Election Holiday in Jenin
by
Annie Campbell Higgins
Dissident Voice
February 26, 2003
Israel’s
Election Day 28 January 2003
On the twenty-eighth of January,
young men were letting out triumphant whoops and jumping up and down in a
victory dance. Campaign headquarters in Tel Aviv? No, a main artery in downtown
Jenin. The Army snipers on the roof of a commercial building congratulated one
another on their victory over a Palestinian wearing no protective vest or
helmet, and having no tank or airborne defense. The first attack downed him but
he was still breathing, recounted a shop owner whose cubby-hole shop has a full
panorama of the scene. So the tank snipers finished him off. They could afford
to waste more bullets than necessary - plenty of funds rolling in from US tax
coffers. A journalist with clearly marked PRESS garb approached to photograph
the body, and the tank sniper shot him in the leg. One man was dead on the
ground, and there was nobody else in the vicinity. The Army targeted the
journalist precisely across the street from where they fatally targeted ‘Imad
Abu-Zahra in July 2002.
The shop owner remains
surprised that the Army shot a dying, and then a dead young man. “They are
supposed to be protecting people here,” an almost incomprehensible reference to
the battered Geneva Conventions which stipulate that the Occupier protect the
occupied population. A deep abyss separates the statute from practice.
A friend of the
shahid/martyr who reached the body shortly after, said there was a beautiful
fragrance emanating from the wounds, just like perfume. Blood is said to have
the aroma of misk/perfume in the eternal gardens, thus giving evidence that
Rashad al-‘Arrabi had gained heaven. Another friend with a toddler named Jad,
is now calling him Rashad in honor of the shahid/martyr.
Rashad was killed shortly
after the polling stations opened in Israel at seven o’clock in the morning. A
quarter of an hour later, Nidal al-Kastuni was killed in the same opening to
the alley, falling a meter behind where Rashad fell. These two early morning
triumphs in Sharon’s military campaign surely aided his election campaign.
Before most people went to the polls, they were able to hear of the incumbent
Prime Minister’s killing success. Within hours, the campaign could also boast
two more scores, Sa`id Tubasi and Yusuf Sa`di.
The number, but not the
names of those killed by the Israeli Occupation’s bullets was announced in
Israeli news bulletins. All four young men were killed in the same line of
fire, each one a meter behind the one previous. When an eyewitness demonstrates
where each one fell, I think of animation drawings for a cartoon - bing, bing,
bing, bing - although in this case they were de-animated. And with each hit,
the snipers on the rooftop danced. Blood still clings to the local limestone
cladding.
Again, blood is proof of
celestial gain: “There was a fragrance of misk/perfume,” says Yusuf Sa`di’s
mother of his shroud-wrapped body, brought for a final farewell within hours of
his death. Her home fits the flower pattern in a creative way. Several modern
paintings of flowers in stainless steel frames grace the walls, with bouquets
and hearts elegantly arranged. Light reflecting on a small mirror catches my
eye, and then something else - have they noticed that the metal mirror frame is
a six-pointed Star of David? Jenin merchants tell of buying goods in Tel Aviv
to sell in their well-stocked market in better days.
Talk turns to the spies who
have been taken to an unknown locale for questioning. “They should be
executed,” says one housewife. “Yes, look at the deaths they cause in the
community,” agrees another.
I hear with relief that a
voice of religious authority is reported to have said not to kill them, but to
keep them essentially under house arrest. I think of the spy I met last night.
He had been wounded during questioning, so his interrogators brought him to the
Emergency Room for treatment. When he received a slap on the face I said, “Let
him be,” and inquired who was staying as his murafiq/companion in the hospital.
Nobody. Nobody from his family wanted to be associated with him. I thought of
staying but had serious doubts. And I reflected on the family of the man he
fingered for assassination. I spoke about the spy’s value to the community if
he were forgiven. He could be twice as loyal, and could help to keep others
from being tricked into spying. Several later concede that he fell into a trap
of explicit Polaroids and threat of scandalous exposure.
My attention returns to the
group of mourners. The shahid/martyr’s eldest sister says she was like a second
mother to him, caring for him when he was the age of her own infant during
their mother’s illness. Yusuf’s mother speaks of his last meal, his favorite
maqlouba/rice and meat she had made. “He was martyred on a full stomach,” she
says, finding maternal comfort in this. The other mourners have left, and she
insists on filling my stomach, too. “For Yusuf’s sake. To honor Yusuf’s
spirit!” How can I refuse? I think of these young men, so vulnerable, so
hunted, dedicated to their homeland and loved in their homes. Perhaps I
lingered at the House of Mourning to find solace for myself.
Palestine’s Holiday of the
Sacrifice 11 February 2003
On the first of four days of
Eid al-Adha/Sacrifice Holiday, I decide to stretch my legs, passing people on
their way to the morning prayer. I greet a friend who works in the Hospital,
and he tells of the Army’s pre-dawn raid, inviting me inside to see the damage.
The Army is resourceful. They use local materials and conditions to improvise
oppression.
