[wvns] Your Presence Is Requested, Mr. Omer
Your Presence Is Requested, Mr. Omer
By Mohammed Omer
Washington Report on Middle East Affairs
September/October 2007, pages 38-39
EXHAUSTED YET excited, I arrived in Amsterdam on my 23rd birthday at
the behest of The Standing Committee for Foreign Affairs. Thanks to a
letter from Dutch Ambassador Jan Wijenberg, and the efforts of Mr.
Hans Van Ballen, a member of the Dutch parliament and head of foreign
relations, I was able to exit Israel via Jordan's Allenby Bridge
rather than through the Rafah crossing—even though the latter is just
minutes from my home—and thereby avoid the problems I experienced last
year, leaving for and returning from my U.S. tour via Gaza. Their
support and perseverence, for which I am most grateful, meant that I
did not have to spend days on the border wondering when and if the
Israelis would deign to open it. And thus, in late May, my lecture
tour of the Netherlands commenced.
Holland
My itinerary consisted of 15 presentations in 18 days, including
speaking before the Dutch parliament, youth political organizations,
Groningen University's journalism students, an engagement in Amsterdam
hosted by Jewish Voices for Peace, and several media appearances,
including one on NOVA TV. Holland is somewhat smaller than the United
States, where distant engagements could only be reached by plane.
Here, trains and public transportation allowed me to experience more
of the culture, lifestyle and landscape, which I appreciated and found
far less stressful.
My presentation, entitled "Welcome to Hell," had expanded from the one
I gave on my U.S. tour to include events of the past six months. As
Robert Fisk commented in a radio interview last year, "I used to
consider it a privilege to witness history. I realize now it is a
curse." Telling the story of Gaza and the Palestinians exhausts me. It
is full of depression, sadism, horror, injustice and shock; yet, when
I think I cannot continue, my duty to the millions who cannot speak
propels me. The West must know the truth; only then can decent men and
women cut through the propaganda and begin seeking just solutions.
As in America, I tried to convey to my audiences the whole
story—including women's issues, the humanitarian crisis, home
demolitions, the source of the conflict, and what it is like to be a
journalist in Gaza. The story of my bother's murder as he was
preparing for school in our courtyard one morning always resonates.
Many thanked me for opening their eyes. A journalism student from
Groningen University e-mailed me, saying, "Your presentation was an
eye opening for me. I never imagined that the situations [sic] are
that bad in Palestine."
Nearly everyone I spoke to was appalled by the actions of the European
Union and the United States—and, in general, by the world's silent
acquiescence to what Palestinians endure every day.
One event stood out. I was overwhelmed with amazement and gratitude as
the Jewish Voices audience at The Hague intervened when several
Zionists in the audience attempted to disrupt my presentation. When
the disrupters made a second attempt, the audience made it quite clear
they would be happy to escort them out. There were no further disruptions.
Truth is the elixir of peace; it razes the walls between us.
European vs. U.S. Media
I was often asked my impressions of the media. While not as overtly
biased as in the U.S., I replied, Israeli Hasbara (advocacy and
propaganda) figures prominently in European media via filtering,
omission, deflection, denial and euphemisms. For example, the media's
focus on the fighting between Fatah and Hamas neglects to mention the
five Palestinians killed and seven injured by an Israeli rocket which
residents found in Rafah in May. Contrast this with the constant
repetitive coverage of Qassem rockets lobbed over the border into
Israel. Similarly, in scrutinizing the factional infighting in Gaza,
media in the EU failed to include relevant background material, such
as the U.S. training, arming and funding of Fatah fighters, Israel's
deal with Abbas, and its deliberately allowing armed Fatah militia to
enter Gaza and the West Bank. With these details withheld, a reader or
viewer deduces that the conflict is a civil war, rather than a proxy
coup sponsored by a foreign government against an elected one. While
there is significant room for improvement, however, overall, European
journalists trounce their American counterparts on issues relating to
Palestine.
After leaving Holland, I made a two-day stop in France, where the
original plan was to meet with staff of Le Monde Diplomatique. That
not being possible on a weekend, however, I met with a small group of
interested people—and look forward to visiting this country again.
The Recrudescence of Hell
With its beautiful weather, warm and engaging people, unrestrained
movement and, above all, freedom of speech, Holland defines paradise
for me. Unlike Gaza, Holland is green, cows and sheep graze lazily,
flowers pepper the landscape and people smile. In Gaza, as the result
of four decades of occupation and siege, depression, poverty and
despair reign, and a once proud, fully engaged and independent society
now finds itself deprived and wholly dependent. Yet, it is home, and
my family awaits.
Israel required that I return to Palestine as I left—via Jordan's
Allenby Bridge and Israel's Eretz crossing into Gaza. Of course, just
as they had tried to do with my American visit, Israeli authorities
had attempted to prevent me from leaving Gaza in the first place,
using the blanket excuse that I pose a "security risk." One has to
laugh at the absurdity of this—after all, to be a "terrorist" or
"security risk" in Israeli eyes requires only that one not be Jewish.
And all one need do is raise a Palestinian flag, object to Israeli
racism or question any of its apartheid laws. It's not that hard.
A Simple Twist of Fate
Thus I embarked on my return via Paris, Amman and, through a twist of
fate, the one place I thought I'd never be allowed to visit: Tel Aviv.
