Today, Gazan farmers from Khuza’a, a small village near Khan Younis, worked on their land in defiance of Israeli military harassment. Farmers ploughed approximately seven dunams and then sowed wheat in a plot that they had previously been denied access to before the November 21st, 2012 ceasefire. The farmers successfully worked up to 100 meters from the separation fence. The Israeli military arbitrarily designates this area as a restricted military buffer zone, otherwise known as the “kill zone.” According to the workers, they have not been able to farm on this specific plot of land for the past ten years. Formerly an orchard, Israeli forces bulldozed the field multiple times during military incursions and regularly shoots at farmers who attempt to work there. Continue reading Gazan farmers at work in Khuza’a
23 April 2012 | International Solidarity Movement, Gaza
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Today we went farming with the family of Ahmed Saadat. We arrived in Khuzaa at about 7 AM and met Ahmed. He told us that the Israeli’s had already shot at his family when they went to their land to begin work. We went to the land, which lies 300 meters from the border and directly on the buffer zone. You immediately know the buffer zone, nothing is planted in it, no trees are left, and everything has been destroyed, only weeds grow there.
Ahmed and his family began to work, ten people on their knees harvesting wheat by hand. To harvest the wheat they pull it up by the roots and tie it into sheaves to be taken to a threshing machine. The land is quite large, in the past perhaps they would have hired a combine to harvest the wheat so that they would not have to do it by hand, but now it is dangerous to bring equipment near the buffer zone. Now, they work by hand.
At about 7:45 AM an Israeli Occupation Forces Humvee pulled up onto a hill north of us. Soon shots began to ring out, these were not directed at us, they were directed at farmers harvesting wheat to our northwest. At about 8 AM soldiers in a tower next to the Humvee launched either tear gas or a smoke grenade, it landed extremely close to the tower, which was about 400 meters from us. This was soon followed by shooting at us.
Bullets whistled past our ears, they slammed into the ground around us, most of them about 20 meters away from us. The farmers were scared, but most of them kept working. They have little choice, the IOF shoots a lot in this area, it is inevitable that they will be shot at while they try to harvest their wheat. After a minute or two of shooting the bullets stop. Soon the Humvee drives down off of the hill and moves further down the border. All morning long the Humvee drives up and down the border, accompanied by two jeeps.
The farmers continue to work harvesting wheat. At about 8:30 Ahmed receives a phone call. It is from Ma’aan organization. They say that the Red Cross has called them asking Ahmed and advising him to leave the area. He is advised to go two kilometers from the border because of the danger. The Red Cross had been called by the IOF asking them who we were, and if we were internationals with the farmers.
Ahmed laughs, two kilometers is the other side of Khuzaa. The farmers continue harvesting their wheat until about 11 AM. While they work chmed tells us a little bit about his family. Like most Gazans, they are refugees. His family is from Salame, near Jaffa. They were expelled in 1948. His family still has the documents proving that they own the land they were expelled from. Now, his family works what land they have managed to buy in Gaza over the years.
He said, “What am I to do, Israel expelled us from our land, now they steal more of it, they shoot at us, but we need this wheat to live, we must continue to work our land.”
“The first two years I could manage but this year I have been suffering a lot from the loss of my mother. When I see girls from my school with their mother or talking about their mother, I miss my mother even more. I need to have her with me.”
Hibba al-Najjar (17) sitting opposite her home in Khuza'a village (Photo: Palestinian Centre for Human Rights)
In the early morning of 13 January 2009, following two days of home demolitions, the Israeli army started to shell the village of Khuza’a and its surroundings, using high explosive and white phosphorous artillery shells. Israeli bulldozers, tanks and snipers were located on the edge of the village. At around 7:00 soldiers ordered the residents of eastern Khuza’a, to leave the area and move towards the centre of the village. Holding a white flag, Rawhiya al-Najjar (47) led a group of approximately 20 women in an attempt to leave as ordered. Shortly after the group turned the first corner a soldier shot and killed Rawhiya. Another woman in the group, Yasmin al-Najjar (23), was injured by two bullets when she tried to take Rawhiya off the road. Medical staff who tried to evacuate Rawhiya’s body were shot at and had to take refuge in a nearby house, and were only able to take the body from the street after more than 10 hours.
“I can still hear the bullet hit my mother in the head. I was standing right beside her when the soldier stepped into the doorway of the house ahead and shot her. I could see him,” says Rawhiya’s 17 year old daughter Hibba as she depicts the situation with her arms. “I keep wondering why they killed my mother while she was carrying a white cloth in the street, but why I was not killed when I was on the roof of our house earlier that morning.” Hibba still cannot make sense of what happened that day.
