Behind the Wall - 'Memories'
 

"I will see if I can join you tonight, I am afraid it will be difficult because my father is going to 'another country' tomorrow! A country that is located at the end of the world!" 
 
I received this response to an email I sent to Nidal asking if he had time to join me for coffee one night in Aida Camp. His father, Abu Waleed, is sadly ill and must receive hospital treatment. The 'country' Nidal was referring to is in fact not at the end of the world although it seems that way. Abu Waleed was in reality only traveling around 8kms from Aida Camp to Al Makasad hospital in Al Quds, the capital of Palestine. But despite being the capital of Palestine Al Quds is now trapped the wrong side of the Wall
 
Abu Waleed is in his mid-70's now, he is a big strong man, who always talks very proudly of Beit Jibreen the village he was forced from during Al Nakba. Beit Jibreen was a large village and to many extents acted as a 'capital' village in the area. The Al Azzeh family all came from Beit Jibreen but are now spread far and wide. Many are here in Aida Camp. The small refugee camp across the Al Quds-Al Khalil Road from Aida also currently hosts many of the family. This camp is known as Al Azzeh or Beit Jibreen Camp because of the large percentage of people from Beit Jibreen, and the Al Azzeh family, who came there at the start of the 1950's. Other family members live in neighbouring countries such as Jordan, whilst more still went further afield and are now living in the U.S. or Europe.
 
The family had known Abu Waleed would require hospital surgery and Nidal had applied for 'permission' from the Israeli authorities to be with his father in the hospital as he needs constant care. Nidal was turned down as he was considered a 'security threat'. He has served time in Occupation prisons but so have most of the men in Aida Camp, or any other camp for that matter, although Nidal has not been in prison for many years. He was imprisoned for using his legitimate right, according to the 4th Geneva Convention, of resisting an Occupying force. These days Nidal attempts to raise his family and resist through his work with children at Lajee Center by helping them to attempt to build a better future for themselves and their country through education. Nidal's anger was clear:
 
"What's wrong with these people! What do they want? I just want to care for my father!"
 
Two of Nidal's sisters applied for 'permission' after he himself was turned down. Neither of these two women have at anytime been in prison and we all hoped they would be 'allowed' passage so that Abu Waleed would not be alone through his surgery. The day the family patriarch went to hospital we still had no news about the Israeli decision so he was forced to travel alone through the checkpoints and past the Wall. Abu Waleed himself had been granted permission to travel for his surgery. Later that day we heard that all permissions had been granted for that day but a decision had still not been made about Abu Waleed's daughters, and their papers had been passed on from the DCO (District Coordination Office) to Acion the Occupation authorities administration, located inside the illegal Zionist Settlement of Gush Etzion. We were all still slightly hopeful as why would permission be refused for two women with no record against their name?
 
Around 7pm Nidal rang me, he sounded agitated and wanted to talk to me. He was soon round in Lajee's office were I was as usual working away:
 
"Rich we need your help!"
 
His tone was serious as was his face and I immediately stopped what I was doing:
 
"We have just heard that both my sisters have also been refused now. None of us are allowed to go to be with my father! Somebody must be with him. My family needs your help"
 
The only members of the Al Azzeh family who had any chance of reaching the hospital in Al Quds were Abu Waleed's grandchildren as they are too young to have to carry ID so consequently do not need to apply for 'permission' to go to Al Quds. So it was decided that Miras, Nidal's eldest son at just 13 years of age, had to take his families responsibilities firmly on his shoulders and try to reach his grandfather to stay with him in hospital. They could never have allowed him to travel alone through checkpoints and past the IOF which is why they were asking me to help. Nidal was apologizing profusely for asking me which was totally unnecessary, to me it was an honour. I think, and hope, Nidal knew what my answer would be even before I replied:
 
"Give me five minutes!"
 
I just had to get some money, my passport, and my camera. I was not planning on taking photos but I feel my camera also gives me some protection through its ability to produce hard evidence should it be needed. The IOF do not like to see cameras when they carry out their abuses.
 
Miras was being as strong as ever. He grabbed his birth certificate as I grabbed my passport and Nidal fetched his father's car to drive us up to the checkpoint. We decided against using the main Bethlehem checkpoint, this is a horrible and intimidating place especially for children, so I asked Nidal to drop us near the bus which now leaves Bethlehem going 'direct' to Al Quds through the other checkpoint at Beit Jala. As I put my arm around Miras leaving Nidal's house his mother stopped me:
 
"Rich, please look after my son!"
 
