Friday, September 26, 2008

another rant about the NPIC

...guess who has a new job?

yes, once again, my life has changed drastically, but this time, I know it's only for a month.

What am I doing, you ask? ...This: http://www.girlsforachange.org
In other (my) words, I am driving a giant billboard across the country for a corporation that's masquerading as a non-profit. Or, for a non-profit that's even more entangled in the corporate world than usual, since apparently that's possible. Who knew? Ready for Exhibit A? We have a CEO. Exhibit B? We're in the middle of a "National Expansion Tour." That's right. Not movement building. Not outreach. Not organizing. Expansion.

That said, the organization does some pretty awesome workshops in schools. That seems to be a theme with org's that support education - - the educators are awesome, the workshops are great, and the rest of the organization is...well...doing more to maintain the status quo than they are to make the changes we claim to advocate.

Anyway, if you want to see my kinder, gentler blog go to htpp://www.girlsforachangeactionnetwork.com
(What? I can be kind and gentle!)
I have to blog about our "Action Zones" as a part of my job....Our action zones are where we go to Sephora stores (You know, the people who sell expensive make-up?) and ask people what they want to change in the world for women and girls. So far "education" and "body image" are the most popular. Today, we're doing one in Beverly Hills. Seriously. Do those people want to change anything about the world? We will see...

Okay, okay, enough cynicism.
It's actually pretty exciting to see how people's answers change as we travel across the country...Texas, for example. What will that be like?

Guess we'll all just have to wait and see....

Monday, June 23, 2008

unravelling my monday...

since i left work, i have been unravelling the layers of this story one of my students told me today, while waiting for her parents to pick her up:
This girl, we'll call her S, was born in the u.s, not far from san jose. Her family, however, is from India, and most of them still live there. "When I was born, my skin was white," she explained, then added that actually, it was "kind of a pinkish color." Then, she went to India. She went a few times, for months at a time, and after a series of these trips, the sun in India turned her skin brown, little by little, till it transformed into the color it is now, and she said proudly "that's why my skin is brown," and looked at her arm, smiling.

***

Another transformative moment during the actual class:
Another child (also Indian) today told the whole class how NOT to mispronounce his name: "It's not chimney, chimpanzee, etc," he said, and listed a variety of unwanted nicknames he'd received throughout his life. He then pronounced his name clearly, so that everyone knew, and would remember what it was.
Of course the rest of the kids responded by calling him everything he'd asked them not to. Eventually I asked them to stop - gently - and told them that it was important that we all feel safe and trust each other, and that means being respectful. This boy had specifically requested that his name be pronounced correctly and not mocked, and we all had to honor that request. "We can all make requests that are important to us, and everyone should honor those."
And after that?
...they stopped.
Not because I threatened them, but, it seems at least, because they understood that it was important to be respectful. And more importantly, because he had asked them in the first place.

Respectful children make me smile.
Empowered children make me hopeful.
Strong, respectful, and empowered children inspire me to be a better teacher and a better person.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

thoughts, all jumbled and rambling

thoughts:

not enough time for errands & resting & fun on the weekends. im tired.

race, class, gender in the classroom:
….WOW.
observations from this week –
power & privilege play out so MUCH, but it's hard to call them out, because (1) there's another level where I, as the teacher, actually have the most power so "calling out" is not the same as it is with peers and (2) we'd have to go waaay back to some kind of beginning/baseline, because i'm pretty sure these kids, unlike the ones I worked with in SF, don't talk daily about racism, classism, and sexism with their principals and other school leaders.
anyway, if anyone has any ideas about how to address this with a group of 7-14 year olds, please pass them my way.

oil:
if we use it all up, do you think that would make the war in iraq stop? 'cause i'm thinking maybe that should be our new strategy. i mean it's set to run out in 2012. …what difference is a couple of years gonna make?
and by the way, it's set to run out in 2012. it's 2008. why do people still talk about this like it's way in the future?

traffic:
ARGH

normal sleep hours:
i miss you

weekend:
please don't end after tomorrow, i'm not ready to leave you yet

violence:
is it true what they say about violence in the media getting into these young kids' minds and changing the way they see the world and conceptualize violence? their stories are scary. especially scary: when i had them writing to various songs (trying to match their style with the rhythm, although they all just matched it with the words, so i went with that) and i played a nancy ajram song their words got even more violent. this only happened after they asked what language it was, and i told them it was arabic.

libraries:
what a brilliant idea. actually, almost a little socialist... i mean a building full of books the government pays for, that you get to borrow and then return, instead of always trying to buy your own? shh, don't tell anybody, 'cause i'm sure as soon as they notice, they'll privatize 'em.
just got an oakland library card today. yay!

my neighbor's crying baby or possibly meowing cat:
either way, glad it isn't mine

Monday, June 16, 2008

what don't we want? grammar!

*yawn,* except not as much as i should be.

i got a job!

i'm teaching writing here: http://www.lekhapublishers.com/

so far, interesting.

today i decided that teaching my students about picketing was more valuable than teaching them about nouns, verbs, and adjectives, so when one girl made a sign on a piece of folded up looseleaf paper that said "no more grammar," i took the opportunity to explain (and pantomime) a picket. they agreed that they were, in fact, picketing grammar (once they learned what a picket was) and we decided to write stories instead.
it was fun.
i have fantasies about them attempting to use this strategy in their regular classrooms and starting some kind of uprising when an oppressive teacher refuses to cave to their demands.

these kids though, are really into violence/war/weapons. it's intense. "ak-47" seemed to be their favorite "noun," and they wrote collective stories about a man who started a war with the world, and then the universe (i mean they do have dubya as their "leader", so i guess we shouldnt expect any different).

