Monday, December 19, 2011

We are all 'A' – or at least we should have been by Haggai Matar

For the first time in many years an Israeli activist, from her own free will, is establishing her political ideology that Henry David Thoreau put as: "Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison..."

Truth be told: We all should of acted like 'A'. Every Friday, across the West Bank, Israelis and Palestinians demonstrate together. They stand, together, opposite the same soldiers, chant the same slogans, give the same speeches, run away from the same clouds of tear gas and the same sprays from the disgusting 'skunk' machines, and get arrested for the same reasons and for the same false accusations.

However it is at that point that the racist laws are activated. The Israelis are released from the police station with limited conditions or with similar conditions from court as they have to deal with the Israeli detainees within 24 hours. The Palestinians are taken to Ofer Military Prison. From the outset, the military orders that dictate their lives allow the authorities to detain them for eight days before they are even required to give them a judicial review to extend the detention. Even then, in most cases, the court will decide to allow an extension and then another extension and then detention till the procedure regarding an indictment has ended. This process can take a number of months and in the end the arrested Palestinian is released. The arrested Israeli however, his friend, his partner, was out the whole time.

That is how it always is – under apartheid law. As a rule we always made sure that if Palestinians were arrested, Israelis were arrested too so as to show solidarity, to protect our friends inside detention and to document the way they are treated.

Until 'A'. 'A' was arrested last Friday together with another 20 Israelis, Palestinians and internationals at the main demonstration in Nabi Saleh marking a week since the murder of Mustafa Tamimi. Among the arrested was a close family member of the killed, Mohammed Tamimi as well as Mohammed Khatib from the Popular Committee of Bili'in – one of the most moral, creative, funny, determined, brave and moving people I have ever met in my life. When the time came to sign the conditional release form at the police station (a 15 day injunction order from Nabi Saleh) 'A' and her friend refused. They were brought before the judge, they refused again and were sent back to detention. They notified the authorities that they were standing in solidarity with their friends Tamimi and Khatib and they would not agree to be released while the two others were still in detention.

In the end, Khatib was released and 'A''s friend signed the conditional release form, but Tamimi and 'A' stayed in detention. At the Shalom (Peace) Court of Justice in Jerusalem, on Friday, on Saturday, on Sunday and this morning – Monday – she will again have a hearing to extend her detention. The same thing will happen in this hearing that will happen in every one after it, 'A' will communicate an exceptional message of solidarity. She demonstrated, with her action, with her imprisoned body in a disgusting cell at the Russian Compound in Jerusalem, the absurdity of the apartheid laws of the occupation, the way it differentiates between partners in the struggle by their origins, by the nationality dictated to them, by the ID card they carry in their pockets.

The distance between home to jail

In all fairness, it should have been standard procedure, for all of us. Just like we are arrested together so we should stay in prison together. We should refuse, all of us, to sign. All the Israeli activists arrested in the same protest together with all the Palestinian activists. The village elders say that once it really was like that, in the first intifada and before. Everyone refused, everyone was jailed together (that way, they explained, they didn't separate between the arrestees at the detention centre, unlike today).

Alas we do not refuse. We sign. We give up on a demonstration for two weeks in one place and go to another, and then again back to the place we were originally banned from and at the end of the day we always go home: to comfortable warmth, to a soft bed, to sleepy cats, to familiar food, to favourite books and to the embracing lover. We go back to routine, to work, to tasks, to meetings, to nights out, to Facebook, to the blogs, the newspapers, the greengrocer, the neighbour who got his bike stuck in an awkward position, to family dinners, to a light that needs fixing in the hall, to our studies and to the streets that turn into a river when it rains for more than five minutes.

Our friends do not. They stay with Shabas (Secret service agency) issued uniform, in a cold tent in Ofer Military Prison, with nothing from home. Remember how Abudallah Abu Rachme described the months in jail with no shoes and no watch? Like that. That is the man jailed under a government that imprisons any unjustly. That is the man Thoreau is referring to. That is the just man that should be imprisoned too. A is doing the most just thing that can be done under the regime that we have here.

