You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Israel/Palestine’ tag.
Today I saw that a letter to editor of mine has been published in the local newspaper. Check it out, and check out the cartoon to which it’s a response. Incidentally, the paper edited my letter to change “Palestine” to “Palestinian territory” — standard editorial policy, I’m sure, reflecting their strongly right-wing Zionist position as a Bible Belt newspaper.
Note: I spent the first six weeks after the end the past academic year with my uncle and aunt in Amman, Jordan. One weekend, we traveled to occupied Palestine, visiting Bethlehem, Hebron, and Jerusalem. In a series of three posts, I will draw from my experiences in these cities to reflect upon such subjects as the nature of the occupation, nonviolent resistance, holiness, and pilgrimage. The first post focused on Bethlehem; this second focuses on Hebron. Click here to view a photo set of pictures from the weekend.
The third location that I visited during my weekend stay in occupied Palestine was Hebron, the largest city in the West Bank after Jerusalem itself. In the very heart of Hebron is an illegal settlement of more than 500 Israelis, guarded by over 1200 IDF soldiers. Walking around the city with my uncle (a Methodist minister) and our guide (an advisor to Christian Peacemaker Teams in the region), I saw many things that were deeply affecting — checkpoints that impeded free movement by the locals, roads reserved for the use of settlers alone, paths to Palestinian schools maliciously blocked by barbed wire, the Star of David painted provocatively onto Palestinian homes and shops, and much more. But the most moving experience of all was not a place or scene, but a person.
In the heart of the city, our guide introduced us to a 75-year-old Muslim man who had grown up in Hebron. He could still remember the days when the Muslims and Christians of the city had lived side by side in peace and harmony with the pre-settler Jewish community. Growing up, his neighbors had been Jews, and his mother had breastfed one of the Jewish girls when her own mother died. According to Islamic law and custom, this act made the girl his sister, and he said that she was still alive, working as a lawyer in Tel Aviv. His story underscores that the current conflict is not fundamentally about faith or differences of religion, though religious extremism has certainly developed to some degree on all sides—Israeli, Palestinian, and American.
Our guide told us that this man is the last Palestinian to live in his section of the town, as the surrounding neighborhood has otherwise completely been taken over by colonizing settlers. He has to pass through three military checkpoints to get to his house; one of them exists solely for his home, all by itself. The soldiers do not allow him to receive visitors, and when his children and grandchildren pass to and from his house, the settlers harass them, shouting and throwing rocks. His next-door neighbor is a Zionist with a reputation as the most extreme, most radical proponent of the settler ideology in the entire Palestinian territories.
This 75-year-old man has every reason in the world to be bitter or to become an “extremist” in response to the violent extremism directed at him, his children, and his community every single day. But as he spoke to us under the shadow of IDF guard towers and settler homes, he said things that brought tears to my eyes. He told us that when the settlers first came to his part of the city, he went and offered them fruit, for his religion of Islam instructs him to love everyone, whether Muslim, Christian, or Jew. He offered them fruit, and they threw stones at him. But still he knows that God wants him to love everyone — it is written in the “Book of Muhammad,” in the Qur’an. “We are all human,” he said. This man is hated and oppressed by these settlers; they throw stones at him, they file false charges against him in court, they take the land and homes of his neighbors, they put soldiers in front of his house. But his response is to love, for “we are all human,” for his faith tells him to love all without regard for creed or color.
During her time in Gaza before her death at the hands of the IDF, the American peace activist Rachel Corrie wrote, “The vast majority of Palestinians right now, as far as I can tell, are engaging in Gandhian non-violent resistance.” I saw the truth of that statement in this man, for whom merely to live, to go about his business, is an incredible act of nonviolent witness and protest. To breathe in and out in the morning, to walk out of his own home and back in through the checkpoint that is there just for him, to insist that he will live there in dignity, is an act of resistance in the face of evil and oppression that most in America cannot even fathom. He was a picture of dignity, wearing a wool jacket, a full-length matching wool cloak, and a clean white kaffiyeh. He lives, and his life, his simple act of going through the day, every day, signals light in the midst of the darkness of the Occupation. He is not alone in his resistance; indeed, he is joined by the vast majority of Palestinians in Hebron, who go about their lives despite the soldiers and settlers, one day buying groceries under the shadow of guns, the next day gathering for a nonviolent demonstration in front of one of the numerous guard towers. As Rachel said, “These people are being shot at every day and they continue to go about their business as best they can in the sights of machine guns and rocket launchers. Isn’t that basically the epitome of nonviolent resistance?”
Thus, in political terms, this man is a hero. In Christian religious terms, he is a saint. I believe that in a very real way he embodies all that is (or should be) holy about this “Holy Land.” All too often the sacred sites of Israel and Palestine are used as ammunition in a battle of exclusion, as fuel in the fires of separation and division. As a Christian, I worship a God who “desires mercy rather than sacrifice” and follow a Messiah who preached reconciliation with enemies and liberation for the oppressed. In my understanding of the Christian message, then, the sanctity of the Holy Land should be a hope for peace with justice rather than a threat of exclusion and division. All too often the opposite is the case, but this humble Muslim man shows that there is yet hope for something better in these lands. I do not understand his courage; I do not understand his love. But I know that his life is filled with and exhibits the holiness and justice of God (“the most merciful, the most compassionate”), and serves as a call for people of all faiths to practice that holiness and justice in their own traditions. This is the Palestine that America must see, and this is the Islam that Christianity must recognize.
“We are all human.”
Note: I have spent the last six weeks with my uncle and aunt in Amman, Jordan. This past weekend, we traveled to occupied Palestine, visiting Bethlehem, Hebron, and Jerusalem. In a series of three posts, I will draw from my experiences in these cities to reflect upon such subjects as the nature of the occupation, nonviolent resistance, holiness, and pilgrimage. This first post focuses on Bethlehem. Click here to view a photo set of pictures from the weekend.
Driving to Bethlehem, we approached from the west, from Jerusalem. The first sight of Bethlehem itself was dominated by the separation wall that Israel has built in the middle of Palestinian land. This horrifying structure looms higher than the Berlin wall, not just separating but subjugating, not just dividing but dominating. Every so often the smooth wall is interrupted by a well-armed guard tower. At the Bethlehem gate a narrow, single-file wire cage allows Palestinians to stand in line to cross over and travel to Jerusalem, if the IDF decides to let them.
What makes the wall both incredibly oppressive and illegal under international law is that it is not built on the internationally-recognized boundary between Israel proper and Palestine – it snakes through the heart of Palestine itself, cutting through the very city of Bethlehem. It does not divide Palestine from Israel; it divides Palestine from itself, allowing radical Israeli settlers to come and claim the land on one side as their own. Thousands of Israelis now live, illegally, in large settlements on Palestinian land.
The wall is of course covered in graffiti. The image of Palestine that has been fed to us in the West (particularly in America) would lead us to expect messages of hate, of vengeance, to be written on the wall. And of course, given the oppression that the wall both represents and enforces, such messages would be understandable, even justifiable. But by and large, the messages are totally different. Instead of being symbols of hate or resentment, they are lights of hope and beacons of courage. The wall is not covered with writings like “Death to Israel” or “Kill the Jews” – I did not see a single such message on it (the most “extreme” was “1948 shall be avenged). It is instead covered for miles with messages of hope and calls for justice and liberation. I took many photos. One piece of graffiti says “One love, Israel Palestine,” with crude depictions of both flags joined by a heart. There is a large graffiti mural depicting an outstretched palm, the legend reading “Five Fingers of the same hand.” The two still-visible fingers are labeled Buddhism and Christianity, and the other three presumably read Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism. (This underscores that the conflict is not at core religious, and indeed for centuries before the current late-twentieth-century conflict, Jews, Christians and Muslims lived side-by-side in harmony in these lands.) Other scrawls call for justice. “This wall must fall.” “Resist.” “No wall.”
We came upon a Palestinian house that is literally surrounded on three sides by the wall. At least one person is in the house at all times, for if everyone left at once, soldiers could come and occupy it, never allowing the family to return. The graffiti on the wall around this house was the most deeply moving we saw. “Ich bin ein Berliner” was written in huge block letters, ten meters long, across it. “Tear down this wall” was spraypainted on. “Peace.” Some messages were self-consciously ironic or darkly humorous: “I want my ball back.” Others were religious cries for justice and peace. “Only God can judge, no one else.” “You say Shalom, now make Shalom.” The words “call for humanity,” in block letters, appeared frequently. A mural depicted a rhinoceros breaking through the wall, accompanied by the phrase “USA Supports You.” This message, clearly written by foreigners in solidarity, is little more than a wishful thinking in the current political climate; the more realistic assessment of America’s relation to the oppression appeared elsewhere on the wall, where someone had written “made in usa.” (Every year, $1.8 billion of American tax money goes to the Israeli military.) Elsewhere there were large peace symbols and hearts. This is not what Palestine is made to look like in America, but it is the true face of everyday life there: hope for justice, desire for peace, determination to live with dignity despite their daily suffering.
