The presentation began with the Palestinian Nakba of 1947-1949 and how it affected Lydd/Lod specifically. The speaker showed how 95% of the city’s Palestinian residents were expelled, while those who managed to return were housed in new neighborhoods with Hebrew names. She showed how the city went from being an important regional and commercial center, a beautiful city with a 6,000 year old history, into a neglected backwater in Israel’s “periphery,” a city “being erased before one’s eyes. She showed how 95% of the city was physically erased after the war, demonstrating that the Nakba is not just about the expulsion of people but the erasure of their homes and the physical landscape in which they lived. The plight of Dahamash, she argued, is simply a continuation of the policies of completely Judaizing Israel’s “mixed cities.” She cited recent quotations from top Israeli officials openly stressing the need to force Palestinians to emigrate out of the country. She suggested that the Judaization of street names and names of neighborhoods is part and parcel of this process, and she quoted senior officials who are “seriously considering” changing Ramle’s name to a Jewish name.

In years following the 1948 war, the responsibility for Judaizing Lydd/Lod was transferred from the military (who destroyed thousands of houses in the city in 1954) to the district planning commissions and the Lydd/Lod municipality. Since construction permits are nearly impossible for Palestinians to receive (even if their land is privately owned) it is estimated that the majority of Palestinian houses in the “mixed” cities are illegally built. She stressed that residents are forced into this situation by the municipality, who give them no choice but to build illegally or leave their city. Thus, entire neighborhoods in Lydd/Lod have been built without permits. Their inhabitants are heavily fined, they don’t receive even the most basic services from the municipality. This situation creates an economic incentive for the municipality to force Palestinians to build illegally since they receive tax and fine revenue but are not required to provide basic services. There are 500 active demolition orders in the city, and residents live in constant fear of demolition. The speaker noted that although the municipality frequently suggests that there is no money to provide services such as garbage collection and school buses, it costs far more to demolish one house than to provide services to an entire neighborhood like Dahamash. This shows quite clearly what the municipality’s priorities are.

The speaker discussed the relationship between Jews and Palestinians in the city over time. Following the 1948 war, Palestinian and Middle Eastern (Mizrahi) Jewish residents lived as neighbors in the Old City area in peace, but in ensuing years the Jewish and Palestinian neighborhoods were forcefully separated and separate neighborhoods were established for each. She stressed that impoverished Jewish residents suffer from the same policies of intentional neglect and gentrification that Palestinians suffer from, with any who succeed in attaining any economic security opting to leave the city instead of trying the dying city. All the residents desire, she stressed, is to live in dignity as equal residents in the city of Lydd/Lod, side by side with Jews.

Unfortunately, the municipality and the state of Israel’s policy of ghettoizing the Palestinian population and Judaizing Lydd/Lod and other “mixed” cities creates tremendous tension between the Jewish and Palestinian residents. To give us a sense of the state-sponsored ethnic conflict in the city, she discussed the fact that during election periods, mayoral candidates use pictures of demolished houses to demonstrate to their right-wing Jewish constituents that they will control the Palestinian population with a heavy hand. She quoted the current mayor of Lydd/Lod in an interview with the local newspaper, responding to a question about Palestinian community organizations’ request that streets in which Palestinians live be given Arab names. He demonstrated a deep race-based hostility to Palestinians that she said was the norm rather than the exception in mayors of “mixed” cities. For example, he said that “the first Arab to talk about national issues, I will shoot him, because whenever I shot Arabs in the past, I was the one left alive. They should go to hell.” The speaker showed us horrifying pictures of Israeli youths recruited by the municipality as volunteers to assist in the process of “preparing” a Palestinian home for demolition. She said that it was “much worse than the demolition itself” to see young Jews educated to demolish Palestinian houses. She mentioned the post-disengagement phenomenon of the religious Zionist movement seeing the “mixed” cities as a target for settlement and Judaization, sending Jewish “pioneers” to try to Judaize Palestinian neighborhoods. She differentiates between Jews who want to live in Lydd/Lod as a city, and Jews who want to Judaize Lydd/Lod, to dominate its Palestinian residents, and eventually to replace them with the aid of the municipality.

At this point, she discussed the specific case of Dahamash. This is a village located between Ramle and Lydd/Lod and is home to 500 Palestinians. Exceptionally, they are the recognized owners of the land, which is has not been the case in post-Nakba Lydd/Lod. They had to go to court to receive even the most basic services, such as garbage collection.. Unfortunately, their land has been zoned as “agricultural land” and all structures on it have been declared “illegal.” Thirteen demolition orders on houses in the neighborhood are imminent, while nearby, a construction project initiated by the aforementioned mayor of Lydd/Lod is taking place despite the fact that that land as also previously zoned as agricultural land. The race-based discrimination is apparent. For Palestinian residents who’ve lived on their land for decades and even longer, it is impossible to rezonetheir privately owned land for construction. For housing projects and construction for Jews, however, it is possible and frequently done. She stressed that the recent demolition orders are part of a plan approved in 2000, and that a plan called “Lod 2020” approved by the municipality threatens to bring the Judaization of Lydd/Lod and the condition of its Palestinian residents to new levels of hardship. These are not isolated cases, but well-thought-out plans approved before-hand which the residents of Dahamash see as the continuation of the Nakba of 1948.

