Category: Journals

Volunteers with the International Solidarity Movement are encouraged to write personal reflections about the work they engage in with Palestinian communities, the events they experience, and the people they meet. These journals offer the human context often missing in traditional reports or journalism. These articles represent the author’s thoughts and feelings and not necessarily those of the International Solidarity Movement.

You and Whose Army?

by Sholmo Bloom. Journal entry providing further insight to a previously published report on the same incident.

It’s Shabbat, the Jewish holy day, also the day when the settlers cause the most trouble in Tel Rumeida.

I was sitting on Shuhada street with two human rights workers when a Palestinian woman came walked by and told us there were settlers throwing rocks up on the path leading to the girls school. Many Palestinians use this path to go to and from their homes. We went over to check it out and, sure enough, there were about 15 kids tearing up the cement from the path, probably to use as projectiles.

We called the police and and T.I.P.H (Temporary International Presence in Hebron). The Police and TIPH arrived but the settlers remained on the path. At this point there were approximately 25, an intimidating number even with police present. So we began escorting Palestinians up and down the path until they were safely past the settlers.

After a few rounds of doing this, the settlers began to physically block our way as we tried to walk down the path. There were about 15 of them doing this and when we approached, they did not move out of the way. The police did not tell them to move, so I walked straight into the center of them and kept walking despite them calling us Nazis, grabbing, kicking, clawing and trying to prevent me, my friends and the Palestinians we were escorting to get through.

The police of course, just sat there and did nothing.

This charade continued for a few rounds, we’d bring a Palestinian with us, push through the crowd, return back, and take the next person through.

Then a police officer stopped me and asked me if I had assaulted a settler girl. I said no of course not and he informed me that a girl had accused me of scratching and pushing her.

At this point I was taken to the police station on suspicion of assault.

No, I couldn’t quite believe it either, but after being in Hebron for so long, it doesn’t really surprise me.

Upon examining some of my documents, the cops discovered I am Jewish. He told me I should not tell any of the settlers I am Jewish because they will see me as a traitor. I asked him if he saw me as a traitor. He smiled condescendingly at me and said “well, we all make mistakes in our lives.”

I was detained and questioned at the police station for about 4 hours, then released.

I asked the police why didn’t they arrest the settlers who kicked, pushed and blocked our path. They said “We would need an army to arrest them.”

They have an army, don’t they? They call it the Israeli “Defence” Force.

Forgetting the Occupation, Almost

by Daniela

I was staring out the window of my office today, looking down from the seventh floor of this building that is also a shopping mall in the middle of Ramallah. I was watching a group of cab drivers sitting on stools in front of their cars, sipping tea and blasting music. All the stores were open, and it seemed as though the entire city had decided to go shopping on their lunch break. If I leaned far out the window I could probably see the “Stars and Bucks Cafe” down the road, but I wasn’t going to risk it from this height.

Staring down at the roofs of apartments I noticed that they all had satellite TV attachments along with the black tanks that hold each family’s water. Two girls were goofing around in the middle of the street, clearly trying to get the attention of the fifteen-year-old boy that was trailing behind. They looked like any teenager: low rise jeans, trendy t-shirts, hoop earrings, and purses that were far too adult for them to be holding. I glanced back at my tea-drinking cab drivers just as one of them was standing up to stretch. His angle changed, revealing one missing leg and a limp hanging arm. My mind flashed back to pictures I had seen of this city, only a few years back when it was under 24-hour curfew and saturated with Israeli tanks. It’s hard to believe it, looking down on the busy streets now with its citizens dancing around in the daily business of life. Every time I begin to feel comfortable in this city, every time I being to forget that I’m living in an occupied land, all the pain of Palestine that Ramallah’s glitter and glisten manages to conceal comes seeping up to the surface.

I am living in “Area A” of Palestine, where tanks and soldiers do not frolic about as they do in the villages. These days most of Palestine is going hungry, but it seems as though the country has pumped all the money it has into the city of Ramallah. It’s been leaving me with the false impression that Palestinians could live their lives free of oppression if they isolate themselves only to the cities.

The other day I was talking with my friend about Bethlehem and how long the journey is from Ramallah, even though it’s very nearby. He said to me, “I love Bethlehem, but no way will I go there now. Why would I want to travel through all of those checkpoints and have a [seeming] 15-year-old point his gun in my face and decided if I can pass. I’d rather stay here.” I guess the reality of the occupation is unavoidable, no matter where you hide.

For two days now, I have come to the office and immersed myself in reading about the intricacies of the Israeli military court system, and the life that Palestinian prisoners must endure. So much of what I read seems miles away, but in reality it’s right in front of my face. Two days ago, the mother of one of our organization’s clients died. He has been imprisoned for a number of years and the lawyers petitioned for his release to attend the funeral. Unsurprisingly, their request was denied. While Israeli prisoners are permitted to speak with their families, receive visitors on a regular basis, and even take a “vacation” to attend weddings and funerals, this man was not even permitted to call his family’s home in order to give his condolences.

