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TRAILS OF TEARS

Alexis De Tocqueville, in DEMOCRACY

IN AMERICA, witnesses an event

on the Trail of Tears: the expulsion

of the so-called Five Civilised Tribes –

Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Muscogee,

and Seminole – from the Deep South.

They were expelled to make way for share croppers,

gold prospectors, cotton plantations.

The government promised the people asylum

on what it described as empty grasslands

to the west of the Mississippi.

 

In December 1831

De Tocqueville is in Memphis, Tennessee.

The snow has frozen hard, and immense ice floes

are moving fast down the Mississippi.

He watches a large family group of Choctaws

arrive, among them are old people dying

and newborns. Their possessions are only

what they have been able to carry

on the long exhausting walk from the south east.

They are silent as they pass him, knowing

their injuries are beyond remedy.

There is no room for their dogs in the vessels

that will take them across to the west bank.

As the boats leave the shore the dogs begin to howl,

then enter the icy waters to follow them.

 

***

 

De Tocqueville’s sympathetic testimony

seems the exception that proves the following

rule: that it is some sort of hubris makes

those of European heritage

record and justify – almost by default –

in detail, and with self-righteousness,

their settler-colonial iniquities,

their removal of people from their homelands,

their furtherance of capitalism,

whether by cavalry, cannons, starvation,

litigation, fraud, whether in

the Americas, Ireland, Siberia,

Australia, Algeria, New Zealand,

Indo-China, Malaya, Kenya,

Tanzania, Uganda, Rhodesia,

South Africa…

 

 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Shortly after the start of the Gaza war

the villagers sought sanctuary

for themselves and their flocks of goats and sheep

with family and friends elsewhere in the West Bank,

while their immediate neighbours – messianic

tyrants, gangsters, bullies – trashed the place,

destroying most of the olive trees

and the buildings, including a school

constructed earlier this century.

 

After due process the Israeli High Court

has granted the villagers permission

to return. Designating the village

an archaeological site, the West Bank

Israeli Civil Administration

has forbidden any re-building,

including plastic sheets covering ruins.

Some of the men have returned with a small flock.

They shelter from the sun under what is left

of the olive groves – and from the cold night

in the rubble, with one of them on guard.

 

This is Zanuta, a Palestinian

Bedouin village on the high ridge of hills

twelve and half miles south of Hebron,

a continuous settlement since the iron age,

an Ottoman trading post on an ancient

caravan route, an ancestral place.

 

On the remaining section of one of the school’s

concrete walls are splayed handprints: near the top

are the teacher’s in white, and below, mostly

also in white but some sky blue, are

the children’s in neat rows.

 

 

 

 

PLANETARY ALIGNMENTS

David Selzer By David Selzer8 Comments2 min read1.3K views

Against a greyish backdrop of an entire

block of concrete apartments in Gaza –

hapazardly demolished by aerial

and/or artillery and/or tank

bombardments – a photograph in Haaretz

shows a group of ten female soldiers

in olive green posing relaxedly

for a selfie. I do not know their names.

They are somebody’s daughters, who, no doubt,

would consider themselves and probably are

generally decent, and well meaning.

 

In another Haaretz photograph,

about an hour and half away by car – the time

it would take me to drive from here to Blackpool –

is a ten year old West Bank boy called Amro,

a name which means ‘To Live a Long Time’.

He has a serious look on his face

as he poses for the camera.

He is holding up a flannelgraph version

of the Solar System, which he has made.

 

I do not know what has become of the young women

posing like tourists among the ruins.

 

Sitting on the family car’s front seat

with his dad and his seven year old brother,

Amro – for no apparent reason, by design

or accident – was shot in the head,

and died. The bullet was fired by a young man

in a purpose-built concrete watch tower.