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

as plain as day

a lot of writers dislike the cliché.
they say things like "never use the words soul, love, or heart in a poem."
even words like "liberation," "justice," etc, they want you to describe it.
ok, well when we're all liberated, i'll tell you how it feels in metaphor and simile. till then, it's just an idea, and i can't say what it tastes/feels/smells/looks/sounds like 'cause the truth is, none of us know.

anyway this isn't supposed to be a rant as much as a reflection

about how in moments of extreme emotion, it's the cliches that suddenly make a lot of sense.

boiling anger, for example...
absolutely. it isn't cliché as much as a pure and simple description. no one ever said the 'blue sky,' is cliché. so then neither is boiling anger. it boils, it feels hot, like it's rising, and haven't we all wondered if one day it's going to rise up right out of us…
maybe it does. maybe that's what our activism is.

and the heart as the location for intense emotion,
you know,
they were onto something. they really were.
i remember the first time i ever realized that,
i was surprised, because i'd never really felt my heart before,
and suddenly, there it was, burning. even breaking.
that was years ago, of course.

elitist writers bother me. like they think they're not just better at writing, but better at feeling than everything else, like their anger doesn't boil, like when they're crushing on someone, or loving them, or hurt by them, they don't feel it in their heart. well, if that's what makes a real writer, then let me just say that i'm not one. 'cause mine does. and i do.

of course they don't all make sense…

crystal, for example…not particularly clear, since it reflects light, and shines colors all over the place.
and, just personally, no matter how nervous i've been, it's never actually made my feet feel cold. but hey, that's just my experience.

Thursday, June 05, 2008



this poem has so much truth in. never heard so much truth in just one poem. can't sum it up, but i guess that's the point, right? if what a poet had to say could be written in a sentence, then they'd just write a sentence. right?
anyway, just listen to it.

you know, i feel weird that i haven't written for so long, and especially that i didn't write on the 60th anniversary of the nakba. i guess it's like suheir says, sometimes you don't have the language...

i'm still trying to swallow this concept of time, and the idea that 60 years is long (not that it seems short, it's just hard to even conceive of so many years when you've only been alive for less than half that time...), and the idea that the occupation of this land (the u.s.) has been a LOT longer.
maybe part of it, is it's hard for me to write just one poem or just one piece or even just one blog entry on the anniversary of something- not that i don't think commemoration is important. but mourning on that one day isn't enough. feeling on that one day isn't enough. it's a tool, like anything else, to draw attention to a situation. but the mourning, for something like this (the colonization of palestine)- so many people, so much land, so much life stolen - that can't fit itself into one little day.

annnd speaking of palestine, come ON obama...i wanna like you, wanna get into this groundswell of enthusiasm everyone's feeling, but that whole 'jerusalem belongs to israel,' speech, did you have to? and still use language like "the audacity to hope" - well, obama, how 'bout you give us a reason to hope, and then we'll have the audacity? how 'bout that.
not saying i'm not gonna vote to him, not saying i'm not glad he won over clinton. but still.

sorry for the bitterness. i'm actually in a really good space right now, personally. found an awesome new roommate, getting a bunch of writing done lately, just had a bunch of friends over for dinner which i haven't done in awhile...

now if only we could just get rid of all this imperialism (& gentrification, it's local manifestation), racism, heteronormativity, etc...then i wouldn't be so bitter. let's get on that. oh wait, we already are...

Saturday, March 22, 2008

sexual violence and militarization of the border in the ny times

This article is reposted from the NY Times website, where you have to have an account (it's free, but still) to read it - - I wanted to link to it in my g-chat message today, and realized that I couldn't link directly to the article, only to a page asking people to sign in...so here it is -
Of course, it takes them all the way to page 3 (in the online ny times version) to get to the part where they mention that it's systemic, and even there they don't link it to other manifestations of sexual violence as a tool/aspect of militarization...
but still worth reading, i thought.


An Agent, a Green Card, and a Demand for Sex

By NINA BERNSTEIN
Published: March 21, 2008

No problems so far, the immigration agent told the American citizen and his 22-year-old Colombian wife at her green card interview in December. After he stapled one of their wedding photos to her application for legal permanent residency, he had just one more question: What was her cellphone number?

The calls from the agent started three days later. He hinted, she said, at his power to derail her life and deport her relatives, alluding to a brush she had with the law before her marriage. He summoned her to a private meeting. And at noon on Dec. 21, in a parked car on Queens Boulevard, he named his price — not realizing that she was recording everything on the cellphone in her purse.

“I want sex,” he said on the recording. “One or two times. That’s all. You get your green card. You won’t have to see me anymore.”

She reluctantly agreed to a future meeting. But when she tried to leave his car, he demanded oral sex “now,” to “know that you’re serious.” And despite her protests, she said, he got his way.

The 16-minute recording, which the woman first took to The New York Times and then to the Queens district attorney, suggests the vast power of low-level immigration law enforcers, and a growing desperation on the part of immigrants seeking legal status. The aftermath, which included the arrest of an immigration agent last week, underscores the difficulty and danger of making a complaint, even in the rare case when abuse of power may have been caught on tape.

No one knows how widespread sexual blackmail is, but the case echoes other instances of sexual coercion that have surfaced in recent years, including agents criminally charged in Atlanta, Miami and Santa Ana, Calif. And it raises broader questions about the system’s vulnerability to corruption at a time when millions of noncitizens live in a kind of legal no-man’s land, increasingly fearful of seeking the law’s protection.

