"Hello. What's your name?"

Jayyous, August – October, 2010 photos by John Buttrick


The 4am call to prayer resounds over the village. The call awakens a rooster to crow, sheep bleat, a donkey brays. Multiple answers to each reverberate across the village and over the hills. Then the flies arrive, delighting in flyovers around my head, seeking strategic landing spots on my eye lids and in my ears. A favorite seems to be “touch and go” action from the launching pad of my nose.

I put my covers over my head but the heat of the rising sun soon creates a solar oven in which I’m the roast. I throw the covers back, swat at the waiting flies and survey the waking village of Jayyous from the roof top of our home where I’ve been sleeping under the moon and stars to capture the cool night air after a very hot day.

Standing on the roof, I’m cooled by the early morning breeze coming from the Mediterranean Sea, 23 kilometers (15 miles) to the west. On a clear day from the municipality building, it can be seen along with the tall buildings of Tel Aviv. It is often said in Jayyous, “We can see the sea but as Palestinians we are not allowed to go there to swim.” Mofaqw, a 22 year old university student and a community leader for his generation described to us one evening over coffee in our courtyard, “On the day that the separation barriers come down I will sleep until noon, get a car and drive to the beach of the Mediterranean Sea. I will buy some fish and grill it on the beach. I will swim. I will have my blanket with me and I will sleep overnight on the beach. That is what I will do on the day that Palestinians become free.”

Looking down on the street in front of our EA house I can see to my right the eastern entrance to the village, marked by a fountain in the middle of an intersection. When the rains come in a few weeks, the fountain will begin to flow again. Between the fountain and our house I can see the house of a man who has land but no permit to go to it so he works in Israel. He has left already. We see him passing through the workers gate with three to four thousand others between 4 and 7 am on Sundays and Thursdays when we monitor the entrance through this separation barrier. Looking up the street to my left I can see a few people going to pray at the Mosque. Two houses up I can see the home of a young man who was taken by the Israeli army in the middle of the night about a week ago. His family still does not know where they have taken him.

Lining the street are a series of shops, their iron doors slid back when they’re open. The streets are paved. Our street has sidewalks on both sides, the curbs checkered in red and white or black and white blocks. Lining the sidewalks are six foot high concrete walls or the fronts of houses and shops. Everything is built with reinforced cement columns and cement block walls. Finished houses are faced with smooth polish stone tiles. Most of the houses are two stories high, many of the newer ones are three and sometimes four stories. A few house animals in the lower level, often in a courtyard next to the main house. Next to our house is an open yard with housing for 10 or 12 sheep at the back of the lot. We have lots of sheep bleating and sheep smells wafting in the windows on our west side.

Because land is limited and expensive, houses are built up instead of out. As a family expands a new level is added. One house, for example, may have parents on the first floor, a brother and his family on the second, and a son and his family on the third. They tend to refer to each level as a “house” that they own.

A child’s voice cuts through my leisurely survey of our street, “Hello. What’s your name?”I answer from my rooftop vantage but the child is really not interested in the answer. The children have learned the English phrases at school and want to practice saying them. As soon as we step outside the house, voices come from the street, doors, windows, and allies, “Hello. What’s your name?” They are cheerful children, eager to make connections with the internationals.

A little further up the street on the other side is the first of many small one room shops in that direction. It is open most of the time. We get water, juice, rice, beans and often pita bread there. The shop keeper, Naim, enjoys trying to teach me to count and make change in Arabic. Children dash in and out of the store buying candy and ice cream while we have conversation in English.
Back across the street is the falafel shop. Except during Ramadan, he is open from 7or 8 in the morning. However, he closes in the afternoon and doesn’t open again until 7:30pm. On our first day in the village two of us went at 7pm to buy falafel for supper. He was not yet open but the young man who sells produce across the street welcomed us, corralled some chairs and insisted that we sit until he could make some tea for us to drink. He and several others sat with us drinking tea until the falafel was ready. Conversation was limited by language differences but hospitality was joyfully expressed. Frequently, as we walk the streets, people call to us from their houses to come into their houses or courtyards to have tea and Arabic coffee as well as sweets and fruit. These invitations continue throughout our three month stay in Jayyous.

