---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Bryan Atinsky <bryan@indymedia.org.il>
Here is a translation from Hebrew of an article published onto Indymedia
Israel from Giuliano Mar Kamis, a famous (in Israel) stage actor.
Bryan
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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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