Dear friends, families, and members of my various communities,
As I prepare for my return to Palestine, where I will continue solidarity work supporting nonviolent resistance, I find myself reading back over many of the e-mails I have sent and received in the past year. From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank all of you who have supported me, challenged me, comforted me, engaged me, and encouraged me. I feel a sense of accountability not only to the Palestinian communities I work with, but also to all of you who are out there reading what I have to say. Thank you.
I’m writing once again to ask for your financial, emotional, and intellectual support. Much has changed since my first letter to you, both on the ground in Palestine/Israel and in my heart and mind. Still, my fundamental reason for engaging in this work remains the same: to help stop the suffering that is happening in my name as a Jew and with my money as an American.
Despite the continuing Israeli construction of a barrier of walls and fences that is separating Palestinian individuals from their families, families from their villages, and villages from their land; despite the constant killing of civilians that goes largely unreported (over 30 Palestinians killed by the Israeli army in a 4-day span last week); despite the increasing destruction of Palestinian trees and homes and the expansion of Jewish settlements in the West Bank and East Jerusalem; despite all this, I retain my fundamental faith in the infinite possibilities of human interaction. We live in a dynamic world with constant change. The situation can get better or it can get worse, and I see no other choice but to put everything I have into trying to make it better.
A few weeks ago, Jews around the world celebrated Passover, a holiday that reminds us that we were once slaves and honors our journey to freedom. I have found this holiday increasingly meaningful over the years, because it seems so clear to me that the memory of our own slavery should serve to push us into solidarity with all others who have been and are being oppressed today. This year, I thought specifically about the meaning of matzah, the flat bread we eat because the slaves had no time to let the dough rise as they rushed out of slavery. Every time we eat matzah during Passover, we take a moment to reflect on this rush to freedom thousands of years ago. There have been moments in Jewish history and all human history that have felt so urgent that we have not stopped to reflect on their meaning. We cannot afford to continue this dangerous trend.
I myself have been known to be impatient. Last fall when I was in Palestine, women from the Salfit region began holding educational meetings about the wall. As much as I supported the effort, I remember thinking, “We don’t have time for education. We must act!” Of course, that would have made little sense to women who had not yet experienced the devastating effects of the wall or even seen maps of where it might be built. Now, just a few months later, we see a growing movement of nonviolent resistance to the wall in the Salfit region, led largely by women and no doubt a result of the hard work and patience of a small group of Palestinian women.
I hope to bring you many more stories like this over the next four or five months – success stories of Palestinians, Israelis, and internationals who I believe can be wise enough not to attempt to rush to freedom without reflection. We have no choice but to try.
And now, friends, I have two requests from you:
1. First, I need your financial support. I will be studying Arabic and doing volunteer work in Bethlehem from mid-June through mid-July. Then I’ll head north to resume my work (resisting the wall, supporting the olive harvest) with the International Women’s Peace Service in Hares. I’ll also be working with a couple delegations and will most likely return to the US in late October. Though some of my costs will be covered by the organizations I work with, I will be staying more than twice as long as I stayed last time, and will therefore incur more expenses. My goal is to raise $3000. Any amount you can give – large or small – will help me reach that goal.
2. Next, I ask you to think of others who may want to read the reports I send from Palestine, and send me their e-mail addresses or tell them to send an e-mail to hannahreports-subscribe@lists.riseup.net. I’ll probably send about one e-mail a week, and will also post my reports on my website: www.palestinemagnets.net. It’s so rare, especially in the US, to hear stories from Palestine of everyday life and the depth and complexities therein. I hope to be able to provide some of that to as many people as possible.
Thanks for reading, and for all your support, past, present, and future.
In strength and hope,
Hannah
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Sunday, November 16, 2003
November 9 and Beyond
It’s strange to be writing from a different computer today, from a different house, from a different country. That’s right, I’m back in the US, and other than suffering from a bit of a cold, I’m doing pretty well.
I’ve spent the past couple days in Boston, reading and hearing about all the wonderful anti-Wall activities that happened there on November 9 in honor of the International Day of Action against the Wall. It struck me how incredible it is that I was actually at the Wall on November 9.
We had several planning meetings for November 9. Would we go to a place where the Wall is completed? Where it’s not yet started but scheduled to come? Would we do direct action? Demonstration? Vigil? Fatima and the newly formed Salfeet Women’s Committee against the Wall decided on a demonstration in Mas’ha. We would march silently along the path next to the fence, approach Munira’s house with signs, and visit her and her family. This may seem simple and non-confrontational (we didn’t physically tear down several meters of fence, the way some Palestinians, Israelis, and internationals did in a town near Jenin), but the action was incredibly powerful. Many of the fifty women who participated had never seen the Wall, and almost none had seen the concrete part. There were tears in some of their eyes as we approached and Munira came out of her house to wave across the gate. Two soldiers tried to stop us from crossing, but the women in the front stood their ground and simply shook their heads as the soldiers yelled in Hebrew, “Go back!” After only a minute, the soldiers moved aside and we finished our journey to Munira’s house. Munira greeted the women, some of whom she knew and some of whom had never been to Mas’ha. People gathered in a circle holding hands as Fatima spoke to the crowd. A few people tried to hang the signs on the Wall, but it was wet with rain from the morning, so we hung them on Munira’s house instead.
When we dispersed, there was a sense of peace and satisfaction, and at the same time a sense of deep sadness and anger, accompanied by the energy to continue to resist the construction of the Wall. I was sad to have to leave the following day, but hopeful that this could be the beginning of a grassroots movement against the Wall in the region of Salfeet, which will be so drastically affected by the already-approved Phase 2 of Wall construction.
I go back and forth between despair and hope when I think about Palestine. On the one hand, Palestinians’ lives have been so disrupted by 36 years of occupation, and 3 years of intensified occupation that is worse than ever, that I don’t know whether the infrastructure even exists anymore for a viable independent state. At the same time, the fact that people continue to live, continue to survive and enjoy life, despite this intense occupation, gives me immense hope. It’s difficult to describe exactly how life continues to function in Palestine at times. It’s difficult to understand how even during closure, we can somehow get from place to place; how when there are very few cars on the road, a taxi pulls up just as it’s getting dark; how people seem to communicate with each other without words and the necessary elements of people’s lives get figured out day by day by day. If they can live like this, I think, imagine how they could live with the noose removed.
As I sat on the plane and flew across the Atlantic, my eyes filled with tears. I was remembering only the beautiful, magical parts of Palestine, and none of the ugliness. I remembered the party on my last night, when Fatima and her five children joined us for dinner and helped to cook the meal. Shams, the oldest daughter, filled the room with her beautiful voice, which both Fatima and Shams agree is the only trait she inherited from her father.
I remembered the last time I visited Ayman’s family, and that when I announced my departure, 5-year-old Aya grabbed my hands while 6-year-old Ramee locked the door to keep me in. I remember the care with which their mother wrapped the olives and olive oil she gave me to take to my family in the US.
I remembered walking by Zajid (our not-yet-3-yr-old neighbor) a couple weeks ago, and hearing him say “Tfaddalu” to me and a friend of mine as we passed the house. “Tfaddalu” is a very adult thing to say, and in that context generally means, “Come join us for tea.”
I remembered all these snapshots and I thought, there is such joy in this life. To a certain degree, I think the lack of control over one’s future brings a necessary joy to each moment. I do not wish to over-romanticize, and I certainly do not wish to mask the tremendous suffering of my friends and others in Palestine. But their lives are more complicated and more full than the newspapers would have you believe. Indeed, the resistance present in their insistence on life is the strongest and most sustainable form of resistance that exists.
So I do have hope. The women in Salfeet are organizing. Internationals continue to go to Palestine to show solidarity with the Palestinian people. Four more high security officials in Israel have denounced the occupation and Sharon’s policies. Some people who are accustomed to power are starting to realize that it’s impossible to control every aspect of their own lives, not to mention several million other people’s lives. This admission of lack of control can open so many doors to justice.
May we remove the guise of security from Israel’s policies, and think instead, “How can Israel act in a just way that will lead to a long-term peace?”
May Palestinians retain/regain hope in change, and act accordingly.
May the resistance of daily life continue, and may magic blossom.
With deep love for this fragile world of ours,
Hannah
I’ve spent the past couple days in Boston, reading and hearing about all the wonderful anti-Wall activities that happened there on November 9 in honor of the International Day of Action against the Wall. It struck me how incredible it is that I was actually at the Wall on November 9.
We had several planning meetings for November 9. Would we go to a place where the Wall is completed? Where it’s not yet started but scheduled to come? Would we do direct action? Demonstration? Vigil? Fatima and the newly formed Salfeet Women’s Committee against the Wall decided on a demonstration in Mas’ha. We would march silently along the path next to the fence, approach Munira’s house with signs, and visit her and her family. This may seem simple and non-confrontational (we didn’t physically tear down several meters of fence, the way some Palestinians, Israelis, and internationals did in a town near Jenin), but the action was incredibly powerful. Many of the fifty women who participated had never seen the Wall, and almost none had seen the concrete part. There were tears in some of their eyes as we approached and Munira came out of her house to wave across the gate. Two soldiers tried to stop us from crossing, but the women in the front stood their ground and simply shook their heads as the soldiers yelled in Hebrew, “Go back!” After only a minute, the soldiers moved aside and we finished our journey to Munira’s house. Munira greeted the women, some of whom she knew and some of whom had never been to Mas’ha. People gathered in a circle holding hands as Fatima spoke to the crowd. A few people tried to hang the signs on the Wall, but it was wet with rain from the morning, so we hung them on Munira’s house instead.
When we dispersed, there was a sense of peace and satisfaction, and at the same time a sense of deep sadness and anger, accompanied by the energy to continue to resist the construction of the Wall. I was sad to have to leave the following day, but hopeful that this could be the beginning of a grassroots movement against the Wall in the region of Salfeet, which will be so drastically affected by the already-approved Phase 2 of Wall construction.
I go back and forth between despair and hope when I think about Palestine. On the one hand, Palestinians’ lives have been so disrupted by 36 years of occupation, and 3 years of intensified occupation that is worse than ever, that I don’t know whether the infrastructure even exists anymore for a viable independent state. At the same time, the fact that people continue to live, continue to survive and enjoy life, despite this intense occupation, gives me immense hope. It’s difficult to describe exactly how life continues to function in Palestine at times. It’s difficult to understand how even during closure, we can somehow get from place to place; how when there are very few cars on the road, a taxi pulls up just as it’s getting dark; how people seem to communicate with each other without words and the necessary elements of people’s lives get figured out day by day by day. If they can live like this, I think, imagine how they could live with the noose removed.
As I sat on the plane and flew across the Atlantic, my eyes filled with tears. I was remembering only the beautiful, magical parts of Palestine, and none of the ugliness. I remembered the party on my last night, when Fatima and her five children joined us for dinner and helped to cook the meal. Shams, the oldest daughter, filled the room with her beautiful voice, which both Fatima and Shams agree is the only trait she inherited from her father.
I remembered the last time I visited Ayman’s family, and that when I announced my departure, 5-year-old Aya grabbed my hands while 6-year-old Ramee locked the door to keep me in. I remember the care with which their mother wrapped the olives and olive oil she gave me to take to my family in the US.
