Haifa: The War

May 14, 2021 

It’s one in the morning and I have a dry cough. I’m in a dark alleyway in Wadi al-Nisnas in Haifa, and a curtain opens from behind one of the windows of a Palestinian home. I drag my hand up to greet him. “An Arab, brother,” I say. 

“God bless you. Take care of yourselves,” the man responds as if to a group, even though I was alone in the dark.

I was about to ask him for a cigarette, but his well wishes weighed down on me more than I could handle. “Take care of yourselves.” A dry tenderness, fenced off by a masculinity that wants to protect its surroundings, disarmed by a fraternal tone. I didn’t have any words to offer him, so instead I coughed dryly again. The reputation of the movement now fell on my shoulders. The movement does not beg for cigarettes. I cough. I must have caught a cold in the middle of the summer. 

I burned away my last rolling paper with the cigarette I smoked an hour ago. My bag, with everything inside it, was wet from the water cannons. Heavily armed police forces surround the Wadi from all corners. 

The word “heavily” has never been more felt, more understood. Colossal black body armor: inside, there are people so angry they are verging on madness, holding clubs in their hands, weapons on their backs, and bags full of stun grenades. Explosions, the sound of clashes coming from the German Colony and Emile Habibi Square, voices from farther out on Nabi Street. 

Three hours of confronting the police and the settlers who attacked Haifa’s Palestinian neighborhoods. Exhausted, I arrived to the Wadi utterly exhausted and stayed in the dark to catch a breath. I have a bag with packs of sugar that I took from a cafe for times like this. The packs are wet. The bag is wet. 

A cough, again. 

***

Seven hours earlier, I was walking in the German Colony. The tourist street was full of Eid decorations set up outside restaurants, but it looked desolate. Haifa’s municipality workers arrested — literally — the garbage containers so we couldn’t use them as barricades. At the intersection, which we named Bassel al-Araj Junction, Yoni, the intelligence officer who arrested me twice in less than six months, was standing and giving orders. “The meeting point will be here,” he said to a police officer in Hebrew. He means ‘here, we will crush the protesters’. Our eyes caught each other. His chest puffed up like a roasted turkey fresh out of the oven. He smiled and raised three fingers at me. I think he was threatening me with a third arrest. 

*** 

In the besieged Wadi, you could hear the voices of people clashing with police forces by the entrances. Tear gas is everywhere. Arrests. Sounds of things shattering. The young people took an honorable stand to prevent the settlers from attacking the neighborhood, so the settler police attacked them. 

Wherever you move, you can hear the sound of the police radios. They closed off all the entrances. The road to my house in Hadar is now completely cut off. In a little bit, the intensity of the clashes will subside, and the neighborhood will reek of extinguished plastic smoke mixed with the smell of garbage and tear gas. The heavily armed will start combing the neighborhood. I thought about knocking on one of the doors, but the lights were completely off. 

*** 

The following day: Eid 

I did not sleep until 4 am. I woke up four hours later to the sound of my phone. News is circulating on WhatsApp about the next settler attack. A call to gather in one of the Jewish neighborhoods. They are asking everyone to bring weapons. 

I write these words exactly before the time of the settler’s scheduled attack. They will attack us at 7:30. It is now 6:35. I had gone back home to take a breath, but I didn’t find anything to do, so I decided to write about the situation in Haifa in fulfillment of a promise I made to my friend Omar Said, an editor for Mada Masr. 

What even motivates you to write when you’re about to go to war? What kind of self-indulgence drives you, amid dozens of phone messages coming your way, to try to say something to people who are thousands of kilometers away from you? 

I think I just want to rest assured that I said something before going today. 

This dramatic tone is laughable. But today, more than any other time before, we know that expanding the scope of clashes here will force the military to retreat from the borders of Gaza sooner. This is our small lot from the big war.

I am reminded of this manifesto: 

Strike with resolve, or don’t strike at all 

Walk backward facing forward, or don’t run away at all 

I cannot stop thinking about Sarajevo. Paramilitary militias besieging an isolated and defenseless society. The world (and the police) is watching. No one is spared. 

*** 

I just came back from a meeting in Wadi al-Nisnas, a public meeting in preparation for tonight’s celebration. I don’t know why I had imagined that I was in Sarajevo. People are not frightened. Young men and women came from all over Haifa, awlad balad in every sense of the word. Tattoos on the arms of some of them. Traces of knife wounds on the faces of others. A meeting full of screams and shouts, we know this will be a real grinder. Today, we will face up to the fascist gangs again with our flesh and soul. We agreed on a meeting point (it is now 6:40 PM) in twenty minutes from now. Everyone knows that the fascists are armed. Members of the communist party are asking those who are new to learn how to protect their families and houses and to not burn trash cans on the street. The meeting is over. I came back to the house to catch a breath. 

I decided to kill time by writing something akin to an article for people I do not know. I think some of them might say “Haraaam, the Palestinians!” then share the article on their pages. 

I am thinking about my children. Last night, they saw from the balcony of our house dozens of settlers destroying cars and houses of Arab families on the street nearby. What kind of night will they see? 

War, once more. War! 

I do not have anything else to say. At least I kept my promise to Omar. I think I will go now.