website where this letter was posted.

In speaking of the Israeli use of curfew in my previous two posts I made brief mentions to both the city of Jenin, a northern West Bank city not far from the Palestinian/Israeli border and to Israeli Operation Defensive Shield. To be fair this operation was conducted primarily as result of the Palestinian bombing of a hotel in Israel that resulted in the death of 30 elderly Israelis and the Palestinian bomber. Some may argue that response was not proportional to the crime, but that can be left for further debate. My goal here is not to convince you, my audience, that Palestinians are saints, above reproach. No, I just want to share information that the main stream media does not cover and which as a result you may not be aware of.

Before moving on to a new topic of discussion I wanted to show a bit of the results from the "Battle of Jenin" which was fought during Operation Defensive Shield. Let this documentary show what the people of Jenin face.

Curfew. A perfectly innocuous term, right? Associated with the protection of teenagers and young adults, it simply means giving a person a deadline in which they must be home and off the streets. It is a tool, in this instance, intended to restrict ones movement in order to protect those who fall under its safeguard. Yet, there is a darker implication to this restriction of movement. What if the wielders of the power, those who initiate as well as enforce the curfew, see it as a method to protect themselves and not those who must live under its restrictions? What if it is fully understood that the implementation of this manner of protection will result in negative if not dire consequences for those who come under its restrictions? In such circumstances, has the tool of protection not been turned into a weapon of terror? This is the situation that residents of the West Bank and Gaza currently find themselves living in. Israel with its unlimited power over these regions has the authority to implement, at their discretion, a curfew over any portion of the territories they choose as well as any and all people who find themselves in the area. Why does Israel use the curfew and moreover what does life under Israeli curfew look like to Palestinians? There is no clear data of Israel’s first implementation of curfew on Palestinian populations; though, Adam Hanieh, a writer with the Middle East Research and Information Project, says the use goes back to at least the end of the 1980’s when Palestinians began their first “intifada” or uprising against Israeli occupation. Heavy use of it was again seen during the first Gulf War back in the early 1990’s (Hanieh 1) “as a precaution necessary to prevent an explosion of violence in support of Saddam Hussein” (Human Rights Watch) . It was not until the early part of the 2000’s, with the second intifada underway, that this practice appeared to become a routine policy (Hanieh 1). This timeline of events fit in with Israeli Defense Force (IDF) statements that say curfew is imposed as a “security measure”. In recent years it has been used to allow military personal to enter the areas and conduct operations safely. Is the treatment that Palestinians face under curfew really necessary to keep the Israeli military safe? Sam Bahour, resident of the West Bank and co-author of Homeland: Oral Histories of Palestine and Palestinians describes Palestinian life under curfew as being in “total lockdown”. Curfew affects every area of Palestinian life; businesses close or simply cannot open, schools are dismissed and are also shut down, government offices and medical care and services such as pharmacies, doctors’ offices and ambulances are all cut off from the public. While this restriction on movement can be confined to a couple hours out of the day or even a few days out of the month it has also been implemented for longer stretches of time. In 2002, during Israeli offensives “Operation Defensive Shield” and “Operation Determined Path” the city of Nablus, one of the largest cities in the West Bank with a population of roughly 120,000, experienced three stretches of prolonged curfew. They ranged from, April 2 to the 22 then again from May 31to June 6 and finally from June 21 to the end of September. This last period was especially trying not only for its length of time but also for its severity. During this three month period the residents spent more than 70 days under 24 hour curfew; throughout which time Israeli forces would periodically cut water and electricity supplies to most homes (Amnesty International). Other cities, such as Jenin and Hebron, have undergone similar situations. The city of Hebron, located in the southern part of the West Bank, experienced only 19 hours of not being under curfew during one 26 day (or 624 hour) stretch in 2003 (oPt). The implementation of the curfew is at times as distressing as the curfew itself and is often lethal. Bahour describes how he and residents of his neighborhood are often informed of the curfew “This total lockdown is accomplished by Israeli jeeps, tanks and armored personnel carriers roaming the narrow Palestinian streets with loud speakers notifying all, in an awful Arabic accent, to go home or risk being arrested or shot. This announcement is regularly accompanied by rapid machine gun fire in the air and the detonation of tear gas canisters and stun grenades in the open markets to make sure people get the message” (Bahour 30) B’Tselem, an Israeli Human Rights organization working in the West Bank and Gaza, supports Bahour’s claim but also adds that Israel’s procedures are not always this clear. While his account depicts a coordinated if not rather shocking effort on Israel’s part to inform Palestinians of the impending curfew this is not always the case. According to B’Tselem, a number of witnesses claim that there is much confusion about whether or not a curfew is in place and that they “often have to rely on rumors and what they see happening in the streets” to know what is going on (Curfew 1). This claim has been documented in countless sources such as, Barriers to Education a report put out by the Right to Education Committee at Birzet University. This report cites unclear procedures of curfew implementation during school hours as a safety risk for students. (Murray 5). Middle East Report also discusses the confusion that surrounds the execution of curfew. It writes that there have been many occasions in the city of Ramallah when the government radio has issued one time for the curfew to be lifted but the soldiers on the streets have issued another (Hanieh 1). Amnesty International collected this testimony from Rami, a 12 year old resident of Jenin, regarding the killing of his friends, brother’s six-year-old Ahmad and 12-year-old Jamil Yusuf Ghazawi due to the confusion over curfew: "I heard that the curfew had been lifted. When I heard this, I went out and joined my friends, Jamil, Tareq, Ahmad, Muhammad, Wa'el and Wissam. We all headed off to the main street. Jamil, Tareq, Ahmad and Wa'el were on their bikes and the rest of us were on foot. When we reached the intersection with the main street, we saw IDF jeeps by the square and became afraid. We headed back toward home, and stopped and stood to the side of a building on our street when we heard the sound of a tank go by. We then saw another tank about 300 metres from us, so we left the building and began to hurry back home. Jamil was telling Ahmad and Tareq to leave quickly as there were tanks. The tank was now at the end of the street and then I saw Dr. Samer's car coming toward us. He was blowing the horn to warn us to get out of the way. The next thing I remember is a red light and then an explosion. "I moved toward the side when I heard the bomb. After that I came back towards the street and first saw Ahmad. He did not have a left leg and his stomach was on the road. I saw Jamil: he was injured in his back and was shaking his hands. He opened his eyes for a minute and then closed them. Tareq was near an electric pole, we found him last. One of his legs had a hole in it and pieces of the bomb were in his stomach, his ear and his back. "Dr. Samer stopped his car in front of our house and was walking towards our garage. When he got out of the car, the neighbours told him to come inside, he then collapsed. Our neighbour Yazid carried him. Dr. Samer had no shoes and he was dressed in a T-shirt and trousers." Upon investigation into Israeli Defense Force (IDF) procedures of implementation of curfew on Palestinian populations, B’Tselem walked away with no answers. The spokesperson for the IDF refused to offer any information. While B’Tselem recognizes the legitimacy of Israeli curfew on Palestinian populations if it is in conducted a correct manner i.e. clear notification of areas under curfew and only for a set period of time (restrictions like the ones put on the people of Nablus and Hebron break International Law), they are distressed by the manner in which it is implemented and enforced by the IDF (Curfew 1). To make sure curfew is obeyed IDF has made it its policy to arrest or shoot anyone seen on the streets during curfew hours (2). In a report written by Amnesty International, one family speaks of how they witnessed an unknown man left lying on the streets during curfew because all those who ventured from their homes to try and aid the dying man were shot at by IDF soldiers. The family goes on to describe how neighborhood dogs began to eat the man’s decaying body as the IDF would not allow neighbors or medical personnel to enter the street and claim the body (Amnesty International). During one five month period, B’Tselem reported that 15 Palestinian civilian were killed by the army for leaving their homes during curfew. Of the 15, twelve of them were under the age of 16, the youngest being six years old (PRESSE). Of the 15 killed, “four Palestinians, three of them children, were killed and 24 injured when Israeli soldiers opened fire on a market in Jenin at a time when Palestinians residents believed the curfew on the city had been lifted” (Hanieh 1). While the use of curfew has eased over the recent years, it is still reportedly utilized. Between March 11 and April 13 of this year, the village of Awarta, population 6500, was put under curfew three times while Israeli officials investigated the murder of an Israeli family in a nearby settlement (Democracy 2). While the need of curfew is not in question, one has to wonder if the severity of its restrictions and its enforcement is a necessary “security measure” for the IDF forces. Works Cited Amnesty International. "Israel and the Occupied Territories Shielded from scrutiny: IDF violations in Jenin and Nablus." 4 November 2002. Amnesty International. 25 October 2011 . Bahour, Sam. "The Violence of Curfew." Tikkun (2002): 29. "Curfew." 6 May 2010. B'teslem. 5 October 2011 . Democracy, UNESCO Chair on Human Rights and. Right to an Education: The Case of Awarta . Nablus, 2011. Hanieh, Adam. "West Bank Curfew: Politics by other means." Middle East Report (2002): 1-3. Murray, Helen. Barriers to Education: The Israeil Military Obstruction of Access to Schools and Universities in the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Birzeit, July 2004. oPt, OCHA. Humanitarian Update. United Nations Humanitarian Report. Jerusalem: United Nations Relief and Works Agency, 2003. PRESSE, AGENCE FRANCE. "Israeli Army 'Kiling Palestinian Children'." 17 October 2002. Sydney Morning Herald. 25 October 2011 .

In preparing to write an Objective Essay over Israelis use of curfew on Palestinians I found a number of interesting articles but one I found particularly interesting and shocking was put out by Amnesty International entitled "Israel and the Occupied Territories Shielded from scrutiny: IDF violations in Jenin and Nablus"

The report, written at the end of 2002, describes the Israeli military operations Defensive Shield and Determined Path in relation to the cities of Jenin and Nablus.

I would like to share with you some key/interesting points from the piece in hopes that it will interest you enough to click on the link and read the report yourself. Please keep in mind that Amnesty International is neutral third party observer. They have nothing to gain by reporting this information.

After the first day (of Operation Defensive Shield) those killed or wounded in Jenin and Nablus were left without burial or medical treatment. Bodies remained in the street as residents who ventured outside to collect or attend to the dead or injured were shot. Tanks travelling through narrow streets ruthlessly sliced off the outer walls of houses; much destruction of property by tanks was wanton and unnecessary. In one appalling and extensive operation, the IDF demolished, destroyed by explosives, or flattened by army bulldozers, a large residential area of Jenin refugee camp, much of it after the fighting had apparently ended.

Israel has the right and responsibility to take measures to prevent unlawful violence. The Israeli government equally has an obligation to ensure that the measures it takes to protect Israelis are carried out in accordance with international human rights and humanitarian law. As the occupying power of the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, and the Gaza Strip, Israel has an obligation to respect and protect the human rights of all people in these areas.

Throughout the period 4-15 April, the IDF denied access to Jenin refugee camp to all, including medical doctors and nurses, ambulances, humanitarian relief services, human rights organizations, and journalists. Amnesty International and other organizations tried to get information by the only means that seemed possible: constantly telephoning residents under curfew. By 12 April residents said that the continuous curfew had led to an acute food and water shortage. In some cases children were drinking waste water and became sick as a result. One resident from the edge of the camp said that: "the camp smells of death due to the scattered bodies, some bodies are buried under the rubble, others crushed by tanks, and the rest are left lying in the streets."

