Preemptive Demolition near Hamra, Jordan Valley, 26 July, 2017

20170726-IMG_9147rotlvlIt’s her first time, and it’s an easy start, but it must still be confusing to watch people demolish your home, even if those people are your father, Mahmoud Zouba,

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who is taking the house apart one piece at a time with care, unscrewing the fixtures, and laying the pieces to rest one by one,

20170726-IMG_9167crplvl family friends from the nearby town of Toubas, and Israeli friends from the organization Ta’ayush who work along side him and document everything. Maybe the documentation will convince enough people that such things really happen.

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Later, members of another organization committed to non-violent resistance, ISM (the Palestinian-led International Solidarity Movement) come to help as well and the work ends quickly.

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Then everyone stays to enjoy your family’s hospitality and listen to grandpa tell his story.

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This has to be preferable to the usual way. Normally the Civil Authority sends bulldozers that would probably roll through the main entrance to the compound,

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damaging everything in their way and crushing the trees surrounding the family home.

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The house and anything inside that there is no time to remove on short notice would be reduced to rubble.

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The Civil Authority charges families good money for this service.

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It’s my first demolition, too, but I have seen “Area C” dotted with little piles of rubble where homes and community centers once stood.

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Demolished structure in Umm al Kheir, South Hebron, January, 2017.

In my few years of sporadic visits I have helped rebuild some of them more than once.

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Rebuilding in Umm al Kheir, South Hebron, July, 2017

This is life in “Area C,” the approximately 60% of the West Bank where Israel retained planning rights after the Oslo accords. Uniformly the Civil Authority there rejects master plans for Palestinian towns, and issues barely any building permits to individual Palestinians. Buildings that predate the agreement can stay without additions, and new buildings for growing families are forbidden. The policy might seem to keep the villages frozen in time, but of course life doesn’t work that way, and they are in fact in a constant state of deterioration, as structures crumble into the landscape.

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When disheartened villagers eventually decamp for the increasingly crowded cities in “Area A,” under the Palestinian Authority, Israeli settlements expand into their lands.

20170726-IMG_9297crpcrvlvlTo avoid becoming discouraged is a challenge that most of Mahmoud’s immediate family has not met.

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Over a meal and coffee, we listen to the Mahmoud’s father tell us that of his eight children (and sixty-four grandchildren), only Mahmoud, with his wife and three daughters remain.

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They struggle to keep their land and the fragments of their homes so that eventually the community may grow and perhaps come together again.

Once, Mahmoud’s father reminisces, he and his family lived in a ten-room house . . .

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Many of the Israeli settlements that absorb the Palestinian lands were themselves built or expanded without permits, but demolitions of these settlements, and expulsions of Israeli settlers are rare, well publicized, and may be compensated with other land. Just visible behind the compound is a settlement that could someday absorb the Zouba family land.

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The home we are demolishing today, a little metal structure donated by the European Union, attracted the attention of Israeli civil authorities right after it was built in 2015. These donated structures are often confiscated or bulldozed, as well as supporting infrastructures such as solar panels donated by individual European countries. The Netherlands recently protested the confiscation of and damage to some 40,000 Euros worth of solar equipment it gave to the village of Jubbet Adh-Dhib.

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No permit was issued for Mahmoud’s house, but attempts were made to block the demolition order through the courts. The order overcame all these hurdles on July 2 and the final demolition order came two days ago. Ta’ayush members requested and received a delay of ten days so that the family would have a chance to take apart their own home in their own way, to take a measure of control over their lives. But bulldozers tend to be impatient, so the family decided to go ahead and demolish the house today.

They can use the parts; or perhaps the house can be rebuilt.

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Mahmoud and his family will move into the older house with the yellow door next to this house. It is not bad, I am told, but it has no roof, and the sides are not strong enough to support one.

The family will plant olive trees where the little house stood.

But aren’t the olive trees also illegal, someone asks and can’t they be destroyed like the house?

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At least, it turns out, a five year old olive tree may not be destroyed.

On Ta’ayush: https://www.taayush.org/

On ISM: https://palsolidarity.org/

Anyone who wishes to help provide the family with a light covering for their house may leave a note below or contact me directly.

text and photographs margaret olin © 2017

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The Hugging Game, Um al ‘Arais, 14 January 2017

20170114-IMG_9319crplvlcrvbrNon violent resistance can take many forms. What they have in common is that they need to be visible and they need to be seen.

