keep the children out of it

Nura is three years old. She’s from Beer El Sabea in the Naqab. At her age, I imagine she cannot grasp the fact that she has become one of the icons for fighting racism and hate. Her photo was published in print newspapers and been posted and reposted many times in the last few days on Facebook and other social media outlets.

Nura was the subject of a racist discussion on a Whatsapp group for parents at her kindergarten, where one parent demanded she should be expelled. “If there is an Arab kid in the kindergarten it’s time to expel him!” “She has no place in the Jewish State. She should study in her village. Go to Syria; they love you there, Assad is waiting.” 

This piece is not about the racism and hatred towards Palestinians inside Israel, in the West Bank, and Gaza. Plenty of posts and articles have been written about that.

I want to write about the effect this will have on Nura and other children who find themselves caught in this cycle, sometimes against their will, other times unknowingly. Nura’s photograph was released by her parents, and there may not be any legal issue here. However, there is an ethical issue. A three-year-old child cannot make an informed decision, and we should keep her psychological and emotional wellbeing in mind. I don’t want to get into speculations of what effects this may have on her, but the possibilities are there, and they are many. Nura may become the target of negative attention such as hatred and racism. We all know how children can be cruel to each other, and we all know about bullying.

I think it is time that we recognize the dangers in posting photographs on Facebook and other social media. We have seen all too many suicides, bullying, verbal violence, and other types of violence resulting from inappropriate use of social media. All I can hope for Nura that this will pass quickly and she will not be exposed to any kind of violence in her life, nor suffer any trauma or post-trauma resulting from her becoming an icon in the fight against racism and hate. Keep the children out if it!

Pogrom Documentation in Haifa 19/ July 2014

On Saturday evening, 19 July, 2014, some dozen Haifa feminist activists gathered in the Haifa Women’s Coalition house to prepare signs for the protest march scheduled to take place at 21:30 in Carmel Center, Haifa. The atmosphere was positive, there was a sense that we are doing something, raising our voice, refusing to be silenced. We took photographs of ourselves with the signs and with the word ENOUGH written on our palms in Arabic (خلص), Hebrew (די), and English. At around 21:00 we headed towards Carmel Center, to join the march, organized by the Hadash Arab-Jewish party.

As soon as we arrived, we were completely taken aback by the scene. At least 2,000 extreme right-wing protesters were gathered at the point from which our march was to begin. We were moved to a different nearby location. We were few. Some accounts say we were several hundreds, but I don’t think there was more than 250 of us. Maybe even 200.

We could not march. The extreme right-wing protesters kept coming in, and were spread over on the other side of the main street, mainly chanting “death to Arabs” and “death to leftists.” I felt fear rise in my throat. I began taking pictures. At one point, I realized that when the protest is over, it will be very dangerous to disperse. I searched for our international intern and made sure that she doesn’t leave alone. Then I asked three of my friends – separately – if I can join them in their car and if they can drive me home. Three, because I wanted to make sure that if I lose sight of any of them, I have alternatives.

The protest came to an end when the last of the protestors who came out of Haifa got on the bus and left. Or so we thought. This was just the beginning. At this point, we remained about 50 protestors – mainly from Haifa, who came on foot or by car. Our intention was to disperse and go home. The police began dispersing as well. But the extreme right-wing protestors didn’t show any signs of dispersing. On the contrary, they just kept multiplying. Not only that, we soon realized that they were spread in groups in all they alleys surrounding us, behind bushes at the entrances to buildings, everywhere. Ambushing protestors trying to leave. My friends and I (at this point we were 6 or 7) tried to leave through the back yard of one of the buildings, and soon were chased back by angry protestors who were ambushing us with the aim of attacking us physically.

Back with the group of 50 protestors, we found ourselves moving slowly down the street, with no clear plan of what or how. At one point, my 5 friends somehow succeeded to break away and leave. Later I learned that two of them were beaten, one ended up in the hospital for concussion.

I remained with the 50 last protestors, and we came to a corner and stopped there. The scene in front of us was terrifying. In my estimation, there were about 1,500 of them. Surrounding us, approaching us, chanting death to Arabs. I looked at the street, and saw maybe 15 regular, unarmed policemen where half an hour before where hundreds of policemen, some on horseback.

We shrank back. A young teenage girl began crying behind me. An older woman said let’s go into one of the apartments. I screamed at one of the policemen: get us a bus! Then at one of the organizers the same thing. It was so easy at this point to just call a bus and get the hell out of there. We found ourselves posting statuses on Facebook that we are surrounded, we began calling 100 (police hotline). At this point, stones began flying at us. Large. One of them hit my friend in the side of her head. We were now crouching, our hands over our heads. I could smell the fear among us.

To me, this seemed to go on forever. It went on maybe for an hour. Later I learned that from my friends who saw our calls for help on Facebook that many of them called 100. The police, realizing it’s getting worse, at this point brought in the water cannon and armed police. Still, the water cannon didn’t help disperse the angry crowd.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the police decided to start moving us alongside the sidewalk. We begin walking, chased by the angry mob. As we walk, they pop up from everywhere: from alleys, entrances to houses. Stones keep flying in our direction. We keep moving through the alleyways. I have a feeling the police has no plan, no idea of what to do with us. We walk for about one kilometre. We stop at a roundabout. Now the police officers are arguing about what to do with us. I try again: “bring us a bus!” About 15-20 minutes later, a bus drives past, one of the night lines. The police stops the bus, gets the passengers off, and we get on.

We start moving. To me, it seemed we were driving in circles, as the angry mob was still chasing us in their cars. To me, it seemed that the ride was taking forever. We didn’t know where the bus is taking us. Finally, we arrive at Maxim restaurant by the beach. The place is full of police, and the water cannon. We get off the bus, and there seems to be no extremists in sight. It seems that everything is behind us. We get on another bus that’s waiting there. We have no idea where this bus will take us. Yet there’s a feeling of relief. We all get on the bus, and the bus starts pulling away.

