Bleeding for Gaza

After two days of feeling frustrated about not being able to do anything for Gaza, I went to Rafidia hospital in Nablus to donate my blood for the wounded and out of a general feeling of solidarity for the people of Gaza.

Armed with a bottle of juice and some chocolate bars to recover from my mission I walked Rafidia street, uncertain where to go exactly. In the previous days I had been a bit weary about how people in Nablus would react to me after Israel's killings in Gaza. Normally we get many "shaloms" (Hebrew greeting that is the equivalent of the Arabic "salam", both meaning peace ironically), so I expected to run into a slightly more hostile attitude of people in the street. Luckily I've underestimated the Palestinian friendliness once again, even though we still get the regular "shaloms", I haven't noticed any hostility towards me and so I didn't need to know where the hospital was exactly, because people were more than willing to show me.

A young guy in the street walked me all the way up to the blood clinic inside the hospital. At first the people there told me to come back the next day between eight and ten, but in some cases it pays off to belong to an exotic kind: Of course they couldn't send the "ajnabiye" away that has come all the way to give her blood for Gaza.

Besides me and the doctors there was no-one there and that added to the depressive atmosphere of the run-down hospital, giving it an air of serenity at the same time.
I had to wait a little before we could move to the procedure and overheard the staff in the other room talking excitedly about the "ajnabye", I was surprised to feel that apparently for them it was a major thing that I was there.

The doctor (or employee) that treated me was a very nice man and spoke English very well. He made me feel very comfortable and also very appreciated for doing this. We spoke about the situation in Gaza and about the situation in Palestine in general. He repeated the general vision that Palestinians have about the situation, their lives and their fate as a people: a nation that has been under siege for 60 years. Not just now, not just Gaza. Now it's Gaza... five, six years ago it was Nablus, Jenin, Ramallah. Every Palestinian where ever he lives, what ever he stands for is suffering from this siege.

His personal lifestory underlined this. He told me that he himself had been in prison for 10 years. He just got out 11 months ago. Not that he was a terrorist, nor a criminal. He told me that he had been a peace activist all his life. The reason he was imprisoned: he had convinced a young Palestinian guy that was going to commit a suicide attack in Israel not to take his life and that of some many other innocent people. By himself he had been able to stop this person and for this heroic action of great responsibility he was rewarded with ten years imprisonment, because he had been unwilling to tell the Israelis who this boy was. In his own words: " I'm not a collaborator". He saved Israeli lives, but instead of showing gratefullness, the Israelis made sure that people like him will think twice about making that "stupid mistake" again.
Welcome to the cruel reality of Israel, where even peace activists are seen as security threats that need to be locked away. Anyone that talks about or fights for freedom, regardless if they use non-violent means, is an enemy of the state of Israel.

He made me feel that I wasn't just giving my blood for Gaza, but that I was giving my blood for Palestine in general, for the Palestinian struggle to freedom. A free Palestine, not meaning free of Jews, but free of oppression. Unlike what people in the West are led to believe by Israel, the general Palestinian wish is not a state of their own: a Palestinian-only state where all the Jews have to be pushed out. Palestinians are not Israelis and are ready to embrace the notion of living together in one land. All they long for is freedom, as opposed to the Israelis that in general long for a Jewish-only state. The doctor talked about this with passion in his eyes, if only, one day... He told me he dreams of Palestinians living together with Jews.

While my blood was slowly dripping into the bag on the ground, he asked me if I was still feeling okay, as is of course part of the procedure. Even though my arm was slowly turning blue I was feeling better than ever. Being here, as an international volunteer in Nablus, there's many times that you feel completely useless, not being able to make any difference to the perverse reality people live in. Right there and then I felt my presence was anything but useless. Not only was I physically contributing something essential: my blood, my life liquid, a part of myself, one of the most precious and costly things you can give as a human being... The gratefullness that he showed me for donating my blood made me more aware than ever that, even though I might not always feel that way, me living next to Palestinians in Nablus is really a contribution in itself: Being there, showing willingness to listen to their stories, giving attention to their problems and their existence. Giving my blood, can actually be seen as a symbol of what I have been doing all along in Palestine: giving myself to this cause.

During the draining of my blood, he enthusiastically called his wife, to tell her about the "ajnabiye" giving blood. He told me his wife was too scared to do it, but this might be able to convince her "if even internationals are coming here to do this then she, as a proud Palestinian, should definitely do it as well." The whole situation made me smile: To see him talking to his wife, so delighted. He even asked me to say "hi" to her on the phone. There I was, with a needle sticking out of my arm, talking to the wife of some doctor in Rafidia hospital, making a difference.... at least a small one, adding some positivity in the live of an incredible human being that has spent 10 years suffering in jail, because he didn't want to give up the principles he believes in. And, hopefully, also in the life of a suffering human being in Gaza. His story and this experience reaffirmed my believe that the positive will always prevail in the end, even when surrounded by so much misery. He clearly made a difference in my life as well... adding some positivity when I was in a position surrounded by so much misery.

The Killings in Gaza: A West Bank Story

Remember that day seven years ago. That day where all of a sudden everything you knew just seemed to fall apart, where shock and uncertainty where the only things left to cling to. 9/11... we all know where we were and more importantly how we felt.
12/27 or 27/12 was such a day too. The Palestinian version of 9/11. As anyone that hasn't slept in a cave for the past few days knows, Israel has relentlessly attacked Gaza, killing around 250 people on the first day only. It has been the bloodiest day in decades and came without warning (although there were many signs that Israel was planning a large attack on Gaza).

I freezed to the ground as I heard what was going on, my eyes stuck to the television in front of me. Is this for real? Is this really happening? Are they really bombing the hell out of Gaza?

Gaza is not that far away from here, but seeing those images it was worlds away. Fathers dragging the dead bodies of their little children through the streets. Piles of bodies inside the small rooms of the hospital, because there wasn't any room to put the bodies. At first I thought it was a pile of cloths, until I saw a hand sticking out. Crying women, crying children, smoke, people running, people screaming, the sound of ambulances, destruction and dust everywhere.... the clear image of a warzone.

