His face is hollowed out, white skin pulled over prominent cheekbones. The eyes, tired but wide open, never stop. Abed just got out of Al-Naqab prison in southern Israel five days ago. He still can’t believe it.
“I lost 60 kilos in less than a year.” He shows a giant picture of himself hanging in the lobby: a fleshy, muscular man, smiling with a small child in his arms. “That’s my daughter, that’s me. It’s been a year.” The man in front of me looks like the specter of the hanging image. Even the little girl zomping behind us doesn’t seem to recognize him: when her father calls her name, she throws herself into her cousin’s arms, almost frightened. “My daughter when she first saw me was hiding, calling me uncle. It was so sad.”
Abed’s message to the world
Abed is 28 years old and was a baker by trade. They arrested him last December in a night raid where the Israeli military stormed his home by breaking down his door, smashing several pieces of furniture and windows. And they took him away. He would never hear from his family or have any contact with the outside world again until November 30, 2024.
We are at his home in the refugee camp in Jenin, perhaps the city most affected by Israeli attacks in the West Bank over the past year. To get there, one has to travel several roads flooded with mud and water, with a panoramic view of piles of debris and damaged or demolished houses. Indeed, the destruction by Tel Aviv’s D9s and bulldozers has spared no infrastructure in the camp, which is considered by Israel to be one of the strongholds of resistance in the West Bank: every road, as well as the water and electricity systems, have been systematically and methodically devastated.
“They arrested me only because I am Palestinian,” begins the account of Abed, who is at pains to emphasize that he was not linked to any party and was not part of the resistance. “The conditions under which they kept us were terrible. I don’t know if I will be able to talk about what I experienced… even animals are not kept like that.” But then, he is a river of words.
“They gave me shampoo six times in a year,” he recounts. “We could shower, but they wouldn’t give us anything to wash with.” Before October 7, life for Palestinians in prison was different. Then the detainees suffered Israel’s revenge on their skin. “We became numbers. They called us by number all the time.” He shows us, it was written in marker on his ID card. It must have been seven to eight digits; reading it feels like going back to moments in history that one hoped had been surpassed. “The first day they gave me a plastic plate, spoon and fork, the disposable kind. I had to use it for a year.” He smiles. “It’s crazy, but when I went out, I wanted to take them with me. I don’t know how to use the real ones anymore.”
There were 14 of them living in a cell that was made for nine people. They slept without mattresses, in beds as hard as stones or on the floor, cramped together to keep warm. “We didn’t have enough clothes, and they didn’t give us anything to cover ourselves. People would make socks by cutting pieces from the blankets.” Abed continued, “When they brought us food, it was not enough for human beings. It was not enough to survive… I lost 60 kg, but if my situation in prison was not so good, the condition of many others was worse.”
News from outside the prison came only when new inmates arrived. There was no contact with the outside world. “Since October 7, they took everything away: no TV, no books, no newspapers, no visits, no letters to family members, no contact with the lawyer.” Not even the hearings were an opportunity to meet the lawyer, or a friendly face. “There was no real court, it was a room, they moved everything online.” He adds: “Every time they moved us from the cell to that room, or somewhere else, we knew we would not come back healthy.” Beatings were the norm, and they could also come during the many searches or counts they did of inmates in cells.
“I have scabies. Almost everyone in prison has scabies, at least 90 percent… I had it all over my body… it was not normal. They didn’t give us medicine. It was torture.” He then talks about a weird episode. “Once they finally sent me to the ‘doctor’ – in prison there was no hospital, and anyway they didn’t give you anything… there was a group of people who were not Israelis, they were international. I asked one of these ‘doctors’ where he was from, he told me [he was] French; he didn’t help me. Sometimes I think they were doing tests on us, like we were animals.”
He repeats several times, “I just want to be considered a human being, it doesn’t matter that I am Palestinian, I am a human being.”
