For a few months I could forget easily enough where I came from,
The old tongues and tones of Western Europe
Veiled me.
But three weeks jumping through holes in the Holy Land
It was inevitable that we would meet again,
Australia and I.
It was in Nabi Saleh, the Freedom Bus pulled in.
A tiny village in the West Bank, strong with resistance, with heart and hope.
Google it.
Small talk was made
as I shrunk between the cracks in the lounge
like a crispy flake of pita.
Sitting atop threaded blankets woven by women in the occupied valleys of Palestine:
White, male, 20-something. Bible and iPad clasped in his meaty hands.
‘Straya.
‘Yeah I’m ‘ere for me religion, ya know.
Been ‘ere ’bout a week, ‘eard ’bout this place, thought I’d come along.
Nah, I didn’t even plan to come ‘ere ‘ay,
me mate at church told me like a coupla weeks ago
and I just bought me ticket and come over.’
Oh. Yes, we’ve heard there’s a Christian population here in Nabi Saleh…
‘’Bin livin’ in Sydney with me brother,
but I’m from the Sunny Coast, Caloundra,
Clown Town, we call it.’
The polite Europeans around me nod pleasantly,
Looking in my direction for translation.
I see it…
Somewhere, a mother is watching 7 News, anxious about the safety of her pimply adult son, certain that those bombs being dropped, those guns being fired by Muslims, eating halal, in some kind of Middle Eastern-sounding place, are targeted at him.
‘The Sunshine Coast? Yes, I’m also from there, actually.’
‘You’re shittin’ me!’
I accept this fate with a heavy heart.
Australia and I,
We are one.
*
Nabi Saleh. We’re here to join their protest.
The Tamimi family have welcomed us,
faces and hearts of the Palestinian Popular Resistance.
Cardamom coffee is offered around with broad smiles on scarred faces,
Scented steam circling our questions,
I take a cup to quell the nerves in my hands.
The Tamimi family offer us a short history of the village,
The illegal Israeli settlement of Halamish is growing, feeding on their soil, just on the nearby hill.
They want the Palestinians erased.
Night raids, murder, child arrests, insomnia, terror, tear gas shot into homes to smoke them out.
Videos of past demonstrations:
Mustafa Tamimi, 28, is shot, point-blank
His face blown away by a tear gas canister.
I discreetly writhe with nausea on the floor.
The Tamimi daughters smile sympathetically.
Australia, looks on.
‘All mothers are the same,
regardless of religion, Jewish, Muslim.
The pain we feel when our child
Is injured or killed
Is the same.
We don’t want this.’
*
It’s time for solidarity in action.
Peaceful protest.
We’re just walking down the road, right?
Australia joins us outside the house,
ready for the walk
towards Halamish.
My legs are already jellyfied,
as the image of Mustafa with his face blown off
sits at the forefront of my dizzy thoughts.
I linger at the back of the group,
having some vague idea
that it will be safer here.
Perhaps I can pretend it’s not happening,
here, from farther away.
The Palestinian flag is held strong,
by a woman up front,
she sings and chants.
She cannot pretend.
The hillsides are calm,
sitting heavy as wild poppies
whistle wind through their petals.
But suddenly a blast, a hiss –
An IDF truck blocks the road,
firing the first tear gas canisters into the small crowd.
Young boys with keffiyehs over their mouths and noses,
run back towards me,
dodging the falling canisters.
Five little boys stand on a hill nearby,
throwing stones towards the truck;
WE ARE HERE! WE ARE ALIVE! YOU CANNOT IGNORE US! The stones scream.
Five little boys throwing stones to scream the human right of their existence.
The soldier’s reaction: tear gas and sound bombs.
This is the shameless face of Israel,
this sad and terrifying performance.
Another round of tear gas,
while our group simply stands on the road.
Those up front attempt conversation with teenage soldiers.
We are here, we are alive, you cannot ignore us.
