Water

Israelis say they came and made the desert bloom, and driving through the desert south of Ramallah, the green lawns of the settlements stick out among the bare, dry, rocky hills. 

Meanwhile, in Jenin, the water has been cut off for almost three weeks.

We arrived at Majd's family's house last Wednesday afternoon to find the faucets unresponsive. The family's storage tank had just run out, but apparently the water had been shut off for 13 days. “It's just what happens sometimes,” Majd tells me, but she's nearly as frustrated as I am shocked. “Israel controls our water, so they can do whatever they want.”

Many who can afford it store water in cisterns, which provide a safety net of reserve water. Majd's family is even luckier—her father has another tank at his shop, and when their tank ran out, they siphoned water from his. Still, the stored water won't hold out forever, and we have to be very careful about things like washing dishes. And we're the lucky ones. “Lots of people have to buy water when this happens,” Majd says.

I was confused about what was going on. How is it ok to cut off a city's water? So I started researching the issue. I've heard so much about disputes over land, but in such a dry region, it makes sense that water is a valuable resource. Like everything surrounding the conflict, there's really no simple answer, and figuring out what is actually going on amid the angry accusations and defenses feels like separating tangled jewelry. Of course it's more complicated than Israel arbitrarily deciding to cut off Jenin's water supply, and I'm still trying to piece it all together. Another post should be coming soon.

Back in Jenin

Jenin was a sweltering 96 degrees when I arrived in late May, and it's only getting hotter. Therefore, when we arrived in the heat of the afternoon, the streets were pretty much deserted, and only a few people could be seen lounging in the shade outside of their shops.

However, when the sun goes down, everyone comes out. I still haven't gotten over being afraid for my life every time I get into a car, and driving with someone who is just learning through streets filled with children and bicycles was even more nerve wracking than my own sister's debut of canyon driving in Colorado. All the while, of course, the seatbelt alarm was beeping away, as no one here uses them in town.

Palestinian life is rarely solitary, and afternoons and weekends are usually spent receiving a constant stream of friends and family, or paying visits to various aunts. This weekend, Majd's mom and brother are preparing to leave on a trip to Saudi Arabia, and it seemed that everyone in town stopped by to bid them safe travels.

I hadn't seen the family for two weeks, and when we walked in, Majd's mom squealed, gave me a big hug, told me she missed me, and announced to everyone in the room that I was her daughter. However, I also think I'm settling in and being treated more like a member of the family rather than a special guest. They no longer insist that I eat constantly, instead asking if I'm hungry, and I was allowed to help sort grape leaves.

Bethlehem

It's not too often that one can casually pop on over to the birthplace of Christ, so when I overheard (and understood!) that two of the guys at the office were going to Bethlehem for a meeting, I asked if I could come along.

Bethlehem is only about 13 miles from Ramallah, but unfortunately for anyone without an Israeli permit (ie: most Palestinians), between them lies Jerusalem and it's ring of settlements, which must be circumvented. It took us nearly an hour and a half to get there.

Just south of Ramallah, the land gets much dryer. The stark canyons are striking, and the hills are dotted with Beduin villages. I even saw camels on a distant ridge. More striking, are the walls and fences that cut through the landscape, protecting Israeli settlements and their roads.

The West Bank contains different classifications of roads. Many of the roads I've driven on are shared roads, which connect to both Palestinian and Israeli roads and are populated by cars with both nation's license plates. The roads to the settlements, as well as certain express highways are reserved for Israeli's only. Their entrances are guarded by soldiers, and in the area I was driving through, almost all of them are fortified with some combination of concrete walls, fences and patrol roads. Israelis are prohibited from driving the roads to certain Palestinian cities and villages, but the entrances are marked with signs rather than guard houses, and the prohibition is only inforced by the Israeli government, not the Palestinian government or the people. “We welcome everyone.” Majd tells me. Generally, the only Israelis using these roads are ones who come to protest with the Palestinians.

I've mostly stopped asking about every wall and fence, but when we came to fields of tree stumps, I had to inquire, “What happened to the trees?”

My coworkers definitely had information, but seemed unsure as to exactly what applied to these particular fileds, how to explain it to me, and how to say it in English.

I think it's because the Palestinians made a lot of operations in this area, and it was to show them that the visitors can do whatever they want,” explained one.