I remembered walking by Zajid (our not-yet-3-yr-old neighbor) a couple weeks ago, and hearing him say “Tfaddalu” to me and a friend of mine as we passed the house. “Tfaddalu” is a very adult thing to say, and in that context generally means, “Come join us for tea.”
I remembered all these snapshots and I thought, there is such joy in this life. To a certain degree, I think the lack of control over one’s future brings a necessary joy to each moment. I do not wish to over-romanticize, and I certainly do not wish to mask the tremendous suffering of my friends and others in Palestine. But their lives are more complicated and more full than the newspapers would have you believe. Indeed, the resistance present in their insistence on life is the strongest and most sustainable form of resistance that exists.
So I do have hope. The women in Salfeet are organizing. Internationals continue to go to Palestine to show solidarity with the Palestinian people. Four more high security officials in Israel have denounced the occupation and Sharon’s policies. Some people who are accustomed to power are starting to realize that it’s impossible to control every aspect of their own lives, not to mention several million other people’s lives. This admission of lack of control can open so many doors to justice.
May we remove the guise of security from Israel’s policies, and think instead, “How can Israel act in a just way that will lead to a long-term peace?”
May Palestinians retain/regain hope in change, and act accordingly.
May the resistance of daily life continue, and may magic blossom.
With deep love for this fragile world of ours,
Hannah
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Because They Were Bored
At 7:00 this morning, Kate and I accompanied our neighbor Mariam to her trees that had been cut by the nearby settlement, Revava. She wanted to bring the branches back for firewood so that she could make bread. We arrived at her land, and began to gather the wood. About 5 minutes later a loud alarm went off. It sounded like an amplified car alarm, but we thought we had probably stepped in front of a settlement sensor. When it continued for 5 minutes without any sign of security or army, we thought perhaps it was a car alarm after all. About 10 minutes later, however, a jeep pulled up nearby and three soldiers marched towards us. They informed us that we were trespassing and we explained that this was the land of the woman who had come to gather her wood. “Whose trees are these?” I asked the soldiers. They gave us many reasons why we couldn’t be where we were: we were within a certain number of meters to the settlement, we had crossed a road to get where we were, etc. Of course, the land and the trees are much older than the settlement and the road, but these soldiers would only recognize the arbitrary borders and rules that Israel has created.
We explained several times that if the soldiers just left us alone, we would gather the wood and leave within a half hour. One soldier responded with, “Get the fuck out of here.”
“That’s not a very nice way to talk to people,” I said.
“It’s a very nice fucking way!” he responded.
I was impressed with his English grammar, but unimpressed with the way he was treating us. The soldiers continued to hassle Mariam because she had not brought ID with her. She explained that she didn’t know soldiers would be there and merely left her house for a short trip to gather her wood from her land.
“Shut up,” the soldier told her in Arabic (this seemed to be the only Arabic he knew).
We asked the soldiers, “What’s the problem?”
The English speaker responded: “A woman blew herself up in a restaurant in Haifa. Remember?”
“Okay,” I said, “but none of us did that. If you think we’re here to blow something up, check our bags.”
The back-and-forth went on for a little while, and at some point the soldiers made the decision that we were not allowed to leave (remember, they originally told us to leave the land).
“This is ridiculous. Why are you doing this? Don’t you have anything better to do?” we kept asking.
Finally one soldier said, “I’m bored.”
“So you’re harassing us because you’re bored?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said very clearly. I couldn’t believe it. I often notice that soldiers give me a hard time when they’re bored, but never has one actually admitted this to me.
“Would you do this to your mother?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “My mother doesn’t blow things up.”
“Neither does this woman,” I replied, as calmly as I could.
“But maybe her children,” he said.
“And maybe your mother’s children stand around scaring people with guns,” I said.
We tried everything we could, but if a group of soldiers is bored and wants to harass people, they can do it here with impunity.
By a stroke of luck, the army seemed unable to get a hold of the police (maybe it was to our advantage that today is Shabbat), and finally they said they would let us go, informing us that if anyone ever came back to the land, they would arrest the people. One soldier also told Kate that he has seen her too many times and will make it his personal business to try to get her thrown out of the country.
Two soldiers followed us closely as we made our way back through the fields, and when I turned around to look at one of them, he began to tap his gun loudly. When we reached the road they said, “Come here.” We turned around and one said condescendingly, “This is a road. You cannot cross this road.” We walked away, and Mariam explained that her heart was beating fast and she had been extremely afraid. All the way back to her house, she had her hand on her chest and periodically laughed nervously. She invited us in, and from her house we looked out at all the land that has been gobbled up by settlements and settlement roads. “I can’t make bread without wood,” she told us again. We told her we would try to contact a group that could obtain permission for her to go to her land one day. This is something we hesitate to do, because on principle we do not ask the army and the government for permission for people to be where they have a right to be. Every time we ask permission, we legitimize the occupation a little more. But of course, when people are hungry, the issue becomes more complicated.
The soldiers today seemed to have pure malice in their hearts during our interaction, but I hope they too will tire of the occupation. We often say that if all Palestinians refuse to cooperate, the occupation will not survive. It’s also true that if all soldiers refuse to participate, the occupation cannot survive. Yesterday, on our way home from a visit to the Christian Peacemaker Teams (CPT) in Hebron, a soldier at a checkpoint asked us what we were doing.
“Visiting,” Kate replied, and then asked him, “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” said the soldier, and he really seemed to mean it.
“That’s the problem,” said Kate.
The soldier did not reply.
According to CPT, the curfew situation in Hebron is far better than it was last year. We asked why they think curfew has not been imposed in Hebron in almost 3 months. They speculate that it is so difficult and absurd to try to enforce curfew that the reservists have refused to do it. Unfortunately, the 400 settlers of Hebron continue to hold the city hostage, and 160,000 Palestinians live under constant fear from both settlers and soldiers. The settlers of Hebron are a different breed altogether. Never have I seen so much Hebrew graffiti saying “Death to Arabs.” One African American member of CPT showed us a wall directly across the street from their house. Written on it was: “White Power. Kill Niggers.” It had been crossed out, probably, he said, to avoid the perception of settlers as racist. If there was any doubt, though, we later saw graffiti that read, “ARABS TO THE GAS CHAMBERS” and was signed “JDL” (Jewish Defense League).
For the most part, the visit to CPT was actually quite pleasant, and it was good to get to know another group with a similar long-term presence model as ours. I am too tired from today’s events and the recounting of disturbing encounters, however, to write anymore now. Tomorrow I will be participating in activities for the International Day of Action against the Wall, and Monday I leave. I’ll spend 3 days in Paris at a meeting about Palestine, and then return to the US. I’ll write one last e-mail sometime in the next week. For now, take care. Please keep everyone in this region in your hearts and minds, and send them strength, hope, and empathy.
Peace,
Hannah
We explained several times that if the soldiers just left us alone, we would gather the wood and leave within a half hour. One soldier responded with, “Get the fuck out of here.”
“That’s not a very nice way to talk to people,” I said.
“It’s a very nice fucking way!” he responded.
I was impressed with his English grammar, but unimpressed with the way he was treating us. The soldiers continued to hassle Mariam because she had not brought ID with her. She explained that she didn’t know soldiers would be there and merely left her house for a short trip to gather her wood from her land.
“Shut up,” the soldier told her in Arabic (this seemed to be the only Arabic he knew).
We asked the soldiers, “What’s the problem?”
The English speaker responded: “A woman blew herself up in a restaurant in Haifa. Remember?”
“Okay,” I said, “but none of us did that. If you think we’re here to blow something up, check our bags.”
The back-and-forth went on for a little while, and at some point the soldiers made the decision that we were not allowed to leave (remember, they originally told us to leave the land).
“This is ridiculous. Why are you doing this? Don’t you have anything better to do?” we kept asking.
Finally one soldier said, “I’m bored.”
“So you’re harassing us because you’re bored?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said very clearly. I couldn’t believe it. I often notice that soldiers give me a hard time when they’re bored, but never has one actually admitted this to me.
“Would you do this to your mother?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “My mother doesn’t blow things up.”
“Neither does this woman,” I replied, as calmly as I could.
“But maybe her children,” he said.
“And maybe your mother’s children stand around scaring people with guns,” I said.
We tried everything we could, but if a group of soldiers is bored and wants to harass people, they can do it here with impunity.
By a stroke of luck, the army seemed unable to get a hold of the police (maybe it was to our advantage that today is Shabbat), and finally they said they would let us go, informing us that if anyone ever came back to the land, they would arrest the people. One soldier also told Kate that he has seen her too many times and will make it his personal business to try to get her thrown out of the country.
Two soldiers followed us closely as we made our way back through the fields, and when I turned around to look at one of them, he began to tap his gun loudly. When we reached the road they said, “Come here.” We turned around and one said condescendingly, “This is a road. You cannot cross this road.” We walked away, and Mariam explained that her heart was beating fast and she had been extremely afraid. All the way back to her house, she had her hand on her chest and periodically laughed nervously. She invited us in, and from her house we looked out at all the land that has been gobbled up by settlements and settlement roads. “I can’t make bread without wood,” she told us again. We told her we would try to contact a group that could obtain permission for her to go to her land one day. This is something we hesitate to do, because on principle we do not ask the army and the government for permission for people to be where they have a right to be. Every time we ask permission, we legitimize the occupation a little more. But of course, when people are hungry, the issue becomes more complicated.
The soldiers today seemed to have pure malice in their hearts during our interaction, but I hope they too will tire of the occupation. We often say that if all Palestinians refuse to cooperate, the occupation will not survive. It’s also true that if all soldiers refuse to participate, the occupation cannot survive. Yesterday, on our way home from a visit to the Christian Peacemaker Teams (CPT) in Hebron, a soldier at a checkpoint asked us what we were doing.
“Visiting,” Kate replied, and then asked him, “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” said the soldier, and he really seemed to mean it.
“That’s the problem,” said Kate.
The soldier did not reply.
According to CPT, the curfew situation in Hebron is far better than it was last year. We asked why they think curfew has not been imposed in Hebron in almost 3 months. They speculate that it is so difficult and absurd to try to enforce curfew that the reservists have refused to do it. Unfortunately, the 400 settlers of Hebron continue to hold the city hostage, and 160,000 Palestinians live under constant fear from both settlers and soldiers. The settlers of Hebron are a different breed altogether. Never have I seen so much Hebrew graffiti saying “Death to Arabs.” One African American member of CPT showed us a wall directly across the street from their house. Written on it was: “White Power. Kill Niggers.” It had been crossed out, probably, he said, to avoid the perception of settlers as racist. If there was any doubt, though, we later saw graffiti that read, “ARABS TO THE GAS CHAMBERS” and was signed “JDL” (Jewish Defense League).
For the most part, the visit to CPT was actually quite pleasant, and it was good to get to know another group with a similar long-term presence model as ours. I am too tired from today’s events and the recounting of disturbing encounters, however, to write anymore now. Tomorrow I will be participating in activities for the International Day of Action against the Wall, and Monday I leave. I’ll spend 3 days in Paris at a meeting about Palestine, and then return to the US. I’ll write one last e-mail sometime in the next week. For now, take care. Please keep everyone in this region in your hearts and minds, and send them strength, hope, and empathy.
