Jody McIntyre: Life On Wheels

Ni’lin really is a surreal place. When I first arrived in the small West Bank village that I would spend the next week in, I didn’t expect to see an orthodox Jewish settler getting his car fixed... I stared at him in complete disbelief, and he smiled and waved back. Stealing people’s land is one thing, but apparently it’s worth leaving them a little bit so that they can give you cheap rates for puncture repairs.

I walked further into the village, past the blood-stained butchers with cow-carcasses hanging in the front porches. A guy called out to me from a shop:

“Hey you! When did you arrive from Gaza?” I’d never seen the man in my life.

I met up with Saeed, a friend of a friend whose father used to organise the demonstrations against the Wall here, but was recently arrested and sentenced to over a year in prison, and I told him about the settler I had spotted. “You might see them coming in at the edges of the village,” he replied, “but they wouldn’t dare to come down to the centre!”

That evening, in his grandfather’s house, Saeed showed me videos that my eyes struggled to believe. Images of Aqil Srour, Ni’lin’s fifth martyr in just one year of their struggle against the Wall, bleeding from his heart. He had been murdered in cold blood by an Israeli soldier as he attempted to come to the aid of an injured youth, shot just seconds before by the very same soldier. Ironically, Aqil was present in every previous video. When the Israeli army tried to enforce a curfew upon the entire village in the summer of 2008, everyone was out in the streets, building make-shift road blocks and throwing stones at invading soldiers. It is this kind of militancy which we must take our inspiration from.

From the pictures, it looked like Ni’lin was a war-zone, or as Saeed remarked... “You don’t see this in Bil’in, do you?!”

On Friday we marched to the Wall, here comprising towering concrete blocks. The settlements surrounding Ni’lin are so close that they appear as if you could touch them... you can literally see the residents driving around in their 4x4s, and the sprinklers watering their gardens.

It was as I was observing this scene that the first shower of tear gas came raining down from the other side of the Wall. All the other demonstrators ran into the fields and trees to the right, but the restrictions of my wheelchair meant that I had to stay on the main path. A couple of minutes later, I saw the huge gate at the Wall sliding open, and a few seconds later I saw Israeli soldiers running through...

I quickly turned, and began progressing back up the hill. Unfortunately, I had made my move too late. I heard two soldiers behind me shouting for me to stop, and felt that running from armed, racist kids might be a mistake. When they caught up with me, they started ordering me, in Hebrew, to go down to the Wall where their base was. Two more soldiers came and after telling me to shut up started saying the same thing. Luckily, they eventually got distracted by the other demonstrators in the fields. So much shooting to do, and so little time. I used the opportunity to make a move.

I saw the news about the floods in Kashmir, and behind the headlines I see that comparisons are increasingly being drawn between stone-throwing Palestinian and Kashmiri youth. I predict that my conscience will compel me to travel to the region next. Unless, of course, we are successful in initiating our own uprising, and we make the streets of London our own battlefield in the global struggle for equality.

The fact that we managed to smuggle a Palestinian girl from Ramallah through an Israeli check-point proves an important point; the Wall that they have built around the West Bank is not for security, and never has been. It is purely a symbol of the system of apartheid that Israel is imposing on the Palestinians. The fact that she was pretending to be my sister, and “pushing” me in my wheelchair, may have also helped.

It was a first for both of us. Apart from some districts of Jerusalem, neither of us had ever ventured into Palestine ’48. I can’t say that I liked what I saw. From rooftops of certain villages in the West Bank, you can see the port of Haifa, but on rooftops in Haifa, the occupiers only stare out into the sea, choosing to ignore the suffering that their very presence here entails. They come in their droves from Russia and eastern Europe, without a thought for the refugee camps on the other side of the Wall. Ghettos, perhaps not dissimilar to the ones their grandparents used to live in.

So no wonder I saw tears in this Palestinian girl’s eyes when we arrived. She is a refugee from Fallujah; not the Iraqi town, but the Palestinian village... although both have suffered at the hands of imperialism.

