November 10, 2003
"Are you a journalist?"
"No, I'm an organic farmer."
"Yeah...uh huh."
(Getting through the checkpoint, leaving Qalqilia)
The action went off beautifully, though not at all as planned. I know you've all been kicking yourselves with anticipation, so I figured I'd let that cat out of the bag, right off the bat.
We marched with several hundred locals to the wall, and then broke off with stencils we'd made the night before, spelling out THIS WALL WILL FALL, and armed with more spraypaint than I've seen in quite some time, we bombed the shit out of that fucking wall. It was a pretty high-adrenaline thing, despite that there were no soldiers in view, initially. I don't really know how to describe what it felt like -- climbing the embankment, grabbing hold of a drainage hole to keep myself up, and spraypainting as fast as I could, trying to not be too sloppy about it.
I didn't have the best traction on the embankment, and just as I felt myself slipping, I felt at least four hands (locals) holding me up, until I could finish. If I remember anything about this trip, it will be that feeling -- which I know sounds a bit mushy and romantic, but I'm dead serious. Being in Qalqilia wasn't comfortable, at all... I stood out like a sore thumb everywhere I went, largely because of my tattoos, and while everyone was always excessively nice, I never really had any way to ascertain exactly how people there felt about internationals in their movement. Those few minutes, hanging onto the wall... It really drove home that I wasn't totally an eyesore, or a burden, and that what I was doing mattered to someone, and was useful.
As we would finish a stencil, the spray cans would get passed off or dropped, and while I didn't notice it at first, due to being focused on what I was doing, the locals took our action and upped the ante big time. When I'd finally jumped down and took a look around, I could see Palestinians "decorating" the rest of the wall to my left, all the way to where it met the fence. I say that they upped the ante because this entire area was a military zone, secured with barbed wire, fence, and a watchtower that could easily be a sniper position. Before I could really get a sense of what had happened, there were about 100 Palestinians at the gate on the fence, where the soldiers had appeared, literally about a minute from pulling the fence to the ground. The soldiers responded, with what sounded like rubber bullets (though I didn't notice any injuries) and the younger kids responded in turn with volleys of rocks. We expected this, but knew it wasn't going to help the situation, at all. Within minutes, several noise grenades had been lobbed, and kids were running in our direction to get away. Surprisingly, they kept going back to the fence, and there was seldom a point at which there was not at least one airborne rock visible. This sparked a sort of conflict in our group...
Our local coordinators immediately started urging us back, away from the scene, fearing for our safety. And this I don't understand one bit - we're here to be a presence that puts our privilege in the way of Israeli violence, in the simplest terms. Now, while kids throwing rocks at soldiers is certainly not the sort of thing that speaks to de-escalation, those kids also don't deserve to be shot for it, you know? At the same time, this is a Palestinian-led movement, so for a bunch of internationals to take a situation into our own hands is a really risky thing. So, we sort of firmly asserted that we felt we needed to stay, but pull back slowly, hoping the kids would follow. Fortunately, this worked. But it left an odd taste in my mouth, that the local coordinators were so quick to just have us abandon people. I don't really know what else to say about it... I wasn't comfortable with it, at all. That's that.
About as soon as we got back to the ISM flat, I packed up and headed out, to try and make it to Beit Sahour by day's end. The checkpoint was a breeze, though I got the distinct impression my line had been used by a million other ISMers, based on the soldier's tone with me. I grabbed a cab with an Italian kid and an Israeli girl, who'd both apparently tried to get into Qalqilia to document what they called "The Riots", but were turned away at the checkpoint. When I told them I was with the ISM, the Italian responded (as if he were talking about something that only existed in legend) "You guys are crazy"... I didn't really know what to say. We got out in Funduq, a town not far from Qalqilia, and while I tried to find a ride to the Calandia checkpoint, they went off in search of food -- in their words "Not giving a fuck" that it's insensitive to be seen eating or drinking during daylight hours amidst Muslims fasting for Ramadan. A car full of Palestinians offered me a ride to a junction where they said I could catch a cab to Calandia, and on the way, all they wanted to talk about was politics, but their English was minimal (and my Arabic virtually non-existent), and all they could do was say (in an inquisitive tone) "I love you Sharon?", and when I shook my head, they'd laugh and draw their finger across their throat. Interestingly enough, they did this when mentioning Arafat, as well.
