Story I:
That night, different from any other night, the stairs up the Hadar seemed endless. She usually climbed the stairs with quite ease and tranquility, listening to the birds chirping in the oak trees and observing the unique details that Haifa has to offer. She rarely took the bus, especially after an hour train ride- her daily commute from Tel Aviv. She longed for fresh air. But that time it’s different. As if in an apocalyptic horror movie, where she is the protagonist that realizes the imminent advent of zombies and starts to pick up the pace, as not to attract attention. She did precisely that, most certainly when she walked across Wadi Al-Nisnas, where couple of families sat outside idly, consuming sunflower seeds and coke. She never saw them as a threat. She always goes to Falafel Najla, and the owner even recognizes her, but this time is different.
An hour ago she was sitting in the overcrowded train, minding her own business and reading miscellaneous articles and news reports, when she saw the news- specific news article- the one that talked about the Great March of Return. Earlier today and yesterday, thousands of Palestinians have marched towards the border with Israel. The army forces met the protestors with tear gas and rubber bullets. She read more, she realized that these “peaceful demonstrations” have embarked two weeks ago, and now have become fully-fledged violence zone. Dozens of Palestinians have been killed.
The gaze of a 12-year old boy who looked at a tank in the eyes and kept getting closer while clutching to the stone in his hand, scared her. And what scared her even more is the ingenious (you gotta give them that) fire kites that the Gazans use to face the IDF. And what scared her even the most is a 10 minute documentary that she watched while she was on the train. Actually she searched google engine for any information or content about the situation in Gaza, and once she pressed the play button, after a minute or so, she saw an actual brain of a little kid whose body was enmeshed with the rubble of his own house probably. She automatically stopped the video and an uncontrollable fear seized her. The fact that two soldiers sat adjacently (a fact that she was oblivious to earlier) bothered her. So, furtively she played the video on her phone and sank in her chair in an attempt to conceal the screen from anyone’s eyes reach.
That same moment, the man in front of her, noticed her awkward posture and her forceful attempt to watch the video, and he conjectured that she’s watching some pornographic video, and he cursed this moral degeneration in the next generation, and then he cursed technology and embarked on a nostalgic recollection of his time as a kid, looking awfully wistful. For a second, their eyes met, both filled with horror: Ronit’s eyes because she has just seen the collapse of morality, especially that of her state, of her army, and Amit’s eyes because he felt that she caught him off guard and as if he’s held accountable for his primitive, pedophilic thinking.
After watching the manifestation of injustice in 10 minutes, she raised her eyes in a sigh, that soon met the yawn of a Hijabi woman in front of her. She asked herself was this woman aware of the crimes taking place in Gaza, and if yes, why is she yawning?
It’s not to say that she has never heard the allegations against her state; of the racism, brutality and such. But this time it’s different in the sense that she is more aware, and thus her phenomenological experience of uncovering the reality of occupation and reality hit her hard.
Maintaining equanimity for the next 17 minutes was a great task. And soon enough, her wild imagination that she tried to reign by majoring in Math and Economics soon drew the craziest scenario.
There were no weapons, and no screaming. Just souls, bodies and legs that carried the bodies that housed the souls. All of them, with different colors and different colors of IDs walked and marched. No cards and no bikes and no horses, just legs (later they would draw a comparison with the Nakba scene of thousands of people walking, expelled from their homeland, although this time it’s different,she would read later in the NY Times article about it) They had nothing on and they didn’t carry luggage or adorned keys. Nothing romantic or nostalgic. They just walked and nothing stopped in their way, and even the police was taken aback and couldn’t handle it. Can they shoot million peaceful protestors?
Actually there are more than 20% of the population (the Palestinians in Israel). Those in Jenin walked (though more angry) and those of Jordan and Lebanon walked, and even Those in Egypt slouched across Sinai, like the Jewish people once did. All walked as if the last day has come and God rang the knell, or as if they had been hypnotized and were merely acting according to what they have been commanded.
She crossed Wadi Al-Nisnas and was walking up Al-Nivi’m st when it dawned on her that if this happens, there’s nothing she can do about it. She had an urgent drive to live and to insist on her existence in a way that surprised her- she didn’t expect that she loved life this much. She almost called her mom but then she second-thought and refrained from that. The city seemed like an alien place and a familiar place at once. What will happen if indeed the Palestinians, millions of them, marched back- what will happen to Haifa? Would this street still be called Ha-Nivi’im? Will she be expelled? In a naïve, desperate tone, as if to seek admonishment, she reproached herself for quitting Arabic classes last year.
