Volunteers with the International Solidarity Movement are encouraged to write personal reflections about the work they engage in with Palestinian communities, the events they experience, and the people they meet. These journals offer the human context often missing in traditional reports or journalism. These articles represent the author’s thoughts and feelings and not necessarily those of the International Solidarity Movement.
7 July 2011 | International Solidarity Movement, Gaza
At Vittorio’s funeral in Gaza the crowds chanted “Viktor is with the fisherman, Viktor is withthe farmers”, Vittorio is still with the people of Gaza. He lives on in their hearts. He has been honored with a football tournament in Rafah, with a street in Gaza, with a school in the JordanValley, but I think that perhaps the honor that would be closest to his heart is the VittorioArrigoni – Stay Human summer camp in Beit Hanoun. Vittorio had worked in Beit Hanoun his entire time in Gaza. Riding in ambulances during Cast Lead and supporting the weekly demonstrations against the buffer zone since then. The Fursan Al Ghad Youth Center honored him by naming their summer camp in his honor, the Vittorio Arrigoni – Stay Human summer camp.
Fursan Al Ghad is a small center, just a small three room building, a courtyard, and a van. It is a center with big goals though. It seeks not only to provide the children with a safe spacefor summer fun, but to remind them that they are part of something bigger than themselves. The children not only participate in art and music programs, but they also perform community service and protest the occupation.
The Vittorio Arrigoni – Stay Human camp opened in mid-June. It serves sixty children from age eight to fifteen. Sixty children in one small building. Every morning the children stream in at nine A.M. Soon the entire building is alive with singing, dancing children. Like Vittorio, the teachers at Fursan Al Ghad love to sing, Bella Ciao, Inadakoom, traditional Palestinian songs. The children love to both sing and dance debka. Many of them are surprisingly good, eight year old Fred Astairs.
The children also do art projects, both in the classrooms and outside. The wall across fromFursan Al Ghad is now covered in a beautiful new mural. The most beautiful project though,was building kites. A dozen amazing kites with beautiful geometric designs. The kites had longtails made from old homework cut into strips, perhaps to celebrate the end of the school year.On the kites the children wrote messages, messages like “the children of Gaza deserve freedom”and “end the siege”. We went out to the hills east of Beit Hanoun, on a beautiful Tuesday morning to fly the kites. The wind was brisk, the air was beautiful, the kites soared into the air. After admiring them for a while, the strings were cut, the kites sailed across the wall towards Sderot, hopefully the messages carried by the kites will be read and understood.
Kids being kids, the camp also provides games and sports. Days were organized to play football,basketball, volleyball and jump rope. The children participated in a 1k race; the five winners received t-shirts. There was even a trip to the beach so the children could go swimming. That was, obviously, a very popular day for the children. Going to the beach is one of the few trips that children can take in Gaza; the siege prevents them from leaving, even from going to the West Bank or Jerusalem.
The children also learned about being part of a community. One day was devoted to cleaning the streets of Beit Hanoun. Sixty hands makes light work. They left a mural across from Fursan Al Ghad for everyone to appreciate.
Perhaps the best day though, was the last day. The children went to club where they could ride horses and camels. After being entertained for a few hours of singing dancing clowns, the horses were brought out. The children were entranced. Even the ones that were afraid couldn’tpass up the opportunity to ride the horses. They also enjoyed seeing their teachers ride horses,some for the first time. After they were finished riding horses the children came to the port of Gaza. At the port, they boarded boats, and went to sea, some for the first time. They did this in memory of Vik, who loved the sea, and loved the fishermen that worked there.
Fursan al Ghad strove to not only provide the children with fun things to do over the summer,but to show the children that they can have a positive effect on their community, to help themfind their voice in the struggle for freedom and justice. Fursan Al Ghad remembered not onlythe music of Vik, not only Bella Ciao, but also that struggle was part of Vik. The children notonly sang, like Vik, they raised their voices against the occupation. For this, thank you Fursan AlGhad, for remembering all of Vik.
29 June 2011 | International Solidarity Movement, Gaza
Every Tuesday morning there is a demonstration against the Occupation in Beit Hanoun, when people march into the buffer zone, demand an end to the occupation, and are met with more bullets from the occupation. Today was different and yet the same; today we didn’t go into the buffer zone, but none the less we were still met with the bullets of the occupation.
