A demonstration will be held in Nablus on Tuesday 29 December 2009 to demand the release of all Palestinian prisoners. Almost 8,000 Palestinians are currently held in Israeli prisons. Among them are grassroots activists Jamal Juma’ and Mohammad Othman from the Stop the Wall Campaign, Adeeb Abu Rahmah and Abdallah Abu Rahmah from the Bil’in Popular Committee Against the Wall and Settlements and Wa’el Al Faqeeh from the Tanweer Cultural Centre in Nablus, imprisoned during a recent wave of arrests conducted by the Israeli military targeting the non-violent popular resistance leaders.
Demonstrators will gather outside of the Red Crescent Building at 11am and demand the release of Wa’el al Faqeeh, renowned throughout the Nablus region for his tireless campaigning and non-violent action against the Israeli occupation. He was taken from his home at 1am on 8 December when 50 Israeli soldiers entered his house in the north of Nablus, aiming their weapons at Al Faqeeh and his family. Al Faqeeh is now being held at Jelemeh Prison in Haifa, Israel. The prison is notorious for its imprisonment and ill-treatment of Palestinian political prisoners in particular.
Al Faqeeh, 45 years old, worked with various groups in the Nablus region such as the Nablus Youth Union, the Palestinian Cultural Enlightenment Forum and many international groups, supporting Palestinian non-violent struggle. He championed the struggle of Palestinian farmers and villagers, as well as working closely with youth groups in the fields of education, culture and the arts. His co-ordination work of the yearly olive harvest, as well as year-round organisation of demonstrations, fund-raising, community-building and educational events has played an instrumental role in the communities of the region. Favouring grassroots, cross-spectrum peaceful activism to politics, Al Faqeeh has always strived to bridge political divides between Palestinians.
On a pitch black early December night, seven armored Israeli military jeeps pulled into the driveway of a home in the West Bank town of Ramallah. Dozens of soldiers, armed and possibly very scared, came to arrest someone they were probably told was a dangerous, wanted man – Abdallah Abu Rahmah, a high school teacher at the Latin Patriarchate School and a well-known grassroots organizer in the village of Bil’in.
Every Friday, for the past five years, Abdallah Abu Rahmah has led men, women and children from Bil’in, carrying signs and Palestinian flags, along with their Israeli and international supporters, in civil disobedience and protest marches against the seizure of sixty percent of the village’s land for Israel’s construction of its wall and settlements. Bil’in has become a symbol of civilian resistance to Israel’s occupation for Palestinians and international grassroots.
Abu Rahmah was taken from his bed, his hands bound with tight zip tie cuffs whose marks were still visible a week later, and his eyes blindfolded. A few hours later, as President Obama spoke of “the men and women around the world who have been jailed and beaten in the pursuit of justice” upon receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, Abu Rahmah’s blindfold was removed as he found himself in a military detention center. He was being interrogated about the crime of organizing demonstrations. In occupied Palestinian territories, Abu Rahmah’s case is not unusual – about 8,000 Palestinians currently inhabit Israeli jails on political grounds.
After more than fifteen years of fruitless negotiations, which have done nothing more than allow Israel to further cement its control over the West Bank, even the moderate and mainstream West Bank Palestinian Authority now refuses negotiations with Israel. Despairing over the futility of perpetual negotiations, figures like Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas and West Bank Prime Minister Salam Fayyad are openly supporting a resumption of the strategies of the first Palestinian Intifada. This being a grassroots uprising, saying “Those who have to resist are the people […] like in Bil’in and Ni’ilin, where people are injured every day.”
Yet, Israel’s occupation, like any other military operation, speaks only the language of violence and brutality when dealing with Palestinians, whether facing armed militants or unarmed protesters.
Fearing a paradigm shift to grassroots resistance, Israel reacted in the only way it knows – with violence and repression. And what places could better serve as an example than the symbols of contemporary Palestinian popular struggle – Bil’in and the neighboring village of Ni’ilin, villages where weekly demonstrations are held against the Wall, with the support of Israeli and international activists?
Israel’s desire to quash the popular resistance movement is no hidden agenda, nor should it come as a surprise. Recent acts by the Israeli army point directly to this goal.
