Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, September/October 2007, pages 38-39

Europe on the Ground

Your Presence Is Requested, Mr. Omer

By Mohammed Omer

	The author (l) being interviewed by NOVA TV for its highly influential program of daily news analysis (Courtesy J. Wijenberg).

EXHAUSTED YET excited, I arrived in Amsterdam on my 23rd birthday at the behest of The Standing Committee for Foreign Affairs. Thanks to a letter from Dutch Ambassador Jan Wijenberg, and the efforts of Mr. Hans Van Ballen, a member of the Dutch parliament and head of foreign relations, I was able to exit Israel via Jordan’s Allenby Bridge rather than through the Rafah crossing—even though the latter is just minutes from my home—and thereby avoid the problems I experienced last year, leaving for and returning from my U.S. tour via Gaza. Their support and perseverence, for which I am most grateful, meant that I did not have to spend days on the border wondering when and if the Israelis would deign to open it. And thus, in late May, my lecture tour of the Netherlands commenced.

Holland

My itinerary consisted of 15 presentations in 18 days, including speaking before the Dutch parliament, youth political organizations, Groningen University’s journalism students, an engagement in Amsterdam hosted by Jewish Voices for Peace, and several media appearances, including one on NOVA TV. Holland is somewhat smaller than the United States, where distant engagements could only be reached by plane. Here, trains and public transportation allowed me to experience more of the culture, lifestyle and landscape, which I appreciated and found far less stressful.

My presentation, entitled ”Welcome to Hell,” had expanded from the one I gave on my U.S. tour to include events of the past six months. As Robert Fisk commented in a radio interview last year, “I used to consider it a privilege to witness history. I realize now it is a curse.” Telling the story of Gaza and the Palestinians exhausts me. It is full of depression, sadism, horror, injustice and shock; yet, when I think I cannot continue, my duty to the millions who cannot speak propels me. The West must know the truth; only then can decent men and women cut through the propaganda and begin seeking just solutions.

As in America, I tried to convey to my audiences the whole story—including women’s issues, the humanitarian crisis, home demolitions, the source of the conflict, and what it is like to be a journalist in Gaza. The story of my bother’s murder as he was preparing for school in our courtyard one morning always resonates. Many thanked me for opening their eyes. A journalism student from Groningen University e-mailed me, saying, ”Your presentation was an eye opening for me. I never imagined that the situations [sic] are that bad in Palestine.”

Nearly everyone I spoke to was appalled by the actions of the European Union and the United States—and, in general, by the world’s silent acquiescence to what Palestinians endure every day.

One event stood out. I was overwhelmed with amazement and gratitude as the Jewish Voices audience at The Hague intervened when several Zionists in the audience attempted to disrupt my presentation. When the disrupters made a second attempt, the audience made it quite clear they would be happy to escort them out. There were no further disruptions.

Truth is the elixir of peace; it razes the walls between us.

European vs. U.S. Media

I was often asked my impressions of the media. While not as overtly biased as in the U.S., I replied, Israeli Hasbara (advocacy and propaganda) figures prominently in European media via filtering, omission, deflection, denial and euphemisms. For example, the media’s focus on the fighting between Fatah and Hamas neglects to mention the five Palestinians killed and seven injured by an Israeli rocket which residents found in Rafah in May. Contrast this with the constant repetitive coverage of Qassem rockets lobbed over the border into Israel. Similarly, in scrutinizing the factional infighting in Gaza, media in the EU failed to include relevant background material, such as the U.S. training, arming and funding of Fatah fighters, Israel’s deal with Abbas, and its deliberately allowing armed Fatah militia to enter Gaza and the West Bank. With these details withheld, a reader or viewer deduces that the conflict is a civil war, rather than a proxy coup sponsored by a foreign government against an elected one. While there is significant room for improvement, however, overall, European journalists trounce their American counterparts on issues relating to Palestine.

After leaving Holland, I made a two-day stop in France, where the original plan was to meet with staff of Le Monde Diplomatique. That not being possible on a weekend, however, I met with a small group of interested people—and look forward to visiting this country again.

The Recrudescence of Hell

With its beautiful weather, warm and engaging people, unrestrained movement and, above all, freedom of speech, Holland defines paradise for me. Unlike Gaza, Holland is green, cows and sheep graze lazily, flowers pepper the landscape and people smile. In Gaza, as the result of four decades of occupation and siege, depression, poverty and despair reign, and a once proud, fully engaged and independent society now finds itself deprived and wholly dependent. Yet, it is home, and my family awaits.

Israel required that I return to Palestine as I left—via Jordan’s Allenby Bridge and Israel’s Eretz crossing into Gaza. Of course, just as they had tried to do with my American visit, Israeli authorities had attempted to prevent me from leaving Gaza in the first place, using the blanket excuse that I pose a “security risk.” One has to laugh at the absurdity of this—after all, to be a “terrorist” or “security risk” in Israeli eyes requires only that one not be Jewish. And all one need do is raise a Palestinian flag, object to Israeli racism or question any of its apartheid laws. It’s not that hard.

