MIFTAH
Friday, 29 March. 2024
 
Your Key to Palestine
The Palestinian Initiatives for The Promotoion of Global Dialogue and Democracy
 
 
 

I just returned from a visit to my old CPT stomping grounds in Hebron. It was a homecoming!

My eyes filled with tears as we approached the spectacular hills in the south of Palestine. I love the terraced slopes, the olive tree groves, the carefully pruned but still bare vines, and the fruit trees wrapped in clouds of pink and white blossoms.

And I was again moved to tears at the site of the vegetable market on the outskirts of the Old City in Hebron itself. I love the chaotic traffic of pedestrians, cars and horse-drawn carts; the loud men's voices advertising their produce; and the men and women in traditional clothes carrying their black plastic bags overflowing with bright colors: red, green, purple, orange, white -- a veritable feast for the eyes, soon to be converted into a feast for the palate.

I stopped at the usual little shop to buy freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice and was greeted like a soldier returning from the front line. "When did you arrive? How long are you staying? Will you come back? Soon? We missed you!" the man said holding my hand in his two hands.

Then I stopped to chat with the Italian-speaking pharmacist, who said that things had been more quiet lately, though most of the Old City shops are still closed.

I visited the preschool/kindergarten/after-school center opened by a Palestinian woman since I was last in Hebron. A 16 year old volunteer showed me around, assuring me that he was still in school himself, but that he liked so much teaching the little ones in his spare time. He pointed at children's art work on the walls, with a smile on his face and pride in his voice. All the art work spoke of Palestine.

The man with the falafel stand by the CPT apartment quickly offered me a complimentary falafel, warm and delicious, with which to welcome me back.

The gift shop owner jumped to his feet and came toward me with outstretched arms when he saw me, while the old judge (his father) struggled to his feet and put his right hand on his heart in greeting.

I saw some of the buildings being restored and swallowed what seemed like a ton of dust floating in the air from the building materials. It was worth it.

In the afternoon, a carload of Jewish settlers stopped by me as I stood with other CPTers, slowed down enough to permit the passenger by the driver to spit at us. Some things never change, it seems.

"Things are quieter" the pharmacist had assured me, and on the surface they seemed to be.

It was a joy, for instance, to be able to take one service (shared taxi) from Jerusalem to Hebron without having to change service and climb over two or three earth and rock barriers.

Going through checkpoints was a breeze. Nowhere were we stopped and asked for our IDs. But soon we saw soldiers scattered alongside the main road, watching the hills through binoculars. Soon thereafter our driver veered off into a dirt road carved on the side of a hill. The road expanded and shrank in width making us fear for our lives as we glanced down the steep ravine to our left. A young man kept talking to the two old women behind me in a reassuring tone, in response to their faint whimpering. To keep my acrophobia in check, I closed my eyes as we bounced along, feeling my hair standing on end.

Why the dirt road? To avoid impromptu checkpoints. How did our driver know? Service drivers have a special non-verbal system of communication in addition to their constantly beeping cell phones. They exchange glances as they slow down on the road, going in opposite directions, and the message is sent and received in an instant. Drivers are used to keeping alternative routes in mind. This is "normal" life.

Public vans and cars must have the strength and agility of goats in order to travel on side roads. Every scraping on rocks makes the inexperienced traveler cringe, while the driver, outwardly unperturbed, drives carefully on.

In the evening I talked with a Palestinian peace activist, to whom I praised the resourcefulness of service drivers. I was shocked by his reaction. "That is the biggest mistake we make" he said, and went on to explain: "When soldiers tell us we cannot pass, we should leave our cars there and gather by the hundreds, DEMANDING our right to travel on OUR roads, in OUR native land. We should not relinquish that right even under the gun."

Yes. But collective action requires organization and planning. Individual evasive action is a way to survive and outwit the occupiers.

Every action by Palestinians living in the Occupied Territories, whether collective or individual, is an act of resistance to the Occupation and a testimony to the strength, the courage and the resilience of a people who refuses to be made "irrelevant" and invisible while the occupiers build walls around them and steal the land from under their feet.

 
 
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