The tenacious Sa’id ‘Awad has been mentioned in these pages before.  This link will acquaint you with the combination of legal subterfuge and open seizure that have wrested his land in the South Hebron Hills away from him.  20170114-IMG_9291crp2To hang on, Said’s family has an outing each week. The picnic and the boy’s soccer  20170114-IMG_9310crplvlreinforce his continued presence. Otherwise, the civil authorities can consider the land abandoned and make it available to Israelis whose settlements watch comfortably above on land already taken from Sa’id. They may do that anyway.20170114-IMG_9392lvlcrpbrightVolunteers from the NGO Ta’ayush try to keep settlers from disrupting the games, but today is peaceful. The settlers remain hidden somewhere behind their eruv poles.*20170114-IMG_9380lvlcrvVolunteers pass the time with Sa’id and his family while the boys play soccer20170114-IMG_9314crvlvland the Civil Administration plays its role. 20170114-IMG_9358lvlToday, fortunately, this means that the soldiers, very young and very bored, mostly stay put in military vehicles. 20170114-IMG_9352brightlvl

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20170114-IMG_9369crpcontror near them. It could be and has been, worse.20170114-IMG_9311crvcntcrpThe girls, sidelined,20170114-IMG_9296brctrlvlcrptake matters into their own hands and invent a new game. 20170114-IMG_9365crvlvl

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20170114-IMG_9384brightcrvFinally the boys get interested20170114-IMG_9357lvlvright

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20170114-IMG_9325crp1For just a moment the grazing area turned soccer field turns hugging field.20170114-IMG_9396lvlcrv

*On the eruv, see here and here.  On Ta’ayush https://www.taayush.org/

text and photographs © margaret olin 2017

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March 6, 2017 Al-Hammeh, Jordan Valley (David Shulman)

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Outpost, Jordan Valley, January 2017. photograph: Margaret Olin

1

8:30 AM. Four settlers, more boys than men, block our way as we follow the shepherds up the mountain. One of them is before his army service. They all belong to the new illegal outpost that we’ve watched grow from a few wooden rafters to a fairly substantial set of dwellings, already attached to the water and electricity grids. It was set up where it could do the most damage to the Palestinians of al-Hammeh, cutting off their only route to the grazing grounds outside the army’s firing zone.

They want to talk to us. Guy, whom they hate, has gone ahead up the slope, but three of us stay back—Yankele, badly wounded in the Yom Kippur war, with prosthetic hands, Eyal, and me. They tell us that things were quiet until our friend Guy came here and provoked the hitherto docile Palestinians to make trouble. Good Palestinians are docile.

Actually, I object, it’s your presence here that has produced all this trouble; they own this land, and they have the documents to prove it.

What do you mean, the Jews own all the land here, it’s a Jewish state.

Really? These Bedouins have been here for many generations and they have no rights, do you think that’s right?

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Photograph: Guy Hircefeld

Why, they have rights.

Like what? Can they vote?

Why should they vote?

Do they have legal recourse?

Why do they need legal recourse?

They’re no different from you or me.

If they became citizens, they could vote, but they can never become citizens because they’re not Jews, and they don’t belong here.

What you’re describing is what is called apartheid.

I don’t care what you call it.

You want these people to leave, right?

They can stay as a tolerated minority.

You don’t think that all people should have equal rights?

Not here, it’s a Jewish state. God gave the land to the Jews. The Bible says so.

Eyal got a little farther with his interlocuter. After the usual opening statements, the settler was prepared to say: “OK, from a human standpoint, what we are doing here is not so nice. We take the land. I don’t want them to graze their sheep, and for that matter I don’t want them to have any herds at all. I don’t want them to be here. I know it looks ugly, but if you remember that God gave the land to the Jews, then…..

2

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Photograph: David Shulman

11:30 AM. Hot. Three herds of sheep are scattered in wide arcs over the hills. They are happily eating what sheep eat. Red anemones are popping up everywhere. As the heat increases, a carpet of blue irises unfolds. Like some people I know, irises don’t function well in the morning. They blossom in the afternoon. The desert hills are wild with green. Things are quiet, even boring, a delicious boredom. The sheep are at least a kilometer away from the illegal outpost.

But that’s still too close, as far as the settlers are concerned. They just can’t bear it. A day doesn’t count as a day unless they cause some pain to their Palestinian neighbors. So they summon the army. Dutifully, an officer, his face masked, and another armed soldier turn up in their jeep. They make their way up to us and to Abu Rasmi. Why has the officer masked his face? Private reasons, he says. Maybe he’s about to be promoted to some post in the secret services. Maybe he just doesn’t want his face to be all over Facebook.

Anyway, he’s not one of the bad ones. You can see that at a glance.

I’m here, he tells us, to prevent friction.

What friction? we say. The sheep are nowhere near the outpost.

Abu Rasmi sits down, with infinite dignity, on a white boulder and says: “I don’t want trouble with anyone. I just want my sheep to graze. We own this land for generations. The settlers keep chasing us off. Last weekend they entered the area of our tents and threatened us with their guns. They attacked the shepherds with clubs. They harass us every day.

Oh, says the officer.

Guy lets him have it in an explosion of short, pointed sentences. He’s good at such moments. “What do you think you’re doing here? I know the settlers summoned you. So what? They have no business being here.”

This is not a political thing, says the officer. I don’t care about the politics. I came to prevent friction.

“It’s political through and through. The outpost is totally illegal, as the police documents themselves confirm. If Palestinians were being attacked by these same settlers, you’d take hours to come here, if you came at all. Last weekend it happened, they came to the tents with their guns, we telephoned the police, there were dozens of calls, and no soldier came to help. But if these settlers call you, you’re here in ten minutes. Why? Because of the purity of the Jewish race. What other reason could there be? You’re part of the whole racist, totalitarian system. Instead of protecting the innocent owners of this land, you stand by the thieves who have robbed them of it. That’s a political move, and it’s your decision.

