Collective Apathy About Collective Punishment By Meg Walsh for MIFTAH

Collective Apathy About Collective Punishment

Date posted: June 22, 2011
By Meg Walsh for MIFTAH
http://www.miftah.org/Display.cfm?DocId=23614&CategoryId=13

It feels like my surroundings are rapidly closing in on me. The metal bars in which I am enclosed are ugly and the ground is littered with trash. Desperate children are trying to sell me gum and candy. Candy is the last thing I want right now; I want to escape. Bodies are pressing up against me as people struggle to make it through the revolving gate that only lets a few through at a time. If I am not aggressive, I will never get through. A teenage boy is getting yelled at by a soldier for some unknown reason, and a father is denied although his wife and children are granted passage. An old man in the car lane is taking out his groceries one by one from his trunk as a young soldier stands inspecting, finger on the trigger. Cars are backed up and people are getting impatient. I am angry.

I must pass through the checkpoint every time I wish to enter Jerusalem from Ramallah, even though east Jerusalem is Palestinian territory. I have to answer the familiar questions such as “What were you doing in the West Bank?” or “Do you have any Palestinian friends?” I hate being forced to lie. Having Palestinian friends should not be looked at as criminal. And I hate that they almost – almost make me feel that I am truly doing something wrong. Most of all, I hate the way the Palestinians are treated, and although I am uncomfortable, chances are I will get through without much problem. Their reality is much different. Any random checkpoint encounter could mean harassment, detainment, or worse. It seems to mostly depend on the mood of the soldier.

I had underestimated the anger and anxiety that I would feel in these scenarios. Some people around me appear visibly upset while others just look bored. Because of the freedom that I have enjoyed my entire life, I refuse to accept this dehumanizing process. As I stand there, I vow to never adjust, to never become desensitized to this. For me, that would signal complicity in the face of the injustice that is occurring: a complete domination of one group of people over another—a betrayal of humanity. Threat levels are determined by the color of your ID card and the language that you speak. I will not thank the soldiers when they return my passport. I will not grant legitimacy to their role by acting like they are doing me a favor. I will not be forced to equate human rights with privilege.

When they ask, I tell the interrogators that I have been in the city of Nablus, visiting Jacob’s Well, which is the biblical site where Jesus is believed to have had encountered a Samaritan woman. This falls in line with my Christian tourism story that most visitors have to use if they are planning on having any contact with Palestinians. Although with suspicious looks, I am allowed to pass through the gates with the others like herded animals.

When you witness the policies that are in place and the apartheid system that is occurring, it is hard to stay outside the cycle of hatred. It is hard to see the ‘other’, the one who is enforcing the rules, as human—they become robots, trapped inside a system that teaches you to follow orders, not to ask questions. It denies all natural laws of humanity, so the challenge then becomes to stay human in an inhuman situation. People are not meant to be kept in cages, both figuratively and literally, and race and religion should not be prioritized. The ironies are many in this ‘Holy Land’.

But how do I communicate to others what I have seen and felt when most people choose the comfort of ignorance over awareness in our unjust world? If words could accurately describe this oppression, I do not believe it would be allowed to continue unchecked. The gap between words and lived experience is vast, and those who may actually have the power to change things may never understand the reality—the reality of the nightmare that is occupation. It was only through my experience in this region that I was ultimately changed. It was from looking it in the eye, from feeling powerless, from experiencing a fear that the unexpected could happen at any given moment.

In Palestine, where most days I feel useless rather than useful, I still somehow feel that I have to be here no matter how outside of my comfort zone it lies. I cannot continue to be complicit or neutral, because I have seen what that means in this conflict and how collective apathy has embarrassingly allowed the occupation of Palestine to continue for 44 years. I am standing on a bridge between two worlds—one in which the powerful are silent, and the other in which the powerless are screaming, yet ignored. It is through this paradox that I am seeking answers. And some degree of hope.

Meg Walsh is a Writer for the Media and Information Department at the Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy (MIFTAH). She can be contacted at mid@miftah.org.

Waiting Game By Meg Walsh for MIFTAH

http://www.miftah.org/Display.cfm?DocId=23589&CategoryId=13

Waiting Game

Date posted: June 15, 2011 By Meg Walsh for MIFTAH

In a small village near Hebron, I am invited to attend a wedding with my new friends, Amirah and her mother. Amirah is nine years old. She is quiet yet seems wise beyond her years— always aware of what is going on around her. At the wedding, the women pull me out of my seat and make me dance with them. I tell Amirah to dance with me but she is too shy. She just watches with a smile on her face. Candy is thrown into the air, and the boys are setting off fireworks; it is pure chaos in the streets. Wedding season has come to Palestine and many summer nights are spent in similar celebration. In the whirlwind of the past few days and countless conversations that I have had, my eyes are opened to the reality that amidst every joyous occasion that takes place here, there is often someone missing. Close to half of all Palestinian males, both in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, have spent time in prison.

Amirah’s father takes us home afterwards and all of us sit outside drinking tea as the night creeps up on us. I later learn that he was a political prisoner for close to 10 years, having been arrested during the first intifada. It was supposed to be a life sentence, but under the Wye River Memorandum of 1998, (an agreement between Israel and the Palestinian Authority) he was released along with a number of other prisoners. Amirah’s parents were not able to marry before his incarceration, and although she did not know whether he would ever be released, she chose to wait for him. They married after he was set free, and Amirah came into the world soon after. My mind drifts to the uncomfortable thought that the pure luck of his release in this unjust system is what led to her existence.

There is a quiet strength that I sense in Amirah, and I can tell she gets it from her mother. Palestinian women are forced to be strong, forced to carry on even when their brothers, sons, and husbands are taken away—a reality that too many of them have to face. Palestinian women are imprisoned as well, although to a lesser extent. There is a constant fear of being arrested here, for young and old alike. Amirah’s cousin was just released from jail and is now terrified to venture outside of his home.

As of April 2011, there were 5,604 Palestinian political prisoners being held. These include 217 child prisoners, 37 of whom are under 16.

Perhaps what makes this issue so shocking is the contrast that exists between the justice system regarding Palestinians and that regarding Israelis. Israeli settlers, who are responsible for many attacks on Palestinians, can only be arrested by Israeli police, not the military. They are then tried in civilian courts. However, most cases of settler violence in the West Bank do not even reach the court system. Under Israeli military rule, Palestinians can be arrested and kept indefinitely with no charges against them. If they are tried, it is in military court by judges who are officers in the Israeli army.

To make things worse, it is not unusual for family members to be barred from visiting their loved ones, especially those who are held within Israel. Imprisoning Palestinians in Israel violates Article 76 of the Fourth Geneva Convention which states that an occupying power must detain residents of occupied territory in prisons inside the territory. Since the family must travel into Israel, they must first obtain an often elusive permit from the Israeli authorities. Thus, in such circumstances where permits are denied, a life sentence essentially becomes a death sentence on a human level.

Since it is Friday night, Amirah’s mother gives her permission to sleep on the roof. She asks me to join her and we sleep out under the open Palestinian sky with the sound of celebrations still carrying on into the night. I am thankful that I got to meet her and her family, yet through their story, I cannot help but think of all the other Palestinians who were not so lucky, who are forever waiting for their loved ones to come home. Amirah is the face of innocence of all Palestinian children, born into this conflict and forced to live within a system that refuses to recognize the most basic human rights-- forced to live without their mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. When justice prevails, it will be the occupiers who find themselves in the defendant’s seat.

Meg Walsh is a Writer for the Media and Information Department at the Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy (MIFTAH). She can be contacted at mid@miftah.org.