Jayyous
Friday, August 20, 2010
The oscillating fan fails to coax any cooling from the moisture pumping to the surface of my skin from my body which has a core temperature four degrees less than the outside air. Just as yesterday an unsolicited sense of dislike and judgment surfaced from within me that neither reason nor will could brush away.
I was walking through a section of the Jewish quarter in the old city of Jerusalem. The street was wide, brightly lit and the shops were spacious and inviting. An abundance of expensive items were displayed to please the eye and include the shopper in the circle of their elegance. The stores were attended by women and men in stylish western clothes speaking impeccable English. The men wore dark immaculate suits accompanied with accessories coordinated in every detail. The women were equally immaculate but in revealing dresses tight enough to also show those little extra bulges that betray middle age.
The more I looked the more I saw in their welcoming flashy smiles a mocking parody of my U.S home. I looked for a way out, dragging my eyes from the store fronts to anxiously scan each intersection of the street for signs of a path leading back to the place where I’d been living for the past three weeks: as a stranger in a strange land with strange people speaking a strange language. I was angry at being enticed by a corrupt reminder of home. Judgment rose up against these people who were offering me privilege on the backs of the oppressed. The unspeakable, unthinkable flashed through my consciousness: “bad Jew, good Palestinian!”
That fleeting thought clings to me like my drenched clothes in today’s oppressive heat. It suffocates me. It frightens me.
Is this what happens to us when we isolate ourselves in one particular community? Is this what the separation barriers are doing to the people of Israel and Palestine? Is this what happens in the gap between the powerful and the powerless? Is this what happens when the neighbor becomes the alien?
In my rational moments I recognize that the Palestinians and the Israelis have been neighbors in a common land for many generations. It would seem that there cannot be more that a three or four degrees of separation between them. They have a common grounding in the land, common religious sites, common experiences of being invaded and oppressed; perhaps even common ancestry to some degree. I have close friends who are Jewish and an ongoing relationship with a Lebanese family. What happened that I found myself choosing sides and casting judgments?
I can’t deny my feelings. But I do know that they reveal things that matter to me. It matters to me that I keep my balance here in this land of separated people. When I begin to tip over, it’s more about me than about the people around me. It’s about the unfair expectations that I project onto others and onto myself. However, high expectations mean I still care and carry within me hope for the two Peoples and the three Faiths of this land. That means more than a flash of feeling in a moment of confusion. There are no bad Jews and good Palestinians, nor bad Palestinians and good Jews. We are all people here for whom Jesus prayed, “Jerusalem, if only you knew the way of Peace!”
It’s almost sun set now. Soon I will lie on my mat on the roof of our house. The cool light of the moon and the stars will draw the heat of the day into the darkness and give relief to my overheated body. I may be lucky enough to see a meteor flash across the sky proclaiming the birth of an unexpected expectation for humankind. And when the baby cries out in the night, its universal voice will not be distinguishable as either Arab or Jew, slave or free. As I drift into sleep, my unthinkable unspeakable suffocating feeling may follow the fading meteor trail into the infinite darkness.
EAPPI-US and Global Ministries of the United Church of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) have sent me as an Ecumenical Accompanier serving the World Council of Churches’ Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI). The views contained herein are personal to me and do not necessarily reflect those of EAPPI-US and Global Ministries or the WCC.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Jayyous
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Early last Thursday morning 17 year old Mustapha was watching TV when there was a bang on the door. Israeli soldiers came in demanding his I.D. and compared it with the names on a list they were carrying. They asked the boy, “where is your wife?” He replied, “I’m not married.” The soldiers conducted a body inspection and then took him out of the house, handcuffed and blindfolded him, put him in a jeep and drove out of the village of Azzun where he lived.
Eleven boys were arrested in Azzun that morning. Nine were released after two days, two others remained in custody in undisclosed places. On Saturday the soldiers returned to arrest three more boys as well as one whom they had just released. All the boys are underage according to international law.
This morning two members of our Jayyous EAPPI placement team have been invited by Abdulkarim Sadi, a field researcher from B ‘TSelem, to accompany him to Azzun to interview two of the boys who had been arrested and now were released and back in their homes. The interviews were held in the municipal building, hosted by the Mayor of Azzun.
Abdula is a small thin 14 year old boy whose nails are bitten down to the quick. Sitting with us he bounces his legs continually, stares at the floor and bites his lip often during the interview. He does relax some as he tells his story, looking up more frequently at his interviewer. He sometimes appears to be on the edge of tears as he talks about the way the soldiers treated him.
“The soldiers raided our house, woke me up and asked me my name. They asked me for an ID and a birth certificate. Then they took me outside to a jeep, handcuffed me, blindfolded me and took me to a military base. They asked me about my health and if I had had any operations.” He tells of being taken to another place where they accused him of throwing stones at military vehicles. They asked him to sign something, but at first he refused. Then finally he said, “OK, ok, I threw one stone but I didn’t hit anything.”
The Israeli soldier responded by hitting the boy two times in the face and calling him a liar. Another soldier kicked him in his back. They then finger printed him and took his picture. They held him “for a few hours” and then took him in a jeep back to his home village of Azzun.
Mustapha was the second boy that Abdulkarim interviewed. When the Israeli soldiers took him out of his house they traveled for about an hour. “They asked me about my health. They then transferred me to another vehicle and took me to another place. One of the soldiers there told me, ‘I’m here to help you, to finish this up as soon as possible. Were you throwing stones on July 29?’ Another soldier said, ‘If you don’t confess we will beat you.’
