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The Butterfly of Palestine
Muslimah & Media - Monday, 15 November 2004
 Kafemuslimah.com The sounds of the buzzing saws, nails being hammered, orders being shouted by the construction crew bosses, heavy equipment moving debris remaining from the Israeli invasion, such as telephone poles in splintered pieces, along with rocks, boulders and chunks of stone from foundations of homes damaged by tanks used by the Israelies;
and, in the main shopping and office district in the city of Ramallah, the sounds of the outdoor marketplace where cabbages the size of small children; peaches, their perfume tempting you to buy and take a juicy bite; watermelons, tasting like honey was used to sweeten them; newly roasted pistachios, cashews, peanuts and other nuts, filling the air with irrestistable aromas; people greeting each other, happy to see a friend or relative, a kiss on both cheeks, a warm handshake, brief words exchanged and each is off to work or pleasure; children playing outdoors, their voices filling the air with happy, joyful sounds once more, but for how long, no one knows; I will miss hearing the sounds coming five times a day from the mosques, calling for prayer to Allah; these are the sounds I heard today in Ramallah and Jerusalem. Now, finally in the home of Bahia and Mahmoud in Ramallah, I feel strangely safe even though not too far away, the Israeli presence is stationed as an intimidation procedure. While at the Kalendia checkpoint, the play is acted over and over, seemingly the same dialogue, just different voices each day from the Israeli soldiers there.
I recall the day before as I was returning from Jerusalem to Ramallah. I, like all Palestinians, had to cross the Kalendia checkpoint, one of many checkpoints in the city of Ramallah and the surrounding villages therein. I had traveled up to it with Bahia from her office in Jerusalem by taxi. No cars, no trucks, no taxis, no vehicles of any kind except for Israeli military vehicles, can get through to the other side. You must depart whatever vehicle you arrived in on one side, cross by foot with approval by an Israeli soldier through the checkpoint, then, use another taxi/service on the other side to continue on to Ramallah. Bahia and I were in line, me with my two backpacks awaiting the signal from the soldier to take one step at a time moving up to the front of the line to proceed for approval through the checkpoint. All of a sudden the crowd grew a bit pushy and some shoving ensued. One of the Israeli soldiers starting yelling commands in Hebrew. The crowd understood his words to mean move back. This soldier had decided we were not where he wanted us to be even though the mark at the head of the line hadn't changed perhaps all day. We all moved back, all the while being pushed by the soldier using his gun and his body to direct us. We waited two at a time in line. Completely at the whim of the soldier in charge, we were chosen to move ahead to the next soldier who would check and re-check your papers and or passport. Approval given, you were then able to move on to awaiting taxis or services to take you to Ramallah. The play took a strange direction this time for me. Usually, I would be easily waved on after a quick check of my passport. But today was different.
Where usually it would be Bahia, a Palestinian woman whom they would choose to make wait a little longer for approval, it was my turn to wait. My passport was in full view as I proceeded in the line to the front, one step at a time. Bahia advanced quickly, looking back to check on me, finding me becoming engulfed in the crowd, as people stepped ahead of me and my load. The soldier kept shouting, "Get back! Get back!" in Hebrew. I watched as Bahia was okayed and stood waiting for me on the other side. Even though it became very apparent it was my turn, even as I showed him my passport, opening it up for him to see, he continued to ignore me, picking women behind me and men next to me to go ahead through. I waited for what seemed many minutes, getting a taste in my mind what it must feel like day in, day out to be ignored, shouted at, singled out of line for inspection, laughed at, humiliated and disrespected that way, not really being able to show displeasure or anger, as this surely would mean further delay. I looked at each soldier, wondering, the same questions coming into my mind. Where is their conscience? How do they sleep? Where is their real joy in life?
I just wanted to move on. Bahia stood watching, waiting. Finally, an older soldier positioned in the camoflauged area, his gun pointed at me, beckoned me to come. Approval was given to advance to him. With outreached hand, I showed him my passport. He took it from me, examining each page. Finally saying "Ok", he handed my passport back to me. I was approved. I could go on. As I walked with Bahia, in my mind I wished them all a sleepless night. It was with relief to arrive at Bahia's home where we felt at peace and happy for a while.
The next morning, while standing at the top of the stairs on the second level looking out the windows lining the area, I enjoyed the idea of a new day. I noticed, there on one of the window sills was a small, gold colored butterfly. It seemed to be struggling to fly out, thinking the glass was non-existent, hitting it with every attempt to be free. I hurried to get my camera to capture its beauty on film for a memory. After a few shots, I laid the camera down and reached carefully out to pick it up, remembering from childhood times to only touch it on the very tip of the outside part of the wing, hoping not to erase in the palm of my hand. It opened its wings, setting there awhile before it slowly moved up my arm. I was transfixed to that spot on the stairs, as if I was viewing a miracle in progress. It didn't fly away, but seemed to enjoy moving on my arm. It stopped for a rest, then, returned to the palm of my hand once again. Taking initiative, I decided to place him outdoors giving it freedom at last. I called to Saleh, Bahia's 5 year old daughter to come with me. We stood together just outside the front doorway. I gently placed the butterfly on Saleh's palm. She held it for a while, giggling at the feeling the butterfly gave as it walked on her hand. I took it from her and placed it on a leaf of a nearby tree. I realized I had held the power of the butterfly's life in my hand. I could have hurt it, ignored it while it struggled on the sill, or killed it but, chose not to do so. In fact, really, those choices never came into my mind. Its freedom was my only choice, my only thought, and getting it to freedom, my responsibility. After all the bustle, city sounds, tasks accomplished, moments of upset in my day, I was treated to a simple moment...the power and miracle of freedom.
There are many beautiful butterflies here in Palestine. Yet, these beautiful, Palestinian butterflies are encased in the claustrophobic fear of this Israeli occupation, continuously hitting the glass believing somehow they will be free. They need our help toward freedom. The beautiful butterflies I speak of, are not the small, gold variety but, each and every Palestinian here under this illegal occupation by Israel and the Israeli military.
Will you help these butterflies to be free? Will you lend your outreached hand? They are waiting at the window.
Penulis: By Marilyn Robinson for Palestine Chronicle
Marilyn Robinson is one of three members of the Colorado Campaign for Middle East Peace who have joined internationals in solidarity with Palestinians nonviolently resisting Israel's illegal military occupation. More on their trip at www.ccmep.org/palestine.html (sebagai nara sumber tulisan ini)
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