I’m thinking this week that if there’s anything that can help improve this situation, it’s certainly the spirit of the people. The occupation continues, stronger in some places at some times, less noticeable in other places at other times. The village of Marda has been targeted again in the past few days, with soldiers uprooting trees in the middle of the night, throwing sound bombs in the village, and creating checkpoints on a cold afternoon and not letting people return to their homes. It was either a random attack or, if a few boys actually threw stones at jeeps as some soldiers claimed, collective punishment. How anyone can deny this is beyond me (The case of the uprooting of trees is an absurdly clear example. We asked the soldiers if the trees had thrown stones on the road. “No, but the people who own the trees probably know the kids who did”).
So the occupation continues, and the destruction of land in the Salfit region to make way for the Wall also continues. The villagers of Deir Balut have had enough, and on Thursday a few of them went out to their land in an apparently spontaneous action, and successfully stopped the bulldozers from working. One Palestinian was arrested and later returned. In response, the people decided to have a demonstration the following day. We found out about this incident from three different sources, all of whom told us that “the people” want to have a demo. We waited to send out the press release about it until we were sure the mayor knew, but it was wonderful that it was truly a people’s desire, bottom-up resistance rather than top-down.
So we joined the villagers on Friday. The army was ready – they entered the village before the demonstration even began, and soldiers chatted nonchalantly with villagers until just before we started marching. The normality of the situation struck me. Everyone knew what would ensue shortly, that the people would march as a group toward their land that is being destroyed, and the army would intercept them with violence. And this did happen, to some degree. But there was also an air of spontaneity in the architecture of the day. The soldiers seemed less excited about using tear gas, sound bombs, and rubber bullets than I’m used to (though they did use all of these at various points). There were many times during which small groups of Palestinians, international and Israeli supporters, and press would be gathered and a group of soldiers gathered nearby to impede movement, but the scattered nature of the groups seemed to hold creative potential that I usually don’t see. I stood on top of a stone wall watching the whole scene at one point: the men praying on the land (guarded by soldiers), the women who had pushed past the jeeps to sit further up along the road (guarded by soldiers), several small groups of people at various spots dotting the road, and the boys in the distance setting up a roadblock (including an overturned truck) so the soldiers could not pass, then scattering throughout the olive groves as a jeep approached and then threw a tear gas canister directly at a house near where some people had run. It was strange, watching the scene from above, being there and not being there at the same time, feeling safe as I was standing close to so many soldiers who seemed to have no interest other than to watch the same scene I was watching.
And there was time to talk. I managed to squeeze past the soldiers with Fatima to walk half a kilometer up the road to where we could see the bulldozers working in the distance. She told me her youngest daughter Baraa (9 years old) had begged her to come that morning, but Fatima was too scared. “She has no fear,” said Fatima. “She’s like you,” I responded. “Yes,” Fatima said, “but she’s small, and I’m afraid for her. The soldiers won’t care that she is young.” I wonder what it must be like to be a parent here, in the midst of such random violence. Is there really a way to protect your children? And yet parents try, desperately and unsuccessfully at times, but they always try.
Earlier in the day a soldier had asked me if I didn’t have anything better to do than to come to Deir Balut. I returned the question. Another soldier asked, “Why are you here?” I responded, “To support the Palestinians as they try to save their land.” “And I’m here to oppose them,” he responded, not unkindly, just matter-of-factly. I began to think, “Will this occupation ever end?” when again the villagers of Deir Balut breathed new life into the demonstration. A few soldiers were talking to them in Hebrew, and they were responding in Arabic and English, saying “We don’t speak Hebrew and we don’t want to speak Hebrew. Talk to us in our language!” At the same time a soldier was trying to pass through a narrow space between a jeep and a stone wall, and two Palestinian women stood in his way saying, “Fish tariq!” (There’s no road). Using the same phrasing as the soldiers, they forced him to turn around and go around the jeep a different way. A minor victory.
So the Palestinian spirits were high on Friday, and the Israeli activists’ spirits seemed strong as well. Two of them engaged in a political/ideological argument with a group of soldiers for about 15 minutes, at the end of which they were pulled away by a Palestinian friend who was plotting to release another Israeli activist who was being detained 100 meters away. I do not always find ideological arguments with soldiers very useful, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that the soldiers continued the discussion after the activists left. They were all trying to comfort each other, to justify their presence there: “I’m on the left, too. I voted for Meretz. But here it doesn’t matter, I follow my government’s orders.” “Yes, yes, it doesn’t matter.” … But at least they were thinking. At least they felt the need to justify themselves, even to each other.
The epitome of good Israeli spirit this week has come in the form of a letter from a group of high school students who feel that they cannot and should not justify their presence in the occupied territories to anyone. These 250 kids sent a passionate letter to Ariel Sharon and others, declaring their refusal to serve in the Israeli military. The letter follows.
