Amelia
Peltz is a member of SUSTAIN
(Stop U.S. Tax-funded Aid to Israel Now) who lives and works
in Ramallah and also does activist work with the International
Solidarity Movement. Below she chronicles some of the feelings
of despair, that almost all of us activists feel, of not being
able to do enough......
I
admit it. I’m guilty.
Guilty
of what, you may ask? Well it might seem strange, but guilty of
not writing. Of not doing more to adequately chronicle all that
has been taking place in Palestine during the past few weeks.
Not just in Ramallah, but throughout the West Bank and Gaza. Aside
from being chronically exhausted from heat and stress, I have
been struggling with a certain sense of depression. Whenever I
sit down in front of my computer to write I feel so inadequate
as though my words can never – and will never – make
a difference. Who am I to think that I can do anything to change
the horrible, if not criminal, situation that has encompassed
the lives of the Palestinian people?
But there
is another issue too. I am aware that my “reports”
often come across as sounding angry and accusatory and I fear
that some people may have taken my past diatribes personally.
Please understand that my anger is not directed at any of you,
despite the fact that my writing style might lead you to believe
otherwise. I do not intend to alter or “water down”
what I have to say, but realize that my anger (no matter how valid
or invalid it may be) is a lament at the lack of compassion and
humanity that I face on a daily basis.
So, full
of reproach at my unwarranted sense of self-pity, I sat down this
evening to try and put emotions into words.
I am
writing this letter on a Saturday evening – a day of the
week when many people are preparing for a fun evening out with
friends and loved ones. As I write, my desk periodically shakes
due to the sounds of gunfire and tank shelling. Israeli soldiers
are driving through the deserted streets of Ramallah shouting
“Mana ata jawaal, Mana ata jawaal” – you are
under curfew. Periodically they catch someone trying to break
curfew and either detain them or shoot in the air – like
just a moment ago on the street in front of my house. You may
not believe this, but I cannot remember what it must be like to
have the freedom to do something as simple as taking a walk, let
alone enjoy a Saturday night out with friends. I now consider
myself lucky if curfew is lifted for a few hours so I can go to
my office and meet with my colleagues, then dash to the market
to get a few days worth of fruits and vegetables before curfew
is slammed down on us once again.
And I
am lucky. I have a job that pays me even on the days I am home
under curfew (fortunately I am able to do a lot of my work from
home). I have money to buy food and medicine. My house has not
be invaded and destroyed. My partner has not been arrested, though
the threat remains every day that the situation could change and
he will end up in the notorious Naqab prison along with our dear
friend, Majed. Once again, Majed was arrested and incarcerated
along with over 1,700 other Palestinian men. He is suffering from
a disease in his eyes that will undoubtedly leave him blind by
the time he is released.
Recently
there has been an international chorus of voices, including the
United Nations, the World Bank, and USAID, proclaiming the grim
reality that there is a humanitarian crisis facing the West Bank
and Gaza. I will add my little voice to this international chorus
– there is a humanitarian crisis facing the entire Palestinian
population of the West Bank and Gaza! I don’t know how much
more strongly this can be emphasized, I really don’t. And
my words certainly cannot do justice to these facts taken from
a recent USAID report (I can send this report to anyone who is
interested) and a report by the Middle East Research and Information
Project (which I have attached at the end of this letter):
·
75% of the population is living below the poverty line, which
means they are living on less than $2 per day
· Unemployment rates have skyrocketed to an unprecedented
62%
· Over 2 million Palestinians living in the West Bank and
Gaza are living under curfew
· Approximately 50% of all Palestinians are dependent on
food assistance from the FAO or UNRWA in order to feed their families
· Communicable diseases are spreading, due to lack of medical
care and improper sewage disposal (garbage cannot be removed while
under curfew)
· During a recent survey of 300 households in Nablus, none
were found to have an adequate supply of safe drinking water
· 21% of children are suffering from acute malnutrition.
The numbers
only tell half the story. The other half is told through the looks
of desperation and despair that are evident in the eyes of people
who are struggling to survive.
Two weeks
ago I went to Jenin. Last week I was in Gaza. I left both cities
ill, physically and emotionally. And I am ashamed that I cannot
find the words to tell you about the widespread poverty and destruction.
But what can be said that will do any justice to the lives of
people who are struggling to survive under a brutal occupation
and ceaseless war?
But survive
they do. For so many, it is an awful existence – being dependant
on food aid, relying on life savings to buy medicine, dodging
bullets and ducking tank shells just to stay alive for - how long?
– a day, a week?
Many
have said that the Palestinian resistance is being crushed. While
it is not nearly as strong as it was a year ago, I can assure
you that the resistance is alive and well. But it is taking on
new and creative forms, too.
For example,
I heard a story the other night that in a part of the city of
Bitounyia (southwest of Ramallah) every night a certain time,
the residents bang as loudly as they can on pots and pans so as
to annoy the Israeli soldiers. Often in the evenings around my
neighbourhood, children come out to fly their homemade kites.
One night, I counted over 50 in the sky! And of course non-violent
demonstrations and marches in the streets still continue, even
if they are on a small scale. Despite their non-violent nature,
these protestors (of which I am one) are always met with tear
gas, concussion grenades and live ammunition.
These
acts of resistance are our survival strategies.
I was
recently interviewed by a British news agency that is working
on a report describing life, such as it is, in the West Bank.
The last question that the reporter asked me was how long this
situation can last.
“Before
what”, I replied? “What else do you want! How much
more suffering and death do we half to endure before we can compete
for a spot on the evening news?”
But these,
in my opinion, are not the right questions to ask. What we should
be asking is how, despite the enormous might of inhumanity inflicted
upon Palestine, do people continue to survive? And, more importantly,
how can the world be a witness such suffering – not just
in Palestine, but on a global scale - and not act upon it?
Sometimes,
my only survival strategy is to cry. At the end of the day, after
the demonstrations have ended, the curfew is imposed, bullets
pierce the night sky, and dreams of peace with justice seeming
like a childhood fantasy, tears are the only comfort. They are
small drops of humanity, struggling to claim their place in the
world.
With
love from Palestine,
Amelia
