Kites Don't Fly

8/9/2019 Kites Don't Fly

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Six emails from Jerusalem

By

Sohail Dahdal



Prologue

Kites don’t fly… they glide. To many of us there is only a slight difference between flying and

gliding… certainly this is not the case for any one who flew a hang glider or a sea plane… if

you ask an eagle about the slight difference between flying and gliding it will tell you that in fact

it’s not slight at all.

My intention is not to give you a lesson about the difference between gliding and flying – and

there is difference. My intention here is to give you an analogy of the slight deference between

things… it’s only slight if doesn’t concern us… if it’s an issue that relates to our everyday life,

an issue that touches our heart, it becomes no more slight… it becomes significant.

Note the theory of relativity… everything is different for different people, different in different

place, and most of all different at different times.

When I wrote these emails I was in Jerusalem… amongst it all… I was a Jerusalemite living it

all… feeling it all… and that is what I wrote…

My feelings, the life, the people, the slight difference that you won’t read in a newspaper or see

on a newsreel… what I wrote is what I saw… what I felt… and more importantly how I reflectedon it at the time.

Note, I say at the time… for things, feelings and perspective change with time.

Now I’m miles away… but my heart knows that in Jerusalem there are people that want to

live… and there is a special city with walls that tell a million stories… and will live to tell a

million more.

Sohail Dahdal, 1st of June 2002, Sydney.



Week 1 - Two bullets and a data projector

Well, what can I say I'm in Jerusalem!

The week before flying here was a crazy week that included working 20 hours a day to finish a

few loose ends before leaving to Jerusalem.

This crazy schedule worked well for my 36 hours flight from Sydney to Singapore, to London,

and then to Tel-Aviv – I almost slept through the whole trip. Except, halfway through the trip I

realized that I was sitting two seats away from a good friend of my, Tiara, that I haven’t seen in

two years. Imagine finally seeing her again on a plane heading to London. Two years in

Sydney and we meet leaving Sydney!

I arrived at Tel-Aviv airport and as soon as I passed customs I was greeted by an entourage of

security officers bewildered by a Palestinian born in Libya, living in Australia, on a UN mission

to help setting up some policies for Palestine! After a thorough search and lots of polite

questions and lots Hebrew whispering I was released to the outside world - or the inside world

of Israel, a country in turmoil.

I took the bus to Jerusalem - I have to admit I was a bit scared of the possibility of a suicide

bomber blowing up the bus -me included - I thought wouldn't be ironic - if I get blown up?

The next morning Mounir and Sufian from the UN/DP came to my hotel in Jerusalem to take

me to the UN/DP head quarters – which I later found out it was 10 minutes away from the old

city. To my relief both men were really intelligent, articulate, nice, and fluent in English. One

more thing that made me happy; they were dressed smart casual - which meant that I didn't

have to wear a suit.

In the office I was told that I'm no longer working on just one project. Instead I will be working

on high-level concept development and policy draft for 5 projects!

So looks like I’ll be busy.



At this moment I’m setting in my office with a huge window looking at a valley. The other side

of the Valley is a huge Israeli settlement of some sort – you can see the rapid construction

work to expand it even further.

Part of me is happy to be in this wonderful city where my father was born, and my mother

spent her boarding school years in the once Arabic Jerusalem. Part of me is happy to be here,

and part of me is wondering if what I’m doing here is going to change anything. After all, this

world is built on the laws of the jungle and not the dreams of an expatriate.

Yesterday I went to a meeting in Ramalleh. On the way there I didn’t see any demonstrations

nothing out of the ordinary - carrying a UN id and driving a UN car you don’t get hassled by the

Israelis nor the Palestinians. The meeting was in the Ministry of Planning and International Co-

operation (MOBIC) building. We went in, sat around a round table - Deputy Ministers, UN

people, policy makers… and me.

