I think all people of conscience must be distraught right now. People are getting killed in Gaza in alarming numbers and with no sense to it. I am one of those who is struggling to figure out how to be constructive.

One thing I’ve been doing is reaching out to people I know in Gaza and letting them know I care, that they are not alone. Some of those conversations have been so informative and insightful that I started to record them. I am now recording a conversation with someone in Gaza everyday. It’s an opportunity for people all over the world to hear directly from a Palestinian about what it’s like to live through #GazaUnderAttack.

I’ll post new ones as they are available on this page (newest at the top) and you can also follow my Facebook and Twitter feed. But it won’t matter unless we all take action. So please, let your representatives and the media know that you want this current violence to stop and that you want them to intervene politically to bring a much-deserved just peace to the region.



US complicity in Israel’s attack on Gaza

This article first appeared on Aljazeera.

It was very kind of Brenda from the US Consulate in Jerusalem to finally return my call at 7pm, long after work hours.

I had been trying since early morning to get an appointment for a group of concerned US citizens living in Palestine to meet with a policy officer. We came together through social media and word of mouth because we are desperate to speak out about the unjustifiable slaughter of Palestinians in Gaza that is now under way.

We want to express our opposition to United States’ complicity in the Israeli attacks that have taken over 90 Palestinian lives, with hundreds more injured. We want to demand a change of policy before the threatened Israeli ground invasion becomes a reality. But it turned out that it was difficult to reach anyone in the consulate, much less to get an appointment.

Brenda was clearly in a hurry, but she responded professionally and explained that the American Citizen Services section was busy trying to help US citizens stuck in Gaza to get out to safety. They had priorities, she explained. They couldn’t take time to hear our views. Besides, her office doesn’t do policy work. That would be the other office.

No, she didn’t know the name of the person responsible for policy at the other office. It’s that transitional time of year when people finish their missions and new people replace them. She advised that we not bother the policy people either. There is a crisis now and everyone is busy.

How convenient! US representatives are “too busy with the crisis” to talk about US responsibility for creating the crisis. I explained my view: The US gives billions in military aid to Israel year after year; it provides unconditional political support despite Israel’s belligerent settlement policies; and it has refused to hold Israel accountable for violations of international law in the 2008-9 attack on Gaza and the 2012 attack on Gaza, not to mention the current attack. Isn’t the US government – and, by extension, US taxpayers – complicit in creating the emergency that has now placed over 1.5 million lives at grave risk in Gaza?

Sounding a bit frustrated, Brenda said she understood my point but still advised that we cancel our visit to the US consulate tomorrow since no one would be available to hear our complaints.

There are protests here in Palestine, in Boston, Chicago, New York, Washington DC, and in cities across the United States and the world. People want the US to stop unconditional support for jingoistic Israeli actions. But our government is too busy to hear our complaints? How loud must we scream before our government hears our demand for justice for Palestinians?


Gaza under fire: What does it mean for philanthropy?

This article appeared on Philanthropy for Social Justice and Peace where I will be contributing monthly.

I’m a critic of “poverty porn,” the selling of poverty to increase donations. It dehumanizes “beneficiaries” (a word that itself is dehumanizing), but even worse, it’s a slippery slope. Engaging donors on the basis of crisis means you always need a new crisis to keep them engaged; successful philanthropy becomes dependent on having a steady stream of victims.

That’s why I tried a different approach when I designed my Gaza birthday campaign. I was turning 50 and wanted to do something that would matter for Gaza. I decided to ask my friends and family to do three things: 1) make a financial gift to the Gaza Fund at Dalia Association, a community-controlled fund at Palestine’s community foundation; 2) write a letter to a political representative or media outlet calling for an end to the siege; and 3) sign up for an organization’s newsletter, to get ongoing news about the struggle for Palestinian rights.

My thought was that asking for three things would demonstrate that meaningful philanthropy isn’t about giving away money and feeling better, it’s about engaging in meaningful ways. To make it real, I gave my friends and followers a gift too (in the spirit of “pay-it-forward”): I released a short video clip with a Palestinian from Gaza every day for the 31 days proceeding my birthday.

