MONOLOGUE : stories of a broken Abd-al-lah

Dear fellows—I mean, dear gentleman, today I will be telling you two stories, and you will probably have no idea why I shall do that, but hey, you will hopefully have some idea in the end. I suggest you sit comfortably, and, you know, listen with your heart.

The first story is, well...It is about me. I am a man from Bil’in, a Palestinian village located in Ramallah. I was born to a well-off family in warm neighbourhood. I grew up in the times of peace and war. But you already know that. I was shot twice in my life, by the Israeli soldiers during the demonstration in the West Bank. None of them were serious injuries though, my arm still itches from time to time. Right here. What you don’t know is that you have actually repeatedly screened me in your footages. Yes gentleman, I know that you put the documentary, 5 Broken Cameras1, in your course outlines for your students. Well, I frequently appear in the background of that documentary. In fact, Emad, the director and the owner of those poor cameras, is a distant relative of mine. That film is a little capture, or I dare say a summary of our sorrow and resistance in Palestine against the Israeli occupation. As the rappers say: ‘‘What would you do when the killers are lawyers and judges, in the land that saw you when you were born and you are accounted as a terrorist for living on it’’2 Well we did stuff indeed.

Bare with me gentlemen, I watched the documentary a few times before it was released. I know you did too. It has affected me in the most unusual ways. Let me tell you some about it. Bare with me, please.

As I grew up, I began thinking about the things we did, and the things we did not. In a land where your existence is a form of resistance, in a land where your timing is a form of resistance, in a land where the smell of your olive trees is a form of resistance...You... become3. I wanted to learn new words to express what we have—I have become.

The Israeli government decided to build a wall in our village to import new settlers. That sucks, you know. We didn’t want that. We have been weekly protesting since January 2005 as a village, there were international groups who were joining us as well —mostly left- winged. Emad’s camera was recording during all that time. Do you recall what you have seen gentleman? They have been firing us with rubber-coated bullets. And of course there was this tear gas.

I am not going to tell you a romantic story...Well, we will come to that part as well. But, no...I want you to feel more than you hear my words.

As our resistance became a documentary, a story for others to see. I—I went back and forth to think about what we have been doing from inside and from outside, I tried at least. Discrepancy.

Pay attention to this word, gentleman. It is the key of my stories. We are so full of inconsistencies. I have now dedicated my life to understand and consume every kind of knowledge about what such inconsistencies in what we do and what we say and and what we live through regardless of what we believe— Sorry, if I get carried away from time to time. My point is, gentleman, we create big gaps in people while we adopt ‘big shot guy’s gossip’. Or you may wish call it reelpolitik. These discrepancies create scars. They make soil a locus. They make the body a locus. I know that you teach your students about fancy French fellows. I follow your works, you see, I am no ignorant here. One of them says ‘consistency is one’s singularity’.4 Well, I’ve learned that he also thinks for a human to be a ‘subject’ it requires to show fidelity to one’s truth. What an idea! For I find it almost impossible to be a ‘whole’. Scars make us who we are, however unpleasant. You see, I am a believer, hamdolillah. I dare say only Allah, God I mean, is fully consistent. Oh no, we are almost made by discrepancies. But I will give credit to that French man, since ‘deen’ is my way of seeking consistence in life, my way of healing discrepancies. Healing. Healing, dear gentleman, what a word! Emad also says so, you know. He says: ‘‘Healing is a challenge in life.It's a victim's sole obligation. By healing, you resist oppression.But when I'm hurt over and over again, I forget the wounds that rule my life. Forgotten wounds can't be healed. So I film to heal.’’ Poetic, eh? There was a woman - Laila, was it?- she once wrote about some Egyptian women who were, umm, naughty while the men are not around and that was their way of escaping the oppression, or something like that5. Those women’s experience of discrepancy is only slightly different from ours, I dare say dear gentleman. They were wounded by the elders or their men in the community and yet they have found ways of healing every single day. Not very romantic, ha! The leftists in our region wouldn’t pay attention to those women. It is sometimes hard to tell what kind of an emotional relationship with oppression, itself.6 Anyway, I should not ramble. Let anarchists such as Brown criticise leftists and not me. I mentioned Madam Laila for her remarks on everyday forms of resistance. That, dear gentleman, is an essential point. People, or Muslims in other countries make films of us as if we are always crying in the smoky haze, as if we are always stoning the Israeli soldiers. I even heard a minor sheikh in Turkey called for people to not touch their wives until Al-Quds is saved. I mean, come on! We organised a mass wedding last week! It’s sweet, what they make out of the Palestinian struggle I mean, of course it is. But our resistance, our becoming of wounded subjects, me becoming Abdullah (my name, also ‘the subject of Allah’ in Arabic)... It is more hidden in what the media does not capture. That is why I told Emad, that he has done a good job, a very good job indeed. I mean, let’s take Emad’s wife, Soraya. She doesn’t go to all of the demonstrations, she does not breathe the tear gas weekly as we do, for instance. What does she do? She lets her children grow up in their own reality, she does not behave as if the war isn’t there, as if the damn wall isn’t there. Children ask many questions, you know gentleman. I ask you now, gentleman, if Soraya does not tell his littlest son, Gebreel not to go to the demonstrations and instead she tells him that it is alright to be afraid a little bit— Don’t you think it counts for our action, gentleman? Well, I do. Gebreel’s sensitive child skin is a witness. The thicker it gets as he grows up, the more it becomes the bearer of our truth. However it is represented.

