Aushwitz !!!!

The weeks here in Nablus seem to go fly by much quicker than in England. Maybe it's due to the fact that I'm still not used to my new weekend consisting of Friday and Saturday. Thursday always arrives with which such speed and I find myself engaged in the weekly conversation with the other volunteers questioning where the time has gone.

Last Wednesday there was another successful open mic night in the Pallagio Cafe in central Nablus. The turnout was huge with what seemed like 50 - 70 people crammed into the cafe sipping iced lemon juice, smoking sheeshe and singing songs. Some of my young students from Balata refugee camp were also persuaded to come under the accompaniment of one of their uncles. They showed up armed with their tin whistles. It always amuses me when I see them walking around with their bright red tin whistles all tucked into there belts like swords. They walked into the cafe like musical musketeers and it wasn't long until they joined us in few polkas and jigs.

The night was also in aid of a few volunteers who left the next day. Tributes I feel must be made to these quite remarkable people. Dermot 'Danger' Murphy, the Irish guitarist and card player extra -ordinaire  was a pillar of the sessions and a founding member of the International Contingent of the Band. His presence is already being missed, by both us and the Ben Gurion security staff. After telling Ben Gurion guards on arrival one month ago with no hesitation he was volunteering here in the West Bank, he was inevitably interrogated extensively. We received a message form him stating he was 'stripped to his boxers and glasses'.   Maeve, a lovely Irish girl with wit as sharp as Sheffield and a voice to match also departed us. The song 'On Raglan Road' will forever remind me of her.Kristie has also left, the longest staying volunteer in the house. Credit must be given her for the fantastic photo's and videos she made of both my classes, sessions and busking missions. She has one of the best photographic eyes I've seen and her wisdom betrays her age.


With Kristie and Maeve gone it leaves me as the oldest standing volunteer in the flat. I'm not looking forward to this cycle now of watching these amazing and interesting people come and go. I feel like the old man from the end of that great Tom Hanks film and book,'The Green Mile'. At least he has Mr Jingles though, the mice here don't do any tricks.I wish them all the best in the future.

It was Kristie and 8 others who joined me on another busking mission on Friday morning. The fellowship set off for Jerusalem just after 9 o'clock. We consisted of two fiddles, one tabla drum, two guitars and two tin whistles. We busked at Damascus gate and Jaffa gate, again wearing freedom for Palestine shirts. The response was overwhelmingly positive. As tourists, Jews, Muslims and Christians poured through the age old stones of the gate the music seemed to act as a barrier against there apparent prejudices. Only when the music stopped did we get a few wild comments,notably, one chap shouting 'Auschwitz' in may face; but of course, it was the Palestinians who perpetrated the atrocities of the Holocaust.In all we made an unbelievable amount of cash which after expenses will be going back into the project.

The Buskersof Al Quds

July 22nd 2010

Well, the Fighter Jets have finally ceased their war games and the sound of bird song can now be heard again. The last few day's has seen a monumental increase in air activity above the never fading blue skies of Nablus. Some flying so low over the buildings that from the balcony you can even see the distant faces of the the pilots flying the planes. The buildings shake and rattle to their foundations and I can't help think it'll not too be long until the constant low fly overs and 'sonic booms' collapse one of the buildings here in Nablus.

The last weekend was an eventful one. It was the first time I had ventured out of the separation wall in the two months I've been here. We cued in the cattle grills of the Qalandia checkpoint for an hour in the morning sun waiting for the Israelis to open the checkpoint. One by one we scuttled through barrier after barrier. What an ordeal, I had forgot how bad it was. Fathers trying their best to keep their families calm and together. People pushing in, women and men spitting and kicking. It feels more like an abattoir than a checkpoint. The buzzer sounds and the green light flashes, the barriers open and the cattle push forward and scramble to get through the barriers before buzzer sounds again and the barriers close. The old grandpa's and grandma's of Palestine stand patiently with blank expressions, they know the story. They've seen it for decades. The Grandpa wipes his face with his handkerchief with one hand whilst clutching onto his two grandchildren with the other. He is ordered through and shouted at (in Hebrew) to empty his pockets before scuttling through the metal detectors for the third time to find that it still goes off. He's now just earned himself a  personal search with a 19 years Oakley wearing IDF soldier who treats these elders with the respect a prison guard would show his prisoner.

