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.
Reflection written by Tom Fox in Iraq the day before the abduction
2 December 2005
As I survey the landscape here in Iraq, dehumanization seems to be the operative means of relating to each other. U.S. forces in their quest to hunt down and kill “terrorists” are, as a result of this dehumanizing word, not only killing “terrorists,” but also killing innocent Iraqis: men, women and children in the various towns and villages.
It seems as if the first step down the road to violence is taken when I dehumanize a person. That violence might stay within my thoughts or find its way into the outer world and become expressed verbally, psychologically, structurally or physically. As soon as I rob a fellow human being of his or her humanity by sticking a dehumanizing label on them, I begin the process that can have, as an end result, torture, injury and death.
“Why are we here?” We are here to root out all aspects of dehumanization that exist within us. We are here to stand with those being dehumanized by oppressors and stand firm against that dehumanization. We are here to stop people, including ourselves, from dehumanizing any of God’s children, no matter how much they dehumanize their own souls.
Israeli Military overseeing further construction outside Kalandia Checkpoint
By Jon
Traveling between Ramallah and Jerusalem used to be a relatively easy trip, despite the various demarcations and borders the two cities contained, both within and between them. Things have changed of course, both quickly and drastically. What only a few years ago was a temporary “flying” checkpoint near Kalandia Refugee Camp, would then be converted into a more fixed checkpoint; ultimately it would evolve into it’s present form, a monstrous Terminal/Wall infrastructure complex. And the process continues; everyday that I pass through there, something new is built or added, complete with Palestinian laborers working in the shadow of Caterpillar bulldozers, while being watched over by heavily armed Israeli security guards.
With the physical landscape being so irrevocably redefined and reconstructed by the occupation, I want to describe my most recent passage through Kalandia. Partly, I am doing this as I prepare to leave Palestine, and not knowing when I may be able to return. Of the many things that frighten me, one is this; simply how much will change and be changed while I am away? How do you look forward to returning somewhere if your can’t even recognize it when you get there?
When I first used Kalandia checkpoint, in 2003-2004, it was a checkpoint much like Huwarra near Nablus; people were being harrassed by the IOF whenever I passed through, mostly by being questioned as to their IDs and permits. It’s hard to describe the experience of waiting on line with 50 or more Palestinians, waiting to have your ID checked, while a 20 year old Israeli soldier is standing in front of you, pointing his rifle at you, looking at everyone like they are no better than the dirt on his boots.
Back in January, a soldier was killed at Kalandia, stabbed by a Palestinian while passing through what at that time had evolved into a labyrinth of concrete, metal sheeting, razor wire and Israeli soldiers. For the next week or two, the process there, which was already humiliating, violent and painfully slow became even more so. I remember passing in the opposite direction on the way to Ramallah, and seeing the new changes; even longer lines, and when one approaches the soldiers to show your ID, there were at least 5 other soldiers standing to the side, their rifles drawn and pointing straight at you, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.
Then, the sparkling new ‘Terminal’ was opened. Paid for by US aid to the Palestinian Authority, it is truly a triumph of sarcasm and sadism, all rolled into one (and by the way, didn’t a certain Central European regime build a wall in Warsaw and charge the people they were building it around for it’s construction?). Now, the IOF can hide in their protected little bomb and bullet-proof cubicles, scream orders and insults in Hebrew through a microphone, make people wait as long as they like, while never having to so much as breath the same air as the Palestinians passing through the terminal.
Outside the checkpoint there used to be a sign that read “THE HOPE OF US ALL,” although it wasn’t entirely clear whose hopes and for what they were referring to; pretty soon a group of activists from Jews Against Genocide covered it in graffiti, writing “ARBEIT MACH FREI” a few times over it. Soon, after, the sign was removed… but alas, the checkpoint remains.