During the fighting Palestinian residents and Palestinian and foreign journalists and others outside the camp saw hundreds of missiles being fired into the houses of the camp from Apache helicopters flying sortie after sortie. The sight of the firepower being thrown at Jenin refugee camp led those who witnessed the air raids, including military experts and the media, to believe that scores, at least, of Palestinians had been killed. The tight cordon round the refugee camp and the main hospital from 4-17 April meant that the outside world had no means of knowing what was going on inside the refugee camp; a few journalists were able to slip into the area at risk to their lives after 13 April, but only saw a small portion of the camp, including some dead bodies before leaving. Those within the camp reachable by telephone were confined to their homes and could not tell what was happening. It was in these circumstances that stories of a "massacre" spread. Even the IDF leadership appeared unclear as to how many Palestinians had died: General Ron Kitrey said on 12 April that hundreds had died in Jenin before correcting himself a few hours later saying that hundreds had died or been wounded.

On the evening of 21 June 2002, the IDF blew up an unoccupied house in the old city area of Jenin. The explosion also demolished an adjacent house, which contained eight family members, all of whom were trapped in the rubble. Two were seriously injured and one 12-year-old child, Fares, died. According to the family and neighbours no warning was given to the family before the explosion, despite protests from a neighbour who had been used during this military operation to check the adjacent house. Amnesty International interviewed neighbours, as well as family members. Their accounts of the incident are consistent. The IDF has claimed the targeted property was used to store munitions. Regardless of whether this was the case, the responsibility remains for those members of the IDF involved in the operations to secure the safety of the civilian population in the immediate area.

The IDF systematically compelled Palestinians to take part in military operations. Several Palestinians interviewed by Amnesty International in relation to other subjects said that they had been compelled to take part in military operations and as "human shields". These practices violate international humanitarian law. Although the IDF announced through the State Attorney on 24 May 2002 that it would not use civilians in military operations, Amnesty International has continued to receive reports of cases in whicThe large number of cases of Palestinians used as "human shields" in IDF military operations reveal a clear pattern. Typically the IDF would compel an adult male(6) in their military operation to search property in each area of the refugee camp. A Palestinian would be held by the IDF for a certain period, sometimes for days. These Palestinians were placed at serious risk, in some cases resulting in injuryh Palestinians were used by members of the IDF during military operations, including as "human shields".

Water supplies were also cut by the IDF and, in addition, many of the water storage tanks on the tops of houses were damaged by IDF fire; in some places the water supply was not restored for 20 days. The Director of the Water Sector for Jenin city told Amnesty International delegates that in one pumping station supplying Jenin city and the western villages the pumps were inoperable; damage to the network was extensive and "mainlines from the reservoirs or pumping stations were cut intentionally by bulldozers or indirectly through heavy tank traffic. Seven of 11 booster pumps [which help water reach high areas] were hit or destroyed by heavy machine gun fire or tanks. Damage to the network inside the refugee camp was beyond repair." On 5 April the IDF occupied one pumping station and dismissed the operator for four days. Camp residents and those living in the upper areas of the town remained without water for up to three weeks; UNRWA reports that water points to the camp were not restored until 28 April.

Medical relief services were denied access to Jenin refugee camp for nearly 11 days, from 12 noon on 4 April until 15 April 2002. In addition the IDF shot at ambulances(10) or fired warning shots around them. Ambulance drivers were harassed or arrested. Meanwhile the dead in Jenin refugee camp remained in the street or in houses for days. The wounded lay for hours untended or were treated at home. In several cases people are reported to have died in circumstances where lack of access medical care may have caused or hastened their death. Many testimonies show families desperately telephoning for help in vain and compelled to stay alone with dying or dead relatives. Many cases of Palestinians killed by the IDF show the difficulty or impossibility of obtaining medical care or an ambulance to remove the dead.

Given the density of population in the one square kilometre refugee camp, which had a population of around 14,000 before the events of 3 April 2002, the complete destruction of the Hawashin quarter and the partial destruction of two additional quarters of the camp, have left more than 800 families, totalling some 4000 persons, homeless, living in tents or with relatives. About 169 houses with 374 apartment units have been completely destroyed with additional units partially destroyed.(16) Additionally, widespread IDF vandalism and property damage to the interior of homes was visible in a number of areas of the camp, especially in the al-Damaj quarter.

A friend of mine posted this clip on Facebook a year or so ago and it stuck with me ever since. As I mentioned in my previous post, if Americans or other Westerners were faced with the inaccessibility of basic services such as medical care or education we would be up in arms. We would be rioting in the streets. Yet, the idea of someone denying us access to the hospital is so far fetched to that it is hard to even imagine it. This clip does a fine job of depicting what is happening to Palestinians every day in a way that more of us can empathize with.

For my Argumentative Writing class we were asked to construct an arguement using one of the three audience appeals. These appeals are pathos/emotions, ethos/character and logos/logic and reasoning.

For the assignment I chose to make an emotional argument about the right to freedom of movement and how we are all entitled to it, even Palestinians.

Freedom. We talk about freedom a lot, particularly here in the United

Sates. We enjoy freedom of speech and assembly, freedom of religion,

freedom to buy and sell arms as well as countless others. Yet, what

about the freedom of movement, the freedom to enjoy going from point A

to point B without being harassed, denied or stopped. Too few are

aware of what a luxury it is to enjoy such travel. Yet, there is one

group of people who recognize all too well what a privilege it is, for

it is one they have been denied for the past 60 years and those are

Palestinians living in the West Bank or Gaza, an area also known as

the Occupied Palestinian Territories (OPT).

With hundreds of checkpoints spread throughout an area the size of a

postage stamp there is not one town, village or person who is not

affect by them. Routine aspects of life, like going to work or school,

buying food and visiting the doctor have been made into trips or

terror or simply trials of patients and fortitude. Here is one medic’s

heart wrenching account of trying to get a severally ill patient to

the hospital for the treatment he needed:

“Yesterday [Monday, 2 July], at 2:15 P.M., I arrived with the

paramedic Taher Tahboub, 35, in the ambulance with license plate

62308-91, at the tunnels checkpoint in Bethlehem . We were

transporting Yousef Harbi 'Abd al-Qader 'Ashur, 20, who was suffering

from an accumulation of fluids in his lungs and was in critical

condition. Yusef's father was with him in the ambulance and we were on

our way from al-Ahli Hospital , in Hebron , to al-Makassed Hospital ,

in East Jerusalem .

We arrived at the checkpoint after coordination between the Red

Crescent and the Red Cross. The Red Cross was supposed to arrange the

crossing of the ambulance to the Israeli side. When we arrived at the

tunnels checkpoint, a border policeman with dark skin stopped us. He

yelled at me in Hebrew to go back to where I came from. I told him in

Hebrew that I was driving a patient in critical condition and that in

a humanitarian condition such as this he had to let me pass. The

policeman told me that I was not allowed to go through the checkpoint

to Jerusalem . I told him that only a few days earlier, after

coordination with the Red Cross, I had passed through this checkpoint

to Jerusalem . The policeman wasn't convinced and insisted that I

leave the place.

I didn't leave. I parked the ambulance on the right side of the road,

about seventy meters from the checkpoint. Taher and I called the Red

Crescent in Hebron and Bethlehem and asked them to coordinate between

the Red Cross and the Israeli side so we could pass. The Red Crescent

official in Bethlehem promised to take care of it and told us to wait

next to the checkpoint.

About three quarters of an hour later, around 3:00 P.M., a border

policeman, who appeared to be Druze, approached us and asked about the

patient's condition. He opened the ambulance door and looked at the

patient lying inside with a tube for draining fluids attached to his

chest. It was obvious from the appearance of the patient that he was

in a very critical condition. The policeman was not convinced and said

that a Palestinian ambulance was allowed to cross an Israeli

checkpoint only if the patient was in a life-threatening condition. I

emphasized to him that the patient was in a life-threatening

condition, but he said "No, he can wait." I asked him if he was a

doctor. He didn't reply and went back to the checkpoint.

Around 3:45 P.M., while we were waiting for an answer from the Red

Crescent in Bethlehem, a third policeman came and asked us to move

away from the checkpoint. The policeman was nervous. We moved back

about 200 meters and stopped next to the entrance of the road that led

to Beit Jala. We continued to wait for the Red Crescent's reply.

Around 4:00 P.M., the Red Crescent notified us that there was no point

in continuing to wait, and that we should return the patient to

al-Ahli hospital in Hebron . They promised they would continue to try

to coordinate the transport of the patient for tomorrow. We returned

the patient to al-Ahli hospital. He was exhausted from the long wait

at the checkpoint.

The next morning, a Red Crescent ambulance took the patient to the

tunnels checkpoint where a Jerusalem Red Crescent ambulance was

waiting and took the patient to al-Makassed Hospital. (Hashhash)”

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that a person has the

right to move freely within their own state yet this man’s testimony

is just one many collected by the Israeli Human Rights group B’Tselem

that illustrate that Palestinians are being denied this right. Were

this to happen on the streets of America or anywhere else in the

developed world the citizens would be up in arms. Access to timely

medical care is a right not a privilege. It is meant to be given to

all mankind not just those thought to be worthy.

Is it not time that Israel allows Palestinians enjoy the same rights

as the rest of us?

Works Cited

Hashhash, Musa Abu. B'Tselem. 3 July 2007. 8 September 2011

Here is the review I mentioned in my last post.

