The Palestinian Dream - May 2011

May 2011

introduction edition

“an international effort”8 Stories

from 8 Authors

Publication of IYMP©

When Rafi came up to me with this idea of creating a magazine that features the real life stories of the Palestinians, I accepted without knowing the challenges that I will face ahead of me. With no experience, I had to learn many things and I had to learn it quickly, as much as possible. But in the end, we, as a team, managed to overcome those challenges, I realised that the challenges is what makes us grow stronger. Even stronger that we are now ready to face whatever that might come ahead of us.

Achmed Azizie MarzukiMalaysia

04 | My Village a poem from the talented Shahd Abusalama05 | Dreams Beyond The Road “My grandmother died dreaming of going back, but her living soul is flying happily over Dair Snaid.”

06 | Arabs Got Revolutions “finally standing up for themselves, for their kids’ future, for their countries’fare!”

08 | One Night of Bombing “But it was not. Soon enough the droning ceased. The rain stopped falling. It was all quiet, and I started to feel worried.”

10 | Free to Writea poem from the talented Lina12 | Memory Drafts “Why should my eyes witness the blood-shed with folded hands!”

14 | The Palestine Papers: The View from the Ground18 | My Prison Diaries “this is the fate you will receive if you try to escape; you will be gunned down and thrown away to our hungry dogs”

contents

editor’s notes2011 is a year that would never be forgotten in Arab history. Indeed in this year we saw the tyrant rulers of the region being chal-lenged by the ordinary people. People, who rose up in the streets, ignored all the bul-lets and the barricades and marched for-ward. Palestine was no different either. This magazine is a collection of articles by the Palestinian youths that illustrates the events from their eyes. In the end the truth would surely prevail over falsehood and evil, the aspiration of people can’t be suppressed by any tyrant states or government and sooner or later from the river to the sea, Palestine would be free. It is time for the world to sup-port “The Palestinian Dream”. I hope you all enjoy the first edition of this magazine. This first edition is dedicated to the memory of Italian peace activist and friend of Palestine, Vittorio Arrigoni. Let us all work together, as Vik had done in his lifetime for the people of Palestine.

By Mohammad RafiBangladesh

Illustration By Shahd Abusalama

Vittorio Arrigoni, A 36 yrs old Italian pro-Palestinian activist has been found dead in the Hamas-gov-erned Gaza Strip hours after being abducted.

My village, in which I didn’t live a single dayHas been living inside me everyday

Since I was born, I grow and my nostalgiaGrows more and more till it tears me upIt wasn’t me who chose to live far away

And neither my grandparents did

They were beaten, cleansed and dispossessedInto tents of exile their souls were left

Gone with their olive groves and citrus fieldsLeaving a wound to never be healed

Since my grandparents fled awayThey thought they would return the next day

They died, but no need to sighAs, their heritage, their songs and memories persist

They say that elderly people dieAnd after that the young will forget

But no wayUntil return, Palestinians will resist

Our tears of hope will never dryAnd when we return to our homelands

From ashes, trees will rise highAnd white doves will over fly

And we’ll caress with our bare handsEvery precious berry of sand

This dream might not happen soonBut it absolutely will one day!

My VillageBy Shahd Abusalama

The Palestinian Dream© is a publication of IYMP (International Youth Movement for Palestine), an effort without any financial sup-port from anyone, we work in the comfort of our home, using our personal computer, and personal funding if neccesary. This makes us a truly independant publication. Please support us by joining our facebook group.

Masthead designed in Adobe Firework CS4Articles contributed by authors/bloggersLayout designed in Adobe InDesign CS4

Images enhanced and corrected in Adobe Photoshop CS4/Adobe Photoshop Lightroom 3

File sync and distribution by DropboxDigital Publication by Issuu.com

ON THE COVER: TAKEN BY AHMAD MESLEH FROM EYE ON PALESTINE http://eyeonpalestine.com/

