Something of Palestine Emerges

[Still image from Tawfik Abu Wael, \"Last Days in Jerusalem\"] [Still image from Tawfik Abu Wael, \"Last Days in Jerusalem\"]

Something of Palestine Emerges

By : Naira Antoun

2012 London Palestine Film Festival. 20 April – 3 May 2012. For more information and a complete schedule of films, click here.

Each year, for the two weeks of the London Palestine Film Festival, there are a bunch of people whose social life for that fortnight becomes the festival. Others dip in and out, while still others see a Palestinian film or a film about Palestine perhaps for the first time.

Each year the program is rich and eclectic, ranging from animations to documentaries to features, from conventional to experimental. Here I consider six films out of the more than fifty works to be screened at the 2012 festival. Each deserves its own review and singular exploration. But seeing a variety of films as part of a festival, a viewer makes different connections; viewing a number of films on Palestine together, different aspects, moods, and feelings of what Palestine is emerges.

The Promise of the Land

If there is one thing that Susan Sontag’s work on photography tells us as a viewer, it is to mistrust the image—or at least not to read a photograph transparently, and to acknowledge that a viewer has a certain kind of ethical responsibility. Watching Sontag’s only documentary (perhaps better described as a film essay), Promised Lands (1974), as the camera lingers over burnt-out tanks and charred corpses, this injunction comes readily to mind.

Filmed very soon after the October 1973 war, the film explores some of the fault lines of a militarized Zionist society. There is no voice-over, but the images alongside an eclectic soundscape that envelops chants, machine-guns, explosions, and radar beeps provide a sort of narrative. And in between are interviews with physicist Yuval Ne’eman and author Yoram Kaniuk—though they are not named in the film. While the two men represent opposite poles of thinking in Israeli society, their thought and conceptual understanding can both be located within Zionism.

\"\"\"\"
[Left, still image from Susan Sontag, Promised Land; right, still image from Mike Hoolboom, Lacan Palestine.]

Ne’eman talks about anti-Semitism being almost intrinsic to Arabs. But it is Kaniuk’s interview that is far more interesting. A self-described sympathizer of the Palestinians, he describes some of the absurdity of the invocation of the Promised Land within Zionist thought. And yet in his understanding of the Israel-Palestine encounter as a tragedy in which a right meets a right, or in his description of Palestinians as the most advanced of the Arabs because of their encounters with Israelis, for instance, we see how his thought is not foreign to Zionism. It is this spectacle of two apparently opposed viewpoints, sharing a fairly small piece of conceptual terrain, that is deeply revealing about Israeli society and what is unthinkable within its discourses—then, as well as now.

Mike Hoolboom’s Lacan Palestine (2012) uses a number of shots from Promised Lands, including a shot from a disturbing scene of a psychiatrist dealing with a traumatized soldier by recreating battle sounds. Accompanying the diverse images in Lacan Palestine is a voiceover consisting of ruminations on seemingly unrelated questions. We are told that it is our utter singularity that determines how we see an image, that a detail that may not be noticed by one person is what grabs another.

Interspersing images from television news, feature films, and documentaries, Hoolboom points to how Palestine is burdened with imaginings. The land that is over-determined, whether by Zionists or Crusaders, is a land that is never simply a land, that is never free from historically-laden projections.

At times it is unclear how all the questions raised relate to one another or to the huge amount of images, which themselves do not constitute a narrative, but rather a number of sequences that roll into one another. Lacan Palestine is a film that asks—demands even—to be watched more than once.

In one sequence, images of John Coltrane performing, of Israelis beating up a bound Palestinian man, of young Palestinian boys breaking up stones, and maps of the changing political geography of Palestine are interspersed with other images, all against the backdrop of Coltrane’s music and a voiceover reflecting on what it means for people in their “abject singularity” to cooperate to do something together. A similar kind of cooperation is required in all such cases, whether it is playing music, oppressing, or resisting, the images seem to tell us.

In the Shadows of Massacres: Resilience

In Sand Creek Equation (2011), Travis Wilkerson explores the links between Palestine and Native Americans. Given this parallel, a viewer might expect the links to be based on settler colonialism. Though this is in a sense the framework of the film, it is not something explicitly explored. In the case of the American settlers, the dilemma was how to “take back” land that is not yours even by your own laws. The solution was to settle and provoke by all sorts of violations, until the native people fought back against the settlers, and then to bring in an army to defend the settlers. This is the settler colonial framework of the film.

