“No one is purely one thing: Our Resistance is Our Identity!”
“The unresolved plight of the Palestinians speaks directly of undomesticated cause and rebellious people paying a very heavy price for their resistance,” says Edward Said in Movements and Migrations (P 327)
What is this heavy price Said is talking about? Is it “paying for wars”? Or is it the “detachment of someone whose homeland is sweet, but where actual condition makes it impossible to recapture that sweetness”? Why should people pay these prices? What is the right price? Or the real question is their a right price people should pay for their resistance? What should people pay for their resistance?
This is the case in all of Palestine we are always paying a high price, mostly, for just being Palestinians and living in this land. But two special cases that I want to focus on are, Battir along with Turmousayya and their inhabitants’ identities.
From wandering around in Battir, the urbanized identity of its land and people is depending on irrigation and farming. It is obvious that the inhabitants of Battir are not rich. Their homes are simple. Most of them are probably built before 1948, but nonetheless there are new houses with the character of the new urbanized houses; the houses with characteristic of latest designs and materials.
As for the people, they are farmers and villagers. The old people still wear our traditional clothes and the new generations wear “the new ‘widespread’ clothes”; which are not part of the Palestinian culture, the clothes of the standardized and globalized world.
Yet, the most important character that actually defines people living in Battir is their resistance and adapting to the awfully unfair Israeli actions. They still go and farm their lands that Israel claims they belong to them. They went to courts and got special orders so they can farm the land.
The question that follows, is “living in an atmosphere of permanent crises” worth paying one’s life or one’s “real bond with one’s native place” to have a new atmosphere of uncertainty that is independence or even freedom? Would this new atmosphere be better than the old one? And insofar as it would what will happen to the people who will soon “exist between the old and the new”
People who exist between the old and the new, who has to exist between a culture that is thousands of years old and a culture which is 200 years old, those are the people of Turmousayya, who live between Palestine and United States of America. Turmousayyans (people for Turmousayya) have to travel back and forth between Palestine and the United States. They are constantly moving between the two places. They would spend the whole year in America and in the summer they come back to the other half of their homeland. For I cannot call Palestine neither America their homeland; rather it is the combination of both. In Identity Blues, Ien Ang writes, “People fear that they might become ‘strangers in their own land- which is another way of saying that they fear that ‘others’ will ‘take over’ the country.” (P10) The matter of ‘others taking over the country’ is not the only issue but rather it is losing their identity, not belonging, and “being caught between the structures.” The fear of becoming an “infinite strangers”. After all, what is worse than not knowing who you are, not belonging to a place, and being caught in a “between place”?
There is a special bound between Palestinians and their land. They fear that the lost of land will mean the loss of their own existence. Palestinians’ struggle was always, and still is, bound up with the land. “There is a need to face up- to rather than simply deny- people’s need for attachment of some sort, whether through place or anything else.” Belonging to a place or a nationality can be one of the simplest identities people defined themselves by. “An adequately progressive sense of place, one which would fit in with the current global-local times and the feelings and relations they give rise to.”
The identity of Turmousayya is simply people living in two countries and sacrificing the loss of both cultures, but at the same time enjoying the advantages of having multicultural minds. Resistance is constant and determined efforts that sweep all obstacles which we face daily and for the people of Turmousayya, it can be best defined by their multinational citizenships and their adjustment for two different, opposite, ways of living.
As for their nationality, perhaps it can be best explained by Ang, “it is not to be defined in terms of ‘identity’ at all, but as a problematic process: the national is to be defined not in terms of the formulation of a positive ‘common culture’ or ‘cohesive community’ but as the unending, day-to-day hard work of managing and negotiation differences, the practical working out of shared procedures and codes of coexistence, conciliation and mutual recognition.” (9)
Identity will always be mystical for all of us. ‘No one is purely one thing!” as Said says it. And we will never be able to define ourselves justly. The only thing we can do is to concern ourselves with ‘what we might become’ rather than ‘who we are’, and ‘what we can do’ rather than ‘what is done for us’. “Identity- that is the way we represent and narrativize ourselves to ourselves and to others- to be a resource of hope, to be the site of agency and attachment that energizes us to participate in the making of our own ongoing history.”
I consider what is going on in Palestine as a search of identity with respect to becoming not being. People of both towns, Battir and Turmosayya, choose to attach themselves to our land and choose to make our own ongoing history. I think this is what Said meant when he talked about ‘resistance’. Resistance is how we choose to see ourselves and what we choose to attach ourselves to. And even though the people of Battir and Turmosayya chose to represent themselves differently, they are both considered natives and are both resisting.
