Dear friends,
I'm back in the U.S. My bags are not, but I am. I just read at least 20 e-mails with articles about what's going on in the West Bank and Gaza right now. Most of it is sad and enraging, some of it is hopeful and defiant. There are too many things for me to try to share any of them with you, so this is just a short check-in about my exit. I've been taking notes on other things to share with you about my last couple weeks (sorry I haven't written) but that will have to wait.
For now: The shared taxi picked me up at 4:45 am, and we proceded to drive around much of East Jerusalem and seemingly half the West Bank picking up settlers to take them to the airport. The Nesher taxis specifically drive people to and from Jerusalem. Since Israel keeps expanding its definition of "Jerusalem", it was not all that surprising that I found myself in the middle of the district of Ramallah watching the Palestinian villages pass by as people sat in the car with their orange ribbons signifying opposition to the Gaza disengagement plan. A woman in my car started talking to the driver. My Hebrew isn't great anymore, but from what I could make out, she was saying she was on her way to the airport to meet 2 full plane loads of American Jews who were making "aliyah" (moving to Israel under a racist policy that allows all Jews full citizenship rights in Israel, and denies that same right to everyone else, especially Palestinian refugees who are the only group that actually should enjoy the "right of return" in Palestine, according to international law). An orthodox man in the front seat said to the driver, "Why do they keep bringing outsiders in? This should be a place for Jews." "You don't understand," said the driver, "these are Jews. All the Americans who come are Jews. The Americans aren't the problem, it's the Arabs who are trying to say this is their country who are the problem." I wanted to throw up. Or to punch a hole through the window. I think I need to work on my anger, especially as I'm going to be spending time with USers now, and not Palestinians.
In any case, I arrived at the airport at 6:00 for my 8:00 flight. I made it through the first random pre-bag-checking questioning with no problems. ("What are you doing here?" "Traveling, visiting friends." "Have you been here before?" "Yes, a few times." "Doing what?" "Traveling, a couple programs with Habonim Dror, etc." And that's the clincher - As disgusting as it is, a Zionist past can get you through that part of the airport just fine.)
I arrived at passport control around 7:00, the woman typed my name into the system, and immediately called the police. I spent much of the next hour waiting around and following people from room to room. They didn't seem to have any interest in speaking with me, although a couple times I heard them ask each other to "make sure Arabs didn't give her anything." They took me to a back room and I got the strip search that my friends of Arab descent have been known to get in the past. They paid extra attention to the seams of my clothing. I wonder if they really think that Palestinian weaponry is sophisticated enough to fit in the seams of clothing (I recently found out that one of the reasons Palestinians don't blow up the Wall or buildings is that they don't have the bombs to do it - it's just not a population that has much access to real weapons). In any case, finally the head of security came in and said, "We've pulled your bags off the plane, and we have to keep your carry-on too. We need to check your stuff and your plane won't wait for you, so you can go now without your bags or you can wait here for 8 hours and go with your bags if the next flight has room for you." I remembered my friend who recently left without her stuff and had much of it robbed by airport security (including a couple thousand Euros), but I also had no interest in hanging out with security officials for at least 8 hours (probably longer, since I think all flights are overbooked these days). My bags were also out of my sight anyway (I never saw them), so I didn't see how I could prevent robbing either way. And finally, it did seem to me that they were more interested in checking for bombs in the seams of bags and clothing than in any materials I had or information I could give them (I think they're more interested in long chats and interrogation on the way in than the way out). The only thing I was reluctant to leave was my unchecked carry-on bag with my laptop in it. But in the end, I did leave it behind. They asked if there's anything I really need with me. I took out my purse, my water bottle, a book, and my glasses case. They took everything aside and a minute later brought me my purse and my book. My water bottle and glasses case could not come with me. They ran me to the plane, where I got a sympathetic look from the British Airways employees, who seemed to think Israeli "security" measures are as ridiculous as I think. And this was my exit from the god-forsaken holy land.
I'm hoping my bags come today. I'm still a bit worried about my carry-on (computer, cds, etc.), of which there is no record. I can't leave you all with this as my final message, so I'll write again within the next week or so. I'll be working on a number of projects this Fall, and am still interested in speaking, and also very interested in organizing speaking tours for Palestinians (and maybe Israelis as well). So let me know if you're interested in any of this.
Looking forward to hearing from many of you soon.
Love Hannah
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Happening Again
Dear friends,
The Israeli army has invaded the villages in the Salfit region every night for the past week, breaking glass, arresting men, beating women, shooting holes in framed verses of the Koran. My friends who are still at IWPS have seen all this, but I have not. Below I’ve written about experiences I have personally had, about topics and thoughts that have been particularly haunting me this week.
With as much love as I can muster up, Hannah
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
Houses demolished, villages unrecognized, not given water infrastructure or electricity or rights to their own land. The army had raided the village, had destroyed everything. And every person affected was an Israeli citizen. This particular story comes from a video filmed over 10 years ago, but the situation is the same today. Palestinians with Israeli citizenship do not have the same rights as Jews. Internally displaced refugees remain unrecognized in the communities they have tried to build after being denied the internationally recognized right to return to their original land. There is nothing complicated about the situation. There is nothing complicated about most of what happens here. “Complicated” is a word people use to excuse human rights abuses. “Complicated” is a word people use so they can be openly racist in thought and action, with no repercussions. After all, the Jews were victims once.
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
We visit Saffourieh, one of the largest Palestinian villages before 1948, one of the few that was actually bombed from the air. The village was then surrounded on three sides by Zionist militant groups, leaving the northern route open – and people took it, escaping to Lebanon and Syria. There is now a Moshav called Tzipori that sits on top of the destroyed village, along with 7 other Jewish settlements.
Our tour guide is from Saffourieh, which is to say his family is from Saffourieh, his father an infant in 1948 when his family fled. His dream is to move back and farm the land. Since he can’t, he does small projects, finding village remains and weeding around the cemetery so at least history doesn’t forget the village’s dead. He leaves work early to accommodate the schedules of a group of North American Jews, so he can share his story and show us the land.
And the pictures.
One picture from 1945 of a hill filled with hundreds of houses, a small castle sitting at the top. The castle remains, and the rest of the hill is now a pine forest, as foreign to this land as the American Jews who grew up paying for the trees quarter by quarter in our weekly tzedakah collection at synagogue. The trees a way to cover up any evidence of the thriving community that existed before. “How can the Jews remember 2000 years," asked a nakba survivor who spoke with us, “and expect us to forget 50 or 60?”
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
On a wall in the old city of Hebron, on a street that used to be the market and has been shut down by soldiers and settlers over the years, we find graffiti written in Hebrew, directed towards the Palestinians whose homes and shops are being defiled. “What’s the difference between an Arab and a trampoline?” it asks. And answers: “On a trampoline you jump without shoes.” I saw it last year, and again last week. It has chipped away slightly, but is still readable. From our group comes a question: “Why don’t Palestinians cover this up?” From our tour guide, a response: “If I had my say I’d frame it.” At that the questioner becomes emotional: “In the U.S. if we saw something like that on a wall we would cover it up. Why don’t you cover it up? Why don’t you paint over it and move on?”
Paint over it and move on? Paint over it and move on?! Is it really the responsibility of the oppressed to ignore what is happening to them so that members of the oppressor group can feel fine about themselves as long as they’re not the ones with the paint on their hands? Is it the responsibility of Iraqis to forget the American occupation, of people of color to forget hundreds of years of racism that continue to this day, of women to forget rape, of GLBTQ people to forget hate crimes perpetrated against them?
Sixty years after the Nazi Holocaust, Jews and others from around the world continue to visit the concentration camps and death camps and to study the structures of the Nazi regime. In Hebron, people are being driven out of their homes and jobs TODAY, Palestinian children being stoned as they try to get to their schools TODAY, Jewish stars scrawled across their shops TODAY (coming from Jews, this time; as a show of power, this time), racist graffiti becomes a tangible mark of what is happening TODAY. How could we ever dare to demand that the oppressed forget their oppression even as they are living it?
We remember because we need to, we remember so that when we see these structures emerging, as they have over and over again throughout history and around the world, we can stop the oppression. Must we wait until there are death camps before making any comparisons? Is comparison simply an intellectual exercise, or is it a human tool we can use to stop ourselves from hurting each other?
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
The Israeli army has invaded the villages in the Salfit region every night for the past week, breaking glass, arresting men, beating women, shooting holes in framed verses of the Koran. My friends who are still at IWPS have seen all this, but I have not. Below I’ve written about experiences I have personally had, about topics and thoughts that have been particularly haunting me this week.