To: Ariel Sharon, Prime Minister Lt. General Shaul Mofaz, Minister of Defence Lt. General Moshe Yaalon, Chief of General Staff Limor Livnat, Minister of Education
We the undersigned, Israeli girls and boys, believing in the values of democracy, humanism and pluralism, hereby declare that we shall refuse to take part in the occupation and repression policy adopted by the Government of Israel. Our backgrounds are diverse, but we are all agreed that these values are the bases of a just society. Every human being has the right to life, equality, dignity and freedom. We are bound by our conscience and as citizens of Israel to act in defence of these rights, by refusing to participate in the occupation and repression policy.
The occupation leads to inhumanity and to a massive infringement of the right to life. It tramples on the basic rights of millions of people and inflicts daily carnage and suffering. It leads to the confiscation of lands, to mass destruction of homes and public buildings, to arrests and killings without trial, to victimization and murder of innocents, to hunger, to a denial of medical assistance, to collective punishment, and to the building and expansion of settlements and the negation of any chance of normal living both in the occupied territories and in Israel itself. This flagrant violation of human rights is opposed to our view of the world, as well as being in contravention of international conventions signed and ratified by Israel.
The occupation contributes nothing to the security of the state and its citizens but on the contrary, it only aggravates it. It deepens the despair and fans the hatred among the Palestinians, feeds terrorism and widens the river of blood between the two sides. True security will only be accomplished by ending the occupation, dismantling the wall of Apartheid around the Palestinians and striving for a just peace agreement between the state of Israel and the leadership of the Palestinian people as well as the Arab world. The present policy is not a result of a military necessity, but the outcome of a nationalistic-Messianic fantasy.
The occupation has corrupted Israel, turning it into a militaristic, racist, chauvinistic and violent society. Israel is wasting its resources on the perpetuation of the occupation and repression in the territories, while hundreds of thousands of Israelis live in shameful poverty. In recent years Israeli citizens have experienced a deterioration of all public services. Education, medicine, welfare, pensions, everything to do with the well being of the citizenry has been neglected and sacrificed for the continued existence of settlements which the majority of the population wishes to be evacuated. We cannot stand idly facing this situation, which amounts to a “targeted liquidation” of the principle of equality.
We wish to live in a society which pursues justice, upholding equal rights to every single citizen. The occupation and repression policy is an obstacle to the realization of this vision, therefore we shall refuse to take part in it. We wish to contribute to society in an alternative way, which does not involve harming other human beings.
We call on all young people facing mobilization and on all members of the Israeli army to weigh again whether to risk their lives in the service of this repressive and destructive policy.
We believe that there is another way.
Source: www.shministim.org
Send messages of support to: shministim@gmail.com
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Spring in Salfit, Palm Sunday in Bethlehem
Spring is here. I guess I’d thought I’d been here enough in the past couple years to be familiar with the landscape, but I’ve never been here after the winter rain, and I’ve never seen so much green. The green of the olive trees is ever-present, but the bright green grass under the trees and the landscape dotted with small flowers are new to me. It’s beautiful.
Yesterday I went to the Palestinian village of Awarta with another woman from IWPS and an Israeli group from Rabbis for Human Rights. The villagers in Awarta and Yanoun are constantly threatened and attacked by settlers from Itamar and its many outposts. On Sunday two men plowing their land in Yanoun were beaten by settlers before Rabbis for Human Rights arrived. Yesterday they went to the police station to file a report, and apparently the settlers are actually being taken in for questioning, which rarely happens. Our purpose in Awarta was to keep one eye on the farmers and one eye on the settlements above, and to do our best to make sure no attacks occurred. Indeed, it was a peaceful day, most of which I spent reading and sleeping under what Palestinians call a “Romani” olive tree, thus named because they are at least 1000 years old.
I continue to get reacquainted with people and places here. I knew one of my first stops had to be Mas’ha, so I went a few days ago to visit Munira and Hani, who live in a house that is completely surrounded by walls and fences. Any of you who have been on my list for a while or have seen me speak know the family, at least through pictures and stories. They’re some of my favorite people here. It’s a little disconcerting sometimes to know people for whom pretense is just that, especially when my Arabic isn’t always quite good enough to get beyond formalities, but it’s also refreshing to know that they’ll both tell me exactly what they think about people, governments, their situation, and life. So we chatted, drank tea and lemonade, ate fruit, and just sat. We heard loud music blaring, clearly a party of some sort, that seemed like it was coming from Mas’ha. We asked the family. “No,” they said, “It sounds like it’s coming from Mas’ha because it’s bouncing off the Wall, but it’s from the settlement.” Can’t these people have any peace? I thought. First the settlers take most of their land and build houses right next to theirs, next the Israeli government demolishes their greenhouses, next they build the Wall for “security” that cuts the family off from their village, and now they have to sit in their home and listen to settlers celebrating with obnoxiously loud music. As we were leaving, we saw a jeep sitting nearby with its doors open and soldiers hanging out, and it seemed the music was actually coming from the jeep. Either way, the Israeli occupation was celebrating itself in surround sound at the expense of the Amer family.
