flyingears
Yesterday was an emotional day. I was in Asakar Jadeed with Rawan, a young woman from the camp, and Mohammed and Mohammed, two of the kids from the art class. We went to a kindergarten to meet some kids and then went to the houses of some old folks, refugees who remember 1948.
The kids at the kindergarten are awesome. Kids are so cool. I felt good with all these little kids running around, smiling and looking so curiously at our strange group. The first person we talked with after that was an older man who was a boy when his family was forced from their home in what is now Israel. They eventually ended up in Askar camp. I took a photograph of him after we talked and then asked another man at the house if I could take his picture. He said no and then said there are plenty of photographs of Palestinians all over the world. He said foreigners come to the refugee camp and take pictures and then what happens? Nothing. I said I understand. I was really depressed. We walked down the narrow street and Rawan began talking. She said something like--you have to understand, many foreigners come here and try to show what is happening. they take pictures but nothing ever changes. But we have to do what we can. I said yeah I guess. Then I said that I felt like this was totally pointless, what we were doing. She understood and said no, that she didn't think so. We walked down the road and I looked at the kids in the street. I saw a couple of faces looking out of windows. I thought about why I was taking pictures and interviews. Kids were walking in the street--not streets like we think of, but more like alleys--and leaning against the concrete homes. I don't know what the point of writing about this is. I just felt really helpless and sad. We walked slowly and I wanted to cry. We walked to another house and were invited in by an old woman. We all talked for awhile with Rawan translating. This old lady, she is amazing. She said she was in her thirties when she came to Askar. She told us about her and her family sleeping in caves after being forced out of their home. She remembered soldiers encircling the whole village where she lived. Those who weren't leaving were killed. She was so kind and lively. And happy to be talking together. I felt a lot better when I left her house.
Back at the art class a little later it was also emotional. The kids in the class are really just so cool. We shared the photographs they had taken the last few days in the camp. Then we all drew pictures about saying goodbye. It was really happy and really sad. I guess that is good. One of the students, Khalel, sang a song for me while another student, Waseem, played a drum. It was really beautiful. So we all hung out and had a great time.
Today I was in Askar Cadeem watching some girls sing traditional Palestinian songs. Hatem, a friend from the camp I met last year, volunteers to teach children traditional dancing, singing, music, and folklore. The center does all kinds of things for children--drama, summer camps, lots of stuff. It's a good place.
Then I went to Balata camp to meet and interview a family whose son was shot in the head while he was sitting in the family's living room. The military was in the streets outside and firing at kids throwing stones. An exploding bullet entered the house and exploded. The bullet in its entirety didn't hit his head but the fragments of it, as it exploded immediatley next to his head, punctured his skull. It happened a couple of years ago and he is 'okay' except that there is still shrapnel in his brain. And there is no bone, no skull, in a large area on his head. The doctors here have done what they can and want to cover up the hole in his skull, leaving the pieces of metal in his brain. He has headaches from it and some sort of electical surges (I couldn't figure out what the English translation would be). And there is danger of the fragments moving and potentially causing much harm. The family had copies of the medical report and the exrays which they were going to give to an NGO. They hope to get him to a hospital that has the appropriate equipment to extract the pieces still in his brain. I read the report, it was in english, and apparently all that is needed is the proper equipment which just is not available here. The kid, Sameed, told me that he hadn't been able to play soccer for the last two years because of the unprotected hole in his skull. If he gets hit there, it would be serious problems. After talking with him and his family, I stood up to leave and his father approached me. He said 'Please. Help my son.' It is just incredibly stupid, isn't it. That there can be some little boy sitting with his family, in his house. A bullet, that I helped pay for, hits him in the head. And now it is simple--he just needs an operation but so far, for the last two years, nothing has happened. There are hospitals in Israel that could do it. There are hospitals all over the world that could do it. But everything is fucked up. He can't just get on a bus and go to a hospital. But maybe something will work out with this NGO that the family is in contact with. I am afraid though of getting someone's hopes up in a case like this. Because who knows?
The family has built a concrete wall around the windows now, in hopes of preventing something like this from happening again to their family. The father told me it is like a prison here for the people, for the children. This concrete barrier covering the windows is just another visual reminder.
