Free Jamal Juma' and the Anti-Wall Prisoners

Hey guys,

Now that you have all gained 20 kilos eating all those Christmas chocolates (I'll exclude Nùria because she's actually pregnant - and going to give birth on January 2nd!!), what better way to burn it all off by doing a little activism?!

As you know, I've been helping out with Stop the Wall Campaign here, and two weeks ago, the Coordinator, Jamal Juma' was arrested. It reminds me a lot of Colombia: peaceful activism and advocacy met with jail time or assassination.

I won't bore you with all the details here; you can go to freejamaljuma.wordpress.com for more info. But all you have to do is take a picture saying "Free the Anti-Wall Prisoners" from wherever you are, and send in a picture! We are going to use your pictures in our days of action for the prisoners.

So start snapping away and send them to me or to global@stopthewall.org. I'll leave you all with a pretty cool video for the Free Jamal Juma' and the Anti-Wall prisoners campaign.

Nablus' Newest Martyrs

You can spend a whole day just getting lost in the winding streets of Nablus' old city. Trays of kunafa, the orange-colored doughy, goat-cheesy, honey-liscious sweet for which Nablus is famous, greet you at every corner. If you venture a little further down stairwells and small tunnels, you may find an old soap factory or two where they still make olive oil soap by hand. Somewhere in the middle of the old city, there is a small palace, the now-abandoned home of some aristocratic family, bitter mandarin trees populating its open courtyard.

And you can't miss the posters. Nablus may not have seen fighting like in Jenin during the Second Intifada, but some locals say that Nablus has historically given the lion share of Palestinian martyrs. And they have the posters to prove it. Every wall of the city is plastered and re-plastered with pictures of 'martyrs', usually with a Koranic inscription enshrouding their head, and a photo of the leaders of the respective groups. As I talked to some gangly youth hanging out in the Ras el-Ain neighborhood, one of them pointed to a poster on the wall and indicated that the grim-faced Al-Aqsa Brigades fighter had been his brother. I look closely at the poster. Below the picture of the youth carrying a gun half his size are smaller pictures of him after his death. A kuffiyeh covers the hole where his brains were apparently blown out. Another picture shows him without the kuffiyeh.

The posters, the memorials. There are plenty. And today, new ones will be put up. In the early morning, IDF forces stormed the old city and the Ras el-Ain neighborhood and assassinated three members of the Al-Aqsa brigade. When I first arrived in the city, the streets were emptying after a 20,000-strong march to the cemetery to bury the three new 'martrys'. (Muslim traditions require a swift burial after death). They had already shoveled over the last bit of dirt when I arrived at the graves. Ghassan Abu Sharkh was buried next to his brother, Naif, also an Al-Aqsa member killed in 2004. People are still at the gravesite, praying. From the hillsides overlooking Nablus, I'm sure the soldiers who killed these men, alleged to be the masterminds of the recent murder of a West Bank settler, are pondering Al-Aqsa's threat of responding in the "language of blood and fire." Mustafa Barghouti, the runner-up for PA presidency in 2005, gives an interview nearby saying that Israel only understands "the language of force."

Language, language. Everyone's thinking about with what language to respond. Political futures may once again be on the line. I head up to the Ras el-Ain home of Anan Sabah, one of the men targeted in the morning raid. My taxi driver, aware that I am American, feels a little uncomfortable leaving me among all the suspicious eyes, but I tell him not to worry. I introduce myself and after some time, suspicions lead to desires to tell me what happened. I'm introduced to Anan's brother, still red-eyed and in shock. I notice an extreme amount of equally shocked children wandering about.

He tells me how the soldiers first fired from the street into the windows before ordering everyone out. The walls are full of bullet holes. The windows shot out. Every room has been trashed. Used tear gas and sound grenade shells are laying around. Anan was recently let out of jail, he tells me; in exchange for writing off violence, he would not be targeted by Israeli forces. When the soldiers came, everyone was ordered out of the house except for Anan. Close to 90 people, Anan, his 5 siblings and their children, lived in this building. When they were allowed back in, they found his body riddled with bullets.

Anan's children, nine of them if my surprised ears heard right, are scattered around the house or at the local mosque. One 3-year-old, sleeping on a mat, springs out of his sleep when Anan's brother wakes him. He looks jumpy. "He hasn't stopped using the bathroom since this morning. Because of the fear," I'm told.

Israel is claiming a 'victory against terror' now. As I walk back down through the old city, a mob is rushing a young boy carrying handfuls of posters. The Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades have already printed out huge color posters of their three newest martyrs. Everyone is mobbing the young delivery boy, who yells that he can't give posters to everyone. Chaos. Somehow, it seems that despite all the language, no one can really claim victory in this latest round of bloodshed.

What Would Berlusconi Do?

Hosni Mubarak should take a cue from Silvio Berlusconi when dealing with the 1000+ international activists hanging out at the Jordanian-Egyptian border.

When the little Italian Alpine village of L'Aquila was slammed with an earthquake earlier this year, everyone's favorite Botox King was quick to offer reassurance. Prime Minister Berlusconi, probably fresh from another naked-models party, said that earthquake survivors who were spending their nights in tents should view themselves as being on a "camping weekend." Poor Silvio, he got a lot of shit for that one.

Now, international activists around the world, my dad included, are participating in the 3rd Humanitarian Mission to break the siege on Gaza. Named Viva Palestina, the convoy is sending much needed medicines, food, building materials, ambulances and other items to the Gazans, trapped on two sides by the Israeli Apartheid Wall, on another side by the Israeli Navy (which only allows Palestinian fishermen to catch their harvest a mere 3 nautical miles from the shore), and now on the fourth side by Egypt's new Apartheid Wall.

The convoy started off in England, getting great reception from people in every country. Apparently, in Syria, the group was put up free of cost by the government at the Sahara Tourist Complex in Damascus. (The only time I ever went there was when I attended the 'Extraordinary' Meeting of International Communist Parties, and I wasn't given anything to eat and my bike was stolen.) Now, the Jordanian government has given a typically cold reception, while my dad reports that Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood are very enthusiastically receiving the convoy (of course).

But as the Pharoah of Egypt, Mubarak is now putting the brakes on the convoy. He's in a pickle. Should he bend to popular will and allow the convoy through to Gaza, thus making him look slightly more legitimate? Or should he do the Israeli bidding and block the caravan, thus allowing for more money to come into Egypt to siphon off to fund his own Botox operations?

He'll take the Botox. The Egyptians are currently refusing entry to the convoy, thus stranding my dad and his convoy-mates in the port city of Aqaba. Mubarak should tell them that they should see it as a camping trip, that might make it more fun. My dad said he hasn't changed his underwear in three days; I'm not sure if that is in protest for not getting in, or because there aren't adequate facilities. In any case, the convoy, along with their buses and ambulances, food and medicine, are being made to camp out on the border.

If you feel moved by the story of my dad's gross underwear, do them all a favor. Call the Eygptian embassy and tell them "No more money for Apartheid walls and Hosni's Botox!". Or stand outside the embassy with a similar sign. Or even better, take a cue from Italy's mentally deranged, and if you see Mubarak, take a metal statue to his face like what happened to poor Silvio.

You can follow the convoy at: http://readingpsc.org.uk/convoy/

Stop the Wall Campaign

Here in Ramallah, close to the infamous Qalandia checkpoint and just overlooking the Palestinian Red Crescent building, is the offices of the Stop the Wall Campaign. It's a small office, populated with twiggy, chain-smoking, coffee-guzzling Palestinian revolutionaries, activists, intellectuals and their international allies. A huge poster of Che - Hasta la Victoria Siempre, it says - hangs above books and pamphlets on the Occupation. An out-dated UN poster from 2007 of the Israeli settlements in the West Bank on one door, Mahmoud Darwish's angry poetry on another. Boycott the Occupation posters lay scattered on the floor.

Burn-out central. Sigh. Sounds like my kind of place...

I'll be volunteering with the Stop the Wall campaign (www.stopthewall.org), a grassroots, decidedly not NGO which helps to coordinate local action and international solidarity with Palestinian activists. Last week, at midnight on December 16th, the Campaign Coordinator, Jamal Juma' was arrested by occupation authorities, and today we found out that he will be charged with 'incitement'. Incitement to exactly what, no one knows. According to Israeli military regulations, a Palestinian detainee can be held in custody for up to 12 days without knowing the reason for his/her arrest, and without seeing a judge. Afterwards, they can be charged, released, or giving administrative detention. Administrative detention is where the Israelis basically say that they have no proof of illegal activities, but they have a 'secret file' and thus are forced to hold you. No one can see that 'secret file', so know one knows why you are in. Administrative detention orders can be infinitely renewed. The Stop the Wall Youth Coordinator, Mohammad Othman, was arrested a few months ago, and after finding no reason for which to charge him, Israel put him under administrative detention.

I'll be putting together the website for Jamal Juma' - freejamaljuma.wordpress.com. It's really ugly, so if anyone has suggestions, please let me know. I'm basing it off Mohammad Othman's website (freemohammadothman.wordpress.com, duh!). Aside from web-building and translation, I will be helping with the Campaign's work on researching Israeli arms trade with Latin America, so if anyone has any articles or interesting information, please let me know. Currently, I'm looking into a agricultural trade agreement into which Israel and El Salvador entered. The idea is to inform grassroots organizations and Latin American civil society about Israel's attempt to prop up its sagging occupational economy. You can find a great article about Latin America and Israel written by Jamal on the Wordpress blog - http://freejamaljuma.wordpress.com/about/

You can also learn more about the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement which is building steam across the globe - www.bdsmovement.net

Thanks!