There is no end to the reasons for signing a release form, for the reasons to return home. It can be said that practically it will not help since, of course, the Palestinians are not released any earlier because of it. It can be said that it just snatches away more good activists who are very much needed outside. It can be said that a worthy struggle sets before it not only fairness but also the well-being of the strugglers, and there is a need to do as much as possible so as to survive and not become drained. It can be said that it is a more sustainable way as opposed to a situation where we will all be in jail. And its true. Its all true. However, despite everything, there is something very right, more right, in 'A's actions. Something that marks clearer than ever before the ugliness of the system. And like a beacon of light illuminates the right change in this method. Therefore, today, also those of us sitting at home – we are all 'A'.


Update: Monday, 12:20:

The police have had enough of 'A''s stubbornness, and a few moment ago decided to release her without insisting for a signature requiring a 15 day injunction from Nabi Saleh. In fact they just threw her out of the detention centre. 

Translated by Ruth Edmonds

A Letter from Mohammed Khatib after Being Released

Dear friend,

I have just been released from jail, after three days inside. I was arrested last Friday, together with 22 others, in the village of Nabi Saleh, during a demonstration commemorating the murder of Mustafa Tamimi. Our arrest took place as we peacefully protested near the entrance to the Jewish-only settlement of Halamish, which is built on lands stolen from Nabi Saleh.

Minutes after we got to the gate, Israeli Border Police officers moved in to remove us from the scene. Palestinians, Israeli and international activists, we were all shackled and dragged away into military jeeps that transported us to the adjacent military base, which is in fact part of the settlement.

In the military base, still shackled, I was assaulted by a settler who hit me in the face, leaving me with a bloody nose. Shortly after, the settler also attacked a female Israeli activist who was by my side. The soldiers and policemen present did not prevent the attack, nor did they bother to detain the settler after the fact. Instead, the zip-tie locks on my hands were removed, only for my arms to be bound again, this time behind my back.
Hours later, at the police station, I learned that to cover up their responsibility for my attack, the soldiers have laid a bogus complaint against me for assaulting them. My hands were tied, my face was bleeding, but it was I who spent the night in the inside of prison cell.

Mohammed Tamimi from Nabi Saleh was also arrested during that same demonstration. While the police decided to release all the others, he and I were to remain in jail. During our demonstrations, soldiers often take pictures, to later use them as "incriminating evidence". This time, the soldiers used one such picture to accuse Mohammed of throwing stones during a demonstration a few weeks or months back. The man pictured in that photograph is not Mohammed Tamimi from Nabi Saleh, regardless, he remains in jail. Military law allows Israel to keep us Palestinians in jail for eight days before seeing a judge, and even then, it is a soldier in uniform who is the so called neutral arbitrator.

As the prison doors closed behind me, my happiness was clouded by the fact that Mohammed Tamimi was not released. The battle for his freedom is only beginning, as our lawyers prepare the petition for his release. If you can, please help us fund legal aid for him and for the countless others who are regularly arrested protesting Israeli Occupation.

I would also like to use this letter to extend my gratitude to Ayala Shani, an Israeli comrade who was arrested with me. She refused the injustice of being released while both me and Mohammed Tamimi were still detained. As these words are written, she is still in jail, despite having been offered her freedom twice already by Israeli courts.

Mohammed Khatib

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Death Rules Here by Ben Ronen




“Ola is somewhere, I don’t know, Saddam is in Jordan, back soon, Louai is up there with all the shebaab (youths), Oudai – you know where he is…… a fortnight he will be released from prison and will return to the village, and Ziad is at a wedding in Ramallah.” “And where is your son?” I ask Abd al-Razak as we sit outside under his olive tree with his wife Ikhlas, just a few minutes before the start of the weekly demonstration. “Mustafa?” He went out early today. One of his friends came by to collect him and they went to Nablus.” Maybe it’s a good idea that he keeps away from the village for one Friday.” I say. “He can be wherever he wants, he’s grown up” Abd al-Razak replies.

I haven’t been to Nebi Salach for two weeks and coming back now gives me a powerful feeling, a feeling of coming home. Even the knowledge that in just a few minutes this special calm will be replaced by a warlike atmosphere doesn’t change it. On the contrary, it is strengthened by this knowledge, and adds meaning to it. “Were you here when the army came looking for Mustafa?” Abd al-Razak asks me. “They were always looking for him. They came at night, surrounded the house from every direction. He managed to jump out of the window and get away. I was here inside when I heard them firing. One of the soldiers aimed his weapon at me. He was only a kid, about 19, and I started to yell at him to move the gun away from me. Then the officer came down from the roof to see what was going on. I said to him: “I’m a sick man, you come into my home and your soldier points his gun at me?” The officer replied: “I know that your son Mustafa was here, and that he throws stones every week”. I held my wife tightly and said to him: “We also throw stones at you, we all throw stones at you”. I held out my hands and said: ‘Here you are, arrest me and my wife’.”