The last time I was there, I was not very happy to see a really, really long line to get into the checkpoint. Usually, I haven’t had to wait too long, as the soldiers have never seemed too concerned about my being there; at the most, I might have my visa checked, but that’s about it (and sometimes not even that much). To make matters worse, I was pretty tired too, and a bit stressed about my leaving so soon; the last thing I wanted to deal with while on my way to seeing friends in Hebron was a long wait at Kalandia but I didn’t seem to have much choice. So, I got into the slowly moving mass of people, and soon I was in a sea of Palestinian men, from about 25 to 40 years old; there was a way to pass for the young & old & women, but I just couldn’t get the guts to flaunt my privilege and use it.
Inside the nearby control room was a female Israeli soldier, and she was shouting commands in Hebrew every minutes or so, as she controlled how long the revolving metal-bar doors in front of us would be open for (complete with green and red lights, for our convenience!). Now, most of the men seemed to be taking the situation with the usual coping method of laughing at it; personally, I started fantasizing about how many screwdrivers it would take to dismantle the place while we were waiting, but that’s just me. They would cover the speaker with their hand, mimic her voice, and stay pretty relaxed, all things considered, but for all these men to be talked to like they are children by this young woman was certainly yet another method of humiliation by the IOF. And then there was the challenge to her authority; whereas she would be insisting that only one person go through the revolving door at a time, the men would be squeezing anywhere from 2 to 4 people through at a time; she would say “wahadi wahadi,” (one by one) and they would say (and do) in response, “arba a arba” (four by four).
This went on for a bit, until I got within range to squeeze in, but I had some difficulty; my backpack kept getting stuck, and people would jump out ahead of me each and every time. I finally got into position along with 2 other guys, with my backpack on my head, and we waited for the light to turn green. But, then something unexpected happened. Next to the revolving doors that we were using, there were to regular doors, and two men selling sunglasses were working out passage through, as their merchandise wouldn’t fit through the revolving doors. So, she opens the other doors, and what happens? Yes, everyone starts pouring through, including me; hell, I had already spent an hour there, and this was just the first door to get through!
At this point, more than 100 of us had gotten through, but there was still the actual checking of the permits & bags still to be done. I walked about, trying to find a line that was shorter, going faster, something, but, nothing! I even tried to slip into the women’s line, but the soldier said on the speaker that I needed to go to the men’s lines. So, standing there, I resigned myself to getting to Jerusalem much later than I expected, if at all. But out of the corner of my eye, I notice that the station to my left was just starting to let people in, so I make a move… along with 50 other people! But I get a jump on most of them, push my way into the revolving door, and then it slams shut, I get the red light!
Welcome to Kalandia Checkpoint
But now I’m mad, I’m tired, and I just don’t understand why these soldiers, these boys, see the need to toy with us all like this? Is this ‘security?’.
So I yell at the soldier I see behind the window, “What the hell are you doing to us? Will you let us through for Christ’s sake?”
The soldier behind the glass window sees me, and of course hears and sees my frustration, so what does he do? He responds to me in Hebrew, saying who the hell knows what!
So I tell him ” I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE SAYING!!!! Will you just let us through?!?”
And then, miraculously, he does! About 10 of us get into the main chamber, put our bags through the scanner, walk through the metal detector… as an afterthought I show my passport, but they don’t even ask to see the visa or ask me anything.
And after passing through another set of the same revolving iron bar doors, I was out, the whole ordeal only taking 1 and a half hours. It could have been much worse, and I did get through eventually, but just what was it that I had been through? According to the Israeli government, I had passed through the newest and most efficient checkpoint that was to provide ‘security’ and would be ‘The Hope of Us All.” As far as I am concerned, I had passed through a place that, despite the aesthetic changes, had not changed at all. It is still a place that by its very existence, miles within the Occupied West Bank, serves only to humiliate, control, and do violence to the lives of Palestinians. It is a constant reminder to Palestinians that they are the ghettoized slaves and serfs of the land, and that the Israeli boys with guns, whether up close and personal or behind blast-proof glass, have all the power in the world; it is, in other words, the true meaning of ‘security,’ which will never result in anyone’s security.