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The teacher told us to ask our grandparents about our original home land. What is mine grandma?” I was only a kid when I asked my beautiful grandmother this question. She smiled, putting me in her lap as I

used to sit always and said, “It is Dair Snaid darling. If you had been there now, you would be collecting olives, brining water from the well, singing songs in harvest days , and dancing dabka in weddings wearing a dress just like the one I am wearing now.“ She continuous to describe the black day Israeli soldiers forced her to leave the house. “They (May god take revenge of them) came with guns and weapons and took over everything, with every step I walked away, I was dying and I still am.” Since that day, I never forget my grand-mother’s face or Dair Snaid and I won’t. My grandmother died dream-ing of going back, but her living soul is flying happily over Dair Snaid. Though I bet now, it looks much different. In a way, I envy my grandma’. At least, she had a good picture of it but me who don’t even know how it looks like asked once one of my cousin who went to Jerusa-lem last summer to describe it for me and she said, “It is all Israeli farms now.“ Sometimes it appears fun-ny to me, how ridiculous life is! As I can see all the people in the world who can move freely inside their own country without check-points, where soldiers ask you to kiss their feet to let you in as it happens in West Bank. But us, who live in Gaza, are in a prison where it is written at the crossing, “not allowed” sign. Not allowed to move or even freely live, yes poor us!!

Since 63 years have passed, we were forced to leave our homes. But today, on 15th of May, as my grandma described it as “the black day”, I went to the same road my grandparents walked through. I could feel the same feeling they had, “going nowhere”. As I walked forward I could see a lot of people there. When I got so close to my homeland, there was a big, huge and tall wall that separated me from my homeland (Dair Snaid), which was standing right beyond it. It is missing my grandmoth-

er’s touch on its sand, my grandfather’s feet while dancing dabka or planting an olive tree. Today I was able to im-agine how they suffered, I could see in my mind, grandmother holding my uncle who was only 3 years old and her heart is bleeding inside, asking herself “will I breath that air again?” .This anniversary was completely dif-ferent. For the first time I feel that Arab nations are taking real steps, as it started from Facebook where they were calling for “The Third Intifada”. As many people went to the crossing with Israel today and was shouting loudly “occupation no more“ and there is still firing as it hap-pened in both Gaza and West Bank , and believe me it is an amazing feel-ing to know that you are not alone. I have a sweet sensation every

time I remember my grand mom and her amazing and sim-ple life in Dair Snaid. It is like the true image of Palestine to me, the very beautiful Palestine which I dream of visiting it every single moment, and among all those good memo-ries a question rings in my ear, “Will you die dreaming!!”

Dreams Beyond The Road

“My grandmother died dreaming of go-ing back, but her living soul is flying hap-pily over Dair Snaid.”By Roba Salipi

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As I say goodbye to March 29th, I also say goodbye to Moham-med Bouazizi. Haven’t heard of him? He’s that young, sim-

ple street vendor who died of burns in Tunisia after standing up for not just his family’s income, but also his own dignity. He refused to surrender his fruits and vegetables after being accosted by police, and from that brief incident steps were set in motion not just for his own death, but also the rebirth of the region. And because today was his birthday, I pass on my thanks, may his soul rest in peace. Like so many before him, the police refused to listen to his concerns and attempted to send him home. That’s when he decided, out of a sense of pow-erlessness and the shame he felt for what happened to him in front of everyone in the local market, to set himself on fire. But from this, he became the spark lighting all the revolutions the Arab dictators are cur-rently facing. Because of him, the Arab history of this era will now be studied as pre-Bouazizi and post-Bouazizi. Because of him, the Tunisian revolution first ignit-ed and then neighboring countries simi-larly caught fire. Both Tunisia and Egypt are now altogether different countries because of what Mohammed started, and Libya, Algeria, Yemen, Bahrain, Syria, Palestine and Jordan are moving in that direction. This new Arab World was cre-ated by this young man who didn’t even know what he was setting in motion when he went to make the first stand. If only he were alive to see the abundance of dignity and pride he brought to the Arab world! “Arabs’ Got Revolutions!” Re-flecting on Mohammed’s lead, I decided this

would be a fitting title of my first post while I was watching a new show called “Arabs’ Got Talent”. I’ve heard A LOT about this show; everyone talks about it nonstop. At first it didn’t exactly catch my attention, but with this show’s fever spreading further, I’ll admit I got curious and thought I MUST see it. And I did, but as first expected, the show was rather talentless, at least for what is valued today. While watching I thought that if this show were broadcast a year ago, maybe then it would’ve made some sense to me. Maybe I would’ve watched it and appreciated some talent here or there….. but no longer. The thing is that now I see only ONE show and only ONE talent the Arabs have which is worth follow-ing: fighting for something more! This is the only show for me that is worth watching. It’s my (and a lot of other peo-ple’s) fever right now. How could it not be with the first questions popping into my mind every morning during the Tuni-sian and Egyptian revolutions being “Has Ben Ali resigned? Is Mubarak gone?!” Every single morning I woke up to the news of Sidi Bouzeid and Tahrir Square, and now on to Libya, Syria, Yem-en and the rest of the revolutionary coun-tries’ news. I know I shouldn’t be having something against this “Arabs’ Got Tal-ent” thingy, but my new & refreshing Arab pride won’t let me enjoy anything less than what these simple, pure, cred-ible, oppressed, poor and peaceful people are doing in the streets every single day, finally standing up for themselves, for their kids’ future, for their countries’ wel-fare! It amazes me more than a traditional television program could ever dream.

