"Saving Mickey, the dog under occupation"

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about religion.  If you ask any Christian if Jesus is real, they’d swear they feel an intimate connection with him.  Jews say the same about Jehova, Muslims about Allah, Buddhists about Buddha, etc…  Whether these all actually exist and coexist simultaneously remain in question.  For now, however, I was ready for my own religious experience.  I was in Bethlehem (in Palestine), at the Church of the Nativity- the exact spot where Jesus was born.  In fact, down in the basement is a small room, adorned with gold.  On the ground is a star and candles.   This is where people travel from all over the world to have a religious experience. The Pope, past American Presidents, Christian religious leaders... you name it. Now, I was here.

The spot where Jesus was said to have been born

This was it.  I walked down the stairs, through the wooden door and looked at the spot Jesus was born- and there it was.  There was a nun, a few people in a trance-like prayer, and another woman with several rosary beads and what looked like Jesus trading cards (do those exist?). This was it.  I guess this is the point where I feel some sort of spirit?    Nothing.  A few minutes pass.  Nothing.  I feel nothing.  I feel no different than I did a half hour ago when I was eating falafel at a street vendor.  In fact, I’m more concerned with the sanitation of everyone kissing the star on the ground where Jesus was born.  Ringworm is real.  I look at the lady next to me with the Jesus trading cards.  She kisses each one then lays them down at the star.  Again, I feel nothing.  All I can think about is Mickey…

You can see the star if you look closely at the ground

If you’ve read my previous post on IG/Facebook, you remember Mickey.  She’s the sweet girl that was chained up near the wall in a refugee camp called Aida (I-Da).  About an hour before I went to the church is when I first saw Mickey chained up in the hot summer heat. When I found her, I gave her some water, which she lapped up quicker than I could pour it.  I walked down the street to the Shwarma shop (it’s a type of meat), and bought some meat for her.  She again, ate it quicker than I could give it to her.  My heart sank.  This was her life.  Chained up in the hot summer heat, dirty, and wanting attention.  As I walked away she started to whimper.  There was nothing I could do.  I fed her and gave her water, and now I was off to discover Jesus.

Sweet Mickey

Mickey posing for the camera

Mickey's home next to the wall

Fast forward back to the church where I’m waiting for Jesus to come.  By this point I’m getting frustrated.  Everyone else around me seems to be having this religious awakening, and I’m wondering if Mickey is still thirsty.  Thoughts start racing through my head. Am I a real Christian?  If Jesus is real, does kissing the star where he was born make me a better Christian than someone who hasn’t?  Does Jesus value me more if I got some trading cards perhaps?  I hope Mickey isn’t lonely…  Maybe I should’ve bought some rosary beads to kick start my religious awakening.  This all seems silly.  This line of thinking spawned another thought… If Jesus and his teachings are real, I’m not sure if kissing the ground does anything.  In fact, I think I remember Jesus saying to tend to his flock.  Tend to his flock... what does that even mean? That’s it. Do something good today.  Do something good…

“Taxi!!” I shouted outside the church.  “Salem Alikum (A greeting in Arabic)” I say.  “Take me to the grocery store… the one down the road about a mile.”  Without hesitation he goes.  I’m not even sure if he speaks English, but at this point who cares. Magically, we arrive.  This is the only big grocery store in Bethlehem.  “Wait 5 minutes.. I’ll pay you, just wait,” I half plead with him as I half wave money during my explanation.  He agrees.

I start roaming down the isles quickly.  Finally, in the back I see my prize- a 30 pound bag of dog food.  I bring it to the counter and pay.  The cashier looks at me funny.  Feeding dogs in a world where children sometimes don't eat is a 1st world issue, let alone spending money on a huge bag.   She takes my money anyway.  I go back out to the taxi who is now surely thinking I’m some crazy American (I am).  “Aida refugee camp,” I tell him.  He looks puzzled… “The refugee camp? Are you sure?”  I'm mildly surprised he spoke English as he really didn't say a word until then. At this point I realize that a white guy carrying a 30-pound bag of dog food wanting to go to the refugee camp is probably the most bizarre things this cab driver has witnessed.  But, just like the virgin Mary, sometimes crazy circumstances turn out to be beautiful. #CrazyAmerican

