Hashem Azzeh: A fear finally realised.

I am going to struggle to write this tonight. But I owe it to a man I called a friend. I owe it to a brave, brave individual who has had a profound impact on my life. And it has just dawned on me that I am wearing the keffiyeh I bought on the very day I met him. Tonight it feels a lot tighter than usual.

Hashem and one of his children (Photo credit unknown)

The man I am referring to is Hashem Azzeh. To those who follow developments in Palestine, and track human rights abuses, his is a well known name. Hashem was a prominent peace activist, running 'alternative to violence' workshops in his home city. He was also a fully qualified doctor (previously working with the UN), specialising in treating child trauma. He was a phenomenally welcoming man who lived in the Tel Rumeida settlement in Hebron. He was also a father, a husband, and for me, a friend. And today, 21st October 2015, he was killed by over-exposure to tear gas. If you wish to read more about the man and his amazing work, please look at this. In this post, I want to talk about my own experiences meeting this incredible human being.

I met this incredible man when visiting Hebron on 7th May this year. The city itself is almost a blow to see. It has suffered greatly from the occupation. It is understandable why both Palestinians and Israelis have an interest in it: it the burial place of Abraham, and the second holiest city in Judaism, the fourth in Islam. Tensions there erupted in the Cave of the Patriarchs Massacre on the 25th February 1994, when Baruch Goldstein, an American-Israeli, opened fire on worshippers at the Ibrahimi Mosque, killing 29 and wounding 125 more. Unsurprisingly, the Palestinian response to this was massive and fraught, involving protests and riots, and ever since Hebron has been a closed city, with military checkpoints at very regular intervals, watchtowers over all Palestinian areas and fortifications on various hilltops. There are many roads and streets closed off to Palestinians.

A young boy near a closed off road. (Photo: my own)

(Photo: my own)

After some time exploring Hebron (about which I could talk for hours) we went to meet Hashem, in the Tel Rumeida settlement where he lived. The vast majority of Palestinians had been evicted from the settlement a long time ago, but out of stubbornness and wit Hashem was able to stay. Not that his life was made easier. Many times, access to his home was blocked off. He spent some time having to climb up a 7m wall just to access his house, before managing to put a path in between some low trees.

The entrance to Tel Rumeida (Photo: my own)

  I remember a tall man, with a glint in his eye, greeting up with a smile, right in the view of the IDF manning the checkpoint. He instantly started explaining the problems Palestinians face in Hebron, especially in the settlement, pointing out lines they were not meant to cross, as well as brutally violent anti-Palestinian graffiti. We were stopped on the way to his house, obviously arousing suspicion, and we gained an impression that such inconveniences and disturbances were exceptionally regular in Hashem's life.

Graffiti in Tel Rumeida. I almost broke, remembering this and the manner of Hashem's death (Photo, my own)

 Hashem's home is right in the middle of the settlement. On the street above his house, looking down onto it, live Israeli settlers who are both far-right and armed, including the head of an almost para-military Zionist group. Even as we went to his cut-off house, Hashem showed us where a bullet was lodged above his door. He told us of the occasions when his wife was beaten while pregnant so severely that she lost the baby. This happened twice. Hearing these stories, and seeing his shy young children running around the house, was heartbreaking.

 It was also in his house that I had my first taste of maqluba, a very traditional Palestinian meal, which I don't think I'll ever be able to eat without thinking of my friend. The meal was cooked by Nisreen, his wife, and we shared it with some other international volunteers who had come to meet this man and learn of his stories. There are too many to recount to you all now, but when I have the heart to, I shall tell more.

 There was another startling revelation. Hashem and Nisreen asked no money at all from visitors to show them their home, as well as feed them very generous meals. This meant they were putting themselves in financial difficulties, as neither of them could properly work, while also putting them at risk by making them more prominent activists in their beleaguered home. Indeed, the only income they received was from guests buying paintings done by Nisreen. They are powerful pieces, simple and evocative, and even then she never asked for much. Please, if you can, give a little to his family. They will need all the support they can,

 I have too heavy a heart to tell more now. All I can really do is give you this piece of writing, my testimony and memory of a friend. Hashem was a loving man, who wanted peace and a free life for Palestine. He wanted to be able to live in his home and raise his children without fear. And he also would never back down, no matter what the settlers, and the IDF, threw at him. He is someone I shall never forget, who was killed while trying to make his world a better place.

 Violence has been sweeping across the West Bank recently. The death rate is increasing. But at long last, my fear of knowing one of the victims has come true. Hashem is not just another statistic. He was not an 'attacker' as the media are labelling a lot of the dead Palestinians. He was a father, and friend, and an inspiration.

May your memory live on, my friend, and may we continue your good work.

