This place, this occupation, this paradise, has me full of abject despair one minute and euphoria the next. I'd think i was pregnant or menopausal were i quite obviously neither one of those things.
I spent last week living in the heart of the Tel Rumeida settlement in Hebron. I think it's quite safe to say that it's not my favourite place in the world. It might even be more accurate to say i'd rather be savaged by a bear whilst listening to bobby womack than live one more minute in that nightmare disguised as reality.
I spent last week living in the heart of the Tel Rumeida settlement in Hebron. I think it's quite safe to say that it's not my favourite place in the world. It might even be more accurate to say i'd rather be savaged by a bear whilst listening to bobby womack than live one more minute in that nightmare disguised as reality.
In 1997, post Oslo Accords (1993), Hebron was divided into two parts. H1 - the Palestinian area and H2 - the israeli settlement. Although no israelis live in H1, there are still Palestinian families in H2, living side by side with the settlers. As you can imagine, the atmosphere is anything but amicable and the situation incredibly tense. In fact, it's more oppressive than i can even begin to articulate.
I arrived early last week and was greeted by Issa, one of the Palestinian ISM coordinators. We walked through the crowded and vibrant H1 to the small, rather make-shift looking checkpoint which divides the two areas. Passing through the metal detector the alarm went off and i stood waiting whilst three soldiers stepped out of their hut to search my bags. I was asked to go through a second time and once more, the alarm sounds. I take my keys, wallet and phone from my pockets and try again. No luck. At this point i wonder how well it'd go down if i asked them to check if their equipment is faulty but on catching sight of their hands, casually resting on the trigger of their guns, i remain silent. Short of stripping, there's nothing more i could take off or out. The soldiers pat me down, ask me to lift my top slightly and on seeing my belt, allow me to pass. This was but a fraction of what was to come.
First we walk down Shuhada Street. It used to be a lively Palestinian shopping area but now, it's deserted.
There are but four families left (from an estimated 200) living in the 'non settler' part. The rest have all been forced out. About 200 metres down the road, we reach the point where the Palestinian part ends and the settler's territory begins. We're not allowed to continue down the road but instead, must turn right and climb the steep steps up into the area where Palestinians are allowed to be.
4,000 steps and a slightly dead j later, we reach Issa's house. Or what's left of it after the soldier's occupied it and used it as a military base. From here we continue left through an olive grove, up more steps (am actually nearing death at this point) and onto a hill top road which overlooks the city. Relieved to see we're taking a route which involves going downhill (although i quickly discover that whilst wearing shoes with no grip, steep-downhill is just as death-inducing as steep-uphill) i cotton on to the fact that we've just walked in a huge circle and wonder why this is. The answer is obvious. Even within the Palestinian area within the illegal settlement area, the settlers control the roads that exist. Instead of taking a short cut from Issa's house to the ISM apartment, we have to go round as the settlers won't allow us to pass their homes.
I joke with Issa that on the plus side i'm going to be fitter than i've ever been by the end of the week but the unsaid truth remains and we both know why i'm making light of the situation.
I enter the ISM apartment and meet a whole range of internationals from countries such as Sweden, Denmark, the US and Canada. I sat with them for a while, smoking aguile and generally having the piss taken out of me for my accent (to which they were all told to kiss my cafe au lait arse) before heading up to Issa's house for a meeting.
The next day, we all took up our posts throughout the settlement, patrolling, monitoring and guarding the areas in which tension is greatest. Since the settlement has existed in Hebron there has not only been tension but countless attacks, abuse and harassment campaigns directed at the Palestinians.
We as internationals also receive a fair share of the abuse and on receiving my first 'fukk yoo' from a 13 year settler child, even though i've been here before, i must admit i was a little shocked. By the third day, i was just happy not to be having rocks thrown at my head.
Each day we would maintain a presence and intervene if necessary and each night i would sleep in, or sometimes outside, Issa's house. After his house was occupied by soldiers, he went to court and only very recently regained the right to live in his own home again. Cause for celebration one would think but no, his friendly neighbourhood settlers had plans of their own. They have been trying to take it for themselves and force Issa out of Tel Rumeida altogether. Almost every night we'd receive a visit from them, either throwing stones at the newly replaced windows or hurling all kinds of abuse at us . If we didn't see the settlers, we'd be graced with a visit from the police (on a bonus night we'd get both), hammering at our door and asking to see our id. Why they needed to see our id so desperately at 2 o'clock in the morning i don't know.
Other times they would come to see if 'we were alright'. Again, why they were so concerned with our safety at 4 in the morning after having stood by and watched settlers say all kinds of things about our mothers, i'm not sure.
I may joke about it but it's only because the thought of letting my true feelings flow out of my heart and into this journal scares me. Tel Rumeida is like an occupation within an occupation. I have never felt so oppressed in my life and i was only there for a week. I could barely breathe with the stench of inequality and malevolence.
I want so very badly for this blog entry to be inspiring, in depth and poignant but in all honesty, i'm tired of giving example after example of the way in which the Palestinians are forced to live and coming up with new ways to make the situation read like something out of a movie script. It's not glamorous. Being here is not exciting. It's exhausting. And i don't know what else i can say that will do justice to what these people have to go through every single day, trapped inside a nightmare whilst their dreams and hopes are forced to remain just that.
I joke with Issa that on the plus side i'm going to be fitter than i've ever been by the end of the week but the unsaid truth remains and we both know why i'm making light of the situation.
I enter the ISM apartment and meet a whole range of internationals from countries such as Sweden, Denmark, the US and Canada. I sat with them for a while, smoking aguile and generally having the piss taken out of me for my accent (to which they were all told to kiss my cafe au lait arse) before heading up to Issa's house for a meeting.
The next day, we all took up our posts throughout the settlement, patrolling, monitoring and guarding the areas in which tension is greatest. Since the settlement has existed in Hebron there has not only been tension but countless attacks, abuse and harassment campaigns directed at the Palestinians.
We as internationals also receive a fair share of the abuse and on receiving my first 'fukk yoo' from a 13 year settler child, even though i've been here before, i must admit i was a little shocked. By the third day, i was just happy not to be having rocks thrown at my head.
Each day we would maintain a presence and intervene if necessary and each night i would sleep in, or sometimes outside, Issa's house. After his house was occupied by soldiers, he went to court and only very recently regained the right to live in his own home again. Cause for celebration one would think but no, his friendly neighbourhood settlers had plans of their own. They have been trying to take it for themselves and force Issa out of Tel Rumeida altogether. Almost every night we'd receive a visit from them, either throwing stones at the newly replaced windows or hurling all kinds of abuse at us . If we didn't see the settlers, we'd be graced with a visit from the police (on a bonus night we'd get both), hammering at our door and asking to see our id. Why they needed to see our id so desperately at 2 o'clock in the morning i don't know.
Other times they would come to see if 'we were alright'. Again, why they were so concerned with our safety at 4 in the morning after having stood by and watched settlers say all kinds of things about our mothers, i'm not sure.
I may joke about it but it's only because the thought of letting my true feelings flow out of my heart and into this journal scares me. Tel Rumeida is like an occupation within an occupation. I have never felt so oppressed in my life and i was only there for a week. I could barely breathe with the stench of inequality and malevolence.
I want so very badly for this blog entry to be inspiring, in depth and poignant but in all honesty, i'm tired of giving example after example of the way in which the Palestinians are forced to live and coming up with new ways to make the situation read like something out of a movie script. It's not glamorous. Being here is not exciting. It's exhausting. And i don't know what else i can say that will do justice to what these people have to go through every single day, trapped inside a nightmare whilst their dreams and hopes are forced to remain just that.
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