There is no such place

Today I heard from my close friend Sameeha that her two young cousins, who live in the house next door, have been killed by an artillery shell that hit their bedroom. (My immediate, selfish mental reaction forcing its way through fear: “Oh, thank God it wasn’t you!”) Their names were Qasem and Imad. They were aged seven and four.

Sameeha’s parents have had to flee their house next door to the killing site, but they’re uninjured. Her younger sister Najla is pregnant and said, “I don’t want to have my baby now. I wouldn’t know where to hide her.” At this, an older mother helpfully volunteered, “I used to move my two little boys from room to room to try and find the safest place.”

In Gaza tonight there is no such place, as patients at Wafa Geriatric Hospital have also been reminded. Their hospital was under fire for days, with international activists trying to act as human shields for people who were too sick to survive away from hospital – people dependent on oxygen, people who are paralysed, people who were terrified as their walls trembled and who clung to the hands of their nurses hoping for reassurance that the nurses couldn’t give. I’ve done a bit of work on a dementia ward. Reading the updates from El-Wafa, which has now been destroyed in the bombing (the last patients were removed in time, although how much longer they can last like this is a question that I am having to leave with God), I think of the elderly people I worked with, one of whom even found being taken from her room to the toilet an anxiety-provoking experience. I wrote about Sarah here. How would I tell such a patient that I need to wheel her bed into the hospital corridor with dozens of other sick frightened people, as it’s the safest place to sleep? How would I tell her that she really needs to get out of here, but I don’t know where? That there isn’t anywhere?

As a healthcare worker, I think I can’t imagine anything worse than not being able to provide care to those under my responsibility. I think. Until I look at the photos from El-Wafa again and I realise that many of the patients were probably expelled from Majdal, Asqalan, and the surrounding areas during the Nakba. This has been their whole life. These old people have never, in all their existence, had a safe place to call home – something they have in common with Sameeha’s two little neighbours, who took only four and seven years respectively to make the same discovery.

A prayer in times of violence

Inside the Emmanuel Monastery chapel, my church in Bethlehem.

Inside Emmanuel Monastery, my church in Bethlehem.

There is dreadful news coming out of Gaza. I am beyond grateful that my friend Sameeha (now pregnant with her first child) is safely out, but I’m scared for all the friends who are stuck in there with no shelter and nowhere to run, and for the people who are coping without medicine or clean running water. According to the radio there is a ground invasion imminent.  Thumbing through my prayer books yesterday, I found this litany by Janet Morley, a Methodist author. It is titled simply ‘A prayer of confession’.

(The final line of each verse, in bold, is the response when praying in congregation.)

O Christ
in whose body was named
all the violence of the world,
and in whose memory is contained
our profoundest grief,
we lay open to you:
the violence done to us in time before memory;
the unremembered wounds that have misshaped our lives;
the injuries we cannot forget and have not forgiven.
The remembrance of them is grievous to us;
the burden of them is intolerable.

We lay open to you:
the violence done in our name in time before memory;
the unremembered wounds we have inflicted;
the injuries we cannot forget and for which we have not been forgiven.
The remembrance of them is grievous to us;
the burden of them is intolerable.

We lay open to you:
those who have pursued a violent knowledge
the world cannot forget;
those caught up in violence they have refused to name;
those who have enacted violence
which they have not repented.
The remembrance of them is grievous to us;
the burden of them is intolerable.

We lay open to you:
the victims of violence whose only memorial is our anger,
those whose suffering was sustained on our behalf,
those whose continuing oppression provides
the ground we stand on.
The remembrance of them is grievous to us;
the burden of them is intolerable.

Here what comfortable words our saviour Christ says
to all who truly turn to God:
come to me, all you who labour and are heavy-laden,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me,
for I am gentle and lowly in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

I’m putting this litany here so that other people can also make use of it – not just for victims of war and oppression but for anyone caught up in violence, such as those trapped in abusive homes; and for our own forgiveness for all the times when we’ve hurt others. Even though it’s a Christian prayer, I think that the meaning in it will resonate with people who are not themselves Christians.

Occupation’s abacus

While mobs roamed up and down Jaffa Road (a major thoroughfare in Jerusalem, for people who don’t know the place) shouting ‘Death to Arabs’, a Palestinian teenager from Shuafat has been murdered and his body dumped in a woodland near Givat Shaul. The body was partly burnt and showed signs of torture.