In the evening, after the last of the demonstrators had dispersed, the soldiers had abandoned the village and the clouds of tear gas were hanging in the chilly evening air of the pastoral village, I went back to say goodbye to Abd al-Razak and Ikhlas. Everyone was sitting outside, Mustafa too, dressed up stylishly, as was his way.


Friday evening. We are sitting at the entrance to the recovery room at Beilinson Hospital, waiting. Two hours ago we were sitting in the doctor’s room and he was explaining to us about Mustafa’s condition. Someone was trying to translate his explanation, and I understood that his condition was not a severe as we had thought. It’s going to be alright, they said. One of the doctors emerges and tells us that Mustafa has been transferred to the neurosurgical department. We go up in the elevator and walk towards the admissions desk, Ikhlas is worried but we reassure her. Waiting.

Another nerve calming cigarette, before making our way back up to the ward. At the entrance, someone stops us saying quietly: “We have just been told that it is a matter of hours until he dies. I don’t understand - none of us understand – just a few moments ago we were talking about taking everyone on a trip to the beach and to eat in Jaffa and now you are saying that he is about to die? We go into the lobby, Ikhlas’s cries split through the dreadful silence of the hospital. We try to calm her, to comfort her and give her a little hope. But she knows. She can feel it.


In a dream. We are standing outside the hospital elevator early in the morning. Ikhlas smiles and says “Let’s go to the beach now” My phone buzzes indicating that I have a message. I wake up with a start. The message says: The doctor said that Mustafa’s brain failed at 5am. He won’t live out the day” It is 7:46am and I slip back into the dream about the beach. The phone buzzes again. It just says: “He died”.


We are waiting in the lobby of the funeral hall, I look towards the elevator and wait for it to start coming down. The numbers move slowly, the elevator stops, the doors open and a stretcher emerges, bearing a figure shrouded in a white sheet. Living people are in the room, but death is in the air. The ambulance driver has forgotten something upstairs, and we stand silently around the body, waiting for him to return, to save the situation. I sit at the back of the ambulance, as it races along the highway towards the Rantis checkpoint, I reach out and dare to touch him, first his arm and then, his head. I don’t know if this is real or not, but I do know that this is the last time that I will be close to him.


After the earth had covered the last piece of the flag that the covered you, I didn’t know where to go. Then, the familiar Friday shouts started. I went closer and saw faces shouting the same familiar slogans, but their faces were different today, their tears were barely dry but they were already holding rocks, going down once again to the roadblock, to the jeeps. One of them hugs me tightly, and says: “Better to die on your feet, than to live on your knees." I nod in agreement and think that maybe he is right and it will never end, but we will not give up.

Monday, December 12, 2011

In Memory of Mustafa: The End of Another Demonstration by Michael Treiger

by @Dustbowl_Pal

It was in the hours of early afternoon, another weekly Friday demo in Nabi Saleh drawing to a close as Israeli soldiers begin to retreat from the hill which stretches from the upper levels of the village to the heavily guarded Al Kaws spring which was violently overtaken by neighboring Halamish settlers exactly 2 years ago.

In the distance we saw a huge armored caterpillar tractor speeding its way inside the village accompanied by 2 armored jeeps. Everyone knew what this meant. It meant carrying out the destruction orders put upon several houses in the village as punishment for their residents participating or organizing the weekly Friday demos. We rush towards the road to try & face the tractor while its operator is busy plowing into some rocks on the side of the village’s road, as we get closer to the tractor we are overwhelmed by a rain of teargas which covered the road completely in an unbearably painful choking fog, even a tiny whiff of which renders one blind, with irritating skin & unable to breath minutes after it passes. The brave & brazen youth of the village begin barraging the armored tractor with rocks from a hill next to the road as soldiers poking their steel marble bullet rifles & aluminum teargas canister launchers flinging bullets & canisters which whistle centimeters by the protestor’s ears, breaking the limbs of some.