At the same time, it wasn't worlds away at all. It was happening right here and right now. Life completely came to a stop inside the entire West Bank. Everyone automatically seemed to abide by an invisible curfew: a curfew of compassion. Sitting in front of the television trying to get an idea of what was going in Gaza. Sadly Israel was not only bombing Gaza, Israel was bombing the minds of all Palestinian people.
I suddenly remembered a facebook quote of a Palestinian boy from Nablus, saying something like: Every people live in their own countries. The Palestinian people are not allowed to live in their own country, the country lives in them. Palestine truly exists in the mind of the Palestinian people. From the faces of people I could tell that it wasn't Gaza that was being torn to pieces, it was them, their dream of Palestine that was torn apart inside their heads. Memories of the second and first Intifada became vivid again, old wounds...

The so-called Hamas-Fatah divide seemed to have ceased to be of any importance. One people, one enemy, one struggle. As the death toll rose the people began to look more and more depressed. Everywhere you go and everyone you talk to, it's all about Gaza. Often without even mentioning a word, Gaza is the topic, Gaza is just around us all in these past two days... it doesn't have to be named to be present.

Many people have stopped asking 'how are you?' and no-one says fine anymore. Not so good, not too fine are now the universal answers. Israel pledged that this was just the beginning, but everyone felt that already. This is really the beginning, but whether Israel will be able to control the outcome remains to be seen. The tension can be felt. Israel has gone too far this time. What will happen? It is all uncertain. That Israel will do whatever it takes is the only thing that is quite certain, because Israel has never shown much restraint in its wars. It certainly didn't show any restraint when it came to Lebanon in 2006.

But what will the consequences of the Israeli actions be?
There have been protests in Ramallah and other West Bank cities such as Hebron. There was also a protest in Nablus but it was rather small. Next to that there have been mass demonstrations all over the Arab world, in countries such as Yemen, but also in France and the U.K. Is this a sign? It might just as well not be.

There has been a period of national mourning imposed. All the shops were closed, although many of them were still doing business, even though they pretended to be closed. Instead of opening all the iron doors as is normally done, they only opened one. That's the Palestinian difference between a closed shop and an open one. But what will be done by the Palestinians and their so-called authority after this period of mourning?

A shitload of tanks has been mobilized at the military base outside of Huwarra checkpoint. Is an invasion of Nablus at stake? Rumours have been going through the city about it. But it might just as well be 'a security measure' or a deterrent', a measure of intimidation. Nothing is certain. That's the feeling that remains, even after the smog of the first few days has started to come down and things are starting to become more clear. 12/27 is really just another 9/11.... a major terror attack that imposed on us feelings of uncertainty.

Martyr stories and a marriage proposal

Today when I was walking in the street I randomly ran into a student I used to teach. She asked me if I had time, to come to her house for a bit. Yes, yes... I know the Palestinian 'bits' by now, especially if someone invites you over. So of course I wasn't surprised when that bit turned into a very long, but enjoyable and extremely interesting night. I was even kindly 'pressured' into spending the night at their place (as is actually standard procedure, I know by now), but I told them that I had a meeting of Project Hope I had to attend later that evening and that I couldn't stay. Of course a first 'no' is never accepted here and I had to repeat it endlessly. Even when I was at the door, leaving and thanking them for the lovely evening (and all the food they managed to sneak in a bag for me to take home)they were still checking to see if I was really determined about my decision.

It's nice to see how people here are living, and a house always tells you so much about its residents. This particular house had quite a lot to tell, because it housed the family of Palestinian martyrs. Even before I had set one foot inside I was confronted with the tragic history of this family. There was a huge poster outside on the door and the girl Zahwa explained to me that all (around) 10 people on that poster were martyrs and family members as well. Martyr, in the West seen as synonym for terrorist, but I wasn't afraid or weary to go inside and meet these people, because I knew better. Martyr actually signifies anyone who sacrificed his life, in this case for the Palestinian struggle. Here it means anyone that has died at the hands of the Israelis or for the Palestinian cause is a martyr.
In the middle of the poster was the face of a young man, surrounded by small pictures on the side of all the other family members, among them three small children. Zahwa told me that this was her brother.

Inside, the living room was decorated with martyr posters and pictures of the killed family members everywhere. I was greeted by Zahwa's lovely parents and for the first part of my visit we hardly talked about the martyrdom in their family. They didn't tell, I didn't ask. We just enjoyed ourselves together. When Zahwa went into her room to pray, Zahwa's mother kept talking to me about her children, her village and other stuff old women like to talk about, in 'dazzling speed' Arabic. Most of the time I had a fair idea of what she was talking about, because I could understand some words, but that woman kept going on and on and on, leaving just enough time for me to quickly nod. Her father spoke a little German and we communicated in a bizarre mixture of English, German and Arabic.

Then Zahwa wanted to introduce me to her neighbors downstairs. I went with her and was greeted by another family. They were curious about me and immediately started asking me all these questions. I was sort of prepared, because this always follows the same pattern. First question: What's your name? Second question: How old are you? Third question: Are you married? Let's get straight to the point. If you say "no", this question is automatically and nearly always followed by the question: Would you like to get married in Palestine? These people are just incredible. The sole intention of my trip is to come here to get myself hooked up to a Palestinian man, because obviously in Holland there aren't any men around and I'm a woman so my only goal in life and all I care about is to get married, as soon as possible.
It's a tricky situation, since there's no correct answer. If you say no, than it's like: "But you have the perfect age to get married", or "you're already so old" and you have to go through endless explanations why you wouldn't want to get married. And of course you want to be, at least a little, polite. But saying yes is not an option because there's a major risk that they have a son, nephew or who-ever that still needs a bride. Any for many families that have things the traditional way it's all about marriage, the person who you get married to is of second importance. Of course it has to be an appropriate person but that criterium is quickly fulfilled.
So I've already fallen twice for the supposedly safe answer of "maybe", but that turned out to be treacherous as well. This time I said: "Well it depends on the person (I really thought I had saved myself there), it has to be a special person".

