Thank you thank you for the flowers...

Can't tell you how much I love these flowers, and really appreciate you giving then to me...Wanted to say thank you publicly, you lovely group of people xxx

What comes to mind when I think of Palestine now?


Harsh but beautiful landscapes broken with white-walled villas and flat blocks. Pumping melodic soundtracks and dazzling choreography. Platters of welcoming food and drink, laughing and warm embraces.


But underneath there is something much stronger and more admirable: the spirit of struggle and a resilience which is remarkable. It is a word that immediately sprang to mind when we were planning our presentation on Palestinian life and there are so many obvious areas where it is evident: the defiance of Israeli military dominance and settler presence across the entirety of the West Bank; the forging of lives which cross communities as well as restrictive boarders; the refusal to accept that Palestine must be a land of limitations.


From 'resilience' came the words 'strength', 'unity' and 'tolerance'. An interesting mixture of passion and empathy has seemingly produced a society which challenges its occupation both physically and with a positivity that brings its people together, despite the Israeli tactics of division.


Strength can be seen in all areas of Palestinian life: strength in family bonds and cultural traditions, strength in conviction and determination (evidenced for me in the bright enthusiasm of many students towards their education) but also strength in terms of an infallible desire and belief in progress.


Throughout my week I have heard many Palestinians stress that their struggles are plentiful and very real in their dangerousness. I haven't however heard that anyone has given up the hope of fully reclaiming Palestine 48 or the occupied territories, that there is no hope in continuing the struggle, and that is something I know all my students will find powerful and inspirational too.


It is what the wider world should acknowledge about this wonderful place and its brilliant people: that instead of being taught to hate from suffering, you are taught to live and to education, to learn from each other. There is an openness to their discussion that invites tolerance and a hope that may, one day, unify the peoples here.

Motherland

The minibus speeds precariously close to the edge of the steep hills, once in a while we pass motorists who misjudged the space, forced to stop and examine the damage. I can’t help thinking that this is a journey that the Palestinian driver is keen to finish. Every journey here has the potential to become a news story, everyone is keenly aware that mundanity is a luxury.   

It is easy for some moments to forget, to look at the rows of olive trees and houses perched on endless hills and believe all is well. Until your eyes fall upon the rows of soldiers pacing the hills, small against the sky but even from this distance clearly dressed for battle. Helmets, guns, hands forever ready to point and shoot. You realise then the houses were those of settlers, defying international law, knowing that they will be protected by watch towers, roads and soldiers wherever they choose to “settle.” This is the West Bank, Palestine and we are speeding from Abu Dis, near Jerusalem to Jenin in the north. In the car, myself and another teacher from the UK think ahead to what stories await us in Jenin Camp. We've already been to schools in Abu Dis and heard from teachers and students alike about how the occupation chokes them, stifles them each day, that whilst I, a foreigner can for some moments forget the politics and enjoy the hills bathed in sunshine, they cannot forget their father in jail, their uncle that was killed, their cousin taken by soldiers in the night. They cannot forget for a minute that they are not allowed into Jerusalem, that a coloured card controls so much of their life.

Beside me a lady also heading to Jenin holds a rosy faced baby in her lap. He catches his mother’s eye and gurgles-safe and secure. I cannot help but wonder how this child will fare under the occupation, how many checkpoints will he have to navigate on a daily basis? How many places will he not be allowed to go because of a coloured card in his pocket?

He is also a child of Palestine, and I wonder if he will ever feel safe and secure in his motherland. 

Walls

الجدار....أنا لا استطيع المرور من هنا...الاولاد يحشرون انفسهم من بين العمدان و بدون أية تعابير على وجهوههم... 

مرورا في برتقال يافا تدوم هذه النظرة لساعات... رامية ظلال شواهد القبور على الجوانب

ساحذ الطريق الى باب العامود... توقف!!! السيارة ذات اللوحة الصفراء لا تستطيع تحميل اشخاص ذوي الهوية الخضراء فقط الزرقاء.

لذلك سامشي تحت السموات الزرقاء نزولا الى مستوى سطح البحر الميت

اخر صفوف الزيتون الاخضرقبل الانحراف الى الرمال الصفراء

لكن هنا تفرق موسى عن جماعته تاركا موجات من خطوط الطباشير تحيط مدينة أريحا

قشور بدون ألوان تحيط قبره

ربما يمكننا العبور من هنا والعودة الى القدس

سأسال أول سيدة ألتقي بها على الطريق

Walls

The Wall.
I cannot cross here. Children
stack themselves into columns under
an expressionless face.