“If the government doesn’t do it, we will,” an activist wearing a T-shirt from Lehava (an organisation that fights against ‘assimilation’, more specifically miscegenation) told a reporter on Jaffa Road yesterday. Staring at it, I thought to myself weakly, “Do what? Bombs that turn night into day over Gaza aren’t enough? Home demolitions aren’t enough? Five hundred arrests under military law?” Regarding the murder, the mayor of Jerusalem has stated, “This is not our way” and called for calm.

On average, one Palestinian child has been killed every three days for the past thirteen years. Their death toll is around 1500. Does it matter so much whether soldiers do it or vigilantes do it? What would ‘our way’ be? To leave it to the army, whose killing is clean and clinical and always excusable?

In Shuafat, where today’s murdered teenager was from, police have moved in with tear gas and sound bombs. Archbishop Desmond Tutu once wrote that parts of East Jerusalem look like what was once District Six in Cape Town. The resemblance is never sharper than on days like today. The killers of Muhammad Abu Khdair won’t have their family homes demolished in punishment for his murder. In fact, they’re unlikely to be caught at all. The police and legal system don’t have a sterling track record for responding to anti-Palestinian violence, even when it’s directed against citizens; when seventeen-year-old Jamal Julani was nearly murdered in a widely publicised attack in Zion Square two summer ago, in what even the Israeli police described as a lynch, the only three members of the mob to be convicted received sentences of eight months, three months, and one month respectively. A kid in the West Bank who throws stones at a military jeep is likely to get more. Today’s dead boy will be lucky if he’s worth one arrest, let alone five hundred. The teenagers hurling bottles at police and army in Shuafat refugee camp understand that. The army has now taken over rooftops of houses in the camp and guns are pointing down almost every street and alleyway. “Are they raiding the settlements now, to find suspects?” one Shuafat resident asked bitterly. From vigilante attacks on Palestinians to state-ordered home demolitions, from the unjust government policies that make it possible to detain a Palestinian indefinitely without charge to Lehava’s enterprising grassroots hotline for reporting ‘mixed’ relationships – they click together like beads on an abacus, making clear the value of Palestinian life under apartheid.

Yesterday my friend Stefana, having finished her exams, went to the beach. “I heard that ‘death to Arabs’ on Jaffa Road with my own ears, but tried not to listen to it.” She has three Arab flatmates, Palestinians with Israeli citizenship. They decided to stay in all day.

What we do with dead kids

This afternoon reports broke that the bodies of the three missing Israeli teenagers Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali have been found in the West Bank. They were uncovered near Halhul.

This follows a wave of army raids, arrests, and killings across the West Bank and Gaza, with over four hundred Palestinians detained (most without being accused of any crime or given access to a lawyer) and eight people dead. Hebron was sealed off entirely, with the city’s residents being prevented from entering or exiting.  “If this is what happened when those teenagers were missing,” one friend said worriedly, “God knows what they’ll do to us now they’re dead.” During the night raids, when we heard the honking of jeeps in Beit Jala and the army was going from house to house, she and I were both seized with an urge to tidy our belongings just in case soldiers should come bursting in and notice that we had not washed up our breakfast bowls. The next morning, looking at photos from the night raids – furniture smashed in, food pulled out of fridges and trampled underfoot – we concluded that perhaps our fear of judgmental houseproud soldiers arriving to conduct an episode of How Clean is Your House? had been a little misplaced, but at least it had given us something to do.

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Next year in Jerusalem?

On Palm Sunday I met my friend Stefana in Jerusalem (a Romanian student who is taking Hebrew courses here) and we trekked up the Mount of Olives to the village of Bethpage. As neither of us has exactly stellar navigational abilities and we always have to factor an extra ninety minutes into all our plans to cover the ‘getting hopelessly lost’ part of the programme, I was worried that we might miss the start of the Palm Sunday procession.