Then of course almost immediately the mother began to tell me about her 35 year old son that wanted to get married. Five minutes later the man himself walked in and I was immediately asked straight away if I wanted to marry him. Right in front of his nose. Talking about pressure... I hope that he didn't really notice my freaked out face when the mother asked me.
I could have known that talking about 'special person' was the stupidiest thing I could have done, of course the mother thinks her son is not just anyone and really special. "Yes I think your son is really special, even though we just said hello to each other". Last time my vagueness, really made a disaster out of the situation so I forced myself to be impolite, but clear. So I said: "No, not really". As said, a first 'no' is never accepted, so they told me that they could give me some time to think about it. Wow really?! That's generous. I could get some time to think if I want to marry a complete stranger.
They told me that he really wanted to marry a foreign girl, because he doesn't like Arab women because they're so close minded and western women are so open-minded. It can't help but being very cynical: that's all very nice, but if you can not even communicate with each other, because you don't speak each other's languages... how is that openmindedness going to help your marriage work?

In the end I tried to tell as straightforward as possible that I really didn't want to get married now. I think they got the point, but still kept luring me into this: "He has a taxi. He can take you anywhere you want. If you ever need to go somewhere, just call him". The taxi argument didn't exactly win me over. Nonetheless, the family was quite nice. It was just a clash between Western and Eastern customs and beliefs.

When we went back to the martyr house to have dinner with the parents of Zahwa, I sat right in front of one of the huge martyr posters. I couldn't help but feeling a little stared at. Zahwa and her mother noticing me looking at the pictures and began telling me, in pieces, the story of their family and of their son and brother Jibreel that had died as a resistance fighter.

Zahwa spoke with a deep love about her brother. The first thing she told me is that he used to be an excellent student in the university before he decided to become a fighter. Girls still come up to her to tell her how great her brother was. Not because he fought Israeli soldiers, but because he used to help them with their homework and protect them against guys harassing them.

I looked at the poster and read 'December 18th 2003'. It was December 16th, now it's December 17th. Tomorrow people will start reading his story, exactly 6 years after his life came to an end, nothing planned though. Jibreel, the hero. Every year in Nablus parades are held around the day that he died. Parades in sole remembrance of him. The television was on, and as we talked the Nablus channel was on. At a certain point Zahwa, seemingly unsurprised, told me: "Ah... this is about my brother". It was a short video of one of the previous parades they held for him. There I was, sitting at the couch of the family of a famous Nabulsi martyr. How surreal. I had been enjoying my time with them as if no such thing ever happened. That's the second thing Zahwa told me: "We try to live our lifes without sad. The important in life is not money, or nice buildings and houses. The important is love".

As she carried on talking I wondered how this had all come about. Soon it became the clear that her brother's fate had been closely connected to the deaths of the other people in his family. As over the years more and more family members got killed by the Israeli army, Jibreel grew more and more resentful towards the Israeli army. In one incident three young cousins got killed, because the Israeli army targeted the car the kids were driving in with their father, wanting to kill their father. The attack ended up killing the three little children, but leaving the father still alive. Collateral damage is the phrase we often use for that in the West, the price of war, covering up the injust and immoral character of such actions.

The decision to become a martyr was directly triggered by the death of his sister's husband, leaving her behind with three baby children. After that incident he was wanted by the Israeli authorities, for having made hateful remarks towards Israel. While trying to be a father to his sister's children, they kept searching for him, interrogating him. Often he couldn't leave his village, because they wouldn't allow him to pass at the checkpoint. He was put in jail and his family was threatened many times. That's when he decided to give in to violence, supposedly having said:
I would rather die as a martyr, fighting for my country, than spent my life in jail, living under miserable circumstances

And martyr is what he became after three years of fighting the Israeli army. Terrorist? Definitely not. He has never killed or attacked any civilians, unlike the Israeli army that killed so many of his familymembers.

On the night of his killing, he had carried a young fighter that got wounded on his shoulder to a safe place. The boy had told him to stay with him and not to go back. Jibreel didn't listen and went back. He walked right into an ambush. It was dark and he didn't know that he found himself surrounded by Israeli soldiers. In one of the buildings, there was a Palestinian woman seeing what was about to happen. Afterwards she told that she hadn't been able to warn Jibreel because there were soldiers everywhere. And that's how Jibreel came to his end. He got shot. Before he fell onto the ground, he reached for his pocket for a final sigaret. He lid it, inhaled, and looked at the woman with a big smile on his face. That's how Jibreel went down. Having embraced this fate already a long long time ago at the moment when he decided to go fighting.
His family didn't find out until they saw his dead body on the news, one of the familymembers recognizing the jacket he wore.

Zahwa told me how she's still being stopped at the checkpoint because she's wearing his picture around her neck and they know she's his sister: "Your brother is no martyr, he just died. He is dead." She keeps insisting on his martyrdom at the outrage of the soldiers. After having her entire family decimated by the Israeli army, her pride is all she's got. That's when I came to understand the posters. Without this pridefull idea of martyrdom they would really come to see how empty their hands are and how much they lost, how much they suffered and how the violence didn't bring them anything but further suffering. The glorification of martyrs is something they hold onto, to withstand, to hold on.

What an account. What a night. A marriage proposal and martyr stories, welcome to Palestine, the place where these absurdities can happen to you in just one night.

Palestine in a Frame

Palestine is hard to capture in words, therefore this attempt to put it in a frame. Down here you'll get to see an impression of what Palestine is, for me, through my eyes and my camera's lense.















