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.

Brighton-Tubas Fellowship: Life in the women’s prison

Two days ago I attended a peaceful demonstration of villagers against the theft of their land by villagers. I found my self assaulted and ‘arrested’ by a settler with the acquiescence of the Isreali army, lied to by the Israeli police, dumped in the punishment block of the women’s prison, driven for miles to the Ministry of the Interior deportation centre, and eventually released because I had done nothing wrong. What would they have done to me if I was Palestinian?

Over the last week I have seen the heartache on the faces of the families of many Palestinian prisoners and the hollow looks in the eyes of those who have been incarcerated, as they have told me their stories of humiliation and degradation. Sitting in a prison cell, with no way of contacting the outside world, I began to grasp the enormity of what they had been telling me.

I know without a doubt that the Police and prison guards were being a little careful with us as internationals who had insisted on our right to contact our Consulate, to have legal representation, and to not sign the endless documents they put before us in Hebrew. But I still experienced the fear of sitting in a filthy dirty cell, not knowing how long I was going to be there. Then a young Palestinian woman in the cell next to us struck up a conversation. She had been sitting in cells for the last 2 years. Her youngest brother was shot by Israeli soldiers when he was 12, and all her other brothers were in prison. We knew our friends on the outside would be constantly worrying about us. What must her mother be going through? Her friend further down the block, and graduate of Beir Zeit University, had been there for 7 years. How had they survived this ordeal, and still had the energy to welcome us, and reassure us?

We thought it would be reasonable to expect such things as water, exercise, medical help, sleep and a phone call to the outside world. How wrong could we be? By the time we had gone 18 hours without water, having asked many, many times, we were given ‘water’ that was in fact orange squash that looked more like a urine sample sitting in our water bottle in the cell. When we questioned this the guards told us that there is no cold water supply in the prison and the prisoners never, ever get water. Soon afterwards we were told that we should be ready to ‘go out’ when it was our turn for the 1 hour of exercise we were entitled to in every 24 hours. We were quite excited at the prospect at leaving our cell until we saw that we would spend our precious hour in a hot concrete yard 20 x 25ft. We tried some stretches and walking around in circles, but found our motivation was quickly waning after a day of enforced sitting around doing nothing and not being able to sleep.

As we were in the ‘punishment’ block all the women around us were in solitary confinement. An Israeli woman nearby was clearly distressed by her situation. She must have used every ounce of energy she had to shout, scream, bang on her door with whatever she could find and cry endlessly. I was really worried that she would hurt herself, but the prison guards felt that ambling up to her cell and shouting at her intermittently was the appropriate response to this. As a result we had only 2 hrs respite when i assume she slept in the early hours of the morning. All the other prisoners were tired and stressed and shouting at her and each other through their cell doors. In the middle of all this racket the young women in the cell next to us sat at her cell door and sang the most beautiful song imaginable and I strained to listen to her and cut out all the noise around me to claim a few minutes of sanity. For this I have to thank her. When we hadn’t heard from our friend from Beir Zeit for some time we asked if she had left and were told that she was sleeping. Had she really had to get used to these torturous conditions to such an extent that she could now sleep through this constant noise?

As I had been told that we were arrested for 24 hours from 1.30pm on Friday I assumed that by 1.30pm on Saturday I would have to be released or go to court. Nothing is so simple. We were given different information by each prison guard that came along and felt a call to our solicitor was needed, so we asked for this. The reply: Yes, we were entitled to make a phone call but we needed a card. Could we buy a card with the money they had taken off us? No, they do not sell them.

Eventually they came to collect us at 7pm. They gave us our bags, then out came the handcuffs and shackles to be locked around our ankles. Did they really think we would try to run surrounded by police men and women with two guns each?

Throughout our time there the prison guards were nasty, uncooperative and sadistic without exception. I assume they will have developed their skill at treating people like animals in the two years they will have served in the army, and have been honing them ever since.

On being an international inside a refugee camp under invasion

Journal by Sandra

It can be hard being a human rights activist during normal circumstances. It’s even harder during Ramadan! I haven’t had any intentions to fast, but it can be terribly difficult not to. Drinking water behind the backs of a bunch of people from the UN when everyone is looking in another direction is one way to do it. The best example though, was maybe yesterday, somewhere in an invaded refugee camp in Palestine, eating bananas inside the bathroom of one of the families we were trying to help.

The last few days might have been the biggest experience I’ve ever had. I was prepared to go to Hebron Wednesday when I was informed that the city was declared a closed military zone. As an international going there it means getting arrested, and there’s definitely better causes for being arrested in this country. Since the Al-Ayn refugee camp in Nablus, a piece of land as big as the size of two football fields and the home for 6000 people, was under occupation I decided to go there instead. I did have second thoughts as at that time I did not consider myself to be one of the brave ones.

