By:  Andrea Becker
Bourj el-Barajneh

Morning coffee and the full beat of the buena vista social club….far from cuba here in southern lebanon. the air has cooled, and the sea sparkles. we used to sit up at night, and in the distance, watch the puffs of smoke rise from the katushas launched, the echoes of small fire, the gunship that would ominously light the night sea…having found their target, the boat would disappear into the blackness. time would hold still, then red sparks would fly…like fireworks, those small sparks would rise. then fall, no brilliant greens and golds and pretty sky designs, but the sound of smaller boats being rocked, ripped….the splooooosh of water….and silence. sleep would return. no fear…we were always, of course, a few kilometres away from the charade that ended so many civilian lives. The Israelis have withdrawn, the bright yellow flags have been flown. the blue berets have deployed. families have returned to their homes, some after over twenty years, some of the young seeing their southern lebanese villages for the first time. rebuilding homes. Nights are calm. This week i left Beirut, and my home of Bourj el-Barajneh Palestinian refugee camp. Now in the south, i step into Rashadiyyeh camp. There are some trees here. the sea is at the edge of the camp. the pathways are not as narrow, and the air is fresh. Rashadiyyeh is a welcome respite from Beirut. The air is fresher, the problems are the same. no rights to work. no security. checkpoints at the entrance of the camp. the humiliation, daily, slow and subtle, of having your car and your crumpled ID examined as you leave or enter the camp. pride, past, and no future. The old man still sits up on his roof, on his concrete ‘home’, and stares off into the distance, looking towards Palestine. The land that he was forced to leave at age 16, his three year old sister is his arms as they fled. his sister did not cry, keeping her head silently buried into his shoulder. not crying. not understanding, quiet with the fear that radiated from her brother. He sips his Arabic coffee, stares into the still night. That was over fifty years ago. The debates loom, the conferences begin and end, talks resume-fail-are suspended-break down. compromises are made. concessions. words, not people. No justice, and no peace. The lines on the old man’s face have deepened.

By:  Andrea Becker
Bourj el-Barajneh

My back to the burning tires and garbage, the thick black rising into the air….eyes stinging….. Amine is swaying in the crowd, silent in the loud chants, tilting back and forth as she walked, her injured hip displacing her upper body with each step….a ship in a stormy sea. Amine saw me and greeted me warmly, enveloping me in her embrace…she pulled me back, and with her ancient eyes stared into mine. I am her ‘grand-daughter’. Amine used to prevent me from eating my breakfast until I had learnt all of the Arabic words for what was on the table..she insists that I attach her last name to mine.I am family, she says. We have heated discussions about politics, and she laughs endlessly as we debate which northern village in Palestine was the best. Other times we sit in silence. Now we are together, surrounded by the crowds, the children, the chanting..this is the second day of protests in Bourj el-Barajneh refugee camp in Beirut. Hundreds are here, mourning the recent deaths in Palestine, the killings of unarmed Palestinian protestors by Israeli police, ‘security’ forces. Kids with stones. Trained men with tanks and assault rifles. What started with Ariel Sharon’s visit to Jerusalem’s Haram al-Sharif, is now spiraling into a familiar story in Occupied Palestine. Over 30 Palestinians killed. Live ammunition, ‘rubber’ bullets. Rubber-coated steel bullets. And Palestinian stones. The Palestinians here in Lebanon remember Ariel Sharon well. His name is linked to many things here…you can still see where the shells fell and killed during the 1982 Israeli Invasion. You will see pictures, yellow-green and faded, in refugee homes here. Faded, killed. You can stand in the eerie silence of the mass grave in Shatila camp, the red soil littered with garbage. 18 years ago this month, and no markers, no peace for the thousands buried beneath the littered soil. Mothers, children, young men and women. Elders. Unarmed. Unremembered. Massacred by Israel’s Phalangist militia allies. Flares were lit so that the massacre could continue even at night. Amine holds me tight in the crowd. I help her walk. She turns to me now, and raises her voice, staring into me, shouting at me in Arabic, everything loud and clear. “Do you know what is happening, how is this happening? I am here, I am old, and the children in Palestine are being killed. Did you see on the television, the people being killed by Israel? Can you see what is happening?” Her voice has carried, and now there is a crowd gathered around us. Amine, my grandmother, stares into me and waits for answers. I have many, and none. Walking into my flat in Bourj el-Barajneh some time later, my eyes still stinging with smoke.. Kholoud and Samira are there. Samira and I are silent…the weight of injustice felt by our friends, our family, here. Kholoud looks at both of us, and tells us not to be upset, not to cry. “Aren’t you Palestinian?”, she asks us. “Then don’t cry. You must be strong”. But Kholoud’s eyes are red with tears this morning too. She walks towards the door. One of Kholoud’s relatives died this morning. She is on her way to the funeral. “They are dying in Palestine. We are dying too. Here, we die for nothing.” Salaam,

