A quick internet search reveals
the definition of racism to be ‘’the belief that all members of each race
possess characteristics, abilities, or qualities specific to that race.’’ I
wanted to include that here, at the top of this entry, to frame what I’m about
to write. It may seem disjointed and abstract, but this piece is as much to
help me figure out if an event I saw in Israel/Palestine is best covered by
that definition as it is to make people aware that it happened at all.
I’m writing this using a scruffy
set of notes I quickly scribbled down in Bethlehem on 9th August
2014. Up until this day, albeit about 3 weeks in to my time in Palestine,
whenever anyone had said they had been affected to the point of sobbing by what
they saw in the West Bank I was immensely sceptical. I found it hard to imagine
how anything could ever affect me in such a way and I managed to keep an
emotional distance from what I was seeing and hearing.
Of course, you don’t have to be
in Palestine for 3 weeks to see sights worthy of tears. Even after only a few
days it was clear there were plenty of hardships for people living there.
Indeed, the very programme I was on often centred on hearing countless stories
of tragic events. Yet one of the most inexplicable experiences of my time there
was the way these stories all seemed to
blur into one very sad but easy to ‘package’ narrative.
Put in plain English, in
hindsight it was all too easy to shut off from what I was hearing.
Recollections of death, misery and discrimination became routine for me to hear
and thus became less and less cutting. Talk of rockets and ceasefires became
the regular currency of conversation in our spare time when back home it would
just be football scores or something equally trivial.
Perhaps my lack of feeling was
just a natural reaction to this sort of experience, an uncanny ability of the
human mind to just box off depressing items to be reopened at owners risk
another day.
Whatever was happening in my mind
throughout my visit, one day in August seems to have changed it irreversibly.
For it is one thing to be regaled with stories of discrimination and another to
see it, and not least feel complicit in it. I will attempt to recall here what
I saw that Saturday morning.
I had decided, with an American
friend of mine, to take Bus 21 from where we lived in Bethlehem to Jerusalem. Bus
21 is peculiar in that rather than picking up Palestinian passengers who had
already cleared Israeli security at Bethlehem’s Checkpoint 300 as other
services do, it ferries (unchecked) customers through later checkpoints in
between the two cities.
The fact Bus 21 would be stopped
by Israeli security further down the route was therefore no surprise to us. We
got used to being prepared for security checks everywhere we went and this
journey was no exception. As it neared Jerusalem the bus, as expected, was
signalled to pull over at a military checkpoint by a waiting female IDF soldier
and a male dressed in all black protective body gear. As it came to a stop, the
Palestinians on the bus stood up and headed for the exits.
*Not my photo*, sourced from www.nydailynews.com. Example of vehicle stop searches by Israel |
Knowing no better, with our
passports and ID in hand, we mimicked our fellow travellers and jostled in our
seats to follow them off the bus. I felt a hand on my shoulder, turning as I
did so I saw a Palestinian man with something of a dejected smile. I’ll never
forget his almost accusatory tone as he said ‘’you don’t have to get off.’’
We got back into our seats and watched
on from our elevated position (an all too powerful metaphor) as the
Palestinians formed a line by the side of the bus. The soldier scrutinised the
permits they held, weaving in and out between the queue. The Palestinians
seemed at pains not to make eye contact with the security personnel as they
were inspected, their faces scoured for signs of guilt or wrongdoing.
The soldiers then authoritatively
boarded the bus making their presence known with their burly guns hanging from
their necks, as they looked under the seats. As they made eye contact with us,
we offered our passports for inspection, blissfully ignorant of what was really
going on. They returned the gesture with a signal to put them away before they
then got off the bus, ushering the Palestinians back on.
That was it. That’s all that
happened on the 9th August. To the Palestinians around me, the
events were unremarkable, what had just happened was a daily ritual, a way of
life in the West Bank. For me, I was awash with hundreds of different emotions
all in the space of just a couple of minutes of rolling away from that
checkpoint. Confusion, shock, regret, guilt. Why didn’t I have to get off the
bus?