I never considered asking myself, 'who am I and what is my identity?' I only thought of this question when I wrote this paper. Who am I? I am a Palestinian. What on earth is this suppose to mean? What is a Palestinian? And why do we put a great deal of meaning into being Palestinian? What is so great about being Palestinian? Is it the fact that you get killed for just being called Palestinian? Or is the fact that you have to stand on a checkpoint for 5 hours? Or that you have to be separated from your family by a wall? Or that your dad, mom, sister, brother, you name it, is a martyr? Or that you live in a contained camp? Or being randomly selected for inspection? Or that you have to be strong all the time? Or that you can never ever be normal? You tell me reader, what is so special about Palestinians?
I might be speaking out of anger, out of pressure and despair, and out of challenge. But I know deep down, and on the surface of my soul, I know that I am blessed by being Palestinian. I mean after all I know I would not be who I am now without the “fact” that I am Palestinian. If I was not Palestinian, I would not be strong, I would not be “me” and I would not be normal! Yes, I said it, to be “normal”. Normal in the sense that we are not exposed to any other ways of living, we simply take it for granted and continue with what we have. And after all what is normal and what is not? And I have always asked myself and thought about the fact, which if I never existed in such a situation; if I was never born Palestinian and had to suffer the way we do, would my life even be worth living? I do not think so.
As Mahmoud Darwish said:
“We have on this earth what makes life worth living:
On this earth, the lady of Earth
Mother of all beginnings and ends
She was called Palestine
Her name later became Palestine
My lady, because you are my lady
I deserve life!”
I lived in the United States and I saw what people of the world call, “normal life”. I felt that it was pointless and I felt that it was even ‘up normal’, unusual. Again our concept of what is normal and what is not is related to what we are used to live and see. It is probably because I am used to actions, I got caught up in the system of fighting; that I cannot imagine my life without it. I also thought about what will happen if Palestine was freed. What will happen then? Are we ready for “freedom”? I do not know who I am! Do I want to know who I am? No. Do I need to know who I am? Again no.
The question of who I am has no answer, how do I define myself? I do not care how others define me and besides I am not one thing and I guess that I have the idea that if I try to define who I am I will lose a lot and I will always forget and leave something out.
Walking around in Battir and Tourmousayya I discovered that we are all connected. We all share in one way or another; the same fears and pleasures, the sadness and happiness, the suspicions and assurances and most importantly just as King Albert II said it, “One single vision fills all our minds: that of our independence endangered. One single duty imposes itself upon our wills: the duty of stubborn resistance.” Our identity is our resistance. We all have different ways of resisting and our identity is complex yet we are all Palestinians.
Monday, May 24, 2010
No One is Purely One Thing! - Second Draft
“No one is purely one thing!”
“The unresolved plight of the Palestinians speaks directly of undomesticated cause and rebellious people paying a very heavy price for their resistance,” says Edward Said in Movements and Migrations (P 327)
What is this heavy price Said is talking about? Is it “paying for wars”? Or is it the “detachment of someone whose homeland is sweet, but where actual condition makes it impossible to recapture that sweetness”? Why should people pay these prices? What is the right price? Or the real question is their a right price people should pay for their resistance? What should people pay for their resistance?
This is the case in all Palestine we are always paying a high price, mostly, for just being Palestinians and living in this land. But two special cases that I want to focus on are, Battir alongside with Turmousayya and their inhabitants’ identities.
From wandering around in Battir, the urbanized identity of its land and people is depending on irrigation and farming. It is obvious that the inhabitants of Battir are not rich. Their homes are simple most of them are probably built before 1948, but nonetheless there are new houses with the character of “the new urbanized houses”. As for the people, they are farmers and villagers. The old people still wear our traditional clothes and the new generations wear “the new ‘widespread’ clothes”.
Yet their most important character that actually ‘defines’ people living in Battir is their resistance and adapting to the awfully, unrealistic Israeli actions. They still go and farm their lands that Israel claims they belong to them. They went to courts and got special orders so they can farm them.
But the question that follows, is “living in an atmosphere of permanent crises” worth paying one’s life or one’s “real bond with one’s native place” to have a new atmosphere of uncertainty that is independence or even ‘freedom’? Would this “new atmosphere” be better than the old one? And insofar what will happen to the people who will soon “exist between the old and the new”?
People who exist between the old and the new are the people of Turmousayya, who live between Palestine and United States of America. In Identity Blues, Ien Ang writes, “People fear that they might become ‘strangers in their own land- which is another way of saying that they fear that ‘others’ will ‘take over’ the country.” (P10) The matter of ‘others taking over the country’ is not the case anymore, but rather it is losing their identity, not belonging, and “being caught between the structures.” The fear of becoming an “infinite strangers”. After all what is worse than not knowing who you are, not belonging to a place, and being caught in a “between place”?
“There is a need to face up- to rather than simply deny- people’s need for attachment of some sort, whether through place or anything else.” Belonging to a place or a nationality can be one of the simplest identities people defined themselves by. “An adequately progressive sense of place, one which would fit in with the current global-local times and the feelings and relations they give rise to.”