An Old Movie

artículo en español: http://www.kaosenlared.net/noticia/israel-palestina-pelicula-vieja


Let’s see, I think I have seen this movie before. Israel calls a 10-month partial ban on settlement construction in the West Bank (not including 3,000 buildings already approved, public buildings, or construction in East Jerusalem[1]), the settlers cry foul and images of screaming settlers carried away by police are flashed through the news. Oh, the pain! Obama, can’t you see the pain you are inflicting on Netanyahu and the Israeli people by telling them that they don’t have a legal right – much less a biblical right – to build in the West Bank?

Of course, everyone foresaw it coming. No one needed the settlers to explicitly say that for every outpost or settlement building dismantled or evicted, the Palestinians would be the ones who would suffer. Will Israel ‘vow to uphold the law’ against the ‘extremists’ who attack ‘innocent’ Palestinians? “Without a doubt,” says my 8-ball. Because of course, Israel is better than that. Israel wants peace. It is even taking ‘far-reaching and painful steps’ for peace. Indeed, even the government’s ‘unilateral freeze’ shows “who is for peace and who is against it.” (Let’s consult the 8-ball again: Are the Palestinians the ones against peace? “It is decidedly so”.)

We can be sure that following the mosque arson in the West Bank village of Yasuf, by ‘extremist elements’ within the settler ‘movement’ - I have conflict with that term, because it implies a separation, a distinguishing from Israeli government policy, which actively subsidizes and coddles [2] their ‘brothers’ in the West Bank -, the Israeli government will wash its hands of responsibility and say that it is doing everything possible for peace, and that some people (a ‘small percentage’ of settlers and don’t forget, 100% of Palestinians) don’t want peace. All the Livnis, the Baraks, the Netanyahus, and the Leibermans are the doves, can’t we see that?

Speaking of Livni, she became almost philosophical regarding the attacks on the mosque. “We must turn to introspection and contend with what is happening within Israeli society.” [3] Can someone tell me what the hell that means? I don’t recall her introspecting when white phosphorous was melting the skin of Gazans and she was rejecting a cease-fire. Maybe Israel only introspects when gun-toting Brooklynites with chutzpah and Torah-wielding dudes with curly locks are carrying out attacks.

The settlers – for economic or ideological reasons, 500,000 are living in the West Bank, furthering the dream of ‘Greater Israel’ – are a very vocal group within Israel, and opinions differ on whether they enjoy support from ‘mainland’ Israel. At a recent settler rally in Paris Square in West Jerusalem (which at first sight looked more like a Jonas Brothers concert, what with all the braces and 14-year old girls screaming their heads off), of the two dozen or so people I spoke with, at least 80% were from the U.S., and of these, almost all of them were from ‘Little Israel’ (you know, New York and New Jersey). And all of them had something to say to the Obama administration.

“Let Obama keep his change and let us keep building!” “Bibi [Netanyahu], don’t give in to American pressure!” One American teenager, holding a yellow flag with the portrait of Rabbi Meir Kahane on it, came up to me and eagerly said he wanted to tell me something. Go for it. “Tell Obama that if it doesn’t work out in the White House, maybe it will work out in the N.B.A.” Do you have anything else to say to Obama? “Um, yeah. He should go back to Iran and mind his own country.” (Rabbi Meir Kahane, the assassinated ideologue of the ‘fringe elements’, once claimed that to defend Israel you need “faith in God and a strong army.”) In the background, I heard a Yesha Council leader sound out clearly the name of the enemy, to cheers from the crowd: “Barack HUSSEEEEEEEEIN Obama”. Two 18-year olds from Brooklyn told me that ‘any empire that doesn’t align itself with the Jews’ will fall. G-d gave them the land, and now f---ing Obama wants to take it away?

We tried to visit the village on Ni’lin for their Friday demonstrations against the wall. The previous week, the army had used live ammunition against stone throwers and the night before, in the adjacent town on Bil’in, had arrested the organizers of the Popular Committee Against the Wall [4]. The army refused us entrance to Ni’lin for ‘safety purposes’. So we entered the bordering settlement of Mod’in Ilit and watched the protest from the other side. Some settlers approached us and gave their point of view of the situation. The wall, they said, has given protection against terror attacks and ‘stealing car radios’. “But,” one British-sounding settler graciously reminds us, “there was nothing on this land before. No one lived here. Just olive trees.” About the protest? Most didn’t pay attention except for one settler whose doctor wife reports that some Fridays, when the wind is pro-Palestinian, tear gas wafts into her clinic from across the valley and leaves her patients crying. About the Palestinians? “Well, the problem is that they don’t know how to manage their own people.” As we spoke, across the valley, another Palestinian youth was shot with live bullets.

These people would clearly fall into what Netanyahu would call the ‘not-fringe elements’. They don’t carry around M-16s like the settler at nearby Dolev settlement who was visibly shocked and surprised when we asked for directions to Ramallah. They most likely would condemn mosque attacks, though they might accept a wall to keep out ‘terrorists’, or the fact that another Palestinian family may be evicted from the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood of Jerusalem this week, or that Palestinians who want to enter Israel for work have to wait hours at checkpoints or are arbitrarily detained, or even ‘targeted strikes’ by Hellfire missiles on Gazan homes. They’re not ‘fringe elements’, they’re the mainstream. Netanyahu’s real brothers. He can afford to label a few scary guys as extremists, as obstacles to peace, while he counts on the passive majority who accept occupation and don’t see that as the real obstacle to peace.

When Palestinians reject this settlement freeze as the farce that it is – as they already have-, the Clintons and the Obamas and the Mitchells will express disappointment that Israel’s ‘gestures’ have not been accepted, the settlers would be vindicated and Israel will ‘be forced’ to reign in the Palestinians. It’s an old movie. Just rewind and replay.

Will the settlement freeze open ‘new doors’ to peace in Palestine and Israel? Eight-ball says: “Outlook not so good.”



________
1. “Israeli PM Netanyahu declares 10-month freeze in new building in West Bank settlements”. http://blog.taragana.com/business/2009/11/25/israeli-pm-netanyahu-declares-10-month-freeze-in-new-building-in-west-bank-settlements-3277/

2. “Land Expropriations and Settlements.” B’Tselem. http://www.btselem.org/english/settlements/migration.asp

3. “Officials Blame ‘Extremist’ Settlers for Arson Attack on West Bank Mosque”, Robert Mackey, December 11th, 2009.
http://thelede.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/12/11/extremist-settlers-blamed-for-arson-attack-on-west-bank-mosque/

4. “Release Bil’in popular leader Abdallah Abu Rahmah”, International Solidarity Movement. http://palsolidarity.org/2009/12/9688

"This is Not Apartheid; This is the Wild West"

Those words came from a young ex-IDF soldier named Ilan as we sat and gorged ourselves on delicious falafel - mine with extra hot sauce and xatzeel, eggplant - in a corner of Jerusalem's Mahaneh Yehuda market. We had just returned from Hebron, the largest city in the West Bank, home to roughly 180,000 Palestinians. Ilan, an ex-IDF soldier who served in Hebron during the Second Intifada and now leads tours with Breaking the Silence, an Israeli peace group made up of ex-IDF soldiers determined to make known the occupation's dirty work in Palestine, explains himself as he licks his fingers clean.

"Apartheid is where you have a set of laws defining discrimination between people. In Hebron, there is no law. The Israeli army is doing what they want there. They can evict Palestinians and nothing will happen. This is worse than apartheid."

Following the Oslo Accords in 1994 and the subsequent dividing of the West Bank into three araes - full Palestinian control ("Area A", about 15% of total land), full Israeli control ("Area C", 60% of land) or joint Palestinian civil authority / Israeli military authority ("Area B", 25% of land), Hebron received special treatment. The city was divided into H1 and H2, the former being Palestinian control and the latter, Israeli. Some 30,000 Palestinians still resided in H2 at the time of partition alongside roughly 500 settlers. Today, the settlers have increased by 300 - protected by close to 3,500 soldiers and police officers - and close to half of H2's resident Palestinian population has been evicted or scared off. The city center, once a vibrant area, is now inhabited by dogs and Israeli soldiers. Almost 80% of Palestinian businesses in H2 have closed, welded shut, weeds growing from their neglected entrances. Windows, protected against settler rocks by iron gates, don't have old grandmothers peering from them anymore. As they say, it's a 'ghost town'.

"Since most Palestinians have small shops on the first floor of their homes, our strategy would be to come and close the entrances to their shops, sometimes giving a week warning, sometimes a few hours, or sometimes no warning at all," explains Ilan. "Since they couldn't enter their shops, they couldn't enter their homes, and that way, they just left."

Ilan justifies his organization's continued attempts to educate people about what the army is doing in Hebron, despite harassment, jailing and threats. "I served three years in the army and I did things I never thought I could do. I have to make up for it." For refusing to serve as an army reservist, he must serve one month out of the year in prison. (In addition to the mandatory three year army service, Israelis may be called for reserve duty for one month a year until the age of 45.) His ultra-orthodox family has shunned him; ironically, some family members from Miami send thousands of shekels every year to support the settlers in Hebron and the neighboring settlement of Kiryat Arba.