With as much love as I can muster up, Hannah
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
Houses demolished, villages unrecognized, not given water infrastructure or electricity or rights to their own land. The army had raided the village, had destroyed everything. And every person affected was an Israeli citizen. This particular story comes from a video filmed over 10 years ago, but the situation is the same today. Palestinians with Israeli citizenship do not have the same rights as Jews. Internally displaced refugees remain unrecognized in the communities they have tried to build after being denied the internationally recognized right to return to their original land. There is nothing complicated about the situation. There is nothing complicated about most of what happens here. “Complicated” is a word people use to excuse human rights abuses. “Complicated” is a word people use so they can be openly racist in thought and action, with no repercussions. After all, the Jews were victims once.
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
We visit Saffourieh, one of the largest Palestinian villages before 1948, one of the few that was actually bombed from the air. The village was then surrounded on three sides by Zionist militant groups, leaving the northern route open – and people took it, escaping to Lebanon and Syria. There is now a Moshav called Tzipori that sits on top of the destroyed village, along with 7 other Jewish settlements.
Our tour guide is from Saffourieh, which is to say his family is from Saffourieh, his father an infant in 1948 when his family fled. His dream is to move back and farm the land. Since he can’t, he does small projects, finding village remains and weeding around the cemetery so at least history doesn’t forget the village’s dead. He leaves work early to accommodate the schedules of a group of North American Jews, so he can share his story and show us the land.
And the pictures.
One picture from 1945 of a hill filled with hundreds of houses, a small castle sitting at the top. The castle remains, and the rest of the hill is now a pine forest, as foreign to this land as the American Jews who grew up paying for the trees quarter by quarter in our weekly tzedakah collection at synagogue. The trees a way to cover up any evidence of the thriving community that existed before. “How can the Jews remember 2000 years," asked a nakba survivor who spoke with us, “and expect us to forget 50 or 60?”
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
On a wall in the old city of Hebron, on a street that used to be the market and has been shut down by soldiers and settlers over the years, we find graffiti written in Hebrew, directed towards the Palestinians whose homes and shops are being defiled. “What’s the difference between an Arab and a trampoline?” it asks. And answers: “On a trampoline you jump without shoes.” I saw it last year, and again last week. It has chipped away slightly, but is still readable. From our group comes a question: “Why don’t Palestinians cover this up?” From our tour guide, a response: “If I had my say I’d frame it.” At that the questioner becomes emotional: “In the U.S. if we saw something like that on a wall we would cover it up. Why don’t you cover it up? Why don’t you paint over it and move on?”
Paint over it and move on? Paint over it and move on?! Is it really the responsibility of the oppressed to ignore what is happening to them so that members of the oppressor group can feel fine about themselves as long as they’re not the ones with the paint on their hands? Is it the responsibility of Iraqis to forget the American occupation, of people of color to forget hundreds of years of racism that continue to this day, of women to forget rape, of GLBTQ people to forget hate crimes perpetrated against them?
Sixty years after the Nazi Holocaust, Jews and others from around the world continue to visit the concentration camps and death camps and to study the structures of the Nazi regime. In Hebron, people are being driven out of their homes and jobs TODAY, Palestinian children being stoned as they try to get to their schools TODAY, Jewish stars scrawled across their shops TODAY (coming from Jews, this time; as a show of power, this time), racist graffiti becomes a tangible mark of what is happening TODAY. How could we ever dare to demand that the oppressed forget their oppression even as they are living it?
We remember because we need to, we remember so that when we see these structures emerging, as they have over and over again throughout history and around the world, we can stop the oppression. Must we wait until there are death camps before making any comparisons? Is comparison simply an intellectual exercise, or is it a human tool we can use to stop ourselves from hurting each other?
“This happened. And it could happen again.”
Friday, June 24, 2005
Breathtakingly Beautiful
It's a beautiful evening. Even a little chilly, which is quite welcome these days. I'm in Jerusalem, partly relaxing and partly preparing for delegations I'll be leading in the coming weeks. I like the Old City of Jerusalem. I like the stones, I like guessing how many hundreds or thousands of years they've been in their current configurations, how many different people have passed through and lived in these buildings. I like the narrow alleys, and the small openings that hide huge buildings, underground structures, and expansive rooftops. I like the bustling Palestinian market all around Damascus Gate, the grass and trees just next to the gate, the people of all ages sitting together, sprawled out in the shade on hot sunny days.
I don't like the Israeli soldiers and border police who patrol the streets, sit on the steps of the Austrian Hospice, set up barriers outside Damascus Gate to block Muslims from coming to pray. I don't like the college-aged Americans and army-aged Israelis who parade around in tiny tank tops and miniskirts with no awareness of cultural sensitivity. I don't like the Israeli flags strewn across rooftops in the Muslim Quarter of the city. I don't like the religious Jews who march through the city as if it's theirs, who read obituaries of Palestinians and then occupy their houses as soon as they die. I don't like that I project this settler identity onto every black-hatted Jew I see, even though many of them are not settlers in that same sense of the word; many are probably just coming into the Old City to visit, or to pray. I don't like that the political situation makes me unable to appreciate any kind of visible Jewish presence, even just walking down the streets, in any part of occupied or annexed East Jerusalem, including the Old City.
I don't like the look I get when I tell my West Bank friends that I'm coming to Al Quds (Jerusalem). I don't like the guilt I feel for easily being able to travel to the holiest city in the country, when my Muslim friends for whom it would mean so much more are not allowed to go. Sometimes I don't even tell them where I'm going; sometimes I say I'm going to Ramallah, because for me it's the same, and for them it is not.
I don't like the orange ribbons on all the cars around here, expressing solidarity with Jewish settlers of Gush Katif and opposition to evacuating them from Gaza. I don't like the blue and white ribbons that have come in response, supporting the "disengagement" as the patriotic thing to do. I don't like that I sit in Jerusalem and see these ribbons about Gaza and get a phone call that there is curfew in Hares. I don't like that I know this, as well as everything else that happens in the West Bank these days, will go completely ignored by the world, and I don't like that I myself feel almost nothing when I hear the word "curfew," that my response is automatic: if I were there, I would go out and check on the situation, but since I'm not, I hang up the pone and continue my walk.
Sometimes it's nice to be here in Jerusalem, and sometimes I just want to get out, back to the villages, back to a life that in some ways has become comfortable for me. I was in Deir Ballut last week, just visiting friends. I took a taxi over there just after sunset. The twists and turns through the hills, the dirt road surrounded by thousands of olive trees, the almost full moon shining in an almost dark sky - it was all so breathtakingly beautiful. This is how Palestine could be, I thought, appreciating for the first time the bumpy half-hour long ride that would take 10 minutes if Palestinians could pass through the Qarawa roadblock and the Deir Ballut checkpoint.
I love entering Deir Ballut, driving through some of the most lush fields in Palestine, towards the always welcoming village. I arrived at my friend Reem's house, and her husband told me she was out. At the store, confirmed the kids. As always, I marveled over the difference between Deir Ballut and other nearby villages, like Hares. In Deir Ballut, women go out on their own after dark, have wedding parties outside with dancing, singing, and drumming, and have a tendency to refuse all marriage proposals until they're finished university. Or at least this is true of the girls and women I know. Oh, and in Deir Ballut the kids don't point and stare and whisper, "ajnabiye" (foreigner) or yell, "sawrini!" (take my picture).
I'm going to miss this place. I'll miss my friends in Deir Ballut, who tell me "women are free here" and I'll miss my friends in Hares who tell me it's not appropriate for women to go out, that they're not strong enough to defend themselves. I may even miss the blonde kids up the street who throw stones at us out of boredom or amusement, and who occasionally try to physically remove our cameras from our bags to take pictures of themselves.
I'm still in Palestine for another month, but I'll be on the road the whole time with three different groups that I'll have the pleasure of introducing Palestine to. I'm not sure if or when I'll find time to write, so don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while. Jaber's trial is on Monday (he's the one who had meningitis and was arrested at Huwara checkpoint a couple months ago), and I'm going to try to go, so perhaps that will inspire a report. But no promises.
Until next time,
Hannah
I don't like the Israeli soldiers and border police who patrol the streets, sit on the steps of the Austrian Hospice, set up barriers outside Damascus Gate to block Muslims from coming to pray. I don't like the college-aged Americans and army-aged Israelis who parade around in tiny tank tops and miniskirts with no awareness of cultural sensitivity. I don't like the Israeli flags strewn across rooftops in the Muslim Quarter of the city. I don't like the religious Jews who march through the city as if it's theirs, who read obituaries of Palestinians and then occupy their houses as soon as they die. I don't like that I project this settler identity onto every black-hatted Jew I see, even though many of them are not settlers in that same sense of the word; many are probably just coming into the Old City to visit, or to pray. I don't like that the political situation makes me unable to appreciate any kind of visible Jewish presence, even just walking down the streets, in any part of occupied or annexed East Jerusalem, including the Old City.
I don't like the look I get when I tell my West Bank friends that I'm coming to Al Quds (Jerusalem). I don't like the guilt I feel for easily being able to travel to the holiest city in the country, when my Muslim friends for whom it would mean so much more are not allowed to go. Sometimes I don't even tell them where I'm going; sometimes I say I'm going to Ramallah, because for me it's the same, and for them it is not.