The identity of Turmousayya’s people is simply people living in two countries and scarifying the loss of culture on both sides, but at the same time enjoying the advantages of having multicultural minds. As for the resistance of the people of Turmousayya, it can be best defined as their multinational ships and their adjustment for two different, opposite, ways of living.
As for their nationality, perhaps “it is not to be defined in terms of ‘identity’ at all, but as a problematic process: the national is to be defined not in terms of the formulation of a positive ‘common culture’ or ‘cohesive community’ but as the unending, day-to-day hard work of managing and negotiation differences, the practical working out of shared procedures and codes of coexistence, conciliation and mutual recognition.” (Identity Blues, Ien Ang, p9)
Identity will always be a mystical for all of us. ‘No one is purely one thing!” as Said says it. And we will never be able to define ourselves justly. The only thing we can do is to concern ourselves of ‘what we might become’ rather than ‘who we are’, and ‘what we can do’ rather than ‘what is done for us’. “Identity- that is the way we represent and narrativize ourselves to ourselves and to others- to be a resource of hope, to be the site of agency and attachment that energizes us to participate in the making of our own ongoing history.”
I consider what is going on in Palestine as a search of identity with respect to becoming not being. People of both towns, Battir and Turmosayya choose to attach themselves to our land and choose to make our own ongoing history. I think this is what Said meant when he talked about ‘resistance’. Resistance is how we choose to see ourselves and what we choose to attach ourselves to. And even though the people of Battir and Turmosayya chose to represent themselves differently, they are both considered natives and are both resisting.
I never considered asking myself, who am I and what is my identity? I only thought of this question when I wrote this paper. Who am I? I am a Palestinian. What on earth does this suppose to mean? What is a Palestinian? And why do we put a great deal over being Palestinian? What is so great about being Palestinian? Is it the fact that you get killed for just being called Palestinian? Or is the fact that you have to stand on a checkpoint for 5 hours? Or that you have to be separated from your family with a wall? Or your dad, mom, sister, brother, you name it, is a martyr? Or that you live in a contained camp? Or being randomly selected for inspection? Or that you have to be strong all the time? Or that you can never ever be normal? You tell me reader, what is so special about Palestinians?
I might be speaking out of anger, out of pressure and despair and out of challenge. But I know deep down, and on the surface of my soul, I know that I am blessed of being Palestinian. I mean after all I know I would not be who I am now without the “fact” that I am Palestinian. If I was not Palestinian, I would not be strong, I would not be “me” and I would not be normal! Yes, I said it, to be “normal”.
After all what is normal and what is not? And I have always asked myself and thought about the fact, that if I never existed in such a situation would my life even be worth living? I do not think so.
As Mahmoud Darwish said:
“We have on this earth what makes life worth living:
On this earth, the lady of Earth
Mother of all beginnings and ends
She was called Palestine
Her name later became Palestine
My lady, because you are my lady
I deserve life!”
I lived in the States and I saw what people of the world call, “normal life”. I felt that it was pointless. It is probably because I am used to actions, I got caught up in the system of resisting; that I can not imagine my life without it. I also thought about what will happen if Palestine was freed. What will happen then? Are we ready for “freedom”? I do not know who I am! Do I want to know who I am? No. Do I need to know who I am? Again No.
The question of who I am has no answer, how do I define myself? I do not, I do not care how others define me and besides I am not one thing and I guess that I have the idea that if I try to define who I am I will lose a lot and I will always forget and leave something out.
“The unresolved plight of the Palestinians speaks directly of undomesticated cause and rebellious people paying a very heavy price for their resistance,” says Edward Said in Movements and Migrations (P 327)
What is this heavy price Said is talking about? Is it “paying for wars”? Or is it the “detachment of someone whose homeland is sweet, but where actual condition makes it impossible to recapture that sweetness”? Why should people pay these prices? What is the right price? Or the real question is their a right price people should pay for their resistance? What should people pay for their resistance?
This is the case in all Palestine we are always paying a high price, mostly, for just being Palestinians and living in this land. But two special cases that I want to focus on are, Battir alongside with Turmousayya and their inhabitants’ identities.
From wandering around in Battir, the urbanized identity of its land and people is depending on irrigation and farming. It is obvious that the inhabitants of Battir are not rich. Their homes are simple most of them are probably built before 1948, but nonetheless there are new houses with the character of “the new urbanized houses”. As for the people, they are farmers and villagers. The old people still wear our traditional clothes and the new generations wear “the new ‘widespread’ clothes”.
Yet their most important character that actually ‘defines’ people living in Battir is their resistance and adapting to the awfully, unrealistic Israeli actions. They still go and farm their lands that Israel claims they belong to them. They went to courts and got special orders so they can farm them.