The connections made, however, are much more specific. The atrocity that was Operation Cast Lead is put in the shadow of a much earlier atrocity: the 1864 massacre of Native Americans at Sand Creek, Colorado. The equation that inheres in both massacres is based on the notion that not all human lives are equal. In the case of Operation Cast Lead, with four Israelis killed in the year preceding the launching of the operation in December 2008, the equation becomes 4 ≥ 1417.

And while the Sand Creek Massacre has no defenders today—its defenders at the time are now seen “somewhere between monsters and fools,” the voiceover says—perhaps that is not the point. For the Massacre in the most meaningful sense succeeded: today Colorado is for white people, and the Native Americans are gone.

In scenes in contemporary Gaza, young children, not yet tired of being filmed by visiting journalists, are fascinated by the camera. The backdrop: destroyed buildings. Inter-spliced with these contemporary scenes are images from the Sand Creek Historical site: trees, a slight breeze, plains—all horrifically empty. The empty plains stand as a symbol of what is possible, the worst kind of possible. And in the shadow of such an image, the Palestinians remain.

The Samouni family—a farming family—lost forty-eight members during Operation Cast Lead. One member of the family lists all those who died as they took shelter in the house: a litany of loss that includes his young daughter and son. After explaining how they have now been left without support, he repeats the entire list, this time saying al hamdillah for each one martyred: a litany of loss and resilience.

In the shadow of another atrocity—the Sabra and Shatila massacre—stands Gaza Hospital at the crossroads of the two camps. Marco Pasquini’s documentary Gaza Hospital (2009) tells the story of that hospital. Set up in the 1970s by the Palestine Liberation Organization, Beirut’s Gaza Hospital provided a revolutionary social welfare program, treating both the Palestinians and Lebanese who came through its doors. Dealing with social as well as medical issues, it stands as a Palestinian achievement of humanitarian work.

\"\"
[Still image from Marco Pasquini, Gaza Hospital.]

Incredible archival footage—including scenes of dancing and singing within the hospital that no doubt boosted morale—and contemporary interviews combine to eloquently tell the story of the ten-floor building from the days it functioned as a hospital to its destruction and subsequent reoccupation by those surrounding it.

In the corridors of what was once a fully-functioning hospital, we see children playing and people carrying their shopping; in what were once wards, we see people going about their lives, cooking, sorting through their things, making a living; next to what used to be the site of the old underground operating theatre, today men lift weights in the gym. Pasquini’s sensitive documentary does not devalue the hospital’s contemporary uses. Then, as now, the building serves as a shelter to broken lives and a source of hope, in the words of Dr. Swei, who worked in the hospital both during the Sabra and Shatila massacre and afterwards. The bullet holes are a testament to what the building has seen: different key chapters of Palestinian history, from the departure of the PLO fighters, to the Sabra and Shatila massacre, to the subsequent war of the camps when warring factions in the Lebanese civil war took advantage of the security vacuum.

In the bustling market, as people go about their lives, all carry memories of the horrors the street has seen. Abu Hatem—we learn about what happened to Hatem as the film goes on—says that sometimes you cannot describe what you have seen. There is an eeriness in all that the building and its residents have seen, a permanence and temporality as the place is transformed with circumstance, and in amidst it all resilience.

Personal/Political

In Sameh Zoabi’s comedy Man Without a Cell Phone (2011), we watch the protagonist Jawdat, who is always on the lookout for a date, even if it means going to some environmental fundraiser where he is sure the Jewish Israelis have a thing for Arabs. That Jawdat is somewhat of a slacker and cannot get into university is marked also by his Palestinianness. It is his failure of the Hebrew exam that stands in the way of his getting into college. His not being educated would be not simply an individualized failure for his family, but collective as well. As he keeps on hearing, “Do you think this country wants you to be educated?”

Jawdat is happy with the antenna built on the community land; cell phone reception is now perfect and he can chat with women he has never met. It is no surprise that he is dismissive of his olive-farming father’s anger. Convinced that the antenna will bring radiation and cancer to the people and the land, the topic is pretty much all his father can talk about. In a classic moment of political comedy, father and son proclaim that if only the antenna were built half-way between Jewish and Palestinian land, then they could all be subjected to radiation equally. As son joins father in his quest to have the antenna removed, it is a shift not only in his relationship with his father, but also a way in which he finds his place, and honor with self-respect.