(Photo credit unknown)

Hashem Azzeh, killed on 21/10/15

Some Memories of Arrival

I gave a talk on Palestine today. To remind myself of some details of the airport, I re-read the start of a journal about my time there. It has rekindled memories of an arrival over four months ago, but I remember the details like it was yesterday, re-reading this. I never finished it for every day, unfortunately, but here is the piece I began writing as soon as we arrived to our home for the night, following the airport. It was written when I was exhausted, so forgive the mistakes. I may post more from this journal in the future, but unfortunately I didn't keep up with it as I should have. I hope it proves interesting, though.

Day 1: ‘Arrival’ Writing commences 2350 on 29/03/15

We have arrived in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. After a slightly nervous morning, being dropped off for an unreal feeling flight at London Gatwick, we are here.

The morning was full of excitement as bags were repeatedly weighed and paranoia about excess charges took precedence to nerves of landing in Israel. A start full of hope from a group of young people committed to changing the world.

Gatwick was as Gatwick always is. The usual hubbub of an airport, slightly soulless yet full of wonder all the same; a place to marvel at the number of destinations the mass of people around you are heading. The emotions among them are mixed: happiness and joy from some, others impatient and terse, children and adults alike.

The only hitch on this end was the delay in the flight. We took off one hour and twenty five minutes late. I’m already thinking better late than never after just a few hours out of Ben Gurion airport. We were what you might expect from a group of people under the age of twenty-five on such a programme. We were full of laughter and excitable chatter, finding amusement in getting to know more about each other, learning how our senses of humour blended.

But there was already a note of tension. For six hours, sitting in a small metal tube with hundreds of other people, we were wary of a word. One word which could mean suspicion directed towards us. For this reason we did not speak of the reason we came in any explicit terms, if at all: Palestine. The name itself remained taboo to us, even though we come as supporters of this oppressed state. I would hope to say it was just to prevent us from running into any difficulties from the Israeli authorities. I doubt our fellow passengers would report us, but we were scared of the ramifications a name could have for us.

The flight was turbulent in places, but which flight isn’t? Through the hubbub, frequent glances out of the window past sleeping members of our party revealed tops of mountains thrusting snowy peaks through the cloud, in contrast to the heat we expect of our destination. We see the Mediterranean bathed in a glorious sunset. You’d think from our reactions that we’d never before seen the sun dwindle from the sky as the Earth keeps turning. However, this image of beauty feels like something to cling to now, and an inspiration to look for the beautiful in our surroundings.

There is always the eager moment on a flight, as you start to descend, where faces press to windows in the hope of stealing a glimpse of light from your destination. Diving down through the cloud, Tel Aviv spread before us, looking for all the world like any other city. Even so, the excitement grew again. Energy was high. We were all ready in our own way to face the challenge of the airport.

We had been briefed about the airport. We had our letters, and our open hearts and honesty. Even so, we knew that some of us were not going to have an easy time getting through. As soon as we left the plane, there were security officials at the top of the stairs. It seems the majority of flyers were able to walk on by without a care, oblivious to the beginnings of knots in this young group’s stomachs, waiting to see what barriers were put in our way.

I never blend in, and I was called upon by the very first official to present my passport and rationalize my being in Israel. I gave the answers I had been running in my head, being honest but not direct. The response was simply a friendly smile and a thanks for my co-operation. It seemed so simple.

Following this was the walk through the shining, modern looking Ben Gurion airport. Signs in Hebrew abound, with no hint of Arabic until you get to immigration. There it is a simple ‘ahlan wa sahlan’, ‘welcome’ amongst the typical French and English and of course Hebrew. We file into lines, Brits left a little agog at the lack of completely structured queues. There are orthodox Jews rubbing shoulders with tourists, and all manner of others in between. Except I saw no headscarves. It felt as if any Islamic presence in that crowd were trying to hide itself, to blend in a get through without any issue. Probably a vain hope, and I hope my suspicions were wrong, and that people remain proud of their identity, even in that difficult context.

I saw first one, then another of my colleagues taken aside, to sit and wait, detained from getting their visas. They are still there now, as far as we are aware. It would not be a surprise if they do not arrive with us, where they belong and deserve to be, until the morning. Then I approached immigration control. I gave the same answers to the same questions previously asked. This time the woman was tougher. More details required. I only told one lie: that I would not be working with Paelstinians. I showed her my letters. Two phonecalls later to her superiors and I too was led away. I suppose in my bearded, long-haired and Iron Maiden t-shirt wearing ways I was singled out as a potential activist. Someone to look into a little further.

Fortunately for myself, I was not kept long. Some details were taken, but in reality it was simple. An extra fifteen minutes of my time. I was more fortunate than those still waiting there: our two fellows, accompanied by a third, behind me in the press wishing entry, so I did not see him led away. Probably the only reason I am not with them is the colour of my skin and the language of my name do not allow the ingrained racial profiling of the Israeli security to view me as more of a threat.

