"I CAN’T TELL MY FRIENDS" June 9, 2011

As we crest the hill and look down on Checkpoint #927, we sense that it is not going to be a typical morning. Not that any morning is “typical” at the Falamia farm gate. It was still dark at 4:45 am when we left our house in Jayyous to walk the 3 kilometers toward the dawn and the locked gated entrance to the farmland owned by the Falamia farmers. We were guided by the hum of the power lines that were strung along the edge of the road: the hum and occasional snapping of arcing electricity at the transformers. We speculated that these short circuits might be one of the causes for the periodic power outages in our village.

We left our flashlights dark (my European colleagues would say torches). A multitude of stars blanketed us. Night lights from scattered hilltop villages, the glow of distant Israeli suburbs and the hint of a lightening sky in the east were enough to illumine our path. The air was cool, the shadowed silhouette of the olive groves and the rustle of the grasses honed our senses and our imaginations. The gravel road bordered by ancient stone walls accepted our sandaled feet as familiar friends joining all who had come by here before us. Back among the centuries old olive trees we conjured the stirring of unseen travelers from the distant past camping overnight on their way up to Jerusalem. We imagined the smell of simmering tea and boiling Arabic coffee prepared to welcome fellow travelers.
As we descend into the valley ahead, the first Muslim call to prayer brings us back to the present. The aroma of the unseen zatar herb field on our right assures us that we are not lost. Out of the morning dusky mist a distant farmer calls out a caution as he turns on the irrigation system, as if a little water sprayed on us would be unwelcome in this hot dry land! Of more concern is the Israeli Military check point that is materializing out of the dawn at the foot of the hill. We are coming to a system of double fence lines, barbed razor wire, and electric sensors that impede farmers’ access to their fields. Daily this barrier generates frustration, belligerence, confusion, anger and humiliation. I’m thankful for the dawn walk of refreshment and solace that has given us respite from the tension and constant apprehension for what may transpire at the barrier farm gates in our path.