\"\"\"\"
[Left, still image from Sameh Zoabi, Man Without a Cell Phone; right, still image from Tawfik Abu Wael, Last Days in Jerusalem.]

Elsewhere, Nour and Iyad, a stage-actress and a doctor, a middle-class Palestinian couple in East Jerusalem, prepare to emigrate to Paris. In Last Days in Jerusalem (2011), we see that their inability to leave the city is reflected in their inability to leave each other, to leave an anguished relationship in which each one is tortured. The film reveals the ambivalence and inertia of being trapped with each other, and in Jerusalem. They are emotionally bound to each other and to the city; circumstance and choice prevents them from leaving. And whether or not they manage to leave one another or Jerusalem, each will bear the scars. The recurring image of the concrete wall—taking up almost all of the camera’s view—reflects the feelings of being held emotionally hostage.

Tawfik Abu Wael’s much-anticipated second feature is both an excavation of one particular couple—their own psychological hang-ups, needs, and internal terrains—and an exploration of what it is to be Palestinian in East Jerusalem.

Of course, the personal is always political, and the political always personal; this is not particular to Palestine. It is not simply that we are gendered, raced, classed beings—there is almost something of the litany in this. It is also that the specificities of the time and space in which we exist are part of who we become and how we are. As such, in these two very different features by Palestinians about relationships, something of Palestine emerges.

 

  • ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR

    • We Are All Complicit

      We Are All Complicit
      An Enemy Of The People, written by Henrik Ibsen, dramaturgy/scenography and directed by Nora Amin. Lamusica Independent Theatre Group, Egypt, 2013.I don’t move my chair while watching a play. I don’t
    • Threads of Narrating the Arab Spring

      Threads of Narrating the Arab Spring
      “Narrating the Arab Spring,” Cairo University, 18-20 February 2012Many of us have spoken and thought about those who we wished would have been present to witness—and perhaps participate in—the revolu

New Texts Out Now: Betty S. Anderson, The American University of Beirut: Arab Nationalism and Liberal Education

Betty S. Anderson, The American University of Beirut: Arab Nationalism and Liberal Education. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011.

Jadaliyya (J): What made you write this book?

Betty S. Anderson (BSA): I always joke that I conceived the project in the pool of the Carlton Hotel in Beirut. In June 2000, I visited Beirut for the first time so I could attend an Arab American University Graduate (AAUG) conference. One day, I walked with some friends all along the Corniche and up through the American University of Beirut (AUB) campus and then back to the hotel. Since it was late June and ridiculously hot, the only option at that point was to jump in the pool as quickly as possible. Two minutes in the pool and the thought occurred to me that my next research project was going to have to be about Beirut in some way. I had fallen in love with the city in just that one day. A half second later, I thought, I should write a history of AUB.

Besides the fact that I wanted to get back to Beirut as soon as possible, I wanted to know why AUB had been so influential in politicizing its students. At the time, I was doing additional research for my book on Jordan (Nationalist Voices in Jordan: The Street and the State) and a number of the political activists I studied had attended AUB. Their memoirs were filled with explanations and stories about how important those four years were for the development of their political identities. However, I had no idea as I floated in the pool that day that I’d have to do extensive research on Protestant missionaries and education long before I could even get to those Arab nationalists. At the time, I really knew relatively little about the school’s history.

J: What particular topics, issues, and literatures does it address?

BSA: When I finally got back to Beirut in 2004, it was research on the educational systems offered at the Syrian Protestant College and AUB that eventually ended up directing my thesis. I was struck initially by the goals the American founders and their successors set for the school. They talked more about the transformative process they wanted the students to undertake than the course options they were offering. For example, Daniel Bliss (1866-1902) preached about producing Protestants who understood not only the liturgy but the lifestyle required of one converting to this faith; Bayard Dodge (1923-1948) exhorted students to follow the model of the modern American man as they sought to develop new characters for themselves. The former presided over a missionary educational system, the latter the new liberal education system then being formulated back in America. The first half of the book discusses this shift as the American University of Beirut was renamed in 1920.

\"\"
[Main gate of AUB campus. Photo by Betty S. Anderson.]

Liberal education, as American educators developed it in the second half of the nineteenth century, asks its students to be active participants in their educational experience. Before this point, professors taught their students a fixed body of knowledge; students were required to memorize and recite the data to prove that they had learned it. In liberal education, the system asks that professors teach students how to think and analyze so they can produce data on their own.

