The whole problem stems from the fact that the Arabs felt humiliated throughout the decades which led to the creation of Israel.
Call them as you wish, Arabs, Palestinians, Filistins, tribes, Danish or orangutans, it doesn't matter. I prefer to call them people.
The whole area of the Levant has been a scene of invasions and bloodshed throughout the centuries. There was a point when the maps were drawn, the other countries of the Levant got their independence and the area of Palestine was to be divided into two states in order to create Israel.
Nobody asked the Arabs if they agreed, nobody took their oppositon into consideration and when they resisted, they lost. Some still blame them for having resisted.Who wouldn't have ? Think about that for a second.
Things have become very ugly since then and I honestly don't see a way out of the conflict. I try to be optimstic sometimes, but the gaps have widened to an extend that I don't even think that the two people are able to even live side by side.
Israel is here now and it should stay. I cannot bring myself to call for a new genocide in order to repair the damage. But that doesn't change the fact that nobody listened to the people who were already there.
Call me a romantic, but this poem by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwich is what best describes the Arab pride and weather we like it or not, Arabs identify themselves with this kind of literature.
Write Down,
I am an Arab,
My card number is 50,000,
I have eight children,
The ninth will come next summer,
Are you angry ?
Write Down,
I am an Arab,
I cut stone with comrade labourers,
I squeeze the rock,
To get a loaf,
To get a loaf,
To get a book,
For my eight children.
But I do not plead charity,
And I do not cringe
Under your sway.
Are you angry ?
Write down,
I am an Arab,
I am a name without a title,
Steadfast in a frenzied world.
My roots sink deep
Beyond my ages,
Beyond time.
I am a son of the plough.
Of humble peasant stock.
I live in a hut
Of reed and stalk.
The hair: Jet black.
The eyes: Brown.
My Arab headdress
Scratches intruding hands,
And I prefer a drip of oil and thyme.
And please write down
On top of all,
I hate nobody,
But when I starve
I eat the flesh of my marauders
Beware,
Beware my hunger,
Beware my wrath.