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Photograph: Guy Hircefeld

Every once in a while in such situations I see someone like this officer, like a policeman I knew in South Hebron, who is clearly, indubitably, suffering inner conflict. He flinches behind his mask. He sits down next to Abu Rasmi. He’s out of his depth. He says, plaintive, almost pathetic: “I have to follow my orders.” Guy helps him out. “Why don’t you go down there and tell those criminals to stop tormenting Palestinians?” The officer lumbers off. The sun burns into skin and stones. I watch him go. I feel that inner trickle of despair that I know so well.

3

3:00 PM. The sheep had their fill of thorns and leaves today. I wish you could see them in your mind’s eye as they begin to move homeward, with exquisite slowness, as if the hill itself were alive and inching downward toward the sheepfold and the tents. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful except, perhaps, my granddaughter’s eyes. Amiel and I follow them down the steep slope. As they get near the pen, they accelerate; they know they’re almost there; soon it’s a stampede. One stubborn sheep takes a stand above the tents on the hill; she can’t be hurried. Impassive, a loner, she surveys her regal domain. Meanwhile, the sheep have to drink, but the kids want to nurse, they can’t wait, Mahdi stands in the middle of the pen with his arms raised as he drives the kids back, just a few seconds more, let the poor mothers drink, the kids are screeching, scurrying around him, and the infinite silence of the desert is punctuated by a raucous symphony, a late-afternoon hymn. Today there was quiet and fullness and later, as we eat the simple, ample meal Abu Rasmi offers us—hard flat pitta bread, fried cheese, rice and lentils, yoghurt, olives, salad, red cabbage, green beans grown beside the tents– there is that unthinkable friendship that needs no words. Before that, out on the hills, two shepherds came riding donkeys to greet us. It’s a good day, they said, an unusual day for us, it’s hadi, tranquil, because you are here.

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Photograph: David Shulman

text © David Shulman 2017

January 7, 2017 Asael, Susya, Twaneh, Umm al-Khair

text David Shulman; photographs Margaret Olin

I.

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Asael, possibly the ugliest of all the illegal outposts in the southern West Bank—and the competition is fierce—is rapidly expanding. Yellow bulldozers, parked at the perimeter fence of the settlement, have carved out a huge swathe of intermeshed, criss-crossing gashes in the hill and valley just below. This wide, deep wound in the soil has been sliced, needless to say, through privately owned Palestinian land. We know the families. We’ve plowed here, on the edge of the outpost. There have been many bad moments with the Asael settlers, the ones we can see this Shabbat morning walking their dogs over the hill or praying to their rapacious god or swinging their children on the swings in the painted park just under their pre-fab caravans.

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Winter morning, sunny, ice-cold. Guy is photographing the earthen gashes meter by meter. The families who own the land will submit a complaint to the police, not that it will do much good. The Civil Administration stopped the bulldozers earlier this week, but the fact that they’re still parked here bodes ill. Each one of them costs a few thousands of shekels per day, and they’re still here. Actually, everything bodes ill here at Asael on this sun-drenched day.

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The soldiers appear on cue. Three of them clamber down the hill to put a stop to our intrusion. They’re in winter uniforms, black on top, with ski-masks and heavy weapons. Their officer, affable enough, asks for my identity card. I hand it over. He studies it. “You live near my grandmother’s house. What are you doing here, and why are you photographing me? You’re old enough to be my grandfather, aren’t you ashamed?”

“Why should I be ashamed?”

“I don’t like it when you photograph me. It’s impolite.”

I can see what’s coming. Harmless chatter, nothing worse. I turn off the camera. Peg is still photographing, despite the officer’s repeated demands that she stop. It seems this business of the cameras is all we have to talk about today. Over and over again he tells us that we’re not being nice.

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He consults his superiors on the phone. “There are four Israeli citizens here,” he reports, “they have the right to come here and photograph the bulldozers and the digging, they haven’t invaded the settlement, and they won’t stop photographing me.” By now this is becoming an obsession. I’m tired of it. Moreover, the cognitive dissonance is eating away at me, so wearily I say to him, “Look, forget this stupid thing about the cameras, I’m not photographing you now, just look around you at what is happening here. You know as well as I do that this outpost is illegal, and you can see that they’re now stealing more Palestinian land.”

“That’s none of my business. If you have a problem with the settlers, work it out in the courts. I have my job to do.”

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Later, thinking back on it, I find the conversation insane, and I’m sorry I got into it. A monumental crime is taking place, here and everywhere in the occupied territories. It’s picking up speed. The soldiers are complicit in it, though it’s coming from far above them, from the prime minister’s office on down. And on this bright winter morning, the officer on the spot thinks we’re being impolite.

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II.