The agent arrested last week, Isaac R. Baichu, 46, himself an immigrant from Guyana, handled some 8,000 green card applications during his three years as an adjudicator in the Garden City, N.Y., office of United States Citizenship and Immigration Services, part of the federal Department of Homeland Security. He pleaded not guilty to felony and misdemeanor charges of coercing the young woman to perform oral sex, and of promising to help her secure immigration papers in exchange for further sexual favors. If convicted, he will face up to seven years in prison.

His agency has suspended him with pay, and the inspector general of Homeland Security is reviewing his other cases, a spokesman said Wednesday. Prosecutors, who say they recorded a meeting between Mr. Baichu and the woman on March 11 at which he made similar demands for sex, urge any other victims to come forward.

Money, not sex, is the more common currency of corruption in immigration, but according to Congressional testimony in 2006 by Michael Maxwell, former director of the agency’s internal investigations, more than 3,000 backlogged complaints of employee misconduct had gone uninvestigated for lack of staff, including 528 involving criminal allegations.

The agency says it has tripled its investigative staff since then, and counts only 165 serious complaints pending. But it stopped posting an e-mail address and phone number for such complaints last year, said Jan Lane, chief of security and integrity, because it lacks the staff to cull the thousands of mostly irrelevant messages that resulted. Immigrants, she advised, should report wrongdoing to any law enforcement agency they trust.

The young woman in Queens, whose name is being withheld because the authorities consider her the victim of a sex crime, did not even tell her husband what had happened. Two weeks after the meeting in the car, finding no way to make a confidential complaint to the immigration agency and afraid to go to the police, she and two older female relatives took the recording to The Times.

Reasons to Worry


A slim, shy woman who looks like a teenager, she said she had spent recent months baby-sitting for relatives in Queens, crying over the deaths of her two brothers back in Cali, Colombia, and longing for the right stamp in her passport — one that would let her return to the United States if she visited her family. She came to the United States on a tourist visa in 2004 and overstayed. When she married an American citizen a year ago, the law allowed her to apply to “adjust” her illegal status. But unless her green card application was approved, she could not visit her parents or her brothers’ graves and then legally re-enter the United States. And if her application was denied, she would face deportation.

She had another reason to be fearful, and not only for herself. About 15 months ago, she said, an acquaintance hired her and two female relatives in New York to carry $12,000 in cash to the bank. The three women, all living in the country illegally, were arrested on the street by customs officers apparently acting on a tip in a money-laundering investigation. After determining that the women had no useful information, the officers released them.

But the closed investigation file had showed up in the computer when she applied for a green card, Mr. Baichu told her in December; until he obtained the file and dealt with it, her application would not be approved. If she defied him, she feared, he could summon immigration enforcement agents to take her relatives to detention.

So instead of calling the police, she turned on the video recorder in her cellphone, put the phone in her purse and walked to meet the agent. Two family members said they watched anxiously from their parked car as she disappeared behind the tinted windows of his red Lexus.

“We were worried that the guy would take off, take her away and do something to her,” the woman’s widowed sister-in-law said in Spanish.

As the recorder captured the agent’s words and a lilting Guyanese accent, he laid out his terms in an easy, almost paternal style. He would not ask too much, he said: sex “once or twice,” visits to his home in the Bronx, perhaps a link to other Colombians who needed his help with their immigration problems.

In shaky English, the woman expressed reluctance, and questioned how she could be sure he would keep his word.

“If I do it, it’s like very hard for me, because I have my husband, and I really fall in love with him,” she said.

The agent insisted that she had to trust him. “I wouldn’t ask you to do something for me if I can’t do something for you, right?” he said, and reasoned, “Nobody going to help you for nothing,” noting that she had no money.

He described himself as the single father of a 10-year-old daughter, telling her, “I need love, too,” and predicting, “You will get to like me because I’m a nice guy.”

Repeatedly, she responded “O.K.,” without conviction. At one point he thanked her for showing up, saying, “I know you feel very scared.”

Finally, she tried to leave. “Let me go because I tell my husband I come home,” she said.

His reply, the recording shows, was a blunt demand for oral sex.

“Right now? No!” she protested. “No, no, right now I can’t.”

He insisted, cajoled, even empathized. “I came from a different country, too,” he said. “I got my green card just like you.”

Then, she said, he grabbed her. During the speechless minute that follows on the recording, she said she yielded to his demand out of fear that he would use his authority against her.

How Much Corruption?


The charges against Mr. Baichu, who became a United States citizen in 1991 and earns roughly $50,000 a year, appear to be part of a larger pattern, according to government records and interviews.

Mr. Maxwell, the immigration agency’s former chief investigator, told Congress in 2006 that internal corruption was “rampant,” and that employees faced constant temptations to commit crime.

“It is only a small step from granting a discretionary waiver of an eligibility rule to asking for a favor or taking a bribe in exchange for granting that waiver,” he contended. “Once an employee learns he can get away with low-level corruption and still advance up the ranks, he or she becomes more brazen.” Mr. Maxwell’s own deputy, Lloyd W. Miner, 49, of Hyattsville, Md., turned out to be an example. He was sentenced March 7 to a year in prison for inducing a 21-year-old Mongolian woman to stay in the country illegally, and harboring her in his house.

Other cases include that of a 60-year-old immigration adjudicator in Santa Ana, Calif., who was charged with demanding sexual favors from a 29-year-old Vietnamese woman in exchange for approving her citizenship application. The agent, Eddie Romualdo Miranda, was acquitted of a felony sexual battery charge last August, but pleaded guilty to misdemeanor battery and was sentenced to probation.

In Atlanta, another adjudicator, Kelvin R. Owens, was convicted in 2005 of sexually assaulting a 45-year-old woman during her citizenship interview in the federal building, and sentenced to weekends in jail for six months. And a Miami agent of Immigration and Customs Enforcement responsible for transporting a Haitian woman to detention is awaiting trial on charges that he took her to his home and raped her.