We left Bethlehem the next morning and re-entered Jerusalem to visit the Dome of the Rock (which, incidentally, is the most beautiful building I have ever seen). Leaving the West Bank to return to the city, we had to pass through the checkpoint at the separation wall itself. My uncle was driving. We showed our passports — including the diplomatic United Nations passport that belongs to my aunt, who works for UNHCR in Jordan — to the IDF soldier. He talked to his superior and informed us that though my uncle could drive through with the car, my aunt and I would have to go by foot through the processing center for screening. This decision was clearly arbitrary; there was no reason to let my uncle through without further checking but make my aunt go on foot, given that she works for the UN.
So we went to the screening center. We had to stand in line for over half an hour, as soldiers allowed the people in the center (mostly Palestinians) to pass through the metal detectors in small groups. I was amazed to see that, despite the fact that Palestinians are subjected to this inconvenience on a daily basis, most of the people waiting in line remained jovial, laughing and talking among themselves. They would often let pregnant women or elderly travelers through to the front of the line, even though no official system was in place to expedite travel for such groups. It was inspiring to see these Palestinians, despite the conditions of the checkpoints and the presence of soldiers, insisting in these ways that they would retain their dignity.
When it was finally my turn to go through the metal detector, I set off the buzzer, as I had coins in my pocket. The soldiers didn’t even care; I held out a couple coins and they just waved me on. I walked right through the final turnstile without the soldier guarding it saying a word; I never even had to show my passport to the soldiers, even though I had set off the metal detector and, as a young male, fit some aspects of the “profile” for “dangerous” persons.
What this experience and my observations of the wall and the other aspects of the occupation in the city made clear was that at the most fundamental level, the checkpoints, the “security” procedures, the long delays and slow-moving lines, aren’t about Israeli security in any real sense. These measures — indeed, the whole of the Occupation — aren’t essentially about keeping Israelis safe from dangerous extremists; they are about harassing Palestinians, making their lives difficult, and arbitrarily subjecting them to daily inconveniences. They are about creating a domination system, about building apartheid in the holy land, about feeding lies of “security threats” and “widespread radicalism” to let extremists on the Israeli side take Palestinian land. Families are routinely separated, Palestinians are routinely denied re-entry to the cities they grew up in, and land that Palestinians have lived on for generations is routinely seized by radical settlers.
Bethlehem, according to the gospels and tradition, was the city of Jesus’ birth. In Jesus’ own day the city was occupied as well. It is poignant and sad to witness the oppression being perpetuated there today, to see the walls of apartheid towering over the city that brought the Prince of Peace into the world. Christians worldwide should see this juxtaposition of the sacred and the dominating as a renewed call to take up our cross and follow Jesus by calling for peace with justice, by working for reconciliation, and by drawing attention to the plight of Palestinians, who are indeed “the least of these” in the Holy Land.
I’ve spent a lot of time fuming over the past few days about Israel’s killing of civilian activists on the humanitarian Freedom Flotilla. As evidence continues to emerge that belies the IDF’s laughable claims of “self-defense” against these dangerous peace activists, my hope grows that this event will mark a sea change in the tide of world opinion and world action regarding the occupation of Palestine. 
In this post I don’t hope to convince anyone that the IDF’s story is riddled with falsehoods — other analysts have already done a much better job of that, and if the huge weaknesses of Israel’s account and the continuing flood of evidence that contradicts it haven’t already convinced my readers of what happened, then I certainly can’t hope to do better. Rather, I want to talk about the idea that the attempt to break through the blockade constituted a “provocation” and that this somehow mitigates the actions of the IDF in dealing with the flotilla.
The course of events that has emerged from the evidence demonstrates that the flotilla was essentially an act of nonviolent strategy, and that any violence on the part of the activists aboard the ship was self-defense against an illegal boarding party of heavily armed and highly trained commandos. The very concept of publicly challenging an unjust occupation through unarmed and high-profile blockade-running fits right into the sorts of tactics that have been at the heart of nonviolent opposition to oppression since the days of Gandhi and King. Nonviolence has in most cases depended on publicity and on the willingness to face in turn the violence of the oppressor and bring it upon oneself as an act of witness against the oppression inherent in the power structure.
