The One Man Protest, Palestine, December 2011

Abed's humble abode and impeding
Jewish settlement above

The taxi had stopped at the top of a steep and stony dirt track.  We had descended halfway into the valley and were going to walk the rest.  On the hilltop, a Jewish settlement sat glittering in the strands of sunlight that broke through the smoky clouds, on what was an unusually gloomy day in Bethlehem.  Abruptly the path ended and we were standing outside a makeshift tent.  Flapping tarpaulins strapped to rough wooden beams enclosed a small paved area with chairs and tables, almost like a roadside restaurant.  There was a great mass of planted flowers and cactuses in the centre, a riot of green in an otherwise desert landscape.  My guide was wandering, calling out for the owner, Abed, to come and say hello.  He appeared from a doorway to the right, when I peeked around the frame I saw a hollow no more than two metres by four.  Paraphernalia of every kind hung from every available piece of ceiling, and the walls were lined with pictures.  If I didn’t know who Abed was I would assume this was some sort kitsch tourist attraction of the ‘come and see how people used to live’ genre.  However this was not a commercial enterprise.  Abed is the one man protest. 

Abed is tall and stocky, tarnished weather-beaten skin, a lopsided grin and eyes that sparkle with mischief, for mischief is exactly what he is causing but not for frivolity.  He immediately offers us coffee and invites as to take a look around.  The shelter is sat in the middle of a patchwork of plots; I recognise some of the leaves bursting from the ground: radishes, basil, chillies.  A network of paths twist downward and gnarled olive trees guard the way.  The olive branch, a symbol of peace and unity the world over and yet, here, the embodiment of a fight: the right for existence.  Here in the valley there are hundreds of olive trees, some are thousands of years old.  The Palestinians have been the custodians of these elders since before history.  Many say that if you placed them next to the trees, or the rocks then you would see no difference, they are one and the same. 

As we sit and sip the bitter, black liquor, he talks about the ins and outs of daily life, the troubles with the Israelis and the other visitors he’s had to his farm.  He points out dilapidated buildings on the far side of the vale, the slope that leads up to the settlement.  They whole area is owned by Palestinians and yet they are not allowed to live or work their land as they are considered a security risk by those living far above.  He says his family has been there for as far back as anyone can remember, this is his home and he refuses to leave it.  He’s had to sacrifice much more than home comforts for this; his wife and children all live in Deisha Refugee Camp outside of Bethlehem and visit only rarely.  On the other hand the Israeli’s come often; they have threatened him, destroyed his crops and killed his animals before finally accepting that there was nothing they could do.  Despite this they still impose stringent regulations on him, preventing him from properly cultivating the land with the use of permanent structures such as water tanks or using any heavy machinery. 

The settlements don’t appear to be random; they seem carefully designed to encircle the ancient city of Bethlehem.  In fact it is all part of the Israeli government’s urban development plan: Jerusalem 20-20 which endorses these communities.  This is not just a case of disputed territory, but of limited space; Deisha Camp is running out of time.  The land is not owned by the Palestinian Authority, but rented to UNWRA, it’s a 99 year lease and there is only 33 years left before their time is up.  There was a thread of hope; the valley behind the camp was unused, and some families have been able to scrape together enough money to buy small plots of land and build houses.  Hope, however, was short lived.  As I looked out over the horizon, the perfect right angles of an advancing settlement vibrated in the heat of the morning sunshine.  Shaking its limbs in readiness for the impending march towards Bethlehem.  Its veins are cut into the hillside, marking its territory, preparing for the wall.  The Palestinians here are being squeezed in on all sides, with fewer and fewer options.  The question remains, why here?  Outside of the West Bank, in the area known as Israel to the international community, but will be eternally Palestine in the hearts of those who farmed its slopes for generations, there is space.  Only 12% of that land is being used while in the West Bank **% and counting is being built upon.  Is it just a matter of the settlers closing the cycle of history and returning to where they have always belonged?  So what does that mean for the Palestinians who have been here since?  Where can an historical line be drawn?  Or does it matter what the geographical or chronological truth is, as the only truth is that human suffering resonates in the air and hope is thin on the ground.

Amman,Jordan, November2011

The city sprawls out in all directions; across the hills and valleys, clinging to the slopes like limpets.  The ancient Citadel crests the central peak, the ruins of the Nablean fortress scattered and crumbling.  All around is still and silent, a distant car horn drifts lazily past on the light breeze, which also brings with it an autumnal chill.  It makes me shiver and I retreat deeper into my jacket.  On an overturned column I perch; waiting. The sun is now fast disappearing and the sky is a clear; a polished blue, the promise of stars as yet unfulfilled.  But why am I waiting?  Why am I steeling myself against the brisk night air? I have a feeling, caught between nerves and excitement that in the next few moments I will be lost in the magic of the Middle East.  So far Amman has failed to enchant, the ramshackle street plan would have had even the most ambitious cartographer befuddled and had left me with the distinct impression that navigating using a compass and the sun would have been more likely to ensure success.   Despite the grand King Abdullah Mosque being a sight from the outside, the inside was bare and industrial. Then there were the questions about my occupation, directed to my male companion, on the drive from the airport, which had made me feel unsettled; an interloper into a culture I had always felt I understood.  Oh, and rain can make even the brightest of cities dull.    As the sun sets, lights flicker on with subtle green glows marking out the many mosques which speckle the skyline. Just before 4.30 the call started, a rounded hum projected skywards.  On the opposite hill there is a brief murmur of reply, but then silence.  Really was that it?  I feel dejected; confused that such a conservative society can fail to take its responsibilities seriously.  I turn to leave, closing the door on Amman and imagining sunset on the ancient city of Petra.  My footsteps are abruptly drowned out as the valley begins to reverberate with a low growl.  The response is instantaneous, a cacophony of sirens mimicking the first.  In the moments of paused breath, echoes bounce between the slopes, before the chords arc up again, rising and falling with each verse, each note perfectly in tune.  When the last mosque falls quiet, a feathery silence floats over the darkened metropolis.  Internally I’m still buzzing, the cold momentarily forgotten.