by Birdie
________________________________________________________________
Today I went to a protest.
This isn’t something I had necessarily expected to do on the West Bank. We’re told that the risk level at demonstrations is high; Ayşenur was murdered at one. And I had made a solemn promise to my very anxious friends and family back home that I would calculate these important amorphous abstractions for my actions in the field: the riskiness of my action balanced against its effectiveness. I’m still not sure how the calculation resolves for big demonstrations.
This was different: more of a vigil, and in Ramallah, which is part of Area A where Israeli soldiers, indeed any Israelis, are not allowed in (but nonetheless raid whenever they please). This vigil was one of many all across Palestine to support Gaza and prisoners.
I’ve grappled with this juxtaposition before. It seems to me that once you mention Gaza, all other issues must give way before it. It does and should command all the attention. But how can Palestinians come together and not mention Gaza!
It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm December noon at Manarah Square, where a couple of hundred people – a mixed group of men and women – were gathered, flags flying around them, facing a banner declaring a “Global Day of Support for Gaza” and “Prisoners Rejecting Genocide and Execution of Prisoners” and pictures of young men ranged in front of it – victims of the evils being protested against.
After a few speeches, a truck carrying the loudspeaker set off and we all trooped behind it on a short walk round the block. At this point the crowd found its voice. One boy mounted on the shoulders of another led the crowd around him in slogan shouting, while a group of girls, all of an age and swathed in identical keffiyehs hollered their chants behind them.
I was suddenly joined by Malach, my comrade in my first two weeks here, and now as two internationals together, I suddenly felt I belonged. We strolled while I endeavoured to interview people in English, which all yielded a single sentiment: we’re here to show our support.
Returning to the square, the girls finally noticed me and, practising their English on me, explained this was a school outing. They’d written the slogans out before they came. I just needed to ask them to read them into my phone.
These are the slogans that I’m told they were shouting, and I discover that to translate them is far from easy, partly because the language is freighted with connotations and associations, and partly because they were commonly taken from anthems – songs heavy with symbolism:
“Cross your sword with my sword” (metaphor for fighting jointly).
“A welcome salute from Ramallah to our beloved and unvanquishable Gaza”.
And finally, “With our souls and our blood, we sacrifice our utmost for Palestine”.