This man could have been my Granddad. Small and plump with white hair and fair skin, smartly dressed in trousers, shirt and shoes. Probably on his way to Jerusalem for Friday prayer or maybe going to visit relatives or to shop. There are infinite places and things this Grandpa and family might be going but only one way to get there. This his life. While his dignity and pride is destroyed in front of his Grandchildren and wife, the 19 year old soldiers smoke and laugh. They mock him in Hebrew, something which doesn't go unnoticed by the Palestinians. Imagine being mocked and shouted at on a daily basis but being unable to understand what your tormentors are saying. Imagine now that your tormentors are child soldiers with the maturity of a 5 year old child with attention deficit disorder. Imagine now that this child hates you. Your existence has been distorted and deleted from the history books and you are seen as a plague upon the rightful god govern territories of Israel and as a child has no qualm burning woodlice or plucking wings off flies, these young children would not bat an eye lid raising his rifle and releasing yet another bullet into the cranium of another being whose only crime was his or hers unfortunate birth place. Finally my turn comes around and I struggle through the narrow barrier clutching onto my bag and guitar before making it to the window where one shows your ID papers. Through the stained bullet proof glass, and young dwarf of a soldier (smaller than me)is leaning back slumped in his chair clutching his gun and listening to his radio. There is no eye contact. .

'PASSPORT!!'

I show him my passport, page open at my picture. A fine picture actually,probably my best so far.

'VISA!!

With my middle finger, I hold the page open where my Visa was stamped and that was is it. It took three hours in all to get from Nablus to Jerusalem. Pretty atrocious by our standards, pretty good by Palestinian standards. I arrived at Damascus gate with a few other volunteers who had come for the ride. The purpose of my visit though was to test the water for busking sites. Lydia, the Dutch violin player had also accompanied me and we both very quickly donned 'I love Palestine Shirts' before starting our first set at Damascus gate.

Damascus gate is one of the main entrances to the old city in the Eastern part of the city which is recognised internationally as being within Palestinian borders. Unfortunately, the Israelis don't see it the same way. There are weekly evictions of Palestinian family's and a growing amount of Israeli settlers commandeering the empty houses or the houses being purposely built by settlement organisations.It is however a lovely part of the city. The bustling market sellers compete and the variety of little knick knack stores is impressive. Soldiers are every where to be seen with Snipers above the gate and armed  police and soldiers posing at the entrance of the gate having a good old chin wag. We had, on the whole, a good reception and we played for an hour or so. There were faces of utter bewilderment as people walked by clapping, singing, dancing and if there was one achievement, it was impressing the local Palestinian store owners who brought out coffee and fruit juice and in one case a parasol to shade us from the sun.






We also had some looks of disgust from some people passing by, mostly I hope due to the T – Shirts (not the music). In an eastern European accent I heard 'Why do you support a terrorist organisation ?' A laughable question undeserved of an answer.Walking though the centre later I was to encounter a nice polite chap who shouted in my in a face in a thick American accent . . 'There is no such f*****g place as Palestine'. I told him to wake up and smell the Falafel or words to that extent. (There was a falafel man on the corner of the road). But much anger and racism was directed towards the t-shirts on  number of occasions. In all though it was a successful day. We made enough money to cover our travel expenses, food and a nice welcomed bottle of cold beer. (It was added bonus pissing off the settler residents of Jerusalem).The Dutch also beat the Brazilians much to the delight of Lydia and as the sun set over the outer walls of Jerusalem and faded behind the old city I sat, pondered and reflected upon what had been quite a heavy day. I had seen the best and worst of what humanity has to offer.

The rehearsals are picking up and there are now weekly music sessions in tea houses and cafes in and around Nablus. Two Irishmen showed up as well last week and they were quickly snapped up. They play guitar and violin and will be helping me teach in the various centres for the next few months. The children in the camps are progressing quickly and I will try an upload some of the many videos on to the website in the next week.

'Open the Mic'

Saturday 26th July

Its 6.30pm and I'm currently sat on the balcony of my apartment. The view from here always manages to silence me (which is quite an achievement in itself) and never fails to leave me in a state of awe. It's a place I'm sure where many a volunteer and activist has sat and pondered over the years. I can't even imagine what it must've been like for those who were here during the last intifada. As I sit watching the traffic go by and the children from next door playing football on the street, previous volunteers were watching tanks take aim and fighter jets drop bombs. Those crys and moans in the night from the starving children of the 3 month long total curfew have thank God (should he exist) been replaced with the occasional bouts of beeping cars from local weddings parties.