Eventually, all bar three of our twenty-two strong party are through. In a process which seems wrong to me, yet I know how right it is, we leave. Leaving three friends sitting through a night in an airport, waiting for each round of basic questions, antagonized more than any of the rest of us, solely for being born to a disfavoured family. Disfavoured not through any harm actually done, but because of tensions in the region.

The journey then begins. The minibus is modern and comfortable, but UK health and safety would have a fit if they saw the entire aisle crammed with our luggage, jokingly referred to as the wall between left and right, an attempt at humour as the wall we have heard so much about came into view.

After driving down well maintained roads, reminding one of all the world for photos of the United States, except for the increased number of exotic trees, we have already seen the beginnings of tension. We approach a section of the road with barriers. We drive straight through, slowly, past the bored looking young man in military uniform with an M16 hanging over his chest. Continuing up the road, we see flashing lights. A car which might have been in an accident, or something stranger happening to the driver as two police vehicles watch nearby, the beams of their headlights across the road, pointing the car which itself is askew on the road. Our response is simple. The driver turns off the internal lights and we drive between the problem vehicle and the police. It is not our problem. It is not for us to see, or take any part in.

Steadily it becomes apparent that we are following the hated wall. It looks like a sturdy piece of engineering, fully twenty-six feet high, rearing in a vicious net of razor-wire. The stonework is pristine and clean, just like the roads we drive down. The journey is filled with political talk, stifled so long on the plane and in the airport, all of us brimming with unity for those we are to work with. A moderate noise, with only sporadic laughter heard on the bus.

‘Strictly no entry for Israeli citizens. Enter at peril of your own life.’ This was roughly the wording seen on the sign as we approached Qalandia checkpoint. Once more, our lights go out inside the bus. Once more, we drive passed armed soldiers, knowing that we are crossing from Israel into the Occupied Palestinian territories. A silence falls over the bus as we drive through, each lost in his or her thoughts as we glide between. All it took was a simple vehicle crossing that patch of earth, divided by a wall. The physical crossing seems to have no barrier. The cultural one is almost visible.

The quiet is replaced by the vaguest of murmurs and whispering, as sickness grows in the feeling of all those seated around me. As our eyes cast about on the Palestinian side of the wall, it is as if the air has grown thick. Within five seconds of crossing that threshold we see rubble heaped at the side of the road. We look upon the reverse of the wall, splashed with graffiti: messages of peace, calls for freedom, and angry looking murals of anonymous freedom fighters, AK-47s in their hands and faces covered. It is instantly obvious which side is the prison and also which side actually cares.

The journey continues, all of us knowing that we are seeing something significant. The truth we all knew before coming hits us in seconds, and despite the gaudy shop front of ‘Lovely Toys’ or the remarkable sight of ‘Audi Palestine’ as we wind our way to Ramallah, we know that we’ve stepped from a modern country into one teemed with problems. And yet we are supposed to believe that this is all one glorious nation, the chosen land for the chosen people.

The quiet among us adds to the sickness we each feel. However, sitting here now, reflecting, that initial sadness and anger are passing that one side of the wall is so different from the other. I know that this is the daily reality I will see here and yet I know that it will never appear normal or fair, for which I am grateful. One thing has come out of my reflection so far, though. While on the Israeli side of the wall, everything seemed to run smoothly, as if every mind were running in the same direction, and all people fit the mold. Here in Palestine it is already different. The shop fronts are unique, and those running our hostel are all smiles. They know the situation they’re in, and yet there is something which sets them apart from the gleaming cars and pristine motorways seen over the wall. These people live how they can, and they have soul.

As mentioned above, we already have the attitude to look for the beautiful in our surroundings. Myself and a few others have resolved to take to the roof of our building in order to see the sunrise. We will witness the rise of the sun, seeing the light rise on our adventure, hopefully to be joined by our three missing friends.

What happened to 'Refugee'?

The big news story where I live at the moment is 'Operation Stack'. The roads in Kent are blocked up with trucks upon trucks trying to get through the port of Dover and into Calais, and vice versa. But there's a problem. There are strikes in Calais, blocking access to the port from both land and sea. The media is, of course, covering this, but I'm getting increasingly uneasy listening to the BBC's reports, as well as the response from inside Britain.

What's really getting to me is the focus of the reporting. Every time the report begins by mentioning 'industrial disputes' in Calais (actually over job security: a huge workforce has found out that their employer has been bought out, but their jobs are not guaranteed, making the anger very understandable), but very frequently that favourite buzzword from the recent UK general election appears: migrants.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there is a migrant problem, in case you hadn't heard. There are thousands of the bastards there in Calais wanting to come to Britain, and the crazy, crazy fools are balancing on truck axles, or trying to hold onto the Eurostar. Some are even trying to swim the channel, all for life in the UK. Each and every day I'm hearing about more and more of them dying. And it's not just between Dover and Calais. Holiday makers in Greece, enjoying the weak Euro, are complaining about migrants appearing by the boat loads on the beaches, coming across the Mediterranean. And that's just those who survive the perilous crossing in unsuitable, vastly overladen boats.