I don't like the orange ribbons on all the cars around here, expressing solidarity with Jewish settlers of Gush Katif and opposition to evacuating them from Gaza. I don't like the blue and white ribbons that have come in response, supporting the "disengagement" as the patriotic thing to do. I don't like that I sit in Jerusalem and see these ribbons about Gaza and get a phone call that there is curfew in Hares. I don't like that I know this, as well as everything else that happens in the West Bank these days, will go completely ignored by the world, and I don't like that I myself feel almost nothing when I hear the word "curfew," that my response is automatic: if I were there, I would go out and check on the situation, but since I'm not, I hang up the pone and continue my walk.
Sometimes it's nice to be here in Jerusalem, and sometimes I just want to get out, back to the villages, back to a life that in some ways has become comfortable for me. I was in Deir Ballut last week, just visiting friends. I took a taxi over there just after sunset. The twists and turns through the hills, the dirt road surrounded by thousands of olive trees, the almost full moon shining in an almost dark sky - it was all so breathtakingly beautiful. This is how Palestine could be, I thought, appreciating for the first time the bumpy half-hour long ride that would take 10 minutes if Palestinians could pass through the Qarawa roadblock and the Deir Ballut checkpoint.
I love entering Deir Ballut, driving through some of the most lush fields in Palestine, towards the always welcoming village. I arrived at my friend Reem's house, and her husband told me she was out. At the store, confirmed the kids. As always, I marveled over the difference between Deir Ballut and other nearby villages, like Hares. In Deir Ballut, women go out on their own after dark, have wedding parties outside with dancing, singing, and drumming, and have a tendency to refuse all marriage proposals until they're finished university. Or at least this is true of the girls and women I know. Oh, and in Deir Ballut the kids don't point and stare and whisper, "ajnabiye" (foreigner) or yell, "sawrini!" (take my picture).
I'm going to miss this place. I'll miss my friends in Deir Ballut, who tell me "women are free here" and I'll miss my friends in Hares who tell me it's not appropriate for women to go out, that they're not strong enough to defend themselves. I may even miss the blonde kids up the street who throw stones at us out of boredom or amusement, and who occasionally try to physically remove our cameras from our bags to take pictures of themselves.
I'm still in Palestine for another month, but I'll be on the road the whole time with three different groups that I'll have the pleasure of introducing Palestine to. I'm not sure if or when I'll find time to write, so don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while. Jaber's trial is on Monday (he's the one who had meningitis and was arrested at Huwara checkpoint a couple months ago), and I'm going to try to go, so perhaps that will inspire a report. But no promises.
Until next time,
Hannah
Friday, June 17, 2005
No Peace for Palestinians
Last week ended the way it started, with nonviolent Palestinian demonstrations against the Wall being met with severe violence from the Israeli army. An Israeli friend of mine recently pointed out that we should not call the demonstrations “nonviolent” because they’re extremely violent – it’s just that the violence comes not from the demonstrators but from the fourth largest military in the world, trying to suppress peaceful protest.
Friday’s demonstration in Marda was even worse than the others. We were barely a few meters from the houses, starting to walk up the mountain through the olive groves, when tear gas canisters started flying. The army, as usual, was shooting gas from several directions. We counted about 50 canisters in the first 4 minutes, and it continued at this rate for at least 10 minutes more. Then, before we could collect our thoughts and make any sort of plan, the army entered the village. Now tear gas and sound bombs were coming at us from even more directions – every direction, it seemed. People scattered throughout the village, with some journalists, a few boys, and a couple internationals and Israelis near the center of the village. I was on a roof with several people, trying to see what was happening. We started to hear rubber bullets, and then, suddenly, live ammunition. We called everyone we could think to call, including a number I had for the US Embassy. I got someone on the phone, told him we were in the village (even said “there are 4 or 5 American citizens here and the army is shooting bullets into the village”). He was unresponsive as I talked, and finally said, “Um, okay. Thank you for making me privy to this information. I advise you to stay away from crowds.” Incredulously, I asked him if he was going to report this to anyone. “I report to many people,” he responded. “Will you call the army?” I asked. “I think I know what they would say,” he replied. “People are scared for their lives,” I reiterated. “Thank you for informing me,” he said again, and that was it. At that moment I found myself wishing a tear gas canister would enter his office. As it was, one entered Marda's sewing factory, sending 4 women to the hospital.
We heard more bullets fired, this time several rounds at a time, so I called Arik Ascherman from Rabbis for Human Rights. He called back a few minutes later and said, “The army says they’re not in the village, and are only shooting tear gas from outside.” Later they admitted to him that they were inside Marda, but shot only one rubber bullet and no live ammunition. They claimed that the bullets had come from a Palestinian with a Kalachnikov rifle. So now we had a new job – go around and collect as many bullet casings as we could, to prove that they were from M-16s (the army’s weapons). It wasn’t difficult, as the children of the villages have a habit of collecting all the weapons used against them, and trying to impress visitors with them. We have since given the casings to Arik, who has delivered them to the army, who apparently is investigating the situation... I don’t have much confidence that any follow-up will happen, although maybe this will make soldiers think twice next time before firing live ammunition at unarmed farmers and kids.
I should mention that the four bulldozers that had been working before we started up the hill that day stopped as soon as the army started firing gas at us, apparently retiring for an early weekend. So the demonstration was not entirely in vain.
Shortly after returning to Hares, we got a call that 6 jeeps were inside Hares, so we went to the entrance of the village to check it out. Sure enough, dozens of soldiers were hanging out next to jeeps. I asked an open question into the crowd: “What are you doing here?” One soldier stepped out of a jeep and said, “That doesn’t concern you, Hannah, since we're going to put you on a plane to the U.S. in two days.” There are so few internationals around these days that many soldiers and border policemen/women know me, especially after the intensity of last week. But this was someone I didn’t recognize. I made a mental note to try to pay more attention to soldiers’ faces and not only their guns. For my own protection, I should be able to recognize them.
Abu Rabia later told us that he had been leaving Marda earlier that day when he came across a detained international and many soldiers near the entrance. She had been grabbed while filming the army’s (mis)behavior in the center of the village. Abu Rabia asked, “Why are you holding that woman and when are you going to let her go?” One soldier replied, “Her name is Hannah and she’s been around too much. We’re going to deport her.” They later let her go (would they have let me go?), but Abu Rabia told me I should stay in the house for the next few days and write reports or something like that. I had to smile – he was trying to make me feel useful even while forbidding me from going to demonstrations. I can’t say I was disappointed. In fact, I was quite relieved. The last thing I want to do is go out every day and try to dodge bullets and handcuffs.
As it turned out, there weren’t any demos in the next few days, partially because Marda villagers probably had the same desire I did, and partially because the bulldozers weren’t working. Shabbat was followed by Shavuot, and no Wall work happened for three days. It’s funny how Jewish holidays affect Palestinian life. On this occasion it was positive. The first time I came to Palestine, which spanned the time of Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah, the West Bank was under closure for a full 3 weeks, meaning Palestinians weren’t allowed on the roads at all. Settlers also tend to attack villagers more often during holidays, possibly because they’re not working and have nothing else to do. At the same time as Marda was breathing a sigh of relief at not seeing bulldozers, my friend Munira was trying to calm her kids who had been woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of stones hitting their house. Munira, from Mas’ha, is enclosed on all 4 sides by walls and fences (the Annexation Wall, a settlement fence, and army gates). On Monday night, to celebrate the end of Shavuot, settlers from the nearby settlement of Elkana came to throw stones over the settlement fence at her house. I asked if it was a group of kids. “At one in the morning?!” she said. “No, they were adults.”
Meanwhile, people are talking about “relative calm” in this part of the world, about peace, about disengagement from Gaza, not realizing that the intention of the disengagement is not to be a beginning, but to be an end. Not remembering that Gaza is just a tiny tiny piece of Palestine. I was talking with Um Rabia the other day about the new Wall path, which encroaches even more on many of the villages in our region (including Hares, where we live). They do that on purpose, Um Rabia, said. They tell us the Wall is going through our house so they can later move it slightly and we will say, “thank you, that’s great, we have won.” And meanwhile, Israel is getting exactly what they wanted in the first place. It’s like people who say the occupation is easy now, I said. They only have to go through 2 checkpoints a day instead of 5, and wait for only a half hour and not several hours, so they think, “Great, the occupation is over.” And meanwhile the system is being more and more solidified. Um Rabia gave another example. Apparently sisters of prisoners have recently been given permission to visit, whereas it used to only be parents and spouses. She knows cases of sisters who have been denied permits and they fight and fight for the permit. But what are we really fighting for? Um Rabia asked. Do we want permits to visit our brothers and sons or do we want them out of prison?
