Mention of the "P Word" is bound to cause a stir; the Israel/Palestine conflict is one of the more politically and religiously-charged issues for people throughout the world. In the United States, religious institutions sway popular opinion, often ignoring the rights and well-being of one group to bolster support for the other. The conflict is spoken about dichotomously: to criticize Israel’s actions in Palestine is to unconditionally support all factions of Palestinian resistance, and vice-versa.
As a caucasian American with a middle-class upbringing, mere mention of Palestine in the context that the state has the right to exist leaves me open to accusations of "anti-Semitism," amongst other things. But as adherents for unequivocal social justice, allowing polarizing forces from either side to silence our voices will only lead to defeat.
Today marks the 61st anniversary of the Palestinian "Nakba" (catastrophe). On May 15, 1948, shortly after Britain pulled out of the territory, Israel drafted its declaration of independence, and over 700,000 Palestinians were forced from their homes. Today, over 4 million of their descendants live in the Gaza Strip or the West Bank, both occupied by the Israeli military. There is little mobility, widespread poverty, and ever-deteriorating conditions as tensions flare between Israel and Palestinian resistance groups. When these tensions flare, as seen during the Israel-Hamas conflict earlier this year, it is the people, the innocent civilians, that suffer most.
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As a reproductive justice advocate, it is the conditions that everyday people must live in that concern me most. The lack of a "recognized state" by the world population means Palestine is often represented by extreme groups that, while voted in somewhat democratically, do not represent the will of the people. Most of the world considers Hamas to be a terrorist organization, and few Palestinians would argue that their tactics and religious laws are 100% morally sound. However, Hamas is one of the only groups that has promised to take a strong stance in fighting for the Palestinian Right to Return, a decidedly more important issue to those living in unimaginably constrained conditions throughout Palestine.
Health care is difficult to access in Palestine. A 40% unemployment rate (a 2007 figure from the World Health Organization) is merely one factor in the high rate of poverty and lack of mobility for refugee women. Very few are able to access even the most basic care for themselves and their families. The OPT Ministry of Health estimates lack of health care during pregnancy is the third most common cause of death amongst women of reproductive age in Palestine. In addition, because of the many checkpoints within the Occupied Territory, pregnant women often don’t make it to the hospital or birthing center. This means more and more women are choosing to birth at home for the sake of convenience and affordability. From an article by the UNFPA:
The Palestinian Ministry of Health reports that since the beginning of the Al-Aqsa Intifada in 2000, at least 68 pregnant Palestinian women gave birth at Israeli checkpoints, leading to 35 miscarriages and the death of five women. Additionally, 10 per cent of pregnant women spent 2-4 hours on the road before reaching a medical centre or a hospital, while 6 per cent spent more than four hours, when the normal traveling time before the Intifada was 15-30 minutes. This hardship is estimated to have contributed to an 8.2 per cent increase of home deliveries. There are a total of 528 checkpoints in the West Bank and Gaza.
In addition, due to the lack of contraception and access to prenatal care, the International Planned Parenthood Federation reports unsafe abortions lead to a high rate of mortality amongst young women. While abortion is severely restricted, women take matters into their own hands, or sometimes find a "back-alley" abortion now so far in the past to most women in the U.S.
Let’s leave politics behind and recognize that human suffering is just that, human suffering. Our personal convictions about whether or not Palestine should exist, why Israel exists, and whether or not Palestinians have the right to return to the land their families left over 6 decades ago cannot overshadow our mission for complete, unyielding social and reproductive justice in the Occupied Territories or anywhere else in the world. It is when we begin splitting hairs that people suffer, and our decision to remain silent out of fear of benign name-calling makes us complicit in the endless suffering of those who need our support most.
In the second part of Rewire’s “Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism” series, we look at how Muslim families, particularly women, are forced to confront state violence on a daily basis—from living with the stigma of terrorism, to repairing their broken homes, to navigating what they say is a brutal and biased prison system.
This is the second article in Rewire’s “Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism” series. You can read the other pieces in the series here.
When Virginia native Mariam Abu-Ali was 14 years old, her life abruptly turned upside down. It was 2003, two years after the September 11 attacks and well into an era of counterterrorism tactics that were systematically hollowing out Muslim residents’ civil liberties and constitutional protections in the United States. But the Abu-Ali family never imagined they would be caught up in the dragnet.
