For Juliano, life was art and art was resistance

Again, tragedy strikes. Again, I am struggling with words. And again, words are failing me when I most need them. Because what words can be used to describe feelings beyond pain, agony and desperation? Words seem too shallow for the emotions lodged somewhere inside of me, refusing to budge. But then, I chose words as my medium, so for me – what else is there other than words?

I received the news of Juliano’s murder from my father – his voice had urgency in it. He spoke in rapid words, “hada takhu la Juliano” (they shot Juliano) First, disbelief. Then, deeper disbelief. I put the phone down, my brain in chaos. No. My father must be mistaken. It just can’t be. But then reality hit me in the face – of course it can be! After all, we live in an armed conflict zone. Where life and death are interconnected and tragedy can strike at any moment. Though I know this, every time it succeeds in astonishing me and in disturbing my mental and emotional balance.

A chaotic evening followed – phone calls, chat, emails… And when I couldn’t stay with it any longer, I went to a café and had two badly needed glasses of wine. A close friend contained me with all my sadness and weakness, not letting me fall apart and shatter on the ground into fragments. And when I came back home, I collapsed into my bed, thoughts of Juliano again taking up all the space in my brain.

Juliano Mer Khamis, son of a Palestinian father and a Jewish mother. In a land torn between two peoples, he at once belonged to both and to neither. In a land where national and religious identity is central to most, he transcended to a place beyond – for him, life was art and art was resistance. For him, there were no distinctions between these three separate concepts.

A one-of-a-kind artist and political activist, Juliano was wholly dedicated to fostering a new, young generation of Palestinians with a vision of reaching freedom through artistic, non-violent means. Juliano wanted to reconstruct and rebuild that which has been destroyed. He wanted to give the children of the Jenin refugee camp hope – and for that he was murdered. He wanted to give them creative tools so that they can stand up with their head high and struggle for their freedom and their rights with art – and for that he was murdered.

The murder hit close home because we have something in common yet different – the use of art as a means of political action and resistance. But whereas I walk carefully between the drops of rain, making every effort to avoid getting wet, Juliano stepped into the puddles. He was true to himself as an artist, true to himself as a human being, and true to his values. His art was above and beyond his fear for his personal security. His was fearless commitment with no real regard to consequences, whereas mine is muddled with rational thoughts of “what ifs.”

And this takes me back to a thought that takes up much space in my personal writing: “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” (Desmund Tutu)

There are many things I fear writing about publicly. I fear for my own personal safety and for the safety of my daughter. And thus much of it remains in my private collection, not seeing the light and not reaching readers. This is what bothers me most – how true am I to my values of justice? To what extent am I willing to step into puddles and not avoid the rain drops? To what extent am I willing to merge my writing – my art – with my resistance? Where are the boundaries and to what extent do I stretch them in the name of…?

What I do know for a fact now that Juliano’s murder opened up this space for me – a deeper crack to examine my writing and the issues I avoid writing about for fear of… because for me, there’s no point in writing if it doesn’t serve a higher purpose and the values I believe in. If it doesn’t strive to make structural social change…

my private revolution

sunrise in Uganda. photo by khulud kh. All rights reserved.

There are grand revolutions that affect the future of whole nations, such as the one we recently witnessed in Egypt. And then there are calm revolutions that sometimes happen without us even noticing. Mine is one such calm revolution but which affected my life tremendously. Becoming part of Isha L’Isha’s supportive feminist community has changed me immensely on many levels. One major impact directly related to Isha L’Isha is the development and rise of my political voice. I live my life through words, but for the most part they have been hidden in the folds of my private life. With the support of my feminist friends, and the feminist outlook that the personal is political, my small revolution began taking root. Today I feel that my own personal experiences have the legitimacy and the right to take up space in the public sphere. Today, I am no longer intimidated to make my voice heard loud and clear. Today, I no longer have doubts about sharing my personal experiences and connecting them to the larger socio-political reality. For me, this is a tiny revolution on a major scale, and it has affected my development as a writer. For this, I will always be grateful to the supportive and empowering feminist women of Isha L’Isha.

