Im not sure how to say this but.....

Saturday, 27 August 2011

Qalandia Checkpoint

Qalandia Checkpoint - 26^th of August 2011

Yesterday we attended a demonstration at Qalandia checkpoint, which was set to see around half a million Muslims try to pass through to Jerusalem to they could pray at Al Aqsa mosque for the holiest day of their year, The last Friday of Ramadan. The Israeli authority had already said they would only allow over 50 year olds to pass. They let one person through roughly every 25 minutes ‘to interview them’ diving through a loophole between denying access and letting people pass.

I felt tense , which was added to by standing around doing nothing in the boiling heat as we had arrived three hours too early. The only thing I was worried about was getting hit by one of the high velocity tear gas canisters, which are designed to break through walls and gas people inside. They are illegal to use on people, and always have been, and their usage has only died down in the last while after an American got hit on the head with one, turning him into a vegetable. As far as I was concerned, they could break, hit or arrest me as much as they liked, just don’t hit the fucking money maker with one of those.

Hundreds of people were queuing trying to get through the checkpoint, which was completely futile , so we stood and watched along with a lot of other internationals and a lot of press. Prayer time came and people started to pray on the street. Immediately after, Chants started, and Palestinian flags were distributed to be waved in the faces of the soldiers , a concrete block away, who laughed and took pictures on their mobile phones. I would have given anything to make their guns disappear .One Palestinian climbed up a wall to the side of the checkpoint and began waving his flag in the air , before getting dragged down and arrested by five or six soldiers keen for something to do. When I began taking pictures around a two meter wide gap in the side of the checkpoint , re-enforcements were sent to block it. It was here that about 6 young kids, ranging between roughly 9 and 13 started waving flags at them too, screaming at them. One of the flags fell to the floor in the middle of the two sides and the soldier warned against picking it up whilst stroking the trigger on his machine gun. They tip –toed towards it, and back again, moving half an inch closer each time. At this point I pulled the kids behind me to try and get it myself, but the soldier at the front grabbed it out of my hands and told me to get back. The kids tried to block the entrance with a police barrier that was lying about but it wouldn’t fit. I turned around to see a young boy of around 8 with a Palestinian flag in his hands screaming at the watch tower above me. I have never seen so much fury in a persons face before. I never knew what he was saying but he was pacing about screaming at the soldiers a hundred meters above behind their wire grills , and picking up stones only to be snatched out of his hands by discerning adults around him. He was amongst the children who had yet to be shot or arrested and who’s anger had a direction that didn’t seem in-penetrable. I wondered how long it would last, but I doubt it would be over 5 years. Speaking to a shebab (Palestinian street boys) later, who was around 16, he showed me his battle wounds. Something I have gotten used to here. His stomach was split in two by a gruesome scar caused by a live bullet, received at the age of 12. He had many more on his forehead and arms, probably from rubber bullets and tear gas canisters.

Anyway , the standoff between these pre-pubescent boys and the worlds best equipped army lasted for another fifteen minutes or so until the stones began flying in their direction. I learned later that one of the soldiers in the watchtower above had spat out of it onto the boys below, but I wouldn’t have had time to notice since as soon as the first stones flew , we ran to get as far away from the inevitable retaliation as our legs would take us.

I didn’t even have time to curse the people that had told me ‘you’l know it’s a high velocity straight away , you can hear it’ before i saw one bounce off of the bus infront of me and back into the air where it danced about the street full of vehicle roofs before landing not far away They were firing them directly at people. Rubber bullets pinged indiscriminately around the scene and sound bombs erupted everywhere, making it difficult to tell you how close they were. Everybody was split up in seconds, as we all jumped over walls and behind vehicles into different directions and shops for cover. My eyes began watering and I found it difficult to breathe, but knew I had to keep running anywhere I could. I figured there wasn’t really any point in trying to guess where the canisters were going as it was difficult to see anyway. What I did see was a Woman carrying a boy of about two and throwing him into an ambulance where it drove off for about 50 meters before waiting in the huge que of traffic to part, which it didn’t. Around fifty meters behind that a canister burst through a a bus window, making it rock on the spot and sending its alarm wailing. Thankfully it was empty. People were scattering about the place, clueless and breathless and bumping into lamp-posts. I thought briefly about Sauchiehall street in Glasgow on a Saturday night and would have laughed if I could have breathed. I decided to try and run for somewhere further away. I ran for about a hundred meters and hid behind an iron gate on all fours, where I was joined by some shebab, smashing concrete blocks into smaller pieces to hurl in the direction of the watchtower. There was a break in the chaos, and I met some internationals from different organisations who were all spluttering at me, presumably saying ‘Are you okay?’. Euphoria began to kick in as I contemplated how lucky I was. At this point a high velocity canister came flying out of nowhere and hit a red cross worker about 50 meters away in the ankle. We ran for our lives down an alleyway and into a refugee camp, and as I looked back I saw her being carried by three guys down the road as she wailed. We reached a safe spot where her wails became louder. Along with her ankle probably being broken, she would also have to deal with the infections due to the cyanide amongst other ugly chemicals probably now settling into her foot.