Peace,
Hannah
Sunday, November 02, 2003
A Week in Palestine
Dear friends,
I realize it's been over a week since my last update, but I have a good excuse: we had a power outage last week, and we're still recovering. I've also been away for a few days visiting friends in Israel. But now I'm back in Haris for my last week (I can't believe it's almost over), and I'm ready to work again.
In this report, I'll give you a few short stories, snapshots from this past week, some accompanied by photographs. The general setting: 1) Ramadan began last Sunday, which means no eating, drinking, or smoking (sadly this seems to be the most difficult for people) during daylight hours. Everywhere we go on the streets, kids ask, "Sayme?" (Are you fasting?). I'm generally honest – I say we don't fast in our house, but we do when we're out in the villages. 2) Winter began on Wednesday evening (the night of the cold windy rain and our power outage), but now it seems to have gone away again, if only temporarily. 3) Closure technically ended shortly after Sukkot, almost 2 weeks ago, but it seems the army is sporadically enforcing something quite close to closure. Our stretch of road between Haris and the Zatara checkpoint continues to see sporadic flying checkpoints and a relatively constant army presence, and at Zatara itself there have been hundreds of people waiting at times, something quite unusual for Zatara.
And now for the stories…
Qalqilya: We heard last weekend that there would be a large Palestinian demonstration at the checkpoint in Qalqilya (like near many cities, a severely restricted checkpoint), and we decided to go to support it. We arrived only to find out they weren't letting any internationals into the city. Interestingly, the reasoning given to me by one soldier was that my visa was only good for Israel, and this wasn't Israel. I asked if I needed permission from the Palestinian Authority, and he said, "No, from the IDF." "I thought you said this wasn't Israel. Why do we need permission from the Israeli army?" didn't seem to work as a negotiating strategy, so we retreated for a while. Suddenly the noise level increased and I looked across the checkpoint in time to see two soldiers swinging fists at people. We heard a loud noise and weren't sure at first if it was gunfire or a sound bomb (also known as a "stun grenade"). It turned out to be the latter. The commotion went on for a couple minutes and finally we managed to get a soldier to explain to us his version of what was happening. "Two journalists were making a problem," he reported, "so then there was some violence that happened from the soldiers." He tried to shirk responsibility a bit by stating this in the passive voice, but at least he admitted that the soldiers began the violence. At this point the army closed the checkpoint altogether. An ambulance pulled up and we saw two women clutching each other inside. When the army opened the doors to check it, we saw that one of the women was in labor. The soldiers didn't seem to care, and initially told the ambulance it couldn't go. Finally, after taking their time checking IDs, the soldiers let the vehicle pass. It seemed like hours, but was probably a matter of 5-10 minutes. I was just glad I didn't have to witness a baby being born at a checkpoint, something that happens far too often here in Palestine.
Marda: Back again… Kate and I went to Ayman's family's house for dinner last Monday, a wonderful treat. I had the 5 children draw pictures for me on pieces of cloth, which I'm hoping to do with a few other children I know and put into a small quilt when I get home. We left town after dark, hoping to find a Palestinian taxi but expecting we might have to hitchhike with a settler. Just as we were leaving, the army pulled into town. They usually patrol the streets, but don't often go into villages unless they're declaring curfew. Sure enough, this is just what they did. We followed them into town, but the jeep moved faster than we did on foot. When we got back to the center of town, some people were running from house to house and on small stretches of road, trying to make it home safely. Others seemed unconcerned and roamed the streets freely until they heard jeeps approaching. One teenage boy came to me and tried to convince me to come to his house because it was unsafe for me to be in the streets. I tried to tell him the danger applied more to him, but he wouldn't leave. He calmed down a bit when I told him I was from a peace organization (maybe it gave him a bit more confidence that I knew what I was doing), but I still had a hard time convincing him to go home. The situation seemed relatively mellow, and Kate and I decided we may be doing more harm than good at that point, because several Palestinians were trying to take care of us instead of themselves, so we left. We phoned a yellow-plated driver we know and he took us home.
Azzun checkpoint: Yup, the same one I've written about many times. We stopped by just to see what was going on and to show a few new volunteers what it looked like. There were 7 men being held, and we gave them the phone number for an Israeli organization that helps in these situations. The soldiers approached to ask what we were doing, and Kate immediately handed them a Yesh G'vul brochure (this is the primary organization that promotes refusing military service). They read it cover to cover before crumbling it up and throwing it on the ground. I pointed out that there was a newly-installed dumpster for trash, but the soldiers ignored me. Finally one said, "What about the US occupation in Iraq?" I told him I opposed that as well, and he said, "Then go to Iraq." Kate responded that she's planning to (she is), and he said, "Go as soon as possible." He remained relatively nasty for the few minutes we stayed, but he was not threatening. It started to rain and I approached the soldiers again, pointing out that 7 Palestinian men were sitting in a field in the rain. One said, "Well, we're standing in the street in the rain." "So you can both go home, you and those men," I replied. The nasty soldier answered: "I will decide when to let them go. Rain, snow, whatever, they will stay here. We need to punish them." I told him that these men aren't terrorists and he agreed. "But," he said, "we have to punish them. They have to learn that they can't work in Israel." I posed one last question: "So if they can't work in Israel, why can you work in Palestine?" He actually smiled for a split second, but then told me again to go to Iraq as soon as possible. We decided our work there was done (we had distributed the appropriate phone numbers to the Palestinian men and made our presence known to the soldiers), so we left.
On the road to Mas'ha: After our visit to the checkpoint, we began to walk up the road towards the village of Mas'ha, the first place in Salfit to be touched by the Wall, and the site of the large peace camp last spring and summer. On the way, we saw the following graffiti on the side of a bus stop: PHOTO. Several posters were pasted on top of each other, but the bottom clearly reads, "Transfer = Peace and Security." We see plenty of racist graffiti like this in Palestine, but then we noticed something else on the same bus stop. Inside, on the glass part, was this: PHOTO. Translation: The Occupation = terror. I picked up the phone and called an Israeli friend from Black Laundry who I knew had been picking olives in that area the week before. I explained the sign and asked if he had anything to do with it. "I can't really answer that on the phone," he replied, "but I believe it was done last week… Keep your eyes open, there may be more." Well, we didn't see anymore, but that one sighting was enough to inspire another great idea. When we approached Elkana, the settlement right next to Mas'ha, we noticed a hill of dirt at the entrance with the name "Elkana" written in Hebrew with rocks. "I think that should say Kibosh [Occupation] instead," I declared, and 5 minutes later it did.
Mas'ha: Munira and Hani live with their children in a house that is stuck between the fence of Elkana settlement and the almost-completed Wall. Their village of Mas'ha is on the other side of the Wall. As I have explained before, the Wall is a 30-foot concrete wall in certain places, particularly cities (Jenin, Tulkarem, Qalqilya), and everywhere else it is a series of fences and ditches and security roads. The Wall through Mas'ha is mostly fence, as can be expected in a small village. Upon arriving on Wednesday, however, we noticed something new. Was it a large metal structure? Construction? As we got closer to Munira's house we froze in our tracks. Right in front of the house was about a 120-foot stretch of 30-foot-high concrete wall, just like the wall that surrounds Qalqilya. On both sides of this wall was fence, but directly outside their door, obstructing Munira's and Hani's view of their village, was this monstrosity. There is clearly no reason for this other than spite. Was it because of the peace camp earlier in the year? Or was it simply the fact that Munira and Hani had stayed in their home, defying Israeli hopes and expectations that they would move? We entered the house and sat with them for a while. Hani told us they had no idea the concrete wall was coming until it popped up one day two weeks ago. We briefly discussed the potential for protest, specifically the International Day of Action Against the Wall on November 9 (anniversary of when the Berlin Wall fell). They seemed skeptical of the effectiveness, but open to the possibility.
J'barra: A few of us went to visit Azmi on Thursday. This is the man whose house is threatened with demolition because the Wall (fence, in this area), has come right past his house. We got a ride into town and to the security road, at which point we got out and began to walk the last kilometer to the house (only military vehicles and Azmi are allowed to drive on the security road). We were about ¾ of the way there when we heard a jeep approaching from behind. I was mildly worried until the jeep began to speed up slightly and I guessed that it would drive past us. Instead, it sped up more and then veered to the right and screeched to a halt to cut us off. I figured this unnecessary move wouldn't mean good things for our near future. Sure enough, the driver of the jeep told us we weren't allowed to be on the road. I told him we were going to visit Azmi (I figured he knew this already), and he said, "Well you could have gone through the olive groves on the other side of the barbed wire. You can't be here." I tried to reason that we'd be off the security road much quicker if we went to Azmi's house than if we turned around and walked back, but the soldier wouldn't hear it. "I'll call Azmi to come pick us up, then," I said. One man said that was fine, but the driver said, "No! Only he can drive on the road. He can't take anybody else!" No reasoning seemed to work with this man, and finally he said, "If I see you go towards that house on this road, you'll be arrested," and drove off. He screeched into Azmi's driveway and yelled something before continuing up the road. We decided to turn around and go back to the break in the barbed wire, where we would climb through the olive groves to get back to Azmi's house. This took almost an hour, but we did find our way there and were greeted by Azmi, his wife, and one of his sons. They quickly took us up to the porch, because apparently the soldier had threatened Azmi with "doing something to him" if he saw us there. While still in the backyard, however, I noticed a large new structure that Azmi and his son were building. "A new house?" I asked. "Yes," replied Azmi. If they knock down that house, we'll live in this one." Whether this plan will work or not remains to be seen, but I think Azmi figures that the army will at least have to go through the hassle of getting another demolition order and engaging in another legal battle if they want to demolish the second house. Small acts of resistance like this give me hope… or at least a little laugh.
I have several more stories I can tell, but I'll combine them all into one: I have spent the last couple days in Israel, and I have to say it was relaxing, stressful, angering, comfortable, and confusing. I saw so many soldiers on Friday, obviously on their way home for Shabbat. Most were women who looked no more than 15 but were most likely between the ages of 17-19. They talked on the phone to friends about where they were stationed, and I saw their humanity. I realized that a part of me had managed to ignore the humanity of certain soldiers in the West Bank. It's easier this way, of course. If I were constantly to acknowledge the humanity of each soldier, I would want to shake each one and say, "Look around! Look what you're doing! Look what you're part of!" It's easier to disengage. I admit this not because I'm proud of it, but because it's interesting to me how quickly my mind has done this. How must Palestinians feel about the soldiers? And the soldiers about the Palestinians?
