Change on the Horizon?

I haven't felt as inspired to write lately. Not because there aren't interesting thing to write about and not because my mind has stopped churning, but just because sometimes I am just in the mood to let experience sit, as they are, in their moment, without a thorough re-evaluation and reflection process afterwards. But now I am sitting in the office alone, dark clouds and thunder outside my window, and it seems, if only for a moment, that the heat wave might be ending as the rain ushers in a new season in Jerusalem. But then as I continue glancing outside I see the sun refuse to shy away and fight its way through the clouds, clearing away the few drops that fell and creating a strong odor of wet asphalt that reaches me even from 4 stories above street level. Perhaps this is some sort of metaphor for my experiences here. Dark clouds signal changes on the horizon, unclear whether or not they are welcome changes. Then the sun peeking provides a glimmer or hope, but hope that is always kept in check by the accompanying odor which reminds us where we are and where we have yet to go. So now, in the midst of this fleeting scene, tainted by the noise of sirens and construction below, I feel like I have some time to write about a few happenings from the past few weeks.

My life and work here seem to be constantly fluctuating between high-intensity stimulation and excessively slow periods of solitude and inactivity. This past weekend qualifies as the first category, thanks in part to the visit of a very close friend from Berkeley who brings light with her wherever she goes. It started with a protest in Hebron that I had a bit of a role in organizing with a few very prominent activists here. The process of organizing such activities has certainly been a challenge as I find myself sitting in on meeting, trying my best to stay alert, involved, and hopefully helpful, despite not understanding all the Hebrew, especially when it is all mixed together with a bunch of code words and references to places and laws and past events and people that I am not familiar with. I recognize that I am undergoing a learning process through immersion, but I can't help but feel unsettled and confused as I straddle the line between taking on responsibilities and taking on the role of an observer. Basically, my contributions thus far have consisted of making weekly visits to Hebron to coordinate plans with our Palestinian partners in the city, being designated as the contact person for people who want to sign up to participate in the protest, and video taping everything once the protest is already underway. Admittedly, I don't do much talking in any of these capacities because like I said, I haven't got Hebron and the role of all the different players there all mapped out in my head just yet and I don't know where I can insert myself in a more substantial way. It will take me some time to understand which areas are considered more high-risk for protests, which areas are accessible, and which types of actions are likely to make the most impact. The protest this past Friday drew a crowd of around 70 people (a mixture of Israelis, Internationals, and Palestinians) to a piece of land that belongs to a Palestinian family yet is being used by settlers as a parking lot and a make-shift synagogue (essentially a tent with a Jewish star on it). There the protesters built a Palestinian outpost to show how quickly such a structure would be destroyed in contrast to the Jewish outpost which remains untouched. The police and army urged us to leave because they had declared the area a closed military zone. This resulted in the arrest of a number of people who refused the order to leave and then stunt grenades for the rest who didn't back away quite far enough. In some ways these protests seem like mere theatrics or a game of cat and mouse between the authorities and the activists. The parts are well rehearsed and everyone generally knows the sequence of events: march, chant, confront, crowd dispersal, go home (with different variations on those basic parameters). When I'm there I feel a rush of adrenaline but rarely do I feel like I'm actually making a dent in the system or convincing anyone to correct injustices. So why do it? Why do I willingly enter a scene where I know there is the danger of tear gas or a tarnished name or sometimes even a blow from an angry settler? Well this is a question that I am still attempting to find good answers to but for now I feel like my rationale lies in my commitment to building relationships based on solidarity, challenging unjust practices by shedding light on (or creating noise around) the critical issues that otherwise slip by unnoticed, and being part of a movement that doesn't wait on broken promises, but rather mobilizes the people in nonviolent struggle to demand the recognition that they are denied. Also, these protests represent a community of people in Israel-Palestine that are kept hidden by mainstream media and I think it is important to know that they exist, they are fighting, and they are not "terrorists" trying to dismantle the country from the inside.

My weekend continued with a beautiful Shabbat dinner at the home of a very warm and welcoming family in Jerusalem. It's so rejuvenating for me to find such accepting people in a place where I have to always think twice before sharing myself fully, simply to avoid conversations that make me feel uncomfortable or ostracized. I had one such conversation with a stranger at a party this week and it left me feeling incredibly deflated and hopeless. The simple act of explaining my work here launched him into an upsetting rant full of offensive claims and impenetrable denial. I don't aim to interact with people as if we are facing off on a battlefield, and in fact I refuse to. Actually, even imagining such a situation seems strange because such an approach does not align with my personality at all. I am not a person to yell in your face and tell you you're wrong. I am one the one who quietly listens and tries to find points of connection and inclusion. So when I do decide to speak and give voice to the flurry of thoughts that spend most of their time tucked safely away behind my closed lips within my inner soul, I am so grateful for those who show me the compassion and patience to I need to feel confident, safe, and supported. That is the type of community I left behind in Berkeley and which I hope to be able to create anew this year.

