Category: Reports

Villagers mounted bulldozer in AL Ramadin

The people of the village of Al Ramadin in South Hebron staged a protest two days ago against the Israeli annexation wall. The wall is being built on land stolen from the village and will cut the population off from all except 12% of the West Bank.

On Wednesday around 200 villagers assembled and marched along the main road that leads to the wall construction site. When confronted by a large group of Israeli soldiers, the villagers veered off the road and headed over the hills to the work site. Israeli occupation forces fired live ammunition in the air, but, undeterred, the villagers got over the hill and reached the bulldozer which was plowing destruction for the path of the wall.

The villagers mounted the bulldozer, chanting and waving flags. After being dispersed by a combination of sound bombs and rubber bullets, the villagers prayed beside the bulldozer before dispersing. One journalist and one Palestinian were injured. Two Palestinians were detained and later released.

On Friday at 11:00 AM the village will again attempt to stop the construction of the Wall on their land.

Farmers stop tree-cutting in Marda for three hours

by Hannah

At 11:00 this morning, Nasfat called to tell me that Israeli workers were back today with their chainsaws, cutting trees in the village of Marda to make way for the path of the “Ariel loop” of the Annexation Wall, whose easternmost point is 22 kilometers from the Green Line. I rushed to Marda and found villagers waiting. They would go up to their land in a few minutes, they told me. One of the village leaders announced the news through the mosque’s loudspeakers, which could clearly be heard by every villager in Marda and most likely every soldier and police officer in Ariel.

When we started up the hill around 12:30, I was the only person not from Marda. Press were on their way, we were told, as was another international, but the villagers wanted to wait no longer. About 20 adult men and I started up the hill, and we were quickly followed by about 30 boys who ignored their elders’ order to stay below. We made our way towards the cut trees, and shortly before arriving, security guards and soldiers, whom most of us still could not see over the terraces and through the olive trees, began yelling at us not to come any further. When villagers advanced, one of the security guards fired a shot towards the ground directly in front of the crowd. I started to yell in English, telling them to stop, and when I finally got in view of the guards, the one who had shot pointed his gun at me and yelled, “Do not move!” I asked several times, “Can we talk to you?” Each time the response was, “Do not move!”

I surveyed the situation. There were two security guards and two soldiers in front of us, and a lot of kids behind us. I was afraid the kids might lose their patience and begin to throw stones, at which point the authorities most certainly would have lost whatever patience they had and use the only weapons they had with them: guns with live ammunition.

I was happy to hear that the Israeli workers with their chainsaws had left the area quickly upon our arrival, which was the same thing that happened on Thursday when we confronted them.

The standoff continued for a while, but not without its intense moments. Soldiers continued to arrive, and each time people tried to step forward, soldiers and guards threatened us further with shouts, guns pointed, and newly arrived tear gas canisters in hand. I had never been so relieved to see the small orange plastic containers that house the tear gas. Hopefully, I thought, their first choice of weapon now will be the gas and not the bullet.

I calmed down even more when four journalists arrived at the scene although their presence gave the boys more courage, and they began to inch forward and to chant, “Hayalim LaBayta” (“Soldiers, go home” in Hebrew). Soldiers forced them back, telling them they would only speak to a village spokesperson if everyone else stood behind a certain tree about 200 meters away. I insisted on staying near the front with “Ahmed,” though I wasn’t as smart as he was about not sharing his real name with soldiers. I figured they would find out who I was anyway, since the boys kept calling me by name. So when the soldier who was negotiating with Ahmed asked my name, and responded to my inquiry into his name (Amit), I told him, “I’m Hannah.” I’m not sure it changed the situation much, other then that the rest of the afternoon I heard shouts of “Hannah, come here” and “Hannah, go down” rather then, “Hey you, come here,” or “You with the bandanna, go down.” When he threatened to arrest me, I told him, “You can’t arrest me; you’re a soldier, not a policeman.”