“I said I was not throwing stones. I would not throw them because I don’t want to go back to prison.”
He then told us that the soldiers “smacked me in the face and said bad things about God.” They started beating him, pushing him against the wall. He was still blindfolded and handcuffed. After an hour another soldier came in and said, “That first man was bad. I’m here to help you.” However, the boy refused to admit to throwing stones or to sign anything. Finally they finger printed him, took his picture and transferred him to a detention center. He was given a brown uniform. Up until this point he had been given no drink, food or bathroom opportunity.
He was then given food and they kept him overnight. They released him the next morning miles from his village without any money. It took him several hours walking and taking rides before he met one of his uncles who took him home.
Azzun is a Palestinian village of 10,000 people on the road leading west to the city of Qalqillya which is located on the Green Line established by the 1949 armistice between Israel and the Palestinian territory. Azzun has been designated area A by the Oslo accords of the 1990’s. Area A is to be administered by the Palestinian Authority, not the Israeli military.(1) However, Azzun experiences illegal Israeli military incursions, often late at night, to arrest boys and young men, to give papers ordering boys to report to Israeli authorities for questioning, and to occupy the roofs of homes and local businesses. It also blocks the entrances and exits to the village for short periods of time. Justification for these actions is “security.”
There is an illegal Israeli settlement just south east of the village. Most often the charges are throwing rocks at military vehicles that have entered the village or at settlers’ vehicles on the road that passes by Azzun. For boys up to 17, a first time conviction on the charge of rock throwing carries a fine of 1000nis ($350.) and three months in prison. A second conviction doubles the fine and gives nine months in prison.
Mustapha continues to proclaim his innocence. “I was arrested unfairly. I have not admitted to any wrong doing.” And Hasan from the mayor’s office in Azzun explains, “Some states use diplomacy, law and reason to solve problems while others, like the United States of American and the Israeli government continue to use a big stick.”
(1) United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, Occupied Palestinian Territory, Special Focus, December 2009, p.2.
EAPPI-US and Global Ministries of the United Church of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) have sent me as an Ecumenical Accompanier serving the World Council of Churches’ Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI). The views contained herein are personal to me and do not necessarily reflect those of EAPPI-US and Global Ministries or the WCC.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Jayyous
Friday, August 20, 2010
The sun rises at our backs into a clear blue sky. The farm gate has opened on time. The farmers with their trucks and tractors, donkey carts and horses, wives and children have all passed through check point #943 receiving polite greetings from the Israeli soldiers and quick glances at the farmers’ passes and the passes for wives, children and donkeys. The soldier closing the gate calls out to us, “Have a good day.” We turn and head back up the hill to the village, his greeting following us, affirming that it has already been a good day at the north farm gate in Jayyous.
“A good day?” It’s a good day when the gates that separate farmers from their fields are closed 22 hours out of each day? It’s a good day when Israeli soldiers choose to give Palestinian farmers permission to go onto their own Palestinian land that they have farmed for generations? It’s a good day when farmers and their families are forbidden to stay on their land over night but must return through the gate between 6 and 6:30 in the evening?
Perhaps it’s not a perfect day but we must take it in perspective. Yesterday several young boys were excluded from their family land because they were over 12 and did not have the proper pass. A farm worker was sent back because his pass had a tiny rip in it. (He would have to go to Qalqillya to apply for a new card.) Yet another’s pass did not match the information in the soldiers’ computer. Others had long waits as the soldiers with U.S. M-16 assault rifles studied their passes and asked many questions. All of this after opening the gates late and gesturing farmers to stay back until waved forward one at a time. Tractors and trucks searched as well as the bags hanging from donkeys and plastic bags carrying farmers’ lunches.
Is this good day “perspective” or does it illustrate the question in the Arabic proverb, “Do you want justice or its cousin?” An English equivalent might be, “The good is the enemy of the best.” (1)
I put this question to some of our neighbors in Jayyous. The responses are always the similar.
“We must survive.”
“We must adapt to the realities of our situation.”
“To do otherwise will drive us into despair.”
“What else is there to do when we lack the economic, military and political power?”
“What can you do to help us?”
And so when the Israeli military jeeps and Hummers come through our village at 2am it is a good night. It is a good night when the soldiers bang on the doors of homes and don’t arrest anyone, but only give papers to teenage boys to report to Israeli authorities for questioning. It is a good night when young boys think it’s a game to throw a few stones down on the military vehicles from rooftops and the soldiers ignore them. It’s a good night when children do not have to witness the arrest of their father.
It’s not a good night or a good day for me, because the question I asked people in Jayyous came from my ignorance. It is not a question to ask people experiencing powerlessness every day. The question is really directed to me. When they ask me, “What can you do?” they are asking me, “Do you want justice or its cousin for us?” They know that my country is deeply involved and strongly influential in the Middle East, including Israel / Palestine. As a citizen of one of the most powerful countries in the world, I have the choice. I have the choice to be a citizen seeking to use our power for peace with justice and refusing to settle for its cousin, coercive power.
While I live in Jayyous, it will be a good day for me each day that I remain aware that it is never a good day when any human being; Israeli, Palestinian, American or any other; is forced to settle for the cousin of justice.
