The last time I was here was three years ago. Everything is different now.
Suheil and Mahmoud from DAM stop by. They are on their way to their tour in France and Italy, and we talk about the experiences we've had in Palestine so far.
Their music has been the soundtrack in my head these past few days. Their asking who the terrorist is, their bringing dreams to live, their reminding us all that we share a bond stronger than territorial borders and walls, their reminding me that justice is the most powerful dream of them all.
I share the happiness over their sucess, because it is a big old FUCK YOU in the face of self righteous israeli nationalism.
Every once in a while we run into the water to swim, but mostly we just hang out and talk, work on our tans, read and chill.
It could be any beach, anywhere in the world.
Me and my ability to fall asleep anywhere, Woody, pale and stubborn, refusing to put on sunscreen lotion. Nora with her stories.
But the only thing in my head is that land, beneath the stones. That all of this is Palestine, that I am here at their will, that history is denied and tucked away.
Woody lives in palestinian Yaffa, a city that after 60 years connot be defined by any border to Tel Aviv, unless you look at architecture, mosques, population. Then it is absolutely unique.
A few months ago Woody filmed a brutal attack by a number of israeli police men here, he filmed them beating a palestinian man, an israeli palestinian.
He told me that the only thing significantly different about this beating was that it was actually caught on tape, but that the news shows who were at first interested in the abuse declined as soon as they found out that the victim was an arab.
I buy a sandwich by the young men at the deli a few blocks down from the beach, who could all be my brothers. The brown faces, the wide eyes, the Yallas and Salamats and shoo yaanis. I carefully use arabic instead of english when making my order, as a reminder that we are all connected somehow.
Afterwards I cannot say whom I am trying to remind. Myself or them.
We go to Woody's smelly room, and decide to meet up with our old friend Hammoudi, from Balata.
Hammoudi is 6 foot tall, and hyperactive.
He moves as if someone is timing him, and his carefully sculptured beard makes him ever more noticeable. The sound he makes when he is happy makes Nora and I roll over with laughter. Something inbetween a laughter and an eruption. HoHaaaaaayyyyyh.
Hammoudi sneeks in and out of Israel a few times every week, staying until he gets tired.
He travels from his refugee camp in Balata, in the outskirts of Nablus, along with a dozen or so other young men from town, heading towards Israel.
For work, for family, or just to let the thoughts slip, so he wont have to worry about every day problems and routines.
What a normal 20 something guy from Sweden takes for granted can cost Hammoudi jailtime, a big fine or his life.
Hammoudis dad left the family when Hammoudi was 20 days old. At 23 he tells the story as if it is a fact he's come to terms with, and goes on to tell me that the first time he ever met the man who conceived him, he was 13 years old.
Hammoudis father lives and works in Israel, he has a new family now, and it seems to be common knowledge in Balata that Hammoudis father is a collaborator.
This goes to say that he works for or with the israeli intelligence, which is something of the most dishonerable thing a palestinian can do.
I know of a suspected collaborator in Nablus who was shot in both legs, 6 bullets in each leg, as a warning to others.
Bu Hammoudi is not his fathers son. He is a man who speaks of freedom as if it is something dangling infront of him, but still cannot be reached. He loves Israel because he is free here, as long as no one catches him, reports him to the police, or shoots him on his way to and from freedom.
What I love about Hammoudi is that he is not satisisfied with merely watching his dreams. He goes after them, seizes them, holds on to them for dear life.
He is engaged to a beautiful and talented british-pakistani woman, whom he met in the camp as she was there to help, and they plan to get married this summer.
He does as he pleases, on a whim, seemingly unhindered, like a whirl wind.
In many ways Hammoudi is freer than most people I know, as he actually knows the value of his freedom.
His hand is always clutched around his cell phone, seemingly in constant communication with everyone at the same time, and we decide right then and there to take a trip to Tiberias, in our rented car.
Taking up palestinians in your car is an offence in Israel. If caught, you face a fine , imprisonment or in our case deportation.
But Hammoudi and his friend Rizq are our friends, our hosts, despite their not being welcome here, in contrast to Woody Nora and I, because we happen to carry gringo passports filled with fancy stamps.
We drive from Yaffa to Haifa, with Nora behind the wheel, me in the front seat and the three guys in the back. Still with DAM as our only CD we find our way to Haifa. Whenever a police car is spotted, or an army jeep passed, my heart skips a beat, my brain flashes a thought.
We arrive to Haifa around 11 at night, and decide to go to Akka instead of Tiberias.
Akka is the ctiy to which merchant ships set course, when they wanted to access Palestine. As one of the oldest cities still inhabited, Akka flaunts her beautiful stone walls, the fortress meant to protect her from invaders.
We sit by the wall, Rizq, Hammoudi, Woody Nora and I.
Hammoudi talks alot, mostly about how much he loves the ocean and freedom. She talks to me, he says, and I smile, but do not laugh. We drink and talk and listen to music from the guys cell phones.
Freedom seems imminent.
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