Also I know that every year you people teach your students about another French fellow. That he said ‘‘where there is power there is resistance’’7. Well, I dare say he was right, gentleman. My wounds are what makes my body the place of Israel’s power. It also makes me the embodiment of Bil’in ’s resistance. Not a big one, a miniature of our fight let’s say.

Then I began thinking about Emad and his poor cameras. Again, each lens that was broken was marked by a truth. The truth of ‘occupation’. The interactions of ‘oppression’. Each material witnessed the dust, the voice of the Jaysh’s- the army- trucks. See, my story is about what the camera could record as well as the things it could not record.

Then I began thinking about the olive trees. They were even older settlers of Bil’in then we were! Oh dear gentleman, you should have seen when the dipper dredgers removed those trees with the soil. Only if the roots of the trees could talk, you could see it was living organism. The new landscape of our village, the topsy-turvy trees, the disturbed rocks— everything touched by the dirty hands of the Jaysh, they are now as talkative as I am—Don’t they tell you something, dear gentleman.

Then I started thinking about time. Yes! Time, indeed, important. For an action to take place there needs to be a subject and a context, that is roughly a multilayered combination of time and space. You see, gentlemen, in fact, I am not rambling at all. I have been trying to give a meaning to what has been—or — what I have been—or, say what I became and why on earth I became —Do—Do I make any sense, dear gentleman?— Irrelevant! Never mind.

So I was thinking about the time... There was this guy I was reading...Can’t remember his name—aha! Got it—Zerzan. Too multidisciplinary for my taste, though. But he was right about the subjective dimension of time, I dare say. Time is our weakness as much it is our strength. Confusing, eh? Let me clarify myself in a second, dear gentleman.

The five minutes I spend during sajda, tahajjud, the night prayer, is not the same with the time I spend during buying some socks. Similarly, the ten seconds I sense when I got shot, or the ten seconds I sense while I am looking at the woman I love in the eye or the ten seconds I sense when I drowse off...All of them are so different in quality and yet it remains somehow immeasurable for all! Or I wake-up with the dawn and sleep at isha, and work in between, so I interact with the sun, declare my love, recognise my being with the light and shut my system off with the disappearance of it.

That, dear gentleman, is our strength, like a magical power if you will.

When the time is divided, parcelled, sold—when it is used as a disciplining power. When it makes you tie your tie the way you always do it. when it denies your body, or worse, your soul. When it detaches you from your land. When it shackles to you to some sort of office. When decides when you should see your children. When you let time be the prostitute of a creatural plan—you gentlemen might call it either the bloody capitalism, or whatever fancy name— It then becomes our weakness.8

Time and space...they form the wounds we get. They give us the different colours we reflect to others. They define our chasm constantly.

Words of a broken mind, yes. I can read your gazes, gentlemen. I am well-aware that I make little sense. Bare with me for a little more, please. I will move on to my second story.


