Home
Articles
Eyewitness
Media/Congress
Maps
links
Events
|
 |
| The Butterfly of Palestine |
 |
| Friday, May 17 2002 @ 01:24 AM GMT |
By Marilyn Robinson for Palestine Chronicle
The sounds of the buzzing saws, nails being hammered, orders being shouted
by the construction crew bosses, heavy equipment moving debris remaining
from the Israeli invasion, such as telephone poles in splintered pieces,
along with rocks, boulders and chunks of stone from foundations of homes
damaged by tanks used by the Israelies;
and, in the main shopping and office district in the city of Ramallah, the
sounds of the outdoor marketplace where cabbages the size of small children;
peaches, their perfume tempting you to buy and take a juicy bite;
watermelons, tasting like honey was used to sweeten them; newly roasted
pistachios, cashews, peanuts and other nuts, filling the air with
irrestistable aromas; people greeting each other, happy to see a friend or
relative, a kiss on both cheeks, a warm handshake, brief words exchanged and
each is off to work or pleasure; children playing outdoors, their voices
filling the air with happy, joyful sounds once more, but for how long, no
one knows; I will miss hearing the sounds coming five times a day from the
mosques, calling for prayer to Allah; these are the sounds I heard today in
Ramallah and Jerusalem. Now, finally in the home of Bahia and Mahmoud in
Ramallah, I feel strangely safe even though not too far away, the Israeli
presence is stationed as an intimidation procedure. While at the Kalendia
checkpoint, the play is acted over and over, seemingly the same dialogue,
just different voices each day from the Israeli soldiers there.
I recall the day before as I was returning from Jerusalem to Ramallah. I,
like all Palestinians, had to cross the Kalendia checkpoint, one of many
checkpoints in the city of Ramallah and the surrounding villages therein. I
had traveled up to it with Bahia from her office in Jerusalem by taxi. No
cars, no trucks, no taxis, no vehicles of any kind except for Israeli
military vehicles, can get through to the other side. You must depart
whatever vehicle you arrived in on one side, cross by foot with approval by
an Israeli soldier through the checkpoint, then, use another taxi/service on
the other side to continue on to Ramallah. Bahia and I were in line, me with
my two backpacks awaiting the signal from the soldier to take one step at a
time moving up to the front of the line to proceed for approval through the
checkpoint. All of a sudden the crowd grew a bit pushy and some shoving
ensued. One of the Israeli soldiers starting yelling commands in Hebrew. The
crowd understood his words to mean move back. This soldier had decided we
were not where he wanted us to be even though the mark at the head of the
line hadn't changed perhaps all day. We all moved back, all the while being
pushed by the soldier using his gun and his body to direct us. We waited two
at a time in line. Completely at the whim of the soldier in charge, we were
chosen to move ahead to the next soldier who would check and re-check your
papers and or passport. Approval given, you were then able to move on to
awaiting taxis or services to take you to Ramallah. The play took a strange
direction this time for me. Usually, I would be easily waved on after a
quick check of my passport. But today was different.
Where usually it would be Bahia, a Palestinian woman whom they would choose
to make wait a little longer for approval, it was my turn to wait. My
passport was in full view as I proceeded in the line to the front, one step
at a time. Bahia advanced quickly, looking back to check on me, finding me
becoming engulfed in the crowd, as people stepped ahead of me and my load.
The soldier kept shouting, "Get back! Get back!" in Hebrew. I watched as
Bahia was okayed and stood waiting for me on the other side. Even though it
became very apparent it was my turn, even as I showed him my passport,
opening it up for him to see, he continued to ignore me, picking women
behind me and men next to me to go ahead through. I waited for what seemed
many minutes, getting a taste in my mind what it must feel like day in, day
out to be ignored, shouted at, singled out of line for inspection, laughed
at, humiliated and disrespected that way, not really being able to show
displeasure or anger, as this surely would mean further delay. I looked at
each soldier, wondering, the same questions coming into my mind. Where is
their conscience? How do they sleep? Where is their real joy in life?
I just wanted to move on. Bahia stood watching, waiting. Finally, an older
soldier positioned in the camoflauged area, his gun pointed at me, beckoned
me to come. Approval was given to advance to him. With outreached hand, I
showed him my passport. He took it from me, examining each page. Finally
saying "Ok", he handed my passport back to me. I was approved. I could go
on. As I walked with Bahia, in my mind I wished them all a sleepless night.
It was with relief to arrive at Bahia's home where we felt at peace and
happy for a while.
The next morning, while standing at the top of the stairs on the second
level looking out the windows lining the area, I enjoyed the idea of a new
day. I noticed, there on one of the window sills was a small, gold colored
butterfly. It seemed to be struggling to fly out, thinking the glass was
non-existent, hitting it with every attempt to be free. I hurried to get my
camera to capture its beauty on film for a memory. After a few shots, I laid
the camera down and reached carefully out to pick it up, remembering from
childhood times to only touch it on the very tip of the outside part of the
wing, hoping not to erase in the palm of my hand. It opened its wings,
setting there awhile before it slowly moved up my arm. I was transfixed to
that spot on the stairs, as if I was viewing a miracle in progress. It
didn't fly away, but seemed to enjoy moving on my arm. It stopped for a
rest, then, returned to the palm of my hand once again. Taking initiative, I
decided to place him outdoors giving it freedom at last. I called to Saleh,
Bahia's 5 year old daughter to come with me. We stood together just outside
the front doorway. I gently placed the butterfly on Saleh's palm. She held
it for a while, giggling at the feeling the butterfly gave as it walked on
her hand. I took it from her and placed it on a leaf of a nearby tree. I
realized I had held the power of the butterfly's life in my hand. I could
have hurt it, ignored it while it struggled on the sill, or killed it but,
chose not to do so. In fact, really, those choices never came into my mind.
Its freedom was my only choice, my only thought, and getting it to freedom,
my responsibility. After all the bustle, city sounds, tasks accomplished,
moments of upset in my day, I was treated to a simple moment...the power and
miracle of freedom.
There are many beautiful butterflies here in Palestine. Yet, these
beautiful, Palestinian butterflies are encased in the claustrophobic fear of
this Israeli occupation, continuously hitting the glass believing somehow
they will be free. They need our help toward freedom. The beautiful
butterflies I speak of, are not the small, gold variety but, each and every
Palestinian here under this illegal occupation by Israel and the Israeli
military.
Will you help these butterflies to be free? Will you lend your outreached
hand? They are waiting at the window.
Marilyn Robinson is one of three members of the Colorado Campaign for
Middle East Peace who have joined internationals in solidarity with
Palestinians nonviolently resisting Israel's illegal military occupation.
More on their trip at www.ccmep.org/palestine.html
|
|
|