Hibba is an the only child. She lives with her father, Naser, his second wife, Nuha, and their three children. Her father married Nuha when it became clear that Rawhiya was not able to have any more children and convinced him to marry a second wife. Naser became unemployed after the full closure on the Gaza Strip was imposed. Now the family is dependent on aid and shared agriculture with relatives on lands next to the village, close to the border with Israel.
From the day of the incident Hibba and her family stayed away from the house for two weeks, saying it was too dangerous to move in that part of Khuza’a. For the two months after that they only went to their house during the daytime and spent the night at the house of relatives in a safer area.
Since the death of her mother Hibba suffers from nightmares, insomnia, stress, and bedwetting. “Before, I would sleep immediately. Now I can’t get to sleep at night,” says Hibba. Sometimes her father finds her sleepwalking and talking about her mother. Lately she has also begun to experience blurry vision and dizziness. When Hibba started to lose her hair a few months ago, Naser took his daughter to a hospital. The doctor told Hibba and her father that she needs to spend some time outside of the Gaza Strip. Naser is thinking of taking her to Egypt for a little while next summer. However, the closure and high costs make this option far from easy. Hibba says she would like to go out of Gaza but adds that “it will not make me forget anything.”
Hibba’s schoolwork has also been affected by the traumatic experience and death of her mother. “My mother used to help me with my homework and I used to be very good at school. Now my grades are lower and I am not able to focus in class. When I open a book I feel tired and remember my mother. Even when I study well for an exam, I often forget everything during the exam,” she says. Hibba enjoys subjects like Islamic religion and geography but feels sad knowing her scores have dropped a lot. This is the final year of high school for Hibba. However, she doesn’t think about what comes after the final exams next summer; “I don’t want to think long-term.”
Hibba does not like the month of January as it reminds here of the time of the offensive. However, she says 13 January is like any other day for her, “there is no difference with other days because I remember my mother every day regardless.” When she feels most sad she usually takes a chair and sits outside the house for a while. Sometimes talking to relatives and her best friend, who is also her neighbour, brings some relief. Hibba is glad to have such a good friend who tries to support her; “I can tell her everything. Without my friend I would have crumbled under the pressure of my loss.”
Hibba does not think about the future but rather relives what happened to her and her mother on 13 January 2009. “Since the morning I have been thinking a lot of the incident and how we left my mother in the street,” she says, having to pause after every few words. Many things in daily life remind her of her old life with and her future without her mother. “Whenever I see an old woman in the street I wonder if I will still have a clear memory of my mother when I am at that age.”
Discussing PCHR’s submission of complaints to the Israeli authorities regarding the killing of her mother, Hibba says she does not care: “Nothing can compensate for the loss of my mother but I wish that the soldier who shot my mother will be brought to justice.”
PCHR submitted a criminal complaint to the Israeli authorities on behalf of the al-Najjar family on 23 June 2009. To-date, no response has been received.
“Living under occupation means that whatever hopes we have, it will fall apart one day. For example, you bring up your child and put all of your hopes in him or her, but then they come and kill your child and all your hopes are destroyed.”
(Photo: Palestinian Center for Human Rights)
In the early morning of 28 December 2008 Mahmoud Abu Taima, his wife Manal, and their two oldest sons, Khalil and Nabil were collecting zucchini from their lands in Khuza’a village, east of Khan Younis. After a few hours the two brothers went to their uncle’s farmland a few hundred meters further west. At around 8:30 the Israeli army fired a shell from the border fence which landed between the two boys. Nabil (16) was killed and Khalil was critically injured.
“You must understand, the area was very calm. Many farmers were working on their lands. It is an open area. I saw a projectile coming from the border fence towards the farm lands. Then I heard the explosion. I immediately ran towards the place of impact because I knew my sons were in that area. By the time that I arrived, people had already put the boys on a donkey cart to bring them to the hospital,” recalls Mahmoud Abu Taima (40). Khalil was critically injured by shrapnel in the chest and limbs and underwent a life saving surgery immediately after arriving in the hospital. “While we buried Nabil we were expecting that they would bring Khalil’s body from the hospital too,” says the boys’ mother Manal (37).