The room was dim in preparation for the screening of a presentation about a draft plan for a

national Internet Network in Palestine. Someone switches the projector on, the light is

projected on the wall, the wall by now is illuminated with a map showing the suggested Internet

hubs around Palestine. I notice two large holes on the wall covering some parts of the

projected PowerPoint presentation; the light escapes through the holes and leaves a darkshadow in place of two of the cities on the map. The presenter explains that the building had

come under Israeli fire the night before - the two holes are bullet holes! After the meeting I’m

taken next door to see the office of one of the deputies; his chair has a large hole from a bulle

that went from the window through his chair (chest high) to the wall behind him, to the next

room and through the window on the other side of the building!

I feel in the middle of a war zone. It’s going to be an interesting two months. I really hope

that I can make a difference and help the Palestinians now that I’m seeing how much help

they need.

Sohail Dahdal, 10th of May 2001



The view from my UNDP office window, Jerusalem

Week 2- Many worlds away… same place!

The place, a trendy bar on Jafa Street, the busiest street in the modern European style side

of Jerusalem - the Jewish side. The time: Saturday night. The atmosphere, very

cosmopolitan, worlds away from the war zone on the other side of Jerusalem where Air-to-

land missile were used to demolish hundreds of Palestinian houses, police stations, and trees

– all in the name security, retaliation, or “pro-active” self-defence.

We sat at the outside area in Strudel Bar, asked for a Heineken for me, and a Carlsberg for

my cousin… I think it was a Carlsberg. Watching passers-by on Jafa Street, people seemed

just happy to be out and about– in Israel everyone goes out on Saturday night after two days

of Shabbat. Around us were groups of drinkers, mainly young university students – later I

found out most were actually senior school kids, no older than 17 years old – even if they

looked very mature, and dressed in an explosive kind of way. I shouldn’t use the word

explosive here, for I didn’t mean it in its destructive term, more like mind blowing – one

thing I have to say: girls in Israel know how to dress to kill.



As I said there was no explosives, no killings and no wars on Jafa street, just young

teenagers playing games, drinking, trying to dress like adults – as young teenagers do around

the world. Nothing that reminds me where I was – in Jerusalem - but for the odd soldier

drinking with his machine gun laying comfortably next to the beer on the table. I must say

the drunken Israeli soldiers did encourage me and my cousin to speak only in English and

hide our Arabic background. Plus we didn’t want to scare the bar patrons of the possibility

of a suicide bomber drinking amongst them – after all, we could end-up a “pro-active” self-

defence casualty.

In particular one of the girls attracted my attention, she was dressed sexy, very Israeli style,

long curly hair and a top that did not leave much to the imagination, and that wasn’t the

only reason she attracted my attention - my cousin told me she was an Arab. I was surprised

to see an Arabic teenager in this place, dressed like this, and talking in a fluent American

accent to a group of Israeli and American teenagers. She seemed in total denial of her

identity. I thought she probably tells them she is American. I thought she might be ashamed

of her Palestinian origin. I thought young, and foolish, and part of a new lost generation.

How dare she…

Until, one of the guys in the group - he sounded American - asked her if she was from the

US. She said “no I’m Palestinian”. I was impressed. This guy proceeded to ask her why don’t

Palestinians just stop fighting and start enjoying life! The answer came fast in eloquent

English, one of the best arguments I’ve ever heard about the injustices Palestinian kids have

to endure. I tell you she was very well spoken - I thought another Hanan Ashrawi. The more

logic she expressed the more stubborn our American friend became, he just kept reciting

clichés from the media - why do Palestinians throw their kids in the line of fire? Why not

accept 95% of the West Bank? And what do you expect the Soldiers to do if the Palestinian

kids throw stones at them! The more questions he asked, the more emotional this poor

Palestinian kid became. She talked about seeing her 5 year old neighbour being killed, about

the Israeli closures, about the occupation, dignity, and justice… no need to say I was the

only one really listening.