Moving up the street again we come to an intersection with a street that goes down to the south barrier gate, through which some farmers must pass to get to their fields. At this corner there is another grocery store, the taxi and service stand and a barber shop. I’ve had tea and conversation at the taxi stand waiting for a bus and in the barber shop while waiting for a haircut. The owner of the store is struggling. He borrowed money to stock the store and now he is having trouble paying it back and restocking the store. Part of the reason for the financial strain is a son who is in an Israeli prison. No one seems to understand the charges against him. But Muhammed pays 1000 nis (about $37) a month for food and things his son needs in prison. Muhammed can get a permit to see his son once a month for 30 minutes through security glass talking on a phone. He also needs a travel permit which is difficult to acquire. Sometimes he can’t get a permit because he is considered a security risk because his son is in prison, this includes a permit to his land.

Continuing up the street are small shops selling a variety of items. There is a large mosque from which I heard the 4am call to prayer. At the far end is the municipal building and a school for the younger children. Down narrow side streets along the way are schools for the older children, one for girls and one for boys. There is a recreation building where the volleyball games are held and many residential homes extending down the sides of the hill on either side of the main street. These homes overlook the expanse of olive groves and farm land that belongs to people of Jayyous. Much of this land to the west has been separated from Jayyous by the separation barrier between Israel and the Palestinian territory. The fence has been built on the Palestinian’s land, 3-5 kilometers from the green line border with Israel. Beyond this land can be seen Israeli houses. To the southwest there is an illegal Israeli settlement on the Jayyous farmers’ land. The former mayor of Jayyous has land on both sides of this barrier and adjacent to the settlement. He lost over 500 0live trees that were destroyed during the building of the barrier.

The spirit of the people is difficult to discern. Jayyous was one of the very first villages to organize weekly demonstrations against the building of the wall. They finally gave them up because many felt that the cost in reprisals from the army was too high. Some were arrested. A considerable number lost their permits to their land or experienced many delays in their applications. Crossing through the barrier to the land was also made more difficult by the Israeli soldiers. The number of permits to the land that have been granted have been reduced from 450 in 2009 to 350 in 2010. Also, many have been reduced from one year to 6 months, 3 months or fewer.
Recently a farmer had his renewal application for a permit denied, even though he has a paper saying that renewal is automatic. He is appealing the decision. However, he continually asks himself, “What could I have done to account for this refusal? I’ve stayed in the area. I’ve been a good citizen. Why do they refuse me?” Many people try very hard not to disturb the situation. They pass quietly through the farm gates. They cooperate with the soldiers’ demands, even when they seem unreasonable or unjust. Anger is deep seated and often denied. For many, the separation from their land has become the ordinary way of life. The say, “What can we do?”

However, we also have met some young men in the village who are asking very seriously, “What are the ways to resist the injustices of Israeli occupation? What does it mean to resist? Are both violent and non violent resistance effective and right to do?” International law suggests, “yes.” They are searching and determined to be effective resisters. Their spirits are high. They are not giving up.

There are many other people whose homes I can see or picture from the roof of our house. There is the farmer who invites us to dinner and after the first time in the formal dining room welcomes us to the kitchen table. He explains, “Guests are welcomed into our dinning room. Family eats together in the kitchen. You are part of our family.” There is the woman who cooks pita bread on an open fire outside her home and gives us one hot off the spinning flat iron cooking disk as we pass by. There is the woman who makes and sells sheep/goat cheese that she makes fresh every day. She also makes yogurt and olive oil. Once or twice a week we sit for tea and coffee with her children, husband, and sister who goes to the university. It’s part of the process of buying food from her. There is the man who drives a taxi for us, introduces us to the leaders of the villages in the neighborhood, and translates for us. He takes us into his home to become friends with his wife and children. There is the shop keeper who has been in a Palestinian prison for belonging to the Hamas party. There is the man who was imprisoned in the United States after 9/11 for two years without charges under the Homeland security Act because he is Palestinian. He had been legally living in the US for several years. He was deported when released from prison. He cannot get a pass to his land here. He is in the process of setting up a smoke shop to try to earn a little money. He has had us for dinner and enjoys philosophical and political discussion. He says he has no ill will against the United States for the treatment he received.

