Cathy Sultan's Blog, page 16

A SLAUGHTERHOUSE OF BLOODIED CARCASSES

The morgue was in the hospital’s lower level. Rather than walk through the lobby and descend two flights of stairs, Sonia and Nadia were directed to follow an outdoor walkway along the side of the building which eventually opened onto a spacious courtyard. Dozens of mourners, mostly women dressed in black, mingled about.

When Nadia pulled open the heavy steel door, she discovered more people inside the morgue’s vestibule. She and Sonia politely nudged their way through the crowd until they reached the Information desk.

“We come to identify the body of Ali Hajj,” said Sonia, “and prepare him for burial.”

The man ran his finger down one page, then another and another, until he finally found his name with a corresponding number. “It isn’t pleasant in there,” he said. “Are you sure you want to go inside? We can prepare his body.”

Nadia watched Sonia shake her head furiously at the suggestion, which made her wonder how she could doubt a woman who would do such a kind thing?

“We’ll do it ourselves,” Sonia said.

“As you wish,” and the man jotted down Ali’s identification number on a piece of paper. “Follow me.”

The stench of decomposing bodies in the hot, windowless room was a cross between rotten eggs and stinking Brie. Nadia felt the urge to vomit. While she swallowed hard to keep from gagging, she opened her purse, grabbed a wad of Kleenex and pressed it over her nose. It took her eyes a long minute to adjust to the dimness. She and Sonia followed the man down row after row of what looked like a slaughterhouse of bloodied carcasses. So many children, thought Nadia. My heart aches for their parents. It was tragic enough that they had to bury their young but to have to come here to identify what was left of them was beyond imagining.

When she saw the charred bodies, she realized that Israel was using white phosphorus bombs again. She’d seen photos of victims from the ’82 bombing of Beirut where the bodies burned like human torches. Eventually, the fire burned down, leaving charred, unidentifiable remains.

A young Muslim couple stood nearby, clinging to each other. They were there to try to identify one such corpse, laid out on a sheet-draped table. Another woman clutched a bouquet of white lilies in her hands. Their sweet fragrance lingered in the suffocating air. She searched for her young daughter. When she saw the upper torso of a child who lay headless in front of her, in a red polka-dot dress, she began to sob. Another twelve little bodies, a macabre patchwork of severed limbs, were placed on yet another table, awaiting identification.

They followed the man past dozens of corpses. Is there no end to the number of bodies here?

The man read Nadia’s mind. He shrugged and said, ”I know. What can I do?”

Eventually the man stopped and pointed to a body. “Is this Ali Hajj?” he asked.

Sonia nodded.

“You have thirty minutes to prepare him for burial. You’re welcome to stay. Given the circumstances both a priest and an imam will perform the funeral service.”

A Christian woman brought Sonia a sponge, fresh water, three sheets and three pieces of rope so she could wash and prepare the body according to Islamic tradition. When she finished cleaning the body, Sonia bent over and kissed him. Nadia then helped her wrap him in three sheets, tying them closed at the top, the middle, and at the base of his feet. The task completed, Sonia let Nadia take her arm and lead her back to the foyer to join the other mourners. As she turned to look one last time at Ali, she saw two young men lift his body. They would carry him outside and place him alongside the others.

The mourners moved to the burial site. As the older women began the ritual ululating and young parents openly sobbed, the Greek Orthodox priest and the imam chanted in unison, asking God to forgive the sins of the deceased and ease their transition into heaven where they would reside and be preserved from the fires of Hell. Voices choking, Sonia and Nadia repeated the prayers along with the other mourners.

“I wish Ali were alive to take a photo of this scene,” whispered Sonia. “Look at us—Christians and Muslims mourning together, sharing the tragedy of war and death, and then burying our loved ones together.”

“You did the right thing, Sonia. May he rest in peace.”

“I’ll have to tell his mother when I get back to Beirut that we gave her son a proper burial.”

As Nadia turned to leave, she froze. She saw him. He was standing near the main door. He looked around. She knew he could only be looking for one person, her.

This is an excerpt from The Syrian, a political thriller. The book is available for purchase here.amazon

INTERVIEW WITH A DEMINER IN SOUTH LEBANON

AN INTERVIEW WITH A DEMINER IN SOUTH LEBANON

“I am a medic by profession and I volunteer with the Red Cross whenever there is a crisis, like the 2006 summer war with Israel. I have also been trained as a deminer and that is what I am currently doing full-time.

