[Marxism] For Gaza Protester, Living or Dying Is the ‘Same Thing’

Louis Proyect lnp3 at panix.com
Mon Apr 30 11:32:01 MDT 2018


NY Times, April 30, 2018
For Gaza Protester, Living or Dying Is the ‘Same Thing’
By IYAD ABUHEWEILA and DAVID M. HALBFINGER

GAZA CITY — No one would ever pick out Saber al-Gerim from the crowds of 
Palestinians demonstrating against Israel along the heavily guarded 
fence that has helped turn the Gaza Strip into an open-air prison.

Not for his youthful appearance. At 22, he wears ripped jeans and white 
sneakers, has a modish haircut and carries a few extra pounds from too 
many months without work.

Not for his anger. Screaming “Allahu akbar!” and hurling stones with a 
sling, or straining to pull a cable hooked onto Israel’s barbed-wire 
barrier in hopes of tearing it apart, he is just one in a fevered 
multitude, a protagonist in nobody’s drama but his own.

Not even for his willingness to risk death, or his dream of going home 
to a patch of land he has never seen and cannot really visualize.

But zoom in on this man: A beggar’s son, just a few yards from Israel, 
and squarely in the line of fire. Soldiers, the only Israelis Mr. Gerim 
has ever seen this close, can be spotted through the smoke of burning 
tires, moving about in their foxholes atop tall sand berms, occasionally 
launching tear-gas barrages, sometimes using live fire. Over a 
loudspeaker, one warns Palestinians to retreat or risk death.

Israel continues to treat the tiny coastal enclave like a deadly virus 
to be quarantined and, other than that, more or less tunes it out.The...

Mr. Gerim, well within range, and resting between slinging stones, 
shouts back: “We want to return!”

Say what you will about root causes and immediate ones — about 
incitement and militancy, about siege and control, about who did what 
first to whom — one thing is clear. More than a decade of deprivation 
and desperation, with little hope of relief, has led thousands of young 
Gazans to throw themselves into a protest that few, if any, think can 
actually achieve its stated goal: a return to the homes in what is now 
Israel that their forebears left behind in 1948.

In five weeks of protests, 46 people have been killed, and hundreds more 
have been badly wounded, according to the Gaza health ministry.

With its 64 percent unemployment rate among the young, Gaza, under a 
blockade maintained by Israel and Egypt for years, presents countless 
men like Mr. Gerim with the grimmest of options.

They can seek an education in preparation for lives and careers that now 
seem out of reach, and hope for a chance to eventually emigrate. They 
can join groups like Hamas or Islamic Jihad, devoting themselves to 
armed conflict with Israel in return for a livelihood and a sense of 
purpose and belonging. Or they can stay home, staving off boredom by 
smoking shisha, a tobacco-molasses mix, or stronger stuff, and wait for 
things to change.

Mr. Gerim considers himself neither a terrorist nor a freedom fighter. 
He is not much for prayer or for politics; he says he does not belong to 
Hamas or Fatah or any other faction. He is a young man with nothing to 
do, for whom the protests have offered a chance to barbecue with friends 
late into the night, sleep late most mornings, make himself useful while 
singing songs of love or martyrdom or an end to suffering, and lash out 
at a hated enemy all afternoon.

“It doesn’t matter to me if they shoot me or not,” he said in a quiet 
moment inside his family’s tent. “Death or life — it’s the same thing.”

The protests, with an outdoor festival’s schedule of fun and games, 
performances and creative programming — and carnage every Friday — is 
meant to build to a climax on May 15, the day Palestinians mark the 
Nakba, or catastrophe, of their flight and expulsion when Israel was 
established 70 years ago.

The protest, which grew out of a young activist’s Facebook page and was 
a grass-roots initiative before being embraced, organized and publicized 
by Hamas, the militant Islamist group that rules Gaza, has hardly scared 
the Israelis into altering their basic policy. Israel continues to treat 
the tiny coastal enclave like a deadly virus to be quarantined and, 
other than that, more or less tunes it out.

But it has been a success in one important respect: It has cast a light 
onto the unsolved problem that is Gaza, and reminded a world that had 
seemed to move on to more urgent crises that its two million people, 
deprived of clean water, freedom of movement and a steady supply of 
electricity, are sliding steadily into despair.

Mr. Gerim is typical in another way: He does not think of Gaza as his 
home, but he has no idea what home is.

