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Here she is. From inside the car, among the children of the village, I noticed this little girl. Her expression was just standing out of the crowd. Difficult to tell her age, probably between 9 and 13. I pointed a finger to the girl, telling that I wanted her, and made gestures to make her undersatand to come to my window. An older guy, the one on the left, brought her to me. He was holding her in a way that would have offended any decent woman, but for her it was not a problem. She was way to innocent and naive to undertand those things. I started to shoot like hell from very close, with manual focus against the light. They were moving a lot, so in many shoots (including this) the focus was not perfect. With her innocence, and the light coming from her back, she was expressing such a bliss, and the other guy, with his eyes and his smile, such an evil holding that poor creature thight. In the end I gave them what they wanted: money. They fought for them, and the poor girl lost. I had to yell at the others to push them back and give new money in the hand of the girl. I hope she managed to keep them, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
Once in my haveli in Bikaner I watched the photos I took, and felt overwhelmed by that scene. I felt guilty for not having done anything better for that poor girl, and I spent one night thinking about going back to the campsite where she lived and see what was possible to do to give her an opportunity… My belly, full of an awesome dinner, and a long bus trip the next day early in the morning made my desist from my nobile intents. Her photos are here to remind me what a cynical coward I am.
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Ramallah Moments
Image by Gueоrgui
Ammari
We're in H.'s beat up car, driving through Ammari, one of the refugee camps of the West Bank. Anna's in the front with her camcorder, while I'm in the backseat. According to the UNRWA, the United Nations agency dedicated to helping the Palestinian refugees, some 9000 people are registered as refugees in Ammari, including about 300 families classified as being in a "special hardship" situation.
H. Points to some of the institutions ran by the UN as we pass them: a boys' school, then, a bit further, one for girls, both behind tall concrete walls augmented by razor wire, and with guards at the gates. We pass some other walled and guarded compounds, but those belong to the Palestinian Authority's security services. Other buildings on both sides of the street are even more unsightly than in Ramallah itself: two to three stories tall, made of mostly naked concrete blocks, the urgency and, as it was then perceived, temporary nature of the constructions is unmistakable. The road itself seems to have been cemented only recently, and indeed, some dirt pathways remain.
The car comes to a stop in a narrow street. H. gets out and we follow him as he walks into a house, brushing the curtain that serves as a door out of the way. The room is dimly lit by white fluorescent lights; tables with computers on them line the wall, kids sit at those computers, and of course the whole thing sounds like a war zone: we're in an internet café, and the game played is Counter Strike, a terrorist vs. counter-terrorist affair. A short, corpulent man comes to meet us and, unlike H. he speaks some english. He hollers and the kids, strangely enough, quiet down, but are still glued to their screens, paying no particular attention to us dumbfounded westerners, standing there in the doorway. Anna asks if she can recharge her camcorder before we go out to walk through the refugee camp, but there seems to be no power outlet available, so we're rushed outside and let, do another house, which H. introduces as belonging to his family. The man from the internet café comes with us.
We step into the house. In a small, cold, dimly lit room, a dozen people, three generations are gathered. The house's patriarch, an old man in his sixties or seventies, smokes a cigarette sitting on a pillow against a wall, next to the bed on which his wife props herself up on her elbow. Men and women of H.'s age are present as well, each with his or her own little corner of the bed, or a chair to sit. Small kids run around, but stop to shyly peek at us from behind their mothers' skirts, as we unwittingly intrude upon the domestic peace. The walls are covered with various decorations, among them photographic portraits of H. and his family members. Three seats are immediately made available for us; H., as the host, stays standing. Anna plugs her camcorder in, tea is served, and the usual conversation starts.
"Where are you from?"
"What do you think of Palestine?"
I'm dying to take a picture of this family, of their living conditions, but H. would rather that I didn't. So I don't.
"Do you know what it's like, to live in a tent?"
I don't understand a word of Arabic, and most of the time the conversation isn't translated for me word for word, but this one last question is, and it brings about an implacable realization of the realities of Ammari, and, in a broader sense of the lives of the millions of Palestinian refugees.
This camp has been a temporary home since 1949. It has also been the only home two of the three generations that live in this house have ever known. The living conditions are a far cry from what they have been in the tent towns of the wars' aftermaths, but, according to the UNRWA, Ammari still suffers from overcrowding and poor sewage and water networks. It is also under constant threat of Israeli army incursions. The IDF rolls in at night, we're told, and arrest whoever they want, for whatever reason. Sometimes there are shootings, and men are killed. Most of the families in the camp, our hosts say, have had run-ins with the IDF, with one son, husband, brother detained or worse.
Later, as we walk the streets of Ammari with H. and the man from the internet café as our guides, after passing an empty space H. tells us used to be a house that became "victim of the Intifada", we come across a young girl looking up at a poster of the Palestinian Presidential Guard, announcing the death of one of its "martyrs", young man born in 1985 and killed in an incident involving the IDF special forces last december. The girl's friends show up, and the whole bunch of them surround us, playful and spunky, as Palestinian kids usually are. We take pictures and shoot video as they parade in front of us doing their best supermodel impressions. The young dead soldier is quickly forgotten.
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Ramallah Moments:
The Engineer
The Souk
The People’s Party
Ammari
Kalandia
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