Memoir of occupation: renewing a travel document

Well, thanks to the occupation that insists on persisting its presence not just physically but more of internally … something that feels like acid running every vein.

I had to pay a visit to the Ministry of Interior in Jerusalem today to renew my Travel Document. As some may know, we Jerusalemites do not carry Israeli Passports. Because Jerusalem was occupied under International Law in 1948 and after the 1967 occupation of the city, citizens became under Jordanian jurisdiction (it is quite a situation that needs some explanation). So our status in the city is this way; we carry both Jordanian temporarily passports and Israeli travel documents.

The Travel Document is renewed every two years, and it is something that serves quite as VIP in the Ben Gurion airport. For instance, if you carry this document like me, you don’t have to wait in the line, you are escorted directly to the last destination before the duty-free. Of course, the service includes complete body massage (some people call it body search). I often call it striptease.

When you enter any country with it, they look at you with quite an unusual, unexplained gaze. Sometimes they take you for an exclusive conversation (some people call it interrogation). You know some things like these. But for honesty reasons, it is much better than traveling through the Allenby Bridge (via Jordan). Because on top of all, the Bridge is a proper coordination of de-humiliation (de-humiliation is a concept I invented from the creativity of our situation). To be more honest, I prefer humiliation to de-humiliation. It is ok if most of you will not understand. Such feelings are especially for us, Palestinians.

Anyway, my visit to the ministry of interior.

My daughter and ex-husband were there before, taking a number in advance. My daughter called me as I entered to warn me to be relaxed and ignore anything that happens when I open because they already asked an exception (begging the security guards and the employees inside to let me in). Entering this place is exactly like entering prison. Not that I have ever been to jail, but it is like entering Qalandia checkpoint ( checkpoints, prisons .. kind of interesting entrances ). I cannot bring this closer to people’s imagination, but it is coming through metal gates and going through machine checks and all those details. The security “thing” over there. He could be either one of two things, a former ward in a dog shelter or a real prison. It was just a few moments of interacting with him, and it felt like poison injected into my veins. I started walking with my youngest daughter (who is also applying for a travel document) humming the Palestinian National Anthem and some of the revolutionary Palestinian songs I have seen a lot since the aggression on Gaza. It was helpful.

Luckily the first face I saw later was my ex-husband, so I had an excellent opportunity to master my fury in the right place.

We had two numbers ahead of us. The place was packed with people. After around forty minutes our turn came.

Usually staying with my ex in the same area for forty minutes doesn’t invite good consequences, but this time, magically, we were sharing the same sentiments. He experienced the same dehumanizing feelings from the guards at the entrance, so my daughters. There was this sense of hidden inserted feeling of dehumanizing that somehow we were all digesting, trying to evolve around it secretly each within himself. It wasn’t the place where we can complain; they can just deny us the renewal or anything.One never knows what this place hides for him.

Our turn arrived; the woman was “kind” speaking fluent Arabic who said she wasn’t an Arab. She also spoke fluent Hebrew. That is a perfect place of normalization I guess!! But Arabs are only Arabic speakers over there.

I wouldn’t describe the next hour as horrible; we were laughing sometimes actually. However, that intensity. That systemized approach to ethnically wipe us. I never thought how close it is. I know it was coming theoretically speaking. Watching the Israeli policy for years both from my experience, work and studies, I know how the system works it plans towards what Ilan Pappe called systematic ethnic cleansing. But living it is another thing.

First of all, there is this magnetic ID that in a year will be an obligation that says that we are residents for ten years. Our first residency was permanent residency. Of course, this ID is smart and with a GPS.

When my eldest daughter’s turn arrived, the “beautiful” woman scribbled through her Travel document and asked her why she has often been outside the country. She explained she was studying, and the woman started what turned into an interrogation, which ended up in giving my daughter many knocks on her foot not to talk much. The word residency in another country even if it is a student residence could have many different explanations to a “nice” “Arabic” “Hebrew”-speaking employee who was struggling to make a difference between a visa stamp and a residency. After making some phone calls, asking for what looked like emergency consultations, she declared that my daughter’s ID cannot be renewed until she finishes her studies and comes back to the country and prove that she was studying.

