In mid June, the day after Hamas had taken the last Fatah security building in the Gaza Strip, I received a call from a friend in Gaza City who worked for the United Nations Relief Works Agency. I had been waiting for months for the situation to improve, as I hoped to go there before leaving the region. He said that Gaza was now safe and invited me to visit him. Two days later I found myself in the Jerusalem central bus station figuring out a way to make it to the border.

I'm not exactly sure what the official word is on foreigners entering Gaza, but I know that it's quit difficult and I expect that Israeli policy changes frequently. As of then internationals were, at least one paper, allowed enter if they were with the press or had a special invitation from an Israeli-approved institution in the Strip. Back in March the hospital in Gaza City, via Sabeel, filed an application with the Israeli government for me to travel there. It took about a month to process but by April I was notified that I had been put in the Israeli computers and was able to cross the border until September.

However by the time I was prepared to go, the situation in Gaza had already begun deteriorating rapidly. So for the next few months I continued to hold off travel waiting for conditions to improve. But they didn't and things in fact worsened to the point where the new Gaza, with Hamas in full security control, was seen as an improvement, at least where safety was concerned and at least temporarily. So with an exclusively Hamas security force, there was a window of opportunity to go before the expected Israeli military response.

It is very unfortunate, but as Hamas is not seen affectionately in the eyes of the international community, Israel now has sort of a green light to do what it sees fit in the Strip and as it so often happens, notably in Lebanon and Gaza last summer, I believe it will be the civilian population who suffers and the local military force who thrives as a result. But that's a topic for the future. The point is that I wanted to get in and out before any serious military operation.

So I took a bus from Jerusalem heading to Ashkelon in the early afternoon, about a two-hour trip, made luxurious by the magnificent and powerful air-conditioning system, the last I would be enjoying for some time. As we neared the city, two F-16's amidst a landing approach to the airstrip neighboring the highway suddenly flew over our bus. It's was rather startling, the amount of noise those things can make. Forget an air raid, if not anticipating it, a flyby would be enough to frantically repent all of one's sins before judgment.

At Mike's Place in Jerusalem, the night before leaving I overheard two Israelis talk about how they were going to be sent by the military to Gaza in the next few weeks. I asked one what he would be doing there. "Killing people" he said in a sort of forlorn, yet annoyed that I asked, manner. Clearly this wasn't a means of racking up bragging rights to him.

So enjoying my last few minutes of air-conditioned bliss and with premonitions of a more intense conflict with Israel, I sincerely hoped that this would be the only sighting of the Israeli military in the days to come.

From Ashkelon, I took a taxi, 70 shekels (I fear I may have been swindled), to the Erez crossing. Apparently public transport into Gaza is not in high demand these days. As we drove into the Erez parking lot, two dozen journalists, photographers and camera crews, mostly international, stood waiting outside the first security fence that surrounded the main terminal building.

They paid no notice of me as I walked to the entryway and handed my passport to one of the guards.

"Press pass" she said.

"I don't have one. I'm not with the press," I responded.

"Why are you here? Why are you going to Gaza?"

"I'm visiting a friend at the hospital in Gaza City."

"You need permission to go."

"I do. I think I'm in your computer if you'd check it."

"Do you have documentation? Do you have an invitation from the hospital?"

"No, they didn't send me anything. The hospital applied for me in Gaza, so I think they have the paperwork, but I'm in the computer if you would just look me up."

She stood inside the security island eyeing me for a few moments.

"Ok, hold on," she said. "This might take a long time."

            "No problem."

            So I stood while she made a number of phone calls. As I waited another taxi pulled up and a Palestinian woman around 35 with an infant and two heavy suitcases climbed out. The press immediately descended on her snapping pictures, scurrying backwards, filming her as she approached the guard station where I was standing. Sterile and laconic, the photographers, maintaining a constant almost meticulous distance of a few paces from the woman, documented her from every angle struggling with her child and luggage. While handing the Israeli guards her identification, one of the Arab reporters ventured forward to ask her a question. She didn't respond. He asked again, and again she wouldn't acknowledge him. And despite her clear desire to get through the crossing with the least amount of attention and interrogation as possible, whether from the Israeli military or the press, they continued filming and photographing her as she went though the motions. 

Although I didn't watch television that night, but seeing as she may have been the only Palestinian to have crossed the border that day, I imagine that this woman, wearing her hijab, with her baby in her arms, struggling with her baggage, sweat beads gathering on her forehead, hands so full she was unable to open the metal gate leading to the main terminal, necessitating an Israeli guard to eventually help her, reluctantly became the symbol, the icon, the object, the emblem, the Palestinian Madonna of the closed border on the nightly news. In essence I watched this woman in all her oppressed glory unwillingly become seven seconds of news eye-candy. "Flattering," I thought.

My problem was not the documenting of the closed border as it had tremendous effects on peoples' lives (as of now I think 33 people have died at the Rafa crossing), but it was the separation and the involuntary objectification that troubled me. There were plenty of Palestinians, men and women, who would love to have their story publicized and who would be more than happy to have their daily troubles documented, but rather like vultures to finish-off the shred of dignity she may have had left from the routine interrogation and encumbrance of border crossing, the press chose rather to flock to her. Waiting for her identification card to be returned she became "everybody's sister, symbolic of our failure, the one in fifty million who can help us to be free," making it more important to film her struggling than to open the gate for her.

After she left, two photographers approached the security island and handed the guards their identifications and press cards, which were immediately returned to them, being told that the border was now closed. After a brief exchange of unsuccessful negotiations one photographer took out has phone and made a call. Moments later he turned back to the guard and said that he had just spoken with his colleague on the other side who said that the border was in fact open. But the guard continued to try to prevent them from getting through, telling them that she had instructions to close the border.