When our team of deminers enters a village for the first time, we try to meet with the mayor. He gives us the demographics—number of people who normally live there, location of buildings, roads and anything else that might make our job a little easier. The mayor has usually had time to survey the damage too and can give us an indication of the approximate location of the bombs. Our team always includes a medic and his ambulance. They keep their distance from the work site, approximately 150 meters, in case of accident, but they are there to assist in case we need emergency care.

Whether it is a field or a house covered with bomblets, we cordon off the area with barbed wire. One member of our team enters the field to determine what kinds of bombs are on the ground. If it is a large bomb and too fragile to move, it is detonated where it lies. Once the determination is made, we don our gear, turn on our detector machines and enter the field, working one baby step at a time. We work in teams of three but if the area is large, we might be five, sometimes more.

The moment I step onto the field I am only concentrated on where my foot goes and what the detector is telling me. Nothing else matters. The hardest part of my job is the psychological stress. It goes without saying that a deminer must be physically fit but he must also be mentally sound. I know myself that no matter what may have happened earlier in the morning, when I arrive at my job and I enter a room that I assume is full of bomblets I cannot afford to think of anything except finding those bombs. Even if my child is ill or I have had a fight with my neighbor, I cannot bring these stresses to my job.

I remember one day when I thought I would lose it. My team and I were called urgently to come to a village. A woman had returned to her home. I don’t know what she could have been thinking. She surely must have known her village was covered with cluster bombs yet she walked inside her house and began picking up things that had fallen on the floor. She must have suddenly realized that she was in a room full of bombs because she panicked and started screaming over and over, “There are bombs here. I’m going to die.” Fortunately for her someone heard her and called us. By the time I reached her front door she as in a state of sheer hysteria. I could not calm her down and wasn’t even sure how I was going to get her out of the house safely since. I slapped her face. I didn’t know what else to do. No hard but just enough to bring he to her senses. I am not sure who was more startled, the lady or me, but it worked and I was able to lead her outside to safety.

So while I try not to focus on dying or whether or not I will see my family again, and only think about finding the bombs, my days are enormously stressful. The company I work for thinks it will take upwards of ten years of hard work to rid South Lebanon of the bomblets left by the 2006 Israeli-Hezbollah war. I pray I will stay alive and well, both physically and mentally, so I can continue this important work.”

Human Rights Watch asked Israel to provide information to the UN Mine Action Coordination Center on the location of its cluster munition attacks and the specific weapons used. They asked that Israel also provide technical, financial and material assistance to facilitate the marking and clearing of cluster duds and other explosive remnants of war. Israel never responded to this request.

This is an excerpt from Tragedy in South Lebanon: The Israeli-Hezbollah War of 2006. Available for purchase here:amazon

REMEMBERING GAZA ONE YEAR LATER

On July 7, 2014 Israel launched an air, ground and naval assault on the Gaza Strip. Its 51 day assault killed 2,100 and injured 11,000 innocent Palestinian civilians.

Israel’s ability to frame its assault against the Gaza Strip, a territory it occupies by air, sea and land, turns international law on its head. A state cannot simultaneously exercise military control over territory it occupies and militarily attack that territory on the claim that it poses a national security threat and is acting in self-defense.

Israel has repeatedly rebuffed the applicability of international law as it pertains to the occupied Palestinian territories. In the case of Gaza Israel goes so far as to claim that because it unilaterally withdrew from Gaza in 2005 it is no longer occupying Gaza. In an attempt to further skirt international law pertaining to occupation, Israel, in 2007, declared Gaza a hostile enemy. Under this policy not only Hamas but the population at large is treated as enemies of Israel. This, according to Israel, exonerates them from specific laws on occupation. Nevertheless, examining what international law says with regard to an occupant’s right to use force is worthwhile in light of Israel’s deliberate attempts since 1967 to reinterpret and transform the laws applicable to occupied territory.

The UN General Assembly resolution 3246 of November 29, 1974 affirms “the legitimacy of a peoples’ struggle for liberation from colonial and foreign domination by all means including armed struggle to protect itself.” Otherwise stated, a people under colonial domination (the Palestinians) have the right to use armed struggle against their aggressor, Israel.

Israel’s actions are an affront to the international humanitarian legal order which is intended to protect civilians in times of war. Sadly, Israel’s attempts have proven successful in the realm of public relations, as evidenced by President Obama’s uncritical support of Israel’s 2014 onslaught of Gaza as an exercise in the right of self-defense. Since international law lacks a hierarchical enforcement authority, its means and scope is highly contingent on the prerogative of states, especially the most powerful ones. The implications of this shift are therefore palpable and dangerous for left unchecked the actions of Israel, and by complicity, our own government, will eventually erode a global mechanism that strives to maintain stability and security through a balance of power that is based on legitimacy and responsible behavior.