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Volleyball in Susiya, 7 January 2017

Last week something unusual happened at Susya. A group of fanatical settlers had produced an inscription made of stones on what we call Flag Hill—Palestinian land, of course (newly plowed). The stones were stacked up to read, in Hebrew: “Revenge.” There was also a big stone-piled star of David. Our people came upon these rocks, and the settlers came at them, and the soldiers turned up, and the settlers attacked them, too. This was too much even for the soldiers, who wrestled them to the ground and arrested three of them. They let them go in the evening, but for a brief moment the tables were turned.

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III.

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These are violent days in South Hebron, also in the Jordan Valley. We reach Twaneh around 2:00 and find a Ta’ayush detachment still shaken after being attacked by masked settlers from Chavat Maon. The Ta’ayush volunteers were there to protect Palestinian farmers who had come to plow. The plowing was successfully completed, and the volunteers were on their way back to Twaneh when fifteen settler thugs attacked, hurling big rocks, lots of them, and assaulting our people with their fists. Dudy was hit in the head by a rock. Danny was beaten. One of the Italian volunteers living in Twaneh was hit, and her (expensive) camera stolen. By sheer good fortune, no one was badly wounded or worse.

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Guy calls the police, who eventually respond. We head uphill toward the site of the attack. The settlers are still flitting through the trees at the end of the path. We have good video footage, but it rapidly becomes apparent that there’s little point in submitting a complaint. The police will do nothing, the settlers were masked, to fill out the police forms is hardly more than a ritual gesture. We move on. Fifteen years ago, almost to the day, I was attacked, beaten, stoned, and shot at by the settlers of Chavat Maon at this same point. I know what it feels like. I know for sure that they are celebrating their splendid raid and reveling in their spoils. Maybe I shouldn’t care.

 

IV.

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Eid is waiting to welcome us to Umm al-Khair. He’s become almost famous, with exhibitions of his sculptures and installations in Tel Aviv and most recently Berlin. It’s been many months since I’ve seen him. We embrace. We run through the dismal litany of house demolitions from the past few months. For the moment—always only for the moment—the courts have put a freeze on further demolitions at Umm al-Khair. Eid says: “No matter what we do, the Israelis will never let us live here; sooner or later, they will take these lands too.”

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Post-Resettlement, exhibition by Ai Weiwei and Eid Hthaleen. Installation photographs courtesy of Ades Architectural Forum, Berlin.

The settlement of Carmel abuts the shanties of Umm al-Khair, and recently the settlers have invented a new form of torment for their neighbors. Their sewage now flows through pipes that open onto the fertile fields in the wadi and the Palestinian grazing grounds. We pick our way over the rocks to study the large open pipe.

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It’s one of those crystal winter afternoons. Every thorn stands out on the hills. Sheep cluster around the well on the next ridge. Ruins from the last four demolition raids are neatly stacked beside what used to be tents and homes. We’ve rebuilt a little, for the umpteenth time. The hills across the Jordan River turn to limpid mauve. It’s cold; one of the young girls, maybe four years old, in ponytail and a blue sweater, stands barefoot at the entrance to her home. Goats bleat; toward sunset, they get hungry. Tea appears. A wild parabola of pigeons swirls over the golden slope. Beauty is made from pain, great beauty from greater pain.

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Text © 2017 David Shulman;  photographs @ 2017 Margaret Olin except as otherwise noted.

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On Ta’ayush: http://www.taayush.org/

Conversations on the Periphery 2: Khirki Village, New Delhi, November 27, 2016

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A female soccer player, who once faced another girl playing soccer, now seems bewildered to find herself addressing a mysterious man wearing a halo of banned currency. No doubt the man was intended to be a statement concerning the current demonetization crisis, but his presence left the girls of the Khirkee Collective, who painted the soccer players, in a dilemma. While the artist who painted the man felt no qualms about painting a mural over the girls’ soccer mural, the collective has a code that forbids them to paint over the work of another street artist. The mustached man must remain and so must some offensive graffiti to the right of the mural. The girls made a plan to rescue their mural another way and met a few Saturdays ago to implement it.

20161126-img_7801crvcrpFortunately, there was now room on the left side of the wall where earlier a garbage heap had been, so the girls decided to paint not one but two more players there. They gathered this Saturday along side their mentor, artist Sreejata Roy, to paint one of them.

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Khirki is a diverse enclave in South Delhi populated by, among others, refugees from Afghanistan, and home to a thriving street art culture. But Khirki is a man’s world.  The group of young women in their mid to late teens around Sreejata were trying to assert themselves by painting women into spaces they would like to occupy, involved in activities in which they wish they were allowed to participate.

Above a tea shop, women drink and play cards alongside men

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A school teacher sits with her book, while bills cover much of a lady shoemaker who decorates a shoemaker’s stall.

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We all cooperate, the shoemaker included, to uncover part of her work table.

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While he seems pleased to host the mural above his shop,

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not everyone is happy to see the murals enter their domains. The girls wanted to ride motorcycles, so they started painting murals on walls next to places where motorcycles were parked.

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Next to this mural, however, a man started an altercation and stopped them from painting.