Last night my friends and I drove outside the city center to spend a nice evening at an outdoor café. We drove up to the top of the hill and looked out over all of Ramallah. Our friend pointed to the large highway down below where only Israeli settlers are permitted to drive and then directed my attention to Ofer Military Camp. This is one of 27 detention centers where Palestinian prisoners are being held, five of which are located in the West Bank. I had just read that afternoon that prisoners in Ofer sleep in oil soaked hangers that were once used to store Israeli military vehicles.

Prisoners are often required to buy their own food, or to rely on their families to bring meals when they come to visit. However, most prisoners can’t afford to purchase food, and all family members have been forbidden to visit their sons and daughters since the capture of one Israeli soldier in Gaza several months back. My new employers explained to me that forcing detainees to buy their own food from the prison canteens is only one of many ways that the Israeli government profits off of the thousands of Palestinians that they have captured in recent years. Apparently prisoners are also forced to pay a fine for any small infractions that they commit, such as breaking a chair or yelling too loud in their cell. Palestinian prisoners have paid over 3 million dollars in fines just last year. I had always wondered how Israel could afford to carry out these arbitrary mass arrest campaigns. Now I know.

After a beautiful night at the café, I returned home to sip more tea on my balcony. Through a window, I could see my neighbor’s son watching TV and his mother washing dishes in the sink. The young kids in Ramallah were still out in the streets, undoubtedly heading off to a party or a bar. A large spotlight drifted across the city, following cars and shining into the windows of each home. I followed the beam to the top of the hill in the distance. There sits the Israeli settlement of Psgot, with its cluster of identically designed tan condominiums. Every night this week the police station inside the settlement has shined a spotlight down on Ramallah, and I’m sure it will continue every night that I am here. One more reminder that the fate of Ramallah does not belong to its citizens, or even to its municipality. Every time I trip over tank tracks while walking to work, I am forced out of my haze of normalcy. Every time I meet a new colleague only to be confronted with the bullet scars up and down his arms, I remember what it means to be Palestinian. And every time I head off to the beautiful city of Jerusalem for the weekend while my new friends are forced to remain home, I remember what drove me to come here.

IOF Soldiers Kidnap Family

Shlomo Bloom

Somehow I doubt the names and faces of the father and his three teenage boys who were kidnapped by Israeli Occupation Force soldiers tonight in Ramallah will be plastered all over news tomorrow like the face of Gilad Shalit, the kidnapped Israeli soldier.

At about 2am last night we heard there were soldiers in Al Manarra square shooting and arresting people so we went to check it out. By the time we got there the soldiers had left with their four kidnap victims whose names we were unable to find out.

I’m sure once Gilad Shalit is released, there will be a movie made about him. He’ll be the boy-next-door turned national hero who spent two months holed-up in the Gaza tunnels with savage Palestinian militants. No disrespect towards his ordeal, but why are only white people the ones who are made famous and who garner the sympathy of the whole world when they are kidnapped in this region?

After the movie is made, still no one will be able to tell me the names of the dad and his three kids who were kidnapped in Ramallah tonight.

How can you send love with a missile?

writing from Shatila refugee camp, Beirut, Electronic Lebanon, 6 August 2006

My name is Usama Abu el-Sheikh, and I am from Tabaria, Palestine. I am of course a refugee and have never been to my hometown in Palestine though I learned about it from my grandparents and I read some books about it. I have never been to Tabaria, but I am Tabarian, and will remain so, as I am from Shatila too and will remain so. Although I always dreamt of corresponding with my country and my hometown to see if I still have relatives there, I was unable to because there is no mail between Lebanon and the State of Israel. Ironically, only the missiles of Hizbullah can be sent to Israel. We are not allowed to return, but the missiles go where we cannot. But how can you send love to Tabaria with a missile?

I am nineteen now, and I grew up in Shatila camp. As a child I wanted to be many things, sometimes a doctor, other times an engineer or a journalist. As a child, you know, I could dream whatever I wanted to and I wanted to be many things. As I was growing up though, my dreams started to be hit by my reality, by my being a refugee in Lebanon where we have no civil rights. Being the oldest son of a widowed mother with seven children and no one to care for after the death of my dad when I was just seven years old, I lived a real struggle inside. My father’s words as he was on his death bed asking me to “care for the family” are words that keep echoing in my head. I got to be the “man of the household” without choosing it, without knowing it. As a child, it was ok, but as I was getting to be a teenager, I wanted always to fulfill this responsibility, always. I was not able to stand the fact that I’m not fulfilling my responsibility as the head of the household. My mum, like all Palestinian mothers, wanted me to get my education. For her it was the way to help the family out, because the identity “educated” is kind of a compensation of our lost identity as Palestinians — not lost in terms of our own feelings but in terms of how the world deals with us. It was hard to focus though, especially because I couldn’t see a future. How could I be a doctor in a country where we have no rights? So I left school, and now I work in a telephone calling shop in the camp.