“I think Palestinians are not allowed to plant on this land, even though it is Palestinian land,” said the other.

In Bethlehem, ancient-looking buildings made of sandy white stone sit embedded in the hillside. The streets and the church were full of groups of tourists, some wearing scarves on their heads, and others wearing tank tops. Since the real purpose of the visit was a meeting, and we all had work to do back at the office, I didn't see much of the city, but they did take a break to show me the Nativity Church, allegedly the place where Jesus was born. The church was ancient and stately, but also teeming with tourists and their cameras (including myself). As a whole, in comparison to Ramallah's vibrant, colorful chaos, Bethlehem seemed kind of sterile and artificial, and it made me glad to be living where I do.

Settlements

As I run through the streets of my neighborhood in Ramallah, I can spot a clump of houses perched on a hilltop above me. This neighborhood contrasts with those which I run through because the roofs are pointed, and because the dense development doesn't flow down the hill, merging with the farmland in the valley or the outskirts of Ramallah, but stops abruptly, leaving the hillside bare.

It serves as a useful landmark for orientation, but also looms over the city as a constant reminder of occupation, and that land can easily be confiscated.

I first began to recognize settlements as Majd pointed them out on the bus ride to Jenin on my third day in the country, and it took only a few times before I could pick them out for myself. It seems that wherever I go, I can spot a settlement or two on a nearby hilltop.

My first question was, “What are they doing here?” Wouldn't the desire for one's own land and borders to be respected lead to respect for the land and borders of one's neighbors?

My second question was, “How are the settlers not afraid for their lives?” To build a town on someone else's farmland expecting not to encounter violent revenge requires a strong assumption of either people's goodwill or of their powerlessness.

And the most stumping of all: if Israel wants to support a two state solution, why re they still being built?

An evening in Bir Zeit

Well, it looks like we're not going home. Instead of the normal bus stop, we were walking towards one I hadn't used before. Then I remembered that earlier, Majd had asked me if I wanted to go to Bir Zeit, the city next door, in which her sister attends university. That must be where we're going.

A short drive over several olive-terraced hills brought us to Bir Zeit, and we got off the bus and stepped into a cafe/restaurant. It was outdoor courtyard with tables, trees and a fountain, and was covered by a canvas roof. Majd's sister, Rums, was sitting at a table with five of her friends.

We pulled up some chairs, and they all giggled as they tried to talk to me in what is basically the equivalent of Shakespearian English, but soon realized that I could actually understand and communicate most simple ideas in Palestinian colloquial. Questions like “How do you feel about your government?” and “Why did you decide to come to Palestine?” continue to stump me, but Majd is a very helpful translator.

I learned that like many Palestinians I've met, these girls don't like governments in general, and the American government in particular. One of the girls explained that as a large and powerful country, she believes that the US has a responsibility to help people, but isn't upholding this responsibility, particularly in Palestine.

They asked if I wanted anything to eat, and I said I was definitely not hungry—we had just gotten ice cream in Ramallah. However, fullness rarely stops Palestinians from feeding me, and a minute later they began passing plates towards my end of the table and telling me to eat.

They brought us back to their dorm apartment, gave me a tour, and wanted me to dance. They wanted me to teach them American dance, but it was quickly determined that I was better at Arab dance. Then they asked if I was hungry again, and in spite of my negative answer, I was given a sandwich, a cucumber and a peach. When I protested, they told me what I have learned many times—the Palestinian tradition is to make guests welcome by feeding them.

While it's fun to be the special guest, I also feel almost guilty about it sometimes. These people don't even know me, but they welcome me into their homes and make as if I'm the most wonderful person in the world. I can only appreciate the hospitality and hope that I hold up in their opinions as they get to know me—and try to learn something about hospitality, generosity and judgment. I hope that I offer the same to people I meet.

Finally, it was time to leave. They did their best to convince me to spend the night, and made me promise to come back soon.

Surprises

When I first arrived, I was startled each night around 9 or 10 pm by load bangs. I didn't want to ask what they were, since they didn't seem to bother anyone else, but finally, I decided I had to know what they were.
“Insha'allah they are fireworks,” Majd said. “Though I heard there was violence last night at the checkpoint.” 