State Sanctioned Torture in “Stolen Youth: The Politics of Israel’s Detention of Palestinian Children” The inhumane treatment of Palestinian children prisoners is the general focus of Stolen Youth; however, the writers behind this work of nonfiction contend that this treatment is part of a bigger plan set forth by the Israeli government. They claim the goal of the treatment is: ”demoralizing and defeating the population … It is designed not only to punish but also to intimidate. It is intended to convey the message that resistance is fruitless in the face of these overwhelming control structures. Above all, it is designed to render the population passive: the Israeli army, secret service (the Shabak) and police will reach out and target anyone – including the weakest and most vulnerable sectors of Palestinian society” (Catherine Cook 23). DCI/PS, the organization behind the writing of Stolen Youth, attempt to demonstrate how the treatment of Palestinian children plays into what they view is Israel’s ultimate goal concerning the Occupied Territories, to “control the land, the economy, and the resources without assuming direct responsibility for the resident Palestinian population” (29). The authors argue that Israel is involved in using methods that are designed to “undermine the identity and self-confidence of the individual and the community” (23) methods also known as torture. Cathrine Cook, Adam Hanieh and Adah Kay, the writers of Stolen Youth were all staff members of Defense of Children International at some point between 1999 and 2003. This organization, also known as DCI, is an international organization that currently enjoys consultative status with groups such as the United Nations Economic and Social Council, UNICEF, UNESCO and the Council of Europe was created in 1979. In 1992, DCI/PS, PS the Palestinian branch of the DCI’s organization, was established, making it one of 45 national branches that make up DCI (Defence of Children International Palestine 1). As staff members, these writers’ colleagues were often former victims of the Palestinian/Israeli prison system. Those relationships, along with their involvement in research and outreach programs, have given them a level of knowledge not easily obtained. In writing this book, they were aided by Israeli organization such as Hamoked, Israeli Information Centre for Human Rights in the Occupied Territories and B’Tselem. At the time of publishing, DCI/PS was the only child rights organization working in the Occupied Palestinian Territories (Catherine Cook viii). Stolen Youth is divided into three sections, with each one focusing on a particular aspect of the imprisonment system that child prisoners are forced to go through in Palestine. In Part I, “Framework and Context” (chapters 1-4) opens with a brief history of children prisoners in Palestine, creating a framework to better understand the following chapters. This flows into Chapter 2, which deals with the system of control Israel has established over the Occupied Palestinian Territories since 1967. The authors go a step farther by dealing not only with the history of Israeli control, but also by delving into the possible reasons why Israel has established tools such as curfews and checkpoints, what they hope to gain from such measures and what impact all of this has on Palestinians. Chapter 3 narrows in on the Israeli military orders and court system that has been established in the Occupied Palestinian Territories (OPT), a system which the authors theorize is designed to give legitimacy to the occupation. The last chapter in this section deals primarily with International Humanitarian and Human Rights Law. Within this chapter a reader is informed of the legal rights to which every child is entitled. The writers set up Part II, “Arrest through Incarceration” so that readers can easily follow the pattern of abuse a child experiences from his arrest through his imprisonment. Chapter 5 is concerned with the first stage of a child’s imprisonment – the arrest and transfer to a detention or interrogation center. This chapter depicts children, some as young as 13, being blindfolded, bound and beaten, and finally taken to a location unknown to them or their families for reasons also often unknown (66). It draws on over a decade worth of testimony from former child prisoners to establish that the stories given are not random incidences but are, in fact, all part of a deliberately established system of abuse. Chapter 6 moves to the next stage of imprisonment which is that of interrogation and detention. In this chapter, we are given a firsthand look at the living conditions that children are placed in while waiting for their trial, as well as disturbing yet matter of fact testimonies of the treatment they received at the hand of Israeli soldiers. It is here we read about Huwwara Detention Center near the city of Nablus where six to nine children are forced to together in one room, not given soap, shampoo, clean water, or bathroom facilities and only enough food to feed two people (72). The last chapter in this section deals with the problems children face once placed in jail. This includes, but is not limited to, being put in adult facilities alongside adult criminals instead of other juveniles. There is also the difficulty they face in having access to a lawyer, as well as sentencing being determined more by the political climate at the time rather than the actual crime committed. The last four chapters of the book make up Part III, “Analysis and Conclusion”. In this section, the writers first try and bring all the information together by going over information from Chapter 4 regarding International Human Rights and Humanitarian law and taking a more pointed look at how these laws are being broken. The psychological impact of undergoing such treatment is also examined. However, what is most interesting are the last chapters, in which the writers examine how Israel is able to get away with this behavior in light of it being condemned by not only the United Nations, but also lawyers, both Israeli and foreign, and numerous government, relief and aid agencies . This book has a number of things going for it, first it is written by people who have experienced firsthand life in the Occupied Territories. The importance of this cannot be overly stressed. Relying on media feeds and personal relationships and interactions will only gain one so much insight into a situation. The real impact of life under occupation can only be understood and felt when one has experience it for oneself. The fact that the writers the use such stark language in the delivery of their information is another credit to them and this book. Often, books that cover divisive subject matter use inflammatory or proactive language to influence the reader. Stolen Youth does not employ such tactics. Instead it allows the reader to establish their own emotional reactions to events and policies depicted in the book, instead of relying on the writers to do it for them. The heart of the book, however, is found in its use of personal experiences. The facts and statistics are great for they establish credibility. If that was all this book had to offer, it would still be horrible to read about the plight of these children; yet, it would be rather easy to forget them once the book was finished. By letting us hear their voices as well as the voices of lawyers and aid workers, a sense of indignation is created that children, especially children in the developed world, are being allowed to be treated in such a manner. Along with the anger is devastation, a bit of your heart that is breaking as well. From my own experience, the authors of Stolen Youth have given an accurate depiction of life for Palestinians under Israeli Occupation. Having gone through check points, road blocks and an interrogation myself, I can confidently say that these are all tools designed by the Israeli government to instill fear, especially for Palestinians but also those who sympathize with their cause. When I was interrogated, I was terrified, yet rationally I have to ask myself, why was I afraid? I am not Palestinian; they could not just throw me in prison (I was not doing anything illegal) or harass my family. Yet there I stood, shaking as I answered question after question about my presence in the West Bank. As an American citizen, I was confident that these people could not hurt me, yet they still had power over me. They had the power to revoke my visa and force me to leave the country, baring me from entering for next ten years. This is something that I had seen them do under the guise of “security” with another westerner with whom I worked. We were both English teachers at the time. Works Cited Catherine Cook, Adam Hanieh, Adah Kay. Stolen Youth: The Politics of Israel's Detention of Palestinian Children. London: Pluto Press, 2004. Defence of Children International Palestine. n.d. 19 September 2011 .

Recently I wrote a book review over "Stolen Youth: The Politics of Israel's Detention of Palestinian Children" which will be posted in the coming days. However, the book was published in 2004, and I couldn't help but wonder about what has occurred during the past seven years.

Here is what I found:

Between 2004 and August 2011 Defense for Children International (DCI) have documented the death of approximately 836 children as a result of military and/or settlers presence in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. Their deaths have occurred in circumstances ranging from air and ground attacks, during assassination attempts, random gun fire, road closures, unexploded ordances and in clashes. Of these:

161 were eight or younger

137 were between nine and 12

263 were between 13 and 15

275 were between 16 and 18

Between 2008 and August 2011 (DCI) has recorded the presence of approximately 17,087 children in Israeli detention with roughly 1,600 being between the ages of 12-15.

Since 2004 DCI has recorded 17 instances where Palestinian children were used by Israeli soldiers as Human Shields. The youngest involved a nine year old child forced at gunpoint to search bags thought to contain explosives.

73 children have reported being either killed or injured by settler attacks. However, DCI is quick to note that these numbers do not begin to reflect the total number of instances involving children.

After reading all that you are probably wondering who Defense of Children International is and why you should believe them. Well, DCI is an international organization that currently enjoys consultative status with groups such as the United Nations Economic and Social Council, UNICEF, UNESCO and the Council of Europe. It was created in 1979. Then in 1992, DCI/PS, PS referring to the Palestinian branch of the DCI’s organization, was established, making it one of 45 national branches that make up DC.

All this information can be found on their website: Defense for Children International Palestine Section

Of what importance is this land to the Palestinians?

It is of great importance first and foremost because of the location of the Al-Aqsa mosque. This mosque is considered to be the third holiest site in Islam (preceded by Mecca and Medina) because it is believed from here Mohammad ascended to heaven during his “Night Journey" to recieve God's revelation.

The story of Mohammad “Night Journey” is as follows:

"The Night Journey started with the appearance of the Angel Gabriel (who had been bring the revelation of the Qurán). The angle led Muhammad to a white mule with wings attached to its thights. This mule had carried other prophets, including Abraham, and was the buraq or spirit horse. Muhammad got on and went high into the sky.

He arrived at Jerusalem where he met many prophets including Abraham, Moses and Jesus. Abraham looked like no one else, but also no one did not look like him. Moses was tall, tanned, slim and with a hooked nose and curly hair. Jesus was red skinned of medium height with straight hair and many moles on his face. He looked like he hadcome out of a bath. His hair looked wet although it was not wet. Muhammad was asked to lead them in prayer and did.

Three dishes were placed in front of Muhammad containing water, wine and milk. Muhammad said he knew of the prophecy that if he chose water the Muslim community would drown, if he chose wine they would leave the true path, and if he chose milk they would follw the true religion of the one God. He chose milk and drank from it. Gabriel confirmed the prophesy.

Then Muhammad lifted up the first gate of heaven guarded by an angel Ishmael who was in charge of 12000 more and each of those had 12000 of their own. All these 144,000,001 angels guarded the one gate. Ishmael asked Gabriel if Muhammad was the one sent to deliever God's message to humankind and Gabriel confirmed this, so Muhammad was let through with some prayers.

Muhammad passed through seven heavenly realms. In the First Sky he saw Adam being shown the souls of his descendents both good and bad. In the Second Sky he saw Jesus and John, son of Zachariah. In the Third Sky he saw the handsome Joseph, son of Jacob. In the Fourth Sky he saw Idris, the prophet from before the flood. In the Fifth Sky he saw Moses' older brother, Harun, with his long white beard. In the Sixth Sky Muhammad met a tall man with a hooked nose and Gabriel said it was Moses. In the Seventh Sky Muhammad saw an old man in a seat by the gate to Paradise where 70,000 angels pass through each day but do not return until Judgment where he spoke to God. Gabriel identified him as Abraham. Gabriel then took Muhammad into Paradise where he spoke to God.

God told him the importance of regular prayers. On the way back Moses asked how many prayers had been commanded and Muhammad said fifty a day. Moses told him to go back to God and get the number cut. God reduced the number to ten a day but Moses again said this was too many. Muhammad returned and they were reduced to five times a day. Moses said this was still too many, but Muhammad told Moses he would be too embarassed to return to God again. Muhammad returned to Makkah.

Muhammad described his journey to followers but many did not believe he had gone to Jerusalem in one night, seen the Seven Heavens and had spoken with God. Some who stopped believing went to Abu Bakr and Abu Bakr saw Muhammad, asking him to describe Jerusalem. He did so, and Abu Bakr declared all the details were accurate and so Muhammad must have been there" (Wordsfold)

This story establishes the second of the five pillars of Islam which is that of praying five times a day.

On an intersting side note, while Muslims today face towards Mecca when they pray, that was not always the case. In the beginning they faced towards Al-Aqsa.

Another reason that this land is important to the Palestinian people is simply that is has been home to them for centuries now. Though they have no biblical claim to it like the Jews they do have centuries worth of ties to the land, just as the Jews do.

The original plan was to follow up last week’s entry on “Why Israel is important to Jews” with a similar look as to Israel’s importance to Palestinians. However, with Palestine and their bid to become a recognized member of the United Nations in the news of late, I thought I would deviate from said plan and talk a bit more about these current events. The wonderful thing about being the author of one’s own blog, it allows one to write what one wants.

On September 21 Mahmoud Abbas, president of the Palestinian Authority, will go before the United Nations General Assembly seeking to become a recognized member of the UN. Will he succeed? No. There is no chance that his bid will be successful. For Palestine to be recognized before the UN as a member state, 9 out of the 15 countries that make up its Security Council must vote in favor of this resolution. In addition, to receiving these nine votes none of the nations who enjoy permanent status on the Security Council (USA, France, England, China, and Russia) may use their veto power against the resolution (NBC1). Considering the US’s relationship with Israel a veto on their part can all but be guaranteed. The best that Abbas can hope for is to granted “nonmember observer” status. This status can be achieved if Abbas takes his bid directly to the UN General Assembly and achieves a two thirds majority vote – 129 out of the 193 nations. Though this status would not allow Palestine a right to vote on resolutions put before the UN it would allow Palestine to take part in other aspects of the UN, such the UN Convention against Torture, the UN Convention against Corruption as well as bring countries before the International Criminal Court. This right would be especially appealing to Palestine for it would allow them bring charges against Israel for their continued abuse of international law i.e. settlements (NBC1).

So, why if there is no chance of gaining member status and only a small chance of achieving non-member observer status is Abbas going down this road? There are a number of theories. Some say it is to bring focus back to the plight of the Palestinian people. Others claim that the mass support shown (over 100 countries are said to vote their support) for the Palestinian cause will put pressure on Israel especially in light of the political changes going on in region. The Palestinian government argues however, that it is all part of the planned time frame set up by the EU, USA, Russia and the UN who wanted to have a two state solution in hand by September 2011 (BBC1).

I feel that while all these theories may be true to a point, the reason Abbs is seeking UN memberships is so that he can been seen as fighting for Palestine. Palestinians are tired and angry. It has been almost almost 20 years since the Oslo Accords and the peace talks since have changed nothing for them, at least not changed for the better. I think this is move on Abbas' part to help gain back some public good will as well as stave off another intifada.