She thought that maybe if she had a close Arab friends, they would help her out, maybe she can pretend to be Arab, and even her blond curls won’t pose a threat and she’ll pass. She will say that her mom is Romanian, and her dad married her mom when he studied there as a scholar of a Communist fund in the 80s. She always tried to be friends with Arabs, but nothing went deep. There was always a threshold that this friendship never crossed. She climbed faster and her shortness of breath matched her accelerating anxiety.
She reached the recently built park in Hadar and she thought to stop for a breath (although she was a bit scared that Arabs will come out and start marching towards her). She sat next to an almond tree and breathed heavily. She focused on her inhales and exhales, as the meditation guru once showed her during a week-long retreat that the ministry of Defense gave her after she was discharged from army service.
After ten minutes of utter silence, she heard distant rustle, and rhythmic sound of steps and as she freaked out and hid behind the fat trunk of an olive tree, she saw them descending the stairs, they raised the Palestinian flag and didn’t falter a step, with their heads high.
Story II:
It all happened fairly quickly. After finishing her last lecture at the University of Haifa she got on the 37 bus that goes down to the Hadar. And by now it was sort of a habit, of a ritual, to get on the bus. It was more of a practice that is associated with being on the bus: she pondered life and her perspective on life. She is trying to change her perspective, and she’s trying to embrace a simpler view that allows her to find peace of mind, especially after her recurrent panic attacks and anxiety. But she finds it difficult, and the most anguishing of it all, is to ride on the bus because bus rides offer her a view of the complex social life that a Palestinian in Israel faces, or rather an aware Palestinian in Israel faces. The complex fabric of existing here always troubled here and the allure of leaving this country altogether is very tempting. You don’t run away when things get hard, though. The bus ride also offers here a solitude that she longed for and despised. Even though the 37 bus is usually overcrowded, but her mind was as free as ever and she flew in her thought about the normalcy of it all. To change the perspective on life is the hardest thing ever, because it makes her constantly self-evident, as if trying to prove that she’s alright all the time, that indeed she’s adopting a more light-hearted perspective on life. And I say it happened quickly, but for Rania, the bus ride wasn’t quick nor fair, it was another cycle of depressed feeling towards interminable trajectory. When she got off the bus and walked down Balfour St, she passed by al-Rai café, where she usually goes for a drink or coffee. It was in mayhem, too many people but yet not so loud. After few minutes of inquiry, it turns out that people are walking down for the demonstration down Carmel Street (now it’s called Ben-Gurion Ave), as to stand in solidarity with the brothers and sisters in Gaza.
Even though she hasn’t been following the news, she is aware that there have been many demonstrations and protests along the illegal fence that suffocates Gaza. Actually now she feels a bit of guilt- she hasn’t been politically active and all she has been reading lately was ontological and epistemological articles written by some Western philosophers (how come she majored in philosophy, and yet the university never offered any classes on Easter and Islamic philosophy?). But now she felt, as in an attempt to compensate for such dereliction, she has to go. So she walked along her two friends: Alaa and Amir that she met at Rai. The walk down to the Bahaai Gardens and all the way down was different from the bus ride, it was quick and she wasn’t mindful of what’s happening. Especially since a Haifa local knows that you take the flight of stairs down and not the swirling, longer cement street. Everyone walked for the sake of Gaza, so she walked too. And even the usual reprimands that accompanied her attendance to any political activity, usually voiced by her father relentless cautious voice not to get involved in politics, were not there. And such absence gave her momentum that she’s doing the right thing. But she is already aware that such a feeling of empowerment, of a voice being hears is ephemeral. Soon enough, the Israeli border control forces will come along with their dogs and vicious horses to disperse the demonstration, as if to clear the avenue for the endless flow of tourists into its prestigious restaurants along the street. That’s what happened in Prawer’s plan demonstration, in commemorating the assassination of Basil Al-A’raj and many more.
But this time it was different, there was so many people. Familiar faces she saw in the library in Haifa University appeared to have taken part. Faces that always stayed on the safe side of the political spectrum and chose to survive, have showed up. In addition, the huge congregation of people, gathered by a steadfast will and an unquenchable desire to take matters into their hands, didn’t stop only at the interjection (Al-Shohada interjection) but they kept going down the main street and impeded the traffic.