The second half of the book examines how the students reacted to this shifting pedagogical focus. The American leaders of the school repeatedly stated their goals for the students, and most books and articles on AUB focus on only those voices. However, that stance leaves out an important element of the AUB story, because only the students can truly determine whether the programs are effective. AUB is famous for the many student protests that have taken place on campus, starting with the Darwin Affair of 1882, leading to the Muslim Controversy of 1909, and then on to the large protests of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. As I discovered when I delved into the archives, students used dozens of newspapers to explain why they were protesting. The catalyst was always a particular event, on campus or off, but the students always framed their arguments around the freedom they felt the liberal education system promised. They fought against any administrative attempts to curtail their actions and frequently accused the administration of not following the guidelines set by American liberal education. This issue became increasingly contentious as students worked to define an Arab nationalism that called on them to be politically active while on campus. The administration continually opposed this position, and many of the student-administrative conflicts centered on the differing definitions of freedom put forward on campus. I put “Arab Nationalism and Liberal Education” in the subtitle of the book because by the twentieth century, these were the two dominant elements defining the relationship between the students and the administration.

J: How does this work connect to and/or depart from your previous research and writing?

BSA: Most of my work has centered on education in one form or another. In my book on Jordan, I wrote of the politicizing role high schools in Jordan and Palestine, as well as schools like AUB, played in mobilizing a national opposition movement in the 1950s. I have published a number of articles analyzing the narratives the Jordanian and Lebanese states present to their students in history and Islamic textbooks. Moving on to a comprehensive study of one particularly influential school was a natural progression. The difference was that I now had to study American education in the same way I had previously examined the influence of education in the Middle East.

J: Who do you hope will read this book, and what sort of impact would you like it to have?

BSA: I hope AUB alumni want to read the book and, equally, that they find something of their story in it. I did not want to cite just the Americans who founded and ran the school; I purposely wanted to write about the students themselves. Typical university histories leave out the words and actions of the students in favor of hagiographies about the founders and their famous successors. I also hope that scholars and students interested in studies of education and nationalism will be interested. This is a book that addresses both Middle Eastern and American studies.

\"\"\"\"
[Assembly Hall and College Hall, AUB Campus. Photos by Betty S. Anderson.]

J: What other projects are you working on now?

BSA:
I have a contract with Stanford University Press to publish a book called State and Society in the Modern Middle East. Like with anyone who undertakes to write a textbook, I am frustrated with those that are currently available. Textbooks of the modern Middle East typically focus just on state formation, the actions of the chief politicians, and the political interplay between states. My text focuses instead on the relationship between state and society as it developed over the last two hundred years. The states in the region centralized in the nineteenth century, faced colonialism in the early twentieth century, and then independence after World War II; these stages created new roles for state leaders. Civil society, in the broadest definition of the term, emerged from the eighteenth century forward as people sought new ways to organize within and against the states now intruding on their lives. They took advantage of the new institutions the states built to establish for themselves new class, national, and gender definitions, while frequently opposing the states that had introduced these very institutions. My text examines how schools, government offices, newspapers, political parties, and women’s groups constantly negotiated new relationships with their respective states.

Excerpt from The American University of Beirut: Arab Nationalism and Liberal Education

From Chapter One:

"The great value of education does not consist in the accepting this and that to be true but it consists in proving this and that to be true," declared Daniel Bliss, founder of Syrian Protestant College (SPC; 1866–1920) and its president from 1866 to 1902, in his farewell address. President Howard Bliss (president, 1902–1920) said in his baccalaureate sermon in 1911, "In a word, the purpose of the College is not to produce singly or chiefly men who are doctors, men who are pharmacists, men who are merchants, men who are preachers, teachers, lawyers, editors, statesmen; but it is the purpose of the College to produce doctors who are men, pharmacists who are men, merchants who are men, preachers, teachers, lawyers, editors, statesmen who are men." Bayard Dodge (1923–1948) stated at his inauguration as president of the newly renamed American University of Beirut (AUB; 1920– ), "We do not attempt to force a student to absorb a definite quantity of knowledge, but we strive to teach him how to study. We do not pretend to give a complete course of instruction in four or five years, but rather to encourage the habit of study, as a foundation for an education as long as life itself." The successors to these men picked up the same themes when they elaborated on the school`s goals over the years; most recently, in May 2009, President Peter Dorman discussed his vision of AUB’s role. "AUB thrives today in much different form than our missionary founders would have envisioned, but nonetheless—after all this time—it remains dedicated to the same ideal of producing enlightened and visionary leaders."