Whatever the government's reason they are doing so at a great risk to themselves as the Isreali government has threatend "limiting travel privileges for Palestinian leaders seeking to exit the West Bank, halting the transfer of crucial tax revenues to the Palestinians and even annexing West Bank settlement blocs". The United States government has also had a hand in making threats in their case it was to "cut their annual aid to the Palestinian Authority, which runs to some $450m - more than 10 per cent of the PA's annual budget" (AlJazzera)

Work Cited

Palestinian UN Vote: What is it? Why Now? (NBC)

Q&A: Palestinian statehood bid at UN (BBC)

Background: Facts Behind the Bid

I am sorry for the delay of this post, internet has been an issue.

You may be wondering why I have decided to address this subject considering the subject I choose for my project is that of the Palestinian side of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. The reason for this is that many people know that the land that is called Israel is important to both side, however, many people do not know why.

And the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. And I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and him who curses you I will curse; and by you all the families of the earth shall bless themselves”

(Genesis 12; 1-3).

…

And the LORD said to Abram, after Lot had separated from him: “Lift your eyes now and look from the place where you are – northward, southward, eastward, and westward; for all the land which you see I give to you and descendants forever”

(Genesis 13: 14,15).

…

On the same day the LORD made a covenant with Abram, saying: “To your descendants I have given this land, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the River Euphrates – the Kenites, the Kenezzites, the Kadmonites, the Hittites, the Perizzites, the Rephaim, the Amorites, the Canaanites, the Girgashites, and the Jebusites.”

(Genesis 15;18)

…

With these words the promise of Israel was created.

The maps below illustrate the boundaries for said "Promise Land". The map on the left is a reflection of Genesis' purposed boundary lines where as the map to the right shows the lines according to Ezekial and Numbers.

Outside of God's promise to them, what makes Israel so important to Jews?

There are numerous reasons as to why Israel is of such importance to the Jewish people. Culturally, religiously and historically it has stood on and off as their center for centuries. However, for the sake of time I will focus predominantly on two of the religious reasons.

The first reason is that of the Temple Mount. The Temple Mount is considered to be the holiest of sites in Judaism. It was to this place that King David brought the Ark of the Covenant, also known as, the 10 Commandments after he unified the 12 tribes of Israel and created Jerusalem as their capital. However, due to God’s decree, an actual temple was not built on the grounds until sometime during the 10th century during the reign of David’s son, King Solomon. The temple was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar II of Babylon between 587 and 86 BC. After their Babylonian Exile at the hand of Nebuchadnezzar II Jews were allowed to return to Jerusalem and rebuild their temple. In 515 BC the temple was rebuilt and quickly resumed its place as the

religious and economic center of Judaism. However, the following centuries were not kind to the Jewish people or their temple. At the hand of various foreign leaders Jews experienced persecution and hardship and their temple was often looted and/or desecrated. Things began to change under King Herod the Great who decided in 20 BC to once again rebuild the temple. With Herod’s help the temple underwent major renovations and was completed in 26CE. This second temple lasted until 70 CE when the Romans destroyed it, leaving only the Western Wall remaining. This Western Wall, as known as the Wailing Wall, continues to be important to the Jewish faith and tradition and is the site of many Jewish pilgrimages.

But what makes the Temple Mount so holy for the Jews?

The reason why the Temple Mount is the holiest site in Judaism is because of the religious deeds that are said to have taken place there. These include:

• Site where God is thought to live

• Where the World is said to have begun

• Where God collected the dust used to create Adam

• Where Abraham bound Isaac to be sacrificed

It is the desire of Jews to see a third temple built where the previous two once stood. It is an event that is prayed for on a regular if not daily basis. Within Judaism however much contention on how this third temple should come about. For example Orthodox Jews believe that the Messiah will come and build the temple himself and that it is wrong for the people to start before him. Others believe that the Messiah can only come once the temple has been rebuilt.

Judaism is more than just a set of beliefs it is also about following a set of rules that dictate how one should conduct themselves in life. For example, many gentiles (non-Jews) have heard of the term Kosher. We know that some Jews keep Kosher while others do not. All the word kosher is telling us is that the food being eaten is prepared in such a way that it follows the Jewish Laws and is thus able to be eaten by observing Jews This might include the way in which the animal being eaten was slaughtered to not allowing meat and dairy products to be

cooked together. The second religious reason why Israel is of so much importance in Judaism is because there are parts of Jewish law that can only be practiced in Israel.

There are 613 Jewish Laws or rules set to guide Jews through life, of those 26 of them can only apply when in Israel. These laws are predominantly agriculture in nature such as bringing an offering from the first harvest. However, there are civil and military laws as well.

While it might seem trivial, these laws, but believers feel that by following them it brings them closer to God.

Consulted websites:

theisraelconnection.blogspot.com

http://www.religionfacts.com/judaism/history.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Promised_Land

www.biblegateway.com

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/second_temple

http://www.jeremyrosen.com/node/34

www.jewfaq.org

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_Mount

For my first post since changing the original focus of my blog, I thought I might take the opportunity to explain a bit more why Palestine and what is happening to its people are so important to me and in the process hopefully address some of the question my classmates raised when I first announced I would be working on this topic.

When the second Intifada began in 2000 I was 18 living in a small town in rural Indiana. Though I thought myself worldly, in reality, my exposure to the world was extremely limited. Then I went to college and the world opened up and like everyone else I was suddenly confronted with how little I actually knew. As a Peace Studies major I was constantly forced to examine the world and the role I played in it and would play in the future. I had heard of Israel and Palestine. I knew there was a conflict going on there, but I hadn’t yet put any real relevancy to it.

That began to change my second year of college when my circle of friends began to widen and among that growing circle I soon was able to count several Palestinian students. Though these students and I never became extremely close knowing them influenced me a great deal. Even ten years later I can still remember an incident involving one of the girls:

Anyone who has spent any time in Indiana knows that we have some amazing and at time terrifying thunderstorms. There was one Palestinian girl was scared to sleep in her room by herself (her roomate had gone somewhere) because the thunder reminded her of the bombs that the Israelis dropped or the sound bombs they would use.

I was stunned when I heard this. To rationally know you are okay and safe yet still so fearful was unimaginable to me. What did I have to be scared about? Not passing a class, being able to pay for college, the health of my mother, all of which were extremely serious to me but not in a life or death way. My desire to understand what life back home for my new found friends grew.

From the stories told by classmates and books I had read, I knew the media wasn’t telling the whole story about what was going on in the region. I wanted to go there and see it for myself. My experiences in Africa showed me that the media had a way of creating an imagine that they wanted the public to buy into even if that imagine was incomplete or even false. I wanted to understand the situation for myself and see if what the truth really was.

In 2009, I made my desire a reality. I spent three months living in the West Bank teaching English in the city of Nablus. It was hands down one of the best experiences of my life. I was constantly astounded by the grace in which the people there lived their life inspite of the restrictions they lived under. Also, their willingness to give even when having nothing to give would shame even the most giving of person. These people are reason why I chose to cover the Palestinian side of this conflict to focus on. Their story is not being told. I know and have even experienced firsthand that the media is not getting it right and that people do not know all the information.

Here I am to the left with several of my students at the girl's school in Balata Refugee Camp

On that note, I want to say, that I am fully aware that Palestinians are not without their share of blame. I do not look at their side of the situation through rose colored glasses. However, with greater understanding of their struggle and suffering comes, in my opinion, a greater understanding of their actions. This is not a justification, I am only saying with knowledge comes empathy.

I did consider other topics; mostly centered around social justice issues such as non-violent resistant movements in history. But this is where my passion is. That being said, I am not an expert. People far more knowledgeable than I have spent years studying or writing books over the topics I plan to write brief articles about. My goal is to simply share with readers information that they might not be aware of and maybe motivate them to take some sort of action.

Dear Family and Friends,

Over the last several years you have read my blog as a way of keeping up with my comings and going. I thank you for that. However, over the next 12 weeks you will see that my blog is going in a new direction. I am currently enrolled in a course at Indiana University East entitled "Individual Study of Writing". The class is set up so that each student picks a topic of interest and then focuses all of their course work on this one topic for the duration of the semester. Part of this course work includes keeping a weekly blog.

For my topic, I have chosen to concentrate on the conflict in the Middle East between Palestinians and Israelis. More to the point, I plan to focus on life for Palestinians under occupation. Postings will cover such topics as the Separation Wall between Israel and the West Bank, Checkpoints, Settlers, and Water Control.

Please note that the change in subject matter is only temporary, however, I will understand if you no long wish to read my postings for the duration of this assignment.

Until next time...

Jenn

When I was looking for a nanny position I wanted one where I lived with the family. This is due mostly to my desire not to have to look/pay for accomidations. I also felt that by leaving each day I would miss out on the bonding that would make this oportunity more of an experience and less like just a job. Little did I know how much my sanity would come from where I spent my nights.

When I contacted Jenny about the nanny position at Oakey Creek she told me that there was a cottage on the property that I would be able to use. Now cottage can mean a lot of different things. Was she trying to make a one room shack with some running water seem quaint or was I in for a nice but rustic place to stay.

In the end neither thoughts were true. My cottage is simply a small house a few meters from the main house were the family lives. When Jenny and Richard were first married they lived in the house.

This is general shot of my place. It's fenced in which is nice because it helps keep out the animals though it does happen from time to time that I'll step outside and came face to face with Alex, the cow.

There are two doors, the one commonly used is around back.

My front porch area. You can see the lovely chalk drawing one of the kids made for me still on the cement. You come in through the front door of the patio and you enter my kitchen. Since I eat all my meals at the other house with the family I've never done any cooking here. In all actuality I'm rather afraid to open the cupboard doors, lord only knows what might pop out at me. Walking straight through the kitchen you'll come into the living room area. As you can see I have a couch and a tv. I don't use this room much. I'll turn the tv on in the morning to listen to the news while I'm getting ready but that's about it.

There are two bedrooms off of the living room area, this one's mine. Siobhan was in the other one when I arrived so naturally I took this one. I'm told the bed is better in the other room and could have changed once Siobhan had left but I like having the airconditioner in mine. And lastly here's the bathroom. It's nothing fancy but rather niced sized for just me. The shower is the size of a closet but it works so really no complaints here.

So this is where I live, though honestly I don't really spend a whole lot of time here. It's a good place, my only complaint is the mice who chew my underwear and the ants that infest my toilet paper. I'm glad to have my own space to go to at the end of the day. As someone who has always enjoyed their alone time I find that it is necessary for me to get away, even if it is just to sleep.