Arabs’ Got Revolutions

“finally standing up for themselves, for their kids’ future, for their countries’ wel-fare!”BY ebaa rezeq

Top Artis depiction of the supporters supporting the revolutionsBottom Left Supporters in their thousands in Tahrir Square

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Such suddenly outdated tel-evision is now unoriginal, copied and brought to us merely to fill naive Arab minds with more trivial and corny pro-gramming as usual. BUT these revolu-tions are proudly homemade and born out of the unique, unbearable & genu-ine injustice, suppression, cruelty and corruption our Arab leaders practice on their nations. And from this springs such sincerity that is simply at another level than what we’ve been offered (and accepted) in the past. It is a new era. So, it must now be shared, the 29th of March is not only Bouazizi’s birthday. It’s also the day before the great Palestinian “Day of Land”. The day when all of the Palestinians across the world will take the streets to demand their right of having a country, of ending the Zionist, barbaric Occupation by the one and only means that truly gives us strength and re-spect: UNITY & END OF DIVISION! That is exactly what Palestine needs right now. Not to rip down, but to build back up. Palestine needs its people of all dif-ferent ideologies, colours and affiliations to stand united as one, after being apart for long, to say their words together, to fight apartheid together, to get back to their homeland together, to build their Gaza together, to connect to the West Bank together and to aspire for a united Palestine together! That’s why the March 15 popular movement exists! It all started on March 15th two weeks ago and quickly encountered Hamas’ violence and Fatah’s vague promises – neither following with any real action. So the streets are again the Palestinian last resort to get what is ours! In days to come, you will be up-dated with what will happen on the ground in Gaza. It’ll be the next episode of our real and essential talents, “Arabs Got Revolutions!” This isn’t television, this is our lives. This is our country. Stay tuned.

The author of this article can be contacted at http://gazanism.wordpress.com

Top Artis depiction of the supporters supporting the revolutionsBottom Left Supporters in their thousands in Tahrir Square

Bottom Right Supporters taking their shoe off de-nouncing the foreign interference

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I’m lying. There are two actu-ally. Earlier, I tweeted, “I was ly-ing all the time. I used to say I got used to it, you actually never

get used to being bombed by F-16s!” It was but another night pen-etrated with the brain-wracking constant droning mixed with the sounds of a slight rainfall. I didn’t bother, however, and con-tinued my nightly chores, indifferent to the omnipresent presages of an “unappealing night”. Time and again, I was told this was going to be a hellish night due to the last bombing that took place in Jerusalem. One would wonder what Pal-estinians in Gaza would have to do with a bombing that took place in Je-rusalem. But to someone like me, and to Palestinians in Gaza, I’ll just bor-row the words of another Palestinian, “If someone caught flu in Tel Aviv, we, Palestinians in Gaza, were to blame. We would have to bear the consequences!” A few reports say this is part of a larger Israeli political conspiracy to relieve the ever amounting pres-sure they are put under by provoking Hamas into firing rockets onto Israel and showing themselves as the victim.

A few minutes later, we started to call for ending this state of dreadful quiet by sending the drones back “Peo-ple want the drones BACK! ” I tweeted. We waited and waited, but no bombs fell at all. We started to feel extremely apprehensive about what’s going on! Had we been bombed, things would have seemed normal. After seemed to be ages, and as if conforming to our demands, F-16s and Apaches started flying in Gaza sky only to simultaneously start shell-ing various areas across the Gaza Strip. Once an F-16 shows up, a bomb follows. One doesn’t even have time to ponder its horrific blasting sound. A few were injured, two of them were children. The night was up, and I went to bed. The next night, at an unguarded mo-ment, the nearby area was heavily bom-barded by five F-16 bombs. I wasn’t pre-pared. I never thought it would come this early. As each bomb fell, the whole building shook back and forth, my heart dropped, and I cursed. The five bombs having fall-en, I felt like screaming my heart out like a child. I felt as if I wanted to be as simple a little boy pouring out his heart to his mother, “Mom, I hate Israel!” But I kept silent and continued my nightly chores.

