Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Why is the world more sympathetic to the Israelis than to the Palestinians? A non-accusative explanation



I am aware that many readers disagree with the very premise of this article, and I shall answer them in two very brief points before I move to the article:

a. I am talking about the average world citizen. The few yet vocal 'Palestine supporters' are not average - first, they can generally place the West Bank on a map. And they're younger and generally more activist overall. And, most importantly, they're a minority.
and
b. If the world was more sympathetic to the Palestinians, the conflict would be long over.

Now I'll return to my main argument, if you please. And relax, it's a non-accusative explanation, I said..

********

Yes, there are biased news sources, pressure and advocacy organisations, and tons of prejudices and beliefs people have. That we all have.
I’m not discarding them. But there’s a simpler and deeper explanation:

The world can relate to the Israeli plight. It just makes more sense. It’s simpler.

Let me explain.

Imagine citizen Lambda in a random developed country. The Netherlands, or Australia, or something.

On the evening news is the story of a woman who has lost a child, Alpha, in a suicide bombing in the market in Jerusalem. He was 17 and had a cute girlfriend and was happy, etc etc. Woman is crying. Interviews with the family. Childhood photos. Scenes from the hospital. The bombing location shown repeatedly, ambulances, testimonies from bystanders, images of bits of broken cars.

It’s a simple, unidimensional, unequivocal tragedy. Mrs. Lambda, eating her dinner, will go ‘owww, poor baby, and his poor mother’. She’ll also remember that her next door neighbour went to Israel last summer and showed her those photos of Jerusalem. “I’d better tell her about this”, she thinks.


Now also on the news is the story of 17-year old boy Beta killed during a demonstration against a wall in some godforsaken village somewhere. He was shot in the head by a rubber bullet. There are images of people walking on a hill, of kids with flags, of boys with their faces covered with keffiyehs throwing a stone or two. Then plenty of smoke, some people running, soldiers filmed from afar with their big transparent anti-riot shields, and the voice-over talking about a wall, and land annexation, and that the boy’s family’s lands have been confiscated, and that his older sister was killed by an Israeli army incursion in 2003.

A big mess.
Mrs. Lambda, now at her dessert, will go ‘what the heck are those crazy people doing to each other’ and then ‘kids, don’t watch that, it’s too violent, damn news broadcast!’ and proceed to switch the television off.


Add to this the fact that the first story will be on the news for the following 6 days, with more and more details, Alpha’s teacher saying how great a student he was, his heartbroken grandma sick of sadness, details of his funeral, his mother crying at the cemetery, the occasional photo of the perpetrator of the attack.

During that time the story from the West Bank will be long forgotten because probably nine others would’ve been killed since. Beta’s name was rapidly forgotten - those Arabs with their complicated names that foreign newscasters never get right anyway - was rapidly followed by a series of other nameless people, with more or less messy stories, of checkpoints and confiscations and house demolitions.

We'll never know who killed him, of course. His name was briefly back two days later when the news showed a demonstration of scary-looking people carrying Beta’s dead body and waving flags, people shouting things, with the voice-over ‘Hamas vowed revenge for the death of Beta, who was killed two days earlier in a demonstration in Nil’in’.


And on its Sunday edition, a newspaper will devote a full page to the Middle East conflict; they'll split it in two, in an effort for 'fairness'.

On the top half will be a beautiful photo of a smiling Alpha with very detailed coverage of the events.
On the bottom half, they couldn’t go with a photo of Beta because the resolution of the photo his mother had wasn’t good enough, so they’ll go with a photo of people queuing up at a checkpoint or of the demo where Beta was killed, with some coverage of the events of the death of the other nine but it’s too much info so they’ll just talk about ‘series of events’ and ‘clashes with the Israeli Defense Forces’ leaving ‘several dead’.

We cannot blame the media for not devoting the same particular attention to individual Palestinian stories: their job is to put the new stuff on the 8 pm news broadcast. Unfortunately, there are news in Palestine every 6 hours.

That's why the average person abroad knows the name of Gilad Shalit, but will fail to name a single one of the 10,000 Palestinian prisoners in Israeli jails.

And which is also why things like occupation, land confiscations, blockades, settlements, daily humiliations and discrimination aren’t news: there’s nothing new about them, going on for decades upon decades.

It really isn’t anyone’s fault - except, you know, the Palestinians because too many of them die and we can’t keep track, and being subject to multi-faceted violence and coercion, rendering them a troublesome nameless mass that we, as outside observers, simply cannot relate to.


Friday, April 24, 2009

Nightbus in Paris, 4 am - let's talk about race



A drunken argument between a black man and a white woman leads to the most honest discussion about race I heard in France so far.


“I don’t like you”, repeated, ad nauseam, Very Drunk Black Dude, his unusually long right index extended. “I don’t like you”.


“Go back up your coconut tree! It’s my country, if you don’t like it here, go back to your country! Up your coconut tree! You fucking bastard!”, shrieked drunk and angry Miss White Trash.

France is feeding you! You don’t like us, leave! Get the fuck out of here!”