I think of many others as I look over the rooftops of Jayyous. We are internationals in their village. There is much we shall never know about their culture and the ways of their village. But what they do tell us is that we are welcome here as long as we stay. They are a people of hospitality. They use the English word, “welcome” in many contexts, beginning with, “Where are you from?”
“The United States of America,” we respond.
“Welcome.”
And “welcome” continues to be said over and over: when we enter a home, receive some tea, are offered a ride on a tractor to a farm gate or make a purchase in a shop. “You are welcome.” And then there is the welcome in the smiling voices of the children, “Hello. What’s your name?”
“My name is sojourner in you village. And you have indeed taken me in. ‘Welcome.’”


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.

Jayyous, September 24, 2010
Two large buses pull up to the barrier gate and stop. The first one is filled with school boys the second with girls. The steel ten foot high fence is toped with a roll of barbed razor wire. Beyond the gate is a second gate, a yellow steel bar vehicle barrier that swings inward to open onto a road. Across on the other side of the road are duplicate gates. Passing through these four gates gives access to the homes of the school children on the buses coming from their school in the village of Habla.

When the gates open, there will be one more obstacle for the school children to negotiate: Israeli soldiers in full battle gear holding US M16 Assault rifles or Israeli Tavor Assault rifles. While they wait, some of the boys get off the bus to talk in clusters with us and one another. We avoid the hot sun by standing in the shade of the buses. The boys display some bluster as they jostle each other and crowd around the EA strangers who have come to observe the process of the crossing. We all appear to be casual and unconcerned but we join the boys in secret nervous glances through the fence to observe the soldiers who are watching us as they wait for the appointed time to open the gates.

This separation barrier is located about one kilometer inside the UN established 1967 green line separating Israel from the Palestinian West Bank. The children’s homes are on land in that zone between the barrier and the green zone. Their village school is on the Palestinian side of the barrier. Therefore, each school day the children have to pass through the gates twice, to and from school. The children experience this trip each day from the time they enter primary school. Each child must carry a school pass issued by the Israeli army. All day at school, the children are aware that there is a barrier to be crossed to get back to their homes and parents.

This day, when the gate opens, the soldiers choose to make the children wait on the buses while they let trucks, tractors, cars, donkeys and people on foot pass around the buses to be checked through the barrier. It creates quite a traffic jam. The buses are large and difficult to get around, particularly when there are also vehicles coming through from the other side. The buses are forced to back up several times to make room for passing traffic. It takes about thirty minutes for all to pass.

The soldiers then approach the buses. The drivers get off and their ID’s and passes are checked. (This morning one of the drivers was refused entry for some time. The soldiers said his permit wasn’t valid and he would have to go to the DCO office to replace it}. This time they let him pass. The soldiers then climb onto the buses to check the children’s passes. Another soldier with a camera aproaches each of two EA's. He comes very close and takes our pictures. It feels like an attempt to intimidate us.

As we watch from outside, four teenage boys are taken off. They are told that they have to cross at another gate, gate 109. Two women who are accompanying the younger children are told the same thing. The children wait on the buses while this situation is discussed and phone calls are made about this situation by Machom Watch, observing on the other side of the barrier, and Ecumenical Accompaniers on our side. Finally, after the buses have passed through and are waiting on the other side, the soldier in charge called the four boys and two women forward and let them pass to return to the buses.
When all was quiet again, we approach the soldier in charge to have some conversation. Earlier, before the buses crossed, he had asked to see our passports, suggesting that we might not be authorized to be present, even though we were not trying to cross, just observe. This time we had some preliminary conversation and then he said to us in a challenging tone, “Do you have some questions for me? Ask them. Ask anything you like.”
So I accepted his invitation. I made the observation, “I’m surprised that your soldiers gave the children such a hard time, making them wait so long, taking some off the bus along with their adult accompaniers, and checking the passes of little children.”

“We need to check their passes,” he responded, “Some of them didn’t have passes yesterday. Also, we must be strong with them because some of them will try to run away to Israel.”

I asked, “Would you agree that you have a strong army, a very powerful army?”

“Yes, of course we do.”

“And I see you are wearing a vest and you have an assault rifle. Why are you afraid of these children?”

His eyes flashed. He stepped away from me, turned and said, “I’m not afraid.”

I then talked about living in the Palestinian village of Jayyous and how hospitable the people were to us.

