Annie Higgins

There was a face I knew! It was the coffee seller that my friend ordered from, and introduced with respect: “This gentleman is an accountant, but when times got bad and he couldn’t find appropriate work, he began to sell coffee.” The man was humble and welcoming, smiling inside an enormous purple parka, and adding, out of excess generosity, enough cardamom pods to make the little glass of coffee nearly atomic. Here in one of Jenin’s several internet cafes, the coffee man was smiling from the screen of a website, alongside a brief but potent article by one Nick Pretzlik. Annie Higgins remembers an activist for the Palestinian people.

“I follow the lines carefully with my finger on the screen. Mus’ab Jaber was shot dead. Do you ever become accustomed to this, as if it is normal? Why should you? It is not normal. It is excessive, but it never makes it normal. I don’t have the forbearance of many of my Arab friends. When I cried out, my Internet folk brought me a glass of water. That wouldn’t change the news, but I appreciated the care.” Regular EI contributor Annie Higgins remembers one Palestinian boy from Jenin.

On the twenty-eighth of January, young men were letting out triumphant whoops and jumping up and down in a victory dance. Campaign headquarters in Tel Aviv? No, Faisal Street, a main artery in downtown Jenin. The Army snipers on the roof of a commercial building are congratulating one another on their ‘victory’ over an unarmed Palestinian policeman in civilian clothes, Rashad al-‘Arrabi, wearing no protective vest or helmet, and having no tank or airborne defense. Annie Higgins writes from Jenin.

“As we are settling onto our floor-level mattresses for the night, Raghda kisses me on the four diamond-points of my face, ‘That’s how you kiss a shahid on the bier!’ She has experience with a number of family members.” Meanwhile, the Middle East Editor of an American-based international newspaper derides the experiences of Palestinians. Annie Higgins writes from occupied Jenin.

The young men have gathered in Lulu’s room, piling onto the spare bed and offering me a chair with their instantaneous politeness. Munir’s placid face looks out from his poster across his younger brother’s bed and beyond. Lulu’s nickname means “pearls,” recalling the Quran’s celestial simile of serving-boys like protected pearls. Lulu was protected in this world. Although the tank sniper damaged his legs severely, he is still amongst the living to keep his brother Munir in his heart. Annie Higgins writes from occupied Jenin.

Every home has flowers. “It’s because we want to show that we still find beauty in spite of all the difficult conditions,” explains Im Ayman. But I suspect the tradition pre-dates Israel’s oppression. It must have its roots in the ancient gardens of peasants and urban classes alike, in a common appreciation of nature’s gifts. Annie Higgins writes from Jenin.

The idea of Sharon with broom in hand is comical enough, but the suggestion that he sweep the rooms of the Islamic Center that his soldiers left in shambles made me laugh. My friend, who conducts Qur’anic study sessions, always manages to find humor in the midst of the bleakest conditions. Her laughter itself is a resistance against the gravity of oppression. Annie Higgins writes from Jenin.

“As I was walking from the house at the top of the hill, occupied by Israeli forces from beginning to end of the sixteen-day invasion of Jenin Refugee Camp in October/November, schoolboys on the road asked me this question. It is a refrain that punctuates my comings and goings, and it is one that leaves me tongue-tied. The question is not, ‘Do you talk to them?’ because anybody can do that. What matters is if they respond with words rather than gunfire. The nature of the soldiers’ response is a source of curiosity for people who are always in danger of being shot rather than spoken to.” Annie Higgins writes from Jenin.

As we are picking, news comes of yet another increase of the attacks on Nablus. An international calls friends there, climbs back into the high branches to pick, but comes down shortly after, resolving to go to friends whose house is in immanent danger of being bulldozed. Everyone understands and bids her a safe journey. I think of the many dunums of olive trees that have been bulldozed, innocent trees wrenched and uprooted from their refuge in the soil. On my first journey to Palestine some years before, I had seen an olive tree claimed to antedate Jesus’ advent on earth. The symbol and the reality of the olive tree made an impression, and I began to name things like my car license “olive/zaytoun.”

The Israeli Army reported that two soldiers were injured as they attacked Palestinian members of the resistance in Gaza (BBC, 2 January 2003). The reality could be far more severe than they admit. Annie Higgins reports from Jenin.