A few Palestinian businessmen who brave attacks and harassment near the Tomb of the Patriarchs/Ibrahimi mosque (a sacred site for both Jews and Muslims, a stone wall divided the structure in two parts, one mosque, one synagogue, following the 1994 massacre of Muslim worshipers by the American-Israeli doctor Baruch Goldstein), tell me that between four workers selling trinkets and pottery, they make 20 shekels a day (U$5.30). Jewish worshipers hurriedly pass by as soldiers, armed to the teeth, watch out not for settler attacks, but rather attacks against settlers. Since the army's mandate is to protect Israeli citizens, Ilan tells me that they would only intervene in attacks if the settlers were being attacked, in order to arrest Palestinians. When little settler youths throw rocks at Palestinians, the most the army can do is to reprimand them and tell them not to do that again.

Recently, in a video circulated by Israel's Channel 2, after a reported knife attack by a Palestinian against settlers in Kiryat Arba in which the attacker was shot by the IDF, a settler is seen taking his car and running over the Palestinian - twice - as police and soldiers look on idly. The tension is high here. One Palestinian I talk to claims that another Intifada is coming.

Who knows if Palestinians could endure another Intifada, but as Hebron makes clear, the status quo seems unbearable. People on both sides offer me pessimistic views of the future. As we returned to Jerusalem, we stop at the tomb of Baruch Goldstein in Kiryat Arba, overlooking the Hebron hills and guarded by an equally nutty looking fellow. The inscription on his tomb speaks volumes: "Here lies the saint... who gave his life for the Jewish people, the Torah and Israel."

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For pictures, click here.

Chillin' in Bil'in (ok, that was cheesy, but I can't think of anything else)

When the wind pushed the first big cloud of white gas towards us, I figured I would just wrap my kuffiyeh around my face and press forward. "No big deal, Nico." Ten seconds later, I was crying like a baby who just crapped his diapers and coughing like an old man with one lung. That sucked. For a brief second, I remembered the story of Wendy Avila, the 24-year old Honduran woman who, with her husband, left her job in the United States to return to Honduras after the coup to join the resistance; she died of asthma complications after police gassed a demonstration. The 20-something Israeli soldiers, grinning behind the wire fence, literally had duffle bags filled with these gorilla-fist-sized (actually, maybe gorillas have bigger or smaller hands, I don't really know) bombs, and would throw them at anyone who got too close to the fence, or talked too much, or was a journalist, or was Palestinian, or was American, or was Israeli, or was a medic, or was in a wheelchair, or was an olive tree, or was the wind, the sun… they seemed to be firing at anything. The hand thrown bombs are problematic only inasmuch as the gas that comes from it; the real danger are the gas canisters launched from rifles that can cause considerable injury - or death - if they fall on you. We run past the tomb of "Bassem" Ibrahim, a veteran organizer of the weekly protests in Bil'in, who was killed when an IOF (Israeli Occupation Forces, as they are considered) soldier fired a tear gas canister, hitting him on the head. He lays now just 20 meters in front of the fence.

Internationals by far outweigh Bil'in residents, most of whom seem to be almost indifferent now to the weekly protests, though I was told that most of them are scared for fear of reprisals. The youth are the most energetic, making me feel like an old fogey, and seem almost indifferent to the gas clouds. A young-looking veteran of the First Intifada (the Intifada of the Stone-throwers) is decked out in a sweet automatic wheelchair and speeds away down-hill at impressive speeds everytime gas was launched, leaving the rest of us handicapped by the gas (no pun intended). Actually, at one point he stands up in his wheelchair to yell at the Israelis, which leaves me dumbstruck. Israeli tear gas causes miracles. The Tel Aviv mod squad, looking more like Williamsburg hipsters, arrive looking aptly glum. There is an old Irish man in combat boots and a gas mask, who mutters "fucking bastards" or "come on, motherfuckers" everytime a canister is launched. He stands like a rock at the front line the whole time filming the Israeli attack. (Later, at then end of the protest, someone overheard him saying: "I forgot to press the record button. Fuck." Luck of the Irish.) Some journalists for AP and other mass media watch from the sides, donned in gas masks and helmets, looking more like soldiers. Kuffiyehs and Palestinian flags abound. I wonder if the cheese of my left over pizza tucked away in my bag will absorb the gas.

Bil'in's residents have become famous for their weekly demonstrations since 2005 against the wall that has cut them off from more than 50% of their agricultural lands. Together with other towns, such as neighboring Nilin (where, at the same time I was choking on clouds, a young protestor was shot with "tutu" bullets), they have consistently challenged the Israeli state's right to build a wall through their lands under the pretext of guaranteeing security to Israeli Jewish citizens and, more directly, the more than 40,000 colonists living the illegal settlement of Modi'in Illit. (Last year, the Israeli government upgraded Modi'in Illit's status to "city", which some say would encourage more colonists to move in, thus further reducing Palestinian land.)

Most days, Bil'in residents are allowed to access their lands to tend to their olive trees, but only after passing through a checkpoint and as long as the IOF commander in charge deems it appropriate. The Israeli Supreme Court has ruled that the wall's path is illegal, and ordered a change in the path allowing for a return of at least 50% of confiscated lands. However, according to one organizer, the Israeli government has dragged its feet, claiming "lack of funds" to destroy and rebuild the wall. See www.bilin-village.org for more information.



Of course, however, plenty of gas and sound grenades. After 30 minutes, it's all over. The protest retreats for the week, and the game is over, for now. It's frustrating for me, this non-violence thing. Our heads still foggy with the gas, two Aussie journalists and I ask Abdullah, a Bil'in organizer, why the use of nonviolence as a tactic. He claims that if they can make the Israeli occupation spend money on having to deploy troops and weapons, little by little, they will become a thorn in the Israelis side and force them to give in to their demands. I wonder to myself how much it costs the Israelis to deploy a couple dozen teenagers against 150 protestors. Personally, I think it would cost more if we sent them to the hospital with a rock lodged in their faces... hmm, prudence, Nico. But hey, Gandhi's nonviolence tactics alone didn't send the English packing, nor did King's brotherly love alone win civil rights. But maybe, just now, I can't - and don't want to - really imagine more bloodshed out here.

As we retreat, I go to watch the parallel protest of a handful of Palestinian teenagers throwing rocks at troops. They are strictly forbidden by protest organizers to mix with us "nonviolent folk". In between olive trees, rocks and shouts of "sons-of-bitches" fly and bounce harmlessly of the wall or an ear. Rock, gas, rock, gas. These kids were the same ones who told me earlier that if they catch any Israeli on "their side" of the wall, they'll kill him. I hope they don't see those poor Israeli anarchists walking ahead of us. We walk back to town, about half a kilometer away, and you can still smell the gas. Some cool-looking Palestinian men are perched on a balcony watching the action, ironically puffing on a sheesha, as if there wasn't enough smoke in the air. The Israelis, to make some kind of point which is lost on us, are still shooting gas long after the protesters disperse.

Looking back across the valley, I see the Israeli soldiers crossing the barrier and removing flags and signs. One of them waves the Palestinian flag then tucks it away. I guess we'll be back next week.

P.S. This coming week, the colonists/settlers and their allies will gather in front of "Bibi" Netanyahu's residence to protest the 10-month settlement "freeze" (actually, they will still be building; I guess they call it a "freeze" because of the coming winter). Funny how tables turn. Go back to October 1995, when Netanyahu and the Likud were leading protests against Rabin for "being removed from Jewish tradition". One month later, a settler assassinated Rabin. I'm sure Mr. Yahoo is sweating his kippa off.

Short Film: No Way Through

Watch a new short film that transposes Israel's movement restrictions on Palestinians in the occupied territories to London.

Border Perspectives

Just quickly putting into perspective my "troubles" at the King Hussein border crossing, I ran across an article about two African-American activists who were attempting to participate in the Fatah-promoted International Conference on Palestinian Prisoners in Israeli Jails. It gives a good idea about what the Israelis look for in suspected "terrorists". Since the article is short, I'll copy it below:

The NLG NYC Condemns the Israeli Government for the Detention of African American Political Activists

25 November 2009

"The New York City Chapter of the National Lawyers Guild condemns the actions of the Israeli government for its unlawful and racially motivated detention of two African-American political activists.

"On November 23, 2009, Dhoruba Bin Wahad, a former U.S. political prisoner and leader of the Black Panther Party, and Naji Mujahid, a student-activist from Washington D.C., were on a tourist bus en route from Amman, Jordan to the West Bank of occupied Palestine. Both had been invited to attend a conference on political detention in Jericho that was sponsored by the Palestinian Authority. As the bus crossed the King Hussein Bridge that connects Jordan with the Israeli-occupied West Bank, it stopped for a border inspection by Israeli officers. Of the numerous individuals on the bus, only Dhoruba and Naji were ordered to disembark. Significantly, both were the only Black people on the bus. Within a short time, the border officials searched under Dhoruba's name on the Internet. They discovered that he is Muslim, a former Black Panther leader, and someone who spent 19 years in prison for a crime he did not commit. (Dhoruba, a target of COINTELPRO, was arrested in 1971 and sentenced to life in prison. His conviction was overturned in 1990). Both Dhoruba and Naji were interrogated, strip-searched, and their property confiscated and searched. Despite their cooperation and offer to return into Jordan, their detention continued for over 12 hours. They were ultimately released but denied permission to enter occupied Palestine and returned to Jordan.