My son needed a paper that says that he doesn’t have an Israeli passport to issue his Jordanian temporarily passport. (Some new procedure the Jordanian side is asking for with the documents) If you are wondering why we need a Jordanian Passport, well it has some benefits. First, when you use it abroad, checking in makes us look more of normal. It says it is a PASSPORT, except for those who understand the difference, they would know the serial number that starts with a T. But this is not the worse situation seriously, it is only problematic when applying to Schengen countries when you realize that you can travel to country 1,2,3,4,5 but not 6,7,8,9,10…but one shouldn’t complain much about such small details. Of course, we can travel to Arab countries such as Dubai with this passport. And the best benefit is, that we don’t need a visa to Turkey. This is one real reason why I like to travel to Turkey or via Turkey. I just feel that I can show the passport with pride.

Going back to the paper we needed for my son. Well, well, well, was the situation. First, they cannot give such a paper. However, if they give a paper that says that he is a resident of Jerusalem and he doesn’t carry an Israeli passport this means that he can never be entitled to an Israeli passport for the rest of his life.

At that instant, I had a glimpse of an image; one day Israel will force the Israeli passports on us, and my daughter and son will be struggling not belonging somewhere. My son, holding this temporary passport of a country that is not his, that will force him to become a refugee in Jordan. My daughter denied her rights in living in Jerusalem because she decided let’s say to stay abroad for some time.

This whole matrix of control, as Jeff Halper calls it, suddenly felt surrounding me like a web. How this system systematically ethnically cleanses us.

How we just enter this place, which is one among many, the national security, Arnona, and the municipality are just a few to mention. Each and every possible mean of getting rid of the people of Jerusalem is just systematically organized and time is not even their limit.

Like a beast waiting for its victim to take the bait. It could wait and hold o n, resting assuredly that time is on its sid.

I went home after a couple of hours, understanding another occasion, while my heart is bleeding with tears on Gaza, amid the news of the savage murder of the four children on the beach in Gaza … That with all the brutality of murder and bombarding, there is this cruelty of hatred that they intentionally inject into us .. that is full of resentfulness and rage accompanied by a continuous feeling of being dehumanized …

I wonder how this could ever be mended …

 

سكر محلي محطوط عليه كريمة مخلوط بذباب وديدان وتلوث عامي عينينا

سكر محلي محطوط عليه كريمة مخلوط بذباب وديدان وتلوث عامي عينينا

 

 

بين حرية التعبير وبين وجوب اسكات الأصوات الملوثة للبيئة البصرية والسمعية، لا تزال الحرب تستعر، بين رافض لقرار المطرب هاني شاكر نقيب المهن الموسيقية، وبين مؤيد.

في السابق لم تكن هكذا مبارزة في فرض الآراء بين مؤيدة ورافضة لتأخذ مكانا. الانسان الطبيعي في أي مكان من ذائقته الحسية والسمعية والبصرية لا يمكن ان يحتمل سوء الأصوات التي كسحت استاد القاهرة عند إطلاق العنان لصوت مطربي المهرجانات في الفضاء المزدحم بالجمهور الذي كان يصدح مع الاغنية ومغنييها من كل الاتجاهات.

نفس الجمهور المدافع هو ذلك الذي جلس على مدار العقد الأخير امام شاشات التلفزيون وصوت لفرز أصوات المواهب من اراب ايدل للفويس للتالينت. تحولنا مع السنوات لخبراء ومقيمين للأصوات، وساهمنا برفع أصوات وانهيار أصوات تحت اسم المواهب وفخامة الأصوات.

 

ذلك المشهد للمغنين وسط الجماهير بإستاد القاهرة يمكن ان يكتب عنه الكثير. الكثير من الأسئلة احتلت فضاءات تفكيري بينما الالاف المؤلفة من الجماهير تصفق وتغني، حتى بدأ صوت المطربين بالنشاز الواضح مع كل صوت اصدروه. وكأن إرزيزا دوى وتساوت الأصوات في طنين أقرب الى نهيق.