I had only just arrived on the scene and was trying to get a feel for things when the family announced that we were going to their vacation house on Stanage Bay. They had tried to make the trip several weeks earlier but due to the rainy weather they couldn't. When I say couldn't, I don't mean that they didn't want to waste their vacation on bad weather, but I mean physically they could not get their cars down the road. The area had been receiving so much rain over the previous months that the road couldn't hold the weight of heavy vehicles. The area near Stanage requires several creek crossings as well which again due to the heavy rain fall made crossing impossible at times. I think Richard got a call from his friends saying that there was a window of opportunity for the family to come down if they wanted to It wasn't as easy as just getting in the car and leaving either. This picture was taken from the back of the pick up truck we took the first 3 miles down the road (still on Oakey Creek property mind you). At this point we had to get on four wheelers and go a couple miles to where the SUV we were taking was parked. This apparently is someone's mailbox. Gave me a good chuckle. The ride to Stange should only take 7-8 hours but again due to the rain the trip wasn't as straight forward as that. Instead it took us 11-12 hours. Now close your eyes and picture an SUV containing three cars seats (children included), a ten year old, two nannies, two parents and a dog. Did the word hell flash in your mind? If not, you're a stronger person than I am. I imagine the trip could have been worse, car sickness could have played a part. Instead it was the usual tantrums, name calling and tears that I've since gotten use to. Upon our arrival at Stanage Jenn said something along the lines of that wasn't so bad in reference to the car ride. I thought to myself whose car was she in. But in all reality I imagine it really could have been worse. It was a hellishly long ride for everyone involved. Richard with Fang the family dog. I know I know a chiwawa how annoying that's what I thought anyway when I first saw him. However, this is one cool dog. Somewhere along the line Bridie either got into mom's makeup or mom (Jenn) just gave it to her to shut her up. This was the end result. Stanage Bay is located right on the coast and is one of the few coastal areas that swimmer don't have to worry about box jelly fish. There are only 50 some year round residents. Most people are like Jenn and Richard; they only come up for their vacations. This is part of the reason why no one heard from me for so long. There is no internet, not even wireless, in Stanage. There is only one buisness and it's the gas station, post office, mini mart and bar all in one. Here are a couple photos of the beach were we went swimming every morning. . One of Richard's friends is a man named John Maxell whom I came to find out was a four time Olympic gold (I think) medalist. Anyway, Jenn gave Siobhan and myself one day off to go fishing with John on his boat. Now, anyone who knows me knows that fishing really isn't my thing. Well, let me just say when you got a set up as nice as John's fishing isn't so bad. I actually had a really good time. Had I not caught anything I might not have the same found memories but oh well. Me with my first catch! I was the first one to catch a fish that day. The bait we used. I baited my own hook, however had the bait been alive I might not have been able to do so. Siobhan taking a break from the fishing. The last picture is a random picture of a wild turkey we came across one day on the way to the beach. Fang forgetting he is a small dog barked and chased after this animal until it turned around and started running toward Fang screeching. This sent Fang running like nothing else and gave me a good laugh in the process.

I mentioned in previous posts I arrived in Australia January 2. Well, not being one to waste time or in this case money, I arranged to start my job as a nanny on the 3. I flew from Brisbane, which is on the coast, to Emerald unbenost to me at the time the current nanny and the nanny for the neighboring property were on the flight as well. Emerald, being just a regional airport is the size of a postage stamp. I wouldn't be suprised if the South Bend and Ft. Wayne airports are bigger. Anyway, I go inside to get my luggage and hopefully find someone waiting to pick me up only to find that none of the faces I see look at all like ones in the pictures sent to me. Thankfully I found my luggage right away (one of the nannies wasn't so lucky, her luggage was left in Brisbane) and was able to stand back and watch as people came and went. Some how, maybe I have nanny imprited on my forehead, decided I must be the new nanny replacing her and approached me to find out. Siobhan had been with the Woolcocks for two months and would be with them through January. I can't begin to explain how thrilled I was to learn this. Having never done work like this before I looked on any help or inside knowledge as being worth its weight in gold. It wasn't long after that Richard (the dad) showed up and we were on our way home to Oakey Creek (the name of their property/station). The rest of that day is a blur of Richard making some stops in town and what felt like a never ending ride from the airport to their house.

The next day I jumped right into the fire and began my job. The school year runs all year long in Australia. The new term starts in January and they have two weeks off every ten weeks or so. Since I arrived just after New Years the kids were still on holiday and thus all four of them were home all time. Talk about overwhelming. On my first day Siobhan organized a trip/lunch at the creek. There is a creek that goes through the property (obviously, it is called Oakey Creek) and at one part not too far from the house it is shallow enough for the kids to play in. With sandwhiches made, water bottles packed, sunscreen applied and floated inflated you would have thought we were making a trip to some distant land instead of just going down the road a few yards. I quickly learned there is no such thing as packing light in this family. And so the day was spent in the water which considering how hot it was was not a bad way to go.

This is Siobhan and the youngest two Bridie and Bella on the way to the creek.

This is Hastings, lord only knows what he was up to when I took this picuture.

Siobhan again with Bridie and Fang the family dog. This dog is treated better than most people.

ME! Bridie and Fang on the Beach. Bridie nearly drowned a year ago and the family has been working on getting her over her resulting fear of water.

Bella floating down the creek.

Ally trying on my sunglasses.

I rang 2011 in as a Qantas Airlines hostage. Following my 8 hour layover in LA I boarded the flight that would bring me to Brisbane, Australia. For 13 hours I was held captive left with only narrow a narrow pathway inwhich to walk and a small closet like room where the bathroom was. I was fed and given a snack (in a cool backpackish type bag) and allowed to watch all the movies I want. But there was no champagne or any other treats to help us celebrate 2011. Only the captain leading us in a countdown over the pa.

All in all it wasn't too bad of a flight. I was expecting to be figity and uncomfortable and basically miserable much like I am when I fly anywhere over a couple hours. However, the flight left at around 11pm which was pretty perfect because I was sleepy enough to be able to get some dozing done from time to time. I would have liked to have had a window seat since they are easier to sleep in, however no such luck. I was on the outside, which is much more perferable than the middle so no complaints. I ended up sitting next to a mother and her son who, I found out at the end of the flight, was an American married to an Aussie. She and her son had gone back to the US to visit her family in Pacific Northwest for the holidays.

Though I left the US on December 31 I didn't arrive in Australia until the second of January. My flight got in around 8am but due to customs and luggage and whatnot I don't think I actually got out of the airport until 9. Australia by all apperances has some of the strictest regulations about what is and is not allowed in the country. The only other place that has been near this bad was Israel and mostly they just wanted to keep the people in or out not their property.

Due to the long travel day (about 23 hours in total) I decided to splurge on myself. Instead of trying to save myself some money, I booked myself into a hostel that would pick me up from the airport. This decision put me in the Manly Backpackers Hostle in the Brisbane suburb of Manly (obviously). Manly is less than 10 miles from the center of Brisbane but might as well be 100 for Manly has a decidedly small town feel. Located right on the water and with a population of under 4000 people it was a beautiful place to relax and regroup after traveling for so long. The picture below is of the outside. The hostel also runs a bar and resturant located in the upper area where the railing is. I had some fish and chips there for lunch when I arrived and spent about an hour just sitting up there. It was a warm sunny day but up there I could feel the most wonderful breeze.

Wanting to get on Australian time as quickly and easily as possible (it's a 15 hr difference between home and here) I decided not to take a nap or anything but instead just spend the day awake and groggy as hell. Though Manly is beautiful there isn't a whole lot to do, well at least not at the time I arrived. I called Sean, a traveler that Patrick and I met on our Middle East adventure to see of he wanted to meet up for a drink. Sean, originally from Tasmania, had recently moved to Brisbane. My first day in Australia was spent with good conversation and good weather. Can't get much better than that.

Some pictures of Manly:

A couple random observations before I go. One I have no idea what kind of bird that is in the picture above but I thought he was cool looking. There were several of them in park area I walked pass and I thought I'd show you guys back home. I've been trying to take pictures of animals and plants that I've never seen before. Second, Manly/Brisbane or maybe Australia in general is a very outdoors/fitness centered place. There is a walking/bike lane the entire length of the city along the water. However more importantly people use it. I saw many many people from little kids to very old adults walking, running or peddling along this path. It was great to see such an active community. I wish we had more things like this in America.

So on December 28 I once again found myself leaving my friends and family for the great unknown of freedom and adventure or to be more accurate to be a nanny in Australian bush. Many of you may or may not know that though I travel a bit I always panic when it comes time to start a new adventure. The first summer I went to work at summer camp in MA I about had a panic attack on the way to the airport, the day I said good bye to my family for Benin I cried on my Grammy's lap, lol. I guess it's a sign that I'm growing up and have more confidence in myself that this time around there was none of that. Yes, I was sad to leave my family and a bit worried about what might happen to them while I was gone. However, overall I was ready to strike out on my latest undertaking.

I didn't want to suffer a 20 some hour plane ride from Chicago to Brisbane, so instead I decided to break up the trip a bit as well as have some fun along the way. When Patrick and I did our Middle East adventure we traveled with some really cool people, one of which was a girl named Lu. Lu was from San Francisco and traveling with her cousin Xenia. California, as you can imagine, is the US gateway to Australia with most of the flights going out of LA. With this in mind I decided to spend two days in SF with Lu on my way to Brisbane.

Here is a Lu and I waiting to go on one of the SF trolleys.

Two days was not near enough time to spend in San Francisco. Day one was spent with Lu and her cousin Amy and Amy's boyfriend Pierre. Lu, a Berkley graduate, had us go up and tour the campus for the day. This worked out great because Weihow, my Peace Corps post-mate lives in Berkley now and we were able to meet up and hang out together.

Random shot of Berkeley campus.

Lu and I on campusJust moments before taking this picture, that furry squirrel was climbing up Pierre's pant leg. Talk about domesticated. For lunch we went to the Chinese Ghetto which is basically a courtyard like area that has about 10 Asian restaurants. Pierre and I had to go to the bathroom. There is one bathroom in this area that all the restaurants share. You have to get a key for this grated door and walk down a bit of a corridor, which I took a picture of. Looks all nice and clean doesn't it, especially considering how many people share this area. The smell is enough to knock you on your butt.After lunch and a walk around town we stopped for some gelato. Yum! Best part is that they allow you to test as many flavors as you want. Who needs to buy anything, lol. I think I ended up getting a scoop of pistachio and one of cranberry. It was time for Weihow and I to part ways. :(Day two started off meeting some of Lu's old work colleagues. We met for dim sum, which is kinda like Chinese finger foods. Very yummy. After wards we went to this park area where I was able to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Having an interest in the 1960's since high school I remembered that Haight/Ashbury street was a mecca at one time for hippies. Lu and I made our way over to this part of town mostly because I was interested in what it had become of it since the days of flower power. Random street. Can't go to SF and not ride a trolley.

Ghirardeli is chocolate that you most likely have seen in your grocery store. In SF it is also a restaurant that makes among other things hot fudge sundaes. Lu and and I swung in and split a sundae on our way out of the city. It was fantastic but so rich that we couldn't finish it all. Kind of a shame too considering the amount of time we waited for it. Never have I been in a restaurant that is so packed with people and running on sheer chaos.

To All My Friends and Family,

Merry Christmas, Seasons Greetings, Happy Holidays

As many of you know, I am currently living in the city of Nablus, which is located in the West Bank or Palestine. I am volunteering with an organization called Project Hope as an English teacher. Though I am sad not to be with all of you during this holiday season, I cannot begin to express to you how happy and fulfilled I am with my current project. Since the moment of my arrival I have been made to feel welcome, as if just my presence here is a gift that they couldn't wait to receive. Friends, colleagues and strangers alike have invited me into their lives through their shy smiles, kind words, helpful advice and never ending cups of tea. Every day I am humbled a little more as I witness the grace, dignity and integrity that these people show as they meet the difficulties they face in their every day lives. I am continually being motivated to try a little harder, be a little better and give a little more. I am proud to be tied to such an organization as Project Hope; an organization that works to create a positive change in their community by empowering their youth and giving them a creative outlet to help deal with living in an area constantly in conflict.