As the bus rolled away, I
replayed in my head what I’d just seen over and over in split seconds. I had no
other reaction to give than to cry. I sat, with a blank mind, sobbing under my
breath to hide my tears. This wasn’t me. No other episode on the trip, or even
in life to date, had made me cry in any circumstance that could be likened to
this. That emotional distance I’d managed to establish so well in Palestine
was, in the space of around 5 minutes, completely subsumed.
Perhaps it was the shock of
seeing the security process up close and personal for the first time, to
actually see people no less than forced off their commute to work to be
inspected by a soldier. To see their bus searched for explosives, the whole bus
degraded into being potential terrorists. More likely, I think it was my clumsy
role in the midst of that episode that really hit me hard.
Questioning why I had been
allowed to stay on the bus disturbed me. It was quite clear, even from just the
tone of that Palestinian man’s comment why I had been allowed to stay, quite
literally looking down on the inspected below. I was a white man holding a
little maroon rectangle of British privilege. There is no way on earth I could
have possessed the ‘’characteristics, abilities or qualities’’ necessary to
want to harm Israeli civilians in Jerusalem. The Palestinian passengers on the
other hand were indisputably security risks, guilty before proven innocent.
This cut me up more than I ever
thought it could. I watched Palestinians get taken off a bus, lined up, inspected
and made to feel like criminals. But maybe that was the problem, I just
watched. I was all too happy to sit pretty and wait for it to pass, my white
skin and unprovocative documentation a universal safety blanket. The harsh
juxtaposition of my privilege and passivity despite the prejudice on display
through the window of that bus will always stick with me.
Even now, I find it frustratingly
difficult to find the words profound enough to get across just how devastating
it was to see one group of people physically separated from another on the
basis of what I can only assume was their appearance as, even misfortune to be,
Palestinian.
*Not my photo*, sourced from electronicintifada.net as an example of a walking checkpoint |
Reflecting on those feelings
weeks after they first emerged, I now think that those tears were as much
caused by my inaction as events unfolded around me. I think I started to sob
out of an immeasurable feeling of guilt, never before exposed to such a stark
display of discrimination. I was sad that even as someone who imagined himself
to have a passion for helping the underdog, when it came down to it I was
powerless or indeed selfish enough to sit and let it happen.
I can only imagine that if I’d asked
the Israeli soldier why this process of separation had to happen, why only some
people came under inspection and not others, the justification thrown back
would almost certainly have centred on ‘national security’.
The impression I got of Israeli
society was one of a community brought up to be so desperately conscious of the
threat from the country’s enemies, both real and perceived. No matter how much
at least some of the Israeli population may be uncomfortable with the treatment
of Palestinians, the line that security has to be the priority is all too often
regurgitated.
If this means that separation, preventing
freedom of movement and inspecting permits has to happen, it is an unfortunate
but necessary process. The narrative of ‘unfortunate but necessary’ was also familiar
to those of us following events in Gaza this summer- as regrettable as the loss
of civilian life was, the decision to use the full force of the military in a
densely populated area was an inescapable feature of the war against Hamas.
Yet whatever the justification,
motivation or excuse for what I saw on Bus 21, one thing is absolutely clear-
it was fundamentally not right. It may sound like a story that belongs in the
history books alongside segregationist USA or apartheid South Africa. Yet this
collective punishment of average Palestinians, differential and second-class
treatment on the basis of no more than certain characteristics, happened this
summer and it is still happening as you read this.
I can’t go back and change what happened
on August 9th or solve the issues like it that happen every day in
Palestine. But the least I can do is implore you to just read that bit more
about what’s going on in Israel/Palestine. Discuss, debate and even disagree about
what it all means for the people there and around the world. Go and see it if
you can. And then, perhaps one day, stories like Bus 21 will only be known for
their place in history books.