 

 

Note: Here are the links to the two photographs described in the poem and published in Haaretz on 20.3.24 & 16.3.24 respectively –

 

https://img.haarets.co.il/bs/0000018e-5d2a-d4b2-afcf-dfbe35cd0001/83/0a/07a1ddba4a94a9bc052eaacac8e1/033102.jpg?height=488&width=840

 

https://img.haarets.co.il/bs/0000018e-4466-d1ed-a7ef-55772e9c0000/ea/b3/bca7876c40a1a4f00e71ffc9afd3/55974219.JPG?height=960&width=960

 

SPEAKING OF STONES

David Selzer By David Selzer6 Comments2 min read1.3K views

‘For Gaza shall be forsaken, and Ashkelon a desolation: they shall drive out Ashdod at the noon day, and Ekron shall be rooted up.’ ZEPHANIAH 2.4

‘Marco Polo describes a bridge, stone by stone. “But which is the stone that supports the bridge?” Kublai Khan asks. “The bridge is not supported by one stone or another,” Marco answers, “but by the line of the arch that they form.” Kublai Khan remains silent, reflecting. Then he adds: “Why do you speak to me of the stones? It is only the arch that matters to me.'” Polo answers: “Without stones there is no arch.”’ INVISIBLE CITIES, Italo Calvini

 

When they were shown the abandoned houses,

with the half-eaten food on the table,

and the children’s toys scattered as if in haste,

the upended chair, broken glass, blood smeared,

they immediately remembered their parents’ tales

of what it was like at times in the old country,

and then, it seems, immediately forgot.

 

***

 

After many, many decades he returned,

to his village in the forest, expecting

to find all the houses razed, and the ruins

blackened with fire, instead they seemed pristine,

and each of them inhabited, including

his family’s. When he explained haltingly

to a passer-by – the language returning

the more he spoke – who he was, and why

he had returned, the villager went quickly

from house to house, rousing the inhabitants.

They chased him into the forest, throwing clods,

shouting abuse he remembered so well.

 

***

 

She pretended to be a stranger, strolling

past the gates to the courtyard of the house,

studying a tourist map. The wrought iron gates

had had metal sheets welded to them

to hide the courtyard – and the bougainvillea

had been ripped from the top of the high wall

and replaced with razor wire. There was CCTV

at each vantage point of the property.

A little girl suddenly appeared

at a window on the third floor, where

the bedrooms used to be, and waved. She waved back,

and whispered, “You are standing where I once stood”.

 

***

 

The apartment block next to the beach road

is only partially collapsed. Perhaps

the next bombardment will finish the job.

Its leaning white walls and glassless windows

are like a dystopian cenotaph.

A flat-bed cart – its many passengers

huddled as if in rain – passes, pulled

by a blinkered donkey. The Phoenician sea

breaks on the crowded beach. The sand between

the road and the water line is covered

by a disparate community

of trampled plastic tents.

 

DOUBLETHINK

‘Among ourselves it must be clear that there is no room in the country for two peoples… the only solution [after World War II ends] is a Land of Israel…without Arabs…’ Yosef Weitz, 1940.

At first glance the photo only seems to show

three men standing side by side on a slope

somewhere in Palestine. They are dressed

like professional men, Americans

or Europeans. The one in the middle

holds a map of some sort in his left hand,

and points at something in the distance

with his right. He is Yosef Weitz, Director,

Land and Afforestation Department,

Jewish National Fund. (An immigrant

from Tzarist Russia, a refugee

from pogroms, he worked on the land, something

Jews were forbidden to do in The Pale.

A dogmatic autodidact his vision

was for Eretz Israel to be a country

of forests – perhaps, unconsciously,

like the forested hills of his birthplace).

On closer inspection there are two others

in the photograph: a woman almost

totally obscured by Weitz, except

for the hem of her long skirt and the top

of her hijab, and a man – obscured

almost totally by one of Weitz’s

colleagues but for his keffiyeh.

The Arab stands behind Weitz, and to his left.

Weitz is leaning back as if it is to

the Arab he is pointing out whatever

he has seen. The Arab also holds the map.

Maybe he is trying to be helpful or

maybe the land is his.

THE NAKBA

‘…mourning and sorrow shall end,
when I return to Jerusalem…’

Mediaeval Jewish Prayer

 

‘We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.’

Mahmoud Darwish

 

On a land mass that is the size of landlocked

Rutland, the smallest county in England,

Gaza, the Earth’s third most populated

polity, has two small rivers  and a hill.

Its city, four thousand years ago,

was the site of a Pharaonic fortress.

 

Though the Jordan is inaccessible,

nowhere in the Strip is more than eight miles

from sandy beaches and the ‘Great Sea’,

the dark blue ‘Sea of the Philistines’.

 

During the so-called Suez Crisis,

as the invading Israeli infantry

reached the outskirts of Gaza City,

refugees from the Nakba – ‘catastrophe’,

‘disgrace’ – left their faded British Army tents

and clapped, thinking the young soldiers had come

to take them all back home.