I don't notice the fireworks anymore, and had settled comfortably into the routine of daily life in Ramallah. I have begun to really feel at home climbing in and out of the taxi-buses, weaving though the traffic and the fruit vendors who sit at the side of the road, and listening to the resonance of the flow of traffic, the radio broadcasts and music blasting from store doorways, the calls of vendors and the greetings of people who meet each other on the street.  But now and then things sneak up on me and remind me that well, I'm not in Kansas anymore.

The Palestinian countryside is lovely, especially in the glow of the late afternoon. Out the window of the bus, I could see hills rising out of the valley where villagers worked in the fields and tended small herds of goats. Suddenly, I saw a wall rising in front of us. Ramallah is close to the green line, so at first I though it was the separation wall, but as we got closer, I could see an underpass, and it didn't seem to be blocked or patrolled. Then I noticed that there was not one wall, but two, and that there was a road between them—it must be one of the settler bypass roads.

I knew that things like this existed—I had been through the Qalandia checkpoint, and may well have driven on the bypass highway that cuts through the West Bank to get from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem—but for some reason, my stomach dropped. I was not prepared for the shock I experienced at seeing the countryside blocked, and the hills torn up, especially by a road that the people who's land was confiscated in order to build it and its fortifications were not allowed to use it, or even to approach it.

My reactions have been dramatically fluctuating. Often, my focus remains on the mundane activities of simply living daily life, partaking in completely normal activities like taking the bus to work, sitting at my desk and going to cafes with friends. But other times, I become completely preoccupied and shocked by the past and present horrors of occupation and violence. I wonder how people here manage to balance it all.

 

Happy Birthday

“Get me a chocolate ice cream—the one called Cornetto.”

Zina appeared to be taking orders for the usual afternoon supermarket run, but as she passed my desk, she winked and whispered, “We're going to get a cake!”

“For Mais?” I asked, feeling proud of myself for being less clueless than usual. Earlier that morning, I had understood enough of a conversation to guess that tomorrow was Mais's birthday.

I asked if I could come along, and after a bit more time spent pretending we were going to the supermarket, four of us piled into a car and headed to the bakery. 
“We want lots of chocolate,” Zina told me. 
Walking into the bakery, I was hit by a wave of buttery sweetness. Glass cases were filled with flower-shaped cookies, small pastries, and frosted cakes. We asked what was inside of each cake, an then left. “Not enough chocolate.”

We drove to another bakery with more glass cases full of sweets. One of the guys greeted the owner, who appeared to be an old friend. This bakery also had shelves of cheap toys. Some were clearly cake decorations—brides, graduation caps, babies—and some were just odd, like a wind-up airplane. We left with two flare candles and an M, as well as a cake that apparently contained an acceptable amount of chocolate.

When we got back to the office, we sent one person upstairs to lure Mais into an office. When the coast was clear, we rushed upstairs and set up the table with the cake and gifts before calling Mais into the room. We lit the candles and quickly called Mais, singing “Happy Birthday” in English and Arabic.

The office

Zina is sitting at her desk, trying to act out the entire band of the song playing on her computer, franticly switching between her pretend flute, pretend drums and pretend symbols. One day, the bosses left early, and pretty soon, the office broke into an impromptu dance party.

Despite the social atmosphere, it's clear that everyone works hard. Hardly anyone leaves at five when the work day is officially over. Majd tells me that when they have a proposal, it's not rare for the directors to stay in the office late into the night in order to make sure everything is properly written, and I often see Majd doing work for the organization in her time off. More importantly, she isn't resentful about it.

One night, I met the Chairman of the organization. He was surprisingly young and didn't look like the stiff businessman I would have imagined. He was also obviously far more concerned with helping the disadvantaged than with making money. He told me that four of the seven or so people working in the Ramallah office are co-founders of the organization, so their passion makes sense.

“We are like a family,” Majd tells me. Whenever someone has a birthday, they get a cake. There's a list in the kitchen assigning dish duty, and even the CEO has a turn. When a new center was being established, the person in charge of it asked for help, and the employees personally contributed hundreds of dollars, a camera, their days off.

