HEIMAT

“Heimat” is one of those German terms that is practically untranslatable. The word “Heimat” is a noun and means something like ‘home’, ‘native country”, ‘homeland’, ‘home town’, ‘where I was born’, etc.

Malaysians sing the ‘Negara Ku’: Negara ku, tanah tumpahnya darah ku (My country, where I have spilt my blood); a description of “Heimat” in Malay. The other Malay word is ‘tanahair’ (land/water), which means the same.

The popular Swiss music group Züri West in one of their songs in Bernese dialect describe it like this: “…irgendwo uf em e Parkplatz / plötzlech schmöckt’s wieder wie dahei / irgendeinisch fingt ds Glück eim / irgendwänn weisch wär d’bisch / irgendwänn weisch genau wo de häre ghörsch / öpper schteut es zwöits Tassli uf e Tisch…” [“…somewhere on a parking place / suddenly it smells like home / some day happiness will find you / some day you will know who you are / some day you will know where you belong / someone puts a second cup on the table (for you) … “.]



Maybe I like this song so much because it reminds me of my own “Heimat” smell: Whenever I arrive in Zurich Main Station, step out of the station, and cross to Central to take the tram, I smell the water of the lake of Zurich and the river Limmat, a green, cold, fecund smell; that is “Heimat” for me, then I know that I am home!



“Heimat” means different things to different people and is expressed in different ways.

A few weeks ago we had “Green Day” at the Sahabat Support Centre. Some students from UIA came to the centre to organize different activities for children around environmental issues, such as recycling, reusing, and composting, things that they could do at home. Some films were shown, there were role plays, quizzes, games and other fun. The parents and other family members of the children who were present and the staff also joined.

To conclude the workshop, the students brought out big sheets of paper, groups of children settled around the papers on the floor. The last task was to draw the spoiled, polluted world on one side, and the green safe, clean world on the other side, and in the end present the paper to all, and explain the drawing.

One of the Afghan teenagers began drawing a tree on the green side of the paper: Carefully he drew one line for the trunk, another for a branch; he was adding line after line, slowly a tree emerged, as if chiselled, an intricate structure was built, line by line. The drawing reminded me of a fine Iranian carpet, the best kind, with the Tree of Life in the centre; the foundation of “Heimat”.



A young man from Gaza took the pen and drew a palm tree. Not the usual kind with a stem and lines representing leaves extending on the top. Carefully he drew one line for each palm frond in all detail. Then he drew two big bunches of dates, hanging from the centre, each date fully formed. That date palm was his symbol of “Heimat”.



Then another refugee from the Middle East came forward and drew thick rainclouds over the whole “green” side of the drawing, with drops and rivulets of water showering the Tree of Life and the date palm.



At first I was taken aback, thinking like a European, who identifies rain with something negative, like sadness. But I soon understood that rain in the Middle East is the blessing of Allah for all living things; so that rain over the green, fertile, safe, clean world is indeed the life-giving force of nature, together with the sun.

The Malays express it like this: “Hujan emas di negeri orang, hujan batu di negeri sendiri, lebih baik di negeri sendiri” (Rain of gold in foreign lands, and rain of stones in your own land, still your own land is better).



We all, Malaysians and people of other countries and with other nationalities, refugees, need the bounty and blessing of nature, rain and sunshine, the blessing of God; and everybody and all need a “Heimat”, if not in the country where we were born, we still need a place where someone puts a second cup on the table for us in a place we can call home.

Mohammad’s Birthday

Yesterday was Mohammad’s 24th birthday. That is, it would have been if he would be alive.

Mohammad died last December 26; he was 23 years old.

Mohammed was riding a motorcycle on that Sunday afternoon on the DUKE, wearing a helmet, and keeping on the left, as usual, as he was a careful driver.
The circumstances of the accident and his death are not clear. The photos of the accident show that the motorcycle was completely squeezed under the car from behind from the impact, and the police had difficulties pulling the motorcycle out from under the car. Mohammad’s body lies outside of but parallel to the safety railing at the left side of the road; he lies on the stomach, and his arms are positioned as if he is protecting his head, as if he is lying down with a headache.

There are many questions unanswered:

The car driver stated that he had parked the car on the left side of the highway. Was he really parked there– by itself an offence – or had he missed the nearby junction and was driving backwards at great speed? If he was parked, were his break lights functioning? Why did Mohammad not see him? It was broad daylight, afternoon, with bright sunshine.