The streets of Bethlehem

We pull up to the refugee camp and I walk the half mile to Mickey.  I see a shack-type house next to her.  I politely walk in and knock on the door.  A man in his 40s answers and looks confused why a white male with a huge bag of dog food is at his door.  “Hi… Do you speak English?” I ask.  “Yes… not a lot but yes.”  I smile, and he does the same. I instantly feel relief, but I'm not exactly sure why.  “That dog.. is she yours?”  He nods.  “Well, I just wanted to give you some food for her, and I also…”  I stop.  I see a small girl peak from around the corner.  I look in the shack and the entire house is the size of my living room in Oklahoma.  This shack is essentially outside, and everything is dirty.  I should be buying food for the girl instead.  She reminds me of the scene in Aladdin where Abu gives the poor kids who peak around the corner some bread. 

Entrance to Aida Refugee Camp

I stop.  “Here… this is for the dog.  Please feed her,” I say quietly.  I also hand him 100 Shakels ($25).

He seems confused, and grateful...  He looks at me with almost an embarrassed look.  “I’m not sure what to say.  Thank you.  Her name is Mickey and I found her wandering around the refugee camp.  Dogs die here very easily so I tried to rescue her.  Do you want her?” 

Typical apartment in Aida refugee camp

"Yes" I thought...  “No, no I can’t.  I live in the United States, I’m just… visiting” I muster up to say still looking at his daughter staring at the white man her Dad is talking to.   

He looks at me with gratitude in his eyes and I wonder if he’ll spend the money feeding his daughter instead.  I wish I had more cash to give him. 

“Will you come in? I have some soda or tea if you want it.”  This gesture warmed my heart. 
“Thank you, but I should be going.  I have to head back and the bus is a little far.  Thank you again,” I say.  We both smile. I say bye to the little girl.  She finally lets out a smirk.

I start to walk back to the bus stop.  On the way back I find some kids playing next to the wall.  They have no idea what that wall represents.  That wall is their prison bars, they just don't know it yet.  They have no idea that they are being oppressed.  They don't know that the chances of them leaving the West Bank and slim to none.  They are blithely unaware of all of this... I'm feeling a wave or emotions and I'm not sure how to process everything that just happened.  The bus ride home was around 2 hours.  I did a lot of thinking on that drive.  One of my conclusions is that Mickey represents any Palestinian: 

So much potential, but chained and bound without freedom. 

So much to give, but restricted. 

Full of love, but limited by barriers. 

Children play next to the wall that separates Israel and Palestine

Whether in the U.S. or Palestine, kids love their picture taken.

     

Why am I so obsessed with this dog?  Sure, I'm a dog person, but why do I feel such an overwhelming feeling to help?  I realized that I'm surrounding by feelings of helplessness.  Everywhere I go I see injustice and I can't do anything.

Poor kids playing on the street? Nothing I can do.

An entire country being oppressed?  Nothing I can do.

People being forced to live marginal lives that are under constant surveillance and subject to arrest without provocation?  Nothing I can do.

I'm helpless and frustrated.  But Mickey... Sweet Mickey.   I can do something.  There's so much pain here, but maybe I can finally do something.

She will be full for tonight, and the next week, but what about after that?  Back to the hunger pains laying in the hot sun.  I started to feel helpless again.  It was at this moment that I made the decision to save Mickey.  I have no idea how, but I need to get this dog to a better home.  I am unable to help the other thousand situations that plague the West Bank, but I’ll be damned if I can’t help this one dog from suffering anymore than she has to. Mission accepted.

Rawan is a friend I met who lives in Israel (she’s Palestinian).  My first thought was to ask her for advice.  She gives me some, and a lot of encouragement.  Below is a list of plans we made for saving Mickey:

Plan A: Ship Mickey to the United States

Plan B: Bring Mickey to Israel

Plan A was way to complicated as I had a layover in Russia (Russia like to complicate things).  Plan B was to bring Mickey to Israel.  However, this had several problems…  First, how would we transport her? Second, dogs need an ID.  Mickey is a street dog.  How do we get an ID for her?

I tried to rent a car.  It’s a no go.  There are no cars to rent in the West Bank.  However, I did find out how to get Mickey an ID.  She would have to go to a vet, get vaccinations, and a microchip.  The problem was getting a vet- which is hard to come by in the West Bank.  Doctors for dogs is a first world luxury.  Nonetheless, I did find one in another city that said he could give Mickey her vaccinations (for a price, of course). 

