Who are the Indigenous People today?

Picture: Thousands of people in Gaza protest their right towards attaining passports. The predicament of self-identity and it's co-relation with citizenship and attaining a passport continues ... (See: Passport for all in Gaza? http://english.aljazeera.net/indepth/opinion/2011/06/2011615112156348594.html )

Today on Twitter, people were flipping their profile pictures upside down to support those without citizenship. We live in a world today more intrinsic and complex than ever before. Our borders are tighter as border-security focuses on keeping those (without citizenship / or unwanted refugees, stateless, "other" persons) out of their lands. It was less than a century ago that borders, countries and citizenship to a bounded land was in existence. More than ever, those whom were lost in the idenity/citizenship scuffle were the indigenous peoples, comprising over 350 million individuals and 5000 ehno-linguistic groups in the world today.

Who exactly are indigenous peoples?

According to Jose A. Martinez Cobo, the Special Rapporteur appointed in 1971 by UNHCR to conduct a study of indigenous peoples, recognized their "land-rootedness" as the primary marker of indigenous identity:

Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a historical continuity with pre-invasion and pre-colonial societies that developed on their territories, consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing in those territories, or parts of them. They form at present non-dominant sectors of society and are determined to preserve, develop and transmit to future generations their ancestral territories, and their ethnic identity, as the basis of their continued existence as peoples, in accordance with their own cultural patterns, social institutions and legal systems.

Essentially, their fundamental survival as a community and as a distinctive people is inextricably tied to their right to occupy their traditional and original communities.

Furthermore, according to the UN on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples to the Sub-Commission on Prevention of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities ...

Article 3:  Indigenous peoples have the right of self-determination. By virtue of that right they freely determine their political status and freely pursue their economic, social and cultural development. 

 But as noted by Benedict Anderson's Imagined Communities and as discussed in, "Indigenous Peoples' Rights to Self-Determination and Territoriality" by Maivan Clech Lam:

A complex issue concerns the relationship between culture and citizenship. Since the French Revolution, modern states have tried to solidify their hold over citizens by merging the two affiliations -- one thick (culture), the other thin (citizenship). The attempt is misdirected in general, and especially unsuccessful in the case of indigenous peoples.

Millions of people today are those that have been uprooted, forcefully displaced and even ethnically cleansed. Our recognition and the awareness of such a problematic sheds light unto those that deserve their ultimate human right and human dignity through simple recognition. It may be insufficient to simply "flip" our photos on Twitter ... but when international law can't bring it back ... a collective movement and will to stand with a just act will bring through an effect ...

As a twitter follower noted:

@ThurayaDajaniСУРЭЯ

@noora888 that puzzles me, y do foreigners get to hv citizenships in our countries and some of us don't. that's so #unfair

....

She's right ... it's not fair..

Stand in solidarity and flip your picture. 

Refugees Awaiting Return .. Remembering Al-Nakba and Al-Naksa ..

UN Resolution 194:  "Refugees wishing to return to their homes and live at peace with their neighbors should be permitted to do so at the earliest practicable date, and those wishing not to return should be compensated for their property."

In the winter of 2008, I conducted field research in the UNRWA-run Palestinian refugee camps in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan where I interviewed both 1948 and 1967 refugees. In the wake of the 64th remembrance of Al-Nakba and the 44th remembrance of Al-Naksa, I recalled an interview I had with a first-generation 1948 refugee from Lid, Palestine.  The emotional reflections of the many stories that were shared with my by refugees moved me beyond words and description. I would like to apologize, for not being able to convey the greater meaning of what Palestine and right-of-return really means for millions of Palestinians.

...

Living in the Diaspora as a Palestinian, home was always found in romantic meanings of a nation, far away from anything I grew up knowing. While, foreignness left me forging my own identity, those Palestinians, who live in the refugee camps are surrounded with a different meaning of belonging, of history, and of what it means to want to return home. For millions of Palestinians living in the refugee camps, the very symbolism of the camp was the reality of their obvious difference; their predicament; their inevitable problematic: politically, socially, psychologically and even physically through the spaces that surrounded and limited their very mobility. I talk about this more in my thesis: Intergenerational Differences of Identity... 

...

However, while so many stories resonate empty sheets with emotions and warm hearted realities of he-stories and her-stories, I'd like to share Ahmed's story with you ....

Ahmed Mohammed Qatawi:  78 year old 1948 first-generation refugee.  Ahmed talked about his exiled journey from the village of Lid, when he was 17 years old. After sleeping under olive-trees, and eventually reaching Ramallah, where he lived scattered for months, he ended up in Zarka, in Jordan in 1949. Ahmed spoke of the refugee camp development, as he emotionally motioned to how he built every part of his tiny home in the camp; from what was a mere tent, to zinco-based housings, until 1981 when they were finally able to construct their homes out of concrete/ bricks. He spoke to me of his family, his children, his brothers and sisters ... and that even after years of looking back, he tells me of how proud he is to what the Palestinians made out of themselves, despite their circumstances. I asked Ahmed if he would go back if he had the chance and why he continues to live in the refugee camp, despite the fact that it doesn't provide him with any services and the fact that it doesn't benefit him anymore. He replied, "So long as the Israelis occupy our land, we'll never be able to return. There is nothing for us to do, but wait, we've waited for over 63 years, and no matter how much they pay me to give up my right to return, I would never do it. These camps are a reminder, every single day, both to us and the international community that we are still here, waiting to return, we're not going anywhere." Ahmed felt that the camps, were the very perpetual representation of the Palestinians International right to return to their homes and return to their lands. More than ever, Ahmed wasn't gullible to the political dynamics that play a large role to his current protracted situation, if anything, he was persistently aware of his place and role in the camp.

...

Today, as we witness thousands of Palestinians refugees marching towards the borders of Palestine, from Syria to Lebanon to Jordan, and those inside the West Bank and Gaza, I think about Ahmed, and his desire to return to a home, no longer occupied, but free again. Ahmed is only another refugee amidst so many others, with stories that carry more than these pages could ever hold.

Captured bodies, Seeking Refuge ...

This Poem is dedicated to Palestinian children arbitrarily detained in Israeli prisons. And to those that continue to live in confined compounded places, in restricted lands, and torn refugee camps; at home and internally exiled simultaneously.

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Rubbles of dust carried between the boys feet,

rushing through narrow side streets

hitting his shoulders between the pavement walls,

scrapping the surfaces of his skin as he flees.

His body no longer holds control over him,

heels barely touch the muddy terrains

of this camp... cramped, tight, moving bodies

carried in the square parameters of their homes ...

permanently waiting,

temporarily en route,

in exile from the soils of their great-grand-mothers...

Hushing through the violent breaths

clouding his lungs, grueling in pain with every inhale,

his blackened face hides between

his bleeding knees that sting with every tear

dripping on the surface...

Like a bullet shot that tears the ear drums sound beat,

he jumps, in a flash, jetting to the next dark corner

providing haven,

giving shade,

temporarily frozen to gasp another breath,

terrified of his predestined conclusion...

he shuts his eyes, tightly gripping to the loose sands beneath him..

Silently motionless, body no longer sensing any pain..

his mind takes him afar, suppressed from this dark corner,

the light no longer hits his eyes to the conscious realities of now,

his cold body journey’s his soul to a new dimension concealed in space..

As he awakens from the subliminal uncounted lost moments of what was,

he is blinded by the flashing lights exposing

his lifeless body, to surrounding gates of steel..

surrounding him in every corner... right and left..

no where to turn, he stares mindlessly forward,

uttering no sound,

au fait to what awaits

the next act in this story line,

holding cue to the next scene,

holding his tongue to the voices

of the imprisoned character that stands still in him..

Without notice, he begins to feel again,

the slashes that sting his back, splitting open

the screams muted in him..

his eyes no longer veiled by the dazzles of the flashes,

he stares coldly at a young soldier,

smirking, emotionless, cold, vacantly empty..

of the dark destinies that this child holds..

No longer fighting, he surrenders,

against the chains encapsulating his sore wrists,

his tears cease to flow,

against the shields that guarded his soul

his body is left uncovered,

exposed,

abandoned,

dispensed to the darkness of the night..

Falesteen

This poem was written on March 7th, 2009. Recently, after watching 'Miral', I pulled out this poem, reminding me of the time when I was denied entry into the West Bank. Miral, was more than just a movie that spoke to us of the continued protracted struggle Palestinians are hanging on to for over 63 years of occupation. It's about the struggle that lives on, of the Palestinians living inside in the midst of occupation, curfews, detentions, and mistreatment. This poem represents a tiny element of what Palestine, Falesteen means to me.

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In you I am
existing in the soils
growing in the very sands that witnessed the sacrifices of its roots

In you I am
preserved in the ashes -- allowing it to raise higher and stronger beyond the face of death
for the innocent beloved laughs -- that once hovered over the skies of Falesteen

In you I am
in the eyes that glistened dreams that spoke beyond bombs and bullets
rising beyond the trenches that is suffocating her

In you I am
eyes that only see straight to the walls
that testify the pain in the bullet holes that peaks through these frail curtains,
giving light to the darkness

In you I am
breathing a light that only sheds through in the falls of curfews


at the position of limited mobility --- a checkpoint questions my right to my nativeness
Identity number 56789039 -- sorry, A-rabs not allowed
invalid entry --- denied entrance -- stolen right to my al3awda
sorry ma’am -- security measures -- decision is not in our hands -- move along now
but where to? frozen in the inbounds of undesignated territories
inhaling the airs that cross border controls, checkpoints, interrogations and check ups
crossing over to calm my patience -- rest assure I will return, we will return
bewildered in the animosity of my existence -- I move along now, next window please
Citizenship ? ancestral origin? Religion? relations? reasons? denials of self-determined rights?
colonial imprints fill its memories of an indigenous right that yearns to return
digging through the layers that form the misconceptions of what forms that which make me
unaware that my search will retrieve the hidden destruction --
concealing slaughters that sting the aromatic surfaces of erased he-stories and her-stories

....

Falesteen exists in you...
zaytoon -- dripping in the tears that feed its undeniably salient growth
pillars -- that read erased territories: Qatamon, Yafa - bride of Palestine, Haifa, Bir Il Sabi3, Barbara, - standing backbones -- Majdal, Khan Yunis, Gaza, Tulkarem, Ramllah, Nablus, Qalqilya..
on and on and on -- miles and miles your gracious body held me -- years before i was birthed
bounded by the umbilical cords of your soil, I am alive, re-defined, in existence
exiled -- a Diaspora -- protracted -- prolonged -- and still waiting,
never forgiving and never forgetting

.....

Today and everyday,
the Mediterranean captures a portrait of your stillness --
reflected off the hot sun that rays hope past the destitute of its struggle
hiding away with the departure of another exiled sunset...

and in the fading images of what was, what is, and what will be...
I am in you...