The weekend came to a close with a day by the Dead Sea. I went to enjoy the marvel of this natural phenomenon and also participate in an event attempting to draw attention to the fact that the Dead Sea is in a major crisis as a result of climate change. It is drying up at an alarming rate and contributing to the formation of huge, hazardous sinkholes along its shores. I'm not going to attempt to explain the process by which this happens because it's too technical and geological for my brain to fully grasp, so if you are curious you can look it up (and I fully encourage you to do so).
The event had three groups, Israelis, Palestinians, and Jordanians, making human chains to spell out "350" (as in parts per million), which is the safe upper limit of CO2 that should be in our atmosphere, instead of the 390+ that we are at right now. Similar actions took place all around the world, and although I found it a bit ironic that aerial photographs were taken (as if planes don't emit tons of CO2) the intention behind such a global campaign is important because it helps people feel more empowered to make change instead of feeling like the task is too daunting and beyond our control.

In more personal news, I'm slowly starting to make more friends and find more creative ways to spend my free time here. I am taking a breakdancing class twice a week, where I attempt to spin on my back and my head do fancy footwork with a group a kids. I am starting an Arabic class today just to learn a few basics so I don't feel completely at a loss for words when I am interacting with Palestinians. And I'm always searching for more ways to convert those more dull and lonely moments here, into opportunities for adventure and learning through critical engagement.

Strangers at Home

For the past few weeks a major component of my job at Breaking the Silence has been coordinating the open tours to Hebron and the South Hebron Hills. This requires that I set the dates and location for the tours, decide which language (Hebrew or English) they will be in, and then send email blasts and facebook messages to the people that we are trying to reach to sign up for the tours. Our primary target audience is the Israeli public so I’ve been focusing on the Hebrew tours most. Then after I’ve spread the word, I obsessively check our email account tours2hebron@gmail.com, respond to inquiries that come in, and make lists of the people signing up. It’s pretty mindless work a lot of the time, except for the fact that it’s great practice for my Hebrew writing/typing ability. But when I actually do go on the tours myself, which I do every once in a while to make sure everyone gets on the bus alright and to continue my own education about the region, then I get to see the fruits of my labor (so to speak) and I realize why these tours are so important. This past Monday I joined one of the Hebrew speaking tours to the villages and settlements in the South Hebron Hills. This was my second time on this specific tour, and it was even with the same tour guide, so I expected to have a similar experience. However, the fundamental difference between the tours was in the make-up of the groups and especially the reactions that I observed within the second group, which was comprised of 16 Israelis while the first was a group of about 7 internationals. (Just a quick aside about numbers…there are over 50 Israelis signed up for our next tour which takes place today! Seeds are being planted.) So as I was saying, what I realized on this tour was the extent to which Israelis are unaware of the reality on the ground in the West Bank (in this case South Hebron), which is just about 45 minutes away from Jerusalem and actually quite close to many other Israeli cities; remember, it’s a tiny country. Plus, it’s a breeze for Israelis to pass through the checkpoints, the same checkpoints that Palestinians can sometimes wait at for hours. In many ways the tours are very informative and Ilan, the tour guide, is fully equipped with facts about policies and practices carried out by the army as well as his own personal stories of his time serving as a soldier there during the 2^nd Intifada. But, as Ilan emphasizes in the beginning, the tour is not meant to be a lecture and it’s a given that people won’t always believe everything they hear from the guide, but maybe they will believe their own eyes when they see the physical markers of separation and inequality. All Israelis hear stories or read the news about settlements and the friction with surrounding Palestinian villages. But do they imagine that some of these famed settlements are just a few caravans on a hilltop who gain land titles and access to water and electricity by abusing their privilege as Israeli citizens which guarantees them protection by the army? The process by which such illegal outposts become legal is pretty unbelievable. Basically a few settlers come and set up their caravans anywhere they choose within Area C of the West Bank. Area C refers to the majority of the land in the West Bank that is mostly rural and totally controlled by Israel. It stands in contrast to Area A which is comprised of the major cities and is controlled by Palestinians, and Area B which is a combination of the two. A description of the complications surrounding the different areas deserves a much more lengthy discussion but that is not my main intention right now. I mention it just for a bit of context and to explain the different sets of laws that serve the different populations in the West Bank. So since the settlers are Israeli citizens settling within Israeli territory (officially) they are held accountable under Israeli civil law which is (supposed to be) enforced by the police. Palestinians under occupation, however, are subject to martial law which of course is much more severe and is enforced by the soldiers. The soldiers have no power to evict the settlers even though they know their actions are illegal, and the police are local police, meaning they are settlers themselves, and thus have no intention of evicting the settlers either. But because they are citizens the army is obligated to protect them, so soldiers come in, set up generators for themselves, declare the area around the new settlement a closed military zone, and help the settlers begin a process of expropriation. Once the land is declared a closed military zone no one is allowed to go there, unless they want to get arrested, thus ensuring that Palestinians cannot access their agricultural and grazing land in that area. As more caravans are added the restricted area expands its reach, and if it can be proven that the land has not been worked in 5 years then the land becomes state owned and available for cheap lease, which the settlers take advantage of in order to legalize their land grab.