Over the past six months, 31 Bil’in residents have been arrested, including almost all the members of the Popular Committee that organizes the demonstrations. A similar tactic is being used against protesters in the neighboring village of Ni’ilin, which is losing over half of its land to Israel’s wall and settlements. Over the past eighteen months, 89 Ni’ilin residents have been arrested.
Israeli lawyer Gaby Lasky, who represents many of Bil’in and Ni’ilin’s detainees, was informed by Israel’s military prosecutors that the army had decided to end demonstrations against the Wall, and that it intends to use legal procedures to do so.
The Israeli army also recently resumed the use of 22 caliber sniper fire for dispersing demonstrations, though use of the weapon for crowd control purposes was specifically forbidden in 2001 by the Israeli army’s legal arm. Following the killing of unarmed demonstrator Aqel Srour in Ni’ilin last June, Brigadier General Avichai Mandelblit, the Israeli army’s Judge Advocate General, reiterated the ban on the use of .22 caliber bullets against demonstrators, to no effect. In addition to Srour, since the beginning of 2009, 28 unarmed demonstrators were injured by live ammunition sniper fire in Ni’ilin alone.
Unlike the battlefield, in the realm of public opinion, where political struggles are decided, gun-toting soldiers cannot defeat a civilian uprising. Israel is clearly aware of this fact. The night raids on the villages, detention of leadership and shear brutality on the ground are all a desperate and failing attempt to nip the renewed wave of popular resistance in the bud.
A demonstration was held outside Jelemeh prison in Haifa today in protest against the arrest and imprisonment of grassroots activist Wa’el Al Faqeeh Abu As Sabe. Demonstrators planted olive trees and hung Palestinian flags and banners outside the prison gates, calling for the release of Palestinian political prisoners. The night that the army arrested Wa’el Al Faqeeh, they also arrested 8 other grassroot activists from Nablus and surrounding areas.
15km out of Haifa sits the notorious Jelemeh prison, known for its interrogation and ill-treatment of Palestinian political prisoners. International and Israeli activists gathered under grey skies outside the prison yesterday, beating drums and chanting pro-Palestinian slogans. Activists planted three olive trees outside the gates of the prison, in tribute to similar actions organised by Al Faqeeh in numerous West Bank villages. Palestinian flags, along with three large banners bearing hand-painted depictions of Naji Al-Ali’s iconic Handala cartoon of a Palestinian refugee child were hung on the prison’s fence. Protesters were pushed and told repeatedly to leave by Israeli police officers and prison guards, also threatening to confiscate cameras when activists attempted to photograph the events.
How long Israel will hold Al Faqeeh under detention is unknown. At present no charges have been made, police choosing to detain him for “interrogation” purposes until a trial is held.
Al Faqeeh was taken from his home at 1am on 8 December when 50 Israeli soldiers entered his house in the north of Nablus, aiming their weapons at Al Faqeeh and his family. From there he was transferred to Jelemeh prison in Haifa, where he has been under interrogation from Israeli officials. As an active campaigner for human rights and non-violent resistance, Al Faqeeh’s imprisonment as a political prisoner is obvious.
While Al Faqeeh’s active role in non-violent resistance throughout the Nablus region gained him the trust and respect of Palestinian communities, it may well have sealed his fate with Israeli forces, targeting those who speak out against the occupation.
The drums beat in their normal cadence as I approach the Al-Kurds. This cadence was lost as I reached the home. It quickly devolved into a beat that described not the jubilant emotions of collective resistance, but one of collective disdain and disgust.
One person was being dragged by three police officer into the street; their clothes in tatters. The demonstrators quickly followed and rallied around the abuse. The situation was reduced to bedlam by the police officers. They were pushing, pulling, punching and kicking the demonstrators. As the police attempted to take the two demonstrators to the police station, nearly one hundred attempted to use their bodies to block the police cars movements. This attempt was in vain. The police grabbed protesters one by one (usually needing three officers for every person taken).
As I was in the back watching the madness, two border police grabbed me by my lapel and viciously dragged me into the usurped, front partition of the Al-Kurds home. The settlers had been here for nearly two weeks already, but the conditions were anything but inhabitable. A layer of water and mud covered the gutted home. This confirmed my suspicion that home take-over was not for actual living space, but instead a war-like act of conquering more territory.