School is out for the summer, summer camps for the children are in full swing. In Beit Hanoun the Vittorio Arrigoni, Stay Human summer camp has been up and running for the last two weeks. Instead of going into the buffer zone like we do most Tuesdays, today we took the children from the summer camp to fly kites. The children had prepared beautiful kites, simple colorful geometric designs fringed with strips of paper cut from their old homework. Kites that remind you how beautiful the simplest things in life can be.
We drove east out of Beit Hanoun, toward the wall that imprisons the people of Gaza. As we left Beit Hanoun we entered a lunar landscape of destruction, no crops, no trees, the occasional destroyed and damaged buildings surrounded by the thistle plants that seem to grow everywhere. This is where farmers had once grown their crops. The landscape here wasn’t always like this, the fields lining the road used to be full of trees, oranges, and olives mostly. The area used to be green, it used to support life, it used to be beautiful. Then the Israelis destroyed all of this, with tanks and bulldozers and bombs. Now, only the thistles remain, that and the green fields of one brave farmer who has not given up, whose fields are an oasis of green among the destruction. The woman sitting behind me points out the aluminum propellers that the farmer has attached to his fence to scare away birds, they spin quickly in the wind, a reminder that this is someone’s land, that he is still here.
We arrive with the children on a hill about 700 meters from the wall. There is a restored well nearby, and a shepherd resta under the shade of the only tree on the hill with his sheep. In the distance you can see Sderot, built on what used to be lands of Beit Hanoun. The children stood poised, ready with their kites. As they prepared to launch their kites the Israeli guns start firing. The wall is lined with giant Israeli gun towers operated by remote control. One of them had started to shoot. Shooting into the ground a couple of hundred meters from us, the shells kicked up giant clouds of dust.
What are they shooting at? Nobody knows, perhaps an unlucky shepherd, perhaps they are shooting to remind the children who the real boss is here, that the skies are not free, that they can shoot at them whenever and wherever they want.
The children launched the kites, with the strong wind kicking them up to sail high. The kites were amazing, red and green with white streamers fluttering in the wind. The children had written messages on the kites: “The children of Gaza want to be free,” “No to the occupation,” “No to the siege.”
These were messages for the occupiers, for these kites are not meant merely to be seen in the distance by the soldiers who are firing guns in the distance, they are meant to infiltrate Israel, to breach the wall that imprisons Gaza, the wall that helps hide what Israel does here. The kites soar higher and higher, the children cut the strings on the kites, the wind takes them, some crash, but some survive, some make it over the wall.
Inshallah they will find themselves caught in the branches of the children’s grandfather’s olive tree, of the orange trees which their grandmothers used to eat from. They will be found, and their messages will be read with the freedom and the will like the universal wind that carried such messages of hope
29 May 2011 | Nathan Stuckey, International Solidarity Movement – Gaza
Many of you here have known Victor longer than I. I will not tell you about what a great person Victor was, you already know that. I will instead offer you a Victor you might not have known, a Victor that fate never allowed.
Victor was a writer. He had “Muqawama”, Resistance, tattooed onto his arm. The same ink that had inscribed Resistance onto his arm flowed from his pen to inscribe resistance onto paper when he wrote.
Victor studied accounting as a young man. Imagine, a young Victor dreaming of being an accountant; the accountant of resistance.
You are all familiar with Yasser Arafat’s famous speech to the UN with the gun and the olive branch. Try to picture Victor giving a speech there instead of Arafat. Victor strides out to the lectern. He raises his arm. The crowd can see that he does not have a gun in his hand, what he has is Resistance inscribed onto his arm. I have never been able to write his speech, but I can imagine it. It is about the importance of fighting for justice, for freedom, the importance of not closing your eyes.
Victor came to Gaza three years ago. He came to be part of a struggle for freedom, for justice; to oppose a modern state intent on erasing a people; to protest a Kafkaesque world where fisherman fish in tunnels carved from sand deep under the earth instead of in the welcoming arms of the sea; a world where concrete is forbidden; a world where farmers are forbidden to plow their lands while their children live on food from cans.
