Crossing Borders - The right to enter and exit the Occupied Palestinian Territories

While preventing my suitcase from slipping through my sweaty fingers I slowly proceed to the first airport line-up in order to catch my flight from Tel-Aviv to Amsterdam. When approaching I notice a divide in lineages as two Israeli airport authorizers briefly question tourists while extensively mapping through their passports. 'It is your turn', one of the authorizers says while signing me to come closer. When handing her my passport she briefly looks at me while pronouncing my name out loud. 'You're not Dutch' she says, after which she questions on my parents' names and country of origin. 'Morocco..', she mumbles while stopping to browse through my passport and looking me in the eyes. 'So you are Arabic.. then you must be carrying bombs on you.'



Ben Gurion Airport In Tel Aviv serves as an international gateway
 to Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territories

In the meanwhile It has been a little over a year since I have returned from my visit to Israel and Occupied Palestinian Territory of the West Bank (Map 1). After return I found it rather complicated to explain the whirlpool of encountered paradoxes and countless injustices. When traveling back to the Netherlands I realized that there was a group that did not want anyone to notify nor share these collected realities; the Israeli security officials at Tel Aviv Airport. For this and other reasons they are legally allowed and internationally supported to perform any given check-up on tourists; and especially Arab originated tourists. Even though many had warned me on specific security check ups I did not expect to be treated in this manner.

Map 1

          
After the airport authorizer discovers my Moroccan roots she asks me where I exactly travelled in Israel, with who, do I speak Arabic or Hebrew, If I like Israel, what I bought there, weather I visit Morocco frequently and why I have a Dutch citizenship. After a brief silence and suspicious nod she plants yellow labelled stickers on all of my carried bags and passport while escorting me to another line. 'You wait here' she says while pointing to her colleagues a few meters in front of us: 'they will tell you what will happen next'. The line towards her colleagues proceeds slowly and I am only two hours away from catching my flight. When it is my turn her colleague asks me similar questions after which he takes away all my luggage to be scanned. He instruments me to proceed towards the baggage check point ten metres away from the scan. As I see my luggage going through the scan I move towards an island looking platform in the middle of the airport. Without any regard towards privacy or personal possessions, people's luggage are publically turned inside out. Everything that does or does not look suspicious will be put in a smaller scan or taken away for a 'special check-up' behind the scenes.
          
When my luggage arrives at the Island check-up a coordinating looking man appoints someone to perform a thorough inspection on me. I am assigned to a petit looking woman with a black pony tale and a stern look on her face. And again she askes me the same questions, while smiling I answer all of them again. When she finds out I live in Amsterdam she smiles back. 'I was there a couple of weeks ago, I really loved it. We visited the Gay parade and all other touristic spots.' It seems as if you really enjoyed yourself there, I reply to this sudden change of conversation. 'Yes, the freedom there is really amazing, you are lucky to be living there.' While thoroughly going through my luggage we talk about fashion, travelling, shopping and work.  When she sees her supervisor leaving she winks at me, 'pack up your suitcase, you're ok' she says while smiling. Briefly after I start re-packing my suitcase her supervisor returns while angrily reacting to the course of happening. He firmly looks at her while yelling in Hebrew, the woman keeps staring at the floor until he leaves. When our eyes cross she apologizes, 'I have to unpack your suitcase again'. But now with the help of a colleague the supervisor has assigned to help her.