But the question that follows, is “living in an atmosphere of permanent crises” worth paying one’s life or one’s “real bond with one’s native place” to have a new atmosphere of uncertainty that is independence or even ‘freedom’? Would this “new atmosphere” be better than the old one? And insofar what will happen to the people who will soon “exist between the old and the new”?
People who exist between the old and the new are the people of Turmousayya, who live between Palestine and United States of America. In Identity Blues, Ien Ang writes, “People fear that they might become ‘strangers in their own land- which is another way of saying that they fear that ‘others’ will ‘take over’ the country.” (P10) The matter of ‘others taking over the country’ is not the case anymore, but rather it is losing their identity, not belonging, and “being caught between the structures.” The fear of becoming an “infinite strangers”. After all what is worse than not knowing who you are, not belonging to a place, and being caught in a “between place”?
“There is a need to face up- to rather than simply deny- people’s need for attachment of some sort, whether through place or anything else.” Belonging to a place or a nationality can be one of the simplest identities people defined themselves by. “An adequately progressive sense of place, one which would fit in with the current global-local times and the feelings and relations they give rise to.”
The identity of Turmousayya’s people is simply people living in two countries and scarifying the loss of culture on both sides, but at the same time enjoying the advantages of having multicultural minds. As for the resistance of the people of Turmousayya, it can be best defined as their multinational ships and their adjustment for two different, opposite, ways of living.
As for their nationality, perhaps “it is not to be defined in terms of ‘identity’ at all, but as a problematic process: the national is to be defined not in terms of the formulation of a positive ‘common culture’ or ‘cohesive community’ but as the unending, day-to-day hard work of managing and negotiation differences, the practical working out of shared procedures and codes of coexistence, conciliation and mutual recognition.” (Identity Blues, Ien Ang, p9)
Identity will always be a mystical for all of us. ‘No one is purely one thing!” as Said says it. And we will never be able to define ourselves justly. The only thing we can do is to concern ourselves of ‘what we might become’ rather than ‘who we are’, and ‘what we can do’ rather than ‘what is done for us’. “Identity- that is the way we represent and narrativize ourselves to ourselves and to others- to be a resource of hope, to be the site of agency and attachment that energizes us to participate in the making of our own ongoing history.”
I consider what is going on in Palestine as a search of identity with respect to becoming not being. People of both towns, Battir and Turmosayya choose to attach themselves to our land and choose to make our own ongoing history. I think this is what Said meant when he talked about ‘resistance’. Resistance is how we choose to see ourselves and what we choose to attach ourselves to. And even though the people of Battir and Turmosayya chose to represent themselves differently, they are both considered natives and are both resisting.
I never considered asking myself, who am I and what is my identity? I only thought of this question when I wrote this paper. Who am I? I am a Palestinian. What on earth does this suppose to mean? What is a Palestinian? And why do we put a great deal over being Palestinian? What is so great about being Palestinian? Is it the fact that you get killed for just being called Palestinian? Or is the fact that you have to stand on a checkpoint for 5 hours? Or that you have to be separated from your family with a wall? Or your dad, mom, sister, brother, you name it, is a martyr? Or that you live in a contained camp? Or being randomly selected for inspection? Or that you have to be strong all the time? Or that you can never ever be normal? You tell me reader, what is so special about Palestinians?
I might be speaking out of anger, out of pressure and despair and out of challenge. But I know deep down, and on the surface of my soul, I know that I am blessed of being Palestinian. I mean after all I know I would not be who I am now without the “fact” that I am Palestinian. If I was not Palestinian, I would not be strong, I would not be “me” and I would not be normal! Yes, I said it, to be “normal”.
After all what is normal and what is not? And I have always asked myself and thought about the fact, that if I never existed in such a situation would my life even be worth living? I do not think so.
As Mahmoud Darwish said:
“We have on this earth what makes life worth living:
On this earth, the lady of Earth
Mother of all beginnings and ends
She was called Palestine
Her name later became Palestine
My lady, because you are my lady
I deserve life!”
I lived in the States and I saw what people of the world call, “normal life”. I felt that it was pointless. It is probably because I am used to actions, I got caught up in the system of resisting; that I can not imagine my life without it. I also thought about what will happen if Palestine was freed. What will happen then? Are we ready for “freedom”? I do not know who I am! Do I want to know who I am? No. Do I need to know who I am? Again No.
The question of who I am has no answer, how do I define myself? I do not, I do not care how others define me and besides I am not one thing and I guess that I have the idea that if I try to define who I am I will lose a lot and I will always forget and leave something out.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
‘No one is purely one thing!’-final paper(1st Draft)
“The unresolved plight of the Palestinians speaks directly of undomesticated cause and rebellious people paying a very heavy price for their resistance,” says Edward Said in Movements and Migrations (P 327)
What is this heavy price Said is talking about? Is it “paying for wars”? Or is it the “detachment of someone whose homeland is sweet, but where actual condition makes it impossible to recapture that sweetness”? Why should people pay these prices? What is the right price? Or the real question is their a right price people should pay for their resistance?