Preventing Assimilation in the holy land

Let's try to imagine the following scene:
You are walking in a major city in the United States. The year is 2011. You walk into a nice restaurant, and settle down with the menu. As you look around you on the pictures hanging on the wall, you see a certificate close to the bar. You want to know what kind of a certificate this restaurant received, so you walk over and read the following: “This is to certify that this business does not employ Blacks.”
Or does it say, “This is to certify that this business does not employ Jews.”
So, is this racism? I don't think that there is one person who would argue otherwise.

Now let's switch to Israel 2011. “LEHAVA – Preventing Assimilation in the Holy Land” recently convened a conference in Jerusalem, where they launched their new campaign for “Preventing Assimilation in the Holy Land.” The idea is to issue certificates to businesses who commit to not employing Arabs. The certificate reads “this is to certify that this employer employs Jews and does not employ enemies.” In a news item, one of the business owners proudly said, “I'm not a racist. I just love Jews more.” And I am wondering... how many people are still blind in this country? And how far can this insane racism go?

"Security" everywhere

You can’t go anywhere in Israel without being searched – your bag, your car, your body. Security guards lurk everywhere – coffee shops, shopping malls, schools, buses, businesses. Their metal detecting machines are ready to slide down your body ever so slowly, revealing those hidden secrets in the folds of your dress.

I try to avoid shopping malls as much as possible. But today I had an errand – Ziyad’s phone was dead and the cell-phone company’s service center is located in the Haifa shopping mall. So I had no choice.

We passed the first security guard – he was sitting on a chair, looking decidedly bored. He thought we were not worth a second glance. A young woman behind the wheel with an unshaved man sitting next to her. Ziyad’s unshaven beard has become his unequivocal stamp: his statement to the world. Not that he needs it, with his dark complexion he undoubtedly looks the part. Now if he were driving, the security guard wouldn’t let us pass so easily. But I guess he only saw me, it was already getting dark, and it was probably the end of his shift and all he wanted was to get the hell out of there – out of his security guard role for the day.

The second security guard stopped us. He opened the back door, making small talk. The “good evening how are you” is meant to identify the distinctive Arabic accent. We had some papers strewn on the back seat, and the guard asked if they were business papers. He then asked me to open the trunk of the car. And that’s where it all began. For some reason, I couldn’t open the trunk. Ziyad came out of the car, tried to open it, but still it wouldn’t budge. Ziyad’s irritation began to surface as he talked to me in Arabic. The guard studied us, still calm. But when Ziyad told him “the trunk won’t open, what’s the problem just let us go,” he began showing signs of distress. He got on his communication radio and reported to a more senior guard “come quickly, there’s a man here who won’t open the trunk for inspection.” I knew that was what Ziyad needed to hear to lose control. “Why did you lie?! Can’t you see I’m trying to open the trunk?! What do you want me to do, it won’t open!!” They exchanged some words, all the while ignoring me. I said to the guard, “listen, friend, the car is mine; I’m responsible for opening the trunk, so you deal with me. And you, Ziyad, get in the car and be quiet.” Ziyad shot me a dark look, telling me “get inside the car and shut up!”

Then another guard appeared, the one summoned. He was calm, I could even see a trace of a smile on his face. “What’s the problem?” “The problem is that your guard here is a liar. The trunk won’t open, and he says that I refuse to open it for inspection.” I tried to make myself visible again, “the car is mine, I’m responsible for it being opened for inspection. The trunk won’t open.” “Shut up,” Ziyad shot at me, this time with a wicked smile. “See how he talks to her? She is so polite, and look how he is behaving,” the first guard tells the second guard. The second guard smiled at me and asked to see my ID card. I handed him my driver’s license instead. “Have a good day,” and he let us go.