All of a sudden, and out of nowhere, rocks fly at the bus. Moments of terror. The side windows are broken and there is glass everywhere. We scream at the driver to keep driving, as the police has finally left us and we are on our own.

The bus arrives at the German Colony, an Arab neighbourhood. We disembark. At last, a feeling of some sort of safety. Still, I find myself looking around me. Some of us, who live nearby, disperse. The rest, about 25 or so, head to the headquarters of the Hadash party. I’m shaking. Three of my friends come and pick me up in their car.

During all this, about ten women friends of mine stayed close to their phones and Facebook, calling, sending messages, asking what can we do, how can we help, calling the police. They wanted to come and pick us up, but there was no way. There were literally thousands of these extremists spread out all over the Carmel Center.

My friends drive me home, and during the drive, we keep watching cars passing us by, making sure we are not followed. When we reach my neighbourhood, a Jewish one, we stay in the car for several minutes to make sure nobody is around. Then, my friend walks me home. In the safety of my home, suddenly, I fell exposed, unsafe. The cat’s movement causes me to jump. An hour later, a friend calls to bring me something. I walk outside to meet her, and she puts her finger to her mouth, indicating we should not speak in Arabic. We stand in the street, speaking Hebrew.

I sit at my computer and write a short description of my experience, and as I write, I realize that what went on there was a pogrom. I realize that it could have ended not with people injured, but with people dead. I shiver as I recall the eyes full of murder. People who actually wanted me dead. For being an Arab. Not for any other reason.

This is my personal account of what happened on Saturday night. I’ve heard similar experiences from other activists who were with us. For me, it is becoming scary just to walk down the street or ride the bus. I have explicitly told my daughter not to talk in Arabic in public spaces. I myself am afraid to answer calls from Arab friends while on the bus for fear of being attacked.

This is Haifa 2014.  

khulud khamis

Haifa 22 July, 2014

On the same day, before the protest, I wrote a poem called "war is not my language" 

http://haifafieldnotes.blogspot.co.il/2014/07/war-is-not-my-language.html

Link to photo album of the "war is not my language photos:

https://www.facebook.com/asmahan.shalimar/media_set?set=a.797591380291110.1073741865.100001207677585&type=1

link to photos from the demonstration:

https://www.facebook.com/asmahan.shalimar/media_set?set=a.797540690296179.1073741864.100001207677585&type=3

on National Civic Service for Palestinian Citizens of Israel

For two months now, I’ve been turning over the issue of National Civic Service in my mind. It’s not a coincidence, as in recent months there’s been a lot going on about this issue, and now that I work in Hirakuna, I’m much closer to this issue, as National Civic Service is one of the issues Hirakuna deals with, although it’s by no means the main area of the Forum’s work.[i]

Usually, I write in a free style and from my own personal perspective, providing my thoughts on issues, rather than giving analysis and a broad reading. Usually I take my own personal experiences, and reflect on the wider socio-political reality. However, with National Civic Service, it’s much more complex, as there are quite too many layers to the issue and several perspectives. So I am taking my time with it.

I’m in the initial stages of writing an article about it. I will make an attempt to raise my voice and present one perspective among many about the issue of National Civic Service for Palestinian citizens of Israel. I’d like to stress from the start that this will be a personal yet political reading of the reality, and in no way will it exhaust the issue, nor will it present all perspectives. This being said, and although not representative in a collective way, it will however represent some of the voices. And since the collective voice is made up of many individual voices, then it follows that this voice has its place in the composition of the collective voice.

National Civic Service is a very complex issue in Israel and cannot be dealt with in any linear mode. It has several layers of complexity interacting and affecting one another.

Hopefully I will complete the article within the next two or three weeks. Please follow up to read it.

---

[i] Hirakuna’s mission is to enable safe spaces and create volunteerism and leadership opportunities to empower young women and men to take active responsibility and become engaged in their communities and beyond, ultimately becoming active agents for social change. Hirakuna’s main objective is to create a vibrant and resilient civil community with the social, organizational and professional infrastructure to promote reciprocal social responsibility, volunteerism and leadership throughout the Palestinian society in Israel.

Hirakuna’s vision is a flourishing and advanced democratic society based on the values of equality, human dignity and liberty, and maintaining a combination of individual and collective rights; a society that emphasizes mutual solidarity and responsibility; a society where individuals can realize their potential and influence the general good. Website: www.hirakuna.org | Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Hirakuna?fref=ts

how to tie a headscarf - Arab woman attacked by Jewish women at a train station in Jerusalem

A woman was attacked at the train station on Monday by other women.

Correction:

An Arab woman was attacked at the train station in Jerusalem on Monday by Jewish women.

Four pictures, taken by Dorit Yordan-Dotan, depict the incident. There is only one way to interpret the pictures. The woman was attacked because she was wearing a headscarf. But then Jewish religious women also wear the headscarf.

Correction:

The woman was attacked because she was wearing the headscarf in a way Muslim women wear the headscarf. She was attacked on account of being Arab.

A Jewish friend of mine shared one of the photos on her profile picture, with the words: “when can we begin comparing?” [I assume she was referring to the way Germans treated the Jews.]

I refuse to compare.

In this country, we are judged by our clothes/skin color/accent/the way we wear the headscarf.

A Jewish friend of mine was driving through a checkpoint from Israel to the Occupied West Bank, along with a Palestinian friend of hers. I don’t remember the details, if the Palestinian woman was from the West Bank or if she was a citizen of Israel, is she had a permit or not. These are minor details. They are irrelevant to the fact that the Palestinian woman was scared she’d be arrested/investigated/humiliated at the checkpoint on account of the way she was wearing her headscarf.

Sometimes, we have to resort to humor in our small everyday tragedies. As they approached the checkpoint, the Palestinian woman took off her headscarf, and tied it back on in the way Jewish religious women do. Both friends laughed.