As the gas gets overwhelming the youth descend onto the road, at which point, the tractor & armored jeeps are making their slow exit out of the village & towards the army checkpoint located just outside the village homes at the eastern extremes of the village. The smothering fog begins to clear as I hear disturbing screams coming from further down the road. The screams get louder, the last remnant of the poisoned smoke clears the view & I see Loay Tamimi screaming, jumping up & down with a madcap look on his face, not a few meters from him I see a body of a man laying on the road next to the makeshift checkpoint made out of roadside rocks which the village youth use to try and block their village out of reach from marauding IDF armored jeeps, skunk water trucks, teargas cannon mounted trucks, deafening “Scream” jeeps & massive armored trucks which are used to carry armed units in and cuffed, blindfolded & humiliated villagers out.

It is far from unusual to witness a protestor passed out cold on the ground, it is most commonly caused by asphyxiation on the highly potent teargas used by Israeli soldiers to disperse any and all demonstration taking place in the West Bank which are not organized & filed with Jewish settlers. As I try to catch my breath I notice Zi’ad, Loay’s brother is weeping hysterically, the screams get louder I took off running as fast as I could I hear screams of “His face is gone!”, frightened male & female crying resounding in unison as if made by a ghost which descended on this stretch of road to immolate any vibrating strain of nerve it was sensing in my paralyzed knees which just kept on gliding me forward without any sensation whatsoever by that point.

As I get there I see Zi’ad kneeling next to the unconscious man, his whole body shaking, his eyes flooded blood red, attempting to clean the man’s head with his Kaffiya holding it like a mother cleaning a baby after a bath, that’s when it hit me: “Oh no, it is one of Abd AlRazek sons..” as I rush to the body I looked in the face of a dead man.

“Oh My god.. it is Abd Alrazek’s eldest son who is engaged to be married soon!”


I am sitting on Abd Alrazek porch with Abd’s two sons & solidarity activists, its completely dark outside at the edge of this typically hot Palestinian autumn day after a long & hectic peaceful demonstration which was met with a typical out of proportion violent response by the IDF which, at one point, calmly apprehended two of Abd’s sons Ziad & Mustafa from a street corner, later taken them to an army checkpoint & cruelly beaten with the blunt edges of their weapons. Ziad was there on the porch with us that late evening but Mustafa was not. I told Abd about the time Zi’ad virtually saved my life during one of my first demos in the village I almost passed out scaling the hills around the town with the IDF on our tail, I could have easily fallen off the if it wasn’t for Zi’ad’s constant pulling my ass up another stretch above sea level. After serving us watermelon appetizer for the meal to come shortly I began buggering Abd about his 2nd son which was not present. With a calm manner he confessed his oldest son was visiting with his bride to be & he was unlucky to be released with his brother & that he is most likely on his way to the dreaded Ofer military prison then proceeded to regale a bunch of gawkish, mouth breathing Israelis (us) about his own shocking experiences under Israeli military captivity while his wife & sons piled more food on the plastic table.


Abd Alrazek AlTamimi, father of 7, is a dialysis patient who has been looking for a kidney donor for many years. As of late his situation has began to deteriorate rapidly at which point he could no longer physically participate in the villages weekly peaceful demos to protest the occupation and increasing encroachment on the villages land by settlers of the adjacent settlement of Halamish. Abd Alrazek owns two ford West-Bank taxies \amd is a taxi driver for a living, but since the stark deterioration in his condition he spends most days hooked up to an old dialysis machine which was installed in his home and leaves him barely able to stand & even sit for long periods of time. Due to his condition all family income duties have been unloaded upon his 2nd eldest son Ziad with the help of Abd’s own brother to taxi the fords up & down the West Bank.
As with such blessed burden which a 23 year old finds himself under comes an unexpected benefit. If Ziad goes to Ofer the family loose their lose source of income & Ziad was spared for that day.

Uday, Abd’s 20 year old son & one of two twins has been sitting captive in Israeli military prison for 8 months for taking part in the weekly demos in the village, few months ago it has been revealed that Uday has been transferred to hospital for a broken jaw after being beaten by the blood thirsty beasts who man Israel’s special prisons for West Bank and Gaza Palestinians since the time Abd himself was captive in them.
Uday is set to be released within the next week.