* Olive tree in the Palestinian village of Yanoon, under constant attack by settlers.
* A Banksy graffiti on the separation wall in Bethlehem.
* Raw meat everywhere in the lively souq of Nablus.
* Haram as-Sharif, or Temple Mount, with the Wailing Wall in front of it.
* Random juice stand operated by bedouin men in the desert near Jericho.
* Rent-a-cross business in Jerusalem: Play Jesus for a day.
* Waiting for a closed gate at Qalandia checkpoint.
* The girlschool of refugee camp Al Ein in Nablus.
* A taxi driver being stopped and questioned at Huwarra checkpoint near Nablus.
* Toy assault rifles for sale in Nablus.
* Having dinner 'villagers' style in the village of Beita, south of Nablus.
* Camel rides at the martyr's circle in the centre of Nablus.
* Palestinian children in the old city of Nablus.

Visa Battles and Settler Pogroms Part III

As said in part II, after I somehow managed to convince the Israeli officials to give me a new visa, I went home, a little less naive as I came. If I spent too long here in this crazy country, I'm afraid not much of my 'precious' naivety will remain.

The bus to Ramallah was crowded and I had to stand all the way, driving on small bumpy roads. I was tired, after two short nights of sleep, but I was even more tired of Israel and its 'security policies'.

I couldn't wait to go back to 'easy' Nablus, where the worst hassle you get is comments in the street and ridiculous arrangements in the service to sit down all the women together to protect them from 'pervert' men.

In Ramallah the crazy circus began (or continued... depending on how you look at it). The streets were loaded with shopping people, because of the upcoming Eid al Adha holiday. In the service station, all the services were gone. Normally it is filled with yellow and orange vans waiting to take you. Now it was filled with people and lots of bags, waiting to be taken. I was handed a number (No I didn't have to file an application for that, or stand in line for it). I was surprised to find some form of organisation to exist in Palestine. And it actually worked. Whenever a service drove in, a man began calling the numbers that were up and this proved to be able to control the crazy crowd.

When I had finally mounted the service and was able to sit, I almost immediately fell asleep. After around 45 minutes, I woke up to check if we were coming close to Nablus. I didn't recognize the environment and saw us driving down a hill in line with several hundred other cars. In the valley there was a huge traffic jam. I asked the woman sitting next to me what happened and why we weren't driving on the normal road. She told me that she didn't really know, but that the service driver had to take this back road, because the other road was closed down by Israeli army vehicles.

Once we came closer we became aware that the traffic jam wasn't only the result of tons of vehicles trying to get back on the main road again. The main road was covered with army vehicles and when we came even closer I saw hippie-looking girls, with long hair and long skirts, standing on the road: Settlers. That's why the road had been closed by the Israeli army! But why, really why had the army decided to do such a thing? If there's people interfering in the public realm and obstructing the public safety, the state's institutions should in any normal case stop these people. You can't walk on public roads, especially on main roads, and the police will take you away if you do so. Not in this case. Because this involved Israeli settlers, the people weren't taken of the road, the (Palestinian) traffic was redirected instead, to prevent a confrontation with the settlers... Israeli officials prove time and again to be masters in creative solutions.

By then we were still under the impression that it was a small incident. It wasn't until later that we heard on the radio what had caused this trouble. In Hebron the army had finally decided to evict a big group of settlers out of a house in the city center. The Israeli court had ordered the eviction weeks before. This enraged Israeli settlers, not only in Hebron but over the entire West Bank and severe attacks on Palestinians, and to a lesser extent on the Israeli army, were the result.

When it comes to settlers the Israeli army has a long history of not acting against settler agression towards Palestinians. Every year's olive harvest is obstructed by numerous settler attacks on Palestinian farmers with Israeli soldiers standing idly by, in most cases. The Israeli army sees itself in a difficult position: taking sides against people from its 'own kind' or allowing indiscriminate violent attacks on Palestinians which portray a very dark image of Israel abroad.
Slowly the Israeli state has come to understand that the settlers don't really help Israel to sell its story to the rest of the world. The settlers have proven to be very bad PR agents. That's why in Israel the pressure is mounting to crack down on settler violence.

But so far, there's not much reflection of this in real life. In the rare incidences that the Israeli army has acted against the settlers, this has been widely covered in all the (international) media. The cases where the army fails to respond or even support the settlers in their behavior don't get the same amount of coverage.
This is top-level PR! While Zimbabwe is currently doing anything it can to deny the severity of their massive cholera problem, Israel is not even trying to deny the settler violence, because it knows by doing so it would make a complete fool of itself. Credibility is everything in PR and denial kills your credibility.
No-one seriously believes the Zimbabwean claims that there's no cholera crisis, instead it's better to do damage control. To say: yes it's true and then give it a twist you like. In this case: oh this settler agression!! But look how great we are trying to fight it.

If you live it from the inside, you know that this is not really true. Keep in mind that the Israeli government is heavily subsidizing settlers and (thus) stimulating Israeli people to live in settlements in the Palestinian territories. At the same time it is the Israeli state that ALLOWS (as in: gives the right to) every settler to carry a GUN inside the Palestinian territories. A Palestinian friend of mine that has been working and living in Israel for years (and has an Israeli ID!!), can not even take a simple kitchen knife with him in his car, even though he is a cook for profession.

Anyhow, when we slowly approached the settlers the service driver suddenly decided to take a dirt road on the left, driving by fields of crops, eventually leading up to a small village. Many cars were doing the same thing. As we were slowly bumping along the rocky and uneven road, the situation began to sink in: So this is now the main road from Ramallah to Nablus... welcome to Palestinian life, where your ethnic identity determines how you are being treated instead of labels such as 'perpetrator' or 'victim', let alone where you are being treated for your own behavior. What goes around, comes around. But here in Palestine, it takes a damn long time to come around...

The villagers looked quite surprised to see this parade passing by their houses. When we hit the main road again, for quite some time it seemed to be over. But just before Nablus trouble found us again. Right before Huwarra village there was another huge traffic jam. I still thought it had to do with the Eid buzz everywhere and with the previous jam that had just disrupted traffic.