With the help of her colleague my entire suitcase has been re-emptied. In alternation, her colleague asks me where I bought my souvenirs and If carried with me at all times. After notifying him that I have not carried all my souvenirs on me during the two weeks stay he takes all of the items with him. 'Then they are considered dangerous, I will check them in the back.' With a basket of items he leaves for 30 minutes, after return I have less then an hour to check in. The relief I feel when hearing I can pack my belongings is rapidly taken away when the female authorizer tells me the check-up is not over yet. 'Do you mind?'  - she asks. While suppressing crossing thoughts I answer that she can perform any check up, as long as I can catch the flight.
       When walking towards the final procedure we pass by the line free check-in gate I was supposed to be standing at two hours ago. The female authorizer notifies the two seated stewardesses about my check up after which they confirm to remain open until finished. In any other country or airport the registration desk would have been closed already. The final check-up entails a physical one within a camera guided cubical while male police officers guide the monitors. As she was inspecting my hair I ask weather she ever found something in someone's hair. With a smirk on her face she says 'I'm not allowed to tell you that.' When exiting the cubical I am left with a little more then 30 minutes to check-in. 'And now we have to rush' the authorizer says, 'don't worry, I'll make sure you'll catch your flight.' And through a provisional route she makes sure I arrive at the gate in time. Before our ways separate she reminds me that I am not allowed to visit the airport shops or move towards anything other then the gate. 'Have a nice flight and I am really sorry' she says before leaving. Left in a shaken state I have exactly 15 minutes left before boarding.

 

Even though problematic, I was able to enter and exit the country. However on a daily basis countless of people, Arabs and non- Arabs are denied entrance to Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territories. Even though statistics are missing, especially Palestinians living or traveling abroad are denied entrance. In the worst case one risks to be black listed out of 'security reasons', resulting to deny entrance for at least 10 years [1]. According to the Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics[2] the world counts a total of 5.3 million (registered) Palestinian refugees of which 42.1% are internally displaced people. 5.3 million people who are daily denied from the right to enter or physically move in-between and outside the territories.
         Because of Palestine's status as an occupied nation one is only able to travel towards it through Israeli security customs. In addition to the airport, internal travelling is restricted through many roadblocks, checkpoints, separation walls and armed street militaries that control the right of movement. The right of movement is based on religious background, ethnicity, citizenship or political point of view. This results to force millions of people to live in apartheid; physically and mentally separating people from the Gaza strip, West Bank and Israel from connecting with each other. In addition it obstructs externs to visit Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territories to collect stories on these separations.

 

Ref.
[1]AlMonitor. Online at: http://www.al-monitor.com/pulse/originals/2013/03/israel-restricts-foreign-nationals-entry.html# [28-11-2013].

[2] Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics. Online at: http://www.pcbs.gov.ps/site/512/default.aspx?tabID=512&lang=en&ItemID=821&mid=3171&wversion=Staging [27-11-2013].



Also read:

Campaign for the right to enter the Occupied Palestinian Territory: http://www.righttoenter.ps/etemplate.php?id=154

Marokko:een artistieke uitzondering tijdens de Arabische Lente

https://www.facebook.com/FRA.RABAT/photos_stream

Het afgelopen studiejaar heb ik in het kader van de Arabische lente onderzoek gedaan naar de Marokkaanse 20 februari beweging in Rabat. Ik startte mijn reis met een degelijk onderzoeksplan over hoe activisten van deze sociale beweging (on)veiligheid en mondiale invloeden ervaren. Bij het bestuderen van alle artikelen, boeken en YouTube filmpjes dacht ik al snel in politieke termen en beeldde ik me jongeren in die op deze wijze actief bijdroegen aan verandering. Het tegendeel bleek waar te zijn. Tijdens het eerste gesprek met mijn sleutelinformant Youness, worden mijn politieke statements al snel van tafel geveegd; ‘wij hebben geen vertrouwen in het systeem en niet alles wat wij doen is politiek gerelateerd, verandering moet van onderop komen en dat kan ook via kunst.’ Hij legt uit dat artistieke initiatieven mensen in hun eigen omgeving op ludieke wijze aan het denken kunnen zetten. Ik was erg verrast door zijn antwoord: hoezo artistiek?

