Return from the Cage
It was the open space in Austin that initially overwhelmed me. I couldn't adjust to it. The ease with which I could get in a car and drive to any place left me bewildered and confused. Where were the military checkpoints? Where were the armed soldiers asking for my identification papers? Where were the barricades that would force me to turn back?
I had just returned to the United States after an absence of 11 years, during which I lived in a refugee camp in Bethlehem, the town where Christ was born. I was not used to freedom of movement, nor to going more than a few miles without encountering military checkpoints.
Getting comfortable with my sudden freedom in Austin was going to take time. I had to adjust to no longer feeling like an animal inside a cage. Most days, I felt utterly dazed. I would spend hours sitting on a stone bench at the University of Texas, staring at the squirrels and the birds. The green lawns brought tears to my eyes.
My mind would drift to the refugee camp in Bethlehem, and to 3-year-old Marianna, my delightful ex-neighbor. Marianna has never seen a green lawn in her life and has never seen a squirrel. She lives confined to Bethlehem, forced to remain a prisoner behind the checkpoints and the military barricades. The distance between Marianna's house and Jerusalem is no further than the distance from my South Austin home to downtown. Yet Marianna has never been to Jerusalem and is unlikely to go there anytime in the near future, because no Palestinian can venture into the Holy City without a special Israeli-issued permit, and those permits are almost impossible to come by.
But adjusting to my sudden freedom paled in comparison to overcoming my fears and my nightmares. When I left Bethlehem, the second Palestinian uprising against Israel's military occupation was already two months under way. The sound of bomb explosions, gunfire and Apache helicopters overhead lingered in my mind. Hard as I tried, I couldn't shake the sounds away. They were always there, ringing inside my head.
Now, in Austin, there were nightmares. I would dream either of friends being shot dead, or see pools of blood spilling from human bodies, or that I myself was the target of gunfire. I would wake up in a sweat, terrified of going back to sleep. During the day, the sound of police or ambulance sirens made me jumpy. Helicopters flying overhead made me uneasy. I had to constantly remind myself that these were most often civilian and not military helicopters. I had to remind myself that the ambulances were not rushing to the wounded demonstrators.
I looked around me, and I wondered if anyone realized, or even knew, that the Apache helicopters being used by the Israeli military to shell innocent Palestinian civilians are actually made in this country! As a writer in Palestine, I had regularly visited bombed-out houses in search of stories. The home of a young nurse sticks out in my mind. A few miles away from the stable in Bethlehem where Christ is said to have been born, her house came under attack by Israeli tanks and was completely burned. I held the remains of some of the tank shells in my two bare hands and read the inscription: "Made in Mesa, Arizona."
I wanted to stand on a chair and scream this information to everyone walking through the mall. The tear gas civilians inhale in the Palestinian Territories is made in Pennsylvania, and the helicopters and the F-16 fighter planes are also made in the USA. Yet here in this society, no one appears to care that their tax money funds armies that bring death and destruction to civilians, civilians who are no different from civilians in this country.
And I worry about the indifference in this country. I worry because someday, young American men will find themselves fighting another Vietnam War - this time possibly in the Middle East - without a notion of what it is they are doing there. And we will have a repetition of history: Mothers will lose sons and wives will lose husbands in an unnecessary war. I have been repeating this warning in all the talks I have been giving in the past nine months. No one took me seriously. I couldn't understand why young Americans, with their whole futures ahead of them, should go to die in a war they will not understand.
奧斯?。绹驴怂_斯州首府）開闊的空間最初令我不知所措.我無法適應(yīng).這種可以開車到任何地方的自由讓我充滿了困惑.軍隊的檢查點到哪里去了?那些要求查看我身份證明的武裝軍人又去哪了?哪里是那些路障,迫使我掉頭而回?
我剛剛回到了闊別11年的美國.在這11年當中,我住在伯利恒的一個難民營里.伯利恒是耶穌降生的那個小鎮(zhèn).現(xiàn)在,我不習慣這種行動的自由,不習慣走過數(shù)里路都不會遇到軍隊的檢查點.