He shows us video of when he was released from prison a few days ago. When he was released, he was greeted by a crowd of his family and friends, where he hugged his mother and he cried. “For a year, I never cried. But as soon as I saw my mother, I cried,” he recounts. “My mother was sick. I could never write to her. But whenever I had a chance to see the moon from my cell, I sent her a message through the moon…”
At least 47 inmates have died in Israeli prisons since Oct. 7 due to torture or lack of treatment by Israel. I ask him if he has witnessed such incidents. He seethes. “One of these 47 was in my cell,” he says. “They brought him, who was already beaten to a pulp; he was injured. They had moved him there. Then they beat him again. At night they came in and counted us, they did that a lot. It was winter, it was cold. He was still lying on the ground, because he was sick, he couldn’t get up. I remember seeing blood coming out of his chest, I think he had internal bleeding but also external bleeding, he was bleeding. The police picked him up and carried him out of the cell, I could see him. They left him there in the open for hours and hours. It took him six hours to die. In front of my eyes.” They wanted to kill him, he says between the lines. He was politicized, from the Hamas party. He would not give his name.
He is afraid; he does not want to go back to prison. “I never want to live that condition of life again,” he says. The state of Israel in fact does not forget. Abed points us to Karim, a young boy of perhaps 15 who has been sitting by his side since the start of the chat. “Every time they raid here in the camp, the military enters his house and beats his whole family. This is because a member of his family in the past had relations with the resistance… Even though he is dead, they continue to take revenge and punish the whole family. They beat everyone.”
“Even if we believe in peace, where is the peace? I want peace. Israel does not want peace.”
He asks if he can leave a message for the rest of the world. He takes my notebook and writes in large Arabic characters, underlining the wording several times:
Balata Camp, Nablus | December 12, 2024 | By Diana Khwaelid
The night of December 12 was undoubtedly the saddest night for the family of the young martyr Jihad Abu Salim and the Balata camp.
No one knew that he would rise as a martyr on the night of December 12th, when the Israeli occupying forces stormed the camp and stole his soul, shot him twice, killing him instantly.
The martyr Jihad Yusuf Abu Salim, who is no more than 25 years old, was killed by the Israeli occupation forces during their assault on the Balata refugee camp east of the city of Nablus. The operations and attacks of the Israeli occupation on the cities, villages, and camps of the West Bank have not stopped since October 7. Attacks are especially relentless in the camps, including the Balata camp, which is considered a fertile area for occupation.
Photo: the martyr’s neighbor cries
Jihad left behind three sisters and two brothers, and he was middle rank was among his brothers; he most recently met his family last Wednesday night and ate cheesecakes, as his younger sister Salsabil reported.
The 18-year-old Salsabil Abu Salim is the youngest sister in the family. Salsabil was in a terrible state, still under the shock of losing her brother, and she could hardly speak, even with difficulty. She said: until this moment we could not believe the news of Jihad’s martyrdom and that we had lost him.
She adds: My brother Jihad was like a bond for me in my life, it means my strength. This was her response when I asked her what it means for a sister to lose her brother.
Photo: The relatives of the martyr
At about 10:30 this morning, his body was transferred from Rafidia government hospital with a military reception befitting him as a martyr.
He was taken to his family home for a final farewell viewing by the family, especially the mother and sisters. A state of sadness, despair, helplessness, and oppression was felt by all residents of the camp, especially his family and friends.
Hundreds of Palestinians from the residences of the camp and outside participated in the funeral of the martyr Jihad Abu Salim and his remains were covered with the flag of Palestine and the Palestinian kufya.
Photo: The friends of the martyr
Palestinian participants in the funeral chanted words stating that they would continue to resist the occupation and honor his family with his martyrdom.
According to the Palestinian Health Organization, the number of martyrs in the city of Nablus since the beginning of this year 2024 has reached 49 martyrs total, and 16 martyrs in the Balata camp.