After Emad finished his documentary, it became quite popular among activists. People started calling him for meetings, discussions about the movie and the resistance in Bil’in. If Emad couldn’t make it for the journey because of his injuries, he let some of us in the village do the talk. In one of these calls Emad could not attend, I was assigned to go—to Turkey. There we have distant relatives, Syrians who live in Hatay. I went there to stay with them for the while I was supposed to attend the meetings. The most curious thing happened, dear gentleman.


It was the time when the Syrian turmoil was in its second year or so, when there weren’t so many God-knows-who-the-hell-they-are groups over there. The first night I spent in Sayyid Ahmet’s house, the door was knocked with immense violence. It was Ahmet’s son Cihan, who was a university student in Istanbul. Poor child. He seemed to go crazy. Murmuring words of shock and prayers. He did not stop crying for almost three days, I could not believe one could shed so many tears. Then he smothered into a great silence, dear gentlemen, we never heard him speak again. Only after hours of his arrival we could learn what was going on. Poor child... When I went to his room, he was shivering. It was then I saw the letter in his hands...ah that letter. It burned my heart. I brought it here for you dear gentlemen. It is in Turkish, but for sure you can read and understand it, much better than I did...Indeed. It is the story.


I—I brought it to you. So that..so that. No, no, I will let you read it first. Here you are.


‘‘Şam’ın humus kokulu sokaklarını özlemiştim Cihan. Yeşil kubbeli camilere bakıp ilk defa tilavet secdesi yapan çocuk gibi sevinmeyi, seninle tanışacağım gün için geceleri ağlayarak dua etmeyi, o mübarek şehrin güzelliğinde cins-i latif olduğumu İstanbul’da hiç yaşamadığım bir hal ile idrak etmeyi... Rukneddin’den, dağın eteklerinden aşağı kedersizce yürümeyi ve az sonra taksiciyle yapacağım pazarlık için hatırlamaya çalıştığım Arapça kelimelerin heyecandan yüzümü kızartmasını özlemiştim. Yeterince cesur olursam, komşularımı belki yine gelinlerini bağırş çağırış paylarken ve bıkmadan usanmadan her gece yarımda son ses Mirna ve Khalil izlerken bulurum diye düşünmüştüm. Belki de bu sefer cama çıkıp bağırırdım onlara. Üniversitenin kapsında gözleri fırıldak gibi dönen tüfekli adamdan bile korkmayacaktım artık, anlasana! Anlamalısın, Cihan, hür bir kadının Şam sokaklarında kendini kaybedişini, Hamidiye çarşısında kendini yeniden buluşunu, baharat kokuları içinde namaz kılışını, Cuma vakti avludan gözleri yerde etekleri ayaklarına dolanarak kaçarcasına uzaklaşmayıp “hayyala-s-salah” davetine icabet edişini engellememeli hiçbir erkek. Ne o beyni ekşimiş devlet, ne de sen sevdiceğim. Arkamdan ağlama ne olur, anlamalısın. Sen anlamazsan kimse anlamaz memleketimi kaşlarımın gürlüğünden anlayan bu beldede ne işim olduğunu. İstanbul’un şükürsüz caddelerinde duyduğum bir Arabî nağmeden gözlerim dolduğunda sen değil miydin göz kırparak “bu da geçer ya hû” diyen. Duymadığımı sanıyorsun ama, bir an sonra kafanı çevirip kalbim ferahlasın diye fısıldayarak okuduğun İnşirah sûresini de biliyorum ben. Bir gün beni çok üzersen hatırlayıp seni affedebilmek için bir nevi çeyiz olarak saklı tutmuştum içimde. Beni üzemeyeceğin kadar uzaktayım şimdi, ne acaib.


Bana kızmadan önce, hatırlamalısın. Yıllardır eylemlerde ne sözler tükettik, kaç tekbir yükselttik semâlara birbirimizden kaçarken. O dernek bu vakıf koştururken, elçilik önlerinde “unutmayacağız, unutturmayacağız” diye bağırırken sence de biraz abartmadık mı “Bi-r-rûh bi-d-dem nefdîke yâ Aksa” (Kanla, canla, canımız sana feda ey Aksa) nidalarını. Darılma bu sözlerime ne olur, biliyorum sen farklıydın. Boyundan büyük sloganlar diline takıldığında mahcup olup susardın coşkun kalabalığın orta yerinde. Vakıftakiler duymasın ama sustuğunda daha çok severdim seni. Allah kalplerimizi sadırlarımızdan almış da meydanın orta yerinde bir etmiş gibi gelirdi. Kızma, koca laflar ederdik bizi sırat-ı mustakîmden edecek belki ama o anda ‘bir’ olurduk biliyorum. Gel gör ki yetmedi işte bana meydanlar, yerine getiremediğim her vaad geceleri kâbusum olup kararttı kalbimi. Öyle ki, az daha dursaydım seninkini de kirletecekti kalbim, gitmeliydim. Sorup durmaktan bıkmıştım artık; sahi, gerçek muvahhid kimdi Cihan?