(1) Unload Your Own Donkey, Primrose Arnander & Ashkjain Skipwith, Stacy International, 2007, p.42
Friday, August 20, 2010
The sun rises at our backs into a clear blue sky. The farm gate has opened on time. The farmers with their trucks and tractors, donkey carts and horses, wives and children have all passed through check point #943 receiving polite greetings from the Israeli soldiers and quick glances at the farmers’ passes and the passes for wives, children and donkeys. The soldier closing the gate calls out to us, “Have a good day.” We turn and head back up the hill to the village, his greeting following us, affirming that it has already been a good day at the north farm gate in Jayyous.
“A good day?” It’s a good day when the gates that separate farmers from their fields are closed 22 hours out of each day? It’s a good day when Israeli soldiers choose to give Palestinian farmers permission to go onto their own Palestinian land that they have farmed for generations? It’s a good day when farmers and their families are forbidden to stay on their land over night but must return through the gate between 6 and 6:30 in the evening?
Perhaps it’s not a perfect day but we must take it in perspective. Yesterday several young boys were excluded from their family land because they were over 12 and did not have the proper pass. A farm worker was sent back because his pass had a tiny rip in it. (He would have to go to Qalqillya to apply for a new card.) Yet another’s pass did not match the information in the soldiers’ computer. Others had long waits as the soldiers with U.S. M-16 assault rifles studied their passes and asked many questions. All of this after opening the gates late and gesturing farmers to stay back until waved forward one at a time. Tractors and trucks searched as well as the bags hanging from donkeys and plastic bags carrying farmers’ lunches.
Is this good day “perspective” or does it illustrate the question in the Arabic proverb, “Do you want justice or its cousin?” An English equivalent might be, “The good is the enemy of the best.” (1)
I put this question to some of our neighbors in Jayyous. The responses are always the similar.
“We must survive.”
“We must adapt to the realities of our situation.”
“To do otherwise will drive us into despair.”
“What else is there to do when we lack the economic, military and political power?”
“What can you do to help us?”
And so when the Israeli military jeeps and Hummers come through our village at 2am it is a good night. It is a good night when the soldiers bang on the doors of homes and don’t arrest anyone, but only give papers to teenage boys to report to Israeli authorities for questioning. It is a good night when young boys think it’s a game to throw a few stones down on the military vehicles from rooftops and the soldiers ignore them. It’s a good night when children do not have to witness the arrest of their father.
It’s not a good night or a good day for me, because the question I asked people in Jayyous came from my ignorance. It is not a question to ask people experiencing powerlessness every day. The question is really directed to me. When they ask me, “What can you do?” they are asking me, “Do you want justice or its cousin for us?” They know that my country is deeply involved and strongly influential in the Middle East, including Israel / Palestine. As a citizen of one of the most powerful countries in the world, I have the choice. I have the choice to be a citizen seeking to use our power for peace with justice and refusing to settle for its cousin, coercive power.
While I live in Jayyous, it will be a good day for me each day that I remain aware that it is never a good day when any human being; Israeli, Palestinian, American or any other; is forced to settle for the cousin of justice.
(1) Unload Your Own Donkey, Primrose Arnander & Ashkjain Skipwith, Stacy International, 2007, p.42
Sunday, August 15, 2010
August 7, 2010
Azzun, Palestine
We sit in the living room sipping cold drinks with a Palestinian family while above our heads we hear the boots of Israeli soldiers walking back and forth on the roof of their house. The four or five soldiers had come to their front door at 4:30am. Entering the home the soldiers went up to the second floor and then to the roof where they set up a make shift tent, raised an Israeli flag and settled in.
It is now 2pm, the heat outside is over 100 degrees. The family has had little sleep since the arrival of the soldiers. As we sit together, a young child finally falls asleep in her mother’s arms, absolutely limp with exhaustion. With only a fan to moderate the stifling heat, three generations of the family sit in quiet conversation with us: three young teenage boys, a sister in law with the sleeping child, Massad, the father and owner of the house, two young daughters about 5 and 8 and Massad’s wife. The Junior High age boys act as our hosts, then sit quietly together. However, as the story of the soldiers’ presence unfolds, the glances between the boys suggest a sense of adventure. Like most young teens, who have not yet developed a sense of caution, they seem not to be intimidated by the soldiers. The sister in law is focused on caring for her children and showing strength in a situation of hopelessness. The Massad’s wife presents a stoic understanding of her family’s plight, quietly nursing concern and pain for them. Massad hides his feelings behind an attention to directing the hosting of his guests, orchestrating a constant supply of water and soft drinks. However, in unguarded moments his despair seeps through. He is the head of the family and he can do nothing to make the soldiers go away.
The soldiers’ foot steps above us invade our conversation. I ask Massad, “What have the soldiers told you?” the mother with the sleeping child interprets for Massad who is insecure about speaking English. He answers, “The soldiers said, ‘Your son was taken yesterday afternoon. He is accused of throwing rocks at soldiers. We will be staying here for 24 hours.’” She then adds her interpretation of the soldier’s answer, “They come when they want to and will leave when they want to. There is nothing we can do but wait for them to leave.”
The family does not know where their fifteen year old boy is being held. After four days they may be told where his is but they will not be permitted to visit him. Only after he has been to court and a decision has been rendered will they be able to see him. This may take a month or more. He faces a fine of $300 to $500 and several months in prison. Or he may be released after questioning. The unknown is hard to bear.
