Buried Pots, Buried Lives

There is obviously a deep connection to one's land and one's past here in Palestine. The first time I flew over this area I wondered how people could be fighting over what is, from 15,000 feet, a seemingly brown, barren land. I have a theory that as Americans, we do not have such a deep connection and affiliation to land because it is so vast and plentiful, and so are the natural resources that come along with it. In Palestine, however, livable and arable land and natural resources are so less plentiful, and that is perhaps the reason why connection to land runs much deeper.

Similiar to the generations of Palestinians who have never lived on the other side of the green line, I now hear daily the stories of those generations who did and the lives and things they left behind. A colleague's father was born in a town called Lod, which is located near Ben Gurion airport, and is in full view from my apartment. It can't be more than 40Km from where I am living now and is clearly a burgeoning Israeli town. In 1948 he was 5 years old. Sensing the build up of conflict, his father took him into their backyard one day, and engaged his son's help in burying their most valuable family assets - china, silver and a grandfather clock. His father told him that they could not take these things with them, but if they remembered the site where they were buried, they would return to the home after the war and uncover their items. The next day he was whisked to Ramallah to stay with some aunts. As days and months passed, he and his family were registered as refugees and he was enrolled in a UNRWA school. He never returned to Lod and he never unburied his past.

This man now in his 60s still refuses to eat oatmeal or cereal. It was the food that was fed to him daily in the UNRWA school. He refused at such a young age to admit he was a refugee and to admit he was in need. He comes from one of the biggest Christian families in Ramallah. He owns a home and has raised a family of 4. He is one of the luckier refugees who doesn't live one of the hundreds of camps that still dot the West Bank and Gaza cities where multiple generations have been raised, but have never called these places their homes.

My son's babysitter is a college-aged boy. When I met him I asked him where his home is. He didn't miss a beat when he answered, "Lod." But I knew immediately that he couldn't actually live there. I repeated back to him, "Lod? You mean Lod by Tel Aviv?" His reply: "Yes, that Lod, that is where my family home is....or was." He was making a clear statement to me, a passing through, easy-life, expat.

The conflict is about something that runs deeper than the 12 foot seperation barrier between the West Bank and Israel. It is about something that runs deeper than the Israeli government's knee-jerk reaction to refer to all Palestinians as terrorist. In fact, it is a concept and connection to land that I do think Israelis feel with similar depth. However, I do not think it is a concept that many western politicians even begin to grasp.

Contrasts Remarked

I find some amazing contradictions of life in the West Bank. I noticed one today. It doesn't rain here at all between May and October. The winter is the rainy season. In this dry season, the air, filled with a fine sandy, dust, and the land, provide a stark brown background for any remaining greenery that strives to survive. And yet, because it is summer, it is the season in which the trees become full with their green leaves, helping to sway their branches in the hot wind.

In the winter, it can rain for 7 days straight, and at the end of that rain, the sky will open up, and suddenly below that sky will come a sparkling, green carpet of growth that suddenly adds a new dimension to the landscape. And yet, during this period, the trees are completely barren of any colored growth. I never noticed this contradiction until now...a contradiction I could not be fully aware of until I live a full year of seasons in this climate.

A couple weeks ago I made my second visit to Gaza. The government-in-charge wears full clean, neat and I'm guessing fairly new blue uniforms. And throughout the streets there are children running through the dirty, dusty streets completely bare-footed.

I watched a young child of 7 sketch a picture in crayons of a boat on the ocean. Two red and black missles are falling from the sky. The boy explains in his timid voice, eyes focused downward, that the two scary-eyed stick figures have jumped into the water because they don't want to be killed by the Israeli missles. I ask him in Arabic if this is something he has seen or heard about. He replies, "It's what I've imagined..." and after a slight pause..."and it scares me." Israelis are firing daily on the fishing boats that serve as the only possible livelihood for so many young Gazan men.

A half hour later, I am visiting a summer activity camp in the neighboring village for children aged 8-13. The camp takes place in a youth center which appears to be an untouched oasis surrounded by flattened homes and businesses. On the drive in, I can only think about what these people have witnessed and what they have lost. I spend an hour observing a theatrical performance for the children. Young men and women are acting as the facilitators and, without a complaint, they dress themselves in full, thick customs and put on a show about a Panda, Bunny and Chicken who are working together to convince the Panda's parents that it is OK and good to have fun. The skit is cute, and full of innocent one-liners. The children are in stitches, laughing non-stop with big smiles on their wide-eyed faces. After the skit, the children are invited to get up and dance with the animals. The children rush the stage and dance with such enthusiasm and life. I have to fight back the tears. How can children who have witnessed so much find the hope and ability to throw off the memories and fears which must haunt their sleep? I've been through much less and seem to struggle much more.

Back on the West Bank, much less serious contradictions again attract my attention. The people who care so much about their land, litter endlessly despite the fact that there are plenty of garbage dumpsters and cans on the streets with regular twice weekly pick-up. The people who get so angry with the senseless loss of life of their fellow citizens, also smoke without second thoughts.

Contradictions I believe are a normal part of life which no logic can justify or erase. But perhaps the biggest one of all is the ability of these amazing people to find such a normal range of feelings and life experiences in such an otherwise very abnormal situation.