He replied, “Arabs will be friendly and treat you well as long as they think you’re supporting them and are on their side. You can never believe anything that they say.”

We then thanked him for allowing the four boys and two women to cross to the buses. He replied, “Don’t thank me. It was a decision from higher up. I would not have let them pass.”

This day they were all able to pass. Tomorrow the children will once again encounter this soldier and soldiers like him as their bus takes them to and from their school. Every day there will be new intimidating and humiliating encounters. At this barrier there will be unintended lessons learned, perhaps more influential than their lessons at school, as long as the separation barrier remains in place on this Palestinian land.

Jayyous Thursday, September 23
Soldiers in Jayyous
photos by John Buttrick

Anwar’s father leaps up from his mat against the wall to our left. In three quick strides he crosses in front of us to a bedroom door beside us on our right. He is speaking mostly Arabic but his excitement, gestures and his tone communicate almost as clearly as if he was using English. We sit on the mat facing the entrance from the outside and a small kitchen area.
He runs up to the entry door, demonstrating Israeli soldiers crashing through without even knocking. It’s two in the morning. He shows us how the soldiers burst in and pushed down his younger son who had been awakened by the noise and was trying to get up from his mat on the floor. He pantomimes striking him and holding him down. Then in a flash he sprints from one bedroom door to the other at the far corners of the main room. Watching him, we can see the soldiers finding family members in one of the rooms and confining them there. Then, practically leaping over us, he takes us to the other room where the soldiers found his other son, twenty four year old Anwar. He shows us how they grabbed him, handcuffed him and blindfolded him. Then dashing from room to room, he shows us how the soldiers searched the house. Finally, he opens the door to the outside and we see, through his gestures, the soldiers leading his son out of the house. Closing the door he turns to us, speaks some last words in Arabic and shrugs. His eyes are sad. The energy has drained out of him. He slumps back onto his mat against the wall. The soldiers had refused to say why they were taking Anwar away or where they were taking him.

While the ten Israeli soldiers search the tiny space of Anwar’s second floor home that consists of a kitchen area at the front of the main room and two bedrooms; there is no furniture, only mats for sitting and sleeping; other soldiers have surrounded the block around the house. Villagers cautiously watch from the shadows of alleyways and rooftops. They witness the soldiers bringing Anwar out of his house, putting him into one of their vehicles and driving him away.

As this was happening, across the village a similar scene was being acted out. Two houses up from where we live, soldiers entered a neighbor’s house preceded by a flash bomb thrown into the courtyard. The sound awoke our EA colleague who soon learned that a young man living there had been taken away leaving the home trashed after an extended search.

Jamal, Anwar’s uncle, joined us to fill in the details of the story in English. Jamal has spent several years working in the United States. His English is good. He also has learned Hebrew as well as his native Arabic. He enjoys reading books in English and has a collection of philosophy, sociology, history and political commentary as well as several translations of the Bible. He and his family are Muslim. He was in the United States on 9/11. Soon after he was profiled and pick up under the Homeland Security Patriot Act and held for over two years before being deported without charges or a trial.

“Anwar is well liked in Jayyous,” Jamal tells us. “He is in his last semester at the University where he is studying physical education. He is also on the Jayyous volleyball team.” Volleyball is big in Jayyous. At the present time they have qualified to play in the regional championships. The whole village of men and boys will turn out to view this final game, from which Anwar will probably be absent. At this time it is not known where he is being held, how long he will be detained and whether or not he will be charged with anything.


During out two months stay here in Jayyous this story has been repeated at least 25 times. Most of the boys taken from Jayyous and the neighboring village of Azzun, have been under 16, many only 14 years old. Most are released after a few days. Some are charged and held for sentencing. The usual charge is throwing stones, either at soldiers when they enter a village or at Israeli settlers as they travel in cars on the highway passed the village. Convictions carry a fine and several months in prison.

Most incursions by the Israeli army come late at night, but not all. Last week we witnessed a daytime drive through by two army vehicles. Children chased after the vehicles, at a distance, getting directions from others who watched from the rooftops. The children were very excited while at the same time cautious about getting too close. Some could hardly move because they were carrying so many stones. However, they remained too far away to throw them at the soldiers’ vehicles. At one point the soldiers got out of their vehicle to question a man walking on the street. They checked his ID and asked him a long series of questions. A small group of people stood watching nearby. After about a half an hour the soldiers’ vehicles drove away. Other than the children, most of the villagers remained calm and went about their business. As we talked with different people they would say to us, “what can we do?”