So of the three issues, (1. A vet, 2. Transportation, and 3. A home), I’ve solved one.  I leave the West Bank in 2 days.  At this point, I don’t care how Mickey gets saved.  I just want to save her.  So, I come up with a plan… we’ll title this plan C:

I will take a taxi to Bethlehem, pick up Mickey, take her in a taxi (is that allowed?) to another city to a vet, then take another taxi back to my city.  The taxi’s alone will cost a few hundred dollars.  I’m willing to forgo that.  It’s an investment. I was planning to buy a new laptop when I got back to the U.S.  I don't need it.  

"Some taxi's won't let dogs in cars, and they may not take you to different cities," Rawan commented.  She's right.  I’m feeling defeated.. At this point, I need help.  I text some friends for encouragement.  I text my friend Amanda, Anan and Natalie.  They all tell me just to go for it.  It’s now the night before I set my plan (can we call it that?) into motion.  I still have no transportation and no home for Mickey.  Great… yolo… carpe diem..  I’m screwed…

It was at this point I get 2 phone calls.  The first was Abdul, a colleague who works at Project Hope.  He tells me he’s heard about my story, and he and Manuela (another colleague) will forgo their vacation day tomorrow to help me.  I have no words.  I also don’t know if they know what they’re getting into.  The second call came from Noura.  Noura coordinates schedules at project hope.  She said her brother would take Mickey as long as she gets an ID.  Magically, this was all coming together.  Now it should be smooth sailing, right?  Wink wink.  No. 

We wake up early the next morning and Abdul and Manuela meet me.  We make the long drive to Bethlehem (around 2 hours) and Abdul lets me drive his car along the way.  We pick up one more passenger, Hanan, to drop her off in Bethlehem.  It should be noted that having a personal car in the West Bank is a privilege that not many people have.  Further, this car was a nice car- one he was proud of.  The seats were clean, the trunk was empty… it even smelled new.  He had a nice radio system, and the car was shockingly clean for all the everyday desert dust.  He reminded me to close the doors gently.  It was his baby. 

Car ride to Bethlehem to rescue Mickey

Excited to rescue Mickey!

Two hours later we arrive in Bethlehem and drive into the refugee camp.  We pull up to the wall and I see where Mickey was the last time I saw her.  Nothing.  My first thought was that we just drove 2 hours for nothing and I ruined their day.  Before that thought finished however, Mickey comes trotting along from behind a rock, still chained up.  She cries when she sees me, and I tear up.  I introduce Abdul and Manuela to Mickey, and they both love her.  Mickey, of course, loves the attention.  I give her some water and she laps it up again. 

Walking up to Mickey

She remembers me :)

Reunited

Abdul gives Mickey some water, and she laps it up.  We leave Mickey for a few minutes to go talk to her owner at the shack.  Abdul translates in Arabic, and we find out the owner (named Ali) was in prison for 9 years.  Why?  Well, he worked at a bar when one night 3 Israeli soldiers came in.  They got drunk, started a fight, and Ali was involved.  He punched one of the soldiers and that was that.  “Palestinian punches Israeli soldier” was the headline that night, and Ali suffered the consequences.  He told Abdul that while in prison they put him in solitary confinement.  He tried committing suicide twice but failed.  Now, 9 years later he lives in a refugee camp selling second hand items… clothes, pots, utensils… whatever he can refurbish.  He said he found Mickey a few months ago and tried to rescue her as best as he could.  Dogs in the middle east are of the lowest class, and they usually die on the streets.  It was Ali that decided to try to feed her when he has trouble feeding his own wife and kids. 

Abdul and I with Mickey

Sweet Manuela with Sweet Mickey

Ali tell us his appreciation, and I promise to come visit him whenever I come back.  Next time I'm back I want to do something nice for him and his family.  Any ideas? I'd be happy to listen.  I'm still working on that plan... but for now, Mickey...

Step one- get Mickey… CHECK.  Now we need to get to a city called Ramallah to get her to the vet.  Abdul is driving, Manuela is in the passenger seat, and Mickey and I are in the back.  We have a small towel that Ali gave us for Mickey to sit on, but she curls up on my lap anyways.  Around 5 minutes in, Mickey perks up.  She sits up, and barfs… All. Over. The. Back. Seat.  