Some say it is a desperate at-tempt to end any Palestinian effort to end the disunity between the two larg-est Palestinian factions, Hamas and Fa-tah. Israeli media, however, report these attacks are just retaliatory. I’d try to un-derstand if it was retaliatory, but it is Is-rael that started all of this mayhem. I didn’t care, and whatever were the reasons behind this would-be hell-ish night, I didn’t bother for myself. I thought that I got used to it. But I kept tweeting and providing latest updates whenever the droning increased or low-ered. Someone told me, “your obses-sion with the unmanned drones inspires me.” He thought it’s an obsession, but it’s not. It’s some mechanism to release myself from this nerve-wracking noise, which at some point, would seem eternal. But it was not. Soon enough the droning ceased. The rain stopped falling. It was all quiet, and I started to feel worried. A friend tweeted, “this must be quiet which precedes the storm!” I knew It was. So everyone was soon getting ready and preparing himself, psychologi-cally and emotionally in case the bomb fell in his neighborhood. I was soon try-ing to envisage the bombing in my mind before it fell for real. Waiting for a bomb is far more torturing that the bomb itself.

One Night of Bombing

“But it was not. Soon enough the droning ceased. The rain stopped falling. It was all quiet, and I started to feel worried.”BY MOHAMMED RABAH SULIMAN

The author of this article can be contacted at http:// msuliman.wordpress.com

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Universal verseWritten with ink of bloodAnd chants of loving life

Ornamented with thrones of freedomRoses spread on shrouds and cradles.

Rhymed by bullets defied with screams :“It’s peaceful, peaceful, peaceful…”

Figures of hope, of love, of salvationFill the beat with the rise of new generation

Chains breaking, the iron relentingCrack the tone with beautiful redemption

The tirades on screens Of tyrants who lost the feet

And chose to be The omitted part of A historic poetry

In universal verse, I, you, we, is one

Our differences are metaphors united by love

Millions of lines Made poems of and for

Death and life…Anger, despair

Night and day…But today,

Revolutions Sparked inspirationInflamed passions

And broke fragile façade of fearAnd I am no longer written I am No longer afraid to life I am no longer afraid to die

I am free to write….

Free to WriteBY LINA

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One bulldozer, serial number 949623, began to work near the house of a physician who is a friend of ours, and

in whose house Rachel and other activ-ists often stayed. While we occupied the other structures directly west (the clos-est was less than 5 meters away and the furthest was less than 25 meters away), Rachel sat down in the pathway of the bulldozer. I was elevated about 2 meters above the ground, and had a clear view of the action happening about 20 meters away. Still wearing her fluorescent jacket, she sat down at least 15 meters in front of the bulldozer, and began waving her arms and shouting just as activists had suc-cessfully done dozens of times that day. The bulldozer continued driving forward headed straight for Rachel. When it got so close that it was moving the earth beneath her, she climbed onto the pile of rubble being pushed by the bulldozer. She got so high onto it that she was at eye-level with the cab of the bulldozerr.

left her crushed body in the sand. Three activ-ists ran to her and began administering first-re-sponse medical treatment.Her body was in a mangled position, her face was very bloody, and her skin was turning blue. She said, “My back is broken!” but nothing

else. The three activists took care to keep her neck straight, and turned her to her side in case of vomit or blood from the mouth. She was showing signs of brain hemorrhaging (I found out later from the British medical activist), so they el-evated her head in order to allow it to drain blood, as this injury was more se-rious than simply a spinal injury. They continued to talk to her in attempts to keep her conscious. The other bulldozer, which had been working about 3o me-ters to the west, abandoned work and withdrew to the border strip, and parked about 10 meters to the west of the mur-derous bulldozer. The tank came over to see what had happened, and I shouted that they had run over our friend, and that she may die. The soldiers in the tank never spoke to us, nor did they ask us any questions or offer us any help.