Right now, there is no communications officer, which works out great for me, because it means there's lots to do. My introduction to the organization and its activities consisted of editing reports and grant proposals. Soon, I was given the assignment of writing the proposal for the project they're curently developing. While occasionally frustrating—especially at the beginning when they hadn't really solidified their ideas, and therefore couldn't give me clear instructions—it's also quite interesting to see the project form, and to have such a large stake in the process as a volunteer. I asked my supervisor if he would be around tomorrow to look over my ideas of the project objectives, and he told me, “Just write your ideas. I told you my ideas, and now this part is yours.”

Hearing stories

Majd tells me, “Here in Palestine, we have everything. We have nightclubs and checkpoints, we have dreams and shoe stores, schools and occupation.”

For the most part, daily life carries on like anywhere else. Taxis take people to work, we sit at cafes, we cook dinner. But buried just beneath the surface of the comings and goings of daily life—and constantly bursting out—are traces of tragedy.

Majd believes that no Palestinian is untouched. Everyone has a story. As I spend time with Majd, I hear more of her story.

My perception of the story begins a few days after my arrival while riding in the car in Jenin. The family drove me to the top of one of the hills surrounding the city to see the view. In the valley below and on the surrounding hills, windows and streetlights mapped out the shape of the city. Someone pointed out a section just below us on the hillside, to me indistinguishable from any other section. They wanted me to know that it was the refugee camp that was flattened by Israeli bulldozers and then rebuilt by its occupants. I was taken to that hilltop several more times, and each time, I was told about the camp.

The story begins to materialize as just that—traces. Though the stories of the camp, the stories of those who came to live there, their former homes and new lives could fill many books, at first, I learned only where it was, and that it had been destroyed and rebuilt.

The importance of this sight to those showing it elicits a story that lies just beneath the surface—a story rooted in the Second Intifada, in which Majd's hometown, Jenin, became a flashpoint of violence as the Israeli army endeavored to root out Palestinian militants in the refugee camp next to the city.

It is later, sitting at the dinner table, more than a week later, that the story continues to emerge. A conversation about highways turns again to Jenin and the intifada. That night, I heard many shocking fragments of a story of a person, a family, a city and a nation.

It is a story in which Majd, at 12 years old, got to know her neighborhood with one Israeli tank on the corner and another down the street. The military classified the city as a closed military zone, cutting it off to the outside. They went without water or electricity for 22 days. There was no food—only what the family, or other families, had saved.

Israeli soldiers entered homes. Majd describes that they “made a mess.” They forced everyone into one room—not just the family, but multiple families. A soldier stood guard at the door.

It is a story that turns into nightmares haunting the population. “I can still smell dead bodies.” She cringes. “They wouldn't let the ambulances though. They would blow them up because they said we used them to transport terrorists.” It is a story of a generation of children without a childhood. “The children don't play innocent games. Only Arab soldiers, guns, shooting, bombs.”

Majd says few were left unscarred, both figuratively (“I think all Palestinians have psychological problems.”) and literally. She tells me her boyfriend has a bullet scar on his leg, and her brother one on his forehead. “He was very lucky.”

“Khalas,” she says, picking up the bowls from the table. “Life goes on.”

Just Life

With knowledge of the language and the city comes independence and participation. Now I go running by myself. It's quite safe here, even at night. On foot, I've begun to explore my neighborhood; there are lots of hills. (I knew this already, but they mean more when I can feel them the next day in my legs.) I run by children playing in streets and families sitting on porches and they say hi. I follow narrow roads to their ends an the face of grassy hills. (I refrain from climbing the hills as I would back home.)

I've gained permission to help wash the dishes; I'm sent on errands to the store across the street (with very careful instructions as to how what to say in order to come back with bread or a phone card); I'm pretty sure that I could find my way to and from work on my own.

Daily life mostly follows the routine of daily life. I go to work, eat lunch go home. Sometimes, we go to a cafe. Last night, Majd's friend painted my nails with ornate flowers. I'm speaking and understanding more and more Palestinian Arabic—the other day, Majd challenged me to not speak when we went out the other day, and I pretty much held it up. Granted, I didn't say much, but I don't talk that much anyway, and I did follow the gist of the conversation most of the time.

A Wedding Marathon

Last weekend, we went to Majd's family's house again in Jenin.

When I arrived, her mother said, “Welcome!” “Sit down!” “Eat!” As I had been practicing my Arabic, she had apparently been practicing her English.