Looking back at the incident, I see at least three levels of interaction:
(1) The most obvious one is the “security” issue. Ziyad looks the “terrorist” part: his heavily-accented Hebrew, his agitated mood, unshaven beard and dark skin. He fits the profile security guards are trained to immediately identify. An all too familiar scenario must have run through the guard’s mind: Ziyad was using a “clean-looking” woman as a distraction; the bomb was hidden in the trunk. At a certain point I could see the flash of horror in the guard’s eyes – the bomb would go off, killing us all on the spot. A scenario he got drilled about during his training period, but he never actually imagined he would have to cope with it in real life. Until this moment, it was just theoretical matter he had to study in order to get his gun.
(2) The second level has to do with the politics of identities and ethnicities. The security guard was an Ethiopian immigrant. Ethiopians have been placed by Israeli society at the bottom of the social ladder, even below Arabs. So this was a contest between the two men, each making an effort to make himself look superior by crushing the other into that low inferiority.
(3) The raw, primitive form of male dominance. Each of them tried to prove that he is the “man” and has the final word. I don’t need to go into this – it’s the same old battle of men since the beginning of history.

I’m sure this list is incomplete, and upon deeper examination, additional layers can be revealed. But this was my own personal-political experience, yet again proving that the personal is indeed political.

leave the back door open

So… what can I tell you…
I’ve been trying to get closer to you,
I’ve tried so many paths – unused and new.
But each time – you slam the door in my face!

So… what can say to you…
I am not a woman of games.
This labyrinth is not for me – anymore.
Not at my age.

So… what can I ask you…
Maybe you could just once –
Leave a door open…
I’ll settle even for that rusty old back door.
And we could just pretend – that you forgot to close it… once…

taking pain, sadness and grief for a walk in the rain

(partial post - to be continued later)


So I admit. Not everything has to be connected to the conflict (although if I dig deep enough, I’m sure to find the connection). I’m making an effort here to avoid making this post a cliché, but I guess it’s unavoidable in this case.

Walking in the rain without an umbrella.

There comes a time in life when all there is left to do is let the rain soak up the body to the bone, hoping that from this place we can only grow.

Pain becomes a physical entity, first lodging itself in the throat, refusing to come back up with a cough, yet determined not to slide down either. But slowly, the body makes an opening, letting the pain glide down. (this process can take up to two weeks).

Upon reaching the stomach cavity, the pain is joined by sadness first, and then by grief. Together, they make a comfortable home for themselves in the stomach – dragging in heavy furniture and thick blankets, for they are planning to stay the winter.

And so I walk around with them inside me. They feel very heavy in there – what furniture they brought in! And when I almost gave in to them, it started raining. Being a woman of the winter, I grabbed my heavy fleece coat, put the hood over my head, and took my pain, sadness and grief for a walk in the rain. Without an umbrella.

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.

"You can't join the group because you're not Palestinian"

“You can’t join the group because you’re not Palestinian.” It was said as a joke, and she of course didn’t really mean that I couldn’t join the group. But it was a shock to me nevertheless. It’s been a while since I felt an outsider, not belonging to either culture. I remember myself as a child – always somewhere in the corner, never belonging. I was the “foreigner.” I tried hard to fit in, but never quite succeeded. Something was always somewhat off; things never fit exactly into their neat slots. This feeling accompanied me throughout my adolescent years in high school. As an adult, I came to terms with my bi-cultural background and found my identity. Yes, I come from two cultures. But today I feel that my identity is much more closely connected to my Palestinian side than my Slovak. It might be because I left Slovakia at the tender age of eight. It might be because I know almost nothing of Slovakia’s history or literature. It might be because I was searching for roots for so long and when I didn’t find any, I sprouted some here on the slope of the Haifa Carmel Mountain. I don’t know the exact reasons why, nor do I feel any need for them. But I know that I am a Palestinian. Is there a need to explain why? No, I don’t think so either.

Whenever I am asked to present myself, somebody always reminds me in one form or another that I am “half-and-half.” I wonder why they feel this need? What, am I less of a Palestinian because I have foreign blood in me? I don’t want to be looked at as a foreigner anymore. I had been a foreigner – an outsider – most of my childhood years. No more! I am not “half-and-half.” I am a whole. And it is up to me how I present myself to the world. If I feel I am wholly Palestinian, then I am wholly Palestinian, and nobody has the right to take this identity away from me.

So when she said the words – even though jokingly – I felt again my identity is being questioned. But it wasn’t only questioning my identity, but my very belonging to this group of feminist activists, with whom I struggle daily for justice. Suddenly, my very right to stand by her side and to struggle along with her was undermined. Because I am not a Palestinian. Her words threw me again into a turmoil of representation and how I am perceived by my colleagues. Am I still perceived as an outsider? Do I not have the same claims to make my voice heard as they do? Only because my blood contains foreign blood-cells? I stand up and I refuse this label. I am not an outsider. I am not a foreigner. I am Palestinian.
Afterthought: No, being Palestinian of course isn’t my sole identity. I have a plethora of other identities which together compose my whole person. I’ve written about this in the past, for example in the post I am.

CITIZENSHIP DENIED

A new amendment to the Citizenship Act will be presented at the next government meeting in the Knesset (Israeli Parliament) in the next few days. An amendment according to which anyone seeking Israeli citizenship has to declare “loyalty to a Jewish and democratic State of Israel.” I read the article in Hebrew, then searched for the English version, because I know that English versions of news articles often don’t match their original Hebrew. Thus, the English article doesn’t mention one small – but very significant – detail. This amendment, should it pass, will not be applicable to new immigrants who are seeking Israeli citizenship by virtue of the Law of Return. Now here’s the twist: the Law of Return is based on a racist ideology, granting the Right of Return only to Jews. Following simple logic, not only is the amendment in itself racist as well, applying to certain religious and/or ethnic groups, but it is outright ridiculous. Since Palestinians and/or other Arabs who don’t already hold citizenship are not entitled to citizenship in the first place, and since new immigrants seeking citizenship under the Law of Return are exempt from declaring their loyalty to a “Jewish and democratic State of Israel,” then who in the world is the amendment supposed to be applicable to?

p.s. please bear with me - there's just so much going on here, and I'm trying to write about everything, but just don't have the time - I've got 3 articles in the process right now, so hopefully I'll be posting them soon.

losing my disk-on-key – discovering an Arab at the pool

Losing my disk-on-key – discovering an Arab at the pool

Yesterday morning I lost my wallet. Everything in it was replaceable of course, but the shock of losing my disk-on-key stayed with me all day long. As I don’t trust technological gadgets, I always make sure I have backup for my writing on 2 computers and an external hard-drive. I try to send a copy of my “Life in Fragments” novel in progress to my email when I remember. But the most updated versions are always on my disk-on-key, as I use different computers when I write. Well, the last back-up I did was two weeks ago, and since then I wrote a lot. All that is lost now. I cannot replace the words I wrote or retreat them from memory. It took me a full day to overcome this small tragedy of mine.

This morning, I religiously updated all my back-ups, and then decided to stop moping around and get to work. I started going through the hundreds of writing files that accrued during my years of writing. Many of them unfinished pieces and beginnings of short stories. I discovered a piece I wrote back about three years ago, about my experience when a receptionist at the pool said to me, after I showed her my ID, “You know, if it weren’t written down here, I would have never believed you were an Arab.” I discovered other stories left unfinished for various reasons. Going through them, reading some parts, I am filled with renewed energies. I never discard a piece, even if it’s only one paragraph. I believe that if I wrote it, then there’s a reason behind it. Sometimes I leave a piece because I feel I’m not ready to cope with the subject at hand. So I’m taking this as an opportunity to go back to my past writing and rediscover themes. Sometimes it’s good to stop and go back. Writing about an experience with a distance of time can give new perspectives.

Follow up here for the whole story of the pool – and other stories. Coming soon.

family matters

The following event succeeded in getting awed replies even from my friends here in Haifa who are well aware of these issues.

I was invited for a job interview at one of the largest Palestinian NGOs in Israel advocating for the rights of the Palestinian citizens of Israel. I walk in the room, and am greeted by the director (needless to say he’s a man), and the two deputy directors (both women). Before we start the interview, the director asks one of the women to make him coffee. Then the phone rings, and he asks the same woman to answer the phone. She picks up, and says that it’s for him. He doesn’t approach the phone, but rather asks her to ask the caller what it is, and then tells her what to reply.