I intentionally started the campaign when Gaza was not in the news, and I used that in my appeal. I suggested that we should seek to empower Palestinians to be better able to withstand or even prevent the next escalation, rather than giving money only when Gaza is in the news.

Well, I only raised a little over $1,500, not the $5,000 I was hoping for, and the vibrant exchange of ideas about campaigns and organizations and strategies for lifting the siege – that didn’t happen at all. Some of my failure is likely attributable to the limitations of my network and my social media skills, but not all. I fear that people really don’t want to give to an issue that’s not “hot,” even if it’s likely to explode soon.

Another piece of evidence to consider is the announcement, reported in Newsweek, that the Algerian soccer team plans to donate their World Cup winnings – a reported $9 million – to Gaza. The announcement came after the most recent round of Israeli bombings of Gaza, named Operation Protective Edge, hit the news.

We will have to wait and see before we conclude. Will the Algerian soccer team actually pay, or will their $9 million go the way of so much aid that pledged but not delivered? If they do fulfill their commitment, will they give their contribution to an expensive and impotent international intermediary as many aid recipients complain? Or, will they really make history by recognizing that while Palestinians need money, they need political support even more, and that money they do get should be allocated by Palestinians according to Palestinian priorities and monitored locally by those intended to benefit.

Whether or not the Algerian soccer team does the correct and courageous thing, I intend to try my experiment again. I’m not ready to give up on Gazans’ right to self-determination in development, including their right to control their own development resources. And I’m also not ready to give up on the common donor. There must be people out there who understand that it’s more effective to give before a crisis, and that philanthropists who want to make a difference must make a commitment to stay engaged over the long-term – regardless of what’s making headlines. Meanwhile, I hope that those who give now, hearts broken by the senseless suffering, take the time to give well.



B- for my Gaza birthday campaign but an A for effort

Thanks to my newsletter subscribers and website followers who hung in with me as I bombarded you all with video reminders about life in Gaza each day leading up to my 50th birthday. I hope you made time to watch some of them, and I hope you came away with a new interest in Gaza. I hope the videos reinforced your impression that Gazans matter – not only during attacks, but also in between the attacks that bring Gaza to the front pages of the news every year or two.

I want to give a special thanks to my new friends from Gaza who agreed to be interviewed and to share fascinating and little known aspects of their lives with me, and by extension, with the world: Najla Shawa, Hekmat Bessiso, Amal Sabawi, Nahedd Kayyali, Ghada Ageel, Thoraya El-Rayyes, and Sameeha Elwan.

My Gaza birthday campaign was a success in some ways. The videos brought some new visibility, and a different kind of visibility, to the issues, and they reached some new people. They’ll remain on my YouTube channel forever, and may continue to be seen. Still, I must admit that my birthday campaign fell short of my hopes in many ways.

I wish there had been more sharing of political actions taken to the end the siege. But even as I say that, I admit that I don’t really know what actions might be effective. The siege on Gaza is part and parcel of the Israeli occupation, which is pat and parcel of the Israeli colonization project. That’s not an easy mountain to move.

I also wish we had raised more money. Thanks to the generous contributions of Marga Kapka, Dorothy Bennoune, Pat Walsh, Anonymous, Carolyn Quffa, Mary Onorato, Vicki Tamoush, Pauline Solomon (and some from me), we raised over $1,500. But I’d hoped for at least $5,000. What is $5,000 going to do, you may ask, when the needs in Gaza are so huge? Shouldn’t we raise massive amounts of money to feed and house people? Actually, I’m a critic of “humanitarian aid,” especially for long terms, and especially in human-made crises like that in the Gaza Strip. In those cases, political action that enables Palestinians to claim their rights is more effective. And that’s what the Gaza Fund at Dalia Association will do – enable the pilot of a new community controlled grant process that respects Palestinians rights to lead their own development agenda. The fact that Dalia Association is willing to undertake this logistically challenging and emotionally intensive work is itself an act of resistance against the siege that seeks to split the West Bank from Gaza, as if one could sever a heart from its arteries without doing mortal damage.