20161126-img_7949crplvl-editThey should paint men driving motorcycles, he said, not women. The damaged wall painting remains, and the girls told me that they do not paint in that space anymore.

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Back at the soccer mural, 20161126-img_7807lvl

the work continued as people gathered.

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Sreejata drew the outline.

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The members of the collective prepared the colors and painted.

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Later, the Kiran Nadar Museum of Art lent us a gallery so that I could introduce the members of the Khirkee Collective to murals in the Dheisheh refugee camp in Palestine.

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A child navigates between contrasting murals of Jihad al Jaafary, Dheisheh

In Dheisheh, children currently grow up surrounded by images of martyrs, many of whom are close to their own age. Most of the subjects are men and all of the painters are boys and young men. Sometimes murals are painted quietly at night, but sometimes they are painted in public gatherings similar to the one I had just witnessed in Khirki. The young painters of Khirki noticed the relentless use of black and white in Dheisheh, and I tried to explain to  them the aims of a few recent murals colored more cheerfully, like those in their own murals.

Despite the mournful air of the paintings in Dheisheh and the vibrant and hopeful feeling of those in Khirkee, the people of Khirkee and Dheisheh share a great deal. They share a belief in the powerful presence with which an image can dominate a site. They also share respect for the work of others. The muralists in Dheisheh, like those of the Khirkee Collective leave the work of others in peace, choosing to register disagreement by painting alternative murals nearby. And they share the conviction that discussions centered on the murals, which begin even before a mural is painted and continue in words and images, are central to the work of the murals themselves.

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I think of these murals as openings in walls, as windows or gates through which the residents of the neighborhood can see into another world. That this world is meant to be the future seems clear even in murals, such as the ones in Dheisheh, that ostensibly do no more than memorialize the past.

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But the murals in Khirki focus steadfastly on the future. I asked the refugees from Afghanistan whether they ever wanted to return to their former homes. “Never.” Do your parents ever talk about wanting to return? “Never! It is too dangerous. It will never be any better there.” They look forward, they said, to a better future here in Khirki. I believe they hope that the murals will help them see this future and transform what they see into reality.

photographs and text margaret olin © 2016

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David Shulman: 19 November, 2016 Umm al-Khair

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Nasser Nawajeh. Photo: Margaret Olin, 2015

1.

It’s a rainless winter, so far, in the South Hebron hills: cold, grey, stony, dry. We spend an hour with Ahmad and his herd just after dawn, whipped by the wind. They’re from Gawawis, just over the hill. Ahmad has a seven-month-old baby at home. Like many of the shepherds we know, he also has a modern cell phone, which he delights in showing us. He wants a radio—a modest wish, I think, for someone living the excruciating life of the shepherd on these rough slopes. We’ll see what we can do. At 7 AM it’s probably too early for settlers to be prowling around, so my day starts with a harsh, frozen serenity. I’m glad to be here after a sleepless night. Even the wind is my friend.

2.

We go with Nasser Nawajeh from Susya to his family’s fields, which have the misfortune of being located just under the ranch of the Talia family on a high ridge overlooking the desert. The ranch was founded by Yaakov Talia, a South African of the old school who converted to Judaism and moved here some decades ago, replacing one form of apartheid with the new, improved Israeli version. I knew him a little. He and his sons caused considerable suffering to the Palestinians just downhill at Bi’r al-‘Id. Yaakov Talia died in a work accident a couple of years ago; his two sons now run the ranch. One of them emerges to confront us as Nasser walks through the Nawajeh fields, some 120 dunams stretching into the wadi. By law and with the army’s explicit agreement, recognizing his claim, Nasser has the right to plow these fields. He has to do so soon, if he is not to lose his claim.

But Talia Jnr. doesn’t like this. He keeps up a steady, mind-killing torrent of insults, protests, wild mythic distortions, and threats, spiced from time to time with thick doses of self-pity. Look at me, he says, I have to live here behind wire fences, while you Palestinians can move around freely. You have no right to be here. You came here with your leftist friends as a pure provocation. This land is mine. Listen, Nawajah, let’s have a dialogue. Let’s be logical. Let’s start with something we can both agree on, OK? The world exists, right? We are in the world. So far so good? Do you agree with me? But where in the world? There are the continents of Europe, Asia, and Africa. Have you heard of them? So where are we? Some people think Eurasia was originally in Africa. Did you know that? And there are those who claim that the State of Israel, which owns all the land here, lies in Asia. But have you noticed that the Israel soccer team plays in the Mondial, the World Cup? So we must belong to Europe, right? Do you follow this logic? You can’t refute it. So what are you doing here? This field belongs to me. In fact, everything here is mine. I’m an Israeli Jew. You are standing on state land, and you have no right to be here. Why aren’t you answering me? Can’t you follow me, Nawajeh?

That may give you some idea. It went on for an hour or two that seemed like weeks. The clinching argument about the World Cup was repeated at least ten times. Our Palestinian friends report that these righteous ranchers also tried to steal a herd of sheep last week. Perhaps Talia Jnr. thinks that all sheep, everywhere, belong to the Jews.

