Suhad says when you go back the United States you have to tell them that we Palestinians are human beings. You have to tell them that the kids here need to live in peace. They are beautiful. They’re normal kids too, but they need things, they are missing things…You have to tell them that we deserve to live like normal people. We deserve to be respected like everyone else in the world.
As we were preparing for bed there was a huge boom. We ran out of our room. “What was that?” We thought a bomb had gone off. It turned out to be fireworks.
I am observing a class party. The four and five year olds in the core program are having a party. They are making salad. Cut.Cut.Cut.Chop.Chop.Chop. Mix.Mix.Mix. Mmm.Mmm.Mmm. They clap as they eat. They sing as they eat. They shriek as they eat. One girl with beautiful long pigtails licks her plate. Another girl shares some of her salad with a friend. I notice Fazia staring blankly at the wall behind me. I wave. I make funny faces. Finally she grins. She hides her face. The teacher calls her. She turns back around focused on the task in front of her…her salad. She looks back at me again with that blank stare. I walk over. She is quiet, shy. The volunteer at her table calls her name. “Fazia!” She snaps back. She is in the moment again. I wonder where she went? What she thinks about? How one second she can seem so close and the next be somewhere else?
We sit in on a focus group Suhad organized to gage the kids’ impressions of the first two weeks. She talks with four kids – three eight year old girls and one six year old boy who insisted he be part of the group. They are very expressive flapping their arms, singing, smiling. I wish I could understand what they’re saying…they are saying they like it here, they have nothing to do at home.
Outside talking to Suhad a boy catches my eye. He is slouched up against the wall. He wears a stripped shirt. It is too small. He looks dirty. He is bruised. I walk over to him. A volunteer runs out. “What’s wrong?” The volunteer tries to take him back inside. The boy recoils. He starts to cry. I crouch down. “Hi! What’s wrong?” He is saying something, but I don’t understand. I ask the volunteer for the multicolor ball he is holding. I motion as if I am going to throw the ball. I pretend to roll it. He looks up. He wants to play. We play catch. I throw too hard. “Whoops!” He has difficulty catching it. I smile. He laughs. Another volunteer comes out. Again the boy recoils. He looks down. He doesn’t want to go inside. He starts to cry again. He wants to go home. When is the bus leaving? I give him the ball. He holds it tight. The volunteer says something and then suddenly the boy with the colorful ball marches inside proud, wiping the tears out of his eyes. I see him a few minutes later run out to get the ball. He looks happy. He is playing with the other kids.
What is normal?
“There is no space at home for kids to play. They cannot enjoy themselves at home so they play in the streets. TYO is a huge space. TYO has structure. There are classes. There is routine. It becomes habit. Imagination, physical activity it all becomes habit. Enter any camp and you can’t see where the streets end. They twist. They turn. They are dark. They are narrow. Kids don’t have enough space to see. Homes are close. Homes are small. Kid’s can’t see. There is a relationship between vision and anxiety. There is a relationship between vision and imagination.
Imagination is hope. When you imagine you are healing yourself. We have tanks. We have invasion. But you ask them what do you wish you had? I wish I could be at the beach. I dreamt that I was a queen. I dreamt that I had a party at TYO. They are wishing. They are dreaming.” Suhad stops. She collects herself.
“In each part of my heart one of those kids lives. I need them just to laugh. When I see their eyes shinning…”