ولأني لم أكن قد سمعت بالأغنية التي ملأت صفحات التواصل الاجتماعية وتعدت مشاهداتها المئة مليون، فكرت ان المطرب ومجموعته كان ينبغي ان يسجلوا قبل ان يخرجوا على الجمهور بأزيز خارق لطبلات الاذان. وفكرت ان نقيب المهن الموسيقية صاحب الصوت الدافئ والطروب كان محقا لإنقاذه اذاننا من هكذا أصوات برعاية مهرجانات وطنية الطابع. بالنهاية فإن الحدث كان وسط إستاد القاهرة. اكتظاظ للستاد كنا نتمنى ان يكون الحشد في مباراة تلئم صدع ما كان من آلام ماضية.

ولكن سرعان ما تحول الموضوع الى اخر في احقية المنع. فهل هؤلاء أكثر سوء من أصوات سيئة أخرى؟ هل هم أكثر خطر على المجتمع من الأصوات العالية والاجساد العارية التي تملأ الشاشات منذ سنوات؟ منذ تحولت اخاصمك اه وابوس الواوا لأيقونات الأغاني وصاحبتاها رمز الجمال ومبتغى الانوثة. لنعيش فيما بعد بمؤثرات كارثية من الأصوات والاشكال تبيع الاجسام وتصدر الانهيار الأخلاقي بمشاهدات اعلى فأعلى.

كنت قد تابعت الحفل الذي احيته كل من جنيفر لوبيز وشاكيرا، وكنت لا أزال أكون رأيا عن سبب تعريهما الفاضح بينما كان العرض مبهرا من ناحية الأداء ونتيجة لاجتهاد واستثمار حقيقي بعرض بهذه الجودة بحدث مهم لبطولة كروية. وفكرت ان تقليد الحدث باستخدام استاد القاهرة والانحدار بالاختيار من تعري الى نهيق كان بالفعل صادم. والاهم …بلا مباراة تتوسط الحفل ولا تنتهي به.

ولكن من انا لأبدي رأيي، فانا بالحقيقة لا أزال أفضل بكائيات هاني شاكر على حسب الاتهامات ونكد كلماته ودموعه على أغاني المهرجانات كما يسمونها. كنت حتى تلك اللحظة اظن ان أغاني او مطربي المهرجانات هم على شاكلة الموسيقى الشبابية مثل عزيز مرقة وتامر نفار وبشار مراد والفرق الشبابية التي تحاكي لغة الشباب وامالهم وتعبر عن آلامهم وترصد تأملاتهم وتطلعاتهم وحكاياتهم. ومنها ما هو مناسب ومنه ما هو غير ذلك على حسب الذائقة والمكان والزمان.

أغاني لا اسمعها ولا افهمها بالضرورة ولكن افهم تعلق الشباب بها. ولكن ما يجري من هكذا ظاهرة ابعد بكثير عما كنت اعتقد انه طرب مهرجانات. فطرب المهرجانات الذي يتم تداوله ليس فقط خطر ولكنه كارثة حقيقية. لم اصدق ان ما اسمعه وما اشاهده حقيقي. وصرت اسأل نفسي وبجدية ان كان هناك خلل بالمخدرات التي يتم تداولها بين الفئات الفقيرة بالمجتمع. فمنذ تحول محمد رمضان الى اسطورة، وصار المثل الأعلى للبلطجية على حسب تعبيره، انحدر الوضع بالتفكير بما هو شعبي وتحول الى بلطجة وعنف ومخدرات واستقواء وتنمر، صار بالنهاية جرائم مستفيضة.