"For how long?" one asked.

"All day, a few hours, I don't know."

The exchange continued until the photographers threatened to call their embassy. At that, the guard's superior approached from the terminal and said that the border was now open again and they could cross. A few minutes later, I too was permitted through. I walked through metal gate and into the main terminal building.

Now, although there were practically no Palestinians permitted to cross, aside from the above mentioned woman, and although the regular queues were therefore completely empty, the photographers and I were pointed in the direction of the 'VIP' express line that we had the privilege of utilizing as a reward for not being Palestinian. And let me tell you, that was rockin'. It was great, terrific, the best. In general, I love little perks like that and got this warm feeling in my belly filling me with self-congratulations and pride knowing that I was truly an ethnic VIP here at Erez. However later on, it was a little disappointing as lunch was not served and there wasn't an open bar. Nonetheless, I struggled through.

We were led to a room with more security posts. The two photographers spoke briefly with the guards, showed them their press cards and were soon allowed through. I, on the other hand, went through 50 minutes of explaining to three different guards who I was, who I was seeing, why I didn't have any documentation and how long I was going to be in Gaza. Then I waited again while they called someone to look me up on their computer. Finally I was confirmed, my passport was stamped and I was led out the same doors in which I entered where a bus was waiting.

From there we drove a good quarter kilometer to the entryway of the cement wall that surrounded Gaza. We were let out and walked to the gate where a final guard checked our passports and entry stamps. Then we were turned loose.

Looking out into Gaza, near the terminal exit where we stood spanned a wall that stretched along the left side of the road for about 800 meters ahead of us. It was the corridor of the terminal entrance for entering Israel. Remnants of concrete road barriers and scraps of corrugated metal were scattered along the road, which was lined with razor wire and led away from the main wall behind me. To the right, a field spotted with bombed-out building shells, huge piles of debris, and patches of barbed wire, sparsely sprinkled with thin plots of foliage spanned to the horizon. The wall enclosure carved through the field dividing the land in Gaza, a no-go zone, still war-stricken, from the more luscious almost tender green fields in Israel. 

I began walking towards the entrance that lay straight ahead not exactly sure how I would find Malik, the man who worked for the UNRWA. Taking out my phone to check the time and how long the border crossing procedure took I saw that I had no reception. Orange connectivity apparently cuts out right at the border.

Upon reaching the end of the corridor I looked down into the entrance and saw what was shown in the photos and video clips that flooded the news that week: the some 600 Palestinians huddled against the cement wall hoping to escape and be allowed through the terminal. Much of the roof at the entrance was half collapsed. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and piss. Some were standing, pacing or smoking, but most were sitting on the asphalt. I noticed that the tiles that made-up the terminal corridor were the same tiles as those used in the separation wall that carved up the West Bank and surrounded Gaza.

At the mouth of the entrance was a small dirt car lot where I was immediately confronted by a number of taxi drivers eager for work.

"Where do you go?" one would ask.

"Thank you, but my friend is picking me up," I would respond.

Then another would approach.

"Where do you go?"

"A friend is coming for me."

And then another.

Normally accustomed to similar situations, it became increasingly more nerve-wracking not knowing in fact if anyone was actually coming for me or what that person looked like. Eventually, a man approached me.

"Are you Ryan?" he asked.

"Are you Malik?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm Ryan."

After introductions and apologies for the delay at the border, we walked to his car and we headed for Jabalia refugee camp. From the offset of our conversation Malik made clear two things which I later learned I would need to understand, and at least pretend to accept, if I were to have any productive conversations during my stay in Gaza: first, that I was no longer American but now Swedish for the duration of the trip and second that the fighting that took place the week before was not between Fatah and Hamas, but between "some" Fatah and Hamas. Throughout my stay I would come to realize that many who strongly identify as Fatah, still had a strong and vocal presents in Gaza. In fact most of the people with whom I spoke were either supporters or members of Fatah.

Just a few hundred meters down the road from the border towards Jabalia and Gaza City we were stopped at a checkpoint: as they can't approach the separation wall: Hamas border control if you will. A number of armed men with back and blue camouflage outfits walked to our car. There was a brief exchange where I heard Malik saying the word "Swede" and the guards peered into the car to look at me. I felt my blood start pumping with anxiety imagining the millions of possible scenarios that could become of the situation, none of which ended in being invited to a party and sipping cosmopolitans, or even apple juice with these men. Although it seems incredibly silly now I was fairly unnerved and completely convinced that these characters could smell fear, as I've grown up with people who have that ability. And it soberly dawned on me that I knew very little about Sweden. And my internal dialogue went on five lines of party favors: "Who's the Swedish prime minister?! Who's the Swedish president?! Does Sweden have a president? What if they ask me to say something in Swedish?? What university did I attend? Will 'McVay' pass for a Swedish last name? How about 'Ryan'. Oh Shit! I should have bleached my hair for this. Whose idea was this anyway? This is all Mrs. Mi's doing. Maybe they'll go easy on me if I promise to send back beer on my return to Jerusalem. Ok, maybe apple juice then." In all, Malik probably talked with the men for about 15 seconds, but it gave me ample time to have a rather extensive, neurotic and paranoid conversation with myself.

We drove on, away from the border picking up one of Malik's friends on our way to Jabalia. I noticed a distinct smell of sulfur as we approached the urban area. As we passed the first large intersection I saw two unarmed men in civilian clothes, one rather clean-cut the other with a green baseball cap, both wearing yellow neon vests directing traffic. Malik pointed at them and said, "These are Hamas."

"Traffic is part of security?" I asked.

"Yes. In Gaza, all these guys in green hats are Hamas."

"And only Hamas does traffic?"

"Yes."