 Night time naturally offers quite unbelievable views also. The lights from the buildings and street lamps illuminate up the valley and the spot lights from the Israeli military base at the top of the mountain are reminiscent from a scene of the War of the Worlds. The Fatah forces retreat to there night time hiding places leaving the streets in the capable hands of the Israeli Defence Force. From the base at the top of the hill one can see the Israeli Hummers and Military vehicles descending down the mountain roads with there orange lights flashing most likely heading for the Old city or one of the more troublesome refugee camps. So it's here that I sit telling you stories of my week leaning on the back two legs of my chair in a satisfying balance.


I'd just like to state how delighted I was to read my Guest Book page a few days ago. It reassures me greatly that my efforts here are being appreciated by some back home, not least  by some the teaching staff of my boyhood school who I personally hold much respect and admiration for. I don't know how reply to your messages personally but I send my finest regards to you and all the staff at QEGS. In response to Jim, any help would be dearly appreciated.


I co-organised what was another successful open 'mic' night on Thursday but this time in the Dar al Fanun music centre in Askar refugee camp. (One of the centres where I teach) I say 'open mic', but it turned out to be more of a mixed concert with all acts performing on stage in front of a full crowd of Internationals and Palestinians. In the audience there were also local children and the proud parents of the children who were performing. From the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish and Robert Burns to Irish Polkas and Palestinian break dancing it was an eventful night. It started with 9 or so 12 – 14 years old Palestinians from the centre singing and playing traditional songs on guitar, violin and percussion and ended with an impressive show of break dancing by the premire (only!) dance troop of the West Bank.

I presented the night with Boustami, a Palestinian volunteer helping me translate.  Again, many emotions and thoughts ran through my head as I watched the acts. Mainly the thought, only in Palestine ! I sat on the front row watching children being flung into the air in the midst of extremely complex dance routines to the music of 50 cent booming out of the sound system. I laughed, I could have been Simon Cowell had it not been for the shameful moustache and pair of odd socks.It was touch or go whether or not I was going to able to
make it though. I had been unable to teach all day due to painful stomach cramps and sickness. I was glad when I got off stage at the end having not been sick or worse . .  there were a few close moments. I rode the pain like pony through the desert though (a fine simile I know) and it was definitely worth it. A personal highlight of the night was singing the 'Star of the County Down' with an extremely talented 12 year old Palestinian kid called Muhammad accompanying me on his darbuka (Arabic drum). 

It was a the best possible start to the weekend followed by a good sleep in Friday morning (Friday and Saturday are the weekends over here).   I spent the best part of the weekend at a friends house in a village in the outskirts of Nablus. This guy is nothing short of a legend and though he doesn't mean to be, he's one of the funniest guys I've met. We were greeted with a full meal and a tour of the village where it seems every guy there is  his uncle or a cousin. We sat and drank tea in the Olive groves over looking the miles of fertile scenery having competitions with him, his brother and cousins to who could throw a rock the furthest. Needless to say, they all had good arms and would put any of my friends back home to shame (Mitch Rhodes would like these guys). But then again they'd all had a lot of practise over the years. His younger brother, a fresh faced 19 year old university student who was buried in his revision books when we entered the house had the best arm. He had also incidentally just got out of prison 3 months prior. He was detained for over a year and a half for reportedly throwing rocks. No trial though as per usual and no visits permitted in Prison. He had just turned 17 when Israeli special units shot down the door (as my friend was opening the door) and arrested him. The bullet holes in the door-way are testament to what must have been a traumatic night for his family.He was also a champion Dabke dancer with a fair few moves. He showed me and Sam a few in the house later. There we were, after being pressured into getting up and getting involved, 4 grown men gyrating there hips, vibrating our shoulders and clicking our fingers to the sound of music. Only in Palestine.

This is the great paradox of some of the Palestinian men. At times they the definition of macho manliness, brute hard ripped units hurling rocks 500 yards. Seconds later they've become the  macho man from the village people song. I am however basing this on my own narrowly formulated vision of gender and sexuality which has been sculptured by my own social upbringing. There is obviously nothing wring with grown men dancing in a small room. Its just not something we're not accustomed to. In the house there was also 'Mahmoudi', a one an' a half old little boy who I could truthfully say is the most adorable toddler I've seen. Big brown eyes and a massive smile, mischief personified. He woke us this morning shuffling,crawling and walking past our mattresses in the living room banging an empty sprite bottle and smiling his face off. The innocence of his youth was refreshing to witness, it seems like an awful long time since I was around such a young child and myself and Sam were automatically reduced to his playmates, jumping around in an attempt to make him laugh. Is there a better sound than a toddler laughing ?