On recommendation from members of the district planning council, the residents spent thousands of dollars developing an entire city plan for their neighborhood, in a bid to legalize the existing buildings. A few days ago, the well-thought out, professional, and expensive plan was rejected outright. In this, the residents of Dahamash join the Palestinian residents of East Jerusalem, who have submitted hundreds of plans, financed entirely from their own pockets, to the planning committees, all of whom have been rejected. Now the demolition orders have again become imminent, and are scheduled to be approved on July 14^th. On July 13^th, the Sheikh Jarrah solidarity activists will join with the residents of Dahamash and activists across the country to protest the impending race-based house demolitions.

During the teach-in, it was clear to those assembled that this event was not a simple educational opportunity, but also a political statement. Shortly after the presentation began, a police officer cruised by and pulled aside a Palestinian activist. Later, a dozen or so settlers stood beside the stolen Al Ghawi house and watched the presentation. Some clapped when the speaker showed pictures of destroyed Palestinian houses. They were obviously angry at our presence in what they consider to be their neighborhood Discussing the Nakba with the newly-made refugees of Sheikh Jarrah, amidst the glowering stares of orthodox settler youths, brought home to me how immediate and urgent the struggle against Judaization is, and how the struggle is entirely about the simple right of people to be present, when powerful institutions and racist movements just want them to disappear.

As I was riding my bike back across the unmarked border, the Green Line, to Jewish Jerusalem, I had to go through Me’a She’arim. One of the settlers from the neighborhood was there, and he recognized me. He started shouting “Traitor! Traitor! He helps Arabs! Traitor!” I saw the other ultra-orthodox people starting to look up, and I felt fear. I pedaled faster, appreciating a new knowledge of what a society headed for fascism feels like. I remembered that same settler confronting one of the Palestinian residents of Sheikh Jarrah: “You are an Arab. You. Are an Arab. You are an Arab.” He responded: “Yes! I am a Palestinian, Muslim Arab” and the settler responded: “People should be ashamed when you call them Arabs.”

The shame of his shamelessness, and of the shamelessness of the state and non-state proponents of Judaiziation, turns my stomach anew every time.

A man once walked into a Black Laundry meeting, a group of radical queers against the occupation in Palestine:

“‘I am not gay, and I do not care much about the occupation.’

So [we asked] ‘What brings you to a group of queers against the occupation?’

‘Well, I am very interested in environmental issues and how military bases pollute our environment . . . I feel as if I cannot talk about this connection in other groups.

When I go to environmental groups they do not want to take on ‘political’ issues and discuss militarization. When I go to anti-occupation groups they do not consider the environment an important priority’”[1].

When the struggle against the budget “crisis” at UCSC turned from protests, walkouts and speeches to occupations of university buildings I was ecstatic. Finally, I thought to myself, something is actually being done. I closely followed the occupation of the graduate student commons, checking the OccupyCA blog multiple times a day, always finding new messages of solidarity from all over the world and analyses of the action by its participants. Having spent the last few months on field study in Israel/Palestine, it was nice to joke around, to call what was happening on campus “my kind of occupation.”

Having not been there to take part, I am not able, like many of my friends at home, to criticize the tactical and strategic choices that were made. However, one thing that I found myself constantly contemplating was the language of the struggle. Calls to “end capital” were prominent among the blog posts, protest signs and speeches; although some analyses of the situation did attempt to explicate the slogan by discussing the privatization of the university within the larger context of neoliberalism, what I would like to question here is the emphasis placed on “end capital” as one of the defining slogans of the struggle. While it is certainly important to contextualize the budget situation as a failure of neoliberalism, if we are calling for an inclusive struggle, it becomes especially important to ask ourselves where and how slogans may be counter-effective and suppress opportunities to foster broader networks of struggle.

A recent article published in City On a Hill Press substantiated my frustrations. The author no doubt agrees with the recent email sent out by “OccupyUCSC”—that the struggle against increased fees and the privatization of education is a collective struggle. But the author also does not hesitate to ask the questions that many in the student body must be thinking, primarily that “this is getting serious, and we’re very confused about what lies ahead and how it involves us […] we can’t help out without a nudge in the right direction. And while there’s been lots of dancing, if there’s no clarity in your revolution, we’re not coming”[2].