Op 20 februari 2011 stromen – in reactie op de opstanden in Tunesië en Egypte – de Marokkaanse straten vol met duizenden mensen die in koor een strijd voor ‘vrijheid, waardigheid en sociale gerechtigheid’ uitroepen. Op 1 juli 2011 reageert de Marokkaanse koning met een topdown hervorming van de constitutie die gepaard gaat met Koninklijke liefde, fysiek geweld en mentale onderdrukking . In vergelijking met de revolutionaire opstanden in Tunesië en Egypte zorgen Marokko’s cosmetische hervormingen voor minder internationale media aandacht. De strijd waar duizenden mensen openlijk hun politieke ontevredenheid tonen, lijkt gestreden. Wanneer ik de jaarlijkse demonstratie op 20 februari 2013 bijwoon, lijkt het geschatte deelnemersaantal van 300 participanten een schim van de 200.000 mensen die dezelfde straten twee jaar eerder overheersten. De (inter)nationale nieuwsoverzichten na 20 februari 2013 tonen beelden van het kleine protest dat na de hervormingen vreedzaam door de Marokkaanse staat getolereerd wordt. Voor het publieke oog lijkt het alsof de constitutionele hervormingen een vreedzaam antwoord zijn op de eisen van de beweging, maar is dat wel zo?

Halverwege mijn onderzoeksperiode laten informanten weten voor de tweede keer een Festival of Resistance and Alternatives te willen organiseren. Een festival dat op alternatieve wijze in dialoog gaat met de Marokkaanse staat door de heersende ontevredenheid van de bevolking via artistieke initiatieven te uiten. Een week lang organiseren activisten debatten, filmvoorstellingen, theaterstukken, groepsschilderingen, muziek en een zogeheten flashmob. Op een zonnige namiddag op 15 februari gaat een groep van ongeveer vijftig jonge activisten stipt om 16.00 uur op een groot plein nabij het nationale parlement zwijgzaam in een cirkel zitten. Wanneer enkele agenten (in burger) de jongeren op hun vreemde gedrag aanspreken, schermen zij hun gezicht af met een wit vel papier. Vervolgens gebaren zij de agenten – met een vinger op de mond – stil te zijn, waarna die laaiend weglopen om versterking te halen.

 Zonder te weten hoe lang ze veilig zijn, wordt de flashmob tot uitvoering gebracht. Bijna twintig minuten lang eisen activisten de publieke ruimte op voor twee theater optredens over de vrijheid van meningsuiting en autoritaire staatscontrole. Zo worden politieagenten tijdens het eerste optreden belachelijk gemaakt door deze – vanwege hun fysieke onderdrukking – voor bastaarden uit te maken. Tijdens het tweede optreden worden agenten voornamelijk als staatsclowns afgeschilderd. Zo doet één van de deelnemers zich voor als een agent die een tiental activisten commandeert te huppelen. Het alsmaar groeiende publiek neemt de optredens met ongeloof, verbazing en bewondering waar. Achteraf laat één van de deelnemers weten dat het uitvoeren van een flashmob over politiek gerelateerde onderwerpen niet alleen onbekend is in het Marokkaanse straatbeeld, maar ook als zeer onveilig wordt ervaren. ‘Iedereen had vandaag opgepakt kunnen worden, niet alleen omdat het een onverwachts optreden was, maar vooral omdat het tot kritisch nadenken aanspoort.’ Het luide applaus van het publiek wordt echter al snel door loeiende sirenes overstemd. Vlak voordat agenten de groep bereiken, verspreiden de deelnemers zich haastig via de verschillende vluchtwegen rondom het plein. Terwijl de inmiddels gearriveerde agenten omstanders over de flashmob bevragen, komt een selecte groep organisatoren op een geheime locatie bijeen. In een mengelmoes van angst, opluchting en trots wordt er over en weer gebeld om een ieders veiligheid vast te stellen. Pas nadat de laatste deelnemer terecht is en de organisatoren er zeker van zijn dat niemand is gearresteerd, wordt de succesvolle flashmob feestelijk afgesloten.