But celebrations come in many forms, and on Sunday I attended one of the best demonstrations I have attended here, if only because I inhaled no tear gas through my already stuffed nose. The Palm Sunday demonstration was organized mostly by Holy Land Trust, the Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem that ran the summer program I did last year [living with a family, volunteering, and learning Arabic. It’s called Palestine Summer Encounter, and they’re running it again this year – if you know people who may be interested, tell them to visit www.holylandtrust.org]. The demonstration struck at two of the most important issues to many Palestinians these days: freedom of movement, and freedom of religion. I reunited with many internationals and Palestinians whom I haven’t seen since last year, all of whom came Sunday to support the people of Bethlehem in their desire to walk from the Church of the Nativity to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, in order to pray.
We gathered in front of the Bethlehem Peace Center in Manger Square near a new installation: and uprooted olive tree. The tree is enclosed by tile walls and the encryption below reads, “I am 500 years old. I was uprooted without my permission from my original site in Bir Ona, Beit Jala, along with thousands of trees all over Palestine, to build the apartheid wall. I am still alive.”
As we prepared to march, members of a Christian international delegation began singing “We shall not be moved” and “Oh Freedom.” I always feel a bit strange about white people singing the songs that defined the African American freedom movement, not to mention the fact that this is a Palestinian struggle and “We shall not be moved” is a concept that seems almost empty if sung by people for whom movement is almost entirely self-controlled. It was nice to hear singing, though, and perhaps this contributed to a spirit that continued later with Palestinian-led singing at Tantur checkpoint.
The walk began with donkeys, children, and adults of all ages and nationalities. As we walked with balloons and banners, a truck followed with speakers blaring music, and people came out of their houses and shops to wave and smile as we passed. It felt more like a parade than a demonstration. As expected, we were stopped by soldiers at Tantur checkpoint, our numbers slightly smaller at this point as the children and donkeys had turned back to avoid risk of injury. We thought the soldiers might advance towards the space in the Wall that has yet to be completed, but we reached all the way to the checkpoint without a problem. Jeeps began to advance, soldiers started running towards us and picking up their walkie-talkies to get orders from their superiors, and we continued to walk. I had only a few moments of fear, which quickly subsided as we got close enough to the soldiers that I thought they were unlikely to throw gas (they do not generally gas themselves). I was right. The Palestinians and internationals in the front rows linked arms and approached slowly and peacefully. The soldiers formed a line across the road, linking arms as well. This standoff lasted for quite a while, punctuated by short conversations between some of the Palestinian leaders and the military commanders. One soldier had a few cartoons and the word “FREEDOM” sketched on his back. Somebody asked him, “What does the word ‘freedom’ mean to you when you’re denying these people their freedom of movement and prayer?” “I want freedom, freedom for everybody,” said the soldier. He continued to say he wished he didn’t have to do what he was doing, which led to the all-too-common interaction of “You don’t have to do it, you can refuse,” followed by “Yes I do have to do it, I’m just following orders,” followed by “You should know that argument doesn’t hold up in a court of law,” and so on. Most soldiers did their best to ignore us and not engage in conversation or take the written statement that some Palestinians were trying to give them. I looked into the eyes of some of the soldiers and wanted to cry, which is a reaction I quite often have when I’m so close to soldiers that I can see them as I should, as human beings and as kids who look just like all the kids I knew at summer camp, and who are the epitome of the Zionist ideals I believed, to some degree, when I was their age (which wasn’t so long ago).
When the army announced that the demonstration would become “illegal” in 15 minutes, and that the soldiers would then use force to remove us, the demonstrators sat down on the ground. Palestinians began to sing “We shall overcome” in English, followed by a couple Palestinian freedom songs in Arabic. As the 15 minutes neared their end, Sami Awad of Holy Land Trust stood up and delivered a beautiful statement to the soldiers who were standing right in front of him [see the statement below]. Everyone was quiet, including the soldiers, and I can only assume that some of them were listening. The organizers then announced that we would turn around and head back to Bethlehem, but that the people of Bethlehem would be back again to demand their rights.
I had mixed feelings about this ending. Although I was grateful not to face tear gas, sound bombs, or the threat of arrest, I would have liked to have seen the community attempt to advance further, to enter Jerusalem as it is their long-denied right to do. My thoughts returned to the previous day’s training and preparation, where Ghassan reminded the group that if we reach the checkpoint we must remember that the soldiers are in the way, not we, and that we are not somehow committing an offense by trying to walk to Jerusalem but the soldiers are committing an offense by trying to stop us. And still, it’s true that to some degree we knew what to expect, that if the leaders had decided to continue towards Jerusalem, we knew the soldiers would have used violence against us. Would we have been to blame, then? The clear answer to me is “No!” and yet I know as well as the organizers of the demonstration that tear gas and sound bombs are portrayed in the media as necessary tools to disperse “unruly” crowds, and that Palestinian refusal to obey the rules of occupation are portrayed as a crime, rather than the inherent criminality of occupation being portrayed as such.