Her head and up-per torso were above the bulldozer’s blade, and the bulldozer driver and co-op-erator could clearly see her. Despite this, he continued forward, which pulled her legs into the pile of rubble, and pulled her down out of view of the driver. If he’d stopped at this point, he may have only broken her legs, but he continued forward, which pulled her un-derneath the bulldozer. We ran towards him, and waved our arms and shouted one activist with a megaphone. But the bulldozer driver continued forward, un-til Rachel was underneath the cab of the bulldozer. At this point, it was more than clear that she was nowhere but under-neath the bulldozer, there was simply no-where else she could have been, as she had not appeared on either side of the bull-dozer, and could not have stayed in front of it that long without being crushed. Despite the obviousness of her position, the bulldozer began to reverse, without lifting its blade, and dragged the blade over her body again. He contin-ued to reverse until he was on the bor-der strip, about 100 meters away, and

How was Rachel Corrie Murdered?

A mother and child wait by a gate of the separation barrier near Umm al-Fahm, attempting to meet their husband/father to receive a pair of shoes he bought for them. He has an Israeli ID card but they do not.

By Joseph Smith

2008 and the first seven months of 2009 were my senior year at school. I was in grade 12 (Taw-jeehi as spelled in Arabic), my

last and my graduation school year. In Palestine, Tawjeehi is the most important grade and it’s the one that decides whether you deserve attend-ing college next year or not, and what uni-versity faculties does your final Tawjeehi result allow you to register your name at. For example if a student wants to study medicine he/she must get a Tawjeehi average more than 96.4%. If a student wants to major in business his/her Taw-jeehi average must be over 75%. For the reason students have to study as hard as they can to major in desirable faculty. To recall my memory back to December 27/08 I can see myself dressed in my school uniform, a white shirt and a grey pant. I was sitting on my white desk against the purple wall beside one of my classmates. Our mathematics teacher was explaining the solution of one of the problems on our huge green blackboard using his white chalk. Mr.Fuad Barakat a tall slim famous mathematics teacher with huge ears and a funny lovable character. During the lesson everyone was trying to concentrate to get the main idea of the solution. Unfortunately and at once the lesson was cut by a very very strong noise of an explosion, our hearts jumped out of our chests just like the steel frame of the windows that went in and out as a result of the air pres-sure that followed that harrowing noise.

At that moment our teacher held his thick jacket up from his chair and ran away out from the class to the cor-ridor. Looking around with a confused mind, still under the effect of the shock, I was able to see many faces with different expressions! Some were screaming and shrilling! Some were crying and wonder-ing how to get out of there, and others – including me – were on the windows trying to figure out where the explosion took place by seeing the source of the smog column. Few minutes later we were ordered to leave the class and get down to the first floor, there the scene was even more terrible! Hundreds of students gathering in the same place, and oth-ers running and stumbling with others! Explosions were taking place in a sequent manner, and now mix that noise of blasting buildings with scream-ing noises of kids, and even some of my classmates or even some of the teach-ers that followed each explosion. Every-one was trying to call his/her family to check if they were alright but there was no network coverage at all. Amongst these horrible faces and that unforget-table scene stepped our beloved head-master with steadily steps and roared the words of a song: “If you want to live then challenge your destiny. The night and the darkness will disappear and the prison rods will be broken.” With one voice we all be-gan singing with him. I remember how I felt like that moment, I felt my blood spurting with rebel, and my heart throbbing with strength!

I remember myself smiling with others, expressions of fear and bitterness were in seconds turned into expressions of faith. 15 minutes later we went out to the school yard. There, rocket powder and ashes stuck in our eyes and we were slightly able to see! We were ordered to get into the building again because of that. An hour later we were able to contact our parents and they were able to reach us and pick us back to home. On my way to home, explosions continued, am-bulances were almost covering the streets, caps and policemen were trying to han-dle the situation. I don’t know how, but I arrived at my home! There my mother welcomed me with hugs and tears be-cause I was finally safe in her arms again.

Memory Drafts

Why should my eyes witness the blood-shed with folded hands!BY RANA B BAKER

Students at the al-Fayha girls’ school and the al-Ibrahimiya boys’ school have been affected.

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Everyone thought the bomb-ing will not continue for more than one day. But late at that day the situ-ation got worse. The electricity was cut and we were depending on the cell phone radio to know the news. The IOF, used to toll our phones from private numbers, a recorded message was there to threaten that if we hide weapons they will find out and we’ll be targeted. Other messages were that no one is allowed to appear under the sky or he/she will be targeted and shelled. The cease-fire was from 12-1, only one hour for markets so we bring some necessities! No one could taste beau-ty again. Agony was darkening our days and our cheeks never dried.

It was winter those days. I’ve al-ways adored winter and adored the smell of the wet leaves of the trees. But dur-ing that period the pure water of the rain had to wash the innocent blood and the innocent bodies scattered here and there beneath the rubbles. One night, while the sky was pouring down I received an sms from a dear friend of mine, it said: Here’s the rain you love, today the rain is washing dead bodies and destructed homes. I fell in tears. They were pour-ing down on my cheeks while the rain on the bodies, and I kept crying for hours. More people were murdered every day, there was no more room for victims in the hospitals. Hundreds had to undergo surgeries on the freezing floor of the hospital and others had to witness the last breath coming out from their children. My mother never let me or my sisters sleep in more than one room. She wanted us to sleep in the same room with her. I used to sleep on the floor on a blanket, but there was one night when my back hurt me very much that I couldn’t stand that. I picked my pillow and blanket and went to my room. These were few minutes when I laid myself on my bed, but my mother woke up, came with fear, and asked me to get back.Electricity passed away with those who passed away! For three weeks we were left without electricity, cell phones were off and we were left with candles. I always wanted to photograph the crimes and go there to where the ethnic cleansing and the genocide was taking place. I used to fight with my mother because of this, she never let

me go, and she said I’m going to die. The terrace was my final destination! I used to run to the ter-race when a rocket explodes! I wanted to see something, I felt useless! Why should my mother forbid me from do-ing something while innocents are be-ing murdered! Why should my eyes wit-ness the blood-shed with folded hands! I also had to study in the mid-dle of the massacre and the explosions and I did! I’m proud to say that I did and that my Tawjeehi result was 94.3%. I can remember how the glass of the windows of my house and my un-cles’ was ripped and scattered into pieces and that happened when the IOF bom-barded a mosque in our area, I remember how the scene looked like. I weren’t able to see my family members because of the rocket powder. The smell was very very sharp and we were chocking. My little sis-ter was almost one year old when the inci-dent happened. I still hear her screaming. The war ended in January 19/2009, but nothing was the same again and such a memory can never be washed up. International promises can never build homes again or bring martyrs back to life. Thousands demanded the International War Crimes Courts to punish Israel for violating international laws by using in-ternationally banned weapons and killing innocents, but which of the governments has the courage to defy oppression??

The author of this article can be contacted at http://ranabaker.wordpress.comPalestinian school girls

walk to school in Gaza on Saturday

Palestinian teachers have been holding classes in the road outside an Israeli checkpoint in the West Bank

Students at the al-Fayha girls’ school and the al-Ibrahimiya boys’ school have been affected.

Palestinians objected to having their bags searched and being made to lift their shirts before being allowed to

pass.

13

So, the Palestine Papers. Egypt. Lebanon. The Middle East’s on fire again I joked with my Turkish mechanic, at the risk

of perpetuating stereotypes. “Unfortu-nately, sometimes we need fires in or-der for things to be fixed” he replied. As I stated in the Guardian ear-lier today, the Palestine papers may have sent shockwaves around the world, but they came as no surprise to most Pales-tinians, particularly those living out the horrific reality on the ground that has been “non-negotiated” over in the occu-pied territories, like my own family – or in refugee camps outside the occupied

The Palestine Papers: The View from the Ground

Palestinians have been fed up with the situation for a while and did vote for change in 2006

BY Laila El-Haddad

Permit that is use not to enter Israel but to pass through gate.

14

territories, like my husband’s family in the sidelined camps of Lebanon. Ultimately though I think they will mean very lit-tle unless they translate into change on the ground-if Palestinians demand for change of the status quo. I should also remind people that Palestinians have been fed up with the situation for a while and did vote for change in 2006. The rest, as they say, is history (though in Gaza’s case, the “rest” continues to be painfully and punitively enforced). More than anything, the de-tails in the Palestine papers show just how out of touch with this reality the negotiators were, and how they chose to ignore this reality. It is this revela-tion – or reminder – that has most an-gered and distressed many Palestinians. In Gaza, which has been block-aded with western backing and regional complicity since democratic elections five years ago, friends and family tell me the response is a mixture of anger, sus-picion and uncertainty about the future. Fellow blogger Mohammed Suliman told me he found the revelations, chief among them that Mahmoud Abbas’s Palestinian Authority offered to concede almost all of East Jerusalem, “shocking but not unpredictable”, referring to them as a “tragicomedy”. “I just can’t under-stand who on earth nominated this man to speak for the Palestinians? When he says, ‘WE’ who the hell are we? Work-ing 20 years in the field never gives him the right to give up on one metre of the land, to divide, bargain and sell.” The willingness to give up more than 10% of the West Bank and large portions of East Jerusalem, from where his family originally hails, is the most painfully startling part, he added. The papers also confirm the intransigence of Israel in the face of the most compromising of Palestinians positions. What the Palestinians would appallingly propose to give up, the Is-raelis would continue not only to with-hold, but retreat even further by way of increased land theft and colonization, all while the Americans stood by. It is a sear-ing indictment not just of the Palestin-ian Authority and their collaboration and ineffectualness, but more pertinently of Israel and its arrogance and intractability.

