How is it I am still alive? I’ll tell you I’m alive because there’s a temporary shortage of death. This is said with a grin, which is on the far side of a longing for normalcy, for an ordinary life.
Everywhere one goes in Palestine—even in rural areas—one finds oneself amongst rubble, picking a way through, around, and over it. At a checkpoint, around some greenhouses that lorries can no longer reach, along any street, going to any rendezvous.
The rubble is of houses, roads, and the debris of daily lives. There’s scarcely a Palestinian family that has not been forced during the last half century to flee from somewhere, just as there’s scarcely a town in which buildings are not regularly bulldozed by the occupying army.
There’s also the rubble of words—the rubble of words that house nothing any more, whose sense has been destroyed. Notoriously, the I.D.F.—the Israeli Defence Force, as the Israeli army is called—has become, de facto, an army of conquest. As Sergio Yahni, one of the inspiringly courageous Israeli refusniks (they refuse to serve in the Army) writes: “This army does not exist to bring security to the citizens of Israel: it exists to guarantee the continuation of the theft of Palestinian land.”
There is the rubble too of sober and principled words that are being ignored. U.N. resolutions and the International Court of Justice in the Hague have condemned the building of Israeli settlements on Palestinian territory (there are now nearly half a million such settlers) and the construction of the “separation fence,” which is an approximately twenty‐five‐feet‐high concrete wall, as illegal. The occupation and wall nevertheless continue. Every month the I.D.F.’s stranglehold across the territories is tightened. The stranglehold is geographic, economic, civic, and military.
All this is clear; it is not happening in some remote, war‐locked corner of the globe, every Foreign Office of every rich nation is watching, and not one takes measures to discourage the illegalities. “For us,” a Palestinian mother says at a checkpoint after an I.D.F. soldier has lobbed a tear gas bomb behind her, “for us the silence of the West is worse”—she nods towards the armored car—“than their bullets.”
A gap between declared principles and realpolitik may be a constant throughout history. Often the declarations are grandiloquent. Here, however, it’s the opposite. The words are far smaller than the events. What is happening is the careful destruction of a people and a promised nation. And around this destruction there are small words and evasive silence.
For the Palestinians one word remains undiminished: Nakbah, meaning “catastrophe” and referring to the forced exodus of 700,000 Palestinians in 1948. “Ours is a country of words. Talk. Talk. Let me rest my road against a stone,” wrote the poet Mahmoud Darwish. Nakbahhas become a name that four generations share, and it endures so persistently because the operation of ethnic cleansing it names is still largely unacknowledged by Israel and the West. The brave work of the upstanding (and persecuted) new Israeli historians—like Ilan Pappe—is of the utmost importance in this context, for it may lead eventually to such an official acknowledgement, and this would change the fatal name back into a word, however tragic that word.
A familiarity here with every sort of rubble, including the rubble of words.
One tends to forget the geographical scale of the tragedy in question; its scale has become part of the tragedy. The whole of the West Bank plus the Gaza Strip is smaller than Crete (the island from which Palestinians may have originally come in prehistory). Three and one‐half million people, six times as many as in Crete, live here. And systematically each day the area is being rendered smaller. The towns are becoming more and more overcrowded, the countryside more fenced in and inaccessible.
The settlements extend or new ones begin. Special highways for settlers, forbidden to Palestinians, transform old roads into dead ends. The checkpoints and tortuous ID controls have seriously reduced for most Palestinians the possibility of travelling or even planning to travel within what remains of their own territories. Many can go no further than twenty kilometers in any direction.
The wall cuts off corners (when finished it will have filched nearly 10 percent of what remains of Palestinian land), fragments the countryside, and separates Palestinians from Palestinians. Its aim is to break up Crete into a dozen little islands. The aim of a sledgehammer carried out by bulldozers.
Darwish: “There is nothing left of us in the wilderness save what the wilderness kept for itself.”
Despair without fear, without resignation, without a sense of defeat, makes for a stance towards the world here such as I have never seen before. It may be expressed in one way by a young man joining the Islamic jihad, in another by an old woman remembering and murmuring through the gaps between her few teeth, and in yet another by a smiling eleven‐year‐old girl who wraps up a promise to hide it in the despair.…
This stance, as you call it, how does it work?
Listen. . . .
Three boys squatting and playing marbles in the corner of an alley in a refugee camp. In this camp many of the refugees originally came from Haifa. The dexterity with which the boys flick a marble with one thumb, the rest of the body motionless, is not unconnected with the familiarity of very cramped spaces.
Three meters down the alleyway, which is narrower than any hotel corridor, is a shop selling secondhand bicycle parts. All the handlebars are arranged on one hanger, all the back wheels on another, the saddles on a third. If it wasn’t for their arrangement, the pieces would look like unsellable scrap. As it is, they sell.