Azzun is a Palestinian village of 3000 people about six miles west of Qalqillya and the green line established in 1967 between Israeli and the Palestinian territory. Less than a mile east there is a separation barrier between it and an Israeli settlement in the Palestinian territory. There is a separation barrier two miles south west with plans to build it south of Azzun to connect with the settlement barrier. These barriers extend as much as seven or eight miles from the green line into Palestinian territory. The village is governed by the Palestinian authority, but the Israeli military does not answer to its authority. The Israeli army believes it does not need to explain its present or its activity in the village of Azzun. The most it will say is that their actions are for “security” reasons.
More than ninety teens from Azzun are in Israeli prisons at this time. The Israeli army moves through the town frequently, often late at night, to arrest someone or to serve notices to appear before the Israeli authorities. This activity has become so common that the many people no longer notice the army’s presence or pay attention to actions like the invasion of two different homes in the past twenty four hours. People seek to just go about life as usual. When we asked people what was happening with the soldiers, only a small group of teenagers could tell us.
When we stand to leave their home, we feel as helpless as the family. We can only promise to tell their story as we have experienced it. The young woman who has been translating replies, “it is important for you to do that. We speak only the Arabic language that few others know or understand. You speak English which is understood around the world. Through you people will learn about us. Thank you for being here. We thank you for telling others.”
As we walk down the street to catch transportation back to Jayyous, we turn and look at the house once more. We see the Israeli flag flying from the roof of the Palestinian family’s home in Palestinian territory. The oppressive heat muffles the whisper of the hot wind lifting the flag, “how many different flags have flown in this land over the past 3000 years? When will the land discover the way of Peace?”
Azzun, Palestine
We sit in the living room sipping cold drinks with a Palestinian family while above our heads we hear the boots of Israeli soldiers walking back and forth on the roof of their house. The four or five soldiers had come to their front door at 4:30am. Entering the home the soldiers went up to the second floor and then to the roof where they set up a make shift tent, raised an Israeli flag and settled in.
It is now 2pm, the heat outside is over 100 degrees. The family has had little sleep since the arrival of the soldiers. As we sit together, a young child finally falls asleep in her mother’s arms, absolutely limp with exhaustion. With only a fan to moderate the stifling heat, three generations of the family sit in quiet conversation with us: three young teenage boys, a sister in law with the sleeping child, Massad, the father and owner of the house, two young daughters about 5 and 8 and Massad’s wife. The Junior High age boys act as our hosts, then sit quietly together. However, as the story of the soldiers’ presence unfolds, the glances between the boys suggest a sense of adventure. Like most young teens, who have not yet developed a sense of caution, they seem not to be intimidated by the soldiers. The sister in law is focused on caring for her children and showing strength in a situation of hopelessness. The Massad’s wife presents a stoic understanding of her family’s plight, quietly nursing concern and pain for them. Massad hides his feelings behind an attention to directing the hosting of his guests, orchestrating a constant supply of water and soft drinks. However, in unguarded moments his despair seeps through. He is the head of the family and he can do nothing to make the soldiers go away.
The soldiers’ foot steps above us invade our conversation. I ask Massad, “What have the soldiers told you?” the mother with the sleeping child interprets for Massad who is insecure about speaking English. He answers, “The soldiers said, ‘Your son was taken yesterday afternoon. He is accused of throwing rocks at soldiers. We will be staying here for 24 hours.’” She then adds her interpretation of the soldier’s answer, “They come when they want to and will leave when they want to. There is nothing we can do but wait for them to leave.”
The family does not know where their fifteen year old boy is being held. After four days they may be told where his is but they will not be permitted to visit him. Only after he has been to court and a decision has been rendered will they be able to see him. This may take a month or more. He faces a fine of $300 to $500 and several months in prison. Or he may be released after questioning. The unknown is hard to bear.
Azzun is a Palestinian village of 3000 people about six miles west of Qalqillya and the green line established in 1967 between Israeli and the Palestinian territory. Less than a mile east there is a separation barrier between it and an Israeli settlement in the Palestinian territory. There is a separation barrier two miles south west with plans to build it south of Azzun to connect with the settlement barrier. These barriers extend as much as seven or eight miles from the green line into Palestinian territory. The village is governed by the Palestinian authority, but the Israeli military does not answer to its authority. The Israeli army believes it does not need to explain its present or its activity in the village of Azzun. The most it will say is that their actions are for “security” reasons.
More than ninety teens from Azzun are in Israeli prisons at this time. The Israeli army moves through the town frequently, often late at night, to arrest someone or to serve notices to appear before the Israeli authorities. This activity has become so common that the many people no longer notice the army’s presence or pay attention to actions like the invasion of two different homes in the past twenty four hours. People seek to just go about life as usual. When we asked people what was happening with the soldiers, only a small group of teenagers could tell us.
When we stand to leave their home, we feel as helpless as the family. We can only promise to tell their story as we have experienced it. The young woman who has been translating replies, “it is important for you to do that. We speak only the Arabic language that few others know or understand. You speak English which is understood around the world. Through you people will learn about us. Thank you for being here. We thank you for telling others.”