The Fortunate Son

As a crowed was gathering around the Mustafa I was unable to figure out my place in this scenery. Politically active, highly stubborn, independent “know it all” drained of all meaning & purpose. I am surrounded by Mustafa’s brothers, a few of his friend & his sister, all of whom were in a state though as if the world was melting all around them. I’m the one who received the privilege to be in the company of these iconic men & women in this historic period of a struggle which has the entire world on its tipping scales. The sole reason for that is absolutely NOT a vehicle to wash off my guilty settler conscious! I was entrusted with a blessed burden. The burden which helps me sustain my self worth & my very existence as a loyal comrade of the oppressed. To prove that is not an easy task, I am filled with a purpose to be an accessory in the most important revolutionary struggle in the region where I reside and I attempt to contrast my biological based standing as a privileged being of the colonial-settler caste under the Zionist entity which I loath with all the blood that is coursing behind my eyes for making me, the son of a Russian “Aliya” migrant single mother, the spazzy tourrettes kid who was cursed & beaten every day in Israeli school & despised by Israeli teachers for being a hyperactive, jokish, spazzy “foreigner”.

I could not bare to stand a politicization & realize that according to all the social maths I am a colonial privileged member of this human pile they like to call “Israel”.
I began a labor which continues to this very day, that labor was critically wounded as I looked into Mustafa Tamimi’s eyes right there on that stretch of road on which he fell.

Voices began emerging as if out of a bottomless canyon, a ford taxi was pulling next to us & I couldn’t make any sense of the voices urging me to quickly pull Mustafa, with a deep gaping hole on the half of his face, into the taxi.. to my eternal shame I snapped a picture as another shabab quickly took my place and lifted Mustafa to the taxi driven by Mustafa’s uncle urging it to go to “Tel Aviv!!” where such mortal injury had a chance to be treated successfully unlike the provocatively understaffed & undersupplied Ramallah hospital.

This moment lasted hours in my head. I replayed & replayed it hundreds of times in a matter of minutes, as I was wondering aimlessly throughout the screams and panic I saw a friend of mine, completely loosing it with a number of people trying to get that big rock man under control. He has just come back from the hospital right back into the chaos. He was shot earlier on his head with a plastic covered steel marble bullet, being a Palestinian and one who never backs down in the face of an army he gets injured shockingly often with an injury more gruesome and bloody than the last one. All he does is smile as the Israelis in uniforms pellet him with everything they’ve got. This is a very common sight in the demos in Nabi Saleh! These are the people that fill the ranks of every important peaceful demonstration in the West Bank, no matter how shamefully small! shockingly many of whom are of the same little village of 500, the mass of a villager with a common name: Tamimi, and I was the worthless little worm standing next to these assembly of giants mourning over a fallen fellow giant.

At which point i wanted to bury myself, I wanted to hurt.. I have been pouncing around the aluminum teargas canisters, sound bombs & plastic covered marble steel bullets in front of the soldiers for 4 hours while ppl I officially count as my comrades but in reality consider to be my betters, were falling left and right with bleeding ears, broken arms & ankles, I was the fortunate one! I don’t get just as emotionally involved as a native Palestinian would to risk his flesh to defend the honor of his homeland and I appear “international” or “Israeli” and the army has a proven policy in effect to harm ONLY Palestinian Arabs. This is well known and the main reason why Palestinians under violent occupation would think to invite us Israelis into their hallowed turf of martyrs.

I couldn’t even consult the grieving friends & family of the fallen giant as I don’t share a common language with most of them. That’s when the blood streamed back in my veins reaching my knees and I began to march forward in the chaos, with absolutely no destination at all. The Israeli Army, universally unbeaten in shameless displays of power in the face of their defenseless victims, set up a number of “mobile checkpoints”, files up with soldiers, at the site of their gruesome crime.

The soldier screamed “Stop! I told you to STOP!” I walked on determined to face in the direction of the jeeps that shot Mustafa without any plan in my head or a reason. A commander walked up to me, grabbed me by the collar & repeated “go back or I will have to arrest you” at this moment, tearing up, I exploded with a barrage of insults aimed at the unhuman scum facing me: “you will not tell me where to stand or go! You S.O.B you scum of the earth, murderer! You’ve murdered someone today! You piece of shit you!!” at which point he ordered one of the soldiers to cuff me as I tried to walk on, I kept screaming “how do you feel? you criminal murderer? You murdered a human being! You feel proud?” his response: “Yes ,I feel very proud of that!” after that I turned mute. Standing handcuffed the soldier ordered me to come along with him, I refused, he then pushed me ever so slightly forward, repeatedly, as I kept stopping he grabbed my coat & continued pulling me to the villages army checkpoint.

