Now that we have a stamp...

.. all we need is the state.

This stamp for the State of Palestine is now available for travellers to the country. It is neither legal nor  official, but sure is legitimate. Khlaed Jarrar, the guy who made it, is stamping visitor's passports and sharing updates here.
My favorite update was a comment sent to Khaled by a traveller with a "State of Palestine" stamp on his passport after going through Ben Gurion Airport on his way to South Africa:

Just a short note to say thank you for you bold project of legitimising the Palestinian state. At Ben Gurion the only response I got from security was, “Oh, I have not seen this before” and when I arrived at immigration in Cape Town, the official said, “Oh, that is beautiful.” I kid you not, that’s the exact words!

I want one on my passport, hoping that a visit soon follows. Check him out stamping traveller's passports, and if you manage to catch him, make sure to honour your passport with one.
 

About Negotiations & Grey Colors

(Fiction based on real facts)

The Sunday afternoon was as clear as a civilian fighting occupation. The sun, with the elegance of a feudal lord, made winter disappear. And the old café by the sea, devastated- few days ago- by rainy storms, has reclaimed his charm. So we sat down, and awaited our friends to arrive for a nice relaxing gathering in preparation for a busy working week to come.
He came with a friend. It was the first time we all meet him. He had a square-like face, and a very confident attitude. He spent the first hour eating and didn’t pay attention to the conversations on the table. But once he finished his food, he started to penetrate the conversation and quickly affirmed himself as a pillar among all the voices that were intersecting and carefully knitting the social moment. The theme of the talks didn’t matter to him as much as his role in them.

He started speaking about his work at the U.N., about Israel, about the importance of dialogue as the non-violent mean to bring peace in this Middle-to nowhere-East, about the essential & needed existence of the U.N. to the entire world and its role in bringing Law & Order. He talked above all of us, as if his mental structures were higher in horizontal perspectives. He ridiculed the violent struggle of people, as if it was bad poetry written in a book left on the shelf of a small library being read by dust and cockroaches. He talked about globalization, about technologies of communication, about the fact that it was all grey and that black & white were obsolete colors.
-But what about 1948; the biggest land theft operation in the entire history of the world? How do you solve the loss of land & the Diaspora of its people if the other antagonist side is refusing their recognition and the logics of a just solution? My friend said with honesty & anger.
He didn’t answer directly this question; rather he used a lot of sentences and historical facts from other nations and other examples to dilute the meanings of justice & right of return. In other words, Historical pain happens all the time, and it is time to accept rather than change it: you take panadol, you don’t go into surgery. He mentioned the Armenians, Kurds, and Native Americans as examples of compromising Peoples.
-The negotiation should be based on 1967 with the flexibility to give & take as well in accordance to the International political context, and world key players. Wake up guys, this is the real world. Falasteen is not a young Alice in wonderlands, but a tired woman in her sixties sick of fighting, of correcting wrongs, of facing situations she is not choosing, and ready to compromise. And drop your violent instruments; they will not lead you to nowhere. He answered and changed the topic to talk about the real estate in Beirut.

Three hours passed by on that table. The sun got tired; too many people were consuming his energy. The Café got louder. And I decided to return home. So I said goodbye, and as I was walking away, I noticed the beautiful jacket of the stranger with the square-like face on our table. It was a petroleum-blue color, straight-cut, Bohemian-Bourgeois type of jacket, similar to the one I lost few years ago. In fact, I thought it was mine at that instance where I pushed him firmly and quickly wore it. It felt it was the right thing to do. Is it a coincidence that it fits me perfectly?
He didn’t understand what was happening, as he saw me, calmly, walking outside. He ran towards me and started yelling. Then he grabbed me, and tried to undress me like a crazy maniac with such a conviction in his violent act as if he has the right to do so.
He started pushing. His color became red-blue. And as I was resisting, he completed lost it, and turned into a wild beast. Twenty minutes later, he was lying down on the floor in his own blood and heavily breathing. So I looked him up and said:
-Since I am wearing the jacket, logically, it is mine now. As for the wallet and the car keys, well we can talk about that. Unfortunately, next week I am out of Beirut. How about we meet on Wednesday in 10 days from now at 8am in my office? My friends on the table can give you the address. Salamu Alaikum my friend. Your violence will not lead you to nowhere, let’s negotiate. It is all grey…

غزة - خريطة كثافة القصف والضحايا، ٢٧\١٢ - ١٨\١\٢٠٠٩

Gaza - Map of Bombing Intensity & Casualties, Dec. 27 -12 Jan, 2009

Download the Map as a PDF:
Gaza - Map of Bombing Intensity & Casualties, Dec. 27 -12 Jan, 2009

