Occupied Voices: Excerpts

By Wendy Pearlman
Photos by Laura Junka

The following stories are excerpted from Wendy Pearlman's new book, Occupied Voices: Stories of Everyday Life from the Second Intifada (Nation Books).

Azza
Azza is a filmmaker in Ramallah. Her reflections show us how, for most Palestinians, hardly any aspect of life is left untouched by politics.

The main theme in Palestinian art is usually Palestine, as if it were illegal to talk about anything else. That is because it is the main issue, the main priority. But human lives should never be unidimensional, so this is very unhealthy. Maybe when this whole issue is settled we can start to be self-reflective and think about our own identities and own culture. We need the space to think of new things.

I always laugh because liberal Israelis call me and say, "We're looking for Palestinian films that do not talk about the political situation, you know, films that talk about day-to-day life." I laugh because we don't have anything like that. What are they going on about? We don't have day-to-day life apart from the political situation. I want to have day-to-day life.

For example, you should watch Palestinian candid camera. Candid camera is done all over the world, and they did a Palestinian version on Palestinian TV. They want it to be funny, but it is about Palestinians and Israelis. One of the episodes is about a Palestinian guy who is running from the soldiers and he goes from house to house and says, "Can you hide me?" And this is supposed to be funny! The point is that candid camera is supposed to be about day-to-day life, and this is day-to-day life for us.

Suzanne
Suzanne is a 20-something TV reporter from Jenin. She is here to the right, with her twin sister Jehan.

I was in the fourth grade when the first Intifada started. So you can say that my whole childhood was spent during the Intifada And I suffered as all Palestinians suffered.

Because I was a child at the time, most of my experiences revolved around school. I can still remember how it felt to sit in class and hear all of the shooting and screaming coming from outside. You just tried to close your eyes and concentrate on the lesson, but it was so hard to do.

There is something else that I will never forget. My school was in an area where there were confrontations, so the Israelis set up barriers to block the road that led to the school. We were able to move the lower barrier but we couldn't move the top one. This made a little open space, sort of like a tunnel.

So everyday, we got down on our hands and knees and crawled through the little tunnel. This was the only way to pass through and reach the school. It was so humiliating. Can you imagine? You and your teacher and your classmates -- everyone who has to get to school -- crouching on their knees. Everyday we had to do it. Our hands and knees would get dirty. Our uniforms and socks would get dirty.

This is something I will never forget as long as I live. I had to get on my hands and knees every day, twice a day, in order to go to school. What more can I tell you then that?

It was hard being a kid during the first Intifada in an atmosphere where there was no place for the kinds of feelings you begin to have as you grow up … It was shameful to play silly games. It was shameful to listen to a love song. How could you listen to a love song while people are getting killed? You couldn't have a birthday party. What if you had a party and played music and your neighbor heard, and someone in your neighbor's family has been killed? You just couldn't do it. And for many years, our lives just stopped at 5:00 because it was dangerous to go out after that …

Because of all of this, I have a hurt inside of me, and I don't think it will ever go away. The hurt is called Palestine.

Samia
Samia is a grandmother and community volunteer who helps supervise a school for lower-income kids in East Jerusalem.

My children and grandchildren don't know a Jew except as an Israeli military occupier. But I will always cherish the years in which I lived in Palestine before 1948, when all Palestinians, Jews, Christians, and Muslims lived side-by-side. I am privileged to have lived during that era.

We had Jewish neighbors when we were living in Safad. I remember that at Easter time my mother would give me a plate of special Easter cookies to take down to our neighbor Hannah. She would in turn send back her daughter with a plate filled with something special that she had baked.

You know something. In the early 1940s, the Second World War was still raging. We didn't know if Germany or the Allies would turn out to be the winners. Mrs. Eisenberg was so scared for her daughter. So she came to my mother and said, “Linda, if Germany comes into this country, will you consider Batia your daughter?”

My mother used to repeat this story always, and I am telling it to you to show you what kind of relationship we had with each other. She had enough trust to let her daughter be in the hands of an Arab family for fear of what they might be exposed to under Germany.

Years after my mother passed away I was clearing some of her papers. In her address book I found an address with the name Batia and then another last name. I said to myself, this must be Batia Eisenberg, who has taken on a new married name. She and her parents had visited my parents once after 1967.
You know, I kept that address on my desk for days and days and months. And finally I said, I must contact Batia. After all that has happened, maybe people like us could do something to set things straight and make things make sense. So I finally wrote her a letter. Unfortunately, the letter came back saying, "Address Unknown."

I didn't say much in my letter. I didn't know if she would be interested in corresponding. Maybe she has lost a son or her husband. You never know. We have all had our share of suffering …

But what is important is not to lose hope and not to become bitter. Because if you're bitter there is no way that you can communicate. And, it is important to keep moving forward. That is basically what we try to do -- to keep rekindling hope in the hearts of these children here in this school. We do this so that everything we do will have meaning. You're giving them hope in the future. And I hope this succeeds.