So the crowd turned back, and a few of the internationals reluctantly crossed through the checkpoint “legally” to return to Jerusalem, or in our case to Hares. As we began our final shared taxi ride from Kalandia checkpoint to Hares, a man in the back seat with us took out a container of sweets and passed them around the car, making sure to pass them all the way up to the driver. “I love Palestine,” Anna said to me as she took one of the sweets. We continued to Hares in peace. I remembered Munira and Hani behind the Wall, and now the entire city of Bethlehem behind a different section of the same wall, but somehow as I shared sweets with a carload of Palestinians and listened to Arabic music, I was able to temporarily forget the occupation.
May there come a day when we can forget occupations, or remember them only as a history that we vow not to repeat. Inshallah.
Statement from people of Bethlehem to Israeli soldiers, delivered by Holy Land Trust Executive Director Sami Awad on Palm Sunday (March 20) 2005:
Asalaam ‘alaykum, dear friends,
We in the Bethlehem community have come to you today with a message on behalf of our people. We represent the family members and friends who are imprisoned by these concrete walls and wire fences that now create the Bethlehem open-air prison. You, like the prison guards, control our freedom and ability to live as human beings with dignity in this holy land.
Our strong delegation of civilians comes to you without weapons but with great strength and commitment to deliver the message of just peace. In the name of security, you do not permit us to travel to school and to worship in our holy sites in the city of Jerusalem. Your government deprives us each day of basic human rights to self-determination. Each day you keep us from being with our families at weddings, funerals, graduations, birthdays, and religious holidays. Although Al-Quds is only 20 minutes from Bethlehem, we have not been allowed to pray and worship at our holy sites for many years.
Each day as you come to our city, you serve the system of violence that keeps our people imprisoned and without the ability to live a life of a normal human being. With your guns, tanks, and insults, you teach our children to hate.
However, we believe each of you has the power and choice to choose a different ending to this story. We appeal to your conscience and humanity as individuals and as soldiers who may feel there is no way out of this system. Put your guns away—I repeat, put your guns away—and join us in the fight for peace and freedom.
The People of Bethlehem
Yesterday I went to the Palestinian village of Awarta with another woman from IWPS and an Israeli group from Rabbis for Human Rights. The villagers in Awarta and Yanoun are constantly threatened and attacked by settlers from Itamar and its many outposts. On Sunday two men plowing their land in Yanoun were beaten by settlers before Rabbis for Human Rights arrived. Yesterday they went to the police station to file a report, and apparently the settlers are actually being taken in for questioning, which rarely happens. Our purpose in Awarta was to keep one eye on the farmers and one eye on the settlements above, and to do our best to make sure no attacks occurred. Indeed, it was a peaceful day, most of which I spent reading and sleeping under what Palestinians call a “Romani” olive tree, thus named because they are at least 1000 years old.
I continue to get reacquainted with people and places here. I knew one of my first stops had to be Mas’ha, so I went a few days ago to visit Munira and Hani, who live in a house that is completely surrounded by walls and fences. Any of you who have been on my list for a while or have seen me speak know the family, at least through pictures and stories. They’re some of my favorite people here. It’s a little disconcerting sometimes to know people for whom pretense is just that, especially when my Arabic isn’t always quite good enough to get beyond formalities, but it’s also refreshing to know that they’ll both tell me exactly what they think about people, governments, their situation, and life. So we chatted, drank tea and lemonade, ate fruit, and just sat. We heard loud music blaring, clearly a party of some sort, that seemed like it was coming from Mas’ha. We asked the family. “No,” they said, “It sounds like it’s coming from Mas’ha because it’s bouncing off the Wall, but it’s from the settlement.” Can’t these people have any peace? I thought. First the settlers take most of their land and build houses right next to theirs, next the Israeli government demolishes their greenhouses, next they build the Wall for “security” that cuts the family off from their village, and now they have to sit in their home and listen to settlers celebrating with obnoxiously loud music. As we were leaving, we saw a jeep sitting nearby with its doors open and soldiers hanging out, and it seemed the music was actually coming from the jeep. Either way, the Israeli occupation was celebrating itself in surround sound at the expense of the Amer family.