What was the driver doing when the accident happened and right afterwards?
And why does Mohammad lie on the other side of the low safety railing in an orderly fashion? With his arms across his head? Was he thrown into such a position? A highly unlikely outcome of the accident.

Was he instantly dead? Or did he still live after the accident and crawled into that position himself, to succumb to his head and leg injuries? Over the safety railing? Very unlikely as well.

Was he carried there and placed in that position? By whom? He was a big, heavy young man. Who called the police?

Mohammed was the eldest son of an Iraqi Palestinian family who have sought refuge in Malaysia from persecution in Iraq a few years ago. The parents received death threats, they feared that Mohammed or another of their children would be kidnapped for ransom, or to disappear forever.

They are registered with UNHCR Kuala Lumpur and wait for their resettlement since a few years.

I had known the young man, as it was he who came to the MSRI office regarding some support for his mother’s medical treatment. He was also the one to bring his youngest sister to the school and back to the house, before going to work.
He was engaged to a very nice Malay girl, whom I finally met for the first time at his funeral. They wanted to get married in 2011, and she was set to follow him to whatever country he would be resettled in.

I accompanied the family during the whole day of the burial, from claiming the body at the morgue of HKL, to the mosque where the body was washed and prepared for the burial, to another mosque for prayers, and last to the cemetery on the outskirts of KL. There were about forty men with the father and brothers of Mohammad. I accompanied Mohammad’s mother on that day in a journey that no mother should have to make. His sisters, nieces and fiancée were also there. I knew of the bad health of the mother, and I feared that she would break down.

I was a witness to the strength of a mother who has to bury her son. Who called her firstborn to wake up and come back, to acknowledge her presence, to reminisce his life with her. She sat on the ground next to the grave after the burial and did not want to leave her son. She talked to him, pleading. Trying to accept, struggling to understand.

But she did not break down. I think that comes later.

Mohammad’s family is still waiting for the police to investigate the accident to find out what happened and whose fault it was. The autopsy report, which was promised to take 1 or 2 months is also not ready yet. RM 80.00 were paid in advance for the report. There was an error in the Death Certificate, which had to be rectified. Time of death was given as a.m., instead of p.m.

The family feels that the Malaysian authorities, the police, hospital personnel, JPJ officers are dismissing their case because they are foreigners, refugees even. They think that the authorities involved are not taking them seriously, are biased against them, and wait for them to be resettled and go away so as not to have to take any action.

Without the police investigation report and the autopsy report the family cannot find out the facts about the accident. Without knowing all the facts they cannot come to terms with their loss. Without these reports, the driver of the accident car will not have to face up to and account for his actions during and after the accident.

The father walked around with red, teary eyes yesterday.

Mohammed would have celebrated his 24th birthday, yesterday.

Abused Children - suffering any time, any place

I am sitting in the train to Berlin. I still have two hours to go, before arriving. I am visiting one of the best European centres for the treatment of torture victims.

I have just finished reading the Amnesty International publication: “Abused and Abandoned: Refugees Denied Rights in Malaysia”. It is a very depressing document to read; the reality of the lives of these refugees in Malaysia is a shame for the country.

A brief quote from the conclusion of the report: “For those refugees and asylum-seekers who are forced to flee their homelands in search of protection, Malaysia is an unwelcoming and dangerous place. The failure of the Malaysian authorities to formally acknowledge their existence has tangible consequences which compromise their safety and are in direct contravention of international human rights standards. Risk of arrest and prolonged detention, ill-treatment, refoulment [being sent back to the place of origin], and a lack of durable solutions are not just fears but realities for refugees in Malaysia.”

MSRI is frequently confronted by refugees, especially from the Middle East, who – as a last resort – come to MSRI for help; help for medical treatment, help with the education of their children, requests for food aid, and other ‘emergency situations’ that refugees find themselves involved in Malaysia. You can find some stories on refugees in Malaysia in some of the older postings.

Life is never harder than when you find yourself in a foreign country where you have no civil rights, no right to work, or exist legally, where you do not exist at all and have no legal identity.

Well, maybe I am wrong, and a life without love and care in your own country can be as hard.