عندما حصل الهجوم على فتاة في المنصورة ليلة رأس السنة في تجمهر الالاف وكأن الفتاة “سكر محلى” يجتذب اليه الذباب والدبابير للعقه، لم افهم ما الذي يؤدي بمجتمع الى هذا التدهور. مجتمع محافظ متحفظ ومتدين؟ كيف تحولت الفتاة بتلك اللحظات لكائن يمكن اغتصابه وانتهاكه وقتله لو لم ينقذها من كان لا يزال في عقله في تلك اللحظات؟ عندما سمعت كلمات الأغاني المختلفة التي يرددها هؤلاء، وعندما تم استبدال النشيد الوطني وآيات القرآن في طابور الصباح المدرسي بسكر محلي محطوط عليه كريما، فهمت كيف يتبعثر هؤلاء في الشوارع ليصبحوا أدوات عنف وجريمة. فبين صنف سام مدمر لما يزال موجود بالعقول من تعقل وإدراك وبين عنف متفشي يخرج فيه محمد رمضان بمسدس الى جانبه واستعراض بالعري والكلمات الركيكة العدوانية الفارغة من كل المضامين المليئة بالغباء والتحريض والتنمر والاستقواء بالعضلات والسلاح والسيارات التي تصير نتيجة طبيعية مع كل هبوط وانحدار وانحلال للمذاق العام.

عندما يصبح حلم الفقراء بالغنى على مرمى مشاهدات بالملايين تجلب الملايين، تكون المسخرة في كل انحلال لها من اخلاق وفي كل انحطاط وتردي أكثر مشاهدة، يصبح الطلب الطبيعي اقحام للذائقة العامة فيصير جزء بديهيا من سلوك المجتمع.

عنف وتحرش واغتصاب وتفنن بالقتل تحت كلمات أغاني وموسيقى تدق بالطبلة السمعية لتخرقها.

نلتهم سكر محلي محطوط عليه كريما ونتغاضى عن نصائح تربينا عليها بالابتعاد عما هو مكشوف وما يحيط به الذباب من حلويات.

فيصيبنا وابل الاوباء التي يبدو انها صارت تنخر في عقولنا وعيوننا واذاننا، فاصمتنا واعمتنا ومحت حواسنا وصرنا نمشي مواتا – مثل الزومبي- في هذه الحياة.

ملاحظة : اغنية سكر محلي لا تقترب  بسوئها من قباحة الكلمات والايحاءات التي يتم تداولها في هذه الصرعات من الأغاني. عنف ومخدرات واغتصاب وسفاح وتعابير جنسية فاضحة.

 

the non ending nostalgia to Return

When I first saw this video of a young Palestinian woman who came to a visit to her original village that was destroyed and now turned into a “national park” , I did not actually follow to the end. I just grabbed a sentence and I thought that’s it.. another nostalgic story of our displaced, destroyed, abducted memories.

when the video went viral, I thought , how magically this issue continues to capture our attention and thus our emotions.

Finally I saw the clip and I just could not stop crying. it was a minute of numbed emotions fulfilled with every second with arousing emotions that ended up in continuous tears.

how unfair it is ?

how heartbreaking it continues to be?

how deeply engraved the emotions of diaspora and return are existing in our consciousness as Palestinians?

a second, a third, a fourth generation and yet the memory only ignites so powerfully each time the tear of a refugee slips on the soil of what was once home… in a village … in a house… in a mosque or a shrine… in a tree that refuse to forget the owners that were brutally, savagely displaced.

In the Shadows of Men: Marriage

MARRIAGE

Since my divorce, I’ve studied and considered marriage carefully. It cannot be dismantled. No wonder marriage is described as an unbreakable charter. How can divorce be allowed to disassemble such an institution, when a nation of people, despite their many differences, has united around the singular idea that a full life must and should include marriage?

After my divorce, I fully trusted that the worst in my life had passed. I left behind the money and the glory and ran out with my children. I can work, I told myself. I am the one who built an empire with my husband. Why can’t I build another on my own? All I wanted was to lay my head on a pillow at the end of the day without someone else’s breath suppressing my own. To be able to wake up when I wanted to wake up. To get up and work or not work or do whatever I pleased. I wanted to breathe freely. I wanted to breathe without someone watching over every single breath.

Was that too much to ask?

For a time, it seemed impossible.

By getting a divorce, I challenged the very essence of a society in which marriage at its best was a marriage like mine. Women conspired against me, even my mother and my sisters. My husband was backed by an army of men dedicated to serving him and distorting me. They formed an entourage that surrounded him and stood by to help him and his family. Then there was me and my children… and God, perhaps. Or maybe He was busy protecting me on the multiple fronts that stretched beyond the horizon.