With one small change, a different tying of the headscarf, she was immediately changed from a “Muslim prospect terrorist” to a “Jewish religious settler.” They passed the checkpoint smoothly. The boy-soldiers smiled at them and let them pass.

Did the woman compromise her identity? No. She laughed in the face of the occupier, proving the soldiers’ stupidity.

During OperationCast Led, my daughter would go to school wearing the Kafiya [the traditional Palestinian black-and-white scarf]. I would ask her to put it in her school bag and only wear it when she arrives at school, and not on the bus. Was I compromising her identity? No. I was simply ensuring my daughter’s safety.
(c) khulud kh, 2013

Security measures: guns vs. locks (contemplation about Oslo, part 1)

We get out of the airport and into the biting cold of Oslo. It’s almost midnight but I feel fresh. People with suitcases, business men, tourists with backpacks. Norwegians. Bus drivers. Several buses are lined up and people find their way to the bus that will take them to their destination. Some walk in confidence towards this or that bus. Others ask around about a destination. We walk towards a bus randomly, and it happens to be the Airport Express Bus that we need to take to get to the center. 350 meters from our hotel. The bus ride takes about 45 minutes, and when we get off, the bus driver gets off the bus with us, helps us with our suitcases, and even walks with us to the corner of the street to show us a shortcut to the hotel. We are amazed at his kindness and helpfulness. It could never happen in Israel – I can’t imagine a bus driver actually leaving the bus and walking with us to show us directions.

I slept good the first night. There was some kind of a calmness accompanying me all the way from the airport to the hotel, which I was able to pinpoint on the following day. There were no weapons anywhere to be seen! No 18-year old kids walking around with sub-machine guns! No armed security guards to the entrance of hotels, public places, not even to the entrance of the Parliament! Guns have, unfortunately, become a “natural” part of our public sphere in Israel. Such a “natural” part, that most people have become blind to them. And it does strike you odd when you travel abroad to see gun-free public spaces.

However, it doesn’t mean that Oslo public spaces are “open.” Pretty fast, I realized that security measures are taken to such degrees so as to lock people out of their own offices, with no way in, and no way out.

We were accompanied by an organization representative to a meeting in their offices. She unlocked the front door with the help of an electronic card attached to her clothes. We walked up a flight of stairs and she used the same electronic card to open the door to the offices. But the card didn’t work. She tried several times. Giving up, she had to bang on the door, looking through the glass window. From the inside of the offices, a man approached and tried to open the door with his electronic card, also attached to his clothes. He, too, failed. So we were locked out, he was trapped in. Embarrassed smiles passed between the two. So we walked up another flight of stairs, and entered through the door – needless to say, with the help of the magic electronic card. We entered the offices and walked down from some internal flight of stairs to the floor below. We were inside.

After a briefing meeting, we were interviewed for the organization’s website, and then asked to walk outside to the roof to be photographed in daylight. Again, we had to go through several locked doors. When the photographer finished, I wanted to stay on the roof for several more minutes to smoke a cigarette, but was told that I couldn’t, as I don’t have an electronic key, and you need this key to open the door of the roof to get inside!

The next day, the same offices, between two meetings: I ask where the toilet is, but am told that I can’t go by myself, as there are several locked doors on the way, and obviously, being a visitor, I didn’t own any electronic key attached to my clothes! The representative had to accompany me and wait for me on the inside door to the toilet, as that was locked too – from both sides! This is when I began to feel like a prisoner. When I asked about these security measures – I didn’t get any clear answer. After all, the front door is locked. The locks are on all doors – whether it makes sense or not.

This seems to be the norm in

Oslo – at the hotel, you need your hotel key card to be able to use the elevator, and to open the door to the stairway.

Yes, extreme security measures are taken in Oslo. The only difference between Oslo’s security and ours is the fact that in Oslo technological means are being used, while here in Israel military means – weapons. The security in Oslo can – in the worst case – lock you out on the balcony or lock you in the toilet, while in Israel it threatens our very lives, and can often end in firing a gun at an innocent person, ending her life.

(c) khulud kh

photo: inside of the Opera House. Surprisingly, it was wide open. photo by Hannah Safran.

Saturation Point [?]

I feel that I have reached my saturation point with the conflict. It breaths through me, it invades my dreams, it passes by me on the street and it sits next to me on the bus. As strange as it may sound, it has become closer to me than a lover – in certain ways. This blog is about my personal experiences as related to the conflict – and its different elements and layers. The main theme running through my novel is the conflict. Even the contents of my paid work include the conflict. Almost everything in life becomes marginal as the conflict digs in further and deeper into my bones.

So – do we not also reach a saturation point? I wonder. Since last September, I’ve been going through a long process of distancing myself from the conflict in different ways. And now I see that this has become something systematic, and indicates a turning point. A turning point which also requires taking time to think.

So, what happened in September that initiated this process? I participated in a seminar on project planning, organized by a Swedish foundation. From inside Israel, we were four women – two working at Palestinian feminist organizations in Israel and two working for mixed Palestinian and Jewish organizations. The first two days of the seminar went by smoothly. On the third morning, one of the Jordanian participants stood up in front of the whole group of about 20 participants, and said that she is withdrawing from the seminar because there are women from Israeli organizations at the seminar. She claimed she didn’t know this beforehand (although she received a participants’ list with our organizational affiliations, and I introduced myself on the first day as a member of a mixed organization). She was only referring to me and the other participant from the mixed organization. Her claim was that this was a normalization of the occupation and thus she will have no dealings with any Israeli organizations. Her last sentence almost knocked me off my chair. She said: “It’s nothing personal.”

How dare she tell me that it’s not personal when it was my very personal decision to work at a mixed organization? This was a big trauma for me, the story of course doesn’t end here, but it just gets too complicated to write about.