Genocide:
Some people use the word genocide to describe the situation in Palestine. This offends many Jews, and turns us off from listening to anything else the speaker says. We picture gas chambers, concentration camp workers, and huge piles of bodies. Some of us have learned that there were massacres of Palestinians by Israelis; others do not know. There is no excuse for killing even one person, but the enormous differences in scale make the comparisons easy to refute.
I have been to the Holocaust Museum in Washington many times. When you enter the museum you go up elevators to the 3rd floor. Off the elevators you hear then General Eisenhower talking about what American troops encountered when they discovered the camps. After that, you wind through dark hallways with the history of the increasing amount of restrictions and
discrimination against Jews in Europe. That is where I see the parallels with Palestine. We had ghettos; they have refugee camps. We had yellow stars; they have green license plates and identity cards that dictate what parts of their former land they can access. We were prohibited from working and traveling many places we went before; so are they. Daughters who
married and moved from Gaza to the West Bank can no longer visit their elderly parents. People who honeymooned at the sea, or worshipped in Jerusalem can no longer go there if they fled to the West Bank because they were afraid of the Israelis. Were they wrong to flee? How could they know at the time they made the decision? Six million Jews died because they did
not flee soon enough.
Israel’s Right to Exist:
The U.S. wants Hamas to acknowledge Israel’s right to exist. I think this is irrelevant. I doubt very many Palestinians will agree that Israel has a right to exist, but they recognize that Israel does exist. That’s recognize with a small r, not a capital R, if there is such a thing. Asking them to swallow their pride and lie about how they feel is counter-productive. We need to work out together how to share this precious land.
Right of Return:
Mohammed, a 14-year-old, told me the history of the mosque in the village the Israelis call Zacharia. I doubt the adults who live next door to the mosque know that history. I, as an American Jew, have a right to move there to live. Mohammed’s parents do not have the right to visit, and neither will he in two years. You can not convince me that they should not have the
right of return. I’m not saying that the Israelis who live there now should be evicted, but I do think that there will need to be reparations. Where houses exist, there must be an amount of money that a Palestinian family would be willing to accept to turn over their key, or an Israeli family would be willing to accept to move out.
As for the demographics, I know that allowing Palestinians to return may result in a country that is no longer majority Jewish. To me, Judaism should be synonymous with justice. This is not a just, and therefore not a Jewish state now. It is a state composed of more people who celebrate Yom Kippur than who celebrate Ramadan. To quote Isaiah, “Is such the fast that
I have chosen? ”
Jerusalem:
The old city will never cease to amaze me. It is my history, and my heritage, and it is not wrong for Jews to worship there. It is also not wrong for Muslims and Christians to worship there. It should be accessible to all.
Courage:
I was amazed by the strength of the Palestinians I met, making as good a life as possible for their children under daunting circumstance.
Tolerance:
I was impressed by the lack of hatred of Israelis, given that there is so much negative contact between Israelis and Palestinians in the West Bank. I heard a sincere desire to work things out.
Hannah’s Safety:
I am less worried about Hannah’s safety now that I have seen where she works and met the people she works with. She seems to really know her way around and have some degree of caution, although I still don’t understand why an asthmatic would intentionally go into areas where she could get tear-gassed. I guess if it made her too uncomfortable she would stop. I also saw how many people truly care about her. She would have many protectors in case of
trouble.
Because we feel Rachel Corrie’s story and message are so important, we have created “Rachel Corrie Cards” for people to distribute in their communities. We’re asking a small donation toward the printing costs, but will ship the cards to anyone who can help get them out to the public, with or without a donation. It will take all of us doing all we can to tell people the facts.
Text on Front of Card:
Rachel, we won’t forget you.
Rachel Corrie (1979-2003)
Rachel was killed when an Israeli soldier bulldozed her. She was trying to protect a family’s home in the Gaza Strip.
Text on Back of Card:
“Let me know if you have any ideas about what I should do with the rest of my life.”
– Rachel Corrie’s last email to her dad
There is a quiet battle going on for the memory of a young woman who could have been my daughter, or perhaps yours.