So I spent Shabbat with a good friend from home, and about 30 people in her program who mostly asked questions like, "You're working with Palestinians?! Aren't you scared?!" and "They know you're Jewish and they haven't killed you?" These are intelligent people, but they have never been exposed to life in Palestine. Some have visited settlements, but none have any relationship to Palestinians. I went to services with them, ate dinner, and sang songs after dinner. I read the lyrics to these songs I grew up with, and noted the extreme nationalism in them, which at its worst was explicitly racist and at its best merely denied Palestinian existence. I thought about the Jewish liturgy and the little I know of Palestinian narrative, and thought, "Well okay, it makes sense in some ways that each group has an ideal vision of the entire land to its own group." But where does compromise fit into that? The majority of each group is willing to compromise. Most Palestinians say, "Okay, we'll give you the 78% of historic Palestine that was occupied in 1948. Just give us the 22% that was occupied in 1967." And most Israelis, according to polls, would also be willing to do this. Meanwhile, Sharon is building a wall through the middle of the West Bank that if completed as planned, would take over 50% of the land (leaving Palestinians with just 10% of historic Palestine) and would divide the West Bank into three separate enclaves. And, due to fearmongering, it seems that most Israelis support the Wall (even though they say they don't support settlements, and the Wall is being built specifically to annex the settlements into Israel)…
Well well, that's quite enough for now. If this seems confusing, it is. Nothing is simple here. I have more observations about Israel (more beggars on the streets of Jerusalem than I've seen before, etc.), but we can discuss these in person when I get home. I'm hoping to show pictures and speak to many groups, so please contact me if you're in Philadelphia, Baltimore, or Boston, or if you're able to transport me to your city.
Until next time,
Hannah
I realize it's been over a week since my last update, but I have a good excuse: we had a power outage last week, and we're still recovering. I've also been away for a few days visiting friends in Israel. But now I'm back in Haris for my last week (I can't believe it's almost over), and I'm ready to work again.
In this report, I'll give you a few short stories, snapshots from this past week, some accompanied by photographs. The general setting: 1) Ramadan began last Sunday, which means no eating, drinking, or smoking (sadly this seems to be the most difficult for people) during daylight hours. Everywhere we go on the streets, kids ask, "Sayme?" (Are you fasting?). I'm generally honest – I say we don't fast in our house, but we do when we're out in the villages. 2) Winter began on Wednesday evening (the night of the cold windy rain and our power outage), but now it seems to have gone away again, if only temporarily. 3) Closure technically ended shortly after Sukkot, almost 2 weeks ago, but it seems the army is sporadically enforcing something quite close to closure. Our stretch of road between Haris and the Zatara checkpoint continues to see sporadic flying checkpoints and a relatively constant army presence, and at Zatara itself there have been hundreds of people waiting at times, something quite unusual for Zatara.
And now for the stories…
Qalqilya: We heard last weekend that there would be a large Palestinian demonstration at the checkpoint in Qalqilya (like near many cities, a severely restricted checkpoint), and we decided to go to support it. We arrived only to find out they weren't letting any internationals into the city. Interestingly, the reasoning given to me by one soldier was that my visa was only good for Israel, and this wasn't Israel. I asked if I needed permission from the Palestinian Authority, and he said, "No, from the IDF." "I thought you said this wasn't Israel. Why do we need permission from the Israeli army?" didn't seem to work as a negotiating strategy, so we retreated for a while. Suddenly the noise level increased and I looked across the checkpoint in time to see two soldiers swinging fists at people. We heard a loud noise and weren't sure at first if it was gunfire or a sound bomb (also known as a "stun grenade"). It turned out to be the latter. The commotion went on for a couple minutes and finally we managed to get a soldier to explain to us his version of what was happening. "Two journalists were making a problem," he reported, "so then there was some violence that happened from the soldiers." He tried to shirk responsibility a bit by stating this in the passive voice, but at least he admitted that the soldiers began the violence. At this point the army closed the checkpoint altogether. An ambulance pulled up and we saw two women clutching each other inside. When the army opened the doors to check it, we saw that one of the women was in labor. The soldiers didn't seem to care, and initially told the ambulance it couldn't go. Finally, after taking their time checking IDs, the soldiers let the vehicle pass. It seemed like hours, but was probably a matter of 5-10 minutes. I was just glad I didn't have to witness a baby being born at a checkpoint, something that happens far too often here in Palestine.
Marda: Back again… Kate and I went to Ayman's family's house for dinner last Monday, a wonderful treat. I had the 5 children draw pictures for me on pieces of cloth, which I'm hoping to do with a few other children I know and put into a small quilt when I get home. We left town after dark, hoping to find a Palestinian taxi but expecting we might have to hitchhike with a settler. Just as we were leaving, the army pulled into town. They usually patrol the streets, but don't often go into villages unless they're declaring curfew. Sure enough, this is just what they did. We followed them into town, but the jeep moved faster than we did on foot. When we got back to the center of town, some people were running from house to house and on small stretches of road, trying to make it home safely. Others seemed unconcerned and roamed the streets freely until they heard jeeps approaching. One teenage boy came to me and tried to convince me to come to his house because it was unsafe for me to be in the streets. I tried to tell him the danger applied more to him, but he wouldn't leave. He calmed down a bit when I told him I was from a peace organization (maybe it gave him a bit more confidence that I knew what I was doing), but I still had a hard time convincing him to go home. The situation seemed relatively mellow, and Kate and I decided we may be doing more harm than good at that point, because several Palestinians were trying to take care of us instead of themselves, so we left. We phoned a yellow-plated driver we know and he took us home.
Azzun checkpoint: Yup, the same one I've written about many times. We stopped by just to see what was going on and to show a few new volunteers what it looked like. There were 7 men being held, and we gave them the phone number for an Israeli organization that helps in these situations. The soldiers approached to ask what we were doing, and Kate immediately handed them a Yesh G'vul brochure (this is the primary organization that promotes refusing military service). They read it cover to cover before crumbling it up and throwing it on the ground. I pointed out that there was a newly-installed dumpster for trash, but the soldiers ignored me. Finally one said, "What about the US occupation in Iraq?" I told him I opposed that as well, and he said, "Then go to Iraq." Kate responded that she's planning to (she is), and he said, "Go as soon as possible." He remained relatively nasty for the few minutes we stayed, but he was not threatening. It started to rain and I approached the soldiers again, pointing out that 7 Palestinian men were sitting in a field in the rain. One said, "Well, we're standing in the street in the rain." "So you can both go home, you and those men," I replied. The nasty soldier answered: "I will decide when to let them go. Rain, snow, whatever, they will stay here. We need to punish them." I told him that these men aren't terrorists and he agreed. "But," he said, "we have to punish them. They have to learn that they can't work in Israel." I posed one last question: "So if they can't work in Israel, why can you work in Palestine?" He actually smiled for a split second, but then told me again to go to Iraq as soon as possible. We decided our work there was done (we had distributed the appropriate phone numbers to the Palestinian men and made our presence known to the soldiers), so we left.
On the road to Mas'ha: After our visit to the checkpoint, we began to walk up the road towards the village of Mas'ha, the first place in Salfit to be touched by the Wall, and the site of the large peace camp last spring and summer. On the way, we saw the following graffiti on the side of a bus stop: PHOTO. Several posters were pasted on top of each other, but the bottom clearly reads, "Transfer = Peace and Security." We see plenty of racist graffiti like this in Palestine, but then we noticed something else on the same bus stop. Inside, on the glass part, was this: PHOTO. Translation: The Occupation = terror. I picked up the phone and called an Israeli friend from Black Laundry who I knew had been picking olives in that area the week before. I explained the sign and asked if he had anything to do with it. "I can't really answer that on the phone," he replied, "but I believe it was done last week… Keep your eyes open, there may be more." Well, we didn't see anymore, but that one sighting was enough to inspire another great idea. When we approached Elkana, the settlement right next to Mas'ha, we noticed a hill of dirt at the entrance with the name "Elkana" written in Hebrew with rocks. "I think that should say Kibosh [Occupation] instead," I declared, and 5 minutes later it did.
Mas'ha: Munira and Hani live with their children in a house that is stuck between the fence of Elkana settlement and the almost-completed Wall. Their village of Mas'ha is on the other side of the Wall. As I have explained before, the Wall is a 30-foot concrete wall in certain places, particularly cities (Jenin, Tulkarem, Qalqilya), and everywhere else it is a series of fences and ditches and security roads. The Wall through Mas'ha is mostly fence, as can be expected in a small village. Upon arriving on Wednesday, however, we noticed something new. Was it a large metal structure? Construction? As we got closer to Munira's house we froze in our tracks. Right in front of the house was about a 120-foot stretch of 30-foot-high concrete wall, just like the wall that surrounds Qalqilya. On both sides of this wall was fence, but directly outside their door, obstructing Munira's and Hani's view of their village, was this monstrosity. There is clearly no reason for this other than spite. Was it because of the peace camp earlier in the year? Or was it simply the fact that Munira and Hani had stayed in their home, defying Israeli hopes and expectations that they would move? We entered the house and sat with them for a while. Hani told us they had no idea the concrete wall was coming until it popped up one day two weeks ago. We briefly discussed the potential for protest, specifically the International Day of Action Against the Wall on November 9 (anniversary of when the Berlin Wall fell). They seemed skeptical of the effectiveness, but open to the possibility.
J'barra: A few of us went to visit Azmi on Thursday. This is the man whose house is threatened with demolition because the Wall (fence, in this area), has come right past his house. We got a ride into town and to the security road, at which point we got out and began to walk the last kilometer to the house (only military vehicles and Azmi are allowed to drive on the security road). We were about ¾ of the way there when we heard a jeep approaching from behind. I was mildly worried until the jeep began to speed up slightly and I guessed that it would drive past us. Instead, it sped up more and then veered to the right and screeched to a halt to cut us off. I figured this unnecessary move wouldn't mean good things for our near future. Sure enough, the driver of the jeep told us we weren't allowed to be on the road. I told him we were going to visit Azmi (I figured he knew this already), and he said, "Well you could have gone through the olive groves on the other side of the barbed wire. You can't be here." I tried to reason that we'd be off the security road much quicker if we went to Azmi's house than if we turned around and walked back, but the soldier wouldn't hear it. "I'll call Azmi to come pick us up, then," I said. One man said that was fine, but the driver said, "No! Only he can drive on the road. He can't take anybody else!" No reasoning seemed to work with this man, and finally he said, "If I see you go towards that house on this road, you'll be arrested," and drove off. He screeched into Azmi's driveway and yelled something before continuing up the road. We decided to turn around and go back to the break in the barbed wire, where we would climb through the olive groves to get back to Azmi's house. This took almost an hour, but we did find our way there and were greeted by Azmi, his wife, and one of his sons. They quickly took us up to the porch, because apparently the soldier had threatened Azmi with "doing something to him" if he saw us there. While still in the backyard, however, I noticed a large new structure that Azmi and his son were building. "A new house?" I asked. "Yes," replied Azmi. If they knock down that house, we'll live in this one." Whether this plan will work or not remains to be seen, but I think Azmi figures that the army will at least have to go through the hassle of getting another demolition order and engaging in another legal battle if they want to demolish the second house. Small acts of resistance like this give me hope… or at least a little laugh.
I have several more stories I can tell, but I'll combine them all into one: I have spent the last couple days in Israel, and I have to say it was relaxing, stressful, angering, comfortable, and confusing. I saw so many soldiers on Friday, obviously on their way home for Shabbat. Most were women who looked no more than 15 but were most likely between the ages of 17-19. They talked on the phone to friends about where they were stationed, and I saw their humanity. I realized that a part of me had managed to ignore the humanity of certain soldiers in the West Bank. It's easier this way, of course. If I were constantly to acknowledge the humanity of each soldier, I would want to shake each one and say, "Look around! Look what you're doing! Look what you're part of!" It's easier to disengage. I admit this not because I'm proud of it, but because it's interesting to me how quickly my mind has done this. How must Palestinians feel about the soldiers? And the soldiers about the Palestinians?