By: Mandelena Santos
Bourj el-Barajneh

Even before I walked into the camp I recalled what I had read in last year’s newsletter about the first impressions of a former CEPAL intern. To paraphrase, she stated that she felt comfortably at home in Bourj el Barajneh but that still she was aware that her experience was not like those who lived in the camp since she knew always that she had the luxury to leave should she so desire. I held these thoughts close to me, as I believed that they would be significant to my experience in Bourj. Throughout my time here I have often deliberated upon what my luxury to retreat from my surroundings without losing my ability to return means to me and to those who have been deprived of this opportunity. It is difficult to believe that people who have experienced and continue to experience so much pain and have had so much taken away from them can be so giving. And it is because of this that, at times, it is easy to forget that they have lived through so much unrest. The bullet-ridden structures in which they live are a constant reminder of their affliction, however, as are the photos of the family members who were killed which hang ominously on the nearly identical paint-peeled walls of their various meticulously clean homes. The proximity of their surroundings adds to the close and warm feeling of the camp but it also can feel equally suffocating. With no parks to stroll in or play grounds for children to run and play the tiny concrete alleyways hardly suffice for the human necessity for the physical release of energy through exercise. Before I arrived at Bourj el Barajneh I remember telling people that the children had no where to play. They could hardly believe me and I also had difficulty conceiving it. I thought that there had to be somewhere that they could run around freely. But the only open space is filled with debris and thus the small passage-ways are what the children use to make do. Daily, as I walked to my classes the children and adults smiled and said hello. Their strength of spirit moved me. I found myself thinking of my luxury and how it could be so easy for them to resent me yet how they embraced me instead. The hospitality and warmth of the people I have met has awakened a new consciousness in me. I am now more aware of the life that the Palestinians here face and also more cognizant of the world’s obliviousness to their plight. I hope that my time here has enhanced their ability to acquire their own voice in the ever-increasing English dominated world.

By: Agnes Czajka
Wavel

On Fridays, the UNRWA boys play sports. As most 14 and 15 years old boys, they wait with anticipation for these weekly games of basketball and football. The boys don’t seem to mind that both games must be played on the small, cement basketball court next to the UNRWA school. (Strategically placed garbage bins serve as football goalposts.)

This Friday, however, the excitement of basketball and football were superseded by another activity. This Friday, the boys were taking pictures of the camp for the newspaper that we have been working on for the past two weeks. The boys have been working on a newspaper that I will bring back to Canada. They have already written some of the articles. Of course, the sports section was the first one to be written, and it is already finished. There is also a section on Palestine, and soon, the section on education will also be completed. I instructed the boys to take pictures of the most important places in the camp. I told them that this was their opportunity to show Canadians what Wavel camp was like, and how the lives of their friends and families in the camp unfold. I handed them a disposable camera, and we were off. The boys wanted to take pictures of the mosque first, but the gates were closed, and they were not satisfied with the view afforded through the gate. Before I realised what was happening, they were knocking on the door of a house adjacent to the mosque, and we were climbing to the roof to get a better view. The second picture we took was that of the UNRWA school. The boys then led me through the maze of alleyways out of the camp, to take pictures of, what else, but the recently constructed football field, where teams from the camp play against teams from the neighbouring towns. Of course, all of the boys wanted their picture taken on the field. We then took photos of the health clinic, the cemetery, and climbed onto another roof to take bird’s-eye view pictures of the entire camp. Nabil wanted to take a photo of his house, and soon enough, we were stopping by everyone’s house to take a picture. Everyone was surprised and saddened by how quickly the film ran out. They boys brought me to a photo shop where the film could be developed, and I dropped it off. The boys were disappointed that they would have to wait a few days before seeing the pictures. They enjoyed the experience, and were exited that people in Canada would see their camp, their mosque, their school, and of course, their football field. I was grateful for the tour of the camp that I unintentionally received!

By: Annmarie Crampton

There is a father. Who comes home every day, around four o’clock, with dusty boots and tanned arms, after a full day of physical labour. First he showers, then he proceeds upstairs where the family gathers to eat dinner in the TV room (which is also the parent’s bedroom). The TV always being on in that room, tonight is no exception. Arabic music videos, news clips…I can’t understand a word; when I am not watching the TV, I watch them. Hamoudi running around, picking at food and spilling it on his face. Ali, the third youngest boy is ordered downstairs to get more utensils for Hamoudi.

My name is mentioned every now and then as I am asked if I would like any more humous or potatoes. What about pita? Do I have enough Pepsi? His eyes are tired and kind, this father. He plays with his youngest son Hamoudi, letting him push him over on the floor and wound him with bullets from a gun made out of tiny clasped hands and pointed index fingers. He watches the news, this father, and flips the channels as he likes. The Camp David Accords are on TV. Yasser Arafat and Bill Clinton are shown. This father, he listens intently. He says they are thinking about economic compensation for every member of the family, as well as a relocation to a country of choice (perhaps Canada, Norway or Sweden….). I ask if he would like this. He says yes. Very much. There is a pause, and then he says something which is translated for me: “There is a saying in the camp. It is, ‘we live but for the absence of death.” Tomorrow morning when I leave the house for my 8:30 class, he will have been gone already for several hours.

* * *

She says to me as I sit on the couch opposite her, “Life is random, it is but chance, no Annmarie?” And I hesitate to agree. I want to tell her, that no, it is not chance. That you can’t think like that. That you must grab a hold of your life and take it where you want to go. That you must live with optimism in your heart and never believe those who tell you can’t do something. I feel a sense of urgency at the lack of hope which plays such a crucial role in keeping up one’s spirit and one’s will to live. I feel the suffocating pull of despair that threatens to overwhelm when such hope dwains. I want to comfort her like a child discouraged by failure; to convey to her what I know to be true but which she, from her perspective has lost a grasp on.

And yet I cannot tell her these things, for her emotion is powerful enough that it reaches across the room and engulfs me. I grasp for a more optimistic perspective on the stories she has just told me. Stories of how she is alone in this world, of how her family is dead. Of how after her house was bombed, that attempts to rebuild the living room were forbidden by the government of Lebanon because they took such an opportunity to tighten the borders of Beirut’s dirty little secret by half a room’s width.

But these stories are too real and too choking to see any other way. The tears run down her cheeks. She adds, however, that she has everything she needs. That she needs nothing else. There is a moment of silence. She apologizes for crying in front of me and for being depressing. She brushes away her tears, lifts herself off the couch, and moves to the kitchen to make coffee.

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