“Despite our best efforts there are always people ready to use their position for personal gain or personal pleasure,” said Chris Bentley, a spokesman for Citizenship and Immigration Services. “Our responsibility is to ferret them out.”

When the Queens woman came to The Times with her recording on Jan. 3, she was afraid of retaliation from the agent, and uncertain about making a criminal complaint, though she had an appointment the next day at the Queens district attorney’s office.

She followed through, however, and Carmencita Gutierrez, an assistant district attorney, began monitoring phone calls between the agent and the young woman, a spokesman said. When Mr. Baichu arranged to meet the woman on March 11 at the Flagship Restaurant on Queens Boulevard, investigators were ready.

In the conversation recorded there, according to the criminal complaint, Mr. Baichu told her he expected her to do “just like the last time,” and offered to take her to a garage or the bathroom of a friend’s real estate business so she would be “more comfortable doing it” there.

Mr. Baichu was arrested as he emerged from the diner and headed to his car, wearing much gold and diamond jewelry, prosecutors said. Later released on $15,000 bail, Mr. Baichu referred calls for comment to his lawyer, Sally Attia, who said he did not have authority to grant or deny green card petitions without his supervisor’s approval.

The young woman’s ordeal is not over. Her husband overheard her speaking about it to a cousin about a month ago, and she had to tell him the whole story, she said.

“He was so mad at me, he left my house,” she said, near tears. “I don’t know if he’s going to come back.”

The green card has not come through. “I’m still hoping,” she said.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

still marching...

today, the san francisco skyline cloaked itself in fog, like it was trying to hide behind its thickness from the bleakness of today's reality:
the fifth "anniversary" of the u.s. invasion of iraq.

this morning, i wrote of the fog,
"rain that never quite falls
like the tears we don't quite cry anymore
they didn't help last year anyway,
we just hold them like a cloud in our memory

when will the rain fall
hard enough to stop bullets and bombs?"

i wasn't trying to write a poem…just get a hold on my emotions…
all day, i was cynical, questioning whether or not i even wanted to go to the antiwar march – and rightly so, i think, because each year it feels more like an annual political get-together, and less like the passionate expression of outrage i remember from the past.

i also wrote:

"i still remember the first year,
we thought if we brought enough breathing bodies into the streets with signs that asked for peace we could stop this war,
i remember the first tears
as the war was announced, standing outside the white house, "chant loud enough to make them hear us!" we yelled into the ten dollar megaphone,
people stopped us on the street and thanked us, as though they too thought a ten dollar megaphone could amplify our voices loud enough to make anyone listen."

…and it's true, I really do remember. those days we thought we could stop the war from happening at all. the outrage when bush got on tv for the first time, announced "shock and awe," and cautioned everyone in iraq "whatever you do, don't attack the oil wells." (don't quote me on that, it's not a direct quote, but it's close)

Then, in an attempt to invoke that hope I used to hold onto, I searched for my older poems, the ones I wrote in 03 and 04 and even 05, the ones before this cynicism - -


2003
"the unified song of an impassioned people ignites the air
and calls upon the swiftly setting sun to climb again over pink mountains and lyrical
oceans, serenading us with her emphatic presence."

2003
"She sat Rhapsodizing a new world while the sun set,
sun set,
receding to a new home beneath the horizon of dignity
Sun set,
because its light was swallowed by the brighter light of bursting bombs
Bombs that burst in the air and gave proof through the night that the war was still there"
[addendum 2008:
and the war was still there.]

and back to 2008
To anyone I saw today, I apologize for my intense cynicism. I think all day I was waiting for that one idealistic person, just one, to respond to my cynicism with something hopeful. And all day, it didn't happen. I've seen articles and heard news anchors say that people in the US are losing interest in the war, becoming more apathetic. I don't think that's what it is. I'm no expert – but I think it's more a loss of hope than a loss of interest. We need to inspire ourselves and each other…maybe a piece of that is not waiting till March 19th each year to get out there and do something about this war that, surprise surprise, doesn't actually just affect Iraqis (or the economy for that matter) on the anniversary of the day it started, but every day since it started.
But i'm not trying to strategize…just process. and mourn. you know, maybe that's where this cynicism is coming from…i'm tired of playful protests, creative direct actions, "die-ins," where we outline bodies in colorful chalk and walk away. i don't feel playful, or creative (not in that way), or colorful. after five years, these symbolic protests feel like a time for mourning, not dancing and partying in the streets. those tactics were for the times we thought our voices might actually make a difference.

i seem unable to find my usual hopeful ending right now, so i just keep writing and writing…
i think we'll just have to hope for a more hopeful ending the next time i blog…
and hope that next year, we won't be marching in mourning again. hope that next year we'll have a real reason to dance and party in the streets.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

i didn't write this, but i read it

I came across this article on the Colorlines blog...titled, here (at the link) "Queer Dead and Nobody Cares," but it drew my attention because the Colorlines headline is "Black Queer Hate Crimes Ignored" (not sure why they use the term 'crimes,' rather than violence, since "crime" lets the State define it...maybe because 'crime' sounds more extreme...hmm, what does it mean that 'crime' (defined by the state, often arbitrary, includes non-violent drug abuses as well as self defense, etc) sounds more 'extreme' and even 'threatening' than violence which is, well...violent. this sounds likea good topic for a future post...but i don't want to do it now, because i want you to click on this link and read this article instead):

http://www.theroot.com/id/44971

Monday, February 25, 2008

last night's nightmare

Last night I had a nightmare:

It was set in some university classroom.

The Cast of Characters: me, some white-male-zionist professor, this dude i knew in college freshman year, a friend i grew up with, and a bunch of other students that i'm pretty sure weren't based on anyone from real life.