I finally jumped out near the junction, but couldn't really feel out where the hell I was supposed to be going, so I approached a group of young women (maybe highschool aged) who looked kinda modern, hip -- possibly internationals also here for the actions, but paused when I heard them speaking Hebrew. They were settlers. Finally, after confirming that one of them spoke a little English, I asked where I would catch a cab to Calandia, and predictably, they looked at me curiously, in that "Why the hell would you want to go there?" sort of way that most Israelis do, when you mention any place in the Occupied Territories (never mind that we were standing in the middle of the fucking West Bank). They tried telling me that no cabs left from where we were, despite that I could see three of them about 100 meters away. When I pointed to them, the girls all laughed condescendingly and said "You don't want to ride with them... They're Arabs." -- does this shit not stop?!!! What the fuck? They suggested I take a bus with them to Jerusalem (which was where I was headed from Calandia, anyhow) for about 20 sheckles, which seemed reasonable for getting to Jerusalem. Just then a rather nice van pulled up and a few of them started piling in. One of them waved me over and told me to get in. They started telling the driver (a young Israeli, probably about my age) I was going to Calandia, and I corrected them, saying that if he could take me to the Old City, I would be fine, as I was ultimately looking to get to Beit Sahour -- which elicited the usual curiosity and condemnation. "Why are you going there? Are you a student? [Shaking head in disgust] You don't want to go to Calandia, believe me." -- It never ends, here. If it's Arab, they're all terrified of it, needlessly.
Finally, the gals hopped out and I checked to make sure the guy could drive me to Damascus Gate. Shortly thereafter, he pulled over and pointed in the direction of the gate, and said I could get out. When I asked how much I owed him, he said "Nothing. It's no problem." -- Shocked, I asked if he was sure, and he got this sort of knowing/condescending look on his face, that sort of said "I don't want to take your dirty money you Arab-loving piece of shit.", without totally giving himself away. Satisfied to have gotten a free ride, I didn't push him, and hopped out.
[Note: A number of folks, namely Palestinians, have pointed out to me that this was an unlikely explanation. "Do you really think there's an Israeli that wouldn't tell you what they thought?", was one comment I got. It's quite possible that this fella was, in fact, quite sympathetic, and made this gesture out of that sympathy only when the settler girls were out of earshot. I still think about him.]
So, here I am, back at the Faisal Hostel in Jerusalem (a nortorious left-leaning ISM hangout). The only shared cab I could find to Beit Sahour left while I was getting my bags -- which is fine, since I haven't slept since 5pm yesterday, and would much rather crash than have to socialize with folks at the media office, right now.
At the end of the day, it's hard to really describe the feeling one gets encountering such rabid and virulent racism, on such an almost ubiquitous scale. It's the sort of thing that feels like a punch to the gut, and stays there for a while. Every time I've faced it, it's shaken me to the core, and plunged me into a very real mood shift...one I would even call depression. It saps one's hope, even. It was odd to be at that place, given the emotional space I'd been just hours before, on the Wall, in Qalqilia. I missed it, already. Ironic.
"No, I'm an organic farmer."
"Yeah...uh huh."
(Getting through the checkpoint, leaving Qalqilia)
The action went off beautifully, though not at all as planned. I know you've all been kicking yourselves with anticipation, so I figured I'd let that cat out of the bag, right off the bat.
We marched with several hundred locals to the wall, and then broke off with stencils we'd made the night before, spelling out THIS WALL WILL FALL, and armed with more spraypaint than I've seen in quite some time, we bombed the shit out of that fucking wall. It was a pretty high-adrenaline thing, despite that there were no soldiers in view, initially. I don't really know how to describe what it felt like -- climbing the embankment, grabbing hold of a drainage hole to keep myself up, and spraypainting as fast as I could, trying to not be too sloppy about it.
I didn't have the best traction on the embankment, and just as I felt myself slipping, I felt at least four hands (locals) holding me up, until I could finish. If I remember anything about this trip, it will be that feeling -- which I know sounds a bit mushy and romantic, but I'm dead serious. Being in Qalqilia wasn't comfortable, at all... I stood out like a sore thumb everywhere I went, largely because of my tattoos, and while everyone was always excessively nice, I never really had any way to ascertain exactly how people there felt about internationals in their movement. Those few minutes, hanging onto the wall... It really drove home that I wasn't totally an eyesore, or a burden, and that what I was doing mattered to someone, and was useful.
As we would finish a stencil, the spray cans would get passed off or dropped, and while I didn't notice it at first, due to being focused on what I was doing, the locals took our action and upped the ante big time. When I'd finally jumped down and took a look around, I could see Palestinians "decorating" the rest of the wall to my left, all the way to where it met the fence. I say that they upped the ante because this entire area was a military zone, secured with barbed wire, fence, and a watchtower that could easily be a sniper position. Before I could really get a sense of what had happened, there were about 100 Palestinians at the gate on the fence, where the soldiers had appeared, literally about a minute from pulling the fence to the ground. The soldiers responded, with what sounded like rubber bullets (though I didn't notice any injuries) and the younger kids responded in turn with volleys of rocks. We expected this, but knew it wasn't going to help the situation, at all. Within minutes, several noise grenades had been lobbed, and kids were running in our direction to get away. Surprisingly, they kept going back to the fence, and there was seldom a point at which there was not at least one airborne rock visible. This sparked a sort of conflict in our group...