So we waited in line... again. As with the previous jam, the movement was very slow and again cars started taking things into their hands. Palestinians master at creative solutions as well: creating roads where there aren't any. Our service driver proved to be quite an impatient guy and I loved him for that, because I badly wanted to go home. He followed some cars down this field, to reach a small dirt road running parallel to the main road. When we were driving on this road, we saw how long the traffic jam was and I was just relieved that he hadn't decided to wait his turn. Then the road ended and the cars in front of us drove through the fields again to get back to the road. Not our driver though. Whether he was truly creative or truly impatient, or just adventurous I don't know, but in any case the driver had decided to continue. All of a sudden we found ourselves driving through an olive orchard. Ah, Palestinian people... As we say in Holland: "Voor geen gat te vangen"(can't be catched by any hole). Somehow Palestinians always find a way, always manage somehow. Like in Gaza, when being confronted with massive food and medicine shortages they've started digging tunnels to get the stuff through.

When we were back on the main road approaching Huwarra checkpoint (to enter Nablus) another traffic jam was awaiting us. This together with the news on the radio made me realize that this was serious business and things were seriously going wrong.
Army vehicles were all around us and it made me wondering what exactly was happening at Huwarra. This time there was even less progress than in the other jams and we simply had to wait. The bus in front of us stopped and people were getting out of the bus and walking towards the checkpoint, which wasn't that far away anymore and which you have to cross by foot anyway. For some reason the people in our service didn't move, so I didn't as well.. not sitting next to the door and too tired to move anyway.

Thank god I didn't. When we finally approached the checkpoint we saw soldiers everywhere and we heard angry yelling. I realized that there must be something with settlers, but I wasn't able to see any or to understand what was going on. When we came more close soldiers started asked the driver whether we had place in our service. As it turned out every Palestinian at the checkpoint had to be transferred into a vehicle and for one time we could all pass the checkpoint by car. I looked on the right and saw Palestinian people standing, with a lot of soldiers trying to hold them back. But even though the people standing had a 'bring it on' attitude, I didn't see them making attempts to do anything. Then I looked left and I was shocked to see a huge crowd of young Israeli settlers. At their side no soldiers trying to hold them back though. I was quite intimidated by their aggressive looks and was glad I found myself in the car.

Seeing this I knew that all three traffic jams were created by settlers and I became quite upset. The army had the power to send these people away. With peaceful Palestinian demonstrations they show time and again that they are perfectly able to disperse large crowds and force them to leave a particular site. With Palestinians they don't refrain from using teargas, sound bombs, rubber-coated bullets and even live ammunition. Why were they sending away the Palestinian people as if these people were the ones that had come to the checkpoint for violence, while they were mere travellers?

The soldiers were just standing there like puppets, waiting for someone, some higher power to pull their strings. Then we drove through the checkpoint leaving this crazy situation behind and I got even more upset when I saw that the army had completely closed down the checkpoint from the other side. How were people supposed to get home now? Huwarra is a crucial checkpoint for many students studying at the university of Nablus, but living outside of Nablus. Every afternoon it's flooded with students wanting to go home. I was so offended when I thought of these people now not being able to return home, because the Israeli army doesn't want to send a group of aggressive settlers away. Of course a confrontation had to be prevented, but why are the Palestinians punished for it, while the actions were being committed by the settlers?

Later on I heard that my observations were true and worse. Stones had been thrown, cars had been burnt. In Hebron itself, the violence was even much more horrible. Click on this link to read about this: http://haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1043795.html

After two days of battle for a new visa, this was truly what I needed when I got home (and actually I wasn't even home yet...). At that point I had just completely had it with Israel and its people, disgusted. I was incredibly relieved once I was back in Nablus, surrounded by a sense of normalcy and no signs of settler violence. When I finally reached home I was angry, drained, slightly depressed, disappointed and overall very tired. That afternoon when I left Jerusalem I had thought that it was finally over, as I had mistakingly thought several times before. But this time I was also proven to be wrong. It seemed to me that the games they play with you never really stop, but I sincerely hope that this is not true.

Visa Battles and Settler Pogroms Part II

The next day I went to ministry of interior again, with high hopes of getting my visa. I felt that not much could go wrong anymore, because I was helped by more or less friendly people, that showed their willingness to help me.

When I passed the security check I immediately walked up to desk number 1, as the guy had told me to do. The girl that had dealt with me was sitting there. She recognized me. The friendly guy was nowhere to be seen. When she was finished with the person in front of me, I went to sit down. She took the documents I had collected and asked me for my number. Number? I told her that her coworker had said to me that I didn’t need one, right under her eyes. She became rude and just kept telling me that I needed to get a number.

So I went to stand in line to get a number. The Palestinian man that had been standing behind me, and had a small chat with, also came up to the desk. Apparently she had told him the same. He was also taking by surprise that he had to take a number, it was not just me. He was clearly annoyed and started yelling at the people behind the desk. As I was silently undergoing their stupidity, he couldn’t bear any longer. Because I was in the same situation as him, he tried to help me cut in line and pressuring the Israeli people behind the desk to give me a number quickly. The numbers were just a hand-grab away.

When I went back to the desk, I was helped pretty quickly. The girl took a look at my receipts and for a moment she seemed to be okay with it. But then she exclaimed : “This is only for the last three days”. I couldn’t believe it… was she really the same person that had sat there yesterday and had clearly overheard what the guy had told me? I didn’t want to push my luck and try to tell her politely that that was what we agreed on just yesterday, and that I had explicitly told them that I was only able to provide them with receipts of the last few days.
She just ignored my comments and told me that with this she wasn’t able to give me a visa. I told her again that I was travelling and had just come back to Jerusalem. She asked me cynically: “So you only stayed in Jerusalem for three days?” She tricked me there, because when I told her that I had stayed in Jerusalem for three weeks in October, she just told me without any mercy that I needed to provide her with evidence of that. I told her that I couldn’t get her that, because it was a long time ago and I wasn’t whether the hostel could still provide me with that.
She obviously didn’t care. I had to get it. By then it was 11 and she told me I had to get back for 12, because after that they wouldn’t allow any people in. I looked her into her eyes, trying to find some sympathy and cried out: “Are you serious? I can never be back her before 12, it’s all the way up in the old city.”
I was incredibly disappointed seeing myself already returning to the ministry for a third day on a row, because of my bad luck with their closing hours. Half an hour extra would have saved me, and the day before I would have been able to make it as well. That’s when her steel cover began to melt a little and she told me that she could give me a special permission to come in after 12, but no later than one ‘o clock. She wrote something on a paper and she told me that she would inform the guards and that when I came back I had to address them and they would allow me to go in.