Tubas, Palestine – December 9. Two more people were killed by a drone-launched missile in Tubas, in the northern West Bank. This brings the total number of Palestinians killed by the Israeli military in the West Bank since October 7th, to 810, including 169 children, with more than 6,450 injured. Being one of the bloodiest period in over a decade, as the intensity and scope of the apartheid military occupation has grown rapidly.
Israel army blocking Tubas main road
The incursion began with Israeli Special Forces personnel infiltrating the town in the morning. Shortly after, at least 6 military vehicles blocked Tubas’ main road, occupying it for about 3 and a half hours and preventing the passage of people and vehicles. The military positioned itself with machine guns aimed at houses and stores. They were targeting anyone who tried to approach or pass, firing live ammunition rounds and stun grenades at them. Four people were arrested, blindfolded and held with their hands tied behind their backs before being taken away. One person was released. In the meantime, two drones flew overhead at low altitude to “monitor population movements”. One of the drones killed Khalil Magdi Al-Masri and Udi Radwan Daraghma, who were aged 26 and 32, in the Al-Safah area in the north of the city. The bombs dropped killed them instantly, without warning. The army also seized their bodies, preventing the families from mourning their loved ones.
Blindfolded Palestinians
The Palestine Red Crescent Society, a humanitarian emergency medical team that is a part of the International Red Cross, reports that the military blocked their workers, and were preventing them from accessing the site of the attack and rescuing any wounded. While these violent attacks were happening, several local Palestinian youths placed barricades made of tires and dumpsters on the side streets. This was an attempt to restrict the movement of the military to the road blocked by the Israeli vehicles themselves. This ended one of the (now daily) attacks that the Israeli Army carries out in many West Bank towns and villages. Day and night, the Israeli Army breaks into Palestinian homes to make arrests and searches, or simply to break the peace and safety that communities build together. This is to display to Palestinians that they are living under military occupation.
Palestinians try to restrict the army movement
The low-intensity war Israel is carrying out in the West Bank is claiming victims daily: in the small town of Tubas alone, 66 people have now been killed by the Israeli Occupation Forces since October 7th, 2023. Several dozen others have been arrested.
A few days earlier, the town of Tubas was the target of another violent Israeli raid: on Tuesday, Dec. 3, Tel Aviv’s military raided the Turkish hospital in Tubas, arresting several doctors including the director of the medical centre. The Israeli Army attack came after an Israeli drone struck a car killing two young Palestinian men and injuring a third in the northern town of Aqaba. The ambulance had taken the wounded and the deceased to the Turkish hospital. In an attempt to take the bodies of the young martyrs and arrest the wounded man, the Israeli military held the entire hospital and surrounding streets hostage for hours, smashing several windows inside the building, threatening staff and triggering panic. Numerous times, fire was opened inside the hospital, going so far as to injure one of the civilians gathered in the courtyard of the facility. The doctors were arrested and later released; interviewed by Middle East Eye, they reported receiving insults, beatings and death threats by the Israeli Army, if they did not hand over the bodies of the men they had earlier killed and wounded. After the military left the facility, funerals were held for the two young men killed to prevent a new attempt to steal the bodies. The situation in the West Bank is becoming increasingly tense. The continuing horrific attacks, deaths and arrests create a fear for what lies ahead.
This dire situation is made worse by the latest statements by the Israeli government and Finance Minister Smotrich, who are openly speaking of a plan to annex the West Bank to Israel by 2025. They would begin with the dismantling of the Civil Administration during Donald Trump’s presidency, a key step toward annexation. These announcements of intention to violate international law and annex the West Bank, do not give any hope of an end to the military occupation and apartheid. On the contrary, it seems only to serve to escalate the already intense situation for the Palestinians living in their homes in the West Bank.
Ahmad smiles, his eyes black, his wrinkles deep. He speaks his basic English as he lugs around plastic bags and water bottles: a breakfast that looks to me more like lunch. His olive grove is in front of a settlement; one of many Israeli settlements that are illegal under international law but have been colonizing the West Bank for decades.