So I spent Shabbat with a good friend from home, and about 30 people in her program who mostly asked questions like, "You're working with Palestinians?! Aren't you scared?!" and "They know you're Jewish and they haven't killed you?" These are intelligent people, but they have never been exposed to life in Palestine. Some have visited settlements, but none have any relationship to Palestinians. I went to services with them, ate dinner, and sang songs after dinner. I read the lyrics to these songs I grew up with, and noted the extreme nationalism in them, which at its worst was explicitly racist and at its best merely denied Palestinian existence. I thought about the Jewish liturgy and the little I know of Palestinian narrative, and thought, "Well okay, it makes sense in some ways that each group has an ideal vision of the entire land to its own group." But where does compromise fit into that? The majority of each group is willing to compromise. Most Palestinians say, "Okay, we'll give you the 78% of historic Palestine that was occupied in 1948. Just give us the 22% that was occupied in 1967." And most Israelis, according to polls, would also be willing to do this. Meanwhile, Sharon is building a wall through the middle of the West Bank that if completed as planned, would take over 50% of the land (leaving Palestinians with just 10% of historic Palestine) and would divide the West Bank into three separate enclaves. And, due to fearmongering, it seems that most Israelis support the Wall (even though they say they don't support settlements, and the Wall is being built specifically to annex the settlements into Israel)…
Well well, that's quite enough for now. If this seems confusing, it is. Nothing is simple here. I have more observations about Israel (more beggars on the streets of Jerusalem than I've seen before, etc.), but we can discuss these in person when I get home. I'm hoping to show pictures and speak to many groups, so please contact me if you're in Philadelphia, Baltimore, or Boston, or if you're able to transport me to your city.
Until next time,
Hannah
Friday, October 24, 2003
Incursion in Kufr Eyn
Dear friends,
I know I sent an e-mail out just 2 days ago, but yesterday I faced the scariest and most disturbing situation yet. I'm extremely drained at the moment and apologize for not wanting to write more, but I will attach our press release about yesterday below (pictures at bottom if they come through on e-mail. Otherwise, they should be posted on our website soon - www.iwps.info).
The only thing I want to say is that it's hard to keep perspective on things here. I'm so used to Israelis with guns (soldiers and settlers) that they don't faze me anymore. I forget that they're real sometimes. In the moment yesterday, standing with women and children as the soldiers yelled, ran at us with tear gas, and cocked their guns, I was quite scared. But afterwards, I think about the soldiers who opened the back of their jeep to point their guns one more time as they were leaving, and it seems like a video game or movie to me. Or just a bunch of young boys with toys. Which is, ultimately, what it is. It's just that these toys can kill…
Anyway, read on…
Press Release – Press Release – Press Release – Press Release
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
REPORT: Three hundred men rounded up and detained in Kufr Eyin. Approximately 25 arrests were made.
On Thursday October 23 at 8:30 a.m., IWPS office got a call from a man in Qurawat Bani Zeid, saying that six Israeli jeeps and Armored Personnel Carriers (APC) had moved into the town. The man requested our presence. At 10:30 four IWPS workers arrived at a nearby village and walked across a roadblock to access the area, witnessing a number of jeeps passing on the road. We entered Kufr Eyin, population 1,500, and were told the army was now there. Moments later, a formation of approximately 40 soldiers marched down a hill and into a waiting APC. Further up the hill, a military incursion was in progress. Israeli army jeeps and more APCs were parked in front of the village school. Several men, blindfolded and handcuffed, were being led into one of the APCs. We were told that Israeli soldiers were holding all of the men in the village between the ages of 14-40 in the schoolyard. As IWPS workers watched, the soldiers herded frantic mothers and children back away from the arrest scene. For approximately 1/2-3/4 hour, the soldiers kept the villagers back from witnessing the arrests, often times yelling, threatening the women with tear gas, and chasing them back towards their homes, with rifles pointed at them. The army vehicles left at 11:30 a.m. with the men they had arrested.
We spoke with witnesses, one of whom had been held in the schoolyard since 6:00 a.m. He relayed the following information: At 2:00 a.m., the soldiers surrounded the village. Shots and explosions were heard. Between 4:00-5:00, the army announced curfew through loudspeakers of roving jeeps, ordering all men between 14-40 to present themselves at the school. Shortly afterwards, they conducted house-to-house searches, looking for men. He said there were 33 military cars and 300 soldiers involved in the operation, one soldier per Palestinian. Three hundred men were herded into the schoolyard, their identifications checked in groups of 10. Eight did not have Palestinian I.D.'s and were immediately blindfolded and sequestered. Thirteen others were ultimately blindfolded and arrested as well, and estimated the total men arrested to be between 20-25. The majority remaining were made to sit against the wall of the school ard in the sun from approximately 6:00-11:30 a.m. The witness said the soldiers provided some water for the men, but they were given no food and limited bathroom use.
The soldiers had constructed barbed wire pens inside the schoolyard, drilling holes in the concrete for the poles, then stringing barbed wire to divide the yard into three sections. They destroyed a door and windows inside the school. One young man was hit by a border policeman in the stomach, struck with both rifle and fist, when he asked to use the bathroom. They had also demanded the detainees give their phone numbers to the soldier, and on a number of occasions, when men claimed to have no phone, the same soldier would read the phone number out loud, as if to show the men that they could hide nothing from the army.
The witness reports that Kufr Eyin has been under heavy surveillance for the past 10 days. A curfew has been enforced three times in the past week; people with olive trees have been prohibited from harvesting their crops.
IWPS workers witnessed damage to the school following the release of approximately 275 men and boys. A window was broken, and there was a watermelon-sized hole in the thick concrete wall adjacent to the rooftop door, which lay in rubble off its hinges on the ground. The soldiers had left their trash, and ripped several of the school's posters from their walls.
I know I sent an e-mail out just 2 days ago, but yesterday I faced the scariest and most disturbing situation yet. I'm extremely drained at the moment and apologize for not wanting to write more, but I will attach our press release about yesterday below (pictures at bottom if they come through on e-mail. Otherwise, they should be posted on our website soon - www.iwps.info).
The only thing I want to say is that it's hard to keep perspective on things here. I'm so used to Israelis with guns (soldiers and settlers) that they don't faze me anymore. I forget that they're real sometimes. In the moment yesterday, standing with women and children as the soldiers yelled, ran at us with tear gas, and cocked their guns, I was quite scared. But afterwards, I think about the soldiers who opened the back of their jeep to point their guns one more time as they were leaving, and it seems like a video game or movie to me. Or just a bunch of young boys with toys. Which is, ultimately, what it is. It's just that these toys can kill…
Anyway, read on…
Press Release – Press Release – Press Release – Press Release
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
REPORT: Three hundred men rounded up and detained in Kufr Eyin. Approximately 25 arrests were made.
On Thursday October 23 at 8:30 a.m., IWPS office got a call from a man in Qurawat Bani Zeid, saying that six Israeli jeeps and Armored Personnel Carriers (APC) had moved into the town. The man requested our presence. At 10:30 four IWPS workers arrived at a nearby village and walked across a roadblock to access the area, witnessing a number of jeeps passing on the road. We entered Kufr Eyin, population 1,500, and were told the army was now there. Moments later, a formation of approximately 40 soldiers marched down a hill and into a waiting APC. Further up the hill, a military incursion was in progress. Israeli army jeeps and more APCs were parked in front of the village school. Several men, blindfolded and handcuffed, were being led into one of the APCs. We were told that Israeli soldiers were holding all of the men in the village between the ages of 14-40 in the schoolyard. As IWPS workers watched, the soldiers herded frantic mothers and children back away from the arrest scene. For approximately 1/2-3/4 hour, the soldiers kept the villagers back from witnessing the arrests, often times yelling, threatening the women with tear gas, and chasing them back towards their homes, with rifles pointed at them. The army vehicles left at 11:30 a.m. with the men they had arrested.
We spoke with witnesses, one of whom had been held in the schoolyard since 6:00 a.m. He relayed the following information: At 2:00 a.m., the soldiers surrounded the village. Shots and explosions were heard. Between 4:00-5:00, the army announced curfew through loudspeakers of roving jeeps, ordering all men between 14-40 to present themselves at the school. Shortly afterwards, they conducted house-to-house searches, looking for men. He said there were 33 military cars and 300 soldiers involved in the operation, one soldier per Palestinian. Three hundred men were herded into the schoolyard, their identifications checked in groups of 10. Eight did not have Palestinian I.D.'s and were immediately blindfolded and sequestered. Thirteen others were ultimately blindfolded and arrested as well, and estimated the total men arrested to be between 20-25. The majority remaining were made to sit against the wall of the school ard in the sun from approximately 6:00-11:30 a.m. The witness said the soldiers provided some water for the men, but they were given no food and limited bathroom use.
The soldiers had constructed barbed wire pens inside the schoolyard, drilling holes in the concrete for the poles, then stringing barbed wire to divide the yard into three sections. They destroyed a door and windows inside the school. One young man was hit by a border policeman in the stomach, struck with both rifle and fist, when he asked to use the bathroom. They had also demanded the detainees give their phone numbers to the soldier, and on a number of occasions, when men claimed to have no phone, the same soldier would read the phone number out loud, as if to show the men that they could hide nothing from the army.
The witness reports that Kufr Eyin has been under heavy surveillance for the past 10 days. A curfew has been enforced three times in the past week; people with olive trees have been prohibited from harvesting their crops.
IWPS workers witnessed damage to the school following the release of approximately 275 men and boys. A window was broken, and there was a watermelon-sized hole in the thick concrete wall adjacent to the rooftop door, which lay in rubble off its hinges on the ground. The soldiers had left their trash, and ripped several of the school's posters from their walls.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
City Life: Tulkarem and Nablus
On Monday, Lynn and I left for a couple days off in Tulkarem and Nablus. Maybethese don't seem like prime vacation spots to you, but I hadn't yet experienced city life in Palestine, and I wanted to see what it was all about. After two days, I've had enough.
I told you in my last e-mail about Ruwayda, the woman who works for the General Union of Disabled Palestinians (now I have the name correct). We went back to visit her and her family Monday evening, and Tuesday we planned to go to Qalqilya to see where she works and to see the concrete part of the Wall up close (I have only seen fence so far, and the city of Qalqilya is surrounded by concrete). We arrived in Tulkarem to a house full of excited people, and ate delicious m'sakhen – bread with onions, spices, and almonds. After dinner, Ruwayda said, "Now I'll give you a tour of Tulkarem at night." I was shocked. It was not yet 7:00, but in Haris we don't go out after dark, and I thought that this was the case in most of Palestine, since soldiers are more likely at night to shoot at anything that moves. Ruwayda, however, was fearless, and she got in the car and used her good leg to drive us around town. We asked if she was scared – at night, as a woman, with internationals – but she said no andc ontinued to blare music as she showed us the university, the hospital, her sister's house, her family's bakery, and the Tulkarem refugee camp. The poverty was palpable as we entered the camp. It was dirtier and noisier than the city, and people were hanging out in the streets. Ruwayda explained that since the houses were so small in the camp, people tended to be outside later at night. As is often the case, I regretted the fact that I didn't read Arabic better when we drove past dozens of messages in graffiti on the walls. I did understand one, though. In English it said: "No War the Iraq."