As we walk down the street to catch transportation back to Jayyous, we turn and look at the house once more. We see the Israeli flag flying from the roof of the Palestinian family’s home in Palestinian territory. The oppressive heat muffles the whisper of the hot wind lifting the flag, “how many different flags have flown in this land over the past 3000 years? When will the land discover the way of Peace?”
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Jayyous, Palestine
Photo by Paul Adrian Raymond
A young boy who looks about 10 or twelve years old is encircled by Israeli soldiers towering over him with US made M-16 Assault rifles or Israeli made Uzi submachine guns slung over their shoulders. The boy is looking up with a sad fearful perplexity in his eyes. The soldiers’ expressions are neither kind nor particularly gruff. But insert the boy into their midst and the pathos of power meeting the powerless is palpable. The boy, isolated from his father at the Israeli check point between Bethlehem and Jerusalem, waits with both hope and despair for the soldiers to send him back or let him pass into Jerusalem with his father to pray on this first Friday of Ramadan.
A woman approaches one of our people in the World Council of Churches Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI) with her pass in her hand. “Why can I not pass to pray,” she asks? A few words, some sign language, and examination of the pass reveal that she is 44 years and six months old. The Israeli rules at this time are only women 45 and older may pass. However, a conversation is initiated with a Palestinian police woman who then calls her superior over. They all explain to the woman that she is too young to go to pray this year. However, 15 minutes later the Palestinian policeman in charge comes over to the PA and says, ”the woman has been passed through.” A hint of humanity and justice has surfaced for a moment into the coercive power dominated system. But it is still the powerful that make the choices.
These scenes are repeated over and over as over 10,000 Palestinian Muslims seek to walk through a series of three check points on their way to pray at Haroam es-Shrif, their holy site at the temple mount in East Jerusalem. Only men over 50, women 45 and older, and children under 12 with a birth certificate are allowed to enter Jerusalem on Fridays during the month of Ramadan. A few others are able to get special prayer permits. Five, six or more Israeli soldiers meet each person at a narrow opening in each of the three barriers, one with a seven-foot turnstile. There are two lines, one for women and one for men. Husbands and wives look across the 25 yards that divide them, trying to see if their spouses have passed through and hoping to meet them at the end of the process, among the 10,000 people who pass through the check point in 5 hours.
Here in Bethlehem and Jerusalem holy sites, churches, synagogues and mosques abound. Christians, Jews and Muslims seek inspiration from these ancient cities. Jerusalem is a place where David, Jesus and Muhammad walked. It is the place where they met the coercive power of occupying armies and nations. It is the place where the power of prayer and principalities and powers intersected and clashed. It is the place where the occupying powers misunderstood the holy amidst the powerless people.
Looking over Bethlehem and Jerusalem on this first Friday of Ramadan it is still difficult to recognize the holy: in the dead stones of the “holy sites,” in the separation barriers, in the fear of terrorism, in the anger and hopelessness of the oppressed, in the eyes of a small boy awaiting his fate within the circle of soldiers. However, it may be that a small child will be the one to once again introduce a spark of holy spirituality into the arrogance of coercive power solutions?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
August 4, 2010
Even at 10 in the morning there is no mercy here from the blazing sun or the blade of the bulldozer. We stand with Moen Younis and several of his friends looking at the ruins of his farm house which stood on the crest of a hill only an hour earlier. For nine years it has given him shelter while tending his fields. His home is about three kilometers east in the village of Sanniriya.
“The soldiers just came. I did not receive any notice. There were 7 jeeps with 35 soldiers and the bulldozer.”
At 9:30 am we had received a phone call from Pauline at the EAPPI office in Jerusalem informing us of a demolition in progress in Azzun Atma. Stella and I arrived at the village administration building at 10am. No one seemed to have heard about a demolition until Sameh Ahmid arrived. He took us outside the village to the farmland where men were standing ready to take us to the demolition site.
Below the ruins of his farmhouse was the remains of a building that had sheltered farm animals. It too had been a victim of the soldier’s bulldozer. As we stood looking at the pile of rubble the realization began to sink in like the burning rays of the sun on our backs. Thirty five year old Moen stood apart for a few minutes, looking over the remains, standing tall but with a disguised sadness in his eyes. Someone asked him if he would rebuild? He replied, “no, I am tired.”
As we walked back passed the place where the farmhouse had stood, now only a rock pile and some scattered household items, the conversation shifted to the weather. “The hottest we’ve had in five years.” There was little more to say. “Asef, Moen.” He looked me in the eye and replied in English, “It’s OK.”
And the sun continues to beat down on Azzum Atma, a village with many more demolition orders, five near the Israeli settlement of Sha’ria Tiqwa.
Even at 10 in the morning there is no mercy here from the blazing sun or the blade of the bulldozer. We stand with Moen Younis and several of his friends looking at the ruins of his farm house which stood on the crest of a hill only an hour earlier. For nine years it has given him shelter while tending his fields. His home is about three kilometers east in the village of Sanniriya.
“The soldiers just came. I did not receive any notice. There were 7 jeeps with 35 soldiers and the bulldozer.”
At 9:30 am we had received a phone call from Pauline at the EAPPI office in Jerusalem informing us of a demolition in progress in Azzun Atma. Stella and I arrived at the village administration building at 10am. No one seemed to have heard about a demolition until Sameh Ahmid arrived. He took us outside the village to the farmland where men were standing ready to take us to the demolition site.
