Election propaganda flourishes in Ramallah.
Ramallah might not be most peopleís first choice for a place to party on New Yearís Eve. But it was to this cultural capital of Palestine that I headed on the eve of 2005, to spend the night with an American peace activist I had met in Bethlehem and his local friends.
After watching a spectacular West Bank sunset we caught a cab to the city center. The town was bustling with activity, and it was clear that we were standing in the middle of an electoral race. Posters and billboards for presidential candidates graced most ever vertical surface, while banners hung over the street and stickers graced bumpers and baby carriages. Volunteer campaign teams were frantically climbing up ladders and lampposts to ensure that every free square inch was covered with their candidateís mugshot and inspirational messages. Not without irony, the propaganda spree instantly reminded me of electoral campaigns at my alma mater where political poster wars have become something of a elite sport.
We eventually settled into a smoky basement cafÈ, where the domed ceilings were tinged with sheesha smoke and reverberated with sultry sounds of Arabia. Over several bottles of wine from Canadaís Okanogan Valley stories were shared, most of which reflected lives lived in the midst of violent conflict. One young man, not yet twenty, recalled the IDF assault on Jenin, his hometown. He spoke of the tanks rumbling through his neighbourhood, of bullets darting between his legs. For seven days he, alongside the other resistance fighters, did not sleep, save for brief naps taken while leaning against the separation wall.
At this point one of his friends leaned in, apparently to correct the modesty inherent in his storytelling. ìYou know how many times heís been shot?î he asks. ìThirteen.î He goes on to explain that the IDF has also killed his brother, and that his sister is sitting in what the IDF calls administrative detention. ìThe Jews have even bulldozed his house.î
Alarmed, the first young man quickly steps in to correct him. It wasnít the Jews, he says, but Israel who is to blame. Drawing a clear distinction between the people and the political entity of an imperialist state, the teenage student explains: ìThere is a big difference between Jews and Israel, between Jews and bad Israelis. I donít hate the Jew ñ he hasnít done anything to me. But I do hate Israel because they have taken my land and killed my family.î
His sophistication was impressive, as was his desire to defuse any racism, whether intentional or misguided, among his compatriots. He understood that there are many people in Israel who, like himself, are willing to extend an olive branch and live side by side with their Semitic sisters and brothers in peace. Indeed, in the Holy Land one quickly learns that beyond the media rhetoric of anti-Semitism and fanatical Zionism, there are many who are willing to make compromises in order to create a just solution to the conflict.
The intensity is short lived, however, as our friend quickly realizes that my glass of wine has run dry ñ this is New Yearís Eve after all, he reminds me. As he smiles and darts across the table to grab a fresh a bottle, my American friend laughs and asks me rhetorically, ìArenít these the nicest terrorists youíve ever met?î I reciprocate the laughter and take a sip of my freshly poured wine ñ I certainly wasnít one to disagree.