Hi everyone,
Blogspot and I are having some irresolvable differences, so I've moved to Wordpress.
attemptinghope.wordpress.com
I've copied and pasted some of my favourite old posts, which are labeled "previous posts".
Thanks for your support,
lilith hope
Monday 26 May 2008
Saturday 24 May 2008
Sesame Street explains War
The makers of the popular children's programme Sesame Street have produced a show that aims to help children deal with one of their parents being sent away to war:
"It is estimated that over 700,00 American chilren have had a parent deployed to fight overseas."
I do not believe that suffering is quantifiable, or measured in numbers. Therefore, even though that figure is far less than the number of Iraqi children both killed or displaced as a result of the American invasion, I still feel that it is a tragedy.
What is also interesting from the excerpts shown here is that the programme is not glorifying serving in the army as something heroic or noble, but rather regrettably inevitable.
"It is estimated that over 700,00 American chilren have had a parent deployed to fight overseas."
I do not believe that suffering is quantifiable, or measured in numbers. Therefore, even though that figure is far less than the number of Iraqi children both killed or displaced as a result of the American invasion, I still feel that it is a tragedy.
What is also interesting from the excerpts shown here is that the programme is not glorifying serving in the army as something heroic or noble, but rather regrettably inevitable.
Inside the battle for Lebanon
"The shooting became much louder and we realised it was coming directly towards our house. We heard my dad yell: "Where are you?" and we opened the door for him. The gunshots, which had been muffled by the door, were suddenly much louder.
My dad limped into the bathroom. We saw that a piece of shrapnel had gone into his leg. He had been lying in bed when a bullet came through the window, ricocheted off the wall and hit him. As he was limping into the bathroom I peeped out of the door and saw that all the windows on the outside of the house had been smashed by gunfire. He came in and we quickly closed the door.
We waited for about 15 minutes. My dad couldn’t take the pain of the bullet, it was really hurting him. We didn’t want to turn on the lights for fear of the people outside seeing and shooting at us. By candlelight, I edged the bullet out of his leg. It wasn’t the whole bullet, just a piece of it, but it had gone into his leg at a 45-degree angle and lodged itself between his skin and muscle. I had to push it from behind to tease it out slowly. Then I cleaned his wound and put a bandage on him."
Great interview with a 12 year-old stuck in the middle of the fighting in Beirut, conducted by one of the city's most up-and-coming journalists, James Goodman.
My dad limped into the bathroom. We saw that a piece of shrapnel had gone into his leg. He had been lying in bed when a bullet came through the window, ricocheted off the wall and hit him. As he was limping into the bathroom I peeped out of the door and saw that all the windows on the outside of the house had been smashed by gunfire. He came in and we quickly closed the door.
We waited for about 15 minutes. My dad couldn’t take the pain of the bullet, it was really hurting him. We didn’t want to turn on the lights for fear of the people outside seeing and shooting at us. By candlelight, I edged the bullet out of his leg. It wasn’t the whole bullet, just a piece of it, but it had gone into his leg at a 45-degree angle and lodged itself between his skin and muscle. I had to push it from behind to tease it out slowly. Then I cleaned his wound and put a bandage on him."
Great interview with a 12 year-old stuck in the middle of the fighting in Beirut, conducted by one of the city's most up-and-coming journalists, James Goodman.
Islamism's false narrative
"A new book challenges the idea that Islamists are the authentic representatives of the earliest Muslims"
Interesting article and ensuing debate.
Interesting article and ensuing debate.
Wednesday 21 May 2008
Goodbye, Hizbullah Café
Ten days ago, the lexical set that dominated descriptions of contemporary Lebanon was ominous in its bleakness. Phrases such as “on the brink of civil war”, “descending into chaos”, “reappearance of masqued gunmen on the streets of the capital” and “the rising casualty toll” riddled media articles about the state of Lebanese affairs. Indeed, rumours were circulating that Hizbullah’s show of force would compel the government to capitulate and resign, prompting apocalyptic predictions that ranged from the imposition of an Iranian-style Shi’a dictatorship to an American/Israeli invasion.
Ten days ago, I sat in the office of a Lebanese colleague as she held her head in her hands and alternated between softly sobbing and angrily cursing the seemingly hopeless state of her nation.
Then two days ago, staff at my work were formally told to return to the office for the first time since the fighting that marred the first week of May 2008. The atmosphere was tense yet excited: while the trauma of the violence had not yet worn off, everyone was nevertheless eager to share their stories about their experiences of the siege of west Beirut, from hiding in bathrooms dodging stray bullets to eating cereal for 5 days straight out of inability to leave the house. Returning to work was itself a marginal return to normality.
And today, whatever remnants of fear that still lingered were swiftly swept away by the monumental breakthrough of the Arab League talks in Qatar, which have been going on for the past five days. They stood there and listened to the official proclamation of the end of the political paralysis that has gripped the country for almost 18 months and claimed more than 80 lives (deaths in recent violence combined with the 7 dead on “Black Sunday” in January 2008, the violence at the Arab university in January 2007 and other similar incidents), aware that five days of negotiations in the air-conditioned comfort of the Doha Sheraton seem almost farcical in the face of destruction caused.
In an announcement that came as unexpectedly as a flash flood, Nabih Berri (Speaker of Parliament and leader of Amal, one of the parties in the opposition coalition) proclaimed the end of the sit-ins that have frozen downtown Beirut since December 2006. At those words, a large portion of my colleague who ahs been watching the statement live from a television in the conference room burst into shouts of joy and congratulation. Our office building sits at the edge of downtown and in the middle of the tents that housed the protesters, and therefore the cessation of the sit-in represented not only an end to the most recent bouts of violence and political deadlock, but a very tangible return to the “good old days” of leisurely lunches in the restaurants downtown and brief strolls in the small park in front of the building; more than anything, a return to not feeling like caged animals.
As I stared out from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the sea of tents hat had defined my working landscape for so long, I remembered the beginning of the demonstration in December 2006, when I was visiting Beirut doing research for my undergraduate thesis. Three Hizbullah MPs and one Free Patriotic Movement (Christian opposition) MP had just left the cabinet in protest about electoral laws and their supporters were mobilized on the streets of downtown Beirut to protest against the government’s uncompromising hegemony. The demonstration was proclaimed to be the “the largest anti-government rally in Lebanon’s history” (Bakri, Nada (2006) ‘Hizbullah smiles on Arab League Plan, but Cabinet stays Quiet’. The Daily Star 12/12/06). On the day when an estimated million Lebanese took to the streets in protest, I was struck by the sense of exhilaration that permeated the air, with entire families out in the streets enthusiastically brandishing yellow (Hizbullah) and orange (FPM) flags; either one always accompanied by the image of the green cedar trapped between two thick, red lines, which I have always felt is an uncannily appropriate flag for the Lebanese nation.
I vividly remember the innumerable groups of youngsters proudly occupying the inside of their makeshift tents at the foot of Hariri’s mosque in Martyr’s Square, smoking shisha pipes and enthusiastic to share their reasons for their presence there, eager to express the reasons behind their revolutionary acts. I remember the contagious sense of conviction that their actions would make a fundamental difference to the misrepresentation that plagues Lebanese confessionalist politics.
Yet when I arrived in Lebanon one year later, December 2007, to start a new job and new life, the impatient magic of a nascent revolution had faded into a stagnant resignation, bred out of the realisation that change cannot miraculously occur through mere idealistic epiphanies, but must forced into being through sheer stubbornness and resilience. Hizbullah and the FPM had maintained their sit-in for a year without making headway in their demands. And as I walked past their encampments every day on my way to my office in downtown, I was always struck by the efficiency and tenacity of their set-up: they had run cables from satellites on a building on the other side of the main highway across the road and into the parking-lot that they occupied, bestowing them with television as entertainment in their seemingly endless task of protest. (By the by, this is not an uncommon process in Lebanon: every few apartment blocks share a single satellite dish and the cables can be seen running between the buildings. Our satellite dish is on our neighbours’s roof). They had porta-potties lined up on one side of the camp, and I never once smelled anything unpleasant from them. You could see the small puffs of smoke emerging from their furnaces in the winter, and after it rained, they would line up their foam mattresses and sleeping bags in the sun to air out and dry.
They also had set up a café on the sidewalk, complete with orange-juicer, coffee machine and comfy if slightly dilapidated sofas, the whole tent-structure topped off with a collage of images of Hassan Nasrallah. I used to call it the “Hizbullah Café”. Every morning I’d exchange greetings with the men who sat outside smoking shisha and drinking coffee while al Manar TV blared in the background, but I was too shy to ever purchase a juice or coffee. Maybe it’s because I never saw a woman there. But anyways, the Hizbullah Café always amused me because despite it being wedged between a tree and a road sign, despite it being made of sheets of tarpaulin slung over a precarious metal frame, it seemed so natural, so not out of place, like some quaint country pub that serves a village faithfully for generations. Furthermore, in the relaxed atmosphere that prevailed there and the politeness of the customers, it was such a welcome contradiction to the stereotypical demonization of Hizbullah supporters as AK7-weilding fundamentalist wackos.
Today, as I came out of my office at three o’clock to walk up the hill back home, I was shocked to see that the Hizbullah Café had gone, and all that was left were a few scattered chairs and a man rearranging crumpled pieces of tarpaulin. Although I had ventured out of the office an hour after Berri’s announcement, around 1pm, to join throngs of random spectators and journalists in watching the tents be dismantled with such unexpected rapidity and efficiency, I did not expect them to have already removed what was, for me, a recurrent passing outsider, the social heart of the protest. I gazed out over the parking lot that was once reminiscent of a fairground because of the small white tents that peaked up throughout it, and now all I could see were piles of foam mattresses and blankets, wooden crates, tables and chairs, various household cooking items, all being gathered up and put into the backs of trucks ready to take them to Goddess knows where.
In a previous post I’ve spoken about the surreal, almost mythological quality to the organization of the opposition, manifested in their swift removal of the roadblocks in Beirut last week. But the speed with which the tents were dismantled surpassed anything I could have expected. I’m still boggled by how, in a matter of a few hours, such a massive amount of manpower and mechanical resources can be coordinated and mobilized in that way. They truly are an Elvin army.
And as I stood there and took in all the commotion around me, all I could think of was that I had never gotten the chance to drink a coffee in the Hizbullah Café. It was there in the morning, and now poof, it was gone forever. While I mulled over a lost opportunity, I also realised that they had removed most of the barbed wire that had been surrounding the camp, leaving a trace of yellow, pebbly earth in between abundant patches of weeds and white and yellow flowers. I walked along that trail, turning to contemplate the TV cameras and satellite-topped vans perched on the bridge overlooking the increasingly empty lots, until I came to where the barbed wire began again. I diverted my path onto the sidewalk, and then stopped in front of another unfulfilled intention.
There, tangled up in the barbed wire, was a ripped Lebanese flag. It has been there for months, and I cannot begin to count how many times I have passed it and thought that that image, that torn, dirty flag enmeshed in rusting jagged metal, was perfectly representative of the state of Lebanon: trapped, broken, faded, but nevertheless persisting, remaining alive, refusing to heed to disintegration. So many times I have told myself to capture that image on a camera, but despite its poignancy, I never have; either not having my camera on me at that moment, or being late for work, or just simply procrastinating that thinking that it will be there for my consumption tomorrow.