Further up on the main road we saw her into an ambulance and I got in touch with my team mates, who told me now that things had died down and they were going back to the checkpoint, to join the few who had returned to stand silently in front of the army with placards. Making it back to the checkpoint in around fifteen minutes, my eyes started watering immediately as the gas lingered in the air. Most of the press had pissed off by this point, after a gas canister had been shot directly at them intentionally. We hung around for another 15 minutes or so before leaving on the bus.

Driving pas the checkpoint around six hours later was bizarre; traffic jams as usual, with no sign of anything out of the ordinary. I wondered how many streets I had walked down in the past two weeks that have seen conflict just hours before. But again, that’s usual here.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Al-Ma’sara – Friday 19th August 2011

Al-Ma’sara – Friday 19^th August 2011

Yesterday, after monitoring the checkpoints at around 7am, me and an American girl called Lucy headed for the small town of Al-Ma’sara to join a demonstration against the expanding settlements there. . After getting off the bus too early , it took us around an hour and a half to reach the small village in the hills meaning we missed the demonstration. We hitched a ride off of a Jewish settler. She explained that it wasn’t safe for us around here, in a brief cold , staccato sentence. ‘ One in front, One in back’ she told us, although her English was fine. I sat in the back beside around 15 bags of groceries. She asked us where we wanted to go. Lucy stumbled to find an answer that didn’t include our real destination (an Arab town) . She played up to being half Korean and acted like a clueless tourist. Her ‘Uh, eh , um over , uh here, and I think its , uh round there’ seemed to last a lifetime as I touched cloth in the back seat. I’m not sure if the settler was really listening anyway as she drove us in penetrating silence up to the driveway of her settlement guarded by a checkpoint and around 5 soldiers. ‘OH JUST HERE WILL DO!’ Lucy said, and she let us out without another word. Christ knows what would have happened had we been taken into the settlement or I had been sitting up front. From here we navigated ourselves down two , long dusty roads in the wrong direction. After about 45 minutes a ‘service’ (mini bus) pulled over and said he would take us to the village, so we squeezed into the boot. Lucy who had modestly told me that she spoke a tiny bit of Arabic, held a full conversation with the people on the bus. I smiled and gazed about vacuously as I clung to the edges of my seat as the bus hurled around corners and perused the bumpy path as if it were smooth tarmac with full force. We finally arrived at the village where we met the rest of the demonstrators walking on their way back from a line of soldiers they had just been trying to get past (onto their own land). Here we met around fifteen internationals and were taken into the house of the demonstration organiser from where we got a lift back to Hebron. The guy who gave us a ride was talking about how after the Algerian uprising, the two communities now live in relative peace and his hopes for that atmosphere here in the future. It seems alarming to me now that , driving from a village with barely any water or electricity and nothing but goats and camels and haphazard houses , driving past settlements with swimming pools and football pitches guarded by soldiers was not something I was really paying attention to. I’m used to it after being here for two days. As we waited in traffic, I heard an odd, deep and woodwind like wail coming from the side of the road. I turned in my seat to see a camel, bound at the legs that had just been dragged out of a transit van . As if they had thought of the most hideous way to put it out of its misery, six or so men were trying to push its neck back round on itself to snap it. I made the mistake of shouting ‘OH GOD DON’T LOOK!’ to the two vegans sitting beside me who began screaming their heads off as the guy driving the car took photos of the scene on his mobile phone. The rest of the ride back to Hebron was silent, and as I held the hand of the girl next to me as she cried her eyes out, I weighed up the pro’s and con’s of being a vegetarian. On our return we monitored the checkpoint some more. The soldier on duty was Ethiopian, probably airlifted here during operation Solomon, where a minority of Jewish Ethiopians were airlifted to Israel in their thousands. Taken from a country devasted by all angles and regarded by most Israelis as a second class citizen, he seemed to be enjoying his time stroking guns and scrutinising over Palestinian passports and making them empty their bags, sometimes mango by mango. We managed to report him to T.I.P.H (temporary international presence in Hebron )when he kicked an elderly Palestinian in the shin. The report will probably lead to nothing considering it gets passed through the Israeli Defence Force, but at least its there. It was around about this time , when I was watching a two little boys playing football together, metres away from an Israeli Army jeep that had pulled up . The youngest of the two seemed to have only taken his first steps a few days previously and his older brother (around nine) laughed as he picked him up to give kicking the ball another shot. I made my way away from my co-worker , the two T.I.P.H workers and the soldiers and into an abandoned building to cry my eyes out , pull myself together and put my ‘Observing’ face back on. I returned to observe the checkpoints again within five minutes as if nothing had happened.