At the hostel, the staff wasn’t really happy with my request. I needed a declaration from them that I had stayed with them, which I obviously hadn’t. They were, understandingly, a bit wary about committing fraud for some girl they didn’t even know. I could have been a spy for all they knew. I could have gotten them in a lot of trouble. So they told me that they couldn’t do it, because if someone came to check their books it would turn out that they lied.
I wasn’t sure what to do next. I called my friend, he told me that he could help get a declaration from the other hostel without any problems, because his friend would definitely do that for me. I told him that I had already told the ministry were I had been staying. My friend asked me to give the phone to the manager, that was at that point trying to sleep in one of the rooms. I felt really embarrassed to walk into that room to ask him for this favor while he was half asleep. After a long time he finally agreed to sign the document and I couldn’t find words for the gratefulness I felt for these strangers that helped me out, putting themselves at risk, without anything in return.

Relieved that I would soon have my visa I headed back to the ministry. Again I was naïve for thinking that it had to be over soon. Welcome to Israeli bureaucracy from the top shelve. I arrived there at 12:30 and obviously the gate was closed. I addressed the security guards standing outside, expecting that it would get me in straight away. The young Ethiopian guys, however, were not really interested in helping me, but rather in having a nice little chat with me. I told them I was here before and that the girl had made me go out, but gave me permission to come in.
They had no idea what I was talking about. In reply they asked me where I was from and if I wanted to stay here. I told them I needed a visa now for three more months. “No”, they said, “that’s not what we mean. Do you want to stay here to live here”. I made clear that I had no such plans. They asked me why I didn’t want to live here. As a response I said that I already had gone through so much trouble just to get a simple three month extension that I really didn’t want to. They smiled “If you’re a citizen it is different”. It sure is…
After that they continued their bullshit talk, about going to Holland next week and other crap, and I played along, not wanting to give up my cover yet. I was getting a little impatient because they didn’t seem to make any gesture to get me in. I asked them again and they asked me the name of the girl. I told them I had no idea, because she didn’t say her name to me, but that she was behind desk number 1. That information was of no use for them, as if they weren’t people working in the same building as her, but just people passing by in the street.
I emphasized again how she had promised me to let me in and that she made clear that she would inform the security at the gate of my case. She didn’t and they didn’t care. And then they just went inside, leaving me behind, still thinking that were trying to arrange something for me from their little boot. After a while I realized they were just sitting inside doing nothing. The radio played the song ‘There can be miracles’ of Withney Houston and Mariah Carey, from the Disney film about Mozes. One of the guards sang a long, while I was sitting in the sun next to the security gate. I remembered the sentence of that story: Let my people go…. It kept repeating itself inside my head. I saw little Palestinian girls coming out of school, running by, happy… They looked at me with great curiosity. At that point I realized the complete absurdity of the entire situation I found myself in. Boundaries are fake, passports are fake, visa are fake and even ministries of interior completely sealed by security fences are fake. They are an illusion, that only exist because we believe in them, we believe them to be necessary and give them credibility. It was an absurd thought that this bad tempered woman that was inside the same building I didn’t have access to, was able to decide over my life. Without her permission, her ink stamp, I wouldn’t be able to stay in this land. How completely surreal that seemed at that point. I’m physically here, I’m standing on the land… How can some abstract notion change that. It is a bizarre world we live in.

After a while I guess the guards realized that I wasn't going anywhere... or they were just given orders to let me wait for half an hour. Anyhow one of them asked whether I had a telephone. I sure did. He told me I could maybe try to call the people inside: The association with ordinary people passing by in the street keeps coming back up. Professionality is some concept that still needs to be applied here. I told them I didn't have the number. What a surprise it was that they went inside to get it for me: wow, how incredibly thoughtful! When I dialed the number I was given two options: Hebrew and Arabic. I told this to the guards and they were like: "Just call again, press for Hebrew, the person that picks up will probably be able to speak English". So I followed 'their orders'. The phone rang and rang and kept ranging, but no-one answered. I informed the soldiers on this and finally they showed some willingness to help me. As if it was the easiest thing to do (and I guess it was) the guard took his portophone and contacted someone from inside. He came back to me and told me that they were now checking to see if I had the permission. Ten minutes later the light above the gate turned finally green.

But then I still had to go through the security and as told before they found new stuff that they wanted to confiscate from me(given back when leaving), even though they already had a plastic bag with my name on it.
After that I passed the 'number desk'... I just felt like resisting and I didn't take a number on purpose. 10 minutes later, when I was waiting, I decided to come back and get a number after all. I was tired and I could just imagine that girl sending me to get that stupid number. Not only was I tired, I was completely fed up with the sick games they've been playing with me. Welcome to sadistic Israel.

Finally it was my turn, AGAIN.. and I gave her the paper. I kind of knew that she had to have some comments on it and she did. She asked why the hostel didn't put a stamp. I had foreseen that. I had asked the hostel for a stamp, but they didn't have any. I had tried to attach the business card of the hostel to it, to at least have something, but of course... very unconvincing. I let her know that the hostel has offered to call them if there were any problems. She went away to 'consult' it with her supervisor. A long time passed. When she came back she told me that her supervisor was calling the hostel to ask why they didn't have a stamp....
Then finally finally the words that I had been waiting to here for two days now: We will give you the visa. BUT... (no....... no but's, I hate but's!) we will have to discuss for how long we will give it to you. And then she went away again. She came back with her supervisor and the supervisor began to ask me difficult questions, trying to catch me on a lie. The strange thing was that the girl and the supervisor were talking to each other in Arabic, between asking me the questions. After everything was finished they were talking to each other in Hebrew again. They apparently expected my Hebrew to be better than my Arabic. If only I really knew Arabic...