This time, I knew very well that the flag would not be there tomorrow, so impulsively I started to untangle it from the barbed wire, gingerly pulling at the frayed material so as not to damage it any further. Afraid that someone might attempt to stop me, as soon as I had wrenched it free I stuffed under my arm and hurried along the road…
I have no doubt that the pessimistic predictions of last week will be turned on their heads, only to be replaced with such dramatic flourishes as “a new era has dawned in Lebanese politics” or “peace finally graces this conflict-ridden land” or some other proclamation. And despite the fact that the forging of an agreement and the scheduled election of a president, in which both sides made concessions and compromises, are no small tasks, I can’t help but being sceptical about how long this seemingly happy ending will last. Not because I’m a cynic or a warmonger or anything, but because the situation in this country changes at such an incomprehensible speed, it’s hard to not to think that the tables won’t turn again unexpectedly. I mean, in the space of 14 days, we have gone from living in a strenuous stalemate, to a loud, scary near-civil war, then back to a healthy, functioning democracy. All that in a mere14 days?!
In the celebrations that will undoubtedly follow the end of the sit-in and the election of a president, what no one must forget is that it was the use of violence that got everyone to this point. Paradoxically, the guns brought the peace. And that is a very, very dangerous precedent, because can a peace achieved through violence last? And how long will it take before another person’s definition of ‘peace’ is to be delivered through the barrel of a gun?
Let us hope for the best, but nevertheless be wary in that hope.
Ten days ago, I sat in the office of a Lebanese colleague as she held her head in her hands and alternated between softly sobbing and angrily cursing the seemingly hopeless state of her nation.
Then two days ago, staff at my work were formally told to return to the office for the first time since the fighting that marred the first week of May 2008. The atmosphere was tense yet excited: while the trauma of the violence had not yet worn off, everyone was nevertheless eager to share their stories about their experiences of the siege of west Beirut, from hiding in bathrooms dodging stray bullets to eating cereal for 5 days straight out of inability to leave the house. Returning to work was itself a marginal return to normality.
And today, whatever remnants of fear that still lingered were swiftly swept away by the monumental breakthrough of the Arab League talks in Qatar, which have been going on for the past five days. They stood there and listened to the official proclamation of the end of the political paralysis that has gripped the country for almost 18 months and claimed more than 80 lives (deaths in recent violence combined with the 7 dead on “Black Sunday” in January 2008, the violence at the Arab university in January 2007 and other similar incidents), aware that five days of negotiations in the air-conditioned comfort of the Doha Sheraton seem almost farcical in the face of destruction caused.
In an announcement that came as unexpectedly as a flash flood, Nabih Berri (Speaker of Parliament and leader of Amal, one of the parties in the opposition coalition) proclaimed the end of the sit-ins that have frozen downtown Beirut since December 2006. At those words, a large portion of my colleague who ahs been watching the statement live from a television in the conference room burst into shouts of joy and congratulation. Our office building sits at the edge of downtown and in the middle of the tents that housed the protesters, and therefore the cessation of the sit-in represented not only an end to the most recent bouts of violence and political deadlock, but a very tangible return to the “good old days” of leisurely lunches in the restaurants downtown and brief strolls in the small park in front of the building; more than anything, a return to not feeling like caged animals.
As I stared out from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the sea of tents hat had defined my working landscape for so long, I remembered the beginning of the demonstration in December 2006, when I was visiting Beirut doing research for my undergraduate thesis. Three Hizbullah MPs and one Free Patriotic Movement (Christian opposition) MP had just left the cabinet in protest about electoral laws and their supporters were mobilized on the streets of downtown Beirut to protest against the government’s uncompromising hegemony. The demonstration was proclaimed to be the “the largest anti-government rally in Lebanon’s history” (Bakri, Nada (2006) ‘Hizbullah smiles on Arab League Plan, but Cabinet stays Quiet’. The Daily Star 12/12/06). On the day when an estimated million Lebanese took to the streets in protest, I was struck by the sense of exhilaration that permeated the air, with entire families out in the streets enthusiastically brandishing yellow (Hizbullah) and orange (FPM) flags; either one always accompanied by the image of the green cedar trapped between two thick, red lines, which I have always felt is an uncannily appropriate flag for the Lebanese nation.
I vividly remember the innumerable groups of youngsters proudly occupying the inside of their makeshift tents at the foot of Hariri’s mosque in Martyr’s Square, smoking shisha pipes and enthusiastic to share their reasons for their presence there, eager to express the reasons behind their revolutionary acts. I remember the contagious sense of conviction that their actions would make a fundamental difference to the misrepresentation that plagues Lebanese confessionalist politics.
Yet when I arrived in Lebanon one year later, December 2007, to start a new job and new life, the impatient magic of a nascent revolution had faded into a stagnant resignation, bred out of the realisation that change cannot miraculously occur through mere idealistic epiphanies, but must forced into being through sheer stubbornness and resilience. Hizbullah and the FPM had maintained their sit-in for a year without making headway in their demands. And as I walked past their encampments every day on my way to my office in downtown, I was always struck by the efficiency and tenacity of their set-up: they had run cables from satellites on a building on the other side of the main highway across the road and into the parking-lot that they occupied, bestowing them with television as entertainment in their seemingly endless task of protest. (By the by, this is not an uncommon process in Lebanon: every few apartment blocks share a single satellite dish and the cables can be seen running between the buildings. Our satellite dish is on our neighbours’s roof). They had porta-potties lined up on one side of the camp, and I never once smelled anything unpleasant from them. You could see the small puffs of smoke emerging from their furnaces in the winter, and after it rained, they would line up their foam mattresses and sleeping bags in the sun to air out and dry.
They also had set up a café on the sidewalk, complete with orange-juicer, coffee machine and comfy if slightly dilapidated sofas, the whole tent-structure topped off with a collage of images of Hassan Nasrallah. I used to call it the “Hizbullah Café”. Every morning I’d exchange greetings with the men who sat outside smoking shisha and drinking coffee while al Manar TV blared in the background, but I was too shy to ever purchase a juice or coffee. Maybe it’s because I never saw a woman there. But anyways, the Hizbullah Café always amused me because despite it being wedged between a tree and a road sign, despite it being made of sheets of tarpaulin slung over a precarious metal frame, it seemed so natural, so not out of place, like some quaint country pub that serves a village faithfully for generations. Furthermore, in the relaxed atmosphere that prevailed there and the politeness of the customers, it was such a welcome contradiction to the stereotypical demonization of Hizbullah supporters as AK7-weilding fundamentalist wackos.
Today, as I came out of my office at three o’clock to walk up the hill back home, I was shocked to see that the Hizbullah Café had gone, and all that was left were a few scattered chairs and a man rearranging crumpled pieces of tarpaulin. Although I had ventured out of the office an hour after Berri’s announcement, around 1pm, to join throngs of random spectators and journalists in watching the tents be dismantled with such unexpected rapidity and efficiency, I did not expect them to have already removed what was, for me, a recurrent passing outsider, the social heart of the protest. I gazed out over the parking lot that was once reminiscent of a fairground because of the small white tents that peaked up throughout it, and now all I could see were piles of foam mattresses and blankets, wooden crates, tables and chairs, various household cooking items, all being gathered up and put into the backs of trucks ready to take them to Goddess knows where.
In a previous post I’ve spoken about the surreal, almost mythological quality to the organization of the opposition, manifested in their swift removal of the roadblocks in Beirut last week. But the speed with which the tents were dismantled surpassed anything I could have expected. I’m still boggled by how, in a matter of a few hours, such a massive amount of manpower and mechanical resources can be coordinated and mobilized in that way. They truly are an Elvin army.
And as I stood there and took in all the commotion around me, all I could think of was that I had never gotten the chance to drink a coffee in the Hizbullah Café. It was there in the morning, and now poof, it was gone forever. While I mulled over a lost opportunity, I also realised that they had removed most of the barbed wire that had been surrounding the camp, leaving a trace of yellow, pebbly earth in between abundant patches of weeds and white and yellow flowers. I walked along that trail, turning to contemplate the TV cameras and satellite-topped vans perched on the bridge overlooking the increasingly empty lots, until I came to where the barbed wire began again. I diverted my path onto the sidewalk, and then stopped in front of another unfulfilled intention.
There, tangled up in the barbed wire, was a ripped Lebanese flag. It has been there for months, and I cannot begin to count how many times I have passed it and thought that that image, that torn, dirty flag enmeshed in rusting jagged metal, was perfectly representative of the state of Lebanon: trapped, broken, faded, but nevertheless persisting, remaining alive, refusing to heed to disintegration. So many times I have told myself to capture that image on a camera, but despite its poignancy, I never have; either not having my camera on me at that moment, or being late for work, or just simply procrastinating that thinking that it will be there for my consumption tomorrow.
This time, I knew very well that the flag would not be there tomorrow, so impulsively I started to untangle it from the barbed wire, gingerly pulling at the frayed material so as not to damage it any further. Afraid that someone might attempt to stop me, as soon as I had wrenched it free I stuffed under my arm and hurried along the road…
I have no doubt that the pessimistic predictions of last week will be turned on their heads, only to be replaced with such dramatic flourishes as “a new era has dawned in Lebanese politics” or “peace finally graces this conflict-ridden land” or some other proclamation. And despite the fact that the forging of an agreement and the scheduled election of a president, in which both sides made concessions and compromises, are no small tasks, I can’t help but being sceptical about how long this seemingly happy ending will last. Not because I’m a cynic or a warmonger or anything, but because the situation in this country changes at such an incomprehensible speed, it’s hard to not to think that the tables won’t turn again unexpectedly. I mean, in the space of 14 days, we have gone from living in a strenuous stalemate, to a loud, scary near-civil war, then back to a healthy, functioning democracy. All that in a mere14 days?!
In the celebrations that will undoubtedly follow the end of the sit-in and the election of a president, what no one must forget is that it was the use of violence that got everyone to this point. Paradoxically, the guns brought the peace. And that is a very, very dangerous precedent, because can a peace achieved through violence last? And how long will it take before another person’s definition of ‘peace’ is to be delivered through the barrel of a gun?
Let us hope for the best, but nevertheless be wary in that hope.
Tuesday 20 May 2008
.
"Representatives from more than 100 countries have gathered at a conference in Dublin, Ireland's capital, in an attempt to agree a global ban on the use of cluster bombs.
However, China, India, Israel, Pakistan, Russia and the United States, all major producers and stockpilers of cluster bombs, are not taking part in the 12-day conference.
The US has said that it favours non-binding guidelines on the use of the weapon. [...]
The US has said that it favours non-binding guidelines on the use of the weapon. [...]
Israel used cluster bombs widely during the 2006 war in Lebanon and many were left behind following a ceasefire between the two countries.
The Cluster Munition Coalition, a network of around 200 civil society organisations aiming at banning the weapons, has said that there were more than 200 civilian casualties in Lebanon in the year after the ceasefire as a result of cluster bombs."
Don't you just seethe at the sheer hypocrisy of it all: on one hand, the US is so critical of the use of force by alleged 'terrorists' (Hizbullah, Hamas, Tamil Tigers etc), but on the other hand they don't even dare to show their faces at a conference that aims to ban once of the most indiscriminate weapons in existence. Now, im not defending the use of force/violence by any of the aforementioned groups, but it pisses me off that on one hand they are immutable in their stance that demonizes and denies negotiating privileges to those who use violence out of desperation, and not those for whom the use of violence is a frivolous afterthought and a method of collective punishment. I really find it sickening.