We drove past a friend of Ruwayda's in a wheelchair, and she explained that two of his brothers had been killed by the Israeli army, and he had been shot and paralyzed from the waist down. Ruwayda turned the music down and continued onto a place that she told us was dangerous to drive. We told her she didn't have to go, but she said that she wanted to show us the Wall. We got to the end of a dark, eerie road and could see the fence a kilometer or two in the distance. Beyond the fence were well-lit, well-paved roads. "Those are Israeli cars driving," Ruwayda said. "That side is Israel… it's so close…"
As soon as we hit the main roads again, the volume of the music increased. I asked her to write down the name of the musician for me, and in true Palestinian fashion, she said, "No, I will give you the cassette." I can't say I'm disappointed about this, although the two shirts and hat she gave me were a bit over the top.
When we got back to her house, she turned on the TV, we watched part of Alien 4, she gave us pajamas that she insisted we wear instead of our own, and we went tosleep. A few hours later I was dreaming about loud airplane sounds. In the dream, I looked out the window wherever I was and saw several commercial planes flying past each other very closely. Suddenly there was an Apache helicopter, and a moment later I was inside it with several soldiers. My dream ended then and I woke up to the sound of real gunshots. Lynn and Ruwayda were sitting up in bed looking out the window, and they told me there had just been a loud explosive sound, like a bomb from a plane demolishing a home (or like the sound of the airplanes and helicopter in my dream). Ruwayda explained that it's like this every night: that soldiers come into town and shoot, usually looking forsomebody, and stay most of the night. Just then roosters began crowing. I'm not sure if the gunshots confused them or if they have a different concept of dawn (2am), but they kept at it almost as long as the soldiers with their guns (hey, maybe they were crowing in protest). Ruwayda took my phone and called her friend at the refugee camp, who told her it wasn't happening there, so the soldiers must be in the city. A couple minutes later, Ruwayda's sister-in-law Arij walked in with her 2-year-old daughter Hanin, who had woken up with trouble breathing. Arij's husband took Hanin to the hospital to get medicine, but ofc ourse this was extremely risky while soldiers were somewhere in town shooting.
This string of events did not seem particularly unusual to Ruwayda or her family, but I cannot imagine living constantly with such a threat of organized, sanctioned violence so close to my home. I suppose this is one privilege most Americans have – most organized, sanctioned American violence takes place in other countries. Even most Israelis rarely feel the results of the occupation of Palestine, and it is only a matter of a few kilometers from one place to the other.
I tried to go back to sleep, but my thoughts wouldn't rest. First: "Well, I'm safe. If the soldiers are trying to find someone, it must be someone who has done something. They wouldn't come in here." But then my thoughts went directly to Latin America, thinking of all the dictatorships in the 1970s and1980s, all the people disappeared, stolen from their beds in the middle of the night because they were activists, or students who attended one meeting, or just students… And then my thoughts went back another 40 years to Europe and I thought of all the people taken to concentration camps or death camps for manyr easons, one of which was the simple fact of being Jewish. Like the simple fact of being Palestinian… I'm not trying to equate the Holocaust with the situation in Palestine, but it amazed me how quickly my brain moved to that place. And they are not entirely without their similarities. Israelis have all the power, all the control. The army can do whatever it wants to do. Maybe, if it goes too far, some voices of protest will arise from the world community, but nothing too significant, nothing to deter them from continuing the destruction of an entire people. And Palestinians, on the other hand, are caught in a trap of relativity: "Well, at least it's not as bad as Gaza." "We're not starving, we have homes…" Somewhere deep down, I think people still believe that if they go along with what is expected of them, they might be safe. In saying this, I do not wish to shortchange the resistance that happened during the Holocaust or the resistance that is happening here in Palestine. I do have to say, however, that I wish there were more. I wish people had more real hope for change through creativity, and less false hope of thinking that they may be able to survive in some form if they comply with what their oppressors demand of them…
I did fall back to sleep eventually, and needless to say, the army did not come for us. We woke up to the news that 11 had been killed in Gaza and many more wounded. Ruwayda called friends in Qalqilya, only to find out that the West Bank was still under heavy closure and it was not likely we would reach Qalqilya. Instead, we visited the family bakery and learned how to make kras (incredible bread with cheese or zatar in it). We then went to Ruwayda's local office in Tulkarem, right next to the mukata'a (the Palestinian Authority building) that was bombed last year [Apparently Israel has destroyed the mukata'a of almost every city in Palestine. I find it ironic that the Israeli government then complains that the Palestinian government doesn't do enough.]
After a couple hours and many phone calls to Ruwayda's taxi driving friends, we found a car to Nablus – or so we thought. In one town we stopped andt ransferred into a truck, which took us up and down the mountains and hills surrounding Nablus on a path that was at its best suitable for donkeys, and at its worst merely a tract of untenable rocky land. We did arrive, however, and went straight to a wonderful hotel called the Yasmeen. We walked around a bit and then went back to the hotel for dinner. As night fell, we heard gunshots in the distance. Nobody seemed fazed. I had heard that the extreme violence ofthe occupation was more blatant in the cities, but I was not expecting its constant presence.
We then turned to the television and saw Al Jazeera filming the incursion into Ramallah. The army had imposed curfew, and some were saying this may be the moment that Israel tries to remove Arafat. We asked our waiter if this was unusual, or if curfew like this always happened. "It always happens," he replied. "It happens here in Nablus all the time, too. It's just that usually we don't have journalists here to cover it." Well, there was technically no curfew in Nablus last night, but like every night, the army lurks around corners and people are afraid to go out. So for Nablus and for Tulkarem, on these particular days and from this particular experience, perhaps I can be your journalist.
Happily home in Haris,
Hannah
Arabic phrase of the day: zaaki ktiir (very delicious)
I told you in my last e-mail about Ruwayda, the woman who works for the General Union of Disabled Palestinians (now I have the name correct). We went back to visit her and her family Monday evening, and Tuesday we planned to go to Qalqilya to see where she works and to see the concrete part of the Wall up close (I have only seen fence so far, and the city of Qalqilya is surrounded by concrete). We arrived in Tulkarem to a house full of excited people, and ate delicious m'sakhen – bread with onions, spices, and almonds. After dinner, Ruwayda said, "Now I'll give you a tour of Tulkarem at night." I was shocked. It was not yet 7:00, but in Haris we don't go out after dark, and I thought that this was the case in most of Palestine, since soldiers are more likely at night to shoot at anything that moves. Ruwayda, however, was fearless, and she got in the car and used her good leg to drive us around town. We asked if she was scared – at night, as a woman, with internationals – but she said no andc ontinued to blare music as she showed us the university, the hospital, her sister's house, her family's bakery, and the Tulkarem refugee camp. The poverty was palpable as we entered the camp. It was dirtier and noisier than the city, and people were hanging out in the streets. Ruwayda explained that since the houses were so small in the camp, people tended to be outside later at night. As is often the case, I regretted the fact that I didn't read Arabic better when we drove past dozens of messages in graffiti on the walls. I did understand one, though. In English it said: "No War the Iraq."
We drove past a friend of Ruwayda's in a wheelchair, and she explained that two of his brothers had been killed by the Israeli army, and he had been shot and paralyzed from the waist down. Ruwayda turned the music down and continued onto a place that she told us was dangerous to drive. We told her she didn't have to go, but she said that she wanted to show us the Wall. We got to the end of a dark, eerie road and could see the fence a kilometer or two in the distance. Beyond the fence were well-lit, well-paved roads. "Those are Israeli cars driving," Ruwayda said. "That side is Israel… it's so close…"
As soon as we hit the main roads again, the volume of the music increased. I asked her to write down the name of the musician for me, and in true Palestinian fashion, she said, "No, I will give you the cassette." I can't say I'm disappointed about this, although the two shirts and hat she gave me were a bit over the top.
When we got back to her house, she turned on the TV, we watched part of Alien 4, she gave us pajamas that she insisted we wear instead of our own, and we went tosleep. A few hours later I was dreaming about loud airplane sounds. In the dream, I looked out the window wherever I was and saw several commercial planes flying past each other very closely. Suddenly there was an Apache helicopter, and a moment later I was inside it with several soldiers. My dream ended then and I woke up to the sound of real gunshots. Lynn and Ruwayda were sitting up in bed looking out the window, and they told me there had just been a loud explosive sound, like a bomb from a plane demolishing a home (or like the sound of the airplanes and helicopter in my dream). Ruwayda explained that it's like this every night: that soldiers come into town and shoot, usually looking forsomebody, and stay most of the night. Just then roosters began crowing. I'm not sure if the gunshots confused them or if they have a different concept of dawn (2am), but they kept at it almost as long as the soldiers with their guns (hey, maybe they were crowing in protest). Ruwayda took my phone and called her friend at the refugee camp, who told her it wasn't happening there, so the soldiers must be in the city. A couple minutes later, Ruwayda's sister-in-law Arij walked in with her 2-year-old daughter Hanin, who had woken up with trouble breathing. Arij's husband took Hanin to the hospital to get medicine, but ofc ourse this was extremely risky while soldiers were somewhere in town shooting.
This string of events did not seem particularly unusual to Ruwayda or her family, but I cannot imagine living constantly with such a threat of organized, sanctioned violence so close to my home. I suppose this is one privilege most Americans have – most organized, sanctioned American violence takes place in other countries. Even most Israelis rarely feel the results of the occupation of Palestine, and it is only a matter of a few kilometers from one place to the other.
I tried to go back to sleep, but my thoughts wouldn't rest. First: "Well, I'm safe. If the soldiers are trying to find someone, it must be someone who has done something. They wouldn't come in here." But then my thoughts went directly to Latin America, thinking of all the dictatorships in the 1970s and1980s, all the people disappeared, stolen from their beds in the middle of the night because they were activists, or students who attended one meeting, or just students… And then my thoughts went back another 40 years to Europe and I thought of all the people taken to concentration camps or death camps for manyr easons, one of which was the simple fact of being Jewish. Like the simple fact of being Palestinian… I'm not trying to equate the Holocaust with the situation in Palestine, but it amazed me how quickly my brain moved to that place. And they are not entirely without their similarities. Israelis have all the power, all the control. The army can do whatever it wants to do. Maybe, if it goes too far, some voices of protest will arise from the world community, but nothing too significant, nothing to deter them from continuing the destruction of an entire people. And Palestinians, on the other hand, are caught in a trap of relativity: "Well, at least it's not as bad as Gaza." "We're not starving, we have homes…" Somewhere deep down, I think people still believe that if they go along with what is expected of them, they might be safe. In saying this, I do not wish to shortchange the resistance that happened during the Holocaust or the resistance that is happening here in Palestine. I do have to say, however, that I wish there were more. I wish people had more real hope for change through creativity, and less false hope of thinking that they may be able to survive in some form if they comply with what their oppressors demand of them…
I did fall back to sleep eventually, and needless to say, the army did not come for us. We woke up to the news that 11 had been killed in Gaza and many more wounded. Ruwayda called friends in Qalqilya, only to find out that the West Bank was still under heavy closure and it was not likely we would reach Qalqilya. Instead, we visited the family bakery and learned how to make kras (incredible bread with cheese or zatar in it). We then went to Ruwayda's local office in Tulkarem, right next to the mukata'a (the Palestinian Authority building) that was bombed last year [Apparently Israel has destroyed the mukata'a of almost every city in Palestine. I find it ironic that the Israeli government then complains that the Palestinian government doesn't do enough.]
