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A Chronicle of Empty Graves
by Giuliano Mar Kamis
((Translated from Hebrew by Hillel Roman for Indymedia Israel))
[Hebrew version at http://www.indymedia.org.il/imc/israel/webcast/20098.html]
It's hard to write when you know that the readers of these lines could people who lost their loved ones. Their pain echoes in my ears.
And yet, I find it hard to remain silent. And I do not intend to write about my feelings as a resident of the city [Haifa], nor as an Arab, nor as a Jew. I presume the papers will be filled with interpretations from "approved" correspondents: for Arabs, for coexistence (that never existed), for "deep shocks", for hatred, for reconciliation (mainly the merchants) and of course security correspondents.
I want to tell the story of Ashraf. This is neither an appraisal nor a condemnation. This is a monolog of a death foretold. These are the dry facts, a statistic for the future -- or as Ashraf called it "A Chronicle of Empty Graves".
Ashraf was born in 1979 in to the furnace of the occupation. He wanted to be an actor. We met in 1988 in the Jenin refugee camp, where I worked for "The Children of the Stones".
Ashraf also wanted to write a play. An intelligent child, free of the inhibitions of oppression, who liked to dream.
In the morning he would throw stones at soldiers and at night he would memorize his lines in a play we produced in the camp. He was only nine years old at the time.
His brother was jailed for his part in that Intifada. His mother hosted our rehearsals under her roof. His father hated the roadblocks. His little sister used to sit in the corner and watch us, frightened and estranged.
Ashraf had been arrested and beat up by Boarder-Police soldiers; he used to carry his wounded arm with pride for days after his release. His father was fired from his job. His Jewish employer couldn't stand his absences.
Ashraf went out to make a living for his family. The rehearsals continued without him.
His friends said they saw him pass by at nights and always in a hurry.
We met again in 1992, he was only thirteen this time. His speech was fluent and charismatic.
Ashraf wanted to be a "Shaheed" [Arabic for martyr]. His friends mocked him. His parents regarded this merely as teenage rebellion.
But he kept on going. His little sister, who stopped talking ever since soldiers broke into their house to arrest her brother, used to grab onto his pants and seek his presence. Her love for him was evidence of his righteousness and kept his spirits up.
Ashraf wanted to avenge everyone's revenge.
His ardent speech and mysterious ways amused the people around him.
The Intifada was at its peak. And then it happened. His brother was indicted in a military courthouse and sentenced to eight years imprisonment. Their house was blown up by the army and completely destroyed. Ashraf wept. Foreign television cameras documented his tears. "I'd rather die standing on my feet than living on my knees," he used to say. It was a bad sign.
Ashraf did not die. The Oslo accords were a celebration for all. He was dressed up like a groom. A local hero. A winner. His family moved to his uncle's house. Jenin, the city and the adjacent refugee camp, were included in the A-area.
Ashraf went out to look for a job.
I met him on one of my visits to the market in Jenin. This time he was wearing a police officer's uniform, all primped-up like a rooster.
I did not hide my dismay, and reminded him that "power corrupts" as the old clich? goes.
In a telephone conversation, a few months later, he told me he left the police, and that nothing has changed, and that he was not going to cooperate with the "conspiracy"--that's what he called the Oslo Accords now.
"We've become Israel's sub-contractors" . . .he said "My grandfather's lands were confiscated in order to expand the settlement overlooking Jenin…and we, as Palestinian Police officers are supposed to protect the settlers". . ."every meter there's a roadblock". . ."I work in C-area, sneak through B-area, and sleep in A-area. . .like a cow coming back to the shed after grazing. " "A double-occupation" -- these things were aimed at his father, who, in the meantime, found a job in the local market.
The tension in the territories rose. Eight years of "Oslo". Eight years of direct and indirect occupation.
The territories are divided into cantons. The roadblocks multiply. The number of settlers doubles. Lands are confiscated. Bypass roads tear the West Bank, North to South, East to West.
"We are being deceived"- Ashraf yelled into the phone. I invited him to visit me in Haifa. He never made it. Sharon went onto the "Temple Mount". The territories were under a curfew.
Ashraf went underground.
I drove to Jenin at the height of the Al-Aqsa Intifada. The roads around the city were dug up to prevent cars from passing. The army did not spare the sewage and the electricity systems. The camp was in complete darkness. I made it through into the village with help of a friend from a nearby village. Ashraf 's mother opened the door as usual and quickly invited me in. I was scared. The atmosphere was hard. Paralyzing. The mother counted the wounded and the arrested--the dead were not to be mentioned.
"Ashraf is gone"- she said. . ."He went to fight" -- she was tough and did not allow a shred of concern or complaint to come through.
In previous visits I used to feel like their house was mine, I did not watch my words. This time was different. My hosts, who felt my inconvenience, did not spare me their anger and rage over the occupation, as if I was its representative. They are humiliated, hungry, cold and in the dark. I offered my help, but it was utterly rejected. We parted.
Ashraf blew himself up in the south. His body was never buried.
His saying, "it is better to die standing up than to live on your knees, "still echoes within me.
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