chapter 12 - ween y'allah?

September 11, 2006

My friend Mohammad Fourage loves kids. "The kids," he says, "they are the best thing about the life." And they are.

The kids in Balata Refugee Camp are fearless and fiery; they speak from way down deep in their chests like the Godfather, and they spot me far down alleys and come running. "Adjnebia,Adjnebia!" They come running like I have Snickers bars and shekels tied to my clothes.

The little girls in their striped school uniforms tug shyly at my shirt -"What's your name?" "Ismi Magan." "Magan? Magan." They whisper it to each other, over and over again. They take me by the hand to meet their big sisters and mothers who have big smiles and endless pots of tea and ask if I will take down my hair from its messy ponytail. "Ahhh...hiluwe," they breathe. Beautiful. I tell them they are beautiful, too, and they are.

The boys, they dare each other to shake my hand, follow me down alleys,and puff their chests out for pictures. They are constantly playing "war", with plastic and wooden guns and homemade slingshots, darting in and out of narrow corridors and hiding in the shadows, mimicking the movements of soldiers they know all too well. "I try to give them other toys, but they only want to play Arabs and soldiers," he says as he flicks his hand toward a dusty red dump truck sitting forgotten underneath the coffee table. "I hear the Israelis say 'Look what they teach their children! They teach them to love guns, to love killing!' But it's not me who is teaching them this."

There is a little girl, Miriam, who lives in the apartment above Mohammad's; her dad is his landlord, and tonight he is chiseling away at the lock on Mohammad's door cuz it's broken and we can't get inside. He uses a hammer, and the thwack! echoes through the apartment building. Each time he brings the hammer down, Miriam's eyes grow large and she whimpers and inches closer to her dad. "She cries for any loud noise," Mohammad explains, and the hammer cracks again like the gunshots that crack through air every night. Every. Single. Night.

Miriam hugs her doll close - I play peekaboo with her and I think about what will become of her growing up in this place where no one sleeps well because that's when the army always comes, at night. That's when the sonic booms and rockets come, when the soldiers bang up the stairwells and bang on the doors and throw sound bombs that bang into living rooms and hold families at gunpoint while snipers take up positions on the roofs of their homes. I think about what my friend Matthew told me, how he talkedto a child psychologist in Gaza who can't make any headway treating the children because you can't heal a kid with emotional scars from living in a war zone until you take that kid out of the war zone.

I look at Miriam with her doll and I want to take her to America to get a good night's sleep. I want to take her older brother, too, who is scared to be alone since soldiers occupied his house 2 years ago, take him far away from this place before his fear turns into anger and he turns into a face on a martyr poster slowing fading to blue in the sunlight.

These kids...these fierce, fantastic kids. Where will they be in 10 years? If the situation is anything like it is now, 40% of them will have served time in prison. Some of them will be dead. Most of them will go to college, and most of them will be unemployed for at least some time when they finish, or they'll be highly educated taxi drivers. Some of them will join one of the brigades and defend the camp with guns when the Israeli tanks come. A few of them will tour the world telling people about Palestine, about the life in Balata Camp. A few of them will be journalists, teachers, actors, run youth centers (there are 2 in the camp,each with their own dance and drama troupes), participate in demonstrations and hold positions in the government.

Or maybe...maybe...in 10 years Palestine will be free. Palestine will be free, and the kids, they'll go with their friends to swim in the sea, and it will only take an hour to get there cuz the checkpoints will be gone and the roads will be open for everyone. Maybe they'll go to Jaffa, the city their great grandparents fled more than 70 years before, and see what they still consider to be their hometown, cuz there won't be a wall or soldiers keeping them out. Maybe they'll visit relatives in the South they haven't seen since they were small cuz there won't be men with guns who stop them on the road and check their IDs and tell them they aren't allowed to travel outside of the camp. Maybe they'll take a vacation to Jordan cuz the borders will be open. Maybe they'll be judges cuz Palestine will be allowed to govern itself. They'll make the hajj to Mecca and not worry about being able to return home. They'll turn on thefaucet and water will always come out.

This is my hope. This is the world I want for the kids of Balata Camp. Iask the Palestinians what they hope for, and the answer is invariable: to live one day in peace. I look around me and I think: Ween Y'Allah? Where is God? Ween Y'Allah? Many people asked this 5 years ago as the towers fell. They ask it in Iraq, in Puerto Rico, in the inner city of St. Louis.

Sometimes I can see him, in the faces of the kids playing soccer and the old women holding their grandbabies. I hear him coming over the loudspeaker of the mosque. But mostly I know he's here because the Palestinians tell me he is, and if they can still see him and believe in him, than I do, too. And I'll keep singing in the darkness right along side the kids of the camp.

if we got faith, it's possible. if we got love, its easy.

much love,

miss magan

In the dark times,

Will there be singing?

Yes, there will be singing

About the dark times

--Bertoldt Brecht