The tensions began last July when Israeli forces killed two Palestinian teenagers in the West Bank. This was caught on tape and viewed worldwide. On June 12th three Israeli youths were abducted and killed. Once their bodies were discovered, a group of Israelis kidnapped a Palestinian teenager, poured gasoline down his throat and burned him alive. These atrocities, committed by both sides, came on the heels of the collapse of the US-led framework negotiations and immediately after Hamas’ ratification of a unity deal with the Fatah-controlled Palestinian Authority in the West Bank. President Obama welcomed the unity deal; Prime Minister Netanyahu immediately sought to undermine the reconciliation by using economic warfare. He withheld payment of salaries for 43,000 civil servants in the Gaza strip. On his orders Israel’s armed forces then rampaged throughout the West Bank, abducting more than 560 Palestinians. And finally, claiming Hamas was responsible for the abduction and murder of the three Israeli youths, Netanyahu began bombarding the Gaza Strip in a campaign of collective punishment. The perpetrators, as it turned out, were not members of Hamas but rogue Islamic elements that acted without the knowledge and against the wishes of Hamas leadership.

On July 15 an apparent ceasefire was achieved. It was an optical illusion. The mediator was the new Egyptian dictator, General Fatah al-Sisi, an open military ally of Israel and a client of American largesse. Instead of negotiating with Hamas, he dictated a ceasefire on Israeli terms without consulting Hamas. Hamas leaders learned of the ceasefire from the media and rejected it out of hand. Hamas, in its offer of a ten-year ceasefire, asked for the easing of the suffocating border closures imposed on Gazans seven years ago.

Israel continues full-scale warfare on Gaza, an open air prison and the most densely populated place on earth and Hamas retaliates.

How will this tragedy end? There will be no end, just round after round, unless a political solution is adopted. This would mean: stop the rockets and the bombs, end the Israeli blockade, allow the people of Gaza to live a normal life, further Palestinian unity under a real unity government, conduct serious negotiations with honest brokers, not the tired old US and Israeli imposed impostors and make lasting peace in a region of the world that has already seen far too much war and tragedy.

MY FIRST TURKEY

i had a romantic notion of what life would be like with Michel, but I failed to recognize that an essential component of this relationship was that one of us needed to know how to cook, and it had to be me.

Before we moved to Boston fifty years ago where Michel was to begin his medical residency in Internal Medicine at the Lahey Clinic, I had rarely set foot in a kitchen. This was my mother’s domain and I lacked even the most basic cooking skills. Turkey seemed like an easy thing to prepare, so it was one of the first things I tried. One Friday evening before we left for a party I got out a small turkey that I had bought on sale at the supermarket. I went into the kitchen early Saturday morning−despite a very late evening−still wearing my white fur slippers. Somehow I got the idea that long, slow cooking at a low oven temperature would result in a succulent bird. I wanted the turkey ready to put in the oven by late morning so Michel and I could have the afternoon free to do something fun. As I was taking the plastic wrap off the bird I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the stove. My hair stuck up in all angles like a rooster. I kept looking at myself, at the muscles on my forearms working as I tore the packing off and rinsed the bird.

“Look at you, Cathy,” I said. “You’re a chef and your first turkey is going to be great.”

For some reason I thought I knew how to cook stuffing. I sautéed some onions in vegetable oil, burning them only slightly; then I poured the stuffing mix on top. It got very stiff until I consulted the instructions: ‘add water.’ When I thought I had poured in enough liquid I stuffed it all inside the bird and closed it up with toothpicks. I put the bird in the oven at 300 degrees just before Michel and I left for a stroll along the Charles River.

When we returned I made mashed potatoes, defrosted peas and opened a can of cranberry sauce. When I thought it was time I pulled out a perfectly browned bird from the oven, transferred it to a serving platter and proudly set it on the table. It was not until I had already put the cooking pan to soak that I realized I had forgotten to save the juices. Fortunately, I had a can of ready-made gravy in the kitchen cabinet.

Blood spurted forth as I cut deeply into the turkey, spotting my dress and the white tablecloth. Michel flung himself back just in time to avoid blotches on his dress shirt. The bird was cooked to a depth of about one inch; the rest was raw. Michel sat quietly with his eyes lowered and his hands in his lap. I searched the surface of the bird to find cooked bits to put on his plate but found no more than a few thin slices. I filled his otherwise empty plate with a mound of mashed potatoes and lots of peas, smothering it all with the canned gravy.