One night, they told me we were going to a wedding. We dressed up, put on makeup and piled into the car. Many of you will be amused (or horrified) that my shoe choice was just the sandals that I wear every day. I even brought heels, but I haven't dug them out of my suitcase yet, and have worn them so little in the past that I can't remember if they hurt my feet.

Majd's mom is a madwoman behind the wheel, racing up and down hills and around corners, driving onto the gravel on the side of the road to pass cars, and sending me flying out of my seat as we sail over bumps and potholes.

As usual, I have pretty much no clue what is going on. When we arrive at our destination, only half the car gets out. It turned out that this was only wedding one of two, and we were stopping only for Majd's sister to make an appearance, but all I knew was that I was losing my much relied-upon translator.

We entered a very crowded hall with an isle down the middle, a stage at one end, and the bridal party gathered at the other The wedding march with Arabic lyrics was playing on repeat. Someone popped a confetti popper and the bride entered. She wore a white dress and walked down the isle, with the bridesmaids walked ahead, spraying what looked like shaving cream. The couple said their vows, exchanged rings, and began to dance, as I was dragged out the door once more.

We loaded back into the car, drove up and down some more hills, and arrived at our next destination. There were children outside wearing suits and party dresses and climbing on the banisters. We entered yet another crowded hall with the wedding march playing and squeezed our way into one of the goups of people standing between aisles. However, this wedding, too, we left very soon. “Too many people,” my hosts explained. “No dancing.” So we spent the evening at Majd's aunt's house instead.

A bit about Ramallah

After the commemoration, we headed home. The bus ride from downtown to home is usually about five minutes (if not less), but this time, the bus took a different route, winding though the streets for probably almost half an hour, giving me an impromptu tour of some of Ramallah. We drove through neighborhoods I didn't know existed, at one point squeezing by another car with only inches to spare as each braced their tires against the walls and obstacles on the sides of the road, and on another stopping as the driver patted a friend on the head to say hello.

I was beginning to think perhaps I was getting my bearings in my new city, but I realized I'm still far away from understanding where I am at any given moment. Ramallah stretches across several hilltops (or perhaps up a network of valleys or across a ridge—I haven't really figured out the layout and the hilly nature makes it impossible to see everything at once to figure out how different places relate to each other. All the roads seem to wind up and down, effectively disorienting me after a few minutes.)

However, what I can tell you about my new city is that there are hills—really steep ones. They wind up, down and around and are barely wide enough for two cars, yet everyone seems to drive a million miles an hour. There are few traffic lights and no stop signs; cars often honk as they come to intersections—assumtively to alert possible cross traffic of their presence. The streets, especially in the downtown area, are full of cars, and also people—there are sidewalks, but in many cases all the people wouldn't fit, and walking on the sidewalk doesn't seem to be the trend. For one thing, there's often cars parked on them.

Ramallah seems to have a very good public transportation system. Yellow vans (as well as some of the taxis) function more or less like buses, traveling on a (somewhat) regular route and picking people up. The buses with a particular destination collect in a specific parking lot or street downtown, where they fill up and head off. The driver simultaneously careens down the narrow roads honking and passing people, collects fares, and makes change.

A lot of women wear the hijab, but it is often accompanied by tight jeans and stylish dresses. I don't feel uncomfortable with my head uncovered, and in contrast to Morocco, I don't think I've gotten a single catcall. At work, two of the women, Mai and Mais, wear the hijab and the other two, Zina and Majd, don't. It doesn't seem to affect workplace interactions in any way. Everyone operates on fairly equal ground as far as I can tell, sharing lunch and dish duty (though one of the guys apparently tends to convince Zina and Majd to take his turn). The other day, our boss was joked that the women didn't really have independence, saying, for example, that they couldn't leave the office without his permission. Zina vehemently disagreed, and later went to the supermarket without asking.

Ramallah also has many cafe's and restaurants, a Palestinian cultural center, a large complex with guards where the president lives, lots of white apartment buildings, a few shiny sky scrappers, mini grocery stores interspersed in neighborhoods, fruit markets, street vendors, clothing stores, banks, and lots of other things one would expect to find in a city.

A response to responses (or my statement of intent)

A comment to yesterdays post (read it here!), as well as the response of a close friend made me believe that perhaps I should further explain and clarify some of the things I was talking about, which relate to some of the intentions behind my writing lately. 