Victor had inscribed resistance onto his body. Look around yourself. Look at the person sitting next to you, your friends here, your family. How many of you have resistance inscribed on your bodies? I do not know many of the people here, but I do know the family of Jabur Abu Jeila. I cannot think of a family more appropriate to host this memorial, to have hosted Victor in their home so many times. This is a family with Resistance inscribed on their bodies. Just as the house we stand in front of is scarred by the bullets of the occupation, so too is Jabur’s family. Jabur has a bullet in his stomach, Leila has a bullet of the occupation in her hip, Etufa’s face is washed by tears for her murdered friend, killed just days before the murder of Vik. Look around yourself, think of your friends and neighbors, think how many of them have resistance inscribed on their bodies. They are all Victor. When you resist, you are Victor. As long as there are people with Resistance inscribed on their bodies, as long as you are willing to inscribe resistance on your body, Victor lives. He lives on in you. Thank you. Stay Human.
Last night, I went to bed at 11 pm, much earlier than I’m used to. I forced myself to stay under my blanket. The room was very dark and no sound could be heard but the sound of me moving in bed continually. I wanted to sleep so that 7 am today would come quickly, but all my attempts failed. Daydreaming in darkness conquered my mind. I dreamt about my travel to Jerusalem, the smell of its air, the view of its nature, its streets, and its people. My excitement to reach it kept me awake and I only managed to sleep at 4:30 am, then woke up again an hour and a half later.
Amidst this chaos and all the people around me who are chatting as an attempt to make time pass faster, I’m putting my headphones in my ears and listening to Fairoz, trying to live in my own world. I’m writing now from Beit Hanoun border or the so called Erez border. I’m sitting in a hall among lots of people, many of them patients and traders. Everybody has an excuse to go to Jerusalem and waiting to get permission to pass. My eyes are confused; one eye on the people around me and another on the fences that surround me from all destinations, laughing and sarcastically pitying the situation. Isn’t it funny that all of us here are waiting for hours to have a pass to go to our capital, Jerusalem? It’s not fair at all that I need an excuse to go there!
Now I’ve completed two hours of waiting and I don’t know for how much longer I’ll have to wait. While I was writing nonstop, an old woman sat next to me. Her traditional Palestinian dress lined by red embroidery attracted my eyes. The wrinkles of her face looked like she was bearing so many burdens that I thought she was older than only 66 years old. “Are you a refugee?” she asked. I smiled at her, nodding my head to confirm that. Then she said that she is too a refugee. That was the start of a very interesting conversation about our lands, which all Palestinian refugees were cleansed from in 1948. She was only three years old when her family was expelled from her original village, Acre. “I was the youngest of the family,” she said. “My parents and my old brother took turns carrying me,” she said. “They had to put a cover on my face to protect me from the hot weather on that gloomy day.”
Trying to make her laugh, I said, “No wonder why we met here. We are here to return back home!” I laughed. It wasn’t as funny as I thought. Her expressive face showed sorrow. “Oh, I hope so!” she sighed. And then she explained that she was accompanying her son’s twins who suffer from an illness. They sought a permit to cure them at Al-Maqased, a hospital in Jerusalem, and they managed to get it. I tried to change the topic, hoping to stop her from worrying about her grandchildren for at least a few minutes. I asked her if she knew where my original village, Beit Jerja, was located. While she was looking through the fence, trying to think where to point, her son came rushing to her to to tell her get ready, as it was time for them to leave. She hugged me, wished me luck, and then left.
She left to let me return to the situation of depression I am going through, and to continue waiting to follow her to my lovely city that I have always dreamt of reaching: JERUSALEM.
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To get my visa to the USA, I passed by Jerusalem as a stranger and lost my dignity
It’s like a commitment for every Palestinian, and especially every Gazan, to make before leaving the borders of the Occupied Territories: a commitment to get insulted and humiliated and never say a word. Four hours of waiting to get permission passed like four years. The excitement I had didn’t make the situation any easier. I was sitting with my friends who have been approved for the leadership program in USA when a Palestinian who worked on the Beit Hanoun border told us to get ready to leave. No words could describe what I felt then. “Oh, thank you, God. Finally, we are passing!” I screamed. I simply went crazy and started to jump out of indescribable happiness, forgetting about everybody around.