On our way back to our apartment we helped a Palestinian family carry come plates and a microwave up the hill to their house , where they took us in and demanded that we drink the coke they were offering us and eat some of their fruit. We got told in training that its rude to deny such offerings, regardless of how full you might be. Lucy handled the conversation in Arabic as the rest of us gazed around not knowing what to do with ourselves for half an hour. The man of the house looked disappointed that when I said I wasn’t Muslim after he asked, but I cant imagine he was surprised.. we returned to our apartment to find that the cat that had been sleeping on a pillow outside our door had died. It had rigor mortus and flies were flying between its bared teeth. Later on I went and fed some stray kittens that were gnawing their way through some bin bags on the street outside. Walking back from this I was laughing at myself , feeding kittens here seems like a ridiculous thing to do . Then the watchtower facing out apartment turned its spotlight to me, which followed me through the gates and up to the door.

Friday, 8 July 2011

Oskar asked me to write an article about a comic in which a young man tries to kill Maggie Thatcher , an offer which I could not refuse. So here's the result, published in Issue one of Dragmag, available free in Diesel and Fopp stores nationwide.

"My friend Sinead grew up thinking that Margaret Thatcher ate children. She probably wasn’t alone considering, like George Bush and Tony Blair, Thatcher is a quintessential dartboard figure for millions of people. Such icons are prominent in the aesthetics of popular culture and become lazy means of association for anybody wishing to express that they care. Similarly, I saw a Che Guevara t-shirt in Primark a few weeks ago. If you squinted with one eye and tilted your head slightly to the right, it kind of looked like a picture of Jackie Stallone with “VIVA LA REVOLOUCION” misspelt underneath. Vacuous advertising slogans like “Think Differently” by Apple hijacked the likes of John Lennon and Martin Luther King to become their new MEGAMARTYRS. President Barack Obama managed to send his approval ratings through the roof by assassinating Osama Bin Laden, ‘the most wicked man on earth’ . Heroes push their agendas through Villains, and vice versa. This triggered a wave of National pride within the U.S , and people were encouraged to celebrate and ignore the fact that the armed resistance grows rapidly with every day that the Allies occupy Afghanistan.

The character in “St Swithins Day”, a comic book published in 1998 by Paul Grist and Grant Morrison, is not a public figure. He is depressed, lonely and is hell bent on killing Margaret Thatcher. He is intrigued by the status that killing her will earn him and cant decide whether he should be found with a copy of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ or the complete works of Rimbaud in his jacket pocket. He is 19 and has run away from home to do the deed. He sits in cafes alone and fantasises about ‘staying up late and listening to all of my favourite records’ with the girls he can see from where he is sitting. He wants to change the world. He can only dance to one song – ‘there she goes’ and he does so in the middle of the night in front of Karl Marx’s grave. I guess we can all relate to him, or could have. When the time finally comes for him to top Margaret Thatcher, he creeps up behind her and she whirls round to face him pointing two fingers in the shape of a gun at her head. I guess you could say that he is such an anti hero that he cant even do what he set out to in the first place. It got me wondering about what would happen if every angry teenager and young adult across the country – or at least the one in five that are jobless – silently stalked the politicians who dealt their cards. Or if more young people started rejecting the identities that are so easy to obtain through popular culture and started to organise their own worlds. Privilege doesn’t apply to most of us, yet that’s exactly what we need to get anywhere. If one good thing is to come out of this age of austerity, then it will be angry, direct and creative youths. Disenfranchised with most things that were going on around him, Rimbaud sought another life. The only way this government can get away with the injustice and inequality that they are injecting aimlessly into this society, is under the assumption that we aren’t going to do anything about it , and that they can get away with it. You are quite simply being asked to maintain a high level of etiquette on a table at which you will never get served. So by all means, throw tantrums and pull on the tablecloth. Don’t accept the cards that your dealt, start playing chess. Nothing that you can break is more valuable than your rights, including that of an education regardless of circumstance.

With Thatcher’s health deteriorating and rumours of her imminent passing spreading, it gives those on the left to prove how much they really didn’t like her by celebrating. However this energy should not be wasted on humour. We still live in a system that supports her full state funeral and clearly there is lots of work to be done. Popular enemies distract us from the evils of every day life, and heroes make sure we know that somebody else is doing the hard work.

We seem to live in a time where everything has been done, and therefore made fun of. Postmodernism has chilled our faith in ideologies and consumerism lets us sink into any part of ourselves that we wish to at the touch of a button. Its time to try something new and to REALLY ‘think differently’. I felt something brilliant on the 26^th of March on Regent Street. Just over my left ear the glass doors of Santander smashed and fell to the floor in pieces. Everybody cheered and we started running away from the police. All of a sudden I wasn’t running down one of our nations many high streets. I was running on something that was yet to be defined. The earth wasn’t flat any more and it could be anything we wanted. Its up to us to make it that way."