On the wall of a low building with a metal door, opposite the shop, is written: “From the womb of the camp a revolution is born every day.” A schoolteacher lives with his sister in the two rooms behind the metal door. He indicates the floor of another room that was the size of two bathtubs. The ceiling and walls have fallen down. “That’s the room where I was born,” he says.
Return to his present living room. He points to a photo in a gilded frame that is hanging on the wall beside an official portrait of Arafat wearing his keffiyeh. “The framed photo there is my father as a young man, it was taken in Haifa! A colleague told me once he looks like Pasternak, the Russian poet, what do you think? [He does.] He had a heart complaint and the nakbah killed him. He died in this very room when I was twelve.”
At the far end of the building with the metal door, opposite the shop of bicycle parts, eight paces away from where the boys are playing marbles in the corner, there’s a square meter of open earth where a jasmine bush is growing. It has only two white flowers, for it’s November. Around its root, chucked there from the alley, are a dozen empty plastic mineral water bottles. At least 60 percent of the camp inhabitants are unemployed. The camps are shantytowns.
When somebody has the opportunity to leave a camp and cross the rubble to slightly better accommodations, it can happen that they turn it down and choose to stay. In the camp they are a member, like a finger, of an endless body. Moving out would be an amputation. The stance of undefeated despair works like this.
Listen. . . .
The olive trees on the topmost terrace look tousled; the silver undersides of their leaves are far more visible than usual. This is because yesterday their olives were picked. Last year the crop was poor, the trees tired. This year is better. According to their girth, the trees must be around three or four centuries old. The terraces of dry limestone are probably older. A couple of kilometers away to the west and south are two recently built settlements. Regular, compact, urban (the settlers commute each day to work in Israel), impenetrable. Neither looks like a village; they are more like huge jeeps, large enough on the ground to house comfortably two hundred settlers with guns. Both are illegal, both are built on hills, both have lookout towers slender as a mosque’s minaret. Their virtual message to the surrounding countryside is: Hands above the head, above the head I told you, and walk slowly backwards.
Building the settlement towards the west and the road leading to it involved the cutting down of several hundred olive trees. The men working on the site were mostly out‐of‐work Palestinians. The stance of undefeated despair works like this.
The families, who picked their olives yesterday, come from the straggling village in the valley between the two settlements, with a population of about 3,000. Twenty men from the village are in Israeli prisons. One was released two days ago. Several of the young have recently joined Hamas. Many more will vote for Hamas next January. All the kids have toy pistols. All the young grandmothers, while wondering what became of the promises they once wrapped, nod in approval at their sons, daughters‐in‐law, nephews, and worry every night. The stance of undefeated despair works like this.
The Muqata, Arafat’s headquarters in the Palestinian capital of Ramallah, was a gigantic heap of rubble three years ago when he was held hostage there by the I.D.F.’s tanks and artillery. Now, one year after his death, the Palestinians have cleared the rubble—some argued that it should have been left as a historic monument—and the inner quadrangle today is as bare as a drill ground. On its western side at ground level an austere plinth marks Arafat’s grave. Above it, a roof like the roof above the platform of a small railway station.
Anybody can find their way there, passing by scarred walls and under garlands of barbed wire. Two sentinels stand guard over the plinth. Apart from them, there is no more reticent last resting place for a head of a (promised) state; it simply declares itself to be there against all odds!
If you happen to be standing by his feet when the sun sets, its radiance is that of a silence. He was nicknamed the Walking Catastrophe. Are loved leaders ever pure? Aren’t they always full of faults—not weaknesses, flagrant faults? Is this maybe a condition for being a loved leader? Under his leadership the Palestinian Liberation Organization also contributed, on occasion, to the rubble of words. Yet into Arafat’s faults were stuffed, like notes into a pocket, the daily wrongs his country suffered. Like this he assumed and carried those wrongs, and their pain found a home, a painful home, in his faults. It’s neither purity nor strength that wins such undying loyalty, but something flawed—as each one of us is flawed. The stance of undefeated despair works like this.
The northwest town of Qalqilya (population 50,000) is totally surrounded by seventeen kilometers of the wall with only one exit. The once‐bustling main street now ends in the wall’s wasteland. The town’s meager economy is consequently in ruins. A market gardener trundles a wheelbarrow of sand to distribute round some plants before the coming winter. Until the wall he employed twelve workers. (Ninety‐five percent of Palestinian businesses have fewer than five employees.) Today he employs nobody. The sales of his plants—because the town has been cut off—have been reduced by nine‐tenths. He throws away instead of collects the seeds from a heap of lychnis flowers. His large hands are heavy with the admission that henceforth, here, they have nothing to do.