There has been another variety of army incursion into our village. Last night five or more Palestinian Authority vehicles came into Jayyous with forty or fifty Palestinian soldiers. This presence brought out the village people to watch: men, women and children. As we walked the main street, villagers frequently came up to us to explain that these were Palestinian soldiers, not Israeli. “It is OK,” they would say. The soldiers were entering each store in the village, apparently looking for products made or raised in Israeli settlements. They are illegal to sell in the Palestinian territories.
The mood was generally festive. People gathered in group conversation and some moved in and out of the stores, making purchases even as the soldiers, in full gear with automatic weapons, examined the merchandise. Children played soldier games as they followed the soldiers up the street, eating candy recently purchased. The people who were the most tense were some of the shopkeepers. A few had closed and locked up before the soldiers reach their stores. One was quickly loading its produce into a truck, apparently to hide it from the searching soldiers. The soldiers remained in the village for over an hour and a half, driving and walking up and down the shop-lined streets. Soon the village was quiet, as if nothing unusual had happened.

The people of Jayyous, and many other villages, find themselves in the middle between two armies seeking to assert their power and authority. As one young man told us over evening coffee in our courtyard, “both armies and both governments are filled with corruption. The people have not chosen them to be their leaders. What can we do? Seeking ways to resist is the only answer. One of the ways to resist is to tell the stories of injustice experienced.” Anwar’s father has entrusted us with Anwar’s story. What else can we do but pass it on.

Accompaniment in Umm Salamone
A Palestinian woman carrying the four colored Palestinian flag and accompanied by two children walked down the street toward us. Behind her stood four army soldiers and their vehicles, situated to block the street against traffic. Behind us a crowd of about 50 demonstrators had gathered for their weekly protest. More soldiers and vehicles stood in front of them, barring the entrance to the main road, the protestors’ destination. They had come to call attention to the Israeli plan which will extend the separation barrier closer to the village of Umm Salamone and thereby cut the village off from their agricultural lands. The court in 1979 ruled in favor of the village but later the court overruled that decision for security reasons.
The demonstrators process every Friday from the nearby village of Al Ma’sara to Umm Salamone, bringing together people from the area, Israeli activists, and, on this day, internationals from Spain, France, Canada and other countries plus three Ecumenical Accompaniers. Flags of Palestine, France and Japan were raised above the crowd whenever a chant or speech was heard in that language. In particular the 65th anniversary of the bombing Hiroshima was lifted up. Our taxi driver Elias said that similar anniversaries from around the world are always included as a sign of solidarity.
The flag bearer was greeted by several women at the intersection of her street with ours. Passing in front of us, they walked with her to join the demonstration. Speeches against the occupation and call for freedom for the Palestinian people were repeated in several languages and accompanied by chants that reminded some of us of the antiwar slogans of the 60’s and 70’s. On this day the words were changed to fit a new situation where international law and human rights continue to be ignored.
Elias told us that he noticed an Israeli commander cautioning a soldier. This week only words were heard; no action by the soldiers was taken. We will continue to accompany the demonstrators, as previous EAs have done.

I work for EAPPI-US and Global Ministries of the United Church of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) as an Ecumenical Accompanier serving on 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 my sending organizations or the WCC. If you would like to publish the information contained here (including posting on a website), or distribute it further, please first contact US Coordinator Ann Hefften (eappi2008@gmail.com) or the EAPPI Communications Officer (eappi-co@jrol.com) for permission. Thank you.

Life of a Palestinian farmer

Friday, September 3
Jayyous
photos by Stella Carrol


The penetrating mid-day heat has drained my energy and left me in a state of semi consciousness. A sound of rain begins to wash over me. I imagine the refreshing rain drops cooling my skin and slaking the thirst of the parched land and plants outside. However, the illusion is soon broken by the realization of the impossibility of August rain here in Jayyous during the hottest driest season of the year. Now confused, I search for the source of this impossible sound of rain. Just outside the door of the house there is a small tree casting its sparse shade over three empty chairs. The leaves of that tree are vibrating in a very slight breeze, performing like a giant rain stick in constant motion.