I remember the exhibition I saw last week in Baden, Switzerland. It was on ‘Verdingkinder’, children, who had to be placed in the care of strangers or homes until they were grown up, with a programme under the equivalent of ‘child care services’ in the 19th until the middle of the 20th century.

From my mother I know that her father, my Grandfather, had been a ‘Verdingkind’. He had been orphaned at an early age, and had been given to a farmer in Herisau, Canton Appenzell Ausserrhoden, Switzerland. As so many such children, he had been abused, had to work full-time like any other farmhand (except that he did not get any wages for his work) and if he then still had any energy left, he was allowed to attend school.

He was beaten and starved and had no prospect for a bright future.

He could not take such abuse, and at the tender age of 14 he escaped, yes, he ran away, and spent his following years with woodcutters in the mountains, a very hard life, as you can imagine. During summertime he worked as a rafter, guiding huge rafts made up of the stems of trees down the river Rhine until Rotterdam, where the wood was sold with a nice profit. This was a very dangerous job, especially for someone so young as my Grandfather was at that time; but it also provided him the opportunity to travel and see Germany and Holland, huge countries, compared to tiny little, narrow Switzerland.

From the money earned, he was able to get a place as an apprentice, becoming a painting and plastering craftsman, and later set up his own business in Wetzikon, ZH, Switzerland, as a master craftsman. He had eight children –actually twelve, but four died in their infancy – of which my mother was the last, the bongsu. He died long before I was born, my mother was still in school. So the only things I know about him are those stories that I can still remember from what my mother had told me.

It was a big shame to be a ‘Verdingkind’. These children were all deprived of a family, be it that they were full or partial orphans, be it that they were born out of wedlock, be it that they were perceived as ‘trouble-makers’, or simply that their parents were very poor and had too many children to raise. All the children to be ‘verdingt’ were brought once per year to a particular place, all those who wanted to take such a child also came there, and thus the children were matched with ‘caretakers’ who were actually more slave owners than foster parents. At such ‘slave markets’ sometimes children were matched with ‘caretakers’ with a lottery system.


The Welfare Department would pay a very small amount of money to the ‘caretaker’ for the ‘upkeep of the child’. Very often the money was used for other things. Many of the children were barefoot even in winter and were given rags to wear, not warm and decent clothes. Many were also given bad food and had to eat in the stable with the animals, not with the farmer in the house.

When a child rebelled against this abuse and stole extra food because he or she was hungry, or warm clothes, or worse - ran away, the child was immediately labeled as a ‘trouble maker’, a ‘bad boy’ or a ‘bad girl’, and as punishment sent to an institution for ‘difficult children’, the type of establishment which is more reminiscent of a prison or a military school in the worst sense of the word.

Once grown up and responsible for themselves, these ‘Verdingkinder’ would not talk about their childhood even though the scars were deep and many, and stayed with them all their lives, because somehow it was a shameful thing to be a ‘Verdingkind’. Many ordinary people in Switzerland at that time thought that these children must have been bad in the first place to be put out to strangers like that.

When I look at the children of refugees in Malaysia today, I ask myself what kind of scars these children will have to bear all their lives because of their parents making the decision to leave their home and come to Malaysia, not least because it is a Muslim country and has Visa on Arrival, and because Malaysia is highly respected in the Middle East.

When we had a seminar recently on Non-Burmese Refugees, an Iraqi refugee woman said that she felt completely isolated, lonely, and shunned, just like the ‘Verdingkinder’ telling their stories in that exhibition. As true human beings we must reach out and build bridges between the people so that nobody has to go through such devastating experiences.

If you want to reach out to a refugee, please sign up to join MSRI’s “Sahabat Programme”. You can find all information on our website www.msri.org.my from next month.

A Tale of Three Brothers

I have practically absorbed my love for fairy tales together with my mother’s milk. She used to sing me to sleep when I was but a baby, and later would tell me stories of all kinds, including all the Grimm Brothers’ folk tales, the Hans Christian Andersen Tales, Hauff’s fairy tales, stories from 1000 and One Nights, and Lisa Tetzner’s collection of Tales for 365 and One Days, and many, many more. In fact, until I was about 10 years old I would not sleep without a bedtime story from my mother.

Later, when I had kids of my own, I would also tell them stories. But none of my boys was as interested in those tales as I had been.