Difficult to convey the sight of the wall where it crosses the land where there is nobody. It’s the opposite of rubble. It is bureaucratic—carefully planned on electronic maps, prefabricated and preemptive. Its purpose is to prevent the creation of a Palestinian state. The aim of the sledgehammer. Since it began to be built three years ago, there has been no significant reduction in the number of kamikaze attacks. Standing before it, you feel as short as a cigarette butt. (Except during Ramadan, most Palestinians smoke a lot.) Yet, oddly, it doesn’t look final—only insurmountable.
When it’s finished, it will be the 640‐kilometer‐long expressionless face of an inequality. At the moment it’s 210 kilometers long. The inequality is between those who have the full arsenal of the latest military technology to defend what they believe to be their interest (Apache helicopters, Merkava tanks, F16s, and so on) and those who have nothing, save their names and a shared belief that justice is axiomatic. The stance of undefeated despair works like this.
It could be that the wall belongs to the same shortsighted repressive logic as the “sonic boom bombing” that the inhabitants of Gaza are being subjected to every night as I write. Jet fighters dive very low at full speed to break the sound barrier and the nerves of those huddling sleepless below with their axiom. And it won’t work.
Such a superiority of firepower discourages intelligent strategy; to think strategically one must imagine oneself in one’s opponent’s place, and a habitual sense of superiority precludes this.
Climb one of the jabals and look down at the wall, way below winding its geometric divider’s course towards the southern horizon. Did you see the hoopoe bird? In the long‐term view the wall looks makeshift.
There are 8,000 political prisoners in Israeli jails, 350 of them under eighteen years old. A period in prison has become a normal phase to be undergone, once or several times, in a man’s life. Throwing stones can lead to a sentence of two and one‐half years or more.
You learn how to struggle together and become inseparable. Certain conditions have improved over the last forty years—improved thanks to us and our hunger strikes. The most I did was twenty days. We won a quarter of an hour more exercise time each day. In the long‐sentence prisons they used to mask the windows so there was no sunshine in the cells. We won back some sunshine. We got one body search removed from the daily routine. Otherwise we read and discuss what we read, teach each other different languages. And come to know certain soldiers and some of the guards. In the streets it’s the language of bullets and stones between us. Inside it’s different. They’re in prison just as we are. The difference is we believe in what’s got us there, and they mostly don’t, because they’re just there to earn a living. I know of some friendships that began like that.
The Judean desert between Jerusalem and Jericho is of sandstone, not sand, and is precipitous, not flat. In the spring parts of it are covered with wild grasses and the goats of Bedouins can feed off it. Later in the year there are only clumps of boxthorn.
If you contemplate this desert you quickly discover that it’s a landscape whose gaze is totally directed towards the sky. A question of geology, not biblical history. It hangs there beneath the sky like a hammock. And when it’s windy it twists like a winding sheet. As a result the sky appears to be more substantial, more urgent, than the land. A porcupine quill blown by the wind lands at your feet. It’s not surprising that hundreds of prophets, including the greatest, nurtured their visions here.
The light is fading, and a herd of two hundred goats, with a Bedouin shepherd on a mule with his dog, is making its evening zigzag descent down to the camp where there’s water to drink and some extra grain to eat. The thistles and rhizome roots give little nourishment at this time of year.
The difficulty with prophets and their final prophesies is that they tend to ignore what immediately follows an action, ignore consequences. Actions for them, instead of being instrumental, become symbolic. It can happen that prophesies cause people not to see what time contains.
The Bedouin family below is living in two abandoned buildings, not far from a Roman aqueduct. At this time of day the mother will be cooking flat bread, daily bread, on a heated stone. Seven of her sons, who were born here, work with the herd. The family has recently been informed by the I.D.F. that they will have to leave before next spring. Hands above the head and walk backwards! All the female goats are pregnant. Five months gestation period. We’ll face that when we get there, says one of the sons. The stance of undefeated despair works like this.
A refusal to see immediate consequences. For example, the wall and the annexation of still more Palestinian land cannot promise security for the state of Israel; it recruits martyrs.
For example, if a kamikaze martyr could see with his or her own eyes, before dying, the immediate consequences of their explosion, they might well reconsider the appropriateness of their steadfast decision.
The goddamned future of prophesies that ignores all but the final moment.
In the stance I keep referring to, there is something special, a quality that no postmodern or political vocabulary today can find a word for. The quality of a way of sharing that disarms the leading question: why was one born into this life?
This way of sharing disarms and answers the question not with a promise, or a consolation, or an oath of vengeance—these forms of rhetoric are for the small or large leaders who make History—and this way disarmingly answers the question despite history. Its answer is brief, brief but perpetual. One was born into this life to share the time that repeatedly exists between moments: the time of Becoming, before Being risks to confront one yet again with undefeated despair.