 

Also, more people should comment! My friends here really want to know what people back home think of what I've been writing. I'm screening the comments, but only for safety, so unless I think that something in a comment puts me or someone else in danger, I'll post it as soon as I've read it.

    As one who considers myself largely disillusioned with politics, I would not have expected this blog to turn so political. However, while I certainly have, and will surely continue to turn political at times, my biggest intention is to fight for tolerance through personal stories. There are many journalists writing about Palestine (check out Joseph Dana), I'm hoping to learn about and share the human side of things, and intend to root my writing in the daily lives of myself and those around me.

     I'm well aware that objectivity is impossible, and I certainly do have an agenda, I'm not trying to wage an aggressive ideological battle as much as voice to some stories that are less often heard. I'm aware that the choice of what stories I share does, in fact reflect my views, but I'm trying not to let my beliefs blind me, and to pay attention to what I hear, not just what I want to hear. 
 

    I would also like to specify that when I refer to Palestine as a country, I am referring to to the land within the '67 borders, and the events I relate take place in what is functionally the West Bank—locations at or inside the separation wall, which is well within those borders.

Now about yesterday's post: 

Edit: I've been informed that some of you are too lazy to click my link, or not reading carefully enough to see it, so here is the comment to which this post responds:

"'a narrative about fighting for respect and justice, not for the annihilation of Israelis.'
Isn't the end result the same Chandra? If people keep fighting for respect and justice, it's not that far off to think that they would not stop fighting at all. Nor will they actually learn to forgive their enemies and move on if they do not forget the the wrongdoings of the past.

"But then again, the United States believes in the same concept and the issue of power comes into play. Palestine is evil because they do not have the power to overthrow the government, while the US is good because by preaching the same type of violence, we do it for modern causes such as freedom from tyranny.

"But I do see your point that everyone, including the Palestinians need to be more engaged with their own story. It's just that when the overall message is still fighting and violence: the underlying "just" causes tend to be overshadowed." 
 

    I've heard a lot about sides (this is actually in response to other reactions, not the comment)—which side I am on, who is against who, who is against peace... The mainstream press has a tendency to portray two sides—a Palestinian one trying to violently overthrow Israel, and an Israeli one protecting their nation from those trying to destroy it. Personally, I don't think that the sides must be defined as Israelis against Palestinians. It could be defined as a struggle between those who wish to live alongside each other and those who don't. 

    The mainstream agenda not only silences the Palestinian voices of tolerance, but also those of Israeli leftists who believe the right wing Zionist policies are detrimental to their country as well as to Palestine, and who work alongside Palestinian protesters (google it!). I was trying to explain that this narrative of antagonistic opposition silences other existing narratives—ones that, based upon my experiences here, actually represent a far greater portion of Palestinians. These stories don't take fighting for freedom and justice to necessitate violence or the negation of a people or a nation.

    When I said that Palestinians were fighting for respect and justice, not for the annihilation of Israelis, my friend Jisan alleged that these two would lead to the same end result. When I said fighting, I didn't mean violently. I wrote the post in an attempt to illuminate the fact that many of the attempts at respect and justice don't, in fact, call for violence. One of the speakers called Faisal Husseini a sword at Isreal's throat, but his tactics of fighting occupation and its injustices involved standing unarmed in front of bulldozers about to destroy the homes and farmland of Palestinian villagers in the construction of the separation wall (don't know about the wall? Check this out--or this if you like videos), and participating in negotiations.

    Claiming that respect and justice for Palestinians means the annihilation of Israelis implies that the existence of the Israelis is making it impossible for Palestinians to attain these things. If this is true, than we have a completely different discussion to address. (And some do say it—those are the voices that tend to get heard in the US—the ones inspire fear for Israel's existence—but they are not the voices I've been hearing here.) But while I believe that many of the current policies do act in this way, I (as well as those who's narratives I was telling) do not believe the existence of Isreal and Palestine to be mutually exclusive.

    In my short time here, I have not heard a single person call for the end of Israel. Majd explained that Israel is a reality. It's not going anywhere. What Palestinian want, she told me, is a country of their own—a country in which they can have jurisdiction over their own land, their own roads, their own immigrants (or returning refugees).

