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So, a week hath passed it has since I arrived here. My time has been spent on a myriad of different things, from visiting a vast and swanky shopping centre in the centre of Jerusalem that was built on the ruins of a destroyed Arab village (they kindly named the centre after it), visiting people and places and finding somewhere to volunteer for the next month and a half.
Well, I have been staying in Ramallah with Lazar, the one whom we all met up the mountain in Petra who had a head torch and basically allowed us to see as we precariously made our way down before nearly being arrested as we tried to leave the park. He works for Palestine monitor, an online news site dedicated to informing the world about what is really going on here. I was going to try and volunteer with them, but alas they have just had an influx of people, so no go there.
On Friday I had a singular experience at my first Palestinian protest in the small village of Nabi Saleh which has lived with an ever expanding Jewish settlement on its doorstep for many years, though recently they have been trying to obtain more land even closer to the village (I think there are some really good photos of this protest up on www.palestinemonitor.org ) and have been trying to make life as unpleasant as possible for the villagers. To be honest, I really didn't expect what happened to actually happen, but there we are.
So we arrived and a small crowd of locals and foreigners, including a few Israelis were gathering as the midday prayer was coming to an end. Once everyone was assembled, we walked down the main street of this small village to the road that leads out of it towards the settlement. Slowly the crowd advanced towards the waiting armoured jeeps (two of them plus a handful of soldiers) chanting and waving flags. All very well and good, though you could feel the tension building as we advanced closer and closer. Now, I do not wish to be held up for libel, but I am fairly certain no stones had been thrown when the first barrage of tear gas were launched right into the road. I had been behind the main protest and, not wishing to be left behind in any way, had started running back up the hill when I saw most of the others doing the same. Unfortunately, one canister landed just in front of me afore I had time to avoid it, so I got my first lungful of the stuff then and there (alas twas not me last). It is not pleasant. Now I was told the best thing to do is to not breathe unnecessarily quickly, but having just been running uphill that proved to be easier said than done.
Now, regardless of your opinions on whether stones should even be hurled, this entire operation from start to finish seemed a complete over-reaction to Palestinians chucking a couple of over sized pebbles at a few fully armed Israeli soldiers. Other than home-made catapults they were completely unarmed. About half an hour after this started, when more soldiers had appeared on the small hill nearest the village and after a particularly strong bombardment of gas, myself and two of Lazar's flatmates were invited into one of the houses for some fresh air.
Apparently this was nothing on the week before, when the Israelis had entered the village itself and fist fights (sort of) had broken out amongst the tear gas which had smoked many people out of their homes. We had just entered the house which had become the scene of most of last week's calamity. The father of the house is supposed to be treated better than the other villagers as he has to liase with the settlers occasionally, however last week gas canisters had been fired through one of his windows, burned curtains and carpet and the smoke had forced two of the women of the house outside. When they got out, they were promptly arrested. One was held for a day, the other for a week. Neither of them had had anything to do with the protest.
When the father had told us this story I certainly wasn't sure how to take it. Of course he had little reason to lie, but perhaps exaggerate? All too soon however I was willing to believe everything he said. For perhaps 45 minutes I was on their roof watching events unfold, ducking as the occasional stray bullet came my way. The nastiest thing that they started to do was spray foul water which is apparently a mixture of sewage and nasty chemicals towards those throwing stones with the most alacrity, and also apparently just onto the bare grass on the hill leading up to the village because they wanted to. The stench that came on the breeze was enough to make one feel nauseous and after a short time we were forced by the smell into the house. Myself and one of Laz's flatmates were ushered into the living room where, with some amusement we watched everything happening 'live' on al-jazeera (live meaning about half an hour out). All seemed well.
All I heard was a sort of crack as the canister was shot through the window. The room and very quickly the whole house filled with tear gas. There was a general swift move towards the bedrooms and doors abruptly slammed. I was in a room with two or three of the women and about 15 small children, all under the age of 10. It was a very tense time - trapped on the first floor of their own home. It became gradually worse as the gas seeped into the room and the children found it harder to breathe. It was hard to take being completely powerless and all you could do was watch them become more and more afraid and panicked. The only way to help was to open the window, but the air outside was saturated with the none too pleasant aroma of the sewage water, so you risked retching from that or from the gas. What a choice.
Eventually someone put a ladder up the side of the house to the window and the women started to hand the children out to safety. Not long after that, some men appeared in the house with a few gas masks for the worst affected. When we got out of the house there was one ambulance dealing with those hit by the gas - mainly old women and children. Of course the media had a field day and were snapping evocative shots at every opportunity. Who can blame them? I disliked it at the time because they seemed to be profiting somehow from this village's misery, but I wonder how else anyone will ever hear about it.
As everything calmed down I started chatting with a few girls up on another balcony about football (manchester united, I ask you) and looking like Angelina Jolie or Marilyn Monroe (apparently neither). It was odd to see still smiling faces.
So, after that I decided to stay out of trouble for the week. I visited Nablus which is a dustily pleasant town if a little rough around the edges. It has a lovely old town which is blissfully tourist free and I was lucky enough to be there on a Saturday when the markets were in full swing. I tasted pretty darn good keneffe at the legendary al-aqsa sweet shop near the main old mosque and had all in all a pleasant wander. I then decided to take a photograph of a mosque tower. This act was deemed 'suspicious' by one local vigilante who came over and asked to see my passport. Satisfied that I was not an Israeli spy he let me go.
And go I did. I decided to call up a music centre I had been told about. To my utter surprise they answered, demanded where I was and 10 minutes later they had driven to pick me up. Twas amazing kindness and it was lovely to see their small centre (awtar which literally means 'strings') on the road that leads up towards the university. They are fairly new but still manage, on the few days they are open, to give music lessons to about 20 students a term (this is impressive when you see the size of the place) in violin, cello, piano, oud, percussion, saxophone and others. They also insisted that I came back one day and they would show me the rest of Nablus as by this time, completely out of character, it had started to rain.
A couple of days after that I visited the Kamandjati centre in Ramallah's old town. It is bigger than Awtar and situated in a wonderfully restored old building. I want to work here and it makes me want to just go to music college enough to be able to teach any of the instruments I play to a decent level here. On me way back to the flat I stumbled across a fish and chip shop. Seriously.
So now I am established sort of in the markaz feniq in the Dheishe Camp just outside Bethlehem. Of all the amusing things I have ever done in my life, my writing a letter to friends of the centre explaining that we want to raise money for giant animal costumes and bouncy castles in French has to be up there. I feel this is an in-joke that only my mother's side of the family may appreciate, so for all the rest of you I apologise. But still, it does sound a little like a rather warped GCSE French writing assignement, non?
I have rambled for far too long to then continue to describe what I am doing here and the centre, so I shall save that delight for another time. I am sure none of you can wait.
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