As a young adult, I began collecting folk and fairy tales – among other genres – and now have a sizeable collection.

But this Tale of Three Brothers has nothing to do with any folk or fairy tale. It is the story of real people and has really happened. The names and some details have been changed so that they cannot be easily recognised, but the story is nevertheless true.


A Tale of Three Brothers

Once upon a time, in a country far far away, in the Middle East, in a place called Palestine, a family was forced out of their home, their lovely house in Jaffa , at gunpoint , by evil, armed terrorist groups, like Irgun and Stern Gang. They had to flee for their lives, together with tens of thousands of other Palestinians. They could not take anything with them. Only the key to the main house door and some paper documents could be taken on the long track to Baghdad, and other places of refuge.

In Baghdad, they were very poor. But their neighbors helped them to survive the first few years. They settled down and lead a normal life. They had a son, who was born and grew up in Baghdad, who later married a girl, who was also born in Iraq, but whose parents had also fled the evil terrorist groups in their home country of Palestine in 1948. All they really wanted was to go back to their homes in Jaffa, but the rulers of the world would not let them go back, although they gave them a promise called "Right of Return".

So the young couple settled down in Baghdad and had three sons: Amin, Basim, and Karim. The three sons grew up, went to school, started working in different professions in Baghdad, and married women from among the Palestinian community in Iraq. All three of them had several children of their own.

Then came the war. George W. Bush, the leader of the ‘land of the free’ had solid evidence that Saddam Hussein, the leader of ‘the cradle of civilization’ possessed weapons of mass destruction which could be used against the ‘free’ people. So George W. waged war on Saddam to topple and kill him. Saddam Hussein, since the early days of his leadership, had held his protective hand over the Palestinian refugees in Iraq.

The war turned power structures in Iraq around; Saddam was captured and killed. The new rulers despised and hated the Palestinians in their country. Palestinians were arrested, tortured, killed. They received death threats; some disappeared; they were afraid for their lives.

Amin, Basim and Karim decided to take their families out of Iraq to safety. Amin and Basim, who had held good positions and earned a decent income for the past 25 years, sold their houses, bought fake Iraqi passports, and travelled via India to Southeast Asia. They were in two minds about which country they should actually go to. So in the end, Amin decided to go to Thailand, and Basim took his family to Malaysia. Basim argued that they would be better off in Malaysia, a Muslim majority country, rather than in Thailand, a Buddhist country. Amin, Basim and Karim were Sunni Muslims themselves.

Amin and Basim, in their respective country of refuge, ‘lost’ their fake passports and went to the local UNHCR (United Nation High Commissioner of Refugees) office to register as refugees, so they could be resettled in a country, that would accept them as citizens, where they and their children and children’s children could and would not be expelled anymore. Just about any country would do, as long as they were accepted there.

Karim, who did not have enough money to buy passports or air tickets to leave Iraq had waited too long, and in the end he just managed to take his wife and children and his old, ailing mother to the Iraqi border with Syria. Syria refused them entry, as there were already hundreds of thousands of Iraqi refugees in Syria. So Karim and family were stranded in no-man’s-land between Iraq and Syria, in a tent city, in the middle of the desert, without water, electricity, or anything else that is necessary for survival.

So, that was the situation of the three brothers three years ago.

What has happened since then? How is their situation today?

The first to find a country of resettlement for the family was Amin in Thailand. He was lucky. After the registration process to become a recognized refugee, which took about six months, he and the family had to wait almost a full year, before they were resettled in Norway. The UNHCR office in Bangkok, Thailand, is the regional hub for Southeast Asia. Amin was very lucky indeed, as many countries who traditionally accept refugees only accept refugees who remain in their geographical area. Non-Asian refugees in Bangkok, e.g. refugees from the Middle East or Africa, were out of their geographical area, and were only accepted for resettlement by a very small number of countries.

The second brother to find a ‘third country’ was Karim. After staying in the tent camp in the middle of nowhere in the desert for a year, together with hundreds of other families, the deplorable, most miserable and inhumane situation they were in finally resulted in the UNHCR office in Beirut, in charge of resettlement of the Middle East region, issuing a special emergency call to countries imploring them to accept these most unfortunate people for resettlement. Some South-American countries accepted a few hundred, including Karim, Karim’s wife, his mother, and all of his children.