Unfortunately, like everything else in life, changing a community, changing someone’s life comes with a price tag, which is why I am sending you this today. Project Hope runs on a tight budget made of up international aid, private donations, and contributions made by us volunteers. To keep their doors open and to try to meet the ever-increasing demands of their community, Project Hope is forever searching for additional funding.

Children deserve to be able to grow up in a secure environment with hope for the future, not in fear and desolation. Yet, too often, the later is the reality for the children and young adults of Palestine. The cycle of violence that they are a part of has no chance of breaking, unless someone steps in and offers an alternative. That is what we are doing here. In helping to give them a sense of hope for the future, we are helping to break this never-ending cycle of violence. These children and young adults are the future leaders of Palestine and we can help determine just what kind of leaders they will be.

I am giving what I can to this cause that I so deeply believe in and I am asking that, if at all possible, you join me in giving. Help us give these young people a brighter future.

Before you make your decision, I hope that you will check out the Project Hope website and see for yourself the wonderful work in which we are involved. Any contribution you can give will make difference, as you will see on the website.

If after reading through the Project Hope website you decide that you would like to support this organization, I request that you contact me at jennmorgan82@gmail.com and I will inform you on the best way to make your donation. I also ask that you pass this letter on to anyone who believes that empowering the youth of today is the best way for safer, more peaceful tomorrow.

If you are unable to donate at this time, I understand. All I ask is that you keep this letter on hand so that in the future, if you have the means to donate you will not forget about us.

I would like to say once again, Happy Holidays; I miss you all so very much. I also want to thank you for taking the time to read this letter and I look forward to seeing you all when I come home in February. Also, in case you forgot check out "Ramblings from a Small Town Girl"

Love,

Jenn

PS I have attached a picture of myself with some of my students. I teach four classes a day of university age students and two classes to teenage girls who live in two of the near by refugee camps.

So now that I've shared with you all the challenges of getting to Nazareth here's a bit of what I did once I got there. Our first stop was the the Basilica of the Annunciation. This church was built on the site many Christians believe to be where the archangel Gabriel come to Mary and told her that she would carry the Christ child. This is hardly the prettiest church in the West Bank, but it is the largest.

Jesus of Nazareth.

We are all familiar with this man and what he did, but Nazareth, besides being an 80's rock band, what/where is it? According to the Gospel of Luke, Nazareth was the city where Joseph and Mary were living when the Angel Gabriel came and told them that she would have the Christ child. However, in the Gospel of Matthew Nazareth is where Mary and Joseph resettle after leaving their home in Bethlehem and running away to Egypt. And today, some modern day scholars debate its existence at all during the period of Jesus' life. What ever you personal beliefs may be, there is no denying the religious draw to this city. Pilgrims come year around to visit the more than 23 churches and monasteries this city holds.

Nazareth today is the largest city in the northern region of Israel, with a population of 65,000 people. The majority of them being Arab Israeli, with 31% of them being Christian and 69% percent being Muslim. For the most part these two religious groups get along, however, over the years their have been flare up in tension between them.

I knew I wanted to go to Nazareth while I was here. I mean I couldn't be this close and not go, that would be silly. So over the week of Thanksgiving myself and a couple fellow volunteers set out to do a day trip Nazareth. Nablus is 45 miles south of Nazareth, so in all reality it should only take someone an hour to get there. However, traveling in the West Bank is never that simple or straight forward. We knew we had to make it back to Nablus that same day so we decided to set out early because with the road block and check points you are never sure when you'll make it to your destination or if you will at all. So first we took a taxi to the city of Jenin which is halfway between us and Nazareth and very close to the Israeli/West Bank border. Once in Jenin we looked for a taxi to take us to Nazareth. We were unable to do so because as we found out taxi's are not allowed to cross the border. So instead we took a taxi to the boarder/check point where he dropped us. And thus began one of the most terrifying experiences I've had thus far.

The Israeli checkpoints look similar to prisons. The one pictured to the right isn't of the actual one I am talking about but of a different on that looks similar. They are built to control/monitor/prevent the movement of Palestinian people. There are more than 80 in the West Bank alone. Approaching the structure another volunteer and I decide to take some pictures. It is such a scary and horrible thing to see that we wanted to be able to show others so that they could get an idea of what is going on here. There are no signs that say you can't take pictures. There was a sign that showed a big gun and an x through but nothing about cameras. My friend took a picture without a problem. I tried but was having problems with my camera so no picture was actually taken. To enter this checkpoint, one by one you go through two metal revolving door type thing which ultimately leads you to this room where another a woman was sitting on another side of a wall from us. We couldn't get close to her window but had to stand several feet away as she shouted in her microphone for us to show her our passports. Familiar with the routine we all had our passports ready to present. The woman asked me about the picture I had taken. For some reason they had seen me, but not my friend. I was honest with her when she asked me about it. I said that I hadn't seen anything like this before and found it interesting and wanted to take a picture of it. And since there was no sign saying I couldn't I did. She yelled at me and said that there was in fact a sign. I told her I had seen the sign that said no guns but nothing about a camera and that I was sorry. Had I seen the no camera sign I wouldn't have taken the picture. She let us pass through another turn table kinda thing that she controlled. This led us into a room where you put your stuff to go through an x-ray machine to be scanned and a metal detector for us. We all went through no problems. However, they did make me, after my bag had already gone through, take my camera out and send it back through separately. At this point I became separated from my friends. After I collected all my stuff from being scanned I was led into another room by myself. This room had no window and two doors, the one I came in through and one in front of me. I tried to open the door in front of me but it was locked. I started to become nervous about what to do. Finally someone over the loud speaker yelled for me to go, followed by a loud buzz that indicated that the door was now unlocked. In the next room another loud voice told me to go and put my things in the next room and to come right back out. So in this room I went and left my bag and jacket. In the room I saw my friends stuff on the floor as well. Leaving that room I was led into another room where my friends were waiting. In this room we stood for probably 10-15 minutes waiting as I assume the soldiers went through our belongings.

I want to add that when I say I was led to this room or that, I wasn't actually led by some person. There is virtually no human interaction during this. The only time you hear someone is through a loud voice shouting at you over an intercom speaker or you see someone on the other side of the wall of which you are standing. You are led by the fact that they put you in a room and your only option when leaving is going to the one door that will become unlocked with the soldiers say so. It is much like cattle being led though the slaughter house.

We are told we can collect our stuff and went to leave but there was one more person to go through before we could make it to the other side. We give our passports to this woman in a toll booth looking room and we wait. She gives our passports to these men, nothing unusual. Next thing I know someone is asking, which one of you is the American. Being the only American it had to be me. So I was pulled away from others and was questioned for like 20 minutes. I kept telling myself what's the worst they can do to me. They can't physically hurt me like they can a Palestinian. But they can kick me out of the country. They can question me for as long as they want. And they can ban me from coming back into Israel for 5 years. I can't remember all the questions they asked, where are you coming from, how long have you been here, where did you spend the night, where did you come in this country, the questions went on and on. They even asked to look through all the pictures on my camera. I said of course but I wonder what would have happened had I said no. You could justify all the questions as necessary for security reasons however considering they x-ray all our stuff and then someone takes it into another room and goes through it again they know that we don't have anything on us. We are going to a holy city and there is nothing on us or about us that says that we are threat, except because we are coming from Palestine they can treat us this way.

So after 20 minutes of questions they let me go and called over my two friends, who were then questioned together and for not as long as myself. I wonder why I received the special treatment. So anyway, after the released my friends they took our passports for awhile and we were forced to just sit and wait. Finally someone came and gave them back to us and allowed up to pass through the checkpoint so that we could find a taxi to take us to Nazareth. In total we were at the checkpoint for close to an hour. The experience scared the crap out of me. My hands were shaking so bad during the questioning and even after wards. It was partly our own fault for not preparing for such a thing. A lot of us have had to be questioned at one point or another and we should have been more prepared for it. But it was my first time through it so I think that's why it was particularly nerve wracking. In some ways I'm glad it happened to me though because I've heard so much about how hard it is for Palestinians to move around, the terror and humiliation that they IDF put them through. These checkpoints make life here difficult if not impossible for them and now getting a bit of a taste of what they have to go through on a daily basis was probably a good thing.

Freedom. I was so happy to be on the other side of that checkpoint. Once on the other side we weren't really sure on how to continue on to Nazareth. There weren't any taxis outside waiting so we looked around for someone to ask. Thankfully was spotted someone who looked like they were waiting too and he informed us that were was a taxi waiting for more people to arrive before it left. With us there now we could all leave.

So I've been thinking about this blog post for well over a week, ever since I went to the town of Ni'lin to witness/participate in their weekly demonstration against the wall Israel is building which is cutting through their land. The demonstrations are a symptom of a much larger cause which is this wall that Israel is building. You can't talk about one without the other yet the issue of the wall is so large that it would require a blog post all it's own. And so I have felt leery about writing about what I was up to at all because I knew that to simply discuss what I had done would not be enough. I felt like you needed to know not only what I was doing there, but why others were there. It's a daunting overwhelming task that I guess I will just try and dive into.

Ni'lin is a city in the West Bank about two hours south west from where I am living. Situated only a few kilometers away from the internationally recognized Green Line, Ni'lin has systematically lost more and more land to Israel and its ever expanding settlements. In total roughly 491 acres, 13% of their land, has been taken away from the Palestinian residents of Ni'lin for Israeli settlements since 1967, without receiving any form of compensation for their loss of property.

Then in 2002 Israel began construction on the separation barrier between itself and the West Bank, which is considered illegal by the United Nations and the International Court of Justice. In 2007/2008 construction on the segment of barrier near Ni'lin began. Once/if finished this wall will take away an additional 625 acres, roughly 20% percent of their land.

Doesn't seem fair does it? The people of Ni'lin don't seem to think so which is why they have organized themselves into doing weekly demonstrations against Israel's actions. Every Friday between 50-150+ people (Palestinians, Israelis, Internationals) come together to tell/show Israel what they are doing is not okay and they will fight for what is theirs.

Upon hearing about what was going on here, both by Israel and Palestinians I decided that I wanted to see for myself what was what. Friday morning, myself along with four other volunteers headed out to Ni'lin. Because there were five of us in total we forced ourselves to squish into one taxi. It was totally Benin all over again. Four anyone who has done PC Benin, you know that four people in the back seat is totally doable, yet with three others who don't know what it means to pousser it can be a challenge. The taxi we hired to take us stopped about half way and put us in another taxi. He said it was because the other taxi was bigger but we think it was more likely he didn't want to take us all the way over there, but change taxis we did and after a rather uncomfortable trip we arrived in our destination.

The taxi let us off at the outskirts of Ni'lin leaving us to walk through the town to where we were all to gather. The streets were lined with paintings of the Palestinian flag and Arabic writing. Asking a fellow volunteer what some of the writing said, I wish I could remember the translation she gave me, but basically it was something along the lines of they will continue to resist, they will continue to struggle against what they consider the unfair occupation of their land. As I write this I don't want to give the impression that this was done in a threatening or violent way. It wasn't, I feel, written as a threat but more as encouragement for each other.

Prior to the demonstration we all gathered so that we could walk in an organized procession towards the wall. Which is where I will leave off and let my pictures do the talking.

Before the demonstration protesters come together to listen to a speaker and pray.

This video is of the beginning of the procession from where we gathered to walking to where the wall is being built.

This is a snap shot of the opening procession.

The procession ended at where the wall is being built.

This is where we walked to. From this angle all you can see is the chain link fence and not the wall that has already been built.

These are a few of who were waiting for us on the other side of the road.