After a couple hours and many phone calls to Ruwayda's taxi driving friends, we found a car to Nablus – or so we thought. In one town we stopped andt ransferred into a truck, which took us up and down the mountains and hills surrounding Nablus on a path that was at its best suitable for donkeys, and at its worst merely a tract of untenable rocky land. We did arrive, however, and went straight to a wonderful hotel called the Yasmeen. We walked around a bit and then went back to the hotel for dinner. As night fell, we heard gunshots in the distance. Nobody seemed fazed. I had heard that the extreme violence ofthe occupation was more blatant in the cities, but I was not expecting its constant presence.
We then turned to the television and saw Al Jazeera filming the incursion into Ramallah. The army had imposed curfew, and some were saying this may be the moment that Israel tries to remove Arafat. We asked our waiter if this was unusual, or if curfew like this always happened. "It always happens," he replied. "It happens here in Nablus all the time, too. It's just that usually we don't have journalists here to cover it." Well, there was technically no curfew in Nablus last night, but like every night, the army lurks around corners and people are afraid to go out. So for Nablus and for Tulkarem, on these particular days and from this particular experience, perhaps I can be your journalist.
Happily home in Haris,
Hannah
Arabic phrase of the day: zaaki ktiir (very delicious)
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Three Days in the Life
Dear friends,
My past three days have been quite busy and quite varied, and I would like to give a short account of each day. In brief – Thursday we picked olives again in Marda, Friday was an action outside Ariel planned by queer Israelis, Saturday was a fun olive-picking day with wonderful energetic women in Tulkarem. And as always, the subtext is the occupation…
Thursday:
I woke up at 5:30 am, the usual time for olive-picking days. We had arranged for a taxi driver from Ariel to come for us at 6:15 – he’s a non-Jewish Iranian refugee who had applied for asylum through the UN. He requested to live in the United States and they sent him to Israel (at least this is what we understood). He was sent straight to Ariel and now lives there with a bit of guilt. Because he has a yellow license plate (Israeli citizenship), he is able to drive us around during closure, so we have called him quite often during the past few weeks of almost constant closure.
We met the farmers at Marda, and one 78-year-old man named Abu Hassan quickly adopted Dunya and me and led us up the hill to his land. Immediately he began to speak Spanish (yet another man who has spent much of his life in Venezuela). Halfway up the hill we realized that he did not intend to pick that day. Because his land is so close to the Ariel fence, he has not been there for a year and had no idea whether his trees would have any olives. He wanted us to accompany him that morning for safety as he checked out the situation, and would bring his family back the next day to pick.
Abu Hassan’s land is right next to a huge trash heap – trucks from Ariel settlement come through the fence and dump their waste onto Marda’s land. Aside from this trash and the looming settlement above, the land is gorgeous and from the top of the hill one can see the beautiful Palestinian landscape for miles around. Indeed, Abu Hassan’s trees had olives, although not as many as last year (the harvest comes in two year cycles). Two brothers were picking right next to him, so after Abu Hassan left, we spent most of the day with these brothers (Husam and Hasmi). Husam speaks excellent English, although he only spent one semester in university (he couldn’t afford more). He claimed that he learned his English from television, and I must say that if this is the case, I’m extremely impressed. At one point after Dunya and I finished a conversation with each other about our coworkers and their attitudes with army officials, Husam turned to us and asked, “What does ‘irreverent’ mean?” Apparently, this was the only word in our conversation that he had not understood.
The day passed quickly, full of discussions about racism and poverty in the United States, potential Palestinian resistance against the Wall, religion and culture, and more. People in other parts of Marda faced problems from the army, who told them they could only pick more than 500 meters away from the Ariel fence. Our particular family, however, picked in peace and enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed theirs.
On our way out of the village, Ayman stopped me and kidnapped me with what one IWPSer has named “brutal Palestinian hospitality.” Seriously, though, I did enjoy myself at their house (this is the family I previously referred to as my favorite family). The only disturbing moment was my entrance, upon which I found 6-year-old Ramee playing a computer game called “Gulf War.” All I managed to say was “Unf mish kwayiss” (violence is not good). Watching a Palestinian child play with fake tanks and guns on the computer, in a game portraying the US invasion of Iraq, was not a good end to the day.
I returned home, only to get a call from Abu Rabia about two problems: 1) Three farmers had been arrested in Mas’ha that day because they were attempting to access and harvest their land. 2) Two people had just been shot in Qarawat Bani Zeit, and the soldiers were not letting the ambulance through the checkpoint to the Salfit hospital. We made calls and did what we could – I have not heard about the people who were shot, but I know that the farmers were released from Ariel prison and presumably got home safely.
Friday:
“Women settlers! In Ramat-Gan it’s a lot easier to be a lesbian!” Thus read the press release and flyer that Black Laundry distributed on Friday at the action at Ariel settlement. The launderesses, as we like to call them, are by far my favorite Israelis that I have met (even if their subtlety is beyond some people's comprehension). They are “lesbians, gays, and transgenders against the occupation and for social justice." The purpose of the action was to draw attention to Ariel, because this settlement is the primary reason that the Wall is planned to cut 20 kilometers inside the West Bank and devastate the entire Salfit region where we live.
The Black Laundry women showed up in stewardess drag, intending to set up a passport control booth and stop cars entering Ariel. The general message: “Hey tourist, your visa is up. Go back to Israel.” [Incidentally, one launderess did not attend the action because she is uncomfortable with the concept of a Jewish state and thought the action’s message might suggest otherwise]. Before we actually set up, the police were there, asking whether we were Black Laundry, how long we would stay, and what our signs said. They weren’t particularly thrilled about the signs in Hebrew, Russian, English, and Arabic saying “Ariel is not in Israel.” Before we knew it, several police cars and army jeeps were there, announcing that they would arrest us in 5 minutes. They produced an army order declaring the entrance to Ariel a “closed military zone” (they did not appreciate our questioning why it was only closed to us and not to settlers), and we started to move away. We got outside Ariel and moved 200 meters away, as one cop ordered us to do. Suddenly, the rules had changed, and the cops decided we couldn’t stand where we were standing, and we were not allowed to move (didn’t leave us many options, eh?). They ordered us to get into the police cars and army jeeps, and they would transport all 15-20 of us to the checkpoint at the Green Line (1967 border between the West Bank and Israel). We tried to call a taxi, but finally they shoved us into the cars. They drove us quite a bit past the checkpoint into Israel, but it was certainly better than other scenarios we could have imagined. At the end, we ended up spreading out along the side of the road with our signs. Most cars slowed down to see what the signs said, and as a result we received a few beeps of support, several obscene gestures and words, and even a swerving car threatening to hit two women.
We stopped at 3:00 pm so the Israelis could catch the last bus back to Tel Aviv (buses stop running on Shabbat). Although we did not do the exact action we planned to do, I consider the action a success for several reasons: 1) So many policemen and soldiers spent their afternoons threatening us instead of interacting with Palestinians. 2) The police and army presence certainly caused people to slow down upon entering Ariel. 3) We were apparently important enough for a special army order to be issued. 4) We actually sparked a counter-protest (one settler returned with a giant Israeli flag about a half hour after driving past us). 5) Any excuse to hang out with the Black Laundry folks is great! (www.blacklaundry.org)
Saturday:
Today four of us went to Tulkarem to help women harvest in a village that had been having problems. Because closure is still in effect, we had to walk the first few kilometers to the Qarawa roadblock, where we found a Palestinian car. When we reached the Jbarra checkpoint and got out to get another taxi, the soldier informed us that we could not turn in the direction we wanted to turn because we did not have a “B+” stamp on our visas. We protested that we had been there many times before, and I asked if this order was in effect only today. He said, “No, it began on Friday.” We have no idea whether this B+ visa really exists or not, but we did manage to get through after talking with 4 different soldiers. Our theory: during closure, the soldiers are extremely bored because nobody tries to pass through. When we show up it gives them something to do, so they all want to hassle us a bit before letting us go. At one point, one soldier checked our bags and still refused to let us go. I asked, “If you’re not going to let us through anyway, why do you check our bags?” “You might be coming to blow us up,” he responded. “Okay, but we’re not, so can we go?” said Kate… and so on.
We thought we were going to a town because the army wouldn’t let people through the Wall, but we arrived and discovered that the Wall did not cut through the town of Shufa, and they were primarily concerned about settlers. We went with 10 women from PARC, in order to help one specific woman with her land. PARC, the Palestinian Agricultural Relief Committee, is part of the People’s Party, the Communist party that is the main rival to Arafat’s Fateh party. These specific women have been organizing against the Wall, and are obviously a very tight group of friends. As soon as we got in the bus, they started singing and laughing, something I have not heard many women do in Palestine (it is not generally considered appropriate for Muslim women to be so loud, and especially to sing). We met some wonderful women, one of whom is the manager in the Qalqilya office of the Disabled Union of Palestine (I’m not quite sure this is the official name, but this is how Ruwayda explained her position to us). Ruwayda was absolutely amazing – walking up steep and rocky terrain with her crutches and laughing the entire time.
We picked for a few hours, and the fun never ceased. I did not understand most of the Arabic, but we did figure out that they were talking about their husbands much of the time. I also learned a few lines of some of the songs they sang – about their land, peace, work, etc. On our way back, one woman’s husband called her and said the army had just come through and declared curfew, so the shops were all shutting down. By the time we got there, however, things seemed to be back to normal. We spent an hour in Ruwayda’s house and met about 20 of her family members (it is a 5-story building with 3 different homes, and more people than I could keep track of). The family was really lovely, and the children were interested in us but didn’t merely gape as though we were from another planet (which is sometimes the reaction we get from children). When we left, we again had trouble getting through the Jbarra checkpoint, but once we did it was remarkably easy to get home. As always, our driver stopped every time he saw another taxi, so they could ask each other what to expect in the stretch of road ahead.
We all walked in the door with smiles on our faces – this was the best day we had had in Palestine, we agreed. The community of strong women was indescribably energizing. Apparently, it was too good to be true, because when we got home we read online that a half hour after we left Tulkarem, a 16-year-old Palestinian boy had been shot and killed by the army. We called our friends, who seemed to be doing okay.
As if the killing wasn’t enough to bring us down, I called the Olive Harvest coordinator in Marda to confirm that we would be coming tomorrow. We hardly got through the hellos when he said, “The army is driving through the village announcing on a loudspeaker that we cannot leave our houses.” Curfew in Marda?, I thought. Sure enough, that seems to be the case. We are not certain of the reason, but rumors have it that some children may have thrown rocks at an Israeli car outside Marda, and the car lost control and crashed. Regardless of the situation, we will go to Marda tomorrow morning – either to pick olives or to monitor the situation if curfew is still in effect.
I think these three days may be simultaneously the most confusing and most normal days I have had. On the one hand, closure has been intense and Palestinians are as restricted as ever. On the other hand, I have gotten used to seeing no Palestinian cars on the road and living daily with the occupation, and my time with Palestinian people has been absolutely joyful. Thank you all for reading. As always, feel free to e-mail me with any points of clarification. I know I include a lot in these reports, and not every incident is thoroughly explained.
