Yesterday was possibly the most meaningful day I've had in Palestine so far. I fell in love. I really mean it. I fell in love in a way I never have before and I don't really know what to do with the feeling welling inside myself. I feel like part of my heart no longer belongs to me. I know this sounds sappy and melodramatic but I assure you it’s not. We went to Gwien yesterday a village of 56 people known as the cave dwellers.
The day was warm and wet with moisture ridden clouds hovering overhead. We walked the short distance into the village with our bus bumping along behind us. A stiff breeze threw my hair in all directions and raised the rich smell of the earth. I instantly felt at home as the pavement and cars and telephone poles faded into the distance and the mud squished beneath my feet. Palestine is largely covered by limestone and in the places there isn’t a house occupying the ground you’ll find an olive grove or a goat herd munching its way along. The people of Gwein are shepherds and the musky smell of their flocks was the first to greet us as we neared the camp. A collection of rickety tents made up the village with a half dozen or more caves scattered throughout. We were ushered into a dark but pleasantly warm “building” with cushions lining the wall for seats. A wood stove occupied the middle of the floor and let out a comforting heat making the interior cozy. Smoke drifted lazily about wrapping me in its delicious smell. Our host smiled and welcomed us into his home and village, but before he would answer any of our questions he made us coffee - this of course is standard Arabic hospitality… or so I thought. What he did was far and beyond any welcome I have every received. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said make coffee. First he produced raw beans, which he proceeded to roast over the wood stove. Their nutty aroma filled the tent not only with a delicious smell but also a complete feeling of peace. Next he took the freshly roasted beans and put them into a grinder. I know you’re picturing any common grinder in the western world but that’s not what I’m talking about. Picture a beautifully carved wooden bucket just smaller than 5 gallons, with a small opening and a thick staff for pounding. I was instantly mesmerized by the music that filled the room reaching my soul as our host began pounding. Rata-tat Rata-tat Rata-tat Rata-tat Rata-tat thump THUMP Rata-tat Rata-tat. He wasn’t only making coffee he was making music. The beans were thrown into the pot of boiling water before I was ready for the music to end. A few cloves of crushed cardamom were tossed in as well and the concoction began to foam over the open flame. Seconds later I cupped a tiny glass of the special coffee. Talk about a welcome.
Now despite the beauty of the process I was unable to actually drink much of the potent stuff. It tasted unlike anything I’ve ever allowed near my taste buds before and it was not for the faint of heart. As I sipped gingerly we were told how the cave dwellers have a special relationship to coffee, it is part of their culture and each village has their specific coffee culture. Gwein puts cardamom in theirs and you are supposed to drink it right away without letting it get cold or putting your cup on the floor.
Fifty-six people live in the village, of all ages and have lived there for over 200 years. Each day their land becomes smaller and smaller as Israeli settlements creep into the West Bank. The caves we visited had hundreds of years of cooking smoke and grease cling to the roof. Blankets, animal feed, cooking pots and children vied for space in the dark interiors. The boys that shyly followed us about looked out of place in the old village with their western clothes and gelled hair. It was one of these boys that I fell so completely in love with. But I’ll get to that part later.
Gwein is one of 7,000 such villages in the area. It is so isolated that the people have little to do with the outside world or the greater Israeli/Palestinian conflict. When I asked if the people had taken part of the intifadas they shook their head. They told us that the very fact that they were alive was them resisting the occupation. “We are resisting. Money comes and goes, so do people and seasons but we are here on this land. If we leave the land it will no longer be Palestinians and we will have lost.” The only income for the village comes from the occasional goat they sell and the milk and yoghurt they sell from their flocks. Life is literally lived day to day.
Five years ago Israel built the wall through their parched land cutting them off from 1,000 dunums of valuable pasture. The villagers protested as it was built but their efforts were fruitless. Not only were they cut off from some of their land Israel also denies them the right to dig wells, build buildings or even maintain the ones they already have. Their lives are literally collapsing around them.
As we wandered from one dwelling to another small children peered at us from behind door flaps. Their faces dirty, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and their eyes curious. One child no older than three caught my eye as he totted two buckets nearly his size back to his home. He was me watching him and in the half second he was not watching his feet, tumbled down the hill. No fear mom came to the rescue, scooping him up and plopping him back on his feet. Girls with long thick braids played a hopscotch style game that involved kicking a rock. Chickens clucked and squawked, donkeys he-hawed and as always the boys followed us. Everywhere I looked life was bursting forth.
Our group was making our way back to our initial meeting place when one of the boys approached me. Our conversation went as follows.
Him: Asalam Alaykum
Me: Walaykum Asalame. Keif Halak?
Him: Al hum de Allah
And that was it. A simple hand shake, a simple hello. As I walked away I heard another say, “Wa init?” And you? But by the time I realized he was talking to me it was too late. No worries we got into a conversation later. His name is Muhammad and like me he is 18. With Yossef – a student/guide from Hebron – translating we talked for a while. He wants to be a doctor and his favorite soccer team is Real Madrid. Initially Heather with her go-getter style struck up the conversation with the pack of boys who had spent the morning following us around. I had wondered over and was just hanging out in the background listening when Muhammad turned to me and in practiced English asked, “Do you have any questions?” His smile instantly stole my heart. We proceeded to talk about soccer using the few words we knew in each other’s language and fluent sign language. As soon as he moved away from the topic of soccer we needed a translator. I wanted to interview him for my research so I asked him what his greatest fear was. He understood me and gave me a very serious look; brow wrinkled and said, “foxes.” I couldn’t help but laugh. What he said next was however was more sobering, “I am Palestinian and we are not afraid of anything. Except maybe that Jerusalem will be the Israeli capital forever.” He looked at me then his brown eyes searching mine for some hint of understanding and recognition of this fear. I understand. How I wanted right then to reach and hug him. To let him know that it would all be okay that the good of mankind will overcome the bad but I did not, I could not. Instead I had to stand next to him and love him – in his purple stripped hoody and faded jeans – love him and love all the Palestinians with all of my being from a distance.
Like I said, I fell in love. I think I was drawn to his plea to be loved unconsciously or not it was there and it touched my heart. I felt helpless as I stood there in the cold wind staring at my Palestinian counterpart. What radically different lives we have led. I knew then that I have to do more than just understand and recognize his fear. For my own sake and his I have to do something about it. But what can I do? Sure I donated 100 shekels to help improve the villager’s hard lives but that was a menial contribution. I want to make a difference for good in the lives of these people. Not in a pro-Palestine or anti-Israel way. Instead my desire to act comes from a pro human rights pro justice standpoint. I know a little of what it is like to live in a tent – I spent six months doing that. I don’t however know what it feels like to live day-to-day wondering where my next meal will come from. I don’t know what it’s like to have no water because it is illegal for me to dig a well. I haven’t a clue how anguished I would feel when half my flock dies from poison distributed on my lands by Israeli settlers. And I don’t know what it feels like to be 18 and have my greatest fear be occupation of a holy city and land by an oppressor.
So what can I do? Maybe my greatest contribution will be to write about Muhammad Al-Hawamdeh and spread his story. I know at least one thing for sure. I may never see him again but he and his village have touched my heart, what a wonderful gift they have given me.
-- Jess Lewis
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