Mariam’s then-22-year-old brother, Ahmed Omar, had been studying in Medina, Saudi Arabia, when he was arrested in connection with a series of May 2003 terrorist attacks in Riyadh.
In an interview with Rewire, Mariam says her brother, who was born in Texas, was held in solitary confinement in a Saudi jail for nearly two years without ever being charged with a crime. During that time, Mariam tells Rewire over the phone, there is strong evidence that he was tortured. Although defense expert Dr. Allen Keller, director of the Program for Survivors of Torture at the Bellevue/NYU Hospital, examined Ahmed and testified at his U.S. trial to the evidence of torture, an appeals court eventually ruled that Ahmed’s statements to Saudi interrogators were “voluntary.”
When, after months of legal pressure from his family, he was finally returned to the United States, a court for the Eastern District of Virginia charged him with multiple counts, including conspiring with an Al-Qaeda cell in Medina to carry out terrorist attacks on U.S. soil. Following a trial that permitted the admission of what Mariam called “a coerced confession,” he was eventually sentenced to 30 years in prison, and later re-sentenced to life.
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Yet as legal experts like Elaine Cassel, author of The War on Civil Liberties: How Bush and Ashcroft Dismantled the Bill of Rights, have pointed out, “Nowhere in the indictment [was] Abu-Ali tied to any terrorist event or action”—either in the United States or in Saudi Arabia.
Instead, his case fell under the shadowy material support statutes that have governed much of the United States’ counterterrorism operation in the years since 9/11, under the USA Patriot Act of 2001. This set of laws allows the U.S. government to preemptively prosecute individuals for engaging in terrorism based on their perceived predisposition toward violence, rather than their actions. Over the past 15 years, hundreds of Muslims have disappeared in a warren of these convoluted laws; they are currently locked up in high-security prisons around the country.
A constellation of families, scholars, activists, and civil rights organizations have long challenged the effects of material support charges, as well as the unfair trials and the lengthy and harsh prison sentences that tend to follow them. Over the past few years, they have come together in a campaign called No Separate Justice, an attempt to unite far-flung groups and individuals who are working to dismantle what they say is a parallel and unjust legal system for Muslim residents in post-9/11 America.
Women like Mariam Abu-Ali have been at the forefront of the movement—along with Zurata Duka and Shahina Parveen, whose stories Rewire has previously reported on—advocating on behalf of their loved ones.
In the second part of Rewire’s “Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism” series, we look at how families, particularly women, are forced to confront state violence on a daily basis—from living with the stigma of terrorism, to repairing their broken homes, to navigating what they say is a brutal and biased prison system.
“Dangerous” Minds, Draconian Measures
Mariam Abu-Ali says her brother’s case represents many of the civil rights violations that have marred the decade and a half since 9/11, a sentiment that is echoed in the final opinion on Ahmed Omar’s case penned by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit.
In its unanimous decision to uphold the guilty verdict on nine terrorism-related counts against Ahmed in 2008, the three-judge bench wrote:
Persons of good will may disagree over the precise extent to which the formal criminal justice process must be utilized when those suspected of participation in terrorist cells and networks are involved … the criminal justice system is not without those attributes of adaptation that will permit it to function in the post-9/11 world.
While the opinion does not explicitly state what these “attributes of adaptation” are, studies on counterterrorism indicate they could refer to any number of legal practices that have become normalized since September 11. In particular, they could refer to the use of material support statutes, which have played a significant role in the prosecution of Muslim Americans like Ahmed Omar.
As FBI Assistant Director Gary Bald testified to the Senate Committee on the Judiciary in 2004:
It would be difficult to overstate the importance of the material support statutes to our ongoing counterterrorism efforts. The statutes are sufficiently broad to include terrorist financers and supporters who provide a variety of resources to terrorist networks. The statutes provide the investigative predicate which allows intervention at the earliest possible stage of terrorist planning to identify and arrest terrorists and supporters before a terrorist attack occurs. [Emphasis added.]