It was obvious she was extremely smart, extremely hurt, and extremely open-minded. By

that time I was in tears – tears I couldn’t show to anyone nor did I wish to. Not only had I

misjudged a fellow human being but also I have failed to understand her true motives to be

on the west side of Jerusalem. Now I understand how she must feel. It must be hard to be an

intellectual young Palestinian woman. It would be almost impossible for this girl to sit in a

bar in the Palestinian side of Jerusalem and talk on the same level of communication with

other fellow Palestinian teenagers - not that there is many bars, and not that this is the time

for talking. The average Palestinian kid has only one thing on their mind… how to get out.

Yes, how to get out of this hell. Some express their frustration by throwing stones. Most

have lost hope, dignity, and any reason to dream.

I can only begin to imagine the pain, inner conflicts, and the last gasps of dignity that a

conversation of that kind would bring to this girl’s mind - and to mine. In the distant you can

hear the missiles zooming into their targets just miles away in Beit Gala.


A view of Jerusalem from the gatehouse where I was living



Week 3 - Fear… and other catastrophes

I wanted to tell you about a day in Jerusalem as a tourist, but I can never do Jerusalem

justice… not using words or images… you really have to be there.

There is no way I can describe the old city… it is the smells that will always haunt me. Once

I was told long lasting memories always carry the scent of their days… I now believe it for

have smelled the spices in the Muslim quarter, the bread in the Armenian quarter, the

"Bakhour" in the Christian quarter, and the old wood in the Jewish quarter… don’t ask me

why old wood.

I’m not describing Jerusalem… nor am I drawing a picture of the old city. I’m just telling you

the story of twenty-four hours of my life in Jerusalem… it is true even if you’re not going to

believe it.

It’s 2 am in the morning… I’m drinking in a bar in West Jerusalem, the same bar I met the

Arabic girl the other day… this time we’re (me and my cousin) drinking inside in a little dim

corner, two lounges forming an L shape and an old wooden table, on the table was a

backgammon board. There were not many people around so we decide to play a game of

checkers. Few minutes through the game the bar comes to life so much, that there is noroom for people to sit… a group of four girls, dressed as if they were from the religious

school down the road – my cousin tells me, they ask if they can join us and if we can teach

them the game!

My cousin starts teaching them how to play. I find myself in the middle of this strange

meaningful conversation with one of the girls. She thinks I’m an Israeli. She tells me she is

here to study the Torah and that her parents – ultra-orthodox Jews – sent her here to get a

bit of culture from the mother land, Israel. She tells me that she is sorry but she has to be

honest with me – me, being an Israeli – and that she doesn’t agree with what we are doing

here in Israel and that we don’t treat the Palestinians fair! At this point I mention to her

that I’m from Sydney and that I work for the UN. I confess to her “I, myself, am the son of a

Palestinian.” I expect her to run out of the door, screaming Bomb! She doesn’t. Instead she



tells me that she thinks that Israelis really don’t understand Palestinians… they instead fear

them! I agree, “Yes true, but it’s the religion that causes all the problems.” By that time her

friends get a confession from my cousin that we are Arabs… they get very uncomfortable and

they usher my friend to a corner… they gesture to her that she needs to leave with them

now… she asks them to leave her and go. I see an animated conversation and my friend

comes back saying she has to leave to get a lift back to the university – my cousin was right.

They were from the religious school. Before she leaves she slips me a piece of paper with

her name and phone number. Her name was Jeanne.

I’m puzzled; here I am left with a phone number, an invitation to call an ultra-orthodox

girl… maybe for another conversation about fear and other catastrophes… I decide not to

call Jeanne. My cousin looks at me funny. We leave the bar… the backgammon board… and

the piece of paper with the telephone number next to it. We walk through Jafa Street on

the way to my cousin’s car. I’m still thinking about the fear factor… I ask my cousin to stop…

I approach two girls sitting on a bench looking really relaxed… I introduce us, two Australians

visiting and I ask about nice bars in the area? One of the girls says in a very strong Israeli

accent “Ahh… you not from here? What you do here in Israel? It’s very dangerous” I play

along, dangerous! Why? I ask. “There are Arabs everywhere”, she replies. So how come

you’re here? Aren’t you scared? My cousin asks the other girl. “Yes, I’m scared but what canI do. And also I now feel safe because they are here.” She points to a group of soldiers. I was

tempted to tell the poor girl that I’m an Arab and do I look scary? Instead, worried that I will

scare her to death, I say my goodbyes and we go.