Anyway, this is where the current phase started for me. Up until then, I was still in the steering committee of Isha L’Isha’s Women, Peace and Security project. When I returned from the seminar, I took a break from the steering committee, thinking that I only need some time off my activism. Well, I’m still on that break. Many activities have been going on since then – there was a learning group on citizenship and feminism, of which I only attended the first meeting. Now I hear about plans for a weekend retreat to work on a feminist vision of citizenship. I was excited at first, and was even looking forward to participate. Now I’m hesitating again. Isha L’Isha was also just approved a big grant from the EU for the Women, Peace and Security project, and I got excited and thought to come back to the steering committee. But nothing happened and I am still not back.

I’ve been preoccupied by this process for the past few weeks, feeling that something is not right here. How come I am applying so much resistance to going back? What is it I fear? Yes, the contents are difficult to cope with, but I have a community of supportive friends who make the burden bearable. Or have I just reached a saturation point? I even went so far as calling the coordinator of our Women and Medical Technologies project, telling her that I’d love to become more active and volunteer in the project she’s coordinating.

But today I stop to write. Today I stop to think. Putting thoughts into concrete words on the page helps to make things clear. It helps to see the process. In the past years, I’ve had my “vacations” from the conflict – short two-three month breaks to get some air and then go back with renewed energies. This time, it’s been almost a year. I still do write about the conflict on my blog, and it still takes up the bulk of my novel. But no actions. Only words.

And when I think of the saturation point, I get scared. Because do I have the moral right to turn my back on the conflict? Tutu’s sentence keeps popping up in my head: “If you are silent in situations of injustice, you have taken the side of the oppressor." Does this mean that if I go on to pursue other things and become active in other, less “urgent” issues, that I have taken the side of the oppressor? And then, who is to decide what issues are more urgent than others?

I’ve read something that Talma recently wrote. She wrote that her mother told her to do anything she wanted, as long as her reflection in the mirror was clean. I think I will adopt this sentence for myself. It is such a simple yet strong image. And I know that I want to see a clean reflection of myself in the mirror. Clean and clear.

No. I don’t have an answer. The writing of this is only part of the process, and I guess I will continue to think it over. Fur now, I am at the stage of saturation. But then, things change all the time. One thing I know for sure: that the conflict will keep getting into my bed at night, if only as a dream. It will keep occupying a central place in my life, even if there will be long periods of time where I am not active in any physical sense.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Is there still Hope? - The Hebrew Version

Photograph by Sam Contis who also owns the cactus, which is a piece of art by Naomi Safran-Hon. The text in the image is by Hannah Safran. All rights reserved.

And so tonight I received a follow-up email from my friend Hannah Safran, with the Hebrew version of the cactus this time. In Hebrew, the words are different. It says: "and when they torture him, he will multiply and he will erupt." There is use of the affirmative in the sentence, stressing the act of multiplying and erupting. Thinking about it, the language is archaic and it may be something from the Torah.

Anyway - the Hebrew text only reinforces my second interpretation about the hope. That the desire of this cactus to live is so strong that it will even break through cement.

Is there still Hope?

Photograph by Sam Contis who also owns the cactus, which is a piece of art by Naomi Safran-Hon. The text in the image is by Hannah Safran. All rights reserved.

I received this photo today by email from a good friend of mine, Hannah Safran.
In the subject line, she wrote: "44 years against the occupation."
In the body of the email, she wrote: "the cactus grows inside the cement. is there still hope?"

The picture and the words can be interpreted in two contradicting ways.
When I first saw the picture and read the words, I felt sad. Something heavy settled in my stomach. Why? Because cement in this context connotes death for me - the solid end. And for a cactus to grow inside the cement - well, I thought to myself, it must have been out of desperation.

Then I closed the computer, went to bed, couldn't sleep, came back here, opened the email again, and read the words once again:
"the cactus grows inside the cement. is there still hope?"
I lingered on every word. The cactus is growing. It's growing. Yes, it's growing in the cement, but growing. Meaning that the cactus has not lost hope. On the contrary, this is one hell of a cactus! Won't give up! Life is so precious to it that it makes roots even in cement! It's rootedness - what we call SUMUD.

Then the other part of the sentence, "is there still hope?"
Well, let me tell you something! I have plans for a better tomorrow. If I didn't have dreams of a better tomorrow, then there would be no reason for me to be here.
And what is the alternative, anyway? To lose hope? Now that's the scary part. I don't even want to imagine what would happen if we do lose hope...

Militaristic Discourse like a Raging Fire

photo taken from israblog nana.

The Carmel Mountain burned for five days, and the all too known militaristic discourse which controls the consciousness of Israeli society, and constitutes the artificial glue holding everything together, reached new heights.

I didn’t follow the discourse closely, but there was no need to. There’s no need to search between the lines for this hard-core militaristic discourse. It stood out – there was no need to make extra efforts to notice it. I got updated on the news like any other citizen – about twice a day through online media, I read the Friday print-edition headlines and that’s pretty much about it.

So what did we have? Yes, I am well aware that when it comes to fire, there’s no way of avoiding the use of some language of fighting, like “fight the fire.” I’ve followed wild, raging fires around the world, but everywhere it was just a fire – nothing more. No government or media have ever made the fire serve a different cause. But of course in Israel, everything is looked at from a different perspective. Those in power (government and media) look for the hidden potential in everything; a potential to serve their own agenda. And the main agenda in Israel is to keep feeding the fear of society.

So what language did we have during and following the fire? Here’s some of the language. I didn’t write the expressions down, this is what I remember right off the top of my head, but there must be more. It would be interesting to take a sample of media items published during this time and make a research of the militaristic discourse used and the context in which it appears.

 “The Five Day War” – which immediately calls into mind the Six Day War of 1967.
 “An Environmental Holocaust” – no need for comments.
 “We don’t have another country, and it’s a very small country” – Netanyahu, Israel’s Prime Minister said this when asked how come they were able to put the fire out in such short period of time.
 The word “battle” instead of “fight.” In Hebrew – at least this is my own feeling – the word “battle” (krav) is a very strong word, reminding war.