Me and two other activists, together with a Palestinian volunteer medical team decided to sneak into the camp. They were going to deliver food, medicine, and other supplies to those in need after more than two days of curfew, and they needed our presence to prevent harassment from the Israeli soldiers. We were going through the crowded alleyways from house to house shouting, “volunteer, international… don’t shoot” every time we turned around a corner. The whole place was full of soldiers taking over houses of families, many of them with small children.

We went in to one house which was the home of 50 people, among them were a huge amount of kids. We were talking to them, giving them supplies, and I won’t forget their happy faces giving them the rest of my bananas. Not much more then half an hour later there was a giant explosion inside the camp. Black intense smoke mixed with all sorts of different burnt stuff flying around in the air. It was the house of the family being demolished because one of the people in there happened to be the cousin of one of the men wanted.

Another family gave us the mission to get a 20 year old female student from Tulkarem out of there. She was visiting friends when the camp got invaded and since then she wasn’t allowed to leave. We gave her one of our neon vests and she joined our group to be able to leave the camp and get home.

When we were passing the same soldiers for the third time they had definitely had it. There was no way out but to leave and there was no way to convince them about the opposite. The frustration among us was big and even bigger when we saw our friends right outside the camp fully loaded with bread but unable to get in. All we wanted was to receive it and hand it to the closest home for the family there to continue passing it on to the ones in need. The soldiers were not up for that at all. Walking around in the alleys you could easily tell that they were really nervous about being where they were and by the fact that we were distracting them from doing their job. They kept on repeating that we were not safe in there and they did not want to shoot us by accident. Eventually they did force us out together with the unpleasant experience of my first sound bomb. I’m telling you it’s really loud! We had no choice but to run out.

The last day of the invasion the UN finally decided to show up. But they refused to go into the camp – it was too dangerous so they said. Truth is that they are the ones in charge of it and if anyone was going to be able to do something to improve the conditions inside of the camp being occupied it should have been them. But it was us. We were the only internationals in there.

By five in the morning the soldiers had left. Mission completed, or not really though. They actually only caught two out of seven wanted men before they gave up, leaving an even more screwed up life for those they left behind. One Israeli soldier was killed but three Palestinians – among them one 16 year old boy and one 38 year old disabled man. They were no threat to them what so ever but only in the wrong place at the wrong time opening their windows to look out. Walking around today in the remains of people’s blown up houses reminded me of a war film. Walking around inside people’s destroyed homes reminded me of a brutal nonhuman reality. I kept on thinking how the hell I would be able to tell people about this. I was there but I still find it surreal.

You always learn something new about yourself; not once inside of there was I afraid. If it was because I’ve got the guts or because the situation simply was too surreal for me I don’t know, but it surely was not pleasant to have the huge rifle of an Israeli soldier pointed at me. I guess I now can count myself one of the brave ones and I put a great honour into being renamed by the guys in the medical teams when I again saw them after coming out of the camp. I carry my new name with pride – Falastiin. Even though I have to admit that afterwards my knees were pretty shaky.

For more information on the invasion and siege of Al-Ayn refugee camp in Nablus, click here: https://www.palsolidarity.org/main/2007/09/21/army-incursion-in-al-ayn-refugee-camp-nablus/

Reflections from an Irish Activist in Palestine (Part 3/3)

Part III

Jewish settlers driving by give antagonistic glances and stares, while cars and bus loads of visitors to the nearby Jewish cemetery and ‘tomb’ of the ancient biblical figures of Jesse and Ruth every now and again have one ruthless passenger who rolls down the window and comments, ‘Drop dead!’ Being called a ‘Nazi’ by Jewish settlers is a regular occurrence here – you just have to get used to it and not get pissed off.

Fawaz, a 21 year old English student, informed me this evening that he twice evaded a beating from the army and police as a result of the mere presence of International Solidarity Movement activists. It’s good to get positive feedback and to know that one is at least preventing such crimes.

Later on in the day two semi-drunk Israeli soldiers of Russian origin aggressively break up our peaceful Tuesday evening by demanding we stop filming them. Understandably so, seen as we had earlier recorded them knocking back some cans of beer in the vicinity of the Palestinian house we were taking care of. They sexually harass one of the female internationals present before cowering behind their military outpost once again.