On the drive back to the east side, I start thinking about my morning tour of Jerusalem.

Mounir the head of my unit in the UNDP has been offering to take me on a real tour of

Jerusalem, me being an ignorant expatriate, and he being the son of Jerusalem… a true

Jerusalemite. We park the car outside the walls of the old city. And we walk to “Bab al

Amod.” Once inside, something strange comes over me. I feel an extension of the city. In

seconds I feel 2000 years older. No older is not the word… it’s more like this is my roots… I

walk in Jerusalem therefore I exist - not alone but with my father and his father before

him… my ancestors walked here for thousands of years, the same streets, the same walls,



even the same faces. It an amazing feeling I have never experienced before. It’s a feeling of

belonging… its my “being” having just extended to 2000 years of cultural belonging. I have

felt I belong before, to Africa, to my local pub, to my family, but never have I felt like this,

being part of this great historical city.

Mounir asks if I had breakfast… without waiting for an answer he takes me to “Abu Shaker”

Hummus restaurant. We eat Hummus and drink tea with fresh mint leaves – Mounir tells me

this is the most famous Hummus in Jerusalem. The restaurant has been open for the last 80

years and is passed on from father to son. Next we walk the streets in the Muslim quarter

and Mounir points out the smells… he say they’re unique to the city and they remind him of

his childhood. From the Muslim quarter we move to the Jewish quarter and Mounir explains

how they, Muslim, Jewish, and Christian lived together within the walls of the old city in

perfect harmony before the 1948 war of independence by Israel – when Jerusalem was

divided into two sections one under the Israeli control the other under the Jordanian

control. Since then the fear has been implanted in the hearts of old friends. In 1967 Israel

occupied the other half of Jerusalem but until today the city is claimed by both Palestinians

and Israelis. The Muslim Quarter is the same as it was 50 years ago, so is the Jewish and the

Christian quarters… only the old friends are now enemies… you can feel the hatred. Walking

in the Jewish quarter we were looked at in horror whenever Mounir spoke in loud Arabic totease a passing rabbi. We get to the Wailing Wall… and yes we were allowed in! We both

look very much like tourists so we walk in after being asked politely to put on a Kippur. We

walk under the Dome of the Rock were excavations are being conduct looking for the lost

temple. The Muslims fear that the excavations will cause the collapse of the Dom of the

Rock one of the holiest sites to Moslems - a constant friction point. They’d never dream of

letting us in if they knew we were Palestinians!

We walk from the Jewish quarter back to the Muslim Quarter and then to the Armenian

Quarter - a group of 2000 Armenian Christians that came to the city before any wars started

They never mix with the other quarters and they keep to themselves. Mounir takes me to the

Christian quarter and the church of the Holy Sepulchre. I light five candles for my family.

don’t believe in religion but being a Christian and knowing that my mum would like me to…



oblige and light the candles, one for each member of my family. To end my old city tour

Mounir takes me to an old sweets shop that makes Moutabak - a pastry stuffed with fetta

cheese and honey. The place looks old and dirty; the owner greets us and starts making the

pastry sweet. He is very old and Mounir tells me he has been making these sweets for the

last 40 years… and his father before him! They were delicious. Before we pay Mounir asks

the guy to take us to the back room, I wonder what’s in the back room? The back room

opens to an under ground dungeon. As soon as he switches the lights on I’m amazed to see

the remains of some 2500 year old Roman ruins! In the back of a sweet shop!

The next day I’m in Taybeh, a Christian village 20 km away from Jerusalem, the only village

in Palestine where the population are all of Christian belief, and the only village with a beer

brewery “Taybeh Beer” – my village. In the distance I see the twinkling lights of Jerusalem.