“Go screw yourself”, stoically answers Very Drunk Black Dude.


Worth mentioning that from their looks, Miss White Trash was probably on welfare and the black guy on minimum wage - the direction of ‘who is feeding whom’ may be the opposite she claims it to be.



Other people’s reactions were interesting. In the land of political correctness, where ‘White’ and ‘Black’ are hushed words (black is replaced by “d’origine Africaine - or Antillaise, if they’re from the French Caribbean colonies - and Arab by “Maghrébin”), that’s not the kind of discussion you’d hear often.

People gasped on occasion - and starting discussing between themselves, on tones of a schoolgirl’s “Ow-my-Gawd-she­-did-NOT-just-say-that!”.


Anywho. Driver calls the police, which catches up with the bus, and comes on board, approaching Very Drunk Black Dude.


Act 2.


“Hey, why him? Why the black guy?” objects a Black Guy with Glasses.


The police disregard him, get Very Drunk Black Dude off the bus, which drives off.


“Why hasn’t anyone of you objected to what just happened? They took him because he is black! And you, white people, are sitting there, satisfied, because the black man is gone!”


I check out the guy. Well groomed chap, fancy square glasses, and holding a book - and, as a rule of thumb, when you see someone on the Paris night bus carrying a book, you know they don’t belong there.


“I’m French! I’m from Martinique! The French took 52% of my country!”


“Why didn’t anyone of you object? Why am I the only one who defended the man?”


“because you’re black as well”, retorted an opinionated kid.


Ah! Finally someone engaging in his monologue! Black Guy with Glasses gets even more excited.


“May be, may be. But if it was a bus full of blacks and the police picked the white guy, I would’ve defended him too”.


He then went on a discourse on “humanistic values, equality” - and, taboo of taboos, French racism.


The discussion, unusual as it may be, draws a well-dressed couple. All the back section of the bus - 8 or 10 people are listening in. The same people watching the fight earlier.


‘He was drunk and was making trouble’, someone tried to justify - explain more than justify, really: it was less of a defense of the police than a kind attempt to diffuse Black Guy with Glasses’ anger. It partially succeeded.


“I am French but I live in Montreal now, and every time I come home - because here is home! - I am shocked at how Black people are treated. The police, the people. Did you see? They even sent a black policeman to arrest the black man.”

Frantz Fanon would be proud, I thought.


Until then listening, a twenty-ish guy accuses him of nursing anti-white sentiments.


“No, no, I’m not going on an anti-white rant here. Look at Felix Eboué. He worked for France but refused to see Blacks treated mistreated - wasn’t anti-white. And Dumas? Well he was white. But now - now, white people in this country have become too complacent, tacitly approving of society’s racism against blacks.”


As we ride deeper into the night and towards the suburbs, the bus empties. I chat a bit with Black Guy with Glasses.


I learn he’s a Zulu from Martinique. Mohamed S. (…), he introduces himself. A Muslim. “My grandfather studied at Azhar, even!”, he giggles.


“And my wife is a Yemenite Jew.”


As we approach the final station, we move towards the driver, who kept silent throughout the whole incident. And Black Guy with Glasses accuses the driver - blames him, rather - of wrongfully singling out Very Drunk Black Dude in his police complaint.


The bus driver responds very calmly, in the calm of a guy who’s heard it all before. “I reported a fight. The other two people happened to get off a minute before the police came.

And, buddy, don’t try to pin ‘racist’ on me.”

He points to a photo on his dashboard.

“My wife is Black”.


I repress a laugh. Nothing is what it seems tonight.


“Have we passed Saint Michel?”, asks Black Guy with Glasses. “I need to get off at Saint Michel…”


“Yes - 25 minutes ago”, I answer.


He laughs.



Monday, April 20, 2009

Why Durban II is a great platform for Israel

More precisely, for its supporters. It's an easy and cheap occasion to confirm support and pledge allegiance to Israel.

Let me put it this way. Those UN conferences are non-binding, their final resolutions accept exceptions (that is, a country can say they don't endorse clauses 2, 5, and 28a) and are generally a good way to put up a good show and produce a declaration with a good title. So really, agreeing or disagreeing with whatever takes place there comes at very little diplomatic cost - and major media coverage.

Durban II was stillborn. Months before, the main topic of discussion wasn't racism, wasn't the worst regimes in the world, wasn't apologies for past slavery or any such thing.

It was Israel, or more precisely, how to make sure that Israel doesn't in the least bit get criticised - regardless of whether they actually are guilty of racism or not. That was completely irrelevant. Occupied Palestinians as well as Israeli Arabs be damned.

Various countries withdrew from the conference ahead of time, and those who still wanted to bend over to Israel had plenty of room to do it at Geneva.

In the words of French Ambassador Jean-Baptiste Mattei, who walked out during Mahmoud Ahmedinejad's speech: "As soon as he started to address the question of the Jewish people and Israel, we had no reason to stay in the room".

Mind you, it wasn't what he said about Israel or its establishment, the words he used, the arguments he put forward: just the fact that he dared to mention the State of Israel.

There's a name for this: censorship.