This is left over tear gas canister from one of the previous demonstrations. They litter the ground here. Unfortunately, tear gas is not the only ammunition soldiers have been known to use on the demonstrators. Besides tear gas, soldiers have used rubber bullets, metal bullets covered in rubber and live ammunition. It would be easy for me to leave out that the there was a group of Palestinian youth throwing stones across the road at the soldiers. But I want to try and be as far and honest in what I share with all of you as possible. So yes, kids were chucking some rocks, nothing more. I would be greatly surprised if any of those rocks actually hit anyone. It never appeared to happen, but it is a possibility. So for the first hour or so of the demonstration nothing happened really. After we marched down to the fence and the people made their speech we all just kind of stood around. Well at least that's what it felt like to me, but I was kind of in the back. People closer to the front I am sure were saying things and there were the kids throwing stones. And then the tear gas started. It wasn't constant. It was more like a few here, a few there and then they'd pause for a bit and then just pummel the area with them. The tear gas was a horrible experience but what was more dangers was the fact that the ground was uneven and completely covered with loose uneven rocks so when you run away from the tear gas there is a very good chance you are going to hurt yourself, especially when you can't see due to the gas.

Some random photos from that day:

Upon leaving, someone left one of their signs on the wall itself.

This kid just seemed to be chillin'.

I thought this post was beautiful so I took a picture of it. I asked one of the other volunteers if she recognized it. She said no, but that the writing on it was about national independence.

The houses in the background belong to one of the settlements circling Ni'lin

A guy with a really large flag.

The flag kept making appearances in different areas of the field we were demonstrating in.

At the end of the demonstration a rainbow appeared in the sky. It's kinda light in this picture, but it's there. Maybe a sign of hope?

The area around Ni'lin is beautiful.

I hate to say it but the two years I lived in Benin I only found a handful of men who were nice because they were nice people and not nice because they wanted something. It never seemed to fail that I would think I had found a new friend and then suddenly they were in love with me and not only that but convenently enough they loved America as well and wouldn't it be wonderful if they went back there with me. If I had accepted every marriage proposal I received while I was there I would probably have over 1000 husbands by now. I would like to say that this didn't change my attitude towards people, that I was able to keep a fresh and open attitude during my entire two years. But after awhile I couldn't help but become cautious and suspicious. You get bitten enough times you should learn your lesson, right? I mean isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing repeatedly but expecting different results. It would have been insanity for me to keep putting myself out there for the local men without the slightest bit of reservation about them.

Unfortunately, this is the frame of mind I have come to Palestine with. I want to make friends with everyone I meet but I know that this is a complicated issue for a number of reasons. One of which being Palestine, like my village in Benin, is a Muslim country so it is difficult for men and women to be friends. Things are thought of you if you are seen alone in the company of a man or a group of men. It is something that can't be helped. But as I said earlier my own frame of mind now regarding men colors any given situation as well. Which is how I found myself in an uncomfortable situation yesterday and today.

Sunday through Wednesday I have three classes a day, 12-1, 2-3, 5:30 -6:30 and it was at the end of my second class that three of my students hung back. I didn't really think much of it at the time. As I was leaving the room they approached me and basically started going on about how good of teach I was and that they really appreciated me teaching them English. Then they asked what could they give me to show their appreciation for my teaching them. I didn't want them giving me anything I said. But they kept on so I said if they wanted to do something for me they could just show up to class every day, that would make me happy. They didn't really like that response. I was a little panicked by this. Was this appropriate? These students are young men, university students. The same rules don't apply for them that apply for say women and/or children. And in Benin you could never accept a gift from a man like this either because to do so would indicate that you are interested in them as well. I didn't want to give these guys the wrong impression but I also didn't understand what this gift would signify.

Then today at the end of the class the same students hung back again and I thought to myself "oh shit, I'm going to really have to deal with this now". They presented me with two gifts, one a bracelet made in the colors of the Palestinian flag and the other was a strand of prayer beads. Very nice, but again I panicked and told them they should give them to their mothers. But they kept on so eventually I gave in and accepted them because I also didn't want to be rude. But what was I saying by taking their gifts?

After they left I went over to the Project Hope office and spoke with the English Program Officer and she assured me that due to the nature of the gifts that it was okay that I accepted these gifts. However, if this kind of stuff continues that then it will become inappropriate. Learning/understanding the culture and social cues for another culture while interesting and fun can also be stressful.

It's been awhile I know. And I promise to come back and update on my final days in Benin and my travels across the Middle East but for now I thought I would simply focus on where I am now. After months of planning and arranging and years of wanting I now find myself sitting in an apartment in the West Bank city of Nablus.

For all those interested Nablus is located in the West Bank roughly 40 miles north of Jerusalem.With a population of 134,000 it is the largest city in the area.

So I left Jerusalem yesterday morning, I think, by nine. I had planned to leave earlier like 8 or so, but I had been sick most of the night before and I wanted grabbed on to any sleep I could. Thankfully with the help of Patrick I had managed to pack all my stuff up the night before so yesterday morning all I had to do was get in the shower and then pack up the bits and pieces I had been using that night/morning. With the help of the man who works/maybe runs the hostel Patrick and I were staying at I found that the bus I needed to take was just around the corner. So with bags in hand we made our way to the station. People were helpful and it really was easy to find so before I knew it and before I was ready I was saying goodbye to Patrick and finding a seat on the bus.

This bus would only be taking me part of the way there. I would be getting off in the city of Ramallah, which though smaller than Nablus seems to be a place of much activity. I was on the bus for roughly 40 minutes when we came to a stop and everyone seemed to be getting off. Someone at this point mentioned to me that this was the end of the line. I couldn't help but think to myself, "end of the line? did we even leave Jerusalem?" The cities are close enough and I guess with enough urban sprawl or perhaps smaller towns in between that it seemed like I had never left Jerusalem. And now here I was trying to figure out where to go next.

Now Project Hope had given me some instructions on how to get to them. I didn't really follow them. The bus didn't let me off at the bus station but instead by the side of the road at their last stop. This threw me off. So instead of finding a taxi to continue on with my journey I instead found another bus. Mind you this wasn't the simplest of processes. I asked the bus driver where I go next and he pointed vaguely in front of him, which considering in front of him was a busy street filled with tons of buildings, people and cars was not exactly helpful. So I asked a taxi driver. He very nicely offered to take me to Nablus after sharing with me the fact that he has two daughters living in America. Of course the common bond or interest didn't get me a lower fare because when I asked for the price of our journey he wanted something like 100+ sheckles which is over 30$ which is just crazy. A man standing behind me heard the exchanged and pointed to another bus that could take me, thankfully I made my way to it. This driver was much more helpful. Yes, he was going to Nablus but not til 2pm that afternoon. He did bring me to the cross road I needed to take to find the bus garage so I could find a bus that would take me.

People were helpful and I found and bordered my bus. I was expecting to have get off at various border crossing, show my passport and answer endless questions. But none of that happned. For those trying to leave Nablus it was a completely different story. Our bus passed a massive line of cars/people waiting to get out.

The problem with taking a bus and not a taxi into town was that I couldn't tell them where to drop me off. I had the name of a hotel I should go to but no idea where it was or how to get there. After I had been on the bus for some time and it looked like we were in a city/town area I worked up the nerve to start asking the people around me if they knew where I got off. It took a minute for me to find someone who spoke English. When I did they said to hold on and that they would help me. Finally my stop came, I didn't know it was my stop at the time till the people I had been speaking with told me to get off.

I don't think I mentioned that by this time the dark clouds that I had seen since leaving Jerusalem had become darker and darker and had started dropping tons of rain on us. I proceeded to follow this man and his son through the streets of Nablus in the rain as they brought me to the hotel I was suppose to go to. As a native they were use to the streets, rain, traffic but for me I was just struggling to try and keep up and not to fall on the slippery streets with my big huge backpack on me.

I arrive at the hotel a little wetter and colder than when I started my journey but over all no worse for wear. At the hotel I was able to call Project Hope and inform them that I was there and then the receptionist at the hotel called a taxi to come and pick me up. The taxi delivered me safe and sound outside of Project Hope where it seems I hit the ground running. Paper work was filled out, I met with several different people and I was given a tour of the city. It was all very overwhelming. I am suppose to start teaching on Sunday I believe and I'm scared. I don't know what I'm doing. The people I am living with are very friendly but they all seem to know so much more than I. More often than not in conversations I just sit there listening trying to figure out what they are talking about. I know I will learn in time. I just wish that time would come quickly. This is the part of new adventures that I hate most, the fear and uncertainty that always follows doing something new.

So now you know, I am here, I am safe and I am well. Today I am going to go into town and buy some groceries. I need to set a buget for myself so that I can last the 3 months I am planning on staying. More to come later I'm sure.

Until next time.....

It's the beginning of the end. Well some would say that beginning started three months ago when the first plane carrying Peace Corps Volunteers from my training group left Cotonou. Others might say the end began back in May when we had our Close of Service confrence in Ouidah. But even after all of that I am still here. I've watched as my fellow volunteers and friends have one by one left and now it is finally my turn. Well it will be shortly. This Thursday, with my rented taxi full of all the stuff I've collected during my time in Benin, I will leave my home for the last two years and begin the journey towards Cotonou. I will spend the night in Parakou and continue on to Cotonou on Friday.

I'm not ready for this. I thought I was. I thought I'd pack up and leave here a little sad but excited about the next big thing. Well I'm still waiting for excitement to hit. Everyone says oh you must be so excited when I tell them about my post PC plans, and well, a couple months ago when I made them, I was. Now, I'm scared. Of what I am not exactly sure. I guess it's due to the general uncertainty that always accompanies change. Today me and Kelly (she is the volunteer that is incharge of the local office we keep in Kandi) moved a bunch of my furniture from my house to the office so that when the new volunteers come they can take what they want. Packing up really made me realize that this is over. I'm not going a trip somewhere, I am leaving for good.

Tonight or tomorrow I'm throwing a dinner for myself and my work partners. I bought us two chickens and some yams (to make yam pile) as well as some cheese (wagashi, it's nothing like what any of youwould consider cheese to be). My work partner and her daughter are going to prepare it and then we are all going to eat together. It will be a nice way to wrap things up I think.

There is so much more I want to say. It's been a really good last couple weeks here with a lot going on that I'd like to share, but I'm having a hard time focusing. I guess it will just have to wait until Thursday or Friday. Until then everyone...

So yesterday morning I was woken up by a teenage boy who had been sent to my house to give me a chicken. To understand some of the akwardness of this you have to understand I sleep with my front door open (I have a screen door) and I only sleep in a pagnya (it's like a sheet) because it's hot. So when I'm when I'm startled to awkenness by "Co Co Co" (Beninise version of knocking) the first thing that runs through my head is hold on, gotta make sure all the important bits and pieces are covered.

Now anyone who knows me knows that I am not at my best and brightest first thing in the morning or basically upon waking up. I start out like a cave woman useing monosyllabic noises to communicate and gradually progress to being able to make full sentences. So when this guy shows up with a live chicken on my doors step somewhere between 7 and 8 am I'm more than a little confused.

He explains to me that it is a gift from this guy I know who lives on the other side of my village (I found out later it was ment to be a going away gift since we had talked earlier about how I only had a couple weeks left in my village) The boy obviously wants me to take this chicken that has been bound together at its feet and is currently handing from his fingers. I very obviously don't want to take the chicken. Don't get me wrong, I can't wait to eat the sucker, but I don't want to touch it, kill it or really have anything to do with it besides the eating part.