“You’ll like the stuffing,” I said, turning the bird on its side. More blood gushed out, followed by a sac full of inner organs I had neglected to remove before stuffing the bird. Michel stood up, threw his napkin on the table, walked to the bathroom and locked the door.

The minute I heard the key turn I scooped up the bleeding turkey, took it to the kitchen and threw it in the garbage bin. When he came out of the bathroom I was sitting on the coach.

“Would you like to take a starving lady to dinner?” I asked sheepishly.

The next morning I went out and bought Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. There I was, the eager, aspiring young cook paging through the recipes, learning about such things as blanching, braising, deglazing and sautéing. The old me, the one who brought up feeling insecure, the one who failed other challenges, might have said, “Here’s something else I’m not good at−I can’t even cook.” But my life was changing and instead of accepting that first failure I was determined to become a great cook.

One evening, much to Michel’s delight I tried one of Julia’s recipes with scallops. She called these round silky mouthfuls that felt like wet tongues Coquilles St. Jacques. After simmering gently in white wine the scallops were delicately spooned into a velvety blend of cream and egg yolks, returned to their shells, sprinkled with grated Swiss cheese and briefly placed under the broiler. A glass of Sauvignon Blanc, at Julia’s suggestion, to accompany my scallops transformed Michel’s mood into a romantic one. I could think of no better motivation to become an excellent chef.

PALMYRA

After two calm weeks in the company of family and friends, Michel was preparing to return to us in Madison, WI. On his way to Lebanon he had flown Chicago-New York-Frankfort-Beirut. When he re-confirmed his return flight the travel agent in Beirut suggested he change his ticket to take a faster, easier flight via Damascus-Frankfort-Chicago. Michel agreed. The idea of a better connection and time economized overrode the common sense decision to stay out of Syria. His brother Raymond volunteered to accompany him to Damascus the following afternoon, a three hour drive from Beirut.

When Michel and his brother arrived at the Masnaa border crossing, Raymond told Michel to wait in the car while he presented their permits to the border guard. Moments later the office door swung open, smacking furiously in the mortar siding. An officer pushed Raymond out the door. Michel watched in horror. Before he could react, the soldier flung open the car door and pulled him out by his shoulders.

“Your Syrian papers,” he yelled. “Hand them over.”

Michel was so scared he couldn’t remember where he had packed his documents. When he finally found them, the solder took a minute to examine them before ordering him inside.

“You’re under arrest as a deserter from the Syrian Army,” he shouted.

Michel tried to explain that there had been a mistake; he had papers to prove his innocence. A simple telephone call to Lattakia could clear everything up.

Raymond said he would drive there to fetch the papers. When the soldier heard this, he snatched Raymond’s car registration out of his hand. Without that document Raymond could not legally drive in Syria. Then the soldier grabbed Michel by the arm and led him to a cell.

“I’ll get to Lattakia somehow,” he whispered in English. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.”

A mile past the border crossing Raymond saw a soldier hitchhiking. He stopped and picked him up, reasoning that with a soldier in his car he would not be stopped at one of the multiple security checks along his route. At around four in the morning, when Raymond ran out of gas a miracle happened. A taxi driver saw the soldier in his car and stopped. He siphoned gas from his car to Raymond’s and six hours later with the soldier still at his side, he arrived in Lattakia.

He went directly to his office to retrieve the papers. When he discovered that he didn’t have the keys to his file cabinet, he hired a local thug to break it open. With papers in hand Raymond went to see a General he knew who in turn called the Commandant of the Military Prison in Damascus. He assured him that Michel’s papers were indeed in order. The General in Lattakia knew that Michel would automatically be transferred to Damascus from the border jail, a routine procedure for anyone detained at a border crossing. He requested that the Commandant keep Michel in Damascus until his brother could return with the documents, to which he agreed. Before leaving Lattakia, Raymond called his cousin Gisele who was visiting her parents in Damascus, gave her the number of the official document, and asked her to go to the Commandant’s office with the information while he was in route.

Meanwhile back in Masnaa Michel had spent a sleepless night on a narrow bench in a windowless cell. A hole in the ground served has toilet; he was given neither food nor water. The next morning a guard approached his cell. He introduced himself and said he, too, was from Lattakia. He warned Michel that he was going to be transferred to Damascus and on to the underground prison in Palmyra. Then, glancing to either side to make sure no one was looking, he pressed his face between the bars and whispered, “Is there someone I can call for you? Once you leave here no one will know where you are.”

Michel gave the guard Gisele’s name and her parents’ number in Damascus. Because the arresting officer had not taken his personal belongings, he gave what money he had in his pocket to the guard, a small payment for his kindness and for saving his life.