It is tall here, fixing the dusk's Jaffa
orange gaze for hours, throwing
tombstone shadows onto
their side.

I will take the road to Damascus
Gate. Stop. A gold-plated car
cannot carry a green ID,
only blue.

So, I will walk under the burning blue heavens.
I descend to Dead Sea level;
the last ranks of green olive leaves
halt before shifting yellow sands.

Here Moses parted
from his people, overlooking the chalk waves around Jericho.
A colourless dawn peeks over his tomb;
perhaps here we can cross back to Jerusalem.

I will ask the first woman I see the way.

How was Palestine?

How was Palestine?

A question I struggle to answer.

“Amazing!”

“Incredible!”

“Life-changing!”

Responses I utter, in doing so, failing to capture the depth of the experience.

How do you describe a place, a people, an experience so far removed from you own?

My fear is that people simply won’t understand. Unable to comprehend what we have seen.

Wonderful people persevering in order to live as normal a life as they can.

A piece of me has been left there and I will take a bit of Palestine around with me forever.

I will continue to answer the question. Hoping that one day people will understand.

And then I think how lucky am I?

That my struggle is that I am unable to describe this experience. As opposed to those whose life it is.

What can we learn from Haverstock's twin in Palestine?

Article for our school newsletter:

“You don’t know if you’re going to get to school or not, because you don’t know if there’s going to be a problem with the Israeli soldiers.”

“I live pretty near to the school, like 5 minutes walk, but some days it take me 30-40 mins because the soldiers and their tanks line up here and make problems. I miss my first class. Sometimes they line up outside my house and they don’t allow us to go out at all.”

“They throw tear gas at us. Sometimes in the middle of a class we smell tear gas and the teacher closes the windows and we have to go home.”

“My hopes for the future are pretty normal: a job; a family; a house; and to live in a land of my own, without having an occupation restricting what I can do.”

“We would like you to learn about our history, and what happened with the British people and the Israelis and how they occupied our land. Besides the past, we would like you to know about our culture. If you learn about us you’ll see that we are amazing people and we have the right to stay alive.”

These are the words of students from Haverstock’s twin school in Palestine, the Arab Institute. During half term I had the incredible opportunity to visit as part of a teacher exchange trip organised by Camden Abu Dis Friendship Association.

This is the start of letter writing exchanges and partnership work on human rights. We have so much to learn from the students and teachers there – about life under occupation and their inspiring struggle to keep living, keep learning, and stand up for their rights in these challenging circumstances.

You can find out more about the project here: http://teachersinaction2016.blogspot.co.uk/

Replying to letters from Haverstock students.

The 8m wall built by the Israeli government. It runs through Abu Dis, separating people there from their friends, family members, olive trees and holy places on the other side.

Mural in the school playground – can you work out what the message is?

We have olive trees

And I love sitting under the trees

But we have a problem, there is the wall

Journeys

On our last day in Abu Dis, we discovered our return flight to London was delayed, and I was devastated. I was desperate to see my family, and the prospect of another day separated from my children seemed too much to bear. Then, when I realised that I would have to wait another day to see them, it was all I could do not to cry. And finally, when this morning, there were no tubes and the taxi I had booked failed to show, and I missed yet another train home, I cried. Unashamedly. In the middle of London Euston train station. Like a child.

But then it dawned on me. This is just a tiny glimpse into the difficulties Palestinians face every single day. In their journeys to school, to work, to the shops, to their families. Checkpoints littered across the West Bank often lead to children arriving late to school, anxious and agitated, workers arriving late to work, or friends failing to be reunited; car journeys, where direct routes prohibited for Palestinians are quick, instead are often lengthy and laborious; throughout all, danger is ever prevalent.

Journeys are governed by letters and colours. Areas are separated by A, B, C and people are divided into colours such as yellow, green or blue.  These colours determine Palestinians' journeys: where they can go, and who they are answerable to. Our children relish learning about colours and the alphabet as toddlers. The irony is clear for all to see.

And let us not forget the enforced journeys. The ones they don't choose to make. Young boys, taken from their homes in the middle of the night, transported alone in military vehicles. Held in prisons miles away from their families, their childhoods a distant memory.

And then there's the journeys some will never make. Countless refugees are unable to return, or even visit the place of their origin, prevented by a wall, and colours and letters. Jerusalem is perceived as the spiritual home of many Christians and Muslims alike, yet many will never see it; they simply aren't allowed.

So as I sit now, on a train, sipping tea, gazing out at the landscape, I remember, there are no trains in Palestine. And I am lucky. I only hope that the amazing people we have met and who have welcomed us with open arms, will one day be able to cry, but just because their taxi failed to arrive on time.