{"id":5853,"date":"2012-01-26T06:00:39","date_gmt":"2012-01-26T13:00:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.nerdseyeview.com\/blog\/?p=5853"},"modified":"2014-10-31T07:44:08","modified_gmt":"2014-10-31T14:44:08","slug":"guest-post-tears-of-a-stranger","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.nerdseyeview.com\/blog\/2012\/01\/26\/guest-post-tears-of-a-stranger\/","title":{"rendered":"Guest Post: Tears of a Stranger"},"content":{"rendered":"

She was shaking. I thought she was cold.<\/p>\n

It was less than half an hour before sunset. I\u2019d already snapped a picture or two of the group of girls mooching about the old Roman theatre at Sebastia. The incomparably knowledgeable and insightful George Rishmawi had been guiding non-stop since breakfast time atthe other end of Palestine. I didn\u2019t want to drop the pace. I was desperate to put my eyes in the way of Sebastia before the light went altogether.<\/p>\n

The girls clocked us, the guide and the camera-toting tourist. \u201cNo, no! No pictures!\u201d<\/p>\n

I pointed at the wall, showing I wasn\u2019t photographing them. It was a lie. I\u2019ve lied like this many times. As if my photographs matter.<\/p>\n

They hopped down off the old stones. I was listening to George as they stalked past. No photos.<\/p>\n

They sauntered up the hill. I was listening to George as they picked flowers. No photos.<\/p>\n

The last metre-and-a-half of the sunset caught them laughing against a golden olive tree, with a column drum beside and the hills beyond. I chewed my lip. George invited me to declaim \u201cTo be\u201d at the old stones.<\/p>\n

As we walked up the hill \u2013 Can we talk to them? I asked.<\/p>\n

The girls were young enough to be interested, old enough to radiate contempt. George said hello, then, leaning back against a flaming sunset panorama, spent ten minutes in rapid-fire simultaneous translation. (A guide makes or breaks. George made.)<\/p>\n

Why should anyone come here? asked the English journalist.<\/p>\n

\u201cPalestine is an Arab Islamic country,\u201doffered one.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Christian,\u201d said another.<\/p>\n

\u201cNablus is a very ancient area. There are many historic places to see.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe have three religions in Palestine.\u201d<\/p>\n

But then, from a girl hanging back, withthe face of a widow: \u201cThis is our country and we are proud of it.\u201d The others had pre-teen body language. She was tenser.<\/p>\n

I asked her how she would tell someone in England about Palestine. I don\u2019t remember exactly, but I think she stamped the ground.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s when I realised she was shaking.<\/p>\n

She turned and stormed away, then stormed back, her friends caught like little children in her whirlwind.<\/p>\n

She raged at me. \u201cYou don\u2019t understand what occupation is like.\u201d Raged. Furious. Almost spitting, she was. \u201cPalestinians are under occupation and we want you to help us.\u201d She hated me. It was hate at first sight. Half turning, she untied any connection, eyes down as a raging underling but with fists jabbing by her sides. She was shouting. \u201cYou have no idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t, I said, wondering what on earth had happened to her. People in England have no idea, I said. That\u2019s why I came, I said, to help try and show them \u2013 I was talking like an excuse, defending myself-proclaimed role as a puny reporter in a land of pain.<\/p>\n

Fists still jabbing. Tears now, too. \u201cYou don\u2019t understand.\u201d She turned towards me, full face. \u201cAn Israeli can come here,right now, and shoot us.\u201d I think she stamped the ground again.<\/p>\n

Then her friend took her away. She was rigid, like a matriarch. They were not floods of tears. There was no submission.<\/p>\n

I talked to the other girls, but they didn\u2019t say much. I took some photos \u2013 and realised she had marched back to lead them away. I asked her name. She told me twice. She was 13, she said.<\/p>\n

13.<\/p>\n

Could I write it in my notebook? Yes. CouldI take her picture? OK \u2013 and she wiped her cheeks with her palms.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Matthew Teller is a freelance journalist and travel writer based in the UK. He writes about the Middle East for newspapers, magazines, publishers, and broadcast media around the world, blogs at Quite Alone<\/span><\/a>, and tweets @matthewteller<\/span><\/a>.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

A personal note<\/strong>: I couldn’t decide if I wanted to run this post. It’s beautifully written, and also, as I told Matthew in an email exchange we had, it’s like being kicked in the teeth. Thing is, I didn’t know if I had the stomach to deal with the kinds of things this could potentially bring up in my comments — anti-Semitic crap by peeople who don’t understand the difference between Israel’s politics and Jews, or, alternatively, raging anti-Palestinian Islamaphobia. Matthew and I traded some email about this, and then, I sat on it for a while. Eventually, I realized that like this story, you’re more sophisticated than that. It’s awesome to come to that realization about my readers — again. Thank you.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

She was shaking. I thought she was cold. It was less than half an hour before sunset. I\u2019d already snapped a picture or two of the group of girls mooching about the old Roman theatre at Sebastia. The incomparably knowledgeable and insightful George Rishmawi had been guiding non-stop since breakfast time atthe other end of … <\/p>\n


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