Bilmelisin, ani bir karardı bu terk ediş. Kilis’teki mülteci kampına gitmek için rızanı alırken sınırı geçmek yoktu aklımda. Dönünce yapacağımız nişanı hayal edip hisleniyordum ben de, akşamları mesajlaşırken aldatmıyordum seni. Kamptaki ürkek çocukların yalan söylemeye alışmamış bakışları olmasa, o çağrıya kulak asmadan gelip gelinin olmuştum şimdi belki de, Allahu âlem. Hayal et rica ederim Cihan. Çocuklara eğlence olsun diye otuz kişi okulun sıralarına aynı anda vurduğumuzda yan sınıftan gelen canhıraş ağlamaları hayal et, rica ediyorum. Hava saldırısı sanmışlar. O zaman anladım dönüp düğün fotoğrafımızda zafer işareti yapamayacağımı. Tevafuk, sınırın beş yüz metre ötesindeki camii “hayyal-al-felah” diyordu ben çocukları sakinleştirirken.

Cihan, kötü şeyler getirme aklına lütfen. Gözlerim seni Üsküdar’da sevdikçe rengini kaybediyordu sanki. Şam’ın insanın yüzüne vuslat gibi çarpan sarısına muhtaçtım, anla. Seb’ Bahara’nın kafadan kontak polislerine rağmen başımı eğmeden yürüyüp Emevî Camii’ne ulaşmadan sevilmeyi hak etmediğim günlere varmıştım artık. O yüzden geçtim sınırı. Ya ne yapacaktım? Fatih’te onlarca lokanta açılsa neye yarar, gün aşırı yiyeceğimiz felafeller kebbeler mi paklayacaktı vicdanımızı? Okuldaki arkadaşlarla “Fuko falan” konuşunca, ‘Yahudi akademisyenin biri İsrail’e çattı’ içerikli çok amaçlı videoları profillerimizde paylaşıp “abi çok ii yaa” kıvamına ulaşınca mı yaklaşacaktık şehadete? Şu yaşıma kadar şahitlik ettiklerimden razı değildim ben Cihan. Rukneddin’in kesif kahve kokusu daha gerçekti Beyazıt’ta, Taksim’de verdiğimiz sözlerden. Seni tanıdığım günden beri daha samimiydim Rabbimden beni hakikate ulaştırmasını isterken dualarımda, kampı ziyaret eden riyakâr bürokratların sofrasından kalkıp Hamalı çocukların “hur hur hurriye, nahnu bidna hurriye” (biz hürriyet istiyoruz) şarkılarına yürümek hakikatim oldu benim. Anlamalısın Cihan. Sen fakültenin önünde “Esra, bi beş dakikanızı alabilir miyim” deyip iki yıl boyunca gece gündüz hıçkıra hıçkıra ağlayarak senden duymayı beklediğim sözleri söylemek için beni kenara çektiğinde nasıl geldiysem peşinden, öyle geldim buraya da. Kaderimde senin olduğunu anlayışım gibi anladım o ezanın bana okunduğunu- “Bu adamı sevmek, Şam’ı sevmek gibi” diye düşünmüştüm. Sana ‘evet’ demek hür bir kadın olmanın şiarındandı sanki. Sen ‘Esra’ dediğin an kavuşmuştum hürriyetime.