Don't you just seethe at the sheer hypocrisy of it all: on one hand, the US is so critical of the use of force by alleged 'terrorists' (Hizbullah, Hamas, Tamil Tigers etc), but on the other hand they don't even dare to show their faces at a conference that aims to ban once of the most indiscriminate weapons in existence. Now, im not defending the use of force/violence by any of the aforementioned groups, but it pisses me off that on one hand they are immutable in their stance that demonizes and denies negotiating privileges to those who use violence out of desperation, and not those for whom the use of violence is a frivolous afterthought and a method of collective punishment. I really find it sickening.
Memorycide and self-hating Jews
"Part of any ethnic cleansing operation is not just wiping out the population and expelling it from the earth. A very typical part of ethnic cleansing is wiping people out of history.
For ethnic cleansing to be an effective and successful operation you also have to wipe people out of memory and the Israelis are very good at it. They did it in two ways.
They built Jewish settlements over the Palestinian villages they expelled and quite often gave them names that reflected the Palestinian name as a kind of testimony to the Palestinians that this is totally now in the hands of Israel and there is no chance in the world of bringing the clock backwards.
The other way they did it is planting trees - usually European pine trees - over the ruins of the village and turning the village into recreational spaces where you do exactly the opposite of commemoration - you live the day, you enjoy life, it is all about leisure and pleasure.
That is a very powerful tool for 'memorycide'. In fact, much of the Palestinian effort should have been but was never unfortunately - or only recently began - was to fight against that 'memorycide' by at least bringing back the memory of what happened."
Read more from Ilan Pappe here.
Pappe has been accused by many Israelis and Jews of fabricating historical evidence for his theory of the ethnic cleansing of Palestine (also the title of his most famous book), but has also been revered by many, including the brilliant investigative journalist Seymour Hersh.
The thrust of many arguments against Pappe has been of a sort of 'self-hating Jew' nature: how can any Jew or Israeli rationally criticize the actions of their community/government? Similar to non-Jews against whom the accusation of anti-Semite is leveled as soon as they criticize the state of Israel, Jews who speak out against the mistakes, indeed atrocities, committed by their community are dismissed as pathological self-haters.
There was a very interesting article about that tactic that appeared on the Guardian in March, and I've linked it here because it really is a very insightful read. It was written by Mike Marqusee, an author who has written about everything from boxer Mohammed Ali to the counter culture in the sixties. The link is an excerpt from his most recent book, which is an autobiography. An edited version was posted on the CIF website and generated huge debate.
I find these issues extremely interesting because it makes us realise how strong the drive to silence critics inside Israel is, and how we should therefore be very supportive to those who sacrifice their own reputations, careers and lives for the power of dissidence. In doing so, they consdolidate the anti-Zionist Jew movement, whose voices are necessary and fundamental if the problem of Israel/Palestine is to be resolved.
Friday 16 May 2008
the shoemaker's eleves
And like little mythical creatures that only operate at night, by this morning Hizbullah had removed all the roadblocks in Beirut... The city is back to its normal, noisy, bustling and vibrant self, and i'm sure tonight we will all be celebrating...
Thursday 15 May 2008
Falling Cedars
"I think that people may remember, back in the 1980s, the United States government, for two years in the administration of Ronald Reagan, deployed troops from ’82 to ’84. And there was a civil war, and the United States was supporting the rightwing militias of Israel in Lebanon, and they used the discourse of supporting the central government of Lebanon.
Something similar is taking place right now in Lebanon, and this is very much similar to what’s happening in Sudan, in Palestine, in Iraq, in Afghanistan and Somalia. The United States is basically instigating, funding and arming civil wars in all those places."The wise words of As'ad Abu Khalil, everyone's favourite Angry Arab. For poignant and hilarious analysis of what's happening here, check out his website angryarab.blogspot.com.
Fatah Al Islam: the new Saudi militia in Lebanon
Fatah Islam Will Stand by Beirut's Sunnis if Threatened
"In a statement published by the pan-Arab daily al-Hayat on Thursday under the headline: "Lies and Excuses to Slaughter Sunnis in Lebanon," Fatah al-Islam warned to confront "anybody who wants to bow the heads of our people in Beirut," an indirect reference to the Hizbullah-led opposition."
Also, see "Radical Sunni Groups Emerge to Confront Hizbullah"
Great. Fatah Islam are probably one of the wort things to happen to Lebanon since the Israeli's. They are an Al Qa'ida off shoot who, like leeches, usurp other causes in order to forward their own agenda.
They embedded themselves inside Nahr al Bared, much to the opposition of local residents, lured the Lebanese army in, and therefore directly contributed to the downfall of that camp. (Saying that does not exempt the army from their responsibility in indiscriminate destruction after the fighting had stopped. On one hand, alot of the damage done to the camp was during street-to-street fighting, so Fatah al Islam are responsible for turning Nahr al Bared into a battle-ground. On the other hand, the army are irredeemably responsible for the racist graffiti, the torched houses and the excrement smeared on walls. they both bear significant responsibility.)
They have been causing trouble with their mates Jund ash Sham in other camps, most recently Ain Hilweh.
Even though their founder was a Palestinian, the group is estimated to have "about half a dozen Palestinian members". Which, for the mathematically challenged like myself, is about 6. Most of the members are Syrian, Saudi and Jihadists from Iraq.
Here's a good idea: how about if Bush, during his visit to Saudi in a few days time, tells the Saudi's to stop funding more militias in Lebanon and cease contributing to the destabilization of the situation... Oh, no, silly me, those words are reserved for the SYRIANS! Bad, bad, bad Syrians! Gooooood we-love-your-oil-hang-as-many-people-as-you-want-for-apostasy-and-homosexuality-just-keep-giving-us-oil Saudis...
Too bad there are no known Iranians in Fatah al Islam, because then it would suit Geargie's robotic rhetoric to a T.
"In a statement published by the pan-Arab daily al-Hayat on Thursday under the headline: "Lies and Excuses to Slaughter Sunnis in Lebanon," Fatah al-Islam warned to confront "anybody who wants to bow the heads of our people in Beirut," an indirect reference to the Hizbullah-led opposition."
Also, see "Radical Sunni Groups Emerge to Confront Hizbullah"
Great. Fatah Islam are probably one of the wort things to happen to Lebanon since the Israeli's. They are an Al Qa'ida off shoot who, like leeches, usurp other causes in order to forward their own agenda.
They embedded themselves inside Nahr al Bared, much to the opposition of local residents, lured the Lebanese army in, and therefore directly contributed to the downfall of that camp. (Saying that does not exempt the army from their responsibility in indiscriminate destruction after the fighting had stopped. On one hand, alot of the damage done to the camp was during street-to-street fighting, so Fatah al Islam are responsible for turning Nahr al Bared into a battle-ground. On the other hand, the army are irredeemably responsible for the racist graffiti, the torched houses and the excrement smeared on walls. they both bear significant responsibility.)
They have been causing trouble with their mates Jund ash Sham in other camps, most recently Ain Hilweh.
Even though their founder was a Palestinian, the group is estimated to have "about half a dozen Palestinian members". Which, for the mathematically challenged like myself, is about 6. Most of the members are Syrian, Saudi and Jihadists from Iraq.
Here's a good idea: how about if Bush, during his visit to Saudi in a few days time, tells the Saudi's to stop funding more militias in Lebanon and cease contributing to the destabilization of the situation... Oh, no, silly me, those words are reserved for the SYRIANS! Bad, bad, bad Syrians! Gooooood we-love-your-oil-hang-as-many-people-as-you-want-for-apostasy-and-homosexuality-just-keep-giving-us-oil Saudis...
Too bad there are no known Iranians in Fatah al Islam, because then it would suit Geargie's robotic rhetoric to a T.
i'm thoroughly appalled that there is nothing on the Guardian's website about the events happening all over Palestine to mark the Nakba.
Thank Goddess that Al Jazeera's Focus: 60 Years of Division is there to fill such a shameful omission.
Thank Goddess that Al Jazeera's Focus: 60 Years of Division is there to fill such a shameful omission.
"Officials of the Jewish state will sweep the US president into their own powerful and compelling narrative: The birth of Israel from the ashes of the Holocaust on May 14, 1948, the invasion of the state a day later from Arab armies marching from the north, south, and east and the loss of one per cent of the Jewish state's population in a fierce defence that evokes Israel's unofficial motto - "never again".
What the president will not hear is the Palestinian story.
He will not be told that one side's "War of Independence" is the other side's "Nakba", or "Catastrophe"."
re my last post:
i later realized that the shots i heard were 'celebratory gunfire', a concept that has never ceased to amuse me: if things are going badly, shoot your gun; if things are going well, shoot your gun too!
People were celebrating because, 48 hours after Saad Hariri said that he would not negotiate with a gun to pointed at his head, the government met Hizbullah's demands and revoked it's decisions vis-a-vis the communications network and the airport official.
Hassan Nasrallah is holding a press conference at 4. My tennis match that was scheduled for that time has been canceled because of the anticipated 'celebratory gunfire' (last week a bullet ricocheted through a window and blew out one of the glass panels surrounding the court...).
Obviously, vastly more important than my ruined sports plans is the fact that 'celebratory gunfire' also kills, because of that thing called gravity.
"How many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?"
i later realized that the shots i heard were 'celebratory gunfire', a concept that has never ceased to amuse me: if things are going badly, shoot your gun; if things are going well, shoot your gun too!
People were celebrating because, 48 hours after Saad Hariri said that he would not negotiate with a gun to pointed at his head, the government met Hizbullah's demands and revoked it's decisions vis-a-vis the communications network and the airport official.
Hassan Nasrallah is holding a press conference at 4. My tennis match that was scheduled for that time has been canceled because of the anticipated 'celebratory gunfire' (last week a bullet ricocheted through a window and blew out one of the glass panels surrounding the court...).
Obviously, vastly more important than my ruined sports plans is the fact that 'celebratory gunfire' also kills, because of that thing called gravity.
"How many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?"
just a bad dream?
At 11:30last night, I was woken from my sleep by the now-familiar sound of machine gun fire. In the 5 days since the last bout of shooting, I had forgotten how very, very frightening those sounds are. I jumped out of bed and went into the living room to see if my SO (significant other: term borrowed from the legendary Will Self) was still watching tv. The tv was on, but he was on the balcony listening to the shots. My immediate reaction was to tell him to come inside, to close the shutters and to sit on the ground lest any stray bullets pierce our humble threshold.
The shooting was audibly far away, somewhere down to the left (south west), probably in Ras al Nab’a, and the instinctive, fear-driven impulse to run and hide is conquered by a rational calculation that bullets don’t travel kilometres. But then it started on the right, sounding like it was coming from downtown. “Maybe they’re storming Parliament”, the SO offered. The suddenly, shots rang out much closer, too close for comfort, and we quickly retired behind our minimal barricade, knowing full well that neither wood nor glass stops those deadly shards of metal.
The shooting went on for over an hour, but somehow in the midst of it, I managed to fall asleep again.
This morning I awoke and, once the electricity had resumed from our daily three hour-long power cuts, eagerly flicked on the tv for information about last night’s events. It is weird, because despite my disdain for the mainstream media, I nevertheless compulsively turn to it for some sort of confirmation of what I have witnessed, as if the orderly format of a news bulletin could validate being consumed with an a-rational fear.