About 20 other activists and seven police greeted me as I entered. They were mostly Israeli activists with less than a handful of internationals. I was hand-cuffed to a Canadian man and would not leave his presence for the next forty hours. He was Quebecois and spoke perfect French. We chatted in his native tongue as there were no police able to speak French. We waited in the house for close to hour, seemingly until the police had cleared the streets of all the demonstrators. We were then hastily whisked off to the Jaffa Street police station.
Upon our arrival, we were made to sit in the parking lot of the police station. As the sun had set, it became quite cold quickly. But this would be our resting spot for the better part of the next seven hours. Some arrestees were uncuffed shortly after our arrival. I wasn’t this fortunate, so I became quite close to my Canadian counterpart; holding each other gently and whispering sweet things to one another. There was a severe shortage of cigarettes and my pack was gone in less than 20 minutes. Soon the others joined us and brought more cigarettes. One by one we were taken in and interrogated. Their tactics were somewhat lacking in comparison to their American counterparts. Their questions and follow-up questions were banal and didn’t seem to probe much beneath the surface. I had yet to speak with a lawyer and there was definitely a language gap. These factors may have contributed to the ineffectiveness of the interrogation. It was a welcomed respite from the cold, in any event. But this respite was short-lived as I was returned to the night air after only a few fleeting minutes.
We waited more. Another half-hour. Or was it an hour? Or two? No one had a watch so the concept of time was purely relative and not measured with any degree of certainty.
Our next stop was to be fingerprinted and photographed. Like the other processes, this one lacked fluidity, order and reason. One person was taken completely through. I and three others made it half-way through, sent outside and made to wait a few hours. In this time the rest of the gaggle of arrestees were fingerprinted and photographed. I attempted to convince my cohorts that they had taken my footprints in addition to my hand and fingerprints. They all believed me in the beginning, but the constant succession of “Really? Really? Really?!?!” always made me crack a smile.
Once this process came to an end, we were paraded back to our guard rail along the prison wall. Some comrades from the outside were able to slip falafel sandwiches filled with notes of solidarity through the fence. Here we waited for our strip-search. The hours wore on and everyone smoked cigarette after cigarette. As the time slipped by so did our warmth; 10 degrees, 9 degrees, 8 degrees. We sang songs softly. The Beatles, the Flaming Lips and old union hymns filled the cool air. I waited patiently for my search and found myself last in queue. There were three others in various stages of nudity. The door was slightly ajar. This left no respect for any semblance of dignity.
I was next in line, but was skipped due to another being dragged about by the police. He wasn’t with the folks from Sheikh Jarrah. He was Palestinian. The officer minding him had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head and was leading him about by the strings of his hoody. It was reminiscent of a farmhand leading cattle about a bull-ring. The police had stripped him not merely of his clothes but also of his humanity; completely and utterly. As he undressed, I noticed why they had his hood pulled tightly over his head. There was a four inch gash on his right cheekbone. The police surely didn’t want many people to be privy to their rapacious brutality. He was dripping with blood and he was in dire need of medical attention, but
I felt he wouldn’t receive any for some time. I looked at the other Israeli activist. The need for language disappeared. His eyes spoke volumes. Fear, guilt, remorse, disgust, helplessness. I wanted to scream and liberate this young man. Whatever he did wasn’t worth this experience. Whatever he did wasn’t his fault. Whatever he did was because of the conditions that the state of Israel had forced upon him, his father, his grandfather. He couldn’t control his situation enveloped in injustice. He was merely an innocent actor in this twisted play that Zionism has been scripting for decades. We, the Israelis and myself, knew we would be out soon; safe and without any long-term consequences. The young Palestinian, on the other hand, was now caught in their “justice” system and likely doomed to a constant cycle re-arrest. The other activist and I could only look at one another dumbfounded and inept.
It was my turn. The officer pointed to various articles of clothing and I took it off until I was completely naked. I was made to lift my penis and testicles and spin around. He mumbled something in Hebrew and left the room. I stood there naked for a minute and began to dress after it seemed as if I was able. But the insecurity lingered as I was unsure if I was allowed cover my nude body.