Then she started filing me in the computer and in the meanwhile she told me that they decided to give me the visa, but only for the duration of one month. She presented this to me as if she was doing me a huge favor, giving me something really big. 'This is our country and every day you spent here is dependent on our approval'. She didn't forget to mention that I had to renew it in one month and that I was not allowed to ever come back here again to renew my visa. At that point I couldn't care less and I was really hoping I never had to set foot in that building again.

I was the last person leaving the ministry and when I was walking through the corridors I couldn't help but mumble: Viva Palestine. Pathetic, but I felt the urgent need to express my beliefs right there and then. I felt if I didn't do that I might explode from all the lies that had been building themselves up inside my body.

Before I left they had saved me one last trick, even though I was given the visa already. I have to admit: "Well done there, in making people's lives as annoying as possible". The Dutch IRS has a slogan: We can't make it more fun, but we cán make it easier. This ministry seems to abide by the exact opposite: We can't make it more fun, but we cán make it more difficult.
When I had taken my bag from the exit and was walking away, it was only after a hundred metres that I realized that with these Israeli people I really had to check the bag they had just given back to me, to see if everything was in there. Was I surprised or not, when I found out that my eye shadow was missing? I don't know.
When I went back I told that the guard that my eye shadow was not in my bag. He asked me if I checked. I affirmed, but of course he just couldn't believe me for my word. He had me empty my entire bag on the pavement, until he was finally convinced. Then he went inside and got me my eyeshadow.

When I was walking away I was barely happy with my newly obtained visa, drained and amazed by this complete show they put up for me.

I went home and then had the most bizarre journey to Nablus ever... because of extreme settler violence, as if wasn't fed up enough already with Israel. More about that in PART III

Visa battles and settler pogroms...

As many of you know I went to renew my visa this week in Jerusalem. It was the beginning of two days of being exposed to Israel and Israelis, and I have to be honest: It weren't the happiest days of my life.

A warning from the start: this story won't be short, for the simple reason that it can not be. A lot happened in these two days and if you'll feel drained after reading this story, you'll feel similar to the way I felt when I finally came back to Nablus thursday night.

It all began on wednesday morning, I had spend the night at a friend's place in Ramallah, because I had an early appointment in Jerusalem. I rushed out of his house at 7:30 in the morning, to be at my 8:45 appointment. I was expecting to be back in Nablus that same night, because my appointment was so early in the morning.

In the bus driving through Qalandia checkpoint I was slightly worried, because my visa had already expired. The annoyed looking, gum chewing Israeli girl soldier checked (type American uninterested, arrogant "what evah" teenager)my passport and didn't say anything. Okay... next hurdle, one step closer to a new visa.

In Jerusalem I hurried to be in time for my appointment in the Ministry of Interior in West-Jerusalem. With a red head I had my bag checked by the guard and walked through the metal detector. I ran up the stairs and was exactly on time. Of course all the appointments were a little delayed so I had to wait for 10 minutes. It gave my time to rehearse the false alibi I had come up with, because mentioning one word about Palestine would mean exit straight away.

When it was my turn, the mean looking lady helped me in a very pleasant way. She told me that I was in the wrong place. To be more precise: I had made an appointment for the wrong place. She told me that I had to go to the ministery of interior in East-Jerusalem. I was completely confused. How could that be? I had come to the ministry before and when I explained to them that I wanted to renew my tourist visa they had rudely given me this phonenumber that I had to call. The woman I got on the phone, after randomly pressing a 'one' upon hearing a Hebrew spoken tape (how ridiculous is that... how many people that want to renew their visa are able to speak Hebrew?!), also failed to mention me that I should go to East-Jerusalem. Even after she asked me all the complete details: what kind of visa I had and what it was that I exactly wanted. Why??
Anyhow, the woman behind the desk was friendly and she tried to explain to me where I had to go. She wrote down the address on a piece of paper and gave me good directions.

At least that's what I thought. But when I was close to the place where the ministry was supposed to be I began to doubt. It was supposed to be close to the Israeli police station in East-Jerusalem. So I thought naively, that if I would just go there, these police officers would be able to tell... because after all they are police officers and the ministry of interior is not just any place.
After I asked one of them, he answered me vaguely, and immediately began greeting this other police man that was approaching. He just ignored me! When he finally turned around again, he addressed me in underdeveloped English. I told him I needed to get my visa extended and that it was supposed to be close. He and his colleagues wanted to send me to the American consulate. In the end they told me they had no idea and that I should ask a taxi driver. For god's sake?!!! A taxi driver?! I had even shown them the streetname on the piece of paper I got, but all of them stared at it like cows. These were Israeli police men but they didn't even know the names of their "own" (occupied) streets...
After this encounter an hour of searching began, where I was misdirected by both Israelis and Palestinians. Even the supposedly all-knowing Israeli taxi drivers didn't know what I was talking about. At that point I felt a little despair, walking around with my expired visa.

In the end a Palestinian man drove me to the ministry and I soon found out why I hadn't been able to find it. This was the 'Palestinian' ministry of interior. It wasn't just randomly based in East-Jerusalem. All people waiting in line were Palestinians, except for me and some Aruban guy who I had a little talk with in Dutch. I'm still not sure whether the Israeli police men really didn't know the place or whether they just didn't want to know the place.
And I've read before about how Israeli taxi drivers aren't able to find any streets in East-Jerusalem. The Palestinians on the other hand didn't know where I was going, because the nice Israeli lady had written the streetname in the Hebrew version of it.. which is not the original name it is known by, by Palestinians from East-Jerusalem. Damn... welcome to the fucked up situation of Jerusalem: two cities in one, or better said> two worlds in one city.