We continued, finally entering Jabalia camp. The atmosphere was off-putting to say the least. The roads, which were expectedly in disarray, were fairly empty. There were only a few pedestrians out, but none of those that I saw appeared over conscious of their surroundings or worried. Malik explained that people felt safe walking around, but that there was nothing to do, no jobs, no businesses to attend to so everyone usually stayed at home during the day. Most of the buildings were closed with metal gates covering the entrances. Outside the few open shops that we passed, men sat on chairs near the doorways talking, some drinking tea, some smoking nargula. Malik said that the shops stayed open, but no one had the money to buy anything. So the men had nothing to do but sit and drink tea all day (According to the UN the poverty rate in Gaza is 74% with 46% relaxed unemployment and about 70-80% of the population relying on UNRWA food handouts).

I was most struck by the lack of people out in public. Not exactly what I expected from one of the most densely populated areas in the world, with 70,474 people/km² in Jabalia. For all I could tell it could have been half abandoned or experiencing a continuous inexhaustible Friday déjà vu.

As we drove further, Malik reiterated how the fighting was not between all of Fatah and all of Hamas. He then pointed above us where green and black flags of Hamas, yellow and black flags of Fatah and Palestinian flags were hung together on lines over the street. He rationalized that if this was a total war between "all of Fatah" and Hamas, the Fatah flags would have been taken down (in contrast, a few days later I would walk by Arafat's house where a large Hamas flag was flying from the roof).

Finally we reached Malik's friend's shop. He sold refrigerators, with an inventory of about six in stock. But no one had the money to buy them and with the border closed his business was frozen. As Malik and I sat down, his friend brought out the nargula and a pot of tea.

The tea I drank in Gaza was without a doubt the sweetest tea I have ever had the pleasure to savor. Sweeter than pixie sticks, sweeter than Herman the Kid's slushy and with that little jolt of caffeine makes for remarkable mental and physical buzz. In fact, from the tea and the soda that I drank at every meal, I can say with confidence that I ingested more processed sugars in my two weeks in Gaza than I had throughout my entire childhood. I tell you, it's not just the inability to obtain fresh foods supplies that has made the acute malnutrition in Gaza on the same scale with southern Sahara countries as the UN has revealed. I'm sure a lack nutritious food is partially responsible, but I'll be the first to attribute the main cause to these sugar junkies.

So we sat and smoked and drank and talked. Practically every conversation I had in Gaza included two topics: the internal politics in Gaza, in which I was always asked if I was Fatah or Hamas, and the easiest way to immigrate to Sweden, on which I soon became a false expert. So as we drank and after being asked where my political alliances in Gaza lay Malik's friend took me outside and showed me with pride the large Fatah flag that he had hung from his building. Pointing at himself he said with distinction "I am Fatah."

After tea we all went for a walk through Jabalia. In the camp there were a few large roads wide enough for vehicles but most of the entryways to residential buildings were only accessible through tight narrow cement corridors, some so small that they can only accommodate one pedestrian at a time. Every once in a while we would pass a small group of children on the ground, swinging, playing with toy cars, trucks and guns.

In Jabalia we visited a distant relative of Malik. About 80 years old, he lived alone with his cats. His property consisted of thee separate structures: one, where he slept which was just big enough for a mattress, a W.C., and a shack with a small camping stove and a few cans of food lying about. Malik said that the man was very sick and had to visit the hospital every few days. His wife was dead and his son was killed by the Israelis. As he had no way of working or obtaining food, every two or three days the community would bring him food supplies. And every few weeks Malik and other family members would come by to clean his home.

After walking through Jabalia we headed for Malik's home. As we left the camp I noticed a telephone pole where the flags of Hamas, Fatah, Islamic Jihad and PFLP all hung together.

Then a pickup with gunmen wearing black uniforms began passing us. Malik recognized one of the men and they began yelling to each other as we drove. Two blocks later we all pulled over and the gunmen jumped out of the truck. Malik talked with one of them for a few minutes and then explained to me that these were the guards of Khaled Abu Hilal.

Now, Hilal is a rather controversial figure who I hope to write about later. But for the purposes of this story, he used to work for the Ministry of the Interior, a largely Hamas branch of government, and at the time I met him was a prominent political figure in Gaza considering himself Fatah. Hilal, who seemed to know Malik, met us on the sidewalk and invited us in. With his guards and other powerful looking men, we all sat down in the small courtyard with gunmen at the entrance and were served coffee.

There, Hilal told me his thoughts on the current situation. He said that he wanted to clean-up the Fatah Movement, that it was fraudulent and rotten and that he intended to make it "straight." He wanted a "pure Fatah, before Oslo" without the corruption of the leading officials like Mahmoud Abbas and Muhammad Dahlan. Hilal was opposed to the Oslo Accords because, amongst other things, it led to the creation of the PA, made up of diverted officials dependant on, and then paralyzed by, Israeli control of the taxes, resources and economy. He also made it clear that Hamas targeted only what he considered crooked Fatah members. Only those with a reason to escape Gaza tried to do so, those who conspired against Hamas or those who, according to Hilal, betrayed the Palestinian people for their own personal benefit. He said that he and many uncorrupted Fatah officials were not targeted in the fighting and have chosen to stay in Gaza, as they hadn't "done anything wrong," and felt safe there. He assured me that during the fighting he had spoken with Hamas to ensure that the "good people" of Fatah would not be harmed.

As he was a politician I didn't take him every seriously. I had heard a lot of hollow tough talk, especially in that region of the world, and many were spewing this type of rhetoric about cleaning up Fatah. So at the time, I figured he was basically trash-talking, like so many others with whom I had spoken.