Each time I inhaled the air of freedom, I found myself besieged. I felt like a cat trying to protect her newborn kittens from encroaching and hungry felines. I forgot myself. I even forgot why I wanted a divorce in the first place—there were so many calamities coming from all directions. The moment I lifted my head, a new calamity appeared, as if the planets had united against me, as if the universe decided to oppose me, as if I were walking against a current each step of the way.

I raised my hands as an invocation to God, seeking sanctuary through my prayers. I started visiting graveyards in search of serenity. I wanted to sit with my grandfather. I wanted to talk to him, to cry on his knees. How I yearned to be consoled in his arms, to feel a kind hand expressing compassion for me. But the graveyard was dreary and fierce and filled with thorns.

There were more family members laid to rest there—more than I even realized—and the cemetery was crowded with the dead. I tried to clear the place of thorns, but they were too thick. The fierce loneliness of the place befuddled me, and I rushed to leave. I was astonished by how overrun the graveyard had become. The graveyards of Jerusalem are much like the city itself, with everyone scrambling for an eternal presence.

I left the graveyard adjacent to Lion’s Gate. I like this place for the way it gathers together the dead who were divided in life— Muslims, Christians, and Jews laid to rest on those different plateaus of the Jerusalem mountains. Our Islamic cemetery on both sides of the entrance to the plateau embraces Lion’s Gate, passes all the way through Via Dolorosa, and takes you from all directions to the Dome of the Rock. Our deaths embrace al-Aqsa from that direction.

The Jews look down from the opposite plateau, and Christians with their Gethsemane Church oversee the location. It creates a strange harmony that doesn’t otherwise exist in this city of collision. I wanted to get closer to God by praying at al-Aqsa. After all, a prayer there is like five hundred regular prayers elsewhere. I don’t actually like al-Aqsa much. It is a modest mosque. I don’t know why I always thought it was for men only. I like the Dome of the Rock more. It is pleasant, with a glorified beauty. There is much about it to observe and admire—its impressive artwork and architecture. It sits amid the courtyards like a beautiful bride that never ages. It only grows more beautiful with time. And maybe, the Dome of the Rock brings back warm memories from childhood.

When I accompanied my grandmother to Friday prayers as a child, other children would gather around me while I led the prayer like an imam. I recited prayers in such an impressive way that women and girls, and even my grandmother, would listen with pride. How I loved those days of my childhood. And how I feel transported back there when I’m within the stones of this ancient city. I don’t understand the charm of this place, and I don’t know if Jerusalem is a beautiful city. I often ask myself why so much fighting takes place here. It is definitely not among the most beautiful cities. Jerusalem is a way station for great civilizations. Its ancient stones affirm its origins. They tell of an emperor who brought with him a stone from his civilization and laid it in Jerusalem. It is a splendid place, however, with the various civilizations that passed through it and blew across it. It has a strange but real charm. It touches me the moment I enter any of its gates. The city is filled with the scent of history and contains a wondrous serenity despite the pollution in the air. It makes me feel warm and contained, despite the harshness of the surroundings and the eyes of the people.

I entered the mosque beseeching, dreaming, crying, complaining. I pretended to forget what was taking place around me—women sitting on the side of the room eating nuts and chatting. In another area, a gathering of women around a man discussing a fatwa or a religious issue that concerned them, perhaps. Children ran and played between other clusters of praying women. It was not yet prayer time. As if everybody were in that time between prayer—talking, entertaining, and gossiping.

I found a spot in a corner and was about to pray when a woman rushed towards me with a surprising attitude that befuddled me. “Some of your hair is showing from beneath your head cover,” she said. I was confused, and I started thinking of my hair, concentrating on what could be seen by others in the mosque more than on the prayer itself. But I wanted to find that certain place within where I could connect with God in His own house. So I ignored the thought of my hair. But no sooner had I bowed down with my head to the carpet than I sprang back up. The smell of the carpet was mixed with the smell of feet. I should have brought my own prayer rug, I told myself.