It is important for me to say that I consider myself an anarchist; I am always suspicious of myself when identifying as such, and always do so with the intent that it be a beginning to a conversation, not an end to one. I even feel uncomfortable (and slightly pretentious) stamping myself with that infamous ‘A,’ knowing that I will not be able to engage in dialogue with many of those who read this. Nonetheless, I do so to keep short the explanation of where I’m coming from, as well as to contextualize the questions that I am asking of myself and of the movement: I too see the struggle against the cooptation of our education as part of a larger struggle against capitalism; direct action is not always the right way, but one way within a strategy consisting of a diversity in tactics. But we cannot make our struggle against capitalism and privatization everyone else’s struggle. Trying to rally people around radical understandings of social relations rather than common points of unity misses the essence of solidarity.

We are right to call for a broad, collective struggle that encourages people to “pursue their own ways of fighting against this ongoing trend toward the destruction of our education”[3]. Yet, we cannot expect everyone to have the analytical and theoretical tools (and the privilege to acquire/develop them) to draw the connections between occupying spaces (or militant actions in general) and a larger struggle against privatization. Neither can we expect everyone to want to take part in an anti-capitalist struggle. In other words, to explain that occupying a building is to localize a global struggle against capital presupposes that a critical understanding of capitalism in general, and neoliberalism in particular, is self-evident; it assumes a knowledge of histories of anti-globalization resistance, and even more pointedly, it assumes that people should want to be a part of this movement. What about those who just want to be able to afford their education?

The current discourses of the struggle—at least those which are projected outward through emails, blogs, etc.—converge at the phrase “end capital” (and other anti-capitalist phrases similar to it): pictures from the rallies so clearly convey the anarchist ambiance of the space. Such a discourse implies that people should join the struggle because it is also an expression of a larger resistance to capitalism and privatization. But do we not betray our mission of encouraging people to pursue their own ways by trying to convince them that struggling for true public education must go hand in hand with resisting capitalism? I agree that real public education is impossible within neoliberalism, but if someone aspires to be a CEO should they not be a part of our struggle? Do they not deserve the opportunity to complete their business degree without racking up massive amounts of debt?

When we talk about the struggle for our education only in the context of a larger struggle against capitalism, we concurrently endow ourselves (intentionally or not) with the role of “radicalizing” the student body; thus, automatically placing ourselves in a position of power (we know and they don’t). But do we not, in this way, also belie anarchism’s opposition to all forms of domination? Is this not just another act of othering non-radicals? We may not intend to create teacher/student relations, but the slogans are what the rest of the student body sees; it is our responsibility to make sure that our slogans are not heard louder than our individual and collective voices.

This does not mean we should abandon our platform. Neither does it mean that we should not challenge and engage with people—of course we should, whether they are capitalists or anarchists. Nonetheless, many people who want affordable, public education may not identify with a struggle against capitalism. To make the struggle for education, first and foremost, about resistance to capitalism will alienate people we want fighting with us. Our challenge as radicals and anti-capitalists is not to convince people (capitalists or otherwise) that because capitalism drives this crisis, everyone’s framework must be anti-capitalist, but to find solidarity in that which unites us: a desire for real public education, for our university. Solidarity, in this way, is to be together in our differences: a coexistence of ideologies in contradiction and our aspirations in common.

Before I am accused of speaking in contradictions, allow me to accuse myself: “first he says that real public education is impossible within a neoliberal context, and then he says that we should work toward solidarity with capitalists.” Absolutely. Real public education may not be possible within neoliberalism, but slogans such as “end capital” only enforce a conception in which anyone who wants to participate in the struggle for our education must also adopt a personal struggle against capitalism: “to be included you must stand behind this slogan.”

People who are not necessarily anti-capitalists also went to those rallies and dance parties: to support a struggle against a deteriorating education system; they would not have shown up if they did not care about our education, but they could not be there without having that ‘A’ inscribed onto their foreheads. They could not be there as themselves, they were made anarchists. Yes, I was not there. But the pictures, videos and messages speak for themselves: banners occupied the space, from above, and all around. Was there any way to be present without standing just a few feet from anti-capitalist slogans? “We are all anarchists,” the space declared.

I am not asking whether the occupation of the graduate student commons and Humanities 2 building were good or bad, effective or ineffective—that depends on how each individual would define those terms. Its memory, and the memories it suppressed, are for us to learn from. As we encourage those who disagree with our tactics to pursue their own ways we must also encourage them to pursue their own frameworks. For some of us, the struggle against the world capitalist order informs and shapes our daily lives, how we resist, what we resist. For others, the struggle for a career and economic security frames everyday actions and everyday thoughts: such has been the struggle for many Palestinian residents of Bil’in, a West Bank Village south of Ramallah. As the construction of Israel’s “security barrier” imposed more and more restrictions on access to their agricultural land, the residents of Bil’in started organizing; while their resistance is no doubt representative of an overarching Palestinian struggle against the occupation, their message has not strayed from what is local—the right to access the land from which they make a living.