"The treatment accorded Dhoruba and Naji would be outrageous if it occurred to anyone. And as Naji Mujahid himself stated shortly after returning to Amman, "the humiliation and frustration that we endured was a small taste of what we can be sure the Palestinians go through on a daily basis." But the incident is rendered even more shameful because its genesis appears to have been racial profiling. Dhoruba and Naji were ordered off the bus before Israeli border officials had any idea of their country of origin or personal histories. They only knew that they were Black. Moreover, the incident occurred only days after it was reported that the South African government deported an Israeli official following allegations that a member of Shin Bet, the Israeli secret police, had infiltrated the airport in Johannesburg in an effort to get information on South African citizens, particularly Black and Muslim travelers (Reuters, November 22, 2009).

"The New York City Chapter of the National Lawyers Guild calls upon the United States State Department to lodge a formal protest over the treatment of Dhoruba Bin Wahad and Naji Mujahid. We further call upon the Israeli government to end its racist and unjust detention and interrogation policies."

P.S.: news flash! for all of us who like to wear the Palestinian kuffiyehs in solidarity with our brothers and sisters here, I learned some useful information today. Apparently, the black and white (the one we usually see everywhere) represents Fatah; the red one represents the PFLP; and the green represents Hamas. So be careful which colors you decide to wave...

Kurdish Dancing

Finally, after many lies and attempted uploads, I have these videos of Kurdish dancers for you all. Recorded in the village of Eruh, in Southeastern Turkey on August 15th, 2009, the 25th anniversary of the PKK uprising.

Entering Occupied Palestine

They are on your head, in your mouth, nervously hopping on your arms. There are so many of them that when you wave your hand around in the air, you feel them hitting your skin. Dozens of them. Flies. It's as if, when approaching the Jordanian-Israeli border, you are nearing a decaying corpse, or at least something putrid, something rotten. Symbolic.

The Jordanian-owned JETT bus crossed the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge at 9am, one hour after having our passports stamped at the Jordanian border crossing, located just 2 kilometers away. The Israeli-customs center (remember that Israel controls the border crossing, even though it is in Palestinian Authority "controlled" West Bank) resembles more of an airport terminal than the simple border crossings I have gotten used to. A huge sign in Arabic by the Born to Freedom Foundation offers $10,000,000 (yes, that is ten million dollars) for information about Israeli's MIAs. Stern-faced youth in white polo shirts, khaki cargo pants, Ray-Ban sunglasses and watch over the crowd of travelers, armed with impressive-looking M-16s. We meet the first round of friendly customs agents/robots, leave our baggage, and are sent to another room. Nothing serious, just the X-ray machine. A French kid who was on the bus with me and is hoping to get involved in anti-occupation activities as well, is pulled aside by a mean looking agent with a gun strapped to his thigh. I proceed. Maybe it won't be as bad as everyone told me it would.

I was told on numerous occasions about how beautiful the Israeli female customs agents are, and the next customs agent I meet is exactly that. She is so nice to me that I begin to wonder if it was all a joke about the Israelis being nasty. Or maybe it was the new, striped, blue and white (excellent touch, Nico!) collared shirt I was wearing. "Where are you going in Israel?" Everyone had told me - "Don't say Ramallah!" - but I didn't have another story and I didn't want to lie, so I told them "Ramallah, Bethlehem, maybe the Red Sea, of course Tel Aviv... " My question: "Why are there so many flies?" She groans in solidarity. Then:

"Please have a seat."

Damn. The majority of people were being passed through, except for me, the French guy and a few other Palestinians. I fill out a form about my recent country visits (though they already know it, they make you say and write everything twice just to see if your story - or memory - holds up), and wait. Fifteen minutes later, I am taken to another hall (I can see the exit!) and told to wait. Sometime later, one of the secret service goons rolls up and asks to sit next to me. I would rather punch her in her metallic braces, but I accept.

Thus begin the questions. What did you do in Syria? Why did you study Arabic? What is your work? Why did you help tenants? How much was your apartment in Syria? Do you have receipts for your classes? How are you able to pay for your trip? She writes down everything I say, while swatting at the flies. Where are you going in Israel? Ok, where are you going in the West Bank? I ask, provocatively: Is Jerusalem part of the West Bank? To which she enigmatically replies, Not yet. Forty minutes later, she's done, I'm parched and she tells me to wait.

Some time later, I'm asked by another agent to retrieve my bag, which he then asks me to set aside on an inspection table. I'm again told to wait. The crowds pass by towards the exit. The flies are swarming, not allowing me to sleep. Exhausted. I'm the only one still waiting, though new "detainees" (as I am calling myself now) come and go frequently.

Another 45 minutes later, bag inspection. They go through everything, in detail, and throw it on the table. A USB drive? Red light. In a separate box. Robert Fisk's "The Great War for Civilization"? Red light. Funnily, Edward Said's "The Question of Palestine" gets a green light. I expected more problems about that. Why do you have a flashlight? Oh, so when I meet Hizbollah in the mountains, I can see who I am talking to, I think sarcastically. "No reason, just in case of emergencies." A birthday card written in Arabic? Red light. I had secretly stuffed my kuffiyeh in the leg of a pair of pants, and held my breath as the officer groped the pants. He didn't catch it. I exhaled heavily and rested a hand on the pair of pants, as if to defend it from further groping. A voice recorder?! Red light. A Macbook? Green light. Flies? Many.

We take the red light items into a back room, after I take my cool time in packing my bags. We enter a room. The secret service agent, much friendlier now in the company of two male couterparts, takes leave. A curtain closes. What the hell? Am I to be bodily searched? Yes. Check his shoes. Socks. Drop your pants. Anything hidden under the scrotum, no. Between the butt cheeks, no. They say something in Hebrew and laugh. It was a lesson in humiliation. The occupation must show its power and your powerlessness. You are nothing, we are power. I wished I could have at least farted on him.

They finish, and I am shaking, maybe out of anger, or humiliation, or both. Even during my arrests in the US, I was never strip searched. But I told myself that this is just a fraction of what Palestinians experience everyday, so I shouldn't try to talk about false pride or something like that.

The secret service woman returns and I mention the laughing. She embarrasedly replies, "some boys never grow up." They make me sign a paper, all written in Hebrew, which I demand to be read in English. I could have demanded it written in English, but I am took tired. Am I under arrest?

"No, but you have been arrested before, correct?"

Oh, you saw the GW Hatchet on-line article which mentions my arrest at a Critical Mass Bike Ride. (Note: to be an Israeli secret service agent, you have to know how to use Google). "Yes, I was arrested." For what? "I believe for biking in the opposite direction of traffic and generally blocking traffic." Who else was arrested with you? "Lots of people." Including anyone you know? "Oh yes, my friend Miles who I will be staying with in Ramallah." What were you protesting? "The War". Which one? "The Invasion of Iraq." You were against that war? "Yes, I was, and I still am." My tone is finally defiant. You weren't protesting Israel? "No." (We all know my memory is sometimes shady, so here's the article.)

They return me to the entrance and tell me to wait. Will I be turned back? I prepare myself for denial of entry. It's hot now, and the flies are still here.

I'm called to another window, and my passport is returned to me. I suppose as a reward for not losing my patience with the robots, I have been given 3 months and no stamp in my passport (which comes in handy if I want to go to Muslim countries other than Jordan, Egypt or Turkey). I did it. I'm in Palestine. Eleven months later after starting my trip, I am in Palestine.

I exit the processing center and catch a bus to Jericho to wait for Miles. Along the way, PA police stop us and check our passports. They seem very relaxed, as they should, since there is nothing for them to police, the Israelis are the ones in control. They seem to be checking for contraband in one youth's bag as they joke with me. I'm sort of a novelty, it seems, and they are very friendly to me. We discuss the occupation, and some people tell me about how useless the PA police really is. At the Jericho bus station, a PA sign talks about the "liberated zone of Jericho".

The flies are still there. Miles picks me up and we drive to Ramallah. Welcome to occupied Palestine.

Nilin Brings Down the Wall

Thanks, Joe DeRaymond

Joe DeRaymond sharing a sunset with Ivan and Perrucho in La Union, 2003

I'm sitting in a little Damascene cafe, preparing for my Monday morning presentation on International Humanitarian Law and its relevance in today's world, sipping a slightly bitter lemon juice. Usually I come here with my friends to play chess or smoke the sheesha or just chat after school, when the place is bustling with students, writers, idiots and thinkers. Now, on a Friday morning, it's quiet and calm.

Actually, I wish it were a little busier right now. I suddenly feel drained of energy and there's a whirling pit in my stomach which makes me feel a little dizzy and off-balance. I just learned that Joe DeRaymond, a solid, long-time revolutionary and my former FOR companion in San José de Apartadó (Colombia), has passed away after a long struggle with brain cancer.