Our premonition that something is different today is confirmed as we approach the farm gate. The Israeli soldiers have arrived early. We are five minutes early ourselves. The gates are already unlocked, and being swung to the sides of the road. The usual deliberately slow plodding movements of the soldiers are missing. Two of them are briskly moving the gates into their open position as they greet us warmly with sincere eye contact, “Good morning.”
Even as we offer our own greeting, the soldiers have already turned to greet the waiting farmers and call them forward to present their documents. The soldiers are professional and thorough as they search wagons, inspect tractors and converse warmly and respectfully with the Palestinian farmers and their families. The bluster and the threatening countenance the soldiers usually displayed are missing. The farmers, their families, workers, donkeys and vehicles move smoothly through the checkpoint and on into the farmers’ fields.
Soon there is a lull in the traffic through the gate of the fence barrier. There is time for us to speak with the soldiers. They come to meet us as we step through the first gate. We observe, “We haven’t seen you here before.”
“It’s our first day,” one of the soldiers replies. “We’ll be at this gate for the three weeks of our annual reserve duty.”
“We come here two or three times a week from where we’re staying in Jayyous. I’m John from the America.” My two colleagues introduce themselves, from Switzerland and Ireland. “Where do you live when you’re not on active duty?”
“I’m David. I’m in a town near Haifa. I’m a school teacher there. This is Benjamin.” David is about 5’ 10 and wears glasses. His uniform hangs loosely on his thin frame. He appears self assured but a bit disengaged from the roll of soldier. His rifle is slung unmindfully over his shoulder as if it might not be there. Both David and Benjamin are in their late 30’s.
“What is your first impression of this place,” I ask?
“I’ve never before seen any of these barriers,” David responds, looking along the fence line stretching as far as he can see. “I didn’t understand that they stand between the farmers and their land. It’s kind of sad to see.
What are you doing here?”
We explain that we are here with the World Council of Churches Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and Israel. We accompany Palestinians and Israelis who are concerned with the conditions of the Occupation of the West Bank and East Jerusalem and seek peaceful change. We monitor check points, interactions between Israeli settlers and Palestinians, and document what we see.
“We notice this morning that your administration of this checkpoint seems considerate and respectful of the dignity of those seeking to passing through the gates. This is in contrast with our observations on other days. We have seen soldiers be abrupt, controlling and challenging of the right of the farmers to pass through to their fields. Sometimes they change the rules from day to day.”
David replies, “Most of the soldiers at the checkpoints are very young, right out of high school. It’s unfortunate that they often feel they need to prove themselves. Also, they reflect their training that emphasizes the threatening subterfuge of the Arabs that endangers the soldiers and all of Israel.
We have more life experience,” he explains. “We have jobs and families. I think we’re able to have more empathy for the farmers as we all struggle with a difficult situation. We can understand how stressful it is to them as we fulfill our responsibility for the security of Israel. But what can we do to change things?”
“We also feel helpless,” one of my EA colleagues responds. “But we can tell your story and the stories of the Palestinians to the people back in our home countries. The more the stories are told the more possibility for change as more and more people begin to question and understand.”
“I would like to be able to do something to make things better here,” David broods. “But I don’t know what I can do. It’s all in the hands of our government and the concern for security.”
“You can,” I reply. “When you go back to your home you can do the same thing we’re expected to do: tell your family and friends about your experience here. People may pay attention to our personal experiences.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not possible for me. They will not understand me. They will think I’ve become an Arab sympathizer. I will be isolated from my teaching colleagues. I could lose my job. My only choice is to keep it to myself.”
During the next three weeks we talked at the gate a number of times. We became friends, as much as we’re able when everyone around us, Israeli soldiers and Palestinian farmers, are watching us. Few people, Palestinians or Israelis, are willing to grant expressions of civility as anything but taking sides.
If I were to return to Gate #927 to continue my conversation with the Israeli reservist, David, it would not be so easy to expect that he could tell the stories of his experiences at the checkpoint in his home town. I would need to respect his situation in the same way he respected the Palestinian farmers.
At this gate gather the powerful and the powerless. Open communication and trust seldom thrive here. If only there could be some sharing on an equal basis. Learn that many of the powerful feel powerless. Many of the powerless seek to hold their heads high and maintain their dignity.
I come home to tell this story mindful of an Israeli military reservist who must segregate his three weeks assignment to a farm gate from his life as a teacher, husband and father. There are strong barriers, not only between Palestinians and Israelis, but also among ourselves. It’s not just this Israeli reservist who would face strong resistance and condemnation if he told about his experiences in the light of justice and human dignity. If I could talk with him again, I would have to confess that the stories we tell have a cost no matter where we live.
I was confident as I talked to the soldier about my intention to tell people in my home country about the things I have seen and heard in Occupied Palestinian territory. However, the reality is not so different from what the soldier would face in his home town. Just this week there was a letter to the editor of my home city paper harshly critical of a piece I wrote earlier about a goal of equal justice for Israelis and Palestinians. The writer said I “was wrong in so many ways.” He was convinced that “Muslims and Palestinians do not want equality and justice… They want to annihilate Israel.” His implication was that I was blind to the truth of the situation. The Israeli reservist, David, and I have more in common than I had chosen to recognize, even though the pressure on him may be much more severe.
Internationals, Israelis, Palestinians, Muslims, Jews, and Christians have all left the memory of their feet on the ancient rocky paths of the land of Israel and Palestine. To those of us who are not used to the rocky arid hills, the land may appear inhospitable and threatening. The farmers I met there taught me to see the land as “the most fertile land in the world. It can grow anything!” Perhaps one day we will all be able to recognize the hospitality of the land reflected in the people who live there. Hospitality is an ancient tradition of these people. If all of us listen carefully we may be able to hear the invitation from those embedded deep in the ancient olive groves calling us to drink their sweet coffee and share their breakfast. Wherever we meet: under the stars blanketing the night sky, next to the pungent zatar fields, at the farm barrier gates under the scorching summer sun, may all of us come to understand that we are on holy ground that welcomes and nourishes all people.

Resistance: Without warning a stone sails over the wall...

photo by Stella Carroll

Jayyous, October 9, 2010, Resistance:  Without warning a stone sails over the wall...

Jayyous, Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Photos by John Buttrick


At 6:10 this morning I put on my EAPPI vest and began my one kilometer walk to the south farm gate that separates Jayyous village from the agricultural land of Jayyous. The sun was rising: the air was crisp and cooler than it had been since we first arrived in July. I passed olive fields on the village side of the barrier fence where families were heating water for tea and preparing for a day harvesting olives. People have been talking about the harvest practically since we arrived almost three months ago. It is a time for hard work. It’s a time for the extended family to get together to share the load. It’s a time to renew old friendships. People from the extended family arrive to work for a few days or to stay for the whole season. Friends from Palestine, Israel, the Middle East and from countries around the world gather to participate. It is a festive time. It is time of hope that the harvest will be plentiful. It is a time of planning and strategy to get the olives off the trees, sorted, and sent off for processing: some for oil and some to prepare for eating. And for some it is a time of desperation.