“Five days ago I came to clean the land, but I couldn’t. The settlers shot at me,” he says.
Ahmad pointing at the trees he planted, Einav settlement is on the left.
On the hill in front of us stands Einav, the Israeli settlement built on 470 dunams (1 dunam = 1/10 hectare) “confiscated” from the Palestinian village of Ramin and 20 dunams stolen from Kafr al-Labad . A wire fence in the valley divides the military road from Palestinian olive groves.
“I planted these trees 45 years ago. Then, there was no one there.” Ahmad points to the houses. There are now three clusters of Israeli houses that have sprung up in the last few decades. The first construction was in 1981, and settlement named 30 years ago, “and they keep expanding.” A half-buried tear gas canister is testament to one of many moments of repression by the military who patrol the area.
“My daughter has not been back here for 12 years. She was afraid, and I was afraid for her.”
Jasmine is 21, a recent college graduate. Glasses, a light black veil covers her hair. “They are dangerous. They scare me,” she admits. “Look: they burned those.”
Burned olive trees
Not far away, an expanse of charred trees reaches the fence. “Those are our neighbour’s, but we had more than 50 burned a little further away, too. All a few months ago.”
Settler attacks are nothing new, but since 7th October last year, the burning and destruction of olive trees has been increasing throughout the West Bank. According to the Colonization & Wall Resistance Commission, from the beginning of this harvest season until 29th October, 239 attacks against olive pickers were recorded. They include assaults with stones and sticks, threats, gunfire, burning and destruction of olive groves. Crop theft and violence of various kinds are commonplace, and in at least 109 cases, Palestinians have been prevented from accessing their land by settlers or the military. A 59-year-old woman, Hanan Abdul Rahman Abu Salama was killed in the village of Faqqu’a, northeast of Jenin by settlers, and over 50 people were injured in the two months of harvesting. These are only the confirmed cases.
Meanwhile, fires set by settlers have destroyed thousands of trees this year. On 6 November, in the village of Qaryut alone, Palestinian farmers found more than 500 ancient olive trees cut down. They had been violently prevented by the Israelis from accessing their land for two years. Earlier this month they obtained a “coordination,” a two-day agreement with the occupation forces that they could go and harvest the olives. They arrived in the morning to find that most of the trees had been cut down. They were also assaulted by the military and settler “security” who “confiscated” their olive harvesting equipment.
“Why are they doing this? This is our life,” says Ahmad, angry. He worked for 49 years in ’48, the country the rest of the world calls Israel. He was an electrician. “Since 7 Oct., I can’t go there any more. I also speak Hebrew, I read it. Those people don’t care about anyone.”
Ahmad is almost 65 years old, has five children, and numerous grandchildren. He has been picking olives in these hills since he was a child. The work is long, and beautiful, and tiring: first you put tarpaulin sheets under the tree to cover the ground, making sure they overlap leaving no gaps. Then the harvest begins: you can pick with your hands, rake the branches with brightly-coloured plastic combs, shake the trees, and hit them with sticks: everything comes in handy to get the olives off the branches. Then they are piled up, and the bigger sticks and leaves that have landed on the tarps with them are picked out by hand. They are then thrown into buckets and emptied into large plastic bags that are very heavy to carry.
“The soldiers are coming!” someone shouts. About 300 metres away, five military personnel are crossing the fence, heading in our direction.
“Let’s keep working. This is my land!” In Ahmad’s eyes shines the anger of those who have been abused for too long. There are many of us, close to 20 international solidarity activists who have come to support the Palestinians at this sensitive time of year. Indeed, the olive harvest is crucial to the livelihood of thousands of Palestinian families, and the Israelis know it. That’s why they try to disrupt or prevent it where they can. Almost everyone in Palestine has a few trees; Palestinian oil is well known throughout the region. It’s an ancient tradition, and the economy of many villages is based precisely on the products derived from it. The olive groves near settlements are the most dangerous: settlers, sometimes just children, frighten Palestinians away. The settlers’ “security” service goes around with machine guns, and they are joined by the army, which under the guise of self-defence, push the Palestinians further and further away, saying they cannot stray near the settlements.
