Call me a Palestinian from Palestine

Don’t call me homeless, because I have a home thousands of years old.
I have a home in Jrash which you demolished, erased from your map. I have a home whose stones still stand as witness to your crimes, still stand witness to what once was and to what will be. I have a home that will be rebuilt with the same stones and on the same spot where it originally was and where it should be. I have a home in Jerusalem which you occupy, a home that will be liberated. I have a home in Hebron which you closed, a home that will be reopened. I have a home in Gaza which you bombed, a home that will be rebuilt. I have a home carved in my heart. I have a home in An-Naqab, I have a home in Tabaria, I have a home in Bisan, I have a home in Jenin, I have a home in Jerusalem, I have a home in Safad. Every part of Palestine is my home; every olive field is my sitting room, every hilltop is my balcony, every meadow is my playground, every stone is my chair, every bit of shadow beneath a fig tree is my bed. The land of Palestine is my ground, the sky over Palestine is my roof. All of Palestine is my home, my one and only home.
Don’t call me homeless, because I have a home and it’s called Palestine.

PA Political Terminology 101: When Talks Are Not Talks

source: Najialali.com

In the last couple of weeks, we have been extra blessed with the faces of various PA officials appearing almost every day to comment, give interviews or talks, in which they declare, confirm and strongly stress that what is happening in Amman are not negotiations. No, these are not negotiations.
These are talks.
These are discussions.
These are exploratory meetings (whatever that might mean).
These are breakfasts in Amman.
These are negotiation-less nights in Amman.
These are “how to sell out your country in 20 years” upgrade courses.
But they are not negotiations.

And they should know better, right? In fact, the negotiations-till-death-do-us-part team stressed several times that there will be no return to negotiations until the Zionist entity agrees to stop its illegal settlement activities in the future PA “state”. What is happening in Amman are talks, not negotiations, talks to secure a settlement freeze before the talks on settlements and other stuff, aka the negotiations, resume. See? There is a big difference between talks and talks, and before you judge the PA, you should have read their negotiations handbook: “Birth is Negotiations, Death is Negotiations and all that is in between is Negotiations”, and you would have understood that what is happening in Amman are not negotiations. No, they are talks.

One Heart; Beating for Palestine

If you travel along Al-Jabal street, you pass by a monument, not huge and not small, on the side of the road. You can’t miss it, but if you are travelling in a hurry, you might notice it but not really see it. In the early morning, the fresh breeze sends a handful of cool kisses to the monument and in the late afternoon, the branches of the huge cypress tree bend forward to shield the monument from the scathing sun. Passersby stop in front of it, read a silent prayer, a hymn, some stretch their hands to touch the stone, others just stand there and maybe think of that day 5 and a half years earlier. And while the buzz of daily life is heard in the distance, it is calm in front of that monument, as if the houses, the cars, the stones, the birds and the leaves hold their breathes to try and a hear words that were spoken in that very spot, on that unforgettable Sunday. Travelling along Al-Jabal street, you automatically look to your left or to your right, depending on where you are coming from, and you look at the two faces drawn in the heart of Palestine, read their names engraved in stone for eternity, and you can almost see them smiling, you can almost hear them whispering: Our lives for you, mother… our lives for you, Palestine. It is a monument for two comrades, two Palestinian brothers, two bodies whose heart was beating as one for Palestine. It is a monument for two martyrs, one of the many monuments that decorate the streets and the alleys of Palestine, one of the many monuments that stand as reminder of the thousands of Palestinian heroes and their sacrifices. It is a monument that tells a Palestinian tale, a tale of Palestine and her children: Ahmad and Daniel.