Looking out a small window in the detention room where he was being held in Damascus pending his transfer to Palmyra, he caught a glimpse of Gisele as she walked past. Minutes later he was ushered into the Commandant’s office where she was seated. She reassured him that Raymond was on his way with the papers.

“So,” said the Commandant, “you’re a physician.”

And the Commandant took that as license to recount his personal medical history. When word got out that Michel was also living in the states, six guards crowded into the room and peppered him with questions. Michel assumed their queries would also be medical but they were more interested in life outside Syria. How were blacks treated in the states? Were jobs easy to find. Could people live anywhere they wanted? Did Israel really tell the US what to do?

“We even heard that they bought off the entire American government,” one said.

“Only Congress,” laughed Michel.

Since he knew he was about to be free, he had a question of his own to ask.

“What would have happened to me if I hadn’t been able to prove my military exemption?”

The guards exchanged nervous glances; they were forbidden to speak of such things. Finally, one said:

“You would have been loaded into a windowless van and taken to the underground prison in Palmyra. No one would have ever known where you were. You would have died there because no one leaves Palmyra alive.”

A MERKAVA TANK

I was familiar with Lebanese and Syrian Army tanks, both of which had been patrolling our streets for seven years. The Israeli battle tank was something altogether different. One day we were having lunch in Wadia’s apartment in Achrafieh when we heard a deafening noise, a harsh, rumbling sound which vibrated the French doors leading off her dining room. We were drawn irresistibly on the balcony by the noise, just as we were by every explosion and every air raid.

The size and sound of a Merkava were meant to intimidate, to instill fear, to extort unconditional surrender. I do not know how tall from the ground it was, but from my vantage point on the fifth floor it looked as though the driver could have hopped onto any second floor balcony along his path. We watched as it slithered its way down our boulevard, spewing blue-gray fumes out its rear and ripping up the hot summer asphalt like sticky glue, engraving our road with a reminder of its passage in case we might one day forget to be thankful. Daunting, and without regard for anything in its path, it paraded its might shamelessly for all to see, crushing two cars, a large garbage container, and a stop sign before coming to a halt and parking in a nearby field to ‘protect our neighborhood.’

Several days later I stood near a Merkava at a nearby gas station while waiting to refuel my car. My five-foot-six-inch frame came nowhere near the top of its wheels. It was not just the enormous height that was so unnerving; the dark dome of its turret loomed over me, watching my every move, turning with me as I walked around. It was spooky, as if there was no one in there.

That same week Michel and I had a personal encounter with a Merkava. I was driving my VW Bug on our way to our apartment in Badaro. Just past Hotel Dieu Hospital I had to maneuver the car through a one-way maze of connecting streets before I reached the main intersection of Corniche Mazra and the Justice Ministry.

Apparently the Israeli soldier and his Merkava were in a hurry, and decided to take a shortcut through this same maze of streets. It was our misfortune to encounter this speeding behemoth coming the wrong way toward us. In light of what these reckless drivers did to cars—in the south one callously drove over a car with four family members inside because it was in its way—Michel and I quickly waved our hands out our respective windows, indicating we would be happy to back up. This seemed far preferable to having our children read about the incident in the newspaper the following day: ‘A prominent physician and his American wife unwittingly found themselves in the tight corner yesterday with an Israeli Merkava. Even the amazing maneuverability of Mrs. Sultan’s VW Bug could not save them.’

IN CASE WE MET AGAIN

The new Damascus Central Prison was an imposing block of multi-story buildings surrounded by high walls. Barbed wire stretched along the tops of the four sides. Nadia and Mounir were ushered through the main gate by a contingent of security guards into a brightly lit courtyard. Mounir turned right and drove the length of the building. When he arrived in front of the door in the back of the building he stopped the car.

They entered with a key attached to a chain Mounir pulled from his pocket. Nadia followed him to the far end of the entrance. She watched as he unlocked a heavy steel door. Again, she followed him, this time down a narrow, steep staircase with no railings and lit by bare light bulbs. Mounir had confirmed over coffee that there were twenty-two remaining prisoners, some of whom had been disappeared a quarter of a century earlier. Still, at the bottom of the stairs, she was hardly prepared for what appeared to be a dirt-strewn burial site, a literal tomb for those still living. Each cell, approximately ten by ten feet, had a bed consisting of a cement slab, straw mattress and thin blanket. Nadia gagged on the powerful stench of urine and feces.

She turned to Mounir.

“They have no proper toilets?”

“They use a hole in the ground.”

“A hole?” These men go in the same hole every day? They’re never cleaned?”

Mounir shrugged.