But celebrations come in many forms, and on Sunday I attended one of the best demonstrations I have attended here, if only because I inhaled no tear gas through my already stuffed nose. The Palm Sunday demonstration was organized mostly by Holy Land Trust, the Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem that ran the summer program I did last year [living with a family, volunteering, and learning Arabic. It’s called Palestine Summer Encounter, and they’re running it again this year – if you know people who may be interested, tell them to visit www.holylandtrust.org]. The demonstration struck at two of the most important issues to many Palestinians these days: freedom of movement, and freedom of religion. I reunited with many internationals and Palestinians whom I haven’t seen since last year, all of whom came Sunday to support the people of Bethlehem in their desire to walk from the Church of the Nativity to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, in order to pray.
We gathered in front of the Bethlehem Peace Center in Manger Square near a new installation: and uprooted olive tree. The tree is enclosed by tile walls and the encryption below reads, “I am 500 years old. I was uprooted without my permission from my original site in Bir Ona, Beit Jala, along with thousands of trees all over Palestine, to build the apartheid wall. I am still alive.”
As we prepared to march, members of a Christian international delegation began singing “We shall not be moved” and “Oh Freedom.” I always feel a bit strange about white people singing the songs that defined the African American freedom movement, not to mention the fact that this is a Palestinian struggle and “We shall not be moved” is a concept that seems almost empty if sung by people for whom movement is almost entirely self-controlled. It was nice to hear singing, though, and perhaps this contributed to a spirit that continued later with Palestinian-led singing at Tantur checkpoint.
The walk began with donkeys, children, and adults of all ages and nationalities. As we walked with balloons and banners, a truck followed with speakers blaring music, and people came out of their houses and shops to wave and smile as we passed. It felt more like a parade than a demonstration. As expected, we were stopped by soldiers at Tantur checkpoint, our numbers slightly smaller at this point as the children and donkeys had turned back to avoid risk of injury. We thought the soldiers might advance towards the space in the Wall that has yet to be completed, but we reached all the way to the checkpoint without a problem. Jeeps began to advance, soldiers started running towards us and picking up their walkie-talkies to get orders from their superiors, and we continued to walk. I had only a few moments of fear, which quickly subsided as we got close enough to the soldiers that I thought they were unlikely to throw gas (they do not generally gas themselves). I was right. The Palestinians and internationals in the front rows linked arms and approached slowly and peacefully. The soldiers formed a line across the road, linking arms as well. This standoff lasted for quite a while, punctuated by short conversations between some of the Palestinian leaders and the military commanders. One soldier had a few cartoons and the word “FREEDOM” sketched on his back. Somebody asked him, “What does the word ‘freedom’ mean to you when you’re denying these people their freedom of movement and prayer?” “I want freedom, freedom for everybody,” said the soldier. He continued to say he wished he didn’t have to do what he was doing, which led to the all-too-common interaction of “You don’t have to do it, you can refuse,” followed by “Yes I do have to do it, I’m just following orders,” followed by “You should know that argument doesn’t hold up in a court of law,” and so on. Most soldiers did their best to ignore us and not engage in conversation or take the written statement that some Palestinians were trying to give them. I looked into the eyes of some of the soldiers and wanted to cry, which is a reaction I quite often have when I’m so close to soldiers that I can see them as I should, as human beings and as kids who look just like all the kids I knew at summer camp, and who are the epitome of the Zionist ideals I believed, to some degree, when I was their age (which wasn’t so long ago).
When the army announced that the demonstration would become “illegal” in 15 minutes, and that the soldiers would then use force to remove us, the demonstrators sat down on the ground. Palestinians began to sing “We shall overcome” in English, followed by a couple Palestinian freedom songs in Arabic. As the 15 minutes neared their end, Sami Awad of Holy Land Trust stood up and delivered a beautiful statement to the soldiers who were standing right in front of him [see the statement below]. Everyone was quiet, including the soldiers, and I can only assume that some of them were listening. The organizers then announced that we would turn around and head back to Bethlehem, but that the people of Bethlehem would be back again to demand their rights.
I had mixed feelings about this ending. Although I was grateful not to face tear gas, sound bombs, or the threat of arrest, I would have liked to have seen the community attempt to advance further, to enter Jerusalem as it is their long-denied right to do. My thoughts returned to the previous day’s training and preparation, where Ghassan reminded the group that if we reach the checkpoint we must remember that the soldiers are in the way, not we, and that we are not somehow committing an offense by trying to walk to Jerusalem but the soldiers are committing an offense by trying to stop us. And still, it’s true that to some degree we knew what to expect, that if the leaders had decided to continue towards Jerusalem, we knew the soldiers would have used violence against us. Would we have been to blame, then? The clear answer to me is “No!” and yet I know as well as the organizers of the demonstration that tear gas and sound bombs are portrayed in the media as necessary tools to disperse “unruly” crowds, and that Palestinian refusal to obey the rules of occupation are portrayed as a crime, rather than the inherent criminality of occupation being portrayed as such.