The Abu Taima family, who have their home in Abasan village, east of Khan Yunis, has been traumatized by the death of their son and brother Nabil. His parents, and 6 eldest siblings Khalil (20), Naima (18), Isra’ (15), Mohammed (14), Abdel Rahman (9), and Ibrahim (6) all have dear memories of him. “Nabil was a part of us and he had a big place in my heart. I remember him in every moment and I feel that he is present with us. Like now, when I drink tea, I remember him and feel that he is present. When I eat my meals I feel as if he is still here with us. I can never forget him,” says his father Mahmoud.
“Nabil’s mind was older than his age,” says Manal, “he was very clever at school and all of his teachers and the students liked him a lot. On the anniversary date of his death, his teachers and friends come to visit us. Besides going to school, Nabil liked to breed rabbits. Until his death we had about 50 rabbits. Since his death they died and we stopped getting new ones. We don’t feel like it anymore, now that he is not here.” Ibrahim (6) and Abdel Rahman(9) had a very close relationship with Nabil. Manal says: “They were badly affected by his death. They wanted to take the shovel and open his grave so they could take him from his grave and bring him to a doctor for treatment. Ibrahim was upset and stressed for a long time so I took him to a psychologist. When I told the children that a human rights organization was coming to talk to us Ibrahim asked me if they would bring Nabil.”
Khalil has spent the past years trying to recover from his physical injuries. “After 3 days I was transferred to Egypt for additional surgery. In the months after that I went to Médicines sans Frontières after finishing school and had 3 hour sessions of physiotherapy. I had very long days. Despite everything, there is still shrapnel inside my legs, chest and arms which cannot be removed. There are places in my left leg in which I can’t feel anything. My ankles always hurt and I can’t move the way I did before. My mobility, including my walking, has been affected. I can’t do everything that I want. For example, nowadays I play football alone because I am too afraid someone will hit my leg and I will be in agony.”
Besides his physical injuries, Khalil is trying to deal with the loss of his brother and the trauma of the incident. “We would always go to school and other places together. I feel as if I lost a part of my body. It is difficult to continue my life without this part. During the war it was my ‘tawjihi’[final high school] year and I had to go to school. I was traumatized after the incident. When I was sleeping I could hear the sound of a missile coming towards me. Somehow, I passed the tawjihi that year and am in university now.” Manal adds that Khalil used to have panic attacks after the incident, “even the sound of birds could make him have a panic attack.”
A few days after the attack, Israeli bulldozers destroyed the farmland belonging to the Abu Taima family, approximately 700 meters away from the fence. “We had zucchini crops, and a small storage room for fertilizers and equipment. We also had a water pump and water irrigation network. It is all destroyed now. We were unable to go to our farm for 2 years as it was too dangerous. Now we go again, despite the Israeli army shooting towards us. It is difficult. Since the death of my son I lost my motivation to work in the land,” says Mahmoud.
Mahmoud does not dare to have hopes or expectations for the future anymore: “living under occupation means that whatever hopes we have, it will fall apart one day. For example, you bring up your child and put all of your hopes in him or her, but then they come and kill your child and all your hopes are destroyed. We try to think about the future and have long-term hopes but it’s not possible for us.”
The family is not optimistic of the chances that they will see a court case against those responsible for their son’s death. “Nabil was not the first and last one who was killed by the army. Many boys like him were killed. Even if they [Israel] can capture the soldier who fired the shell, they will say he is insane,” says Mahmoud.
PCHR submitted a criminal complaint to the Israeli authoritiess on behalf of the Abu Taima family on 2 July 2009. To-date, no response has been received.
One need not be an agronomist to know that its been a long time since the farmers of Khuza’a, Gaza have tended to their land near the border. When we arrived on Friday, the densely packed soil formed small hills with alien, ridged, patterns: Israeli tanks had roamed here, dozens of them. It was hard to imagine how anything ever grew on this brown, barren soil, much less the hundreds of olive, orange and grapefruit trees the Qudaih family reminisced about.
Mahmood Suleiman Qudiah sows wheat near the Buffer Zone (Photo: Radhika Sainath, Notes from Behind the Blockade) - Click here for more images
But those groves and the greenhouses too, were long gone: the Israeli army bulldozed them in 2002 to create the ever-expanding no-man’s land Israel calls the “buffer zone” and Gazans call the “kill zone” — any Palestinian who steps foot inside is subject instant death or dismemberment by the Israeli army fire.