Other than this, there were radio stations which broadcast 24/7 news of the fire. Updates, correspondence from the site, all kinds of interviews with fire experts, trauma experts, representatives from local municipalities, government officials, men from the military, police officers, people who had to evacuate, people whose houses were burned, you name it. And when they exhausted everything, it started all over again. This is the culture of war. This is what we have when there’s war, and the media reproduced it.

I don’t own a television, but when I was at my parents’ house, I saw the same thing on TV. At least a couple of channels were broadcasting issues related to the fire constantly.

These are my reflections on the discourse during and following the fire. They are not some subtle issues under the surface – this reproduction of the militaristic discourse was too strong to be ignored.

bathroom tiles, cornflakes and death to Arabs

It was such a good and fruitful day. You know, those days when you get out of the house in the morning with your "to do" list and actually outdo yourself and get much more done? Well, it was one of those days. I went to the office, and got tons of work done. In the evening, I went with my parents to Kufr Manda to help them pick new tiles for their bathroom, which was an extremely difficult task, but accomplished successfully.
By the time we got back to Haifa it was eight thirty in the evening, and I took a nice walk back home from my parents' house, meeting my daughter and two dogs halfway. On the way, I bought some cornflakes.
As we were nearing our house, I had a satisfying feeling of being tired. A good kind of tiredness from having a productive day. And then I saw it. At the entrance to our building - a car with a finger-written message on its unwashed back window. Normally it would say something like "wash me please." But this one was different. It said "Death to Arabs."

But of course we are immune to these graffiti, aren't we? After all, we see them all over. So what was so different about this particular one? It instantly threw me off my delicately balanced mental state. No, it wasn't panic. It wasn't surprise either. Nor fear. I can't quite put my finger on the emotion I felt at reading the words. But it was very disturbing emotionally and mentally. My first reaction was to look in the direction of my daughter, who was walking in front of me. I felt relieved that she didn't pay attention to it - she was looking straight ahead, being pulled by our two dogs. Then I looked around - for what of for whom, I don't know. The words and the strong emotions they evoked accompanied me to bed. This was two days ago. Tonight, the car is still parked right at the entrance to our building. The word "Arabs" was erased, leaving only "death to."

Breaking a Promise - Refusing to Apologize

I’ve been putting off writing about the following issue, as it’s been very difficult for me emotionally. This is to all my friends who don’t live in an armed-conflict zone and who have no idea how the conflict gets under our skins, affecting all areas of our daily lives.

Someone dear to me was coming from England to visit, and we arranged for my daughter to come wait for her at the airport. She was arriving at around 19:00, which was already quite late.

Getting to the airport from Haifa is quite easy by train, which takes about an hour and 20 minutes, and it goes all the way to the airport. So of course I was a bit worried about my 15 year old daughter traveling alone, but not too much. I had everything arranged – meeting point for them, telephone numbers, exact instructions for my daughter, etc.

And then, as life happens to unfold, something unexpected happened. The woman arriving (let’s call her Maria for the sake of convenience here), sent us a text message from the London airport that the plane is one hour behind schedule. This one seemingly insignificant hour threw me off balance (this is the whole point of this post, so bear with me and read to the end. I need to get the facts out of the way first before I start dealing with the conflict and how it’s connected to this). I immediately sent her a text message that my daughter will not come to pick her up, but apparently the message was lost in cyber-space and did not reach its destination.

Needless to say, and understandably, Maria reached Tel Aviv and was surprised that my daughter wasn’t there waiting for her. (Just for clarification: Maria knows her way around Israel, she’s been here several times and knows how to arrive by train on her own, which she did in the past).

So Maria arrived in Haifa alone by train, my father and my daughter were waiting for her at the Haifa train station. I didn’t come to the train station because when she arrived in Tel Aviv, she called us and said that she didn’t want to see me. Why? Because I promised that my daughter would wait for her and I broke my promise. Simple logic.

Upon arrival at my parents’ house, she attacked me, screaming between her tears that I am selfish and that I broke my promise. (I was also accused of playing the victim – but to this day this remains a mystery to me. I’ve never played the victim in my life, nor do I see myself a victim in any way.) I was not allowed to explain why I decided not to let my daughter come to the airport. I told Maria that when she is ready to hear my explanation, I am here and willing to explain. Throughout her whole stay in Haifa, she did not approach me once to demand an explanation.

Now back to the reason why and how it’s connected to the conflict. The one hour delay in the plane schedule – as I already said – threw me off balance. Different scenarios began running through my head. Many times, foreigners coming to Israel would be delayed by security forces for anywhere between 1-4 hours upon arrival. Recently, a German woman coming to do her internship at Isha L’Isha was taken to an investigation room and held there for 3 hours. The famous Spanish clown, Ivan Prado, was recently detained for six hours at the airport, following which he was denied entry and put on a return flight to Spain. More recently, the great linguist Noam Chomsky was not allowed entry either. Last month, Druze women who received permits from the Ministry of Interior to visit their relatives in Syria were denied entry back into Israel, of which they are citizens. The Occupation is built on arbitrariness. This very arbitrariness is a systemic policy designed to instill chaos into our lives.

I didn’t want my daughter to wait at the airport into the night. Another image – that of my daughter being beaten up on the bus by a grown woman just because she spoke Arabic on the phone – also came to my mind. Acts of violence on a racist basis have become rather the norm than the exception in Israel. I didn’t want to expose my daughter to unnecessary risks. This is my right as her mother. And nobody can take this right away from me.

I was asked to apologize, but I refused. I refuse to apologize for a decision that I made and for which I take full responsibility. It does hurt me that I didn’t get the opportunity to explain my decision. Looking back, I would have made the same decision again.

So if I am selfish by protecting my daughter, so be it. No, I can’t protect her forever from the conflict. She will get her share of it in due course. But for now, let her enjoy being a 15 year old as much as possible.

