The Wronged Ramallah

Author: Younis Al-Amouri

The Manara Square is located in the city of Ramallah, not merely as a landmark in the geography of the city, but as a silent witness to a long era that has not given Ramallah the chance to be just a city... Life rushes past the four black pillars that stand in the square, tired faces, cafes trying to appear normal, vendors waiting for buyers, and cars crossing the place as if they know their way, while in the background intersect news of incursions, checkpoints, arrests, and blood coming from all directions. The square seems, in this situation, to bear more than what stone can carry...

However, the injustice towards Ramallah does not start from the Manara, nor from this current situation alone. Perhaps its greatest injustice is that it is no longer seen as it is... Over time, it has transformed from a Palestinian city with its memory, spirit, and people into a political image bearing the burden of a whole stage... It has become the façade of unfinished agreements, a title for an authority that has failed to fulfill the promise it was brought for, and a stage for the illusion of a state, to the point where it has become difficult for many to distinguish between the city and the authority, between its people and what is said in its name, between the beauty of its streets and the harsh reality surrounding them... Thus, Ramallah found itself wronged twice... once for carrying what exceeds a city's capacity, and once for being saddled with the responsibilities of those who used its name, location, and image. The city is not the authority, the people are not the statements, the streets are not the agreements, and the cafes are not proof that Palestine is fine.

In Ramallah, there is something like sadness that has learned to wear elegant clothes. There is a weariness hidden under the light, and a disappointment concealed behind facades, and questions that walk the streets without finding anyone daring enough to stop them. The city seems from afar to be well, and perhaps in some of its small details, it really is, in its cafes that are crowded with people, in its trees that resist cement, in its streets that know how to welcome the evening, and in its people who are still able to create a moment of life amidst this long rubble. But behind this image lies something else that cameras do not see when they choose an angle of light, nor do lenses capture when it is desired to show the city as calm, stable, and modern, as if Palestine has finally found a way to coexist with its wound without bleeding.

Perhaps the first injustice inflicted on Ramallah is that it is no longer seen as a city, but rather as a political phase. It has been reduced to an image, transformed into a facade, and pushed to the forefront of a scene it did not choose to be the hero of. Agreements have burdened it beyond its capacity, and political farce has thrown it into equations for which the city is not responsible, then left it to face a mirror crafted by politics, not its real image. Thus, Ramallah has become a city that could simply be a Palestinian city with its spirit, memory, and specificity, a title for a complete stage, a façade for an authority, a stage for the illusion of a state, and a place teeming with contradictions that have yet to find their way to resolution...

Ramallah has been wronged by many agreements, and more than anything, it was wronged by that promise made to the Palestinians that the road to statehood had begun, then left them halfway, neither reaching the state, nor able to return to what was before the promise. Since that time, the city has carried the burden of a transitional phase whose duration has become so long that it forgot it was transitional. The temporary has become permanent, the exception has become a rule, and the authority that was supposed to be a bridge to freedom has become an entity on its own, with its institutions, employees, ceremonies, and discourse, while the homeland remains in another place, suspended between barriers, maps, and waiting...

And here begins the cruelest tale... that reality's form becomes a substitute for reality itself. That a lit city is enough for people to say that life is fine, and that movement in the streets suffices to claim that the economy is progressing, and that existing institutions are sufficient to say that the state is approaching, and that the image of a capital is enough for people to forget to ask about sovereignty. The visible scene has become more important than the truth, and what appears on the screen has become more present than what happens behind it. Thus, the deception is no longer merely a lie, but a way of organizing the truth, a way of trimming its edges, softening its harshness, and removing anything that might spoil the image...

Ramallah, in this sense, is not just a city in geography, but a city in the image. And the image becomes more dangerous than reality when it turns into the only reality that allows it to appear. Everything that does not appear in the image becomes forgettable... Every distant pain can be turned into news, every siege can be condensed into a statement, every land confiscated can be placed in a file, every martyr can become a number in a report, and then the city continues its day, the cafes open their doors, cars cross its streets, and life goes on as if nothing has happened... But everything has happened... It happened that Ramallah distanced itself from its surroundings without feeling it. It happened that it became, due to political necessity and authority interests and changes in reality, a special rhythm and a special language, with a political, economic, and social world that often seems detached from the extended Palestinian pain around it... It happened that the city, due to its political position, appears as a stable island amidst a sea of turmoil. And none of this is the city's fault. The city does not choose its position in history, nor does it choose to be the capital of an authority or a facade for an agreement. What happened is that politics placed Ramallah in this position and then proceeded to punish it for being there... And that is why Ramallah is wronged twice... wronged when it carried what no city can carry, and wronged when it was held responsible for what those who used its name, location, and image created. The city is not the authority, the people are not the statements, the streets are not the agreements, and the cafes are not proof that Palestine is fine...

It is not fair for beauty to be punished for appearing in an ugly time, nor for life to be condemned for resisting death. The problem is not in Ramallah being beautiful. The problem is in using its beauty to beautify an ugly reality. The problem is not in its streets being bustling, but in its growth becoming a false indication that the occupation has ended. And it is not a problem for people to sit in cafes, but rather that their crowding becomes an excuse to claim that the siege has lifted, that the land has been liberated, and that the state has emerged... The Palestinian human does not need to apologize for his desire to live. People have the right to laugh, to love, to work, to drink their coffee, and to seek a normal moment amidst this rubble. And it is not fair to ask them to live in perpetual mourning until they prove their allegiance to their cause. But life, at the same time, should not turn into a curtain that hides death, nor into an image used to convince the world that everything is fine...