It is toward those desperate people that I am walking this morning. These are the people who must have permission to go to their olive trees. There are permits to farm, there are permits to pick and there are permits that allow passage through a particular farm gate in the barrier fence. Each of these permits has a beginning and an expiration date. Along with the correct permit, a person must have a proper ID that has been issued by the Israeli government. All ID’s are not the same. Some will let a person pass through a particular gate. Others will not. There are three gates in the barrier that are in proximately to Jayyous: the North Gate #943, the South Gate #977 and Falamia Gate #927. Farmers go to the gate that offers the easiest access to their fields.

Lined up waiting for the Israeli soldiers to come and open these gates are husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents. On Fridays and Saturdays many children from infants to teenagers join the throng. There are donkeys and carts, wagons and tractors, trucks and cars as well as people on foot. They carry containers for collecting olives, water, food, harvest equipment, and cooking utensils. Each has an ID and a permit that matches their particular situation. The North gate is open for one half hour in the morning, at noon and in the afternoon before dark. The South gate is open for fifteen minutes morning noon and afternoon. Falamia Gate opens at 5:15am and remains open until 5:15 pm.

The South Gate has the fewest number of people crossing onto their land. This morning there were three men, three women, three donkeys and a donkey cart waiting to go through the gate to their olive trees. When the soldiers arrived this morning they did not open the gate as usual. Two of them walk over to the gate and stood. The oldest of the people waiting, a man appearing to be in his 80’s, left his donkey and approached the fence to speak to the soldiers. This man has been going through the gate practically every day during our three month stay in Jayyous. He is small and thin and a bit frail. He appears to have been in the sun and weather for many years. They spoke for several minutes, voices becoming louder and more urgent on both sides of the fence. The farmer passed his credentials through the fence. A soldier barely glanced at them and passed them back. It became obvious that the gate would not be opened today. The decision had been made before the soldiers arrived. The people standing there could see their olive trees beyond the three barrier fences and a road, but they would not walk on their land this day.

It seems that everyone who has been passing through the South Gate since it was made available has a pass for the North Gate #943. This is because when their permits were issued, the South Gate was not being used. Later, when the South Gate became available, people with land accessible from that gate were told they could use the permits they had been issued for #943. They have been doing this for over a year. However, this morning the soldiers had been told not to let these people through any more until they go to the DCO to get permits with the proper gate number. It came as a great surprise to the farmers. Also they are afraid that if they go for a new gate number they will loose the permits they have. Then they will not even be able to use the North gate to travel an extra hour or two to their land.

As the soldiers and the people began to leave, each on their own side of the fence barrier, the Palestinian women expressed considerable anger, yelling at the soldiers. One of the woman soldiers began to laugh at them. When I questioned the source of the humor, a soldier responded that it wasn’t funny but that women were saying bad things about his mother. He could not understand why they would do that. He could not understand their anger. He thought they should simply get the new permits and everything would be ok. The metal fence is not the only barrier between these people.

The situation at South Gate #977 will never get into the daily newspapers or on the evening TV news. Jayyous is like the mythical town of Lake Wobegon that time has forgotten. But it is also a place of real people who are in a struggle for their lives. The news tells us about peace negotiations, the end of a temporary freeze on settlement building, U.S. military aid for Israel, the struggles and the disagreements among leaders of nations and various political parties. We talk about terrorism and mistrust. There is discussion about one state and two state solutions to the conflict between Israel and Palestine. We talk about democracy, theocracy and apartheid. We talk about the big issues of settlements, Jerusalem, the Separation barrier, freedom of movement and what it means to be a “Jewish” state.

Meanwhile, the famers and their families stand at the farm gate, caught in a web of confusion over ID’s, permits, and how to harvest their olives. These people cannot wait 10 or 20 or 50 years for justice. They need to get to their fields and their jobs tomorrow.

I have to leave Jayyous in 8 days. My visa is expiring. But how can I leave the farmers standing alone at Gate # 977 looking through the fence and the razor wire watching their olives fall off the trees to rot in the soil. That picture will never leave me and I’m compelled to show it to you. We need to show it over and over until people of every nation say to Israeli, Palestinian and U.S. leadership, “it is enough. Let our people go. We refuse to participate in the oppression any more: with our tax dollars and government aid, with purchasing of goods from outlaw settlements, with our rationalizations that some people are more chosen by God than others or more victimized than others and with our fear of people who are different from us.”