A Simple Twist of Fate

Thus I embarked on my return via Paris, Amman and, through a twist of fate, the one place I thought I’d never be allowed to visit: Tel Aviv. But happenstance and facts on the ground intervened. The Dutch Embassy agreed to escort me between Allenby to Eretz both to and from Palestine, eliminating the need for me to travel alone. On my way home, we were kept waiting at the Allenby crossing from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. to get special permits to return to Gaza via Israel. As a result, the Dutch diplomatic car did not arrive at the Eretz crossing unti 5:30, only to find it had closed. That left us with two options: diplomatic intervention—but no Israeli was answering the phones at Eretz—or spending the night in an Israeli hotel—something we feared the Israelis would not permit.

Trying to buy time, the diplomatic car carrying us wandered through Israel. For the first time in my life I saw Jerusalem, as the Old City, with Al Aqsa gleaming in the setting sun, rose on the horizon, coming closer until I stood mere paces away. My entire being filled with reverence and peace, a happiness beyond description. My breathing lightened as I felt enveloped by  a euphoric headiness. We continued through the city, my mind frantically storing images—of graveyards, Jewish, Christian and Muslim, of shops and alleyways, ancient streets and buildings. The sounds, smells and sights, the history and people—I vowed to forget nothing. As we turned a corner, a great edifice suddenly rose up like a knife slicing through air. Before us towered Israel’s apartheid wall, dividing, conquering and segregating. The sight of it immediately brought me back to reality. “I’m a Palestinian,” I reminded myself soberly. “That wall is meant to cage me.”

Visiting Jerusalem allowed me to meet a Palestinian friend I’d known for many years, who lives less than an hour from me. It was the first time we met face to face. Later, as evening fell, my contact informed me that we had received permission to spend the night in Tel Aviv.

Tel Aviv

“The buildings over there,” my chaperone told me, pointing to the gleaming skyline bordering the sea, “that is Tel Aviv, where we are going.”

Arriving at a hotel by the sea, we approached the registration desk. The clerk stared at me, her face tight with tension as my Dutch chaperone explained our situation. Biting her lower lip and narrowing her eyes, she subjected me to a visual inventory. I suddenly understood how an Orthodox Jew in 1930s Germany or a black man in 1963 Mississippi must have felt in the same situation. To her, I was a threat, something not to trust, something to fear; this is what she saw.

After we presented her my Israeli-endorsed passport, however, she reluctantly booked me. Inside I was shaking, frightened and worried. Noticing my anxiety, my chaperone smiled at me and whispered soothingly, “Relax. You are in the safest place in the world.”

Relax? I’m a Palestinian from Gaza in a city where my race and origin are equated with terrorism. I write about the realities of occupation, something the Israeli government prefers remain hidden. Relax? I assume I am being followed. How do I know I’m safe? Relax?

Fortunately hunger overtook my anxiety, so I called a friend who works as an Arabic court translator (and whom I also met for the first time), and we ventured out into Tel Aviv.

As my friend and I walked down many city streets, while I remained fearful happiness ultimately triumphed. Tap, tap, tap…my footsteps echoed on the pristine pavement as my mind announced in a gleeful voice, “Mohammed was here, Mohammed was here.” I wanted to walk down every street, to eat in every restaurant. I wanted to ride a bicycle, catch a train, commute on a bus and ride in a taxi…to see everywhere and everything in this amazing city, this forbidden city, and shout to the world, “See, Mohammed is here!”

The Beach

We eventually found ourselves among hundreds of Israelis at a restaurant next to the strand, and stopped to enjoy a fabulous dish of spaghetti and the largest glass of lemonade I could order. Everyone around me spoke Hebrew and, even though the hour was late, the beach teemed with people enjoying a temperate June evening. “How ironic,” I reflected. “Gaza and Tel Aviv share the same sunset, moon and breeze. Two people and two worlds are separated by an hour’s drive. Here life exists with peace of mind. People enjoy music, laugh and live. Yet one hour away in Gaza, gunshots, Israeli drones overhead and destruction prevail.”

Amid my musing, several young people roller bladed past and my attention was drawn skyward. A helicopter hovered above and I instinctively cowered, seeking a clear exit, before I remembered that I was in Tel Aviv. Sensing my anxiety, my friend calmly reassured me, “Don’t worry, Mohammed.”

She was right, of course. An Israeli helicopter would not shell its own citizens. It soon departed.

My friend, too, soon departed. The hour was late, but I was wide awake—so I continued to walk, leaving my footprints on as many Tel Aviv streets as possible and wishing the night would not end. I wanted to shout at the Israeli government, ‘See! I am not a security risk! I am in Tel Aviv. I’ve walked about your city, eaten in your restaurants and visited your sites. I love your city and your people. I do not want to kill anyone. We’re all human. No people should suffer. Why can’t we talk? Don’t you understand dialogue is the best way to end this conflict? Don’t you understand this?”

I wonder if, had I shouted these words, anyone would have heard…or cared.

Exhausted, I fell into bed and managed to catch a few hours sleep. Promptly at six my chaperone from the Dutch Embassy picked me up. By nine, my amazing trip with its unexpected detour was over. I arrived home, wiser and safe.

Mohammed Omer, winner of New America Media’s Best Youth Voice award, reports from the Gaza Strip, where he maintains the Web site <www.rafahtoday.org>. He can be reached at <gazanews@yahoo.com>.