It wasn't just Joe's massive physical presence that impacted you (I remember all the donkeys were too small in San José to carry Joe 2 hours up to La Union, so despite his leg pains, he'd bow his head and quietly trudge up the mountain), it was also his intellectual capacity and ability to empathize with oppressed people everywhere. He gave everything to the struggle.

I was a crazy 21-year old eager to run up the mountain and swing a machete and be crazy, and he was a cured fighter, quietly whittling away at discarded pieces of wood with his pocketknife and fashioning them into little figures which he would set on his windowsill, or give to people who stopped by the old school where he slept. I remember one time, I came to that windowsill and watched him carve and he slipped and cut his finger. He roared a profanity that scared the shit out of me and everyone in a 2 mountain range-radius, but later continued his work. He was funny.

Don Ramon one time came up to us and told us that he was constipated and couldn't seem to expel anything. Joe, the medic, had some raisin and told him to eat it. The next day, Ramon came back, visibly relieved, and we all shared a hearty laugh.

Joe, also an amazing writer, wrote a paper last year after coming back from El Salvador, when he first learned of his brain cancer. Perhaps he risked his own life by reporting on atrocities and injustices committed against others.

Thanks, Joe, for everything you did and for being a regular hero and a comrade. We'll miss you.

P.S. FOR (Fellowship of Reconciliation), the group Joe and I worked with for a year in Colombia, is currently going through a process of independentization and they need your help. They are still doing some awesome work in San José, accompanying the Peace Community, but have also extended their solidarity to other groups in Colombia. If you are able and willing to donate a few dollars to their awesome project, click http://www.forcolombia.org/ for more information, or contact Liza Smith at liza@igc.org.

Al-Quneiytra

I got my permit to go to Al-Quneiytra, the Syrian city at the entrance of the Golan Heights, and this morning set off on my little yellow bike, southwards along the Eastern Lebanon Mountain Range (or, according to the "Western" name, the "Anti-Lebanon Mountain Range"... hmm, that's not political at all), past olive fields and apple orchards. As you get closer to the Golan, the breeze gets cooler and carries the smell of pine. It's a refreshing change from the gridlock and grime of Damascus.

Today was also the Muslim holiday of Eid Al-Fitr, marking the end of Ramadan. I suppose people celebrate that not only by eating and congratulating each other, but actually giving plastic guns to their young sons. So all along the road I was being shot at by hordes of little brats. One of them actually gave me a welt on my belly... what the hell happened to Legos? Maybe those were the "arms sales" the Russia recently announced to Syria. I think the Syrians should be wary of those Russian arms; the last time they used them, they lost the Golan.

I left home at 6am, and 4 hours, 40 miles, one flat tire, one shwarma, two nasty Spam sandwiches and one cucumber later, I found myself in the Liberated City. It's pretty liberated: no one is living there, except for the few secret police who accompanied me around the city, showing me the ruins of houses, hospitals and churches the Israelis left behind as they retreated. From the third floor of the bombed-out, bullet-ridden hospital (one guard takes his position on the second floor which must be really boring), you can see the mountains of the occupied Golan Heights, with a huge Israeli surveillance base watching us.

After a few jokes, my police companions lighten up, and the officer tells his subordinate to ride my bike and he offers to take me around on his motorcycle. For a second, I think about equality and comraderie, but then quickly brush that thought out of my mind and happily jump on the motorcycle. We go past more houses, mined-areas and generally depressing scenes from a city that once was home to some 16,000 people, according to Officer "Can't-Tell-You-My-Name". When I ask him about peace with Israel, he candidly admits, "In Sha Allah". He catches me off-guard when he says that Syria would be willing to share the precious water of Lake Tiberias with the Israelis, but says that Israel doesn't want that, and I think he might be right. The Golan Heights is one of the more fertile areas of Syria, and now of Israel, and an important source of water in the region. The Golan Heights have also entered the realm of cyber-war recently, with Facebook allowing their users in the occupied territories to choose between describing their location as "Israel or Syria".

The most recent international efforts to return the occupied territory to the Syrians were interrupted when Syria unilaterally ended them in protest of last December's Israeli-massacre of Gazans. Obama's recent efforts have failed to produce anything, so for now, it seems that Al-Quneiytra will remain a ghost town, frequented by a few crazy gringos on yellow bikes.

My New Bike

So I finally bought a bike at a used (or stolen) bike street-fair (if you’re interested, held ever Friday in Zublatani). Most of the bikes are vegetable sellers’ bikes, and I was told that it is embarrassing to be seen riding one of those to the university unless you are delivering vegetables to the severely-understocked school cafeteria. And I would never dare to be seen as a vegetable seller. I already look strange enough with this weird hole that suddenly appeared in my beard. Does anyone know what to do? People told me to rub lemon and garlic on it (sounds lovely); if I were in Colombia, some campesino would tell me to put a freshly-laid egg on it, or even to rub some fresh horse shit into it. Oh! Why can’t I have Ben Bernanke’s lush recession-proof beard??

My bike is a nice, blinding yellow, indistinguishable between the yellow taxis zipping past me at 120 kph (that’s kilometers per hour, not Kansas Public Housing), and I actually enjoy surviving the 10-minute trip to university that I make every day. Past the pictures of Bashar in uniform, the pictures of Bashar amidst flowers, Bashar smiling. Why can’t they put up a picture of Asma, the first lady? Apart from sounding like a respiratory illness, she’s quite attractive and it would make my trip better. Actually, there are posters of Nasrallah, the cherubic Hezbollah leader, smiling at me from all the alley walls of my neighborhood. He looks almost as cute as Asma.

And I went to the permits office today to register for a permit to go to Qunaitrah, the city in the Golan Heights. Most Syrians can’t go there, but it seems to be easier for foreigners, I suppose because they want to show how Israel left the city. I thought it was pretty amusing when the official asked me, very seriously: “So you want to see the liberated city?” I asked, “You mean Qunaiytrah.” “Yes, the liberated city.” I wanted to say yes, I want to see the city that you Syrians had so bravely wrestled from Satan’s claws, but I second-guessed my sarcasm. Actually, historical check: I’m pretty sure it was through negotiations that they got that city back... anyone know?

If I get the permit, I will try to bike to the Golan Heights and let you all know how interesting or not it is. Actually, my housemate (who is still sleepy, but talks more now), has relayed to me - over several evening tea breaks - that he was a veteran of the 1973 “Yom Kippur” War (when Eygpt and Syria tried to take back the Sinai and the Golan, respectively). He has the shrapnel wounds to prove it. Apparently, he was on the front lines of this bloody conflict (that left some 10,000 dead in roughly two weeks), entered 5 km into Israeli territory, and he pointed out to me that when he took some Israelis captive, the first thing he did (after taking away their weapons) was to give them some of his army rations. That was a nice last meal. (Just kidding.)

Other than that, some of us took a trip to a small village outside of Damascus to go to a Greek Orthodox festival. It was quite fun, and interesting. It’s a small town with a majority Christian population. (In spite of the fact that the Orthodoxes - or is it Orthodoxi? - had littered the surrounding hills with hundreds of lit-up crosses, some wise guy decided to build a mosque right in the middle of town.) The festival got a little strange, however, when someone lit a cross on fire. Not sure if that was intended, but I felt a little strange. I got really anxious when I saw people dressed in robes, but then relaxed a little when I realized they were just nuns. Or were they penguins...? hmmm...

And my pops is visiting me in October. If any of you speak to him, convince him not to bring over those books I told him too, because they will probably cause me to be stranded on the Palestinian-Jordanian border, arguing with some 20-year-old budding fascist, and that would really blow.

That’s the news from out here. Wish me luck on my midterms and on my bike ride!

PS. I finally uploaded the video of the Kurdish dancers. You can check it out here.

First Day of Class

Sorry I haven't written, things here aren't nearly exciting as rebellious mountain dancing in the Turkish Southeast. By the way, I have been meaning to put up a video of this incredible Kurdish dance group, but everytime I spend an hour uploading it, at the end it says error. So until I can show you all the video, here is another one that is equally interesting.



Other than that, I started my first day of class today at the University of Damascus. It's ok so far, we'll see how it goes. I have a new roommate, a middle-aged Syrian man who is really nice and teaches me Syrian Arabic, but seems to sleep a lot. Maybe talking to me makes him tired.

Ok, that's it for now. Everything good. In Iraq, I guess things seem to be heating up between the Kurds and the Arabs, over Kirkuk's oil. And Iraq and Syria are having a little fight. US bombing Afghans and Pakistanis. Everything normal.

Back again!

I had used a few proxy servers to get on to Blogger, but they didn't work, finally I found a good one. Proxyblind.com. So, I'll put up my last Wordpress entry here, too.

hey everyone,
hanging out with some Kurdish fellows in the town of Nusaybin, and we were waiting for a protest to erupt against Turkish occupation. All the businesses were closed in solidarity, and I couldn't find any doner to eat, so they brought some cheese and olives for me from their houses.

As I crossed the border, I waved back to my new friends and said "Long Live Kurdistan", in Kurdish, to which the Turkish borders guards, already red from the near 45-degree temperatures (that's Celsius, guys), got even redder. Haha.

After about an hour of questions, all laughing though, I was allowed into Syria. In the town of Al-Qamishli, a mostly Kurdish town, I hung out with some more Kurds that go to Damascus University.

(Now the real depressing part, sorry that was just a prelude, a teaser.)