It is depressing that it's children like 'Mahmoudi' which the leaders of out great democratic world ignore when they are being counted in the mortuary's of Gaza. I could not help think that his face could be any one the roughly 400 young children killed during operation 'Cast Lead' which started on Boxing Day 2008. A war which was in the grand scale of things just another branch of this ever evolving tree of bloodshed and war.

Tomorrow is Sunday so its back to the grind after a good weekend. Plenty more lessons to plan, rehearsals to be had, nights to organise and musicians to recruit. I would also like to ask all who read this blog to watch what you buy in your supermarkets and shopping centres. Say No to occupation. Boycott Israeli products.

The Real World . . they wish . .

June 22nd 2010



I arrived here in Nablus nearly 6 weeks ago with no more than website, a handful of books and a few instruments. Before I came, I would be lying if I had not questioned myself about what on earth I was doing. A fresh graduate, thousands of pounds in debt to the government, you would've thought, would opt for getting a good job and settling down. Joining the 'real world' as quite a few people have nicely told me. (I find it reassuring that the people who always give such flippant and useless advice are always the people you least aspire to be like).

Never the less, I have opted to join the 'unreal' world. There are however, probably billions of people worldwide who would give life and limb to join the 'real world' I have just shunned, not least the Palestinians. Many Palestinians don't understand why myself or some of the other volunteers would come here. Everything they perceive I've given up to come here is something every Palestinian and displaced refugee worldwide is fighting and dying for. Freedom, the right to self determination, the right live free of foreign occupation, the right to education, to unhindered travel; the right to call a place home.

The first time I remember seeing pictures of Palestine were in my R.S lessons at school. I even remember the year 7 text book, 'Signs and Symbols'.It had illustrated pictures of the Dome of the Rock Mosque, where Muhammad is said to have ascended to heaven and the Western Wall, the only remaining part of Jewish temple destroyed by the Romans shortly after Jesus' 2000 years ago. I thought it looked pretty ridiculous and to be honest, In some respects I still do.

I am still trying to understand why there is and has been so much fighting over this small bit of dusty, hot and arid land.  I get out of Nablus most weekends to visit other musicians and other music centres in the West Bank. The Palestinian designated roads cut through the land like a drunkard cutting a cake. No reason or rationality. Steep inclines and sharpe corners. It's understandable the Palestinians are convinced its just another method to try and kill them off via dangerous roads. The scenery is unbelievable. The hills roll on as far as the eye can see and I can't help but imagine that the road which I travel may have crossed paths with the historical Jesus, Abraham, or Muhammad.

Its a shame though. The Palestinians in the taxi don't seem to look out of the windows and I wonder why they neglect such stunning scenery. Maybe it's due to the fact that the beautiful scenery is a stark reminder of there situation. There land and rolling hills as designated by the UN and every international body is peppered with Israeli army outposts and Illegal Settlements. The settlements are indescribable. Identical house perfectly planted in Wisteria lane like grids (I thank an ex for my knowledge of Desperate House Wife's ). You could be looking at a housing development in Arizona. I imagine the feelings they must have must be similar to how many of the African Americans thought 50 years ago and native Americans 200  years before. Ethnic cleansing, land stealing and racial segregation are unfortunately reoccurring themes in the history of 'humanity'

Waltzing Matilda !!

Monday 13th June

The week just passed has been eventful to say the least. Plenty of whistle lessons along with three rehearsals and a very successful 'open mic' night on Thursday evening.The tin whistle classes have really started to take off, especially at the Balata refugee camp. I had my best lesson there so far with a few of the youngsters finishing there first tune. I have now heard enough renditions of Egan's Polka to last me a life time. I'm happy though, I was quite disheartened last time I went to teach at Balata to find that some of the little buggers had been using the whistles as percussive instruments instead of wind instruments. Three were already badly beaten and broken. These three lads were given a swift bollacking from the director of the centre before being shown the door. It didn't feel good to see them go. Its harsh but I have little time for the disruptive ones as there are so many of them who actually want to learn and sacrifice there time to come and learn.