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In the shadows of memory

A few days ago I was shanghaied by a desperate hospital administrator into working in a ward for elderly people with neurodegenerative disorders and acute mental health needs. My feeble protests that I’ve never cared for elderly people before and I know hardly anything about dementia were waved aside, and at seven o’clock in the morning I found myself standing in the bedroom of a lady who was more than a little displeased to find me there, trying to work out how to put the brakes on her commode. The last time I worked in an unfamiliar psychiatric ward everyone kept mistaking me for the on-call doctor and thrusting their foot infections in my face, but today it was clear that I wasn’t going to be taken for anyone so competent.  After despairing of my inability to make her commode safe for her to sit on, my first patient of the day started yelling, “Nurse! Nurse! Get this bloody woman out of my room!” and, when the nurse came running, she enquired in long-suffering tones, “Nurse, is this girl dead? I can’t do anything with her!” As the morning progressed she became more tolerant of my deficiencies. Having delivering a stinging critique of the way I pulled up her trousers after the toilet, she sighed and said, “Well, one of us is pitiful, and I don’t know which.”  By breakfast time we were quite pally, and we were sitting holding hands in the living room, looking at the fish in the aquarium.

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Telling secrets in Palestine

A couple of weeks ago I attended a conference on political violence, justice, and reconciliation in Northern Ireland, led by members of the Corrymeela Community. One of them read out a poem by Pádraig Ó Tuama, ‘The Facts of Life’, taken from his little volume Sorry for Your TroublesThis poem (and the woman’s reading of it – it was obvious that this was a text that meant a lot to her) caught my attention. I ordered my own copy of the book and yesterday it came. I spent the afternoon absorbing each poem, some of which are bleak and some of which are terrifying and all of which are beautiful. There is one in there that stands out to me.

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Night-time in Ramadan

Yesterday evening, as the heat was finally receding and the sun dusting the sky with pink, I met my friend Deema. She is a children’s social worker in East Jerusalem, and one of the most creative and insightful specialists in children’s mental health whom I’ve ever met. “I love the way they think, children,” she has told me more than once. “They can take a simple incident, like seeing an ant walking by, and make it into a big story.” As we hadn’t seen each other in far too long, she invited me to join her family for iftar, the evening meal that breaks the Ramadan fast, and to spend the night with them in their house in Jerusalem’s Old City.

At Damascus Gate she descended on me with the velocity of an avalanche. Being hugged by Deema is enough to get you sent to the spinal injuries unit. “I’m so excited to see you! You look good, habibti! Where have you been? What have you been doing? I’ve missed you!” – and I struggled to draw enough oxygen into my lungs to wheeze out, “Tamam, alhamdullilah,” before she pulled me into the intricate maze of little alleyways and courtyards that surrounds her home.

She lives in a rooftop apartment, the front door of which opens onto a steep staircase that totters unevenly down to street level. As she rummaged for her keys, I noticed that something was different about that door. Half of it was missing. The frosted glass had been replaced by strips of cardboard and matting. “It was the army,” Deema said wearily when she saw where I was looking. She pushed open the dilapidated door and guided me into the courtyard. “Some boys in our neighbourhood were throwing stones, you know how it is. So they came looking for them.”

“What happened?”

“It was one o’clock in the night when they came. They wanted to climb on our roof, because we are the highest. We were sleeping. We woke from the crash of the glass when they broke the door. Then they came in with their guns, and we were all here in our pyjamas.” Deema’s ten-year-old sister nodded. “I was in bed,” she added, before losing interest and poking open a tin of crayons. And did they get you out of bed themselves, Zeynab, or did they let your mother do it? I almost asked, but I didn’t. It would have done her no good to tell. It would do me no good to know.

I remembered an incident when a young border policeman had stopped Deema in the street, asking for her ID. She had given him an ominous stare, like the one a python might bestow on a particularly wholesome-looking rabbit, before swelling up with characteristic indignation. “You want my ID! You want my ID!” His commanding officer had hastened over to rescue him, only for Deema to turn the full of force of her attentions onto him. “‘Give me your ID!’ he says to me. ‘Give me your ID!’ He will fall over if I blow one breath on him, and he says, ‘Give me your ID!’ Why do you send this child to say ‘Give me your ID’?! He is like a – “

But what else he was like neither the magavnik nor his officer waited to find out. I imagined the army having to confront Deema in her pyjamas and for once I found some sympathy being diverted to the army. “What did you say to them?”

“I laughed at them. And they said ‘Why are you laughing?’ and I told them, ‘Look at yourselves’.” She shrugged slightly as she pulled off her headscarf. Her usually animated face was suddenly tired. “Laugh. What else can we do?”

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