Mothers in Lebanon - الأمهات في لبنان يعزين أمهات غزة

الأمهات في لبنان يعزين أمهات غزة

قدّمن المواساة والعزاء لأمهات وعائلات غزة

مع أطفالكنّ

مع شموعكنّ

مع يافطاتكنّ

باللباس الأسود

تضامنّ مع أخواتكنّ في غزة

المكان: كورنيش رملة البيضاء

الزمان: يوم الأحد 18 كانون الثاني، 5 - 7 مساءً

- منى، لبنى، ريما، رملة، مزنة، مها، ربى، أمال، هبة، ألين، نجوى، صونيا...

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Mothers in Lebanon:

Join us to offer your Support and Condolences

to the mourning mothers and families in Gaza

Come with Your Children

Hold a Candle

Make a Banner

Wear Black

Take a Stand

Place: Ramlet Al-Bayda Corniche

Date: Sunday 18 January, 5 - 7 PM

Aline, Lubna, Maha, Muna, Ramla, Ruba, Rima, Najwa, Hibah, Amal, Muzna, Sonya
Drawing courtesy of http://mazenkerblog.blogspot.com/

شارون وفلسطين الجديدة

عندما تنتهي حربنا هذه، وبعد بضع من سنين، حين نعود دولة واحدة، اسمها فلسطين، يعيش فيها الفلسطينيون العرب، واليهود ممن يرغب، جنباً الى جنب، ماذا سنفعل بشارون الذي ما زال في غيبوبته؟

السؤال ربما يبدو صعباً، ولكن دعوني اوضح ما أظنه من المسلمات:
١. سوف تنتهي الحرب على غزة، ربما بعد الكثير من الألم، وما زال في غزة مقاومة ومقاومين.
٢. بعد سنين ليست بالكثيرة، سوف تدرك حكومة اسرائيل، ان لا طائل من صراعها مع الفلسطينين (وربما خلال تلك السنين توقع المزيد من معاهدات السلام، او تشن حروباً جديدة، ولكنها ستبقى قلقة خائفة، ولن تنتصر).
٣. حين تُطرح خيارات الممكن، مع ما تبقى من تلك الحكومة الاسرائيلية، سندرك جميعاً ان لا خيار سوى بدولة واحدة، ديمقراطية تضمنا جميعنا؛ فلسطينيو الداخل والخارج واليهود الذين حملوا يوماً جنسية اسرائيلية، لأن الفلسطينيين بعد ان ظُلموا لسنين لن يعيدوا تكرار الظلم على المدنيين اليهود. الدولة تلك ستسمى فلسطين، اولا لأن الفلسطينين في تلك الدولة الديمقراطية يشكلون غالبية، وثانياً لأن الوعي الأخلاقي لدى اليهود الباقين، كما في العالم، لن يسمح لهم حتى بالرغبة في اعادة ما يسمى اسرائيل
٤. اما عن مجرمي الحرب، ولأننا جميعاً تعلمنا من تجربة جنوب افريقيا ومن تجربة لبنان (بحسناتهما وسيئاتهما)، سنحاكم المجرمين، لا رغبة في الإنتقام (ولذلك لن تصدر محاكم الحرب احكاماً بالاعدام او التعذيب) بل لإيضاح حقيقة ما حصل، وبناء ثقافة في بلادنا الجديدة لا تتسامح مع العنصرية والاستعمار، ولكن تتطلع الى مستقبل تتعايش فيه مع نفسها.

طبعاً هناك العديد من الأسئلة التي لم نجب عليها بعد؛ ما هو نظامنا الإقتصادي؟ كيف نعيد تنظيم ملكية الأراضي والمنازل بين العائدين من اللاجئين ومن ظنوا انهم ملكوها من الإسرائيليين؟ كيف نعيد ترتيب النظام التربوي خاصة فيما يتعلق بلغة التدريس وكتاب التاريخ؟ ماذ نفعل بالمستوطنات، او لنقل تلك المباني التي مثلت سلطة الاستعمار؟ والعديد العديد من الأسئلة..