So the crowd turned back, and a few of the internationals reluctantly crossed through the checkpoint “legally” to return to Jerusalem, or in our case to Hares. As we began our final shared taxi ride from Kalandia checkpoint to Hares, a man in the back seat with us took out a container of sweets and passed them around the car, making sure to pass them all the way up to the driver. “I love Palestine,” Anna said to me as she took one of the sweets. We continued to Hares in peace. I remembered Munira and Hani behind the Wall, and now the entire city of Bethlehem behind a different section of the same wall, but somehow as I shared sweets with a carload of Palestinians and listened to Arabic music, I was able to temporarily forget the occupation.
May there come a day when we can forget occupations, or remember them only as a history that we vow not to repeat. Inshallah.
Statement from people of Bethlehem to Israeli soldiers, delivered by Holy Land Trust Executive Director Sami Awad on Palm Sunday (March 20) 2005:
Asalaam ‘alaykum, dear friends,
We in the Bethlehem community have come to you today with a message on behalf of our people. We represent the family members and friends who are imprisoned by these concrete walls and wire fences that now create the Bethlehem open-air prison. You, like the prison guards, control our freedom and ability to live as human beings with dignity in this holy land.
Our strong delegation of civilians comes to you without weapons but with great strength and commitment to deliver the message of just peace. In the name of security, you do not permit us to travel to school and to worship in our holy sites in the city of Jerusalem. Your government deprives us each day of basic human rights to self-determination. Each day you keep us from being with our families at weddings, funerals, graduations, birthdays, and religious holidays. Although Al-Quds is only 20 minutes from Bethlehem, we have not been allowed to pray and worship at our holy sites for many years.
Each day as you come to our city, you serve the system of violence that keeps our people imprisoned and without the ability to live a life of a normal human being. With your guns, tanks, and insults, you teach our children to hate.
However, we believe each of you has the power and choice to choose a different ending to this story. We appeal to your conscience and humanity as individuals and as soldiers who may feel there is no way out of this system. Put your guns away—I repeat, put your guns away—and join us in the fight for peace and freedom.
The People of Bethlehem
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Day 3
Dear friends,
I'm back.
Palestine has welcomed me with open arms, and while I’ve had an exhausting few days running from Jerusalem to Bethlehem to Ramallah and back again, it’s been wonderful to see so many familiar faces and places. The sounds, the smells, the sights of the market on the stairs outside Damascus gate, the crowds of people rushing through, even the boys who sit on the stairs outside the Austrian Hospice trying to sneak in under the pretense of having lost a cell phone or soccer ball – all have been reminders of the vibrancy of life here, despite it all. Despite it all. And the “all” seems to have gotten even bigger.
Everywhere I look I see concrete walls. When I last left, the Wall on the east side of the checkpoint into Bethlehem had been built; now it connects with the pieces that stood alone in the distance, slabs around Ayda refugee camp and the town of Beit Jala. Bethlehem is now almost completely enclosed. My host mother from my last visit in Dheisheh refugee camp can no longer find ways to go north and west to Jerusalem to work, so she goes all the way around and through Abu Dis, and back into Jerusalem. It takes several hours each way.
On the way out of Bethlehem this morning I asked a soldier at the checkpoint what would happen when the Wall is finished. “There will be a checkpoint,” he told me. “Will cars be able to go through?” “Yes,” he said, “there will be enough space for vehicles and pedestrians.” “When will they finish?” “As soon as possible.” Yes, as soon as possible, while the world is not looking, or is only looking at Gaza in anticipation of the “disengagement plan” (“disengagement” meaning removing about 2% of the Jewish Israeli settlers who live in the Palestinian occupied territories, but not necessarily removing the army). As soon as possible the Wall will be built, while the world praises the “cease fire” (what cease fire?) and is “cautiously optimistic” that Sharon and Abu Mazen might reach a deal of some sort.
Never have I seen so much active construction of the Wall. Caterpillar bulldozers drill the path through the ground next to Kalandia, the main checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Aram, a town that saw itself being cut in half by the path, is now almost completely separated. The only break in the Wall is at the checkpoint itself, which according to everyone I’ve spoken with will completely disappear once the Wall is finished, leaving no viable way to travel between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Apparently there’s a plan that starting in July Palestinians with Jerusalem ID will no longer be allowed into the West Bank. It seems the Israeli government is employing even new ways to cut Jerusalem off from the rest of the West Bank, or as one friend said, to choke Jerusalem.