我需要一些時間去適應(yīng)我在奧斯丁獲得的突然的自由.我需要去適應(yīng)不再像一只關(guān)在籠子里的動物.大多數(shù)時間,我感到十分的茫然.我會幾個小時坐在德克薩斯州大學(xué)的石凳上,注視著松樹和小鳥.綠色的草坪使我淚眼迷蒙.
我的思緒常會轉(zhuǎn)到在伯利恒的難民營,轉(zhuǎn)向三歲的瑪麗安娜,我可愛的舊鄰.瑪麗安娜一輩子都沒有見過綠色的草坪和松鼠.她的生活被禁錮在伯利恒,被迫成為檢查點和軍事路障下的囚犯.瑪麗安娜的家到耶路撒冷的距離不超過我在奧斯丁東部的房子到市中心的距離.但是瑪麗安娜從來沒有去過耶路撒冷,在不久的將來也沒有可能會去那里,因為只有拿著以色列發(fā)行的許可證巴勒斯坦人才能進入那個圣城,而那個許可證,幾乎是不可能得到的.
但和我戰(zhàn)勝恐懼和噩夢相比,適應(yīng)我突然得到的自由顯得蒼白無力.當我離開伯利恒的時候,第二個巴勒斯坦人民反對以色列軍事占領(lǐng)的起義已經(jīng)進行了兩個月了.炸彈爆炸的聲音,炮火聲,還有阿帕奇直升機在頭頂飛過的聲音一直在我腦子里徘徊.不管我怎么努力,都不能把這些聲音趕走,它們總是在那里,在我耳朵里轟鳴.
現(xiàn)在在奧斯丁,我會做惡夢.我常會夢到我的朋友被槍擊而死,或是夢到從人的身體里流出來的血泊,或者,夢到我自己就是炮火的目標.我會滿身大汗的醒來,不敢再睡去.在接下來那天當中,警察或者救護車的鳴笛總是會讓我神經(jīng)兮兮.直升機飛過我的頭頂會讓我很不自在.我不得不時常提醒自己,這是民用的直升機,而不是軍用的.我必須提醒自己,救護車不是在去營救受傷的示威者.
我看著周圍,尋思是否有人意識到,或者知道,以色列軍隊用來炮轟無辜的巴勒斯坦平民的阿帕奇直升機就是在這個國家生產(chǎn)的!作為一個巴勒斯坦的作家,我以前經(jīng)常拜訪被爆炸的房屋來搜尋題材.一個年輕護士的家在我的腦海中顯現(xiàn)出來.她的屋子距離伯利恒的那個耶穌誕生的馬坊有幾英里遠,她的房子被以色列的坦克襲擊,完全被燒毀.我赤手捧起一些炮彈的碎片,讀到這樣的刻印,“亞利桑那州,美薩制造”.
我想站在一個椅子上,向所有路上的人高聲喊出這個信息.巴勒斯坦地區(qū)人們吸入的催淚瓦斯是在賓夕法尼亞州制造的,直升機和F-16戰(zhàn)機也是在美國制造的.但是,在這個社會,似乎沒有人介意用他們交的稅款資助軍隊.這些軍隊給平民,無區(qū)別于這個國家的平民,帶來死亡和毀滅.
我為這個國家的冷漠感到憂慮.我擔心,恐怕有一天,年輕的美國人會發(fā)現(xiàn)他們在打另一場越戰(zhàn)——這次或許是在中東——而他們不知道自己在做些什么.歷史會重演：在一場沒有必要的戰(zhàn)爭中,母親們失去兒子,妻子們失去丈夫.在過去的九個月中,在我所有的講話中我一直重復(fù)這個警告.但是沒有人把我說的話當真.我不明白為什么,年輕的美國人,他們的全部前途還在前面,竟會死于一場他們并不了解的戰(zhàn)爭.