We were staying with a Palestinian friend’s family, the only Arab family in the entire area. The neighbours have taken them to court to have them evicted, but through their steadfastness they have stayed. For once, racism hasn’t succeeded in the racist state.

It was the night of my twentieth birthday, so we walked down to the beach to swim in the warm, clear sea. One of the few places where all of life’s problems can be forgotten...

I’ll leave you hopeless like a /
Ethnic cleansing on the coast of Haifa /
My thought-stream flows in words so you know I’m a writer /
But not the type to... /
Spill ink I’d rather spill blood so I’m a fighter /
Not a scholar or a martyr /
Olive oil in my skin give me zeit or zartar /
Fight for equality, not for supremacy /
Dig a grave, bury our government’s legacy...

I had a feeling that the Mossad were about to pull something on me. It all seemed too easy, but when I finally got through all the “security checks” in Tel Aviv, I was told that my wheelchair had been left in Rome. They should know by now that it will take a lot more than a stunt like that to hold us back.

A frustrating 12 hours later, it was delivered to an address in Jerusalem. From there, everything was good to go. Not that I had a plan or anything.

But you don’t need a plan when you’re going home.

After reunions with my brothers and sisters in Sheikh Jarrah and Bil’in, I travelled to Balata refugee camp with my family from the Existence is Resistance Tour. Rest assured, revolutionary conversations were in abundance.

On the second night of our stay in the camp, Israeli Occupation Forces and settlers invaded the camp, and a huge green laser beam from a military base above guided them on their way. Drones flew in the sky, just in case someone was to look up and imagine freedom for a brief moment.

In reality, the occupation represents a night-time curfew for every single day of the year, for not a single soul walked the streets... except for the invaders.

I turned to Hurriyah, and saw a smile on her face. The break-dancing kids from Chicago were exclaiming in hushed tones that they were sure Israeli “tanks” were on their way, and trying to decipher the symbolism of the green lasers’ various angles and patterns.

But for Hurriyah, and even for me after a period of nine months living in occupied Palestine, these are a regular occurence. How can one define a “normal” life, when so many across the world live under oppression. Without a doubt, these struggles must be united if we are to ever succeed. But for the people living in such situations, it is simply home.

This week, I travelled through Paris, Lyon and Geneve on my way to Frankfurt in Germany, to meet Hamde, who I lived with for most of my time in Bil’in, Palestine. Six months was a long time, so now he’s more than a brother.

Although most of our three days together were full of happiness, there was a sad element to the trip as it made us remember the months spent together under the endless frustration of occupation. It was surreal to traverse through the streets of Frankfurt together, him riding a bike and me sitting on a wheelchair and holding onto the side. Dark with the night, but not a soldier in sight...

“Jody, how do the people here not understand?” Hamde asked. Sometimes I’m left asking myself the same question.

The seven Smash EDO activists from Brighton certainly understood what’s going on. As bombs rained down on Gaza last January, they broke into a factory building the weapons and caused £300,000 worth of damage. After eighteen months with two of the activists languishing in British jails, and the other five on bail, the trial finally came to an end. All seven were found not guilty on all charges. A victory...

So what are the rest of us waiting for?

A British judge and jury has just set the precedent, taking direct action to prevent war crimes is not illegal in this country. I don’t think we need a second invitation.

Frankfurt wasn’t the only place to bring back memories. In Lyon and Geneve I caught up with Patrice and Nesrine, both of whom I met during the epic trip around South America, and both of whom touched my heart in ways they will never even begin to understand.

As I swam in the lake in Geneve, I realised that not enough travelling was really taking it’s toll.

But the quote of the trip came from Charlie, an old friend from school now living in Paris, and one of the most apathetic unrevolutionary people you would ever meet...

“Oi Jody, if you ever go back out there, can you just tell Aviv to f*** off?”

That’s one way of describing a struggle for freedom and justice.

Hanging out with Hamde also made us remember Haitham, our ultimate “scrumping” partner, who unfortunately couldn’t be out there with us. Luckily, he made us a film to enjoy in his absence...