A free Palestine: Free from the River to the Sea

A “King’s chair” is touring the world to demand a crippled state for the Palestinian people; a “state” on 20% of our historic homeland, a “state” minus Jerusalem, a “state” drowned in illegal Zionist colonies, a ghetto within ghettos, a Bantustan that is to be called “the state of the PA”. To those who worship the chair and to those who worship the “King” of the chair and those who kneel at the foot of the chair, I say:

I grew up a villager, a daughter of villagers, a daughter of the land, a lover of the olive tree, of the almond and the carob and the fig trees, a runner along the fields, a dancer under the autumn rain, a dreamer among the wheat fields under the autumn sun. I grew up with the sunshine over the hills and meadows of Palestine, I grew up with the birds singing among the trees, the butterflies decorating the fields, the bees buzzing around the grapevines, the sheep and the goats running up and down the hills and the horses racing the wind. I grew up to climb olive trees during the harvest, to carry huge baskets filled with ripe fruits, to listen to villagers tell tales in the evening around a fire while the smell of roasted wheat fills the air. I grew up watching men and women working the land with love and diligence from sunrise to sunset. I grew up watching them plant their fields and water the olive trees with their sweat and blood. I grew up watching them planting the love of the land in their children’s hearts. I grew up and learned from them to love the land, to talk to the olive tree, to hold sacred every stone, every flower and every dust particle in this land. I grew up watching our land being stolen, dunum after dunum, by strangers who don’t belong to the land, who don’t know what it means to love the land or to respect the land. I grew up watching our land being butchered, dunum after dunum, by strangers who claim that the land is theirs but who don’t know that when the land cries, we cry, when the land suffers, we suffer, when the land is massacred, we are massacred, when the land bleeds, we bleed with the land because she is our mother, our Palestine. I grew up watching the villagers being expelled from their land, saw our olive fields burnt into ashes, our wells dried up, the birds silenced and the flowers withering. I grew up searching for a little freedom in the hills of Jerusalem, in the meadows of Sawahreh, before the mountains and the meadows themselves became captives to an army of illegals who kill the birds, the bees and the butterflies.

Embracing the Land

Every morning he wakes up, prays, prepares tea, carries the old tea pot and a small glass and goes to check on his trees and plants. He wanders between the loquat tree and the apple tree and the vineyard, between the jasmine, the sage and the thyme bushes. He checks on them, waters them, removes unwanted weeds and collects some mint for his tea. He then sits in a corner, under the shade of the loquat tree, sips his hot tea and watches the leaves dance with the cool morning breeze. All his life he had been a villager, a farmer, a land-worker, a land-lover. His father and grandfather and forefathers before him were villagers, farmers, land-workers and land-lovers. They all used to wake up with the first rays of sunlight, often race the sun to the land. They, his father, grandfather and forefathers, all planted olive trees, apple trees, carob trees, loquat trees, apricot trees and fig trees and created a green heaven, a paradise, a home. They all worked the vast areas of the land that was and is theirs, the land that was and is part of them and they part of. Be it summer or winter, they planted the fertile land, cared for her and she rewarded them every season with successful harvests. They lived on the land and from her and they gave the land their love, watered her with their sweat and their blood, honoured her, and the land gave them food on their tables, a sanctuary and a home. They were content and needed nothing else, for they had the land and land gave them everything they needed. They existed through the land and the land existed through them. The land gave them existence.