“Sit Down here!”.. “What are you DEAF?? SIT DOWN HERE!!!”..”YOU DON’T WANT TO ANGER ME, SIT DOWN!!” as I stood motionless staring aimlessly at the cloudy skies trying to wrestle the pain down the soldier noticed a number of press cameras pointed to my direction, he pulled me behind the large prisoners jeep & again ordered me to sit down..

Afraid to risk an “international incident” he just let me stand.. I rly wanted him to beat me right there.. I wanted it soo bad.. my insides were rotting with shock & grief I wanted to anger them to beat me right then and there! As I was “escorted” inside the mini barracks of the checkpoint I was getting unbelievably cold, but I didn’t utter a word to the guarding soldiers.. I was shivering and they felt cocky asking me in English “what what you do here? Why you come photograph Arabs.. Stinking Arabs?” as I stayed mute they commented in Hebrew “this one looks touched in the head”, “yeah this ones got crazy written all over him”, “an Arab gets shot in the eye & all hell breaks loose…” returning to English: “its good you know, its good that we shoot stinking Arab in the eye” resuming to Hebrew: “I just want to kick him in the head so bad bro.. so bad” I wished it! coming out of there with a big bruise, I deserve it! Fucking useless idiot!

The wind blew stronger through the mini barracks pores & I was beginning to shiver more intensely & felt dead inside until I heard the villagers banging away at the metal checkpoint gate just outside, it made me feel warm, a warmth I did not deserve.

The Hospital

As I arrived late at the hospital where Mustafa was moved to after being cut free I was told of police violently denying the few relatives who’ve received permits to see Mustafa at the hospital from entering the premises. Mustafa’s sick father and any of his brothers and sister were denied permits to leave the west bank at all to see their mortally wounded brother & son. Mustafa’s mother, his uncle who drove the taxi & his son were all who were given permits. The family were subsequently allowed to enter the premises of the hospital out of that famed goodness of the Jewish heart presented by the hospital security administration. After making our way in under false pretences due to hearing that a number of solidarity activists were violently kicked out of the premises for “crowding” Me and my friend found the other solidarity activists who’ve made it in via similarly deceptive means. Bits of Information about Mustafa’s condition were sent to us via the family members who sat outside emergency room where we were all afraid to ascend to for fear of sparking another row with security guards who will not hesitate to violently remove Mustafa’s mother from the premises. We sat patiently as unbelievable news began reaching us.. “his eye is intact!” “he is in recovery, they’re going to clean the blood and try to save the eye!” It seemed totally fantastical compared to the scenes of Mustafa burned into my mind. But I believed every word that came out of that hospital staff.. it seemed so incredible I kept flashing images of Mustafa with a huge facial scar, sitting on his father’s porch smoking nargilla, feeling of guilt & worthlessness slowly ebbed to the back of my mind where they stay vigilant at all times until they are desperately needed or decide to invite themselves without warning.

The Last Time I Saw Mustafa’s Mom before Writing This

Surrounded by activists & supporters sat Umm Mustafa with a blank stare which seemed as the bravest blankness I’ve ever seen! I was taken aback and began to calculate what to say.. and if I can say that?.. will she understand me? do we even have a common language? I chickened out..

As the activists were leaving I saw Umm Mustafa walk away into the darkness of the emergency ward, sat down on the floor and began weeping quietly. It was unbelievable… all this, all this brave face and attention she gave to the supporters and activists it was all just a face.. I drove the 2 hours home with my friend in total silence and went to sleep thinking sweet thoughts of bandaged Mustafa, sitting on his dad’s porch smoking nargilla safe in the knowledge that Uday is playing football in the town’s field.

Rest in peace
My dear better Mustafa

مصطفى هو العلم بقلم راية زيادة

الشرش شكلو عنا ضرب
صمت تنازل ثم غضب

رسم الحدود و هرب
شاف الخارطة, صرخ يا عرب

نعم انهزم انهزم
شاف حالو قزم

اوسلو طلعت مش زلت قلم
ما رسم, كان بيرتسم

انصدم, حلمو بينهدم
وبينهدم, ينهدم, هدم , دم

وصار العلم هو الالم
مش اخصر , مش أصفر
مصطفى هو العلم
يحكي قصة شعب انظلم

في الم في امل
في امل جوا الالم
لما دمو غطى العلم
في الم ..في الم..في أمل

Mustafa Tamimi… a true Palestinian hero by Amra Amra

by @amraamra

Shock, disbelief, anger, rage, grief, shame, denial. These are just some of the overwhelming feelings that are flooding my body as I sit here contemplating one question… Why? Why is it that these feelings infiltrate me as a Palestinian? A Palestinian living the brutality of occupation. A Palestinian who witnesses injustice and human rights violation on a daily basis. A Palestinian who now NOT optimistically hopes, but rather resorts to dreaming of a brighter tomorrow.