“Umm.. Abdul?? Pull over…” I manage to calmly say.  “Why??” he replies as he looks back over his shoulder.  He realizes what happens.  At this point I’m guessing Abdul will freak out.  Mickey just barfed over his impeccably clean car- he has every right to be upset.  He doesn’t.  He looks back and says, "No problem."  For a second I forge the smell of the throw up and am grateful Abdul is here.  We pull over, and start to clean up the puke.  Manuela, who is a vegetarian, jumps in a starts cleaning the meat filled throw up with some wipes.  I feel TERRIBLE, and they reassure me it's okay. Who are these people?? Mickey's guardian angels, apparently.  Abdul runs into the corner store to buy some hand towels.  I talk to Mickey like I talk to Cookie (my own dog in the U.S.) and tell her it's okay and not to feel bad.  I think she understands.  For as dramatic as it was, we were an efficient team. 

Me smiling after cleaning up Mickey's puke

What we didn’t know at the time was that this would happen again…  Not once, not twice… not 3 or 4 times… 8.   8 times Mickey puked in the car.  That’s what happens when you’ve never been in a car before.  “At least she had food in her stomach to throw up” I think to myself.  The 2 hours drive wasn’t over.  Mickey was stressed, confused.  She had barely been off of a 3 foot chain in her life, and now she’s driving in a car (side note: the roads in Palestine aren’t exactly smooth).  Besides the 8 throw ups, Mickey pooped in the car… 3 times. 

After the first hour of driving, we made it to the vet who met us at a gas station before bringing us back to his house.  Maybe that’s how vets work in Palestine? I’ll never know.  He gives Mickey a clean bill of health, a microcip, and ID, and some vaccinations.  We get on the road again.

Mickey's first vet appointment ever

Patient Abdul and Mickey

Mickey was much better on the way back from the vet.  We get back to Nablus, our home-base city, and go to a park.  Here is where Mickey gets her first ever run off leash.  It was a fenced in park, and Mickey experienced what freedom tastes like.  She likes it, but has trouble going down stairs.  That’s okay.  She’ll learn.

Mickey's other parents

I give Abdul and Manuela some time to grab some food, while I bring Mickey back to the girls dorm to shower.  Katy, a colleague of mine, helps me bathe her.  Her first bath ever.  She is confused and afraid of the water, but Katy does a great job of talking her through it.  

Katy and me after washing Mickey

I meet back up with Abdul and Manuela, and we wait for Mickey's owner.  He pulls up and I'm nervous I won't like him.  I couldn't be more wrong.  He's a gentleman and thanks me for saving Mickey.  I thank him for taking her.  I give him the leash  (it was harder than I thought) and he promises me the following: “Next time you come to Palestine, you wont be able to recognize Mickey.  She will eat well, and she’ll have a full belly everyday.”  I feel relieved.

Handing over Mickey to her new owner

Mickey's new home

After it was over, I walk back to my apartment.  I start sobbing.  Sobbing out of relief, out of sadness, out of happiness.  It looks like I got my religious experience...

Mickey is the epitome of Palestine.  There is so much injustice here in the West Bank, and Mickey is just one of many who experiences this.  I hope and trust she has a better life, but there is more work to be done.  Let’s not forget the stories of Mickey and Palestinians.  Next time you hear the words Israel, or Palestine, or occupation, or freedom… remember them. Remember Mickey...

Special thanks for everyone who helped me rescue Mickey:

Abdul*

Manuela*

Katy

Rawan

Anan

Natalie

Micah

Ian

Alex

Laurence

Noura

Ali

Emily
Marcos
Jesse
Amanda
Ahmad

It takes a village!!  We did it :)  

**Abdul and Manuela- You both are two of the sweetest, kind and gentle people I know.  I appreciate you both.  Anytime you need anything from me, I'm there.  I WILL see you both again.  Can't wait :)

"In Palestine, green means... STOP"

"I'll be sure to change your name for the story. What do you want me to refer to you as?" I said. 

He thought for a moment. Shook his head. "Dude, I've spent too much time running from this stuff. I don't care anymore. Use my real name- Ameed. I'll risk it. " he responded begrudgingly, almost frustrated.