Graves for the Living: Palestinian Political Prisoners in Solitary Confinement

source: google images

Yesterday, 03.07.2011, around 7000 Palestinian prisoners held captives in Israeli dungeons went on a one-day hunger strike to protest the repressive measures of the Israeli prison administration. According to the Palestinian ministry of prisoners’ spokesperson: “Palestinian prisoners in all Israeli jails were the target of an unprecedented terrorizing campaign of repression, isolation, and transfer from one prison to another over the past few weeks. He said that the campaign peaked with the beating of the oldest serving prisoner Nael al-Barghouthi, which prisoners condemned as a violation of all red lines, along with the isolation of many prisoners serving high sentences.”[1] The spokesman added that the strike was a warning action that might lead to further forms of protest. Some weeks ago, I came across a letter written by Palestinian political prisoner Hasan Salameh and published on various Palestinian sites. Salameh is locked up in Israeli dungeons since 1996 and is in solitary confinement since 7 years. In this letter, Salameh says: If I could buy your support for me and for the other prisoners with all that I possess, I swear I would not fall short. With these harsh words, Slameh addressed us. He addresses us from the isolation cell that separates him from his loved ones, that separates him from his friends and comrades, from the rest of the world. He addresses us from the grave in which he is buried alive. With these harsh words, he addresses us; we who go to work every day, who go to school and universities, who go to the market, who visit friends and family. He addresses us while he and thousands others are locked up inside Zionist dungeons. He addresses us while his life and that of thousands others are withering in the darkness, while they suffer in silence. Hasan Salameh, addresses us from his isolation cell and asks of us only one thing: that we remember him and the thousands of Palestinians held captives in Israeli prisons. He asks of us only one thing: not to forget those buried alive in Israeli dungeons. Hassan Salameh, from Khan Younis, is one among 50 Palestinian political prisoners locked up in isolation cells by the Zionist entity. Latest prisoner to be isolated is 54 years old Na’il Al-Barghouthi, who has been locked up in Israeli dungeons since 34 years, making him the oldest serving prisoner in the world. On 27.06.2011, Israeli prison jailors raided Section 5 of the Remon prison, caused havoc and destroyed the prisoners’ possessions. When Na’il refused to be strip searched, he was sent to an isolation cell. He had initially agreed to be strip-searched, but only in the WC. He was handcuffed and asked to take off his shirt, which he was unable to do because of being handcuffed, so the jailors beat brutally him. Upon hearing his screams, fellow detainee Hilal Jradat started shouting from his nearby cell. The jailors then locked up Na’il and Hilal in one cell and beat them brutally. In addition to being isolated as a punishment, Na’il was fined 500 NIS.

A Trilogy: The Road to “Independence” (2)

 
2. We are Liberating Palestine … Yes We Are!

Liberation is an art; an art we excel at. We liberated Jericho, we liberated Ramallah, we liberated Bethlehem, we liberated Jenin, we liberated Nablus, we liberated three-quarters of Hebron, we liberated a few bits here and there and we will liberate Jerusalem. Which “Jerusalem” we mean? Don’t ask, it’s complicated. We liberated some 7% of the West Bank without the need of an army or any “resistance” other than our definition of “resistance”. We liberated 7% of the West Bank through the negotiations everyone is criticizing. We liberated 7% of the West Bank and are encouraging everyone to come and join us in liberating another 7%, then we will have 14% of the West Bank, not of historic Palestine. Historic Palestine is another story, it needs a lot of 7%s and we don’t have the time, we are too busy building a state on the liberated 7% – of the West Bank- the original 7% we liberated. We ask our American patrons to continue supporting our liberation process. We ask our European friends to continue financing our liberation process. We ask our Arab brothers to continue cheering and applauding our liberation process. We invite our Israeli partners in peace and negotiations to continue negotiating with us and asking us for more concessions. They can negotiate with us on the already liberated 7% if they want, we won’t mind because we heart negotiations. Modern liberation is an art; a fine art, an art very few understand. It is the art of selling your rights to the highest bidder in the name of “ending the conflict”. It is the art of shaking the hands of your killer in the name of “peace”. It is the art of joining forces with your enemy against your brother. It is an art only the “civilized” understand. Forget liberation through armed resistance, forget liberation through popular resistance. Today, liberation is achievable through concessions and two-year road maps to statehood. And if liberation is your goal – and you have only 2 years time to achieve that goal – just follow our refined and re-adjusted definition of liberation and you will get your state.