This brought a lump to my throat, not because Afaf (Miras' mother) didnt trust me as I knew she did, but at the knowledge of how it must feel to have to go through this. To have to put your entire trust into someone, to entrust the wellbeing of your children into somebody else's hands simply because of the colour of his passport. I smiled at Afaf and told her not to worry, which was a ridiculous thing to say - how could she not worry? But I felt I didnt need to tell her that the IOF would have to shoot me before I let them do anything to Miras.
 
The bus from Bethlehem's Baba Skak junction to Al Quds has only been permitted by Israel over the last few months, and only since the new 'Terminal' checkpoint on Route 60 which the bus must drive through has been opened, creating the illusion that transport is getting easier. So tourists can catch a bus in Bethlehem and not have to leave it until they reach the magical city. As we boarded the bus the Palestinian driver didn't look twice at me but stopped Miras asking him if he had 'permission'. This is what it has been reduced to now, Palestinians checking ID's of other Palestinians but this is not the driver's fault. When the bus reaches the checkpoint and ID's are checked by the IOF if anyone is found to not have 'permission' he will be dragged from the bus, but more than that the driver and the bus company will also face severe repercussions and the possibility that the license to travel this route will once more be terminated. Tourists leaving Bethlehem on this route may not understand these facts and could be led into believing that traveling was infact getting easier rather than noticing the colour of ID's that the few Palestinians on this bus carry. Palestinians living in Al Quds have blue ID and can travel to the West Bank, whereas West Bank Palestinians have green ID and cannot travel out of the West Bank without permission from the Israeli authorities, which as the Al Azzeh family know only too well, is rarely granted.
 
Miras and I spoke little in the few minutes it takes to reach the Beit Jala Terminal checkpoint, our minds were both consumed with thoughts of what may happen there. I asked Miras to sit alongside the window so that I was the one who would be nearest the IOF when they boarded the bus. The soldier who boarded the bus behind his M-16 looked no more than a teenager. He glanced at my passport briefly before grabbing Miras' birth certificate. As he studied it and looked at Miras intently I moved forward slightly positioning myself firmly between these two teenagers in an attempt to make Miras feel more secure. These two teenagers live just a few kilometers apart. One of them wore full military uniform and carried US funded lethal weapons. The other wore a Brazilian football shirt and carried a birth certificate, a change of clothes, and some money for his sick grandfather. One was tall and physically strong, the other slender and carrying a scar across his stomach and back from one of these very M-16's now paraded in front of him by a fellow teenager. One had all the power, but the other had more strength than a millions guns could muster
 
In the event we were stopped no more than five minutes or so and the bus drove off again heading towards Palestine's capital city. Miras and I both let out a breath of air, smiled, and said in unison:
 
"Yala Al Quds!"
 
Al Quds looks beautiful by night. The walls of the Old City are illuminated and stand like a sparkling crown of jewels. But now there are extra illuminations on these famous walls, illuminations that tell an altogether different story. Lights have been placed on small electronic boards to carry a message, they say simply '40'. They have been put there by the Israeli authorities to mark what Israel sees as '40 years since the reunification of Jerusalem'. On the contrary for Palestinians, and as stipulated by international law, these 40 years are four decades of illegal Occupation of Eastern Al Quds, the capital of Palestine.
 
As we left the bus and began to walk towards Bab Al Amoud (Damascus Gate) Miras dropped another comment which spoke volumes in its simplicity:
 
"Now we are Europeans!"
 
He meant he was free, like a tourist now. He could walk without passing checkpoints. He could no longer see the Apartheid Wall is whose shadow he lives.
 
The streets were busy with people; men sat smoking nargileh (water pipes) outside coffee shops, others cooked falafels on makeshift stalls, children played, families strolled alongside the beautiful city walls. It felt a million miles from Aida Camp. As Nidal had said, it was like 'another country', which felt like it was at the other end of the world
 
As we walked towards the bus station Miras' eyes were wide. He was taking in the sites, sounds, and smells that alerted his senses to Al Quds. I so badly wanted to just walk with him for hours, to enjoy the atmosphere and his 'freedom' but we had to get to the hospital for I knew that his parents and grandfather would be worrying until he arrived safely. As our bus drove up Jabal Zaytoon (Mount of Olives) we looked out the windows and could see for miles across the city. We left the bus outside Al Makasad hospital but I could see Miras was disappointed for his adventure to end so I suggested we go and find some food. At the top of Jabal Zaytoon is a small garden of sorts where men where sitting socializing so we joined them to eat our falafels. The cool evening breeze was refreshing and so different from the stifling lack of air in Aida. We began to talk together. Miras began to tell me about Al Quds:
 
"Its a beautiful city. It is our capital and we are proud of it"
 
"Would you like to live here then?" I enquired.
 
