The keffiyeh has been the most provocative and explicit
emblem of Palestinian solidarity since Yasser Arafat gave it global exposure in
the 60s and 70s. Throughout his political career, Arafat was rarely seen
without the traditional headdress of Arab men in the Middle East. Western media
outlined its powerful symbolism by circulating images of Leila Khaled wearing a
keffiyeh and holding an AK-47. The female member of the armed wing of the
Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), who is famed for being
involved in the 1969 high jacking of TWA flight 840, is a prominent face on the
Apartheid wall and buildings in Gaza and the West Bank to this day, as are
images of Arafat*.
In the 1980s and 90s, the scarf became a fashion item and a
way in which young left-leaning students and activists asserted their identity.
In the late 90s it even flooded department stores in Tokyo as a season
must-have. The demand for keffiyehs hit an all-time high during the second
Intifada and in response, their production shifted from Palestine to China.
Since then factories have been forced to shut down and Palestinians are even
importing the square cotton fabric with distinctive patterned stitching and
tassels. There are two factories left, located in Hebron and Bethlehem,
although neither are running at full capacity.
On 18 November, as the devastating assault on Gaza by
Israeli Occupying Forces (IOF) was intensifying, Twitter and street talk in
Ramallah was warning of house invasions and arrests in the Old City of Hebron,
as well as stone-throwing protests from Palestinian youths. A photojournalist,
human rights activist and I decided to stand witness to these events and
investigate where the symbol of Palestinian resistance was being manufactured.
Hebron is without a doubt the most volatile and ghastly
place I have ever been to. It is infamous for its vulgar Israeli settler
community that frequently hurls stones and abuse at Palestinian school children
as they bravely walk to their classrooms, amongst other acts of dehumanisation
and violence. The over-powering number of Israeli soldiers that are stationed
there to “protect” the settlers do nothing to prevent the persecution of
Hebron’s native Arab community, and have been reported to even join in when the
fancy takes them. It is like the capital of ugly in a vicious and
fast-unravelling region.
In desperate response to “Operation Pillar of Defence”, West
Bank Palestinians began to organise frequent protests and confrontations with
Israeli soldiers at the checkpoints and borders that enclose them in their
diminishing and fractured homeland.
These confrontations generally play out in the same pattern:
boys and girls from 10 – 30 years old, wearing keffiyehs, and daring swagger
that points toward a lost youth and the contamination of society, offer up
their bodies before a baying line of fully armed soldiers. They move around
checkpoints or through refugee camps with deft, exhilarating and practiced
skill. It’s a game and everyone, including the soldiers, are young enough to
join in. The final destination, however, is a morgue, and the impact on the
might of the Zionist project and overall occupation of Palestine is minimal. In
fact, it is only used as further justification for defensive paranoia.
The keffiyeh has a force and emotive trajectory that seems
to propel not just Palestinians but their supporters too. The “Wild Wild West”
brood of journos and activists based in Ramallah that speed through checkpoints
and into the line of fire are high on the charged air and hungry for bloody
action. This is the Bang Bang Club 2012.
Given this glamorous and dangerous image, I found it
difficult to link the product with the place of production when I walked into
Harbewi factory. Overlooking the godforsaken Hebron Valley, a dusty and broken
down warehouse produces the array of colourful cotton keffiyehs – black for
Fatah, red for Hamas and pink/green/blue/violet for tourists. Three-quarters of
the machinery is out of use, and the workers look like oddly shaped shells
tossed from the back door of a mental asylum. Convulsing to the din of ancient
mechanics and forgotten dreams, they produce these mystically powerful square
emblems of rebellion, hope, freedom, justice, zeal, life and death.
At dusk we left the factory and walked towards the Old City
following the stench of “skunk water”, a crowd-control strategy that is a
mixture of chemicals, sewage and rotten pulp emitted from bone-braking
hosepipes. As we approached cobbled alleyways of architectural heritage we
heard the blast of tear gas canisters. Heavy clouds of smoke filled homes,
families and livelihoods.
The photojournalist with me fixed on a gasmask and rushed
around the corner into the heat of the action to capture a shot that would
flicker onto a couple of thousand computer screens the following morning, and
then flicker off them, just as quickly, into the virtual ether of
meaninglessness and moral depravity.
I hung behind with my bag of new keffiyehs and a raw onion
to help soften the eye-watering, mind-numbing and chest-closing effect of tear
gas. Four kids sprinted around the corner, and under the tungsten lamppost to
my left they collapsed to the floor, coughing and writhing from the chemical
infiltration into their young airwaves. Their keffiyehs are too porous to
protect them from the poison of occupation. Behind them, through a cracked and
dirty window, I saw a Palestinian mother preparing dinner. She stood at the
stove, silently stirring a pot. Her head was motionless as she strained to
concentrate on the rituals of normal life.
It is a dark absurdity that the normality she so desperately
tries to foster is her biggest enemy. And it is a dark tragedy that despite
keffiyehs, consumerism and solidarity, she cannot escape this absurd existence.
DM
* TWA Flight 840 was on its way from Rome to Athens when it
was diverted to Damascus by Khaled and fellow PFLP members. Khaled claims to
have ordered the pilot to fly over Haifa, her birthplace that her family had to
flee in 1948 when Palestine was ethnically cleansed of its indigenous
population. Her father remained behind in 1948 and was thus severed from
contact with the family – he could not leave, and they could not re-enter due
to repressive and racist Israeli laws post-1948.
Nina Butler is an MA student from Rhodes University,
currently in Ramallah for research purposes. Follow her writings and doings on
http://ninabutler-art.com
