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Salama. Shalom. Hello all of you on the .
My name Aisha, I just twenty years. I live in a village east of Nablus, West Bank. A country that once called "Samaria". In Biblical times, Nablus, between Mount Gerizim and Ebar, called Sychar or Shechem. Today is a city under siege. It has one hundred fifty thousand inhabitants. The population is confined, isolated, cut off from the rest of the world through the checkpoints, the checkpoints of sinister reputation.
Those seeking to leave the city are trapped. They can wait hours at the bottleneck, only to be finally refused passage. They fear being searched and then arrested. This is particularly true of young people: less than thirty five years are considered here as potential terrorists. And that is why many people never leave here. Despite these vicissitudes, I remain faithful to my country, I am deeply attached. A succession of barren hills stretching out of sight in West Bank.
Palestine has many Christians. In Bethlehem, a village that looks like ours, not far from here, that Issa Ibn Youssef was born, "said Al Masih: The Messiah, the Anointed of God. It is no coincidence that my father and my mother's name was Youssef Miriam, a name which in Arabic means "the pious". There are two thousand years, Myriam was chosen among all women to wear the "Qalimat": the Word, the Word of God. At the archangel Gabriel, in our language we call ar-Ruh, it fell to announce the good news. Behold, all ye people of the Book (this term refers to a Muslim, Jews and Christians) , how our holy texts to match!
I come back every day. With my family, or what remains of it, we live today in a foxhole. I should say "we exist". Is this really live that camp like this? Israeli tanks have moved twice in my village. Depending on the version of the Army, he served as a haven for activists and our houses containing a lot of weapons. However, during their first raid, the soldiers were for their expense. They searched everywhere, put everything upside down without finding anything. Out of spite, they demolished public buildings, our poor houses razed. The rocket attacks have killed or injured a lot of people, I saw people die before my eyes. We had to defend all that our injuries and our spittle.
The second time, which was our village had become a douar: between the huts and tents, there was nothing left to destroy. Then the tanks are divided as they came.
We have watched him without hate, almost with resignation.
Following this visit, my father and my elder brother Hussein went into the camp of radical Palestinian activists. They died shortly after, the victims of clashes on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. In turn, my two surviving brothers, Ali and Rachid are engaged in the Izz al-Din al Qassain, that is to say, the armed wing Hamas. This term means "enthusiasm" or "fervor," Hamas militants opposed to those of us loyal to Fatah. The collaborators. Hunted by the Mossad, (service-cons Israeli espionage) Racid and Ali are also wary of the "red berets", police in the Palestinian Authority .... They live hidden permanently, make only brief and irregular appearances at the family home. So that I only see them rarely.
We are now more than three women to live under this roof: my old mother, who spends his day to whine and moan, myself that speaks to you and my younger sister Zora, too young to leave home. She would leave here, but where would she go? What future is there when you live in Palestine and that was twenty years? A Shebab (youth) there is nothing: no shelter, no jobs for anyone.
I turn to my personal history. Just before the Second Intifada, I was a student in literature at Bir Zeit University in Ramallah. There were events, the wave of attacks. Our faculty, built with international funds has been severely damaged by IDF shelling ... (The army of Israel) The campus facilities have been repaired since then, but there is no way to work. Politics pervades everything we use, consume us. Time flows on in endless palaver Aouda '(the' situation ') .. I am tired of protest: what are they, our numerous petitions and motions? Boycotts and sit-in at rehearsal no bother anyone. Except ourselves, because they prevent us from working. As for graduation, assuming that I get, what would it do me now? Fear of the future me pliers. What is the obstinate? I gave up my studies, I have the heart to it ....
What I tell you also: wall concrete eight meters high, was built by our neighbors. On the other hand, Israeli settlements continue to expand under the protection of the army. In Ramallah, shows off sprawls on a hillside among olive white houses with red tile roofs. There, exudes prosperity. No cuts water or electricity, streets are abundantly lighted. The settlers have everything they need. They demanded the "security fence" to be guarded against the "terrorist intrusions." Specifically, it is an insurmountable barrier that extends endlessly in the campaign. The wall encroaches on our territory, we cut the few wells in the area. It took a move to build homes, ransack our citrus groves. We call it "racial separation wall" (al-fasl al jidar-'unsuri) because it makes impossible the coexistence of two peoples whose brothers, the children of Israel and Ishmael. Who would dare to speak now of reconciliation and peace?
