The past few days have been a whirlwind of joy and sorrow, freedom and captivity. Passover, my favorite Jewish holiday because it’s a celebration of freedom and a commitment to struggling for justice, has framed these days. At the same time, the story of Jaber Dalany, a sick Palestinian man who was arrested at a checkpoint on his way out of the hospital Thursday night, has also framed these days. I was encouraged at a Passover seder last night to reflect on what “my community” (however defined) has done to break apart other communities, what we must take responsibility for. Suddenly I was outside my role as an international. Suddenly the soldiers guarding Jaber’s hospital room were my community (the Jewish community), and the shackles on his legs were my doing. I started to cry, and then shared his story.
On Thursday afternoon, 31-year-old Jaber was leaving a hospital in Nablus where he had spent 5 days and been diagnosed with viral meningitis. He was stopped at Huwara checkpoint and detained from 12:30 pm – 10 pm, when the checkpoint closed and the soldiers officially arrested him. Jaber’s health deteriorated during that time. His wife, who is pregnant with their fourth child, was with him and reports that he became delirious after so many hours in the sun with no food or water. The army reports that after arriving at Salem detention center, he was given water through an IV. We heard nothing else for a couple days – no reason for his arrest, and only vague medical reports from the army whose doctors diagnosed him with everything from a stomach ulcer to heart disease, always with the same conclusion: “Medical condition does not bar arrest.” Finally after many phone calls from organizations and individuals around the world, they admitted he had something more serious and took him to Ha’emek Hospital in Afula. I called the hospital, and the first English-speaking doctor I found was also Palestinian. All the Jewish doctors had gone home for Passover, he told me, so the family could call the emergency room and speak Arabic with any of the doctors if they wanted to find more information. He was extremely helpful, calling me back twice to tell me as much as he knew.
Meanwhile, I kept getting phone calls from the family and friends, saying his wife was not doing well, the family was worried because he hadn’t seemed fully recovered when leaving the hospital in Nablus, etc. Everyone who heard about his arrest was shocked – he has no political ties, people kept saying. The family asked us to try to visit him, so Susy (an Israeli activist) and I went to Afula yesterday. We drove north through Israel, but not far from the Green Line. We passed countless Palestinian Muslim villages (I saw mosques everywhere) and Palestinians walking along the roads. I marveled over the fact that even after Israel’s destruction of over 400 Palestinian towns and villages, so many still remain. This drive made it seem like the 20% of Israel’s population that is Palestinian was more like 80%. For the first time inside Israel, I really felt, “This is Palestine. Some European tourists moved in and formed a state 57 years ago, and are still here, but the land still knows that it is Palestine, and the people still know...” Maybe that’s part of what makes Israelis so uncomfortable. They can build all the shopping malls they want, but Palestine isn’t going anywhere. There was something comforting about the drive, about this thought, about the land.
We arrived at the hospital and went directly to the ward where Jaber was being treated. His room was not difficult to find, since it was the only one with a closed door and two armed soldiers sitting outside. Susy tried to walk in and was stopped by the soldiers. They would not let us enter, but we were able to talk to the doctor, who had not yet received any information about Jaber’s prior medical situation. He seemed frustrated with the army’s lack of sharing information. We gave him the phone number of the doctor who had treated Jaber in Nablus, and just at that moment the faxed medical report from Nablus came from friends of the family. The doctor told us he had just done a spinal tap and would soon determine Jaber’s illness. The viral meningitis diagnosis was confirmed an hour later.
We paced back and forth in front of Jaber’s door a few times, knowing it was unlocked and we could just walk in, but that that probably would not be good for anyone. The soldiers became agitated when we got too close, and were disturbed by our presence. The hospital security guard, however, was somewhat more friendly, and called the DCO to see if we could go into Jaber’s room. Finally an answer came: “No, you can’t go in right now. Maybe after many hours you’ll be allowed in.” So we left the hospital and ran another errand, and came back an hour or two later. We were almost sure we would not be allowed in, but thought it was worth a try, another argument, whatever it would take. It didn’t take anything. We showed up at the entrance of the hospital and the guard said, “You have permission now.” It was surprising, but not unheard of – the army rules and decisions never cease to amaze me in their arbitrariness.
We returned to Jaber’s ward, and the soldiers let us in, but said one of them had to stay with us the whole time. When we entered Jaber was sleeping. I said his name softly and he opened his eyes and gave a little moan. I introduced myself, and even in his delirium, illness, and lack of control over his circumstances, he greeted me with the customary, “Ahlan w’sahlan” (welcome). He started to come to his senses a bit as he realized this was an opportunity to notify the outside world of his situation. He was so tired, and so sick, he told us. He kept saying “Biddi amoot” which could be translated as “I want to die” or “I’m going to die.” I’m not sure which he meant. Maybe both. He said the doctor was good, the hospital was good, but if he’s taken back to Salem detention center they might as well shoot him. He was in tears, half from pain and half from terror, as he told us he hadn’t eaten, drunk, or slept in three days. In Salem, he said, they threw him in a small cell with 9 other people, and did not let anyone out to go to the bathroom from 9pm – 8:30am. He spent the next two days on the floor in pain (there were no beds), where he said it was extremely cold at night. He told us he lost consciousness four times, but didn’t sleep at all. Nobody spoke with him while he was there, so if there is to be any interrogation, it has not yet begun. He still hasn’t had anything to eat or drink, he said, only the occasional IV to keep him from deadly dehydration. I had seen a full tray of food leave his room earlier, and asked him about it. “The doctor told me not to eat for a half hour after the spinal tap,” he said. The soldier argued, “The food came two hours later.” Jaber disagreed. I don’t know who was telling the truth. Possibly both of them. Jaber did not seem to be thinking clearly, so it’s possible he was not aware of the time, or he slept through it, or he was not strong enough to feed himself (he asked us to feed him when they brought more food, which is not something I would expect from a 30-year-old man unless he really was too weak to feed himself). Or maybe he didn’t eat because they served him matzah, which would have been disastrous for his throat. He told us to lift up the blanket covering his feet, and we saw the metal cuffs on his ankles, which seemed totally ridiculous. He was too weak to sit up or feed himself, and two armed guards sat outside his room, but he had to be shackled? One of the soldiers said, “It’s not our decision, we’re only the escorts. We don’t even have the key.”