There was one unexpected but fabulous outcome! A small group of university students in Gaza found me through my campaign. They are teaching themselves to do advocacy and public relations. They asked me to lead a weekly training by skype, and I’m having a grand time doing it. I don’t know whose learning more, them or me

And fortunately, the effort isn’t over. Dalia Association published an interview with me about the Gaza Fund and they will continue to receive contributions (of money or any other resource) indefinitely. The Gaza Fund has become a standing program, part of Dalia’s creative initiative to promote rights and self-reliance through philanthropy and civil society strengthening.

On a more personal note, I admit, the birthday campaign didn’t make me feel any younger or any better about turning 50 in a world that is so violent, wasteful and immature. I don’t feel any clearer about what I want to do with the next phase of my life either. Will I go back to working on my neglected novel? Hammer away at the strange and disempowering world of freelance journalism? Having transitioned to a less involved role at Dalia Association, do I want to start something new? I have no answers to these questions. Your opinions/suggestions/feedback/encouragement (in the form of words or chocolate) are always welcome.


Ambiguity on the Jerusalem Train

This article was originally published on Mondoweiss.

A ride on the central line of Jerusalem’s new light-rail system.(Ahmad Gharabli/AFP/Getty Images).

A ride on the central line of Jerusalem’s new light-rail system.(Ahmad Gharabli/AFP/Getty Images).

I catch a Palestinian woman making googly eyes at an Israeli baby on the train in Jerusalem. She is at that age when a woman’s body aches with evolutionary desire to reproduce. The effort she expends to restrain herself from tickling the baby’s feet is palpable. The baby’s mother chats in Hebrew with two other Israeli mothers-with-strollers. She doesn’t notice her curly-haired baby exchanging a tender smile with the veiled woman.

Behind them stand a few Orthodox black hats, one wearing iPod earphones. My curiosity burns to know what he is listening to. Although it is the middle of a school day, a Palestinian boy with a schoolbag stands near the door. There is a gentle chime, and the train moves. Smooth. No jerking. A middle-aged Israeli wearing a puffy red winter jacket steadies herself on the metal post, her hand nearly touching that of a Palestinian who looks like a laborer heading to work.

I never take this train, though I’ve long been curious how two peoples, their separation enforced in virtually every other sphere, can share such an intimate area.

The physical space, already constrained, dissolves further as the train takes on passengers on its way to the city center of West Jerusalem. Inexplicably and irrationally, my heartbeat quickens.

“Please remember to take your personal belongings when you depart the train,” the recorded message plays in Hebrew. Then in Arabic. Then in English.

As far as I can tell, the rules that Jerusalem lives by don’t apply on the train. There isn’t a discernable Arab side or an Israeli side. There isn’t a nuanced fight for territory. But is it a neutral zone or a standoff? I can’t tell if these folks have acclimated to this moving, time-limited reality or if a flare-up is imminent.

Palestinians are used to being in spaces defined by others as “not for you,” but how do the Jews feel, I wonder, sealed in such close proximity to Palestinians, a proximity that every Israeli policy aims to prevent?

I don’t have the nerve to ask them. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.

I let my eyes wander to the scene passing by outside the window. As we travel west I notice the buildings get newer and taller. The streets get cleaner. There are bike racks and recycling bins on the sidewalk. There is a sidewalk! Every little while I see an old Arab building, a witness both to the fact that Palestinians were here and the fact that they are no longer here. With weeds growing from cracks in stones, these monuments are romantic in their steadfastness in the center of modernity. Other old Arab buildings, renovated and gentrified, host cafes with fancy signs in English. I imagine their shame.

Inside the train, it is quiet. The occasional sound of Hebrew, nasal and harsh sounding to my ears, seems to rise upon acceleration and fall as the train approaches a station. No one is speaking Arabic out loud, but the physical presence of the veiled women with large shopping bags and young men with dark eyes slouching against the door is unmistakable.

Most of the Palestinians get off at the central bus station.

“He-Haluts Station. Yafeh Nof Station. Mount Herzl Station,” the computer announces in due course. Then, “End of the line. Please exit.”

Somehow, I have missed my stop.

I cross the platform to wait for the train heading back in the direction I came from. I get into the train car with some young Jews, layered hair in degradations of blond. Tourists with water bottles sticking out of backpacks cram in with religious Jewish women donning black skirts below the knee, some sporting black flats, others wearing Addidas knock offs. There are a few soldiers, but no guns. Felt kippas. Knitted kippas. Rainbow kippas. More than one young person clutches a miniature prayer book, lips flying over the words of God.