Negotiations among nations may be complicated and tradition bound, but taking down that fence will set free both the oppressed and the oppressors. And we might even be able to meet each other as human beings, sit under an olive tree, have breakfast and build relationships rather than more fences. 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 23, 2010
One Village, Two Settlements, Three Hillsides
Photos by John Buttrick



Muhamud










Mustafa





From hilltops to the west, south and east Israeli settlers on Palestinian land watch the Palestinian farmers of Junsafut harvesting their olives. Suddenly without warning they swarm into the valley from three sides at once, armed and out numbering the farmers 20 to 1. The farmers seek to retreat to the north toward their village, but the settlers cut them off and surround them. Armed with rifles, they threaten, “Leave and stay off this land or we will shoot you.” The farmers quickly leave. The settlers collect the harvested olives and take them way for their own use. On the days when the farmers are left alone, settlers will sometimes come after dark to take the harvested olives that the famers plan to picked up the next day by a tractor and wagon or donkey cart.

Jinsafut is one Palestinian village, hovered over by two Illegal Israeli settlements on three sides. Caring for the olive trees outside the village are 15 Palestinian olive farmers. Thabet Bashir is the mayor of Jinsafut. We sit at a table in his office that is strewn with demolition orders received for houses and roads and copies of applications to the army, DCO, for permits to go into the fields to pick olives on their land near the settlements. The olive harvest begins officially on October 1, only a few days away. The permits have not arrived. When they do it is anticipated that they will be for 4 or 5 days. One or two months is needed to complete the harvest of the olives. In 2009 their permits were for one half of the time that was needed to complete the harvest. The olives that were left were harvested and taken by the nearby Israeli settlers who also damage the trees in process.

This year the 15 farmers were not allowed into their fields until March to care for their trees. The reason given for restrictions is “security” for the settlers who have built homes on the hilltops. Israel has plans to be build a barrier between the settlers and Jinsafut on Palestinian land owned by farmers. This barrier will destroy olive trees and restrict farmers even more from getting to their land. At the present the boundary is obscure. It seems to be where ever the settlers decide it is. This is in spite of court rulings that the land belongs to Palestinian farmers. In one case, after five lawyers, NIS 3762 and translation challengers, settlers still claimed land with 3000 olive trees.

It is not only the land outside of the village where there is tension. Mustafa, a Palestinian farmer who has been showing us his land and the Israeli settlements in the hills above, tells how they planted 300 new olive trees near the village. Even there it was not safe. Before the trees could mature, it takes three years of care and irrigation, the settlers came in and cut the trees. This action was reported to the police. It has been three years without a response. The Mayor has a copy of the complaint report. Also, it is not infrequent for the Israeli settlers to come into the village and terrorize the people, throwing stones at windows and hitting automobiles with clubs.

Whenever there is an incursion by the settlers, the Israeli army comes and stands between the settlers and the Palestinians. They explain that it is for security, to protect the Palestinian farmers. However, it is the Palestinians that are usually pushed back or asked to leave their land. However,there was one incident where the army confiscated the olives that the settlers had taken and gave them back to the farmers. It may have partly been because the press corps and internationals were present to witness what was happening. Usually the farmers are alone. Each day the farmers are fearful as they take their families to their lands to harvest their olives.

Another farmer, Muhammud, has not given up even though he has gone from being the largest land owner in the village to one of the smallest because of land confiscations. He has put one half million NIS into his land. He has seven girls and five boys to support. He declares with passion, ”Even if they offer me NIS 2-3 million for what is left, I will not sell. This land is in my heart. It is not for Palestinian or Israeli to rule on my land. It is declared by the Mosque (by God). We want to stay. We want to be strong.”

The olive harvest continues tomorrow and for the next two months. The village farmers have not yet received olive picking permits. Yet, tomorrow the 15 farmers and their families from one small village, who go to the parts of their fields where permits are not yet required, will be looking nervously to the hills where two settlements occupy three sides of the their fields. This one small village, Junsafut, tells the story for dozens of other Palestinian farming villages whose land is threatened by illegal Israeli settlements. Their farmers are also going to their fields to harvest olives for the next two months.

The olive farmers are a part of the landscape. It’s as simple as 1, 2, 3: the land, the trees and the farmers. The farmers are determined that the land and the trees will not be denied the presence of those who have given them life.



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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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