We walked back and forth – east and west – a few times, to make sure workers had not returned, and to do our best to count the number of trees that had been cut today (people estimate 300 or 350, bringing the total number in the past few days to over 800). At one point the work had resumed in the west, so we made our way through the terraces as quickly as possible. When Ahmed began to advance towards the man with the chainsaw, the same guard who had shot at us earlier pushed and hit Ahmed on his arm and leg with the butt of his gun. I saw the pushing from a distance, but didn’t arrive in time to take pictures of the beating. I photographed the bruises that had already formed about a half hour later.

Suddenly we heard a loud explosion, followed by its own echo, coming from Marda; several jeeps had arrived inside the village and were throwing sound bombs, presumably as punishment for the impromptu demonstration. They left quickly, as far as we could tell from above, and we stayed on the land.

Farmers were frustrated that no soldier would claim responsibility for the situation or for the other soldiers’ or guards’ behavior, so there was no person to speak or negotiate with. Amit, who seemed to be the one with the most power and was engaging in half-hearted negotiations, kept saying that someone higher would be arriving soon. Finally Gilad, a man from the DCO who speaks fluent Arabic, arrived and began negotiations with the villagers.

By the end, close to 3:00, Gilad had promised that the work would stop for the day and that the army’s lawyer and the village’s lawyer would have a meeting tomorrow morning to decide how to proceed. Ahmed pointed out to Gilad the security guard who had hit him, to which the guard responded by picking up a chainsaw himself (from where, I don’t know) and threatening to chop more trees. We started on our last trip walking west to gather the rest of the crowd, and when we arrived Amit asked me to come forward to speak with him. I refused, and he asked me for my passport. When I refused to show it to him, a policeman stepped out from behind him and said, “Come here.” I started to walk away, through a crowd of Palestinians who were waving me through and saying, “Don’t worry, we won’t let them take you.” The police and soldiers started after me, but only for a few meters. I continued to go down and they didn’t follow. I felt slightly guilty about being part of the first group to go down, but the other international was still up there, and the rest of the group followed a couple minutes later anyway.

About a half hour after we returned to the village, the work resumed. The army had broken its promise, and workers were cutting trees. We saw clearly through binoculars that a line of about 15 soldiers had lined up directly below two workers, and other soldiers were scattered throughout the groves. People talked about going back up again, but decided they didn’t have enough people. They hoped the workers would go home soon (it was after 4), and the farmers decided to save their energies until tomorrow morning, when they will attempt to arrive on their land early enough to stop the destruction before it starts.

Just when we thought the day was over, we found out that an army bulldozer was near the center entrance to Marda, on the main settler highway #505 (the one that we successfully blocked for some time during a demonstration yesterday!). We were afraid they would cut trees as punishment for the nonviolent resistance of the past couple days, but as we watched the bulldozer moving rocks and dirt, we noticed it was only putting up another roadblock at the entrance to the road that is already closed with an army roadblock. We were perplexed, wondering if they would then move on to the only open entrance of Marda. They didn’t. As far as I know, the sole purpose of that bulldozer was to close an already-closed road.

So here we are at the end of the day. 300 more trees cut. Presumably it could have been twice that many had we not gone to the land. Marda is a strong village, with determined people. Tomorrow morning they will go back and try to protect their land.

Video from Bil’in: Olive Tree Chaining

Residents of Bil’in village, together with international and Israeli activists, chain themselves to olive trees that are to be uprooted to make way for the Israeli apartheid wall. The wall is currently being constructed in many areas of Palestine. For Bil’in it will result in the annexation of 2,400 dunums of land (600 acres) – over 50% of the land belonging to the village. This will facilitate massive Israeli settlement expansion east of the Green Line. Bil’in has carried out a series of non-violent protests against this land theft, and demonstrations are held at least once a week, usually more. The Israeli military has used excessive force against the demonstrators, regularly firing tear gas, rubber coated metal bullets, sound bombs and live ammunition at unarmed civilians peacefully protesting. Many people have been injured and arrested. In other areas of Palestine people have been killed because they have protested against the wall, including two children who were shot dead on the same day that this video was filmed, a short distance away in Beit Liqya.

