אהבנו את הכפרים

אהבתי את הכפרים הכבושים שמעבר לחומה 

ובאתי אל הכפרים לבושה בשמלת זרות

וראיתי אותם דרך עיני המערביות   

וחרטתי את המראות בנפשי עטורת זכויות היתר

אהובים הם הכפרים משום שבני הכפר אוהבים את אדמתם 

והכובשים אוהבים את הכיבוש ואני אוהבת שדות זרים וחיים אחרים 

אוהבת לברך לשלום אנשים שאיני מכירה , אוהבת את המלחמה שהיא  לא שלי 

אוהבת את האוויר שנפרש ומתמתח מאופק הררי לפאתי וואדיות  מתוק ושזור בענני גז מדמיע

קולות הנפץ המתמזגים בקווי המתאר של השקט והרעש והטירוף שבו חמושים החיילים המתפרצים לתוך הכפר

הם לא מבינים מה אני עושה שם ומה יש לי לחפש בכפר ערבי וכמה פטרונית וקולוניאליסטית וכובשת האהבה שלי את הכפר אני אומרת למקום שבו ליבי חפץ לשם נושאות אותי רגלי

"Every Palestinian child knows what a blindfold is"- this fridays' protests

There is so much that's been written about Palestine I don't know what does my own writing contribute, or what does any writing contribute anymore. The truth is being told, the oppressed and occupied people are not voiceless anymore, and behind the lyrical barricades and walls lays a day when words will change nothing anymore, a time to act. I don't know if I anticipate or fear that day. Those who choose to live in false consciousness will ignore this. Those who choose to listen to hasbara lies and the mainstream media will stay oblivious as they are.  Walls are not made out of concrete only. Walls exist in people's minds and heart, preventing them from seeing what reality is like.

Al Ma'asara protesters still choose words. As in every week, they go out to speak about human rights, freedom, equality trying to dissolve the IOF human block in front of them. They carry out speeches, preaching and chanting with passion yet the human wall doesn't seem to fall.

"This is the prisoners day, we are protesting for our human rights defenders in the Israeli jails" say the protesters. "The people are rising in Syria, in Guantanmo, and they will rise against you here as well".

The soldiers keep blank faces, holding tight to their shields. They look like thugs, big bullies, and the sight of them make my feet tremble. They might look peaceful now, but I know what they are capable of, and they sure do a great job looking intimidating. Some of us are grinning at us.

A  man holds up the blindfold that was used to tie him up when he was arrested and tells the soldiers "I was tied up just as our prisoners were. We all know what this blindfold means".

The soldiers franticly take pictures of us, as if we were an armed brigade of so called terrorists performing dangerous acts.

"If you want action, go to Iran, what are you fighting against here?"

The protesters begin to pound on the soldiers' shields, drumming a samba beat.

"These weapons are illegal, the same guns used to kill our friend Bassem Abu Rahma in Bili'in"

My friend goes out to the soldiers, asking them, "why do you think there are Israelis among  us, protesting here?"

My friend says, the soldier said he doesn't know, perhaps we (the Israeli protesters) are crazy.  My friend is asking him if what he's doing doesn't seem crazy to him.  Marah, a young girl, recites a Mahmoud Darwish poem with passion, to our delight and excitement.

"What about the peace?" asks another protester, standing right in front of the soldiers' shield. "Only two weeks after the holocaust memorial day. must we wait until we have 6 million dead people to have a state of our own?"

The soldiers do not reply. "You are free people, you do not have to comply" the protesters tell them.  I am trying to pick up every chanting, every word the protesters say. I hope something does get to them, that doubts about what they do spark in their minds, that after hearing all of this a week after a week they begin to question themselves and their actions. I really want the protesters' words to win. I want human rights discourse to become a weapon of liberation. I want the soldiers to refuse their orders, to drop their weapons, but I am far from being naive or an optimist.

We proceed to Sheih Jarrakh where Nasser Ghawi wipes out words carved on the gate to his  stolen home:"Itbah Al Arab" (kill all arabs).