The odor was very strong, and I could not tolerate it. Sometimes I hate this aspect of myself. All of my senses are weak, except for my sense of smell. It is far stronger than my senses of hearing or sight. How can Islam be a religion of cleanliness? How can people wash five times a day for prayer (wudu) and their bodies still remain unclean? How can a person separate the cleanliness of his body from odors, from sweat in his unwashed clothes? Cleanliness is a part of faith. Why does our faith lack cleanliness? Ablution is mentioned in the Quran many more times than prayer. Don’t Muslims realize that ablution is a very clear demand for cleanliness?

I insisted on using the moment to become closer to God. I silently cried out to Him, begging Him, calling Him to save me. But the place was filled with children’s voices and women’s gossiping murmurs and the stinking odor in the air.

That was the last time I went to the mosque in search of God.

God must have been somewhere outside His own house. He must have left it to the masses over many generations.

I went back home. I don’t know how much time passed—days, months, or maybe years before that moment arrived. I was praying at night, crying and begging to God. At that moment, I was trying to demonstrate my submission so that God might hear me in the heavens and have some mercy on me. I had lowered my head to the ground in prayer, but then felt something pulling me up, as if God were trying to speak to me without uttering a word.

 

مقام النبي نون- يانون

www.youtube.com/watch

Yanoun- Nabi Nun Shrine

Yanoun is 15 kilometers southeast from the city of Nablus. It lies in an ancient village nestled between the great mountains and hills common to the area. Very close to Aqraba. The village took its name from its Caanite name Ya Nuha, which means ‘calm and serenity.’ Its Roman name was Yano.

Nun Shrine was considered one of the major shrines for Palestinians after nabi Musa.

Most of the land of Yanoun has been confiscated for the nearby Jewish settlement of Itamar, and villagers continued to endure beatings and shootings until the village became as deserted except of its everlasting olive trees . Yanoun reflects the destructiveness of Colonialism in a microcosm.

New settlements are starting on the close hilltops .

Aqraba- charms of Palestines

Aqraba is a town located in the southeast of Nablus with approximately 14000 residents. 60% of the uninhabited land is used for almond and olive cultivation, with the remaining 40% being used for fruits, vegetables and grazing purposes.

In Arabic aqraba originated from Arab which means ‘scorpion’. However it also means the sloped rocky land. The town is home to an old Byzantine church, now transformed into a mosque, as well as a number of cisterns, one of which still holds water. Pieces of pottery from the second Iron Age, as well as the Hellenistic, Roman, Byzantine, Umayyad, Ayyubid and Mamluk eras have been found in the area.

Interestingly , a rich resident loves the Iraqi president sadden Hussein… an obvious reflection can be seen from the gate

But of course it is more than that… a vibrant place for shrines… among them sunewber ( maybe related to the pine trees in the area… together with oaks of course …. and mushrooms by mistake.

A tree has a hundred stories to tell

I don’t know if it is me and trees … or it is the tree that has so many stories to tell to its viewer.

From the olive tree of Yanun.. a village in Nablus district


In the Shadows of Men: We are Extensions to Our Mothers

WE ARE EXTENSIONS TO OUR MOTHERS

How much we become an extension of our mothers without even realizing it. We forget our childhoods quickly, and immediately take on the role of the mother. We forget we were also children. We forget the emotions of our youth and their warnings. We forgive and tolerate until we become a copy of the women who raised us.

We live as Alice Miller, the psychologist, described in her book, Thou Shalt Not Be Aware: “I have never known a patient to portray his parents more negatively than he actually experienced them in childhood but always more positively—because idealization of his parents was essential for his survival.” According to Miller in The Drama of the Gifted Child, we avoid learning anything about our origins. “Without realizing that the past is constantly determining their present actions, [adults] avoid learning anything about their history. They continue to live in their repressed childhood situation, ignoring the fact that it no longer exists, continuing to fear and avoid dangers that, although once real, have not been real for a long time.”

I became the copy of my mother that I didn’t want to become. I understood her and tolerated her, but after my childhood, I wanted to be nothing like her. This was not because she was not a role model, but because she was not satisfied with her life and her circumstances and where she ended up. How did I become my mother in my adulthood? I wanted to be what she frequently aspired to be, and to achieve the fading dreams she could not follow.