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Report From Hebron

by Ian

It’s the first day of Eid. After the long fasting days of Ramadan, families all over the city are coming together to celebrate. This year, though, the festivities have a sombre undertone. Arafat was buried yesterday in Ramallah.Posters showing his image next to that of Hebron’s Ibrahimi Mosque are plastered over walls and the windscreens of cars and taxis.

11 year-old Mohamad from the family upstairs has just arrived to wish us a happy new year. He’s in his new suit, very smart and proud. We all wish him the same, in excruciating Arabic. But in Hebron the happiness of children like Mohamad depends on circumstances beyond his control, and beyond the control of his huge, close, protective family. His good fortune will ultimately depend on how the occupying forces are feeling. A bored young soldier at a checkpoint can, on a whim, turn your day into a nightmare. Everyone you meet has a story of physical abuse from soldiers and police. Everyone.

A group of us are staying in an apartment owned by Mohamad’s father. A dozen or so young children constantly tumble in and out. None of us has much Arabic, but it’s OK. Everyone tunes in to the universal language of football, hide and seek, mimicry, giggling…

It is an inspiration to be living among these beautiful, generous people. Palestinians don’t have much, but whatever they have they share. Hospitality isn’t a way of life here, it is life itself. Food materialises at regular intervals. People greet you in the street, bring you out sweets and biscuits. Already, this feels like our neighbourhood. Sometimes, when you’re walking in a remote suburb, there’s tension – strangers here almost always mean trouble. You get the occasional stone thrown. Almost always, people intervene when they realisewe’re not army or settlers, but it is heartbreaking to see so many kids brutalised by the conditions here. A collapsed economy, severe poverty – stone throwing’s the only game in town.

Now Eid has arrived, all the children have cheap new toys. Girls have many different cheap new toys. All the boys have cheap new toy guns. Evenings are mostly spent talking. drinking tea, smoking argilah – a soothing, fruit-flavoured hookah job which is really welcome after a hard day. There’s a lot of laughter here. Someone mentions the new graffiti that’s appeared in the Old City: ‘Arabs to the gas chambers.’

No matter how prepared you are for life under the Occupation. you have to see it to understand just how fatuous the common perceptions are back home. Politicians, terrified of being accused of anti-Semitism if they criticise Israeli government policy, talk constantly of how ‘both sides in the conflict’ must take action to secure a just and lasting peace. Bollocks. Both sides? The oppressor and the oppressed?

Mohamad and his family are not a ‘side’. They are part of a Palestinian community being relentlessly and ruthlessly driven from their homes and their land. Illegal settlers control this region – the army and the police defer to them – and they act with total impunity. A couple of days ago we were forced to wait for half an hour while ID was checked. A recently-arrived settler had spotted that we were with a member of the local Christian Peacemaker Team (CPT). The settler was clearly theone giving orders. He took the passport from the soldier and insisted on further scrutiny. The soldier just did as he was told. Every settler you encounter seems unhinged. The sort of person you pray doesn’t sit next to you on the bus. Secure behind the armed Israeli checkpoint barrier, he ostentatiously celebrated Arafat’s death, punching the air in jubilation. He joked to anyone who listened that Arafat had AIDS.

He was from Quebec. Lucky Quebec.

The CPT does great work here – accompanying local children to school, trying to protect them from settler attacks. Two CPTers were recently severely beaten by masked settlers armed with baseball bats and chains. We met one of them while olive-picking the other day. She suffered a broken arm and severe bruising. The other guy got broken ribs and a punctured lung. Here’s a test for the ‘both sides’ brigade: what concession should children walking to school between illegal settlements make in the cause of peace? Less provocative lunch boxes?

Another Occupation Myth is that the West Bank settlements are few, remote and isolated. And that they keep themselves to themselves. Hebron, where the earliest Zionist settlement in Palestine was founded (Kiryat Arba) is now surrounded by illegal development on stolen land. And it’s closing in. Since 1968, Israelis – many arriving here from far beyond the Middle East – have seized 48% of the land in Greater Hebron region for their settlements. A further 24 ‘outposts’ have been staked out for inevitable expansion.