Mud. Not a tool of death,
just rain-induced mud from the clay-rich orange ground. The ten soldiers must
have stamped around thoroughly in viscous puddles to make their boots
instruments of filth. They stepped on everything - the rugs, mattresses, sofa
cushions, and all the winter quilts including the baby’s little quilt with
golden teddy bears inviting the child to dreamland. They scraped the mud onto
the bottom of cupboards, tables, the television, and the children's
schoolbooks. Dogs mark their territory in a similar fashion. I hold up a
stuffed bear to clean off and announce to my new friend as in a broadcast: “The
mighty Israeli Army. Versus...the teddy bear!” She laughs and her laughter
brings the house back to normal more than all our cleaning.
The mighty Israeli Army
versus the photo album. They threw this onto the floor and stepped on the family
photos with their mud. I point out that the framed photo of Arafat on the wall
is intact. Clearly the Palestinian family is a greater threat than Abu Ammar,
the president’s nickname. Try as they might, the Israeli Army cannot sap the
strength of the Palestinian family. They assassinate; they imprison men and
women without charge; they forbid the prisoners personal visits and phonecalls;
they step on photographs; but nothing weakens the links or the love of the
family, or convinces them to take their existence elsewhere.
Beneath Arafat is a model of
the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, where the prophet Muhammad, sas, ascended
into the heavens astride the swift beast, Buraq. The glass casing is broken,
but the Dome remains intact, just like the Eid/holiday gifts. The soldiers
ripped packages open but left the new clothes, including the baby’s, intact but
muddy. What a holiday. Every child looks forward to this traditional gift of a
new outfit, and waits patiently for the day they can open the package and wear
it. Can you imagine the soldier’s Action Report? “I was a brave soldier today.
I wiped my feet on a baby’s bunting and blanket.” The medals are being forged
even now, of muddy clay.
The soldiers did a more
thorough job with new Eid clothes when they killed Rashad on Election Day. His
mother told him to wait until the Eid to wear his new clothes, but he was
insistent on wearing them, even though the Eid was a week and a half away. He
was buried in his holiday garments.
When I first came into
As`ad’s house to see the damage, he and his wife insisted on serving me coffee.
“It's already made!” As`ad dandled the baby on his knee and said, in
nursery-rhyme fashion: “Did the Army make you go outside in the cold rain? Were
you cold outside?” He smiles and the baby follows his lead. Energy is best
preserved for patience rather than anger. It was cold and rainy, and when the
Army expelled the family from their sleep and their shelter, they did not even
let them get socks for the children. Little bare feet versus muddy Army boots.
But they were not shot or tortured. If you were merely sent into the winter
street while soldiers ransacked your house, might you consider yourself
blessed, too?
Hanan and I remove almost
all the quilt covers for washing. We do that wonderful sweeping wash, flooding
the floor with water, sweeping with a handheld broom, and then squeegee’ing the
tile floor. This is when you appreciate the tiler’s skill in making a smooth,
level surface. Hanan thanks me sincerely rather than effusively, “I was
mentally enervated. I did not know where to begin, and on the first day of the
Holiday! If you hadn’t come along, I might be in the hospital.” It is she who
is the hero, she and her neighbors who rise to the constant occasions of
invasion. She explains how the house was so beautiful before the Big Invasion,
pointing to chips in the pink bathroom tiles. It is this constant chipping away
at the home and the family that characterizes the Israeli Occupation. Hanan
points out where the soldiers have dented the woodwork, and denounces Arab
countries for their silence.
Her sister-in-law has been
performing the same restorative operation in her home. All of the apartments in
the building were hit. A little daughter wants to wear her new Eid sweater, but
it is still wet where her mother cleaned off the mud. She is so disappointed
that she cannot wear her new gift to go outside and play with her friends. I
tell her that the yellow sweater she is wearing is bright like the sun, and
matches her mother’s. This is no consolation, but the little girl accepts her
lack of choice. “What can we do?” says her mother, smiling a little sadly and
repeating the common refrain to the myriad joykillers of the Occupation.
When I arrive on the ground
floor, I discover that As`ad’s mother is one of my Quran study colleagues.
Beside leaving mudprints, the Army took away As`ad’s brother without charge.
Again. They had him for ten days recently and then released him. Why have they
taken him again? Perhaps to put pressure on another brother who is in prison,
to get him to sign a false confession?
This holiday morning has
also witnessed another episode in the disturbing trend of arresting wives of
men who are imprisoned or dead. “Why? They already have him in their clutches.”
“Why? They killed him two years ago!” The most high-profile case is that of
Ahmad Sa`dat’s wife, arrested en route to anti-globalization meetings in
Brazil. In Jenin, everyone pours out sympathy for Asma’, the wife of the
imprisoned Shaykh Jamal Abul-Hayja. They took her from her family before dawn
on this first day of the Eid. She is the mother of small children, and is
struggling with cancer. Israel is also holding the wife of Iyad Sawalha since
they killed him in November 2002.
After the Holiday when I am
walking down the dirt street, a woman calls me into a shop, embracing me and
taking my hand, “I am Hanan's mother. Thank you so much for helping her that
day.” Which day, I wonder. Ah, that day! Hanan!
I think of her and of the
last thing we set in order in her house, the two smooth wooden hearts her
husband crafted, “One for As`ad and one for me,” she told me, blushing and
smiling. The hearts of the home were among the few things the Army did not
desecrate. Hearts are beyond its reach.
Annie C. Higgins specializes in Arabic and Islamic
studies, and is currently doing research in Jenin, Occupied Palestine.