Khalid
Khalid is a Palestinian actor, and runs a theater company. He speaks of peace and co-existence.

As an actor, my first major production was ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ It was a joint production between the Palestinian Al-Kassaba Theater and a theater in Israel. I don’t think that I am ready now to make another coproduction of this sort. At that time, back in 1994, it was possible. Everyone was talking about peace, and I also believed that real peace was possible. We in theater thought that we had an important role to play. If genuine peace is going to be a reality, culture can be more important than all of the meetings between political leaders ...

It was a very big and expensive production. But we agree that it is not right to continue with the production right now. Romeo and Juliet love each other. Romeo is Palestinian and Juliet is Israeli. But if they see each other on the streets today they are not going to love each other. I don’t want actors to be liars. As an actor, I cannot lie.

Doing Romeo and Juliet was a nice experience. I have many close friends from the production, people who I like very much. For example, there is one Israeli actress with whom I became very close. When Israel bombs us, she calls me to see if I’m OK. And when there are problems in Tel Aviv, I also call her and other friends to say that I hope that they are all right. There are good people on both sides, just like there are bad people on both sides…

In the future, if there is real peace, it might be possible to do such a production again. Here there is one land, and two people living on it. In order for there to be peace, we don’t have to love one another, but at least we have to respect one another. This means they have to accept me as their equal …

I don’t think Palestinians’ hearts are filled with hate. Their hearts are filled with sadness and anger … Human beings don’t live on bread and water, alone. We want our identity and dignity. And Israelis aren’t the only ones worried about their security. We want our security, too.

Mona
Apart from the humiliations, the second Intifadah brought direct and dramatic violence to the Palestinians. One hundred and forty were killed before the first suicide bombing, eighty of them children. One Palestinian child that was killed in the early days was Muhammed. We hear from his mother Muna.

He had a good life and he loved people. He never hated anyone and he never really got angry with others. When he did get mad, he wouldn’t express it. I would say to him, “Is something wrong?” and try to get him to talk about it. He was a dear spirit, and he had pride in himself. If someone asked him to do something for a little money, he would say, “I don’t want your money, but I’ll help you if you want.”

He never told me, “I want to go and become a martyr and die.” He was a normal kid and never thought about dying. He loved life and growing up, and he wanted to stay with his mother and his brothers and sisters. Who wants to die? Impossible I still can’t imagine that he’s dead. I feel that he’s here with me in the house. Even now I can’t believe it. It’s like he has just gone on a trip. I just can’t believe that he won’t return home again…

There was just one thing I used to worry about. He was more daring than he should have been. He like adventures. I used to worry about this because I knew him. He wasn’t a weakling, and he might take risks. That’s what would always make me worry. I used to tell him, “Don’t go to this place or that place.” For example, he used to want t to go to Ramallah on his bike. I told him that it was difficult for me to see him go alone, even when it was just to go to school on his bike. At first I used to hold on to the bike because I was afraid he would fall off. I wasn’t able to let him be on his own…

He was killed on a Sunday. That Saturday, we worked together in the little garden behind the house. He helped me prune the trees and ten the crops. We worked all morning. I made him the breakfast that he liked, fatat al-hummus. I made the food that he loved and I made it as a surprise. When I was preparing it, I said, “Please God, don’t let Mohammed come into the kitchen and see me,” so that it really would be a surprise. I don’t know why, I just had this sense. And it was a surprise, because Mohammed was just sitting in front of the TV. So I cam in and put the plate in front of him and he was so happy! He said, “You made the dish that I love, fatat al-hummus. It’s so delicious!”

His dad left for Kuwait the week before in order to renew his residency visa. He called on Sunday because there were clashes going on here and he wanted to know how the kids were. I said, “Thank God. Hammouda is here, and so are his brothers and sisters, and they’re fine. Don’t worry about them. Everything is OK.” Mohammed asked his dad to bring him new pajamas, a jacket, and clothes for school.

And later that day, Mohammed was killed. He was killed before his dad got back, before he saw his presents. His dad came back the day after Mohammed was killed and on the third day we buried him…

According to our religion, our son is now with God in heaven. He eats, drinks, and lives his life. But he has been taken from me! If he had grown up and was a believer and prayed and knew God, then he still would have gone to heaven. They took away life, they took my son’s life away. The hardest thing in the world is to lose a child. You want to demand from the whole world that hose soldiers be brought to justice, because these children are not dangerous …

We are people. We are human beings. We raise our children and we are tired …

Palestinian women love their children; they are dearer than anything. We Palestinians don’t have anything else besides our children. They took our land, they took our country, and we don’t even have weapons with which to fight. Our children are our land and our lives, we’d do anything to protect them…