Realizing this is my chance, I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and start at one end of the train car. “Do you speak English?” A middle-aged Israeli man shakes his head. A younger Israeli man shakes his head before I ask. I sit next to an Israeli man in his twenties. He is eager to talk about the train. I pull out my notebook. “People were angry at first,” he says, “but they got used to it.” “Angry at what?” I ask, surprised to find such easy disclosure. “The traffic, of course,” he clarifies. “Jaffa Street was blocked for so long during the construction. The shop owners said they lost customers.”

“And what about the Arabs?” I ask. “Are people angry because there are Arabs on the train?” (I hear myself avoid saying the word “Palestinian” in favor of the less threatening term, “Arab.”)

For a second he looks surprised by my question, but then he smiles. “Why would they be? Both Jews and Arabs ride bus #19 from the hospital.” (Proving what? I don’t know.) He goes on to say that unlike most Jews, he speaks Arabic. He likes being in a public place where he can hear Arabic.

“I don’t see any Jews talking to Arabs,” I note glancing around. “And the Arabs aren’t even talking to one another,” I point out.

“Well, nobody really talks to anyone on the train,” he admits. “But at least we hear the announcements in Arabic.” As if on cue, the chime rings and the computer voice announces the name of the station, first in Hebrew, then in Arabic.

A Palestinian woman is even more upbeat. “The first time I rode the train it was strange to be so close to Jews. There were some problems. Some Palestinian boys got beat up. But now it’s normal for us to ride together. One time a Jew stood up to give me a seat! There was a Palestinian boy there, and he didn’t get up, but the Jew did.”

I move further down the car and find an Israeli woman. I approach. I sense an invitation to sit next to her. Too late I realize that we were past the Jewish part of town, almost at the entrance to the Palestinian station of Shu’fat. After a few more stops in Palestinian neighborhoods, this train will reach the Israeli settlements that choke Jerusalem. This woman has to be traveling to the settlements. She is a settler. It takes all my nerve to sit next to her and ask her about her experience on the train.

“At the beginning, when it first started operating, the train was too crowded. Now it’s okay.”

“And you don’t mind riding with Arabs?”

“There are security guards at every station in the Arabic neighborhoods,” she says. (I had never noticed that.) “Besides, Arabs are happy to be able to ride to Damascus Gate,” she continues. They wouldn’t jeopardize that by doing something violent. And they are happy because now more Jews shop in Arab neighborhoods.” (I really don’t think that’s true, but I don’t say anything.)

“So you are completely comfortable?” I look around, reminding her that we are traveling through the heart of Palestinian Jerusalem.

“Well…” her voice drops, “…sometimes I do wonder if the little boys that get on the train and run up and down the cars are doing that because they are Arab and want to bother us, or just because they are little boys.”

(I confess. This question has also crossed my mind.)

I sit down at the end of the car to process what I’m learning. Next to me, a Palestinian woman with an unusually fat boy in a stroller reaches her hand across the car to tap an Israeli woman picking up her daughter from a stroller. “What’s her name?” the Palestinian woman asks in broken English. The Israeli woman answers with a mother’s proud smile. It is a French name, I think, but I don’t hear it. “Mine is Odai,” the Palestinian woman offers.


“Yes, Odai.”

Bon chance,” the woman says courteously in French.

I’m sitting down, but I feel off balance. Is she not an Israeli? Or is she a French Israeli? For some reason, I feel I must know. I must know who she is or I don’t know who I am.

The Palestinian woman gets up as her stop approaches. She walks out backwards, easing the stroller onto the platform. “Toda raba,” the Palestinian woman says to the (Israeli?) woman in Hebrew, though I don’t know why she is thankful.

I get off at the next stop and watch the silver capsule glide away. No one else seems to find it a bit notable. But I stand a long time trying to figure out what it means to me, to Israelis, to Palestinians, and to prospects for peace with justice. But I can only conclude one thing for sure even if I can’t quite grasp the implications. What I conclude from my foray into ambiguity is this: A stroller can be a powerful thing on the train in Jerusalem.