This is the case in all Palestine we are always paying a high price, mostly, for just being Palestinians and living in this land. But two special cases that I want to focus on are, Battir alongside with Turmousayya and their inhabitants’ identities.
From wandering around in Battir, the urbanized identity of its land and people is depending on irrigation and farming. It is obvious that the inhabitants of Battir are not rich. Their homes are simple most of them are probably built before 1948, but nonetheless there are new houses with the character of “the new urbanized houses”. As for the people, they are farmers and villagers. The old people still wear our traditional clothes and the new generations wear “the new ‘widespread’ clothes”.
Yet their most important character that actually ‘defines’ people living in Battir is their resistance and adapting to the awfully, unrealistic Israeli actions. They still go and farm their lands that Israel claims they belong to them. They went to courts and got special orders so they can farm them.
But the question that follows, is “living in an atmosphere of permanent crises” worth paying one’s life or one’s “real bond with one’s native place” to have a new atmosphere of uncertainty that is independence or even ‘freedom’? Would this “new atmosphere” be better than the old one? And insofar what will happen to the people who will soon “exist between the old and the new”?
People who exist between the old and the new are the people of Turmousayya, who live between Palestine and United States of America. In Identity Blues, Ien Ang writes, “People fear that they might become ‘strangers in their own land- which is another way of saying that they fear that ‘others’ will ‘take over’ the country.” (P10) The matter of ‘others taking over the country’ is not the case anymore, but rather it is losing their identity, not belonging, and “being caught between the structures.” The fear of becoming an “infinite strangers”. After all what is worse than not knowing who you are, not belonging to a place, and being caught in a “between place”?
“There is a need to face up- to rather than simply deny- people’s need for attachment of some sort, whether through place or anything else.” Belonging to a place or a nationality can be one of the simplest identities people defined themselves by. “An adequately progressive sense of place, one which would fit in with the current global-local times and the feelings and relations they give rise to.”
The identity of Turmousayya’s people is simply people living in two countries and scarifying the loss of culture on both sides, but at the same time enjoying the advantages of having multicultural minds. As for the resistance of the people of Turmousayya, it can be best defined as their multinational ships and their adjustment for two different, opposite, ways of living.
As for their nationality, perhaps “it is not to be defined in terms of ‘identity’ at all, but as a problematic process: the national is to be defined not in terms of the formulation of a positive ‘common culture’ or ‘cohesive community’ but as the unending, day-to-day hard work of managing and negotiation differences, the practical working out of shared procedures and codes of coexistence, conciliation and mutual recognition.” (Identity Blues, Ien Ang, p9)
Identity will always be a mystical for all of us. ‘No one is purely one thing!” as Said says it. And we will never be able to define ourselves justly. The only thing we can do is to concern ourselves of ‘what we might become’ rather than ‘who we are’, and ‘what we can do’ rather than ‘what is done for us’. “Identity- that is the way we represent and narrativize ourselves to ourselves and to others- to be a resource of hope, to be the site of agency and attachment that energizes us to participate in the making of our own ongoing history.”
I consider what is going on in Palestine as a search of identity with respect to becoming not being. People of both towns, Battir and Turmosayya choose to attach themselves to our land and choose to make our own ongoing history. I think this is what Said meant when he talked about ‘resistance’. Resistance is how we choose to see ourselves and what we choose to attach ourselves to. And even though the people of Battir and Turmosayya chose to represent themselves differently, they are both considered natives and are both resisting.
What is this heavy price Said is talking about? Is it “paying for wars”? Or is it the “detachment of someone whose homeland is sweet, but where actual condition makes it impossible to recapture that sweetness”? Why should people pay these prices? What is the right price? Or the real question is their a right price people should pay for their resistance?
This is the case in all Palestine we are always paying a high price, mostly, for just being Palestinians and living in this land. But two special cases that I want to focus on are, Battir alongside with Turmousayya and their inhabitants’ identities.
From wandering around in Battir, the urbanized identity of its land and people is depending on irrigation and farming. It is obvious that the inhabitants of Battir are not rich. Their homes are simple most of them are probably built before 1948, but nonetheless there are new houses with the character of “the new urbanized houses”. As for the people, they are farmers and villagers. The old people still wear our traditional clothes and the new generations wear “the new ‘widespread’ clothes”.
Yet their most important character that actually ‘defines’ people living in Battir is their resistance and adapting to the awfully, unrealistic Israeli actions. They still go and farm their lands that Israel claims they belong to them. They went to courts and got special orders so they can farm them.
