Brian Hamilton

Refugees and Hospitality

Today we visited one of Bethlehem’s three refugee camps, Dheisheh, in the southern part of the city. A 23-year old Palestinian man named Mohammed, born and raised there and living there still, showed us around—all the signs of hope and the signs of devastation. It is in the refugee camps, it seems to me, where the history of Israel’s aggression at its most outrageous and despicable is on display. Not only in the tents-become-cinderblock-shelter crammed so close together, full of people who a half-century ago were promised the ability to return to their homes in what had been declared the new state of Israel;* at least here, the resourceful Palestinians have managed to create real homes, maintain sports leagues, and train a dancing troupe that has travelled all over the world to perform. What’s even more depressing and enraging are the leftover signs of a more forthright Israeli occupation, only a decade and a half ago, when Israelis built an enormous fence around the small camp and sat with tanks in front of the gates. There were two, one for entrance and one for exit, one of which still stands in memorial: narrow, rotating gates, which the Israelis could lock at will and which even when unlocked evoke images of a high-security prison. Or worse, since the people locked inside were guilty of no crime but were only bound by a certain history and a certain race: it was more like a ghetto or a concentation camp. The fences were erected shortly after the first intifada, 1988 or ’89, and they came down around the time of the Oslo Accords in 1993.

The camp looks better now than it did then. The fences have all been torn down, the homes are solid and in some cases even look comfortable, and an enormous percentage of the children are receiving good education from the UN-run schools.** But well over a thousand families are still on emergency food aid, and an average family includes six people; the space is still ridiculously cramped, fitting 13,000 people into less than a square mile; martyr memorials can be easily found. The people here still desperately need our prayers and our protests.

Reaching the other side of the Dheisheh camp, we came into Artas, one of the oldest standing Palestinian villages—dating back perhaps three millenia. There is a very different story to tell of that village, a story of happiness and hospitality, where we were received by a family we did not know for an elaborate meal, tea, coffee, a puff on a homemade argileh (hookah), and hours of conversation about Islam and Chrisitianity. How could one not fall in love with Palestinian culture and the Palestinian people? How could one fail to protest having been for so long bombarded with images of a people filled with violence and hatred?

* Mohammed told us that in many of the homes, the keys to their old houses—by now mostly demolished—still hang inside the door. The image of a key remains a powerful one with the refugees, at once mourning a terrible history and persisting in protest.

** As Mohammed told it, however, the UN’s presence is a mixed blessing. The UN has administered the camps from the very beginning, helping to build the homes for the refugees and gradually providing food, education, and health care. But the UN sat silent, just keeps giving basic supplies, while Israel built the fence around the camp and killed civilian after civilian. Moreover, the UN’s presence can divert attention away from the occupation—making the West think that there’s no real problem, and giving the residents themselves reason to avoid a serious examination of the issue. “I would rather be starving and resist,” Mohammed said, “then eat while they are trampling my people.”

1 June 2007 |
tags: Holy Land 2007