The soldiers peer at us from above, machine guns drawn, body armor, knee pads, helmet. “What are you doing? You can’t be here. You have to leave!” they declare.
One of us internationals starts filming on his phone. He is immediately pointed at, surrounded.
“Papers please, passport, give me the phone!” The soldiers force him to delete everything immediately. The Palestinians are also pulled aside and all are identified.
The soldiers ask intrusive questions: Where are you from? What are you doing? But the international solidarity activists who have come to support the harvest are many, and the number seems to subdue the soldiers. One of the soldiers, with red hair and blue eyes, speaking perfect “very British” English, points to a girl from the UK. He will be one of the thousands of Jews who chose to leave Europe to join the Israeli occupation army, becoming citizens of their new country in just a few short weeks. And what is their task? To drive out a people who have no state but have always inhabited those lands.
Ahmad speaks to the military in Hebrew, and handles it well. Maybe that’s the only reason they leave. Or maybe it’s that and the presence of so many internationals.
“This morning they made trouble for a friend of mine who was working over there,” Ahmad points to the south. “They threatened him with the military. He left.” He adds. “We were very lucky.”
Yasar lives in a village nearby. For a living he sells fruits and vegetables at the market. He smokes cigarettes even while clubbing olive branches. He likes to talk, telling us about living in Palestine, daily life, repression. “I was afraid. I don’t want to go to jail right now,” he says. “I already spent seven months in jail for a demonstration.” Prison violence has been even worse since 7 Oct. The state of Israel’s revenge for it has included thousands of administrative detentions with repeated torture, and no visits from family members and lawyers allowed. “They just killed my wife’s cousin in a raid in Tulkarem.” He says this in an ordinary tone, as it is now routine. “This is the fifth death in the family since 7 October. They have killed hundreds of people in Tulkarem since the beginning of their revenge.” He lights a cigarette. “There are no more roads in the Tulkarem camps.” According to the Palestinian Health Ministry, 803 Palestinians have been killed in the West Bank since 7 Oct., and more than 6,450 wounded. These large numbers of deaths and injuries occur during repeated raids on Palestinian villages and the harsh repression in camps and at demonstrations. Palestinians’ lives are worth little to the military. But their land is coveted. “See up there?” Yasar asks pointing to the top of the hill opposite, above the settlements. A couple of structures soar beside a kind of turret with an antenna.
Outpost
“That’s an outpost, the beginning of a new settlement. First they put a container, a shack, something. Then a fence. Then a house. And then it becomes a settlement.”
They built it not even a year ago, after 7 October. “Those were my grandfather’s lands. I remember as a child accompanying him to graze the goats up there. Now they’ve taken it.” Another cigarette. “There’s a song here in Palestine, it talks about Rome too,” he laughs. “Nero in Rome, he burned everything. Nero died, Rome endured…. Like here. Occupation will finish, Palestine will resist.”
Kafr Qaddum, November Kafr Qaddum is a village about 13 kilometers west of Nablus, one of the largest cities in the West Bank.