Khaled Mahmood Suleiman Qudaih called us a few days before, asking us if we would accompany his family to his father’s fields so that they could sow wheat. We met them inside a small tent and they explained to us the situation. The Qudiahs and many other farmers were afraid that the Israeli army would shoot them if the attempted to reach their land near the buffer zone. We informed them that we could not guarantee their safety, that the Israeli army had killed foreign civilians too.
Alas, our presence and our video cameras was all the impetus they needed to risk life and limb.
On Friday, we arrived to the south Gaza village early, drank two cups of sugary tea with sage, jumped on a cart pulled by a white donkey, and were on our way. We slowly rode down the main street locals waving as we passed by. Then we head east out to the farmland, passing between giant slabs of concrete placed at the outskirts of the village in an attempt to protect children playing in the streets from Israeli army gunfire.
The donkey cart pulled us down the lone road heading towards the school. I had been down this road before, my second week in Gaza, when I and 3 local children had been shot at by the Israeli army without warning, reason, or explanation. I understood why those farmers feared the Israeli army, and had not tended to this land in four years.
Our donkey continued on, and we passed the bombed-out shell of a house, covered in fuchsia bougainvillea. We had now reached the point where the Israeli army had shot at me three weeks before, where the road curved towards a high school.
It was quiet. The sky was cloudy, and the Israeli military towers could be seen in the distance. The donkey turned off the road and onto the land, we were now slowly approaching the border, which was about 300 meters away. Khaled’s father, Mahmoud, took the bag of wheat off the donkey cart, and I along with the other foreign volunteers donned our fluorescent yellow vests.
Mahmoud got right to work, briskly walking back and forth across his land, towards the Israeli military towers and back, sprinkling wheat on the barren surface. Those who attempted to photograph him would get a fistful of wheat in their face; it had been five years since he had come to this land and nothing would deter him.
I wondered how these seeds would materialize into actual wheat just lying there on the hard ground, and when the Israeli army would start shooting. Would we get actual warning shots this time? According to the farmers, the machine guns were operated remotely – there were no actual human beings inside the towers.
Then the tractor arrived, and it all started to come together. More farmers emerged with donkeys and equipment. They too wanted to visit their land. One of us sat on the tractor, and others spread out, video cameras out, ready to record should the Israelis shoot at us.
But it was still early, and the people farmed in silence, certain that it was just a matter of time before the Israeli army started shooting. Indeed, the border seemed very close. Could this nonviolent farming action end well?
I spent my time staring at the towers, thinking up different iterations of how the Israelis would shoot us. Unlike the day before, when I discovered what a crappy cabbage harvester I was while accompanying farmers in north Gaza, there wasn’t any actual work I could help with.
One of the other farmers even brought me a giant metal bullet he found in the earth. It wasn’t like anything I had seen before three to four inches long, and much heavier than a bullet from an M-16 military rifle. And then he showed me one of the hundreds of white flyers I had seen stuck in the earth containing a little map of the Gaza Strip and lots of writing in Arabic.
Israeli planes had dropped “thousands” of these flyers over Khuza’a, which state:
Involving yourself in terrorist activities will bring danger to you, your children, your families and your possessions. Distance yourself from this danger . . . Consider yourself warned.
The flyers had blown east, inland, towards the border. I wondered if any of them had blown back to Israel.
A couple of hours passed, and the mood grew celebratory. I wanted to caution them. It wasn’t too late, the Israeli army could still shoot us. Surely, if they shot at 2 women and three children farther away from the buffer zone, they would shoot at a large group of farming closer.
But it was not so.The farmers plowed the field twice, tank tracks erased. Little black beetles scurried out of holes as we walked across the soft, upturned earth back towards the white donkey. It started to drizzle but moods were high.
“For four years I did not reach my father’s land!” said Khaled.
But the victory was bittersweet. “Before, [this area] was full of greenery and trees and now it’s like a desert,” he explained. “But still I’m very happy to reach my land and plant on it.”
farmers from Khuza’a, a small village near Khan Younis, worked on their land in defiance of Israeli military harassment. Farmers ploughed approximately seven dunams and then sowed wheat in a plot that they had previously been denied access to before the November 21st, 2012 ceasefire. The farmers successfully worked up to 100 meters from the separation fence. The Israeli military arbitrarily designates this area as a restricted military buffer zone, otherwise known as the “kill zone.” According to the workers, they have not been able to farm on this specific plot of land for the past ten years. Formerly an orchard, Israeli forces bulldozed the field multiple times during military incursions and regularly shoots at farmers who attempt to work there. Continue reading Gazan farmers at work in Khuza’a