But happenstance and facts on the ground intervened. The Dutch Embassy
agreed to escort me between Allenby to Eretz both to and from
Palestine, eliminating the need for me to travel alone. On my way
home, we were kept waiting at the Allenby crossing from 9 a.m. until 4
p.m. to get special permits to return to Gaza via Israel. As a result,
the Dutch diplomatic car did not arrive at the Eretz crossing unti
5:30, only to find it had closed. That left us with two options:
diplomatic intervention—but no Israeli was answering the phones at
Eretz—or spending the night in an Israeli hotel—something we feared
the Israelis would not permit.
Trying to buy time, the diplomatic car carrying us wandered through
Israel. For the first time in my life I saw Jerusalem, as the Old
City, with Al Aqsa gleaming in the setting sun, rose on the horizon,
coming closer until I stood mere paces away. My entire being filled
with reverence and peace, a happiness beyond description. My breathing
lightened as I felt enveloped by a euphoric headiness. We continued
through the city, my mind frantically storing images—of graveyards,
Jewish, Christian and Muslim, of shops and alleyways, ancient streets
and buildings. The sounds, smells and sights, the history and people—I
vowed to forget nothing. As we turned a corner, a great edifice
suddenly rose up like a knife slicing through air. Before us towered
Israel's apartheid wall, dividing, conquering and segregating. The
sight of it immediately brought me back to reality. "I'm a
Palestinian," I reminded myself soberly. "That wall is meant to cage me."
Visiting Jerusalem allowed me to meet a Palestinian friend I'd known
for many years, who lives less than an hour from me. It was the first
time we met face to face. Later, as evening fell, my contact informed
me that we had received permission to spend the night in Tel Aviv.
Tel Aviv
"The buildings over there," my chaperone told me, pointing to the
gleaming skyline bordering the sea, "that is Tel Aviv, where we are
going."
Arriving at a hotel by the sea, we approached the registration desk.
The clerk stared at me, her face tight with tension as my Dutch
chaperone explained our situation. Biting her lower lip and narrowing
her eyes, she subjected me to a visual inventory. I suddenly
understood how an Orthodox Jew in 1930s Germany or a black man in 1963
Mississippi must have felt in the same situation. To her, I was a
threat, something not to trust, something to fear; this is what she saw.
After we presented her my Israeli-endorsed passport, however, she
reluctantly booked me. Inside I was shaking, frightened and worried.
Noticing my anxiety, my chaperone smiled at me and whispered
soothingly, "Relax. You are in the safest place in the world."
Relax? I'm a Palestinian from Gaza in a city where my race and origin
are equated with terrorism. I write about the realities of occupation,
something the Israeli government prefers remain hidden. Relax? I
assume I am being followed. How do I know I'm safe? Relax?
Fortunately hunger overtook my anxiety, so I called a friend who works
as an Arabic court translator (and whom I also met for the first
time), and we ventured out into Tel Aviv.
As my friend and I walked down many city streets, while I remained
fearful happiness ultimately triumphed. Tap, tap, tap…my footsteps
echoed on the pristine pavement as my mind announced in a gleeful
voice, "Mohammed was here, Mohammed was here." I wanted to walk down
every street, to eat in every restaurant. I wanted to ride a bicycle,
catch a train, commute on a bus and ride in a taxi…to see everywhere
and everything in this amazing city, this forbidden city, and shout to
the world, "See, Mohammed is here!"
The Beach
We eventually found ourselves among hundreds of Israelis at a
restaurant next to the strand, and stopped to enjoy a fabulous dish of
spaghetti and the largest glass of lemonade I could order. Everyone
around me spoke Hebrew and, even though the hour was late, the beach
teemed with people enjoying a temperate June evening. "How ironic," I
reflected. "Gaza and Tel Aviv share the same sunset, moon and breeze.
Two people and two worlds are separated by an hour's drive. Here life
exists with peace of mind. People enjoy music, laugh and live. Yet one
hour away in Gaza, gunshots, Israeli drones overhead and destruction
prevail."
Amid my musing, several young people roller bladed past and my
attention was drawn skyward. A helicopter hovered above and I
instinctively cowered, seeking a clear exit, before I remembered that
I was in Tel Aviv. Sensing my anxiety, my friend calmly reassured me,
"Don't worry, Mohammed."
She was right, of course. An Israeli helicopter would not shell its
own citizens. It soon departed.
My friend, too, soon departed. The hour was late, but I was wide
awake—so I continued to walk, leaving my footprints on as many Tel
Aviv streets as possible and wishing the night would not end. I wanted
to shout at the Israeli government, `See! I am not a security risk! I
am in Tel Aviv. I've walked about your city, eaten in your restaurants
and visited your sites. I love your city and your people. I do not
want to kill anyone. We're all human. No people should suffer. Why
can't we talk? Don't you understand dialogue is the best way to end
this conflict? Don't you understand this?"
I wonder if, had I shouted these words, anyone would have heard…or cared.
Exhausted, I fell into bed and managed to catch a few hours sleep.
Promptly at six my chaperone from the Dutch Embassy picked me up. By
nine, my amazing trip with its unexpected detour was over. I arrived
home, wiser and safe.
Mohammed Omer, winner of New America Media's Best Youth Voice award,
reports from the Gaza Strip, where he maintains the Web site
<www.rafahtoday.org>. He can be reached at <gazanews@yahoo.com>.
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