On 'human shields' and inhumanity in Gaza

It's the third time in six years that Israel launches a war on Gaza. Can you imagine that? If you were a Palestinian child born in Gaza 6 years ago, you would now have lived through three wars (provided you survived all of them). It's also the third time in six years that the Israelis pull out their tried-and-trusted-'Hamas-hides-behind-the-people-and-uses-them-as-human-shields-therefor we are allowed to bomb anyone and anything,'-rhetoric,  and I'm getting really, really tired of it. I previously posted the below text on facebook, but decided to share it here, too.

So let's talk about those so-called 'human shields', shall we?

[First, to get this out of the way: if you lock up people on a small strip of land, it's kind of naive to expect them to separate into different zones - one for fighters and one for civilians. Obviously they are sharing the same, small, physical space, so stop pretending you can hit one without hitting the other or even that it's their own fault if one gets hit while you were supposedly aiming for the other. Thanks.]

Second, and much more importantly: there is no such thing as a Palestinian human shield. Why not? Because the very rhetoric about human shields dehumanizes ALL Palestinians, whether they are fighting with Hamas or not. Here's how that works:

1) Saying Hamas uses 'human shields' (rather than, for example, 'civilian shields') implies that once you are Hamas, you are no longer human. Therefore, any Palestinian who picks up arms to fight the occupation is no longer seen as human.

2) If, as a Palestinian, you resist the occupation in other, possibly non-violent ways (and it seems that 'being physically present in Gaza' already counts as such), the very rhetoric of being used as a human shield strips you of the very thing that makes you human: agency. It means your presence is not the result of your own convictions, no, you are merely a puppet in the hands of the terrorists. And puppets, as we all know, are not human.

Simple, right? Two birds, one stone; they're either violent terrorists or passive weaklings used by terrorists. Neither is human, neither deserve that we care about their life.

Oh, and let's not forget that the first ones are usually men and the second usually women, meaning that as an added bonus this rhetoric reduces the resistance of Palestinian women in its many shapes and forms to zero. Ugh.

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Running Orders

[for Gaza, once again]

They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think "Do I know any Davids in Gaza?"
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.

by Lena K Tuffaha

Time for a chat

Dear Cairo,

We need to talk.

It’s been more than seven months since we first met and I fell head over heels for you, and quite frankly, I don’t know what happened to those seven months – that’s how quickly they passed. Sure, I’ve been meeting people and discovering places and getting involved in things left and right, but seven months? I could almost have produced a baby, is what I’m saying, and yet it feels like I barely blinked twice since my first arrival here.

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Apartment complexes in Maadi. Just a few of them.

It’s one of the most baffling things about you, Cairo, the way you play with time. Not just with weeks and months and seasons, also with the general rhythm of life. There’s the possibility of going grocery shopping at 3am, rush hour starts at 10.15am, breakfast in the office is at 2pm, neighborhood kids are playing football in the street at midnight and then just when I thought everything was simply pushed back by a few hours there’s the vegetable seller praising his wares on his donkey cart at 7am and an 11pm invitation for a bike ride – at 5.30am the next morning. I guess things are a matter of possibility rather than routine; when there are this many people using a limited amount of space, a little flexibility in timing is useful so if at all possible, you pick a time when you expect the least amount of people to be doing the same thing you do. Now to figure out when are those times, that’s going to take me the next part of the year…

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Pedestrian in Attaba, Downtown Cairo.

But time is not the only warped thing about you. Social connections are too. When I ask your inhabitants what they like most about you, most of them say “I never feel alone here.” And they are not referring to the lack of personal space and everybody putting their nose in everyone else’s business – no, they mean that you can go to any place, at any time, and find someone you know. For good or for bad, it seems impossible to be anonymous in this city of almost 20 million people, and I understand why they like that. Because should it happen that you find yourself at a party with *only* 2 people you know, you can strike up a conversation with a random friendly-looking stranger and by the end of the night be invited to a party of his friend a week later. And the best part is that these are not empty invitations extended out of a sense of obligation, but rather out of a genuine belief that life is best lived together with others. 

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"Egypt, factory of men."

And that, dear Cairo, makes you my current favorite city to live in, despite all the shit that is heaped up on us from above (often excused and justified from below). It makes that I am persevering in my efforts to explore you, to understand you, to grasp you from all sides. Because you’re no easy city, what with the political situation and the power cuts and the insane heat and the dust and the harassment, but I think you’re worth it. If only because of the little boy I met at a demonstration: dirty face, 5 stitches on the side of his head, torn clothes, trying to sell me chewing gum. When I bent down and told him I had no money, he looked at me with big, sad eyes. “But then how are you going to eat?” he asked. When I said I had money, but hadn’t brought it with me, he gave me another serious look, pulled a note of 5 Egyptian pounds out of his pocket and offered it to me to buy lunch.