It was actually pretty depressing, because they were telling me how the Syrian government treats the Kurds (the same as the Turks). The only difference is that the Kurds can't really have a armed rebellion because in that area it is mostly desert (not much place to hide), and also Bashar's daddy, Hafez, taught everyone a lesson, when at the beginning of the 1980's, he squashed an Islamist uprising in the town of Hama by razing an entire section of the city with bombs. Result: a few thousand dead, and everyone knew who was the boss.

I saw how the police come by, and just to mess with people, take their bikes or whatever and say that they are in offense, and make them pay a fine. They came up to my Kurdish guests shoe stall and tried to say that suddenly they were in violation for something. Everything was settled with approximately 0.75 cents and a pat on the back. (That's a large sum considering a shoe salesman's worker makes about $3 a day). Corrupt as hell. They tried to come after me for something, but when I started speaking Arabic and said that I was Obama's long-haired brother, they gave sheepish grins and said "Welcome!"

Damascus is big. It's a tad cooler than Cairo, putting it around 110 degrees (that's Faranheit, guys). I'm trying to figure out how to find an apartment and get ready for school registration. I think that should be exciting.

So we'll see how this Syrian sojourn goes. If I end up pooping on a police car and going to jail, you guys will start a campaign to free me, right?

Oh, one thing, about militarism in the Arab world. It sucks and is really depressing. Check out this great article by one of those "backpackers" who was recently arrested in Iran after crossing from Iraq. http://www.thenation.com/doc/20090622/bauer. It's too bad that the empire and the rest of the world props up these guys to suit their own ends. Oh wait, that's the same story in Latin America, Africa, Asia and any non-Westernized country, right? I keep forgetting that and get all these romantic delusions. Damn.

And I promise that I won't try growing another Bashar-like moustache.

Among the "Children of the Sun"

Bigee Kurdistan! Viva Kurdistan!

I'm writing from the city of Hakkari, population 200,000, close to the border with Iran and Iraq. These past few days have been a mixture of awe, hope, sadness and revolutionary energy. But that is why I came to Kurdistan in the first place, to understand and feel those emotions.

I had read in the newspaper that Abdullah Ocalan ("Apo"), the PKK's jailed leader, would announce the rebels' peace plan on August 15th, coinciding with the 25th anniversary of the PKK's first armed action. It would be held in the same town that witnessed the start of this bloody war, a small town called Eruh, in the Şirnak province. (Eruh, by the way, is the Turkish name. Dihe is the Kurdish name. As part of the Turkish nationalism and subsequent intent to disappear the Kurdish people, all town and city names were changed to Turkish). What I thought would be a simple reading of the peace plan, with possibly some celebrations, was actually a cultural and political reinvindication on a massive scale: some 20,000+ Kurds from all over the country flocked to this tiny town, dancing up a dust cloud, chanting PKK slogans, and in general, feeling proud to be Kurdish.

Parliamentarians from the pro-Kurdish DTP party were present alongside women, men, elders, children, all flashing the "V" sign and calling for peace. The DTP party is undergoing a Batasuna-type persecution, as the Turkish government is considering banning them for alleged links to the PKK. Links to the PKK? They would have to try all 20,000 people attending the festival, because everyone I talked to and danced with were consumed by the PKK. Some elder women and men with whom I talked told me that they, too, had served in the Kurdish army. It was in the dances, the songs, the womens' ululations; it was in the air, in the dust, and even in the mountains, as at night, the seemingly elusive guerrillas defied the Turkish extra-security measures (tanks, army, riot squads, you name it) and from the mountain sides, lit fires that spelled out "Apo" and "PKK". It was surreal.

(As for criminalizing the DTP, Turkey should learn a good lesson from Colombia's civil war, when the government's politicide of the Patriotic Union forced many people back into the mountains.)

Apparently I was the only foreigner there, and people were either welcoming, curious or oblivious, but mostly the first two. I was put through impromptu intensive Kurdish-language courses and taught how to dance by linking pinky fingers and putting your whole heart and soul into it.

The guns in the mountains were silent that day, although the rest of my journey showed me that Kurdistan is a region under absolute and complete military occupation. On the road from Şirnak to Hakkari, there is a checkpoint almost every 10km, making the already torturous drive (everyone was puking from the winding roads) that much more horrible. Tanks and APCs line the highway. Almost every village along the road has a military base (the Turkish armed forces number some 1,000,000+, making it the secong largest armed forces in NATO after the US. If you figure the Turkish population is roughly 75 million, that makes 1 in 75 people...), and if there are no soldiers, you most likely catch sight of Kurdish men armed with AK-47s: the village guards. In Colombia, they are called paramilitaries or "Convivir", but other than that there is no difference. In exchange for near total impunity, the village guards are fully equipped and sent out to defend against PKK attacks. A massacre in May of this year by village guards at a wedding has not affected their utilization by the Turkish army.

On one bus trip, a pretty burly Kurd sat next to me, and after determining that I posed no threat, pulled out his mobile phone and showed me a video. It showed a dead Kurdish fighter on the road, his tongue having been cut out by the Turkish public forces before he was killed.

In Beytuşşebap, I was questioned as to why I was in this area. Aren't I afraid? Do I know the PKK? It reminded me all of Colombia. I could see the policeman (many of them dress as civilians) struggling to try to make a connection with the PKK. When I said that my parents were from Sri Lanka, I knew he was remembering the LTTE from his intelligence training; in Eruh, a few people asked if I knew Prabhakaran!

One police officer asked me if I liked this area, to which I replied that it was beautiful. He seemed sincere when he retorted "You think this SHIT is beautiful? It's nothing but rock!" I could only imagine what he thought of Kurds.

That night, in Beytuşşebap, I met some friends of a friend who took me to a traditional pre-wedding ceremony. Some of the songs brazenly sung support of Apo. I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask, but the party, my hosts' barrage of questions to me and my own tiredness prevented me from asking about the divisions between the pro- and anti-PKK Kurds, about how their friends felt on their last night before entering the Turkish army (practically forced conscription of 15 months), what they thought about government efforts to pump money into Kurdistan in an attempt to buy their Turkish-ness, etc.

It's been an amazing time. Hope to keep you all updated on more stuff. Oh and by the way, Ocalan's peace map wasn't revealed after all on the 15th, because apparently it wasn't ready. Should be out by the 19th. The far-right MHP party and the CHP are already opposing the PKK plan as well as the ruling AKP's plan for the "Kurdish problem" saying that it goes against Kemalist (Ataturkist) notions of Turkish unity. So 2009 may see the end of the conflict, or once againg simply a lull in fighting. We'll see...

Pictures from Kurdistan, click here.

From Kurdistan, with love

Checking in from the capital of Turkish Kurdistan (oh yeah, I said the K-word... and it wasn't Ataturk backwards), Diyarbakir, a pretty crowded and intense city on the banks of the Tigris River (I also crossed the Euphrates today, too!). It's a city with history: inside the old-walled city, there are Syriac Orthodox churches and Armenian churches. It's also a city under seige: just take a walk past the main police station (a few blocks from one of Turkey's oldest mosques, the Ulu Camii) and you can't miss the helmeted troops hunkered down in APC's, machine-gunned turrets swiveling back and forth. It's like Saravena or Barrancabermeja when the Colombian army started to take over those towns.

People strongly identify as Kurdish, and go wild whenever I say thank you in their language. I'm hoping to do a little more looking around this land before heading south into Syria. On August 15th, Ocalan, the PKK's imprisioned leader, is set to announce his "Roadmap to Peace", and if all goes according to plans, it will be read from Eruh, a tiny town not far from here where the first military action of the PKK against the Turkish state took place on August 15th, 1984. I hope to make it there.

This week, a famous Kurdish singer, Aram Tigran, died. He always said that the Turks, Kurds, Armenians and Arabs were brothers and sung in all those languages. He was much loved by the Kurds and his final wish was to be buried here in Diyarbakir. Unfortunately, the Turkish interior minister denied his burial here, and so yesterday he was buried in Brussels. This followed on the tail of a report of police in the western-city of Izmir banned the performance of
the play "Araf", about the murder of Kurdish journalist Musa Anter in 1992 in Diyarbakir.

On a rebellious note, last night as I was sitting around reading and watching a meteor shower over Mt. Nemrut, a young Kurdish guy who worked at the hotel walked past me humming "Bella Ciao". I had a fantasy that it was a secret password among comrades that I had inadvertently stumbled into. And when I asked a metal worker who picked me up on the way down the mountain about peace in Kurdistan, he said something in Kurdish, said PKK and flashed me what I thought was a subversive smile.

Anyways, on a realist note, check out this article about mothers of Turkish soldiers and PKK fighters coming together to say no more war. Another article here.

Update: Actually, singing Bella Ciao doesn't necessarily mean that one is PKK. Apparently, the PKK is more tuned into Kurdish music. So I'm not sure why the kid was humming Bella Ciao... sorry.

New Pics from Turkey and Cyprus up

Check them out here!

You won't see pictures of the Imperial Treasury of the Topkapı Palace, because we weren't allowed to take pictures, but it was the craziest set of treasure I have ever seen. Lots of diamonds, rubies, gold, emeralds as well as the famous Topkapı Dagger, which was to be given to the Pasha of Iran from the Ottomans, but he died before they could get it to him. So they decided to keep it. (They were probably like, "phew! we really didn't want to give this away!")