People don’t think about the bigger issues, Um Rabia told me. They don’t think politically, and if they do they’re arrested or killed. It’s true, I thought, there is such risk here for Palestinians who even think differently than the Israeli authorities would like. How many Palestinians are sitting in Israeli prisons for supposedly thinking about doing something? That kind of risk does not exist for me. I can analyze the situation, understand it, talk about the real issues (which Um Rabia says are the Wall, Jerusalem, the refugees, and the prisoners, among a few others). I can do all this with minimal risk. And I encourage you to do the same. Don’t be appeased by the media, don’t believe that there is “peace” here, don’t be satisfied with an occupation that has slightly fewer checkpoints than it did a couple years ago. And don’t stop thinking. Not until there is justice.
Friday’s demonstration in Marda was even worse than the others. We were barely a few meters from the houses, starting to walk up the mountain through the olive groves, when tear gas canisters started flying. The army, as usual, was shooting gas from several directions. We counted about 50 canisters in the first 4 minutes, and it continued at this rate for at least 10 minutes more. Then, before we could collect our thoughts and make any sort of plan, the army entered the village. Now tear gas and sound bombs were coming at us from even more directions – every direction, it seemed. People scattered throughout the village, with some journalists, a few boys, and a couple internationals and Israelis near the center of the village. I was on a roof with several people, trying to see what was happening. We started to hear rubber bullets, and then, suddenly, live ammunition. We called everyone we could think to call, including a number I had for the US Embassy. I got someone on the phone, told him we were in the village (even said “there are 4 or 5 American citizens here and the army is shooting bullets into the village”). He was unresponsive as I talked, and finally said, “Um, okay. Thank you for making me privy to this information. I advise you to stay away from crowds.” Incredulously, I asked him if he was going to report this to anyone. “I report to many people,” he responded. “Will you call the army?” I asked. “I think I know what they would say,” he replied. “People are scared for their lives,” I reiterated. “Thank you for informing me,” he said again, and that was it. At that moment I found myself wishing a tear gas canister would enter his office. As it was, one entered Marda's sewing factory, sending 4 women to the hospital.
We heard more bullets fired, this time several rounds at a time, so I called Arik Ascherman from Rabbis for Human Rights. He called back a few minutes later and said, “The army says they’re not in the village, and are only shooting tear gas from outside.” Later they admitted to him that they were inside Marda, but shot only one rubber bullet and no live ammunition. They claimed that the bullets had come from a Palestinian with a Kalachnikov rifle. So now we had a new job – go around and collect as many bullet casings as we could, to prove that they were from M-16s (the army’s weapons). It wasn’t difficult, as the children of the villages have a habit of collecting all the weapons used against them, and trying to impress visitors with them. We have since given the casings to Arik, who has delivered them to the army, who apparently is investigating the situation... I don’t have much confidence that any follow-up will happen, although maybe this will make soldiers think twice next time before firing live ammunition at unarmed farmers and kids.
I should mention that the four bulldozers that had been working before we started up the hill that day stopped as soon as the army started firing gas at us, apparently retiring for an early weekend. So the demonstration was not entirely in vain.
Shortly after returning to Hares, we got a call that 6 jeeps were inside Hares, so we went to the entrance of the village to check it out. Sure enough, dozens of soldiers were hanging out next to jeeps. I asked an open question into the crowd: “What are you doing here?” One soldier stepped out of a jeep and said, “That doesn’t concern you, Hannah, since we're going to put you on a plane to the U.S. in two days.” There are so few internationals around these days that many soldiers and border policemen/women know me, especially after the intensity of last week. But this was someone I didn’t recognize. I made a mental note to try to pay more attention to soldiers’ faces and not only their guns. For my own protection, I should be able to recognize them.
Abu Rabia later told us that he had been leaving Marda earlier that day when he came across a detained international and many soldiers near the entrance. She had been grabbed while filming the army’s (mis)behavior in the center of the village. Abu Rabia asked, “Why are you holding that woman and when are you going to let her go?” One soldier replied, “Her name is Hannah and she’s been around too much. We’re going to deport her.” They later let her go (would they have let me go?), but Abu Rabia told me I should stay in the house for the next few days and write reports or something like that. I had to smile – he was trying to make me feel useful even while forbidding me from going to demonstrations. I can’t say I was disappointed. In fact, I was quite relieved. The last thing I want to do is go out every day and try to dodge bullets and handcuffs.
As it turned out, there weren’t any demos in the next few days, partially because Marda villagers probably had the same desire I did, and partially because the bulldozers weren’t working. Shabbat was followed by Shavuot, and no Wall work happened for three days. It’s funny how Jewish holidays affect Palestinian life. On this occasion it was positive. The first time I came to Palestine, which spanned the time of Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah, the West Bank was under closure for a full 3 weeks, meaning Palestinians weren’t allowed on the roads at all. Settlers also tend to attack villagers more often during holidays, possibly because they’re not working and have nothing else to do. At the same time as Marda was breathing a sigh of relief at not seeing bulldozers, my friend Munira was trying to calm her kids who had been woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of stones hitting their house. Munira, from Mas’ha, is enclosed on all 4 sides by walls and fences (the Annexation Wall, a settlement fence, and army gates). On Monday night, to celebrate the end of Shavuot, settlers from the nearby settlement of Elkana came to throw stones over the settlement fence at her house. I asked if it was a group of kids. “At one in the morning?!” she said. “No, they were adults.”
Meanwhile, people are talking about “relative calm” in this part of the world, about peace, about disengagement from Gaza, not realizing that the intention of the disengagement is not to be a beginning, but to be an end. Not remembering that Gaza is just a tiny tiny piece of Palestine. I was talking with Um Rabia the other day about the new Wall path, which encroaches even more on many of the villages in our region (including Hares, where we live). They do that on purpose, Um Rabia, said. They tell us the Wall is going through our house so they can later move it slightly and we will say, “thank you, that’s great, we have won.” And meanwhile, Israel is getting exactly what they wanted in the first place. It’s like people who say the occupation is easy now, I said. They only have to go through 2 checkpoints a day instead of 5, and wait for only a half hour and not several hours, so they think, “Great, the occupation is over.” And meanwhile the system is being more and more solidified. Um Rabia gave another example. Apparently sisters of prisoners have recently been given permission to visit, whereas it used to only be parents and spouses. She knows cases of sisters who have been denied permits and they fight and fight for the permit. But what are we really fighting for? Um Rabia asked. Do we want permits to visit our brothers and sons or do we want them out of prison?
People don’t think about the bigger issues, Um Rabia told me. They don’t think politically, and if they do they’re arrested or killed. It’s true, I thought, there is such risk here for Palestinians who even think differently than the Israeli authorities would like. How many Palestinians are sitting in Israeli prisons for supposedly thinking about doing something? That kind of risk does not exist for me. I can analyze the situation, understand it, talk about the real issues (which Um Rabia says are the Wall, Jerusalem, the refugees, and the prisoners, among a few others). I can do all this with minimal risk. And I encourage you to do the same. Don’t be appeased by the media, don’t believe that there is “peace” here, don’t be satisfied with an occupation that has slightly fewer checkpoints than it did a couple years ago. And don’t stop thinking. Not until there is justice.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
i wish you knew
i’ve been meaning to write for days. i’ve been meaning to sit down, have a free moment, compose my thoughts, figure out how to translate my experiences into something understandable to a world where injustice is not quite as daily, quite as random, quite as violent. i wish i could just say “there was curfew in marda today” and that you all would understand. that you would know without my telling you that that meant israeli army jeeps were driving through the village at 5:30 am (and for many many many hours after that), that they were throwing sound bombs and tear gas, and shooting rubber-coated bullets randomly, that there was a complete atmosphere of fear. i wish you would know that when three international observers arrived, we were kept out of the village by army, detained by border police, and threatened with arrest. that we were told we could only enter if we were press, but then when the press arrived they weren’t allowed in either.
i wish you would know that a boy’s id was taken from his home and he was told to come to the next village to pick it up, but that his father wouldn’t send him because he was afraid his son would be killed. or that a young man was arrested and his family couldn’t locate him all day (they now know he’s in qedumim settlement / detention center). or that each time soldiers were asked for justification of their actions, they would say, “it’s closed because we say so. this is our territory.” i wish more than anything that you could know everything that is behind this statement, every way in which it manifests itself, every way in which the world completely ignores what is happening here.
i wish i could trust that the media would tell you that a group of disabled palestinians (in wheelchairs and on crutches, many blind people, etc.) were shot at with tear gas by the army at a demonstration today in bil’in before they got anywhere near their destination (which was on their land).