No one disputes that the humanitarian mission was trying to make a political statement. Of course the flotilla was trying to draw attention to the occupation itself through delivering humanitarian aid — that’s the point. The idea that the flotilla should be dismissed as “provocation” because the it was making a broader statement about Israeli policy by trying to deliver much-needed goods in the way that it did is laughable, for it ignores the very way in which nonviolent opposition to oppression functions. Every act of nonviolence can be interpreted as provocation. Rosa Parks refusing to move from her seat on a bus is an “act of provocation”. Mohandas Gandhi carrying out the Salt March is an “act of provocation”. Jesus of Nazareth angrily overturning exploitative money-tables in the Temple is an “act of provocation”. These “provocations” are effective responses to oppression precisely because they force the ruling powers to demonstrate their own slavery to violence: they demonstrate that when faced with nonviolent challenges, oppressive forces only know how to respond with water cannons, bullets, and crucifixions.
The Freedom Flotilla joins an already long list of prominent acts of nonviolent witness against oppression, injustice, and exploitation throughout history. By daring to challenge the blockade and occupation of the Palestinian Territories, the flotilla has revealed Israel’s crippling dependence on violence and demonstrated the unsustainability of the continued oppression of the Palestinian people. May this act of public witness inspire the world to bring a long-overdue end to the apartheid being perpetuated by America’s ally, and may those killed by the IDF be remembered as self-sacrificial heroes in the tradition of Gandhi, MLK, Rachel Corrie, and so many others who dared to challenge injustice in the world.
Today, I read My Name is Rachel Corrie. This short play, edited by Katharine Viner and Alan Rickman, is drawn from the diaries and emails of Rachel Corrie, an American killed in Palestine while nonviolently defending a civilian house from destruction by the Israeli military in 2003. The play was performed on London’s West End and has seen some limited productions in America, though it has engendered controversy because of its frank attitude towards the reality of the ongoing violence being perpetrated against civilians in Israel’s occupation of Palestine.
The work is deeply moving: a sad yet inspiring look at the life and death of a passionate child who became an equally passionate adult. The text of the play comes directly from Rachel’s own journals and letters (with the exception of a few letters sent to her, and minimal stage directions). Her writing comprises sometimes prose, sometimes lists, sometimes poetry — but whatever the form, it remains throughout poignant and compelling, drawing the reader into Rachel’s world and into the development of her ideas and emotions. At the end, I felt not as though I had met a character on a stage, but had actually grown to know, in whatever small way, the person behind the words.
As Rachel lives among the Palestinian people, she is both surprised by, and admiring of, the way they deal with the horrific realities of their existence. In a letter to her mother, she writes:
I am amazed at their strength in defending such a large degree of their humanity against the incredible horror occurring in their lives and against the constant presence of death. I think the word is dignity.
A little later, she reflects on the possibility that more people will recognize and protest the true brokenness of the world, a fracturing of which the oppression of Palestine is symptomatic, but that extends far beyond the Middle East:
I look forward to seeing more and more people willing to resist the direction the world is moving in: a direction where our personal experiences are irrelevant, that we are defective, that our communities are not important, that we are powerless, that the future is determined, and that the highest level of humanity is expressed through what we choose to buy at the mall.
Rachel Corrie’s tragic death served to stir up public opinion about the situation in Palestine. (Sadly, this discussion was quickly overshadowed in the media by the American invasion of Iraq.) In the ongoing debates about the true nature of the occupation and of the Palestinian resistance, Rachel’s writings offer a valuable insight that is underappreciated in the mainstream discussion. The final pages of the play contain her reflections on the response of Palestinians to Israel’s military activities, and here she presents the argument that, despite the fringe cases of terrorist activity by some groups, the vast majority of the population is continually countering the occupation through nonviolent methods in the truest sense. In a letter to her parents, she writes:
You asked about non-violent resistance, and I mentioned the first intifada. The vast majority of Palestinians right now, as far as I can tell, are engaging in Gandhian non-violent resistance. … These people are being shot at every day and they continue to go about their business as best they can in the sights of machine guns and rocket launchers. Isn’t that basically the epitome of non-violent resistance?
My Name is Rachel Corrie thus offers the reader (of, if you are lucky enough, the audience-member) three things: a poignant look at the life of an inspiring figure; an uplifting reflection on the capacity of the human spirit to deal with injustice — the hope for a better future despite present pain; and an intriguing, if cursory, discussion of the role of nonviolence in the conflict. I give the work my highest recommendation to anyone interested in these issues — but be prepared to be deeply moved and greatly inspired.