Later on, after couple of days, she will reflect on that decisive hour that changed the destiny of the Palestinian nation as a whole. Every Palestinian on earth started walking towards Jerusalem. And Israeli forces were left paralyzed. She wasn’t thinking about what’s going to happen, who is going to rule and what will happen with the sovereignty and the government of the country. She, along with other fellow Palestinians and leftist Jews, only walked. But maybe they should’ve thought about that. When she recounts that day, reconstructing its course of events, she remembers glimpsing fear in the eyes behind the olive tree. While she was going down the Hadar hill, they passed by the local, battered out park and there she has seen eyes filled with fear.
Story III:
Before I tell this story, it’s important to know that I’ve never been in Gaza and my narration of this story is built solely on relentless conversations and discussions with my friend, Ula who is a native Gazan. I have constructed the story according to her testimony of what happened on that day, which I spent in Haifa, in hand’s reach to Rania, Amir and Alaa. Thus it might contain some errors and exaggerations, so bear with me.
Ula, is a 20 year old student in Gaza. It is always odd to declare that she’s a student in Gaza and that she’s pursuing a degree in Arabic Language and Literature. It is as if, especially since the beginning of the weekly demonstrations and marches to the fence, there is no life going on, and Gaza is just a big, idle prison where nothing takes place. But indeed she went to school and she dreamed about writing a book about learning Arabic for foreigners, and perhaps to come up with an ingenious method to combine or integrate the A’amya Arabic and the Fus-ha Arabic. She mentioned this to me precisely because that’s what, oddly, came to her mind as she was being pushed by the throngs of people heading to the “fence”. She didn’t know what to call it, because it was not a fence, it’s not Robert Frost’s fence that makes good neighbors. Nor was it a wall, nor was it a border for Gaza and Israel are not neighboring countries nor was it a crossing, it was an ever morphing entity that changed its nature according to the situation, but oddly enough in her house they called it “honak” which means there. Such an ominous appellation, she wondered when she was shaken out of her linguist contemplations when the woman behind her bumped into her violently. It was crazy, so many people have been pushing their way to “honak”. Since the commencement of the marches (Land Day 2018) and those of you who don’t know what is Land Day- you can easily pick it up or consult the nearest Palestinian, since then the marches have been taking place every week “honak”. Tens of young souls have been killed and it was all life-insulting if anything. She saw her neighbor being carried on the shoulders after being shot in the chest couple of days ago. She always tries to make a reality check with the abnormal surrounding so she can maintain a hint of normalcy in it all. But this is all not important and she was digressing she said, but I’m not from Gaza and every fragment she pronounced sounded precious and equally important for me (yes that’s me romanticizing the Gazan story, I’m sorry). But that day it all began differently. Even the morning birds sang differently and she noticed these things, because they seemed to be saying a goodbye though it wasn’t migration season. She’s digressing again, it’s not about birds but it’s about liberation and change. That day everyone seemed exhilarated and in mood for manaqish under the sun, but this wasn’t a manaqish picnic under the sun, but it was rather a liberation day. Social media outlets have invited every person that identifies himself as Palestinian to go out to protests and to start walking towards Jerusalem. And it all seemed so romantic and ideal, for such a feat will never take place due to numerous checkpoints and soldiers and checkpoints in the mind and in the will, if you know what I mean. But that morning the idea glowed under the sunshine, just like a group of moths that were not seen nor perceived but once under the sun, a whole heave could be seen scheming upheaval. So that day, she doesn’t remember much but she remembers walking for long time under the sun of March, and she remembers talking to her neighbor, the only familiar person she saw before it all escalated. She still, oddly, remembers that on the side of the road she saw an orange poster for shampoo ad and she still can see the face of the actress. It was odd. But anyway what is odd is that people actually responded. She was most surprised by the Palestinians inside Israel, not to shame them or blame them, but they always seemed the most distant for her, even more distant than her cousins in California. But now they seemed close and everybody walked. In fact, those in Haifa had the longest walk to make and nothing seemed to stop them now.
I listened to her fast-forward and flash-back telling and it all seemed like a narrative from Aljazeera documentary show but actually it was real. Ula was real and she was my first Gazan friend and we got along well. For some reason, no matter how much I asked, she seemed not to divulge what happened “honak” and she only spoke of the before and the after. The after is that her brother was shot and that he was transferred to a mobile clinic then taking with a helicopter to Cyprus, and she’s not sure why Cyprus and she still hasn’t seen him and it’s worrying her a bit, but she has met me and I’m making it easier for her, she says.
Millions of people marched peacefully as if ordered by higher power to walk straight till Jerusalem and everyone walked just like the Quran says we will walk on the last day of Judgment, and maybe this is the last day of Judgment, but actually that cannot be true because the weather is too amiable and the smell of the fresh baked bread given for free at Nablus gate is too good to be hell.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 