martyrs

Tulkarem is full of heroes. They are on concrete walls, on big posters stuck on lamp posts, in golden frames on mantle pieces, on frail, worn pictures kept in an inner pocket. They linger at the edge of every conversation, they have inhabited the way people move, their shake of the head or their careful smile. Tulkarem is full of gaping holes once filled by a father or sister or cousin or friend.

Today in the refugee camp a ceremony was held in honour of Tulkarem's martyrs - those who have died as a consequence of the occupation. Some have been killed while waging armed resistance, others have died in an ambulance at a checkpoint. Today no difference is made. The heroes are honoured. A solemn line of children holds up pictures of those that have been taken away. The families file up to receive an acknowledgement of their loss.

I don't ask too many questions. It is a tricky line to tread - I know some of these people died using a form of struggle I would not agree with. Others are civilians trapped in physical or abstract crossfires, and I wish to honour them.

Most striking are the posters of Saddam. The first week of January saw us drawn into many talks on Saddam. People were angry that he had been killed on the first day of Eid, a festival meant to bring happiness and peace. Many were also angry that he had at all been judged - they dubbed him the father of the nation, a friend, an ally. Where I come from, that is an absurd, preposterous description. But for a people who feel that no-one supports them, the support from the Iraqi ex-leader was exceptional, without equal neither in the West nor among Arab states.

Sometimes, under occupation, you don't ask too many questions, at least not out loud. Your enemy's enemy is your friend and your friend is good, because your enemy is bad.

I have no illusions that Saddam was anything but a bastard, but I can also not deny that to many Palestinians he has given hope and a sense of not being totally deserted. That probably first of all reflects on how the rest of the interational society is perceived around here...


I discussed the posters of martyrs with a friend in Nablus one day - a friend that I can ask all my questions. He shook his head at the posters. "I try to avoid having my picture taken," he said, "because if I die one day at the hand of Israelis, I don't want to be stuck up on one of those lamp posts."

Well, I have a picture of him. But it'll stay in my pocket.

Tulkarem

I'm in a bus heading northwards on the West Bank and at one of the regular checkpoints on the way I answer the regular questions of curiosity from soldiers who seldom see foreigners passing their posts:

"You from Norway?"
"Yes"
"What are you doing here?"
"I travel with the church"
"The shursh?"
"Yes, the church"
"Where are you going now?"
"To Tulkarem"
Looks of amazement and bewilderment: "Don't you think that's dangerous?!?"

I have moved to what many Israelis are taught to believe is one of the most dangerous cities on the West Bank. I cannot deny that should an Israeli soldier venture inside the city on his own he would probably get into trouble. As it is, my small team of South African, Polish and Norwegian presence in Tulkarem causes the occasional traffic jam, but runs into very little other danger.

We are here to provide protection, show solidarity, and work with advocacy. The protection is especially related to the checkpoints around Tulkarem where we do checkpoint watch every week. The restrictions on movement for Tulkaremites can be seen on the UN map of the area.

In addition to checkpoints, we visit what are called agricultural gates in the security fence. Many farmers in the vicinity of Tulkarem have been cut off from their land by the barrier running through the West Bank. The Israeli army has most graciously set up gates in the fence through which farmers can pass to access their land, but these gates are only open at specific hours, and farmers must apply for permits to use them. We come into the picture by dragging ourselves out of bed at 5:30 in the morning to monitor the gates, checking whether the soldiers open them on time, and whether farmers have any trouble going through. It feels quite absurd, to find myself in the middle of an olive grove as the sun starts rising, together with a couple of soldiers, a handful of farmers with their donkeys and tractors, and a huge fence splash in our faces. And we say we come here to visit churches...

Apart from these morning exercises we are involved in activities in Tulkarem refugee camp, and with a local youth centre called Dar Qandeel. In the refugee camp (one of the largest in the territories, hosting 17 000 people) we facilitate an English discussion group. Last week we played them a song by Outlandish, about the Palestinian situation. It was a definite hit - and saved us from playing Celine Dion "My heart will go on and on and on" which seems to be the most well known English song around here. Here's Outlandish.

Dar Qandeel is for me the highlight of our Tulkarem life. It's a centre for arts and culture where youth are given a chance to increase their skills in drawing, singing, playing instruments and dancing, as well as creating poetry and drama. Our Dar Qandeel friends are a gang full of creativity, spontaneity, critical and pointed comments on their own society, and deep concern mixed with engulfing laughs. They will hopefully feature more on this page as the weeks proceed.

For now, taste the name: "Tulkarem" - doesn't it have a ticklish, spicy, bitter feel? Welcome to come taste it in real life, if you dare live dangerously...