The village has around 4,300 inhabitants and is surrounded by ancient olive groves. It also has five settlements in the hills around it. Kafr Qaddum is considered a village of resistance, with a history of struggle that spans more than 20 years, with no end in sight. Eleven thousand dunams of the village’s land (about 52 percent of the total area) have been declared “Area C,” meaning they are under the full control of the Israeli Occupation Force (IOF) which has taken more and more land over the years. As in many other places, the IOF has banned access to land “too close” to the settlements, i.e., at an indefinite distance they determine as they wish. This ban means blocking and destroying the economy of hundreds of local Palestinians, since the trade in olives and olive oil is the economic mainstay of Kufr Qaddum. Besides, it is also a matter of principle. “We love these lands, these trees,” says Madhat, one of the residents prevented from accessing their olive groves. “We love Palestine… It is our land.” He adds: “We will never leave.” The army will give permission to reach the land only twice a year, once to clean the land, another time to harvest olives. But often, it won’t even grant those. Settlers often prevent the harvest anyway, or destroy olive groves to send Palestinian farmers away for good.
“We don’t ask for ‘coordination.’ No agreement with the occupation forces. Should we ask for permission to access our own lands?” insists Abdullah, another Palestinian from the village detained in Israeli jails many times for his resistance. In addition to being denied access to their land, since 2003, the local Palestinians have been blocked from using the main road from Kufr Qaddum to Nablus by the Israelis. “It used to take us 15 minutes to get to the city,” Madhat says. “Now it takes us at least 45 because of this permanent roadblock.” In fact, a gate prevents Palestinians from passing through. The road is now only for the Israeli settlement, which was funded by the far-right Zionist group Gush Emunim in 1975 and has been expanding ever since. Complaints before Israeli courts have been to no avail. Since 2011, the citizens of Kufr Qaddum have been organizing weekly demonstrations every Friday. Their protests try to approach to the gate. They meet with stiff repression.
“They shoot at us tear gas, rubber-coated steel bullets, real bullets. We have had so many injured over the years, so many have risked their lives,” explains A.
According to Harretz, more than 100 villagers were injured, including six children. The latest is a 9-year-old boy who was shot in the head by a soldier and miraculously survived. At least 175 villagers have been arrested for participating in protests; more than half a million shekels have been paid by families as bail over the years. Attempts at negotiations have fallen on deaf ears. The community repeatedly offered to stop the protests if the road was reopened: but the IOF has always refused. And the protests continue to this day, although in recent months the encirclement by the police forces is often so tight that they cannot even march at all.
By the time we start harvesting olives, the sun is already high. We have spread the tarps, and pick the lowest branches when, “Here come the soldiers!” someone says. Two white cars stopped on the road below the terraces, and seven or eight military-looking people approach.
Army in Kafr Qaddum
“Let’s keep harvesting,” is the agreement. The approaching individuals are dressed in army green uniforms and carry machine guns. They have no insignia, their shoes are not all the same. Hard to tell if they are security settlers or military, though it makes little difference: they now have almost the same powers, and they threaten and arrest in the same way.
“Stop the work! Stop! You have to go away!” One of them begins.
The number of foreign pickers certainly diminishes the level of their violence. That is what the international solidarity volunteers are for: by our presence we hope to deter conflict and limit the repression of the Palestinians, in an effort to redress some of the power imbalance to enable the olive harvest.
Most of us continue working, some approach the soldiers.
“What? Where is the problem?” they ask.
“You can’t be here, it’s illegal. You are less than 200 meters from the settlement. You have two minutes to leave or we will arrest you.” They threaten.
Less than 200 meters? The group is at least 500 meters from the encroaching settlement. “We are more than 200 meters away,” someone objects, but it’s no use. Some of us keep arguing, the others keep working. The ‘soldiers’ notice the Palestinian who owns the olive grove; one of them talks to him in Arabic and makes him approach. They argue and surround him, weapons in hand. They push him toward the road. The protests of us the sympathizers are useless.
“He is under arrest. He knew he couldn’t stay here. Now you have two minutes to leave or we will arrest you too.”
We say we’ll go if they release the man.
“I don’t have to bargain with you. Leave!”
From a distance the military man can be seen putting a blindfold on the Palestinian farmer. Then he pulls out his cell phone and takes a selfie with the newly-arrested man. Some of us continue to argue, buying more time, and two more olive trees are harvested.