In short, material support statutes have enabled federal authorities to prosecute people based on suspicion of what they might do in the future rather than any overt criminal act. The statutes primarily refer to “support” for terrorist networks as weapons, arms training, or direct funding. Prosecutors, courts, and juries, however, have interpreted the laws much more broadly to encompass the sharing of religious or political texts online, casual conversations between friends, or charitable donations to organizations in areas controlled by terrorist groups.
In many instances, material support charges have amounted to nothing more than thought crimes, in which law-abiding Muslim residents have been penalized simply for expressing their religious and political views.
According to a 2014 report by Human Rights Watch, material support cases rose sharply in the decade following the September 11 attacks. Prior to 9/11, just six individuals had been charged under these laws in the United States. In the decade following, 168 of 917 domestic terrorism convictions analyzed by HRW fell under such statutes, accounting for 18 percent of all terrorism-related convictions in that time period.
Even a cursory look at some of these cases is sufficient to grasp the breadth of these laws, which have pushed deep into Muslim communities, tearing through many layers of social fabric along the way.
In 2012, the New York Times published an op-ed by Yale professor Andrew March on the case of Tarek Mehanna, a Pittsburgh-born doctor and community leader who was sentenced to 17 and a half years in prison because his opinions about Islam, expressed online, were deemed a form of material support for terrorist causes.
March wrote in the Times:
As a political scientist specializing in Islamic law and war, I frequently read, store, share and translate texts and videos by jihadi groups. As a political philosopher, I debate the ethics of killing. As a citizen, I express views, thoughts and emotions about killing to other citizens. As a human being, I sometimes feel joy (I am ashamed to admit) at the suffering of some humans and anger at the suffering of others. At Mr. Mehanna’s trial, I saw how those same actions can constitute federal crimes.
March’s op-ed illustrates a frightening truth about material support statutes: They allow for the preemptive prosecution of individuals who have not yet committed a crime but whom the government deems capable of possibly committing a crime in the future.
Other cases, such as the Holy Land Five, demonstrate a pattern in which material support laws have essentially criminalized charitable giving. The case involved the founders of the Holy Land Foundation, a Muslim charity that provided humanitarian aid to the needy, including women and children in Palestine. Though the government concluded that the Holy Land Foundation never directly aided a terrorist organization, it nonetheless prosecuted five of its members for funneling aid through charitable committees into areas controlled by Hamas, a designated Palestinian terrorist group, thereby violating material support statutes. Journalists called the verdict an attack on Islam itself, particularly the practice of zakat, which mandates that Muslims allocate a portion of their wealth or earnings for charitable causes.
From its very inception, the No Separate Justice (NSJ) campaign has fought this flawed notion, with mothers and sisters of the accused becoming the movement’s most prominent spokespeople. NSJ initially coalesced around the case of a Muslim American named Fahad Hashmi.
Hashmi had been working toward a master’s degree in international relations at London Metropolitan University when he was arrested at Heathrow Airport in 2006. In 2007 he became the first U.S. citizen to be extradited following the loosening of restrictions around the process after 9/11, according to an article by Jeanne Theoharis, a political science professor at Brooklyn College and co-founder of the NSJ campaign, who taught Hashmi as an undergraduate.
He was initially held in pretrial solitary confinement at the Metropolitan Correction Center (MCC) in downtown Manhattan. MCC’s notoriety was cemented in a 2010 New York Timesarticle that quoted a former Guantanamo detainee, who was also held at the MCC, as saying the Cuban military prison was “more pleasant” and “more relaxed” than the federal detention facility in New York City.
Hashmi was also subjected to special administrative measures, government restrictions on a terror suspect’s communications that amount to a gag order on the case and their conditions of confinement. Advocates say these were drastic measures relative to the charges against him: Hashmi’s only crime, according to Theoharis’ article, was allowing an acquaintance to spend a night in his apartment, an acquaintance who would later deliver a suitcase of raincoats and waterproof socks to Al Qaeda members. This same acquaintance would later become a cooperating witness for the government in exchange for a more lenient sentence, and testify against Hashmi in a trial that ended with a guilty verdict and a 15-year sentence.
