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.

Letter from an Israeli Jail

The following was scribbled on a piece of paper by Tarek and passed to Huwaida via a lawyer during court proceedings for the deportation of 8 international peace activists on July 17, 2003. The hunger protest referred to was begun on the evening on July 15.

I had forgotten what love was. My world was one of anger, rage and hate. As the 5 or 6 police officers each took a turn hitting me, all I cold think of was hate. There could be nothing else. All of this started when Captain Ya’kov (Yoki) Golan came into our room and asked if we were on hunger strike. “We’re not eating,” we replied. A few police thugs swarmed the room and started to take anything. Capt. Ya’kov started to talk about how we were nothing, to which I replied, “shut the hell up and don’t you dare talk to us like that. You can’t break me. You can’t break any of us.” “I’m not just going to break you; I’m going to destroy you.” We all laughed.

We were strip searched 3 times in the next hour and then they came for me.

“Where are you taking him?” The other seven protested on my behalf. They cared more about me than I did. I came to terms with the fact that I was going into solitary, and finally approached the police. “I’m ready.” I declared melodramatically. That’s when the first hand came. They grabbed my shirt and pulled me to the ground in front of the cell. I did nothing. Even if I wanted to, I had lost track of all my appendages. All I knew was that they were all limp. The hitting started, and I filled the halls with screams of pain.

As I was up against the wall, with one man stomping on my leg, another bending my arm and another two or three pulling and hitting elsewhere, I caught a glimpse of the faces and entered that other world.

I can’t do anything now. The guards who were involved all smile when they pass our cell. And all of this over the only act of resistance we can do: going hungry. One thing hasn’t changed though: none of us will be broken.

Tarek

—–
Read Tobius’ note from jail here.

Midnight Victim

by Neda, Beit Sahour

It could happen very simply to any girl of us, and without any consideration to any international law or any humanitarian sense, one girl of my classmates was arrested while she was drowning in her innocent dreams, and has not any single political relation, in the middle of the night a tremendous number of Israeli soldiers, tanks and all kinds of weapons swept over Fida’s house.

Fida, whose mother died many years ago and lives with her old father, was arrested in justification that she is planning to a suicide bombing. They searched the house and turned it upside down while there is nothing to find accept some canned food which they kept for war [in case of curfews]. Fida and her old father were blindfolded in a very windy night and it was raining very hard. They didn’t allow her to take any jacket or blanket; they didn’t take care about anything and treated her like animals. She couldn’t hold on to all the awful things that were happening to her and her old father.

After they put her in jail with other two girls with same reasons they brought her one female soldier to deal and investigate, but it didn’t work and they couldn’t communicate despite there is many soldiers that speak Arabic – they intended to bother them as much as they could. Fida was already sick with the flu and sick physically besides the nightmare they brought to her and after one day they let them go and told them that they mixed up with other Fida…they think.

And this could happen to any Palestinian girl, and we are supposed to take it easy.

Experiences in Violence vs. Kindness

by Megan

Ok… here is what happened in Bethlehem.

I went to Jerusalem, to the Damascus Gate, and took a cab to a side route into Bethlehem because the town was under curfew so no one could enter or leave. I hiked up a small rocky hill and to the other side where the cabs waited to take the people who were sneaking back in to their homes. I was met by the trainers of the group I am working for and not long after went to the house where I was staying. We had made signs at the office announcing that international presence was at the house in hopes that if the military came back they would attempt to evacuate the house before destroying it.

The military had broken into the house at midnight the evening before and tore it apart, broke all the windows and told the family they would be back to demolish it as an extra punishment for one of the sons who had lived there who was now in prison. The family spent the night moving their belongings into neighboring houses and distributing the women and children to other houses in the refugee camp. At this point I would like to point out that it is illegal to punish the families and friends of prisoners and suicide bombers and to come in and destroy their homes to punish someone who has already been punished. I stayed in the home with another observer listening for tanks. The military never showed back up. They often don’t. They come into houses and scare the families and cause them to evacuate and then wait for months to take any action. For the most part when they really intend to tear houses down they just arrive and shoot into the house and give the family a few minutes to leave before they tear it down on the spot. What they did the other night to this family was just for the sake of terrorizing them.

