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?”