These days, I don’t like football as much as I used to. It must be the first time in my life that I haven’t experienced the feeling of excitement and suspense as the World Cup explodes into action. With England’s first game up against the USA, I had no choice but to go out proudly wearing my Scotland t-shirt. The crowds that had descended upon central London looked pretty confused.

As I stood outside a bar in Leicester Square at half-time, my skepticism in footballing culture was proved correct. As some Hare Krishna’s walked past, they were greeted with chants of “Who are ya? Who are ya?” and “Sit down shut up! Sit down shut up!” Really, the biggest possible criticism you could have of Hare Krishna’s is “they’re a bit crazy”, but I thought the treatment was a bit harsh for people who give out hot meals for free and meditate in a temple. It was particularly ironic to see one of the drunk fans shouting “Scum!” as the robed monks continued on their way.

This is my point – the line between nationalism and racism is too thin. Any nation that England loses to, and the list is extremely long, immediately becomes the target of the hatred of millions. Margaret Thatcher would probably have declared war over a dodgy penalty decision. I don’t see any reason to be proud of our flag – the English flag that has represented centuries of imperialism and colonialism for millions of people across the world. The same flag now being expropriated by the thugs of the so-called “English Defence League”, who unfortunately cancelled their march through Tower Hamlets this week-end. Unfortunate, because it would have been the end of the EDL.

With the clash of the two world-ruiners a big disappointment, I was pleased to see that England’s second encounter offered me a lot more choice for support, in the form of Algeria. A trip to Edgware Road was the order of the day, and I’ve never been so happy to see a 0-0 draw. My brother had also just finished his GCSE exams, so there were two reasons to celebrate. I sounded my car horn in appreciation for most of the journey home.

The next day, I was back in the area for a festival on Golborne Road. The police had a tent inappropriately set-up, teaching kids how to fingerprint themselves. As Lupe Fiasco would say, “give ‘em gum, give ‘em guns, get ‘em young, give ‘em fun!” George Orwell would be turning in his grave.

The Metropolitan Police... yet another reason not to be proud of my country. Or as Lupe concludes:

“...they ain’t living properly /
break ‘em off a little democracy /
turn their whole culture to a mockery /
give ‘em Coca-Cola for their property...”

As if the World Cup hadn’t given me enough food-for-thought, I then heard the news that thousands of South Africans had been evicted from their homes and relocated to Blikkiesdorp, which the residents have described as a concentration camp, to make way for the construction of new football stadiums. So, it seems that Coca-Cola will be the only real victors in the “tournament of dreams”.

Saturday 5th June 2010, outside the Israeli Embassy at a demonstration of 20,000 people, London:

“Five months ago, I was sitting on the beach in Gaza, watching the waves of the Mediterranean lapping onto the shore. If I was to return to Gaza today, the sea would be tinged red, with the blood of the innocent civilians murdered...

On Monday May 31st, at 1.30am, I was sitting on the front steps of a friend’s house in south London, when a man walked past asking for a cigarette. His name was Glen, and he lived in a home for people with mental disabilities just a few doors down. But not even a schizophrenic, would be able to think of an excuse for the crimes that Israel has committed in this week. Not even a lunatic would dare to justify the slaughter of humanitarian workers, as they deliver aid to a besieged population.

This is the greatest tragedy Israel has ever seen. This is the final nail in the coffin. But it seems that the Israeli government are keen to prolong their farewell, so now, we must double, we must triple our efforts. And I ask Mr. Netanyahu, I ask Mr. Obama, I ask, our Prime Minister, Mr. David Cameron... how many more? How many more must spill their blood? How many more must sacrifice their lives? But one thing is for certain... for every one that falls, a hundred will rise in their place, a thousand more will raise their voices in condemnation, and a million more will dedicate their lives to the struggle for freedom for Palestine!”

As I was sitting on the steps of my close friend Fifi’s house in Catford, south east London, at around 1.30am, a man walked past asking for a cigarette. Fifi politely obliged.