My steps were too big and I could hardly breathe. All I could think about was that I wanted to get there as fast as I could. I didn’t know what was waiting for me after the long road that separates Gaza from Erez.
As I passed through the first checkpoint, the alarm bell rang. I started to feel worried but one of my friends told me that it was because my bag contained a laptop. Seeing some Palestinian men working there helped me to relax. One of them told me not to worry as this was normal. He took it from me and he asked me to enter the gate again. I did, with my heart beating fast. After that we were led to enter lots of gates, one after another. My eyes waited excitedly to see the green lights. I reached one point where I had to stand in an exact way. I tried to show that I had no fear. I saw the green light and they allowed me to pass. I took a deep breath then, but I was so rushed! Unluckily, I heard some Hebrew through the speakers which were spread everywhere around. Then an old Palestinian man who was responsible to show the travelers where to go yelled loudly, calling me back. “I don’t know what the problem is with you, my daughter,” he said with his eyebrows high, showing surprise and worry. “Come back to the same gate and do as I tell you to do,” he continued. I couldn’t hide my panic anymore. I did as I was told but the signs of worry on my face were obvious. “Smile or else the photo will be dark,” the Palestinian man joked to make me less worried.
I wondered why everybody else was having fewer obstacles at passing than I, but I had no answer to my question. I thought that nothing could be worse than that when I passed that grim gate. I was mistaken again. They sent me to a special check point. I was ordered to go into an empty room with a window of glass and an empty chair, a table, and a microphone behind it. I was about to cry, but I tried to pull myself together because I believed that what would make them happy was seeing me fall. I kept standing and just waited. It was totally quiet and I had no idea what was going to happen next. Suddenly, while I looked around the place randomly, an Israeli female soldier sat in the chair. “You have to do what I tell you exactly,” she said. “Take off your trousers,” she continued with that severe, intense voice. I looked at her with surprise, asking if she was serious. She repeated the same sentence in a louder tone. I could not summon any reaction but the same shocked look. “It is an order!” she shouted, and continued, “You don’t have to worry as only you and I are here.” I kept my head high and I took them off, insisting on making my dream of reaching Jerusalem reality. She ordered me to turn myself around and then pull my t-shirt up. I put my stuff inside a box to be checked as she ordered, and then got it back to dress again.
I am writing this to you feeling so low. Maybe some would think that I should not speak about this, but I must. People have to know how we are humiliated, how badly we are treated, as if we were less than human beings. What was the point of doing that? Obviously nothing! Why did they choose me in particular? For absolutely no reason! They just wanted to enjoy inflicting psychological torment on somebody, and the lot fell upon me. I tried to keep my strength, but this experience left a deep pain inside me.
All my friends passed earlier than me. They waited for me on the other side. As I joined them again, I felt so much better. I decided to live in the moment and not to let anyone ruin my happiness at finally reaching the bus of the American embassy that had been waiting for four hours to take us to Jerusalem.
I only needed to deeply breathe the fresh air of the lands on the other side of the Erez border to feel relaxed. It was such a special feeling. We got into the bus which drove us to Jerusalem. I kept looking through the windows at the places around us. I was amazed. I saw fantastic nature wherever I directed my eyes. They were so hungry for such views. I looked around wildly in order to not miss any of the beauty: the hills, sandy and rocky mountains, green fields, huge trees, and colorful flowers. On our way from Erez to Jerusalem, as I pondered nature, I sang Fairoz’s song about the streets of the old Quds, feeling so happy that I had made it, in spite of every difficulty I had passed through. The taxi driver, who is originally from Jerusalem, noticed my painting book and asked me about it. “I am an artist and I always wanted to draw the dome of Al-Aqsa mosque face to face one day. So I hope that this will be my chance to do so,” I said. “Do not be so dreamy. I have to drop you by the American embassy, and immediately after you all finish your visa interviews, I will take you back to the Erez border,” he replied. After I thought everything was going to be fine, I was mistaken again.
