West Bank Journal: Death and Birth in the Occupied Territories

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For three days everything was shut down in Ramallah, stores closed, cafes shut tight, streets empty. On the third day, the walls of the town were covered with Yassin's shahid poster. When someone dies in the struggle here, in whatever way, a child shot by soldiers or a fighter gunned down in a clash, the family or the political organization he or she belonged to makes a martyr poster. Hamas has made one for Yassin that depicts him in glowing white, flanked by two black silhouettes of armed men. In Arabic it says, 'We accept the challenge.'

On Birth

Because of the assassination of Sheikh Yassin, my friend Neta couldn't go to her brother's wedding in Tel Aviv. Neta is married to a Palestinian, Nizar, who cannot legally be in Israel proper. Neta, as an Israeli, cannot legally be in the West Bank, but she lives here anyway. In calm times there are ways Nizar might come to a family occasion safely but these days everything is tense, roads are closed, and it seems too risky. Our trainings for this week are also postponed as no one can get out of Nablus or Jenin so our trainees can't come. Also they are afraid that Hamas will take revenge for the Sheikh and Israel will avenge the revenge and tanks will roll back into Ramallah, and they could get stuck here. We've postponed the trainings until next week, although there's no guarantee the situation will be better and it may well be worse. In the meantime, although I can feel Neta's frustration and disappointment at not being able to be with her family, it turns out to be fortunate that she doesn't go. For in mid-morning, her water breaks and she begins to get mild contractions. We've been worried that the baby is late: the doctors she's seen have been making noises about inducing labor, and she very much wants to have a natural childbirth, so this is good news.

We spend the day walking. Walking helps bring on the contractions. We walk around the shuttered town, looking for stores with their doors open a crack where we can slip in and buy food. We go out later with Nizar and their one-year-old daughter, Nawal, who is truly adorable, one of those happy babies who finds life delightful and funny, laughs a lot, and waves bye-bye on every occasion.

On the outskirts of Ramallah are terraced hills still planted with olives, some of them so ancient they are called 'Romim', Roman. Olives can live for a couple of thousand years, and some of these have trunks so braided, swollen and thick that they could indeed have seen Herod pass by, or Jesus climb these hills. I put my hands on one of them, thinking that these trees have seen empires come and go, have seen betrayal and brutality and assassination, and still they endure. Someone long ago carved this terrace, stacked these stones one on one atop each other, carried the weight of each stone on his back and placed them with his hands, and the stones endure. Pink cyclamen and wild iris and tiny, magenta orchids peek out from among them, returning to bloom in the spring as they have always done. And though we all feel as if we're waiting in the pause, the indrawn breath, that will blow the candle of the world out, maybe this empire too will pass and the beauty and the blossom yet endure. Neta's contractions grow stronger, she pauses and leans on Nizar: a new life is about to be born and who could not feel hopeful, in spite of everything?

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