As for Maria, in her eyes I am still selfish. She hasn’t approached me since to demand an explanation. Maybe it’s convenient for her to think in a superficial black-and-white way in terms of me breaking a promise.

Many people who think they know everything there is to know about armed conflicts disregard the fact that the conflict is inherently connected to our everyday experiences. Every day, we have to make new decisions and negotiate our personal and private spaces according to the unfolding political reality. They refuse to see these connections, because then all their clean theories (anchored in a certain type of discourse that is not applicable to us) would collapse. They refuse to see, for example, that violation of women’s health rights are – in our case – connected to the conflict as well as to socio-economic issues. But this is for another post.

And lastly, you might wonder why I initially did agree that my daughter go to the airport. Well, for the very same reason. We do our best to live as much a normal life as possible in this insane, absurd reality.

While I slept

While I Slept

I’ve been trying to get my thoughts together and write something cohesive – a glimpse from the inside. But I feel so overwhelmed by all the disinformation, secrecy and lies. Trying to piece together a complete picture out of the fragments. I started writing last night, and I actually spent three hours writing, getting all the information from the various Israeli and international media together – but at the end, it just didn’t make sense to me.

So I decided to share with you my own day. A day in the life of one feminist activist. The day of 31 May 2010.

As I suffer from insomnia, and I’m used to work at night, I spent the night of the 30th working all night, writing. Before shutting the Internet, I got a last update on the www.witnessgaza.com website, and everything was fine. They were on their way, supposed to arrive in Gaza in the afternoon of the 31st. Then I opened my “Life in Fragments – Novel in Progress” file and started writing. At 8:00 in the morning, I went to bed – without getting updated on the web before shutting the computer.

And while I slept….

I woke up at 14:00, and a quick glance at my phone told me something was wrong. More than 20 unanswered phone calls: from my partner who is currently in Sweden, from my dad, from my colleagues at Isha L’Isha – Haifa Feminist Center, from one of our Swedish donors located in Jerusalem, and other friends. My phone also informed me of 7 new text messages. Upon opening my email, I was shocked to discover 45 emails! And all this before drinking my two cups of “morning” coffee!

I got quickly updated from my feminist friends. An emergency meeting was held at Isha L’Isha – Haifa Feminist Center (while I slept, but of course), and they formulated a statement of solidarity with the women activists on board the Peace Flotilla. I was also told that a solidarity demonstration is planned for 17:00 in front of the Rambam hospital in Haifa, where they were supposedly bringing some of the injured activists.

Now I have to share with you the implications of this location on demonstrators. Haifa is a mixed city, but with clear division between the Arab and Jewish neighborhoods (like in most mixed cities in Israel). Traditionally, most of the demonstrations take place just above Wadi Nisnas, in the heart of the Arab neighborhood. On the one hand, it is not a hostile environment for us, while on the other hand it is still a quite central location, as we stand on a main junction where many cars pass – both Jewish and Arab. The chances of violence breaking out are not high.

Any other location in Haifa constitutes a threat and is a hostile environment for us. Why? Most of the Israeli public backs all government policies and military actions 100%. They see the demonstrators as traitors. The Palestinian citizens of Israel are seen as traitors and enemies, while the Jewish demonstrators are viewed as “ochrei Israel.”

Thus, the demonstrators face hostility from two sides: passersby and the police. The police are usually very brutal and violent – in most cases initiating the physical outbursts of violence.

Back to the events of the day. As I said, I got all the information before being able to start my brain working. So I didn’t think about the location of the demonstration. Usually I try to avoid demonstrations with potential violence. I quickly got updated on the brutal attack of unarmed peace activists bringing humanitarian aid to Gaza by Israeli commando in International waters – through different websites. The Israeli media was very vague. No official reports of the number of killed. Everything was engulfed in secrecy. There was a lot of disinformation. I don’t own a TV, but my dad told me that the running caption throughout the news was that five Arabs from Haifa were killed, and that their families have been informed of their deaths. Needless to say this turned out to be not true – but only later during the day. I was also told by someone that the ship carrying Haneen Zuabi was being towed into the Haifa Port, which is close to the Rambam hospital. This rumor also turned out to be not true.

While getting updated I had my three big cups of coffee, then took a shower, and headed for the first demonstration. I arrived a few minutes after 17:00, to find 4 or 5 women friends at the entrance to the hospital. We waited for more people to arrive and, after about 15 minutes, we were a total of 20 people, feminist women, both Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel, and a few men. At this time, I thought we really looked pathetic. I was still not thinking about any risks or possible violence. We got out our posters and situated ourselves on the big roundabout close to the hospital. A few minutes after this, about 10-12 young people, I would say they were between 15-18, with Israeli flags and posters in support of the Israeli Defence Forces, situated themselves on the other side of the street, right opposite to us.

Two journalists were there to cover the demonstration. Some minutes later a small number of men and women joined the right-wing demonstrators. One man was particularly violent. He came close to us and started screaming at us: “Do you know Arabs? Do you know Arabs? Show me one Arab who doesn’t want to kill us and destroy us and take over our land. All they want to do is kill us. They don’t want peace.” He continued like this for a while, I guess he didn’t think there were any Arab demonstrators. He actually hurled at me the “Do you know any Arabs.”

At this point there was still no police in sight, and I was beginning to be afraid. I just stood there in silence. I didn’t want to provoke any physical violence. Call me a coward. If courage means getting beaten up, then I refuse to be courageous. I don’t want to get beaten up. I don’t want to get arrested. I don’t need to brag that I spent the night being investigated. I don’t need or want a “badge of courage.”


After a while the police arrived. And I do have to say that unlike their usual behavior, they were actually nice to us this time. The demonstration went on.

We were called names and we were cursed. Some of the verbal violence included words and phrases like: prostitute, disgusting, stinking, you get fucked from your ass (I am really sorry for these obscenities, but these are the actual words we were subjected to).