I don’t blame him, as he just followed the orders issued by the embassy. I pity the situation though, living as a stranger in my homeland. As soon as I got out the bus and stepped onto the ground, I started jumping, feeling happy that I was standing on the Holy Land. Everything was perfect with the visa interview and thankfully I got it. I did not want to go outside the embassy as we would then get picked up to go back. Eventually, we had to ride the bus and I was lucky enough to take two beautiful red flowers with me. They were so strict about taking us directly to Erez, but the driver sympathized with us and could understand what if felt like for Gazans who are in Jerusalem, for the first time in their lives, to reach it without seeing the dome and the Al-Aqsa mosque. In the end, he said that he could only take a street which would allow us to see the view. I saw it from so far away, such an amazingly beautiful scene that my eyes could not stop gazing. It is like magic. Seeing that view, and the fact that we could not go closer, and even that we couldn’t open the window and put our heads out, made me very emotional.
“I have to move. I am sorry,” the driver said with a broken voice. I turned my head toward the dome until it disappeared into the distance, leaving behind a long silence. I went to an empty seat in the back of the bus and lay on it, closing my eyes and letting my soul fly over Jerusalem’s dome. With a mixture of feelings, I fell asleep. I woke up when I arrived at Erez, and now write to you about my trip to Jerusalem from my own room in Gaza.
Since the day I heard about the Italian convoy that is coming to Gaza I was longing to meet Vitorrio’s friends, and dreaming of the day they would arrive in Gaza. The 12th of May was the arrival day. It was a long day because some friends and I had to wait for the convoy in their apartment in Gaza as we did not have permission to welcome them at the Rafah crossing or even to invite them to our homes.
Words can not express how happy I was when I met those great people. They are one of my great sources of inspiration. Their love to Gaza is just wonderful – they taught me how to love my land, to stick by my principles, to fight longer seeking freedom and to stay stronger: “stay human”.
Vittorio’s folk, as I like to call them, are brave enough to visit Gaza and show the whole world that they are not afraid to come to the place where their friend was kidnapped and murdered. Their love for Palestine and Gaza is just unbelievable – they would sacrifice their souls for the sake of any of us!
This was illustrated when we were at Erez crossing and all of them wanted to go further and further in order to witness and experience the atmosphere that most of the Palestinians have to suffer. Besides, they wanted to experience what Vittorio used to do with many of the ISM members in Gaza: such as the farming actions; going to the buffer zone areas; supporting many of the farmers and fishermen; and participating in many of the demos that were held to raise awareness of the human rights of the Palestinians.
One of the things that I loved most about those beautiful Italian souls is that they appreciated the instructions of our religion, traditions and culture. They did not want to cause us any kind of difficulty; they cared a lot about us and wanted to do anything to make us feel equal. In addition to that, I felt that they have clear, pure, modest and charming characters. Each one of them has a special thing about their character.
The moment when we had to say goodbye was so emotional that none of us could hold back our tears. Men cried in front of women and we tried to make it easier by comforting each other – we promised that we would all meet again soon. I was looking at their busses as if I was longing to go back home with them. I really felt I was Italian and they had become Palestinians!
This is my message to all the convoy members who shared much pain, sorrow, tears, joy, happiness and laughter with us,
Since the day you arrived here my life has changed because you guys are amazing, and the moment of saying goodbye was so emotional – filled with love, respect and hope. You guys are astonishing and unforgettable just like Vittorio. I will never forget you! We will meet again inshAllah. Much respect and love to all of you my new Italian friends.
At Vittorio’s funeral in Gaza the crowds chanted “Viktor is with the fisherman, Viktor is withthe farmers”, Vittorio is still with the people of Gaza. He lives on in their hearts. He has been honored with a football tournament in Rafah, with a street in Gaza, with a school in the JordanValley, but I think that perhaps the honor that would be closest to his heart is the VittorioArrigoni – Stay Human summer camp in Beit Hanoun. Vittorio had worked in Beit Hanoun his entire time in Gaza. Riding in ambulances during Cast Lead and supporting the weekly demonstrations against the buffer zone since then. The Fursan Al Ghad Youth Center honored him by naming their summer camp in his honor, the Vittorio Arrigoni – Stay Human summer camp.