So there I was at 10:30, at the 'right' ministry of interior. Apparently the West-Jerusalem ministry of interior is only for Jewish people. I had seen an American guy there, but he was Jewish as well (as I could tell because he was wearing his kepa). The two ministries couldn't have been more different, and by that I mean not only 'population' wise. The entrance to the ministry resembled that of the toughest checkpoints. Honestly, I've never had this much trouble entering any checkpoint. To begin with before I could go wait in line with the other people, I had to cross a turning stile. The light was red and it was closed. The guard told me, after I tried to push it a few times to see if it was really closed, that I had to wait until there was space. According to him it was full now... but I only saw around thirty women (men and women have divided lines) waiting and there was more than enough space to join them. Mean while next to me, the men were walking through the turning stile one by one.. apparently for them it wasn't full, eventhough the line of men was three times as big as the line of women. Welcome to the random behavior of Israelis.

After 15 minutes I was finally allowed through. I was finally allowed to stand in line with the other women, in this windy corridor. It made me wonder: How do they do this in winter, or when it rains? As I saw it, the openings didn't contain mechanisms to close in case of bad weather. In West-Jerusalem there was a security check as well, but it took two minutes of my time. Here the security check made me wait in line for half an hour. It was completely ridiculous. First I had to wait, until I was able to go wait in line, to be allowed inside to wait in line again, but this time for the thing I came here to do. And then I even forget to mention that inside there was another line for the information desk, the only place where you were able to get a number. The same paper versions we in Holland have in machines, where you just grab one and walk on.

At the security check I was asked to remove my shoes and walk through the metal detector. My bag was vigorously checked, but that seemed to be carried out completely random. I had my bag checked three times (because I went there three times in total)and every time they 'removed' different items from my bag, saying I was not allowed to take these items inside. However, the content of my bag was all three times exactly the same. The last time the girl checking me made me leave behind my eyeshadow... even though I had several other boxes of eyeshadow in my bag, and the first times no-one made a fuss about it. I guess she liked the color and just wanted to see if it looked good on her...

At the information desk I told them that I wanted to extend my visa. The guy gave me a form to fill in and a number. He told me that after that I had to go to desk number 1. But because he gave me a number I assumed (I don't know... is it that stupid?)that I had to wait until my number came up and then go to desk number 1. Otherwise why would he had given me the number?? So I waited. There were thirty people waiting in front of me and the progress in the line was dead slow. I had plenty of time to observe the people waiting and the Israelis behind the desks. It was quite funny to see the Israelis speaking Arabic with the people and they were treating them quite nice. I saw several smiling faces and it made me feel somewhat good to see this for once.
When I went to ask the guy at the information desk something, he asked me whether I had already handed in the form at desk 1. I replied that I thought I had to wait. He said that he had told me to go there and that they would call me than and that I didn't need to follow the number. Huh?! I was flabbergasted.
In the end the number was only to distinguish between the people who had handed in forms... who was entitled to go first, but the exact number didn't matter.

It felt weird to just go to desk 1 while they were busy dealing with someone and hand in the form. It seemed so disorganised. Around the desk around five or six people were waiting their turns, like vultures around their preys. It was a situation of fending for yourself and not caring about how long others had already been waiting there.

When I handed in my form, I was immediately addressed in Dutch by a man that was sitting next to the woman dealing with the applications. I was shocked, it was a bit creepy. I don't think he could have read that quickly from my form that I was Dutch... He was very nice and asked me some superficial questions, which I loved because they were perfect for my superficial alibi of being a stupid tourist.
He told me to go sit and wait again, until they would call me to the desk. So I did. In the meanwhile I had been in the ministry of interior for more than 3 hours already, without accomplishing anything.

When I was finally called, I was transferred to desk 2. The man who had all the time been sitting behind desk 1 transferred with me. I'm not sure whether he was interested in me, suspicious of me or just found it cool to practice his Dutch. Anyway, he was very very nice and made me feel like a normal human being. The girl sitting behind desk 2 was not that nice. She looked at me with a horrible look in her eyes.
They asked me a few questions, but I was surprised... I'd expected that they would have asked more questions and more difficult ones. It seemed to go quite well.
But then the girl told me that she needed evidence that I was staying in Jerusalem. I asked her what sense that made, since being a tourist, I don't have a permanent residence: that's what tourists do... they travel. I told her that I had only been in Jerusalem for 2 days because I came back from Haifa. She said that she didn't care about that but needed the evidence.

I was screwed, because I had already told them that I was staying in some hostel in Jerusalem. Now I had to get receits of the past days of that particular hostel. The girl also informed me that I had to prove that I was indeed taking a year of from college between my bachelor and master, by showing them a letter of the university stating that I would take part in one of their programmes. What?! I told them that I hadn't applied yet. But what do they need it for anyway?
The guy smiled at me and said that they really wanted to help me, but that their boss was just being difficult. It may sound stupid, but I actually believed him. HIM, not her... she seemed to want to make it as difficult as possible for me.
If I would give them the receits and a letter stating my motivations to stay in Israel, he told me, that would give me the visa straight away... I didn't have to wait in line again, I could just come up to the desk and they would give me the stamp.
I wanted to move quickly to not waste anymore time.. By then it was 14:10 and I had been busy since 8:45. I told them I wanted to go get the right papers straight away. They told me that it was not really possible anymore, since they closed the door at 3. Damn.. the old city was quite a walk away from there.

Afterwards I called my friend and he told me that one of his friends owned a hostel in Jerusalem.. unfortunately the wrong one. I didn't really know what to do. But he proposed to ask the guy if he could arrange anything for me at the hostel I mentioned. In the end these people from the hostels all knew each other very well and because of my friend they were willing to help me. I was saved!!
I had to wait two more hours, but after that I went to the hostel and got the receits that I needed. I was thrilled and thanked them from the bottom of my heart. But something in my head told me not to be too excited because with Israeli officials you just never know, even though they sort of promised to give me the visa... Unfortunately, the next day I proved to be very right on that... TO BE CONTINUED!!!