Op 24 februari wordt het festival beëindigd met een grootse demonstratie vlakbij het parlement. Dezelfde agenten in burger die de flashmob negen dagen eerder nauwkeurig in de gaten hielden, jagen op die dag bekende activisten na door ze provocerend te fotograferen en te filmen. Tijdens het festival ervaar ik, naast deze drukkende omstandigheden, ook hoeveel kracht zij uit activiteiten als muziek, cinema en straatkunst putten. Ik leer vooral inzien dat het streven naar ontwikkeling en veiligheid een groot uithoudingsvermogen, een hechte samenwerking en veel creativiteit vergt. Terwijl de (inter)nationale media voornamelijk over vreedzame protesten in Marokko spreken, is het dagelijks overlevingsvermogen van activisten een kunst op zich. En mijn onderzoek? Wanneer ik bij terugkomst omschrijf hoe creatief hedendaagse Marokkaanse activisten zijn en hoe zij op alternatieve wijze in dialoog gaan met de autoritaire staat reageren velen met onbegrip. ‘Marokko en artistiek activisme? Heeft Marokko dan opstanden gekend tijdens de Arabische lente?’

<Deze blog is eerder op www.standplaatswereld.nl geplaatst>
Najat El Hani voltooide afgelopen studiejaar haar master Social and Cultural Anthropology, de titel van haar thesis luidt: ‘Activists do not fall from the Sky’. The globalization of on- and offline activism and human security within Rabat’s 20 February movement, Morocco.

S.. Uh.. Desert and the City!

As a well taught cosmopolitan girl in Amsterdam I have always enjoyed the city life in general: its tight schedule, quick pace, crazy traffic, annonimity and upbeat life. Even though proportioned to Dutch common customs, I have always been quickly able to adapt to the city life in general. I confess to like the ability to put on make-up, heels, keep in track with occasional fashion influences and maintain 'Sex and the City's' final season as my bible of life in the jungle of city-style femininity.



And still, many times my parents have reminded us that life could have been slightly different for us if they had remained in North Morocco's Rif Mountains, with little to no abilities of progress in life. As a child I never enjoyed our visits to the country side as there were no toilets, running water or electricity. As a 12 year old girl I remember waking my mother up in the middle of the night because I had drunk a little too much tea and had to 'go pipi', between the cactus plants' needled surrounding which was called the toilet. While fearing snakes and risk of tipping over between the cactus plants my mom pushed me to hurry up as the oil lamp could turn off any moment. I looked up to thank god that there was something like the city. As soon as we had the possibility to organize our own summer holidays I chose to not return from that summer on. Thus, one of my final experiences with 'basic life' ended at the age of 12 while concluding under those country stars that I was more of a city girl instead.

Almost 14 years after this experience I had the opportunity to travel back in time and meet with my past again, only this time I travelled south: to the Moroccan desert I went! During the first night of arrival I panicked a little as I noticed little lightening around me and had to get used to my friend's stories about the village's prevailing patriarchal structures. My deep frustrations and years of feminist struggles came up to bother me after a long and tiring journey. When I woke up the next morning and realized that there was no wifi connection in addition I knew I had to kick off from my life as - what the owner of the guesthouse called- a chicken of electricity. As I found out how sweet and welcoming this family was and the wind blew through our windows as one of the few sounds entering the house, I slowly accepted to slip into relaxation.

While taking a look at my (humble) beauty case and present make-up articles, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself in the mirror: what was I thinking? My hoody and worn out shoes did not seem to bother the dunes or villagers either. I noticed that the people around me laughed much more, looked more rested and happier than the city's average inhabitants.
Still, I had to get used to another way of living. After having been through a sandstorm, few hours walk through the desert and riding a camel later that day, my bruised muscles woke me up in the middle of the night.  I seriously questioned the use of my expensive gym membership in Amsterdam..

The days after I learned to appreciate my afternoon naps, enjoyed meeting and dancing with original 'Gnaoua' musicians, corresponding in Tamazight with local inhabitants, walking through the dunes while seeing a perfect sunset and star sparkling sky later that evening. Finally, I had to accept that I had come to be fond of the desert and its pace of life.