But here's the problem. A word has seemingly disappeared from all media, and even governmental communications regarding this crisis. I cannot honestly recall the last time I heard the word 'refugee' applied to those on the European side of the Mediterranean. Apparently boats leaving Libya, a country still in dire straits following the bombing and subsequent fucking off by the British, French and Americans, contain migrants. Apparently people who are prepared to risk life and limb to get across the English channel are migrants.

A dictionary definition of the word migrant can be 'a person who moves from one place to another in order to find work or better living conditions.' I wonder, how many of those coming from Libya, or from Syria, are coming to Europe in the hope of landing a decent job. That's worth death, surely, to get some extra cash in your pocket, and financial security? Although there are, of course, people who will employ illegal immigrants in many countries, those coming across open water in dangerous conditions don't seem like people wanting a dream job in a richer country. To me, they seem like people fleeing for their lives.

I have heard interviews with Syrian people on the Greek islands, saying that the camps they are currently living in are a form of hell, but it's safer than living with Daesh, and I don't blame them for saying that. These people had a home, and they didn't want to leave, but circumstances became so harsh that it became leave or die. And flight was then the only option. And those crossing the Med. are just trying to get away from war-torn countries, to get their families out of there. These people are NOT migrants looking for an income. They are refugees. They are people who are fleeing for their lives, and begging to be treated as humans while doing so. To me, they are people who deserve what help we can give them, after the damage we have helped to cause in their homes. 

But, I'm sure many people not reading this will try to counter my statement by the age old 'well why are they trying to come to Britain, if all they want to do is get out?'. I can tell you why. Britain has not yet lost the image of having a phenomenal welfare state. Those of us inside the system can see the welfare state balancing on a dangerous precipice under the current Conservative government, but the outside world does not realise this. When, as UK volunteers in Palestine, we explained the reality of our supposed utopia, I did see shock on the faces of my Palestinian friends. Britain still is believed to be a place where a person can come, and get somewhere to live, get healthcare for free, and get support to find a job. If you're going to flee to anywhere, and attempt to support a family, wouldn't you pick the place rumoured to be favourable?

Yes, I did just say that there are people wanting to find work among these refugees. And that's because they want to support their families. But that is not their reason for leaving. That is purely to do with survival, and not wanting a life of violence, hatred and bloodshed. And yet, these refugees arrive in Europe after a harrowing ordeal, looking for compassion. Instead they find disgusted holiday-makers, annoyed at their view being spoiled. They find closed borders and people saying that they have 'no room' in a country not torn apart by bombs and infighting. Put yourselves in their shoes, and imagine what it must be like to think you've found a haven, and to only find more hatred?

So this is a message to the media, and all those reading it. Stop telling us that these people are purely migrants, moving around and lusting for Europe. Remember the word refugee. These are very real people, who are frequently fleeing from horrors we cannot even imagine. I know there is no easy solution to the current crisis, but we can do one thing: we can treat these people as people. They are fellow humans, who are just looking to live, and largely dream of one day returning home. They deserve to be treated with dignity, and they deserve our sympathy. Let's stop demonising refugees and degrading them, even more than they are already.

A reflection on home.

This is going to be very hard to write, so forgive me if it doesn't read as well as some posts. Just as before, I'm really not sure what I'm going to say, and this time I don't have the benefit of an historic church to sit in and reflect. Instead I have green fields. I have the familiar fire pit in my garden, where I can while away time gazing into the flames. And a lot of it feels very empty.

In short, I am back from Palestine. And honestly, it's leaving me feeling a little lost. A little fucked up, in fact. I smiled as the plane came down and I saw the green beauty of my homeland. I slept like a log, being back in the comfort of my own bed, in very familiar surroundings. And yet every time I close my eyes, I see Palestine.

Please do not misinterpret and read it as a bad thing that every moment is spent thinking about that land I was fortunate to call home for ten weeks. I smile when thinking of so many powerful memories I have, and I know that they will never leave me. But at the same time, I'm almost screaming inside my head, trying to think of how to explain to people what it is like to come home. What it is like to leave. It almost feels like a betrayal that I am no longer there alongside my friends, trying to share their struggle as an outsider with a heart open to all of them.

Let me try to explain what Palestine was like by comparing it to home. I've had multiple people ask me what it was like already. Disappointingly for them, I'm sure, I cannot actually answer. There are just too many words, and too many overwhelming emotions, which honestly make it very hard to deal with. All I can do is supply words like 'stunning' or 'inspiring' for now, before somewhat later in the conversation bringing out a story of what I have seen.