Below the ruins of his farmhouse was the remains of a building that had sheltered farm animals. It too had been a victim of the soldier’s bulldozer. As we stood looking at the pile of rubble the realization began to sink in like the burning rays of the sun on our backs. Thirty five year old Moen stood apart for a few minutes, looking over the remains, standing tall but with a disguised sadness in his eyes. Someone asked him if he would rebuild? He replied, “no, I am tired.”
As we walked back passed the place where the farmhouse had stood, now only a rock pile and some scattered household items, the conversation shifted to the weather. “The hottest we’ve had in five years.” There was little more to say. “Asef, Moen.” He looked me in the eye and replied in English, “It’s OK.”
And the sun continues to beat down on Azzum Atma, a village with many more demolition orders, five near the Israeli settlement of Sha’ria Tiqwa.
The farmers’ access gate to their fields, scheduled to close at 8am was still open when a father and son approached the gate at close to 8:15am. My partner, Miriam, and I had been exchanging small talk with two soldiers at the gate about the weather, the World Cup and the location of their homes and ours. As the farmer and son approached the gate, the soldiers waved them forward and closed the two parallel gates, separating us from the soldiers, the farmer and his son.
The farmer showed the soldiers two sets of papers. They looked them over briefly and handed them back. We could not hear what was said but there was obviously a disagreement. The farmer became excited and kept pointing to the papers and waving his arms. One of the soldiers spoke firmly, pointed back toward the gates which were closed but not locked. The boy ducked under the first gate and pushed open the second, returning the way he had come. We tried to speak to him but he would not look at us and was walking very quickly back up the long hill to the village. He appeared to have tears in his eyes.
Because of the two gates between us, we had had no opportunity to engage the soldiers during the disagreement. After the farmer had left for the fields and his son was around the bend in the road, the soldier in charge, a captain, came toward us to lock the gate. Speaking through the high chain-link fence I asked him what had been the problem? He mumbled something vague about the papers. I waited for him to say more. He concentrated on locking the gate. Then he looked up and said with a friendly shrug, “It sometimes happens.” The implication of his body language seemed to be, “Don’t worry about it. It’s the way it is.”
He turned to join the other soldiers and drove off in their jeep. We watched them go and then turn ourselves to follow the tracks of the young boy up the long arduous hill back to Jayyous.
The farmer showed the soldiers two sets of papers. They looked them over briefly and handed them back. We could not hear what was said but there was obviously a disagreement. The farmer became excited and kept pointing to the papers and waving his arms. One of the soldiers spoke firmly, pointed back toward the gates which were closed but not locked. The boy ducked under the first gate and pushed open the second, returning the way he had come. We tried to speak to him but he would not look at us and was walking very quickly back up the long hill to the village. He appeared to have tears in his eyes.
Because of the two gates between us, we had had no opportunity to engage the soldiers during the disagreement. After the farmer had left for the fields and his son was around the bend in the road, the soldier in charge, a captain, came toward us to lock the gate. Speaking through the high chain-link fence I asked him what had been the problem? He mumbled something vague about the papers. I waited for him to say more. He concentrated on locking the gate. Then he looked up and said with a friendly shrug, “It sometimes happens.” The implication of his body language seemed to be, “Don’t worry about it. It’s the way it is.”
He turned to join the other soldiers and drove off in their jeep. We watched them go and then turn ourselves to follow the tracks of the young boy up the long arduous hill back to Jayyous.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Checkpoint at Qualqukya, 4:00 am
A nearly full moon draws a light fresh breeze across the hills and valleys carrying the promise of a new day for waking villages. Only the rooster’s crow and the donkey’s bray break the stillness announcing a fresh start cleansed of the shadows of yesterday. The fading dew has quenched the thirst of the olive and fig trees and teased out the aroma of pungent herbs. (Soon it will go the way of the gently dawning light as the hot summer sun bursts upon the land).
Desecrating this moon lit cradle of rebirth is a persistent darkness that feeds on the dehumanizing engine of the Qualqilya Gate gearing up for another day. Before the last seconds of midnight have receded into yesterday, the shadows of 3000 men and women begin to pile up against that gate. Here desperation, determination, and dehumanization mightily reign. No promise of regal sun here, only the thick film of choking air filled with cigarette smoke, rotting discards of hastily eaten breakfasts and the odor of anxiety and fear. Beyond the eight-foot tall turn style gate, high wire fences define the path to the soldiers who decide who will enter one more day for work or reuniting with family. The glorious dawn is smothered in tears that pretend to come from churning specks of debris.
At 4:00am the gates are opened by unseen soldiers watching from above. People surge forward, straining against the tiny opening that tightens the crowd into a single thread, to be squeezed through the spinning gate one at a time. The pressure is immense, sometimes clogging the spinning gate as people pile up against it, some thrust upward onto another’s shoulders to cling high on the fence surrounding the gate. Soon several large forceful union men gain control of the determined surge, relieving the pressure, clearing space here and there with forceful words and powerful bodies freeing the gate to spin and thrust people through singly into the long tunnel to the soldiers waiting at the end to admit or deny passage.
For two and a half hours men and women file through to entrance to meet their fate for the day. Dignity is illusive, expressed only in a spark of a smile in response to a greeting, “sabah ilkher”, or in conversation with a friend. Many look away, embarrassed or angry, others walk with the stooped burden of many past days traveling this gauntlet of desperation. On and on it goes, today is your day: enter. A green card slightly split: no entry. A green card dated for tomorrow: no entry. After two hours in line: entry but no more work available.