And now, for your Arabic words of the day: Here at the IWPS house, we have coined a few phrases of our own.
1. Bezabtly – “bezabt” means “exactly,” and what better way to explain the concept than “bezabtly”?
2. Banaatis – “banaat” means “girls,” so Carolyn has decided that “banaatis” means “girlies” (this is how Carolyn addresses us).
3. People my age may not understand this reference, since I didn’t, but remember the show “Get Smart” and the phrase “Good thinking, 99”? Well, every time somebody has a good idea now, we say “Fiqra kwayyisa, tisa w’tisiin.”
That’s all folks.
Sending love around the world,
Hannah
My past three days have been quite busy and quite varied, and I would like to give a short account of each day. In brief – Thursday we picked olives again in Marda, Friday was an action outside Ariel planned by queer Israelis, Saturday was a fun olive-picking day with wonderful energetic women in Tulkarem. And as always, the subtext is the occupation…
Thursday:
I woke up at 5:30 am, the usual time for olive-picking days. We had arranged for a taxi driver from Ariel to come for us at 6:15 – he’s a non-Jewish Iranian refugee who had applied for asylum through the UN. He requested to live in the United States and they sent him to Israel (at least this is what we understood). He was sent straight to Ariel and now lives there with a bit of guilt. Because he has a yellow license plate (Israeli citizenship), he is able to drive us around during closure, so we have called him quite often during the past few weeks of almost constant closure.
We met the farmers at Marda, and one 78-year-old man named Abu Hassan quickly adopted Dunya and me and led us up the hill to his land. Immediately he began to speak Spanish (yet another man who has spent much of his life in Venezuela). Halfway up the hill we realized that he did not intend to pick that day. Because his land is so close to the Ariel fence, he has not been there for a year and had no idea whether his trees would have any olives. He wanted us to accompany him that morning for safety as he checked out the situation, and would bring his family back the next day to pick.
Abu Hassan’s land is right next to a huge trash heap – trucks from Ariel settlement come through the fence and dump their waste onto Marda’s land. Aside from this trash and the looming settlement above, the land is gorgeous and from the top of the hill one can see the beautiful Palestinian landscape for miles around. Indeed, Abu Hassan’s trees had olives, although not as many as last year (the harvest comes in two year cycles). Two brothers were picking right next to him, so after Abu Hassan left, we spent most of the day with these brothers (Husam and Hasmi). Husam speaks excellent English, although he only spent one semester in university (he couldn’t afford more). He claimed that he learned his English from television, and I must say that if this is the case, I’m extremely impressed. At one point after Dunya and I finished a conversation with each other about our coworkers and their attitudes with army officials, Husam turned to us and asked, “What does ‘irreverent’ mean?” Apparently, this was the only word in our conversation that he had not understood.
The day passed quickly, full of discussions about racism and poverty in the United States, potential Palestinian resistance against the Wall, religion and culture, and more. People in other parts of Marda faced problems from the army, who told them they could only pick more than 500 meters away from the Ariel fence. Our particular family, however, picked in peace and enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed theirs.
On our way out of the village, Ayman stopped me and kidnapped me with what one IWPSer has named “brutal Palestinian hospitality.” Seriously, though, I did enjoy myself at their house (this is the family I previously referred to as my favorite family). The only disturbing moment was my entrance, upon which I found 6-year-old Ramee playing a computer game called “Gulf War.” All I managed to say was “Unf mish kwayiss” (violence is not good). Watching a Palestinian child play with fake tanks and guns on the computer, in a game portraying the US invasion of Iraq, was not a good end to the day.
I returned home, only to get a call from Abu Rabia about two problems: 1) Three farmers had been arrested in Mas’ha that day because they were attempting to access and harvest their land. 2) Two people had just been shot in Qarawat Bani Zeit, and the soldiers were not letting the ambulance through the checkpoint to the Salfit hospital. We made calls and did what we could – I have not heard about the people who were shot, but I know that the farmers were released from Ariel prison and presumably got home safely.
Friday:
“Women settlers! In Ramat-Gan it’s a lot easier to be a lesbian!” Thus read the press release and flyer that Black Laundry distributed on Friday at the action at Ariel settlement. The launderesses, as we like to call them, are by far my favorite Israelis that I have met (even if their subtlety is beyond some people's comprehension). They are “lesbians, gays, and transgenders against the occupation and for social justice." The purpose of the action was to draw attention to Ariel, because this settlement is the primary reason that the Wall is planned to cut 20 kilometers inside the West Bank and devastate the entire Salfit region where we live.
The Black Laundry women showed up in stewardess drag, intending to set up a passport control booth and stop cars entering Ariel. The general message: “Hey tourist, your visa is up. Go back to Israel.” [Incidentally, one launderess did not attend the action because she is uncomfortable with the concept of a Jewish state and thought the action’s message might suggest otherwise]. Before we actually set up, the police were there, asking whether we were Black Laundry, how long we would stay, and what our signs said. They weren’t particularly thrilled about the signs in Hebrew, Russian, English, and Arabic saying “Ariel is not in Israel.” Before we knew it, several police cars and army jeeps were there, announcing that they would arrest us in 5 minutes. They produced an army order declaring the entrance to Ariel a “closed military zone” (they did not appreciate our questioning why it was only closed to us and not to settlers), and we started to move away. We got outside Ariel and moved 200 meters away, as one cop ordered us to do. Suddenly, the rules had changed, and the cops decided we couldn’t stand where we were standing, and we were not allowed to move (didn’t leave us many options, eh?). They ordered us to get into the police cars and army jeeps, and they would transport all 15-20 of us to the checkpoint at the Green Line (1967 border between the West Bank and Israel). We tried to call a taxi, but finally they shoved us into the cars. They drove us quite a bit past the checkpoint into Israel, but it was certainly better than other scenarios we could have imagined. At the end, we ended up spreading out along the side of the road with our signs. Most cars slowed down to see what the signs said, and as a result we received a few beeps of support, several obscene gestures and words, and even a swerving car threatening to hit two women.
We stopped at 3:00 pm so the Israelis could catch the last bus back to Tel Aviv (buses stop running on Shabbat). Although we did not do the exact action we planned to do, I consider the action a success for several reasons: 1) So many policemen and soldiers spent their afternoons threatening us instead of interacting with Palestinians. 2) The police and army presence certainly caused people to slow down upon entering Ariel. 3) We were apparently important enough for a special army order to be issued. 4) We actually sparked a counter-protest (one settler returned with a giant Israeli flag about a half hour after driving past us). 5) Any excuse to hang out with the Black Laundry folks is great! (www.blacklaundry.org)
Saturday:
Today four of us went to Tulkarem to help women harvest in a village that had been having problems. Because closure is still in effect, we had to walk the first few kilometers to the Qarawa roadblock, where we found a Palestinian car. When we reached the Jbarra checkpoint and got out to get another taxi, the soldier informed us that we could not turn in the direction we wanted to turn because we did not have a “B+” stamp on our visas. We protested that we had been there many times before, and I asked if this order was in effect only today. He said, “No, it began on Friday.” We have no idea whether this B+ visa really exists or not, but we did manage to get through after talking with 4 different soldiers. Our theory: during closure, the soldiers are extremely bored because nobody tries to pass through. When we show up it gives them something to do, so they all want to hassle us a bit before letting us go. At one point, one soldier checked our bags and still refused to let us go. I asked, “If you’re not going to let us through anyway, why do you check our bags?” “You might be coming to blow us up,” he responded. “Okay, but we’re not, so can we go?” said Kate… and so on.
We thought we were going to a town because the army wouldn’t let people through the Wall, but we arrived and discovered that the Wall did not cut through the town of Shufa, and they were primarily concerned about settlers. We went with 10 women from PARC, in order to help one specific woman with her land. PARC, the Palestinian Agricultural Relief Committee, is part of the People’s Party, the Communist party that is the main rival to Arafat’s Fateh party. These specific women have been organizing against the Wall, and are obviously a very tight group of friends. As soon as we got in the bus, they started singing and laughing, something I have not heard many women do in Palestine (it is not generally considered appropriate for Muslim women to be so loud, and especially to sing). We met some wonderful women, one of whom is the manager in the Qalqilya office of the Disabled Union of Palestine (I’m not quite sure this is the official name, but this is how Ruwayda explained her position to us). Ruwayda was absolutely amazing – walking up steep and rocky terrain with her crutches and laughing the entire time.
We picked for a few hours, and the fun never ceased. I did not understand most of the Arabic, but we did figure out that they were talking about their husbands much of the time. I also learned a few lines of some of the songs they sang – about their land, peace, work, etc. On our way back, one woman’s husband called her and said the army had just come through and declared curfew, so the shops were all shutting down. By the time we got there, however, things seemed to be back to normal. We spent an hour in Ruwayda’s house and met about 20 of her family members (it is a 5-story building with 3 different homes, and more people than I could keep track of). The family was really lovely, and the children were interested in us but didn’t merely gape as though we were from another planet (which is sometimes the reaction we get from children). When we left, we again had trouble getting through the Jbarra checkpoint, but once we did it was remarkably easy to get home. As always, our driver stopped every time he saw another taxi, so they could ask each other what to expect in the stretch of road ahead.
We all walked in the door with smiles on our faces – this was the best day we had had in Palestine, we agreed. The community of strong women was indescribably energizing. Apparently, it was too good to be true, because when we got home we read online that a half hour after we left Tulkarem, a 16-year-old Palestinian boy had been shot and killed by the army. We called our friends, who seemed to be doing okay.
As if the killing wasn’t enough to bring us down, I called the Olive Harvest coordinator in Marda to confirm that we would be coming tomorrow. We hardly got through the hellos when he said, “The army is driving through the village announcing on a loudspeaker that we cannot leave our houses.” Curfew in Marda?, I thought. Sure enough, that seems to be the case. We are not certain of the reason, but rumors have it that some children may have thrown rocks at an Israeli car outside Marda, and the car lost control and crashed. Regardless of the situation, we will go to Marda tomorrow morning – either to pick olives or to monitor the situation if curfew is still in effect.
I think these three days may be simultaneously the most confusing and most normal days I have had. On the one hand, closure has been intense and Palestinians are as restricted as ever. On the other hand, I have gotten used to seeing no Palestinian cars on the road and living daily with the occupation, and my time with Palestinian people has been absolutely joyful. Thank you all for reading. As always, feel free to e-mail me with any points of clarification. I know I include a lot in these reports, and not every incident is thoroughly explained.
And now, for your Arabic words of the day: Here at the IWPS house, we have coined a few phrases of our own.
1. Bezabtly – “bezabt” means “exactly,” and what better way to explain the concept than “bezabtly”?
2. Banaatis – “banaat” means “girls,” so Carolyn has decided that “banaatis” means “girlies” (this is how Carolyn addresses us).
3. People my age may not understand this reference, since I didn’t, but remember the show “Get Smart” and the phrase “Good thinking, 99”? Well, every time somebody has a good idea now, we say “Fiqra kwayyisa, tisa w’tisiin.”
That’s all folks.
Sending love around the world,
Hannah
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