14 - 20 February 2002
Issue No.573
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 14 - 20 February 2002 Issue No.573 |
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Journey to Ramallah
Nicole Cohen-Addad writes of her feelings upon crossing to the "other side" to meet Yasser Arafat
Today I did something that I have wanted to do for a long time. I went to Ramallah to give my support to [Palestinian Authority Chairman] Yasser Arafat. For me, Arafat has been to the Middle East what Ben Bella was to North Africa. For years, he has strived to lead his people to independence and freedom. My views might be interpreted by some as romantic and without basis in reality, but I will not apologise for them. For Arafat to do what he has been doing all these years required tenacity and love, in spite of the blood on his hands and the cries of corruption coming from around him.
Can 'ordinary people' build bridges of understanding and compassion across the Palestinian/ Israeli divide (photos: Reuters)
Under the supervision of independent observers, Arafat was chosen by his people. He could have chosen a much easier life for himself. He did not do that. One could say that he has thrived all of these years on a kind of "cowboys and Indians" strategy with his enemies. I cannot rule out this possibility as I write this, but after meeting him today, I feel, for now at least, that this is not the case.
On 2 February, a group of 300 people -- Israeli Jews and Palestinians, and some people of other nationalities -- passed through two checkpoints on the way to Ramallah from Israel to meet Arafat and give support to the Palestinian Authority. The group made its visit under the aegis of Ta'ayush [Coexistence], an Israeli group of "Jewish-Arab" Friendship, and the Coalition of Women for (a Just) Peace.
We drove from all over the country in private cars, meeting in Jerusalem at a parking lot of the Hebrew University. We talked of the purpose of our visit to Ramallah, the non-violent nature of our action and the limits of that action.
As we boarded one of the five buses waiting for us at the side of the road, a middle-aged Israeli Palestinian man who had already taken a seat invited me to sit next to him. We spoke along the way about Ben Bella, Arafat, and more.
We pass the first checkpoint, A-Ram, without being stopped. We arrive at the second checkpoint, Kalandia. We are not allowed to cross it in the bus and we are directed by our guide to leave the vehicle -- without our placards -- in a quiet and orderly manner, and to pass through the checkpoint on foot.
We walk to the right of the checkpoint along a fenced wall. On the other side, walking in the opposite direction, are Palestinian men and women, carrying baskets or attaché cases, and street vendors selling food and other goods. I notice that there are no soldiers or police in our way.
We arrive at the other side of the checkpoint and take communal taxis, again under organised guidance. The ground is rocky, and next to the taxis stand mounds of metal rubbish.
After a short drive, we stop and are warmly greeted by video-cameras, people in civilian clothes, Palestinian policemen and guards in military attire. We enter a large well-lit room with windows and many chairs arranged in rows. At the front of the room there is a long desk set on a raised platform. Above the desk is a beautiful picture of the Dome of the Rock.
My new Israeli Palestinian friend from the bus invites me to sit in the front row. A middle- aged woman in a khaki suit directs cameramen standing in the centre of the room in front of the desk. We wait, talking to the people seated near us. From time to time, a person from Ta'ayush takes the microphone at the front of the room to ask us to be patient. My new friend shakes hands with Palestinian friends from the "other side." For my benefit, he names the people and explains their roles, present and past. Not far from me, a five-year-old girl sits on her mother's lap, a scarf around her neck, with a picture of the Dome of the Rock and of the Palestinian flag as well as an inscription in Arabic that says: "Jerusalem, we are coming." It is evident that the little girl is much loved by her parents and the rest of her family. She is like a bright little star.
Suddenly, people start applauding. I sense movement near the very large doors. I strain to see what is happening. At the centre of the crowd I catch a glimpse of the famous headscarf. The crowd slowly and quietly makes its way to the front of the room. The cameramen and journalists are at the ready. Now I see him, slowly making his way along the front row, and, before I know it, I am shaking his hand, or rather he is taking my hand in his. My hand in his, he brings his hand to his lips and kisses it.
I feel I need to reciprocate and set my other hand on his arm, in an awkward attempt to respond warmly. Then it is time for the speeches. A young Jew starts in Hebrew. A young Israeli Palestinian follows in Arabic, and a third young person in English. The message is the same. During that time, our eyes are riveted on Arafat, on his hands, on his lips. He touches the glass and the water bottle in front of him. Will he be able to keep his hand steady? At either end of the platform, Arafat's assistants periodically cast concerned glances towards him.
Arafat is not static. He smiles a lot; at times, he holds his head in his hands. Sometimes he seems a little bored. I am worried.