I am inevitably going to end up like one of the stereotypical 'Nam veterans, shouting at random people that 'you weren't there!'. But that's currently how I feel. I don't know how to explain to people that I breathed a sigh of relief hearing a gunshot the day after being home. Standing in a field, I heard a shot used to scare birds. And I could smile, because I knew that no-one was being shot, no-one was potentially losing their life at that very instant.

If I'm honest, I was looking forward to leaving Palestine a couple of days ago. I was feeling mentally numb, worn down by much of what I'd seen. But now I'm home, much as I suspected, it all feels very trivial. I hear conversations where people can discuss coffee and cake in the village hall, compared to the yet another story of friend of a friend suffering from military occupation.

But Palestine was not all heartbreak and emotional pressures, as the beginning of this post makes it sound. It was also light, laughter and the meeting of a great many new friends, who I am honoured by to be able to call a part of my life. And that makes it even harder that I am leaving beautiful and inspiring people. I have some of the best friends I could ask for in the UK, but it's not like the sheer emotion in the eyes of my Palestinian brothers and sisters.

And I will use those words, for I have never felt more connected or drawn in by people anywhere in the world. I might be a foreigner, but the welcome I received and the kindness shown has pulled me with open arms into Palestine's struggle, and because of this I will always be a friend of Palestine. I long to run back there, to stand alongside them. I am finding the UK hard to deal with, because it is all so simple here. I am relaxed, and yet feeling very tense right now.

All I can ask is your patience over the next few weeks, while I try to sort out my thoughts, and attempt to explain to all whom I meet again what I've seen. I will need some time to adjust from such a breathtaking experience, and I doubt I will ever settle back into life here again, following what I've seen and done.

Sorry for the shortness of this post. I do not know what else to write other than this: My dear friends in Palestine, I will be back. I miss you and your country already, and I am so lucky to be able to call you a part of my life. I love you all.

Denying the Devil His Silence

(A song for my mood, with the lyrics and feelings involved. "Wherever somebody's struggling to be free, look in their eyes, mom, you'll see me.")

I'm going to have to start this post with a bit of a confession. I had no idea what I was going to write about. For most of the past week, I have been running through my head to try and think of something to say to you all. Yet this is not for lack of things to say. I am sitting here in the most interesting place I have been in my life, where each and every day brings new knowledge, and frequently new heartbreak. My home country has just elected a Conservative majority, which myself and many others think can only plunge us into a worse place than we already are. America has been gripped by riots and protests, finally bringing some police officers to justice for the deaths they have caused. The world is in a very interesting place indeed.

And yet, I drew a total blank. I could talk to you of the things I saw in Hebron: graffiti calling for the deaths of Arabs, a small girl telling us of when her three brothers were burned alive in an attack by settlers, or just the every day difficulties in that fractured city. I could forego writing about Palestine in the main, and address the new UK government, talking about the National Health Service, benefits and taxes. But despite all of this, none of it feels right. There is too much crowding in my head to articulate any of these things properly, and I refuse to write about them if I cannot do them justice.

Every day life in Hebron

I had wondered about writing about solutions. I could tell you of the impossibilities of a two state solution for Israel and Palestine, because of the way it would only serve apartheid. I could tell you about the boycott of Israeli products, designed to put pressure to stop illegal settlements from exploiting Palestinian land and labour. I could tell you of the popular pressures being used in the UK and the US, in order to bring about justice and make voices heard. But all of this is fighting inside my brain, vying to be the most important thing I can tell you.

So, in order to write for you all, I had to clear my head somewhat. I did the unexpected. I went to a church. Even I, the devout atheist, went to a religious building. I have no idea why I found comfort there, but sitting on the worn steps of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, leaning against a wall etched with the crosses of soldiers and pilgrims, I found a message I wanted to give. It is a message never to give up on hope of a brighter tomorrow. All it took was the space I was in, and the title and sound of this piece, 'Burning the Past'.

I have heard it said recently that we grow tired of having to justify why we think gender equality is so important, why Black Lives Matter, why Palestinian Lives Matter, and why we think those afflicted by poverty are people we should help. It's true, I too am sick of these discussions having to take place in the world. But my weariness will not stop me. I cannot give up on what I believe, and therefore I will not be quiet about it. It is your choice how you respond to my words, but I will keep crying them from the highest rooftops to the lowest gutters.

But sometimes I feel like a lost child, yelling into the dark, longing to hear an answer calling back amid this maelstrom of intolerance and close-mindedness that pervades much of the world, especially the internet. Often I don't know what kind of voice I want to hear calling back to me. To follow the stereotype, I would want a strong, adult voice to come and add comfort. But I do not want to be drawn home, for what changes when you return across a familiar threshold and shut the door behind you? You change nothing. So I long to hear the call of another lost child in answer. Together, we can find another, and another, until we can forge the dark into a new home of light. Home will always call to start with. 'Adults' will tell us that we will grow out of this and calm down as we age. But if we step out of the darkness, if our voices cease their yelling, then just silence will remain in an unchanged gulf.