The Basic Script of the nightmare goes...

nightmare-zionist-prof: ramblerambleramble offensivezionistcomment ramblerambleramble equationofjudaismwithzionism rambleramble.
me: attempt at revolutionary anti-zionist palestine liberation statement and statement about how he is wrong
nightmare-zionist-prof: blatant attempt to silence dissent
me: blatant attempt to tell him and everyone else that he's trying to silence dissent
nightmare-zionist-prof: really obnoxious statement about how students are young, and should not have opinions because we will soon get old and cynical
me: something along the lines of "you're supposed to be trying to empower students not silence us" but that sounded a little less rhetoric-y and also less articulate (you'd think i could be more articulate in my dreams...i mean they're dreams...)

Okay except the other detail I'm leaving out is that every time i spoke, my voice got really quiet, like someone was observing the scene and turning down my volume. AND every time i spoke, everyone else's voices - all the chatter and background sound- got way louder. So I couldn't be heard.

So okay my analysis:
we had the professor who was blatantly trying to silence dissent
and then we had the existence of this unidentifiable force that was also trying to silence dissent, and that wasn't letting me challenge the professor effectively on what he was doing...

so there are those who blatantly try to silence dissent around zionism and also a larger force that sometimes feels very intangible that's doing the same? brilliant observation, right...?
hey, i never said my dreams were deep. just hella frustrating! and totally the type of thing that would've happened in real life...in fact, if you just scroll down a few posts, back to my college days....yeah.

i say "silence dissent" rather than "silence me" because that's what it felt like - and because i did go to sleep very frustrated with certain other people who seem to want to silence dissent around zionism and aren't willing to own up to that fact....
again...i never said my dreams were deep.
i tend to have the deep, meaningful, analytical/metaphorical/symbolic thoughts when i'm awake. my dreams, unless they're reallyreally significant, are pretty straightforward most of the time. it's good, because that way when they aren't, i know i need to really focus on them.
this one i don't need to focus on.
just complain about in a blog.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

strong

"like it wasn't enough they are stealing your land, they had to also steal your things," i typed into the "g-chat" box on the corner of my screen.

like it wasnt enough they are stealing your land.
they had to steal your things.

i repeat this to myself.

they are setting up a youth center in al xhaleel- more specifically in tel rumeida. you can find information about tel rumeida in past entries of this blog, because it's where i spent most of my time when i was in palestine last winter. the short version: tel rumeida is the "borderlands" of al xhaleel and the surrounding, encroaching settlements. it’s the borderlands of hebron (indigenous, arab) and "hebron" (settlers, jewish, colonized)…
part of hebron is officially under palestinian control- now don't get me wrong- it's still occupied, it's still got checkpoints, it's still got soldiers, and it still gets attacked. but palestinians have some rights like, you know, um…driving cars. being there. rights like that. then there's the other section that's under 'israeli' control – that's where the settlements are. except this piece of tell rumeida, where palestinians live. there they don't get to drive cars. they don't get to have guests who are from the other area of hebron. they are subject to constant searches and checks for "id" and they need to pass a checkpoint to get anywhere…there are roads they cannot walk on because they are 'settler' roads…etc. here, in this part of tel rumeida, they are building a youth center. and they are re-building and re-building and re-building this youth center because the settlers keep destroying it!
the youth center hosts a summer program and some really awesome dedicated folks in palestine (with some international help) are developing more year round programs for young people. all of it is very exciting. except for when it's very depressing:
F: but today we went to issa's house to make a demo about gaza
but we found that the settler break the house and stole alot of stuff from the inside"

me: i don't understand how people can do things like that. like it wasn't enough they are stealing your land
they had to also steal your things.

Right??

It is at times like this that my blood boils in shame and rebellion…
because their blood, the settlers blood, it is somehow related to mine…
and that makes me nauseous.

and because this youth center is a space for resistance. it needs to exist. it is just beginning to exist. it needs to keep existing. like palestine needs to keep existing. it all needs to keep existing. it all will keep existing. it will.

me: these things make me so angry.
you are so strong to keep on fighting it.
F: well
hamdellah we r strong

yes. hamdellah you are strong.
i wish we were all so strong. because if we were then maybe it could move beyond survival, towards liberation. maybe. if we were all so strong. i'm even not sure who i mean by "we."

Thursday, February 21, 2008

breathe

I'm looking at images of phoenixes now, on google...amazing the ways we will use what we have to search for hope...sometimes quite literally!
If only I could find a way to accompany these images of phoenixes (I have such a fascination with phoenixes...it is SO revolutionarily beautiful that they rise up from the flames and/or the ashes to create something far more exquisite) with the sound of the ocean, the scent of sage and lavendar, the feel of sunlight on my back and cool water on my toes…
sounds like i should go to the beach (and bring some sage and lavendar)…
but instead, i'll try again to ground myself in the space that i'm in.
healing is hard work. it is so much easier to run from the past, feel comfortable with disjointed memories and missing pieces of the story, call fear "anger," and just run, run away. not that anger isn't a valid emotion; but it usually doesn't travel alone…it has a necessary accompaniment…fear…sometimes politics…outrage…etc.
i keep reminding myself to breathe. my breath tends to get shallow when i get nervous, and it's only when i give it my full attention that i realize i'm barely inhaling…
breathe…. deep... breathe….
because somewhere in this air, there is hope and resilience.
and this is the oxygen we need to go on living.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

total eclipse

tonight was a complete lunar eclipse...seen in the Americas, in Europe, & in Africa, according to some website I read. in a lunar eclipse, the earth's shadow travels over the moon's surface, so the earth blocks the sun's rays from hitting the moon. for this to happen, the earth, the moon, and the sun must all be perfectly aligned.