The story behind Issa’s house in Tel Rumeida district is a key part of the successful nonviolent resistance waged here. The legal owners of the property carry blue I.D., meaning they are residents of East Jerusalem. The Israeli police informed them 7 years ago that they would lose their blue I.D. if they continued to live in the Hebron region, so they went back to Jerusalem and soon after the army occupied their house. They remained their on and off for the next 6 years. When they eventually left in early 2007 settlers occupied the house and stripped it bare. All this despite the fact that Palestinian activists managed to legally receive confirmation from the Israeli High Court that only the owner should be allowed to live there, or a tenant of the owner. Now, though the house was ransacked by the army and settlers, Palestinian ISM’ers intend on developing it into a nonviolent base to confront the occupation. It’s geographically positioned in a very significant area. Surrounded by olive groves, it finds itself located between the Tel Rumeida and Beit Hadassah settlements, hotbeds of extremism which have caused fear amongst the local Palestinian community for decades.
Atrocities have been committed against moderate, orthodox and extremist Israelis – but the concept that this is a war between two equals is a fallacy. It’s more like pitching Barcelona against Doncaster United in the F.A. Cup (no offence intended).

The life of an activist in Hebron at the moment can be summarised as follows – early to rise in order to be at military checkpoint watch. Long periods of time being alert which needs to be constructively filled to pass the day due to the nature of the work involved. Anyone who has seen the Thin Red Line will know what I am talking about. Patience is the greatest of all virtues here. Not losing your cool is tough when you daily see such violations of peoples’ civil liberties. And even when things are quiet, matters can escalate in a matter of minutes. Yesterday morning I walked out the door with a colleague to do checkpoint watch at Tel Rumeida hill and Shuhadah st., especially in order to ensure local kids and teachers starting school were not attacked by settlers nor harassed by soldiers. The Palestinian kids school in the H2 district, Qurtuba, suffered an arson attack just a few weeks ago and the school is still under repairs.

We were very surprised, as were our neighbours, to see a small machine gun stationed at a new checkpoint just 10 metres from the ISM apartment. A blue landmine (we’ve yet to confirm whether it was live or a dummy – the latter is likely) was positioned under the temporary roadblock, constructed just one hour before. So each and every person, man woman and child, were obliged to walk down a narrow passage by the road with an intimidating machine gun facing them and a very obvious belt of ammunition adjacent to it. At 10pm the same day soldiers were demanding the men who wanted to pass the checkpoint pull down their trousers. A couple of phone calls later from people who know the law alleviates the situation and the soldiers are disempowered from engaging in their completely unacceptable behaviour.

The Memorandum of Understanding signed between the Israeli and U.S. government on August 17th, regarding a 25% increase in the already colossal aid they are granted annually, though yet to be passed through Congress – which is but a mere formality at this stage, goes to the core of the problems which exist here. $33 billion is to be granted over a 10 year period and half of this is planned to be spent on defence – or rather, offence. This blood money will be delivered efficiently and the occupation will be bankrolled for the next 10 years. So who will bankroll the nonviolent communities which need to grow and continue their quintessential work in the Occupied Territories? I can safely presume that those who have managed to read this far do not have over-bulging bank accounts, and are probably weighed down with debt most of their lives. But we have to push ourselves as much as possible to shake the bushes when we get back home and do all we can to ensure people know how and why to contribute to the ISM’s work in Palestine.

In our common humanity we reap the seeds we sow, or all too often, we reap the seeds our governments choose to sow in our names. It’s an anarchist cliché at this stage, but it’s well worth remembering: ‘war is the health of the state.’ It rings true when one also takes into consideration the internal tensions and huge amounts of finance spent on weaponry by Israel, the P.A., Hamas, etc. So rather than gun factories being built, all of us who have worked with the ISM know that the anti-occupation forces here could do with a lot more nonviolent infantry, video and digital camera factories, checkpoint observers, rakes and mattocks to assist farmers tend to their land under attack from colonial settlers, ropes and tractors to remove roadblocks, bolt cutters to cut the Apartheid fence and sledgehammers to bring down the wall. And even if you can only come for a short time, which unfortunately I was only able to afford this summer, the relationships one can develop with locals and the knowledge one can gain and share is invaluable.

And that is why I guess it is important to remember that the work of the international ISM’er is 20% in Palestine and 80% back in their home turf. I am so grateful to have worked alongside Palestinians and internationals whose efforts to struggle on despite the odds is truly inspiring. Celebrating our common Palestinian/International humanity and our nonviolent action victories, our ability to remain nonviolent despite the daily violence we face, and telling our stories (by the way, thanks for reading this far) is so important to ensure that the next wave of ISM’ers know what to expect upon arrival.

