somewhere else to call home

Last Wednesday, I was sent to the village of Zagtara to lead an English conversation class for adult women. As a part of Project Hope protocol, international volunteers are sent with a local Palestinian volunteer for support, to as act a guide, and for translation. The village itself is surrounded by illegal settlements. All the settlements I've seen throughout the West Bank are at the mountain tops. These ones, however, have branched downwards until they almost reach the bottom. At the bottom right by the checkpoint to enter/exit the Palestinian village or settlement is what appears to be a hotel and gas station decorated with Israeli flags. Isn't it  already enough to have illegal settlements but to have a hotel on top of that to entertain tourists as well?

An illegal settlement right next to the Palestinian village

 Back in his village, everyone is some how related to the local volunteer that accompanied me, a young man in his late teens. Everywhere he went, he's greeted with smiles, love, and respect. As I walked with him to the class, for a moment it was as if we were in a bubble and he was truly free. It was like we were not surrounded by settlements, as if he didn't grow up with occupation. The graffiti on the walls became artistic swirls  rather than words of resistance to 63 years of imprisonment.  During the class, I was greeted by a room full of loud and cheerful mothers. As usual, accompanied with bouts of laughter, I was asked whether I'd be willing to move to Palestine and marry one of their sons. I usually respond with, "only if that guarantees me endless supplies of Kanafa (a cheesy desert Nablus is famous for)."

The checkpoint-Many more like this dot the West Bank

"Where is your ID?" 

 After the class was over, my local Palestinian volunteer and I were reminded again of reality by the tall watch tower that stood over us from the checkpoint as we waited for a bus back to the office.  Several settlers came down to stand for a bus as well. As a result we moved down the road a good 20 feet away. Nonetheless,  two female Israeli soldiers (IDF) approached us and began questioning us in Hebrew. We said we only knew English so they switched over and began asking us questions about what we were doing, where we were going, and lastly for our ID and names. It was so stupid. I couldn't believe that the Palestinian volunteer who was waiting for a bus in his own town had to be questioned by an outside force. It was somewhat understandable for me since I'm an outsider  but for him to be questioned in the very place he was born and grew up in for waiting for a bus is unjustifiable. 

It was quite a humiliating image to see as he fumbled for his ID and smiled shyly at the soldiers. It would be like if in the United States, we were waiting for a bus and Canadian soldiers came up to us demanding for our ID!  We would no doubt refuse and be angry. Instead, the young Palestinian man with me was forced by knowing nothing but this occupation to submit quietly. We even submissively said, "Thank-you" after they let us go!   The way the occupation has become a part of life for 63 years has created this odd pseudo formality as most normal everyday Palestinians attempt to do whatever it takes to avoid getting arrested or detained. In that moment, the perceived freedom he may have felt walking through his village was shattered and he was reduced to a piece of identification paper. Suddenly the place where everyone knew his name became foreign and hostile. It was as if he was the outsider and the threat and not the other way around. Why weren't the settlers ID'd as well? Why could they stand there without the back bags being checked and their AK's  slung around their shoulders like they own the place?

How far we were standing from the settlers before we were questioned

 In the end, though, as upsetting as it all is, at least I have somewhere else to call home. At any moment, I can just leave back to the US where I don't have to deal with an outside force assuming I'm a threat in my own town. I don't have hostile neighbors trying take away my backyard claiming it as their own. The Palestinian volunteer that was with me, however, has no other place to call home. Occupied Palestine is his only home. Sure, he may be able to go down the streets of his small village that he no doubt knows like the back of the end and experience momentary freedom. It's only a moment though as daily reminders shatter that pseudo freedom. His own ID that he presented was written in Hebrew so as to facilitate the occupation and reinforce the virtual prison. 

A human can only handle so much. Below is a simple manifesto of why it's so sickening to live under the occupation and the conflict in general: