"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.