Stunned by Hashmi’s conditions of confinement, a group called Theaters Against War linked arms with Educators for Civil Liberties and the Muslim Justice Initiative to host weekly vigils outside the MCC in 2009. These gatherings, which continue to this day, form the nucleus of the NSJ movement.
“We wanted to build a coalition so people from different backgrounds could bring their institutional expertise and moral conscience into the same arena as family members, and create a space where people could express outrage at what was happening,” Sally Eberhardt, one of NSJ’s earliest organizers, tells Rewire.
At first, larger civil liberties groups kept their distance, possibly because “this isn’t exactly the most funder-friendly issue in the world,” Eberhardt suggests. But advocates persisted, holding candlelight protests even on the bitterest winter nights, singing songs and chanting poems in the shadow of the detention center. Those intimate gatherings formed the basis of what is now a national movement, encompassing multiple organizations and dozens of families.
Two outspoken leaders are the Sadequee sisters, Bangladeshi Americans who have been among the strongest advocates of prisoners’ rights and the most public critics of the government’s targeting of Muslim men—including their brother, Shifa.
From the Streets to the Prayer Rug: Pushing Back Against State Violence
Ehsanul “Shifa” Sadequee was born in Virginia and grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, the youngest of four siblings in a Bangladeshi-American family. According to his sisters, he was a curious and exceptionally kind child, who by his early teens had grown into a devout and diligent religious scholar.
In 2005, when he was just 18 years old, Shifa traveled to Bangladesh. In April 2006 he got married, but 12 days after his wedding, Bangladeshi authorities took and detained him, apparently at the behest of the U.S. government, for allegedly making false statements to the FBI at John F. Kennedy Airport on his way to Bangladesh the previous year.
Shifa’s sister Sonali, who is based in Atlanta, tells Rewire that this initial charge and arrest, which the High Court Division of the Supreme Court of Bangladesh later deemed a violation of international laws, was a terrifying process for the entire family. For days after Shifa was taken they had no news of his whereabouts. Fears that he would somehow wind up in Guantanamo, ensnared in the web of the “war on terror,” gnawed at the edges of their minds but the family pushed these aside, telling themselves that because Shifa had done nothing wrong, they had nothing to fear. With the phone ringing off the hook and the television on 24/7, they gleaned what scraps of information they could from CNN news reports.
It transpired that upon his arrest in Bangladesh, Shifa was stripped naked, wrapped in plastic, and flown via Alaska to New York, Sonali says, where he spent over three months at the Metropolitan Detention Center (MDC) in Brooklyn before being transferred to the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia. Shifa spent more than three years in pretrial solitary confinement before ever being formally charged with a crime, his sister said.
Once Shifa was inside the criminal justice system, Sonali explains, federal authorities quickly dropped the initial charges against him and began to build a case around allegations of material support.
At the heart of the case was Shifa’s renown as an Islamic scholar with a larger-than-life online persona—he had studied classical Arabic and the history of religion as a student in Canada and was a gifted translator, often sharing interpretations of Islamic or political texts on the internet. The Sadequee family says Shifa’s trial was riddled with shortcomings, including the use of previously classified evidence and the selection of jurors who admitted to having anti-Muslim bias—which Human Rights Watch says is a common problem. In addition, the prosecution used Shifa’s ideology as a brush with which to paint him as a fearsome radical, on the verge of carrying out a violent attack on U.S. soil.
Although Shifa, according to Sonali, never engaged in any actions beyond practicing free speech, he was found guilty on four terrorism counts in 2009 and, at the age of 23, sentenced to 17 years in federal prison. He represented himself at the trial, making him one of the first Muslim youth to do so in a national security case, according to his sisters.
Both Sonali and Sharmin Sadequee, who is based in New York, have been mobilizing on his behalf for over a decade. After years of shielding themselves from the backlash of isolation and Islamophobia that invariably accompanies charges of terrorism, the young women have turned their advocacy into an art form.
In an interview with Rewire, Sonali explains that when her brother was arrested, the women in her family developed an organic division of labor that allowed them to form a united front against the horror and uncertainty that had descended on their lives.
“I was already plugged into the social justice community in Atlanta, so I saw my role as tapping into that support network, bringing resources to my family to make sure we all understood the human rights issues involved, ensuring we had the skills to confront the media, which was bombarding us at the time,” she says. Her sister, meanwhile, dealt with the prisons, navigating bureaucratic visitation rules and ensuring Shifa had what he needed on the inside.