On one side are those who would like to erase her from history; her actions, her beliefs, her murder. If they are unsuccessful at that, they will settle for posthumous slurs on her character, falsifications of her death.
On the other side are those who feel her shining principles should be praised, her courage honored, her death grieved. On this side are those who believe that heroism is noble, bravery admirable, and compassion for others the most fundamental form of morality.
To those of us on this side, Rachel Corrie will never be forgotten. She was 23 when she was killed. We won’t forget her young idealism, her sweet bravery, her needless death. And we won’t forget her beliefs, the third of which killed her: that good would triumph, that justice would prevail, that Israeli forces would not kill her.
She was wrong on that last one. On March 16, 2003, two Israeli soldiers drove a house-crushing bulldozer over her, twice, crushing her into the Gaza dirt. With five other nonviolent human rights defenders, Rachel had spent several hours in front of a family home in Palestine, pleading with Israeli soldiers not to demolish it. They didn’t (until later); they demolished her instead.
Her friends ran to her screaming. They dug her out of the dirt. One told me that Rachel’s eyes were open; her last words were, “My back is broken.”
Far more, of course, was broken. The day was broken, the universe was broken, her sister’s world was broken, her brother’s life was broken, her parents’ hearts were broken. All the things were broken that break when someone is killed.
Since fall 2000, over 3,800 Palestinian lives, days, worlds have been broken; over 1,000 Israeli ones. We hear about the Israeli tragedies; we rarely hear about the many times more Palestinian ones; the mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters and brothers who are killed and mutilated during all those wonderful periods of “relative calm” our news media lie to us about.
I wonder how much (if at all) we’ll hear about Rachel Corrie on March 16th, the anniversary of her death. Israel, as with all those it kills, claims that her death “was an accident” or “was necessary for security” or that “she was a terrorist” or that “she was protecting terrorists”… As fast as these Israeli fabrications are refuted, new ones are produced. Never mind that they’re self-contradictory – our complicit media never question.
Change is coming, however, and it is gathering momentum. Americans of every race, religion and ethnicity remember Rachel, and grieve her death. While Congress is intimidated into denying her parents’ right to an investigation of the American “ally” who murdered their daughter, people in towns throughout the country are planning commemorations and future actions. One by one, people are rising up. We are reclaiming our nation, our principles, and our souls. We won’t forget Rachel. And we won’t be stopped.
Read Rachel’s letters: www.IfAmericansKnew.org To order cards click here
I work in the ISM media office. On February 19th 2006 the Israeli milit1ary once again invaded Balata Refugee Camp.
I remember the first invasion that Sharon orchestrated into the camps during this intifada, in February 2002. I remember that I could not believe it was happening. Never in my worst nightmares would I believe, had someone told me, that four years later such horror would become “normal.”
IWPS and ISM volunteers called me in the office as they accompanied Palestinian medics in their efforts to give medical treatment to the wounded and sick in the camp. They called me when the Israeli military shot towards ambulances and denied them access to Balata. They called me when they witnessed unarmed 22-year-old Mohammad Subkhi Abu Hanade being shot in the chest by a sniper through his bedroom window. I wrote a press release, emailed and faxed it and then called the news agencies and journalists.
No one wrote about it. Not even the Arabic press which is always more responsive.
The next morning I looked everywhere for news of the invasion and found none.
That day Sixteen year old Kamal Khalili was shot and was clinically dead by the time he made it to the hospital. The woman that answered the phone at Agency France Press said “call us back when he dies” and hung up.
The volunteers called me when soldiers refused to let them treat ill people in families whose homes had been occupied. They called me when people in the camp ran out of food and baby formula. They called me when the youth of the camp who defended their homes with stones and makeshift barricades were shot at wounded and killed. They gave me the names and the ages of children shot at with live ammunition.
I wrote it all down even though I knew that the mainstream media did not want to know.
I wrote it down knowing that wounded, hungry and imprisoned Palestinian civilians are simply. Not. News.
