| | March 15, 2006:
A quick aside: yesterday the Israeli military stormed a prison in
Jericho, tear gassed the unarmed inmates that were locked in their
cells, stripped them to their underwear outside, and demolished the
prison. They relocated every inmate to Israeli jails. The British and
American guards who ran the prison left 20 minutes before the Israeli
military arrived. Since from what I heard this was briefly glossed over
in American news (although I'll be willing to wager that they are
covering the wave of retaliatory kidnappings that happened...) I
thought I'd give the quick and dirty in case anyone wants to look for
articles.
I finished my oud and Arabic lessons today and am back in Jerusalem for the night.
Tomorrow is the third year anniversary of Rachel Corrie's death. There
will be a series of actions in her memory. In the morning a group of us
will chain ourselves to, or otherwise "occupy" one of the Caterpillar
D9 bulldozers (the same model that crushed Rachel to death) at the
Qalandia checkpoint and paint ourselves red. In the evening there will
be a showing of a recently made film about Rachel and a
candlelight vigil.
Luckily, living in Bethlehem for three weeks has allowed me the space
and time to (somewhat) process my experience in Balata camp last month.
Otherwise I don't think I would have the emotional capacity to deal
with tomorrow. At first it was hard to be away from Balata, and in
Bethlehem specifically. I experienced what could best be described as
culture shock. People in the West Bank have nicknamed Bethlehem
"Paris," and it does seem like another world sometimes. I remember
saying when I first moved there that I didn't feel like I was in
Palestine anymore. I couldn't finger a reason at first. After bonding
through traumatization with people in Balata camp, it was hard to walk
into one of the most touristy places in the West Bank. The atmosphere
seemed superficial in light of what I had just seen happening a couple
hours north.
Last week I was able to interview a class of high school girls at a
private catholic school, and left with a much clearer understanding of
the community. The girls are the authors of a book of memoirs called
"The Wall Cannot Stop our Stories" and tour with a set of performance
monologues based on their diaries. My first impression was that they
could have been young students at any girls-only school - there was
gossip, giggling, secret-telling, stealing from the lemon tree when the
nuns weren't looking - nothing to suggest the harsh political reality
of their lives. When I asked the class how they cope with life under
occupation, their demeanor changed. I saw anguish and anger unmask on
their faces; they stopped smiling. The answer should have been obvious,
but something about the frankness with which they spoke struck me as
profound. The first student, a girl with challenge in her eyes,
described in detail how she constructs a fake world for herself, where
she can pretend to have a normal life. Others pitched in, discussing
escape through books, movies, and their own imaginations. I had
inadvertently punctured the facade by asking them to relive traumatic
memories. It became clear that there were two people locked up in each
of those bodies, split between two different realities. I think that
many people who have the luxury of not living under constant low-level
fear of violence probably find similar escapes, but this fact had not
been a part of my experience, having done most of my project in Balata
where people are not able to shut themselves off in this way. For some
reason this interview freed up a lot of energy within me and brought
closure to my time in Balata.
The final healing stage must be returning to the camp. As the days have
gone by, I've felt increasingly restless to go back. Oddly enough, I
miss it there. In fact, it is the first place I've really felt homesick
for since I flew to the Middle East over three months ago. If homesick
is the right word... Something about experiencing the senselessness of
war firsthand, watching people I know shedding blood and people I love
losing friends - when I left Nabus in somewhat of a daze, I left a
piece of my self behind. Fairly literally. Several people commented
that I didn't seem "all there." Whatever part of my humanity I had to
shed in order to stifle my emotions and function properly as a medical
volunteer under those conditions, its stayed there. I feel very
thankful that I have the privilege to reconcile myself to my
experiences and mend the fracture, unlike those who can never remove
themselves from The Situation.
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| | Posted 3/17/2006 9:00 AM - 47 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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