So much of what we believe is rooted in our history. All of our world is built on the foundations of what has gone before, but that's part of what keeps us where we are. Being told that we will calm down means we are content to live with this past, and follow it to the letter. I see the scars it leaves in Palestine. I am wiring on Nakba day, when the Palestinians remember their expulsion at the hands of Israel. Israel remembers the Holocaust, viewing themselves ever as the victims. But no solution can be found here until it is decided that we do not have to follow the examples of the past. We can remember, but rather let us commemorate the past and move on. Let us hold a funeral for what has been, and in the light of the flames of its passing, look for something new to build from the ashes.

I have had a fire burning in me since Hebron, seeing the injustice of school children passing through checkpoints, tear gas primed and ready to be used if one stone is thrown by the arm of a child at a soldier. But sitting in the church, the cool stone and dim places help to cool this fire and let me see it, and what it has been more clearly. For days I could not tell if it was a raging blaze, an anger consuming me at the injustices I saw and continue to see, or just the small light of one candle of hope, being buffeted by the winds pushed through the choked and stifled streets of Hebron, coming at me through one of the oppressive checkpoints. Checkpoints which humiliate residents and terrify children. My hope for Palestine was also injured by the recent UK election, with a pro-Israel, and indeed almost Zyonist government gaining a majority.

The candle flutters low at the moment, as I know that I will be leaving here soon, back to Britain. While that sceptred isle has its own problems to face, I will be leaving people faced with much worse. These are people who have changed my life, who I will never be able to turn my back on without seeing their faces and hearing their stories.

The graffiti which helped serve as my inspiration, and my resting place as I wrote.

And perhaps my candle of hope can be met with the rushing wind of hate and division, and from the other side by the hot air of politicians and be resurrected into a stronger light than before. Perhaps that threatened candle is being lifted into a conflagration by the clashing hurricanes my mind faces every day. And now I know, from being in Palestine and seeing the struggle here, that as long as I have fuel, my fire of hope will burn. I just hope that somehow it might burn bright enough to be noticed, and that others may be drawn to its warmth, that they might ignore the calls to let themselves burn low and let the world continue as it has in the past.

All I can ask those of you reading this, if the flames draw you in, is that you come and light a torch from my burning hope, and show its light to someone else. A fire cannot spread without more fuel. And just as the priest walked to the altar in front of me, dispensing incense, I hope that if we grow this hope strong enough, that even those blind and deaf to the light and the sound can feel the warmth and smell the smoke, and let their curiosity draw them closer.

So, I know I'm not giving you a strong message other than to hope right now, and to never hide the fire of what you believe. I will keep my own alight, even if I have to do it alone. But please, friends, if you feel the same, that we can burn the past, and use the memory of it to create a brighter future, then burn with me. You having nothing to lose in helping your fellow man, and I think we all stand to lose something if we don't.

So today my message, though abstract, is simple: burn the past, build anew. We can break free of what has happened before, but still remember. Together, we can let go and make real change. Let us all draw around a flame of hope and peace, and try to do what we can as a species, for the sake of us all. Don't be silent, and let yourself be heard. Never give up if you hope to change the world.

A clash in the quiet of night.

I am sitting in Sheikh Jarrah, a district to the north of the Old City of Jerusalem, and one of the Arab neighbourhoods. The quiet evening air gets heavy to breathe as loud cracks start to the south-east of where our home is. They come in sporadic bursts, followed by a crackling sound. It for all the world sounds like fireworks, and here it is all too possible to jump to the conclusion that every loud bang is accompanied by a muzzle flash.

Except tonight it isn't fireworks I'm hearing. My housemates scanning Twitter inform me that clashes are taking place in Ras al-Amud, which is indeed to the south-east of us. It was initially between groups of young people, but from the sounds of things, the IDF have now become involved. The bangs are either rubber-coated bullets or tear gas being dispensed as an air-burst. Either way, tonight there is violence taking place barely fifteen minutes' walk from where I live.

It's been a tense time here in Jerusalem. Israel has just celebrated its 67th Independence Day, with Israeli flags covering cars and buildings in the city, while military aircraft fly overhead. But on this same day, a group unaffiliated with Hamas launched a rocket from northern Gaza, which landed in an empty piece of countryside. Israel responded with a drone strike against the 'terrorist target'.