And what has happened to the third brother, Basim?

He is still in 1Malaysia-truly Asia, waiting to be resettled with his family.

His eldest child, a daughter, has given up on ever going back to university to complete her studies. She had studied three semesters in Baghdad, but the Malaysian universities she applied to continue did not accept her papers and told her that she would have to start from scratch. She had no money anyway to go to any university.

Basim’s second child, a teenage son, began working illegally in a hotel in Kuala Lumpur. Refugees and asylum seekers are not allowed to work in Malaysia and cannot get work permits. So the son had to work longer hours for lesser pay, as he was in no position to argue with his boss. About a year ago, he was detained and sent to a detention centre for illegal migrant workers; but because he was a recognized refugee with a UNHCR card, and because someone with connections intervened on his behalf, he was released after a few weeks.

The whole family was so shaken by this experience, that they were scared for a few months to even try to go out into the city to earn a living, and had to depend on food aid from an NGO and other alms, until the necessity of survival kicked in again.

But the biggest worry of Basim was his youngest child, a fragile, shy, beautiful girl, who had just turned 6 when the family had arrived in Malaysia. “She should be going to school!”, he repeated often to everybody who was there to listen to his worries. “She should be going to school!” This sentence would turn and turn in his mind when he could not sleep, because the humid heat was too stifling in the small room they all shared at night.

“She should be going to school!”, he thought again, “what will ever become of her without an education?” He suffered remorse worse than torture. It was his fault that they were stranded here, that their lives were suspended for almost three years now!he thought. If only he would have listened to his brother Amin and go to Thailand; if only he would have listened to his brother Karim and waited with leaving Iraq; if only; if only; if only.

Tomorrow he would go out again, looking for a job, any job; begging from Arab businessmen or tourists some contributions to pay for his daughter’s school; going again to the nearby mosque to ask for money. Last week they had given him RM 50.00. He had felt insulted, but the cheapest school for his daughter was RM 2000.00 per year, payable in advance. He needed any money he could get. He needed to forget his pride. He had no pride left.

How will this story end? Will this true fairy tale have a happy end?

Yesterday, Basim was informed that the ‘land of the free’ has shown an interest to accept him and all his family members. He was told to expect a phone call from the embassy soon to make an appointment for an interview.

Basim has now hope beyond hope. If they accept him and his family, he, his children and his children’s children will finally be free in "the land of the free"!

Yes, most probably this fairy tale will have a Happy End.

THE END

Eid ul Fitr

Always, but especially so this year, I am reminded during this joyous season of Eid ul Fitr of people who are far away from their loved ones. Not the sons and daughters who study abroad, fathers and mothers who work in foreign lands to make a living, but the people who have family members who are in prison, in lock-ups, detention or rehabilitation centres. While we phone and sms our friends and family members, telling them that we love them and think of them, the fathers and mothers who have a son in prison, the women and men who have a brother, sister or parent in rehab do not even mention the names of their loved ones to anybody. They are ashamed to do so.

Visiting the family of a close friend on the first day of Raya, nobody asks the father where Aladdin (not his real name) is. He has been an addict for the last 15 years, in and out of Pusat Serentis (rehabilitation centres), and in and out of prisons. None of the visitors know whether Aladdin is in prison or rehab. Nobody dares to ask, as nobody wants to embarrass the family. So later, at the house of an uncle of Aladdin, we ask. “Dia ambil khursus” (He is attending a course), is the laconic answer. “Where”, we ask. The uncle did not know.

I know that it is very bitter for the family that the only son is a drug addict. But if they do not support his recovery, how is Aladdin going to make it? If we just leave him alone in rehab or prison, how is he going to recover? Pusat Serentis’ failure rate is tremendous – less than 10% of ‘rehabilitated’ drug users stay off drugs permanently (see: http://www.med.cmu.ac.th/dept/psychiatry/AJP-2/Microsoft%20Word%20-%20064070_Gill070910.pdf), and prison sentences are for punishment, not rehabilitation.

I have known Aladdin since he was born. His mother was a close friend, and the family were our neighbors for many years, until they moved away. He used to come to my house to play with my children. He is like family to me.

