All images Ryan O'Toole Collett
At approximately 30 kilometres, the drive between the Palestinian cities of Bethlehem and Ramallah should take less than half an hour, but on a good day, the journey takes a local nearly three times as long. Although connected directly by two main roads that go through Israel, since Palestinian-born citizens are prohibited from entering the neighbouring territory, they have to go the long way within Palestine. And since the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) have occupied the West Bank since the 1967 Six-Day War, travelling through this area of the province also means driving through three Israeli checkpoints, where documents, car models and number plates are inspected to see if they have the right to pass through.
A bad day at the checkpoint could delay the trip by hours, or even days. For Adish (pronounced ‘a-deesh’), an Israeli-Palestinian fashion label that has built a cult following producing streetwear with traditional Palestinian stitch work, made by embroiderers in Bethlehem’s Dheisheh refugee camp and a factory in Ramallah, it’s the only way to run the business. Although the name means ‘apathetic’ in Hebrew, the brand’s not only refused to stay quiet about working with Palestinians – they’ve made it a central part of their business.
“Until you actually visit and you see what is going on, you can’t imagine what life is like there, what it means to go through a checkpoint or what it is like to see soldiers in your neighbourhood every night,” says Amit Luzon, 25, who founded Adish two years ago with fellow Israeli Eyal Eliyahu, also 25, in Tel Aviv. Like many Israelis, Luzon and Eliyahu had never been to Palestine before starting their business, but are part of a movement among a younger generation that disagrees with their country’s treatment of Palestine. From restricting the movement of people and goods in the Gaza Strip, to facilitating the unlawful transfer of Israeli citizens to settlements in the West Bank and implementing an open-fire policy on its borders (last year 190 Palestian protestors were shot dead and 28,000 injured by the Israeli Defence Forces), Israel has been condemned 45 times by the United Nations Human Rights Council since 2013.
Granted, the violence isn’t one- way: in 2018 the Israeli Intelligence and Terrorism Information Centre reported that 1119 rockets launched from Palestinian territories hit Israel, and that 12 Israeli civilians and soldiers were killed in terrorist attacks by Palestinian groups. Nevertheless, the divisive reality of the conflict, which has its origins in tensions between Jewish and Palestinian communities during British control of the region from 1920 – 1948, has informed Adish’s desire to work with their neighbours and their rich textile heritage. When they were introduced to Palestinian embroiderers through The Parents Circle-Families Forum – a charity working with families who have lost members in the conflict – the delicate Tatreez cross-stitch embroidery style seemed like a natural fit. “We didn’t calculate how big of an issue movement would be,” Luzon says.
While the founders were used to moving relatively freely around Tel Aviv and being able to run to their patternmaker in the middle of the night if there was a problem, they didn’t realise that security issues, traffic and even maintenance could delay the simplest trip by days. In order to navigate the area’s precarious roads, the team turned to those who know them best: taxi drivers.
There are three types of cabbies in Israel and Palestine: those with yellow plates, and others with green and blue plates. Like the majority of Palestinians, the green and blue-plated drivers were born within the West Bank and can only move within Palestinian territories. Drivers with yellow plates, like Ahmad Abbad, are also Palestinian, but were born in Jerusalem. Their heritage prevents them from obtaining an Israeli passport, but their place of birth grants them an Israeli identity card, which carries with it the privilege of passing between the two countries. “Having a yellow-plate car means either that you are an Israeli citizen or a resident of Jerusalem,” Abbad says. “However, no Israeli other than Palestinians with Israeli citizenship or ID cards are allowed to cross into Palestine – it’s actually forbidden by law.”
In the context of relations between Palestine and Israel, and as a company headed by Israelis, getting Palestinians to work for Adish was not an easy sell. Across the operation, all of the Palestinian employees we spoke to reported a backlash from their friends and family for working with “the enemy”, as the Palestinian coordinator Qussay Abuaker phrases it. This isn’t surprising.