But nothing: BBC was screening glory shots of Justine Henin; CNN was debating about the alleged UFO’s in the MOD’s newly released files. Al Jazeera was talking about Palestinian cinema, Al Arabiyya about unemployment demonstrations in Morocco, while local rival Lebanese channels LBC and NBN were showing Lebanese Star Academy and a documentary on the lives of Amazonian Indians respectively.
Great, just the sorts of information that is really useful to me right now in understanding what the hell is going on in this (non-metaphorically) bloody country.
The shooting was audibly far away, somewhere down to the left (south west), probably in Ras al Nab’a, and the instinctive, fear-driven impulse to run and hide is conquered by a rational calculation that bullets don’t travel kilometres. But then it started on the right, sounding like it was coming from downtown. “Maybe they’re storming Parliament”, the SO offered. The suddenly, shots rang out much closer, too close for comfort, and we quickly retired behind our minimal barricade, knowing full well that neither wood nor glass stops those deadly shards of metal.
The shooting went on for over an hour, but somehow in the midst of it, I managed to fall asleep again.
This morning I awoke and, once the electricity had resumed from our daily three hour-long power cuts, eagerly flicked on the tv for information about last night’s events. It is weird, because despite my disdain for the mainstream media, I nevertheless compulsively turn to it for some sort of confirmation of what I have witnessed, as if the orderly format of a news bulletin could validate being consumed with an a-rational fear.
But nothing: BBC was screening glory shots of Justine Henin; CNN was debating about the alleged UFO’s in the MOD’s newly released files. Al Jazeera was talking about Palestinian cinema, Al Arabiyya about unemployment demonstrations in Morocco, while local rival Lebanese channels LBC and NBN were showing Lebanese Star Academy and a documentary on the lives of Amazonian Indians respectively.
Great, just the sorts of information that is really useful to me right now in understanding what the hell is going on in this (non-metaphorically) bloody country.
Wednesday 14 May 2008
Shatila slideshow
At least the Beeb's photographers are making the most out of their time in Beirut. Here is a short-but-(bitter)sweet slideshow about the Shatila refugee camp (where i volunteer teaching after-school classes):
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7398071.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7398071.stm
meanwhile, elsewhere in the world...
“63 dead in Lebanon’s violence”
“China quake toll close to 15,000”
“Over 100,000 estimated dead in the wake of Cyclone Nargis"
As Lebanese politicians continue to ping-pong accusations and ultimatums back and forth, the mothers of hundreds of children trapped under the rubble of a collapsed school building in Sichuan province, China, angrily accuse the government for the tragic fate of their lost kin: "This is not a natural disaster, this is done by humans". Similarly, the headlines over the past week on the Burmese government's refusal to allow foreign aid into its cyclone-stricken country add yet another example to the same phenomenon: men exacerbating the catastrophes of nature (And I say “men” not in some gender-neutral reference to humanity, but regarding those blokes in suits, turbans or military clothing who dominate the orderly, decision-making, responsibility-taking side of the media images of these disasters, while women and children, while their bare feet and faces grotesquely twisted by panic and rage, inhabit the decidedly victim roles in such representations).
So, is there a link between the media headlines that have swamped our screens over the past week, or is it shallow to attempt to forge connections between events that occur in completely different social, economic and political contexts?
Obviously, one cannot offer blanket analysis of such vastly different events. But there are some striking similarities in the ways that they are presented, which, in my opinion, debunks our age to be one of headline consumption rather than meaningful engagement with the tragedies in the world around us:
1) My aforementioned point about the gender-gap in disaster representation, which, while reflecting the systematic lack of female representation in decision-making roles on a global level (and no, this is not a covert plug for Hillary), simultaneously roots them in our minds as the poor, the starving, the crying, the mourning. With such representation rife, how can we ever expect to overcome the status of perpetual victims?
2) The obsession with numbers. Last week’s hundred thousand cyclone death toll is replaced by this week’s tens of thousands earthquake victims. These numbers act to grab our attention as we mutter ‘shit’ under our breaths and voyeuristically scan over the mass suffering of others hundreds of miles away. But these numbers are completely empty, because the mass media’s abuse of them has made them devoid of meaning. What is the difference between 15,000 and 100,000 dead bodies? I have never even seen one dead body, so how am I supposed to meaningfully conceptualise thousands of them? Such a numerical focus makes us think that we should be content in quantifying the suffering in a headline soundbyte; and we can continue in our own minimalism, our own generalizations, our desires to blame anyone and anything, Syria, Iran, Bush, the Gulf Stream, Mao’s south-east Asian communist legacy, climate change. Blame, all of it serving one single purpose: to deflect attention away from our own apathy.
The deal tolls of these tragedies continue to rise by the minute. And next week, there will be a new one to replace them.
“China quake toll close to 15,000”
“Over 100,000 estimated dead in the wake of Cyclone Nargis"
As Lebanese politicians continue to ping-pong accusations and ultimatums back and forth, the mothers of hundreds of children trapped under the rubble of a collapsed school building in Sichuan province, China, angrily accuse the government for the tragic fate of their lost kin: "This is not a natural disaster, this is done by humans". Similarly, the headlines over the past week on the Burmese government's refusal to allow foreign aid into its cyclone-stricken country add yet another example to the same phenomenon: men exacerbating the catastrophes of nature (And I say “men” not in some gender-neutral reference to humanity, but regarding those blokes in suits, turbans or military clothing who dominate the orderly, decision-making, responsibility-taking side of the media images of these disasters, while women and children, while their bare feet and faces grotesquely twisted by panic and rage, inhabit the decidedly victim roles in such representations).
So, is there a link between the media headlines that have swamped our screens over the past week, or is it shallow to attempt to forge connections between events that occur in completely different social, economic and political contexts?
Obviously, one cannot offer blanket analysis of such vastly different events. But there are some striking similarities in the ways that they are presented, which, in my opinion, debunks our age to be one of headline consumption rather than meaningful engagement with the tragedies in the world around us:
1) My aforementioned point about the gender-gap in disaster representation, which, while reflecting the systematic lack of female representation in decision-making roles on a global level (and no, this is not a covert plug for Hillary), simultaneously roots them in our minds as the poor, the starving, the crying, the mourning. With such representation rife, how can we ever expect to overcome the status of perpetual victims?
2) The obsession with numbers. Last week’s hundred thousand cyclone death toll is replaced by this week’s tens of thousands earthquake victims. These numbers act to grab our attention as we mutter ‘shit’ under our breaths and voyeuristically scan over the mass suffering of others hundreds of miles away. But these numbers are completely empty, because the mass media’s abuse of them has made them devoid of meaning. What is the difference between 15,000 and 100,000 dead bodies? I have never even seen one dead body, so how am I supposed to meaningfully conceptualise thousands of them? Such a numerical focus makes us think that we should be content in quantifying the suffering in a headline soundbyte; and we can continue in our own minimalism, our own generalizations, our desires to blame anyone and anything, Syria, Iran, Bush, the Gulf Stream, Mao’s south-east Asian communist legacy, climate change. Blame, all of it serving one single purpose: to deflect attention away from our own apathy.
The deal tolls of these tragedies continue to rise by the minute. And next week, there will be a new one to replace them.
Tuesday 13 May 2008
the army's inferiority complex
I went to Hamra yesterday for the first time since the fighting began last Wednesday. In a single week, the popular main street in west Beirut had been transformed from bustling commercial and social hub to Hizbullah stronghold to ghost town. On a Monday at 5 pm, you would normally spend the most part of 15 minutes stuck in the stifling, fume-ridden air that is Beirut’s daily traffic. But now, all roads west of Damascus Road (better known during the Civil War as the “Green Line” which separated east from west), are completely deserted. It was a Beiruti motorist’s dream: cruising unhindered through quiet, almost-picturesque streets. If it weren’t for the trails of tanks that lined the streets or the army checkpoints every few hundred metres, you would think it was perhaps a Sunday in a quaint northern Mediterranean village, where all the shops shut and people leave the heat of the city for the coolness of the countryside.
I arrived at my friend’s house, and she immediately made use of my presence in the kitchen, setting me the task of chopping up endless bunches of parsley for tabbouleh. As we chopped we chatted about the events of the past few days, debating the topics that had dominated every single conversation that I had had in the past week: the extend to which Hizbullah’s actions had been either brave or delegitimizing; the problem of using violence to remedy social injustice; the vast gulf between ideological conviction and pragmatic power-plays; the dangers of romanticising resistance.
She, despite the terrifying presence of armed gunmen on her street a mere three days before, despite the deafening sounds of violence that prevented her from stepping out her door for 72 long hours, was still relatively sympathetic towards the movement. I suppose that is one of the many measures of strength-of-character: sticking to your guns in spite of the fear that another’s guns provoke in you.
On my way back home, I was fortunate enough to catch a service (Lebanese communal taxi) straight away without waiting. In the desolation that is Hamra at night these days, I wouldn’t want to be hanging around too long on a street corner, especially with the recent revival of civil war jokes about kidnapping… The service was full, a girl in the front seat and two guys in the back, and I slipped in alongside them. As we drove east, we passed the innumerable army checkpoints that seemed to have spawned up since the night had fallen, with the inside light of the car on so that the soldiers could peer in and see whether or not they considered us as dangerous passengers.
Twice, we were stopped by the soldiers, who requested that the boys in the backseat show then their national identity cards. (Unlike in Iraq, girls have not yet shown themselves to be a threat to state security. Rather than being agents of change, they are relegated to the role of passive spectators, those who will not cause death but who are needed to mourn it.) One of the soldiers took a particularly long time inspecting the information on the cards and then scrutinized the photographs of the bearers while exaggeratedly comparing them to the faces of those two young men sitting next to me. After three slightly uneasy minutes, the soldier seemed satisfied that the identity cards and the individuals matched eachother, and ushered us along.
The whole palaver made me chuckle inside: this is the army who did not fire a single shot during the three days while the armed Lebanese factions were having a field day blowing each other, and any unfortunate bystander, to smithereens. This is an army who, in the name of neutrality and fearing of dissolution, does not exert its authority over the more dangerous elements in society. Instead, like the bully in the playground who knows not to mess with the big tough kids, it picks on the weakest.
(Incidentally, I firmly believe that this behaviour was probably what lead to the pitiless, vile destruction of the Nahr el Bared refugee camp: having had no role in the victory against Israel in 2006, the army needed to show it’s strength in some way. Luckily for the army, the overcrowded, impoverished Palestinian camps are an easy target, and provided them with more than enough cannon fodder for them to be able to flex their muscles and reclaim their clout. The results of that domination-affirming exercise were measured in tons piles of rubble and tens of thousands of lives literally reduced to ashes)
I briefly wondered what that very soldier would have done if he had stopped a car full of armed militia men: I am sure that, again in the name of neutrality, he would have hastily waved them on.
This whole issue of ‘neutrality’ effectively paralyses the army. It means that their energies are directed at intimidating young boys on their ways home from university instead of preventing bloodshed. So, on one hand, I think “what’s the point”? What sort of stability does a toothless army bring to a nation on the brink of war? But then on the other hand I remember the accounts of the last war, in which the dissolution of the army into factions was a definite turning point in levels of violence.
Nevertheless, even if the army’s value is more symbolic than anything, in a country where every household has a gun that it can use without consequence, I feel that its proclaimed neutrality is actually the cause for an inferiority complex that manifests itself in much darker ways elsewhere. I wonder who will be the next victims of the army’s most recent bout of trigger-happy frustration. Any guesses?