However, as it turned out, I was too quick to judge and the following evening Malik took me to the Rashad Shawwa Cultural Center in Gaza City to hear Khaled Abu Hilal announce that he was now the head Fatah official in Gaza and more importantly that he was forming a new political party: "Fatah al-Yasser" (as in Yasser Arafat's Fatah). In his speech he spoke in more detail of what he had discussed with me the day before. He said that 95% of the PA was made up of "good people who wanted to serve the Palestinian people" but had no real power while 5% actually had the capability to do something and chose rather to use their resources for personal gain. The PA, as he saw it, was counterproductive comparing it to a welfare agency where citizens were more preoccupied with getting their payments, which was controlled by Israel than developing their own community and economy. He argued that he had always stood against corruption within the PA and always worked to protect the "straight" people. He reiterated that Hamas was only cracking down on specific individuals within Fatah. "Hamas will not harm the good people of Fatah, the punishment for the grand treason, will be directed against the collaborators," he said (his exact definition of a collaborator was and still is unknown to me). His new Fatah party was going to be a pre-Oslo party that worked towards actual and complete liberation from Israel, not one that created political and economic structures that were dependent on Israel. After the speech, on our way out supporters were handing out new "Fatah al-Yasser" banners.

So, I thought this was all rather important news, one of the leading Fatah, or ex-Fatah, officials in Gaza breaking away and starting a new political faction. I mean if nothing else I'm sure that the speech put him on a few more hit lists. So I was surprised to see maybe only six other crackers in the audience reporting, two of them french. Even now, I have a difficult time finding any English news agency that reported on it. Funny what we consider newsworthy, right?

I know this is all yesterday's news, but I hope that I'm writing about things that aren't normally covered in the papers. At least that way this nonsense might be more amusing to you. So Gaza is a strange place and after two weeks there and a fair amount of reading I can honestly say that it still confuses the hell out of me, so I'm glad that mine is not to understand. It's just to appear that I do. And that's true subjectivity in the New No Spin Zone. More to come.

Hamas guards near Erez crossing




Fatah, Islamic Jihad and Hamas flags hanging from a telephone pole




Khaled Abu Hilal's announcement of Fatah al-Yasser




children in Jabalia refugee camp




building in the no-go zone near the wall




Hamas traffic directors



Malik's relative in Jabalia

I returned to Ramallah a few days ago after a two-week visa run to Egypt, hoping that the situation in Gaza had improved while I was away. About a week prior to leaving Palestine-Israel infighting broke out between Fatah and Hamas movements in Gaza; quite possibly the dumbest possible course of action imaginable as the unity government called on a lift of the international embargo and a renewal of foreign aid to the Palestinians. At least in my humble opinion as an outsider, killing each other is not the most effective and efficient means of winning the hearts and minds of governments and organizations abroad. But who am I to say; some people enjoy the taste of liver. Regardless as it appears, while I've been away the situation has in fact worsened.

Since Sunday, about 65 people have been killed in clashes between the two factions. Websites from both sides have called for the assassinations of the opposing party's leaders. Today, Wednesday, a non-violent rally was held of about 1,000 in Gaza City protesting the escalation, which suddenly found itself caught in the crossfire between Fatah and Hamas, killing at least one.

I'm watching the news as I right this. Now, 10 people have been killed in the past few hours, two of them Palestinian United Nations Relief and Works Agency workers. The UNRWA has just announced that it will suspend most of its work in Gaza. And with refugees making up 70%-80% of a population of 1.4 million relying on UN assistance, as if it weren't bad enough the situation has just become dire for the residents of Gaza.

Life here in Ramallah has recently become more tense. While I was away, Israeli forces publicly assassinated Omar Abu Daher, one of Abbas' Presidential Guards, on the street here during the day. My roommate witnessed some of the incident. Apparently an Israeli soldier, dressed in civilian clothing approached the man and shot him first in the leg and then in the head. Then about 24 rounds were fired into Omar Abu Daher's body from an automatic weapon. Moments after the killing, a number of armored Israeli vehicles arrived and picked up the assassins. As the vehicles tried to escape, Palestinian civilians tried to block roads with their cars, achieving limited success. Israeli soldiers on the buildings roofs provided cover, as rocks were thrown by Palestinians at the Israeli vehicles that sped through the streets. Eventually the Israeli forces found a way out. You can read about it here.

The idea that assassinations like these are acceptable practices disgusts me. Forgetting for a moment that Israeli forces thought they had the right to operate in the West Bank as they so often do, there was no arrest, trial, display of evidence, lawyers, judges, or opportunity to defend himself. No, Omar Abu Daher was executed, just shot dead in the street. And any moral rationale of these Israeli assassinations actually justifies the targeting of many of its own citizens by Palestinian militants. If this practice is sanctioned, than, is it not true that any ex-soldier who has killed an unarmed Palestinian, and ex-commander who ordered an operation that took the lives of Palestinians, or former politician who supported any policy that killed unarmed Palestinians is then up for assassination? If so, that's a hell of a long list of targets. The whole thing is absolutely absurd. 

But last night the state of affairs here led my roommate and I to think twice about going out for a drink and playing some pool. When situations have worsened in the past venues, known to be popular amongst internationals have sometimes been shot-up, the rationale I believe being that first, people are understandably pissed-off, second, the international community hasn't been the most supportive of the Palestinians and third, that others should not be going out and enjoying themselves while Palestinians elsewhere suffer severely; a sign of solidarity. However, I hope and believe that any role I play in improving the lives of Palestinians is more practical than symbolic, and as such, we ended up going out and playing a few games of pool.