That’s how it works here. Some distance from a main settlement, a caravan or trailer appears overnight. A week later, another. Then another. One or two settlers with dogs and guns move in. Fences are erected (for security).

The army establishes a presence (for security). Which means a road. And more fences. More trailers. Barriers. Gates. Walls. The construction of houses. In a matter of months, it is a fortified, illegal and rapidly expanding settlement. A ‘fact on the ground.’

Having encircled Hebron, the next objective here is absolute control. Ethnic cleansing and cultural erasure are now well underway. The area around Shehada Street, close to the mosque, was once a thriving market area.

Now it’s a dead zone, only marginally less terrifying in daylight than in darkness. Shehada Street itself has been commandeered for settler use only. Ancient stone gateways are blocked by steel gates with slip bolts on the ‘Israeli’ side.

Through intimidation – and that other great weapon of oppression through the ages, bureaucracy – souk traders have been forced out. Houses are deserted, or have been taken over by the army for observation and sniper posts.

Street closures are often arbitrary, but always sudden. And when they close yourstreet, you can’t use your front door. It means you and your family must exit via the roof, enter a neighbour’s house and get out through their front door.

Only a few years ago there were around 7,500 Palestinians living in the central Old City area. Now there are fewer than 1,500. In the same area between 450-500 settlers have moved in. They’re guarded by 2,000 soldiers. At times of increased tension, 4,000.

Along the main street that runs through the Old City there is chain link fencing. It’s the same fencing used by the Israelis to sketch out the boundaries of their land grabs, before they ink them in with concrete and steel. Here, though. it is has been erected horizontally, not vertically, and by Palestinians.

Why? A section of the street is unroofed. There, squatting on the alley wall itself, is the towering bulk of the settlement’s flank wall. The chain link fencing is to protect passers-by from being pelted with objects thrown from settlement windows. There, trapped in the improvised netting is the forensic evidence of a feral hatred: discarded cans, bottles, food. Rocks. Bricks. Sometimes they tip out their piss.

Another myth is the idea of an Israeli Defence Force. Defence is not what’s happening here. It is aggression. A civilian population suffers routine humiliation and casual violence at the hands of the IDF every day. From our apartment window we can see the neighbouring hill, blanketed with homes.

At the summit are three new schools. Not that they were schools for long. Shortly after opening they were taken over and turned into a heavily armed police station. When resistance fighters started firing shots at neighbouring settlements, they sent tank shells randomly into residential areas. It was two days before we discovered that the hole in our living room wall was the result of one of these blind reprisals. Hebron is a microcosm of the West Bank: Palestinians gradually walled in and forced out by intimidation. Rubble everywhere. Everything possible has been done to crush the spirit of these people, but it hasn’t worked. There must be more children here per square mile than anywhere I’ve been.

Hope may be thin on the ground among the older people, but the sheer weight of children’s optimism is what keeps you going. And in the end, it’s the children’s faces that stick in the mind. The settlers’ children, for instance, who stood with their parents at a demo the other day, watching as the soldiers soundbombed and teargassed us. Blank faces. What were the parents telling them?

That we are evil, that we are Nazis, that we should be exterminated? Lovely, gentle Mohamad in his new suit. What will the future hold for him, and Aseel, and Marwan, and Razar, and Asme, and all his other brothers, sisters, cousins? How long before he is arrested for the first time, plucked at random from the crowd, simply for being a Palestinian teenager in the Occupied Territories? When will he be beaten for the first time?

We will be leaving here in a few days. Everyone has promised to stay in touch, and I for one will miss the kids, just having them round, just about the only sane, recognisable part of life here in this devastated place. We’ll probably never see them again. And if anything happens to them, it will beyour fault and mine, because we didn’t shake off this wicked Occupation. That’s where the ‘peace process’ starts, and it must start now.

The Israelis categorise every Palestinian as a terrorist, and use this as an excuse to brutally repress them. It is the Roman Empire. It is white-controlled South Africa. Those empires fell, as this one must.

Mohamad’s back. ‘Hello. How are you?’ he says in careful, perfect English.

How am I? I’m afraid, and guilty.