Several young Palestinians have also been killed recently, most notably a sixteen year old boy at A-Zayyim checkpoint. He was accused of attempting to attack the soldiers there with a knife, in some accounts carrying two knives. However, according to all Palestinians, he was unarmed when he was shot, and the evidence removed very quickly to make the shooting look justified. Having not been there myself, I cannot confirm or deny the veracity of this. All I know is that a sixteen year old was killed by a professional soldier. It's a dead kid however you look at it. And this is probably the spark of tonight's problems, until the next story of Palestinian suffering and response filters through the ears of those who will listen. It isn't at all dissimilar to the situation in places such as Ferguson, MO, where a young man was killed by a trained officer, and rioting happened. Personally, I believe that in each case the authorised officer's training, as well as back up, should have meant that neither Michael Brown nor Ali Sa'id Abu Ghanem were lethally shot. I cannot change whether you think they were guilty or not, but I do care if you cannot understand why these killings aggravate friends and relatives to the point where riots and clashes happen.

So, groups of young people begin a clash and the IDF, of course, joins in to protect the Israeli youths in the current scenario. Finger pointing will inevitably happen and there will be those determined to say 'well they started it'. I have seen that myself talking to other adults about the situation here. But even if the first stone is cast by someone, they must have a reason for that throw, such as the shooting of a young man, who is reputed to be innocent. I saw this video recently. Once again, this took place less than fifteen minutes away from where I live. The centre of Jerusalem is not a large place, which only intensifies the problems here.

But anyway, the video. In it you can clearly see a large group of predominantly young Israelis, chanting 'death to Arabs' with gleeful smiles. I don't watch this and hate them. I watch this and just feel incredibly sad for them. These young boys are clearly finding this a lot of fun, shouting to the windows of the shopkeepers above and around them that they wish them dead. This is hate speech in a pure form. I am not angry at these children, as I say. I reserve my anger for those who have taught their children that this is their future. When each generation is raised to think that calling for the death of those they live side-by-side with is the right thing to do, the cycle can never be broken.

And what of the end of the cycle? The words 'two state solution' are always talked about in relation to Israel and Palestine. But actually being here, those words, sadly, begin to feel more and more hollow with each new thing I learn. One of my future posts will deal with my opinions on the two state solution in detail.

So now I sit here, hoping to not hear when I check the news tomorrow morning of the death of another Palestinian. But in equal measure, I hope that no Israeli has been seriously wounded or killed either. An eye for an eye will not bring peace to this troubled city. But all I can do is listen to the sounds of the clash in the distance and wait to hear about the damage, when I am able to open my eyes in the morning, free from the effects of tear gas and rubber-bullets. I just hope that everyone in Ras al-Amud can open their eyes in the morning too.

(Apologies for the somewhat brief and undetailed post, but I wanted to post about this while it was happening.)

The Persecuted and the Terrorists: Dystopia in Israel and Palestine

Freedom of speech is a wonderful thing. The idea that no matter who you are, wherever you are, you can say whatever you like. Or at least that's how it's supposed to work. We might have limitations on 'hate speech' in the UK for instance, but that part is easy to understand. It's based on the idea of fairness, that no one should be marginalised based on the prejudices held by another person.

Connected to this idea is something I believe, said by Arundhati Roy: “There's really no such thing as the 'voiceless'. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.” One final thing adds up to the subject of this post: my love of dystopian novels. I recently finished reading 'Fahrenheit 451', where books are burnt to prevent people from thinking. One of my all time favourite books is 'Nineteen Eighty-Four', Orwell's classic where every aspect of life, be it media or conversation, is controlled and observed by IngSoc, the sinister party ruling Oceania and Airstrip One.

Why am I mentioning all of these things? It is because of the place I am sitting, the ever divisive Jerusalem. This is a place which the world media looks at, and yet equal levels of free speech are not generally given worldwide to the opposing inhabitants of this land. Despite horror stories of the suffering of Gaza which do reach us, the idea still persists that the Israelis are a persecuted people who have to fight every day against the terrorists who swarm against them. This idea is completely outdated, and should be scrapped. Israel's military is ranked as the eleventh strongest in the world. So why do we still have this view?

The media is very important in the way the world discovers and understands itself. Ray Bradbury understood this perfectly. George Orwell knew it just as well. Both write about how removal of certain stories, or even subtle changes to existing ones can keep the public feeding out of the palms of the producers, believing every word and being content with the truth. Let me give you some examples of the twists in the truth we find here.

Recently, there was a tragic incident here in the Holy Land. A Palestinian, one of the many ticking time bombs in this fractured land (see previous post) attacked two IDF soldiers with a knife. He injured one severely, and wounded the other, before being shot dead himself. The BBC news reported it in this article. Note the title of the piece: 'Palestinian killed after stabbing two Israeli soldiers'. We can debate the ins and outs as to whether they were on his land, and how far he was pushed, forever. It doesn't change the fact that two men were injured and one died in a horrible event. But the BBC article has simple title, which sums up the events pretty well. However, I first saw this article when my sister sent me a link to it on Facebook Chat. The title appeared differently there. Instead it simply read 'Palestinian stabs two Israelis in West Bank.' Imagine that you skimmed past that title. It says only half the story, and doesn't say that those attacked were military, one of the most incendiary sights for people in the West Bank. I am not excusing a man of violence, but it is important to understand that he died and both soldiers lived. We need balance to look at this story. 