Hours prior to the eclipse- which, by the way, I had no idea about at the time- I began to feel like time was being slightly shuffled about. I faced this onslaught of emotions I thought were long gone, about issues I thought were not on my mind...at least not really. From this, I felt inexplicable anxiety...As I sat curled around a pillow, wondering what was going on, my mother knocked on the door (of my bedroom in her house, where I am at the moment), and said to me "Come see the eclipse."

Aha!

Initially I glanced out the window, and saw the moon, which was fading, but not into darkness; it was fading into another shade of light, one that was reddish-brown and almost glittery. Apparently, that is the dust that generally curves towards the moon during an eclipse, and can be a variety of colors, depending on what is around the moon at that time. Overwhelmed with a desire to be closer such a magical experience, and with more-than-a-little hope that if I connected with this eclipse, which had, seemingly, caused the previously inexplicable anxiety and anger, the eclipse would, maybe, pull me out of that space...or at least give me some perspective on it. I wrapped myself in a coat, a scarf, a hat, and a blanket, and walked outside to sit and watch the sky. I watched the land as well; the trees at least. They were bright beneath the fading light of the moon and the glow of the red dust. The branches looked like they were dark black and shining white at the same time. In addition, I marveled for a moment at the way in which each branch held its self so solidly, like it was so sure of itself and its right to be in that shape, no matter what gust of wind blew it in other directions, it held so strong to what it was. The glowing absence of a moon made me feel small, but also strong, insignificant, but also spiritual. It felt like certain worlds were merging. Take that as you will...metaphor or reality...I think it can be read as either. But it felt like whatever boundaries generally regulate things like time and space were lessened, blurring a little.

When I looked up lunar eclipses on "google" I found a few things, first, one sentence I wished I'd read prior to my anxiety attacks earlier today:
"Pay attention to detail on this day and be open to sacred time versus linear time, so you can minimize frustration. "
Hmm.

Some other things I found:

"This moon will assist you to get in touch with your deeper self, your wisdom and the feelings that desire to be acknowledged, honored and respected. Expect to experience some releases emotionally as this eclipse supports clearing and detoxifying mental, emotional and physical issues in support of body, mind and spirit aligning with and embodying more of your soul's Light."

"Many are apt to experience heightened awareness as it pertains to identifying flaws in thinking or within a certain system within their lives. Through taking an inventory at this time you can apply your wisdom practically in support of navigating more consciously through some issue within your life."

Maybe this will apply to other peoples' lives as well...

I feel slightly obligated to write an "apology" now, in which I explain that I know maybe it's silly for me to talk about the moon like it's something spiritual, followed by a reassurance that my politics are the same as they always were. I'm going to resist that urge. I'm not going to apologize for this post. if you take it as nothing else, take it as a metaphor, and a chance to reflect...what does it mean when a shadow of the reality we know most intimately travels over another surface, making that other, smaller surface become hidden for a moment. what does it mean that that surface is never really hidden, but instead becomes a reflection of the dust particles around it - and those dust particles are a direct result of what has recently occurred in that location- the red is usually from some kind of volcanic explosion. what does it mean that after this shadow attempts for a moment, to vanish the smaller surface from our sight, the smaller surface (that's the moon, in case you're no longer following) shines brighter than it did before...or at least, it looks that way.
You see?
Everything is a metaphor.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

bridging blogs

In the spirit of reconciliation and healing, I think it's time to reconcile my two selves...so, this is a link to my "personal" blog, which, due to the hazy 'boundary' between 'the personal' and 'the political,' which many times is not a boundary at all, is mostly about the organizing i've done in the united states...while this blog, previously, was about my time in Palestine.

I decided to combine the blogs today, when reading this article at NarcoNews: Nogales Residents Say US is Building Border Wall on Mexico's Land
and this report about indigenous self determination in the Americas

I thought, "why separate my experiences challenging one apartheid state from my experiences challenging another?"
and of course, not only is it all connected, but a great deal of the work is actually challenging both- take, for example, Adalah-NY's campaign against Lev Leviev, israeli billionaire who is (1) building settlements in the west bank, (2) building settlements- um, er, i mean, "developing" in low-income communities in Brooklyn, and (3) involved in some other shady dealings in Angola ALL of which you can learn more about here: www.mideastjustice.org

So, please see my other blog here for what you may have missed (if anyone even reads this blog anymore...) and keep reading this one for new posts...

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

rant about a class

In my Jewish Literature class this semester we just finished reading a book called "Mestizo." The book is a murder mystery, about a Jewish man who loses his memory after he sees the murder of his Palestinian neighbor, and is on a quest to get his memory back and also to figure out who is responsible for the murder and and whether or not he is responsible for helping the victim. It takes place in Argentina.
During the discussion in class yesterday we were talking about obligation, a theme in the novel, both Jewish and otherwise. I waited for the appropriate moment to bring up Palestine. There was no appropriate moment...the professor talked about obligation, obligation to victims in general, how it applied to el Proceso in Argentina, etc...I kept waiting. No moment.
I finally raised my hand. Clearly the professor was not going to make room for this conversation so I was just going to take room for it.
I began talking specifically about the text..."This is clearly a call to action, this discussion of obligation with inspirational language, etc etc" (I still hadn't mentioned Palestine.)