Like all the rest of us, this poor fellow has to live with the thoughts that flow through his mind. They came at us without respite in bitter, obsessive, rasping rage. I thought, at first, that maybe there would be some way to find an opening into his inner world, even a tiny crack would do, but—no such luck. Eventually the police arrive, and the army, and then the officers of the Civil Administration, they listen to him, they listen to us, they nod their heads and go away. The CA man hears from his office that Nasser’s claim is correct. Of course it will have to be checked again tomorrow. But I think there’s a good chance we’ll be plowing next week or the week after. It’s a good thing we came today.

3.

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Photograph: David Shulman

On Tuesday the bulldozers came back to Umm al-Khair, their favorite spot for wreaking devastation. Once again they wrecked a few homes and shacks and also brought down the chicken coop on its hapless denizens, killing 8 chickens. I try to remember how many times I have come to Umm al-Khair to disentangle the ruins and to start rebuilding. I can’t count them. If I had to guess, I would say that house demolitions in Umm al-Khair are more regular than the winter rains, and that the army must have wrought havoc here many dozens of times. As all of you know, no Palestinian in Umm al-Khair, or anywhere else for that matter, can get a permit to build, so the houses are technically illegal, ergo—a highly consistent variation on the Talia Jnr. logic—they have to be destroyed. It often happens in the winter. It’s not so good to be houseless, shack-less, tent-less, in the winter.

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Chicken Coop in progress, Umm al Khair. Photograph: David Shulman

 

 

A large group of Ta’ayush volunteers is already hard at work with our hosts. The first magnificent edifice to crystallize anew is the chicken coop. You should have seen the gentle care with which they built this home for the few survivors of Tuesday’s slaughter. First you have to clear the rubble, sweep the space clean, then build a containing wall of heavy boulders, then stretch a tarpaulin over the sides of this wall, then seal it with another layer of rainproof canvas so the chickens won’t get wet and cold. Mounds of stone and metal rubble surround the coop on every side. I can’t help noticing the contrast between the reality of recurrent, sadistic destruction and the resilience of those who rebuild yet one more time, and after that one more, and so on until the end of time. A wave runs through me. In the never-ending war between human viciousness and the no less human courage to live, and build, and love, the latter sometimes wins.

After some hours we stop to rest, and there is tea and fresh pitta, and patches of the village look a little better now, and Khalil thanks us and tells us to come back to build with them next week. Children are playing, as they always do, amidst the ruins. I see a group of three boys, maybe six years old, maybe seven. They are playing “getting arrested.” One is chosen as the victim, the other two bind his hands behind his back with invisible handcuffs and start marching him down the street. It’s something they know very well.

text and photographs, except where otherwise identified © David Shulman 2016

a lucid essay; an absurd topic; a real place

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The essay, “Kafka in Area C,” tells the story of the place in these photographs: here where the ‘Awad family sheep are grazing, is a spare wadi where members of Ta’ayush, the all volunteer group whose work in South Hebron I am following, is stopping briefly at the beginning of our day.

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In the photographs it is early June, 2015. We watch the patterns that the sheep make as they process down the wadi or gather in groups.

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We look across the wadi at a few makeshift houses on what had been the ‘Awad family’s hilltop. Maybe Israeli settlers, in their Shabbat morning peace, are looking back.

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I am told “we’ve been here hundreds of times,” but the visit is quiet. We leave within an hour to visit Susiya, a village of tents and caves where rough conditions are a constant, infuriating reminder of injustice.

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Today, a year and a half later, Susiya still stands, at least most of it, at least for now. But the ‘Awad family, its livestock and its livelihood, have been denied rights to their land. The article, by a Ta’ayush volunteer, explains the absurd circular process of dispossession that has become business as usual. If the comparison to Kafka fails to appeal to you, think “Catch-22.” But after you glance at the photographs, read it. here.

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photographs and text © Margaret Olin 2016

Susiya is in danger again. Here’s how to help

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Slightly over a year ago David Shulman pleaded urgently on this blog for help in sparing Susiya, a Palestinian village in the South Hebron Hills, from immanent destruction by the bulldozers of the Israeli Civil Administration. You may read his eloquent message here. At the time, people mobilized in Israel and abroad.

Large demonstrations occurred at the village; the European Union sent representatives and the spokesperson for the United States Department of State complained to the Israeli government. Susya was spared.

Now, after a year, the forces that desire Susiya’s land seem to believe that the world must have forgotten Susiya by now. The civil administration has restarted preparations to demolish the village. The same dreary process, including the obligatory fruitless appeal to Israel’s Supreme Court, has already begun. Now the fate of the village is to be decided by August 15 by the ultra right Minister of Defense, Avigdor Lieberman.

If you heeded David Shulman’s call then, if you wrote to your representative, your foreign minister and/or your country’s ambassador to Israel or if you regret that you did not, please consider doing so now. Ask them to apply pressure to Israel, as they successfully did last year and keep Susiya’s families, more than 300 people, many of them children, from having to abandon their homes and rebuild once more.

