Essay from Jenin

They are so so brave - people are getting shot and injured or killed every day, every other day. So far here its been totally quiet. Very strange. Came here in response to an SOS call from an activist up here from Ireland called Queeva. The whole camp knows her, she's like a wilowy earth-fairy, i know that sounds like hippy bollocks but you havent seen her or heard her voice, very soft and lilty but her talk is rapidly intelligent and informative and full of assurance. She has long reddish hair, sun-down blue eyes, and in general, a lively, if often pensive, face. She walks around with nothing but her phone in her back pocket and some numbers scrawled on her arm and speaks fluent Arabic now, easily, musically, slapping hands with matey kids, warmly shaking those of the elderly camp residents out on their porches or at street corners. She's quite magical I think. She has walked out in front of tanks, arms aloft, with bullets flying over her head and rescued a boy from being turned into a flesh and bone siv by trigger-happy soldiers. He had been riding his bike in the street when a tank opened fire on him. He was shot in the back, 10 years old, paralysed for life. Queeva ran out of her house and shielded him untill an ambulance could arrive. She's only 23 but she seems much much older. I would have put her at 30, 32. She lived with comunities of resistance (like these here in the camps) in Chiapas, Mexico, Zapatista communities, for 3 or so years. All the people in the camp know her, the kids all pad bare-foot after her, yelling 'Queeva, Queeva, Queeva!'. And the shebab (yoof) give her nuff respect too. She called after 4 days of escalated violence in the town centre. 8-strong convoys of tanks were rolling into a small area, home to approximately 28,000 people, and firing constantly for 2-3 hours, fingers down on triggers with no abatement. Shops were catching on fire from the continuous impact. Bullets were flying over market stalls. A tank opened fire on a university student bus in the central bus terminal and injured 2 girls. One was bleeding profusely. When the students exited the bus, arms up, pleading for access to an ambulance, more tanks were called into the area, the bus surrounded and the shooting intensified. Everyone was on the ground, terrified. Schools and children on their way to school were also particular targets. 3 students were shot dead. Yesterday and today however, were quiet. Eerily so. Occasionally the soldiers shoot up flares into the sky at night, a warning sign of impending attack as the descendant light illuminates the camps and acts as a guide for apache or hilltop sniper fire. The flares hang in the sky like bright yellow stars, 4 or 5 at once. They look alien and sinister, all the more so for mimicking something natural and beautiful for the sake of something murderous.

I Felt really bad leaving the Bushkars, especially on the day that Alhan and her family all left to set up home in Om El Fahem, a small village in Israel. Alhan, (oldest daughter), her husband Ahmad (funny dude, dark, stubbly, quite vigorous, wears muscle Ts)Osama Bushkar the second, aged 3 weeks and sporting a full head of hair and pronounced manly features - spitting image of Mohamad, 15 year old comedian son, and the awesome Dina! - a strong, little explorer of a monkey imp who always smiles at me and give me a big Buz (kiss) when a family member hovers her above me. All the family were crying. It was really sad. I'm really close to the Bushkars. The girls all call me their sister, the mother, 'one of her own', Hanan, 16-years-old and hilariously funny and bright bright bright always makes up cute songs about me, and we just hang out y'know, we laugh together, take the micky out of eachother, pull stoopid faces at each other, they do funny performances now and gain (Hanan and Mohammad - these involve Mohammad donning a Hejab and swanning around with sunglasses on, pouting, and Hanan sucking in her cheeks in a mouth bulking-out way which makes her look like a very serious gibbon-woman.

She does it very straight faced. And we sing songs together too, me with my limited Nina Simone, Stevie Nicks and old nationlist Polish songs which I learned in Polish brownines and them with Martyr demo songs, freedom songs and Fairouz numbers. Fairouz is an Egyptian songstrel who sings like an Arabic Joni Mitchel at her softest softest, she's a diva, no doubt, and her music is accompanied by big swells of orchestral strings that make you think of over-done romance movies full of swooning heroines and rock-solid heroes. Anyway, it was hard to leave. There's a bit of a problem in Nablus in terms of internationals available for staying in houses, especially girls and I was really nervy about leaving them them alone.