I arrived at my friend’s house, and she immediately made use of my presence in the kitchen, setting me the task of chopping up endless bunches of parsley for tabbouleh. As we chopped we chatted about the events of the past few days, debating the topics that had dominated every single conversation that I had had in the past week: the extend to which Hizbullah’s actions had been either brave or delegitimizing; the problem of using violence to remedy social injustice; the vast gulf between ideological conviction and pragmatic power-plays; the dangers of romanticising resistance.
She, despite the terrifying presence of armed gunmen on her street a mere three days before, despite the deafening sounds of violence that prevented her from stepping out her door for 72 long hours, was still relatively sympathetic towards the movement. I suppose that is one of the many measures of strength-of-character: sticking to your guns in spite of the fear that another’s guns provoke in you.
On my way back home, I was fortunate enough to catch a service (Lebanese communal taxi) straight away without waiting. In the desolation that is Hamra at night these days, I wouldn’t want to be hanging around too long on a street corner, especially with the recent revival of civil war jokes about kidnapping… The service was full, a girl in the front seat and two guys in the back, and I slipped in alongside them. As we drove east, we passed the innumerable army checkpoints that seemed to have spawned up since the night had fallen, with the inside light of the car on so that the soldiers could peer in and see whether or not they considered us as dangerous passengers.
Twice, we were stopped by the soldiers, who requested that the boys in the backseat show then their national identity cards. (Unlike in Iraq, girls have not yet shown themselves to be a threat to state security. Rather than being agents of change, they are relegated to the role of passive spectators, those who will not cause death but who are needed to mourn it.) One of the soldiers took a particularly long time inspecting the information on the cards and then scrutinized the photographs of the bearers while exaggeratedly comparing them to the faces of those two young men sitting next to me. After three slightly uneasy minutes, the soldier seemed satisfied that the identity cards and the individuals matched eachother, and ushered us along.
The whole palaver made me chuckle inside: this is the army who did not fire a single shot during the three days while the armed Lebanese factions were having a field day blowing each other, and any unfortunate bystander, to smithereens. This is an army who, in the name of neutrality and fearing of dissolution, does not exert its authority over the more dangerous elements in society. Instead, like the bully in the playground who knows not to mess with the big tough kids, it picks on the weakest.
(Incidentally, I firmly believe that this behaviour was probably what lead to the pitiless, vile destruction of the Nahr el Bared refugee camp: having had no role in the victory against Israel in 2006, the army needed to show it’s strength in some way. Luckily for the army, the overcrowded, impoverished Palestinian camps are an easy target, and provided them with more than enough cannon fodder for them to be able to flex their muscles and reclaim their clout. The results of that domination-affirming exercise were measured in tons piles of rubble and tens of thousands of lives literally reduced to ashes)
I briefly wondered what that very soldier would have done if he had stopped a car full of armed militia men: I am sure that, again in the name of neutrality, he would have hastily waved them on.
This whole issue of ‘neutrality’ effectively paralyses the army. It means that their energies are directed at intimidating young boys on their ways home from university instead of preventing bloodshed. So, on one hand, I think “what’s the point”? What sort of stability does a toothless army bring to a nation on the brink of war? But then on the other hand I remember the accounts of the last war, in which the dissolution of the army into factions was a definite turning point in levels of violence.
Nevertheless, even if the army’s value is more symbolic than anything, in a country where every household has a gun that it can use without consequence, I feel that its proclaimed neutrality is actually the cause for an inferiority complex that manifests itself in much darker ways elsewhere. I wonder who will be the next victims of the army’s most recent bout of trigger-happy frustration. Any guesses?
Saturday 10 May 2008
reality check
Today, I spent the day sunbathing on the rooftop swimming pool of the gym near my house. From the roof, you can look out over Ras Al Nab’a below, but it is quiet for the moment. All afternoon, I lay under that glorious sun and debated about ‘what will happen next’, or how what has already happened should be understood, while the speakers around the terrace alternated between Siniora’s speech and house music.
Imagine the sheer surreality of the scene: sunbathing listening adds for the upcoming concert of "Ibitha’s fifth best DJ" on a building that had been sprayed with stray bullets only 36 hours before and amongst whispers of bold warnings of being on the precipice of a war. A paradox, yes. But not so uncommon in there parts; really, a very Lebanese scene.
The Lebanese: always eager for momentary amnesia, for sweet little luxuries that soothe the burns of a politics gone haywire. That terrace was a microcosm of that Lebaneseness that receives both admiration and ridicule: the ability to cover up blood-shed and chaos with a bikini and an almaza ('the diamond', Lebanon's national brew).
Indeed, it is a very appealing way to deal in difficult times. I just can't help wondering to what extent such feigned innocence, and that on my part as well as a foreigner reaping the luxuries of a country torn across class and religious lines, does not in fact contribute to the problems. Like trying to treat bi-polar personality disorder with memory-loss tablets.
Imagine the sheer surreality of the scene: sunbathing listening adds for the upcoming concert of "Ibitha’s fifth best DJ" on a building that had been sprayed with stray bullets only 36 hours before and amongst whispers of bold warnings of being on the precipice of a war. A paradox, yes. But not so uncommon in there parts; really, a very Lebanese scene.
The Lebanese: always eager for momentary amnesia, for sweet little luxuries that soothe the burns of a politics gone haywire. That terrace was a microcosm of that Lebaneseness that receives both admiration and ridicule: the ability to cover up blood-shed and chaos with a bikini and an almaza ('the diamond', Lebanon's national brew).
Indeed, it is a very appealing way to deal in difficult times. I just can't help wondering to what extent such feigned innocence, and that on my part as well as a foreigner reaping the luxuries of a country torn across class and religious lines, does not in fact contribute to the problems. Like trying to treat bi-polar personality disorder with memory-loss tablets.
"ashsha'b allubnanyy"
The quietest day in Beirut since Wednesday. I think i could count the machine-gun outbursts that floated over from the West on one hand.
Unfortunately, those few outbursts were enough to further stoke the embers of the crisis at hand: shooting at the funeral procession of one of those killed in the fighting of the last few days. Two more lives wasted in what, despite the misleading calmness of today compared to yesterday and Thursday, is still only the beginning.
The beginning of what? Nobody knows.
Today, for the first time since what is being described on Western websites as Hizbullah’s “coup” in West Beirut on Thursday, the Prime Minister Fouad Siniora appeared on television... I think he should fire his speech-writer if it took the guy 48 hours to compile a sensical response to the events. So now most of the leaders have had their say: Geagea and Jumblatt did their bit last night.
And for all of their proclaimed ideological or religious differences, every single “leader” in this country recycles the same nationalist rhetoric in their speeches. The phrase “ashsha’b allubnany” (the Lebanese people) repetitively rings out like an ironic chorus from their mouths. They have greatly abused that phrase, and are guilty of laying claim to some imaginary Lebanese unity of peoples, some overriding nationalism, in order to legitimise their own skirmishes for power.
According to different statistics, the death toll of recent events lies between 13 and 25. But there is one entity that refuses to die, that is obsessively resurrected from the ashes again and again, only to be gunned down by the shallow promises of another politico: Ashsha’b alLubnanyy. That concept in itself, however fragile and optimistic, is being dealt a death-blow every time it is uttered…
Unfortunately, those few outbursts were enough to further stoke the embers of the crisis at hand: shooting at the funeral procession of one of those killed in the fighting of the last few days. Two more lives wasted in what, despite the misleading calmness of today compared to yesterday and Thursday, is still only the beginning.
The beginning of what? Nobody knows.
Today, for the first time since what is being described on Western websites as Hizbullah’s “coup” in West Beirut on Thursday, the Prime Minister Fouad Siniora appeared on television... I think he should fire his speech-writer if it took the guy 48 hours to compile a sensical response to the events. So now most of the leaders have had their say: Geagea and Jumblatt did their bit last night.
And for all of their proclaimed ideological or religious differences, every single “leader” in this country recycles the same nationalist rhetoric in their speeches. The phrase “ashsha’b allubnany” (the Lebanese people) repetitively rings out like an ironic chorus from their mouths. They have greatly abused that phrase, and are guilty of laying claim to some imaginary Lebanese unity of peoples, some overriding nationalism, in order to legitimise their own skirmishes for power.
According to different statistics, the death toll of recent events lies between 13 and 25. But there is one entity that refuses to die, that is obsessively resurrected from the ashes again and again, only to be gunned down by the shallow promises of another politico: Ashsha’b alLubnanyy. That concept in itself, however fragile and optimistic, is being dealt a death-blow every time it is uttered…
Friday 9 May 2008
the tempest
9 May 2008, 2:20 am
The dull sound of not-so-distant explosions awakens me with a jolt. Through the closed shutters, I see very large, bright flashes coming from Ras el Nab’a, where much of the fighting of today had taken place. Before going to sleep, we had sat out on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, listening to the fighting. We saw some flashes, only they were but dull sparks. Now, opening the shutters and peering out into the night, I see that the whole sky is being set alight.
What sort of weapons are they using now? I think that neither of the warring factions has an airforce, so I don’t think there could be ‘bombing’ per se. And the Israelis must be much to thrilled to see the Lebanese doing their dirty work for them while they celebrate their sixtieth anniversary to choose to intervene this early on…
A massive, unearthly crack interrupts my thoughts, and I feel like the skies above me are being brutally torn apart. Small pieces of debris being to fall lightly on the rooftops, on the street, and as they get progressively heavier and heavier, I realize that no, this is not the destruction caused by a shell, mortar or other twisted metal agent of death. This is a thunderstorm.
Never in my entire life have the sight of lightening and the sound of rain been so reassuring to me. Never had I thought that I would feel such relief at the deafening, bone-shaking rumbles of the clouds.
The winds picked up around me, the time between the sight and sound of celestial electricity became smaller and smaller and the drops of rain turned into hard pellets of ice. I knew that once again, the heavens were expressing their sheer disdain at the petty convictions of us mortals. What else could explain the bizarre phenomenon of hail in May, or the synchronization of human decay with natural disorder?
Surely, it must be the gods up there, cursing our lamentable condition, our inability to learn from the past. Surely, the thunder that appropriately replaced the sounds of today’s violence was their laughing at our foolishness…
And when they had stopped laughing, when the skies finally calmed, across the city the rifles and the RPG’s flared up again.
The dull sound of not-so-distant explosions awakens me with a jolt. Through the closed shutters, I see very large, bright flashes coming from Ras el Nab’a, where much of the fighting of today had taken place. Before going to sleep, we had sat out on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, listening to the fighting. We saw some flashes, only they were but dull sparks. Now, opening the shutters and peering out into the night, I see that the whole sky is being set alight.
What sort of weapons are they using now? I think that neither of the warring factions has an airforce, so I don’t think there could be ‘bombing’ per se. And the Israelis must be much to thrilled to see the Lebanese doing their dirty work for them while they celebrate their sixtieth anniversary to choose to intervene this early on…
A massive, unearthly crack interrupts my thoughts, and I feel like the skies above me are being brutally torn apart. Small pieces of debris being to fall lightly on the rooftops, on the street, and as they get progressively heavier and heavier, I realize that no, this is not the destruction caused by a shell, mortar or other twisted metal agent of death. This is a thunderstorm.
Never in my entire life have the sight of lightening and the sound of rain been so reassuring to me. Never had I thought that I would feel such relief at the deafening, bone-shaking rumbles of the clouds.