i can’t even remember what is usual and not anymore. i am not surprised by things. i am only angry. and resentful. and even hateful sometimes. i don’t know how to change this. i don’t know how to get away. i don’t think anyone should be able to get away, not when others can’t. and yet how can i think clearly? saturday was a wonderful demonstration in marda, although even as i say that i think about the hundred or so soldiers who lunged towards the crowd – but they only beat a couple people, only arrested a couple israelis, and only temporarily. only. sunday we tried to accompany farmers to their land and were shot at by a private security company that guards wall work. monday we tried again to accompany farmers to their land, and this time were met by hundreds of soldiers who began firing tear gas before they could even tell who was there. 200 rounds of tear gas. before they could even see us. it’s better, of course, in the grand moral scheme of the world, that no distinction be made between palestinian farmers and international peace workers. but it’s scary. it’s confusing. and of course, the result should be that we are all treated as human, not that we are all treated as expendable.
there’s a newly involved israeli who has come to a couple demos recently. the other day we were standing in marda looking up to the top of the hill with the bulldozers, and she said, “this is just crazy. they’re just taking someone else’s land.” as a taxi driver noted a few days ago, “if i don’t like my neighbors and want to build a fence to separate us, i’d build it on my yard, not my neighbor’s.” even more simply, after i explained to a new iwps volunteer yesterday a few of the happenings of the past couple days, she said, “now that’s not nice.” and still, i can’t even bring myself to think any of this. because i am not surprised anymore. only angry.
i was in west jerusalem for about an hour today, walking down the street looking at the half-naked teenagers with their orange ribbons in solidarity with the settlers of gush katif, and i just thought, "you have no idea." if palestinians could see this, i thought, i'm not sure they would be quite as patient as they are. although they probably already know. they're probably already so used to this, more used to this than i am, that nothing fazes them at all. some have a patience that i can't always quite fathom ("this too shall pass"), and others just use avoidance ("if i stay in my home and don't let my kids out then everything will be tolerable").
i talked to a 17 or 18 year old friend in marda the other day. we were discussing the israeli activists’ involvement in demos around here, and she told me she thinks if israelis are really on their side, if they really agree with the palestinian cause, then they should leave. many israelis have told me this before (“people refuse to be soldiers, but the entire state is corrupt. we should refuse to be israelis”), but no palestinian has ever said this to me. so i pushed her, played devil’s advocate, tried to get to the root of her thinking, not sure myself whether i agree with her or not. i asked her if i should leave the u.s. because my country is doing just as many (more) bad things as israel. the difference, enas responded, is that you don’t all serve in the army. there are civilians in america. there are no civilians in israel. one thing she said that stuck with me the most is this: “we can talk about one state for all of us where we all live in peace together, and that’s fine, but what if they do separate us? what if they try to create two states? what if they finish the wall? which side will these israeli activists be on? they’ll be with israel.” i don’t know if that’s true about all of them, but certainly most.
i am going to sleep in marda now, going to be a presence in case the army returns. i don’t know if this is more important than crafting a nice message to you all. or uploading my photos. or writing up events of the past few days. or eating a meal.
i’m supposed to leave iwps next week, to start preparing for delegations i’m leading next month, and then to come back to the u.s. this all seems profoundly strange to me.
i will send this only so you have a little bit of news from here. i know it is not as much of an “article” as my usual reports. i hope you forgive me. and i hope you do something today to better the world. i realize not all the pain in the world is here. this is only my little corner. and i do only what i can. we all do. and it’s never enough. never ever enough.
with sadness and anger, hannah
i wish you would know that a boy’s id was taken from his home and he was told to come to the next village to pick it up, but that his father wouldn’t send him because he was afraid his son would be killed. or that a young man was arrested and his family couldn’t locate him all day (they now know he’s in qedumim settlement / detention center). or that each time soldiers were asked for justification of their actions, they would say, “it’s closed because we say so. this is our territory.” i wish more than anything that you could know everything that is behind this statement, every way in which it manifests itself, every way in which the world completely ignores what is happening here.
i wish i could trust that the media would tell you that a group of disabled palestinians (in wheelchairs and on crutches, many blind people, etc.) were shot at with tear gas by the army at a demonstration today in bil’in before they got anywhere near their destination (which was on their land).
i can’t even remember what is usual and not anymore. i am not surprised by things. i am only angry. and resentful. and even hateful sometimes. i don’t know how to change this. i don’t know how to get away. i don’t think anyone should be able to get away, not when others can’t. and yet how can i think clearly? saturday was a wonderful demonstration in marda, although even as i say that i think about the hundred or so soldiers who lunged towards the crowd – but they only beat a couple people, only arrested a couple israelis, and only temporarily. only. sunday we tried to accompany farmers to their land and were shot at by a private security company that guards wall work. monday we tried again to accompany farmers to their land, and this time were met by hundreds of soldiers who began firing tear gas before they could even tell who was there. 200 rounds of tear gas. before they could even see us. it’s better, of course, in the grand moral scheme of the world, that no distinction be made between palestinian farmers and international peace workers. but it’s scary. it’s confusing. and of course, the result should be that we are all treated as human, not that we are all treated as expendable.
there’s a newly involved israeli who has come to a couple demos recently. the other day we were standing in marda looking up to the top of the hill with the bulldozers, and she said, “this is just crazy. they’re just taking someone else’s land.” as a taxi driver noted a few days ago, “if i don’t like my neighbors and want to build a fence to separate us, i’d build it on my yard, not my neighbor’s.” even more simply, after i explained to a new iwps volunteer yesterday a few of the happenings of the past couple days, she said, “now that’s not nice.” and still, i can’t even bring myself to think any of this. because i am not surprised anymore. only angry.
i was in west jerusalem for about an hour today, walking down the street looking at the half-naked teenagers with their orange ribbons in solidarity with the settlers of gush katif, and i just thought, "you have no idea." if palestinians could see this, i thought, i'm not sure they would be quite as patient as they are. although they probably already know. they're probably already so used to this, more used to this than i am, that nothing fazes them at all. some have a patience that i can't always quite fathom ("this too shall pass"), and others just use avoidance ("if i stay in my home and don't let my kids out then everything will be tolerable").
i talked to a 17 or 18 year old friend in marda the other day. we were discussing the israeli activists’ involvement in demos around here, and she told me she thinks if israelis are really on their side, if they really agree with the palestinian cause, then they should leave. many israelis have told me this before (“people refuse to be soldiers, but the entire state is corrupt. we should refuse to be israelis”), but no palestinian has ever said this to me. so i pushed her, played devil’s advocate, tried to get to the root of her thinking, not sure myself whether i agree with her or not. i asked her if i should leave the u.s. because my country is doing just as many (more) bad things as israel. the difference, enas responded, is that you don’t all serve in the army. there are civilians in america. there are no civilians in israel. one thing she said that stuck with me the most is this: “we can talk about one state for all of us where we all live in peace together, and that’s fine, but what if they do separate us? what if they try to create two states? what if they finish the wall? which side will these israeli activists be on? they’ll be with israel.” i don’t know if that’s true about all of them, but certainly most.
i am going to sleep in marda now, going to be a presence in case the army returns. i don’t know if this is more important than crafting a nice message to you all. or uploading my photos. or writing up events of the past few days. or eating a meal.
i’m supposed to leave iwps next week, to start preparing for delegations i’m leading next month, and then to come back to the u.s. this all seems profoundly strange to me.
i will send this only so you have a little bit of news from here. i know it is not as much of an “article” as my usual reports. i hope you forgive me. and i hope you do something today to better the world. i realize not all the pain in the world is here. this is only my little corner. and i do only what i can. we all do. and it’s never enough. never ever enough.
with sadness and anger, hannah
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Prisons and Parties
On May 18, after four weeks in prison, Jaber Dalany (the Palestinian man with meningitis who was arrested at Huwara checkpoint), was finally presented with charges. As expected, the charges are preposterous, not to mention the fact that they all refer to incidents that supposedly happened more than 2 years ago. The first two relate to membership in Hamas (which he and his family deny) and providing food, shelter, and cell phones to “wanted” men (his brother stayed at his house shortly before being arrested a couple years ago). The third charge is both the most serious and the most ridiculous, stating that Jaber and two others had “planned to introduce an explosive vehicle into the settlement of Ariel, near its movie theater. The plan, however, was not carried out when the defendant and his comrades discovered that Ariel had no movie theater.” It would be laughable if we weren’t talking about someone’s life here. I mean really, if I had planned to blow up Ariel’s movie theater and then found out it didn’t exist, I’d probably blow up their hotel. Or their mall. Or their college. Or the mayor’s office. Or the police station. Or the army headquarters. No cinema, no bomb? Doesn’t make much sense. The charges don’t even state that there was a bomb, just that they had “planned” something, meaning at most that someone could have thought about an action. As an Israeli friend said to me last night, “I can’t even count how many times I’ve thought about blowing up things in Ariel.” We talked about trying to organize 1,000 people to walk to the police station in Ariel to confess our thoughts about the place, but decided against it.