No Pasaran

Reflections from an Irish Activist in Palestine (Part 2/3)

Part II

The border police at Al-Ibrahimiye mosque and Cave of Machnela Synagogue checkpoint evidently need serious doses of caffeine to get into harassment mode. They knock back glass after glass of Saada (black Arabic coffee), becoming gradually more vocal towards each other and Palestinian passers-by. This ultimately reaches fever-pitch, whereby the Master and Commander of the unit and one of the female officers are shouting for no apparent reason, apart from the fact that they like to do so. Ever hear of the proverb ’empty barrels make most noise?’

It was the first thing that I thought of when trying to figure out why they felt the need to assert themselves in such a verbally intimidating manner. Said, one of the first victims of detentions that morning, is in his mid-twenties – cleaner shaven than I am and impeccably dressed, he attempted to enter the mosque for prayers. 1 hour and 15 minutes later of standing in the sun (despite our appeals he be allowed to stand in the shade), the army and police having warned him not to talk to the international monitors nearby, he is informed that he cannot enter the mosque. His calmness acts as a sign that this is not the first time he has been refused, nor will it be the last.

He informs me through a Red Crescent delegate friend that he has been rejected for 2 reasons. For having CD-Roms in his folder, and for allegedly being a member of Hamas. The CD’s are not confiscated and thus are hardly deemed a security threat. Said is also obviously not anyone of political significance, even if he is a member of Hamas, as he is allowed to go back the same he came. Freedom of movement is one of the basic tenets of a democracy, one we all take for granted, and one learns quickly to appreciate it even more while living in such a militarised area.

As I walked and talked with Said through the economically devastated Old City market area, a sizeable rock – about 7 inches in diameter – thrown from the roof of the adjoining Synagogue, narrowly missed us and local shop-owners. Unfortunately no steel mesh protection roofing has been constructed here so pedestrians are an open target for stone throwers. Not the ideal area to construct a moderately successful business in order to sustain your family with their daily needs! Hence the fact that shop owners have had to bolt up and get out – the tourism industry being all but devastated as a result of the occupation and consequential lack of security, bad publicity.

In Ireland, visitors often comment that our towns and cities are laden with pub after pub after pub. In the West Bank that can be rephrased to read – checkpoint after checkpoint after checkpoint or – barrier after barrier after barrier. According to B’tselem, the leading Israeli human rights organisation, the West Bank alone has over 40 manned and 470 physical obstacles that prevent freedom of movement. It is always unpredictable when one approaches a soldier, border police or police officer. The aim is to aid a detained Palestinian, to diplomatically (or not so diplomatically, depending on the situation) put pressure on them to speed up the process and subtly remind them that they are being watched. I have no doubt that the fact we take video camera footage while they are breaching people’s civil liberties annoys them to a great extent, because they know they can’t get away with their usual humiliating tactics which they deploy upon Palestinian civilians.

One can get used to their aggression, guns and ignorance easily. By attempting to divide and conquer, the Israeli security apparatus deliberately try to ruin the good relationships between internationals and Palestinians. But they have been without success, and the reciprocal respect between Palestinian locals and internationals, who have come alongside them to fight the occupation, only gets stronger and stronger against the occupier.

The consequences for our Palestinian friends, whether politically active or not, is cruel and arbitrary. Question the police or army’s decision-making process with logic and persistence and you are sure to find yourself landed into a holding-cell, or maybe even prison – sometimes for up to six weeks, without any charges being brought or access to a lawyer, upholding of one’s basic human rights. Habeas Corpus, a basic legal principle that has helped protect individual’s civil liberties worldwide, quite simply does not exist here. Arbitrary detentions can last years without a person being charged or convicted. I’ve only spent 6 weeks in jail in Ireland (www.peaceontrial.com) for nonviolent political activity, so to begin to imagine such a nightmare scenario where there is no certainty of one’s future nor for the welfare of one’s family, is quite simply impossible and dreadful at the same time.

Being an ‘international’ monitor at military checkpoints and generally behaving as a non-violent activist at actions against the Apartheid Wall, to give but one example, is a excellent experience, yet requires a great deal of patience, high energy levels and an ability to remain logical and organised under stress. In a sense, being an activist in Hebron at the moment is somewhat similar to a soldier’s life. Long periods of relative inactivity are interspersed with spurts of intense activity. Things can flare up rapidly – settler attacks, new army checkpoints and harassment measures.

If things are relatively peaceful in our region of Palestine then we must be grateful for that peace and not fall into the trap of feeling bored. Being an activist doesn’t always mean you have to be ‘active’ on the frontlines or attend every action. Often, not being present in the local area can adversely affect your everyday ordinary work of living in a community and being on call if locals require your assistance.