My Mizrahi friend (Mizrahis are Jews originally from Arab countries) were called names and my Russian speaking friends were told to go back to Russia, because “who needs you here? We don’t need you here! Who told you to come here?” We were also told that if we love Arabs so much, we should and live in Gaza or go to Lebanon.

I can’t remember right now all the other name calling and cursing, but these words remain in my memory.

At 6:20 we dispersed, and we all went to the second demonstration, the one in the usual location in Haifa. This one was a much bigger demonstration, I would say there were several hundreds. This time, there was quite a big presence of religious men. The demonstration began at 19:00 and it went smooth until we left. We left earlier because we had a collective meeting that night at 20:00 in Isha L’Isha. At the collective, we went over the statement that was formulated in the emergency meeting and in email correspondences throughout the day and changed some of the wording until every woman present felt that the statement is in line with her convictions. Then we had our regular discussion of the issues on the agenda.

It was a long evening for me, with quite a lot of confusion. I arrived home after 22:00, and got online hoping to get some facts. Still, no facts. Still, the official bodies of the state of Israel were silent. Until now, we don’t know the names of the murdered. We don’t even know the exact number of the wounded and the murdered.

The last two days have been insane for us all.

I want to thank all the support we received from our feminist friends around the world – Australia, Philippines, Uganda, Canada, the US, and others. Thank you for forwarding our statement. It is so important for us to get the word out that there are feminist women in Israel – Jewish, Palestinian citizens of Israel, lesbian, bi-sexual and Russian women who are working together in solidarity for peace, fighting injustice.

At this moment, the last ship, the MV Rachel Corrie, is making its way to Gaza. They have received the full support of the Irish government at this stage. However, Israel claims that it will be better prepared in the future for these ships. They also say that they will take all the necessary measures to stop any ships in the future from entering the Gaza port. And I really hope that nothing will happen to the activists on board the MV Rachel Corrie as I shut my computer and head to sleep. Because I really don’t have the energies for another “while I slept.”




The above picture was taken by Marie Dion

Imagine You're on a Military Training

Walking my two dogs in my neighborhood, I saw a mother with her 7 year old boy. The boy was carrying a cage with hamsters in it, and I heard him complaining to his mom how heavy the cage is and how difficult it is so him to carry it.

My first thought was that the mother would find words of motivation, telling him that he's doing great, or that they're almost home or some such words.
Instead, she tells him: "Stop being such a brat. Just pretend you're on a military training."

MILITARY TRAINING???? A seven year old boy????

I don't think I need to add any commentary here...

Leaving Part of my Identity Behind

I love winter.
I love it for private reasons, but I also love it because I like to wear my scarves. I have scarves of every color imaginable.
But the scarves I love most are forbidden to me.
If I wear the red-and-white Kafiyya I get suspicious looks. I feel like people stare at me like I'm a strange kind of cheese and they try to figure me out. But it's not that bad - I can manage with that.
The problem arises when I walk out of the house with the black-and-white Kafiyya. It has long lost its meaning.
It has been politicized and then de-politicized.
Politicized when the west has turned it into a symbol of terrorism.
De-politicized when it started being mass-manufactured by brand labels in all colors of the rainbow and become a fashion statement.
So before I leave the house in the winter, I put on my black-and-white Kafiyya, wrap it around my neck, and contemplate the woman with the olive skin in the mirror for a few moments.
Then, with a thread of sadness unspooling from a corner of my heart, I take it off and hang it back, leaving a part of my very identity at home.

On Nuclear Weapons: A Feminist Perspective

Ok, so I finally finished translating Isha L'Isha's position paper On Nuclear Weapons: A Feminist Perspective (the link is to a pdf document, so it might take a few seconds to open) into English. It's a fascinating document and highly recommended to get a fresh perspective on what it means for a country to possess nuclear power.

I am. I am: a woman. A mother. A feminist. A lover. A writer. An activist. An immigrant. A Palestinian. A citizen of Israel. Correction: a second-class citizen of Israel. All these and more compose my identity. Negotiating between these fragments of mine is an ever-demanding task, especially in our intricate reality. A reality where all the parts I just listed are marginalized – each one for different reasons. It can be difficult, but it can also be fun! To make up a new tapestry of identity every day. To invent myself by shuffling and rearranging the pieces in a different way each time. And each time to come up with something new!

Political [Personal] Fragments - Coming Up Soon

For those of you who wish to understand life in the context of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, especially its daily effects, I am working right now on a number of "fragments" from my daily life - incidents that highlight the militarization of Israeli society and how it affects me personally, as a Palestinian [second class] citizen of Israel.

These fragments are difficult to write, so it may take some time... it is not easy to write about these things, because they are made up of so many layers.

This activity is straining my mind. That’s the word – straining. Pulling, trying to expand my mind, but the mind has a mind of its own – it resists till the end. It is like a rock. Well, not really – that is a stupid simile. It feels sticky, uncooperative, unwilling to do what I will it to do.

Memories of Bombing [Second Lebanon War] August 2006

“Moments of Despair”

Sitting in the shelter of our building, I hear one, two, three, four missiles hit Haifa. This time I did not take my cell-phone down with me, and my partner has gone out to a job interview. I am sure one of the missiles has hit just 500 meters from our building – the sound of explosion was so loud. A few minutes go by; all I can hear is my heart beating somewhere close to the surface of my body. It has left its place – I can feel it in my brain…

Fifteen minutes go by and I rush upstairs. I panic. My partner’s phone rings, but no answer. I dial again, with trembling hands, and his phone is dead. I want to run outside into the silent streets and shout his name.

On the news, they are showing the neighborhood where one of the missiles hit. A flash of fear passes in front of my eyes – I immediately recognize the street as the one next to my grandmother’s home. This is exactly where my father parks his car when he goes to visit her. I grab the phone again – and for a moment cannot remember my parents’ number. I have to rake my memory for it before I dial. No answer. I dial three more times, but still no answer. His cell-phone is dead. I rush to the news again and search the faces, the cars, but cannot find him or his car among the images. Where is father???