Later last night I was watching the news, while listening to a Palestinian analyst who was speculating the possibility that the crisis in Gaza may lead to civil war, with Hamas taking Gaza and infighting spreading to the West Bank, I heard a number of gunshots fired in the distance. "Terrific, typical" I thought "good work guys. That's what you're elected for." Sarcasm aside, I actually can't tell the difference between AK-47 gunshots and those from Israeli weapons and as Israeli forces make incursions into Ramallah ever few weeks it is possible that I heard an Israeli attack rather than Palestinian infighting. Regardless I was humored by the coincidence.

And with Fatah losing ground in Gaza, today in the West Bank city of Nablus, Fatah fighters just kidnapped about 15 Hamas members from Hamas media building, threatening to spread the conflict into the West Bank if fighting continued in Gaza. Fatah is definitely in a corner now, it suspended its role in the unity government yesterday and now the existence of the Palestinian Authority is as threatened as a novice joining a Buddhist monastery. So yes, things are deteriorating and deteriorating fast.

But all that said, I do feel quit safe in Ramallah. It's a highly Fatah-core city and without serious Hamas opposition it's unlikely that any infighting will take place here.

The situation in Gaza saddens me when I see it and hear about it and pisses me off when I think about it. At least as of present, like in American politics where usually the citizens only get to choose between two almost equally spineless weasels, vomiting political jargon which rarely coincides with their actions, the Palestinians have the choice between two primarily self-serving political parties, both transfixed on liberation, which is certainly imperative to achieve any amount of freedom, while largely ignoring the importance of community building, education, civil society, welfare and the desire of Palestinians to live in peace. This is of course difficult with the Wall, the checkpoints, restriction of movement, assassinations, the embargo etc., but I see very effort being made by either of these movements. Fatah, Hamas and the unity government have exquisitely proven to be completely incompetent and incapable governing units.

Now this isn't to say that all political leaders are contributing to this nonsense. To name a few, Hanan Ashrawi is certainly dedicated to improving life in the occupied territories. And Mustapha Barghouti, Minister of Information comes off as capable and seems more concerned with the welfare of Palestinians than with this political power struggle. The list goes on. So there are people out there who have been helping, but there seems to be too few of them and they are overwhelmed by this almost childish yet extremely tragic struggle between the two factions.

Let me be blunt about it. The conditions in Gaza have turned many of these gunmen into nothing short of savage barbarians taking little if any responsibility for their actions and endangering, sometimes killing those who their political movements claim to serve. And there's a reason this is all taking place in Gaza, where the fighting is accruing, where Islamic Jihad is quite prevalent, where female reporters have had their lives threatened, where religious extremism is higher than it is in the West Bank. And that, I think, is that in Gaza it's easier to pick up a gun than it is to find work. Gaza has been under siege since the Israeli pullout and having its infrastructure destroyed in the process. The UNRWA has said that 87% of the population lives under the official poverty line. Its citizens are in debt mainly from basic needs like electricity, water supply and food. It's one of the most populated areas in the world with a large majority of its residents as refugees from outside the Strip. In short, the living conditions are deplorable, worse than in the West Bank, the population is armed as hell, so it's no wonder that extremism and violence is on the rise in Gaza more than it is here. 

Yes, Israel does hold great responsibility for destroying the infrastructure and the economy and for over populating the area, while the international community has worsened these conditions through its embargo. But, President Abbas, Prime Minister Haniya and other leaders are not unemployed, living under the poverty line or suffering serious financial difficulties. Nor are the trapped within a small compound with extremely limited access to the outside world like Arafat. And I see no excuse for their encouragement of infighting and their unwillingness or oftentimes inability to stop it. In the past few weeks these vicious scoundrels have given Israeli occupation a good name. Never thought I'd catch myself using the phrase, but why don't they go home and read a book.

Like I've made clear in the past, I take great issue with the Israeli government and its policies concerning Palestinians and am disheartened by Barak's victory over Ayalon yesterday in winning the leadership of the Labour Party. But, despite the continued Israeli attacks on Gaza and the overall economic climate there, the brunt of responsibility for the loss of life in the past few weeks falls on Fatah and Hamas' ineptness, their actions of self-interest and their ambitions of power.

So quick they both are to condemn the innumerous Israeli-instigated skirmishes and incursions in the occupied territories when unarmed civilians are killed in the crossfire. So I'll be on the lookout the next few days for either group to accept even half the responsibility for the death of the demonstrator earlier today in Gaza. Needless to say, I don't hold out much hope.

Well, that's news from me; sad, sarcastic, and petulant. The future, the near future at least is a bit grim. The already delusional constructs of morality have faded these past days, as responsibility is being assigned but not accepted, consequence is looked at in the present, not the future, and the deaths of hundreds of citizens are considered a worthy price to pay for control of that sliver of impoverished land that is the Gaza Strip. Caesar may have not been ambitious and Brutus may actually have been an honorable man, but external and uncontrolled volition made short work of the both of them.

            It's 1:30 in the morning and after three shots of whiskey my arm still stings and I can taste the teargas lingering in my trachea as two middle-aged characters on stage in the Mikes Place of Jerusalem sing Blowin' in the Wind: "How many years can some people exist, before they're allowed to be free?" Not to imply that the Palestinian situation is unique in the world but the irony is somehow troubling me tonight. Perhaps if I take up smoking my throat'll feel better.

I went to report for the Palestine Times on the 2^nd annual conference and weekly Friday demonstration in Bil'in yesterday. There I found myself caught between a documenter, a participant and a character who has had the luxury of not taking a lot of crap from people and who has been taught to standup for myself when that crap comes my way. For better or worse, a privileged mentality, I understand.

Even more apparent than in the last demonstration which I wrote about in March month, the presents of the soldiers was not to prevent the protesters from breeching the barrier but rather to prevent any expression of Palestinian defiance. From the very beginning, as the demonstrators approached soldiers immediately broke them up a full kilometer away from the gate, firing gas canisters and rubber-coated bullets into the crowd. In fact, throughout the whole two-hour ordeal the soldiers were very successful in keeping us separated from one another, firing upon groups at they tried to congregate.

