I Saw it in Palestine

Lately we've all been glued to the television. The question on everyone's lips is "shu saar?" What happened? What happened in Gaza? What happened in Nablus? What happened last night in Bethlehem? In Beit Jala? In Beit Sahour? Palestine has had nothing but bad news. 22 Palestinians were killed in Gaza. Much of the Palestinian government has been thrown into the jail. The aid embargo continues and more Palestinians wonder how much longer they will be able to feed their families. Even in Bethlehem tension hangs in the air. Olive trees are being cut down, soldiers have arrested two young women, there are nightly incursions into the refugee camps, and even in Beit Sahour the army feels closer every day.

Palestinians and internationals alike ask each other what happened. A nightmare is being played out before out eyes and Palestinians constantly remind me that the international community has done nothing, nothing, to condemn Israel. And there is tremendous fear. Last night, I asked a young man from Dheisheh refugee camp about the invasion of Gaza. "It's sad," he said. "The army is destroying everything. We know that our turn will come someday."
But I will admit that I greet all of this news nothing more than a shake of my head. I haven't cried over the stories in the media. I just feel nauseated. And worried.

It's what passes for normal life here that breaks my heart. I can't protect myself from the daily disappointments and often it's the moments of happiness and human dignity that bring me to tears. I just heard that my Palestinian-American friends from Portland have cancelled their trip home to Ramallah because they fear being turned away at the Tel Aviv airport. I also learned that my friend Nasfat, whose children I've written about repeatedly, has lost his job. He used to work for a USAID-funded development project which had to be disbanded because of the aid embargo. Apparently, building schools and roads provides "material benefit to the Palestinian Authority." I can't help but wonder about the "material benefit" schools provide to children. I dread visiting Nasfat's family. I don't know if I can face what my government has done to him. I don't know if I can watch his children smiling and joking without bursting into tears because of their beauty and vulnerability.

A week ago, a Palestinian cultural center agreed to give us a lesson in Dubkah, Palestinian folk dancing. I, of course, rediscovered my two left feet and lack of rhythm. At the end of the hour, our teachers asked us to show them American "traditional dances." The class erupted into cat-calls, clapping, and laughter as Americans and Palestinians showed off their moves on the dance floor. Naturally, our Palestinian teachers out did us with far more acrobatic break-dancing then we could manage. As we swapped "traditional dances," I felt as though we touched on what it means to be human. Then I remembered that just a few years ago, during the first intifada, it was illegal for Palestinians to gather together for cultural events like dancing Dubkah. I wished I had a video camera or a giant mirror that I could hold up and show the reflection to the world. I would say, "Here. Watch my friends dancing. See your own humanity reflected back to you and tell me why this occupation is justified."

These are the moments that bring tears to my eyes.