For all my single ladies, Ameed is your Mediterranean dream catch. Smart, handsome, clever, and speaks perfect English (and single!). He was equally interested in my story as I was his. He asked me about American idiosyncrasies and seemed fascinated by them. He said he learned English by watching movies, and that the United States is a "fantasy" place for him that he dreams about going to. He also expressed a strong desire to travel as he pleases.  He has a list of countries he talked about visiting. However, a fantasy this currently remains.  Ameed can't even visit parts of his own country... Like Jerusalem. 


"Jerusalem..." He continued, "It's like my backyard. One of the holiest places for Christians, Muslims and Jews. Driving straight to it, it's about an hour from here. I've never been before. I'm not sure if I'll ever get to go." he said. "Can you imagine as a New Yorker being denied seeing the Statue of Liberty?"

In 1967, Israel forced almost all Palestinians into the West Bank. There were some that were able to stay in Israel, but there needed to be a differentiation between the two. Thus, green versus blue was born. There's a 4-level hierarchy among Palestinians: 


4. Gaza. The worst is if you live in Gaza. This means you are confined to the Gaza Strip. No questions asked.

3. West Bank Green. Next, if you live in the West Bank with a green card- Ameed. These Palestinians are confined to the West Bank, but may apply to leave under special circumstances. This process is unbearably long and complicated, and there is no certain way for it to be accepted. 


2. West Bank Blue. This means you live in the West Bank, but you are allowed access to Israel for work or other special purposes. 


1. Israeli ID. There are some Palestinians, either by birth or marriage, who are granted an Israeli passport. They are still subject to scrutiny as the airport, however, they are free to move about. This is the rarest kind and very few have this. 


This system has split up both families and loved ones. Ameed told me a story about a friend's grandmother who was dying in Gaza. They didn't allow access to see her, and she died before he could say goodbye.  


Ameed and his green ID

There are at times when some green card holders are given access to Jerusalem, but  are stranded (or refuse) to go back. These are the most at risk Palestinians who are considered illegal and will be arrested upon sight. They are denied even the most basic of services, and risk scaling the wall back into the West Bank should they need treatment. 


Ameed looked down, almost embarrassed about what he was about to say. "All I want to do is see the sea. The Mediterranean. I've seen what the ocean looks like on TV. I want to feel what waves feel like. What the wet sand feels like. I'm 22, and I'm 2 hours drive to the ocean and I've never seen it."

I tried to take this in. I was baffled. "Have you tried applying for a visitor visa?"

He shook his head again. "I don't think you really understand. I'm Palestinian. There's no sure-fire way to leave. I've tried. Twice. They gave me a visa because I handed in all the paperwork, then said no at the checkpoint. I was devastated."

At the point I asked Ameed to do an interview, he had been in the process of working with an American NGO to do into Israel for 1 day. They, on his behalf, we're working with Israel to give him a 24 hour visa. When I checked up on Ameed a few days after, he sent me this...




For the first time in his life, Ameed saw the sea

Ameed made it to the sea...

As with all people I interview, I asked Ameed what he wanted to say to Americans. This was his response...

"I feel like I don't want pity. People look at Palestinians all the time and think 'oh poor them.' Palestine isn't like other 3rd world countries where we just can't better ourselves. We can. We have potential. We can be like any other first world nation, but the difference is we are being purposely held back. You can't image what that feels like. I don't want pity. I want change."

"Insects Don't Deserve Chocolate"

Some interviews I do I have to ask multiple questions to get to the good stuff.  Hamiz (pronounced Hahm-eez), was not one of them.  He’s only 41, but has already lived a life full of fanatical, horrible stories, and should really have a book written about him rather than a blog.  Nonetheless, he matters, and so does his story, so this blog for now will have to do.

Hamiz works with kids at a refugee camp here in Palestine.  You can routinely see him swinging a laughing kid around by the arms, or giving a piggy back to a small boy who is grinning ear-to-ear.  Hamiz can also be caught smiling, but after 11 years in prison, he told me he forgot how to smile.  This was a trait that had to be re-learned.  

Hamiz and Me

“Can I ask you about prison?” I chimed.  “Sure,” he said as he lit a cigarette.  He offered one to me (I politely declined), leaned back and took a puff as though he was about to unlock some skeletons, “Which time do you want to talk about?” Which. time. This is becoming a common question among Palestinians.  Which time?  “Well… how about the first one?”