I spent a lot of time with the women and their children. I can’t help but think what it must be like for a child to grow up with this. In a discussion with one of the men of the camp I apologized for my horrible – and I mean horrible – Arabic and he said “they don’t teach Arabic in your schools, they teach English in ours so we should be able to talk to you but half the time our towns were under curfew and we couldn’t go to school and that’s why our English is so bad.” This man was in his late thirties… This has been going on for years. Will the children here ever be able to go to school regularly? I spent a lot of time with the school kids in the house helping them study their English, going through their school books with them.. I wish I had been there long enough to have really helped. I left Bethlehem after two days with the family. They asked me to return before the end of my trip but I doubt I will have time.

I am now in Tulkarem, also in the West Bank. The trip here took a few hours. They had raised curfew in Bethlehem from 10am to 4pm. This is not for the sake of being kind to the people who live there but to give the people they are looking for a chance to return to their homes so when curfew begins again they will have a better chance of catching them.

On the bus ride to Tulkarem we were stopped and all the men had to evacuate the bus and wait in the rain for the military to check their id’s. After they had done that a soldier entered the bus and checked out all the seats and the women. He pointed his gun at all of us as he checked our seats then he left. The path into town was covered in mud, horses and mules splashed mud on everyone in their attempts to get up the hill. One woman fell in a large puddle but as is the custom here everyone stopped and helped her and held her hand the rest of the way.

I will write more about my experiences here in Tulkarem later, but would like to take a second to point out the immense kindness of everyone I have met here. Everyone knows who we are and why we are here and are thankful for it. The economy here is in a horrible state of affairs because people cannot go to work outside of town and often with curfew people cannot open their businesses yet when I go to the market to buy fruit and vegetables they don’t want to accept my money. Anytime I have looked even close to being lost, which has been a lot, yet not as much as I expected, people are rushing to help, to walk me or drive me to where I need to go and oddly enough for what they have to deal with here on a daily basis they are always smiling and laughing.

The mother of the house I stayed at in Bethlehem gave me a pillow covering she embroidered and apologized for not having time to make one personally for me but having to give me one she made months ago. Her daughter embroidered my initial in it and hers as well. I tried to say no but it is rude here to not take what is offered to you. I am unfortunately unable to express the immense effect this kindness has had on me, I am just amazed at the love these people have for anyone not attacking them after generations of violence and abuse.

Thousands of Palestinians Regularly Rendered Homeless

by Kristin Ess

Last night 30 invading Israeli soldiers tore through a house on the edge of a Bethlehem refugee camp. Arriving in 12 heavily armoured jeeps with blue lights flashing at midnight, they took measurements of the house, home to several units of the same extended family, and the house next door.

That house is small, someone’s grandmother’s home. She is sitting in a chair in her leafy garden in front of the house. She is staring to the side, not speaking, not crying. The larger house, which Israeli soldiers will blow up the grandmother’s house in order to get to, has a roof that many nights during curfew people meet on, making a barbeque in an old can. It is impossible to meet in cafes or restaurants, most are closed because of curfew and there isn’t much money to spend anyway.

In the night after the Israeli soldiers left, people from the camp came out from their houses to help the families carry out their salvageable belongings. A replica of Al Aqsa mosque, a half smashed television, blankets, suitcases, a little girl comes out of the door with a backpack holding hands with a friend. She must find a new place to sleep, as must everyone. Friends from around the camp were shaking hands, one walked up to me and shrugged. The one whose house it is said, “thank you,” and “if God wills it.” Today women are lined up in chairs across the narrow ally street from the house accepting handshakes and kisses on the cheek from neighbors who come to offer condolences. They are all homeless now.

The Israeli soldiers said they would be back to blow up the houses. Maybe now, maybe later. No one knows as is normal in this campaign of psychological warfare that the Israeli military government is waging against the Palestinian people. They did the same thing in Deheisha camp 4 months ago and the people are still waiting, outside of their house, because at any moment Israeli soldiers might arrive to destroy it.