I made the right decision and was taken back outside with the other men from the group. We were marched about 50 meters to the jail. They called us in a few at a time; 3-4 usually. But the hours dragged on. Was it 1 or 2 or 3am? Finally the last three men were taken in. We were examined by a doctor and stripped searched again (“take this off, take that off, lift your thing up, spin around”) and our possessions were bagged and tagged. We were taken to our cell and picked up another Israeli along the way. He had been in a cell all by himself and was white with fear when we found him. On the way I noticed a clock. It was 3:30am. They lead us to our cell. It consisted of two bi-colored double bunk beds made of concrete, a bathroom, a plastic table and two plastic chairs. Some jelly sandwiches and two loaves of bread were thrown onto the bed. I brushed my teeth and went into a deep sleep.
I was awoken from a dream by deep, hoarse yelling in Hebrew. The two Israelis interpreted for me. Apparently they were doing a count of the prisoners. I wondered where they thought we would go. Plots of escape were far from mind. I was too tired and had just arrived. I was undecided if I liked this place or not and needed some time to explore if long-term living situation was a possibility. I guess this is just how fascism works. I dozed another two hours, but roused shortly after our breakfast was delivered. Although the living conditions were sub-par compared to other jails I had frequented, the food far exceeded my expectations. No empty calories for us. The case was quite the opposite. Fresh green peppers, yogurt, cheese and good bread.
Perhaps they were over-compensating for their vile behavior. Possibly they had some sub-conscious intuition that what they were doing was completely wrong and the good food was a way to apologize. But I’m sure everyone in that jail would trade all those peppers and yogurt for dirt if it meant complete and true liberation.
The rest of my cellmates roused. Two Israelis, a Canadian and I began to get to know one another. The elder of the two Israelis took command and flaunted his knowledge of the political situations in the Arab world. He exuded confidence and charisma. His charm was definite and he won over his three other cell-mates quite quickly. The other Israeli was rather quiet. His head seemed heavy with thought.
“When are we going to get out of here?” was the line that broke his silence. It seemed like a passing question prima facie.
But as we began to answer, it became apparent that he had real fears about rotting in this hell-hole. We had to hug him for a while to calm him down. He told us his dreams surrounded having internet access in the jail cell. He would become quiet for minutes or close to an hour and chime in with his familiar question: “When are we going to get out of here?” When this would happen, we’d try to talk to him concerning his feelings. He was at the brink of giving up on activism. This being said, there were some wonderful respites to this agony. They came from our interactions with another; the only escape we had. But it was more than enough. We gave each other laughter and comfort and support.
We were told that we were to see the judge soon. Our situation was coming quite close to illegality. It was nearly 3pm and, I was told, that Israeli law stipulates that those placed under arrest must see a judge within 24 hours of their arrest. That time was nearing for us.
We waited for nearly an hour and then we taken to the entry-way, shackled, placed in a van and driven 50 meters to the courthouse. We were then taken out of the van, thrown in a cell, unshackled and met the rest of the male cohorts we were arrested with. We were split into two cells. They were very close to one another. The cell that I was not in had a monopoly on cigarettes, so we would have to reach through slats in the doors to get our fix. We passed the smokes to each other and all shared our nicotine.
I think I may have seen the Palestinian man who I encountered the night before. Or did I? The one that was before in the courthouse cell had a bandage on the same part of his face. But he had many more; on the back of his head, on his neck. He looked thinner than the man I saw the night before. Had he become more frail and acquired a limp while in prison? I thought not. The beatings that the Israeli police forces dole out must mirror one another with striking similarities. I fell into a deep sleep on the concrete floor.
It felt as if I hadn’t slept more than a half-hour, but I was told I was out for quite some time. The jubilant voices rang through the cell walls from the outside. A demonstration had erupted in our honor. Those voices were very inspiring. Although they were in Hebrew, their energy carried through those prison walls. It encouraged us and let us know that things would be ok and that we were loved and that our misery was not naught.
Soon the Israelis let we internationals in on a secret. They had heard the guards discussing what their plans were for the foreigners. They intended to separate us from the, kidnap us, and send us off to the department of immigration. Here we would spend more time in jail. I was excited. They had been plotting though. We were to stay close to them and be a part of the first hearing, so the police were unable to split us off before the judge could make his decision and therefore, legally, we would have to be released. I was skeptical about what “legally” entailed in this country, but they knew better than we did.