But the question that follows, is “living in an atmosphere of permanent crises” worth paying one’s life or one’s “real bond with one’s native place” to have a new atmosphere of uncertainty that is independence or even ‘freedom’? Would this “new atmosphere” be better than the old one? And insofar what will happen to the people who will soon “exist between the old and the new”?
People who exist between the old and the new are the people of Turmousayya, who live between Palestine and United States of America. In Identity Blues, Ien Ang writes, “People fear that they might become ‘strangers in their own land- which is another way of saying that they fear that ‘others’ will ‘take over’ the country.” (P10) The matter of ‘others taking over the country’ is not the case anymore, but rather it is losing their identity, not belonging, and “being caught between the structures.” The fear of becoming an “infinite strangers”. After all what is worse than not knowing who you are, not belonging to a place, and being caught in a “between place”?
“There is a need to face up- to rather than simply deny- people’s need for attachment of some sort, whether through place or anything else.” Belonging to a place or a nationality can be one of the simplest identities people defined themselves by. “An adequately progressive sense of place, one which would fit in with the current global-local times and the feelings and relations they give rise to.”
The identity of Turmousayya’s people is simply people living in two countries and scarifying the loss of culture on both sides, but at the same time enjoying the advantages of having multicultural minds. As for the resistance of the people of Turmousayya, it can be best defined as their multinational ships and their adjustment for two different, opposite, ways of living.
As for their nationality, perhaps “it is not to be defined in terms of ‘identity’ at all, but as a problematic process: the national is to be defined not in terms of the formulation of a positive ‘common culture’ or ‘cohesive community’ but as the unending, day-to-day hard work of managing and negotiation differences, the practical working out of shared procedures and codes of coexistence, conciliation and mutual recognition.” (Identity Blues, Ien Ang, p9)
Identity will always be a mystical for all of us. ‘No one is purely one thing!” as Said says it. And we will never be able to define ourselves justly. The only thing we can do is to concern ourselves of ‘what we might become’ rather than ‘who we are’, and ‘what we can do’ rather than ‘what is done for us’. “Identity- that is the way we represent and narrativize ourselves to ourselves and to others- to be a resource of hope, to be the site of agency and attachment that energizes us to participate in the making of our own ongoing history.”
I consider what is going on in Palestine as a search of identity with respect to becoming not being. People of both towns, Battir and Turmosayya choose to attach themselves to our land and choose to make our own ongoing history. I think this is what Said meant when he talked about ‘resistance’. Resistance is how we choose to see ourselves and what we choose to attach ourselves to. And even though the people of Battir and Turmosayya chose to represent themselves differently, they are both considered natives and are both resisting.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Between the old and new-First Draft
“I have found that life persists in the midst of destruction and therefore there must be a higher law than that of destruction.” (Gandhi. All Men are Brothers.)
Out of destruction Turmousayya came into birth, existed. Out of suffering and years of hard working overseas this town came into living. Who gave birth to it? Hard working Palestinians who were forced to leave their country in order to work and chase a better way of living so that they can eventually after raising enough money come back to their homeland and end their long lasting farness.
The entrance of the town is only 50 years old. It is not that old considering the heritage of Palestine and how old it is. It says one more thing about the natives, that they have not finished their work in the exile. It is such an interesting entrance; on the sides you see palm trees and a big traditional Palestinian coffee pot with a large big beside it. Coffee means you are welcomed, it means come in and have a cup of coffee you are always welcomed. On the two sides were also two unfinished mansions that are being constructed. Their owners are probably in the United States working and earning money to build their mansions and having the joy of every sweat they scarified.
“I feel that I am at war when I am in the US, but here in my country I feel free.” These are the word of Ashraf Ibrahim, our guide. I was surprised by this comment, I mean we are the ones who are actually living a war and suffering under occupation. “I feel free”, so feeling free does not mean being physically free from the oppressors and having no trouble, noise or hard work, it means the ability to be in the midst of all those things and be able to find freedom, dignity and peace inside your heart.
The story of Ashraf is quite similar to the stories of most of the inhabitants/natives of Turmousayya. He left to Palestine to go to Panama, after working in Panama he then immigrated to the United States of America. In the states he worked and now he has the American citizenship. 80% of Turmousayyaans (the name of people who come from Turmousayya) have American citizenship. This town of the multinational ships, the town of learning how to adjust to two different, opposite, ways of living.
Ashraf continued telling us his story. He loves horses. As a result, he decided to start a club in his own town that trains horses and horse riders as well. It is one of the few horse clubs that exist in all Palestine. I see in Ashraf a true Palestinian, not only he thinks what his country can do to him but what he can do for his country.
This town has two different identities, the ‘mixed’ identities of its own people and the ‘mixed’ characters of its buildings. Looking at Turmousayya form a distance, you would only notice the new mansions and houses. But it is a mixture of two of the old and the new, the old houses which have been inherited from old generations and the new houses which have been built by the new generations.
