Of olive groves spread out across soft hills the people despair: everything here has been marked, and everything marked is lost.
Transfer isn’t necessarily a dramatic event.
The telephone just keeps ringing and ringing. Something like a stethescope against the breast. Clinical.
In this way three children break an afternoon curfew and are mortally wounded.
The current situation calls for a swift and speedy effort to control all forces: not only as freedom struggling with its conqueror, refusing its reification and its perverted image, but as the being of groves spread across the hills, raising their fruits like tiny fists, by some unimaginable patience holding back the punch that would provoke the conqueror further.
The ruined, arid land, the neglected trees, testify that promises nourished from afar didn’t create an organism strong enough to withstand the assorted - well, you know all that already. Like a stethescope against the chest.
To show how and why a non-violent person, like myself, becomes violent. Not that I have become violent.
Uneasy rapprochment, for the sake of others. That explains the contradictory character certain states of mind are charged with, a clap of thunder when no storm is visible.
As for the psycho-social trance I would like to say one last thing about Steven Biko.
Festering wounds ask questions of their father. Like a refrigerator that groans from its own inner cold. The telephone just keeps ringing and ringing.
It was while the army demolished a neighboring house, belonging to the family of a militant from Islamic Jihad, that the wall fell on the Makadmah family.
Opposition came swiftly from the 36 hidden justices.
There they are, you will have to go a long way around if you want to avoid them.
I would like to stroll within range of your rifle. I’m that angry.
Then an explosion, and the wall fell on the assembled family.
The name might be derived from a root meaning “to come” or “be present”: or possibly from another one meaning “to bruise”.
The last child the father and his neighbors found, scratched but alive.
Beauty is enhanced by this single moment of peace, and his hand which clutches the rubber ball, and Being never at any time running its course with a cause and effect coherence.
That our predicates do not contain untruths but are simply claims gone unfulfilled in our contemporaries and in ourselves. Being-in-the-thick-of-it.
When the building came down I felt a disconnect, a complete loss of apperception, as well as a completely leveled perception of things.
Mountains of night creep away without ever again yielding to barest day.
With ambulances blocked from reaching the scene, Mrs. Makadmah, 41, died while neighbors were carrying her to a clinic.
Her name might be derived from a root meaning “to come” or “be present”, or possibly from another one meaning, “to bruise”.
Expect no trial.
Except in every single action we are engaged in.
Possibly mixed among our neighbors, the 36, hidden and just.
Concentrated within themselves they go unrecognized by their fellow men.
Mrs. Makadmah was known as an excellent cook who often made cakes and cookies for her children.
The Israeli Army expressed regret.
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Essential services in several critical areas, including health, education, water, electricity and law enforcement could no longer be provided.
What good would running to the Occupied Territories have done, what good running away ?
The bridge, much like the airport, the border crossing or any other entry point, is a place of enduring humiliations - homologue to the denial of history.
The fiancee arrived, surrounded by her brothers and sisters, all seven of them.
This quarter 17 killings were carried out that were almost certainly assassinations.
My grandmother and grandfather go to the rail of the boardwalk and look down at the beach.
If you throw even a cursory glance at the past you will observe that in the continuum of colonial control apartheid and peace have never been coextensive.
After his village was razed the Leper approached the soldier cradling his Uzi.
The ocean is becoming rough; my grandmother observes that the waves come slowly, drawing their strength from far back.
With pious and gentle resignation the persecuted ones suffered such intolerance (though later, in the Warsaw Ghetto…)
If the Law is texture, that texture must have changed. Been smoothed out by its “triumphs”.
To cope with interruptions and delays all schools in the West Bank begin to make up classes, when possible, during off days and holidays, as if by the sheer quantity of hours the circumstance could be overwhelmed.
The power of redemption seems to be built into the clockwork of life.
Out of stasis and paralysis, symptomatic of ghettos in general, I decided to run there and not to run there.
A stone roars like a bird Slaughtered
Tahseen Alkhateeb writes from Amman.
Not genocide, not ethnic cleansing: a name has yet to be conceived for what is undergone in these curfewed quarters.
Certainly not “The Question of Settlements”.
The Argentines speak of “the annhiliated” but that isn’t it either.
Redemption and its blasted clockwork.
She set up a great loom in the main hall, started to weave a fabric with a very fine thread. And every night, when the wooers had fallen asleep, she would unthread that day’s work.
Penelope transfers her strength to the medium of her subjective expression, in order to then subordinate herself to that medium, more than subjective, in the act of destructive defiance.
On the other side: only eight outposts established since 1996 have been completely dismantled. Many see this expansion as positive.
Weaving done in oneself insures that one won’t spill a drop of another. Then one undoes one’s own weaving. This is not just a ruse.
The awesome power of sacrifice. I tracked its meaning, never examining the sources of power that allowed me to make my own tracks, and thus, erasing them in the process.
Every day I would weave my father-in-law’s shroud, and every night by torchlight I would unweave that same web.
At least let her finish her weaving before you possess her. No. The bulldozer kept coming.
I’m no expert but I think I see a problem here.
If Palestine is Penelope, Penelope has already waited more than 54 years.
The first haiku’s task is to achieve exemption from someone in purdah walking on your street.
The second haiku’s task is to achieve exemption from someone in a tallis walking on your street.
The real haiku has no task.
Redemption and its blasted clockwork.
Other tales there are to tell, almost as sad, said Odysseus.
Words gather inside those exiled from space, those receding into time. Treat the person in whom they gather as if that person were their own sick child. Like parents made magically young in the tending.
You seek a homecoming as sweet as honey, since once every soul and soul-root had its special place in the pleroma. All instantiations of the return prove false. All fixed images of home prove idol.
Yet contagious as laughter or yawning there remains an unfathomable quality that frees language from something like description. Which remains undescribed, tantalizing.
Every day I would weave at the great loom; every night I would tear my work to shreds.
My guiding light, said Penelope, is the Israelites: they waited two millenia.
Under the name Reb Areb the poet Jabes offers: “Jewish solidarity is the impossible passion one stranger can feel for another.”
Penelope, calm and straightforward: “death will surely come to the suitors.”
He stripped off his rags and revealed himself as who he really was: a seed in the celestial granary, the perfect tension between particularism and universality, the voluptuous pleasure of silence fusing with anger.
Penelope one’s waiting, Odysseus one’s wandering.
Odysseus always no more than Penelope at her loom, weaving the future.
He her thought now, she thinks, in one guise or another, for more than two millenia.Posted by Brian Stefans at June 01, 2003 02:52 PM | TrackBack