When I woke up early during my final morning while driving off on the back of a motorcycle and enjoying a perfect sunrise, I realized that life came close to perfection for 10 minutes. Nothing else seemed to matter as the fresh air cleared my mind, the sunrise caressed my eyes and desert had sneaked a way into my heart. At that moment I realized that I have always been a mixture of the desert and the city, only this time it was balanced more than ever before!

Dr. Morocco - A PHD in Theater

After having spent almost two months in Morocco and being able to compare a big blend of provided information I have to stop. Stop and bow. Bow deep for Moroccan politics, their charades, international face which is colored with beautiful make up, a big and friendly smile which tolerates everything. Yet, in the meanwhile..

Politics and the Arab spring?
They will solve it with a new constitution: freedom of speach and change they want? With the people we stand!

Music?
There is Mawazine: let's dance and suppress any form of underground musical creativity which could transcend any form of actual truth.

Media?
Under restricting control. Why show Moroccan real life when censorship is still to be tollerated by a majority of its inhabitants.

Education?
A state which creates many forms of new educations yet lacks to provide a place in the workforce. And while we're there let us keep tradition in formal stance by delegating how students should dress, act and move within their educational environment. A girl should keep her hair long, not be active in politics and be in the dormitories by 21.00 o’clock. And boys should not keep their hair tall and wear festive colors which is for girls and while you're busy being masculine, dormitory closes for you by midnight.

Work field?
Monopolizing the economy and block any form of economic potential among Moroccan youth. Accepting international aid which is bounded to a high debt rate will not make the economy grow.

Health system?
That is a luxury when one is able to survive from day to day, let's stress that when actually needed.

I bow for Morocco and its (inter)national tactics who have been able to fool the observers and suppress its actual inhabitants. I bow for the way they have been able to take away any form of small hope for change people had during the Arab Spring and their demands for actual development.

Yet, at the end of the day I applaud for the observers. Not those who look at the play and not dare to criticize it or would suggest any reform in structure, music or speech. I applaud for those who had hope for change and dared to enter the streets and demand it in public. Those who stood at the frontline and lost their anonymity, trust and security within the state. Those who look backwards twice before they turn a corner and those who have lost the freedom of a private phone call or trust in the state. Those who have lost hope, feel pain, suffocation and restriction yet decide to fight back through civil activities. Those who invest time, energy and dedication for change: whether it is through being active underground or at the surface.

The thing that has caught my attention most are the activists’ eyes. Not only the sad and frightful look when they speak about the circumstances but also the different ways they analyze everything that happens around them. Even more I respect their will to proceed after all the harshness their eyes have had to process and how their will to see and live actual change wins at the end of the day.

For the time being I am grateful that they've opened their doors, minds and hearts for my eyes to see, my mind to understand and my hands to transcend.

Morocco, the country of..

The country of sweet honey and sour circumstances.

The country of shame, blame and pride.

The country of sunny suppression and lightening growth.

The country of contradicting messages. Which one to follow: the red or green?

It are the same colors making the Moroccan flag; one which is used in festive and less celebrative periods, carying varying sentiments.

Sentiments which keep attrackting me to the country of sweet and sour contradictions.

Whether it is for a sunny stay at the shore, working hard with little social ellements to educative purposes: the country keeps whispering my name.

One day I will know whether the aftertase will be in- or against my favour as my inner Moroccan paradoxes seem to grow under the sharp yet gentle sunbeams.

Where do I stand?

Currently I am attending a Master's program in Social and Cultural Anthropology through which I have been able to spend a three months research period concerning a topic and country of choice. Because of my Moroccan roots and love/hate relationship with the country I ended up being in Rabat, even after having over thought many other options. After hearing, reading and seeing the stream of information concerning the 'Arab Spring' revolutions I became more curious about this topic. Even more when the demonstrations reached Morocco and it was soon labelled as a ‘Moroccan exception’, I started questioning myself whether that was true. Even though Morocco has witnessed an economic and social growth during the past (now almost) 14 years of King Mohammed the sixth’s reign I could not believe the entire media portraying of this exception.