"They are trying to ethnically cleanse us" says Nasser Ghawi. "But we will not leave. We are steadfast. We are resilient ". I picked up a sharp object trying to wipe out the rest of what the settlers wrote on the wall.

At the bottom of the well

.They say that if you sit still at the bottom of the well, you can hear the people who are shouting for help beneath you  From where I was yesterday, I couldn't hear people screaming for help. I heard people demanding their rights, demanding what is theirs to have, not asking for favors or charity, not relying on supernatural saviors. Yet I couldn't help but feel that where I was yesterday was very near the bottom,witnessing one of many all-time-lows of humanity. Not just  because of the location (on the way to the dead sea, the lowest spot on earth), or the material settings I was surrounded by, but also because of the testimonials I heard, tales of despicable  criminal behavior . Although as an activist I often feel fed up, numb from atrocities,   –  desentized, the daily living of Israel always proves me wrong and does never fail shocking me as it did yesterday in the desert frontiers of Mishor Adumim, settlers' industrial complex . I  met Sali'it quarry workers who went on strike two years ago  in demand of fair employment. As far as I understood, sali't quarry went bankrupt, and the workers , after a long legal struggle, received compensation from the companies' appointed board of trustees. They got nothing as a reward for their  hard work, loyalty or as a token of gratitude for their efforts. The only reason the company was willing to give them a damn dime was because the workers became members of Ma'an workers union and took the plight to court, that couldn't allow  such blatant discrimination to happen without dropping one  of the last  fig leaves that hide the naked apartheid regime of Israel from the world. Some might say we are better off without any facade of co-existence and democracy.  They say it all must burn.Those who say so should come and visit Sali'it quarry former employees and hear what they have to say. They should hear the people who live in the very bottom of the Israeli occupation before they make up their mind. Sali'it quarry was erected on stolen Palestinian lands  in the south of Jerusalem, at the desert frontiers, on dry, scorching lands that may have possessed some wilderness' beauty had they not been used as a wasteland of factories and industrial complexes. I  always loved hiking in the desert and thought living a vagabond life was something romantic. There was  nothing romantic in what I've seen yesterday, nothing romantic  in life without basic infrastructure- denied of the residents by occupation laws,by denial of permits. Nothing romantic in the air that filled  my lungs with liquid fire, nothing romantic in heat that resembles a post- nuclear war environment.Nothing romantic about those ugly industrial buildings built on stolen, bare land. We took off the road to an unpaved bumpy way and arrived the  compound where Sali'it former workers were gathered. I was wearing my western eyes, my inevitably orientalistik views, my white-coloniser  guilty glasses, my foreigner look. We have reached a bedouin compound. The compound consisted of a few tin shacks that resembled a puebla,  a few fenced off goats, and a large tent divided by two- part for men and a part for women. We gathered in the tent. Assaf, a formidable elderly men began to lecture in arabic while his partner, Hadas was translating for us. After years of struggle, the workers of Sali'it finally received their compensation. In short words, they briefed us about what they've been through: no pension, no breaks, no days off, no medical leave, no bonus for extra hours,  no compensation for the injuries they sustained  as part of their work. Those are conditions unlikely to exist within the Israeli employment market. Not only Sali'it quarries built their factories on stolen Palestinian lands, they also exploited a captive labour force under horrendous  conditions.  I was infuriated. "Why couldn't the settlers just drink their workers blood and get it over with" I muttered. What other name but Apartheid  would you call a country where two systems of employment  for the colonisers and the colonised exist, where such discrimination twists the human nature into life of fear and humiliation, fear and hatred, fear and exploitation?

Note/ disclaimer: The struggle of Sali'it workers was accompanied by the legal assistance of  Ma'an (WAC) workers union of Da'am workers party, a parliamentary party I currently consider myself a member of. This entry was written with much gratitude to the people of   (WAC) Ma'an whose attention for technical boring details is astonishing. I accompanied Ma'an workers to visit Sali'it quarrymen. תמונה