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children from Susiya in school, March 2016

Susiya is not important merely because of the injustice of the ongoing process, but here it is in brief: boards that approve construction are composed of settlers intent on clearing the land and securing it for Israel; these boards prevent Palestinians from acquiring permits that would make dwelling on their own land legal;

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a kitchen in Susiya

in order to live on their land and support their livestock and their orchards the residents build, without permits, temporary buildings that serve as dwellings and kitchens and everything that one needs to make a home.

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They plant gardens around them and do what they can to make and remake real homes in a situation that is more than challenging. Donated sustainable energy supports their lives while Israel’s huge power lines bypass the village to bring power to encroaching settlements. I have visited Susiya repeatedly, made friends there, and found role models among these people. You may read about their work here

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But Susiya’s importance transcends these reasons, which apply to many villages, Bedouin and Palestinian, scattered in the South Hebron Hills. All these communities suffer repeated demolitions. Their children grew up perceiving every Israeli as a threat to their homes. All of them,Susiya included, rebuild, at great expense of resources, effort, and emotion, once their village is demolished. This occasion will be no exception. Susiya’s special significance lies in the central role taken by its residents and the town itself. They have been in the front line of efforts by Palestinians in area C to preserve their way of life and their lands from annexation. Leaders of Susya have put themselves forward as spokespeople, organizers and peaceful activists. To many visitors to South Hebron they have become the symbol of Palestinian survival. If the outside world fails to oppose the demolition of Susya and the forcible eviction of its residents, then Israeli authorities may feel perfectly at ease demolishing any village in this region or anywhere else. You can read more about Susiya at Rabbis for Human Rights; and another appeal from David Shulman here.

Finally, here are some actions you can take from the EU, Great Britain, the US, or Canada followed by a sample letter:

1. If you are in Europe, you can write your representative to the European Union or your Foreign minister.

http://www.europarl.europa.eu/meps/en/map.html

2. In the UK, you might like to follow this link:

http://www.palestinecampaign.org/fate-two-palestinian-villages/

or you may write one of these officials:

Boris Johnson MP
Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs
UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office
King Charles Street
London SW1A 2AH
fcocorrespondence@fco.gov.uk
General enquiries switchboard
020 7008 1500

Mr David Quarrey
British Ambassador to Israel
British Embassy
192 Hayarkon Street
6340502 Tel Aviv
Israel
Telephone+972 (0)3 725 1222
Fax +972 (0)3 725 1203
webmaster.telaviv@fco.gov.uk

Deputy Ambassador Eitan Na’eh
Embassy of Israel
2 Palace Green
London
W8 4QB
Tel:020 7957 9500
Fax:0207 957 9555
info@london.mfa.gov.il

3. If you are in the United States, the easiest thing to do is to sign this petition via the organization JStreet:

http://act.jstreet.org/sign/stop-demolition-susya

But you may wish to write your own letter to your representatives. Here is how to find them:

http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/

http://www.senate.gov/senators/contact/

https://www.usa.gov/elected-officials

or to the State Department:

https://register.state.gov/contactus/contactusform

4. in Canada:

You can reach the department of defense here (the Honourable Harjit Sajjan, Minister of Defence)

stephane.dion@parl.gc.ca (The Honourable Stéphane Dion, Foreign Minister)

taviv.consular@international.gc.ca (Ambassador Deborah Lyons, Ambassador to Israel)

And of course you may want to write your MP.

5. Here is one letter, but I am sure many of you can do better:

I am writing to express my concern about the immediate threat to the Palestinian village of Susya in Area C of South Hebron. Last year at this time, coordinated international expressions of outrage helped to spare this village from the bulldozers of the Israeli Civil Administration. This year the same parties are renewing their efforts to destroy most of the homes in the village, threatening the homes and livestock of more than three hundred men, women and children. Dialog with the residents has been cut off and this devastating process has begun all over again.

On August 1, the Israeli Supreme Court passed responsibility for the decision to demolish to Israel’s right wing defense minister Avigdor Liebermann giving him two weeks to make his position clear. The situation is urgent. To allow the expulsions and demolitions that were curtailed last year to happen this year would severely limit the chances of any peace negotiations. It would suggest that the West has been distracted from the goal of peace in the Middle East and that Palestinian rights and human rights in general are only momentary concerns. I ask you, my representative [in Congress/the European Community or otherwise as applicable] to apply pressure on the Israeli government and urge your colleagues to do so as well.

[your signature, address, etc. as applicable]

Please add further suggestions for action in comments to this post.

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all photographs © Margaret Olin 2016

A Hot Field in Hebron: Ta’ayush and the Gleaners

Jon Simons has gracefully woven the pastoral and rather romantic image of gleaners (think of Agnes Varda) and its tie to the recent holiday of Shavuot into his discussion of this activity that took place last weekend by Ta’ayush. But of course, it was not Shavuot but rather a harvest-time Shabbat when settlers felt an urgent need to pray on a Palestinian field. Something similar happened last year. My friends whose Ta’ayush activity took them here at harvest time recounted how the settlers prayed under a canopy in the middle of the field where they were working. Soldiers who surrounded the worshippers declared the area off limits to Palestinians. In these routine practices of everyday intimidation settlers, with the cooperation of soldiers, put performative and otherwise visual religious practices – here routine praying on Shabbat, elsewhere the construction of eruv borders (see here), – to use in the service of land expropriation. It is one of the more sobering of common sights. It is also highly photographable. Perhaps next year I will be able to portray this religious practice in photographs. Even better, perhaps next year it will not happen and the lovely vision that Simons evokes at the end of his essay will have come to pass.