We wedge ourselves in between the Israelis and were filed by the police into the courtroom. There were two beautiful young Israeli men dressed in white shirts and black ties who were to represent us during the proceedings. The judge entered and began in Hebrew. I knew nothing of what was happening. My cohort sitting next to me began to speak to me softly.
“The police are going to try to take; don’t go with them!” he whispered. Just like clockwork, one of the police came to me.
“It’s not your turn. Come with me,” he said. I pretended not to understand. This was happening while the judge was addressing the other defendants. Twice more different police came to me and tried to drag me out of the court, telling me it wasn’t my turn.
The judge was demeaning and condescending to the lawyers. I still didn’t know what was happening beyond a heated argument between our counsel and the judge. Finally the lawyers stood and began to speak with restrained anger. The judge scolded them and they began again, but the anger and disgust was still apparent. The judge roared in Hebrew and the lawyers were broken.
They finished the sentence they began two times before, but this time they did without any show of emotions. Their dignity to be angry in the face of in justice was stripped from them. They exited the courtroom.
The police attempted to remove me from the courtroom for the last time. The judge noticed it now and scolded them. The police wore faces of defeat. The Israeli defendant next to me gave me a confident smile. But that smile seemed to be too confident to me. I had no faith in these proceedings and the police began furiously texting on their cell phones. They were hatching some devious plan. As the texting stop, their faces of defeat morphed into solemnity. I surmised that it didn’t mean anything good for us.
The Israelis left the courtroom and we internationals remained. We were without lawyers and attempting to free ourselves from this vile system. As our (the internationals) proceeding began, the police withdrew their request to arrest us. Then the judge began to question us. For each of us he asked if we would agree to be interrogated by the Ministry of the Interior. His questioning of each of us lacked cohesion. When it was my turn, I told him I had yet to speak to a lawyer and would only agree to questioning after I had consulted my legal counsel.
“Your honor, I haven’t had access to a lawyer, everything has been in Hebrew, I don’t have a formal translator, I don’t know what’s going on. I will not agree to an interview at this point. I will consent only after speaking to a lawyer,” I said.
“How can I guarantee you will return for the interview?” he asked.
“I can give my word,” I replied.
“I’ll need more than that.”
“What can I give you?”
“Money or an Israeli to sign for you.” There was a woman who had been giving us legal advice through the proceedings and she leapt up upon hearing this. She returned with an Israeli citizen quite quickly.
“I think this man will sign for me, your honor,” I said, motioning to the man who had just entered. The judge silently filled out his paper work.
“You’re free to go. You may be arrested again,” the judge said and exited the courtroom. Pandemonium erupted upon his exodus. The scene devolved in blatant and rapacious. The police nearly pounced on us and our lawyers burst back into the courtroom.
“You’re free to go! Do not cooperate!” The lawyers kept shouting. Being that this was the first legal advice I had received, I was obliged to follow it. I sat on the floor as the police were shoving our lawyers about. One lawyer was shoved into the lectern in the middle of the courtroom. I fell over with a thunderous crash. The police twisted my arm painfully and haphazardly put me in handcuffs. They did the same to the rest of the internationals. I was dragged/carried to the basement holding cell and thrown in with the rest of my cohorts. I feverishly explained the situation. They were convinced that we would all be deported.
“When you get back! Tell your stories! Tell them all what happened!” This was the general fervor that came from the cells. In less than a minute, the police came a dragged us into the hall. The quickly and nervously shackled our ankles. We were brought out to a police van. Shouts and cheers of love greeted us from the demonstrators outside. That warmed the cockles of my heart, but I wasn’t free. And now, I was separated from all those I’d grown close to over the past two days, separated from anyone who understood Hebrew. Alone, cast off into the ether.
We began to drive and the demonstrators followed us for a hundred meters or so. Then we entered a highway and drove and drove and drove. Mad thoughts raced through my mind: “Are they taking me directly to the airport for deportation? I didn’t matter much to me at this point. Whatever was to be would be very soon. At least the veil would be lifted and I would know my fate.
It looked as if we were approaching Tel-Aviv after an hour’s drive. We turned and turned some more. Finally, we approached an industrial zone. I’m still not completely sure where I was, but I think it was an immigration office of some sort.