لكن سؤالي الآن، ماذا سنفعل بشارون، الذي انهى عامه الثالث في الغيبوية منذ ايام، وربما يكون حينها مازال في تلك الغيبوبة؟ لأننا بلاد عادلة، لا يمكننا الحكم عليه، تسعينياً عجوزاً، دون اعطائه الحق في الدفاع عن نفسه. ولكننا ندرك انه مجرم حرب، فهل نوقف الأجهزه عنه؟ وان ابقينا على الأجهزه التي تضمن له الاستمرار بالحياة، من سيدفع مصاريف المستشفى، وهل نقتطعها من خزينة الدولة الجديدة؟ ربما تعرض علينا دولة غربية نقله اليها، فهل نرضى؟

او ربما يستفيق من غيبوبته حينها، فيصله خبر فلسطين الجديدة وتقتله سكتة قلبية

In need of a miracle

She was almost my age, my mother, back in the summer of 1982, that summer which holds my best conserved memories. I look at myself in the mirror and I almost see her face staring back at me. The fine wrinkles on the forehead, a few grey hairs, and the new habit I am acquiring of pulling my hair up. How does one describe the changes in one’s features? Like looking at old pictures and knowing you don’t look as young anymore, though you also know you haven’t changed. Maybe more than anything, it is the eyes that betray us; tired eyes through Kohol, our traditional black eyeliner, announcing to you and to the world that you are at war.

I can’t believe that I am living through this for the third time; one assault per decade. But I am a grown up now, neither the 9 year old girl of 1982, nor the enthusiast of 1996. I am 33 and I should know what to do. I should know the answers and all the magic tricks that would get us out of this, the same way I believed my mother did when she was my age. I blamed her though for allowing war to happen to me, I thought that is one thing she should have known better not to permit. She should be able to change the world, after all that is what mothers are capable of. At 33 I am relieved not to be a mother myself, because despite all my good intentions, I still haven’t learnt the magic tricks to get any child out of the agony of war.

The most frustrating side of all of this is that I am a believer in nonviolence, with an MA in peacebuilding. It is funny that the posters with the call of applications for the “3rd Annual Summer School for Conflict Transformation and Peacebuilding” still hang in the streets of the city and on the walls of NGOs we are spending our war times in. I was supposed to be assisting in that training. I would have told the participating youth about the difference between positions and interests, effective communication and some about empathy. I would have taught them nothing though on how to save the life of at least one child in the time of war, maybe because I don’t know how to do it myself.

I spent the past three days today listening to one story after another from people who lived a horrible week in the south. Hundreds trapped in a tiny shelter for 6 days, dead bodies still under the rubble, and 150 people walking for hours in hopes of reaching safety. I heard stories of the displaced; mothers with no water to bath their children and diabetes patients loosing limbs because they were without their medication for days.

The toll of the stories is too heavy, especially when I hear the usual question: “so you think what you are doing could be effective?” They are all giving me their stories, handing it on a plate of hope and trust, and I struggle with it all. I have no promises that I could keep to give in return.

Through the years, all promises of peace with dignity have betrayed them, those people whose stories I have heard. All the way from the Palestine related UN resolutions since 1947, through the “Peace of the Brave” and the Oslo accords; most (definitely not all) of those babbling the peace discourse have been nothing but agents for a project which people of this region didn’t accept. Neither have the intellectuals or activists, at least through the eyes of a southern Lebanese farmer, ever made a difference. They say, well thousands have demonstrated against the war in Iraq but it happened anyway. They say we had a UN resolution for the Israeli army (IDF) to get out of Lebanon for 22 years, but it was only implemented because of the armed resistance. Nasrallah, on behalf of Hizbullah promised them dignity, maybe through a lot of pain, but at least that is one group that people feel has delivered.

My friends, too, force me to be accountable to this same set of believes. Teasing me and placing bets that I would eventually hold arms if the IDF invades and reaches Beirut, the city they know I adore. I guess they know what would be my tipping point; I have seen this happen to the city back in 1982. After 2 months of living through the Israeli siege of Beirut, the IDF planes filling its skies and managing to injure my father and 8 year old brother and damaging the house in which I was born, the saddest part was seeing the tanks on the streets of the city. They were on the corniche - this is mine I thought, and they can’t be here. After all, the seaside pavement was almost my backyard. I had pictures taken there since maybe the day I was born, and from the same spot where I used to watch the sunset I had to stare at the people who have been bombing the places where I played, now strolling around them. I couldn’t understand it then, I wouldn’t bare it now. I say I will lay on the tanks’ way and let the tanks roll over my body if they may. I say the world will be with us and will be watching and this can’t continue. But I myself have too many arguments to counter that. The world has not really been watching in the past 14 days; have you seen the death of any Lebanese making the headlines in the past two weeks?

I struggle with it, I want to be true to the people with the stories; I want to be true to myself and my own need for dignity too. And yes, I am still a believer in nonviolence, through a belonging more humanistic than national, but I need results. I need at least one small miracle, at least one kept promise.