A city with three religions, but only one soul, the soul of an old beautiful city. I now believe

my Jewish friend from the bar… its not the religion that causes problems, it’s the fear. The

Israelis fear Arabs want to throw them in the sea… not true – they just want to be equal. The

Palestinians fear the Israelis want to take all of their land… they can’t – they just want to be

accepted. Don’t misunderstand me… there are forces in the Palestinian camp that want al

the Israelis out of the land of Palestine and back to what it was 50 years ago. Some Israelis

want to keep all of Jerusalem and all the settlements… these forces are imperialist forces,they are external forces that manage to plant the fear in the public - and now more than

ever. Kill the fear and you solve the problem. I believe it.

Kill the fear and you will awaken the soul of the old city. A city with three quarters that has

been connected for thousands of years… Suddenly I awaken from my thinking by a flash of

light in the distant… in Jerusalem? I run inside, switch on the news, and I hear of a bomb

explosion in Jerusalem… the same spot I was talking to the two girls a few hours ago on Jafa

Street. That night, I hopped they were ok.




Week 4 - The bones of a hero

The hero is Abed Al-Kader Al-Husseini, the Che of Palestinians. He was killed in the 1948 war

when Israel was created and 80% of Palestine became Israel. 485 Villages were destroyed

and millions became refugees. Al-Husseini was killed in an uneven street war between a

group of Arab Nationalist hastily assembled army and the well-equipped Jewish gangs. These

Jewish gangs later become the backbone of the army of the newly formed Israel.

I don’t intend to give you a history lesson; I just wanted to highlight some background

information about the hero of our story.

Before I start, you can choose to believe me… or not. I’m telling you a story… but this story

happened to me in its entirety.

The story starts in my UNDP office, Jimmy comes running to me with a sad look on his face,

“Fasil is dead”, he says. My reply came fast, “I just saw him on TV last night, in Kuwait!”

Fasil is a very respected politician both by Palestinians and Israeli’s - I mean moderate

Palestinians and Israelis. Fasil is more than a politician, he is a fighter for a Palestinian

Jerusalem, a promoter of coexistence - so much so that after spending years in the Israelijails he went on to learn Hebrew and worked hard for years to nurture the concept of peace.

Fasil was one of the last honest heroes. I admired him – not for being honest but for being

able to be both a hero and a peacemaker. Fasil died of a massive heart attack while on an

official visit to Kuwait – naturally in the office every one was saying they gave Fasil a heart a

attack, the Kuwaitis - something I almost believe. Some said he was sick after the Israel

army’s tear gas incident, whatever the reason he died… both Palestinians and Israelis lost a

peacemaker.

The next day I went with my cousin to Fasil’s funeral. Yasser Arafat had flown with Fasil’s

body from Jordan to Ramallah – tens of thousands marched with the Palestinian-flag-draped

coffin to the Ramallah checkpoint where they had to say their final goodbyes and Fasil

continued his journey to Jerusalem – Palestinians from the West bank are not allowed to



enter Jerusalem. Even Yasser Arafat can’t go past the checkpoint. In Jerusalem I was waiting

along with all of East Jerusalem - it seemed. We waited in the heat of the summer for hours

waiting for the hero to come back home to the Orient House - the Symbol of an Arabic East

Jerusalem.

Palestinian flags everywhere… black flags everywhere, the Koran, famous personalities

making speeches, some Arabs, some Israeli leftists… everybody seemed united in their

respect for the man… his photos remain – even a week later – in every shop, on every wall,

even the cars carry photos of Fasil with the Dom of the Rock in the background. It seems

that the city refuses to forget her son, Fasil.

Fasil was buried next to his father in Al-Harem Al-Sharif. I forgot to tell you Fasil is the son

of Abed Al-Kader Al-Husseini. Something tells me that they will both always be symbols of

the Palestinian heroism and struggle against the attempt to erase the Palestinian identity ,

and uproot it from its roots in Jerusalem.

That night coming back from Ramallah I needed to get a sharoot – a shared taxi – to get

home from central Jerusalem to the Mount of Olives. It was 9 pm and there was hardly

anyone in the streets. Few drivers were hanging around waiting for passengers that neverarrived. They tried to make me pay for the whole car but I said I’d wait.