You see, the situation became untenable .... Nevertheless, we must live well. Running water is not getting down here. To supply the house, I'm painfully down the river, carrying pot on my head. A Creek runs below the village, the only one we can still access along the Green Line. It is called Wadi Fa'rah is a tributary of the Jordan. At this moment we are in a period of low water. It sank almost nothing is usual at this season, but that is not the only reason for the drying up. Further upstream, the colonists engaged in indiscriminate pumping to irrigate their crops. In shortage, it is not matter of course to water our own cultures. There is barely enough water in the river for domestic use, and yet ... provided to fetch himself after a rocky trail that property so rare and precious.
Yesterday on my way to the water point, I stumbled upon an Israeli patrol: four boys and one girl crammed into a Landrover. They were rolling with a bang, crushing everything in their path, m'aspergeant dust. On my visit, the vehicle stopped, the soldiers came down, gun in hand. I politely said goodbye, after all, they are just doing their job, even if it's a dirty job. They wanted to verify my identity. "Who are you? "Asked one who seemed their leader (I saw he wore the insignia of a corporal, or something equivalent).
I replied: "I'm Aisha, Youssef and daughter Miriam.
- Tell us what you do here and show what you have on you, "said another in a rude voice.
- I come from the river and carry my pitcher. See its content: it is only a little water from the wadi. "
The youngest of the soldiers approached me. It's a little guy my age. No doubt that part of conscripted civilians willy-nilly in Tzahal.
You should know that Israel, military service is compulsory. This young soldier, I thought he was a physics student. Just seeing her curly blond hair and blue eyes, I realized that was not here. I can not imagine trying to fight and kill people. Me, I had under my black veils look like a peasant. He does not have realized that I was a student like him. Our eyes met. Without doubt me he found attractive, he even sketched out something resembling a smile.
"Girl, give me a drink! "He asked in a friendly voice. I replied without looking down, both touched and surprised, "How you, who are Jewish, can you ask for water to a Samaritan woman? " (John, 4.1 to 26.) He understood the hint and gave me a sign of complicity.
So fervently I poured into the palm of his outstretched hand the Whitewater Creek. Meanwhile, Corporal intervened brutally to admonish the young soldier. He was nominated by his given name Jacob. He did not know that I speak fluent Hebrew. I understood all his words: "The river water is polluted," he said to Jacob. If you're thirsty, grab a bottle of mineral water in the trunk. " Then the leader yelped this brief order to the attention of others: "Dig me this girl! "The
soldier approached me, I sensed bluntly. In the Israeli army, women are walking in shirt and shorts, they exhibit no apparent discomfort their legs and arms bare. I do not mind. But we, Muslim women do not expose our bodies in the eyes of others. The veil is our modesty. At university, however, I dressed in Western style, a little kerchief hiding my hair, as appropriate. In the village, I stick to the local costume: gandoura the dark, which effectively protects me from the sun. This long dress, the soldier asked me to remove it.
I did not do it, he has had me bend to his injunctions. Luckily I was wearing underwear presentable. The young soldier looked away, he was as red as a cherry. The Others have made jokes about my salacious, lecherous detailing my forms. Then they engaged in fondling me. I protested, I struggled. The young soldier tried to intervene, but in vain, as the jeers of his comrades. In the scuffle, broke my pot. After a moment, fearing the excesses, the sergeant recalled his team to order. I finally get dressed. The patrol nimbly re-embarked, the Land Rover is distributed immediately. I was left alone beside the River. Alone with my humiliation, weeping on my broken jug ...
Continuation and end of text "The Samaritan" at:
http://atelierdecrits.canalblog.com/archives/2010/05/12/17870644.html
Illustration: Collage Jean-Claude Boyer
More about Jean-Claude Boyrie:
http://www.jean-claude.boyrie.over-blog.com/
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