Here lies the painful paradox that accompanies Ramallah in its current image... a city that seems to be advancing, while the cause that should be at its core is retreating. A city expanding in place, while the political horizon around it narrows. A city that is more present in the media, while the question about the distance separating it from the ongoing Palestinian pain increases. A city that speaks much about the future, while its surroundings live under the weight of an endless present... Can a city truly be stable while surrounded by an unstable homeland? Can a part of Palestine alone escape the fate of all of Palestine? Can facades grow while the spirit retreats? And is it enough for the scene to be beautiful for the future to be beautiful? Perhaps not... There has developed a kind of forced coexistence with the deception. Not because people love it, but because the truth has become so burdensome that many of them no longer have the energy to confront it every day. When the devastation extends, people learn to live alongside it. And when the illusion continues for too long, it becomes difficult for everyone to admit that it is an illusion. Thus arises the most dangerous kind of devastation... the devastation that does not astonish us, the devastation that we see but do not stop for, and the devastation that enters our daily lives until it becomes part of its furniture, like an old chair in the corner of the room, that we do not love, but have gotten used to its presence... And perhaps that is why Ramallah appears sad despite all the signs of life within it. Because the city knows, in a deep place in its memory, that it carries a story that is not solely its own. It knows that its name is linked to a whole political phase, that its image has become a mirror for an authority that has failed to fulfill the promise it was brought for. And it knows that many people sometimes look at it with suspicion, not because it has created everything but because it has become the facade for everything. And in this painful distance between the city and its image, is born that melancholy that cannot be concealed by all the lights... But perhaps it is Ramallah's right for us to finally reclaim it from the image. To return it to its natural place... a beautiful Palestinian city, not a capital of illusion. A city with its trees, houses, and memories, and with its people who want to live without being accused of life. It has the right to be beautiful without transforming into proof that everything is fine. It has the right to laugh without forgetting Gaza, to drink its coffee without forgetting Jerusalem, to open its markets without forgetting the villages and camps, and to breathe without separating from its homeland...

Ramallah is neither betrayal, nor Oslo, nor the authority, nor all this nonsense that has stuck to its name until it has become difficult to separate the city from its shadows. Ramallah is also a victim, a victim of agreements that made it the title of something unfinished, a victim of an authority that made it a façade for a reality it could not change, a victim of political discourse that made its image a substitute for the truth, and a victim of a public perception that burdened it with the weight of something for which it bears no guilt... Perhaps what the city needs most today is to be told clearly: you are not guilty for being beautiful, you are not guilty because people within you want to live, and you are not guilty for your streets being quieter than others. The guilty one is the one who made this beauty a veil, who made life a testament to surrender, and who made the image a substitute for the homeland...

And in the end, perhaps the question is not... how does Ramallah look? But rather... what does the image it appears in hide? Are we facing a real city, or a political façade? Do we see Ramallah as it is, or as the official discourse wants it to be? Do we see a Palestinian city belonging to all of Palestine, or a capital for a political entity that finds itself hanging halfway? And can we love Ramallah and criticize what has happened within it at the same time?

Perhaps this is all the justice... to love the city and reject what has been done to it, to see its beauty and not allow its use to beautify the devastation, to defend its people without defending the illusion, and to differentiate between the city and the authority, between the person and the scene, between life and deceit...

How often has Ramallah wronged itself in trying to seem fine, how often has it wronged by those who made it an image of a phase that has not ended, how much has it been wronged by agreements when burdened beyond its capacity, and how much has it been wronged by absurdity when made to seem responsible for a whole homeland still seeking its path... Yet, Ramallah remains beautiful. Beautiful not because it has survived devastation, but because, despite all the devastation, it is still capable of sprouting from the cracks. Perhaps its real beauty lies in that it has not completely surrendered to the image that was created for it, and that within it, beneath all this political dust, lies another city waiting to reclaim its original name... a Palestinian city that loves life, but does not forget why Palestine continues to seek its freedom... And perhaps the sadness lies in that Ramallah did not need all this artificial glory to be beautiful. It was enough for it to be itself. It was enough for it to remain close to its people, to its villages, to its camps, to Jerusalem, to Gaza, and to all this Palestinian body that has been politically fragmented until each part has its own rhythm and its own pain. It was enough for it to be a city among cities, not a city above cities, and to be part of the story, not a substitute for it...

But politics, when it enters cities, does not leave them as they were. It imposes its names upon them, hangs its slogans on their walls, and uses their streets to say things bigger than them, then moves on, leaving the city to confront alone a question it did not choose... How can you keep your image beautiful, while everything around you is collapsing? Perhaps the answer is that Ramallah does not need a new image, but rather a new truth. A truth that does not make it the capital of illusion, nor a façade for devastation, nor a mirror for the deception of reality, but a free Palestinian city in its relationship with its surroundings, sincere in its relationship with itself, and capable of seeing all of Palestine without reducing it to itself... Only then can the sadness stop being a shadow following the city, and only then does the beauty of Ramallah become a beauty that does not need justification, nor advertising, nor small lies to convince the world it exists. It is enough for the city to be itself. It is enough for it to return to Palestine. It is enough to finally let it live, without burdening it with the guilt of everything we could not change.