He came and sat down on the floor next to us, and Glen, as he introduced himself, turned out to live in a home for people with mental disabilities just a few doors down. He told us about the maltreatment of people living there, which could well have been true, and his plan to set up a system of cameras to catch the staff as they carried out their dirty work.

However, as Glen spoke with us for the next couple of hours, it quickly became clear that his grasp of reality was extremely thin. He was clearly very anxious, suffering from extreme paranoia and believed that, to quote him, “the air is actually poisonous”. He was a nice guy, and I always believe in treating all people in a decent manner, no matter what their disability, but one thing was certain, you take stories from a schizophrenic with a pinch of salt.

After the actions that have taken place this week, “lunatic” is the only word that can be used to describe the State of Israel. I arrived home from Fifi’s at three o’clock in the morning, to find out that the Freedom Flotilla, which many of my friends were aboard and I was very close to travelling with myself, had been brutally attacked by the Israeli military, with several people murdered.

A lunatic will find a story to justify every action he/she takes, no matter how outlandish or outrageous, and Mark Regev, spokesman for the Israeli government, was on hand, as always, to fill the role.

“...the hardcore extremists on the boat...a blockade is a legitimate tool...”

After all, every circus needs a clown.

Let’s just put this into context. This boat was in international waters! No further questions need to be asked. We can ignore the fact that this was a humanitarian aid mission, we can ignore the fact that it’s aim was to break a siege that the UN and every government in the world has condemned time and time again, we can even ignore the fact that there were less “weapons” on that boat than you would find in your average household kitchen! The underlining fact is, Israel have broken international law, maritime law, and committed a massacre.

I can only hope that this will be the beginning of the end of Israel’s crimes. No-one could have predicted this. Even Glen would have been stupefied.

Returning to London, without any plans to think of, apart from reading books and taking down quotes which may come to some use in the future, has been a chance for me to reflect back on what I can only describe as a life-changing eighteen months.

If one thing is for certain, I would say that travelling the world instills in you a set of unshakable moral and ethical beliefs. For me, my priorities are clear. Honesty above all.

I am sure that there will be times when I’m attacked for telling the truth, not least in situations on when the people on the other side of the fence are so intent on maintaining untruths, but I still believe in it.

As Malcolm X once said, “You’re not to be so blind with patriotism that you can’t face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.”

As is often the case at a time like this, lyrics were the first thing to come to my mind...

I’m furious... your lies are becoming so spurious /
Judge me, but we got the jury with us /
And uslee*, from Lebanon, where they leave cluster bombs /
From Beirut where the soldiers shoot /
It’s like a pattern and you’re following suit /
It’s like the sheep run now you’re following who? /
I can’t avert my eyes from all the lies /
Or hidden secrets you can call them whatever you like /
Like a refugee running from his UK-built camp /
But when he reach the “free land” you turning him back /
The one time he reach out and you turn your back /
Now it’s far too late for turning back /
Take it back to the start /
Wonder why it fell apart /
Shoot the messenger, but who really broke their heart /

*Arabic for “my roots / originally”

I think me and Kareem were both expecting to come across a barrage of Zionist questioners at every Norman Finkelstein event we spoke at, but it seems that times are changing; for the first half of the tour, such dissent was non-existent. We had to wait until the University of Arizona on May 3rd...

The tone was set early on, as Kareem began his introductory speech:

“We are here today, to talk not only about Operation Cast Lead...”

“This is bullshit!” an old man shouted from the audience, standing up and leaving his seat. If he thought that was bad, then it was probably a good thing that he left early.

As we got into the question and answer session, I could see a smug young man in the line, waiting for his turn. I knew it was him. As I later found out, locals refer to him as “The Terrier”, for reasons I would quickly understand.

“Hi, my name’s Adam, and I help run the pro-Israel advocacy on campus.” Really, he should have just left it at that. “Throughout this year, we have extended our hands to the pro-Palestinian students on campus, to engage in dialogue... I’ve contacted members, student organisers... but I’ve heard nothing back for an entire year. Do you support that kind of dialogue?”

Although the question was directed at Norman, he insisted on handing over to me.