Another image that doesn’t exactly match up with what Israelis believe they know about the West Bank is the image of the Palestinian village of Susiya. If it weren’t for the people who live there as a cohesive community and hold onto the memories of each eviction they’ve undergone, one could easily dismiss the cluster of ripped tents off the side of road as just a few “homeless” people and we would not understand that it is in fact a village with a history that begs to be heard. On the tour we sat in one of these tents, drank delicious tea, and spoke with members of the village who pointed to holes in the tent caused by Molotov cocktails and holes in the ground that serve the purpose of collecting the little rain water that falls in the winter, that is if the holes are not raided by the army and filled in with trash. And then people on the tour wonder why they don’t just leave, move to the cities, pull themselves up by their sandal straps. But when the only other option is to move to the unbelievably crowded refugee camp of Yatta (seen just over the horizon), staying and fighting for rights to their land, however difficult it might be, seems like the only way to proceed. And besides, what right do we have telling them to pick up and leave just to cooperate with the shameful Israeli plan to concentrate them as much as possible in the cities (a type of ghettoization)? Can all these practices really be explained away as simply security measures? Does the official Israeli government rhetoric, that I heard the Israelis on the tour cling to in an attempt to make sense of a senseless reality laid out before them, really help us understand the facts on the ground in the South Hebron Hills, or do they simply keep us from actually opening our eyes and confronting the injustices that exist in this “homeland” that we thought we knew but now seems a bit foreign and unsettling?

However, this feeling of being a stranger within our own country isn’t something that is exclusive to visits to the West Bank, where actually it is expected because “technically” that area is not even part of the country. In fact, that feeling of being an outsider is something I have experienced numerous times within Israel proper, but never to the extent that I did this week. A few days ago I took a bus that I had never been on before which passed through an area that I had never intended to pass through, but I was in no rush and I knew the end destination was Jerusalem, my home, so I paid the bus driver and sat in the front of an empty bus and started to read a book. The bus driver commented that I was crazy for trying to go to Jerusalem dressed as I was (shoulders exposed) but I told him I live there and I dress like this all the time. I responded with a sort of “thank you, but I can handle myself” type of attitude. Nonetheless, I put a sweater on after a few minutes, but only because the air conditioning was on high and not because I felt compromised. Eventually, as the bus began to fill up with haredis (men in black hats, women in long skirts, and tons of screaming children with side curls) I realized that the bus was driving through Bnei Brak, which is one of the most orthodox religious neighborhoods in the country. I continued to mind my own business, reading, until I heard someone talking to me. It was a religious man asking me to move to the back of the bus. I was so taken aback by his request that I could not find the courage to form the words I wanted to say, which would have been something like “but I was sitting here first and I’m not bothering anyone”. Instead I just looked toward the back of the bus, noticed that most women were sitting there and that I was now the only secular person on the crowded bus, picked up my belongings and took my new seat in the back. The tears that then filled my eyes and streamed down my cheeks surprised me because after all, he had asked relatively politely, I hadn’t been physically hurt, and truthfully I don’t mind where I sit on the bus. But regardless, there was something so painful in that interaction and as I sat there I crying I thought about the overwhelmingly frustrating sense of entitlement that allows people to dictate who belongs in the front and who in the back, who in positions of power and who as subordinates, who as an valuable members of society and who as burdens or nuisances. I felt outcast and unable to assert my voice that only cries out for equality. I feel this alienation as well when Israeli family, friends and strangers, tell me that I am working against the country, being one sided, and forgetting the Jewish history of persecution and victimhood. I know where I come from, I love and deeply respect my heritage, and I am trying to achieve my highest ideals which do not dictate that some can benefit at the expense of many. So why is my voice considered extreme and thus not worthy of real reflection that could lead to actual change here, change that I believe is beneficial to everyone, and not just “one side”? So if you think you disagree with me, I just ask that you hear me, and I will continue to struggle for the creation of spaces of mutual respect where everyone has the ability to safely and comfortably express all aspects of their identity.

A Palestinian resident of Susiya showing us a destroyed water hole.

The Palestinian village of Susiya in the South Hebron Hills.

An elderly Palestinian man talking to us outside his home

Palestinian village of Susiya. If you look closely you can see the Jewish settlement of Susiya (yes, same name) in the background. All the land in between the settlement and the village has been declared a closed military zone where Palestinians cannot enter.



The illegal outpost/settlement of Avigail. It is on it's way to becoming legal. They are hooked up to water and electricity through the army generators. The nearby village of Susiya has none of these amenities. An organization called Ta'ayush has started to build solar panels and wind turbines in Susiya but it's still very limited