As they stood talking, she felt something graze her leg. Startled, she looked at Mounir, wide-eyed.

“A rat,” he said. “Don’t kick him, he’s friendly. The prisoners feed him.”

Nadia shuddered but followed Mounir down a narrow passageway until he stopped before one door. He motioned with his head and eyes, inviting her to look inside. Panic-stricken, Nadia stared at Mounir. He gestured again with his head. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“It’s been thirteen years. Surely you can give me more time.”

“I have my orders.”

Yes, thought Nadia. Jaafar would have given such an order: Let her see her pitiful husband but just for a short while.

She turned and looked inside the cell. In the dim light, she saw a man seated on the floor, hugging his legs to his chest. Even through his loose prison garb, she noticed Elie’s diminished, withered body. His hair, once dark and curly, was now white, long and straggly. Nadia’s stifled cry caused him to look up. Nadia watched him stare at her for a few seconds before he finally spoke.

“You’ve come…why?”

Unsure how to respond, she finally replied, “Because you’re my husband.”

Fighting back tears, Nadia watched Elie struggle to get up onto his knees and crawl to the door.
With enormous effort he hoisted himself up until his eyes met hers. He reached through the bars and touched her face.

“You’ve waited for me all these years?”

She evaded both the question and a straightforward answer. Instead she brought his hands to her lips and kissed them, then pressed them into Elie’s face.

“I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“The day the Mokhabarat took me, I cried−not because of what I’d endure, but because I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve forced myself to stay alive in case…”

“In case we met again,” said Nadia.

(Excerpt from The Syrian, a political thriller.)

Syrian-230x335

IN CASE WE MET AGAIN

The new Damascus Central Prison was an imposing block of multi-story buildings surrounded by high walls. Barbed wire stretched along the tops of the four sides. Nadia and Mounir were ushered through the main gate by a contingent of security guards into a brightly lit courtyard. Mounir turned right and drove the length of the building. When he arrived in front of the door in the back of the building he stopped the car.

They entered with a key attached to a chain Mounir pulled from his pocket. Nadia followed him to the far end of the entrance. She watched as he unlocked a heavy steel door. Again, she followed him, this time down a narrow, steep staircase with no railings and lit by bare light bulbs. Mounir had confirmed over coffee that there were twenty-two remaining prisoners, some of whom had been disappeared a quarter of a century earlier. Still, at the bottom of the stairs, she was hardly prepared for what appeared to be a dirt-strewn burial site, a literal tomb for those still living. Each cell, approximately ten by ten feet, had a bed consisting of a cement slab, straw mattress and thin blanket. Nadia gagged on the powerful stench of urine and feces.

She turned to Mounir.

“They have no proper toilets?”

“They use a hole in the ground.”

“A hole?” These men go in the same hole every day? They’re never cleaned?”

Mounir shrugged.

As they stood talking, she felt something graze her leg. Startled, she looked at Mounir, wide-eyed.

“A rat,” he said. “Don’t kick him, he’s friendly. The prisoners feed him.”

Nadia shuddered but followed Mounir down a narrow passageway until he stopped before one door. He motioned with his head and eyes, inviting her to look inside. Panic-stricken, Nadia stared at Mounir. He gestured again with his head. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“It’s been thirteen years. Surely you can give me more time.”

“I have my orders.”

Yes, thought Nadia. Jaafar would have given such an order: Let her see her pitiful husband but just for a short while.

She turned and looked inside the cell. In the dim light, she saw a man seated on the floor, hugging his legs to his chest. Even through his loose prison garb, she noticed Elie’s diminished, withered body. His hair, once dark and curly, was now white, long and straggly. Nadia’s stifled cry caused him to look up. Nadia watched him stare at her for a few seconds before he finally spoke.

“You’ve come…why?”

Unsure how to respond, she finally replied, “Because you’re my husband.”

Fighting back tears, Nadia watched Elie struggle to get up onto his knees and crawl to the door.

With enormous effort he hoisted himself up until his eyes met hers. He reached through the bars and touched her face.

“You’ve waited for me all these years?”

She evaded both the question and a straightforward answer. Instead she brought his hands to her lips and kissed them, then pressed them into Elie’s face.

“I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“The day the Mokhabarat took me, I cried−not because of what I’d endure, but because I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve forced myself to stay alive in case…”

“In case we met again,” said Nadia.

(Excerpt from The Syrian, a political thriller.)