Every Friday over the past five years, locals, along with internationals and a group of Israelis loosely defined as Anarchists Against the Wall get together to protest the Israeli ‘security barrier,’ which today leaves nearly 60% of the village’s farm land on the ‘Israeli side,’ unreachable to farmers. Ideologically, Israeli anarchists and Palestinians have much to disagree about. Nonetheless, in Bil’in, the decision to unite based on common goals rather than ideology has set the stage for a struggle that is only growing. As such, it is an act of resistance that goes beyond the familiar slogan “end the occupation”: it is about the residents’ right to farm their land; it is about their right to their livelihood. Every week, Abdullah’s message to the soldiers on the other side makes it so clear: “we want to go to our land; we need to get to our olive trees,” he says through the megaphone. “This is Bil’in’s land; soldiers, go home.”

I remember the first protest I attended: about 200 participants marched through the olive groves, and then I saw the yellow gate in front of me, the fence itself stretching into the distance on either side. Beyond the fence, soldiers tell us through a megaphone (sometimes they do not tell us) that it is an “illegal” demonstration. Beyond them, hills: thousands of olive trees belonging to residents of Bil’in ripen every season, but this year too, they will not be harvested. Over ripened olives will soon litter the ground; not a single drop of oil can be squeezed out of dry olives. We chant, give speeches; the soldiers respond. It is just part of the routine.

Tear gas is a miserable experience and a protest is not going to bring down any fence. Yet, every week the demonstration is still on; it means different things to different people. The slogan “end the occupation” begs the question: “and after we ‘end it,’ then what?” While Palestinians do not agree within themselves about two states or one state, I would personally prefer a no-state solution. For me, this too is a part of a larger struggle against capitalism—the occupation is a profitable industry, there is high demand for a market in mechanisms of control. It is also a struggle against patriarchy and homophobia. But I do not go there to be an anti-capitalist or to be a queer. It is not my goal to “teach” Palestinians about queerness or anarchism—and yet, it does not mean that I have to abandon the things I am.

That said, the experience is not without its difficulties. I would not kiss a man in Bil’in. On Fridays, Bil’in is both Palestinian and Israeli, queer and homophobic; anarchists, farmers, dykes and sexist men march side by side, and afterward have lunch in each others company. Some of our differences are visible, and some are kept hidden, but our points of unity define our togetherness: it allows us to say in one voice that the fence needs to go. The farmers need access to their trees; those olives, whether as olive oil or marinated goodies, need to be sold (eaten too! Without food, how will we go on dancing?).

Togetherness gives truth to the fact that the differences we are forced to keep hidden are artificial in the first place. They are borderlines erected to keep us apart—queers from straights, Palestinians from Israelis. Such borderlines are constantly recreated, to include some to the exclusion of others, and thus, must also be constantly resisted. By going to Bil’in we engage in a process of resistance to these borders. We embody relationships between Israelis and Palestinians that ought to be and can be (and for many of us are), seeking to build a space in which individuals can empower themselves to acknowledge and resist their own prejudices. This is the potential of the space—friendship; it is why I kept showing up.

Interestingly, nations, too, seek to render difference invisible, but only within their own collective: to create togetherness only within themselves for the purpose of producing and highlighting the difference of the other (we are like this, they are like that; we want peace, they want to push us into the sea; we know, and they do not). Nations cover their citizens with a flag to propagate the myth that the “people’s” interests are all the same. The nation that covers me with its flag and its citizenship expects me to remain hidden, to allow myself to be subdued into silence, to be afraid of the other, to justify the brutal occupation it enforces (because they are all “terrorists,” right?).

I am not suggesting a ‘right way’ to continue the struggle that is taking place within our university—and yet, there are many wrong ways. Neither do I want to suggest that we should “pander” to non-anarchists; direct action needs to be part of a broad struggle. But if we are indeed engaging in localizing a global struggle against capitalism, then let us attend to what is really local: our education, the right to our education. Students have a stake in resisting the draconian policies of the regents and our administration; and yet, if we want people to pursue their own ways in joining this fight, we must also allow them their own reasons for doing so.

Slogans that arise from (exclusive and privileged) radical discourses, rather than from the aims that define our points of togetherness only give legitimacy to the border between ourselves and other non-radicals with whom we share a common struggle. We cannot expect everyone to resist capitalism with us, but we know that together we need to fight for our education. We must not let our banners turn into flags.

With respect to those for whom to resist is to build alternatives.

Lior

[2] City on a Hill Press. “You Say You Want a Revolution? Just Let Us Know What Kind.” City on a Hill Press, October 22, 2009, Op-Ed section.

[3] Email sent out by “OccupyUCSC”. “A response to Dave Kliger”. October 18, 2009.