Maybe you are wondering why I am writing to you about my personal life at a time of war. I just wanted to express that this war reinforced my ideas that what we need is a collective solution for everyone, not individual solutions such as are offered here and there. Just as being “educated” will not replace my loss of identity, a solution for Palestine, separate from Lebanon or Syria or Iraq is not going to be possible. I sit in the camp and think about how much effort is put to separate us all from each other. And now we have the F-16s over our heads joining us together all in one camp. I do not mean Shatila camp, but a much bigger camp for all those whose lives are cheap in this world, the camp of those who die like bugs, the camp for those on whom they test their weapons. As proud as I am of Lebanon’s resistance, I do not think I will be returning to Palestine soon. I will keep sending my love to my hometown in Palestine. I know that the world never hears our cries. But they do hear the roar of the missiles. Can you send love on a missile?

With love from Shatila.

Rafah Tonight and The Morality of the Israeli Army

By Mona El-Farra from her blog From Gaza, With Love

12:30 am 4th of August
The Israeli army continues its military operation, in the south of Gaza (Rafah town). Army tanks are heading into the refugee camp under the cover of helicopters that fired several shells. At least 4 civilians were killed including a woman and 2 children. Tens of severely injured are reported to be received at the Rafah’s only hospital. The number will increase. Many of the in-patients were discharged to make space for the injured. The shelling is too severe, as I was told by colleagues there, ambulances can’t reach many of the injured, the army tanks are very close to the hospital, one of the houses was specifically targeted.

It seems that the military operation into Rafah will continue…….as noticed by the increasing number of the army tanks in the area.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Morality of The Israeli Army
Gaza Strip 1st of August 2006

Today the Israeli Occupying Forces redeployed into the area south east of Rafah, targeting Alshoukas village. They launched a big military operation against the village in a desperate attempt to demolish alleged tunnels. At least 50 army tanks along with helicopters and drones took part in this operation. What concerned me is that 8 people were killed, amongst them 2 Palestinian fighters, and the rest were civilians including one boy age 11. Twenty-six people were injured, ten are in serious conditions.

The health emergency teams were not allowed entry to rescue the injured for 12 hours, leaving the injured to face their destinies. I am sure, as are my colleagues at the Rafah hospital, that this inhuman act increased the number of the dead and seriously injured. During the operation, ambulances were also attacked by shelling at the hospital’s gate. Tens of families in the village were forced to leave their homes; children, women and men left their homes because the shelling was too severe.

What of morality? Of the Fourth Geneva convention and its charters regarding civilians and the safety of health teams working during war times? This accord means nothing and is not respected by the Israeli army. For us here in Palestine, we know very well that Israel, with its colonial-Zionist ideology, aims to kill more and more Palestinian civilians. During its so called military operations to “defend its security”, hundreds of civilians including entire families were unnecessarily killed.

Israel aims to break the Palestinian people’s will and determination to achieve their inalienable nationals goals. I said before they will not succeed and I am saying it again and again. It is impossible to control an entire nation using collective punishment and continuous occupation. It is impossible to confiscate an entire nation’s right of freedom and self-determination. Israel and the United States should read history lessons.

Here in Gaza City the artillery shelling continued in the east and north. We don’t have air raids shelters, we don’t have electricity, we don’t have clean water. The war boats patrol the sea and the helicopters continue their shelling at all times of the day. Lately, Israel has also been distributing of flyers against resistance movement.

I was in the Omar Elmukhtar high street and watched the sarcastic expression on the faces of a bunch of teenagers as they picked up these flyers and read them. I remembered myself as a teenager during 1967 war time. I read the same sort of flyers and laughed. Israel aims to make Palestinian people hungry, thirsty, to make us face humanitarian disaster after humanitarian disaster, and dependent on the world’s sympathy.

We are a nation with a noble cause; we resist injustice and occupation. We are not alone and we know that very well. What we face is the most ugly version of the United States’ imbalanced policies in the Middle East. The immorality and injustice of these policies will reflect itself on the future of USA, let us wait and see.

P.S. I was asked by some of you why I keep referring to the Israeli army as occupying army. This is the truth AND I AM SAYING THE TRUTH. The disengagement plan from Gaza last Septemper did not end the occupation of Gaza and the West Bank. All it has meant for me is that I can visit my mother in the south (20 km drive) without passing through the Israeli checkpoints. But I am still under the threat of the jetfighters, sonic booms, and continuous shelling from the north and east. Israel still has control of the commercial borders and has closed them at will causing shortages of baby formula, bread, food, and medicine. Israel and the rest of the world have imposed economic sanctions on us as a collective punishment for our choice during the January election. How would you define the above but occupation?

In love and solidarity,
Mona