Ten minutes and a Palestinian youth came by. He was dressed smartly, and fashioned a very

trendy haircut. He looked smart, educated, a typical Jerusalemite Arab. He looked around

and asked the drivers if they were leaving soon. “No” the answer was. I could feel that

although this guy looked quite normal, walked normal, smiled normal, something was

wrong… his glassy eyes, his slow manner of speech, soft spoken but very spooky and dreamy

voice that you don’t want to hear. He kept talking about anything and everything, he

wouldn’t stop. Asking the driver about the tyres on his car, the food he ate, the number of

his children and why would he wait so long? Why not go home if there are no passengers?

Questions just kept coming in the same manner! Some were directed to me: “Why wait?”

“Do you want to walk with me?” “Its not a long walk to the Mount of Olives”. No need to say





Week 5 - “A Bloody Zeinib” in Beirut

Sitting on the balcony of the gatehouse where I’ve been staying in Jerusalem for the last five

weeks, a breath taking view of the city stretching in front of me to as far as the eyes can

see, the Dom of the Rock shining in the distant sparkling lights of the old city, a certain

charm, a glass of whiskey, and the mix of “Um Koulthume” music from the radio and the

chattering of the guards below me talking politics – the balcony is right on top of the gate of

the Augusta Victoria Hospital.

Living in the gatehouse of the hospital is certainly an experience. The hospital sits on a

prime real estate position on top of the Mount of the Olives. The balcony provides the best

view to the old city… no better place to sip my whiskey, unwind from the busy day at the

office.

Now I feel like writing.

I don’t know if I should write about my trip to Lebanon and Jordan – I just got back two days

ago and still have a vivid image of downtown Beirut - or should I write about my hectic day

at the office, my encounter with an Israeli soldier this morning, or should I just write about

how I feel about the cease-fire and the current strange political climate?

It was 1973, I was 3 years old then. I have this clear vivid memory of holding my dad’s hand

walking on a bustling street of lights, carnival, and lots of people. I remember pulling my

dad’s hand and pointing to a clown walking on two wooden legs. It’s amazing why this

memory has stuck in my head. My mum tells me the street was Al-hamra Street, one of the

most famous streets of Beirut – we had lived there in a hotel for a whole six months waiting

for a visa to Israel that never came.

Since 1973 Beirut has gone through a lot of stuff, a civil war, massacres, an Israeli invasion,

Hezb-Allah liberation of the south, and now a process of rebuilding.



I arrived at Beirut airport and found a UN driver waiting for me with a name sign. On the

way to my hotel in Al-hamra Street I wondered if it’s the same hotel I stayed in with my

mum, dad, and baby sister 28 years ago? I feel old for a second. I tell the driver about my

clown story and he tells me that it must have been around the same time of the year as they

have an annual carnival.

The next three days in Beirut taught me a lot about the spirit of the Lebanese people.

Coming out of a twenty years of bloody fighting, they certainly know how to party and enjoy

life. I thought maybe it’s a post war effect but I’m told it was even more so before the war.

Only in Beirut you would be I taken to a restaurant at 12am for dinner! That night I had just

spent an evening in downtown Beirut in one of the trendy bars in Solidire. Solidire is the

rebuilt downtown area in Beirut, a very strange place with strange architecture - a mixture

of North African, Parisian, and Italian designs. All of these new buildings, trendy bars, and

lush plazas mix strangely with a bunch of war damaged buildings that remain untouched as a

witness to the ugliness of war.

What a strange feeling to sit in the terrace of a trendy bar sipping my “Almaza” Beer looking

into a plaza with a clock in the middle of it, and a stretch of paved streets with new

buildings strangely designed, barely occupied. At the end of the paved street and betweenthe two lines of the new building you can see the remains of huge building totally damaged

by the bombs, the thousands of bullet holes, and the half hanging, half demolished

balconies. I sat there thinking and listening to Moa'taz telling me about his experience of the

war. He tells me this plaza was the centre of some of the most fierce battles between the

fighting militias; thousands got killed in the same spot we’re sitting. He points at the clock:

“See the clock? This was used by the artillery as a marking target”.