THE POLICIES OF OCCUPATION AND REPRESSION

Since my first visit to Israel-Palestine in March 2002, I have returned four times, including a visit to Gaza in November 2012. In those twelve years the more things have changed the more they have stayed the same. Realistic solutions were proposed. Regional players were offered concessions. A neutral party with international respect could have led the negotiations and brokered an agreement. Instead, the US acted as Israel’s lawyer demanding impossible concessions from one party and not the other.

Since Ariel Sharon unilaterally withdrew the 7,000 Israeli settlers from Gaza in 2005, Israel has turned the Gaza Strip into an open-air prison for daring to vote in Hamas over a corrupt-riddled Farah in elections forced upon the Palestinian Authority in January 2006 by the United States. The Palestinian Authority was charged by Israel with crushing Palestinian resistance in order to make the occupied territories safe for continued Israeli occupation. Hamas’s success, therefore, was as much an expression of the determination of Palestinians to resist Israel’s efforts to force their surrender as it was a rejection of Fatah’s willingness to act as Israel’s agent. Hamas’ victory reduced the conflict to its most fundamental elements: there is occupation, and there is resistance. After its win, Hamas signaled that it wanted to continue its unilateral truce with Israel. Hamas clearly believed it could make such an offer from a position of strength and it was to its tactical advantage to leave uncertain when and how it might resume full-scale armed resistance. Israel and the US refused to accept the election.

After three major Israeli assaults against Gaza, the latest in July-august 2014, there is yet another war waiting to happen in Gaza. The last one changed nothing, nor did the two before. Hamas rockets are still being test-fired. The draft Security Council resolution at the UN, championed by Palestinian leader, Mahmoud Abbas, seeking a withdrawal of Israeli forces from the West Bank by 2017, amounts to nothing but an elaborate sideshow. The real matter of diplomatic urgency going into 2015, for the Palestinian people and the world, is the end of the lock-down in Gaza.

The supposed reconciliation between Abbas’s Fatah and Hamas has proven worthless. None of the causes of the conflict have been addressed. As Roger Cohen wrote in his December 2014 New York Time article Gaza is Nowhere: “Nobody wants to talk about Gaza because it reeks of failure—the failure of opportunities offered after the Israeli withdrawal in 2005; the failure of a 2006 election that ushered Hamas into power; the failure to achieve Palestinian unity, a prerequisite for successful peace talks; the failure to prevent repetitive wars; the failures that led to the sealing of the Rafah-Egyptian border and the utter failure to offer the most basic minimum of decency to the 1.8 million Palestinians trapped in Gaza.”

For all these misgivings, Ali Abunimah opines in his book The Battle for Justice in Palestine that the Palestinians are winning even though, in some ways, things have never looked worse. For all the undeniable truths about the current facts on the ground, it is not the Palestinians, as people seeking self-determination and liberation, who face constant doubt and anxiety about the legitimacy and longevity of their political project.

It is no secret that Israel, today, is mounting unprecedented resources to combat a global boycott, divestment and sanctions (BDS) campaign. In just a few short years since this project was launched academic associations, trade unions, churches and pension funds are adopting policies to isolate Israeli institutions and foreign companies that are complicit in crimes against the Palestinian people. Judith Butler, the prominent American Jewish philosopher wrote: “Within the last two years I have seen how individuals and groups have emerged from their state of mute fear and anxiety into a tentative desire to talk. Rather than shutting down the dialogue, this campaign is generating more discussion, more action, new support, even among American and Israeli Jews.”

While there is no guarantee as to what will happen in the future, the legitimacy of Palestinian rights remains a priority in the developing phases of the Palestinians’ quest for empowerment, as long as it rests on nonviolent forms of mobilization, international law and their demands for basic human rights.

I am a firm believer in “people power.” We have the capacity to serve as the principal agents of change. This attitude goes against the grain of so-called “political realism” which is based on battlefield results. Richard Falk, who acted as Special Rapporteur in Occupied Palestine from March 2008 through March 2014, recently wrote that he was at a private dinner attended by dozens of diplomats. The French Ambassador said: “Forget about the Palestinian struggle. Israel has won. The Palestinians have been defeated. I may not like the result, but to think otherwise is to dream idly.” His comments echo the cynical view of history that ignores the power and the role of ordinary people and ignores the successful outcomes of the political struggles of the last seventy-five years.

The Palestinian struggle is all inclusive; it is nonviolent. It affirms rights under international law for both Israelis and Palestinians on the basis of equality, justice and respect for each other. The target in this struggle is not the State of Israel but the policies of occupation and repression.

(This piece is the Introduction to the third and updated edition of Israeli and Palestinian Voices: A Dialogue with Both Sides.)

