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blown a

wayfarer

DEIR ISTYIA

October 31

Another year and another Halloween skulks by without much anticipation or disguises. Although this year, thanks to the cohort of SOASians who attempt whenever possible to recreate the comforts of home, a pumpkin pie was present at the screening of a teenage romance gone horrifically wrong, Fear. I jokingly chose this movie weeks ago as a twisted homage to a budding but quickly squelched romance of one of my dear compatriots. Once more I was filled with overwhelming gratitude toward the people I have come to know so well.

Prior to our brush with terror, we were invited over to a friend’s for dinner. As home cooked meals usually go, the meal was spectacular and featured chicken, rice, and thick yogurt, a tasty combination of which I have yet to tire. And of course, no supper is complete without a healthy dose of pickles, something Palestinians have all figured out. Unlike other home cooked meals, this one was prepared at the hands of one of the shabab, or young Palestinian guys, who hosted us for the evening. Even more unexpected is the fact that he enjoys cooking and learned his culinary skills from his father. So refreshing to come into contact with inverted gender roles, a social convention that often seems so rigid here.

 

 

 

However, the main event of the day began much earlier, shortly after daybreak. A few of us joined the Nablusi photographers’ union on an expedition to Deir Istiya, a small village nearby that is also one of the oldest in Palestine, or so our fellow trekkers alleged. It’s always a bit tricky embarking on group trips so early on a Friday morning; nothing was yet open, and I of course, was a bit peckish. Constantly reassured that breakfast would be provided soon, my experience of Arab timekeeping told me, nonetheless, that my stomach would be rumbling for quite a while longer.

Our coach bus arrived to the road that services Deir Istiya soon enough, and the sight of Israeli soldiers, their necks adorned with heavy artillery, have become commonplace whenever venturing outside of Nablus. Yet what was unforeseen, at least for me, was the roadblock made of uprooted asphalt, dirt, and rock that obstructed the way to Deir Istiya. Here we disembarked, clumsily scrambled over the roadblock and continued on foot. So many questions coursed through my mind; all were vocalized aloud, but only some were answered with certainty. Often the questions I kept soliciting answers for were shrugged off with a kind of “it happens” attitude, as if blocking the only road to and from a village were commonplace too.

 

I was able to ascertain that Israeli forces came and blockaded the road to the village three days prior. Why? As a form of communal punishment imposed on the inhabitants of Deir Istiya, a response to a few bursts of violence that erupted in the West Bank, including Jerusalem, over the last week. But was Deir Istiya one of the sites of these outbursts? No. Then why was Deir Istiya barricaded? Shrugs, which is the simplest way to say that the Israeli authority governs by caprice and will. How much longer will the blockade stay in place? How are people and goods to come in and out? More shrugs.

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Two months in, and the reality on the ground never fails to surprise me. Everything that’s not reported in the news. And I think that’s probably one of the most tragic things I’ve come in contact with during my short time here—this is reality for Palestinians; nothing shocks them anymore because how else would it be?

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The village of Deir Istiya was steeped in a dewy freshness brought on by the night’s rainfall. The mood swings of the tumultuous sky made for intriguing shots, albeit challenging since I had to constantly adjust the aperture. The old city was beautifully overgrown with vegetation, 

offering an appealing contrast to the fortified stone walls. We were led to an unassuming wooden door that is the oldest in Palestine, if I understood correctly. I guess it was cool? Because I couldn’t understand anything else said about it, I quickly snapped a photo and moved on.

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A lot of the village seemed abandoned, probably only because it was Friday. We reached an enclosure in the old city where we lunched on a simple meal of fried bread, tomatoes, and cucumbers and were told nonchalantly that the space we were occupying was once the site of executions by hanging. Very appetizing conversation. A few of us managed later to hoist ourselves onto the rooftops, which was supremely worth the expansive views of the hills and valleys beyond. 

The rain set in once more, and having seen most all of the village by early afternoon, we filed back onto the bus toward our second destination, a valley teeming with lush orange groves, the name of which escapes my memory. Unfortunately for the visual component of this trip, I erred on the side of caution and left my camera on the bus due to intermittent rain.

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The valley made a beautiful tableau for an idyllic fantasy, dotted with a meandering stream, swollen ponds, and fruiting trees (who knew the orange season is winter?). It was really weird and a bit unsettling to see perched atop every hill an immutably constructed settlement. In the warm climate and coinciding landscape, the settlements, sprawls of perfectly manicured track homes, seemed to me like scoops of Californian surburbia in the Middle East. It was uncanny to say the least.

 

 

We all had our fun hiking, skipping stones, and picking fresh oranges for a puckeringly delightful boost of that good ol’ vitamin C. The gaiety took on a tint of solemnity, however, at the end of the afternoon during the hike back to the bus. Parked beside a pool was a Jeep flanked in huge Israeli flags, obnoxiously blasting music, and impeding on the fragile tranquility of the valley. As we approached, I noticed the vehicle’s owners, two young settlers perhaps not even eighteen years of age, relaxing, basking in the sun, lazying around with their huge semi-automatic weapons casually slung over the shoulder. Absolutely confounded, I did my best not to stare while a few of my compatriots sped up to a quickened pace. Apparently it’s quite common for settlers to attack Palestinians, so I understand some people’s hastiness to steer clear of any situation that could lead to confrontation.

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And the unambiguous accessories on the teenage settlers? I also gathered that in addition to stipends and subsidies awarded to all those who choose to live in these settlements, they are also gratuitously armed and advised to carry their arms everywhere—to the supermarket, cinema, and especially when leaving the confines of the settlement. A lot of settlers don’t work because indeed they don’t have to. So imagine a situation where you have a populace that is armed, bored, and zealous. Implant them in an environment and convince them that they are surrounded by enemies, that everyone on the outside intends to do them harm. And now the settlers' unprovoked attacks become pretty self-evident. 

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