But from the other camp this demonstration had a goal above its own existence. It was different from most weeks where the success of the demonstration was simply the demonstration itself. Performing the act, the ritual if you will, was its purpose. This week however, the demonstration was also a maneuver to distract the Israeli soldiers as the activist Alberto de Jesus, popularly known as Tito Kayak, famous for draping the Puerto Rican flag on the Statue of Liberty in 2000 protesting America's meddling in Puerto Rico, climbed a military tower on the other side of the barrier and waved the Palestinian flag from it.

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As the demonstration began, I was pinned down almost immediately. Upon reaching the bottom of the valley between the outskirts of the town on one hilltop and the gate to the barrier on the other, the soldiers began firing gas canisters at us. As with the last demonstration, I found myself to be one of the first rendered immobile. Unable to breathe from the smoke and blind from the tears in my eyes, I collapsed by a group of trees on the side of the road, until a medical personnel from the Red Crescent came and helped wipe away the liquid burning my face.

After the medic left, and I had time to collect myself I noticed I was one of the furthest ahead along the road and that the gas attacks had sent most of the demonstrators in retreat towards the village or into the fields. Then the soldiers fired a few more gas canisters in my direction and I headed for cover to wait until it dispersed. But off the road, low to the ground and covering my head I saw an older man, maybe in his 70s or 80s fall to the ground. I ran to check on him.  Two more canisters had just been launched a few meters and when I reached him, he wasn't moving. The area was covered in gas and my eyes were already tearing up by the time I reached him, only to get worse. I shook him, "are you ok?" No response. I saw he was breathing and checked his pulse, which was present, and consistent and in my panicked state seemed to be normal. After what seemed like a full minute a Red Crescent worker and another Palestinian appeared; the worker took him by his feet and the other man and I took him under the soldiers and started hauling him up the hill towards the ambulance, passing through more clouds of smoke. As we approached, my sigh continued to fade and I could barely make out what was in front of me, as I had no hand to wipe the tears from my eyes, the last few meters with my eyes clamed closed. More people began arriving, and just as I buckled over unable to breath, another man took my place and continued carrying the old man.

            I was then able to blindly take a few pictures before he was hauled into the ambulance. Suffice to say, the whole experience scared the hell out of me. Carrying this unresponsive elderly man to an ambulance was a first for me.

            Then, about an hour later, to my relief and shortly afterwards, to my great frustration, I saw the same man walking under his own power back into the demonstration; the guy who I worried was in critical condition was walking again. Now the Red Crescent later reported that 22 people were injured to the extent that they were evacuated via ambulance to receive medical treatment. The ISM reported 25. Whatever number, I have no doubt that this man was amongst those counted.

And this brought up some serous issues from me. Technically I was there to document and as such I shouldn't really have been telling people how to express themselves, Israeli or Palestinian or otherwise. Also, as in international, I was there as a guest. Internationals and Israelis were and have always been invited to attend these weekly demonstrations, but as its foundation this was a Bil'in village event and I was in no place to tell them how they should resist the occupation, most especially if that resistance is non-violent.

In a similar example, the Popular Committee, I have been told, negotiates and comes to an agreements with many boys of the community to insure that while the boys are allowed to throw rocks at the soldiers and their vehicles as another symbolic statement of defiance, that they wouldn't do so during the protest, making a clear differentiation between the two actions of resistance. It's not a good idea to have stones being thrown at non-violent demonstrations. Hence the boys usually immerge when the protest concludes. So from that perspective I think it's important that the villages of Bil'in resist the occupation that effects them in a manner that they choose, anything else would be like telling them what's best for them. And just looking at the difference between the intentions and actual effects of the U.S.'s recent rockin' foreign policy, we can see how dangerous that behavior can be. 

But at the same time, I felt incredibly deceived and had a lot of resentment towards that man. I was afraid he was dying; and that ain't nice to feel. Furthermore, technically speaking, I don't think the dramatic scene that he created was necessary at all; counter productive if anything. The difference between 22 and 21 ambulance-required injuries isn't going to turn the tide for Palestinian liberation. No one sitting at home is going to read the newspaper and say "Ha! Only 21 people were injured! This movement is retarded! Come back when you have 22." And there was enough violence taking place there anyway. I saw Nobel Peace Prize winner Mairead Maguire shot, filmmaker Asusena Fernando shot in the leg from just a few meters, after asking the soldier not to open fire on her. I saw a young boy beaten by Israeli soldiers. Israeli Palestinian journalist, Masid Abu Tamer was shot in the head; in the head. The list goes on. I spent much of the demonstration blind, coughing my lungs up from the constant teargas attacks. A rubber bullet grazed my right arm. People were being seriously hurt all the time, providing legitimate reason to paint the occupation forces as nasty and vile. But I just saw this man's actions more as a hindrance and a discredit to the liberation than anything else.

            In all, I see this conflict as a media war, even a propaganda war. For example, it was also reported that two Israeli soldiers were injured in the demonstration. I was there for one of them and I saw a soldier pushing around a demonstrator, who started leaning back into the solder and pushing against him. The soldier then essentially assaulted the demonstrator on the hill covered in loose rock and gravel and in the commotion both fell to the ground. I can't tell if the soldier was hurt from an attack by the demonstrator while on the ground, or he landed on his leg wrong or rolled upon a rock but he got up groping his leg and had to leave the scene of the protest temporarily. He was active again by the end of the demonstration.

Like in this case like, with the elderly man, while the condition was documented as an injury, I really didn't see it as such. And again, I don't want to tell anyone what to do, but with all the clear violations of human rights by Israel I don't see it necessary undertake, and considering the media power of their adversary I don't think it possible to win, a propaganda war for the Palestinians. But that's just a speculation. 