The Eagle of Palestine

source: google images

It was his face that drew my attention. It was his powerful eyes, the look of pride in them. As I went through the local newspaper, scanning the daily reports, some of which reach the outside world, but the majority remaining in occupied Palestine, I came across his picture. It reminded me of the pictures I often saw in books and magazines that were for so long forbidden, books and magazines that were often hid in caves, stacked in secret places around the houses of Palestinians, books and magazines that were mightier than any weapon, books and magazines that published powerful thoughts for the sole aim of promoting Palestine, unlike those of today that publish “articles” with the sole aim of promoting self-proclaimed writers. It was the picture of a Palestinian hero, when heroism was real, and when heroes did what they did for one reason only, and for that reason only; to liberate Palestine. They didn’t do what they did so they can be mentioned in the news, in petitions, or in blog posts. They didn’t rush home to send newsletters saying: “I got detained, I got questioned, I am free, thanks for the millions who asked about me… asked about ME”, while hundreds around them were beaten and kidnapped unnoticed. No, that picture reminded me of a time when Palestinian heroes did what they did out of conviction, and for Palestine; people to whom the cause was the most important thing, and not the “I” but the “WE”. I started reading the text next to that picture, and every couple of sentences, I found myself looking again at that face and those eyes. They reminded me of the villagers working their land from sunrise to sunset, and I could see him working in the land, surrounded by his family, standing steadfast in the face of Zionist colonists… They reminded me of the workers, sweaty, tired and burnt by the sun, but their hearts beating strong, their eyes directed towards the coming freedom, and I could see him driving a bus from Hebron to Jerusalem, picking up school children, university students, workers, mothers, greeting them and wishing them a good day, travelling along Palestinian villages, greeting them, passing along those working in the land, during the planting and the harvest seasons, watching the tired but happy faces, passing along the Hebron hilltops, strong and lofty, embracing Jerusalem every day a dozen times but never getting enough of her…. They reminded me of those who fought the Zionists during the Great revolt of 1936, of those who sold whatever money they had and bought an old English gun to protect their homes and their lands from the Zionist colonizers who had come from afar to steal the land. They reminded me of the stories I heard from my father and grandfather about the events before the Nakba, during and after the Nakba, of the heroes with the powerful eyes, full of pride, knowing what they want and going out to get it, ready to snatch their rights from the mouth of the devil, ready to go through hell to liberate their homeland, for it is their right, heroes, full of pride, full of dignity and not waiting, never waiting and whining and never begging others, never begging the enemy, the usurper of the land, to “grant” them freedom and justice.

Returning to Jerusalem

Source: google images

Izzat Aziz Maswadeh was among the thousands of Palestinians who on Nakba commemoration day, 15.05.2011, continued the collective march of return to Palestine and to Palestinian homes and villages. Izzat was one of the thousands of Palestinian refugees who continued the march that is as old as the Nakba itself, the march of return that started as early as the first days of the ethnic cleansing of Palestine, when many Palestinians were murdered by Zionist terror gangs while trying to return to the homes from which they were expelled. Since then, thousands of Palestinians have been killed or held captive while trying to return to their homeland, to their homes and villages… thousands were killed on the way to Haifa or Beisan, Jerusalem or Ar-Ramleh… killed while trying to cross the borders to occupied Palestine from Jordan, Lebanon, Syria and Egypt. They were all part of the collective march of return to Palestine and they all had one aim, one wish, one dream: to return.
Izzat Maswadeh was part of this march. He dreamt of his home, his ancestral home, of his birthplace Jerusalem. He wanted to be reunited with his family, reunited with his birthright…
Izzat Maswadeh tried to return to Jerusalem… he failed the first time but succeeded the second.

63 Years Later, Palestine

source: google images

63 years later, Palestine,
I see you waiting, with a tear that refuses to come down, waiting for the return of your child … waiting for the return of the son, the return of the daughter… waiting for the child who refused to remain inactive, refused to watch while your blood is being shed… waiting for the child who refused to remain occupied, refused to remain oppressed … I see you waiting for your child… and when he/she does return, carried on the shoulders of the comrades, you watch your children celebrate another Palestinian wedding. I see you welcome the bride, I see you welcome the bridegroom. I see the pain in your eyes, I feel the pain in your heart. I see you hug your child to you… you kiss your child’s forehead, wipe away the blood stain and smile in your child’s face… for your child has come home.