“The first problem with what you have just said,” I began, “is that I don’t believe a word of it. This is part of a wider campaign we are seeing by Zionist societies on campuses across the US and the UK, to normalise a situation of occupation. How can we have a “dialogue” when, as we speak, the Israeli government are evicting more Palestinian families from their homes? What I find interesting is how the dialogue has shifted; five years ago you might have stood up and attacked what we have said, but now that isn’t working anymore, you’re going to try this whole facade of “dialogue”, and really, I don’t believe a word.”

A rousing applause followed, and the isolation of pro-Zionists such as Adam, seems to be a sign that things are changing for the better.

I was feeling very tired and unwell, so I slept for the entire flight back to New York. When we landed, Norman came and sat in the row just in front of me as we waited for Kareem to come from the back of the plane. The man sitting next to me, who I hadn’t said one word to, now turned to Norman.

“What did the doctors say his diagnosis was?”

“Excuse me,” I interjected, “why didn’t you just ask me? I do have a voice of my own.”

“Well-”

“It’s fine, I don’t need to hear explanations, but just think about it next time.” And I began to walk off the plane.

When we got out to the terminal building, the same man came up to me.

“I want to explain why I said that. I have a seventeen year-old son who’s similar to you, but he can’t talk or walk or anything.”

“I’m sorry to hear that...” I replied.

“It’s difficult,” the man said, “but he still smiles everyday.”

When I landed at Newark airport, plenty of uncertainty still hung in the air. I hadn’t yet met Norman Finkelstein, whose book tour I was supposed to be speaking on, and none of the universities hosting the events had actually booked me. As I was a last minute addition, no transport had been organised either. Nevertheless, I knew it was meant to happen. From New York to San Francisco, myself, Finkelstein and Lowkey were ready to tell the United States of America the truth about their closest ally.

I went to the bus station in the city to buy a monthly pass, with an exhausting and only just about possible schedule ahead of me. I would have gruelling, twenty and thirty hour bus rides, followed by a talk, a few hours sleep, and then onto the next location.

The University of Madison, in Wisconsin, was our first destination. A twenty-six hour bus ride, with three transfers along the way, but I was still undaunted. A girl called Maria took me out for lunch at the side of a huge lake, and we went to see Norman give a class to one of his friend’s classes. About half way through, he asked me a question about a phrase he had just said.

“I’m going to have to admit... I wasn’t listening!” I laughed.

“Well,” he replied, in the infamous Finkelstein “I-don’t-respect-those-crocodile-tears” drawl, “when you’re giving your speech later, remind me not to listen either!”

Unfortunately for Norman, I didn’t give him that option. When it came to my turn, I kept the packed room of over 200 people enthralled, trying my best to convey through words my passion for the Palestinian struggle, the strength of the Hannoun family, the strength of my brothers and sisters in Bil’in, and the strength of the besieged people of Gaza.

The organisers were suitably impressed, and immediately bought me a flight to the next event. The 26-hour bus to Wisconsin proved to be the last I would need to take.

The next evening, Purdue was the location. This time it was over 400 people, and the three of us had our presentations perfected. I felt slightly self-conscious when I got a standing ovation.

After a brief stop in Michigan, we reconvened with Lowkey in Chicago. I’ve never spoken in a church, and I’ve never spoken to a crowd of over 800 people, so Chi-town was a first for both. Plus, another standing ovation. We brought the roof of that church down.

It had been an intensive few days, and felt like a lifetime had passed. Nevertheless, only a week after I’d arrived, me and Lowkey were back in New York, walking through the streets of Brooklyn. Him pushing me in the wheelchair, we stepped into a deli on the corner of the block.

“Hey,” a guy standing outside called, “are you two brothers?”

“Yeah,” Lowkey replied, “of course we are.”

As we walked away, he expressed his disbelief. “People actually think, that people in wheelchairs are just stupid! As if I couldn’t just be your friend!” Even Subway station workers were trying to make problems. Different city, same bullshit.

The “brother” question happened three more times. One half-Iraqi, one half-Scottish... we must look so alike.