Şam’ın sarısı kızıla dönmüş diyorlar Cihan, inanmak istemiyorum. Yaşatırlarsa, Emevî Camii’ne kadar yürümek niyetim. Yalnız değilim merak etme, Yermük’e kadar gidecek bir grup buldum. Yermük ensar olmuş diyorlar Cihan, gidip göreceğim inşallah. Başıma bir iş gelmesin diye gruptaki abilerden birine nikâhladılar beni, dokunmayacak bana yemin etti. Çatışma olduğunda elimden tutup sığınacak bir yer varsa oraya götürüyor, Allah razı olsun. Affet beni, fazla detaylı yazamıyorum yolculuğumu ama iyi insanlar, At pazarında bir kafede oturuyor olsaydık şimdi en azından yarısını tekfir etmişti bizimkiler gerçi, ne garip. Az önce Türkiye’ye giden bir arabaya rastladık, sularının bir kısmını bize verdiler, herkes ağladı. Bu mektubu onlara vereceğim, anlaman çok önemli.

Bana darılma ne olur Cihan, ben Şam’daki cenaze namazıma yetişirken işin büyüğü sana kalıyor biliyorum. Çocuğumun kulağına ezanı okurken tahayyül ettiğim adam, sahte şeyhlerle, tekfircilerle, müstekbirlerle, işçinin köylünün emeğini sömürenlerle, âyetleri yalanlayanlarla, kadınlara ve çocuklara zulmedenlerle ve tabii İslamcı kibriyle mücadeleyi sana bırakıyorum. İnanıyorum ki senin o meydanın ortasındaki ani mahcubiyetin, tağutların kalplerimizi sürdüğü bu zalim iklimi değiştirecek güçte. Allah’tan hep güzel sevmek ve güzel ölmek istedim sevdiceğim, güzel sevmek nasıl olurmuş sende ve Şam’da görünce ar ettim. Şimdi inşallah güzel ölmek için yürüyorum. Kızın olursa ismini Esra koy, çünkü Esra hür kadınların ismidir. Hakkını helal et Cihan. Fî emanillah.’’



You can imagine, dear gentlemen, how jolted I was. After all my quest about becoming. After all my prayers to understand.  After all my attempts to get and live through and beyond all the discrepancies—I had read now, a piece of what those discrepancies were capable of.  Love. War. Promises. Blood. Iman. The voices, the adhan, the voice of her sweetheart, the voice in the demonstration sites. Brothers and sisters. Al-Qods. Her dreams. Guilt. The children. The ring that has not yet worn. At Pazarı. Foucault. Hurriyyah. Takfir. Ash-Sham. The taste and smell of hummus. The youth of her cheeks. Her so-many-truths-bearing bilharj (embarrassment, hayâ)!

What happened to her? Until now, we haven’t got the slightest idea. I have so many answers and so many questions, dear gentlemen. I described my body and my soul as a locus to you dear gentlemen from the beginning. It is a locus that has not yet come to an end. I see your confused, or even puzzled faces. Well, no worries. I’ve now told you my stories. I intend to go and try to find Asmâ'. If that girl lives, I have to find her and bring her back to her Cihan. I have so many questions to ask— you should be wanting to ask her questions as well! That is why I came to you. However crazy you think I am, dear gentlemen, I am probably much more crazier than that. But I have seen crazy. Madness is constant in the ordinary. You call yourselves men of science, anthropologists you say. You should have been aware of that from a long time ago.

Lâ be’s. Think now, if you have not thought of any of these before. And help me sneak into Syria and fund me so that I can bring Asrâ’ back to Turkey. And if you ever want to interview her in discretion, I will be at your service for this is now the purpose of my life and I shall not eat anything nor shall I move in front of the building until I have your support. Meassalama.




WORKS-CITED

Abu-Lughod, Lila. 1990. The Romance of Resistance: Tracing Transformations of Power through Bedouin Women. American Ethnologist
Badiou, Alain. Ethics: An essay on the understanding of evil. Verso, 2002. p.47
Biehl, João, and Peter Locke. "Deleuze and the Anthropology of Becoming." Current Anthropology 51.3 (2010): 317-351.
Brown, M. F. 1996. On Resisting Resistance. American Anthropologist 98(4): 729-749
Foucault, Michel. "The history of sexuality: An introduction. Vol. 1." New York: Vintage (1978). p.95-96
Zerzan, John. "Time and its Discontents." reprinted from Anarchy: A Journal of Desire Armed 39 (1994).
5 broken cameras. Kino Lorber, 2013. https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=5P5d7EVDyzA
Code Rouge feat Amel Mathlouthi " Horizon " Génération Palestine


LINKS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVSafEEYaSk