After a healthy breakfast of French toast, I left for Nigel’s.
It was about noon, a little later, and even if I didn’t want to go back
to Ma’alufiyye, I had to. Yours truly, the highly organized individual
that he is, had left his wallet at "Communist Central" the night before.
Still, I wanted to go. I figure that everyone back home thinks
I need a lobotomy for going to the clashes. Probably do, too. Actually,
they’re not extremely dangerous (the’re just sorta
dangerous. Driving a car here would top it. I think only France beats
Israel when it comes to fatal auto accidents). Tear gas may make you
sick as hell, and a rubber bullet will just cause a great deal of pain
(fine, if fired at extremely close range at the head or chest, it can
kill you instantly), but live ammo seems to be a special privilege
reserved only for the foolhardiest of Palestinians.
But going to a "clash" fundamentally alters your perceptions
about things. Overall, it’s hard to stay detached here, hard to
maintain a cynical viewpoint of everything said and done. When I came
here, I had spent years balancing my viewpoint, attacking Palestinian
positions as viciously as I attacked Israeli ones. But when you live here,
when you see the closures, the clashes, the oppression… When a friend
of yours has to hide because he was one of the initial organizers of
protests it changes you.
The clashes are really ludicrous. Hundreds of Palestinians
show up to throw rocks. Forty or fifty Israel soldiers respond. And the
difference in equipment is laughable.
Standard Palestinian clash gear
- Blues jeans
- Flannel shirt
- Bandana or Kuffiyyah as a gas mask
- A maqla’ or sling–a small square of
cloth (mainly from old clothing) with two longish pieces of plastic
string.
Rocks are acquired on site. The typical Palestinian is playing
hookey from work or school
Standard Israeli clash gear
- Government issue fatigues
- Bullet proof vest
- Helmet
- Gas mask
- Automatic rifle & telescopic sights
- Cartons of tear gas
- Several types of rubber bullets
Just in case, I’m sure that they all are required to carry
several full clips of live ammunition and one or two grenades. This is
their job.
Israeli riot control tactics are extremely effective. Tear gas
keeps most of the crowd about 100 yards back (the range of the tear gas
is 150 yards, according to Federal Laboratories). If a few get too
close, they fire off a cluster of 18 "rubber" bullets.
"One hundred
yards," you think. That’s pretty close. As I remember baseball,
homeplate to the outfield is normally over 300 feet (100 yards for
those of you who can’t do the math) and outfielders rarely pull a
Roberto Clemente, throwing strikes from right field. It’s too far,
which is why baseball has a "cut-off man." Football, 100 yard field.
How many times can you remember Joe Montana throwing a 100 yard bomb?
And Roberto Clemente a Joe Palestinian is not. The slings help, but for
the most part, the Israeli soldiers, while vastly outnumbered and feeling justifiably threatened, aren’t in much danger (at
least here. Other places–like Nablus’ and Hebron’s old cities–are more
dangerous).
As support for my assertion, I must quote The Jerusalem Post,
that bastion of independent journalism. More importantly, the only
English language daily cheaply and easily available here. They always
neglect to report how many Palestinians were injured (ambulances
generally work full time on the Palestinian side, although injuries are
rarely grave), but they are always reliable in reporting that, on any
given day, "one Israeli soldier received a light wound when a rock hit
his hand."
So the "clashes" go like this. Palestinians try to get close
enough to throw a rock, but end up trying to get rid of the tear gas
canisters (if they can’t throw them back at the soldiers, they toss
them off to the side). Then a whiff of grape shot, the wail of sirens,
the injured are carried away, another "assault" is prepared.
I’m not quite sure how to express the utter futility of the
thing. Maybe they don’t see it as futile. Maybe I’m far enough away
from being a part of this world that I can see it. But maybe the
Palestinians do see the futility more clearly than I. Maybe I’m so far
away that I can’t fully comprehend it, and therefore can’t understand
why this is the the least futile action, or how throwing stones eases
the futility.
All I know is that it makes me feel so powerless, so helpless.