For as long as I remember, I clearly recall knowing that being Palestinian is much more than being just one of the many identities in the world. Being Palestinian carries so much more weight and meaning. So much more that I cannot even put onto paper. No human words can express, no tongue can speak, and no mind can comprehend.

For so long, unknown pictures, stories, and names were what I read. The anonymous Palestinian who was imprisoned, the anonymous Palestinian who was murdered, the anonymous Palestinian who was evicted. But the “anonymous” was enough for me. It was enough for me to sympathize. It was enough for me feel. But the feeling of sympathy and compassion is fundamental and in human nature. Or at least that is what I naively thought. Now what we unfortunately have is overwhelming desensitization and ignorance.

When I read articles, it is now filled with familiar names and pictures. The “anonymous” has now become more personal. I cannot even attempt to grasp the tragic death of the fallen martyr, Mustafa Abdel Razaq Tamimi who was deliberately killed by the aggressive and heartless Israeli Occupation Forces in Nabi Saleh. The whole crime was captured by photographers and media. The scene in which prevented his sister, Ola from seeing him was documented and published. The tears and cries of help were yelled as UN vehicles paraded the crime scene, not even slowing down in an attempt to help. Even the Israeli aggression against the mourners in Nabi Saleh on the day of Mustafa’s funeral was evident. While family and friends paid their respects and attempted to come to terms with what the fascist Israeli apartheid regime had done, those same fascist Israeli apartheid regime combated them with excessive toxic gas , dirty skunk water, and their soulless blows and punches against courageous activists.

I have been told endlessly that I take “these things too personal” and that I shouldn’t. I take these things too personal. At this point I’m saying the phrase out loud because I don’t understand it. “I take these things too personal.” Nope, it still doesn’t make any sense out loud! I think that everyone should take this too personal. Mustafa should be considered as everyone’s brother, son, and friend. More importantly, every Palestinian, and I mean EVERY Palestinian should be saluting his bravery in resisting the Israeli apartheid regime at the front lines. For Mustafa sacrificing his precious soul for Palestine. Every Palestinian should have a feeling of shame that they themselves were not there with him. At least that is what I feel… shame.

For those who tell me that I take things too personal, I will continue to take it too personal and at heart because I’m human! I breathe, feel, cry, laugh, love and hate. So when someone hurts me, I hurt. When someone tickles me, I laugh. When we mourn the loss of a fellow Palestinian brother and other desensitized Palestinians are watching on the streets, smirking and making ridiculous comments, I will feel fury. When someone steals the life of another comrade in such a brutal and grotesque way, I will grieve. I will grieve… just like others are grieving.

When the international community tells Palestinians to adopt to more peaceful resistance in resisting the ongoing Israeli occupation, that is what we do. Yet, we are met with the same and even more brutal suppression. At this point I do not know what gives me the hope to continue, and I think many will agree. Nothing seems to make sense now. But one thing does make sense. Mustafa Tamimi’s soul has not gone in vain. We will carry him with us in our continuous struggle against occupation. We will not give up Mustafa… and that is for sure!

Dedicated to the brave and courageous Palestinian of Nabi Saleh… Mustafa Tamimi

Fellow Activists Mourning the Murder of Hero Mustafa Tamimi

In Memory of Mustafa: The End of Another Demonstration by @dustbowl_pal

مصطفى هو العلم بقلم راية زيادة

Mustafa Tamimi… a true Palestinian hero by @amraamra

A farewell to comrade Mustafa Tamimi by @abirkopty

…but we will keep going by @palyouthvoice

Eyewitness describes Mustafa Tamimi's last moments by Ibrahim Burnat

Goodbye Mustafa Tamimi by @manararam

No miracle yesterday in Nabi Saleh: Mustafa Tamimi murdered by @LinahAlsaafin

Mustafa: Truly Chosen by @MariamBarghouti & @dalsaafin

Mustafa Tamimi – A Martyr of Nabi Saleh by Sanaa Sultan

more to come...