The Palestinian Woman

 

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"The Palestinian woman... a bejeweled crown, and tower of power..."
R. Ayyad -Administrator, Ayyad Central
 

Palestinian women: fighting two battles *

On March 8, 2003, which is recognized as International Women's Day, several Palestinian women's organizations released a public statement, in which they declared: "Looking towards the eighth of March, we, Palestinian women, stand defiantly over the graves of our innocent martyrs and children, challenging the violations of human rights practiced against our people daily." Later the statement goes on to say: "[W]e raise our voices loudly, as one people, demanding from international society to provide international protection for our people, living, dying and existing under occupation. We demand a halt to all forms of war crimes and violations of our human rights which we face daily. We call upon our civil society partners to build a feminist agenda as an integral part of their programs for the sake of a just society in which all are equal without discrimination or abuse."

The statement is a fitting illustration of the dual battle that Palestinian women wage against the obstacles of occupation and the challenges of patriarchy. Any women's movement that has had to contend with patriarchal as well as imperialist forces has had to wage a similar battle, fought on two fronts. This paper will outline the history of the Palestinian women's movement, highlight the issues that differentiate it from other global women's movements, and discuss the future of Palestinian women's rights.

History

In the United States, the first wave of the feminist movement arose decades after independence from Britain had been sought and gained. The ground-breaking summit on women's rights was held in 1848 in Seneca Falls, New York, and women finally achieved suffrage in 1920 with the passing of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. In the West Bank and Gaza, however, feminism and nationalism have always had a concurrent and parallel history.

The history of colonial occupation and dominance in the Palestinian territories has always marked its physical, political, and cultural landscapes. While the 500-year reign of the Ottomans in Palestine had produced a flowering of literature, music, and culture in general, corruption and brutality had marked the last years of Ottoman rule. During this time, Palestinians endured mass oppression: rates of literacy among men and women remained quite low, and most Palestinians lived an agrarian life, tilling the soil on their farms to sustain their living. It is not unusual to hear stories of Palestinian men who were kidnapped by Ottoman armies to fight in battles. (Indeed, I have heard from my own family that my paternal grandfather was so kidnapped, and after the war's end, he walked and hitchhiked his way from Syria back to his village in the West Bank.)

After the First World War, when Palestine came under the control of the British Empire, life did not significantly improve. However, Palestinians became more urbanized as cities like Ramallah and Nablus began to crystallize into mass centers of trade and commerce. Newspapers such as Filastin, Mirat al-Sharq, and the Palestine Bulletin circulated, keeping Palestinians from Haifa on the coast to Jenin in the north to Jericho (a-Riha) near the Dead Sea connected and informed.

Almost immediately, however, pockets of Jews began arriving in Palestine from Western Europe, establishing small colonies and towns. In 1896, Theodor Herzl had written his famous book, Der Judenstaat, or The Jewish State, arguing that a national homeland for the Jewish people was essential to their survival. As a result, the Zionist movement spread quickly through Europe, its fire no doubt fanned by the fact that Jews had long been the victims of anti-Semitic practices that made life unbearable for many. The Jews who left Europe to settle in Palestine were initially befriended by the native Palestinians; this is not surprising, since communities of Sephardic Jews (also known as "Arab Jews," because they speak Arabic and are identified ethnically as Arabs) had always existed in Palestine. Furthermore, the medical and agricultural skills and knowledge that these Jewish immigrants brought with them from Europe often proved useful and intriguing to the community in general.

Problems arose, however, when the influx of Jews from Europe increased exponentially. In 1914, 6 percent of the population had been Jewish and the rest Arab; by 1939, as a result of the increasing horror of the Holocaust in Europe, the Jewish population had risen to 30 percent. Furthermore, by this time, the purpose of the increasing numbers of immigrating Jews had become clear to most Palestinians, even to villagers and those living in rural areas: despite confusing British claims to the contrary, Palestine was to become the new Jewish homeland. The threat was understood immediately, and Palestinians began mobilizing to resist it.

Until this time, most rural Palestinian women had shared the same lot as the men: living a rudimentary, simple lifestyle, they shared farming duties with their families and husbands, while also caring for their children and managing a household. Politically passive and uninvolved, this group of women had more immediate concerns: preserving their livelihoods and that of their families under crippling poverty. Middle- and upper-class women, however, had already begun to organize, also in parallel stride with men of their socioeconomic class. In 1903, a Palestinian women's organization was founded in Acre, on the current Israeli coast--one of the first known women's organizations in the Palestinian territories.