Here is what I was going to say:
"It's not a coincidence that the murdered woman is Palestinian. We're glossing over it as though it is, but a Jew doesn't just put a Palestinian in his novel without that being significant. I think it's a metaphor. The main character sees a Palestinian woman murdered and loses his memory. This is about loss of memory in the Jewish community. Loss of memory of values which were once central to a lot of Jewish communities, specifically secular ones...values which included constant debate and questioning, constant discussion, and, usually, siding with the "victim" (survivor?). Now through Zionism, many Jewish communities get lost in the politics of power. Suddenly, Jewish children are no longer encouraged to question everything, because that would include questioning the existence and the actions of "Israel." Suddenly, facts and details which we once sought out in all cases, are hidden and concealed, and we as a community all recreate and rewrite our memory when it comes to the murder of Palestinians and their situation both in Palestine and in the Diaspora- such as in Argentina. The experience that David (the main character) is going through is similar to the experience a lot of Jews have once they acknowledge the atrocities committed both past and present, by Israel- they see this, and suddenly, their entire memory is shaken, everything they were always told by people they trusted turns out to be a lie and they have to recreate everything, from their identity, to their memory, to their politics, to the action they choose, or do not choose to take...."
I was also going to mention that I was told by a Jewish Studies Professor the other day (seriously) that there is something of an unspoken policy in the Jewish Studies Department not to talk about Palestine. And how that is a perfect example of how Zionism eliminates the Jewish tradition that once existed, of questioning and discussing all the time. Now there is something we are not supposed to discuss or debate.


What was actually said (roughly, I don't remember word for word):
ME: "This is clearly a call to action, etc etc...it's not just about Jews in Argentina, it's about Jews everywhere, and people everywhere, and what our respnosibility is. But then, if it's a call to action we have to think about what action it is calling us to...I think that it's not a coincidence that the main character is Palestinian...even though it takes place in Argentina, the author is clearly trying to bring in the situation in Palestine by making her Palestinian. I think it is a metaphor. I think it is trying to say that Jews everywhere have a responsibility not just to "victims" in general but specifically to the victims in Palestine ---"
My Professor: "I'm going to have to cut you off there. We don't have time for this discussion."
She called on more students.


I sat there, feeling completely silenced and cut off. I mean, I was cut off. I thought about the irony of the fact that she silenced discussion so that I was unable to talk about how Jews refuse to talk about Palestine. She did exactly what I was talking about.
I talked to her for about an hour after class, in a conversation I began by saying "I feel a little cut off right now."
In that conversation she told me
1. Not to speak from experience, because speaking from experience is "not the same as critical analysis," and that's not what we're doing here.
2. that she thinks that professors who teach Latin American Literature in "other departments" (ie ethnic studies) are not really qualified to teach it, because they are trained in sociology or social sciences rather than literature and they do not approach it as literature, so I should disregard anything I've been told in those classrooms about authors who intentionally put politics in their work.
3. that she will not allow students to talk about "current political situations" in her classroom, and that if someone started promoting "extreme right wing Zionism" she would have cut them off as well. (So apparently it's also "extreme" to suggest that Jews might have some responsibility for the situation in Palestine...? huh....)
4. That, "Just because it fits your political, activist agenda to interpret this book as being about Palestine that doesn't mean that was the author's intention"


My radical "political activist agenda," which includes speaking from my experience about injustice in the world and our responsibility to work for change.
What about her agenda to shut down conversation about a topic we have no right to be avoiding...?
But it's never an "agenda," when it goes along with the "mainstream" view/approach to a situation right?


Argh.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Hebron quieter on Day 5 of IOF invasions into H1

Go to the link above to read this article on the ISM website

You know, I just went a few days without checking the ISM website. I'm trying hard to be present here, where I am, because what is the use of leaving my heart and half my mind so many many miles away from here? It is hard to do effective work when split in two, and there are important things going on here, and I know this. But when I check back again, this is what I see. It negates all the attempts I've made to push aside that pull towards Palestine that I've been feeling since I've been back- reading it, I think again "I should be there..." Why, I don't know. What would I do? There are some internationals there of course, that is who is writing these posts. Still...it feels wrong to get too comfortable. Things should not be comfortable here if they are not comfortable there. And when are they ever comfortable there?



February 11th, 2007 | Posted in Reports, Hebron Region, Photos

by ISM Hebron, February 11th

Today IOF soldiers occupied the roofs of three high buildings overlooking the Bab al-Zawiyya market area in Palestinian controlled Hebron (H1). For the fifth day in a row soldiers have been entering this busy commercial part of the southern West Bank town. Their presence in the past few days has sparked clashes with local Palestinian youth resulting in arrests and injuries due to tear gas and rubber bullets.

At around 4 pm a group of six soldiers used one of the buildings at the top of King Hussein Street and al-Adel street to shoot teargas at groups of young Palestinians.

They also threw down sound bombs and pointed their guns towards the public. Local youth started to throw stones , fireworks and petrol bombs towards checkpoint 56, leading to the Tel Rumeida area. Another group of six soldiers went through the checkpoint and took firing positions behind concrete blocks.

After all Palestinians had fled from the market area the soldiers retreated into Tel Rumeida.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

home invasions and arrests

Reading about these things while I'm back in the U.S. makes me so angry. It sounds like it's getting worse by the day and I'm all the way over here...
After being there though, I can't just stop reading the news about what happens there. I have to pay attention. I hope that those of you who have been reading my blog feel at least a little bit of that attachment. I hope you are wondering and concerned about what is happening to these people...I hope you keep reading about it even though I am no longer there.

http://www.palsolidarity.org/main/2007/01/23/tr-ball-arrest/

Saturday, January 20, 2007

in the news

Here's a news article about what's been going on in Hebron/Tel Rumeida.

http://english.aljazeera.net/NR/exeres/9CA581D6-E308-4D05-A2D3-8EA8011A164A.htm

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Back in San Francisco

I got back to San Francisco the day before yesterday.