I don’t know what to do, so I just stand still, waiting for the calamity.

Has my world disappeared in one, single moment? Has it crumbled upon itself?

I sit down on the sofa and wait. For what, I do not know. My brain is empty. I listen for the sounds of sirens, screams, anything, but all I can hear is the silence after death.

I try my parents’ house again, and my father picks up the phone. “You are alive!!!” my father was at home, trying to get in touch with his older brother, who had been at my grandmother’s house at the time of the bombing. Nobody from my family was hurt – at least for the time being.
My partner returns home half an hour later.

Haifa has turned into a ghost town. We wake up to the sounds of missiles and go to sleep with the sounds of Israeli airplanes over our heads and reverberations from Israeli tanks firing into the night, across the border. For my family, life has come to a stop. We stay home all day, shuffling tiredly back and forth between the shelter and the apartment. My body feels stiff from lack of movement. I feel exhaustion – my body is just a hollow container, my mind wanders about, unfocused. During the day, I am afraid to leave the house, and in the evenings, I rush out to buy just the bare necessities.

I have a small bag ready by the door – my passport, documents, money, all my important documents on the tiny disk-on-key, my novel-in-progress, a notebook, and some clothes – in case of an emergency. Then I open the newspaper and I see a Lebanese mother of five carrying some pillows from the wreckage that was her home.

We live in a region where much blood has been shed. But I have never actually felt the fear as I do now. Never before was my life interrupted – or controlled – by war. Never before was my very existence in danger. This war has changed my priorities in life. Things that only yesterday seemed so important to me lose all meaning. When have we become monsters that care nothing for human lives?

I try to focus my mind and think clearly – with no success. There is something deep down within the folds of my soul that is moving ever so violently, trying to escape and make its appearance on the page. I try to put this something into words – but what? Words just fail me. I – master of words – can come up with nothing to write. For no words can convey these feelings of devastation, feelings of the utmost despair.

A typical class in civil studies

Teacher: Today is Independence Day. What are we celebrating?
Student A: The Jewish victory!
Teacher: Good. What else?
Student B: The expulsion of Palestinians from this land.
Student A: Yes, I heard of them. Palestinians.
Teacher: We used to be part of that people, but not anymore.
Student B: So who are we?
Teacher: To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. Some claim we are Israelis. Others say we are traitors.
Student C: What about the Nakba?
Teacher: Shut your mouth! Can you find anything about it in our books?
Student C: No, but not everything is written in history books.
Teacher: Everything you need to know, everything the Master wants you to know, is written down for you in these books. You must not know anything else!
Student B: So was there a Nakba?
Teacher: I thought I made it clear to you! Repeat after me: There was no Nakba. There was no Nakba!
Class: There was no Nakba.
Teacher: We suffer from an inherent social inferiority.
Class: We suffer from an inherent social inferiority.
Teacher: Only our Master has the right to educate us. We are not able to write our own history books, because we have no history. We have to learn the history of the Master, because we live under his mercy. Tomorrow we will continue and we will read some of the poems of the great national poet.
Student A: Wow! Will we really be studying national poets?
Teacher: Of course, it’s in the curriculum.
Student A: I hope it will be Gassan Kanafany.
Teacher: What did you say?! I told you, a national poet!
Student A: I thought Kanafany was a national poet.
Teacher: He was a traitor! For tomorrow, please read the first two poems by Hayyim Nahman Bialik in your literature books, and we will discuss the historical events related to his poems so you have a better understanding of the history of the Master.
Student C to student A: Kanafany, what a weird name. Bialik sound much more poetic.
Student A: Yeah, I guess so… I hope he is at least as good as Kanafany.

(c) All rights reserved for Khulud Khamis (2008)

A Heart from Jenin

Ahmad El Khatib was only 12 years old when shot dead by the Israeli "Defence Forces." He was playing with a plastic gun and they thought he was a "terrorist."

His parents, Abla and Ismael El Khatib, decided to fight back with the most human weapon there could ever be - to donate little Ahmad's organs (including his heart) to children citizens of Israel.

Six children received Ahmad's organs. One didn't make it out of the operation room, and two decided to remain anonymous. The rest are a Bedouin boy from the Negev desert, a Druze girl from the Galilee, and a religious Jewish girl from Jerusalem. Ismael regularly visits the two Arab families, and he sees in these young children the life of Ahmad. To him, part of Ahmad is still alive.

The emotional story is told in the documentary film A Heart from Jenin, which was screened in Haifa in May. After the screening of the film, there was an opportunity for the audience to engage in a discussion with the Ismael and the film director, Marcus.

A man got up, introduced himself as a physician, and began his colonial monologue:
"We - the Arabs of the 'inside' - have great power. We can help you. We have a lot of influence in hospitals. If you just come to us, and ask us for help, we will help you."

This discourse of power, the strong 'us' coming to save the weak 'you' is an emulation of the very colonial discourse we are trying so hard to eradicate. It was difficult to sit there and listen to this complete blindness to reality, the ignorance of the mechanisms at work.

Every day, there are Palestinians passing through checkpoints from the West Bank to Israeli hospitals for medical procedures. Every day, there are women (some men, but mainly women), who give up hours of sleep, fill up their car tanks, and head to these checkpoints to drive children, women, men, and the elderly to the hospitals, stay there with them, and then back to the checkpoint.

The physician’s speech only showed how some of the Palestinians living inside Israel are ignorant of the reality. They prefer to watch the news and say “oh, poor Palestinians. I wish there was something I could do to help them.” And then, when the news is over, they continue on with their bourgeois lives. They make no effort whatsoever to get up, open the door and take some active steps.

I am positive that the physician who spoke at the film screening has done nothing since then.

When will we stop using the colonialist discourse? When will we start seeing that we have a responsibility towards ourselves?

(c) All rights reserved to Khulud Khamis (2008)