Karma Nabsli describes them as revelatory of the mechanism of negotiations them-selves-how colonial they were, as well as a long evolution of de-democratization. Lina al-Sharif, a friend and au-thor of the blog “360 Km2 of Chaos”, told me she was irritated by the west-ern media focus on Palestinian despera-tion and incompetency, rather than Is-raeli and American intransigence. “This shouldn’t just be an exposé of the PA, but also of Israel. And the US was wit-nessing all this and calling itself ‘an honest broker’! This is just yet another hit to the already dead peace process.” Evidence has never been more compelling that the Israelis have always had their “partner for peace” – they have simply chosen to neglect them, and propose an alternative fiction in which there was none, irrespective of which Palestinian party was in power. B e -cause of this, some believe that the papers may actually be bolstering sup-port for Mah-moud Abbas and his posse, whom they see as victims. True, the papers lay out the extent of the Pales-tinian Authority’s complicity and capitula-tion. But journalist Fares Ghoul says they also serve to undermine what little cred-ibility Mahmoud Abbas’s Ramallah-based Palestinian Authority has, and questions the motives and timing behind their re-lease. “We should focus on the day: what is going on today? The PA is doing well by resisting pressure to resume negotiations while settlement construction goes on.” In a bitter irony, and a stark re-minder of the conditions many Palestin-ians in Gaza continue to live under, some cousins and friends there were not yet even aware of the revelations when I spoke with them, because they had no electricity. “This might make you laugh or cry – or maybe both – but some people didn’t hear about these documents yet because of the continuous power cuts in the Gaza Strip,” my cousin told me.

Gaza continues to suffer from extended power outages since Israel bombed the only power plant there in the summer of 2006. Two years after Israel’s bru-tal assault, the Strip remains under in-tense blockade, stifling development, prosperity, and freedoms (the subject, reportedly, of tonight’s latest reveal). And although Palestine papers was a trending topic on Twitter, 25-year-old computer engineer Ola Anan says not everybody in Gaza cared to tune in. “Last night during al-Jazeera’s broadcast, my fa-ther and I were the only ones interested in watching the whole program, my mother was rambling that it’s not breaking news that the PA heads are traitors, and my brother asked me to put the volume down so that he could study for his exam!” We are unlikely to ever learn who leaked the documents. An insider,

an outsider … a combination? Some mem-bers of Fateh were quick to point fingers at one-time Gaza strongman Mo-hammed Dah-lan, who is ru-moured to be out of favour with Mahmoud

Abbas (and who, incidentally, was curi-ously absent from the Papers). But there are enough disgruntled Palestinian nego-tiators with motives. One former nego-tiator with the PLO’s British-Scandina-vian backed Negotiations Support Unit (NSU), from where the leak is rumoured to have originated, told me “we always ‘knew’ but didn’t really know the intimate details and the inside jokes. It is a level of unparalleled desperation.” Another confided that several years ago they were fed up with the cronyism, incompetence and lack of leadership within the Pales-tinian Authority, saying: “I can’t handle losing when my side doesn’t even try.”

The author of this article can be contacted at http://a-mother-from-gaza.blogspot.com

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A Palestinian man rests in a tunnel between Egypt and Rafah, in the southern Gaza strip

A Palestinian man moves a goat through a smuggling tunnel from Egypt to Gaza under

the border at Rafah

Palestinians carry the body of a Palestinian killed in an Israeli missile strike in Rafah

Gazan woman in rubble of her homeIllegal white phosphorus being used by IsraelPalestinians gather in the crater of an Israeli missile strike on a building

A Palestinian woman wounded in Israeli mis-sile strikes is helped into the emergency area

at Shifa hospitalModern Warfare Neighborhood in Gaza

Israeli soldiers, backed by tanks and helicop-ters, entered Gaza in response to apparent

setting of explosive

A Palestinian firefighter reacts as a build-ing burns after an Israeli missile strike in the

Rafah refugee camp

A Palestinian gestures at the scene of an Israeli missile strike on a building in the Rafah

refugee camp

Gaza War in Pictures

Jerusalem: Life, the Mist.Jerusalem, the Holy City Misted Away in the drives of life.