Israeli soldiers dug up the main road out of Beit Sahour, creating a roadblock higher than two cars atop one another. An old woman there tells me that her flower garden used to be so beautiful, that the stone fence in front of the road was so beautiful. There are tanks in the hill behind and jeeps driving past a road now gone to mud. My friends here keep telling me that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

One Hundred Rounds of Warning Shots and a Very Long Walk

by Carla
Read Carla’s first journal from Mawasi here.

The next day we did accompany Palestinians down the road that used to lead into Mawasi (that now stops at a checkpoint guarding the new settlements) carrying medical supplies. At least one hundred rounds of warning shots hit the ground around us as we slowly made our way forward. A very long walk of only a quarter mile. One reporter, a Palestinian, was shot in the head (he was taken to the hospital and survived as the wound was superficial), but the group decided to continue forward. The task of those of us who were internationals was to protect the Palestinians (the reporter had been taking pictures to the side – very exposed). We walked in front and on the outer edge of their group, with them in the center, using the privilege of our international status (we hoped) to shield them. I had moved to the back of the group on the same side as the guntower in order to shield the women and I have not ever paid so much attention to absolutely every step I took. I was hearing sharp cracks of bullets on the ground next to me. A lot of them. Sprays of dirt kicked up by the bullets hit my cheeks. Each step became a shear act of will. The Palestinian women next to me must have been living the same struggle, but they were here to try to go home after two years, and I was here to accompany them as far as they were willing to go.

Carrying a cardboard box of medical supplies (everyone else had see-through plastic bags) I was acutely aware of how they would have the excuse of saying they couldn’t see what was in the box –”there could have been a bomb”– if I were to be hit. I opened the top, carrying it at an angle to demonstrate there was nothing to hide. Palestinians from Mawasi had not walked this road in two years without being shot at. This obviously was no different, however we made it close enough to the guntower to be able to negotiate with the soldiers, closer than anyone had done previously. Encouraged by the negotiations, we took a few more steps forward, eliciting more bullets, this time silent bullets. That was truly eerie – the only sign we had that we were still being fired on was seeing (and feeling) dirt kicked up by the impact of the bullets. Unheard bullets were more terrifying – and luckily only a few were fired – those who had more experience with soldiers in Gaza announced that it was time to retreat, as the use of silent bullets meant serious business. We did not make it past the checkpoint that day, but two days later a group of Palestinians and internationals did go those last few feet to the checkpoint and negotiated getting the medical supplies into Mawasi. A small victory.

Amazing to me was how quickly I got used to gunfire. The first day I was in Rafah I went with Molly to see the family she had been staying with. Their home had been demolished that morning and the family was gathering what it could salvage. We had to run for cover as a tank fired on what was left of the house. By the time I went to the Mawasi checkpoint I had been staying in Gaza in Palestinian homes for a week. Every day and almost every night I experienced shooting from the tanks that rolled by the edge of town, into the neighborhoods where the houses were located. Gunfire was (is) a daily reality on the southern perimeter of town bordering Egypt. Here Israel has plans for a “security” wall designed to keep Palestinians from leaving Gaza. The goal was (is) to wear down the resolve of families to stay in their homes that are on the periphery of town near the future wall.

Neighborhoods are repeatedly assaulted by gunfire from tanks until families leave. Sometimes a tank will target a house with mortar fire, as was the inhabited house next to where my friend Molly was staying. (Let me make it clear these are unarmed civilians, families, non-combatants). Once homes are abandoned, Israeli soldiers will first dynamite, then bulldoze the houses, and begin to assault the homes of families that are newly exposed, homes that had laid behind the now demolished ones. Slowly they are eating away at the edges of Rafah.

That is all I have to share for now, except to add that my experience of Palestinians is of a people to whom family and land mean everything. I will hold in my heart forever the smiles, the eyes full of kindness, the humor, and the generosity of each person who has contributed to my first memories of Palestine.

In Solidarity, with Love,
Carla