THE POLICIES OF OCCUPATION AND REPRESSION

Since my first visit to Israel-Palestine in March 2002, I have returned four times, including a visit to Gaza in November 2012. In those twelve years the more things have changed the more they have stayed the same. Realistic solutions were proposed. Regional players were offered concessions. A neutral party with international respect could have led the negotiations and brokered an agreement. Instead, the US acted as Israel’s lawyer demanding impossible concessions from one party and not the other.

Since Ariel Sharon unilaterally withdrew the 7,000 Israeli settlers from Gaza in 2005, Israel has turned the Gaza Strip into an open-air prison for daring to vote in Hamas over a corrupt-riddled Farah in elections forced upon the Palestinian Authority in January 2006 by the United States. The Palestinian Authority was charged by Israel with crushing Palestinian resistance in order to make the occupied territories safe for continued Israeli occupation. Hamas’s success, therefore, was as much an expression of the determination of Palestinians to resist Israel’s efforts to force their surrender as it was a rejection of Fatah’s willingness to act as Israel’s agent. Hamas’ victory reduced the conflict to its most fundamental elements: there is occupation, and there is resistance. After its win, Hamas signaled that it wanted to continue its unilateral truce with Israel. Hamas clearly believed it could make such an offer from a position of strength and it was to its tactical advantage to leave uncertain when and how it might resume full-scale armed resistance. Israel and the US refused to accept the election.

After three major Israeli assaults against Gaza, the latest in July-august 2014, there is yet another war waiting to happen in Gaza. The last one changed nothing, nor did the two before. Hamas rockets are still being test-fired. The draft Security Council resolution at the UN, championed by Palestinian leader, Mahmoud Abbas, seeking a withdrawal of Israeli forces from the West Bank by 2017, amounts to nothing but an elaborate sideshow. The real matter of diplomatic urgency going into 2015, for the Palestinian people and the world, is the end of the lock-down in Gaza.

The supposed reconciliation between Abbas’s Fatah and Hamas has proven worthless. None of the causes of the conflict have been addressed. As Roger Cohen wrote in his December 2014 New York Time article Gaza is Nowhere: “Nobody wants to talk about Gaza because it reeks of failure—the failure of opportunities offered after the Israeli withdrawal in 2005; the failure of a 2006 election that ushered Hamas into power; the failure to achieve Palestinian unity, a prerequisite for successful peace talks; the failure to prevent repetitive wars; the failures that led to the sealing of the Rafah-Egyptian border and the utter failure to offer the most basic minimum of decency to the 1.8 million Palestinians trapped in Gaza.”

For all these misgivings, Ali Abunimah opines in his book The Battle for Justice in Palestine that the Palestinians are winning even though, in some ways, things have never looked worse. For all the undeniable truths about the current facts on the ground, it is not the Palestinians, as people seeking self-determination and liberation, who face constant doubt and anxiety about the legitimacy and longevity of their political project.

It is no secret that Israel, today, is mounting unprecedented resources to combat a global boycott, divestment and sanctions (BDS) campaign. In just a few short years since this project was launched academic associations, trade unions, churches and pension funds are adopting policies to isolate Israeli institutions and foreign companies that are complicit in crimes against the Palestinian people. Judith Butler, the prominent American Jewish philosopher wrote: “Within the last two years I have seen how individuals and groups have emerged from their state of mute fear and anxiety into a tentative desire to talk. Rather than shutting down the dialogue, this campaign is generating more discussion, more action, new support, even among American and Israeli Jews.”

While there is no guarantee as to what will happen in the future, the legitimacy of Palestinian rights remains a priority in the developing phases of the Palestinians’ quest for empowerment, as long as it rests on nonviolent forms of mobilization, international law and their demands for basic human rights.

I am a firm believer in “people power.” We have the capacity to serve as the principal agents of change. This attitude goes against the grain of so-called “political realism” which is based on battlefield results. Richard Falk, who acted as Special Rapporteur in Occupied Palestine from March 2008 through March 2014, recently wrote that he was at a private dinner attended by dozens of diplomats. The French Ambassador said: “Forget about the Palestinian struggle. Israel has won. The Palestinians have been defeated. I may not like the result, but to think otherwise is to dream idly.” His comments echo the cynical view of history that ignores the power and the role of ordinary people and ignores the successful outcomes of the political struggles of the last seventy-five years.

The Palestinian struggle is all inclusive; it is nonviolent. It affirms rights under international law for both Israelis and Palestinians on the basis of equality, justice and respect for each other. The target in this struggle is not the State of Israel but the policies of occupation and repression.

(This piece is the Introduction to the third and updated edition of Israeli and Palestinian Voices: A Dialogue with Both Sides.)