I keep looking for signs of change. Seeing concrete where it wasn’t before is obvious, other things less so. I have noticed the abundance of political posters left over from the election. It’s nice to see them, to see an expression of some sort of democracy, however strong or real it is or isn’t. It’s nice just to see posters other than martyr posters, posters that seem more about life than death. I asked my host family about Abu Mazen and whether the situation is better or still the same. The same, said Najah. The Wall continues to be built, their life continues to be difficult, there’s been no change. Hussein chimed in and said maybe things are a bit better, not on the ground but politically. “Fine,” she responded, “but I wouldn’t know. I don’t see any changes.” Hussein reminded me that 65% of Palestinians who voted cast their ballots for Abu Mazen. “Why?” I asked. “Do they like him?” “Like him?” he responded. “No, we don’t vote with our hearts, we vote with our minds. People thought maybe he could get something done.” He continued to tell me that Mustafa Barghouti had better politics, better speeches, and better programs, but that his work on the ground wasn’t trusted; he wasn’t seen as being in touch with people outside his circle. And while Abu Mazen worked very closely with Arafat, apparently he’s willing to work with people outside of Fatah and is looking to create something “new.” What that is, we don’t yet know.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it takes to hold up an occupation, and what it takes to dismantle it. And in the midst of all that, what does it take to live? I crossed through Kalandia this evening as I came back from Ramallah to Jerusalem. It was late, so there weren’t a lot of people, and the soldiers weren’t being particularly forceful or rigid about their roles and rules. I probably could have gone through without showing my passport, and at times I do, not wanting to legitimize the occupation by acknowledging the presence of the checkpoint. But knowing that Palestinians choose not to defy the occupation in that way, what would it mean if I walked around the few people who were standing in line in front of me, and just passed through? Would it be an act of defiance or an abuse of privilege? Tonight I waited and showed my passport to a soldier who made some joke about it in Hebrew. Another soldier saw that I was annoyed and said in English, “You can go now, miss. Thank you.”
I notice Palestinians in the old city of Jerusalem completely ignoring the border police who are there to keep an eye on them and check IDs at random. Is it good that Palestinians are able to continue with life in all its vibrancy? Or is it bad that the situation has been so normalized that nobody even notices the occupier standing menacingly with weapons at every turn? I’ve seen more Palestinians chatting with the police and the soldiers, lighting the cigarettes of the soldiers checking their IDs. Is it good that they can continue to see humanity in the face of the occupier? Or is it bad that they’re complying with the structures of occupation and making life even easier for the occupier? Do they feel forced into being kind by their situation, or is it an expression of traditional Palestinian hospitality?
I don’t know what’s next. I hear the plan to construct “humanitarian tunnels” under the Wall is going forward, basically putting Palestinian roads underground and making it possible eventually to truly close off the settler bypass roads so only Israelis can travel on them. A friend tells me the new checkpoints at the openings of the Wall are being called “terminals.” Will Israel finish the Wall and these “terminals” and then claim it has removed checkpoints, once again manipulating language for political purposes? It reminds me of one of the proposed peace agreements of the past which would have “given” Palestinians the Palestinian town of Abu Dis, east of Jerusalem, and “allowed” them to make it their capital and call it “Jerusalem.” As though the name Jerusalem is all that matters, and not the place. As though there aren’t actually Palestinians living in Jerusalem, who have lived there for thousands of years and have a connection to the stones and the land that goes deeper than most could know.
What’s next for me is this: Today I go north to Hares to begin three months with IWPS (International Women’s Peace Service). I’m excited to see people, and hoping that some kind of clarity in my work will come to me. And meanwhile, I’ll continue to write to you all and at the very least share a glimpse into the life here. Please share my reports with others, and please be in touch – it’s good and important for me to have contact with the outside world while I’m here. Still no mail service in Hares as far as I know, but you can e-mail and call. My cell phone number, if you’re dialing from the US, is 011-972-547-870-198.
Until next time,
Hannah
I'm back.
Palestine has welcomed me with open arms, and while I’ve had an exhausting few days running from Jerusalem to Bethlehem to Ramallah and back again, it’s been wonderful to see so many familiar faces and places. The sounds, the smells, the sights of the market on the stairs outside Damascus gate, the crowds of people rushing through, even the boys who sit on the stairs outside the Austrian Hospice trying to sneak in under the pretense of having lost a cell phone or soccer ball – all have been reminders of the vibrancy of life here, despite it all. Despite it all. And the “all” seems to have gotten even bigger.
Everywhere I look I see concrete walls. When I last left, the Wall on the east side of the checkpoint into Bethlehem had been built; now it connects with the pieces that stood alone in the distance, slabs around Ayda refugee camp and the town of Beit Jala. Bethlehem is now almost completely enclosed. My host mother from my last visit in Dheisheh refugee camp can no longer find ways to go north and west to Jerusalem to work, so she goes all the way around and through Abu Dis, and back into Jerusalem. It takes several hours each way.
On the way out of Bethlehem this morning I asked a soldier at the checkpoint what would happen when the Wall is finished. “There will be a checkpoint,” he told me. “Will cars be able to go through?” “Yes,” he said, “there will be enough space for vehicles and pedestrians.” “When will they finish?” “As soon as possible.” Yes, as soon as possible, while the world is not looking, or is only looking at Gaza in anticipation of the “disengagement plan” (“disengagement” meaning removing about 2% of the Jewish Israeli settlers who live in the Palestinian occupied territories, but not necessarily removing the army). As soon as possible the Wall will be built, while the world praises the “cease fire” (what cease fire?) and is “cautiously optimistic” that Sharon and Abu Mazen might reach a deal of some sort.