There was also an amazing collection of religious artifacts, like Moses' stick (the one that Charlton Heston threw on the ground, dumbass), the footprint of Mohammed when he ascended to heaven, Mohammed's beard (!), and I think what was supposed to be St. John's arm. That was some weird shit, it was still in it's armor, but you could see the mummified hand inside.

The treasury just showed the opulence of the Ottoman empire, which someone still resonates today. Everything seems elegant here. I love just sitting by the Bosphorous and watching the people drink tea and enjoying themselves. (Yeah, I just sit for hours and pick a group of people to stare at until they get uncomfortable). People are so chill and inviting. The weather is great (oh by the way, I felt my first rain in 4 months last night!).

Also, down south, we visited the Greco-Roman ruins of the city of Ephesus, which was pretty cool, too. The Artemis Temple, one of the seven wonders of the world, wasn't there anymore.

I moved into a sweeeet apartment, a block from the Galata tower. From the living room you can see the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and the Topkapı Palace... and an amazing rooftop terrace. I'll be doing some reading and hopefully relaxing for 10 days here before moving on. I'm reading this great book called Wizard of the Crow by Kenyan Ngugi Wa Thiong'o. I should be reading about Turkey, though.

Enjoy the pics!

P.S. Oh, Youtube is blocked here, because of some online fight between Greeks and Turks, where the Greeks insulted Atatürk (a crime in Turkey). No more videos of labiaplasty and scrotum reduction, sorry guys.

P.P.S. They also blocked my cell phone, so for all of you who never call me, now you have a real excuse. (Apparently, you can't use a foreign cell phone with a local SIM card.)

Getting to Turkey

There is SOOO much i want to tell you guys about Turkey. ıt's much better than that stupıd D.A.R.E. commercıal back ın the days where the dope fıend was lıke "are you chıcken?" and the pressured kıd saıd "ı'm not a chıcken, you're a turkey!" I thınk that ad really had an ımpact on me, because up to now I really wasn't ınterested ın Turkey.

oh, before that, just have to recall thıs funny ıncıdent when ı crossed the DMZ on a bıke ın Cyprus. The Greek guard was lıke "Nıcholas Alexander?? Are you Greek?! That's a Greek name!" and he happıly stamped my passport and have me a huge smıle. ı passed through the buffer zone, whıch ıs nothıng more than old dılapıted buıldıngs and UN apartments and offıces. A Carlsberg beer truck was allowed to pass to delıver some kegs of beer to the UN personnel. That's the real reason that the UN doesn't want a real solutıon: they just want to drınk beer ın one of the most beautıful countrıes ın the world. It seems lıke they mıght try reconcılıatıon agaın. ı talked to thıs one turkısh cyprıot woman who told me "we're all cyprıots, whether greek or turkısh." I thought that was a nıce summıng up of the ıssue. Lots of people told me that polıtıcıans were to blame for the ımpasse.

The Turkısh border guard dıdn't seem to be as happy about my name, but he let me ın. I was ın the Turkısh Republıc of Northern Cyprus! ı am savıng that stamp ın my passport.

The one thıng that stuck ın my head as I crossed customs ın Istanbul was that there was thıs TV that was passıng all these ads wıth skınny models sportıng fancy watches or bronzed muscle-men lookıng ıntensely at somethıng ın the dıstance. Well that wasn't the ınterestıng part. The ınterestıng part was between those ads and pıcture of a haıry, smıley guy popped up. It was Ocalan, the head of the PKK and they were announcıng how he was prısoner on a lıttle ısland ın the mıddle of the Marmara sea, just outsıde Istanbul. It was pretty surreal.

People have flags and photos of Atatürk everywhere. It would be strange ıf we had pıcs of George Washıngton pasted everywhere. He's lıke a god here. People seem really natıonalıstıc as well. I'll put up some pıcs of Topkapı Palace, the Blue Mosque and other stuff later. There's a lot to learn here. I'm also enjoyıng lots of apple tea. People are frıendly as usual, but no one seems to speak Englısh! It's lıke, come on, we gıve you guys so much mılıtary aıd, why the hell don't you speak our language?? ı thınk we can start a campaıgn for Obama to drop aıd to Turkey based on thıs very ımportant fact.

Anyways, that's ıt for now. Sorry for the "ı", ıt's really hard to get used to fındıng the "i" on thıs keyboard. Rıght now at the beach and hopıng to check out the rest of the country later.

Besotes!
Nıko

Letter from Cyprus

Slowly working my way closer to Istanbul, city by city. now it is 2pm, 4 hours to go until i can relax (at the house where I'll stay tonight, can't arrive before 6pm). the sun here in nicosia is brutal. met this nigerian guy and his nigerian friends and they took the bus with me to nicosia (the capital of Cyprus and coincidentally, my homeland. Oh, also they drive on the left hand side here, legacy of the Brits.). he was really nice, helped me with my bag, and since i was really tired, he helped me get to a park where i slept a little more on a park bench. feel a little better. he said he would come back after his meeting with someone, but it started getting sunny and i got hot. so i walked out and ran into a little sri lankan store! (actually, I didn't run into it, but coolly approached it). i took a picture and walked in, and started chatting the guys up in my awful sinhala. but they were cool. the guy asked if i had had lunch, and i said no, and started hoping for offers of nice curry and string hoppers, but he didn't say anything more on the subject. maybe he was just interested to know if i had eaten. haha. in any case, he was really impressed by my bag, he thought it was really heavy, though he had gigantic muscles, more greek-like that sri-lankan like. and there are so many different people here in nicosia, not at all like larnaca, which we could compare to manhattan in terms of touristy, and nicosia would be brooklyn. it would be nice to live here for awhile. i saw a sign in the park announcing a handsome european man was looking for a pretty filipina. well some things never change. one of the first things tony, the nigerian, told me was that it was nice living in larnaca (he lives there, but studies in nicosia) but that people say "strange things". i pressed further: "like racist comments?" "Yeah." melting pots are always so volatile. Like the one time in Puerto Matilde (Magdalena Medio) when a pressure cooker full of beans blew up and tore a hole through the aluminum roofing bought with money from the European Union.
The bus ride, through my sleepy eyes, was nice, the countryside is hilly to mountainous and, at least in this part, arid and sort of sandy, but with those pretty thin trees that make me visualize a greek countryside. Tonight after showering and relaxing, hoping to get a tour of the city and maybe check out the wall, since it is the 30th anniversary of the Turkish invasion today. I imagine it will be something like the Berlin Wall. There were two Greek Cypriot nationalists handing out flyers in Greek over in Larnaca, and I asked them to explain it to me, but either they really couldn't speak English, or they refused to. Oh well. I should probably ditch the flyer before entering Turkish Cyprus.
Other than that, there are a lot of really gorgeous people here. Seen a few bronzed Greek gods and goddesses like in the movies. Some fake looking ones, too. I was reading in my in-flight magazine that Cyprus was one of the premier destinations for plastic surgery. Maybe I will get my lips thinned out... is that called labiaplasty?

love, nico

ps: don't forget to click on my name! enjoy! please let me know if you appreciate these informational videos.

"Pacho" Santos, NAM and Colombians in the Sinai

I was just flipping through the news the other day when I stumbled upon a telecast of the 15th Summit of the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM), being held from the 13th-16th of July in Sharm El Sheikh (the hotspot for all those overly tanned Russians, Israelis and other Europeans on the Red Sea). Does anyone really know (or care) what the NAM does anymore? I don't. All I know is that everyone was calling Mubarak "His Excellency" and he looked, as he usually does, proud of himself. Someone took a great picture of him, here.

Anyways, jokes aside, I was pleased to hear the King of Swaziland decry the coup in Honduras (finally, we had been lobbying him hard just to get him to say that!). The President of the DR also mentioned Honduras quite often (he was actually delegated by Zelaya to do carry forth the Honduran case), and the newly sworn-in Nepalese PM seemed to be tired. At least while Colombian VP Franciso "Pacho" Santos was blabbering, his eyes were half-closed. Mine were, too, as I listened to Pacho squeal out his defense of the Uribe regime and how all NAM countries have to continue collaborating in the fight against "terrorism". How are countries like Colombia still considered "non-aligned"? Does the proposed installation of US troops and "advisors" in three Colombian bases (one of them used as a launching pad for a massacre of 18 civilians in 1998) to replace Manta mean that Colombia is still "non-aligned"?

It was reported on the Vice President's website that after Pacho's talk, he would hit the aguardiente and dancefloor in the Sinai with members of the Batallón Colombia, part of the independent international observation force assigned to make sure no funny things happen on the border between Egypt and Israel, such as indiscriminate bombings of Gaza civilians. (Ok, that really isn't in their mandate. The Batallón Colombia, made up of some 150 or so soldiers and civilians is actually the only unit in the Colombian Army not mandated to fight or kill. Incredible!) Santos will celebrate July 20th, Colombian "Independence" Day in the middle of the desert, most likely in this outpost (headquarters of the Batallón Colombia in Zone C of the Sinai):

Haha, sucker. I hope it's really hot.

Afterwards, he will travel to Israel (of course) to meet with "the hawk" Lieberman and "the dove" Livni, as well as a handful of "technology and innovation" companies... see more about Israel-Colombia connection. Israel has long helped Colombia in "innovation" and "interrogation" techniques.