"Of course I would, there is so much to see and do and I would love to live here. It is our capital" he reiterated.
 
"So if you could live anywhere in Palestine where would you live?"
 
Without a second's thought Miras answered me:
 
"Beit Jibreen!"
 
I love to spend time with Miras. He inspires me greatly with his spirit and strength but also with his knowledge for one so young. He talked about his village although he himself has never been. He has heard many stories from his grandfather and also from Nidal. Stories that are passed down through generations and that I know Miras will also pass on to his children. The memories will not die. We practiced language skills together, we talked about football and about what is was like in England. He told me about school and about his dreams for the future. Dreams of traveling, of studying, and of going home to Beit Jibreen. Then my phone rang, it was Nidal just checking we were ok and on our progress. As I spoke to Nidal Miras was whispering to me:
 
"Tell him we are at the hospital, tell him we are already there..."
 
He wanted his dad to know that he had been successful, that he had reached the hospital and was there to look after his grandfather. He felt the responsibility on his shoulders and he wanted everyone to know he could deal with it. But he also wanted to sit and talk all night and enjoy his time. I did as he asked me. I asked him if he wanted to go to see his grandfather now, but I could see he just wanted to sit a while longer. I knew I would miss the last bus back to Bethlehem but it didnt matter. I could get a taxi, the money really wasnt important because I could see how happy Miras was. So we sat and talked some more
 
Eventually we went up to see Abu Waleed and he was pleased to see us both. Miras began to tell him about Al Quds. I didn't stay too long, I felt the time should be theirs so I headed back towards Bab Al Amoud leaving instructions of how they could contact me so I could come and get Miras in the morning so he wouldn't have to face the checkpoint back into Bethlehem alone. But despite these instructions I never really expected a phone call the next morning. I had a feeling Miras would make the trip alone just to show everyone that he could do it and was not afraid. Walking down Jabal Zaytoon I could see for miles across Al Quds. Looking one way I could see a nine meter wall in the distance and beyond that not very much. The odd light glimmered faintly beyond the Wall but there seemed little life going on, it just looked dark and bleak. Looking the other way I could see a few sky-scrapers illuminated in West Al Quds, the Israeli part of the city. Lights were everywhere and traffic was busy. The place looked alive. It made my heart sink. How did anyone ever allow this to happen? The 'haves and the have-nots'
 
As I passed through Bethlehem checkpoint and through the Wall I knew I was back home again. The small IOF cabin which stands just before you exit the checkpoint through to the Bethlehem side was empty. Soldiers were busy laughing and playing music next to one of the watchtowers which look out over the city. Underneath the bullet-proof glass window of the cabin where the soldiers should have been sat was a message scrawled in red ink, it simply read:
 
"Free Palestine!"
 
"Inshallah!" I said out loud as I passed the cabin and walked into the narrow caged walkways that reminded me of old black and white footage of entrances to the vile death camps of Nazi Occupation in Europe. A lone taxi sat in the darkness at the end of the walkways, a driver hoping for some last scraps of business with which he may be able to feed his family. But I would not provide these scraps as Nidal was already on his way to pick me up. I looked up the street ahead of me. I could not see one light. No signs of life at all. Boarded up shops stood alongside permanently closed restaurants as I walked on. I eventually noticed a dim light coming from one small building and under its flicker sat an old woman in traditional dress with a younger woman, maybe her daughter. They could have been the last two people in the world the way this street looked. No noises could be heard anywhere. There was a deathly silence. I couldn't walk far up this road as it has been closed off by the Occupiers as part of the IOF military compound at Rachel's Tomb. I turned left to walk up the small hill that has become part of the long detour necessary to reach Bethlehem city and also Aida Camp. As I did so car headlights hit my eyes, I knew it would be Nidal. I turned away from the brightness and as I looked behind me the car's headlights picked up the name on a battered sign outside a restaurant that was closed a long time ago. Its ironic name seemed like a sick joke, although it was no doubt never intended this way. It simply read:
 
'Memories'