Picturing Peace

On one of Saturday’s weekly activities by Ta’ayush in the South Hebron Hills area, nothing dramatic happened. Neither settlers nor soldiers used direct physical violence, and nobody got arrested. And yet, a lot was happening, a set of connected features of settlement, military rule and the symbiosis between them that characterise the banality of the injustice of occupation.

For once, I would have wished to get up earlier, as by the time the van load of seven Ta’ayush volunteers arrived from Jerusalem to Abu Anan’s house on the outskirts of Hebron, it was already hot. It didn’t help that (on instructions from above) the guard at the road entrance to Kiryat Arba hadn’t let us through, forcing us to find a different, longer route.

The police station above Abu Anan's field. The police station above Abu Anan’s field.

Abu Anan lives in a difficult neighbourhood, sandwiched between the settlement of Givat Ha’avot and Kiryat Arba, and overlooked by…

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Germany’s Open Door Policy (padlocked)*

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A few days ago the New York Times published an article about the German pavilion at the Venice Architectural Biennale. This year the theme was Germany’s open borders; its heartfelt welcome to refugees; and consequent social changes. You may read it here. The exhibition represents open borders by cutting openings into its building. The pavilion’s website provides access to a database of projects for housing the new refugees who are pouring into the country in record numbers. Yet the reviewer notices that “Absent from the database are the voices of refugees or meaningful consideration of what it feels like to live in these spaces, something the curators acknowledge, but attribute partly to the fast-changing situation on the ground.”

The problem of housing the refugees, providing them with a permanent status and a way to seek work and education did not begin with the present crisis, however, as the curators of the Biennale well knew. The country is already crowded with thousands of refugees immobilized by bureaucracy, prevented from working, and isolated from society in facilities that the refugees refer to with the loaded German term “Lager.”

In the pavilion, you will find a selection of photographs by Stefanie Schulz, a young photographer with whom I had the honor of sharing an exhibition, “The Waiting Rooms of History.” The exhibition, at the Kunstverein Paderborn, is open until June 6, 2016. For a year, Stefanie followed refugees in a camp at Lebach. Originally intended as a first admittance facility for brief sojourns of a few months, the camp instead devolved into a long-term residence where some refugees have spent as much as fourteen years. Those who were born here are growing up knowing no other home. While her intimate portraits (you may view some here), do not substitute for voices from refugees themselves, they offer a glimpse into lives in stasis and contradict the idealized vision of Germany’s open arms and heart cherished by many on my side of the Atlantic. Her title “Duldung” means “tolerated” with the connotation of “but just barely,” or “endured.” It is the official status inscribed on refugee’s identity cards until they acquire permanent status – if they do. The feeling goes both ways. The refugees barely tolerate the stasis in which they are forced to live. Duldung is better than nicht geduldet (not tolerated), but in no way does the term mean “welcome.”

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Oranienplatz. No remnants of the demonstration remain today.

I visited a refugee in Berlin who has lived for more than three years in a facility in an abandoned school. In 2012, refugee activists themselves occupied the Oranienplatz, a square in the Kreuzberg neighborhood in central Berlin, where they camped out in tents and then wooden huts. The activists were eventually evicted from Oranienplatz; the tents demolished. The activist artist group Bewegung Nurr, built “the house with 28 doors,” a gathering place and resource center. Activists continued to meet there until March, 2015, when arsonists burnt it down.

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Late in 2012, some of the activists occupied the nearby Gerhardt Hauptmann School on Ohlauer Strasse. The plan was to live there and create a refugee center with facilities for workshops in music, theater and crafts. The refugees demanded access to German lessons, the job market, and education as well as an increased period of “Duldung.” There were several attempts to evict them and many left. But the refugees remaining in the school ultimately won a court order allowing them to stay and for now they remain.

Only residents may enter and leave the building. The ritual of locking and unlocking is repeated interminably. The guard rises from a chair

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or leaves the guardhouse

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unlocks the gate, locks it up again, and returns to his place.

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The rationale for the guards and the padlock is that they protect the residents from skinheads who would break in and attack them. They also protect the residents from visits by journalists, educators, and friends.

The police were adept at dodging the camera. If I return long enough to become better acquainted I will photograph the resident activist I met there.

But for now, a portrait of a wary padlock will have to do.

All photographs and texts © Margaret Olin, 2016.

 

20160525-IMG_5949-2crp*Thanks to Gregor Wendler for introducing me to the  Ohlauer Schule, Oranienplatz and other significant sites for refugees in Kreuzberg.