Of Palestine

When there are no words left there are still stories

I have felt overwhelmed these past three weeks. Grief over hostages, my phone flashing the images of dead Gazan babies, retaliation and collective punishment, the language of “innocence” like a knife, misinformation and propaganda and false reporting and maps and maps and maps. More dead Gazans. A bombed hospital. When there are no words left there are still stories.

Each morning I walk across the street to the fruit stand where Abbas is sweeping up tendrils of banana leaf and dirt from the concrete floor. His nephew, Mohammad, is silent – too shy of strangers to test out the English he learns at school. But Abbas is eager to teach, my tongue wrapping around “mish-mish” and greeting him in Arabic. By the end of three weeks, I can ask for watermelon that is “sabir” or “saghir” – large or small. But most words don’t stick, the swish of Arabic refusing to form a neural pathway. I fumble again and again. Abbas is patient.

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Children are learning the names of wildflowers. “We cannot forget the names of our flowers” the video proclaims in Arabic. The six-year-olds squirm in small plastic chairs, as we watch the screen burst into purple and yellow. I’ve seen these flowers, growing out of concrete trash containers that line the streets of Bethlehem, where feral dogs tear through trash bags and litter spills into the street. Graceful purple heads, stalwart here among the rubbish. Perhaps this is what they mean by “sumud.” Steadfastness.

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To pass into Bethlehem to Jerusalem I walk with my children through Checkpoint 300. The wall towers above, dotted with outposts and scrawled with graffiti. We know the route. Down the street, past the vendors and to the right into the concrete building. Down the first hallway and through the full-length metal turnstile that locks up once you push through. More than once an older Palestinian woman’s bag has gotten stuck on one side and I’ve walked the plastic tote through to its owner. We turn, walk down another concrete hall, cameras watching.

Through another turnstile, this one with a green or red light that locks when the guards on the other side push their button. More than once a young child has been separated from a parent by this gate.

Items on the conveyor belt, walk through the metal detector as the Israeli soldiers chat and scroll through their phones, bored on the other side of the bulletproof barrier. On to the gates where soldiers with AK-47s check an array of papers. There are dozens of identity cards.

Who are you? Why are you here?

A few women have laminated their papers, worn with creasing. We see fathers and children are stopped each time we enter because the child does not have the correct documents. They argue for a bit and are sent back to the West Bank. I slide my US passport out of its holder and briefly hold it aloft. We pass through without question, down another long concrete tunnel and blinking into the light where a bus waits for us.

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Each morning at Aida Youth Center summer camp the children pass a ball between them. They share their name, their age, and their village of origin, depopulated in 1948.

“Bayt Nattiff.” “Bayt Nattiff.” “Bayt Nattiff.”

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We wait for the bus just in front of the sign that warns Jewish Israelis to turn back.

This Road leads to Area “A”

Under the Palestinian Authority

The Entrance is Forbidden

Dangerous To Your Lives

And Is Against The Israeli Law.

The sign shouts in Arabic, English, and Hebrew, white letters on a screaming red background.

We wait for the bus. It is rush hour and Palestinians with work permits are waiting, waiting, waiting after a day of labor. Four buses to the settlements, red tile roofs that creep up around the edges of Bethlehem, pass by. My children are also tired. We watch one Palestinian bus then two pass by -- every seat full, bodies crammed in the aisles.

My children count the settlement buses bound for their personal road, separate from Palestinian highways. One, two, three – all half full.

Half an hour later a third bus headed to the checkpoint pulls up at the corner before us. Three women get out. It pulls away, but does not stop, instead rushing past the eight of us at the stop. We protest, across languages communicated the annoyance and frustration of this moment. We settle back to wait another thirty minutes.

Moments later three Israeli police arrive, the red and blue lights of their motorcycles flashing in twilight. Everyone knows what to do. Each of the men gets out their identification card, hands it over, answers questions. Stop. Delay. Surveille.

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In 2013 a group of Israeli women covered over the red signs warning Israelis not to enter the West Bank:

Civilian Zone: No Entry to the Army

This Road Leads To Palestinian Settlements

Israeli Civilians Do Not Be Afraid

Come And Visit Palestinian Settlements

Refuse To Be Enemies

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Tear gas fills Aida camp. We hear the soldiers came at 4 am to pull three young men from their beds. We receive the report about the disruption from Abbas the next morning.

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I learn the name of the purple flower from a video shown to children at the refugee camp. A Syrian thistle, a brutal sphere, purple and sharp. It emits a warning, the color bright against the wash of sand in the grassy hillside. Survival creatures, desert flora.

The ground is dry, my feet coated in a sheen of grit. There will be no rain here for months, and the burs, taking advantage of a rare chance for migration, cling to my skirt. I feel the sharp heat of their contact on my legs as I walk. If these plants outlive the summer months it is because they know of some well, hidden from me, a network of water – of life – in the deep places that I cannot see. Their roots stretch. Or they thirst and hope to survive.