 
 
Frankly, as we started building this page in recognition of the splendor and strength of the Palestinian woman, and as we started to  create the rough draft of the introduction to the page, in the literature I own I came across An exurb from: Women on the Hilltop, by Dr. Hannan Mikha'il-Ashrawi, that I believed intricately described all the Palestinian women I have met in my life time so far, and in such a powerful way that it sent chills throughout my body as it will yours... to the Palestinian woman... a bejeweled crown, and tower of power...
 
"... I pick up a stone. Clutching it tightly in my fist, I raise my arm. The impulse to hurl it with all my strength rises in my body, through my veins, like a viscous substance cold and deliberate. The mid-morning sun reflects the bracelet on my wrist and the blinding glare freezes all motion. A gold snake, its scales worn out by years of scrubbing and cleaning, of embracing and releasing, of dressing and undressing, stares at me blindly with two ruby eyes. I was only fourteen when the snake, with new scratchy scales, was wound around my wrist as part of my dowry the mahr in partial payment of the bride price. Along with it came a heavy halabi (from Aleppo) gold chain from which dangled an intricate lozeh, the filigreed almond which was even bigger than the one my mother wore hanging from her neck in between her wrinkled breasts. Both almonds were empty. On my other wrist, a thick coin bracelet with genuine Osmali and Inglizii coins completed my engagement gear.
 
I felt rich and cherished then, entering the mysterious cult of womanhood fully adorned in the tradition of my sex and race. The coin bracelet was the first to go in that year of drought, when the olive harvest failed and our grapevines withered in early summer. Next the lozeh went to pay for Walid's schooling, Walid, my only born, the joy of my life, the hope of my future while he lived. But the snake remained. I wore it on my wrist all those nineteen years until it wore me, winding itself around my thickening flesh, its tail meeting its head in a tightening double circle that refused to slacken. Not all the soap or oil greasing my hand could slip it off my wrist, until I stopped noticing its existence. We became one.
 
Those same ruby eyes stared coldly at me on my wedding night, as I clutched the bedpost frantically praying for the pain to stop and bit my lips with a fierce determination not to scream, whilst the sheet turned ruby red with the blood of my twice torn body. It was my duty, my fate and pride as a virgin bride, I was told. But no one warned me or armed me against the pain. On that same bed Walid was born. At fifteen I watched my body being taken away from me again as the dayehl poked and prodded between my thighs and kneaded my swollen stomach like leavened dough with a calculated impersonality that was even more terrifying than my pain. For a whole day and night my body refused to give up its inhabitant, while I prayed and prayed for a boy in order to spare this unknown child a woman's fate.
 
I cursed my husband then for his unbidden foray inside my body, and my mother for her forbidden secrets which she never divulged. 'You'll forget,' she had said. 'All women do, or the race will end.' I never forgot. And as the screams welled up from the depth of my stomach through my parched throat, I froze at the dispassionate glare of the ruby eyes, and in silence and blood gave birth to Walid. At fifteen I became Imm Walid, and Abu Walid strutted about with the pride of fatherhood, having sired a son, while I silently cursed my fertility and worshipped its fruit. That was eighteen years ago. Walid's eyes were open when I got to him. Staring blindly into an empty sky, they did not recognize me.
 
With all my pent-up pain and the million silent screams I could not release, I pressed my palm to the open gash which the bullet had made in its passage through his head. Blood and brains mingled as I cradled his head on my lap and drenched my thawb with a warm thick liquid that seeped through to my breasts and thighs. I knew that the bracelet was uncomfortable in its cold hardness and I tried to remove it from beneath his head. But he felt nothing. I wrapped his tortured head with the hatta (scarf) he had worn around his neck ('It's our national symbol, Yamma') I cried searing hot tears, silently, gently singing a broken lullaby, 'Nam ya habibi nam'.
 
Abu Walid, the waled, (the father) now stares into space; no longer a father, he fingers his beads and murmurs 'la illaha illa Allah'. I am the waledah; (the mother) having once given birth, I claim my right over life and death. The pain of the latter, I swear, is greater and more unforgivable. The soldiers appear, and the snake coiled around my wrist glitters wickedly like an obscene signal. With my free hand I pull at it, twist it back and forth, but it refuses to let go. I pick up a stone; resting my wrist on a rock, I strike at the snake with almost insane strength. My wrist is bloody, but I feel no pain. The snake breaks off. With my mangled hand I grasp the stone damp with blood and with all my strength hurl it at the pointing guns."
 
More to come on the subject of the Palestinian woman soon...
 
(*) Monthly Review,  May, 2004  by Susan Muaddi Darraj

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