The winds picked up around me, the time between the sight and sound of celestial electricity became smaller and smaller and the drops of rain turned into hard pellets of ice. I knew that once again, the heavens were expressing their sheer disdain at the petty convictions of us mortals. What else could explain the bizarre phenomenon of hail in May, or the synchronization of human decay with natural disorder?
Surely, it must be the gods up there, cursing our lamentable condition, our inability to learn from the past. Surely, the thunder that appropriately replaced the sounds of today’s violence was their laughing at our foolishness…
And when they had stopped laughing, when the skies finally calmed, across the city the rifles and the RPG’s flared up again.
a storm is brewing...
8 May 2008, 1 pm
In six months of living in Beirut, I have come to feel that there exists and uncanny symbiotic relationship between the political and environmental climates in this country. It is very Shakespearean, in a chain-of-consequence way, where the heavens and the earth are so intimately connected, that troubles in one provoke tumult in the other. And as the psychological degradation of King Lear was manifested in the blustery winds that battered him in that infamous storm scene, so the natural elements are aggravated and magnified in times of Lebanese social strife.
My first experience of this occurred in late January 2008, on the Sunday that saw clashes between Amal supporters and the army, which resulted in 7 people losing their lives. That night, a monstrous winter storm shook this fragile peninsula, with heavy rains and hell-raising bouts of thunder that shook the glass in the window pains and amplified the fears of those who anxiously sat behind them. Similarly, on 14 February, the third anniversary of Rafik Hariri’s assassination, the weather complemented the mood, and the thousands of mourners were soaked in torrential rain.
Now, strong winds follow yesterday’s strike and fighting, ominously forshadow Hassan Nasrallah’s much-anticipated speech at 4 pm today.
7:30 pm
The sky has clouded over; could be the first rain for over a month. Under the growing cumulonimbus, increasingly frequent bouts of rifle and machine gun fire, interspersed with the nerve-shattering booms of rocket propelled grenades, reverberate amongst Beirut’s buildings.
Various Lebanese news channels have graced my t.v. screen throughout the day, and I have tried in vain to understand the numerous young, wide eyed reporters in flack jackets, as they perform minute-by-minute updates of the unfolding events. I understand isolated words, mostly in the lexical set of conflict (“tensions”, “gun battles”, “civil war”) and the names of the political parties, but, despite 4 years of intensive Arabic training and a current job as a translator, the speed with which the information is conveyed sometimes still passes right over my head.
Perhaps it is my linguistic inadequacies, but I found it more informative to just sit there and listen to those sharp, rattling and dull explosions. They are so imbued with onomatopoeic meaning, no context need be given in order to understand them. In a way, it does not matter who I fighting against whom.
What matters is that this city knows these sounds too well. It knows, by heart, the symphonies of gunfire that have lulled them to sleep for over fifteen years. It knows that these hollow blasts and detonations are the opening scene to a tragedy whose acts they have memorized, whose suffering has exceeded catharsis and become the fabric of their haunted past.
10 pm
The shooting has somewhat died down, although, like a love-sick witch, its cackles still waft through the placid night air.
The first two victims of this stubborn conflict have just been announced: a woman and her son, their house struck by a stray RPG. Predictable. Most of those that so nobly take to the streets with baklavas and assault rifles will not bear the burdens of this city’s turf wars. It will be those like us, who huddle behind their shutters and try to drown out the noise by watching crap television comedies on near-deafening sound levels, that are destined to lose the most.
As always in any conflict, the blood of the innocent, the passive, is heavier than that of the combatants. Because they have not gambled. They have not desired glory, nor have they sought to exchange the humility of a simple existence for the lofty promises of ideology. And yet their lack of political passion is not enough to keep them safe. No one is safe anymore.
In six months of living in Beirut, I have come to feel that there exists and uncanny symbiotic relationship between the political and environmental climates in this country. It is very Shakespearean, in a chain-of-consequence way, where the heavens and the earth are so intimately connected, that troubles in one provoke tumult in the other. And as the psychological degradation of King Lear was manifested in the blustery winds that battered him in that infamous storm scene, so the natural elements are aggravated and magnified in times of Lebanese social strife.
My first experience of this occurred in late January 2008, on the Sunday that saw clashes between Amal supporters and the army, which resulted in 7 people losing their lives. That night, a monstrous winter storm shook this fragile peninsula, with heavy rains and hell-raising bouts of thunder that shook the glass in the window pains and amplified the fears of those who anxiously sat behind them. Similarly, on 14 February, the third anniversary of Rafik Hariri’s assassination, the weather complemented the mood, and the thousands of mourners were soaked in torrential rain.
Now, strong winds follow yesterday’s strike and fighting, ominously forshadow Hassan Nasrallah’s much-anticipated speech at 4 pm today.
7:30 pm
The sky has clouded over; could be the first rain for over a month. Under the growing cumulonimbus, increasingly frequent bouts of rifle and machine gun fire, interspersed with the nerve-shattering booms of rocket propelled grenades, reverberate amongst Beirut’s buildings.
Various Lebanese news channels have graced my t.v. screen throughout the day, and I have tried in vain to understand the numerous young, wide eyed reporters in flack jackets, as they perform minute-by-minute updates of the unfolding events. I understand isolated words, mostly in the lexical set of conflict (“tensions”, “gun battles”, “civil war”) and the names of the political parties, but, despite 4 years of intensive Arabic training and a current job as a translator, the speed with which the information is conveyed sometimes still passes right over my head.
Perhaps it is my linguistic inadequacies, but I found it more informative to just sit there and listen to those sharp, rattling and dull explosions. They are so imbued with onomatopoeic meaning, no context need be given in order to understand them. In a way, it does not matter who I fighting against whom.
What matters is that this city knows these sounds too well. It knows, by heart, the symphonies of gunfire that have lulled them to sleep for over fifteen years. It knows that these hollow blasts and detonations are the opening scene to a tragedy whose acts they have memorized, whose suffering has exceeded catharsis and become the fabric of their haunted past.
10 pm
The shooting has somewhat died down, although, like a love-sick witch, its cackles still waft through the placid night air.
The first two victims of this stubborn conflict have just been announced: a woman and her son, their house struck by a stray RPG. Predictable. Most of those that so nobly take to the streets with baklavas and assault rifles will not bear the burdens of this city’s turf wars. It will be those like us, who huddle behind their shutters and try to drown out the noise by watching crap television comedies on near-deafening sound levels, that are destined to lose the most.
As always in any conflict, the blood of the innocent, the passive, is heavier than that of the combatants. Because they have not gambled. They have not desired glory, nor have they sought to exchange the humility of a simple existence for the lofty promises of ideology. And yet their lack of political passion is not enough to keep them safe. No one is safe anymore.
7 May 2008: where to turn?
My IB history teacher always used to say that empty stomachs are the fodder for revolution. That hunger is principal metaphor for general economic and social strife is given. But I would add my own note to that formula, and suggest that a handy ingredient in the recipe for revolution is the inability to channel the frustration and discontent that such strife produces into more productive channels.
Groups of excitable, passionate youths, gathered on street corners, revving the engines of their motor scooters, staring jauntily at the tanks, sandbags and camouflage-clad army men on the other side of the street. Burning tyres, blocking roads. Organizing construction machines in order to dump piles of debris in the middle of highways to block access in and out of Beirut.
I always wonder what would happen if all that anger, that desire for change, that drive to show the leaders that they want to make a difference to their own lives and those of their compatriots were mobilized into a constructive solution for the problem instead of compounding it.
For example, I can’t help thinking how mutually beneficial it would be take all these energetic, able-bodied young men, give them some shovels and wheelbarrows and send them off to Nahr el Bared, the Palestinian camp north of Tripoli that was destroyed last summer in fighting between Fatah al Islam and the Lebanese Army. There, they could contribute to reconstructing the lives of those who also suffer from systematic oppression, which would in turn help to counteract the negative stereotypes about Palestinians that plague this country. And it’s not like there’s no resources: there are over 50 million dollars worth of funds available for Nahr el Bared’s reconstruction, donated from various countries and international organizations. This would be a win-win situation: the inhabitants of Nahr el Bared, twice refugees in sixty years, would be helped in regaining their lives, while the boredom and economic precariousness of the unemployed would find temporary remedy.
Or is that just so plainly naïve? Does my undying humanism make me unable to fully comprehend the sense of hopelessness that grips those long-time victims of disempowerment, that mobilizes them into aggressive confrontation with the army, that pushes them to the brink of their lives in order to convey their desire for a decent livelihood?
*********
And here we sit, listening to the machine-gun rattle and rocket-propelled grenade explosions, while flicking between Lebanese news and American Idol, not wanting to miss either the latest developments in the ubiquitous and escalating ‘situation’, nor the quarterfinals of that epic reality television phenomenon.
Groups of excitable, passionate youths, gathered on street corners, revving the engines of their motor scooters, staring jauntily at the tanks, sandbags and camouflage-clad army men on the other side of the street. Burning tyres, blocking roads. Organizing construction machines in order to dump piles of debris in the middle of highways to block access in and out of Beirut.
I always wonder what would happen if all that anger, that desire for change, that drive to show the leaders that they want to make a difference to their own lives and those of their compatriots were mobilized into a constructive solution for the problem instead of compounding it.
For example, I can’t help thinking how mutually beneficial it would be take all these energetic, able-bodied young men, give them some shovels and wheelbarrows and send them off to Nahr el Bared, the Palestinian camp north of Tripoli that was destroyed last summer in fighting between Fatah al Islam and the Lebanese Army. There, they could contribute to reconstructing the lives of those who also suffer from systematic oppression, which would in turn help to counteract the negative stereotypes about Palestinians that plague this country. And it’s not like there’s no resources: there are over 50 million dollars worth of funds available for Nahr el Bared’s reconstruction, donated from various countries and international organizations. This would be a win-win situation: the inhabitants of Nahr el Bared, twice refugees in sixty years, would be helped in regaining their lives, while the boredom and economic precariousness of the unemployed would find temporary remedy.
Or is that just so plainly naïve? Does my undying humanism make me unable to fully comprehend the sense of hopelessness that grips those long-time victims of disempowerment, that mobilizes them into aggressive confrontation with the army, that pushes them to the brink of their lives in order to convey their desire for a decent livelihood?
*********
And here we sit, listening to the machine-gun rattle and rocket-propelled grenade explosions, while flicking between Lebanese news and American Idol, not wanting to miss either the latest developments in the ubiquitous and escalating ‘situation’, nor the quarterfinals of that epic reality television phenomenon.
Civil War Commemoration (written on 23 April 2008)
Ten days ago, Sunday 13 April, marked the thirty-third anniversary of the beginning of the Lebanese Civil War(s). To commemorate the event, Beirut became host to a plethora of cultural events that sought to remember the losses and atrocities of the past while providing a platform for debate about the precariousness of the current situation in Lebanon, where the prospect of renewed conflict looms ominously near. The format of events ranged from the more conventional, including photo exhibitions, lectures, film screenings, music and theatre performances, some of which displayed less conventional subject-matter, such as gay porn, to the slightly absurd, the most notable of which was a public art installation of over six hundred toilets arranged in rows, a double allusion to hiding in the bathrooms during fighting and gazing over headstones in a graveyard.
