On 'The Currency of Lies'

I've mentioned before the necessity of lies in the Palestinian Territories. You lie to get into the country (Israeli border guard: Are you going to the West Bank? You: No! I'm here to see Israel!), you lie to get through checkpoints (Israeli soldier: What are you doing here? You: I'm on a religious pilgrimage) and even when you're just talking to Israelis or Palestinians on the streets, you generally make diplomatic non-answers when asked about your movements. With the Israelis this is because you wish to avoid hostility, and with the Palestinians this is because you want to avoid offence.

I have tried to rise above this. I told the truth to the Israeli border guards at the airport - and got only a one month visa for my honesty. Fortunately, when I went to get the visa extended, I was saved from having to lie outright about what I was doing in the country since the immigration official questioning me obviously wanted to get home and so hardly asked me anything at all. At the checkpoints I have largely avoided questioning, though when I have been asked direct questions I have told the truth, though not the whole truth (Soldier: What are you doing here? Me: Travelling).

But the longer I am here, the more I see how integral lying is to the whole occupation and the more I find myself doing it. I have three different scenarios to demonstrate this.

First Scenario: Don't Side with the Enemy

I was travelling to Tel Aviv with another PAS student, R., who is from Norway. Once we reached Jerusalem we went to Jaffa Road to catch a sherut (shared taxi) to Tel Aviv. We didn't know exactly where they left from and so had to ask several people. One man was kind enough to walk us there. As we turned up the road to where they were parked, we were confronted with flashing lights and loud speakers blasting out instructions in Hebrew - the police had combed the area and were pushing everyone away. As we walked forward a few steps one of the policemen saw us and started yelling and waving us away. The man we were with tried to ask (in Hebrew) what the problem is and whether we could get to the sheruts, but the policeman just yelled something and the man turned round and led us back to Jaffa Road.

'It's a bomb,' he said, 'You know Israel, we have problems with the Arabs.'

He then proceeded to walk with us up to the Central Bus Station so we could catch a bus to Tel Aviv instead, since a sherut was no longer an option. On the way he asked us many questions: Where are we from? What are we doing here? How long have we been here? etc. etc. etc. I weaved a tale in response to his questions: we were backpackers who had been travelling Israel for a month and would return home in about two weeks. I even told him how much the youth hostel I said we stayed in the night before had cost when he asked. R. remained silent so as not to say something that would reveal my tale as the lie it was.

Perhaps I should have told him the truth. Perhaps it was my duty to tell him the truth. But right then and there, I didn't even think about it - the false tale sprang out of my lips before I even knew what I was saying.

As R. said to me afterwards: 'I only lie to the people that I like.' That is, when people are friendly, the last thing you want to do is make them suspicious of you and hostile by telling them you live in Ramallah, which to most Israelis is a city of terrorists.


Second Scenario: Loving a Kibbutz

Three of my friends went for a weekend to a Kibbutz near the borders of Gaza. They had met some young Israelis who were undergoing their military service in the Negev Desert during a visit there and had been invited. They loved it - the peace and tranquility and the welcoming people. When they returned to Ramallah, they told us all about it, how wonderful it was. And they told their Palestinian friends - some of whom have spent time in Israeli prisons (also coincidently in the Negev) and in Israeli interrogation; and some of whom belong to refugee families originally from Israel. My three friends were honest about how the felt about the Kibbutz, but in this situation a bit of restraint would have been better. Several people were upset by what they said, and some where angered.

A Palestinian friend of a friend expressed her position on these situations when she said: 'I don't care if you go to Israel - go to Tel Aviv! You should see both sides. Just don't come back here and tell me how much you liked it, because I don't want to hear it.'


Third Scenario: Access Denied

Last week, a fellow PAS student, R., had to go to Jordan to meet a friend and also renew his Israeli visa, which was running out. He flew back to Tel Aviv Airport from Amman. He was stopped for questioning. He told the truth: that he was an international student at Birzeit. He was put on the next flight back to Amman. He tried to enter by land, through Allenby Bridge, but he was turned around. His embassy couldn't help him (he's American). His Congressman couldn't help him. His lawyer couldn't help him. This is a person who never went to any of the demonstrations while in the West Bank. He is, however, half Palestinian, with family in Jerusalem. Why has he been denied entry? Security? He's nineteen.

Everyone who has lied effectively at the borders has been let in with no problems. Moral of the story?

On the Election

Senator Obama will now be President of the United States!

But what does this mean for the Palestinian Territories?