Hamiz started to tell me about his first time being arrested.  He was 15.  Israeli soldiers came and raided the refugee camp (again for, you guessed it, “safety reasons,” which I still don’t understand). “They came and they took everything.  We didn’t even have that much.  They even took our food.” Hamiz dealt with these raids before, but being 15 and entering manhood, he started to feel the suffocation of having his small family apartment savagely searched and turned upside down.  Palestinians have no weapons… no defense.  He did the only thing he could when the Israeli military car drove by.  Out of frustration, Hamiz threw a stone. 

This is how the system creates Palestinian prisoners.  The cycle first starts with a raid.  A raid in which Israel mercilessly overturns a home in search of, well, who knows what.  The family either sits back and watches soldiers tear through their intimate possessions, or they decide to fight back.  The overwhelming majority of the time families just stand outside and watch.  They watch their beds get overturned.  They watch the closets get torn apart, clothes spread all over the floor, journals read, computers (if you’re so lucky to have one) stolen for processing. This is common. The family then goes back to clean up their house. No big deal. There is no such thing as privacy if you’re a Palestinian.  A small luxury you’re not afforded.  

“They tackled me and showed no pity when I threw the stone.  I remember waking up in prison and wanting milk.  I kept asking, ‘What am I doing here? When can I leave?’”  The mature 15-year-old defending his home turned back into a child, “I want my mom… Can I have my mom?” he asked the guard.  The answer was always no.  He would spend over a year in prison for that stone.  

Hamiz continued, “The longest time I’ve ever been in prison was 11 years, but that first year at 15 was the hardest. I was treated like an animal.  The guards would walk by me and hit me. If I resisted, they’d put my head in a bucket of water. It was my natural reaction to wince and cover my face whenever they walked by. At 41, I still have that same feeling if I ever see a soldier.”  

Let me stop for a minute and shed some light on the cycle of violence here. Palestinians are often characterized by the Israeli media as aggressors… terrorists even.  Israeli soldiers rip apart families and destroy homes until someone cracks, then claim terrorism.  My mom started a non-profit that worked with dogs and cats in shelters when I was younger.  She loved (still does!) animals, but always said that under the right conditions, any animal will bite if antagonized enough. Now, before continuing, let me state that the percentage of Palestinians that use aggression is miniscule.  Nonetheless, if you raid enough homes, imprison enough children, cut enough water, limit enough electricity, suspend enough travel, and accidentally kill enough sons, daughters, cousins, brothers… the sweet dog that ended up in the shelter will now bite if hit one more time.  Next comes the “Aha!” moment when Israel then paints the picture of an aggressive Palestinian.  Although I never condone violence, I can’t say if my children were killed, home destroyed, and dignity taken that I would also feel like I have nothing left to lose.

 Hamiz though, is not one of those aggressors (unless you count throwing a stone an aggressor).  I asked him what the hardest thing was about that first year in prison.  “There’s 2 things I specifically remember.  My mom, of course, and chocolate.  I missed my mom so much, I thought about her every day.  I also missed chocolate. Sugar, really. Anything sweet even.  We never got anything.  I asked a guard for some chocolate once. Then they beat me. It seems silly, but when you’re 15, you’re a kid.  All kids want candy, something.  I forgot what chocolate tasted like.  They told me Palestine was a country of insects.  They said I was an insect that didn’t deserve it. Insects don’t get chocolate.  I never forgot that.” 

As with all people I interview, I told Hamiz that Americans would read this story, and asked him what he wanted to say to them.  Here’s his response:

“The most important idea here is that we don’t deserve the conditions we live in.  Despite the bad conditions, we have good people.  Caring people with hopes and dreams that will never come true.  Still, we hold onto that hope- it’s all we have sometimes… they took everything else.  They can take my house, my freedom, but they can’t take my hope. Regardless, I’m not angry.  I wish the best for their children too.  All children deserve a good life- ours just don’t get it.

Tell your people our stories.  I know Americans care, they just don’t know.  If they knew what really went on, they’d do something.  Our people can’t leave, so our stories stay here.  Let the stories escape. Tell them.  Tell them my story.  Please…”

If you’d like me to pass on any messages to Hamiz, please send me an e-mail at zgiano@yahoo.com.