For the most part, the majority of the events that I attended did poignantly portray the core issues of conflict remembrance. One of the most prominent of these was the dual sense of collective and individual victimhood and perpetration that plague Lebanon’s Civil War memory. Like so many other long, bloody conflicts between ethnic, religious of political entities, the Lebanese Civil Wars passed through stages where the seesaw of relative victory and defeat, the scales of collective punishment and the convictions of identity mingled with ideology rendered everyone simultaneously guilty and innocent.
Different projects portrayed those textures in different ways, choosing to focus on either the intimate or the systematic. The former approach was taken by one photo exhibition entitled “Missing”, which consisted in hundreds of portraits of individuals who have been missing for over twenty years: row after row of sometimes smiling, sometimes distance eyes staring out from all around you, accompanied by a name, date of birth and date last seen. Another event that also favoured the personal as a means of accessing a political past was centered around the narratives of two men who fought in a militia, in which they discussed their sense of duty conflicting with their sense of common humanity. Such approaches are valuable because they transform the abstract into the tangible: they give faces to numerical casualty figures and voices to indiscriminate enemies. But the latter is equally insightful, as it explores the influence of broader social trends of group mobilization. Those dynamics were effectively conveyed by a display of political posters that were printed by the many warring factions during the fighting in the 70’s and 80’s, which were arranged both chronologically and thematically in order to enable layered analysis of the forms and methods of propaganda used during the wars. Indeed, both approaches are compatible, and they work together to shed light on the dark, murky waters that tentatively link political engagement and individual suffering in times of conflict.
Far from being mere static recollections of historical incidents, several events effectively linked the tragedies of the past with the trials of the present. The “Missing” exhibition, subtitled “What is to be done?”, offered the most direct engagement with the attempt to combine commemoration with reconciliation and conflict prevention. By far the highlight of the opening pres-conference of the exhibition was an moving, if slightly lengthily speech given by Dr. Alex Boraine, most known for his role as Vice-Chairman on South Africa’s Peace and Reconciliation Commission. His guiding premise was not that the South African experience provided a flawless model which could be applied to any country attempting to deal with the scars of past conflict, but that it could provide some insight into how solutions can begin to be approached.
While he spoke about the various issues at the heart of reforging the social ties that years of systematic oppression, disempowerment and denial obliterate, the humility and determination in his voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He was living, breathing proof that the seemingly unconquerable quagmires of a nation marred by institutionalized racism, comparable to the institutionalized sectarianism that ails Lebanon to this day, could be overcome. What made his speech so powerful was that it was not just some abstract approach to post-conflict resolution, in which words like ‘the need to balance remembering and forgetting’ or ‘a multiplicity of truths’ are frivolously strewn about. Rather, the theoretical notions were illustrated by his own memories of interviewing and taking the testimonies of individuals who were battling the demons of a blood-stained past. The enthusiastic applause that met the end of his speech bore testimony to the uplifting optimism with which he had seemingly infected the crowd.
But whatever hopeful state in which I left the press conference was short-lived. Leaving the ground floor hall and arriving at the first floor exhibition space, I was dismayed to feel that the communal buzz to go forth and do good in the world had quickly dwindled in the flashes of the media wasps and the temptations of an open buffet.
The shallow engagement with the material of the exhibition was expressed in all of us flitting from wall to wall with glass of wine/juice in hand, hovering round the buffet table, posing for local media in front of those many haunting faces; while the media focused on the important people, the ambassadors and Dr. Boraine, but not on the families of those gone missing so long ago. Those old women and their daughters who had been dragged from the South and the Bekka to gaze at the faces of their long lost loved ones amongst the beehive of hip artists, aspiring journalists and politicized youths that such events always attract.
What audience do these events have? Although they proclaim that their efforts will, in some way, create a civil society dialogue that will prevent future conflict, do they really reach the target audience that would be effective? What does some artsy-fartsy high-profile opening of an exhibition have to do with the lives of those many families who are still nursing their wounds form the last bout of violence, wounds that still seethe and out of whose infection the next generation of fighters will bloom?
Such exhibitions and events have an exclusive audience: urbanite, middle class, often expatriate. It is not open to those who will bear the arms and the brunt of the next conflict, if and when it occurs.
I can’t help feeling that such events are more indulgent acts of elitist consciousness-clearing than any real activism aimed at maintaining “peace”.
For the most part, the majority of the events that I attended did poignantly portray the core issues of conflict remembrance. One of the most prominent of these was the dual sense of collective and individual victimhood and perpetration that plague Lebanon’s Civil War memory. Like so many other long, bloody conflicts between ethnic, religious of political entities, the Lebanese Civil Wars passed through stages where the seesaw of relative victory and defeat, the scales of collective punishment and the convictions of identity mingled with ideology rendered everyone simultaneously guilty and innocent.
Different projects portrayed those textures in different ways, choosing to focus on either the intimate or the systematic. The former approach was taken by one photo exhibition entitled “Missing”, which consisted in hundreds of portraits of individuals who have been missing for over twenty years: row after row of sometimes smiling, sometimes distance eyes staring out from all around you, accompanied by a name, date of birth and date last seen. Another event that also favoured the personal as a means of accessing a political past was centered around the narratives of two men who fought in a militia, in which they discussed their sense of duty conflicting with their sense of common humanity. Such approaches are valuable because they transform the abstract into the tangible: they give faces to numerical casualty figures and voices to indiscriminate enemies. But the latter is equally insightful, as it explores the influence of broader social trends of group mobilization. Those dynamics were effectively conveyed by a display of political posters that were printed by the many warring factions during the fighting in the 70’s and 80’s, which were arranged both chronologically and thematically in order to enable layered analysis of the forms and methods of propaganda used during the wars. Indeed, both approaches are compatible, and they work together to shed light on the dark, murky waters that tentatively link political engagement and individual suffering in times of conflict.
Far from being mere static recollections of historical incidents, several events effectively linked the tragedies of the past with the trials of the present. The “Missing” exhibition, subtitled “What is to be done?”, offered the most direct engagement with the attempt to combine commemoration with reconciliation and conflict prevention. By far the highlight of the opening pres-conference of the exhibition was an moving, if slightly lengthily speech given by Dr. Alex Boraine, most known for his role as Vice-Chairman on South Africa’s Peace and Reconciliation Commission. His guiding premise was not that the South African experience provided a flawless model which could be applied to any country attempting to deal with the scars of past conflict, but that it could provide some insight into how solutions can begin to be approached.
While he spoke about the various issues at the heart of reforging the social ties that years of systematic oppression, disempowerment and denial obliterate, the humility and determination in his voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He was living, breathing proof that the seemingly unconquerable quagmires of a nation marred by institutionalized racism, comparable to the institutionalized sectarianism that ails Lebanon to this day, could be overcome. What made his speech so powerful was that it was not just some abstract approach to post-conflict resolution, in which words like ‘the need to balance remembering and forgetting’ or ‘a multiplicity of truths’ are frivolously strewn about. Rather, the theoretical notions were illustrated by his own memories of interviewing and taking the testimonies of individuals who were battling the demons of a blood-stained past. The enthusiastic applause that met the end of his speech bore testimony to the uplifting optimism with which he had seemingly infected the crowd.
But whatever hopeful state in which I left the press conference was short-lived. Leaving the ground floor hall and arriving at the first floor exhibition space, I was dismayed to feel that the communal buzz to go forth and do good in the world had quickly dwindled in the flashes of the media wasps and the temptations of an open buffet.
The shallow engagement with the material of the exhibition was expressed in all of us flitting from wall to wall with glass of wine/juice in hand, hovering round the buffet table, posing for local media in front of those many haunting faces; while the media focused on the important people, the ambassadors and Dr. Boraine, but not on the families of those gone missing so long ago. Those old women and their daughters who had been dragged from the South and the Bekka to gaze at the faces of their long lost loved ones amongst the beehive of hip artists, aspiring journalists and politicized youths that such events always attract.
What audience do these events have? Although they proclaim that their efforts will, in some way, create a civil society dialogue that will prevent future conflict, do they really reach the target audience that would be effective? What does some artsy-fartsy high-profile opening of an exhibition have to do with the lives of those many families who are still nursing their wounds form the last bout of violence, wounds that still seethe and out of whose infection the next generation of fighters will bloom?
Such exhibitions and events have an exclusive audience: urbanite, middle class, often expatriate. It is not open to those who will bear the arms and the brunt of the next conflict, if and when it occurs.
I can’t help feeling that such events are more indulgent acts of elitist consciousness-clearing than any real activism aimed at maintaining “peace”.
Gaza, the UN and me (written in February 2008)
That the United Nations is both the seat and symbol of world hegemony was no more obvious than from the events that have transpired over the past week. After days of some of the worst violence between the Israeli army and Palestinians in years, in which 3 Israeli soldiers and 116 Palestinians, including many women and children, have died, the Security Council issued a resolution condemning Iran for continuing its uranium enrichment programme. A stroke of genius, no doubt, for those leaders and their cronies who have already reaped the benefits of recent WMD scaremongering, which range from legitimizing the invasions of select countries to shifting international attention away from more pressing issues. Significantly less fortunate for those masses who are doomed to bear the brunt of such a decision, either directly as a result of sanctions, or indirectly as a consequence of abstraction and omission.
A small contingent of the latter were gathered outside the two-metre high concrete walls that surround the UN House in Beirut on Monday. Approximately one hundred protesters waving Palestinian and Lebanese flags shouted slogans condemning the escalating violence in Gaza and the lack of UN attention given to the matter. Children from UNRWA schools were bussed to the site, as often happens at pro-Palestine demonstrations, but instead of passively waving flags or partaking in the chanting, they contributed a more powerful aspect to the protest: one by one, they suspended children’s toys and clothes soaked in red paint from the barbed wire that sits on top of the big, blue security walls. A strikingly grotesque reminder of the many children who have fallen victim to Israel’s careless military tactics: first, on Thursday, Mohammad al Buri, the six month old baby struck by shrapnel in the wake of a rocket attack . On the same day four boys aged 10, 12, 13 and 15 were killed while they were playing football. Then on Friday, Malak al Kafarna, the one-year old girl killed alongside Eyad al Ashram, a senior Hamas official . And these are but a few amongst the 19 children that Rana al Hindi, a Save the Children spokeswoman, said had been killed as a result of Israeli attacks over the weekend . In the time since, it is estimated that one fifth of the total dead were children.
As I sat at my desk reviewing a document on peacebuilding and conflict prevention, the voice on the megaphone drifted through the building. Leaving my windowless cubicle, I walked to the window facing the front entrance and stared blankly at those flags. Because of the security wall, that was all I could see. I couldn’t see the faces of those voicing their frustration at the UN’s inability to assure in real life the very topics that I had just been linguistically processing, those that are routinely expressed in endless agreements, reports and resolutions. And while I am normally grateful for the security that the big blue wall provides for us (the absence of which proved tragic in Algiers), in my mind, I could not help but equate the separation and veritable blindness that it enabled with the similar vertical structure that snakes across the West Bank: the ‘security barrier’ for some, the ‘partition wall’ for others. Despite the fact that the conditions of construction of the two walls differ significantly, the purpose of all walls is to physically delineate the abstract criteria that differentiates “us” from “them”. And as I stared out at the partially visible protesters, I could not help but feeling that here I was, on the inside, a minute cog in the immense machine that is the self-styled beacon of international peace, security and stability; while there they were on the outside, under a grey Monday sky, the children and grandchildren of those dispossessed by occupation, watching the deaths of their countrywomen and men be met with gross global apathy.