“Sharmin and my mother also reached out to the Muslim community, to mosques and other groups,” Sonali continues. “And the rest of the time, my mother was on the prayer rug. I don’t know how many hours she spent kneeling and praying.”
They built a website that is always fresh with the latest news about Shifa’s case and serves as a hub for their activism—they recently announced a letter-writing campaign to mark Ramadan, inviting more than 1,000 followers of a Justice for Shifa Facebook group to send greeting cards to Muslim prisoners. Countless hours are eaten up attending rallies, speaking on panels, or sitting with reporters, patiently unpacking the messy details of Shifa’s case.
The irony is that while the Sadequee sisters make a powerful team, they are constantly called upon to do what they say is the hardest thing of all: relive a time in their lives they would rather forget.
“I don’t like to do these interviews,” Sonali says bluntly. “I don’t enjoy them at all—but I recognize they have to be done. Only by sharing what happened to us, by talking about it, will others learn from it.”
They say they have been trying to create collective responses to state violence resulting from the “war on terror,” and hope to combat the government’s tactics of fear and isolation by building community power and resiliency. But this is easier said than done: Not only must the Sadequees contend with the lingering stigma of Shifa’s trial, but they also, until very recently, had to deal with the trauma of visiting their brother in a prison unit that has been described by former detainees as “Little Gitmo.”
CMUs: “A Religious and Political Quarantine”
Between 2009 and 2015, Shifa was imprisoned in the Communications Management Unit (CMU) at the federal detention center in Terre Haute, Indiana, a segregated portion of the prison comprised almost exclusively of Muslim men that has been the subject of a legal battle since 2010.
This past March, the Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) urged the Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia to reinstate a lawsuit the group first filed six years ago challenging CMUs, which the Bureau of Prisons (BOP) quietly ushered into existence under the Bush administration—the first in 2006 in Indiana, and the second in 2008 in Marion, Illinois.
Conditions in these units, which house 60 to 70 prisoners combined, are harsh, according to the CCR: Although inmates are not held in isolation, they are banned from having any physical contact with family members during visits, and their calls are restricted to two per week, each for 15 minutes. By contrast, other BOP inmates are allowed 300 minutes worth of calls every month.
CCR claims the CMUs violate prisoners’ procedural due process rights, and argue that placement in these units is both arbitrary and retaliatory, with Muslim prisoners vastly overrepresented.
“Between 2006 and 2014, about 170 individuals filtered through these units and 101 of them—about 60 percent—were Muslims, even though Muslims only constitute 6 percent of the general federal prison population,” CCR Senior Staff Attorney Rachel Meeropol tells Rewire in a phone interview.
CCR reported in 2010 that in Marion, 72 percent of current CMU prisoners were Muslim, a 1,200 percent overrepresentation, while two-thirds of the CMU population in Terra Haute was Muslim, 1,000 percent higher than the national average of Muslim prisoners in federal facilities.
“We are challenging the lack of procedural protections before prisoners are placed in the CMU and also alleging that placement is in retaliation for protected political and religious speech,” Meeropol says, pointing out that inmates in the CMU are seldom given reasons for why they were moved into the units, and are routinely denied opportunities to earn their release into general population.
“CMUs are essentially a religious and political quarantine, the same kind of segregation that has supposedly been outlawed in this country,” she added.
In response to multiple requests for comment about these allegations, Justin Long with the Office of Public Affairs at the Information, Policy and Public Affairs Division for the BOP said in an email to Rewire, “The Bureau of Prisons cannot comment on matters currently in litigation,” and directed Rewire to the Bureau’s web page on CMUs.
In addition to being hard on inmates, Meeropol says CMUs are also “debilitating” for families, especially those with young children who cannot communicate with their fathers through letters, and often cannot understand why they are forced to speak to them through glass, using phones that are monitored by prison staff.
“Several mothers have told me that they’ve stopped bringing their children on visits because it was just too devastating,” Meeropol says.