Once I realized this, I allowed the child in me to take over and help me prepare. She whispered reminders and played along with me and my children. I would give my daughter a harsh glance if she misbehaved, and I would run to the closet for a shoe I could raise against her. But suddenly, the child in me would appear with her arms folded, scolding me: “Do you remember how you felt when your mother did this to you?” I was about to throw the shoe, but I stopped in an instant, reliving that deep memory from the past. Then I put the shoe down and called my daughter to me, embracing her and showering her with kisses.

In this way, my inner child and my motherhood joined forces. We became friends and began to get to know one another. As a result, motherhood became an amusing childhood journey filled with adventures and independence.

 

 

الانجراف مع التيار وضده …تطبيع مع الاحتلال وتطقيع للشعب

الانجراف مع التيار وضده …تطبيع مع الاحتلال وتطقيع للشعب

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بين صور لمسؤولين سلطويين سابقين وحاليين، وبين خارطة لفلسطين أوسلو على غلاف نشرة لجامعة فلسطينية، كان الضجيج المصاحب للغضب الشعبي من الموقفين كمن يصيح في فراغ لا تكون محصلته الا صدى لصوت يقتله الفضاء الشاسع.

لم يعد يعرف الفلسطيني كيف يتحكم بلجام غضبه. فنحن مع او ضد؟ هل ما يجري يخدم ام يسيء؟ هل نحن في صدد اعلان مقاطعة او اعلان مقايضة؟ هل نحن بهجمة ضد التطبيع ام بموالاة من اجله؟

هل نحن مع المظاهرات ضد صفقة القرن ام ضدها؟

مشاهد لمتظاهرين بالشوارع ضد صفقة القرن يتوج بها رئيس السلطة الفلسطينية من على منبر خطابه الاممي، بينما أصوات المكبرات في شوارع رام الله وكأننا في خطبة دينية، نجاح المظاهرات السلمية التي تقودها اجهزته السلطوية والأمنية والشرعية، تأتي بقمع للمتظاهرين ضد نفس الصفقة بعد يومين من قبل الأجهزة الأمنية.

نداء للمقاطعة بخطاب وتوجيه للتطبيع بخطاب اخر.

دعوات للتقيد بأوسلو والترحم عليها والبحث عن إيجابيات ان وجدت للتطبيق، ورجم لخارطة تجسد بها أوسلو لفلسطين. خارطة تبدو جزء من واقع  فاسد انتجته أوسلو صار حلما مرجوا بالتطبيق.

من نحن وما الذي نريده؟

هل نحن فلسطينيو أوسلو ام فلسطينيو ما قبل أوسلو؟ هل نحن فتح أبو مازن ام فتح أبو عمار؟ من المسؤول عن هذه المهزلة المفجعة التي صفت قضيتنا؟ الختيار المرحوم ام الختيار الحي؟

هل التنديد بصفقة القرن حكر على اتباع  أبو مازن؟

هل الهجوم على حزب التحرير ضد صفقة القرن أكثر خطرا من ترك حزب التحرير يقود حملات ضد تحديد عمر الزواج ومحاربة سيداو؟

ما هو الأخطر سيداو ام صفقة القرن؟

اليست سيداو ضمن ال ٨٣ اتفاقية التي هلل بها رئيس فتح والسلطة ومنظمة التحرير؟  اليس حزب التحرير بحربه ضد سيداو كان القائد والمسيطر على الشارع بإشراف امن السلطة ومباركتها للعشائر والقبائل السري والعلني؟

بينما تم قمع تظاهرة حزب التحرير السلمية ضد صفقة القرن، خرج الوفد الرفيع لرفض صفقة القرن الى تل ابيب، وجاء وفد مقابل باستقبال من شخصيات رفيعة أخرى الى رام الله.