    Jisan wrote, “the US is good because by preaching the same type of violence, we do it for modern causes such as freedom from tyranny.” I've already explained that I wasn't referring to violent struggle. Additionally, I would like to ask: does this “good” fight not include causes like the protests of a number of villages who's land is still being seized by expanding settlements (look at this), or the right to control the roads in ones own country, to be able to travel them without being subject to search (I haven't experienced this yet but Majd says we've just been lucky).

    Did you know that the Oslo accords gave Israel full control over about 59% of the West Ban (Area C), military presence in another 28.8% (Area A), leaving only 17.2% under full Palestinian control (Area B) (which is still subject to military raids and in and out of which Israel still has jurisdiction over movement). And it continues to seize more of it to build settlements and roads connecting them.

    Majd—the one who originally voiced the impossibility of forgetting the injustices to the Palestinian people—disagrees that this attitude makes her dangerous to Israelis (she's all for living in peace and simply wants them to respect her country (perhaps by the '67 borders?) and would like to point out that she just came back from a nonviolence workshop in Italy. 

    Also, though though the stories I was telling were not my own, I would like to argue that personally, I do believe in the potential to forgive without forgetting, to not hold future generations responsible for the actions of their country, and to not hold an entire people responsible for the actions of a few. I think this can be applied to any side. 
 

    And really?? “Palestine is evil​”???? This phrase shocked me. I can't believe that an entire country is evil, especially after being welcomed into so many homes. I think above all, I'm hoping that my stories will portray the hospitality and goodwill of the people who I've met, and that having a Palestinian flag on the wall doesn't mean one hates Israelis or Jews of Westerners—that it can also represent pride in one's heritage (and opposition to those who hold that Palestinians are not a people), love for one's country, and hope that it will gain freedom.

    About the last part, I do agree that engaging with one's story is good, but I'm not saying that Palestinians need to engage with their story, I'm saying that they are doing so, and that there are Palestinian stories that we don't hear. Moreover, Palestine has to deal (I think more than many groups) with narratives about them constructed by others but much more widely voiced and accepted than their own. Faisal Husseini's son talked about the Israeli endeavor to narrate Palestine, and the acts of Palestinians which tell a different tale. My point was that most of their narratives are not heard. We tend to hear a lot of narratives relating hatred and terrorism, but if you come to Ramallah, you will hear far more about nonviolence and respect.

Palestinian narratives

In the US, we hear a lot of narratives explaining Palestine and Palestinians, but I don't believe most of them are made by Palestinians themselves—though the actions of a few Palestinians certainly influence them. We hear a lot of narratives of hatred, of each side wishing the other out of existence, of violent acts of desperation. We don't hear enough narratives of tolerance and peace.

Since coming here, I've been listening to the narratives told by the people I've met, and what I've heard contrasts strongly with the mainstream story told in the US.

Today, we (yes, I am functionally a unit of we—at the moment, I don't believe I'm allowed out of arms-reach of Majd—so no one worry, I'm being taken very careful care of) went to an event commemorating a Palestinian political martyr, Faisal Husseini, a leader of nonviolent popular resistance to Israeli occupation, especially relating to East Jerusalem.

His son spoke at the event, describing an Isreali practice of representing Palestinians with a mirage of terror while cutting of the hand offering peace. He told a narrative of Palestinian unity based upon love for one another and for one's country rather than upon hatred of the enemy. I've heard narratives taking into account the obvious military strength of Israel, and insisting upon peaceful action in a situation where one cannot possibly attain a violent victory, and I saw video footage of completely unarmed Palestinian protesters (not even holding the rocks so well known in our stories) being confronted by Israeli soldiers with bats and tear gas. I've been hearing narratives of love for all people, and the desire to live in peace among them.

It's not that terrorists don't exist, but I think their presence is blown severely out of proportion. Their narrative is almost the only one widely heard, but I don't believe they represent the majority of Palestinians. Majd explained that she thinks that neither the terrorists nor the government are working for the good of Palestinians, and yet those are the only people who get a voice in our press.

That doesn't mean that Palestinians plan to stop fighting. The cheers of the audience at the metaphor of Heusani as a sword at the Israeli settler's throats, or Majd's assertion that above all, she wants peace, but that she will also never forget the injustice does not suggest a willingness to lie down and get stepped on in negotiations. But what I've heard is a narrative about fighting for respect and justice, not for the annihilation of Israelis.