Getting through the airport wasn't as terrible as I thought it might be. But, after going through security, I sat down to eat some pizza which I reluctantly bought (I didn't want to support Israeli business, especially overpriced business at the Tel Aviv airport, but I realized I was extremely hungry, because I'd kind of forgotten to eat in all the hectic-ness of getting ready to leave). I looked across the food court to another restaurant called "Cumin: A Taste of Israel." There were pictures of shawarma and falafel sandwiches on the sign. The name was written in English in the middle and in Hebrew on either side. I don't know why, but the sign triggered all the anger I think I must have been repressing during the trip. It began simply as anger at cultural appropriation- how dare they call this a taste of Israel? Falafel and Shewarma are Palestinian, not Israeli. I thought "A taste of Israel" would have been a sign better suited to the checkpoint on the way into the airport, or one of the two stations where they search you on the way in (once before you get your ticket from the ticket counter and once again afterwards). As I let myself dwell on these thoughts which I'd been pushing away for most of my trip in order to stay in the moment and be as effective as possible, the anger expanded. I was angry at the people around me for speaking Hebrew. I was angry at them for being Israeli. I was angry at myself for being angry at the people around me, because I knew it wasn't their fault, and that my anger should be channeled towards the State of Israel, not its people, and not its language. Anger at individuals speaking the language they were raised to speak is not productive. I knew this. Yet I couldn't stop the feelings. I sat and ate my pizza as the occasional tear slid down my face. All the metaphors often used to describe anger: boiling, hot, explosive (metaphor, remember, metaphor) -- they suddenly all made sense to me. I gathered myself together and went to the gate. The anger subsided to an extent, but it was still resting in the back of my mind. As the plane took off, it was overshadowed for a moment by the feeling that I was leaving, and I wasn't ready. I was not done there.

I got home exhausted, and immediately took a nap.

When I woke up in San Francisco, my first response was something like denial. I really felt like if I left the house and went around the corner, I would be down the road from, say, the international house in Tel Rumeida.
Each time I did leave the house, I was almost surprised not to have to go through a checkpoint, and not to see any soldiers on the streets. It's amazing how quickly things like that become normalized. Suddenly it felt like a privilege to be able to move freely when going from my house, to the market to buy vegetables, and back again. Compared to life in Palestine, it is a privilege. But it shouldn't be.
It took about a day and a half before the reverse culture shock started to hit me. I was standing in line at Trader Joe's, and I'm not sure if it was the massive amounts of people, the over-abundance of stuff for sale all in one place, or just a random coincidence of timing, but suddenly, I felt an intense wave of anger come over me. It was different than the anger I felt at the airport, because I felt removed. I felt far away from the source of my anger. Again, there was a rational voice in my head telling me that I wasn't far away at all, because Israel relies on funding from the United States for its army and thus for its existence. But I wanted to be back there. I am torn between exhaustion and wanting to rest, and frustration, wanting to keep acting and resisting.
I haven't been able to talk about much other than Palestine since I've been back. I didn't realize while I was there exactly how much I had learned about the daily realities of the occupation. I've spent a lot of time so far describing checkpoints and other restrictions on movement for Palestinians, explaining all sorts of absurd Israeli laws, the Wall, everything. People are shocked. I think a lot of people here don't realize the realities over there, even if they are "aware" of the issues. I'm glad people want to listen, because as I said, I haven't been able to stop talking about it.
Now I'm trying to collect my thoughts, make a plan for returning when I have the money, figure out the details of the video work i want to do when I go back...

I don't know if anyone will keep reading this since I am no longer in Palestine, but I hope to type up something more detailed about the situation in Tel Rumeida and elsewhere in Palestine, since I realized I never actually did that, I just started talking about my personal experiences with things, and my observations.
Also, some of the kids' drawings from Tel Rumeida are going to be displayed at a bookstore in San Francisco. I will post that when it happens as well.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Demo at Huwarra Checkpoint

Today, around 11am, a group of almost 100 people gathered at Huwarra checkpoint as a part of 30 Days Against Borders, organized by the Palestinian Body for Peace, Dialogue and Equality (HASM ) and other organizations. Some Palestinians, mostly children, dressed as Native Americans in order to draw parallels between U.S. genocide against Native Americans and Israeli genocide against Palestinians. Demonstrators carried signs including one which said "Checkpoints destroy Palestinian Life." Other signs were addressed to Condoleeza Rice, who is currently in the region, including one which said "The Indian wars are not over Mrs RICE….We are still here too!!" Palestinians, Internationals, and Israelis chanted and demonstrated for about an hour in front of the checkpoint, where many people were waiting to cross.

The parallel with Native Americans is interesting. I think it's an important parallel to make, although I admit I have questions about the way people decided to make it (the outfits were definitely based on stereotypes, not reality).

The checkpoint itself was unlike any I have seen before, even the one in Bethlehem, which was really extreme. People were packed in, waiting for permission to pass. The soldiers would open the gate, let a few people out, then close it again. And for what?
I have met various other anti-Zionist Jews who said that there first time seeing a checkpoint like this they were reminded immediately of photos they'd seen of the Holocaust, where people waited behind walls and bars, packed in like cattle, glancing out, wishing for freedom. I don't know if that would have been my response had I not already heard this parallel made, but I too was struck by the similarity.

It makes me so angry. Sometimes, it feels as though the Jews took notes from their oppressors, from the people who tried to kill them, in order to use the same techniques in the ethnic cleansing of another people. How? How do they not see what they have become? Or do they see? Do they just not care? Where are the rest of the dissident Jewish voices? There is no excuse for this. There is no excuse for not speaking out against it, with all the voice we have.

There is an organization here, Israeli Committee Against House Demolitions with a slogan : "Don't say we did not know."