After having read many scientific articles, books, websites and hearing stories from people of various stands in Moroccan society I have come to learn that there is no such thing as a Moroccan exception. Just like many facets of Moroccan culture, there is always a ‘but’ halfway through the story. When the demonstrations started on the 20^th of February 2011 the King quickly responded with a highly exceptional public speech on the 9^th of March 2011, in June 2011 the new constitution was acknowledged with an enormous high acceptance rate of 98%: one which has never been reached in the history of any democratic structure. According to the (inter)national media the Moroccan demonstrations stopped, as almost the entire population was in favour of these top-down reforms.

But.. what the media hardly covered were the demonstrations which frequently proceeded and expanded in amounts of 25.000 participants in Rabat, after the King’s 2011 speech and constitutional reforms. As the new constitution legally acknowledged the freedom of speech and public mobilization, human rights were being violated in front of the Moroccan parliament in Rabat. Through the use of Baltajya (poor Moroccan citizens who receive a daily payment to beat demonstrators while official policemen look the other way) counter demonstrations are being held in favour of the new constitution or prevailing system of rule.
                Now, almost two years after the first demonstrations I have come to hear about some of the activists’ stories. How they have been beaten by police men or illegally paid counter demonstrators in order to weaken their movement. I have come to know how current activists are being suppressed through various manners and how complete authoritarian rule remains to exist. Activists are being mentally, physically and emotionally shut down through beatings, spread of personal sensitive information during public demonstrations, prison sentences under the heading of ‘disobedient behaviour’ towards officials and other forms of daily threats.

As time proceeds in Rabat the list of Moroccan paradoxes becomes longer and longer as I have to prevail my objective position within this entire stream of provided information. People now start to ask me what my opinion on these happenings is. The answering of me not being able to give an opinion about this is no longer sufficient as I have come to know more people within the movement, their stories, past happenings, fear of suppression and brave struggles to proceed their activism. Conducting an anthropological research in my country of origin and entering debates my parents have never introduced me to makes me realize a lot. Not only am I experiencing how to conduct research, but even more how little I know about Moroccan history, daily struggles, challenges, shortcomings and heroism.

Where do I stand?

Like life in the Netherlands has always taught me to shift seats from being an ultimate feminist Dutch to a ‘traditional’ Moroccan while developing a balanced path for myself, I have come to realize that this ‘shifting’ comes of good use in Rabat. As I have to shift from being Moroccan to a privileged Dutch citizen and upcoming Anthropologist I am still in search of a balance. One which equalizes my feelings of ‘guilt’ for not knowing enough about Moroccan daily life and its accompanied struggles to the status of having to conduct a professional research while maintaining my distance. Even though this is a little debated field in anthropology I wish past pioneers would have written and taught us more on what happens to researchers while being in another environment which stands so far away and yet so close to us.

Where do I stand? In a circus of Moroccan make belief while balancing on a rope which is called ‘conducting research’.

Choices

Choices. We all face them in life, whether it is from how to plan our day, career, housing, investments till politics and friends. The notion when years after you have entered a street or turned a corner and question what would have happened if you hadn't taken that lane or had chosen another instead? Point made that we can never travel back in time to replace one happening by another. Instead we have to learn to live with our errors, blessings and gained wisdom instead.

But what happens when you cannot find your tranquility and the itching feeling of incompleteness remains to exist? Many decide to live in the past while holding on to coupled feelings of happiness, success, sadness or mistakes of that time. It is a waste of a lifetime when one does not acquire lessons from these happenings, but rather decides to re-live them everyday instead..

I would like to hold on to my notion of life as something that should never be caged. When you do so, you decide to live in 'another time' and will never be able to learn, enjoy and live in the present while blocking possibilities which could be offered by the future. Lesson learned that one should let go, live now, enjoy, learn, cry, laugh, dream about- and realizing our aims. Life is not made to be spent in the past, it builds on what you do now and goals which you love to achieve tomorrow..