Next we visit Moa'taz’s Children’s Art Centre in Shatilla, a tiny office with lots of videos,

books, computers and some video editing equipment, oh, and posters everywhere. We watch

a few videos made by the children in the camps and Moa'taz explains these kids have no

hopes, and they even don’t dare to hope. He says he is frustrated by how disheartened the

kids are – he offered them some scholarships but the kids reject it fearing the



disappointment of not finding a job afterwards. The movies were good but I was getting

hungry so I was more than happy when I was taken to "Abed Al –wahab” traditional Lebanese

restaurant.

It was 12am and we went straight up to the roof. The restaurant is right on the line dividing

East and West Beirut where the fighting was concentrated. From the roof I could see all the

buildings around us, all were badly damaged by the war and still remain so. Moa’taz and his

friend Mai - a doctor interested in witchcraft – take it upon themselves to order. First a

bottle of Lebanon’s famous drink, Arak – a very strong white spirit. Then a collection of

maza: Hummus, Tabouleh, Fattoush, Raw minced meat, Raw veal, Labeneh, Hot Hummus

with pine nuts, Grilled Haloumi cheese and much more! Moa’taz asks for three large

tomatoes, a lemon and a collection of spices, “I will make you a Bloody Zienib, the Lebanese

version of Bloody Mary” he smiles.

You carve the tomatoes, empty the pulp and leave the juice, add Arak, lemon, salt, and

chilli, more spices, and drink a very refreshing cocktail. By 4am I’m through my fourth

Bloody Zienib, and Moa’taz declares that it’s time to leave because he has to start work at

8am. I nod agreement.

I love Lebanon, from the Mountains near Bybilos to the Beaches, to the old women smoking

Argyle on the side of the street by the waterfront, to the beautiful dark skinned women in

the famous extravagant clubs… I love it all. But I have to say that Beirut to me is a holiday

place and I could never live there.

I arrive at Tel Aviv airport. A smile from the girl at the passport control, she stamps a visa

for me, and I walk through without being searched. For some strange reason they usually

assume that I’m an Israeli! Other tourists are being questioned and search, including angry

American tourists. I walk through without even being asked any questions - me, the

Palestinian arriving from Lebanon!

Sohail Dahdal, 20th of June 2001



Week 6 - Reaching the skies

It’s not that I never saw them, I just never paid enough attention to why they fly.

How often did you walk a street, everyday, going to work… and one day you discover that

there are things on that street that you have never seen before… they were there, you just

weren’t looking.

I walked the streets of Jerusalem for the last two months. Everyday I would walk by

Damascus Gate and walk up the street alongside the walls of the old city to the New Gate,

where my Auntie lives.

I walked by the wall many time without even stopping to notice it. Today, as it’s my last

week here in Jerusalem my beloved city, I was taking my time examining the huge wal

while walking down from the New Gate towards Damascus gate. You know, its amazing to

think the same wall has existed for thousands of years, just imagine the bloody wars that

this place has witnessed, and the future bloody wars this place will witness. The wall

remains there, silent but strong, always ready to protect the old city from any invasion

whether it’s a cultural invasion or a military occupation. Wars come and go and the old city

remains, charmed by age as it is charmed by its hidden gardens and busy Souks.

As I looked up to the height of the wall I saw them flying. They are little kites, white and

red, made of plastic. They remind me of the Red Cross – and they should have reminded me

of the Austrian flag but they didn’t at the time. You follow the strings and you see a few

Palestinian kids trying their best to control their flying machines, it looks to me like it’s an

art they have mastered. The kites fly really high as if they’re angels watching over

Jerusalem. If I was a kite I would see the walls of the old city, and inside I would see the

churches, the mosques, and the synagogues all next to each other. In between them I would

see the heritage stone houses with their hidden gardens.

