the only way I know

I tried to – 
love you 
gradually.
but I failed.

I tried to – 
love only
parts of you.
and I failed.

So I settled for
loving you
the only way I know

wholly
completely
utterly

- khulud خلود

clouds visit the mountains

losing you
in the rain
a tree drops
one leaf
then another

clouds visit the mountains
on road B311

against the flow of the river
through
in between
the mountains

finding you
losing myself
finding something new

khulud, August 2014, Austria

erasing my language, silencing my voice, erasing my smile. But I rise and smile

You try to scare me. Make me shrink. Further.

Make me walk the streets of my city

My city

Trying to take up less space.

For two whole weeks that I’ve been avoiding public transportation. And when I had to take the train, and wanted to take my laptop out to work, I remembered it had stickers in Arabic on it, saying: “my right to live, to chose, to be.”

So the laptop remained in my backpack. Along with my language.

When my friend called during that same train ride, I mumbled quietly, “aha, hmmm, yeah, ok, bye.”

Before riding the train back home, I had on a shirt with the writing: “the personal is political” in Arabic and Hebrew. My friend asked me if I was sure I wanted to wear this shirt on the train. I looked down at the shirt, and again, packed my language inside my backpack.

For two whole weeks, they have succeeded in crushing me, in erasing my language, silencing my very voice, even my smile. The feeling was one of complete paralysis.

But today I rise, and I smile. Because erasing my smile would mean they have succeeded in their mission of crushing me. And today I raise my voice and say: with all the devastation around us, with over 1,400 dead women, girls, boys, and men in Gaza, with the all permeating sense of helplessness, and the crushing sense of hopelessness, we will not give you the satisfaction of yielding. We will not be crushed. Our smiles will not be erased, no matter how hard you try! No matter how hard you try to erase my language, silence my voice, I raise my voice for justice. And I refuse to lose hope, and I refuse to give up on my smile. Because we, sir, teach life! In spite and despite all your attempts to crush the life out of us. We rise, we smile, and we teach the world life!

khulud, 1 August 2014

Haifa

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

war is not my language - الحرب ليست لُغتي

photo from the album "war is not my language". All photos can be circulated, shared, and used, under condition credit is given. If possible, provide a link to this poem, and notify me (via email, facebook, comment here).

الحرب ليست لُغتي

war is not my language

no more of yours F-16s
no more of your tanks!
(and your other American made deadly toys)
no more of your Qassams[1]

no more!

Khalas!
we are sleepless
our bodies – collapsing, shaking, bloodied, amputated, dead.

الحرب ليست لُغتي

war is not my language

rule and divide
rule and divide
rule and divide
NO MORE!

we refuse.
we scream in desperation
let us live
stop the murder.

LIFT the siege off Gaza
LET the fishermen fish
and let the boys PLAY football.

الحرب ليست لُغتي

war is not my language

LIFT the siege off Gaza

LET the women live with dignity

and let the girls SWIM in the sea

divide and rule
divide and rule
NO MORE!

we refuse!
we stand up and loudly, clearly say
together, Jews and Palestinians –
we refuse your wars
we refuse to be enemies

الحرب ليست لُغتي

war is not my language


divide and rule
NO MORE!

(c) khulud khamis, خلود خميس
Haifa, 19 July 2014
حيفا, تموز 2014

---

[1] searching for the correct spelling, I find out that Izz ad-Din Al-Qassam lived part of his life in Haifa, my home, playing a major part in laying the foundation for the Black Hand (al-kaff al-aswad) الكف الأسود

the incompetence of words

the first time you
whispered the – 
word
it took my breath away
in the dark
I remained silent.

this word
for me
is too small to –
contain all that is
in my soul my mind my body

I remain silent
awed
at the incompetence of
words.

- khulud خلود

the political is personal

The political is personal

My daughter, having grown up in a radical feminist environment of the Haifa Women’s Coalition house, mainly surrounded and supported by the community of Isha L’Isha – Haifa Feminist Center and Aswat, has grown up to become an assertive young feminist herself. It is a wonder seeing her growing up and forming her own opinions on different issues. I always learn from her, as she keeps reminding me in so many ways that there is not one feminism, but many feminisms. We have discussions on issues affecting women; sometimes we agree, other times we don’t.

The most recent disagreement between us reflects the disagreement within the radical feminist movement in general, and that is the use of our bodies in our struggles. Women have chosen to use their bodies throughout the years in different political struggles, which can be seen in recent years in the protests surrounding the Russian feminist punk rock protest group Pussy Riot and the SlutWalks.

My daughter took part in this year’s Haifa SlutWalk, and she decided to dress in a certain way, thus using her own body to make a political statement. For those who don’t know the history of the Slut Walk, it started in January 2011, following a remark by a “representative of the Toronto Police” who “gave shocking insight into the Force’s view of sexual assault by stating: ‘women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized.’” (SlutWalk).

When I saw what my daughter chose to wear, my first reaction was to try to persuade her not to dress in this way. Here I had to negotiate my own identities as a feminist and as her mother. Here I also realized that the feminist saying we always stress, “the personal is political,” also works in the opposite direction. In this case, the political became the personal.

Of course we both agree that women should have the right to dress whichever way they want and not be sexually harassed. Our disagreement was on the way we each choose to make our political statement. I myself don’t use my body in my activism, but I respect women who choose to do so. And thus, ultimately I had to respect my daughter’s choice. She is, after all, a grown young woman who received feminist education and all the tools to make her own choices. She is free to choose to use her body in her activism.

It was not easy seeing her during the SlutWalk procession as on the personal level I had mixed feelings about it. However, I was so proud of her. Proud of her courage, proud of her assertiveness, proud of her choice to stand up for women’s rights.

  

drawing histories

Maisoon drew with pencil the history etched into the walls, the sparks of weddings that never were outside the window into the black sky, the cracks between the stones unhealed scars, the mud the dried up blood of life unborn, the dust beneath her legs all those tomorrows that never were. It was a sketch of her grandmother's story the story of all grandmothers the home of all mothers only this one room. Into this one room she poured their laughter from before and also their grief from after and the blood shed.

- khulud, edited from Haifa Fragments, a novel forthcoming by Spinifex Press

breathing in the words

"Sitting here now watching the wrinkles of these old doors and writing such nonsense as the painting of the letters. But no matter it is only words but then I live my life through words I like to breathe them in slowly and fill my lungs with them and then feel them warmly spread through my blood to all parts of my body until I reach the saturation point but I can never reach that point. The more I breathe them in the more I want of them even now when I promised never to breathe these words out of my body again. But a time comes when I can no longer contain them within me and have to breathe them out somehow someway because ultimately I need to take a fresh breath. But life doesn’t wait Asmahan not for me not for you not for us. And so I must breathe all these words out and empty my body of them so that I could somehow someway pick up some fragments of me before they are scattered and lost completely."

- from Majid's doors of writing, edited from Haifa Fragments manuscript, forthcoming by Spinifex Press.

Haifa fieldnotes - Wadi Nisnas souk

He walked into the tumultuous souk with abandon, his mind a blank, treading on unfamiliar ground. His was the clean supermarket, lit with sharp blinding neon lights, where every product had a label on it: where it was produced, by whom it was imported, who the distributor was, number of calories, the vitamins and minerals it contained, colour additives and other chemicals. They came in a variety of shapes, sizes, colours. Plastic, glass, tin, cardboard. In bags, bottles, and boxes. Smiling faces of young beautiful women and children (all light skinned with blue or hazel eyes, but of course) peeked from every shelf, winking at him, promising a better something. He did his shopping automatically, grabbing the cheaper product rather than the one that promised it had no artificial flavours added. But here, in this haphazard souk, with its own chaotic order, he felt out of sync. Olive oil was sold in plastic bottles which originally held bubbly drinks that tickle your tongue just so swiftly, flying through the nose like tiny dust particles that attach themselves forcefully to every in-breath. Ziyad couldn’t tell which olive oil came from the Triangle area and which from the North. To him, the bottles all looked the same – the only difference their single eyes – the plastic caps screwed in place. These came in reds, blues, grays, and greens. 

Ziyad puts two boxes with the same winking blue-eyed kid in his cart. Never mind that he doesn’t usually eat this cereal; it’s buy one get the second for half price. He can’t pass the deal. He pushes the creeping fact that the company has been suspected of trafficking in child labour out of the left corner of his mind. It has nothing to do with him. Those children don’t belong to his neat world. And anyway, if he didn’t get this brand, chances are the next one was produced in an illegal settlement or by women under inhumane employment conditions. So he clears his muddled conscience, shaking the grey specks like dust swept off old furniture. There was no way around it. 

The souk wasn’t free of child labour, either. But it was a different kind of child labour. The red, green and yellow apples still bore the fresh prints of children’s laughter inscribed into their skin. Sisters, brothers and cousins would chase one another around the family orchid, now getting tangled up in a grandmother’s wrinkled skirts, now passing under a ladder, picking up an apple here, stealing a hand-stitched scarf from a young cousin over there, running wildly, turning over a tank of lukewarm water. Chased by an uncle’s stick. The apples in the crates in the souk held on to these memories, to release the faint laughter of those children when sliced sharply by a knife to be served at the salu of another family. Ziyad didn’t know these secrets yet. The apples winked at him mischievously, teasing his taste-buds with their smooth colours like the waves tempting the rocks with their foam.

He stops at the first vegetable stall, where an ancient woman sits on the bare cream-coloured floor stacking up grape-leaves in neat little bundles. “Assalamu Alaikum, khalty,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “Wa Alaikum Assalam, son,” she looks up with her dim eyes, wrinkled fingers resting on the stack she had just finished. He’s stuck. He was waiting for her to offer him today’s deal, or to tell him how delicious her apples were, but she remains silent. “Uhm… can you tell me where can I find Um Muhammad?”

“Um Muhammad,” the ancient woman rakes her memory, pausing to consult a dark, unswept corner of her mind. “The third stall on your left. I bet your mother sent you to her for oranges. She’s got the best ones, Allah be my witness.”

He thanked her, feeling awkward because she didn’t try to persuade him to buy anything from her. Later on, when he would frequent the souk several times a week, he would learn the ways things worked here. That you never try to buy a customer. Things are done ever so subtly at the souk.

***

He walks down the souk, passing an improvised stand with a boy of about fifteen selling freshly squeezed rumman juice. His face is dark from the sizzling Middle Eastern sun, his light brown eyes shimmering, catching the blood red of the fruit. His stark white tank-top in gleaming contrast to his olive skin, jeans smeared with thin strikes and dapples of various shades of rumman colour – some fresh, others old – like the cloth a painter cleans a brush on before dipping it into another colour.

Ziyad pauses at the side of the stand, watching a woman in her late thirties bargaining the price of a cup of the paradise drink. The young boy smiles politely, refusing to lower the already cheap price. The woman gets upset, her brow creasing, but she buys the drink anyway, not wanting to appear stingy. She walks away triumphantly, holding on to her trophy, sipping it ever so slowly. "A cold rumman drink to start the day with, muallem? Only five shekels for a taste of paradise.” The boy is already squeezing a fresh fruit into a tin cup with one hand, holding a sieve over it with the other so that the juice dripping into the cup is pure. “But you sold it for ten to that woman,” Ziyad says in confusion. “Ahlan wasahlan to the souk! So you’re new here?”

“How did you know?”

“Nobody asks a question like that. Ya’ani, nobody who knows how things work here,” the boy snickers, then continues in a more hushed tone, as if sharing a newly discovered conspiracy, “For everything in the souk, there are two prices. One for our brothers and sisters, and one for the Yahud. Don’t tell me you didn’t know this, muallem.”

Yes, of course. Ziyad remembers this traditional practice, though in mixed cities it also leads to some confusion or uncomfortable instances, usually when young Arab women are mistaken for Jewish. Most often, these misunderstandings end with laughter and an instant reduction of the price. He sipped his sublime clear juice, remembering the reason he was here.

- khulud, deleted from Haifa Fragments, forthcoming by Spinifex Press, 2014

On Palestinians serving in the Israeli Defence Forces

I just had a short discussion on Facebook with a Palestinian living in Sweden, who claimed that MOST Palestinian citizens of Israel serve in the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF). He even said that Palestinians from Haifa, Jaffa, the West Bank, Al Khalil (Hebron), and Gaza serve in the IDF. I was quite taken aback from this statement, which is obviously not true. First, let me say that Palestinians from the West Bank (Al Khalil is in the West Bank) and Gaza do not and cannot serve in the IDF for obvious reasons.   

Now let’s move on to the issue of Palestinian citizens of Israel. It is true, there are several hundreds who serve in the army. Some for purely personal reasons, as they believe military service will grant them benefits – mainly economic, higher social status, and equality. Others have ideological grounds for their service. They believe they are Israeli, that Israel is their country, and they want to contribute and serve the country. They feel it is their obligation. Still others claim they are not Arabs at all, but only Arabic-speaking. They distinguish themselves completely from the Arabs and Palestinians.

But the problem is that mainstream Hebrew and foreign media are reflecting a distorted image of this reality. They focus on this small group, and the image viewers get is that the majority of Palestinian citizens of Israel are rushing to serve in the IDF. Yet they show only this partial image, ignoring the broad movement of youth mobilizing against all forms of recruitment – both military service and national/civil service. Palestinian youth within Israel are out on the streets protesting this, social media campaigns are running on Facebook and other new media channels. And not only the youth movement is out there, but also social change organizations are leading national campaigns against military and national service.

hang the sun upside down

I want to hang the sun upside down 
at the bottom of the ocean
and let it bleed upwards
in spirals
- khulud

the telephone call

The call came after midnight. The screen read “private number.” On the other line, a gruff voice of a man speaking in Arabic. The dialect was not the local Haifa dialect she spoke. He said her name. When she said yes, he began his monologue.

“We’ve seen you. We know where you work, and we know what kind of a car you own. We know where you live. We have a proposition for you. You will come to Jerusalem, and you will receive money. You’ll go shopping – you can buy nice clothes for yourself. And… you will also do some small mission for us. Then you will go back to Haifa and everything will be fine with you. So. Are you interested?”

She didn’t have to think about it. There was nothing to think about. “No. I’m not interested and I don’t want you calling me again.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Yes. Salamat.” And she hung up the phone.

A short conversation, but it left her shaking. They know where she lives. They know exactly where she works, they’ve seen her at work. He gave her the exact model of her car. They know her name and her phone number. They know everything about her. And she doesn’t know anything about them. About him. Not a name, not a number, not a trace.

They never called her back.

Until today, she doesn’t know who it was – it could have been either of the two players. They both use similar recruitment methods. They both have the means to obtain personal information about anyone.

A Russian, an Ethiopian, and an Arab at the doctor’s

Sitting at the doctor’s office, waiting for my turn, reading a book.

An older lady sits next to me.

An Ethiopian young woman walks past.

The older lady watches her, and as the Ethiopian woman disappears around the corner, the older lady leans in towards me, and says, in a heavy Russian accent and a broken Hebrew: “That in not Jew. That – black. She no belong here. She belong Africa. How Jew and black?”

I look up from my book, trying to think of what to reply to this, but my brain doesn’t find the words. I go back to my book.

A few minutes later, the older lady again leans towards me, this time whispering: “You like Arabs?”

I look at her, put on my best smile, and reply sweetly: “I am an Arab.”

The first shock registered on the lady as her body involuntarily jerks back from me, to keep a safe distance. She quickly composes herself, and proclaims: “Me have many Arabs in my building. Good people. Very nice. Me like Arabs.”

I just smile at her, and go back to reading. The lady keeps her distance. A few minutes pass. The nurse calls my name. I get up, walk past the lady, then stop, turn around, look at her, and again in my sweetest voice and a smile, I say, “I’m a Palestinian.”

I wait just enough to see the horror on the lady’s face before turning around and walking into the doctor’s office.

- khulud خلود

A new draft bill by MK Yariv Levin to grant Christians extra rights over Muslims

We are back to the days of the Ottoman rule and the British mandate. Israel 2014: according to a series of draft bills, proposed and promoted by Yariv Levin (chairman of the governing coalition, Likud Yisrael Beitenu), Christians will receive “separate representation and a separate frame of reference.” The bills will grant Christians in Israel extra rights over Muslims, including equal opportunities in employment. Moreover, Levin goes to the extreme of stating “I make sure not to refer to them as Arabs, because they’renot Arabs.” To top it off, he is proposing that Christians will be allowed to register themselves as just “Christians” under “Nationality” in their ID cards, to officially distinguish themselves from Arabs.

This series of proposed bills are set against the systemic policy of the state of Israel to continue to divide the Palestinian society inside Israel. Only recently, in the mass resistance to the Prawer Plan, we have seen the uniting of all groups of the Palestinian society, raising a united voice against the government’s plan to displace tens of thousands of Bedouins from their land. This united voice scares to government, and it will make every effort to act to divide our society.

In the last year, there has been a small group of Christians who are claiming they are not Arabs, they only speak Arabic, but are in no way Arabs, and are calling on Christians to serve in the Israeli Defence Forces. This small group does not in any way represent the majority of the Palestinian society within Israel. However, as I believe in one’s right to self-definition, I must therefore respect their right to define their identity as they see fit. On this point I am sure many will disagree with me, but since I define myself as a Palestinian, and I expect others to recognize my right to self-definition, then it follows that I must respect their right.

The state of Israel, however, is taking this small group to be representative of all Christians inside Israel, and using this against us to divide us.

By stating that the bill will grant equal opportunities in employment to Christians, it then follows that: (a) at the moment, there are no equal opportunities in employment for all citizens, and (b) if Christians will be granted this equality, then it means there will be active discrimination in employment against Muslims. Let’s not forget that in Israel there is a law on equal opportunities in employment.

Lastly, I can’t even find the adequate word to describe the fact that Levin actually views Christianity as a Nationality. Insane? Illogical? Crazy? Hallucinatory? Pick your choice of words.