In dozens of publications, SPC and AUB students have also asserted a vision of the transformative role the school should have on their lives. The longest surviving Arab society on campus, al-`Urwa al-Wuthqa, published a magazine of the same name during most academic years between 1923 and 1954 and as of 1936 stated as its editorial policy the belief that "the magazine`s writing is synonymous with the Arab student struggle in the university." From that point forward, the editors frequently listed the society`s Arab nationalist goals. In the fall 1950 edition, for example, al-`Urwa al-Wuthqa`s Committee on Broadcasting and Publications issued a statement identifying the achievement of Arab unity as the most important goal because "it is impossible to separate the history, literature and scientific inheritance of the Arabs" since "the Arab essence is unity." Toward this end, al-`Urwa al-Wuthqa pledged to accelerate the "growth of the true nationalist spirit" among the students affiliated with the organization. In describing education as an activist pursuit, the statement declares, "To achieve political ideas which are aimed at our nationalism it is necessary for we as students to seek information by many different means." In this call, the AUB Arab students must take on the task of studying the Arab heritage as thoroughly and frankly as possible so that when they graduate they can move into society with solutions to the many problems plaguing the Arab world.

Since the school`s founding in 1866, its campus has stood at a vital intersection between a rapidly changing American missionary and educational project to the Middle East and a dynamic quest for Arab national identity and empowerment. As the presidential quotes indicate, the Syrian Protestant College and the American University of Beirut imported American educational systems championing character building as their foremost goal. Proponents of these programs hewed to the belief that American educational systems were the perfect tools for encouraging students to reform themselves and improve their societies; the programs do not merely supply professional skills but educate the whole person. As the quotes from al-`Urwa al-Wuthqa attest, Arab society pressured the students to change as well. The Arab nahda, or awakening, of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries called on students to take pride in their Arab past and to work to recreate themselves as modern leaders of their society; the Arab nationalist movement of the twentieth century asked that students take a lead in fighting for Arab independence from foreign control. The students streaming through the Main Gate year after year used both of these American and Arab elements to help make the school not only an American institution but also one of the Arab world and of Beirut, as the very name, the American University of Beirut, indicates. This process saw long periods of accommodation between the American-led administration and the Arab students, but just as many eras when conflict raged over the nature of authority each should wield on campus; the changing relationship between the administration and the students serves as the cornerstone of this book, for it is here where much of the educational history of SPC and AUB has been written.

From Chapter Five:

The 1952 April Fool’s Day issue of Outlook (called Lookout on that day) satirized the proliferation of student protests that had dominated campus life for the previous few years. In the paper’s lead article, the author declared, “A School of Revolutionary Government, designed to equip AUB students with a wide knowledge of modern techniques of conspiracy and revolution, is to be opened during the fall semester, a communique from the President’s Office announced late Friday.” Continuing the same theme, the article reports, “All courses will include a minimum of three lab hours to be spent in street battles with gendarmes and similar applications of theories learned in classrooms.” President Stephen Penrose (1948-1954), the article stated, gave a Friday morning chapel talk on the new school motto: “That they may have strife and have it more abundantly.” In a further announcement, the paper described the day’s protest.

There will be a demonstration this afternoon at three in front of the Medical Gate to object against everything[.] All those interested please report there promptly five [minutes] before time. The demonstration promises to be very exciting—tear gas will be used, and the slogans are simply delightful. If all goes well, police interference is expected. If not to join, come and watch.

This, of course, had not been the first era of student protest; the difference by the 1950s was the widespread and sustained nature of the conflict between the administration and the students. When Lookout published its satirical articles in 1952, students had been organizing demonstrations in support of Palestinians and Moroccans, and against any and all things imperialist, since 1947; these events only petered out in 1955 as the administration banned the two main groups organizing them, the Student Council and the Arab society, al-cUrwa al-Wuthqa. Students engaged in these exercises explicitly as Arabs, proud of their past, and striving toward cultural, political and economic unity in the future. In their actions, students sought to integrate their educational experiences at AUB with the real-life events taking place outside the Main Gate, for only then did they feel they could be trained to function as the vanguard initiating the necessary changes in their society.

[Excerpted from Betty S. Anderson, The American University of Beirut: Arab Nationalism and Liberal Education. © 2011 by The University of Texas Press. Excerpted by permission of the author. For more information, or to order the book, click here.]