Earlier we had crossed a farm gate checkpoint and were now sitting together in a comfortable room in Abu Azzan’s “palace,” a shelter on his land that has been transformed into a small home away from home. We sip coffee after a very substantial lunch. We are taking refuge from the blazing sun. There is quiet conversation and some are taking naps. It is very still outside. All life seems to be on hold, waiting for relief from the mid-day heat.

The refreshing sound of the “rain tree” and another round of cold drinks revive us enough to listen to 69 year old Abu Azzum’s stories about his life under Israeli occupation. He has showed us his land, staked out for 1000 new illegal homes for Israeli settlers. This take over of his land is being disputed in court, but meanwhile the Israeli army has destroyed many of his olive trees to make way for the surveyors to stake out the new home sites. He has also showed us a Jayyous community well, one of five, which Israel has metered to regulate how much the farmers use. He tells us stories of his interactions with the authorities and the struggles to get permits to go onto his own land. His stories are filled with pathos and promise. He told of the stump of an olive tree that the soldiers had left. The stump has sprouted some new shoots. He understands the tree as sending a message that the culture and land of the Palestinians will prevail. He tells of a young man who was injured in a protest demonstration and how his blood has watered the soil in a bond with international supporters.

As I write this several weeks later, we have been told that the Israeli military has refused to renew Abu Azzam’s permit to go on his land even though he has a certificate stating that his permit is to be renewed automatically. He is in the process of appealing to the court. A few days before his old permit expired he was told at the farm gate that he would not be able to pass through again because there was a small tear in his permit from being folded and unfolded over the months he has used it. He is without a permit to go to his fields to harvest the fruit and the olive which will soon be ready.

It is not easy for him to be separated from his life long bond with the land. His feet merge with the land as he walks over it, his body an extension of the rocks, soil, and vegetation. The land becomes more alive as he moves over it, irrigating the century old olive trees and the more recent figs, guavas, bananas, peaches, mangos and avocados. He knows each tree and the different amount of water that it requires. As he carefully trims a tree or pulls some weeds it’s as if the land, in thanksgiving, nurtures him, offering to him its deep rooted vitality and persistence for life over the centuries. As he walks through his vegetable garden with an eye for harvesting the next meal {as well as some extras to send home with his guests) the plants seem to drop their fruit into his extended hands. His eyes twinkle, his body is strong and relaxed. This is his land and he belongs to the land.

For now the land and the man are separated. The rain tree beside the man’s front door is still. Man, land and tree immobile, parched and powerless. Within a week this Askadinia tree will blossom. Our hope is that man and land will once again be together to witness its display.

The Askadinia tree grows wild in Palestine and Israel. It may pop up anywhere. It popped up next in the Israeli settlement of Efrat, south west of Bethlehem and 8 kilometers inside Palestinian territory. I noticed the tree as we sat in the living room of Bob Lang who helped to found this settlement in 1967. As Bob talked to us about Efrat, a collection of 15 settlements on 7 hilltops with a population of 10,000 people and 2000 families, my attention strayed to the sound of rain outside the window. And there it was, the tree that witnesses the struggles of a Palestinian farmer now shades the yard of a settler in an illegal settlement, according to UN resolutions, overlooking and encroaching on six Palestinian villages on Palestinian land south of Bethlehem.

As I was drawn back to Bob’s presentation, the gentle rain sounds from the tree grew urgent. “Remember the land is the life blood for the Palestinian farmer.” In contrast, Bob Lang explained, “the land you see on these seven hilltops is holy for the Jews” and ripe for development expansion. He was energized and enthusiastic as he described the development of this land: 23 kindergartens, 3 elementary schools, 3 high schools each for boys and for girls. The infrastructure is in place for many more houses. They are only waiting for the building freeze to expire this month. “The day it expires, we will begin building.” For Bob, the Palestinian farm land is empty land to be buried under the development of more Israeli “suburbs.”

As they expand they have some problems with their Palestinian neighbors, he calls them Arabs, but Bob says, “basically, we get along well.” He told us that neither group wants the planned wall to be built between them. What he does not tell us is that the Israeli settlers are reluctant to have the wall in place because it would restrict Settlement expansion In the future. Bob concludes saying, “It is important for the Jews to live here. It is Holy land for us.”