My thoughts were interrupted by a colleague who patted me on the shoulder and motioned towards a blue UNRWA flag draped over a school bus. “There are your kids”, she said. And it immediately dawned on me that those children who had come from the UNRWA schools to protest could very well be the same ones that I would be meeting up with in only 3 hours time to tutor in Maths and English, during my bi-weekly stint as a volunteer at the Shatila refugee camp. That thought made the bleak irony of the whole situation darker, as I suddenly felt like I was, in some way, living a double life. On the one hand, there I was performing a relatively banal administrative task for the mammoth that is the UN, suspending my moral judgement of its (in)action in order to pursue a career. On the other hand, I felt that I could in some way express my anger at the injustice of the situation of Palestinians, both inside and outside Israel, constructively through education. And for a couple of months, the two activities had seemed compatible.
But now I was being directly confronted with the double-standards of my own existence. What would happen if, when I walked into the classroom later that afternoon, the children were excitedly talking about their day’s outing? What would be my reaction? Would I hide the fact that I had been inside that very building, looking out at them, and feeling heavy guilt for my affiliation with this vestige of post-WWII world order that still pays lip service to the post-colonial powers by choosing to denounce Iran instead of Israel? Or would I attempt to divert attention away from its idle witnessing of the slaughter of innocent civilians by defending the empty ideals of justice and equality as expressed in the Declaration of the Rights of the Child that hangs in the entrance of the NGO?
Do I admit to them, and to myself, that the reason why we need our big blue wall is because “we” were the vehicle that enabled their dispossession, that authorised their living as refugees in conditions of squalour, and that continues to ignore their pleas for protection? Or do I say: “It isn’t me. Just like it isn’t the people who teach you at your schools, which are also part of the UN. It isn’t your teachers or the security guards or the typists that are to blame, but the big wigs sitting round that big table in a basement in New York that need to have desiccated teddies hung from their rear-view mirrors”. Do I, like the many Palestinians who are employed here at the UN House in Beirut in administrative tasks, separate my immediate professional function from the bigger picture of the UN, whose decisions, as we know, are made by an exclusive elite anyway?
Where do we draw the line that demarcates where our immediate self-interest ends and our compassion begins? Indeed, that is the question for many people who compromise their principles in order to eat, support a family or pay for their studies (I think here of the debate surrounding university students who strip of lap-dance to fund their education). A question that may receive satisfactory answers in our own minds, rationalized in such terms as ‘priority’ or ‘the lesser of two evils’, but how does one explain such a compromise to children?
When I did go into my class that afternoon, some of the students were late because they were coming back from a demonstration in a different part of Beirut, and I was relieved when I learned that none of them were the ones who had been outside the UN House earlier on. So we went about our afternoon as usual, learning grammar, vocabulary, and the difference between “Palestine” (noun of place) and “Palestinian” (adjective).
The only real problem was the tri-hourly power cuts that lasted for five minutes each, plunging the classroom into darkness. One thing I noticed during those power cuts: the children were completely non-plussed by them. They did not scream, they did not hide under the table, nor did they make a big deal out of it as one would expect the average 8 to 10 year old to do. Rather, they continued with their usual laughter and banter and as if nothing had happened, repeating phrases after me in the darkness. Their ambivalence was testimony to the constant lack of essential services that they have always endured, just one example of the hardships of refugee life.
Similarly, their direct involvement in the protests against the situation in Gaza or other incidents of Palestinian oppression could also be seen as another recurring aspect of these refugees lives, one that serves to simultaneously assert and consolidate their identities as Palestinians and balance their anger with hopes of a better future. Because even though the Security Council may be deaf to their voices, many branches of the UN and the individuals inside it, are not. And to a large extent, the children know this: though the syllabus and methods of the UNRWA schools leave much to be desired, most children are very keen to learn and grateful for their opportunities in education. On the part of people like me who walk the fine line between hypocrisy and naivety, we can act for Palestinian justice in many ways without necessarily reducing our lived to a paradox. That, in turn, helps to demonstrate to the children that in life, nothing is black and white, and we all have to make constant compromises in order to balance our responsibilities and convictions.
Three days later, the toys and garments placed by the children still hang there. On the way to work this morning, I stopped to take a close look at them. Teddy-bears, splattered with red, their stomachs slashed and their cotton insides hanging out, dangled by the fishing line attached to their necks and stared up with vacant plastic eyes at the blue wall set against the blue early-morning sky. Jackets, trousers, shoes, and a singular white sandal topped with a pink flower sway limply in the mild breeze. The material fragments of children’s lives scattered like the flesh and bone they represent.
A small contingent of the latter were gathered outside the two-metre high concrete walls that surround the UN House in Beirut on Monday. Approximately one hundred protesters waving Palestinian and Lebanese flags shouted slogans condemning the escalating violence in Gaza and the lack of UN attention given to the matter. Children from UNRWA schools were bussed to the site, as often happens at pro-Palestine demonstrations, but instead of passively waving flags or partaking in the chanting, they contributed a more powerful aspect to the protest: one by one, they suspended children’s toys and clothes soaked in red paint from the barbed wire that sits on top of the big, blue security walls. A strikingly grotesque reminder of the many children who have fallen victim to Israel’s careless military tactics: first, on Thursday, Mohammad al Buri, the six month old baby struck by shrapnel in the wake of a rocket attack . On the same day four boys aged 10, 12, 13 and 15 were killed while they were playing football. Then on Friday, Malak al Kafarna, the one-year old girl killed alongside Eyad al Ashram, a senior Hamas official . And these are but a few amongst the 19 children that Rana al Hindi, a Save the Children spokeswoman, said had been killed as a result of Israeli attacks over the weekend . In the time since, it is estimated that one fifth of the total dead were children.
As I sat at my desk reviewing a document on peacebuilding and conflict prevention, the voice on the megaphone drifted through the building. Leaving my windowless cubicle, I walked to the window facing the front entrance and stared blankly at those flags. Because of the security wall, that was all I could see. I couldn’t see the faces of those voicing their frustration at the UN’s inability to assure in real life the very topics that I had just been linguistically processing, those that are routinely expressed in endless agreements, reports and resolutions. And while I am normally grateful for the security that the big blue wall provides for us (the absence of which proved tragic in Algiers), in my mind, I could not help but equate the separation and veritable blindness that it enabled with the similar vertical structure that snakes across the West Bank: the ‘security barrier’ for some, the ‘partition wall’ for others. Despite the fact that the conditions of construction of the two walls differ significantly, the purpose of all walls is to physically delineate the abstract criteria that differentiates “us” from “them”. And as I stared out at the partially visible protesters, I could not help but feeling that here I was, on the inside, a minute cog in the immense machine that is the self-styled beacon of international peace, security and stability; while there they were on the outside, under a grey Monday sky, the children and grandchildren of those dispossessed by occupation, watching the deaths of their countrywomen and men be met with gross global apathy.
My thoughts were interrupted by a colleague who patted me on the shoulder and motioned towards a blue UNRWA flag draped over a school bus. “There are your kids”, she said. And it immediately dawned on me that those children who had come from the UNRWA schools to protest could very well be the same ones that I would be meeting up with in only 3 hours time to tutor in Maths and English, during my bi-weekly stint as a volunteer at the Shatila refugee camp. That thought made the bleak irony of the whole situation darker, as I suddenly felt like I was, in some way, living a double life. On the one hand, there I was performing a relatively banal administrative task for the mammoth that is the UN, suspending my moral judgement of its (in)action in order to pursue a career. On the other hand, I felt that I could in some way express my anger at the injustice of the situation of Palestinians, both inside and outside Israel, constructively through education. And for a couple of months, the two activities had seemed compatible.
But now I was being directly confronted with the double-standards of my own existence. What would happen if, when I walked into the classroom later that afternoon, the children were excitedly talking about their day’s outing? What would be my reaction? Would I hide the fact that I had been inside that very building, looking out at them, and feeling heavy guilt for my affiliation with this vestige of post-WWII world order that still pays lip service to the post-colonial powers by choosing to denounce Iran instead of Israel? Or would I attempt to divert attention away from its idle witnessing of the slaughter of innocent civilians by defending the empty ideals of justice and equality as expressed in the Declaration of the Rights of the Child that hangs in the entrance of the NGO?
Do I admit to them, and to myself, that the reason why we need our big blue wall is because “we” were the vehicle that enabled their dispossession, that authorised their living as refugees in conditions of squalour, and that continues to ignore their pleas for protection? Or do I say: “It isn’t me. Just like it isn’t the people who teach you at your schools, which are also part of the UN. It isn’t your teachers or the security guards or the typists that are to blame, but the big wigs sitting round that big table in a basement in New York that need to have desiccated teddies hung from their rear-view mirrors”. Do I, like the many Palestinians who are employed here at the UN House in Beirut in administrative tasks, separate my immediate professional function from the bigger picture of the UN, whose decisions, as we know, are made by an exclusive elite anyway?
Where do we draw the line that demarcates where our immediate self-interest ends and our compassion begins? Indeed, that is the question for many people who compromise their principles in order to eat, support a family or pay for their studies (I think here of the debate surrounding university students who strip of lap-dance to fund their education). A question that may receive satisfactory answers in our own minds, rationalized in such terms as ‘priority’ or ‘the lesser of two evils’, but how does one explain such a compromise to children?
When I did go into my class that afternoon, some of the students were late because they were coming back from a demonstration in a different part of Beirut, and I was relieved when I learned that none of them were the ones who had been outside the UN House earlier on. So we went about our afternoon as usual, learning grammar, vocabulary, and the difference between “Palestine” (noun of place) and “Palestinian” (adjective).
The only real problem was the tri-hourly power cuts that lasted for five minutes each, plunging the classroom into darkness. One thing I noticed during those power cuts: the children were completely non-plussed by them. They did not scream, they did not hide under the table, nor did they make a big deal out of it as one would expect the average 8 to 10 year old to do. Rather, they continued with their usual laughter and banter and as if nothing had happened, repeating phrases after me in the darkness. Their ambivalence was testimony to the constant lack of essential services that they have always endured, just one example of the hardships of refugee life.
Similarly, their direct involvement in the protests against the situation in Gaza or other incidents of Palestinian oppression could also be seen as another recurring aspect of these refugees lives, one that serves to simultaneously assert and consolidate their identities as Palestinians and balance their anger with hopes of a better future. Because even though the Security Council may be deaf to their voices, many branches of the UN and the individuals inside it, are not. And to a large extent, the children know this: though the syllabus and methods of the UNRWA schools leave much to be desired, most children are very keen to learn and grateful for their opportunities in education. On the part of people like me who walk the fine line between hypocrisy and naivety, we can act for Palestinian justice in many ways without necessarily reducing our lived to a paradox. That, in turn, helps to demonstrate to the children that in life, nothing is black and white, and we all have to make constant compromises in order to balance our responsibilities and convictions.
Three days later, the toys and garments placed by the children still hang there. On the way to work this morning, I stopped to take a close look at them. Teddy-bears, splattered with red, their stomachs slashed and their cotton insides hanging out, dangled by the fishing line attached to their necks and stared up with vacant plastic eyes at the blue wall set against the blue early-morning sky. Jackets, trousers, shoes, and a singular white sandal topped with a pink flower sway limply in the mild breeze. The material fragments of children’s lives scattered like the flesh and bone they represent.
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