Then comes his speech. No unsteadiness, the bored look I thought I had seen a few moments earlier has now disappeared. He is radiant. He speaks in English. His tone is warm towards us, the Jews, his cousins. Peace is the message. Although nothing new is said, I feel something deeply genuine in his message.
His speech ends and while we are applauding, Arafat motions with his open arms towards the little girl in the front row. Her father takes her up to the platform to receive a big hug.
Our next step is to see the "tanks." I tease my Israeli Palestinian friend: "Have they brought them for us to see?"
We are outside the government compound. I am looking around. My friend points to something in the far side of the road. Now I see them, two, three, four tanks, barely visible in the haze created by the sun.
From the front of our crowd, I hear a few people chanting some slogans, first shyly, then louder. Then, I see people getting closer to the tank. People from our group! Getting dangerously close!
And I cannot help but voice my disapproval. We have not come here for this. We have come here today to pay our respects and give support to the Palestinian Authority and Arafat. Not to interact with the soldiers. That would, in my mind, taint our action. Some others in the crowd voice the same concern and refuse to participate. We try to lead the crowd back up the road.
Some people are very close to one tank. I recognise one person from afar. I cannot help but feel for the lonely soldier inside the tank who must have felt threatened by the people approaching his "metal jail-box." How many hours has he spent inside the dark box?
I make a mental note that I already went in total freedom to the bathroom three times this morning, and he, the soldier inside his box, probably could not afford this luxury.
We re-enter the communal taxis, heading towards the Ministry of Education building to meet the non-governmental organisations. I notice the beautifully-built houses. We are seated this time around many, many tables. I find a seat next to the person I had wanted to speak to and whom I had recognised earlier next to the tank.
I had become friendly with her during the past year at various events. I ask her what made her want to get so close to the tank. A desire to promote peace to the soldiers was her answer.
I remind her that this was not the goal of today's action and that I felt we could jeopardise it by such acts. She pauses, and we "make" peace. A young woman on her other side then joins in the conversation. She, too, was there next to the tank and had wanted to get inside the tank and talk to the soldier.
The speeches start. Suddenly, my immediate neighbour touches my hand, signalling that the young woman seems to be in deep spiritual pain. I see her cry silently. We switch seats. I am placing my arm around the young woman. We talk. She is apparently feeling a very deep pain indeed, sharing with me, a total stranger, her desire to die.
I understand that she, an Israeli Jew, born in Israel, went to the army and then left it. She thinks that the soldiers should get out of the army and that if the Palestinians had the means to do to us what we do to them, they would do it. She appears to be in deep despair. She then talks about Jerusalem, where she is from, where her parents live, a city of both extreme beauty and extreme ugliness. Is she alone in her feelings? How many young Israeli Jews share her feelings? How many young people in the army want to leave it, but do not have supportive parents and are wracked by internal turmoil and cannot take the step?
The speeches, mostly by women, by Palestinian women, continue. The speeches are resounding. They talk about the damage that the present situation has caused, not only to the Palestinian children, women and men, but also to the Israeli soldiers, to their psyches, which are permanently scarred.
In the middle of all of this, someone brings drinks to our rather large crowd -- a symbolic offering from the heart.
The speeches over, we take the communal taxis back to the checkpoint, and again make the short walk to the other side, to "our" buses. Learning that our last planned checkpoint is very slow at this time, we make a detour to another checkpoint. There, we are stopped by Israeli soldiers. Our guide has told us to show our "blue" ID cards. A single soldier boards the bus in a polite manner. We show our cards, most of them unopened. Some of us have passports. The soldier seems satisfied. The check is over in no time and we are allowed to proceed on our way back to Jerusalem.
Back in Tel Aviv, I feel very energised and do not wish to return home. I call my brother, and arrange to take his family out for dinner.
I share with them what happened to me today. My younger nephew, always fearful of people with handicaps, starts worrying about the fact that I shook hands with Arafat whom he has seen several times on TV with his hands or lips quivering. My nephew makes signs of revulsion. Then, he remembers the old rabbi whose hand people kissed a few days ago. I note for him that, in this case, it was Arafat who kissed my hand. He, Arafat, was showing a sign of respect -- for me, the guest!
A few hours later, I relive "the Moment," the handshake. It was not exactly that. It was much more than that. He was kissing the hand (his) that was holding my hand. And then came the analogy, the most fitting analogy: this is what we, Jews, do when we touch the Rolls of the Torah and then kiss our hand, or touch the Mezuzah and then kiss our hand.
The sacredness of it all!
I had just understood the subjective feelings I had experienced earlier of a genuine act on the part of Arafat.
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