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.