Family members of rehab or prison inmates suffer in silence. They feel as shunned as the prisoners themselves. How did Aladdin become addicted? We do not really know the details. All I know is that when he was in his late teens, his mother died of a serious illness. As she had been a government servant, the family got quite a lot of money from insurance. Aladdin and his three younger sisters got around RM 25,000 each. The two teenaged sisters put the money in the bank and used it later for setting up their own families, the youngest was just a small child and her money was kept safe by the father. But Aladdin, who is the eldest, insisted on being in charge and managing his own money.

First he bought a car. Then he started to hang out with all kinds of new ‘friends’. He lost his job and his fiancé. About then we heard that he was addicted to drugs. He sold his car. He had used all money on drugs in a short while. He visited our house, and my husband’s new expensive leather shoes and my ‘good’ walking shoes disappeared. Right after that he ‘took his first course’.

Today we have lost count of all the ‘courses’ Aladdin has taken over the years. But going to visit his father’s house yesterday made me realize how sad it is for the family for not having Aladdin there with them to celebrate Hari Raya. And how deafening and artificial the silence is regarding Aladdin. A presence through absence!

Why do we not speak openly about him? I don’t really know. But I am determined to find out where he is and to visit him, as soon as I can. We cannot bring his father with us, he is bedridden. But maybe we can get one of the sisters to come with us. Maybe with renewed family ties Aladdin can find new strength to fight his addiction better?

On this day of forgiveness, I feel the pain of the loss these families have to endure, and I wish to make a commitment to help and support mending and reinforcing broken family ties in whatever way I can.

Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri everyone.
Maaf, zahir, batin.

T*

When you come around the corner of the long corridor and enter ward 4C at the Selayang Hospital, you can hear some of the patients moaning. In that ward you can find men who are in great pain, some dying. It is a ward where “pain management” is the cornerstone of medical treatment.

So when I went there to visit one of “our” patients, I could hear the long drawn-out moaning long before I could see that T* had the curtains pulled all around his bed. The nurse asked me if I wanted to talk to T* and then pulled the curtain away from the bed to announce me, a visitor.

Apart from MSRI’s interpreter/translator Mohammad, T* had no visitors during his whole stay at Selayang Hospital. He has no family here, only very few friends, he is a Palestinian refugee who suffers from Buerger’s Disease.

We had come to know about him in the course of a survey that MSRI is doing among the refugee community in Kuala Lumpur. One afternoon in July, I got a phone call from our researcher, who told me with agitation in his voice that he has just met one of the people he was supposed to interview and found that that man, T*, had gangrenous feet and fingers.



I immediately phoned one of the doctors who extend medical care to people referred by MSRI to them. He suggested to bring the patient to a private hospital. We did that, and T* was seen by three specialists there. He was then referred to Putrajaya Hospital. From there he was referred to Selaying Hospital, to Dr. Mary Cardoza, a pain specialist.

Buerger’s disease is a relatively rare disease which is very little known. It is thought to be an auto immune disease which is triggered by a substance in tobacco. The initial symptoms are pain induced by insufficient blood flow in feet and hands, which may radiate into other parts of the body; numbness and tingling in fingers, toes, hands and feet; extremities turning white when cold; skin ulceration and gangrene of the fingers and toes. Pain may be very intense in the affected limbs.



There is no known cure for the disease, only some treatment for the symptoms. As the illness has a ‘tobacco connection’ any further primary or secondary contact with tobacco has to be prevented as this would aggravate the situation. Ultimately, if the progress of the disease cannot be stopped, the affected limbs have to be amputated.

T* is a young man who just has turned 30 this year. His family is originally from Gaza, but he grew up in Jordan. He is a Palestinian refugee.

The last time he was discharged from the hospital, on the way back to his squalid little room, he told me: “You know, before I had many dreams for my life. Now I have only one: to be able to walk again!”

What lies ahead for T*? How will his future be? Does he have a future?

He left Jordan, the place he was born and grew up in, because as Palestinian with a temporary passport T* did not qualify for medical treatment. He came to Malaysia because it was the only country for which he did not need a visa. But his ultimate aim is to be resettled by UNHCR to a third country, if possible, to Germany because there is a doctor in Germany who has assured T* that he could cure him of his disease. And that is T*’s one remaining dream. Can it be fulfilled?