The Collective Trauma of “Supermax” Prisons and Solitary Confinement
The alternative, some might say, is even worse. All over the country, Muslim prisoners are serving decades-long sentences in solitary confinement, which the United Nations has recognized as a form of torture. Advocates and relatives of terror suspects, or those incarcerated on terrorism charges, have long cried foul over these conditions of confinement, which they say is a form of collective punishment on entire families.
Zurata Duka, whose three sons, Dritan, Shain, and Eljvir were arrested in a manufactured terror plot by the government in 2007, is well aware of the toll of solitary confinement. Her sons have spent dozens of years between them in complete isolation, including long stints at the maximum-security facility in Florence, Colorado.
“My sons are strong—they never let us see them cry, even when their daughters are crying on the other side of the glass,” she says to Rewire. “But once my son Dritan told me he nearly lost his mind in isolation.”
Before his arrest, Zurata tells Rewire, Dritan had been very close with his youngest daughter. Every night he would put her to sleep, stroking her hair and singing lullabies. In those early days after he was taken away, the little girl would lie awake at night, calling out for her father. Unbeknownst to the family, thousands of miles away, Dritan was experiencing something similar.
“He told me, ‘Mom, I don’t know what happened. For three days I just lay there, stroking my pillow, thinking it was [his daughter]. I didn’t know who I was and I don’t know how I came back,’” Zurata recalls him saying.
His daughter was so desperate to see him that one day she penned a note to the president. It read: “Dear Mr. Obama. Today is my birthday. I am five years old. Please, if you can, bring my father back just for one day, so I can hug and kiss him, and then, if you want, you can take him back again.” Zurata says she mailed the letter to the White House. She never heard back.
Almost every family has a similar story. According to Mariam Abu-Ali, conditions of confinement often come up at annual gatherings of affected families, which she organizes in her role as director of the Prisoners and Families Committee at the National Coalition to Protect Civil Freedoms.
“About 90 percent of the attendees are women,” she says in a phone interview with Rewire, “and they bring a lot of pain and anxiety into the room. But I’d say the meetings are cathartic,” she adds. “It’s the place where we build bonds with the only people who know what we’re going through.”
Several women who’ve attended the conference in the past tell Rewire they are powerful spaces, offering families a rare chance to speak openly about their lives without fear of being misunderstood, judged, or pitied. It is also a moment for families, particularly women, to share in the collective nature of their trauma, especially the pain of incarceration.
In the 13 years that her brother has served, Mariam says she has come to the painful realization that prisons don’t just lock up individuals—they are a form of bondage on the entire family.
Because Ahmed Omar is imprisoned 1,600 miles from the family’s home in Virginia, in one of the BOP’s maximum-security facilities in Colorado, they only see him once or twice a year. Visits are limited to three family members at a time, meaning Mariam has not seen Ahmed in two years. He reserves his two monthly phone calls for his parents, so she can only hope to talk to him when she visits them. Even these calls are a source of enormous frustration. As she wrote in a recent op-ed:
My mom has spent every Tuesday and Thursday of the last decade, at home, sitting by the phone, patiently waiting for a call that sometimes did not come. And when the call does come, what can one even discuss in 15 minutes? Do you ask him how he’s doing? How can you even ask him how he’s feeling? Do you discuss his prison conditions? His legal case? How do you break the news to him when his aunt or grandfather has passed away?
“What you have to understand is that my brother’s case wasn’t just one devastating ‘moment’ in our lives—it’s a lifelong struggle,” Mariam tells Rewire. “This is not something you ever get used to, or accept. It’s about learning new ways of coping every single day, like living with a chronic illness.”
Each day brings fresh challenges, and tough decisions. For instance, Mariam used to maintain a website, manage a Facebook page, and post daily updates on a Twitter account all relating to her brother’s case. One day she felt she just couldn’t do it anymore.
“At a point you have to ask yourself—do I work full time and provide for my family or do I advocate full time on behalf of my loved one?” she asks. “This work, it’s emotionally draining, it’s a daily struggle and it doesn’t necessarily get easier with time.”
CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article misidentified the officials whom Shifa Sadequee had been accused of making false statements to. It was FBI officers, not immigration officials.