Walking through town I noticed a small shed that seemed to be abandoned. I wandered what it was. The professor noticed that I was looking inside the little shed; he then suggested if we would go and ask what it is from the owner of the house. She was an old lady of about 72 years old. She was so kind to all of us, without even asking she started talking about the house. The shed that I saw was her old store, but now she has a newer and a bigger store. It was the first house that had a second floor in the whole town. Zmzm, the name of the old lady, was so happy talking to us. A smile was on her face the whole time she was talking to us. How relieved I felt, how amazing I thought. We continued our chat with her, she talked about her children and how most of them are in the US, she was so proud talking about them. She invited us to go into her house but we had to keep going with our walk.
Wandering around Turmousayya made me realize how our way of living is shifting to a more urbanized way. And in this shifting we might be forgetting the old way that we had. I can not help myself but to wonder if it is a good or a bad change, from one perspective moving forward and leaving old habits are ‘mostly’ good but on the other hand this can only mean the loss of an ongoing culture. What made me think of this is an old house that was abandoned, left, neglected.
Just because we are moving to a new urbanized way of living that does not mean that we have to leave our culture and abandon our identity and forget who we are.
Out of destruction Turmousayya came into birth, existed. Out of suffering and years of hard working overseas this town came into living. Who gave birth to it? Hard working Palestinians who were forced to leave their country in order to work and chase a better way of living so that they can eventually after raising enough money come back to their homeland and end their long lasting farness.
The entrance of the town is only 50 years old. It is not that old considering the heritage of Palestine and how old it is. It says one more thing about the natives, that they have not finished their work in the exile. It is such an interesting entrance; on the sides you see palm trees and a big traditional Palestinian coffee pot with a large big beside it. Coffee means you are welcomed, it means come in and have a cup of coffee you are always welcomed. On the two sides were also two unfinished mansions that are being constructed. Their owners are probably in the United States working and earning money to build their mansions and having the joy of every sweat they scarified.
“I feel that I am at war when I am in the US, but here in my country I feel free.” These are the word of Ashraf Ibrahim, our guide. I was surprised by this comment, I mean we are the ones who are actually living a war and suffering under occupation. “I feel free”, so feeling free does not mean being physically free from the oppressors and having no trouble, noise or hard work, it means the ability to be in the midst of all those things and be able to find freedom, dignity and peace inside your heart.
The story of Ashraf is quite similar to the stories of most of the inhabitants/natives of Turmousayya. He left to Palestine to go to Panama, after working in Panama he then immigrated to the United States of America. In the states he worked and now he has the American citizenship. 80% of Turmousayyaans (the name of people who come from Turmousayya) have American citizenship. This town of the multinational ships, the town of learning how to adjust to two different, opposite, ways of living.
Ashraf continued telling us his story. He loves horses. As a result, he decided to start a club in his own town that trains horses and horse riders as well. It is one of the few horse clubs that exist in all Palestine. I see in Ashraf a true Palestinian, not only he thinks what his country can do to him but what he can do for his country.
This town has two different identities, the ‘mixed’ identities of its own people and the ‘mixed’ characters of its buildings. Looking at Turmousayya form a distance, you would only notice the new mansions and houses. But it is a mixture of two of the old and the new, the old houses which have been inherited from old generations and the new houses which have been built by the new generations.
Walking through town I noticed a small shed that seemed to be abandoned. I wandered what it was. The professor noticed that I was looking inside the little shed; he then suggested if we would go and ask what it is from the owner of the house. She was an old lady of about 72 years old. She was so kind to all of us, without even asking she started talking about the house. The shed that I saw was her old store, but now she has a newer and a bigger store. It was the first house that had a second floor in the whole town. Zmzm, the name of the old lady, was so happy talking to us. A smile was on her face the whole time she was talking to us. How relieved I felt, how amazing I thought. We continued our chat with her, she talked about her children and how most of them are in the US, she was so proud talking about them. She invited us to go into her house but we had to keep going with our walk.
Wandering around Turmousayya made me realize how our way of living is shifting to a more urbanized way. And in this shifting we might be forgetting the old way that we had. I can not help myself but to wonder if it is a good or a bad change, from one perspective moving forward and leaving old habits are ‘mostly’ good but on the other hand this can only mean the loss of an ongoing culture. What made me think of this is an old house that was abandoned, left, neglected.
Just because we are moving to a new urbanized way of living that does not mean that we have to leave our culture and abandon our identity and forget who we are.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Battir we meet again
I have a special bound with Battir. This is not the first time I have a walk in Battir, but this time it was a lot different for one thing, I was different. The walk did not exactly start in Battir. We started off from Beit Jala, the highest point in Bethlehem near the DCO and descended into Battir valleys. The DCO for me is like a checkpoint after all only Israeli soldiers are founded over there, it was put as a joint project on the borders, one side is an A Area and when we cross the DCO we are in C Area. I remember as I used to go to Hebron with my family in the closure after the second Intifada (revolt) we would pass from it and we would have to come back before 7 o’clock in the evening or else we will not enter Bethlehem and go to our home. Today it is different, it is open all the time, but if the Israeli army wants to siege Bethlehem they will close this point immediately.