So Jaber is still in prison, with a trial date scheduled for June 27. His wife is due to give birth around that time, and his three children (a 4-year-old son and 1 1/2-year-old twin girls) continue to wake up every morning and say good morning to the picture of their father. I went to visit the family on Monday, and as Jaber’s brother pulled up to the house with me in the car, 4-year-old Kassam came running out, laughing and clapping his hands and chanting, “Ajaat Hannah, ajaat Hannah!” (Hannah’s here). I decided he’s my new best friend. He sat on my lap for much of the time I was there, and then took me around the yard on a tour of all the plants and trees. I marveled over his knowledge of the land. After only 4 years of life, he can point out to me olives, figs, apples, sage, thyme, cauliflower, tomatoes, cabbage, parsley, almonds and more. Khulud, Jaber’s wife, called us in for dinner: maklube, my favorite Palestinian dish, with extra cauliflower, my favorite fried vegetable. I was touched, and again amazed. I hadn’t even remembered telling her my food preferences, but she knew. And she didn’t even try to get me to eat chicken (although her mother-in-law did, insisting it’s not really meat).
This past week, my friend Fatima turned 47 and her youngest daughter Bara’a turned 10. We went to their house for a little party, complete with dancing, eating, singing, and crying – tears of joy, Fatima insisted. The atmosphere was mostly joyful, as the girls took turns tying a scarf around their waist and dancing, and then Shams organized a small dabke performance (Palestinian folk dancing is her favorite kind). Shams and her friend Lana were joking around with each other afterwards, and suddenly we heard Shams say to Lana, “Fuck you!” I looked up, shocked, and said, “Shams!” She covered her mouth and apologized, telling me she had just learned recently that “fuck you” and “damn it” weren’t the same thing. “It’s not my fault anyway,” she added with a smile, “it’s the American movies.”
On Saturday I stopped by an international friend’s house in Ramallah for a going away party. There were probably 10 internationals there, but what I noticed more were the number of Palestinians and Israelis, and their obviously close relationships with each other. Usually when I’m with Palestinians and Israelis together, we’re at a demonstration, so it was nice to see folks interacting with each other socially.
We left Ramallah around 8:30 pm to try to make it back to Jerusalem by 10, which under normal circumstances is no problem. When we got to Kalandia checkpoint, however, we saw a man being held with his hands cuffed behind his back. I quickly went around to a group of people watching him through a fence, and asked, “Do you know him?” A man who appeared to have been in tears (either that or extremely exhausted) responded, “He’s my son.” They had been coming from Ramallah on their way to a wedding in Aram about an hour before. Soldiers had glanced at everyone else’s IDs and waved them forward, but when they came to this young man (28 years old), they pulled him aside and told him to wait while they checked his ID. Fifteen minutes later they put him in cuffs. He had just gone through that checkpoint yesterday with no problem, his father told me, completely perplexed as to why the soldiers would want his son. The father began talking to the soldiers in English, saying he works for the UN and this is his son and they’re on their way to a wedding, etc. Finally they asked me to talk to the soldiers and I stepped forward with a few futile attempts at, “Excuse me, what’s the problem?” Finally the commander came out to our side of the fence and told everyone to go home. The father protested, and the commander said fine, you can stay, but the rest of the group should leave. “What are you doing with him?” asked the father. The commander replied, “We’re waiting for the police car to get here so we can take him away.” “Where are you taking him?” I asked. “We don’t know yet,” the commander responded. “Why are you arresting him?” I asked. “Because he needs to be arrested.” Trying to get information from soldiers can be one of the most frustrating and useless tasks. We gave the family the phone number for Hamoked, an Israeli organization that can sometimes help in these situations, and they called. Hamoked promised to make a few calls to the army. There wasn’t much else we could do. The soldiers were not being particularly violent and it didn’t seem they would start being violent in our absence, so we gave the father our card and continued to Jerusalem. About a half hour later, the father called to tell us his son had been released, and the whole family was told to go home. So they weren’t able to go to the wedding, but things could have been much worse. We were relieved. In the grand scheme of occupation here, this major injustice is a relatively minor hassle.
We met up with an Israeli and a Palestinian friend in the service taxi to Jerusalem. Just outside of Jerusalem, Yossi (my Israeli friend) said, “Here’s the racist Apartheid traffic light. Have you been here?” I had heard about the traffic patterns and city planning in Jerusalem that sets out to accommodate Jewish Israelis and inconvenience Palestinians, but I had never counted the length of the light. After sitting and watching traffic go by for at least 3 minutes (I want to say 10 but I know it always feels longer than it actually is), our light turned green for exactly 7 seconds. This is not an exaggeration. There was just as much traffic coming our way as the other way, but coming our way were Palestinians. The 4 cars in front of us went through the light, and we stopped for another 3 minutes, until our 7 second slot opened up again. Unbelievable, I thought. I can’t even imagine how much honking there would be if the times were reversed.
This week, like every other week in Palestine, has been full of stories of prisons and parties. I find myself not wanting to write these days, not being surprised by anything and not really seeing any changes on the ground. But I know the danger of forgetting. Just because injustice is systemized and commonplace does not mean we should ignore it. So here it is. And in that vein, below is a partial list of incidents this week, incidents you probably have not read about in the mainstream media.
Until next time,
Hannah
P.S. Many props to all the Israelis who are stepping up their activism and their risk-taking in a way that has been a long time coming. 26 Israelis were arrested at a demo in Bil’in last Friday, and then 32 in Hebron the next day as they attempted to visit Palestinian families who are terrorized by the settlers who keep taking over their homes and attacking them. There aren’t a lot of internationals in the country right now, but Israelis are taking over much of the work that internationals have been doing.
Published on Friday, 27 May 2005 – This week’s update from IMEMC (International Middle East Media Center)
A report prepared and published by the Information Center revealed that 347 violations to the truce were reported, including 57 shooting incidents against civilians, causing four deaths and 25 injuries.
27 invasions were conducted, and 57 arrests were made.
Soldiers closed roads and Separation Wall gates 113 times, and installed 52 portable checkpoints.
Israeli soldiers and settlers bulldozed and uprooted family orchards, especially lands planted with olive trees, 7 times over the last week, causing considerable losses.
19 attacks were conducted by the settlers against Palestinian homes and residents.
Soldiers annexed farmlands from the village in order to widen settlements and construct sections of the Separation Wall.
Soldiers broke into dozens of homes, detained residents and interrogated them after forcing them out of their homes.
Soldiers stopped a school bus near the northern West Bank city of Qalqilia on Thursday, forced the children out of the bus, punched and clubbed several students; at least five children were injured.
Checkpoints and crossings were repeatedly closed and border crossings were blocked, barring the residents from leaving or entering the country.
Video footage broadcast on the Israeli TV Channel 10 showed soldiers breaking into a Palestinian home in Hebron area and taking over the TV room in order to watch a soccer match. The footage showed damage in the home - broken windows and furniture - after the soldiers seized the TV room. The family reported that five soldiers broke into their home to view the Champions' League final between AC Milan and Liverpool. Anan al-Zrayer, a teenager from Hebron, said that he was walking down the street when the soldiers stopped him and asked him if his family has a TV set and a satellite dish. "I said yes, but we don't have Israeli channels, and after they entered our home, I gave them the remote control, and they carried out a search after kicking us out into another room", Anan said. A Hebron resident told Channel 10 that this is not the first time that soldiers had taken over Palestinian homes in Hebron to watch TV. The resident added that about two weeks ago, eleven soldiers broke into his home and stayed for the whole night while watching TV.
Friday morning, Israeli soldiers invaded the village of Beit Liqya, south of Ramallah, and arrested eight residents. Two weeks ago, Israeli soldiers invaded the village and fired at children; two were killed.
So Jaber is still in prison, with a trial date scheduled for June 27. His wife is due to give birth around that time, and his three children (a 4-year-old son and 1 1/2-year-old twin girls) continue to wake up every morning and say good morning to the picture of their father. I went to visit the family on Monday, and as Jaber’s brother pulled up to the house with me in the car, 4-year-old Kassam came running out, laughing and clapping his hands and chanting, “Ajaat Hannah, ajaat Hannah!” (Hannah’s here). I decided he’s my new best friend. He sat on my lap for much of the time I was there, and then took me around the yard on a tour of all the plants and trees. I marveled over his knowledge of the land. After only 4 years of life, he can point out to me olives, figs, apples, sage, thyme, cauliflower, tomatoes, cabbage, parsley, almonds and more. Khulud, Jaber’s wife, called us in for dinner: maklube, my favorite Palestinian dish, with extra cauliflower, my favorite fried vegetable. I was touched, and again amazed. I hadn’t even remembered telling her my food preferences, but she knew. And she didn’t even try to get me to eat chicken (although her mother-in-law did, insisting it’s not really meat).