On 8 December of this year, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) for Palestine Refugees in the Near East will be 60 years old. This agency was set up as a response to the suffering of the Palestinian people displaced and disempowered after the partition of Palestine - in UNRWA’s own words: “UNRWA is unique in terms of its long-standing commitment to one group of refugees and its contributions to the welfare and human development of four generations of Palestine refugees. Originally envisaged as a temporary organization, the Agency has gradually adjusted its programmes to meet the changing needs of the refugees. Today, UNRWA is the main provider of basic services - education, health, relief and social services - to over 4.6 million registered Palestine refugees in the Middle East.” (from: http://www.un.org/unrwa/overview/index.html).

Where there is no UNRWA office – like e.g. in Malaysia – the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) is responsible for Palestinian refugees. And for a better understanding of the situation of Palestinian refugees it must be said here that UNRWA does all of the above mentioned, but does not have a resettlement programme. Through UNRWAs work, the misery of Palestinian refugees in the Near East is – in a way - perpetuated indefinitely, as the money invested for education, health, relief and social services is just enough to maintain the status quo, not enough to change their situation.

It is only the UNHCR that will help Palestinian and other refugees to find a new home in a third country, where – usually after a number of years – they will become full citizens, a dream for any refugee. However, will resettled refugees forget about their ultimate dream to return to their place of origin? I don’t think so.

So how does T*’s dreams for the future look like realistically? First, to be resettled and become a healthy, painfree, able-bodied man again. This might yet happen. Even though he still lives in utter squalor and poverty, and in constant pain, with only a minimum of financial and medical support, he might get resettled in a developed country that not only provides him with a home and citizenship, but also sophisticated medical treatment which can completely cure his illness. With the fulfilment of this dream, the life of T* would again be whole. With his newfound health and a passport from his new home country he might even be able to travel to his place of origin, Gaza. What are the chances that by then Gaza will be a free and independent country, part of a nation called Palestine? Very slim indeed.

But I have been proven wrong before. So don’t lose hope, for Hope is Born of Lack of Hope (Sufi proverb).

SOLIDARITY

Last week I had the honour to meet two founding members of the International Solidarity Movement, Huwaida Arraf and Adam Shapiro. ISM was founded as an international response to the Intifada to invite people from all over the world to witness and to challenge peacefully the Israeli occupation of Gaza and the West Bank (www.palsolidarity.org). These are the people who stand still with outstretched arms in front of Israeli army tanks in the Occupied Territories to prevent the tanks from passing though the occupied land to destroy houses, orchards, wreak devastation wherever they go, and kill, exterminate the Palestinian population.

In the film ‘Visit Palestine’, which depicts a short time period in the life of an ISM activist, Caiomhe Butterly, she is shown resisting in the above described manner an IOF army tank in Jenin, West bank, together with other ISM members (see below excerpt: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aX0Y75b6XeA). I get goose pimples just thinking about it.

What is it that brings people to defy the possibility of death in order to take a stand; to stand with fellow human beings, Palestinians? In my view, these people are real heroes. One of these ISM heroes was Rachel Corrie, a young American woman. She stood in front of an IOF army bulldozer to prevent it from destroying the family home of a Palestinian in Gaza, when the bulldozer just rolled over her, crushing and killing her (http://rachelcorriefoundation.org/site/about-rachel-corrie/). Despite Rachel’s death, the volunteers kept coming from everywhere in the world to serve as ISM members in the Occupied Territories.

In the words of Rachel Corrie: “We should be inspired by people … who show that human beings can be kind, brave, generous, beautiful, strong – even in the most difficult circumstances.”

In “Visit Palestine”, Caiomhe Butterly says: “When you are surrounded by violence it is a very human reaction to try to struggle for people to be allowed basic human rights. One has a responsibility to stand by - not necessarily to stand up - not be removed from the people you are trying to protect, to try to minimize the brutality they suffer on a day-to-day basis in any way that you can, but to stand with them to coexist, to live, to breath, to exult in their strength, and to try and comfort them in the times like the times we are living through now, in which people are suffering.”



This is solidarity: to stand side-by-side with our fellow brothers and sisters in defiance of the dehumanizing treatment from aggressors; to stand firm peacefully in the face of the violence and brutality of the occupation; to stand in solidarity in whatever way we can with our fellow human beings in Palestine, and any other place or time people, human beings, are supressed and subjected to dehumanizing treatment.