The West Bank, and Palestine as a whole, faces a broken political system, rife with problems of representation and corruption. The aftershock of the latter part of the Oslo Accords as well as years of occupation has left the political system stifled but inward-looking, if not creating then certainly aiding an environment where nepotism and favouritism are often its primary drivers.
In this context, it’s easy to see female political representation as an issue best left for “later.” But as all-female groups are showing, addressing the issue of women in politics has the potential to revolutionize the way that politics are conducted overall.
Local elections in any other place in the world may seem like the domain of petty politicians, but they hold enormous significance on the West Bank, with 62 percent of the West Bank under full Israeli military and administrative control, according to the 1993 Oslo Accords. “The council does everything for the village,” says Ilham Sami, the outspoken leader of Women of the Town, a roster of candidates running in the sleepy village of Saffa, close to Ramallah. “It’s our government. It works on health issues, on education, on buildings, on the infrastructure of the local administration, on roads, agriculture, the environment. It really is a small government.”
The women of Saffa’s aim is to move beyond a passive system in which women elect only men to positions of power. Though there is a 20-percent quota for female participation, Sami describes the women involved as “decoration,” compliant voices to fill the spot. “Half of the women’s jobs on the local council were bringing food and clearing up after meetings,” Sami says. She wonders why, if the women were not skilled enough to do the legitimate work, the men did not train them to do it.
Women of the Town emerged from an all-female collective called Adala, which means “justice” in Arabic. The group, which has been involved in social projects in the village for more than five years, helps women to develop political awareness. “It’s all about a participatory approach,” Sami says. “We don’t want to take things without participating. To give and take, to do and to learn.”
“The idea for the list came up during a meeting for women in Saffa, to educate them about how to vote,” Sami continues
This was more than two years ago. There were many women there who were active, educated, passionate, and able to discuss the election in depth. But the focus [of the meeting] was on the basics: how to put a cross on the ballot paper, how to put the ballot in the box! During the discussion afterwards, I asked the women, ‘Which of you is participating?’ They all said no. They asked me, too. I said no. The women at this meeting were the socially active women, but these women are ignored by the political parties. They want the silent women. So I asked them, ‘Why aren’t you running?’ They said no one asked us. That meeting was like a conversation, an extremely productive conversation.
Giving With One Hand, Taking With the Other
The women have encountered a problem, no doubt shared by women in other countries: the prevailing attitude that to allow broader representation will somehow silence those who already have a voice. The Women of the Town list has also been criticized because it is presumed to be a rebuke of the traditional political parties’ candidates. Sami laughs as she recounts the story of going to the Ramallah court in 2010 to get official recognition of the group’s candidacy: “A man came and said to me, ‘Ha! You are a list of women. Everything you take comes from us. You even take our trousers!’ I told him, ‘We wear our own trousers, not yours.’” Sami says that the scare tactics used on a local level revolve around jokes, often about how the roster is a symptom of how power-hungry she is or how she “wants it to be an all-women local council.” (This is impossible, according to electoral law.) She laughs this off and continues undeterred: “Some men in Saffa told me that when we put up our election posters, they will scratch the eyes. I told them, “You can draw a tail on us, I don’t care.’”
Women throughout the West Bank may be inspired by the female candidates of Saffa and by those in Hebron who founded a list called “By Participating We Can.” But some fear that empowering women implicitly disempowers others. This fear runs deeper than gendered suspicions. It rends the very fabric of Palestinian society. It’s difficult to overstate the extent to which family is everything in Palestine. Politics are conventionally conducted through a traditional system that has evolved through the relations among the large families that make up the community, often comprising a group of at least 50 people. To create a list of women is therefore to tear up the rule book that dictates the traditional ascendancy of power and influence. Families will either align with a longstanding political party or embody a list of candidates in and of themselves.
Sami says that the reactions to women’s lists have been mixed: “When we announced the list in 2010, the first phone call I received was from a man. He told me, ‘We are very proud of your list. You will have the support of 30 more people because of this.’ Another man called me and offered me 70 more voices of support later on.” Support, she says, comes in bundles. Those who wish to get on board with an idea bring a cache of voters with them.