Susy distracted the soldier for a minute while I dialed Jaber’s wife’s number. She picked up and I quickly said, “Hi Khulud, I’m with Jaber, hold on...” and handed him the phone. They talked for a minute before the soldiers noticed and then another minute while Susy argued with the soldier about why he should be allowed to talk on the phone. When he hung up, Jaber handed me the phone, thanked me, and smiled for the only time all day.
The doctor pulled me aside at one point to ask about my organization. When I told him about IWPS and what we do, he asked why. It was a personal question: Why do you come from America to do this? I told him I’m American and my tax dollars go to support Israel’s occupation of Palestine, and I’m Jewish and my name gets used to oppress Palestinians as well. “You’re Palestinian, right?” I asked. He smiled and said, “I’m nothing. I’m just me.” He was a nice guy, a good doctor, and obviously concerned about Jaber. He said if he were releasing him to his house he would do it almost immediately, but that he wasn’t sure about releasing him to prison. He seemed uncomfortable with the whole situation. Palestinians with Israeli citizenship are already in a peculiar position, and I think he was caught inside that, saying it’s none of his business what happens to Jaber after he’s released, but at the same time it was his responsibility to make sure Jaber was okay. At the end of the conversation he gave me his cell phone number and said, “Don’t give it out, I don’t want any trouble. But feel free to contact me if I can help with anything... that is, anything that’s not political.” I didn’t think it was a good time to get into a discussion about how everything is political, especially everything here.
We stayed with Jaber for over an hour, feeding him pudding, water, and juice (when I asked for a second cup for the juice, one of the soldiers said, “This is a hospital, not a restaurant”). Jaber asked for another blanket and pillow, which the nurses brought. He asked me what day it was, and I told him – Sunday, April 24. He begged us to go to the Finance Ministry in Ramallah, where he works, and see if they can do anything to help. He also stressed the importance of sending the photos that Anna had taken of him being arrested at Huwara to the newspapers, and giving them to his family. I told him people from all over the world already knew about the situation, that the army and hospital had been getting calls all night, that he had to hang in there for his family, etc. “Just don’t let them send me back to Salem,” he kept saying, “or I’ll die.”
I felt guilty leaving him, especially since there didn’t seem to be any time limit on our visit and I knew he may not see another person outside of prison for months. But it was getting late, I already knew I would be at least an hour late to the seder I was going to in Jerusalem, and I wasn’t sure there was anything else we could specifically do for Jaber at the moment.
We left, made our way through the holiday traffic to Tel Aviv, and I took a shared taxi to Jerusalem. It was nice to arrive at the seder to a group of progressive Jews, to meet new people, to sing. But I couldn’t get Jaber out of my mind. I was too tired to think critically about the meaning of celebrating freedom while Jaber’s legs were cuffed together in his hospital bed. I could only feel it, and share it, and try to be proud of what the Jewish tradition could mean if applied more compassionately.
At the end of the seder I read a paragraph I had written for the seder we hosted at our house on Friday night. Twenty Palestinians, Israelis, internationals, and people who cross all those identities had come together to tell the story of Exodus (which is almost exactly the same in the Torah and the Koran, we discovered), to sing songs of freedom, and to express solidarity with and gratitude for each other. We ate taboun (huge wonderful Palestinian bread) instead of matzah, drank grape juice from Bethlehem instead of wine, and covered our seder plate with a Palestinian flag. We ate maklube and sat on mattresses on the floor, the way so many Palestinians do during meals. The cultures, symbols, and people blended beautifully and naturally.
My closing paragraph follows:
“At the end of the seder, Jews have always promised each other: ‘L’shana haba-a bi-Y’rushalayim - Next Year in Jerusalem!’ This year, as we sit here in the West Bank with Palestinians who are not permitted to go to Jerusalem, the phrase ‘Next year in Jerusalem’ has new meaning. What was a dream for Jews and a reality for Palestinians has become a reality for Jews and a dream for Palestinians. This year, in a measure of solidarity with Palestinians, let us all say ‘Next year in Jerusalem – Il’sane il’jayye fil Quds.’”
For those of you who want and are able to do something for Jaber, please call Israeli authorities and demand to know why they continue to hold a sick man with no charges.
Israeli Army phone numbers (these numbers are what you dial from the US – those of you outside can hopefully figure out which number to dial from where you are):
DCO in Jenin: (011-972) 4-640-7312 or (011-972) 4-617-9207
DCO "Humanitarian Office": (011-972) 2-997-7733
