LONDON, 24 July 2004 — The people of Ramallah were extremely hospitable and happy to share their experiences with us. We were there from July 8, and I came back on the 11th, but every day felt like a month, because I had so many intense encounters and heard so many interesting stories.
As you arrive at Tel Aviv airport you feel a strong sense of anxiety. One of our party who’d been to Gaza was detained for two-and-a-half hours. The guys doing the questioning were only 19-25 years old. We were questioned in the same way leaving. In fact, leaving is often worse: They go through your files; your computers; your digital camera — you end up doing ridiculous things like sending stuff by FedEx from Jerusalem.
The drive from the airport was harrowing. I was almost in tears by the time we got to Ramallah, as was everybody else in the car, seeing the people who can’t get into their towns and villages because the roads have been blocked off. What was once a 10-minute car ride is now a three-hour walk over the mountains — at the risk of incurring the wrath of patrolling soldiers.
Everyone you meet has a horrible, humiliating story to tell of their experiences at a roadblock — of a dying relative they were unable to help because they couldn’t get them through the checkpoint in time. We met a woman with a young baby, who, when she was in the last stages of pregnancy, had been forced to take all her clothes off at the roadblock. Maybe they were convinced her bump was hiding a bomb or something. Everybody has these stories, but it’s the casualness with which they tell them that’s chilling — this is just a typical day in the life of Ramallah since the intifada.
The festival’s opening night was filled with speeches by the minister of culture and various dignitaries, displays of Palestinian dancing and national costume, and a wonderful lute performance. Walter Salles’s film about Che Guevara, The Motorcycle Diaries, was shown, but we weren’t able to see all of it because the Israelis had impounded the new projector. And the old projector we had to use instead broke halfway through.
One of the aims of the competition is to foster new talent. I was on the jury and I saw some very creative Palestinian films. There were more than 400 entries of an extremely high standard for a writing competition on the theme “The moment I grew up”. The awards included a year’s scholarship to the UK’s National Film School in Beaconsfield, southeast England, and an opportunity to work at Al-Jazeera.
One of the winning films showed Israeli tanks flattening about 600 to 700 cars in the street as they entered Ramallah — literally immobilizing the community. In response, a group of Palestinians created a witty art installation, consisting of a tarmac road in the middle of a field, leading nowhere. They took about six of these cars — all of which were fairly new, but crushed — polished them up and left them on this bit of tarmac as a statement. The Israelis came back in their tanks about six weeks later and were so outraged they blew up one of the cars and knocked them all off the road. The film was a grimly funny account of the making of the installation and the Israelis’ return.
Another prizewinning film was itself like an art installation. Filmed all in one shot, it captures the efforts of an international peace group trying to prevent the tanks coming in. A tank fired bullets above the heads of the protesters, and then you would see the machine gun come down to head level, and there was this awful moment of wondering: Is it going to fire again? And then the machine gun would go up again, and fire some more rounds above their heads. It was almost like a game of chicken. And because the camera was right in the line of fire, the audience was placed in the position of the protesting women. It is an extremely powerful film.
A number of the films recorded the activities of the Israeli settlers encamped illegally around Palestinian towns and villages — shooting, throwing stones through people’s windows, beating up the kids, anything to harrass the Palestinians. One we weren’t able to see was Penny Woolcock’s controversial film, The Death of Klinghoffer. The minister for culture refused to show it because some members of the Palestinian Authority objected that it was too pro-Israeli.
Lunch in Yasser Arafat’s quarters was an extraordinary experience. His compound is a massive pile of rubble. As you go in, you are searched and frisked, and then it’s just a mess of car parts and smashed-up buildings. It’s really a war zone. Walking through, you see the Palestinian flag with a couple of rather sad-looking soldiers sitting in rooms that have no front walls. And everywhere, piled up six or seven high, are Arafat’s vehicles, all of which have been squashed. There are lots of staff and bodyguards rushing around giving contradictory orders: You are allowed to take photographs one moment, the next you’re not.
We were shown past oil drums and sandbags into Arafat’s quarters. I don’t think he’s been allowed out for three or four years. But when he came in, very briefly, he looked much better than I expected. He wasn’t shaking from Parkinson’s as he does in the footage I have seen of him. Although he looked very small and very frail, he seemed fairly relaxed and spoke a great deal in English about how he hoped the festival would help take their message around the world.
I was honored by the Palestinian custom whereby a guest is given a lump of food from the host’s plate. They pick it up and give it to you. I got a corn on the cob from Arafat’s plate, which (although it’s slowly deteriorating) is now one of my most treasured possessions.
One of the funny images I’ll take back from Ramallah was of an ancient amusement park, which originally came from Britain — from the English seaside resort of Clacton, I think. It went to Tel Aviv, and, when considered too unsafe for Tel Aviv, it went to Ramallah. It’s almost coming to bits — the big wheel just stops halfway through and you wonder if it is going to fall over. But the people there love it. Palestinian women in their formal outfits shriek with excitement as they drive the dodgems — one of their few opportunities for fun.
Part of the exhaustion of being in Ramallah is that nothing goes smoothly. There was a great deal of confusion, but the festival went ahead despite all the problems — which is a tribute to the organizers. If it is allowed time to develop it could become an enormous cultural event providing a much-needed outlet for Palestinians. It would be a tragedy if it didn’t happen again next year. I for one would like to go back. I wasn’t there nearly long enough.