I hope it means something. All the Palestinians I have spoken with hope it means something, but they don't have their hopes up. Barack Obama has already indicated that he will continue to support Israel, and that's the only policy that Palestinians are interested in.

But let's see.

Passing through the checkpoint

On Sunday I went to Jerusalem and have two snap-shots to share, both involving entering and leaving Jerusalem through Qalandia checkpoint.

The First Snapshot: Too Close for Comfort

I was sitting in the back row of seating on the bus that transports Palestinians between Ramallah and Jerusalem. Beside me was an old man in a grey suit and with a smile that seems to come from the heart. When we reached the checkpoint, I pulled out my passport in anticipation for the Israeli soldiers who check the papers of all commuters entering Jerusalem. The old man beside me looked at the passport.
'Where are you from,' he asked me softly accented English
'Australia,' I replied
'Welcome, welcome' he said, smiling at me.
A soldier entered the bus - a young woman, though perhaps 'a young girl' would be a better description. She was younger than I am and her gun hung loosely to her. Her mannerisms were bored as she scrutinised people's ID cards and papers, taking her time. She reached the back of the bus. As she stood in front of me, the nuzzle of her M16 nudged my legs. I tried to move out of the way but with every movement she made it swung towards me again. I hated the feel of it.

An Afternoon Spent in Jerusalem

Soy cafe latte
Croissant
Cafe culture
Shopping malls
Designer clothing stores
And, of course, proliferation of religious symbolism

The Second Snapshot: Let's Make Them Wait

Once more we approached the checkpoint, this time heading back to Ramallah. Usually vehicles are only stopped and searched while entering Jerusalem, not leaving. Today, however, the Israeli police were stopping cars at random and searching them. But instead of pulling them aside, out of the path of traffic, the police stopped them in front of the other vehicles, holding everyone up. There were three police officers took their time. Five minutes went by, ten minutes... The line of waiting traffic grew and the other passengers on my bus started craning their neck to see what was keeping us. When the police finally finished their search of the vehicle, they stepped back and allowed the traffic to begin to move once more. As we passed them, they were leaning back, lounging against their vehicle, smoking and chatting to each other. One of them looked directly at the people in the passing vehicles.

Ustaazna - Our teacher

Everyone in Palestine has a story of the occupation. These stories are their way of explaining why they think and feel the way they do. Whenever I have spoken with a Palestinian about the occupation and about the potential for some sort of solution they have always given their opinion and then qualified it with a personal anecdote. The occupation is not a political problem, it's a personal problem: kul yoom, kul sea'a ('every day, every hour'). These stories include confrontations with soldiers, arrests without charge, refusals of permission to travel home to Gaza from the West Bank to bury a parent, and a myriad of other injustices and humiliations.

These stories are also weaved into our classes at Birzeit University and this incorporation was especially apparent in my Colloquial Arabic class today.

My experience of studying Arabic in Palestine has been very political. An example of our vocabulary lists: war (Harb), soldier (jundi), borders (huduud), politics (siyaasa), bullets (raSaaS), missile (Saaruukh), terrorist (irhaabi), under occupation (taHt iliHtilaal), the wall (il-jidaar), the army (il-jeesh), refugee (laaji'iin)... And of course: peace (salaam).
One of the first questions I learnt to answer: 'Who hit the student?' (miin darab aT-Taalib?). The answer: 'The soldier.' (al-joondi)

We learn to say 'we want real peace' (bidna salaam Haqiiqii), but our teacher shakes his head sadly: ween salaam? fish salaam huun ('Where's peace? There is no peace here).

Today, ustaazna (our teacher) spoke to us for over half an hour in Arabic, though occasionally clarifying some words in English so we could follow. He told us some of his stories and told us his view and his hopes. I did not catch everything he said, as there were many words I was unfamiliar with, but I understood the greater part of it. I also recognised much of what he said as I had heard it from so many people here before: ana insaan, zay inta insaan ('I am human, like you are human').
And he repeated a common refrain of parents: batmanna fii salaam, mish ashaani, ashaan ibni, ashaan binti ('I hope there is peace, not for me, but for my son, for my daughter.')

At first it seemed strange, and even funny, to my classmates and I that so many words carrying the theme of war were part of the necessary vocabulary for our course. We laughed at how it seemed to be a fulfilment of the stereotype to have us learn such words in Palestine even in a university institution. But as time has gone by here, I have come to realise that the reason why these words made up the foundations of our Arabic study was because these are the words that we absolutely need to know. These words make up the stories people share with us.