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I fidgeted and uttered a few words.

My mother, terrorized, would break in my small room and borrow the language women in

the neighborhood usually use to win the pity of the soldiers. They would however, terrorize her even more. I was pounded on my legs with the butts of their machine guns until I collapsed. Bruised, I was ordered to limp out and line up outside against one of the worn out walls of my house. My hands up and my face hit many times against the bricks to make sure I had no bombs stored in my head. My inferior outfit was frisked and my underwear was double checked; maybe I had arms hidden there too.

Had my wrinkled mother seen her son receiving an advanced type of humiliation before the “eyewit-nesses” of our neighborhood and the out-flowing blood of his face, my face, she began begging them frantically to go away showing them my “peaceful” school books that “cannot cause harm or damage to an ant.” Alas, to no avail. I was not the only one privi-leged. Omar, my childhood friend, my-self, and other seven dwellers of the same narrow alleyways in which I was raised, were all herded to where “we shall know when we arrive” as was the answer of the soldiers every time we tried to figure out our fate. Handcuffed, with our mouths repeatedly asked to shut up, blindfolded,

and surrounded with arms, we were hauled on a military jeep to a different place some-what; to where “the state of Israel sees as proper for annoying dogs like ourselves.” Silence… a stern foreign accent, a roaring jet engine and silence. I fell asleep. I woke up at an appalling scream followed by a gunshot and, another. A rebuking tone was soon to explain eve-rything. “This is a lesson for you Pal-estinian scum. This is the fate you will receive if you try to escape; you will be gunned down and thrown away to our hungry dogs” summarized one soldier.Nothing was all I knew. I could sense a human leg sticking to mine; it might have been a comrade’s, perhaps it belonged to an Israeli. I would at some points venture to ask about the time and how much time had passed, but what difference would time make? It was dark anyway. A few hours later, or minutes, I couldn’t accurately determine, the jeep slowed down and eventually stopped. We were prodded apparently by arms to mount down; there was too much noise and a lot of Hebrew. I was recalling vers-es from the Quran, ones I was taught to recite at times fear conquers our hearts. Atrociously, a hand from behind tore my eye band and thus did to my skin. My eyes beamed with pain; it

My Prison Diaries

“this is the fate you will receive if you try to escape; you will be gunned down and thrown away to our hungry dogs”BY RANA B BAKER

A view of the As-Saraya prison and an adjacent Palestinian Authority security compound in Gaza City that were destroyed during Israel’s offensive.

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was night. An officer was aim-ing his torch at my eyes. And, the flag of Israel was fluttering. “Oh Omar!” I said hailing him with hugs as my sight recognized him. But we were spit upon and ordered to queue like others. “The rules are strict and none is above these rules, you will languish in our prisons until you get a fair treatment” clarified the officer.We were forced to walk straightfor-ward; those who resisted were whipped like animals, I weren’t spared too. A sound of creaking doors crept to our ears as we made our way through downstairs. We were separated and pushed down into jails; square, dark, stench, bed and window-free but of that of the door’s. I curled up and reminisced over the view of the Israeli flag fluttering vigorously. I was in the “state of Israel.” Some light. The executioner’s candle.

The author of this article can be contacted at http://ranabaker.wordpress.com

The international Steering Committee of Freedom Flotilla II just concluded its plan-ning meeting in Paris, a few weeks before the scheduled departure of the flotilla to Gaza.

Freedom Flotilla II will leave during the third week of June, with ships departing from various European ports, including Marseilles

Press Release

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We wish to translate this magazine to other languages, but lack of work force, so if you would like to translate this and future editions, feel free to contact us, we work voluntarily which means no one got paid. The spirit of volunteer-ism is what drives this project.

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Credits“Jerusalem: Life, the Mist”Taken by Nabil Darwish from ndproductions, Digital Imaging

Nabil Darwish is a Marketing Communications Specialist, a Certified Adobe Partner/De-signer. He can be contacted at http://ndarwish.blogspot.com/

“Palestine in Nakba Day”Front Page CoverTaken by Ahmad A. Mesleh from Eye On Palestine

Ahmad Mesleh is a Palestinian photographer from Ramallah - West bank. He can be contacted at http://eyeonpalestine.com/