*
I’m listening to the stones,
contemplating the rights and the wrongs, and all the in-betweens,
when up through the tear-gassy mist,
runs Australia.
His white mottled skin speckled with excited sweat,
iPad gripped in paw.
He must be filming the protest,
maybe to share with his church at home?
And not for the first time this trip,
I’m so pleasantly surprised by Christian solidarity.
If this guy from Caloundra
can get himself here,
maybe there is hope for…
‘Hey!’
He calls above the hissing,
‘Hey, what’s this ‘occupation’ thing they keep talking about?’
Umm…
‘The woman up front is yelling like ‘stop the occupation’ or something.
Do you know what she’s goin’ on about?’
Umm…excuse me, Australia?
I regard him with what can only be described as the look of a stunned mullet.
‘The… the occupation?’ I stutter, ‘As in, The Illegal Occupation of Palestine?’
His flustered face nods, waiting.
I continue the stunned mullet, tear gas raining around us.
The image of Mustafa with no face flashes up at me again.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question…’
By which I mean:
Are you actually asking this question RIGHT NOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WEST BANK IN A SCARY PROTEST AGAINST THE ILLEGAL OCCUPATION OF PALESTINE, THE HISTORY OF WHICH WE ALL JUST LISTENED TO THROUGH HARROWING PERSONAL STORIES TOLD BY LEADERS OF THE RESISTANCE MOVEMENT IN THEIR LOUNGE ROOM?! HAVE YOU HAD YOUR EYES AND EARS CLOSED?! DID YOU NOT EVEN GOOGLE ‘PALESTINE’ OR ‘ISRAEL’ BEFORE YOU GOT ON A PLANE AND FLEW OVER HERE?! WHO DOES THAT?!
I pretend cough. Hmm.
And then it passes over his face:
A look of sinking realisation
that Australia has utterly under prepared himself
for the current situation.
His cheeks flush,
‘Yeah, I just came ‘ere for me religion, ya know?’
‘Umm… I… well…’
WHAT?!
And with the grace of divine intervention,
another tear gas canister hits close to our feet, and we scatter,
saving me from this somewhat difficult, awkward exchange.
Lost in the gassy mists of solidarity,
I don’t see Australia again.
*
Back aboard the Freedom Bus,
the stony hills of Palestine
embrace us like old friends,
And I think about Australia.
It was inevitable that we would meet again,
Australia and I.
He has a good heart, of that I’m sure.
He has no pretence, no presumption.
But he was so radical in his lack of preparation,
the fact that he didn’t know that he didn’t know,
until he was standing in the middle of a protest choking on tear gas.
Hey, Australia, we’re from the same hometown.
I grew up in the same community as you.
Before I planned to visit this place,
I could only see a dark landmass of shadows, dust and death.
How could I have known the beauty amongst the rubble?
The flowers growing over the graves of children?
The words of loss and the faces of resilience, of lives lived in fast-forward?
‘Come here and see.
Go home and tell.
You have a responsibility, as a witness’.
So, it’s okay not to know the details at first.
Keep an open mind and heart,
Listen, learn, be respectful.
But, really, if you leave it too late,
Australia,
You might just find yourself in the middle of a war, wondering what the hell is going on.
*
I visited the West Bank in March 2016 as part of an international Freedom Ride for three weeks. I knew only the basics about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict before I arrived. After meeting Palestinians and Israelis from all walks of life, and hearing their maddening stories of fear, strength, love of life and land, I’m certain of only three things: that dividing people from each other and taking sides is never the pathway to peace, domestically and internationally; that international law has and is currently being violated every day in Palestine; and that storytelling, the telling and the listening, is always empowering.
The Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the issue of illegal Israeli settlements, like in Nabi Saleh, matters to everyone – if we ignore these shameless violations of international law, what is to stop them repeating in more countries around the world? In your country? Every little voice counts, every little word you read, every thought that you think, every question that you ask.
Image by Luca Zanon