Yesterday was an emotional day. I was in Asakar Jadeed with Rawan, a young woman from the camp, and Mohammed and Mohammed, two of the kids from the art class. We went to a kindergarten to meet some kids and then went to the houses of some old folks, refugees who remember 1948.
The kids at the kindergarten are awesome. Kids are so cool. I felt good with all these little kids running around, smiling and looking so curiously at our strange group. The first person we talked with after that was an older man who was a boy when his family was forced from their home in what is now Israel. They eventually ended up in Askar camp. I took a photograph of him after we talked and then asked another man at the house if I could take his picture. He said no and then said there are plenty of photographs of Palestinians all over the world. He said foreigners come to the refugee camp and take pictures and then what happens? Nothing. I said I understand. I was really depressed. We walked down the narrow street and Rawan began talking. She said something like--you have to understand, many foreigners come here and try to show what is happening. they take pictures but nothing ever changes. But we have to do what we can. I said yeah I guess. Then I said that I felt like this was totally pointless, what we were doing. She understood and said no, that she didn't think so. We walked down the road and I looked at the kids in the street. I saw a couple of faces looking out of windows. I thought about why I was taking pictures and interviews. Kids were walking in the street--not streets like we think of, but more like alleys--and leaning against the concrete homes. I don't know what the point of writing about this is. I just felt really helpless and sad. We walked slowly and I wanted to cry. We walked to another house and were invited in by an old woman. We all talked for awhile with Rawan translating. This old lady, she is amazing. She said she was in her thirties when she came to Askar. She told us about her and her family sleeping in caves after being forced out of their home. She remembered soldiers encircling the whole village where she lived. Those who weren't leaving were killed. She was so kind and lively. And happy to be talking together. I felt a lot better when I left her house.
Back at the art class a little later it was also emotional. The kids in the class are really just so cool. We shared the photographs they had taken the last few days in the camp. Then we all drew pictures about saying goodbye. It was really happy and really sad. I guess that is good. One of the students, Khalel, sang a song for me while another student, Waseem, played a drum. It was really beautiful. So we all hung out and had a great time.
Today I was in Askar Cadeem watching some girls sing traditional Palestinian songs. Hatem, a friend from the camp I met last year, volunteers to teach children traditional dancing, singing, music, and folklore. The center does all kinds of things for children--drama, summer camps, lots of stuff. It's a good place.
Then I went to Balata camp to meet and interview a family whose son was shot in the head while he was sitting in the family's living room. The military was in the streets outside and firing at kids throwing stones. An exploding bullet entered the house and exploded. The bullet in its entirety didn't hit his head but the fragments of it, as it exploded immediatley next to his head, punctured his skull. It happened a couple of years ago and he is 'okay' except that there is still shrapnel in his brain. And there is no bone, no skull, in a large area on his head. The doctors here have done what they can and want to cover up the hole in his skull, leaving the pieces of metal in his brain. He has headaches from it and some sort of electical surges (I couldn't figure out what the English translation would be). And there is danger of the fragments moving and potentially causing much harm. The family had copies of the medical report and the exrays which they were going to give to an NGO. They hope to get him to a hospital that has the appropriate equipment to extract the pieces still in his brain. I read the report, it was in english, and apparently all that is needed is the proper equipment which just is not available here. The kid, Sameed, told me that he hadn't been able to play soccer for the last two years because of the unprotected hole in his skull. If he gets hit there, it would be serious problems. After talking with him and his family, I stood up to leave and his father approached me. He said 'Please. Help my son.' It is just incredibly stupid, isn't it. That there can be some little boy sitting with his family, in his house. A bullet, that I helped pay for, hits him in the head. And now it is simple--he just needs an operation but so far, for the last two years, nothing has happened. There are hospitals in Israel that could do it. There are hospitals all over the world that could do it. But everything is fucked up. He can't just get on a bus and go to a hospital. But maybe something will work out with this NGO that the family is in contact with. I am afraid though of getting someone's hopes up in a case like this. Because who knows?
The family has built a concrete wall around the windows now, in hopes of preventing something like this from happening again to their family. The father told me it is like a prison here for the people, for the children. This concrete barrier covering the windows is just another visual reminder.
posted by matt iv at 12:56 PM
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