I suspect there can be a tendency in all of us who have come here to be politically active and with an engaged activist mindset that if you’re not being active by removing roadblocks, dodging tear gas canisters or confronting bulldozers then you are being under-utilised. It challenges our preconceptions of what work we thought we would be engaged in. The latter are of course all quintessential to going about the work of nonviolence, yet the daily drag of the occupation and the benefits of peaceful moments should not be under-played. They are opportunities to immerse into the community more, to meet as many people as possible, to play street soccer with the kids, to learn Arabic and teach English or other languages and to skills share with other activists, e.g. video editing, arts and crafts, language learning, juggling, chess playing, report and journal writing – the list is endless.

I greatly admire those who have put themselves forward and suffered much to oppose the occupation without use of arms. Yet for anyone who intends on joining the ISM for a short length of time my advice is not to be an activist tourist during you month or so long stay. Wherever you find yourself, be there fully with both mind and body.

Salamat Sahbi Akram

It was meant to become one of those reports about these surrealities, you probably only can find in Palestine. About the tension of a nightly visit to an internet cafe, which ended up surrounded by security forces. A story about the absurdity of a night, where every passing Jeep spit more disguised men on an extinct street, who wished a friendly as-salem alaikum with pointed Kalashnikovs. About the humor of a night, where inspite of fighting lasting for hours, nine year old children could be seen passing by on pink bicycles. And it was meant to become a report about the tragedy of an evening, where once again Palestinians fought against each other.

But on the next morning nothing is left but tragedy. My friend Akram is dead, he died last night.

It was Thursday about 10 pm, when members of the Palestinian security forces in Jenin routinely stopped a car in order to check its registration papers. The people inside were members of Islamic Jihad and they don’t like to be checked so easily, even less so by the disdainful security forces. Just some few dozen meters lie between them and Jenin refugee camp. The place where they have the power, the place where security forces are not admitted. Clashes break out, verbally, when Akram joins the scene to arbitrate. Seconds later he lies on the street with two bullets in his chest.

Akram Ibrahim Abu as-Sba’, the man who I always took for two when I became acquainted with him, cause I didn’t recognize him in his uniform, was brought to Jenin’s government hospital and died there a little later. Killed by fighters of Islamic Jihad. Murdered because of a stolen car.

Barely 24 hours before we were sitting comfortably in his little store, lounging in two blue plastic chairs. This small DVD store in the center of Jenin, where he probably never sold a single movie, but where you could always find him after 12. Where we so often spent time together in aimless conversation. About the confusion of Palestinian policy, about alcohol and our work. About the invasion last night, about girls and stolen cameras.

But much more then our conversations, his person stays in my memory. How he, always grinning, lingered behind his desk, nothing ever on top except an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. How he didn’t understand my questions, because he had had one glass of Arak too much. Or how this man who spoke English fluently, always questioning himself after every second sentence, if his chosen words really had the intended meaning. How, when I moaned that I needed to meet this leader or that chairman, he simply, without promises lasting for weeks, looked up the suitable number in his mobile and placed the desired person next to me minutes later.

Always when the daily life in the camp, the hospitality, became too much, when the people became too pushy for me, I came to visit him. To get away for a while from what is so special here, but often also hardly bearable in this city. That is not to say that Akram wasn’t a typical inhabitant of Jenin, a typical Mucheiemi, but he was never too extreme. He was faithful to Fatah, but did not hate Hamas. He was a member of Abu Mazen’s Force 17, but he respected the militias. He had this typical Arabic hospitality, but you didn’t have to beg him to refuse a coffee. Some years ago the Israelis destroyed his house, but he didn’t hate those who once again turned his family into refugees.

If they give me Mucheiem I am happy, he said once while looking at the prospective shape of a Palestinian state. And if you know him, you know that this was probably not far from the truth. Akram was a happy man. He was happy as a husband, happy as a father of four children and just happy sitting behind his big desk in his small DVD store.

Now some more dozen posters are added to the thousands on the house walls of Jenin. Now also Akram lies here besides all the others in the martyr graveyard of the refugee camp of Jenin. The occupation is not exciting. The occupation is not an accumulation of bizarre everyday situations. And even if it seems to be absurd, it is never comic. Not even if it lasts 60 years. Occupation means suffering and dying – everyday.

But of the few things that are left under this occupation, we at least have friendship. In Mucheiem Jenin there is hardly a guy to find, who can be called such a one by so many people. He was a great friend. Salamat sahbi Akram.