Goodbye and Good Luck

I want to say just two things in this last blog.

The first is that my three months in Palestine have now come to an end and that few things have affected me more deeply and still fewer places have made me feel more welcome. To everyone I have met, whatever their race or religion, I want to extend my thanks. Without absolutely all of you my time here would not have been the cerebral revolution that it was for me. I will also make the promise that in the years to come I will come back to repay the kindness to all of you.

The second is I am currently so angry that I am finding it very difficult to type this. As of today, over 500 people have now been killed in Gaza with more than 3,000 wounded. The majority of these are civilians which are, of course, protected under the Fourth Geneva Convention and also by a little something called morality. For every minute the Israeli assault continues Gaza is being bled – women, children, injured and elderly have become the rule and not the exceptions in the casualty lists. From Israel and its apologists comes the sneering retort of ‘war is war’ as though to consider some form of conflict where civilians do not form the overwhelming majority of the dead and wounded is simply a liberal pipe dream.

Yesterday, a gutless individual who disgraces the office of Prime Minister issued a feeble statement on the conflict describing the ‘unprecedented barrage’ by Hamas against Israel while voicing ‘grave concern’ about civilian casualties in Gaza. He might also have mentioned that the ‘unprecedented barrage’ he describes has so far killed two Israeli civilians and that his ‘grave concern’ does little when he maintains his ‘unshakable’ support for the country currently raking Gaza with fire from every direction, including permitting the sale of military equipment to the aforementioned.

Reader, you have the privilege of turning away. You can sigh and mutter how awful things are before clicking a link to discover what flavour of Ice cream you are. You may shrug and say simply I don’t know enough about it or that you agree but have no idea what to do. To the former I say don’t stop reading; ignorance is not an excuse and if our generation has one thing it is the capacity to educate ourselves. To the latter I will ask you to take a leaf out of Colin Firth’s book and shout at the top of your lungs ‘I HAVE A VOICE!’ I am asking, no actually begging, those who have the will to speak out to do so now. Few things give our generation less credibility in the eyes of our rulers than our perceived indifference to current events. Nothing would better show how wrong they are than for us to speak in one voice against the bloodshed the Israeli authorities are unleashing on the people of Gaza.

Well? What are you waiting for?

The Camp

         It was an unbearably hot day when I first visited Aida camp. I was running late – my usual desire for promptness had collapsed amid the heat and chaos of the past month. In truth I was uncertain if I would even be able to make the visit. Originally, the plan had been for me to see five refugee camps spread out through the West Bank but the discovery of the bodies of the three kidnapped settlers had thrown all into confusion. The previous day I was supposed to see the Al Fawwar refugee camp on the far side of Hebron but that became unfeasible as IDF troops began to mass outside the city. Today, could also be a non-starter if there was violence or more likely if the organisation I was meeting with proved ineptly organised.
Aida is nestled in the crook of Israel’s wall as it scythes through Bethlehem to encircle Rachel’s Tomb. To reach it I had to pass beside the immaculate stone and glass structure of the intercontinental hotel – a building whose outer façade nods to the culture of colonial luxury that internationals indulged in the early 20th century. As the road forked right, however, I found myself entering a darker and more immediate reminder of colonialism. The initial road into the camp is lined with colourful and evocative graffiti, practically all of it political in some form or another.
As the narrow route opened out onto a wider street I glanced to the left and found about half a dozen shabab (youth) gathered by the side of the road. They were all wearing the 1948 T-shirts, emphasising the Palestinian right of return. Seeing me, some of them gave me a wary smile which I reciprocated as I followed the road towards the camp. Other than the shebab the streets were deserted and I felt a growing sense of unease as I continued to trudge through the sweltering heat.
The refugee organisation that I was due to be meeting with was situated on a road that ran directly from the Israeli separation wall to the main entrance to the camp. I looked in both directions apprehensively before entering but there was nothing but silence. It had been arranged that in the coming days I would be meeting with a refugee organisation in each camp who would show me around in order to gain an understanding of the refugee perspective. They had all been informed that I would be coming but whether they were expecting me was another matter.
In this case I was working with the Lajee Centre – an organisation run by and for refugees in Aida camp. Sure enough when I arrived at their offices I had do explain extensively exactly why I was there to one of its members (he never gave his name). He nodded, smiling before saying: ‘You should have called. No-one is here at the moment.’
Inwardly I rolled my eyes. I had called them a few days before and agreed to come at this exact time but evidently this detail had gone astray. Nevertheless I chatted to him in his office quite amiably about my time in Palestine. During our conversation, however, his eye was caught by the camera monitor on his desk which showed the same shabab I had seen earlier advancing down the street outside clutching stones. His phone rang and he answered.
‘Yes,’ he said down the line, ‘they are coming now and there are women with them.’
He grabbed his camera. ‘Come on,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s take a look.’
We went out on to the office balcony, giving us a sweeping view of the entire street. The shabab were advancing steadily, their keffiyehs wrapped tight around their heads to shield their faces, some still scrabbling by the roadside for anything to throw. They were headed directly for the wall which seemed impossibly large as they edged closer, shouting taunts.
‘Do the women usually join this?’, I asked.
‘You’ve studied the First Intifada,’ the member said as he lined up his camera. ‘Without women it would not have been possible.’
At about one hundred metres from the gate in the wall, the shabab halted. That was when they threw the stones, gradually at first and then in steady volleys. From here the stones seemed pitifully small, some landing just in front of the gate while others cracked uselessly against the concrete of the wall. They threw in silence concentrating on striking their targets. They were not a mob and there was little visible hatred, the whole thing seemed little more than a futile but defiant adolescent ritual.
Soon the flow of rocks slackened and ended, leaving the shabab standing staring at the gateway. A long minute passed then, quite suddenly, a metal doorway at the side of the gate snapped open. The shabab quickly scattered back down the road, some moving into side streets while others made straight for the camp entrance. IDF troops began to spill out and form up, forming a wall of grey and green uniforms. They were wearing riot gear but they did not display much urgency – theirs was just another futile ritual.
‘This happens often?’, I said.
‘Two or three times a week. Used to be every day but it’s Ramadan now.’