His grandmother, Haniya al-Kurdi, 80, was a little girl when her family 
left what is now Ashdod, Israel, in 1948. She has never been back, but 
has heard that there is a coffee shop next to where her home was. The 
closest anyone else in the family has gotten was in 2013, when Mr. 
Gerim’s sister, Sabreen, now 26, contracted cancer and was allowed to 
spend a year in Tel Aviv getting treatment. On the way there, her 
mother, Iktimal al-Gerim, asked their driver to point out Ashdod to them 
from the highway.

For Mr. Gerim, the family’s old property is an idea more than a place he 
can actually picture.

Israelis themselves he has had more experience with. When he was about 
10, before the Israelis evacuated their Gaza settlements in 2005, Mr. 
Gerim climbed a tree outside his grandfather’s house to get a better 
look at the soldiers a few hundred yards away. Then he fell to the 
ground and broke his right hand.

He has been as enterprising, and as ill-starred, ever since.

He used to raise pigeons and chickens on his family’s roof, for fun and 
for food — until an Israeli airstrike hit a neighbor’s house and it 
collapsed on the coop, killing all of his birds.

He sometimes dreams of working in an automobile-manufacturing plant, of 
traveling overseas to learn how to build cars, then coming back to Gaza 
to make them. But the closest he has ever gotten is loading tuk-tuks — 
motorcycles with cargo beds — or handling a pushcart to distribute sacks 
of donated flour, sugar and other staples to his fellow refugees.

In the autumn, Mr. Gerim sometimes harvests olives. When there is 
construction work, he looks for chances to lay bricks or pour concrete. 
He has never had a regular job.

He is stoic for a 22-year-old, though this may be an acquired response 
to adversity: His father is mentally ill, Mr. Gerim says, given to 
flying into destructive rages over the slightest disappointments. His 
family — two younger brothers, their sister and their parents — all 
share a single room with a tile floor and blankets but no beds. The 
kitchen floor is sand. The family’s debts are choking them, he says.

Mr. Gerim’s industriousness shows at the protests, as does his stoicism.

On Thursday, he arrived early at his family’s tent, a roomy contraption 
that was provided to them by the protest’s organizers, and set about 
sweeping the tarpaulin floor for the first of several times, before 
building a fire and cooking eggplants and tomatoes that city workers 
were distributing to the needy.

At lunch, a charity handed out meals of chicken and rice, and then Mr. 
Gerim swept the floor of crumbs and bones, singing a love song as he did.

He has no girlfriend, and no hopes of marrying. “There is no money, no 
work,” he explained. “Marriage is not free.”

After lunch, he walked up to the fence for a quick look across at the 
Israeli soldiers, then foraged for firewood. He dragged a six-foot log 
more than a quarter-mile back to the tent, and broke it apart with his 
hands and feet.

Later, he assembled kites from sticks, clear plastic and paper — and 
talked about attaching soda cans to them stuffed with gasoline-soaked 
rags, to sail over the fence and maybe set something or someone on fire.

At 10 p.m., he and his friends began barbecuing a feast for 12. It 
didn’t end until 2:30 a.m. It takes a long time to cook 22 pounds of 
chicken wings on a grill about 18 inches across.

Sitting around the fire, a friend named Abu Moaz, 25, said he wanted to 
use a kite to drop leaflets in Hebrew and Arabic warning Israeli 
soldiers to “evacuate your houses and return to the countries from which 
you came.”

Everyone liked the sound of that.

Mr. Gerim went home to sleep, but was back at the tent at 8 a.m. on 
Friday, sweeping again, building the wood fire, drinking tea with his 
neighbors.

He went to Friday Prayer, then ate a falafel sandwich.

At 2:30, he was crouching behind the barbed-wire barrier, whirling his 
slingshot like a helicopter rotor, aiming in vain at Israeli soldiers 
again and again.

Around 5 p.m., he saw a group of men a few hundred yards to the south, 
and ran to see what they were doing. They had breached the barbed wire, 
and were trying to get to the main fence marking Israeli territory. Mr. 
Gerim hung back, and did not try to join them.

Near him, a man fell, hit in the stomach by what seemed like a grenade 
fragment, Mr. Gerim said.

He was not shocked by this, he said afterward.

“I could be shot or killed anytime,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

Night had fallen now; the protesters were headed home. And soon Mr. 
Gerim was singing again — this time a Lebanese tune of weariness with 
conflict.

“Enough is enough,” he crooned softly in Arabic. “Enough for miseries, 
promises and words. School students, church bells, a soldier, a knight 
and the calls of prayer — all pray for prevailing peace.”

Iyad Abuheweila reported from Gaza, and David M. Halbfinger from Jerusalem.



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