After the man was put in the ambulance and a medic cleaned out my eyes again, I headed down the valley towards the soldiers and the gate but veered to the right through a few fields of trees and rock walls and came across about 30 internationals who had been pinned down by Israeli fire. Not wanting to get my ass shot off, I crept along a rock wall as demonstrators openly waved their hands in the air, begging the soldiers not to shoot, as they were unarmed. "Please don't shoot us!" they cried.

I looked at the barrier and saw a soldier aiming directly at me and decided that I had snuck up far enough. I raised my hands in the air, sort of waving to him, acknowledging that I saw him and wasn't going to proceed further. But from here, I saw the demonstrators, hiding behind trees and boulders, continuing to beg in Hebrew and English for the soldiers to stop shooting. But, the soldiers proceeded to fire a series of gas canisters behind them, cutting off their exit. With the barbed wire fence on their right, soldier in front and a new line of troops moving in on their left, the soldiers ordered them to leave the area. Seeing the wall of gas behind them, they asked, "where should be go?" The soldiers responded by opening fire on the small crowds. There, although I didn't know who she was at the time (wonderful journalist skills, no?) I saw Mairead Maguire shot in the leg and the demonstrator's retreat, many running away, some calmly, but quickly walking away, heads covered as the soldiers continued to fire on them.

I saw the soldier on the other side of the fence still aiming at me and decided then that god had other plans for me somewhere else that was not at the end of the crosshairs of an Israeli assault rifle. As I turned to leave, he fired grazing my right arm. I spun around, grasping the wound. "Ahhh!" I yelled in pain. "You fucking bastard! What the hell is wrong with you?!" I looked up at him and saw he was still aiming his gun at me. Two stun-grenades exploded next to me. "Shit!" I said looking around and lumbered away as quickly as I could.

    By the time I made it back the road was relatively cleared of gas and soldiers so I quickly walked up towards the gate, hands raised high. There, many press members were in attendance but few demonstrators had made it. There was a truck with a water cannon present and by then I was fairly pissed off. For the next 20 minutes, there were a few scuffles and beatings. Israeli soldiers continued to fire on the demonstrators who were trying to gather on the opposing hill. There I tried to rest and recollect myself.

There, standing alone upon a rock, in front of me a few demonstrators were sitting down chanting, behind me further up the hill a few scuffles were taking place, and to my right maybe 40 meters away was the water cannon. I watched out of the corner of my eye pretending not to watch, the nozzle of the gun rotating around to point at me. Feeling really pissed off, being as stubborn as I am and realizing I was on the spot, I turned around to face the truck. Now, this is not a glory story; this was not a benevolent act and had nothing to do with supporting the Palestinian people or their liberation or any of that humanitarian stuff. There was no integrity or selflessness here. I just realized that I really didn't like being shot and was going to be a prick to the Israeli forces for my own selfish reasons. So I stood firm looking at the water cannon. Eventually, seeing that I wasn't going anywhere the soldiers opened up the hose on me; a relatively light blast as it didn't knock me over. But again, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of reacting emotionally, I said loudly in a slightly annoyed and stupefied tone, "Jesus Christ! Don't you guys have anything better to do?" as I slowly (and carefully as the rocks were wet) made my way away from the spray. "Are you characters really that bored?" I asked a soldier as I passed.

Later, still near the gate, I saw one soldier pushing a demonstrator down the hill, telling her that she needed to leave. "We don't want to be doing this," he said. "Just go down the hill. Do what I tell you. We don't want to be doing this." He kept pushing her down. "You're making us do this by being here. We don't like doing this," he said. Unable to resist, turning to face him and standing between the two, I asked the soldier, "Are you fucking joking? If you don't want to do this, why don't you leave? You're shooting at people who haven't done anything wrong. You sound like an abusive husband. You know that?" I'm not sure he understood the last part, but he didn't like the general message very much and started pushing me down the hill as well. "Get out of here. You need to leave," he ordered.

As I headed back down the hill, I saw a group of soldiers preparing to fire on the demonstrators who had now progressed down the opposing hill and were stationed in the bottom of the valley. As they began firing, an activist kept pleading with the soldiers, asking them what their mothers would say if they saw them firing on unarmed civilians. She kept telling them that they didn't need to do this and that even though they were given orders to fire, they had a responsibility to listen to the conscious. "What would your mother say if she saw what you were doing?" she kept asking. I won't speculate on what they thought about when they returned home, but to be sure, the soldier's behavior didn't suggest that they were taking this activist's pleas into consideration at the time.

As I reached the congregation of soldiers and demonstrators I saw a soldier with a stun-grenade in his hand suddenly rush toward the protestors stationed in the valley. The few that saw him coming started backing away. When he got within range, he hurled the grenade with so much energy, excitement, will and especially honor it suddenly reminded me of the suicidal grenadier in the film Stalingrad. Although in this case it should be pointed out that he threw a gas grenade at a collection of unarmed protesters and hurried back to his mates with a cocked grin on his face, instead of being torn in half by a Soviet fixed machine gun like in the movie. But technicalities will always get the best of us. Regardless, it blew my mind how ridiculous the whole action was. Forgetting for a second that the soldiers shouldn't have been there in the first place, if they really just wanted to disperse the demonstrators they could have shot a few more gas canisters. But no, there was something about an armed soldier rushing the crowd and physically throwing a grenade into its midst that was for some reason more appealing than the same old shooting of gas canisters from afar.