From the top of the hill where we were standing, we could see road 60 and the Gilo tunnel that leads to Jerusalem. For me road 60 is the road that connects Bethlehem with Hebron and it is the way I am used to take to go to Hebron, but I truly believe that, “a road makes a scar in the hills but over time that scar heals and becomes absorbed and incorporated” (Shehadeh, Palestinian Walks 170). But on the Israeli side this road acts slightly differently than to us, It is a north-south intercity road in Israel and the West Bank that stretches from Beersheba to Nazareth.[1] And as I saw it over the years, it is the road that bypasses Bethlehem to connect Jerusalem to the Gush Etzion settlement through the Gilo Tunnel, it is called Gilo Tunnel because the tunnel passes under Har Gilo settlement. If we want to go to Battir from Beit Jala we have to pass on road 60, but Israel now has different plans for that. A tunnel is being built to connect Battir with the rest of Bethlehem without us, the Palestinians, having to pass over road 60. It is going to be a completely Israeli road only for the use of settlers and Israelis.
The plan was not to pass on road 60; instead we were going to walk through the hills and wadis of Palestine to reach Battir. Such a long walk, but the beauty of the hills took all the tiredness away. Usually on our walks I am always busy with something else, like we start a subject or a discussion and we all engage in it. This time it was a lot different for me. I decided to cut myself off other students and walk alone. Walking alone made me realize a lot of different things, things appeared different to me. I felt that I have this special relationship with the landscape around me and the need of looking closely to it. I paid attention to some little details I never thought they were worth looking at. I do not believe that these little details were not worth looking it, but probably I never realized that they existed and that little details are what made the obvious and bigger ones so they are more important than any other details.
As we walked along the path, that felt as if it was made and walked on for this purpose, which is for us to have our walk. Everything seemed to be complete; I did not feel that anything was missing. The hills were in sequence, the trees were perfectly placed there, the rocks were in specific positions and the greenery was amazing. The hills were colored with three different shades of the color green, one is light, the other is a little darker and the third is the darkest. The darkest green would be usually surrounded with the one which is almost one degree lighter, and the lightest one was covering most of the landscape. The trees also gave a different touch and view. Even though most of the trees were olives trees, so that is the darkest green, the landscape was not empty of other trees which made the whole landscape more colorful. Along the path when we first started the walk, on one of the hills there were 10 qasers that were placed in different positions. Some of them looked as if they are still inhabited by people, others over the years could not handle all the changes and they were slightly ruined yet they were all still standing.
Moving along the path there were several types of trees almond, olive, carob, cupressus, pine, and oak tress which wild flowers spread through all of them. A flower that brought my attention is bottom palestina, it is a wild flower that only grows in Palestine and has a lot of sprigs that looks like spider web. It has an amazing color, the sprigs are gray and the flowers are dark red. There was another tree that charmed me; it was emerging out of a big rock. I do not know what the name of the plant is and too bad none of my professors was close to me so I can ask him/her about it. This is the strongest kind of trees; the ones that grow within a rock. That tree incorporates me. I want to believe that I am as strong as this tree, or at least wish I was. This tree is different, not only because it is strong, but because “It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. And dreaming, it leaves the city for grove or to a hilltop.” (Khaleel Gibran, The prophet 32) It is free, strong and a challenger of the rock.
Falling twice, once sliding down a little hill and the other time literally rolling down on the ground, this walk was all worth it. I do not feel that I can sum up all the details I saw along my walk. It is more than a few words I can write to describe something and after all, seeing something and writing about it is a whole different thing. But I remember the relief I felt when I got the first glimpse of Battir, especially of the path that we took last time we walked in Battir. This time it even looked much better. Signs of spring and green are starting to show up. The rail way, the fields everything was coming back to me. The view of mountains and hills spread out for miles with the sun glimmering behind the last mountain we can set eyes on as a yellow disk descending into the earth. The colors blended together; orange, red, yellow and green just like a paint drawn by the brushes of the heavens.
With all this beauty, it was hard to choose my favorite part of the sarha, yet I would say that it was the last part. After walking for hours, the plan was to plant different types of trees on a hill in Battir. I, personally, could not resist the temptation; I held an ax and started digging a hole in the ground. With the help of my friend Dua’a, I would dig and she would clean the hole with a shovel. An olive tree was planted. I remember the exact spot of the tree, it was near the edge of the plot and there was a thorn right next to it. The only bad thing that happened to me is to have to wake up next morning with my hands and legs sore, other than that this walk was amazing.
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