This past week, my friend Fatima turned 47 and her youngest daughter Bara’a turned 10. We went to their house for a little party, complete with dancing, eating, singing, and crying – tears of joy, Fatima insisted. The atmosphere was mostly joyful, as the girls took turns tying a scarf around their waist and dancing, and then Shams organized a small dabke performance (Palestinian folk dancing is her favorite kind). Shams and her friend Lana were joking around with each other afterwards, and suddenly we heard Shams say to Lana, “Fuck you!” I looked up, shocked, and said, “Shams!” She covered her mouth and apologized, telling me she had just learned recently that “fuck you” and “damn it” weren’t the same thing. “It’s not my fault anyway,” she added with a smile, “it’s the American movies.”
On Saturday I stopped by an international friend’s house in Ramallah for a going away party. There were probably 10 internationals there, but what I noticed more were the number of Palestinians and Israelis, and their obviously close relationships with each other. Usually when I’m with Palestinians and Israelis together, we’re at a demonstration, so it was nice to see folks interacting with each other socially.
We left Ramallah around 8:30 pm to try to make it back to Jerusalem by 10, which under normal circumstances is no problem. When we got to Kalandia checkpoint, however, we saw a man being held with his hands cuffed behind his back. I quickly went around to a group of people watching him through a fence, and asked, “Do you know him?” A man who appeared to have been in tears (either that or extremely exhausted) responded, “He’s my son.” They had been coming from Ramallah on their way to a wedding in Aram about an hour before. Soldiers had glanced at everyone else’s IDs and waved them forward, but when they came to this young man (28 years old), they pulled him aside and told him to wait while they checked his ID. Fifteen minutes later they put him in cuffs. He had just gone through that checkpoint yesterday with no problem, his father told me, completely perplexed as to why the soldiers would want his son. The father began talking to the soldiers in English, saying he works for the UN and this is his son and they’re on their way to a wedding, etc. Finally they asked me to talk to the soldiers and I stepped forward with a few futile attempts at, “Excuse me, what’s the problem?” Finally the commander came out to our side of the fence and told everyone to go home. The father protested, and the commander said fine, you can stay, but the rest of the group should leave. “What are you doing with him?” asked the father. The commander replied, “We’re waiting for the police car to get here so we can take him away.” “Where are you taking him?” I asked. “We don’t know yet,” the commander responded. “Why are you arresting him?” I asked. “Because he needs to be arrested.” Trying to get information from soldiers can be one of the most frustrating and useless tasks. We gave the family the phone number for Hamoked, an Israeli organization that can sometimes help in these situations, and they called. Hamoked promised to make a few calls to the army. There wasn’t much else we could do. The soldiers were not being particularly violent and it didn’t seem they would start being violent in our absence, so we gave the father our card and continued to Jerusalem. About a half hour later, the father called to tell us his son had been released, and the whole family was told to go home. So they weren’t able to go to the wedding, but things could have been much worse. We were relieved. In the grand scheme of occupation here, this major injustice is a relatively minor hassle.
We met up with an Israeli and a Palestinian friend in the service taxi to Jerusalem. Just outside of Jerusalem, Yossi (my Israeli friend) said, “Here’s the racist Apartheid traffic light. Have you been here?” I had heard about the traffic patterns and city planning in Jerusalem that sets out to accommodate Jewish Israelis and inconvenience Palestinians, but I had never counted the length of the light. After sitting and watching traffic go by for at least 3 minutes (I want to say 10 but I know it always feels longer than it actually is), our light turned green for exactly 7 seconds. This is not an exaggeration. There was just as much traffic coming our way as the other way, but coming our way were Palestinians. The 4 cars in front of us went through the light, and we stopped for another 3 minutes, until our 7 second slot opened up again. Unbelievable, I thought. I can’t even imagine how much honking there would be if the times were reversed.
This week, like every other week in Palestine, has been full of stories of prisons and parties. I find myself not wanting to write these days, not being surprised by anything and not really seeing any changes on the ground. But I know the danger of forgetting. Just because injustice is systemized and commonplace does not mean we should ignore it. So here it is. And in that vein, below is a partial list of incidents this week, incidents you probably have not read about in the mainstream media.
Until next time,
Hannah
P.S. Many props to all the Israelis who are stepping up their activism and their risk-taking in a way that has been a long time coming. 26 Israelis were arrested at a demo in Bil’in last Friday, and then 32 in Hebron the next day as they attempted to visit Palestinian families who are terrorized by the settlers who keep taking over their homes and attacking them. There aren’t a lot of internationals in the country right now, but Israelis are taking over much of the work that internationals have been doing.
Published on Friday, 27 May 2005 – This week’s update from IMEMC (International Middle East Media Center)
A report prepared and published by the Information Center revealed that 347 violations to the truce were reported, including 57 shooting incidents against civilians, causing four deaths and 25 injuries.
27 invasions were conducted, and 57 arrests were made.
Soldiers closed roads and Separation Wall gates 113 times, and installed 52 portable checkpoints.
Israeli soldiers and settlers bulldozed and uprooted family orchards, especially lands planted with olive trees, 7 times over the last week, causing considerable losses.
19 attacks were conducted by the settlers against Palestinian homes and residents.
Soldiers annexed farmlands from the village in order to widen settlements and construct sections of the Separation Wall.
Soldiers broke into dozens of homes, detained residents and interrogated them after forcing them out of their homes.
Soldiers stopped a school bus near the northern West Bank city of Qalqilia on Thursday, forced the children out of the bus, punched and clubbed several students; at least five children were injured.
Checkpoints and crossings were repeatedly closed and border crossings were blocked, barring the residents from leaving or entering the country.
Video footage broadcast on the Israeli TV Channel 10 showed soldiers breaking into a Palestinian home in Hebron area and taking over the TV room in order to watch a soccer match. The footage showed damage in the home - broken windows and furniture - after the soldiers seized the TV room. The family reported that five soldiers broke into their home to view the Champions' League final between AC Milan and Liverpool. Anan al-Zrayer, a teenager from Hebron, said that he was walking down the street when the soldiers stopped him and asked him if his family has a TV set and a satellite dish. "I said yes, but we don't have Israeli channels, and after they entered our home, I gave them the remote control, and they carried out a search after kicking us out into another room", Anan said. A Hebron resident told Channel 10 that this is not the first time that soldiers had taken over Palestinian homes in Hebron to watch TV. The resident added that about two weeks ago, eleven soldiers broke into his home and stayed for the whole night while watching TV.
Friday morning, Israeli soldiers invaded the village of Beit Liqya, south of Ramallah, and arrested eight residents. Two weeks ago, Israeli soldiers invaded the village and fired at children; two were killed.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Journey to Jerusalem
At 6:30 yesterday morning, I embarked on a journey with Fatima and her oldest daughter Shams, to attend a 10:00 meeting about a summer camp Shams will be participating in this August in Denver, Colorado. I wish I didn’t have to call it a “journey.” When I’m traveling alone, the 40 miles to Jerusalem is usually no journey, just sometimes a hassle waiting for cars and passing through checkpoints. West Bank Palestinians, however, do not have this same luxury. Without permits, they cannot visit their capital, their holiest site in the country.
The organization sponsoring the summer camp had attempted to procure permits for the girls and their parents who were coming from the West Bank. Everyone got these permits – everyone except Fatima. No reasons were given for the denial. “You’re a terrorist,” I joked with her. “Like you,” she responded with a smile. Nevermind, Fatima decided, we’ll go to Jerusalem anyway. The occupation won’t give me a permit. That’s not surprising. But they can’t keep me away from Jerusalem.
So we headed south, from Qarawa roadblock to Huwara checkpoint, from Huwara checkpoint back out through Zatara checkpoint and towards Kalandia checkpoint. At Kalandia, instead of taking the regular bus I take to Jerusalem, we took a shared taxi towards Aram checkpoint, and just before the checkpoint everyone got out and walked around on a small path towards the right. We reached a bus, whose driver was hurriedly trying to file people in and depart before being noticed by soldiers. It was too late, though. About 30 seconds into our journey, three soldiers – one man and two women – jumped out from behind a building and ordered the bus to stop. The male soldier entered and checked everyone’s ID cards. Shams sat innocently, planning to tell the soldier, if asked, that she wasn’t yet 16 (she’s 17) and thus didn’t have an ID. He didn’t ask. She was the only one on the bus who he passed over, although most of the passengers were women and old men, who often are not checked at checkpoints. I had a valid visa, and a couple other people were “legitimate” as well, but the soldier removed everyone else from the bus and told the bus to leave. Fatima told us to go ahead without her, but we didn’t feel comfortable doing that, so we got off the bus. We stood for about 20 minutes, waiting for people’s IDs. Several people told the soldier, “Fine, I won’t go to Jerusalem, I’ll turn around, just give me my ID.” At this point, though, it was punishment and not prevention. The soldier kept saying his captain would arrive in 5 minutes.
