Palestine

Because I have not yet had a chance to include my experiences in Palestine in this blog, I'm going to include this article I wrote about it for my university's newspaper:



I entered the Palestinian Territories on a bicycle, along with about one hundred other women from around the world. There had been over two hundred of us travelling through Syria, Lebanon and Jordan (as part of Follow the Women, a peace initiative), but all the women with passports from Arab countries were unable to enter due to government policy.

I travelled with the group for three days, experiencing with them the Wall (a.k.a. security fence) and the checkpoints for the first time. But once we reached Bethlehem I left them and joined up with a Palestinian friend of mine. His name is Mohammad. For the rest of my time in Palestine I stayed with him and his family in their village, which is just outside of Ramallah.

Mohammad took me deeper into Palestinian society and the Israeli occupation: travelling with me through Palestinian refugee camps, Israeli checkpoints and even clouds of tear gas set off by Israeli soldiers firing canisters at protesters in Bil’in, a village that has lost much land due to the construction of the wall.

On one such journey we travelled to Nablus, the city where almost every night is disturbed by gunfire.

There are plaques throughout the city depicting where martyrs have fallen. In one small square there is a large plaque commemorating the death of a family of nine: from the grandparents to an infant child. The deaths were the result of an Israeli incursion during which their home was bulldozed with them all still inside. The plaque proclaims in bold lettering that: ‘We must never forget. We must never forgive.’ This really struck me. It echoed the same sentiment found in the ANZAC phrase ‘Lest we forget’, and yet, it was greatly different. It equated forgetting with forgiveness, both being equally as unacceptable.

But then I remember another moment when I was faced with the question of forgiveness, when Mohammad asked his youngest brother what he felt about the Israeli occupation? His brother replied that the land must be cleansed of it. I was greatly saddened by his answer because I thought he meant that all Israelis must be ‘cleansed’, but then Mohammad asked him what he would do if the occupation ended? His brother answered simply that he would forgive them.

Back in Nablus, we were invited to watch some school students perform the traditional Dabke dance. Once the dance had finished, a number of adults stood up to speak. Mohammad whispered to me that they were speaking of martyrs who had been killed in fighting with Israeli soldiers. After the speeches, they presented small commemorative medallions to family members of the martyrs as the rest of the audience applauded. I was shocked by the ceremony and felt uncomfortable by, what appeared to me, a celebration of death and killing. And yet I was fascinated. I could not understand how the families of these martyrs were expected to celebrate the deaths of their loved ones. Mohammad told me that it is the establishment of a free Palestinian state that is important: a mother is proud to give up her sons for the struggle.

But that was not what I saw. I didn’t see proud mothers and families. While the other people in the room clapped and cheered, I saw that the family members of the martyrs were not smiling or pleased but in pain. Yes, they probably believe in the armed struggle for a free Palestinian state, but it seems to me that nobody can be pleased to lose a loved one, regardless of the cause.

On returning to Ramallah we met with Mohammad’s brother-in-law, who informed us that two Israeli soldiers had been shot dead on a highway outside the city. Mohammad told me that we should hurry back with his brother-in-law to spend the night at the home of his sister, who lived in the city. He said there was a risk that the Israeli army may enter the city in retaliation for the deaths. It was not the first time that it had happened.

Fortunately though, that night there was no Israeli incursion. But not long after I returned to Australia the Israeli army did enter. They removed a man from a restaurant on the opposite side of the road from where Mohammad was standing, pushed him to the ground and shot him in the head before withdrawing. Mohammad wrote to me later of the sight of the man’s body lying on the ground, blood flowing over the street. He asked me how the international community can sit back and not only allow the occupation to happen, but support it. How can they leave the Palestinian people to suffer alone? I couldn’t answer him.

When I returned to Australia I found it difficult to readjust to my life again. I kept revisiting those Palestinian streets slowly being paved over by Israeli-only roads. Sometimes still when I walk along Australian streets, I begin to run. I run to clear my head from disquieting thoughts. I run to push away the feeling of hopelessness for my friend’s country. And I run through Sydney’s suburbs because in this place, at least, I can and nobody will stop me. And that is a freedom that we all should share, yes, even Palestinians.