استقبال الهباش قاضي القضاة الفلسطيني والتجوال مع وفد من الإسرائيليين الذي يصعب عدم تمييزهم بينما يمشون بما يميز اليهودي المتدين والكيباه الخاصة بالمستوطنين المتشددين- والله اعلم- الحقيقة لم يعد هناك داع للتفريق بين إسرائيلي واخر، فكلهم بالصهيونية الفاشية شركاء.

في اليومين غلبت الصور، ولكن أهمها صورتين فيما بين صورة قائمة المطبعين وصورة الخارطة المتجزأة لفلسطين؛ صورة لدعاية انتخابية انتشرت على عمارات تل ابيب بها كل من ابي مازن وإسماعيل هنية راكعين رافعين ايديهما استسلاما وبعينين معصومتين وبينهما عبارة تقول: السلام يصنع فقط مع الأعداء المنهزمون.

اما الصورة الثانية فكانت للهباش يتوسط الوفد الإسرائيلي بمطعم برام الله – بخلفية لمشروبات روحية وخمور، بينما تمتد المائدة الفلسطينية وعيون المتواجدين على الطاولة في انسجام مع شاشات هواتفهم النقالة والهباش ينظر إليهم ويكلمهم ولسان حاله ربما يقول…لو كانوا فلسطينيين لأقمت عليهم الحد بسبب قلة الادب وعدم احترام المقامات الرفيعة قدس الله سرها!

الهباش كغيره من ” القياديين” المشاركين بمهزلة الامس واليوم، سارع بتبرير فعلته واعطائها الصبغة الوطنية العالية. وكما الاخرون رموا المسؤولية في مرمى رئيس لجنة التواصل القيادي الفتحاوي محمد المدني.

الازمة ليست بفعلهم التطبيعي الذي يتناقض مع تصريحاتهم وتصريحات قيادتهم العليا بالدعوة الى المقاطعة وإيقاف التنسيق الأمني ومحاسبة التطبيع. الحقيقة اننا تعودنا بأن نسمع منهم تصاريح تتناقض مع افعالهم. ولكن كان هذا سريعا فلم تمض الا بضع الأيام ما بين التصريح والثورة المعلنة ضد التطبيع والصفقة وارغام الناس الى النزول للشوارع وبين هذا الفعل الماسخ.

الهباش، ملك الفتاوي، هو نفسه الذي كفر السوداني لتطبيعه مع نتانياهو.

من ناحية نهب ونحارب المطبعين العرب والأجانب. نهجم عليهم هجوم النار المستعرة حارقين بلهيب غضبنا كل ما ينتهك ما اعتقدنا فلسطين. كيف لنا ان نلوم العرب والأجانب في تطبيعهم ونحن نتسابق على التطبيع.

في ظل هذه المهزلة التي لا بد انه يراد منها ضرب الشارع الفلسطيني بنفسه مرة أخرى، بينما ننتظر فضيحة أخرى نتسلى بها، حتى موعد فاجعة تصيبنا وتخدرنا لبعض الأيام ونعود من جديد الى حالة التخدير المهيمنة علينا.

كمن يسبح مع التيار وضده لينتهي بنفس المكان حالنا. تعب وارهاق واستنفاذ مطلق للطاقات ونحن في نفس المكان نراوح مع وضد.

بين من يطبع وبين من يسحج للتطبيع باسم الوطن والوطنية. وبين من يلطم ويجرم ما يجري باسم الوطن والوطنية يبدو ان ما يجري نهج متفق عليه في الهاء الشعب واعيائه ليفقد البصر كما فقد البصيرة.

بينما نلهو في حسبة سياسية قيادية لمرحلة قادمة، يحاول اربابها إعادة تشكيل موازين القوى على الساحة السلطوية للمشهد التالي. مشهد لواقع تشكله صفقة القرن ويتحكم بنا من خلاله الرئيس المرتقب القادم وزمرته. وعليه فان السباق نحو استرضاء ارباب الصفقة قد بدأ.

الواقع لهؤلاء يؤكد ان تواصلهم ووصالهم مع إسرائيل ومن اجل إسرائيل، وقطعهم وقطيعتهم للفلسطينيين مباحة طبيعية يلملموها كما أرادوا ويشكلوا ملامحها كيفما أرادوا.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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