Soon afterwards, when the demonstrators were able to regroup in the valley, the demonstrators on the hill near the gate were able to make enough commotion as to distract the soldiers long enough for a whole slew of about 20-30 internationals to dash from the bottom of the valley, with their hand held high. This didn't fare well with the soldiers there and many became a bit more liberal with the old water cannon as well as with their billysticks. I saw a few more violent than I had ever seen them before. One assaulted a young boy, throwing him to the ground and was going to drag him away when a group of demonstrators threw themselves upon the boy, preventing the soldiers from getting to him.

Many times, the Israeli forces tried to physically remove everyone from the area. At one point, a soldier walked up behind me and began aggressively shoving me. "You need to leave," he said. "Go down the hill." And he kept pushing. I turned to him, really pissed at this point but trying to remain calm. I slowly said, "Do... not… touch… me. If you want me to go down the hill, why don't you ask?" He kept pushing, "Go down the hill. You need to leave." I turned to him once more, "Just… ask... Please…just ask me once. Try it" I said, refusing to take another step and pressing my body against his with my arms at my sides. He stopped pushing. "I need you to go down the hill," he said. "Ok," I said and started walking. 

            As we began walking back to the village, a few of the boys had come out to throw and sling rocks at the soldiers and their vehicles. Unlike at the last demonstration, this was a situation where either side was posted on opposing hilltops. The soldiers were well out of throwing range, but a few of the larger slings had the distance to come close to the vehicles (mind you again, this is all taking place, not only in the Bil'in village farming area, but also on the Palestinian side of the barrier itself. Assuming for a second, that they had some warped, perverted right to take the farming land, the soldiers still had no right to be on this side of the barrier). Here I made the mistake of taking pictures of the boys. Immediately after my second picture, the whole area was bombarded with gas canisters and wizzing bullets. I dove for cover, but was way too late. Completely surrounded by smoke and scared shitless to stand-up and make a run for it. With the haze and my then-noticed black clothing, I wasn't convinced the soldiers wouldn't take a crack at me again, and so slowly becoming incapable of seeing or breathing, I collapsed behind a short rock wall, maybe ½ meters high, covering my head and mouth, coughing, drooling, spitting and trying to inhale without choking. It was an incredibly strange feeling. Laying there, I wasn't scared of being killed or with the cover I had, even shot again so long as I stayed put, but at the same time I was rendered completely immobile and all I could do is endure the situation, hoping that it would get better. Like Iraq, just hanging out until the situation fixed itself. And yes, it eventually did, at least long enough for me to get the hell out of there. So any of you wacky, ignorant war critics out there, shame on you. This was living proof that in the end things will turn around right on their own; just give it time, and money; lots of money. What is the Matrix?

    But yes, so an aching arm and a lunge full of gas and I eventually made it back to Bil'in where I picked up a cab to return to Ramallah and from there to Jerusalem.

    Traveling between Ramallah and Jerusalem, bus 18 passes through the Kalandia checkpoint. Now, coming from Jerusalem, in the past six weeks, only one of the buses I have been on has been stopped. It is comparatively easy to travel from Jerusalem to the West Bank. The return however is the difficult part. 

            I expect that rules change often, but while I have been here, those with international passports have been allowed to stay on the bus while it crosses the checkpoint. There, a soldier boards the bus and checks ID's and sometimes looks through bags and purses.

Palestinians have to exit the bus and cross the checkpoint on foot, going through a few turnstiles and metal detectors, putting their bags through an x-ray machine and showing their ID's to soldiers on the other side of a glass barrier. 

            Of course internationals have the option of walking through the checkpoint if they so choose. And still today, I don't really know what I should do there. In all aspects, the system is a full-on racist policy: Palestinians have to leave and go through security while everyone else gets to stay on the bus (it that's not clear enough, just replace "Palestinians" with "black people" and "everyone else" with "white people"). So it feels disturbing to wave the Palestinians goodbye, "take care guys, I hope they let you though," as I hang out on the bus. By staying on the bus while the Palestinians have to leave is just another slap in the face and a reminder that not only are Palestinians considered second-class to their Israeli neighbors in their own land, but inferior as well to tourists and internationals.

But, on the other hand I sometimes feel it's just as patronizing to pretend that by going through the checkpoint, I'm getting an authentic Palestinian experience, giving me the license to speak with authority as to what it's like to live as a Palestinian. Pretending to be Palestinian if you will. But not only that, practically speaking, when I walk through the checkpoint, I'd just be one more person in line that has their id and bag checked and keeps everyone from getting to where they need to be. As well, and it's happened twice now, I've been hassled by the Israeli soldiers longer than the Palestinians I was with. And it's extremely embarrassing to be sitting at a checkpoint answering questions while everyone else has already passed through and is waiting for me in the bus. In situations like that, it would make everyone's life easier if I would have utilized my privilege and stayed on the bus. 

            But in this case, as the bus was half-filled with activist-looking internationals, perhaps some of us carrying exploded gas grenades, canisters or rubber coated bullets, we all stayed on the bus, while the Palestinians went through security. While it felt shitty to do so, had we gone through ourselves, we would have been giving the soldiers innumerous excuses to question and interrogate us for an extended period of time, which would have held everyone up and prevent all of us from getting to where we needed to be. Show off our privilege? Or squander peoples' time pretending like we don't have it? I don't have an answer.

            So that's Friday. The cannon balls haven't been banned yet; they're such good business, how could they be? The sun's out and I'm spending too much time in the office now. Funny how that works? I blame it on akusala, which I assure you is no fault of my own and must have been framed by some malicious merchant of miccha ditthi. Suffering of Piety, that's for Hunter to decide.

-mcvay

elderly man injured

teargas attack on international demonstrators

Mairead Maguire after being shot

Israeli water cannon

Israeli solider firing on demonstrators

international activists escaping teargas bombardment

boy after being attacked by an Israeli soldier

Israeli soldier assaulting an activist