Translated by Daphna Levit
It is very difficult to write when you know that the readers of these lines could be familymembers who have lost their dearest. Their pain echoes in my ears.
But it is also difficult to remain silent. I have no intention of writing of my feelings as aresident of the city, neither as an Arab nor as a Jew. I assume that the newspapers will havetheir fill of “authorized” commentators on Arab affairs, on co-existence (which never was)of “deep shocks”, hatred, conciliation (especially merchants), and, of course, onsecurity.
I want to tell the story of Ashraf. These are not words of praise or blame. This is a monologue ofpredetermined death. These are cold facts, statistics for the future or, as Ashraf called it,”A Chronicle of Empty Graves”.
Ashraf was born in 1979 – into the jaws of the Occupation. He wanted to be an actor. We met in 1988at the Jenin refugee camp where I performed, together with Arna Mer, for the sake of “TheChildren of the Stones”.
Ashraf also wanted to write a play. An intelligent child, uninhibited by oppression, wholoved to dream. In the mornings he would throw stones at the soldiers and at nights memorizetexts of a play we put on stage at the camp. He was only nine then.
His brother was imprisoned in an Israeli prison for his part in that Intifadah. His motheroffered the roof of her house to serve as our rehearsal space. His father hated the bordercheckpoints. His little sister always sat in a corner, frightened and strange, staring at us.
Ashraf was arrested and beaten by the border police. For a long time after his release heproudly carried his wounded hand. His father was fired from his place of work. His Jewishemployer could not stand his absences. Ashraf went out to look for a job to support his family.Rehearsals went on without him. His friends said that they saw him pass by in the night, sparingwith words and always in a hurry.
We met again in 1992 – when he was only thirteen. His speech was fluent and captivating. Ashrafwants to be a “Shahid”. His friends mocked him. His parents treated this as youthfulfrivolity. But he held his ground. His little sister, who had stopped speaking ever sincesoldiers burst into their house and took her brother, would hold on to his pants so as to keep himnear. Her love for him was proof of the justice of his path and strengthened his spirit. Ashrafwant to avenge the vengeance for all. The fervor of his words and his secretive actionsentertained those around him.
The Intifadah was at its peak. And then it happened. His brother was convicted in militarycourt and sentenced to eight years in prison. Their house was blown up by the military andtotally demolished. Ashraf cried. Television cameras of foreign broadcasters documentedhis tears. “I would rather die standing than live on my knees” he would say. This was a bad omen.
Ashraf did not die. The Oslo agreements were a reason for a party to which everyone was invited.He was dressed like a bridegroom. A local hero. A winner. His family moved to live with hisuncle. Jenin the city and the adjacent refugee camp were included in Area A. Ashraf went to lookfor work.
I met him during one of my visits to the Jenin market. This time he was dressed in the uniform of apoliceman and strutted like a peacock. I did not conceal my disappointment and reminded himthat “power corrupts”, as the clich י tells us.
In a telephone conversation several months later he told me that he had left the police forceand that, in fact, nothing had changed and he had no intention of participating in the”conspiracy”, as he now called the Oslo agreements.
“We have become subcontractors of Israel” he said. “They expropriated land from mygrandfather to expand the settlement above Jenin… and as Palestinian police we are supposedto guard the settlers against harm”…. “there is a border barrier every meter”…. “I work in AreaC, secretly move through Area B and sleep in Area A… like a cow who goes back to her enclosureafter pasture.” “Double occupation” – he hurled these words at his father who had, in themeantime, found work in the local market.
The tension in the territories rose. Eight years of “Oslo”. Eight years of direct and indirectoccupation. The territories are divided into cantons. The barrier checkpoints increase andthe humiliation continues. The number of settlers multiplies. Lands are expropriated.Bypass roads disfigure the West Bank, chopping up its width and length. “They are working usover” – yelled Ashraf into the telephone. I invited him to visit me in Haifa. He never came.Sharon went up to the “Temple Mount”. A closure was imposed on the territories. Ashraf wentunderground.
I traveled to Jenin at the peak of the “El Akza” Intifadah. The roads around the city were dug upto prevent the passage of cars. The military did nothing to protect the sewage system or theelectricity. The camp was in total darkness. I managed to sneak in with the help of a friend froma nearby village. Ashraf’s mother opened the door for me and, as usual, invited me in quickly. Iwas afraid. The atmosphere was harsh. Paralyzing. The mother counted the wounded and thearrested, they did not speak of the dead. “Ashraf is gone” she said… “he went to fight” – she wastough and did not disclose any worry or protest. In previous visits I would be at their house asat mine – not hesitant with my words. This time it was different. My hosts, who sensed myembarrassment, did not spare me from their anger and rage at the occupation, as if I were itsrepresentative. They are humiliated, hungry, cold and dark. I offered my help but it wasperemptorily rejected. We separated.
Ashraf exploded himself in the South of the country. His body was never brought to burial.
His words; “It is better to die standing than to live on one’s knees” still reverberate insideme.