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At a rare skate park in Nablus, young Palestinian board riders face a series of obstacles before they are even able to drop in to try their latest tricks.
“I’ll get stopped at a checkpoint and encounter some sort of stop-and-frisk… He’s not shooting me, but he’s making me feel demeaned. I’ll then go to the skate park and think, ‘Screw that border police officer who wants to make me feel minimal’,” says Maen Hammad, a 30-year-old human rights campaigner and documentary maker chronicling the rise of skate culture in the West Bank.
Mr Hammad, second son of Palestinian refugees who moved to the US aged two, returned to the country of his birth in 2014 in search of a sense of identity. Taking his beloved skateboard with him, he found a rising local scene which he eventually documented in his short film, Kickflips Over Occupation.
It captures children learning to skate in dusty concrete streets against graffiti-covered walls, scrawled with statements such as “What would Anne Frank do?”. Clips show young people practising outside shopping centres much like in American suburbs, or whizzing past mosques. Young skaters speak of how they love the sport, while others practice after dark in streets festooned with lights.
Yet seven years on from its release, skate parks remain scarce and skate shops are virtually non-existent. Mr Hammad said for many, skateboarding is a rare respite from the oppression that permeates the lives of Palestinian youth.
“It would be wrong to assume it’s only blood and grenades and arrests,” he says. “It’s who you can love or how you get to school. That’s why skateboarding is so much more than a sport or a hobby. In a lot of circumstances, it’s the only space where they can live a normal life and just be free from context for a bit.”
Mr Hammad is putting these dynamics under the spotlight through Landing, an ongoing photography project that is showcasing the “purposeful escape” provided by skateboarding amidst Israel’s military occupation.
While some of the photographs were taken by Mr Hammad, the rest were shot by the core group of Palestinian skaters using disposable cameras.
“I’ve always felt weird speaking on behalf of Palestinian skaters because who am I to do so, you know? I grew up in America and have an American passport, which brings with it a lot of privilege,” he admits. “I always knew that part of my relationship with skating in Palestine is shared, while there are also parts that I don’t share, but I think are even cooler. I wanted to make sure that this wasn’t another case of someone from the diaspora returning to assume the narrative of Palestinians.”
He chose to take a collaborative approach, with the disposable cameras aiming to allow young skaters to take photos of the world around them, providing “a glimpse into being young and Palestinian”.
“There are photos of them hanging out, doing homework, walking around, falling in love,” he says. “Sure, when looked at in isolation, they might seem meaningless. But when put into context? It’s radical to be doing even the most mundane things in a world that has effectively dehumanised their existence.”
In a place where the median age is under 21, Mr Hammad says the Israeli occupation means many young people are conditioned to feel hopeless. But the slowly growing skateboarding community is challenging this everyday reality in its own nonviolent way, he says.
“Skateboarding as a sport is very disobedient in essence. I mean, when you think of your prototypical skater, you think of a tenacious, strong-willed rebel trying to raise hell, right? Well, skateboarding in Palestine is sending that message,” he says
“It’s sending a message to the occupier and the world – it’s a refusal of the status quo. It is showing that no amount of soldiers, no amount of checkpoints, no wall, no army can keep us quiet and in place.”
Mr Hammad lives in Ramallah, just 10km north of Jerusalem in the central West Bank but refers to the city as a bubble. He says many young people demonstrate a lack of political aspiration as there has not been a Palestinian election for more than 16 years.
“It’s the same human rights crisis that Palestinians have faced for over 73 years. And why I highlight that it’s worse is because the population is still so young and there’s no real space to assume anything but hopelessness.”
While Mr Hammad is hopeful about his project, he’s wary of making any bold claims.
“I’m not saying that skateboarding is going to free Palestine, but I do think that it’s one of many important tools that allow young people to have control over how they sustain a sense of community.”
His fellow skaters have also helped his own understanding of the nuances of his birthplace. “It’s messy to assume that a Palestinian is just somebody who is wearing a keffiyeh and has a rock in his hand,” he says.
But with so many restrictions on movement, it’s perhaps not surprising that his favourite aspect of skateboarding is simply the occupation of space.
“It’s a cool way to not be a victim of physical space – whether that means being stuck in traffic or behind the separation wall – but actually engage with it.”
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