The Askadinia tree outside Bob’s window and outside the Palestinian farmer’s cottage door spans the divide, rooted in the Holy Land of the Patriarchs and Prophets of two peoples and three Faiths. Its sound of rain falls on the just and the unjust. Some will take off their shoes to be in touch with the “holy ground.” Others will put on the armor of coercive power to posses their “holy” land. The sound of the rain tree and its flowering in the fall continue to suggest an inclusive holiness in this disputed land. It invites the two peoples and three faiths to sit together on the three empty chairs in its shade.

John Buttirck

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.

Palestinian Christians, 2010
Photos by Stella Carroll

“Why do you keep asking about the relationship between Christians and Muslims?” asked Afaf Shattara, raising her voice. “We are all Palestinians!” She explained to me that “Christian”,” Muslim”, it doesn’t matter. “We all suffer the same injustice. We have restricted freedom of movement, we face the indignity of check points and we are separated from our land, our family and friends by walls and barriers.” After the declaration of the Jewish state in 1948, she explained to me, Palestinians are not considered equal to Jews. There are Jews and there are non-Jews.

Afaf and her brother, Abu Yusef, are the only Palestinian Christians left in the Qaqillya district of the Palestinian territory. She was born here and has lived here all of her life. She was educated in Nablus and Egypt. Her hospitality, the food she prepares and her love for the Palestinian children in the school where she taught indeed testified that she is a Palestinian who happens to be Christian.

Sitting in the shade of a lemon tree in their garden, Afaf tells us that there are no problems between her and her Muslim neighbors. They are friends and respect each others’ traditions. As if to demonstrate her affirmation, while we were eating supper with birds singing in the tree above our heads, 4 men and a boy dropped in to visit. They were practicing the Ramadan fast. Therefore, they were not offered any food or drink because it was before sundown. They were, however, offered hospitality. They stayed and visited for about 30 minutes. The conversation flowed easily and naturally as we finished our meal.

Later, in answer to my now cautious question concerning reports that Muslims seek to force Christians out, she explained, “some conservative Christians have a problem because they do not like Muslims. This attitude prevents the opportunity to be good neighbors.” She insists that Christians have been leaving the area, not because of any persecution by Muslims, but because they are able to leave and prefer to choose to live in more stable conditions than experienced under Israeli occupation and discrimination.

Afaf has retired from being the principal of a Muslim school in Azzun. She was also elected a municipal council member for a 10 year term. She was elected to that position with the second most votes among all of the candidates for the Council positions. She also pointed out that the mayor of Ramallah is a Christian woman. Her face glowed and her pride was exposed as she told us about her time as principal and when serving on the Council.

On a second visit to Azzun we found 82 year old Abu Yusef sitting in the village square in conversation with four or five Palestinian men. He immediately invited us back to his house. Over tea he told us he was born here and has been a stone mason and a carpenter. Since his father died he has taken care of the family land. However, he has no permit to go to the land so he hires people to do the farming. His four children have moved to Amman, Ramallah and America. He has a brother in America as well. They have move primarily for jobs.

Like Yusef’s children, many Palestinians, Christians and Muslims, have left for better job opportunities. Others leave because of harassment by Israeli soldiers, a dire economic situation and separation walls and fences. More Christians are leaving because the Christian population is more able financially as well as better educated with more business and family connections. A 2008 study reveals that 32% emigrated because of a lack of freedom, 26% because of the deteriorating economic situation, 19% because of political instability and 12% in pursuit of education. Less than 1% of Christians flee religious extremism. (1) According to a 2006 poll of Christians in Bethlehem, 90% of Christians have Muslim friends. (2)

Friendship between Christians and Muslims was demonstrated to me on one recent Sunday. I was with three other Ecumenical Accompaniers attending worship at St. Philip’s Anglican Church in Nablus. During the coffee hour one of the members explained the close proximity of the Mosque to the church. It seems that the church had sold some of its land to the Muslims to build their mosque. Even as the story was told, the call to prayer echoed loudly in the church courtyard. As the call faded away and we could hear each other again, the member said, “the Muslim call to prayer reminds me of our history of being good neighbors for over 90 years.”