His situation reflects so much of what’s wrong with you, Cairo, and yet he’s your charm, and he redeems you. 

Everybody? Yes, everybody

As I was drinking a small glass of black tea on the riverbank to watch the sunset on the other side of the Nile, the boat-men started the inevitable questioning.

"Miss, miss, would you like a felucca?"

"No thank you."

"Miss, miss, really don't you want a felucca?"

"I really don't want a felucca, no."

"But you need a felucca!"

"Thanks again, but I don't think I do."

"Why not?!? EVERYBODY needs a felucca!"

Maybe he has a point...

Queen of the Road

So I have this thing I bought here in Cairo, it's called a bike. It's actually really pretty, look:

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Pretty, right? Made in Taiwan.

And, since bikes are mainly known as means of transportation, I use mine to get around the city. I ride it to work, to Arabic class, to go out... you know, the usual.

In the beginning, it was mainly fun. Sure, the dust is awful and traffic is crazy – there are not a lot of rules, cars pull over without warning and buses start and stop wherever and whenever they damn well please (or wherever and whenever there is a potential passenger waiting, even if that is right at the base of the on-ramp of one of the busiest bridges in town, but that aside) – but all in all, the roads are quite good, there are no hills to speak of, and it's not as dangerous as one might imagine.

However, I quickly learned that it's not all that usual. I mean, there are certainly plenty of people who ride bikes here. Hell, I've even seen people who ride a bike with a long rack with bread on their head! Or a serving tray with a complete breakfast on it! But the thing is, those people riding bikes are not women, and that's what makes the combination of me and my main means of transportation so special. Apparently.

Hence my status on facebook:

“So riding my bike in Cairo is really dangerous... especially for the three guys on the scooter that stared at me for so long they hit the parked car in front of them.”

People keep staring. And commenting. And screaming at me. Most often heard, in order of frequency:

• Eh da?!? (What is that?!)

• Random car honking (not meant to warn me for anything, just to say hi)

• Agala, agala! (Bike bike!)

• GOOOOD MOOORNING! (no matter what time of day)

• Hey, you, good, good! Bravo!

• What's your name! (preferably from across the road) or How are you!

• Ahdslasehlkajebshf! (never understood the actual text, usually a sentence thrown at me from the open window of the seat of a passing car, with an accompanying grin)

You may have noticed they all have exclamation marks at the end. That's because they're all exclamations. Loud ones. Meant to attract my attention. Which I don't understand, because why would I want to look at you when you are screaming and I am riding my bike. In aforementioned traffic. In fact, it may even be dangerous to look at you:

“First bike-accident in Cairo is a fact, thanks to the helpful guy who kept screaming ‘watch out watch out watch out’ trying to warn me about the gigantic concrete block he had put in the middle of the road. Which I then didn’t see, because I was looking at the screaming guy. 
Result: I flew over the concrete block, and my bike flew over me. 

Fortunately, no bike-parts and only one knee were hurt (and only 2 guys thought their stupid opinions about women riding bikes were confirmed). ”

Other dangers? Teenage boys suddenly jumping in front of my bike or sticking out a leg (I can only assume they are unfamiliar with the physics of wheels with spokes) and young men with big egos on motorcycles who cannot accept being passed by a me when they are stuck in traffic and I manage to find some space to squeeze myself between two cars. They eventually find space, pass me, stop a few meters ahead of me, hurl an insult when I ride by, and race off.*

See that guy there? With one hand on a double(!) rack of bread? Yeah, he's riding a bicycle. Now that deserves awe and respect.

The good part? The women. Where the surprise of boys/men comes out as annoying attention-seeking or hurt-ego-compensating, I have yet to pass one woman who does not smile when she sees me, and give me a look that says: you go, girl. It's awesome, and I hope that somehow, somewhere, they will get to experience that same rush of wind and speed and owning the road that riding my bike in Cairo gives me.

________________________

*Important footnote: I was standing at an intersection yesterday when a group of teenagers started commenting on me and my bike from across the street. They kept going, eventually surrounding me, touching my bike and screaming things at me. It was more annoying than dangerous, so I tried to ignore them (which is kind of hard when someone is changing the gears on the bike I am sitting on), when suddenly a man in a suit appeared. He picked up two of the boys and threw them towards the sidewalk, then grabbed two others and pulled them in the same direction. The rest of them followed. He then lectured them in front of everyone, without even once looking back at me. I was very grateful to see an Egyptian man telling other Egyptian men(-to-be) that this kind of behavior is not ok. Thank you, man!