Most of the shabab had disappeared by now. A few strutted up and down at a safe distance, occasionally shouting some form of taunt and the soldiers. They did not respond but remained stationary in front of the wall. By now they were in quite a loose formation, some just standing and chatting to each other – probably about the heat. This went on for so long that I had time to do a head count – there were eleven in all.

Eventually the soldiers began to move slowly down the road, towards the camp. The last of the shabab scattered once more, throwing a few stones as parting gifts. The only person who remained standing was a journalist, snapping photos by the roadside as the soldiers advanced into the camp. They ignored her but a stone from the camp skimmed uncomfortably close to her position before the member next to me shouted for them to stop. He turned to me.
‘You should go down and take a look.’
I blinked. ‘Is it safe?’, I spluttered.
He shrugged. ‘You’re an international. You’ll be fine.’
So I did. In hindsight this was precisely the sort of thing to give my parents nightmares but at the time it seemed only logical. When was I going to see this again?
Down in the street I tentatively walked towards the gate of the camp. As I did so I saw, with a start, that the soldiers had abandoned their incursion and were coming back down the road towards the wall. I was uncertain where to place myself, not wanting to appear either submissive or confrontational. In the end I half leaned against a wall and watched them pass. Most of them didn’t spare me a glance except for one who looked me up and down with dispassionate curiosity.
I moved into the camp. The journalist was still there and I struck up a conversation, principally about how I could get into journalism. As we did so a couple of stones landed close by.
‘Khallas!’Enough!, she shouted down the street before calling someone in the nearby houses to ask them to stop.
‘Do you have a camera?’, she asked. I nodded.
‘Good. Use it and remember that the IDF can only stop you if it’s a closed military zone. Also, only take photos of Palestinians when their faces are covered. Otherwise, good luck!’
I stuck around for a few more minutes examining the graffiti close by. By now the soldiers were back where they had started and the shabab were just sitting in the shade joking with each other. It was just another day.

I returned to Aida and the Lajee Center the following week and was introduced to a young man, Mohammed L– who agreed to take me around the camp.
The first item he pointed out to me was a picture of a martyr, which are found in practically every city and town in Palestine. The grainy image was of a woman who, Mohammed explained, was 42 and had died recently from overexposure to tear gas. Further along, spray painted on the wall, were 12 faces of prisoners from Aida facing life sentences. Ironically the Israeli authorities have the view that even death in prison should not affect a life sentence, meaning that for years afterwards the authorities will keep the body of a prisoner in order that it may serve its full time.

Above the entrance to Aida camp is a physical expression of the Palestinian right of return: a two tonne steel key with a defiant label saying not for sale. The story of the refugees keys has been told many times – that when the Palestinians were forced to leave their homes in 1948 they kept their house keys in the conviction that they would return soon. They never did but the keys continue to be passed from one generation to the next.
The original inhabitants of Aida came from 27 villages, now destroyed, in what is now Israel. As with most refugee camps the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) established the camp in 1950 which originally housed each family in a tent until 1955 when they constructed structures measuring 3 x 3 metres for each family of up to nine people. Aida remains overcrowded and claustrophobic – some homes have to keep their lights on during the day because daylight never passes through their windows.

Mohammed brought me to the edge of the camp or rather he took me to the point where Israel’s wall has cut the camp off from the surrounding land. One of the watchtowers along its length was charred almost completely black and the ground in front of it was still smouldering.
‘The soldiers were here last night.’, Mohammed told me. ‘People tried to burn the watchtower so they came to stop them.’
He went on to tell me that while the wall was being built here (between 2002-2007) the IDF arrested over 500 people in Aida.
‘They also killed three kids.’, he added

Before he finished the tour Mohammed showed me a monument listing the names of the 27 lost villages. He told me that the memory of the Nakba is still strong here and the refugees have not lost there sense of where home is. ‘We are guests in this camp’, he told me.

Later I sat down with him to talk further. When I raised the issue of the right of return he was adamant: ‘If I wanted land in Bethlehem I could have it. It’s not about land; it’s about the right of return. Give me the right to choose.’
And what about the peace process?
‘The Israelis say they have given us peace with justice. We don’t need this fucking justice.’
Mohammed did not strike me as sentimental. If nothing else he seemed a realist but one determined to state his rights. Nothing could be further from the cynical dismissals of the right of return distributed by the Israeli government which snidely portrays itself up as the realist party trying to steer a clear course in the peace process. Of course it helps if you control the aforementioned reality and constantly shape it to your advantage.
The truth remains though that Aida is real and so is everyone in it. Indeed would be unrealistic to imagine that there will be no reckoning for the crimes committed against these people. They are waiting and they have the time.