A few minutes later, we are all seated at a round table, the director looks down at my resume, and reads out loud “khulud kh____.” A short pause, while he tries to figure me out. “Where are you from originally? And are you related to so and so?” For about ten minutes, I find myself answering these questions that have nothing to do with me or my skills. He needs to know whose daughter I am, which village my family comes from originally, whether I’m related to the Kh who is a member of the Haifa city council, and if – by chance – I’m related to that Kh who married a Jewish woman. Of course he doesn’t ask me if I’m Muslim or Christian, but this is also important to him. He discerns this from the answers to the other questions.

I was accepted for the job, but needless to say that even before they informed me of their decision, I made up my mind. I will not work in a place where part of my job description is making coffee. I will not work in an organization where my family’s background is more important than my abilities, skills, and potential.

This incidence is an example of why I tend to drop my family name. I resist the labels people attach to me just because of my family name. I resist the preconceptions people have about who I am based on my family’s background. Yes, I share a collective history with my family. I’m not breaking away from them, no. All I want is to be accepted for being who I am, and not for being the cousin of, or the daughter of.

Family reputation here is of great significance. So if I come from a “respected” family, lucky me. But if I don’t? I don’t even want to go in this direction here – because this is not what matters to me. I am not trying to hide my family’s name and thus my family’s background because they’re perceived as “respectable” or “not respectable.” This is not the issue here. Just as I don’t want people attributing negative conceptions to me based on my family’s name, I also don’t want them attributing positive ones based on it.

I am a full, complete person with abilities, emotions, ideas, and my own political stance. I have my own goals and visions as well as my own challenges and dilemmas. In an ideal setting, I imagine meeting a person and introducing myself as khulud. khulud the individual, complex person.

Of course family plays a significant role in how I developed to be the woman I am today. But this is in the small daily interactions with my close family members. The fact that I’m related to someone who’s on the Haifa city council doesn’t count here. I don’t see how the very distant relative (whom I never even met) who married a Jewish woman has any effect on me, or the fact that two of my cousins are advocates. What’s that got to do with me???

Notes from underground

I am continuously faced with the difficulty of negotiating my spaces of existence. It is becoming harder and harder to find the emotional space to write, not to talk about the actual physical time and space. I find myself increasingly sitting at the computer screen into the small hours of the night, at times even greeting dawn, as I sit here with my coffee (trying to replace it with ginger tea, but it's not really working), cigarettes and two dogs.

Sometimes I reach the breaking point. Sometimes I want to give up. The effort to find the space and time - to clear all the clutter of the day from my mind - becomes an unbearable task. But something deep inside me keeps tugging at me. Keeps telling me that I need to do this. I need to write. To me, writing is like breathing. I imagine sometimes breathing as painful - but there is no other option. I have to keep breathing even if it causes agonizing pain.

Lately, I received some very heartwarming personal emails from some of you. Some even from people I don't know. I just want to tell you that your emails - maybe you didn't think of them like that - are lifesaving to me. They join the other life-lines I hang on to. I don't know what you think of my person, maybe you think I have all the confidence in the world and that words come easily to me. Well, writing is a struggle. It's an amalgamation of agony and ecstasy. But confidence? That's also a problematic word. Sometimes I believe. Sometimes I waver and am uncertain. Sometimes I have faith in my own abilities - but more importantly in my mission. Other times I feel frustration and don't see any progress. But with all this - it has never crossed my mind to abandon my goal.

But I think that a major cause for my frustration is actually not directly connected with writing itself. It's connected with being unable to find that silent, free space: mental, emotional and physical. The small tasks of life are so demanding, sometimes not leaving us time even for a hug. But I make an extra effort. Sometimes I give up another hour of sleep, pass a good read, or skip a nice relaxation. At the end, it's a matter of choice.

What's the point in writing this post? I think it has served its point!
Good night all and see you around the corner, khulud.

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