During the time we stood there, we watched dozens of people walking on parallel roads a few hundred meters away, people who probably do this journey more often and know the best ways to walk without being stopped. I looked at the soldier, who was also watching the people in the distance. I wondered whether he would call his captain to report this, or just continue to do his particular task, which wasn’t to stop all people from reaching Jerusalem, but only the people on this particular road at this particular hour. He continued his task, holding onto the IDs and just watching the people in the distance.
Fatima went to the soldier and said, “I don’t need a permit to go to Jerusalem. I’m old, older than 40.” “Where did you hear that?” the amused soldier asked. “On the radio,” Fatima replied. “Do you believe everything you hear on the radio?” asked the soldier. “No,” said Fatima, “I don’t believe anything that comes from Israel, because it’s all political propaganda.” I couldn’t hold back a smile. Even (especially?) in a situation of extreme power differential, Fatima was in her element, stepping up to the challenge of holding onto dignity and freedom in the midst of humiliation and arbitrary restriction.
After a few more minutes passed, I asked the soldier why his captain wasn’t there yet, and why he needed to come in the first place. “He’s bringing some papers,” said the soldier. “These people broke the law by trying to go to Jerusalem without permission, and they need to sign papers.” Fatima was unimpressed, and decided she’d waited long enough. “Let’s go back,” she declared, “and go around another way. I don’t need my ID, I have another one at home.” Apparently she had lost her ID once, and after getting a new one she found her old one. Knowing that made me slightly less worried, but I still feared that the soldier would not be too happy to find that Fatima was no longer there when it came time to hand the IDs back. Nevertheless, Shams and I followed Fatima and we started to walk away, without being noticed by the soldiers. That is, until Fatima turned around and yelled, “Enough! Keep my ID – it’s yours!” I didn’t turn around, just looked at Shams and started laughing. “I can’t believe my mother,” Shams said laughing. The soldiers didn’t try to stop us.
“I’m free,” Fatima said a few minutes later. “I’m not afraid of them.” We walked for about 15 minutes until we reached a more major road. During the walk, we heard the captain finally arrive and start yelling through the jeep’s loudspeaker. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and I don’t know exactly what happened, as we quickly got out of sight of that scene. I wonder how many times a day this happens.
Finally we caught a bus to Jerusalem, and then a taxi to the meeting, arriving at 10:15. It took us almost 4 hours to travel about 40 miles. I am reminded of an art exhibition I saw last year in Bethlehem, in which a woman had asked several people in Bethlehem, “How far is it from Bethlehem to Jerusalem?” Responses ranged from “two hours” to “10 kilometers and 4 years” to “I’ve never been to Jerusalem.”
From the balcony of the meeting place, we could see the Al Aqsa mosque and the Dome of the Rock to the left, and to the right the Annexation Wall snaked through the landscape of Abu Dis and other Jerusalem villages. Shereen, a friend of mine from Arroub refugee camp in Hebron, who will also be participating in the summer program, walked out to the balcony and saw the Dome of the Rock. “Wow,” she whispered reverently. Shams looked up and smiled. “Is it the first time you’ve seen it?” she asked. “No,” said Shereen, “I’ve seen it twice before.” “Me too,” said Shams. They stood and stared for a couple minutes, and then continued to talk about what teenagers talk about, asking each other questions about families, where they lived, musical tastes, and more.
The meeting ended, we walked to French Square to join the end of the Women in Black vigil against the occupation and to meet up with someone who was coming home with us, we walked through the Old City for a few minutes, and we started on our way. Luckily, Fatima wasn’t asked for her ID (which she no longer had) during any of the ride/s back north. We reached home around 6:00 pm, hot and exhausted, with another story to tell. Another day in Palestine.
The organization sponsoring the summer camp had attempted to procure permits for the girls and their parents who were coming from the West Bank. Everyone got these permits – everyone except Fatima. No reasons were given for the denial. “You’re a terrorist,” I joked with her. “Like you,” she responded with a smile. Nevermind, Fatima decided, we’ll go to Jerusalem anyway. The occupation won’t give me a permit. That’s not surprising. But they can’t keep me away from Jerusalem.
So we headed south, from Qarawa roadblock to Huwara checkpoint, from Huwara checkpoint back out through Zatara checkpoint and towards Kalandia checkpoint. At Kalandia, instead of taking the regular bus I take to Jerusalem, we took a shared taxi towards Aram checkpoint, and just before the checkpoint everyone got out and walked around on a small path towards the right. We reached a bus, whose driver was hurriedly trying to file people in and depart before being noticed by soldiers. It was too late, though. About 30 seconds into our journey, three soldiers – one man and two women – jumped out from behind a building and ordered the bus to stop. The male soldier entered and checked everyone’s ID cards. Shams sat innocently, planning to tell the soldier, if asked, that she wasn’t yet 16 (she’s 17) and thus didn’t have an ID. He didn’t ask. She was the only one on the bus who he passed over, although most of the passengers were women and old men, who often are not checked at checkpoints. I had a valid visa, and a couple other people were “legitimate” as well, but the soldier removed everyone else from the bus and told the bus to leave. Fatima told us to go ahead without her, but we didn’t feel comfortable doing that, so we got off the bus. We stood for about 20 minutes, waiting for people’s IDs. Several people told the soldier, “Fine, I won’t go to Jerusalem, I’ll turn around, just give me my ID.” At this point, though, it was punishment and not prevention. The soldier kept saying his captain would arrive in 5 minutes.
During the time we stood there, we watched dozens of people walking on parallel roads a few hundred meters away, people who probably do this journey more often and know the best ways to walk without being stopped. I looked at the soldier, who was also watching the people in the distance. I wondered whether he would call his captain to report this, or just continue to do his particular task, which wasn’t to stop all people from reaching Jerusalem, but only the people on this particular road at this particular hour. He continued his task, holding onto the IDs and just watching the people in the distance.
Fatima went to the soldier and said, “I don’t need a permit to go to Jerusalem. I’m old, older than 40.” “Where did you hear that?” the amused soldier asked. “On the radio,” Fatima replied. “Do you believe everything you hear on the radio?” asked the soldier. “No,” said Fatima, “I don’t believe anything that comes from Israel, because it’s all political propaganda.” I couldn’t hold back a smile. Even (especially?) in a situation of extreme power differential, Fatima was in her element, stepping up to the challenge of holding onto dignity and freedom in the midst of humiliation and arbitrary restriction.
After a few more minutes passed, I asked the soldier why his captain wasn’t there yet, and why he needed to come in the first place. “He’s bringing some papers,” said the soldier. “These people broke the law by trying to go to Jerusalem without permission, and they need to sign papers.” Fatima was unimpressed, and decided she’d waited long enough. “Let’s go back,” she declared, “and go around another way. I don’t need my ID, I have another one at home.” Apparently she had lost her ID once, and after getting a new one she found her old one. Knowing that made me slightly less worried, but I still feared that the soldier would not be too happy to find that Fatima was no longer there when it came time to hand the IDs back. Nevertheless, Shams and I followed Fatima and we started to walk away, without being noticed by the soldiers. That is, until Fatima turned around and yelled, “Enough! Keep my ID – it’s yours!” I didn’t turn around, just looked at Shams and started laughing. “I can’t believe my mother,” Shams said laughing. The soldiers didn’t try to stop us.
“I’m free,” Fatima said a few minutes later. “I’m not afraid of them.” We walked for about 15 minutes until we reached a more major road. During the walk, we heard the captain finally arrive and start yelling through the jeep’s loudspeaker. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and I don’t know exactly what happened, as we quickly got out of sight of that scene. I wonder how many times a day this happens.
Finally we caught a bus to Jerusalem, and then a taxi to the meeting, arriving at 10:15. It took us almost 4 hours to travel about 40 miles. I am reminded of an art exhibition I saw last year in Bethlehem, in which a woman had asked several people in Bethlehem, “How far is it from Bethlehem to Jerusalem?” Responses ranged from “two hours” to “10 kilometers and 4 years” to “I’ve never been to Jerusalem.”
From the balcony of the meeting place, we could see the Al Aqsa mosque and the Dome of the Rock to the left, and to the right the Annexation Wall snaked through the landscape of Abu Dis and other Jerusalem villages. Shereen, a friend of mine from Arroub refugee camp in Hebron, who will also be participating in the summer program, walked out to the balcony and saw the Dome of the Rock. “Wow,” she whispered reverently. Shams looked up and smiled. “Is it the first time you’ve seen it?” she asked. “No,” said Shereen, “I’ve seen it twice before.” “Me too,” said Shams. They stood and stared for a couple minutes, and then continued to talk about what teenagers talk about, asking each other questions about families, where they lived, musical tastes, and more.
The meeting ended, we walked to French Square to join the end of the Women in Black vigil against the occupation and to meet up with someone who was coming home with us, we walked through the Old City for a few minutes, and we started on our way. Luckily, Fatima wasn’t asked for her ID (which she no longer had) during any of the ride/s back north. We reached home around 6:00 pm, hot and exhausted, with another story to tell. Another day in Palestine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)