I also took two other volunteers from Project Hope with me to the camp this week to play some music for the children so they can see what the tunes they are trying to play will sound like. With me I had a guitarist, Dermot, a dry witted Irishman who cheats at 'Shit Head' (a fine card game I have also exported over here) and a flute player, Nick, a softly spoken English gentlemen.  I took my mandolin  and we played some Irish reels and of course the dreaded Egan's Polka. It went down well and there were no requests for Enrique Englasias or Celine Dion so I was happy.

So yea, there is now the first part of a Ceilidh Band here in Nablus. Nick and Dermot, myself and an extremely sweet paying violin player called Lydia from Holland. We have other Palestinian locals playing with us as well but just guitarists and percussionists at the moment. Little by Little. But there will be more Palestinians to follow I don't doubt.

The open mic on Thursday was good. We had arranged a set of reels, jigs and polkas. We played for the first time in front of people and there was clapping dancing and smiling. Palestinian, English, Scottish and Irish songs were sung, Poems read but with out doubt the highlight of the evening was a  group rendition of the 'Waltzing Matilda' lead by the band and Adam, the resident Australian in Project hope.  30 Palestinians and Internationals bellowing out Waltzing Matilida, and I mean bellowing, was probably the funniest but at the same time most surreal thing I've witnessed out here. .

Tears of Hopelessness

June 2nd 2010


I'm laying in bed trying to organise my thoughts after what has been quite a difficult few days here in Palestine.

 My usual Wednesday so far has started with a 9.30 am English lesson in a women's centre just down the road in Rafidyha, a pretty nice part of town consisting of nice little cafes, fallafel bars, shops and restaurants. My students here are all middle aged women and their standard of English is pretty good. Like all middle aged women, they love a good fashioned old chin wag and we gossip about all sorts in the lessons. Always smiling, laughing and joking.I arrived there this morning to find the opposite. I hadn't seen the news about the Israeli's attack on the flotilla of aid ships headed for the illegally blockaded Gaza but they quickly told me.  In fact one of them, maybe my favourite (she offered to adopt me in a previous lesson) in the class  started  to cry.It's tough to watch grown women shed tears. Especially when you can understand their pain and suffering.

The women I teach at this centre are remarkable to say the least. Keeping a family together and raising children through occupation and war is no walk in the park. All have seen day's they'd rather forget.I had predicted a few day's before in passing conversation with other internationals that I thought there could be injury's or deaths if the Israeli navy tried to bump and scuttle the ships. I never for one moment imagined they would board them in the dead of night, with specially trained commandos armed with live ammunition and then open fire. The fiasco which happened this morning in international waters is just further proof for the world  of just how little regard and respect the Israeli State has for international law and for non Jewish  life in general. Their claim that the unarmed activists who were aboard these ships are in-fact agents for Al – Qaida and Hamas is as laughable as the 45minute WMD claims prior to the invasion of Iraq in 2003. Their brutal siege upon Gaza has lasted for nearly three years. Amidst this siege there has been brutal murders and assassinations ,not just in Gaza itself, but internationally as well. The most famous example being just a few months ago when over 10 British identities were illegally stolen by Israeli security forces to facilitate the assassination of a suspected Hamas leader in Dubai.

Sleep is for the Week

 

'The more you find out the less you know.' I can't tell you how true that is here. The more I get to know how much shit the Palestinians have to endure from there Israeli Occupiers, the more I wonder how on earth they can still smile, laugh or find any pleasure in there daily life.  I know for some reading this blog you may be uncomfortable with my language or message, but I am not righting this blog to be impartial and there is simply no better way of describing how I feel.

The Israelis use any given opportunity to intimidate and stifle the Palestinians. There fighter jets fly daily over head. There manoeuvres disrupt my lessons on a regular basis. My class full of smiling 12 year old burqa wearing girls don't flinch an inch. I do. Its amasing how even young children have been desensitized by such things.The Israeli's even take away the most simple of necessities every human being needs, sleep. Last Friday morning at roughly 6 pm, the first day of the weekend, the Israeli Army thought it apt to have training manoeuvres above Nablus and whole of Palestine. I was awoken suddenly by the shuddering walls and roaring of the planes screaming overhead. Being a light sleeper and borderline schizophrenic, I naturally jumped out of bed thinking that the tales of imminent apocalypse and nuclear war some crazy long haired American hippy I met in a hostel in East Jerusalem was banging on about were actually coming true. I sprained my neck I moved so fast. It lasted around three hours.