Abu Yusef laments for the time when there was a large Christian community of 600 people in Azzun. He and his sister are the only ones left. He is a “Latin Christian.” For a while the priest would come to visit them and to pray with them. Even that has stopped now. But Yusef still has his Muslim friends. Their prayers mingle with his, longing for the time when a just peace and freedom will be their common experience as Palestinians.

John Buttrick, Jayyous, Palestine

(1) Palestinian Christians, ed by Collings, Kassis, & Raheb, Diyar publisher, 2008
(2) Problems of Palestinian Christians as a Result of Political Situation, Joint advocacy Initiative of East Jerusalem YMCA and YWCA of Palestine, 2006.


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.

Jayyous
Wednesday September 8
Photo by Stella Carroll

Outside the village of Izbat at Tabib beside the road from Azzun the Qalqillya

“If the bulldozer comes it will come from that way,” Amid said pointing up the road to the west.
Eight white plastic chairs placed in a circle, a plastic stool in the middle holding several Arabic coffee cups. A table at one side holding a water jug, an Arabic coffee pitcher, some more cups and a tea pot. In front of the table on the ground is a small propane burner heating water for tea. An agila sits to one side waiting for the apple flavored tobacco to be lit. Light comes from street lights lining the highway across the road.
We sit between the road and the ruins of four stores, back and side walls still standing, the fronts demolished and open for all to see inside: a building supply store, a convenience store, an appliance store and an auto supply store. Most of their contents are scattered although some items remain on the shelves.
Soon after we arrived we were invited into the ruins of one of the shops to sit at a table and eat supper. Food from iftar in their homes has been brought in for us. Iftar is the meal eaten after sundown during Ramadan. After we’ve eaten we return to the circle of chairs. We drink Arabic coffee and play simple games with two young boys who sit with us.
Later the two young boys fall asleep on mats between where we sit and the bones of the wreaked stores. Men from the village come in twos and threes to sit for a while. We struggle to communicate. Mostly, however, they struggle to accommodate us with their limited English. They tell the stories of their struggles with the Israeli army and the settlers from a nearby settlement. Most of the homes in their village are under demolition orders to make room for an expanded settlement. Their newly built school is also under demolition orders. They have some coffee, smoke, thank us for being there and then go on their way.
And so we wait through the night. We wait for the possibility that soldiers will come by and question our presence or perhaps as precursors to the coming of settlers, whom the soldiers protect. We wait for the possibility that “settlers” will bring in a bulldozer to finish the demolition they began over two weeks ago. We wait with the shop owners. We wait through the night one day a week. They wait every night. And they also wait for days while the court moves slowly to decide their case. They wait for a favorable decision that will allow them to rebuild with financial help from the Palestinian Authority.
Their story is a little complicated to understand. It seems that the store keepers have been renting from the owner of the building for over 22 years. This Palestinian owner then decided to sell the building to some Israeli settlers. This decision to sell to Israelis is ideologically unacceptable to Palestinians. In areas under Palestinian Authority it is illegal. Also, the shop owners seem to understand that because they have been renting for so many years and are still keeping up all of their payments, rent and utilities, they are entitled to stay in the building. It is certainly not justice for the building owner to hire a bulldozer to demolish their shops while their goods are still in them. The building owner, on the other hand, seeks to make it possible to fulfill his sales contract with the Israeli settlers.
The shopkeepers have taken their case to court. Meanwhile the settlers, who now believe they are entitled to own the land, are threatening to forcefully evict the shop keepers who remain at their demolished shops night and day. The Palestinian shop keepers have requested a number of NGO international organizations to be a presence at the stores to protect them or modify the actions of the settlers. We, Ecumenical Accompaniers, are here to observe and report.
And so we wait throughout this Tuesday night until the dawn. We are tired. Yet we can hardly imagine how tired occupied Palestinians are who have waited 62 years, since 1948, to return to their land and homes. Even as the Israeli soldiers continue to support the taking of more land for expanding Israeli settlements and adding new settlements, the economically, politically, and militarily powerless Palestinians wait for justice.
The sun rises. One more night has passed and the bulldozers have not come. We pick up our packs, say “good by,” receive thanks from the sleepy villagers and climb into our taxi to return to Jayyous where breakfast awaits us. I wonder, “How many more days, weeks or years will it be before a rising sun shines on the justice awaiting the people of Izbat at Tabib?”
John Buttrick
Jayyous, Palestine

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.