I remember being told by other volunteers who bought meat that often they would buy an animal and then bring it to someone in the village to kill for them and in exchange they would share some of the meat. I figured this would be a good plan of action for me as well. So I explained to the kid that I had no idea what to do with a chicken but if he would kill it for me I would gladly share the chicken with him. He seemed like he understood what I was saying when he walked away. It was only later that I found out that he didn't.

That afternoon I show up to my health center only to find out that upon leaving my house the boy went to the house of the pharmasit who lives just down the road from me and basically told him that he had tried to give me this chicken and that I didn't want it. Buhari, the pharmasist, figured this couldn't be right and told the kid so. He then instructed the kid to bring the chicken to my work parterns house and have them take care of it. Thankfully that's exactly what he did. My work partner Safia had her daughter kill it and cook it for me. This had all happend before I went to the health center I might add.

I was doing Karem or as we know it Ramadan so Safia invited me back to her house to eat dinner with her and her family. The fried chicken was there waiting for me to take home. Thankful that Safia's daughter Rebeka had taken care of the chicken for me I shared it with her, Safia and Safia's son and still had a couple pieces to bring home. Yum Yum Yum

Each incomming group of new volunteers recieve a Welcome Book designed specifically for their sector with in Peace Corps. (There are four in Benin, health, environment, business and teaching english) The book is mostly designed to introduce volunteers to Benin but a letter from a previous volunteer is also included. This year my PC health boss asked me if I would be willing to write something up to be published in next years Rural Community Health Welcome Book. Here is what I wrote:

Welcome to the Benin Family!

Somewhere along the line I must have blinked. The two years that I was once so worried about have passed, and I can’t help but wonder, where did all the time go? Oh yeah, it was spent learning a new language – one that I am now comfortable enough with that I can use to do any number of things from order a meal, to arranging transportation, to explaining once again that it is perfectly normal that white people change color when in the sun too long. Time was spent trying to understand Benin, her people, her religions, her culture and traditions and ultimately what role I wanted to play in them. Arriving at my new home it tickled me pink when kids bowed before me when they would stop and say hello. What was I, royalty? Nope. It turns out that they just wanted to show me a sign of respect for simply being older than them by bowing before me.

The majority of my time here in Benin was consumed with the pursuit of work as well as fun. As a Rural Community Health Advisor I worked with the old and the young, with men as well as women. I weighed babies, made porridge, taught about HIV/AIDS, held classes to help empower young girls, and painted murals on the sides of buildings. I, along with my work partner, Safia, worked to improve the general health knowledge of our community. Through this process we became more than just work partners, we became friends. As I said earlier, a good portion of my time spent in Benin was simply having fun. Now this fun has come in a number of different guises such as sitting under a tree and talking to a local principal, hanging out at my work partner’s house, or chatting with the weavers as they go about their day. Of course there are also the other Peace Corps volunteers. There is not a volunteer in this country who I do not consider my friend, who I feel I could not turn to with a question, a favor, or a need. They have been my family while I have been here and we all know what kind of fun and mayhem one can have with their family. And if all else fails, there is the ever popular volunteer game of “goat or child”. (Don’t worry; you’ll understand when you get here.)

So close your eyes, take a deep breath, and get ready to jump into the adventure of a life time. You won’t regret it. I hope that this gives all of you a glimps as to the positive side of what being a Peace Corps volunteers has been like for me.

So it's almost the end of July, where's the time going? It's been a pretty crazy month thus far and the next couple weeks will be just as crazy. As I mentioned in my previous entry, last week was Camp Kandi. Myself and two other health volunteers covered topic ranging from nutrition, to AIDS to malaria. It was a lot of fun but a lot of work and I didn't even have to organize the event which always tends to be the hardest part of any job over here. After Camp Kandi, I went back to post for a few days. On Wednesday I left to come down to Cotonou. Now, I know I've lived here for two years and all but I'm not sure how familiar you all are with the geography of Benin. My village is in the north east region of Benin. I am about an hour and a half south of the Niger/Benin boarder. The largest city in Benin, Cotonou, is on the cost and about a 10-13 hour bus/car ride. I did this on Wednesday, getting into Cotonou around 4 or 5. There were a couple reasons for this trip. One I had some paper work that I needed to get done which I am ashamed to say that due to reasons two and three didn't really get done. My really good friend Miriam left last night for America. It's been really hard watching everyone leave. I'm dreading my last month of service in a way because I'm going to feel like I am all alone. But anway, I wanted to spend some time Mir and get some teaching materials from here. She was an English teacher here and gave me a bunch of stuff to hopefully help me out when I go to Palestine in the fall. And then my third and final reason for coming down here was because the new volunteer arrived last night. Yep, our replacements landed in Benin around 8 last night. Where it then took them about 2 hours to make it through cutoms and get there baggage and make it out of the airport where several of us were waiting to greet them. There are 56 of them, I wonder how many will stay? We came to country with 59 and lost 20 some over the two years.

Me and Miriam at the airport

So this week marked the beginning of week two, the health week of Camp Kandi. What is Camp Kandi you ask yourself? Camp Kandi is a two week summer school designed by a PC English professor volunteer and led by various other volunteers from throughout the country. The camp is free and voluntary for any student in the local middles schools (there are 3) who wish to attend. The primary focus of this camp is to help these students develop their english skills, however the volunteer who created this camp wanted to take advantage of all potential helpers she would have with other pc volunteers as well as realizing that these student's education is in general greatly lacking so anything we could teach/do would be a benifit. So last week environment volunteer were invited to do sessions with the students once their english lessons were done and this week health volunteers are taking their place. Monday a volunteer taught the students about malaria, and today I talked about the three food groups, what they are, why they are important and which foods fall into each group. Tomorrow, myself and another volunteer will start talking about how AIDS is transmitted.

Today was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I've been doing this same lesson all around my region over the past couple months, and when I do the full session it lasts around 4 hours. Today I focused solely on the food groups, as well as making a comparison between the pourridge that they ate that morning before comming versus a reciept for a porridge that I wrote on the board. In total it lasted about 50 minutes give or take. But good grief was I tired by when I reached that 50 minute marker. And then I ended up doing it four times in all. I have developed a new found respect for teachers here. I always knew that their work wasn't easy, but wow.

So I have a latrine. This isn't probably a news flash since you know I don't have running water in my house. But I thought I would take this opportunity to talk about why latrines are such a joy to have. Incident one happened during my first year of service. I was standing in my latrine lifting the cover so that I could go pee. I had done this hundreds of times before, not a problem right? Not more than 10 sec after lifting the cover off a bat flew out of my latrine and at me. Needless to say I panicked, screamed and did a lot of waving my arms around. Ever since this I have taken to rattling the latrine cover a bit before I lift it up in hopes of making any such creatures fall to the ground before I lift up. The second incident happened just last week. Since my first year I've gotten pretty lax about covering my latrine. It's mostly due to the fact that I share it with the other people in my concession and they never ever cover it so it seems futile most of the time. Anyway, this time around I had hiked up my skirt and was standing on the little foot pedestal things squatting when I look down into the latrine and see a big mouse (i refuse to believe it was a rat) climbing the walls out of the latrine pit. Because I was in mid-going to the bathroom I couldn't leave my spot and had to just stand there motionless and hope that the mouse paid me no mind as it continued to climb out of the latrine pit and up the walls of my latrine on the the roof.

For the most part I don't really mind using a latrine. It's a pain when I'm not feeling well and I have to leave my house 20x a day and walk across my yard and the creatures that live there are definitely not friends of mine. But since becoming reliant on one it has shown me how much water a toilet uses and how wasteful they are. Just something to think about.

So Monday marked the fourth year of my mom dying and I didn't think anything of it till today when I recieved an email from Gary. What does that say? Part of me is horrified that I could let such a thing slip by un-noticed, not remember. Another part of me is happy that I was out and about enjoying myself one last time with friends before they leave. Last year this time I remember dreading the date probably starting the beginning of the month. I didn't know what to do with myself. This year there was a going away party for friends of mine so I was there seeing them off, having a good time with everyone who had shown up. Am I a bad daughter for having not remembered or would my mother be happy that I was happy and not dwelling on loosing her? Well, I know she'd be happy, but I still can't help feeling guilty.

Patrick told me yesterday that Aunt Wilma died, but it wasn't until I got the email from Gary that I found out that she passed away on the same day mom did. A weird twist, huh. As hard as it is to see our loved ones go, mom taught me that there are worse thing in life than death. So my thoughts today are with my family. I wish I could be with you all right now. I love you guys.

So I've been traveling a lot this month. I had a workshop earilier in the month, then followed by a good bye party for a fellow volunteer, followed by our close of service confrence and concluding recently with a wedding. So I've been feeling pretty guilty about being away from my community so much so I made a decision not to do any more traveling for the rest of the month. the past two days i was in alfa kora the neighboring village to mine working with a fellow volunteer and his environment club. i got back to angaradebou yesterday evening. this morning when i got up i headed straight into the health center. for some reason, i don't know why, i decided to bring my wooden penis and some condoms with me. this was i guess just incase i had the chance to talk to someone, or the subject came up I would be ready with props in hand. there's not much i can do, but i like them to know i'm around so i go and hangout, chat with them, help with some of the paperwork if i can. i stayed till around noon, which is break time and also the medicine i'm taking now for my ears really upsets my stomach so I wanted to go back to my house and relax anyway. well i was leaving, walking down the side of the road when I heard someone call my name. It was this guy i generally avoid, but for some reason today I decided to be polite and go over and talk to him. He was sitting outside his shop with a couple other men. The conversation started off simple enough, how are you, you've been gone a long time, what did you bring me. yada yada yada. i don't know how it happend though but during our 2 hours of chatting our conversation hit upon topics such as voting, why did people vote for obama, teen pregnancy, what africa needs to develop, and finally AIDS. one of the questions first asked was whether or not it was true that the cure for aids had been found but that we just weren't sharing it with africa. that's when i had to inform them that there was no cure at all for aids and that americans die from aids just like african's do. they were a little suprised by this but then recovered to say that they(americans) don't die as much as africans do. I wanted to say that's your own fault, but I was more polite about it and said that that is because not enough of you use condoms when you have sex. Which led me getting out the wooden penis and condoms i had brought along. I sat there with these men explaining and demonstrating how to use a condom. i'm glad i did it, they needed to know and it's the only way things will change around here and it was refreshing to see that two of the men at least already knew the proper way to use one. of course questions followed about condoms breaking because there penis was so large and what not. typical guy stuff. one of the men then showed me on his very nice cell phone a porno clip where a man had a very large penis and then asked if a condom would even fit that one. it was so strange i couldn't help but laughing. it wasn't long after that that one of the men had to go off and pray and so our little group broke up. the guy i usually avoid wanted me to stay and keep talking but there was no way i was going to do that with no one else around so i made my excusses and head home...2 hours later.

So a couple months back I was doing laundry at my house. Now doing laundry entails a large basin (metal bowl) filled part way with water, some powdered soap bought at local market, my pile of dirty clothes and me sitting out on my front porch with them scrubbing them by hand. So I had finished up with my laundry for the day but decided not to toss out my rinse water so that I could use it later that evening to wash my feet off before going to bed. (I wear sandles all day while walking in the dirt and sand, washing feet helps keep sheets cleaner longer) I left the basin outside while I went about the rest of my day. That night when I came back the basin was still there, but I noticed something floating inside. For a moment I thought I had left some clothes in there to soak since I do do that from time to time. I go over to look and inside were baby chick. I empty out the water and count