Jewish Voices for Peace has an interesting initiative regarding this issue - MuzzleWatch.


JVP's Cecilie Shurasky writes that pro-Israel side events are proliferating, while opposing views were generally banned.
Check out her coverage from Geneva.


Of course, that Ahmedinejad went surely didn't help, and that jackass is as much guilty for the failure of the conference as various Israel-lobbies in OECD capitals. If he really cared about the racism that the Palestinians face on a daily basis, he should've stayed at home and let the conference follow its course, rather than beautifully assist those attempting to hijack it into a pro-Israel choir.

And blogged about the conference, or something.


Sunday, April 19, 2009

The Baghdad we don't see


We don't speak enough about Iraq on this blog..

To begin to atone for that, I am sharing 2 interesting sources I have come across this week - no car bombs here. Just people.

Baghdad, City of Walls is an excellent documentary by an Iraqi journalist who went to the 'new' Baghdad, with its ethnically cleansed configuration, those religiously pure neighbourhoods now separated by walls.
After an absence of several years, Ghaith Abdul Ahad returns to his home city and hops from the Sunni to the Shiite areas, changing his name to go from one neighbourhood to the other, from the 'killing fields' of Baghdad to its orphanages.

But it might be getting better, and in the words of an interviewee - بغداد رجعت تتمكيج - 'Baghdad is putting her make-up again'. Perhaps. Maybe not.
Watch it.


Secure Enough to Sin, Baghdad Revisits Old Ways is a quick dive into the Baghdad underground. Booze, hookers and gambling are an interesting way to gauge the 'normalcy' of an urban setting..

Preview:
'Nightclubs have reopened, and in many of them, prostitutes troll for clients. Liquor stores, once shut down by fundamentalist militiamen, have proliferated; on one block of busy Saddoun Street, there are more than 10 of them.'

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Tears when you least expect them - Farewell for Natacha

We were stuck in traffic for nearly an hour and a half, and barely made it to the cemetery, as people were leaving. It was a beautiful cemetery, on a hill, and having, for no choice of mine, watched “the Bucket List” last night, I thought to myself, “it’s good to be buried in a place with a view”.

My three friends and I walked towards the open grave, surrounded by dozens of bouquets, where one slab of concrete had covered the lower part - where Natacha’s feet would lie.
I mechanically stood before the grave, read the Fatiha and recited a few short prayers for her soul, and for her family. The basics. And, I’ll admit, I briefly tried to squeeze a tear, as a matter of form, and when I failed I put my hands back in my pockets and admired the flower bouquets.


It hit me when I least expected it, though. The undertaker was quietly standing there with his second slab of concrete, waiting for Aurélie, the closest among us to Natacha, who was reflecting, and sobbing.

It was several minutes later, as someone suggested that we start leaving to meet the others, and Aurélie nodded in agreement, then stopped in her tracks-

“I just don’t want to leave her here by herself”.

That’s when something broke. And suddenly, the absurdity of her death, the loneliness of the grave, the undertaker closing her concrete box, and most of all the overwhelming power of Aurélie’s grief, found no better expression than tears. I just stood there, hands in my pockets, crying, for Natacha, for the tragedy of her death, for Aurélie’s sadness, for the unfairness of it all.

Even I didn’t expect that reaction. But it was her, it was a young and beautiful life, a future, all cut short for no apparent reason. And it was all of us, it was our mortality, our insignificance, the randomness of it all. The thought of her life, of my life, of what she did of hers, and me of mine, and the rainbow-coloured disk reeled faster and faster into a white blur when I, almost surprisingly, realised that - I truly felt the loss, and I honestly missed her.


I felt a friendly hand on my shoulder but didn’t turn around. I didn't for nearly another full minute. We moved to join other friends from grad school, then headed to the family’s house.

The funeral was beautiful, we were told. Speeches in four languages - a multi-ethnic dyed-in-the-wool traveller she was - and music, her selection: Gotan Project, Aimee Mann - and Amy Winehouse. At a cemetery. Weird, I know.

The home reception was lovely, the boyfriend charming, the brothers gentlemanly, the father a total papa-bear, the mother a very dignified woman in her white suit and pearl necklace. We listened to some speeches and anecdotes by friends and family, watched a photo slideshow - and I was discovering, of course, her life before I knew her, but also insights of her by her closest friends - who were almost deciphering her for the audience’s benefit.

I was getting to know her again - perhaps I was just getting to know her for the first time.

And I felt uneasy.

I was getting to know her while she wasn’t there. I felt I was chatting with her family, or browsing her photo album - without her permission. Would she have allowed me to get to know her in this fashion, to see her photos when she was 10, to hear her high school anecdotes?

The photos in particular, it felt - voyeuristic? But just being there, I was led past that shield of hers - the image she projected, the behaviour, her attitude. What right did I have to peek into her soul, if she had chosen not to let us in?

Did her death imply that her defenses were down?
I felt her so, so weak and vulnerable in her death.

This time, I only felt it when it reached the corner of my lips. Less salty than they say.


For Laura, who understands;
and for Natacha, if they have high speed internet where she is.