For a second I stop and watch the kids. They are totally concentrating, unaware of the

soldiers meters away from them, unaware of the tourists, unaware of me. I wonder if this is



their escapism from the unbearable effect of occupation – everybody needs a way to escape

reality, especially the Middle East realities. Often, it’s hard to ignore the bullets – the

rubber coated ones - or to escape the closures, the uprooting of trees, and so forth, things

that we all know about, and I have no desire to lessen their stark injustice by casually listing

them here.

I look at one of them – the kids - he is no older than ten years old. His kite is flying higher

than the others, you can see it on his face at this moment of time he is the king. For that

moment of time he doesn’t have to answer to anyone, not even the soldiers.

I think maybe this kid and others come here to fly their kites as an act of defiance – “You

can arrest me, you can stop me from going anywhere but you can’t stop my kite from flying

higher than you can reach”. For the Palestinian kids it’s only natural that they would want

to fly kites. We all long for freedom but no one longs for it more than a nine year old born in

an Intifada, and living another one, still under occupation, still can’t travel, still can’t see

the future. His kite flies high and for a moment he is free, as free as the wind of the

Sahara’s, as free as his kite would be if he let go of the string. Only he wouldn’t, for the kite

is his only friend. With the kite he can fly higher than the walls of his imprisonment. For a

moment he is a king, I feel it, and I wonder is this kid going to throw some stones tomorrow?Is he going to get killed? Or is he, one day, going to fly his kite over Jerusalem, a free man.

I leave the kids, the kites, and the walls of the old city and continue my walk contemplating

my last day at work tomorrow. Tomorrow I finish my UN mission and I will have to leave

Jerusalem to go back the Western World were people will ask me, was it dangerous? I wil

answer no; it was beautiful and sad, majestic and wounded, restless and occupied. I will

answer no it wasn’t dangerous, it was where it is worth living, and it is worth dying.

Sohail Dahdal, 6th of July 2001



This booklet is dedicated to every woman, man, and childliving under any form of occupation and yet has the dignityto say: “I am…”

Sohail Dahdal, 2002



What an absolute pleasure and joy to read your email this fine and sunny monday morning in sydney. you write so verybeautifully and what an amazing time you're having in a place that's been through so much. there is nothing i could possibly writeto you that would even come close to being interesting compared with the experiences you're having

Amelia Wakeman, Sydney

Thanks very much for keeping me informed of your travels. Thanks especially for this most recent e-mail. It has to be the most

beautiful and poignant prose I have ever read on the subject.

Craig Winzelberg, Denver

First time out of all the other "but im a palestinian!" ones, you've send an email that deserved an oscar in writing - you've

touched my heart and im sure you've touched many others.

Ritta, Sydney

I wanted to tell you that I have been reading your mails with close attention. You probably remember that I have a lot of very

good jewish friends and that I went to Israel 4 years ago. I loved this country and was particularly attracted to Jerusalem. It's an

incredible city and reading your mails I can totally picture all the scenes you describe.

Laure Azema, Paris

Thanks so much for your stories. Please keep sending them or whatever else to me. I think you know that they actually tutches

me.

Anne Nybo, Copenhagen

Very beautiful writing - thank you! Where to next…?

x Gen, Sydney

Thank you Sohail. This was very moving. I hope you are doing well. I've been receiving your e-mails and I am amazed by you

descriptions. Thank you for having us be a part of your journey and your experience.

Asra Rasheed, LA

Keep sending your journal. It's almost like travelling with you, almost.

Stephane Zerbib, Sydney

Fuck man, that's beautiful. it sounds like you are in a lost mythical land. dangerous yet invigerating. i'd love to see it, feeel it

and smell it before they blow it all up.

Robert Douman, Sydney

You're second email shed new light and presented a different angle on the situation in Palestine. I don't know much about the

ongoings in Palestine (except what you hear via the media) but being there would definitely open one's eyes to other factors -

like the true impact and toll it is taking on not only the country but more importantly the people - things that are only ever

briefly mentioned.

Reshma Prasad, Sydney

Documents

Kites Don't Fly