There was one night last week when I finished up really late in the netcaf in old Askar and couldn't get back across to New Askar because of heavy tank fire to the west of Askar. Myself, American Mark and German John tried to get across but the journey involved passing along a darkened road with one illuminated spot in a junction, in the middle. It's a 10 minute walk but it was 10.30pm, not usually a problem time but the IDF was enfocring curfew Big style. The streets were deserted. Usually people would be sat on doorsteps, chatting, kids would be scampering around, the odd vehicle would vroom by, but this night, there was not a sound. Just the gunfire from the tank and the rumbling of other tanks in unknown but close parts. I couldn't get across. It was just too risky. In the dark, there was nothing to distinguish us from Palestinians in the dark. I had to stand by, and watch helplessly as lazer red beams
jutted over the Mosque in New Askar and hear the fire from the tank spit out over and over and over. No other intrernationals were in New Askar and noone was with the Bushkars. I had to stay at my friend Saif's (pron. Safe) Dad's place which has a clear view of the whole camp from the roof.

I called the Bushkars to let them know I couldn't make it and how totally sorry I was. ' You not coming here, tonight??' Hanan had said slightly desperately, 'No Problem' she said, 'No problem'. 'Fi Rzesh?' I asked, ('are there soldiers?'), 'Yes' she said, 'Really?', 'Yes, I can see a tank on the mountain (behind new Askar)and soldiers moving down, on foot'. 'ON FOOT?!', "yes, on foot. But no problem. They not here, not here'. Apologies and goodbyes over and out, myself and Saif's dad stood, side by side on the roof and looked out over to New Askar and strained our ears and eyes, watching the sparks spit from the bursts of tank fire and the ocassional red beam fall down on the homes in the camp. I just couldn't stop thinking and fretting and hoping that they wouldn't do their house, they wouldn't crash in and open fire on them or apache it, maybe bulldoze it, or arrest Habash (the oldest son, 22) for some bullshit reason or shoot the place up. As is was, nothing happened. They didn't enter the camp though, they just carried on, shooting into the night and rumbling up and down the streets.

Today I Watched loads of footage from April following the massive incursion by the IDF. 350 tanks. 52 killed. Numerous homes reduced to corpse buried rubble. I saw footage of incinerated bodies, charred remains, a man, sat, arms aloft, stuck in death and fire, just a black, boney, stiff sat body. Jenin took 10 days to 'fall'. The tanks were kept back at the entrance to the camp for a full 4 days, firing, firing, and exploding, now and again. The UN report published in August on the massacre (which refused to call the 11 day incursion and mass apache, tank, APC and F16 assault on the densely populated brick tenement camp a massacre) estimates number of soldiers killed to be 23. Before I left, a friend from back in Askar refugee camp, a PFLP activist, told me, 'Jenin is done'. 'What do you mean 'Done', I'd asked him. 'It's done, he said. They took all they wanted from it and there is nothing going on there now'. Jenin has a lot of Hamas activists, it's the most Islamic town in the West Bank, I seriously doubted that he would have a decent handle on the situation coming from a Marxist-Leninist secular political background, hostile to Hamas.

Eee gads, I have to finish this now, it's getting dark and we should return to the families we're staying with. Im here with 3 Protection Pour Peoples Palestine or whatever it's called, from France. They're cool, 2 of them, women, speak fluent Arabic. One's from Lebanon and the other from Tunisia. The guy of the group looks Arabic but he's totally French. My family is really lovely and hospitable. The daughter, Fida, 15-years-old is so overly generous!! Here is the list of gifts she gave me, vehemetly rejecting all my refusals:

3 sparkly crochet scarves - silver, electric blue and bronze
3 smooth lycra bras and knickers - honey coloured
3 chunky plastic rings - snowy glitter, rainbow and green and blue swirls
2 neclaces - plastic diva style, one green and yellow droplets and the
other metalic silver-black
2 long sleaved tops - one velvet poloneck, way too small I reckon and the
other a lycra jumper, receding snowflake design
1 furry racoon creature keyring thingimybob
1 soap - that reminds me of the perfumed talc my mother used to wear in
the winter, when i was a kid
1 pair of black cotton socks
1 razor

1 notebook (Highly useful) with 'You are welcome and I will be your friend for life? - I Love You! written on the first page So many people here are like this, honestly, it risks becoming a cliche to say it but it's true.

Anyway, I know this piece of writing isn't all that, it's not a report as such, it's just a bit of a pointer to what's up were I am, maybe it's too personal, not factual enough, I don't know, it seems to have floundered (the writing) recently and my energy to do it. ): I feel like I've lost the knack or whatever it was that was making it feel right or powerful or meaningful before. So, if y'all don't hear anything from me for a while, it's just that im doing other stuff or writing something that requires more concentration and attention etc which im not willing to send out unless it's properly researched or edited etc

arch/ive/ief (2000 - 2005)