And so it continues, everyday the same thing, people grasping for dignity and hope coming up with dry sand slipping through their fingers. The moon continues to wax and wane over fading promises lost in the darkness of military power, economic strength and political manipulation.
Checkpoint at Qualqukya, 4:00 am
A nearly full moon draws a light fresh breeze across the hills and valleys carrying the promise of a new day for waking villages. Only the rooster’s crow and the donkey’s bray break the stillness announcing a fresh start cleansed of the shadows of yesterday. The fading dew has quenched the thirst of the olive and fig trees and teased out the aroma of pungent herbs. (Soon it will go the way of the gently dawning light as the hot summer sun bursts upon the land).
Desecrating this moon lit cradle of rebirth is a persistent darkness that feeds on the dehumanizing engine of the Qualqilya Gate gearing up for another day. Before the last seconds of midnight have receded into yesterday, the shadows of 3000 men and women begin to pile up against that gate. Here desperation, determination, and dehumanization mightily reign. No promise of regal sun here, only the thick film of choking air filled with cigarette smoke, rotting discards of hastily eaten breakfasts and the odor of anxiety and fear. Beyond the eight-foot tall turn style gate, high wire fences define the path to the soldiers who decide who will enter one more day for work or reuniting with family. The glorious dawn is smothered in tears that pretend to come from churning specks of debris.
At 4:00am the gates are opened by unseen soldiers watching from above. People surge forward, straining against the tiny opening that tightens the crowd into a single thread, to be squeezed through the spinning gate one at a time. The pressure is immense, sometimes clogging the spinning gate as people pile up against it, some thrust upward onto another’s shoulders to cling high on the fence surrounding the gate. Soon several large forceful union men gain control of the determined surge, relieving the pressure, clearing space here and there with forceful words and powerful bodies freeing the gate to spin and thrust people through singly into the long tunnel to the soldiers waiting at the end to admit or deny passage.
For two and a half hours men and women file through to entrance to meet their fate for the day. Dignity is illusive, expressed only in a spark of a smile in response to a greeting, “sabah ilkher”, or in conversation with a friend. Many look away, embarrassed or angry, others walk with the stooped burden of many past days traveling this gauntlet of desperation. On and on it goes, today is your day: enter. A green card slightly split: no entry. A green card dated for tomorrow: no entry. After two hours in line: entry but no more work available.
And so it continues, everyday the same thing, people grasping for dignity and hope coming up with dry sand slipping through their fingers. The moon continues to wax and wane over fading promises lost in the darkness of military power, economic strength and political manipulation.
Abu's farm
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Jayyous northern check point #943 to Abu Azzem’s Farm
A road between Israeli settlements passes through occupied Palestinian land along the edge of Jayyous, separating the village farmers from their land. To cross the road the farmers must pass through an Israeli check point that is administered by the Israeli army. The farmers must have a pass to reach their land. Some enter with their tractors and others with donkeys and carts. The donkey must also have a valid pass. Each family member or worker must have their own individual entry pass. The passes must be renewed every 6 months or a year.
The check point gate is open for one half hour in the morning and one half hour in the afternoon. The Palestinian farmers are not permitted to stay on their land over night. Therefore, their work day is defined by the openings of the gate. Check point #943 is presently open at 9am and 6pm.
This day, after counting the number of people, donkeys and tractors that cross, we cross the check point and Abu Azzam follows with his tractor and trailer. We meet him on the other side of the road and climb on the trailer to travel to his land. (It makes it easier for the farmer if we cross the check point separately). It takes a few minutes for the soldiers to consult about letting internationals pass. We have passport identification from Ireland, Switzerland, South Africa, and the United States. This is an agricultural gate and the soldiers are puzzled that we would want to go through.
Our tractor and trailer pass through olive groves to an expanse of land bare of trees with an Israeli settlement visible on a hill in the distance. Looking more closely we see stakes in the ground marking out the places for over 1000 new settlement homes on this land that has been farmed by Abu’s family for several generations. This land has been in dispute in the courts with lawyers attempting to negotiate a settlement. However, there are 9 people on the negotiating team and they must all be present for the discussions and decision. Each time they come together for a meeting, one of the Israeli representatives is missing, therefore no meeting can be held and Abu’s claim to the land is fading away.
Meanwhile, Abu’s land, staked out by Israeli officials for houses, has been stripped of its olive trees by the Israeli government. We see some of the stumps lying on the ground. In a few places there are new shoots from stumps that have not been pulled up. Abu shows them to us saying, “Our olive trees will not accept the desecration of the land. These new trees represent hope for Palestinians.” Some of the rest of his land still has olive trees and fruit trees. We pick several baskets of figs while we are there as well as some prickly pears for lunch.
Israeli law states that if land is not farmed for two years it may be claimed by the state as unused or abandoned land. The rest of Abu’s land is in danger of being taken because he must prove he farms the land. The government takes pictures of the land twice a year to demonstrate that it is not being farmed. The Israeli government takes the pictures after the spring harvest and before the fall planting when there is no evidence of activity in the fields. This is the “proof” the government will use to claim the land. Abu continues to fight for his land that was Palestinian before the war in 1948.