For some Palestinians who have seen many of their Arabic traditions –Untitled, 2018 including traditional Levantine cuisine and embroidery – marketed globally as Israeli, receiving credit and working with Israelis is rebuilding trust between the two sides. Although the trained eye can spot where the embroidery comes from by looking at the motif and the colour of the thread, Adish adds the information on the label as a way of creating visibility for the very localised practice. Still, when it came to shooting their Spring/Summer 2019 campaign for Dover Street Market – which featured Palestinian creatives – Luzon admits it was difficult to find people who would put their names behind the brand, and perhaps rightly. The company still has a long way to go to convince people that it is a force for good.
"We are trying to change the status quo of what Palestinians think of Israelis. Maybe people will think it’s a gimmick, but for us it’s working, which means it’s not a gimmick anymore"
Abuaker bears the brunt of the responsibility when it comes to finding a way to work in the occupied West Bank territory, which was divided into three areas by the Oslo II Accord in 1995: A, B and C. Area A, which includes cities like Ramallah and Bethlehem, is supposed to be under the full control of the Palestinian Authority, while villages in Area B should share joint control between the two sides and Area C is under full control of the Israeli government. Instead of segmenting the West Bank into three distinct parts, however, the areas speckle the region like a tri-coloured leopard print, with checkpoints, walls and other security measures blocking free access. Planning factory locations means taking into consideration the safety of the workers.
“If you are moving inside a city, not the district, but the main roads, it’s less dangerous,” Abuaker says. “When you start to move between the territories, when you move from Bethlehem to one of the countryside villages, which is like a 10-minute drive, it’s dangerous.” Getting all of the 60 embroiderers to go to one workstation would be better for production and result in fewer defects. To accommodate the women doing the stitch work, however, taxi drivers often collect the products from the women’s homes, take them to the factory, and deliver them back to the villages again if there is a problem. Still, Adish is doubling down, with plans to create full-time roles with benefits for the embroiderers.
It’s not uncommon for Israelis to produce things in Palestine because of the cheap labour market, but true partnerships, such as those cultivated by Adish, are still rare. Company ownership is split, with Luzon and Eliyahu as the Israeli partners, and Abuaker and Jordan Nassar, 34, as the Palestinian side. The label is also registered with both authorities because Israeli companies cannot work in Palestine, just as Palestinian companies cannot work in Israel – a circumstance which doubles taxes. Aside from requiring an elevated level of trust on both sides and an increase in paperwork, cross-border businesses that are run to the benefit of Palestinian communities are politically and logistically risky, adding unforeseen costs.
“We usually visit Qussay in Area C, which we as Israelis are allowed to go,” Luzon says. “However, we only went to meet the ladies that work with us once, three months ago, as they are working from Area A, where we are not allowed to go. It’s important to say, physically, that we can go to Area A; it’s a risk for us, but it was essential for us to meet them in person.”
As for those in the West who have become jaded by businesses that advertise the bridge between the two countries as part of their identity and see ‘Israeli-Palestinian’ as a marketing gimmick, Luzon laughs at how little they understand the emotional and logistical struggles it takes to make that combination work. “Meet the ladies and see if it’s a gimmick or not, if it’s helping families or not, if we aren’t encouraging the ladies to work with more Israelis,” he says. “We are trying to change the status quo of what Palestinians think of Israelis. Maybe people will think it’s a gimmick, but for us it’s working, which means it’s not a gimmick anymore.”
In today’s clothing industry, crediting traditional artists – let alone making them part of the business – is not the norm. Fast fashion and luxury labels too often cut corners, like Carolina Herrera’s Resort 2020 collection, which was denounced by the Mexican government in June for stealing well-known stitchwork. So when a label goes out of their way to make sure people not only know where the craftsmanship comes from, but ensure that they have safe working conditions, it’s refreshing.
Photography by Ryan O’ Toole Collett.
This article originally appeared in SLEEK 63, out now. In conjunction with this issue, SLEEK wants to raise awareness about the cultural divisions that still exist today. We have designed two limited edition sweaters, bearing the slogan “All Walls Fall”, available to purchase now.