A twenty-year-old student–probably a lot like some of my friends from
college–was killed, shot precisely through the heart. [Photo below, the monument to
slain BZU students]
The first day back at the university was difficult. Classes
were canceled, but in cancelling class, one of my professors insinuated
that as a foreigner, I couldn’t understand the gravity of these events,
that I didn’t care (perhaps I don’t fully understand, but death is
universal). The PR office was a little tense. One gentleman apologized
a couple of times for being rude and short-tempered–he hadn’t been
able to sleep the night before, tormented by the death of someone he
had probably never even met.
Cathi–with the Human Rights office–was telling everyone that
she needed to speak to witnesses. Nigel was busy with a hundred tasks,
concentrating on none. One minute he would work on his diary entries,
the next he was grilling his Palestinian friends to find witnesses, and
the next he was calling around for photos of Abdullah.
In the next few days, the propaganda machines started up, with
Hamas and Fatah fighting over the body, each claiming Abdullah was their
martyr. The PNA and Israel start shooting out accusations, each blaming
the other for Abdullah’s death. Not that anyone cares about finding out
the truth. It’s politics now.
Returning to Ma’alufiyya would be a waste of time, and I knew
it. But it was the only way to combat the feeling of helplessness. I
was doing something even though nothing would come
of it.
***
Our return trip to Ma’alufiyya was a pretty typical day when
it comes to life here: ambitious plans waylaid and a relaxing day
ensues.
I showed up at Nigel’s after noon, and found Nigel and Hanan
sitting on the porch sipping coffee. "Communist Central" was inside,
working hard. No one had eaten anything except for me, and that was
clearly the first order of the day. But it was a gorgeous spring day, a
light breeze coming in from the ocean, and discussions on nourishment
remained in the planning phase for two hours.
Hanan brings out some more coffee (no Nescafe/NoEsCafe here,
it was drip filtered!). Nigel and I grab guitars and play for a little
while, alternating between blues shuffles (Nigel soloing, me on rhythm)
and quick lessons (that is, lessons for me). At one point, Nigel’s
roommate and some of the "lefties" come out to listen.
At two, I make the decisive decision that we must go to get
food, and twenty minutes later, Hanan and Nigel agree. Along the way to
Angelo’s Italian restaurant, we stop off at a newsstand and get two
newspapers and three magazines. "Breakfast" at Angelo’s becomes a
drawn-out, O’Neill-like affair. We sit silently at the table, absorbed
in our reading. Nigel and Hanan spend half the time reading about the
Heaven’s Gate death cult and other depressing topics. I deliberately
avoid it. The day is too nice for anything but politics and
entertainment news.
We also talked about future plans. We all want to see Star
Wars before it leaves the theatres, and since Hanan and I
need to get visas for Egypt, we talk about going to Tel Aviv on Sunday.
When it reachs four o’clock, it’s become pretty clear that a
return trip to Ma’alufiyya isn’t happening. I’m supposed to meet some
other PAS students at an ‘argiileh place for
Juliette’s birthday. She’s "22" and has been for several years now.
Hanan and Nigel decide to join me.
It’s a casual, quiet affair. We smoke a little, drink coffee
and tea, chat. Later in the evening, after Juliette’s friends
surprise/embarass her with a birthday cake, some of her Palestinian
friends try to sing a few songs. It’s a pretty standard thing at
parties here, and everyone is supposed to join in, but there are too
many foreigners, so the two brave souls sing with red faces as the rest
of us sit there passively (I feel bad, so I try to join in on the
choruses. My efforts our incompetent, but appreciated). Surprisingly,
we don’t talk much about politics.
At seven, I plead a midterm and leave early (it also gives me
the opportunity to pay the whole bill without a fight). At home, I sit
down to play computer games. After half-an-hour, another PAS student in
my Arabic class drops by to make sure that Roland and I aren’t studying
for the exam. We chat for an hour over coffee, and then I walk her
home. Of course, I have to see her aparment, which leads to another
half-hour of conversation.
It’s nine when I get back, and I pretend to study–basically
because Roland is studying. His study habits are invariably my only
motivation to do class work. After ten minutes, I’ve picked up my
guitar, trying to work out Stevie Ray Vaughn’s version of B.B. Kings
version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" (don’t you love the Blues!) By ten
thirty, I’m exhausted, and I can tell by the sound of dice and sporadic
cursing from the kitchen that Jorg and Roland have passed over further
studying in favor of backgammon.
I’ve only studied for a fifteen minutes, but it doesn’t
matter. It’s time for bed.