Palestinian farmer arrested by the Israeli army.
Then the military warms up. “That’s enough, we’ve been arguing for 45 minutes and I gave you two! Now you’re leaving.” The tone is rising. The tarps are pulled up, the last olives are gathered, and the retreat begins.
A teargas canister is on the ground, still full of gas. Probably left from last year when, following 7 October, almost all olive harvesting was prevented; a revenge by the state of Israel on the economy of the Palestinian people. For that reason, this year many civil society organisations called for international solidarity and urged young and old from all over the world to join the Palestinians for the harvest. Hundreds of people have responded to the call of movements such as ISM and Faz3a to offer protective presence in defence of the civilian population.
Meanwhile in April, Israel’s Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben Gvir, initiated a “task force” specifically targeting foreign activists in the West Bank: it appears that the government does not want witnesses or hindrances to the violence meted out to Palestinian farmers among the olive groves.
We climb up to the waiting Palestinians a little higher away from the military. They are quiet – used to this oppression. We sit in the shade of a large olive tree and they bring out lunch: manāqīsh with plenty of za’tar and cheese, hummus, and of course cigarettes. Madhat then takes us for tea at his house. I ask him if this happens all the time. “Eh! Often,” he says. “I was arrested three times last week,” he laughs. “They keep you five, six, seven hours. Then they released me.”
Before release, detainees are often beaten. But Madhat doesn’t tell me that. “That’s how it is here.” After tea he offers us coffee. “Tomorrow I will come back. And the day after tomorrow, too.” He shakes our hands. “We, from here, will never leave.”
This isn’t something I had necessarily expected to do on the West Bank. We’re told that the risk level at demonstrations is high; Ayşenur was murdered at one. And I had made a solemn promise to my very anxious friends and family back home that I would calculate these important amorphous abstractions for my actions in the field: the riskiness of my action balanced against its effectiveness. I’m still not sure how the calculation resolves for big demonstrations.
This was different: more of a vigil, and in Ramallah, which is part of Area A where Israeli soldiers, indeed any Israelis, are not allowed in (but nonetheless raid whenever they please). This vigil was one of many all across Palestine to support Gaza and prisoners.
I’ve grappled with this juxtaposition before. It seems to me that once you mention Gaza, all other issues must give way before it. It does and should command all the attention. But how can Palestinians come together and not mention Gaza!
It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm December noon at Manarah Square, where a couple of hundred people – a mixed group of men and women – were gathered, flags flying around them, facing a banner declaring a “Global Day of Support for Gaza” and “Prisoners Rejecting Genocide and Execution of Prisoners” and pictures of young men ranged in front of it – victims of the evils being protested against.
Photo: a sign reading “Global Day of Support for Gaza & Prisoners” followed by “Rejecting Genocide & Execution of Prisoners”
After a few speeches, a truck carrying the loudspeaker set off and we all trooped behind it on a short walk round the block. At this point the crowd found its voice. One boy mounted on the shoulders of another led the crowd around him in slogan shouting, while a group of girls, all of an age and swathed in identical keffiyehs hollered their chants behind them.
I was suddenly joined by Malach, my comrade in my first two weeks here, and now as two internationals together, I suddenly felt I belonged. We strolled while I endeavoured to interview people in English, which all yielded a single sentiment: we’re here to show our support.
Returning to the square, the girls finally noticed me and, practising their English on me, explained this was a school outing. They’d written the slogans out before they came. I just needed to ask them to read them into my phone.
These are the slogans that I’m told they were shouting, and I discover that to translate them is far from easy, partly because the language is freighted with connotations and associations, and partly because they were commonly taken from anthems – songs heavy with symbolism:
“Cross your sword with my sword” (metaphor for fighting jointly).
“A welcome salute from Ramallah to our beloved and unvanquishable Gaza”.
And finally, “With our souls and our blood, we sacrifice our utmost for Palestine”.