But the sailing was far from smooth. “Of course there have been some negative reactions,” Sami says. “One of the main obstacles we faced came from the families. When we started to talk about the list, many women agree to participate. The problem they faced was that their families refused this. One of their husbands called me at 3 a.m. and told me, “Ilham, I’m very sorry, but our extended family only just left my house. They told us that if she runs on this list, that they will cut all relations with us.”
Keeping Tradition Alive
The idea of women participating in the political arena runs counter to many of the traditional assumptions about women’s role in society. “Everything here is all about tradition,” says Shams Karajah, a young resident of Saffa who is helping Women of the Town with its campaign. “The role of women here is to get married, have kids, and take care of their house. It’s only relatively recently that parents have been sending their kids to school as a blanket policy. Even so, things are improving. Most young women and girls go and study. Women’s roles are improving here. Twenty years from now our roles will be different. I’m sure of it.”
Sami says that a division of roles at an early age sets a precedent: “If a family have a girl and a boy, they encourage her to study subjects related to a traditional role, like a teacher. But for the man it’s as a doctor or an engineer, and so they’re willing to pay for it. I know many girls who wanted to study medicine, but they switched to a more ‘suitable’ and cheaper course after the first year, as their families were unwilling to pay for a girl to study medicine, when making the same investment on a boy seems like a better long-term option to them. The families will say they never told her, but all indications show that social pressure pushed her into that choice. All the time the women pay the price, even without being asked. We are always expected to look outwards, to care for others and negate our own needs.”
As a result of these strict social pressures, the Adala collective launched a program in 2007 that created a fund, allowing girls to get a loan to pay for their education, to be paid back in small increments of 100 Jordanian dinars. This kind of bottom-up thinking addresses the needs of the village, especially those involving social issues that have long been ignored because they are perceived as not part of the public sphere.
The Personal Is Political
Saleh emphasizes the need for greater female representation at a municipal level to target problems that exclusively affect women: “There are certain medical issues not seen as important as they are ‘women’s issues,’” she says. “But the highest rates of breast cancer in the Ramallah area are in this village.” Traditional marriage practices often result in intermarriage among the 3,500 residents, creating chronic health problems.
“The idea is not just to better represent women, it’s to be in a position that will allow other women to better implement their own needs,” says Karajah. Sami says that women are frequently dis-empowered in village life because intense social pressures demand that they not claim any inheritance, even if they’re entitled to it. She recounts a story told to her by one of Saffa’s residents: “When they went to the court, they picked her up with a car. After she signed the papers that would allow the division of the assets to her brother, they drove off and left her at the court house.” Sami says that genuine female representation at a municipal level would allow women to push for regulations that would require a fairer division of assets among male and female siblings, paving the way for women’s economic and social empowerment.
Adala is addressing how the large number of physically and mentally disabled people in the village are treated. “If they’re male, they can be outside and go to school,” says Sami. “But for the women and girls it’s taboo for them to be outside.” Adala established classes for mentally disabled girls, to allow them to socialize and to lead more enriching lives. The funding and venue for the course was recently revoked. “If you saw the reality of their lives, it’s miserable,” Sami says, recounting examples of girls confined to a single room or drugged so that they won’t be awake during the day. A goal of the Women of the Town list is representation of anyone considered marginalised by the current power structure. “We represent all the women, all the youth, all the handicapped in the village,” Sami says.
Occupied With Gender
The Women of the Town, eager to see all-female lists in other areas for future elections, have been touring the West Bank to promote the concept. Currently, three other small villages, Kufur Nama, Salfit, and Kufur Haris, have bought into the idea. Sami hopes that by the time the next election rolls around several years from now, “It will be 50-50, male to female, on every list.”
There’s a contingency plan if things don’t turn out as hoped on Election Day. “We will create a shadow ‘observation’ council just for women, designed to lobby the local council for our needs,” says Sami, “and we will invite any of the women who were on the other lists to be part of it if they wish.”
What about the bigger picture for women in the West Bank? Saffa’s proximity to the Separation Wall, erected by Israel in 2002, makes it difficult to forget that whatever advances are made within its boundaries, they will be confined to a very small area. “Let’s not forget, we are occupied here,” Sami says. “But of course having more women in politics would help on both sides—having more women in politics in Palestine and in Israel—I think the women can present a new way to solve the problems. I believe in the power of women.”