“Do people in other countries think we’re terrorists?”

I admit I'm surprised by the question. The girl is no more than fifteen, sitting quietly among other students her age at a secondary school in Gaza. They're all members of the school parliament – a student body elected by peers and representing them in discussions with school management.  I'm with a couple of UN staff and we’ve just spent the past 45 minutes asking them about their activities. They set up peer mediation groups for students with disagreements; they coordinate trips to local organizations, including visits to the elderly; they raise funds to help poor students; they provide support to students traumatized by the latest rocket attacks back in November; they help students with their homework; they keep the school clean. They are articulate, enthusiastic, and eager to talk about their accomplishments. They even put on a slideshow partway through.

The school bell rings, signalling the start of the afternoon shift; the students are ready to go, but my UN friends ask them if they have any questions for us. As a young girl speaks, my friend nods and translates into English. “She wants to know if people in other countries think that all Palestinians are terrorists.”

For a split second I’m sixteen again and standing on the stage of my high school auditorium at the end of the Christmas play feeling the suffocating heat of my Santa Claus costume and ready to pull it off when a young mother walks up the stairs holding her young son by the hand and tells me he missed Santa at the mall and could he say to me what he wants for Christmas? I want to say Duh I’m not Santa but spot the sad look in the kid’s eyes and realize that maybe this moment means more to him than me so I play along and give him my best Ho-ho-ho and –

– Looking at the dozens of eyes staring back at me waiting for an answer I want to say No of course not don’t be ridiculous. But that isn’t the truth. All you have to do is travel a few kilometres north of the border and ask that question to people on the street and you’ll find at least a some who swear that every man, woman, boy and girl in Gaza is nothing but a terrorist. I want to say No don’t be silly but that just isn’t so. There are people I’ve met who know about my work for Palestine refugees and when I speak of Palestinians’ suffering the response is always “Yes, but” and I grow tired of it. “Yes, but the Palestinians receive millions in donations and the money goes back to firing rockets into Israel.” “Yes, but there are always two sides to the story. Israelis live in constant fear for their safety.”  “Yes, but they are the ones who put bombs in baby carriages and kill us.”

Girls at a secondary school in Gaza.

I pause a moment before answering the girl. “No,” I say, “not everyone thinks that. My friends and family know a lot about Palestinians and of the suffering that they are going through. They ask me what your lives are like; they ask me how a peaceful solution can ever become a reality. They are genuinely interested in seeing you live a life of dignity, and we all know that the actions and words of those in power – anywhere – are not necessarily a reflection of the hearts and minds of the people who must live by their rules.” Part of my answer is a copout; it's too easy to rely on what friends and family think because they are sympathetic to Palestinian autonomy and freedom. But I withhold speaking about the more nuanced reality that exists, one in which many people are divided on their (often strong and ill-informed) opinions about Palestinians.

The girls I meet are hopeful in a place that is rotten, broken, smashed, bombed, cracked, patched together, and filled with garbage on the streets. Nearly every street corner has a weather weary poster of a martyr brandishing a machine gun looking very Rambo-epic and ready to die. Turn the corner to walk into a school and you see walls plastered with malformed paintings of SpongeBob, Mickey Mouse and Papa Smurf smiling right at you. The juxtaposition of violence and fear with happiness and a safe learning environment is enough to mess anyone up; that the girls still have hope is nothing short of miraculous. I don’t know if my answer means anything to them, but they need to know that their hope has to lead them to a better life.

Nablus, Jerusalem, Gaza: three sketches

...Last Monday I left a workshop for teachers in Nablus. Beautiful sunny afternoon, just ate some kunafa with a couple of friends. Get back in the car and my friend driving slows down as we near the entrance of the city and says, "There's been an incident." As we slow down we see a few dozen boys and young men walking towards us, their eyes bloodshot and faces wet. One boy stares at me as we drive by, the effects of the tear gas obvious in his eyes...

...A walk through the Old City in Jerusalem, zigzagging the different quarters, capturing an image of a mosque's minaret at sundown, barbed wire protecting a neighbouring building, the watchful eyes of security cameras never far away...

...A banal scene in Gaza, a woman stepping out of a taxi, groceries in hand, probably making her way home. Behind her lies the rubble of a bombed-out police station, destroyed during the violence that seized the city last November.

Mourning

30 sketches in 30 days. Day 4: Mourning the victims of #Newtown, and finding a way to heal.

What the hell is wrong

I watched CNN late this morning and saw the news of yet another shooting at a school in the US. But to be honest, when I heard the reports that two people had been killed at that point, apparently the principal and the school psychologist, I thought, At least it’s not too bad.

I know, what the hell is wrong with me. What the hell is wrong with me when I see news and dismiss it as just another tragedy. There have been enough this year anyway, and two people are nothing compared to Aurora. What the hell is wrong with me when I see footage of a school taken from a helicopter with dozens of police officers running around and I switch the channel to see what the weather will be like here in Montreal. What the hell is wrong.

I’m pissed at myself for being completely desensitized towards the deaths of those two people. When the news reports switched instantly from two dead to 27, my mind switched off my heart sank my hands trembled my eyes closed and I was every parent who feared the worst as they approached that school and didn’t know the fate of their child. Images of young children ripped to shreds by a crazed, utterly fucked up gunman flooded my mind and just couldn’t go away. I watched the news and thought what the hell why are you interviewing children you sick bastards. On NBC at 12:30 they were still playing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and thought you stupid idiots isn’t there something else you should be reporting on now. I just wanted to push away the images forming in my head, the screams, the blood, the wretched feeling of bottomless pain the parents of the dead children will feel tonight, tomorrow, Christmas morning when the presents go unopened and every single miserable and hollow day for the rest of their lives and yes make no mistake every parent who lost a child will think about this day forever. Push those images, purge them, they’re replaced with images of me running into my children’s school to make sure they’re all right; now I’m a child again, the same age as so many of the victims, and I’m sitting in front of my TV at home and it’s 1975 and I’m watching Mister Roger’s Neighbourhood and Captain Kangaroo and The Friendly Giant and Mr. Dressup and I am happy, so happy.

Everyone keeps saying there are no words to express what has happened, to say how we feel. It’s true, there are none. We’re just not meant to handle this devastation, this horror, this pain. You feel empty, you feel part of you is gone, you feel you need to help those who’ve lost the most precious part of their lives. You cry.