Never have I seen so much active construction of the Wall. Caterpillar bulldozers drill the path through the ground next to Kalandia, the main checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Aram, a town that saw itself being cut in half by the path, is now almost completely separated. The only break in the Wall is at the checkpoint itself, which according to everyone I’ve spoken with will completely disappear once the Wall is finished, leaving no viable way to travel between Jerusalem and Ramallah. Apparently there’s a plan that starting in July Palestinians with Jerusalem ID will no longer be allowed into the West Bank. It seems the Israeli government is employing even new ways to cut Jerusalem off from the rest of the West Bank, or as one friend said, to choke Jerusalem.
I keep looking for signs of change. Seeing concrete where it wasn’t before is obvious, other things less so. I have noticed the abundance of political posters left over from the election. It’s nice to see them, to see an expression of some sort of democracy, however strong or real it is or isn’t. It’s nice just to see posters other than martyr posters, posters that seem more about life than death. I asked my host family about Abu Mazen and whether the situation is better or still the same. The same, said Najah. The Wall continues to be built, their life continues to be difficult, there’s been no change. Hussein chimed in and said maybe things are a bit better, not on the ground but politically. “Fine,” she responded, “but I wouldn’t know. I don’t see any changes.” Hussein reminded me that 65% of Palestinians who voted cast their ballots for Abu Mazen. “Why?” I asked. “Do they like him?” “Like him?” he responded. “No, we don’t vote with our hearts, we vote with our minds. People thought maybe he could get something done.” He continued to tell me that Mustafa Barghouti had better politics, better speeches, and better programs, but that his work on the ground wasn’t trusted; he wasn’t seen as being in touch with people outside his circle. And while Abu Mazen worked very closely with Arafat, apparently he’s willing to work with people outside of Fatah and is looking to create something “new.” What that is, we don’t yet know.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it takes to hold up an occupation, and what it takes to dismantle it. And in the midst of all that, what does it take to live? I crossed through Kalandia this evening as I came back from Ramallah to Jerusalem. It was late, so there weren’t a lot of people, and the soldiers weren’t being particularly forceful or rigid about their roles and rules. I probably could have gone through without showing my passport, and at times I do, not wanting to legitimize the occupation by acknowledging the presence of the checkpoint. But knowing that Palestinians choose not to defy the occupation in that way, what would it mean if I walked around the few people who were standing in line in front of me, and just passed through? Would it be an act of defiance or an abuse of privilege? Tonight I waited and showed my passport to a soldier who made some joke about it in Hebrew. Another soldier saw that I was annoyed and said in English, “You can go now, miss. Thank you.”
I notice Palestinians in the old city of Jerusalem completely ignoring the border police who are there to keep an eye on them and check IDs at random. Is it good that Palestinians are able to continue with life in all its vibrancy? Or is it bad that the situation has been so normalized that nobody even notices the occupier standing menacingly with weapons at every turn? I’ve seen more Palestinians chatting with the police and the soldiers, lighting the cigarettes of the soldiers checking their IDs. Is it good that they can continue to see humanity in the face of the occupier? Or is it bad that they’re complying with the structures of occupation and making life even easier for the occupier? Do they feel forced into being kind by their situation, or is it an expression of traditional Palestinian hospitality?
I don’t know what’s next. I hear the plan to construct “humanitarian tunnels” under the Wall is going forward, basically putting Palestinian roads underground and making it possible eventually to truly close off the settler bypass roads so only Israelis can travel on them. A friend tells me the new checkpoints at the openings of the Wall are being called “terminals.” Will Israel finish the Wall and these “terminals” and then claim it has removed checkpoints, once again manipulating language for political purposes? It reminds me of one of the proposed peace agreements of the past which would have “given” Palestinians the Palestinian town of Abu Dis, east of Jerusalem, and “allowed” them to make it their capital and call it “Jerusalem.” As though the name Jerusalem is all that matters, and not the place. As though there aren’t actually Palestinians living in Jerusalem, who have lived there for thousands of years and have a connection to the stones and the land that goes deeper than most could know.
What’s next for me is this: Today I go north to Hares to begin three months with IWPS (International Women’s Peace Service). I’m excited to see people, and hoping that some kind of clarity in my work will come to me. And meanwhile, I’ll continue to write to you all and at the very least share a glimpse into the life here. Please share my reports with others, and please be in touch – it’s good and important for me to have contact with the outside world while I’m here. Still no mail service in Hares as far as I know, but you can e-mail and call. My cell phone number, if you’re dialing from the US, is 011-972-547-870-198.
Until next time,
Hannah
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