Behind the words

By Fayza Hassan
A large group of people is waiting near AUC's Sony Gallery for the opening of a photography exhibition by Thomas Hartwell and Enric Marti, Peace that Kills. "The images," the pamphlet informs us, "were taken in October 2000: the Intifada in Gaza was a daily and deadly affair. The clashes between the Palestinians and the occupying Israeli army were mostly limited to stone throwing by the Palestinians but the response by the Israeli was shooting."
A small boy, probably no more than six, joins the group. "And the elephant will crush the tanks and the crocodile will scare the Zionists... they will run away and we will be free." The little boy is Nabil Shaath Jr, who is going to open the exhibition in his grandfather's place -- a fitting substitution, since those who are dying at present in his country are barely twice his age. He cuts the ribbon and we troop down the stairs behind him, to meet the unsung heroes of the Intifada, The anonymous dead carried by their brothers to their burial ground; the sobbing women whose sons have been slaughtered in cold blood; the wounded and the maimed; the bewildered old men and women huddling under a tent before the ruins of their bulldozed house; the children, satchels strapped to their backs, walking in small groups, exchanging jokes and resembling all the children in the world on an ordinary school morning.
But theirs are not ordinary mornings. And these are very special children, because death awaits them on their school route at every corner, in the shape of a brutal young Israeli thug who, roused from his boring watch by a few stones the children have thrown in his direction, has fancied the idea of felling the whole group and has taken aim, with the full knowledge that he doesn't have to worry about the consequences. He is making no mistake. His despicable performance will be duly masqueraded by his superiors as an act of self-defence. On the evening news it will be recorded as a shooting by an Israeli soldier of Palestinians trying to sneak into one of the settlements. A commendable, almost heroic action. A few officials might even make an appearance, wailing that Israeli security has been violated, to demand -- and obtain -- more weapons to "protect" themselves from the stone throwers, renamed terrorists for the occasion.
Unaware and uncaring, viewers all over the world hear the word settlement, which calls to mind the image of courageous pioneers pitching their tent in the middle of the wilderness, painstakingly carving a future out of a friendless desert; they hear the word sneak and imagine a ferocious-looking Arab (the movies and television provide apt prototypes), his cruel face half concealed by a kuffieh, holding a sharp dagger between his teeth and crawling towards unprotected houses to pounce on their unarmed dwellers and slit their throats. Everything ends well, however: the courageous Israeli fighter has put his thorough training to use and has averted, as any good soldier is expected to, the massacre of innocents. The viewers can go to bed with a clear conscience, secure in the though that the forces of evil have been vanquished.
In the same spirit, they can describe a helicopter pursuit ending in the murder of one individual in glowing terms, stressing the Israelis' ability to pinpoint their target with expert precision, a feat meant to erase from the minds of the public the image of random killing that is their more common practice. Vulgar assassination? Never. Just a settlement of accounts for which they should be commended. But who will dare cover up the deed of the Palestinian bus driver who did no more than follow their example? Having found no helicopter handy, he fought the enemy with the only weapons at his disposal: his bus and his life.
Language changes according to who uses it. For the occupier, any opposition on the part of the occupied becomes a terrorist act; putting down their resistance by the most savage means possible, on the other hand, can be presented as a holy mission, while destroying Palestinians' houses and razing their olive trees are conveniently transformed into minimum security requirements. Shooting a baby girl asleep in a car or a little boy sheltering behind his father are the hazards of a just war waged in self-preservation. Unfortunately, the world hasn't got a clue about what is really going on and, should anyone express undue curiosity, the mention of the Holocaust never far, can be put to good use in calming unwelcome doubts. After all, Jews are victims par excellence, as we have so often been told. Having suffered so much themselves, how could they even think of oppressing another people? Surely their war is fair; let the public remember that they are fighting fanatics, and are the shining knights in (American) armour who have taken upon themselves the task of ridding the world of the forces of evil. Courtesy of the international media, faithful to the interests that control it, the stereotyped images of a clean-shaven, preferably blond Israeli soldier, immediately followed by that of a kuffieh wrapped around a "terrorist's" bearded face, are periodically flashed on the small screen or conspicuously plastered on the covers of foreign magazines. Their only raison d'être is to reinforce the dichotomy "good Jew versus evil Arab."
Hartwell and Marti's photographs tell an entirely different story, however, one that deserves to be contemplated until, through the images, the words yield their real meaning and the truth sinks in.
Suddenly one realises that, but for the hazards of birth, these people could be us, our parents, our children They are ordinary people who happened to be born at the wrong time in the wrong place and whose only fault is to call home a country that previous occupiers saw fit to pass on as payment for a debt that they themselves had incurred. Would we cower and accept to be robbed of our humanity, just because others covet what we own?
Speaking at the opening of the exhibition, Abdallah Schleiffer, director of the Sony Gallery, commented: "If Mexico suddenly occupied Texas, who would blame the Texans for taking a potshot at the invading Mexicans? It is the basic national duty of any occupied people to resist the occupier."
But the story is not over. There is hope in the children's eyes. They are not giving up. Many Nabils are on the march, and their elephants may indeed finally crush the tanks.
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