Our local coordinators immediately started urging us back, away from the scene, fearing for our safety. And this I don't understand one bit - we're here to be a presence that puts our privilege in the way of Israeli violence, in the simplest terms. Now, while kids throwing rocks at soldiers is certainly not the sort of thing that speaks to de-escalation, those kids also don't deserve to be shot for it, you know? At the same time, this is a Palestinian-led movement, so for a bunch of internationals to take a situation into our own hands is a really risky thing. So, we sort of firmly asserted that we felt we needed to stay, but pull back slowly, hoping the kids would follow. Fortunately, this worked. But it left an odd taste in my mouth, that the local coordinators were so quick to just have us abandon people. I don't really know what else to say about it... I wasn't comfortable with it, at all. That's that.
About as soon as we got back to the ISM flat, I packed up and headed out, to try and make it to Beit Sahour by day's end. The checkpoint was a breeze, though I got the distinct impression my line had been used by a million other ISMers, based on the soldier's tone with me. I grabbed a cab with an Italian kid and an Israeli girl, who'd both apparently tried to get into Qalqilia to document what they called "The Riots", but were turned away at the checkpoint. When I told them I was with the ISM, the Italian responded (as if he were talking about something that only existed in legend) "You guys are crazy"... I didn't really know what to say. We got out in Funduq, a town not far from Qalqilia, and while I tried to find a ride to the Calandia checkpoint, they went off in search of food -- in their words "Not giving a fuck" that it's insensitive to be seen eating or drinking during daylight hours amidst Muslims fasting for Ramadan. A car full of Palestinians offered me a ride to a junction where they said I could catch a cab to Calandia, and on the way, all they wanted to talk about was politics, but their English was minimal (and my Arabic virtually non-existent), and all they could do was say (in an inquisitive tone) "I love you Sharon?", and when I shook my head, they'd laugh and draw their finger across their throat. Interestingly enough, they did this when mentioning Arafat, as well.
I finally jumped out near the junction, but couldn't really feel out where the hell I was supposed to be going, so I approached a group of young women (maybe highschool aged) who looked kinda modern, hip -- possibly internationals also here for the actions, but paused when I heard them speaking Hebrew. They were settlers. Finally, after confirming that one of them spoke a little English, I asked where I would catch a cab to Calandia, and predictably, they looked at me curiously, in that "Why the hell would you want to go there?" sort of way that most Israelis do, when you mention any place in the Occupied Territories (never mind that we were standing in the middle of the fucking West Bank). They tried telling me that no cabs left from where we were, despite that I could see three of them about 100 meters away. When I pointed to them, the girls all laughed condescendingly and said "You don't want to ride with them... They're Arabs." -- does this shit not stop?!!! What the fuck? They suggested I take a bus with them to Jerusalem (which was where I was headed from Calandia, anyhow) for about 20 sheckles, which seemed reasonable for getting to Jerusalem. Just then a rather nice van pulled up and a few of them started piling in. One of them waved me over and told me to get in. They started telling the driver (a young Israeli, probably about my age) I was going to Calandia, and I corrected them, saying that if he could take me to the Old City, I would be fine, as I was ultimately looking to get to Beit Sahour -- which elicited the usual curiosity and condemnation. "Why are you going there? Are you a student? [Shaking head in disgust] You don't want to go to Calandia, believe me." -- It never ends, here. If it's Arab, they're all terrified of it, needlessly.
Finally, the gals hopped out and I checked to make sure the guy could drive me to Damascus Gate. Shortly thereafter, he pulled over and pointed in the direction of the gate, and said I could get out. When I asked how much I owed him, he said "Nothing. It's no problem." -- Shocked, I asked if he was sure, and he got this sort of knowing/condescending look on his face, that sort of said "I don't want to take your dirty money you Arab-loving piece of shit.", without totally giving himself away. Satisfied to have gotten a free ride, I didn't push him, and hopped out.
[Note: A number of folks, namely Palestinians, have pointed out to me that this was an unlikely explanation. "Do you really think there's an Israeli that wouldn't tell you what they thought?", was one comment I got. It's quite possible that this fella was, in fact, quite sympathetic, and made this gesture out of that sympathy only when the settler girls were out of earshot. I still think about him.]
So, here I am, back at the Faisal Hostel in Jerusalem (a nortorious left-leaning ISM hangout). The only shared cab I could find to Beit Sahour left while I was getting my bags -- which is fine, since I haven't slept since 5pm yesterday, and would much rather crash than have to socialize with folks at the media office, right now.
At the end of the day, it's hard to really describe the feeling one gets encountering such rabid and virulent racism, on such an almost ubiquitous scale. It's the sort of thing that feels like a punch to the gut, and stays there for a while. Every time I've faced it, it's shaken me to the core, and plunged me into a very real mood shift...one I would even call depression. It saps one's hope, even. It was odd to be at that place, given the emotional space I'd been just hours before, on the Wall, in Qalqilia. I missed it, already. Ironic.
posted by Joshua | 9:29 PM
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