Well, I got so bored of watching the NAM after a while that I changed the station and enjoyed the Egyptian rip-off of "Don't Forget the Line" with the host who dressed EXACTLY like Wayne Brady and even looked as white as Wayne Brady (joke). But they really did find an Egyptian who acted pretty Wayne Brady-ish.

And two articles were published recently. Natasha's on Cell Broadcasting in the Maldives (yeah!) and Carmen Andrea's article on Escobar's Dead Hippo. Yeah for both of them! I'm out of Alexandria tomorrow, will check in when I get a chance!

'We won't let anyone turn us around'

from Viva Palestina Convoy.

Michael Prysner, ANSWER Coalition delegate on the Viva Palestine convoy to Gaza.


At about 6:30 p.m. on Saturday, July 11, we arrived at the Suez Canal in a lead contingent of approximately 50 individuals, including New York City Council Member Charles Barron. Our four buses pulled up to an Egyptian checkpoint carrying wheelchairs, crutches and walkers for the multitude of amputees in Gaza, along with school supplies, clothing and a variety medical supplies scarce in Gaza.

The plan was to head to Al-Arish and wait for the rest of the convoy before heading out for the Rafah border. In all of the planning leading up to our departure on July 4, and during the week we spent in Cairo, we have gone through all the necessary channels with the U.S. and Egyptian governments to ensure a safe passage. Both governments are well aware of our presence and mission here, and we have complied with their every request.

But when we arrived at the checkpoint, the Egyptian authorities had been waiting for us, and immediately directed us to a side road which was barricaded. They were given orders to not let us pass no matter what. They persistently attempted to turn us around back to Cairo.

At this checkpoint, however, we were not even crossing any borders. We were simply trying to move about freely within Egypt, from one province to another, a right granted to U.S. citizens in the country. We, of course, refused to turn around.

After three hours of negotiations, the authorities showed no signs of budging. They would give us no explanation why they would not allow us to cross. We all exited the buses and began chanting in support of the Palestinian people.

Failing to bully us, the Egyptian police began threatening the bus drivers with fines and arrest, and demanding that they turn the buses around. A police arrest wagon rolled in, along with riot police, obviously threatening arrest, but we were not intimidated.

Our delegation stayed strong throughout the night. The Egyptian police physically assaulted Viva Palestina members several times, shoving young women and grabbing young men. Each time, the entire force of the contingent stood up to the police.

A wave of press began to cover the unfolding confrontation. We were interviewed by international media.

As the sun began to rise, with all of us camped out around the buses, the police suddenly said we could cross. We all loaded in, believing the ordeal had ended. Our excitement did not last long: as soon as the vehicles began to move we realized that it was a trick. The buses were being directed back to Cairo. We jumped off the moving buses and blocked their path with our bodies.

Throughout the entire conflict, Councilmember Barron was on the phone with the State Department, the White House, the U.S. Embassy and other officials. Many other delegation members called the Embassy describing the events.

By about 9:30 a.m., we had reached a stalemate. Nobody in the Embassy, foreign ministry or State Department would request that we be let through.

After nearly 12 hours of negotiating with the Embassy, we were informed that we would be allowed to pass if we completed some additional paperwork?which the Embassy claimed was required from the beginning, yet without ever bringing that to our attention prior to this point.

We have now met up with British MP George Galloway, former U.S. Congressional Representative Cynthia McKinney, and Dead Prez rapper M-1 back in Cairo. Galloway confirmed that we had complied with all of the Egyptian government?s requests several times over; the new requirements were bureaucratic hoops meant to stall our caravan. Galloway said, "If the Egyptian authorities want us to jump through yet another hoop, we will."Our plan is to return to the same checkpoint tomorrow with over 50 vehicles and 170 people strong.

Standing together were teenagers as young as 17 and seniors in their 70s, people of every religion, from a multitude of nationalities, speaking nearly 10 different languages, and encompassing a wide range of political experience. Several in the group only recently joined the Palestine solidarity movement after the December 2008/January 2009 Israeli massacre in Gaza?a massacre appalling for its brutality. The ability of the Palestinian people in Gaza to remain steadfast in the face of this has in turn inspired solidarity from people all over the world.

The Viva Palestina convoy expects progress on all fronts tomorrow and is calling on sympathetic organizations to mobilize their networks and stand ready for actions such as solidarity protests at Egyptian embassies and consulates.

For more information, read here.

Fairouz...

Famous Lebanese singer.

Article in Leftturn Magazine about Barí and ASCAMCAT

Andrew Willis Garcés put together a nice piece about the alliance between Colombia's indigenous Barí and the campesinos of ASCAMCAT in the Catatumbo region of Northeast Colombia, which was recently published in Leftturn magazine.

"To reach one of the Colombian indigenous tribes that overlaps with Venezuela, you first need to get to the town of Honduras, in the municipality of Convención in the Norte de Santander department. It is accessible by a precarious, one-lane dirt road hugging the eastern spine of the Andes Mountains; average speed, about 12 mph. From there you walk or, if you’re lucky, ride a donkey past acres of relatively new coca fields and forest being cleared for that or pasture. After four hours you’ll arrive at the state Catatumbo-Barí Forest Reserve and the small village of Bridicayra, one of the few remaining indigenous Barí settlements."

Read the rest of the article here.

People and Power: Chiquita Banana on Video

from Al-Jazeera English. Some clips of San José people! Qué bello...
You can check out more videos here.

Jerusalem Diaries

Arabic Course 101

I finally got into learning about the roots of Arabic words. All the other previous grammar was hard, but boring. This is hard, but exciting!

There is one word that wraps up what the Arabic language is like:
القاموس (al-kamuus), which means "dictionary".... but it also means "ocean" because it comes from the root قمس (kamasa) which means "to immerse, to soak, to steep". My mind is just blown away. What an amazing language.

Also, to say "I feel lonely", you can say "أشعر بالوحيدة " (ash'ur bil-wahiida). أشعر comes from the root شعر and means "to know, to feel, to perceive" (among other meanings). الشُعور (as-shu'uur) means "knowledge or perception".

and مشترك (mushtarak) means "collective, combined, or common"....

Stay with me...

If you put them together, you get: الشعر المشترك (as-shu'uur al-mushtarak), which literally means, "perception or knowledge of the collective" = "SOLIDARITY".... oh shitttttttt!!!!

And coming from the same root as مشترك (which is شرك , or "to share, participate, associate"), you have the word اشتراكية , which means.... drum roll... "socialism".

Well, I think that's the same root in English, so that isn't so exciting. Who said socialism was exciting anyways??

Maybe anarchy...

New Blog Added to List

Hey everyone,

I just added a new blog, called 3arabawy (don't pronounce the "3" please, it is standing in for a letter that we don't have in English). Pretty good, written by an Egyptian Marxist, mostly in English. Finally, some different thinking. There is a good photographic essay about the Mahalla Intifada, the April 6th, 2008, uprising which started in the burb of Mahalla (close to Alex) and touched of a general strike across the country for higher wages... check it out here.

Also recently here in Alexandria, a bunch of Muslim Brotherhood folks were arrested after Egypt claimed that Hezbollah was infiltrating Egypt and getting arms to Gaza through Egypt. Unfortunately, I can't follow the news so well, and no one I know talks about these things, so I am pretty much in the dark until everything is over. Damn.

The author of the 3arabawy blog, Hossam Al-Hamalawy, also says that recently a lot of activists and citizens have been thrown out of their fourth floor residences by police officers. I live on the fourth floor. Shit.

Two bad words in one blog.

Sri Lanka, déjà vu...

Since before the "victory" over the Tigers in Sri Lanka, I've been feeling constantly nauseated with the amount of pro-military propaganda that is being spread all over the world. People who talked about peace before decided to throw all that talk away and salute the Sri Lankan flag and bend over to the Sri Lankan military.

But we all know that in times of crises, people act strange and usually are overcome by the desire to find a quick solution. I'm not going to get into an analysis of which side was right here. What I do find troubling is how Sri Lanka was able to ignore the demands of the UN (hypocritical though the UN may be) and simply continue blasting away. The government won, but at a huge human cost.

Of course, Obama afterwards sent congratulations to Rajapakse and gang. It's a clear message that, "Shit, it was a little uncomfortable having all that blood on our hands, but good job! You did what we're trying to do!" I imagine that the US and others are preparing their speeches for Pakistan, lamenting the impending humanitarian catastrophe, but openly funding the war and secretly hoping that the Swat would just sink into the Earth.

What if Uribe decided to just blow up the entire southern third of Colombia? Or the world decided that piracy in Somalia was costing more to their economies that dropping a nuclear bomb on Puntland? Actually, it seems that now Somalia is asking for help to destroy Al-Shabaab, who is about to overtake the country. Doesn't it seem like Obama is "suddenly" running out of patience with North Korea? It just seems like we've headed down the wrong road, and that under the Bush-Obama presidency, the power of the sword will overcome the power of the pen.

Speaking of Obama's two-facedness, check out Carmen Andrea Rivera interviewing John Lindsay-Poland (yeah for people with three names!) about the fine-tuning of Plan Colombia on KPFA: http://www.kpfa.org/archive/id/51147 (starting at minute 15).