Upon our arrival, I told one of the officers that we hadn’t eaten or had any water in 19 hours (there was a clock on the wall that read 4:15am (where did the hours go?!?!)). He found us six slices of bread and chocolate spread. We were taken to the bathroom and told we would be deported. Each of us began to relate a story to the gentleman taking our photographs and fingerprints (again). This process took nearly two hours, but we found ourselves waiting for interrogation in another room at the end of it all.
Before we were interviewed, the man in charge of this madness came to speak with us. I relayed my confusion.
“The police withdrew,” he looked confused, so I began again.
“The police took back our arrests and then brought us here. I don’t know why we’re here and I haven’t spoken to a lawyer,” I said. I thought this was a good way to frame the interview and it seemed to make the wheels spin inside his head.
“You were released so you could be arrested again and brought here,” he replied.
“But if our arrests were taken away doesn’t that imply that the police made a mistake and were trying to rectify their misjudgment?” This line of logic seemed to trouble him. He retreated to his office with a puzzled look.
We were called in one by one and interrogated. It was a fairly scripted interrogation. They began tough. At one point they shouted they didn’t believe us and then they told us how tired they were and tried to convince the white-faced people to become citizens.
We were released into the morning air. We had no money, no phones, no passports, no possessions, save one person. It was 7:30am. The sun was low and cool, yet. But it was a welcomed sight nonetheless, as I hadn’t seen it in nearly two days.
“Have a nice day,” the officer said closing the door behind him. And that was all. Our freedom regained to a certain extent. Fatigue dragged my feet as we meandered through an industrial zone in Tel-Aviv. Was this defeat? Was this victory? I didn’t feel either of those words fit my mood. But dawn had just broken. And although we didn’t know where we were or where we were going or how we would get there, our legs were unshackled.
A demonstration will be held outside Jelemeh Prison in Haifa at 12pm, Monday 14 December 2009, to protest the arrest of prominent grassroots Palestinian activist Wa’el Al Faqeeh Abu As Sabe. Al Faqeeh, renowned throughout the Nablus region for his tireless campaigning and non-violent action against the Israeli occupation, was kidnapped from his home by Israeli Occupation Forces in the night of Tuesday, 8 December.
Al Faqeeh is now being held at Jelemeh Prison in Haifa, Israel. The prison is notorious for its ill-treatment of prisoners, in particular Palestinian political prisoners. Protesters will gather outside the prison at 12pm, Monday 14 December, to protest the persecution and imprisonment of Al Faqeeh. Protesters plan to plant olive trees outside the prison, in celebration of Al Faqeeh’s organisation of numerous tree-planting actions in Palestinian villages close to settlements. In the spirit of Al Faqeeh’s love and support of culture and the arts, demonstrators are encouraged to bring drums, musical instruments, and any other tools to gain attention and ensure our message is heard.
Al Faqeeh was arrested in the early hours of 8 December 2009, when the Israeli army in the force of 200 armed soldiers invaded several districts of Nablus city, refugee camps and a nearby village in a coordinated operation, raiding houses of targeted grassroots activists and arrested nine. Amongst the arrested were four leading members of the popular resistance from Nablus, a fifth activist from Awarta village and four young activists from Al-Ein Refugee Camp:
Wa’el Al Faqeeh Abu As Sabe, 45
Mayasar Itiany, 45
Abdul-Nasser Itiany, 38
Mussa Salama, 47
Nabih Abdul-Aziz Awwas, 47
Mahmud Huleiman
Muhammad Ibrahim Dahbour
Yousef Raja
Rubi Abu Khalifa
Al Faqeeh, 45 years old, worked with various groups in the Nablus region such as the Nablus Youth Union, the Palestinian Cultural Enlightenment Forum and many international groups, supporting and organising Palestinian non-violent struggle. He champions the struggle of Palestinian farmers and villagers, as well as working closely with youth groups in the fields of education, culture and the arts. His co-ordination work of the yearly olive harvest, as well as year-round organisation of demonstrations, fund-raising, community-building and educational events has played an instrumental role in the communities of the region. Favouring grassroots, cross-spectrum peaceful activism to politics, Al Faqeeh has always strived to bridge political divides between Palestinians. He was taken from his home at 1am on 8 December when 50 Israeli soldiers entered his house in the north of Nablus, aiming their weapons at Al Faqeeh and his family.
To get to Jelemeh take busses 175, 188, 180 or 181 from Haifa.
