2 good things; three bad things & a bitter/sweet one.

2 good things; three bad things & a bitter/sweet one.

Before we got on the plane at Luton, something good happened. The London trip organiser had told us that, since the state authorities were often racist, the black bloke would probably have a tougher time at customs than others. At Luton airport, most of us met & talked of this; we agreed to adopt the policy of leaving no one behind at customs. When push came to shove, at Ben Gurion, he had to deal with only 3 trifling questions. But our policy was transferred to another in the group, a hijabi woman. We waited for 4 hours till this woman, who came from France, was grilled & lied to by two customs officers. Waiting in a café for her was boring  but it gave us a chance to charge our phones for free – at a kind of wall panel I’d never seen before - & it made me proud of the group.

Another good thing was being welcomed by strangers in the streets of Abu Dis. Various people said hi out of the blue. Obviously, we stuck out a mile. We had different clothes; in my case, I often peered uncomprehendingly into shops, & I was never in the same class at school as their wee cousin. Remember: it’s a village: everybody knows everybody else. One day, I got lost & a bloke asked me ‘Camden?’ I said yes. He showed me the way to go. CADFA is well known in Abu Dis. In one shop I tried to buy a banana, but the guy at the counter wouldn’t let me pay for it. I was not the only one in my group with such tales.

One of the bad things were the pavements. I happen to be a big fantasist. I could fantasize for Scotland. But, if you’re walking & fantasizing, you need a smooth surface. In Abu Dis, there’s a shortage of these. It wasn’t the dirt paths that I minded; it was the lumps of concrete sticking up at crazy angles. This is cos in one or both of the intifadas, the place was bombed. Attached is a picture of a cave in which people took shelter. (The people in the attached pic are the rest of my group.) So the pavements interfered with my fantasizing. I hated the pavements.

Another bad thing for me was the Prisoners museum. About 5 years ago, I went to a place called the Museum of Terror in Berlin which is about the Nazis, & I saw the torture techniques in the Prisoners Museum as very similar. The one that sticks in my mind is that, although prisoners sometimes had visitors, there was a trench between the two groups so that they could not touch each other. Along this trench walked a guard. If a visiting mother expressed emotion at seeing her offspring locked up, she could be arrested. After this museum, I felt like I’d been hit on the side of the head by a great force. This was the worst part of the trip for me.

A final bad thing. One day about 6pm, we were in the minibus leaving the city of Ramallah. Suddenly, I realised that I needed a pee. Just about then someone said that we should close the windows of the vehicle to prevent tear gas getting in.

Let me explain. 14 hours earlier, the military had woken up one or more households to ask questions. Such nocturnal aggravation was common. Their disturbance of the peace resulted in a reciprocal disturbance by some neighbours. Fighting broke out between the two groups. At 7am, a Palestinian man was sitting in his car, &, I’m told, not bothering anyone. The soldiers shot him dead. About 4pm there took place his burial- in hot countries, same–day burial is standard practice - & his funeral led to a riot. The IDF, Israel Defence Force, responded with tear gas. In the minibus, there was a fear that the teargas would linger. Abed learned of all this from his smartphone.

I have never been tear gassed. My fear was that the tear gas would make me piss myself. A guy on the bus said he detected it. But, luckily, my tear ducts were never interfered with & 10 mins later we stopped at a café where I could relieve myself.

One day there was a very bittersweet moment. We’d been somewhere, &, back in Abu Dis, we got out of the minibus. Standing on the pavement were three lassies, aged 4 to 9. I was told they were sisters. They were giggly, friendly & curious about us. I wondered if we were the first people  

they’d met who weren’t Palestinian & weren’t in the army.  They wanted to exchange names & shake hands. A bunch of us did that. That made them happy; happily, they walked off.

When they were gone, Abed told us a story. 2 weeks before, their father had fired a gun at a soldier.  The soldier fired back killing the father. The authorities took the father’s body & held it for 2 weeks.  Since, in that part of the world, funerals often happen the same day as the death, this was a great insult. The body was returned to a community centre frozen to minus 3o degrees. The centre had to defrost the body before returning it to the family. So, from the authorities, the message is: we don’t just control your lives; we control your death rituals. Even when you’re dead, fuck you. The contrast between the sweet innocence of the lassies & the brutality of their society was poignant.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I put it to you that something can live on in this case. Whenever those lassies are spoken of, many will speak of their father just as I’m speaking to you. This story has a kind of life. Maybe this story will haunt the occupiers for the next 100 yrs. Maybe this story will help to end the occupation.