The BBC have also had other articles which are not balanced in their portrayal. For example, look at this article from June 2013. Look at the picture. Here you see a Palestinian man shouting into the face of a calm looking IDF soldier. The Palestinian looks angry, like he is about to do something terrible. This man's name is Adeeb, and this photo was taken during one of the weekly protests at Bil'in, a small village which lost large amounts of land to the Mod'in Illit settlement, the largest illegal construction on the West Bank. Every week the villagers, bolstered by international, and even Israeli support, come out to demonstrate against the wall and the settlement, only to be met with hails of rubber-coated bullets and tear gas. It is ritual by now. These protests, and life in the village are captured spectacularly in the Oscar nominated 5 Broken Cameras (also available on Netflix). I would encourage everyone to watch the full documentary, but for now just watch from 13:00 to 14:30. You'll get an impression of the protests, and of Adeeb. He is angry, but he has reason. He talks loudly, because there are cameras and he wants everyone to hear. But he is not a violent man, as the single picture on the BBC article would imply.

So the media, even among respected sources like the BBC, does not show the balance it should about the difficulties in this land. Even more interestingly, most Israelis have no idea of the balance. One of the directors of '5 Broken Cameras', Guy Davidi, an Israeli himself, has made a point of trying to show young people his film. Watching their reactions, it is encouraging to see young Israelis reacting with horror at what they see. However, it is instantly obvious that they are not told the realities of the situation with Palestine. As said in my previous article, they are raised to see Palestinians as dangerous terrorists. Once again, media fails to show the full story, but in Israel it is more like intentional propaganda to keep the government's ideals among the people. And it is working. Besides, there is little they can do. The national service programme requires all young Israelis to serve in the military, unless they are excused on religious or psychological grounds. Those who object serve prison sentences instead.

I also talked about 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' above. This most restrictive of the dystopian settings shows a world where every moment is watched, and people can be arrested at any time. It is considered normal for people to disappear in the night. Well, people disappear in the night here in Palestine too, but more frequently it is their homes, demolished because they lack the proper permits. This would sound marginally sensible, until you learn how hard it is for a Palestinian to get a permit, with both economic and, frankly, racist barriers in their way. However, many internationally illegal settlements have been approved on the West Bank by Netanyahu's government for Zionist settlers.

 And what about the all reaching power of the police and military? Well, you see soldiers all over the Palestinian parts of Jerusalem, just young men and women with M4 Carbines, many of whom are there as part of the national service practised in Israel. These kids follow their orders, and have been raised in the system where Palestinians are these dangerous people to be feared and hated. It is no wonder that older Palestinians, who have lived in this land their whole life, are outraged when a twenty year old stops them, as if they have full authority in this land. The picture below was taken right outside my place of work. This man was stopped, his bag searched and his ID checked on nothing more than a whim. There was nothing suspicious about him. He simply looked like a man on his way to work. The policy here is as discriminative as 'Stop and Frisk' was in New York, and reveals just as few criminals. Instead it just highlights the impunity with which the Israeli authorities act, as well as the fact that all Palestinians are liable to be stopped at any moment.

Finally, there is the ever watchful eye of Big Brother in 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'. While there are not telescreens fitted into every wall, there are some things which border on it. In the above image, you can see a balloon in the middle right of the picture. We were told by a Palestinian friend that this is a camera, used by the Israelis to monitor buildings in the Old City, as well as movements of people. I myself was sceptical, until it moved, drifting down over the streets, against the wind. While I couldn't make out a camera, it is clearly motorised for some purpose, and the camera makes a horrifying amount of sense, suggesting that the Old City is under constant observation.

I am living in a state which constantly talks of persecution and terrorism, and yet the Palestinians are kept behind a wall, their homes are demolished and their movements are watched, either by cameras or the eyes of the IDF, backed up by the muzzles of their rifles. Even though I try to remain objective, you cannot help but see that the persecution has fallen from the shoulders of the Jewish peoples of Israeli, and has landed firmly on Palestine, coming down with combat boots and huge slabs of concrete. I wish I had a tenth of the genius of Bradbury or Orwell to write some powerful novel of this twisted system to explain the situation, but as it stands, my simple words here will have to suffice.

As I said above, quoting Arundhati Roy: “There's really no such thing as the 'voiceless'. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.” I am writing this in an attempt to be balanced, but also to raise my voice along with those who are muffled behind a wall, the clamour of the previously persecuted still ringing in the ears of the world, excusing them of their actions. It is time we looked beyond simple headlines and pictures and probed deeper, to learn the truth of the situation. 

All I can do is tell you the truth I see with my own eyes. It is a hard truth, but it is also a truth which demands justice. The Israelis gained a homeland following their persecution. It is time for the persecution of Palestine to stop, before they lose theirs.