It is difficult to maintain a sense of dignity and hope in this situation of restricted access to the farms, destruction of olive trees, the staking out of the land for new houses, and the regulations against Palestinian development and building. Over breakfast in the one building he has on his farmland, Abu tells the story of this building. It began as a shelter without walls. When the inspector came and asked about this structure Abu explained it was shelter for him to get out of the hot sun in the middle of the day. Next he built some walls and improved the roof. The inspector returned. Abu told him that it was only a shed where he could store his farming equipment. The inspector said, “OK.” However, Abu continued to build. He added a room and finished the inside to make a living room/dining room and a kitchen/bedroom. He also built on a small bathroom.
Then the inspector returned and said, “What is this you are now building. If you finish this you will get a notice that it will be torn down. You have no permit to be building a house.”
Abu smiled as he finished telling his story about his “palace.” He lifted a blanket that was hanging on the wall to show us a place where the building was not finished!
The life of farming is very uncertain for Abu and his neighbors in Jayyous. His “palace,” as he calls it, can still be marked for demolition any day. 1000 houses can be built on his land without compensation. The gate that blocks his access to his land can be late opening or not open at all some days. Therefore, while he waits for justice and peace in the land, his hope is nourished with a joke on the building inspector and with the people like ourselves who will tell his story until the world hears the cry for an end to the occupation based upon international law and relevant U.N. resolutions.
Peace on you, assalamu “alaykum, John
Jayyous northern check point #943 to Abu Azzem’s Farm
A road between Israeli settlements passes through occupied Palestinian land along the edge of Jayyous, separating the village farmers from their land. To cross the road the farmers must pass through an Israeli check point that is administered by the Israeli army. The farmers must have a pass to reach their land. Some enter with their tractors and others with donkeys and carts. The donkey must also have a valid pass. Each family member or worker must have their own individual entry pass. The passes must be renewed every 6 months or a year.
The check point gate is open for one half hour in the morning and one half hour in the afternoon. The Palestinian farmers are not permitted to stay on their land over night. Therefore, their work day is defined by the openings of the gate. Check point #943 is presently open at 9am and 6pm.
This day, after counting the number of people, donkeys and tractors that cross, we cross the check point and Abu Azzam follows with his tractor and trailer. We meet him on the other side of the road and climb on the trailer to travel to his land. (It makes it easier for the farmer if we cross the check point separately). It takes a few minutes for the soldiers to consult about letting internationals pass. We have passport identification from Ireland, Switzerland, South Africa, and the United States. This is an agricultural gate and the soldiers are puzzled that we would want to go through.
Our tractor and trailer pass through olive groves to an expanse of land bare of trees with an Israeli settlement visible on a hill in the distance. Looking more closely we see stakes in the ground marking out the places for over 1000 new settlement homes on this land that has been farmed by Abu’s family for several generations. This land has been in dispute in the courts with lawyers attempting to negotiate a settlement. However, there are 9 people on the negotiating team and they must all be present for the discussions and decision. Each time they come together for a meeting, one of the Israeli representatives is missing, therefore no meeting can be held and Abu’s claim to the land is fading away.
Meanwhile, Abu’s land, staked out by Israeli officials for houses, has been stripped of its olive trees by the Israeli government. We see some of the stumps lying on the ground. In a few places there are new shoots from stumps that have not been pulled up. Abu shows them to us saying, “Our olive trees will not accept the desecration of the land. These new trees represent hope for Palestinians.” Some of the rest of his land still has olive trees and fruit trees. We pick several baskets of figs while we are there as well as some prickly pears for lunch.
Israeli law states that if land is not farmed for two years it may be claimed by the state as unused or abandoned land. The rest of Abu’s land is in danger of being taken because he must prove he farms the land. The government takes pictures of the land twice a year to demonstrate that it is not being farmed. The Israeli government takes the pictures after the spring harvest and before the fall planting when there is no evidence of activity in the fields. This is the “proof” the government will use to claim the land. Abu continues to fight for his land that was Palestinian before the war in 1948.
It is difficult to maintain a sense of dignity and hope in this situation of restricted access to the farms, destruction of olive trees, the staking out of the land for new houses, and the regulations against Palestinian development and building. Over breakfast in the one building he has on his farmland, Abu tells the story of this building. It began as a shelter without walls. When the inspector came and asked about this structure Abu explained it was shelter for him to get out of the hot sun in the middle of the day. Next he built some walls and improved the roof. The inspector returned. Abu told him that it was only a shed where he could store his farming equipment. The inspector said, “OK.” However, Abu continued to build. He added a room and finished the inside to make a living room/dining room and a kitchen/bedroom. He also built on a small bathroom.
Then the inspector returned and said, “What is this you are now building. If you finish this you will get a notice that it will be torn down. You have no permit to be building a house.”
Abu smiled as he finished telling his story about his “palace.” He lifted a blanket that was hanging on the wall to show us a place where the building was not finished!
The life of farming is very uncertain for Abu and his neighbors in Jayyous. His “palace,” as he calls it, can still be marked for demolition any day. 1000 houses can be built on his land without compensation. The gate that blocks his access to his land can be late opening or not open at all some days. Therefore, while he waits for justice and peace in the land, his hope is nourished with a joke on the building inspector and with the people like ourselves who will tell his story until the world hears the cry for an end to the occupation based upon international law and relevant U.N. resolutions.
Peace on you, assalamu “alaykum, John
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