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bio & other reports by Ben

July 17th, 2003
"As Jayous Struggles to Live, Jawal Wants to Die"
Ben's Delegate Report

Jayous is a northern West Bank agricultural village slowly being choked to death by Israel's "Apartheid Wall or "security fence". The fence, as it is best described in this area, cuts well into the West Bank, wraps in around Jewish settlements and cuts off land from Palestinian farmers. Palestinians are literally awakening to find their land, homes, and even whole villages suddenly on the "Israel" side of an illegal, defacto border. The fence's security guards say that land on the west side of the fence, with its many Palestinian water wells, greenhouses, irrigated citrus trees and gardens, is now "Israel".

The Boston ISM delegation has spent the last two weeks accompanying Jayous villagers through the one access gate to their land. The Israeli government promised unencumbered passage, but after several beatings from the machine gun toting private security guards at the gate, many farmers are too terrified to approach it. As a result, the village with its 4000 inhabitants is dying a slow death. Should the gate be closed for any length of time, that death will come more quickly with the resulting loss of 75% of the village's farmland.

Today the gate was open. Jayous, farmland, and beyond it, Israel proper, lay spread before the farmers passing through the fences construction area. Needless to say, any of them could have walked right into Israel and carried out an attack, but these are not that sort of people.

Not needed at the gate, John, Michael R and I walked through town, killing time. As we passed a shop, a teenage youth named Ibrahim called us over. Sitting with him was another youth of the same age with tattered, dirty clothes and dark, sun baked skin. Ibrahim said his name was Jawal, and he and his mother could not get home. After a few minutes of conversation in broken Arabic, English and gestures, we gleaned that the fence construction workers had laid razor wire in front of his home today. Knowing that the fence cuts close to but not into town, we asked to see for ourselves. Ibrahim said he would show us. Jawal had to wait behind for his mother who was at the doctor.

We walked with the casual pace that is common here. Ibrahim told us about Jawal, that he is Beduin, and that his home is just outside the village. I'd been around Ibrahim a few times before and like him very much. Like many Palestinians he maintains a calm, undisturbed manner, even when talking about "the situation", and, uniquely in my experience, smiles a wry, empathetic smile when he describes things that might disturb. (see photo 1)

Ibrahim led us up and down small hills through a part of Jayous I hadn't seen before. A beautiful yellow evening light cast long shadows as we entered an olive grove. A wide, rocky path took us past the village's most outer lying homes, toward the security fence. I noticed that numerous young boys, apparently returning from work in the grove, were passing us carrying long metal posts. (see photo 2)

At the end of the path we came to a four-car-lane wide swath of bare earth carving through the countryside: the security fence, under construction. Between us and the unfinished fence were shiny new coils of razor wire stretched in an impassible barrier about six feet tall and several feet wide, secured by metal posts.

Ibrahim pointed across the wire toward what he said was Jawal's home. At first I couldn't see it. "It is not large, he said, trying to help me. Finally I saw a shack, about 200 meters beyond the fence, almost the same color as the hills surrounding it.

Suddenly, things became strange.

I turned, and there was Jawal, who I thought had stayed behind. He stood gazing with a pained expression at his home on the other side of the wire. I asked him for a photo. As I took it his expression remained frozen on his face. (see photo 3).

Other things were happening. The razor wire was trembling, and to my left and right I saw boys appearing out of the olive grove and pulling up the metal posts. (see photo 4). We stood by, speechless, while the boys worked steadily and determinedly to loosen the posts and pull them up, all in spite of cuts and gashes from the razor wire. (see photo 5) Ibrahim began leading us back toward Jayous, and gestured toward the boys who, for the most part, obediently followed.

Just down the fence on the opposite side stood a group of three or four men in plain clothes. They were the construction security guards who often beat and harass the villagers. They causually inspected the razor wire, and didn't seem to pay any attention to the children who had been dismantling it. Their lack of reaction made the whole scene feel absolutely casual and normal, as bizarre as it obviously was. And all was calm on our side. There was no running, no rock throwing, just a bizarre sort of tension that hung in the air like a shadow over our heads.

As we made our way back into town we found Jawal's mother (see photo 6 ), heading toward her home. Michael and I got the impression that she wanted us to accompany her to her home by going around the fenced area, knowing it could take an hour or more. John, exhausted from the previous day, decided to head back to the international house in town, while we went ahead with Jawal and his mother.

We made our way up a gradual hill toward the olive grove. Jawal,s mother stopped frequently, wailing to friends as she passed. For once I felt like I didn't need to know Arabic to understand.

It wasn't really clear anymore if Jawal and his mother were coming with us and they kept disappearing. We were almost back to the olive grove that came just before the fence. Michael, Ibrahim and I were talking there when a couple of adolescent age boys, breathless, covered with dust and seeming exhilarated, exclaimed something to Ibrahim, who translated to us: "There is shooting,

"Where? we asked.

"Up ahead, by the fence where we were before.

I called John to let him know about this development. Jawal and his mother had disappeared again, among the many neighbors who stood around their doorways. We were just down the crest of a low hill and protected by the walls of homes so I imagined we were safe from any fire coming from the olive grove. But Michael wanted to go ahead and see what was happening. He began running forward, then turned and asked me if I was comfortable with him going.

I looked at him like he was crazy. "You're running toward shooting"?

"I'll walk" he responded, and after looking at me for a moment went ahead. Boys were everywhere but he was the only person I saw actually moving forward.

I think we communicated well, in spite of how this might appear. My concern was to make sure that he was really thinking about what he was doing. If so I thought it was up to him whether to take a risk or not.

As Michael moved ahead, I became aware, without really paying attention, that Jawal was back again, out in front of our loose group of boys. Ibrahim spoke to me over his shoulder with his strange smile: "Jawal says he wants to die". I stared back, not really focusing, then I looked around at the people coming and going, distracted. Ibrahim spoke again, "He wants to die, not Michael".

I didn't have time to think about the sadness of those words. Everything was in motion and seemed like a bizarre carnival with children, gunfire, and strange smiles. But I was thinking about Michael, that he'd better come back if he is actions were being seen by local Palestinians as those of someone who wants to die. I started ringing him on my cell phone, over and over. We were still moving forward slowly as a group. A tiny boy appeared in front of me as I walked, stopped me, and said "Be careful".

Pop! Pop! The gunfire had a strange, harmless sound, like balloons being pricked. Michael, unbeknownst to me, was in an upper floor of an abandoned building ahead on our left with a view of the olive grove and the fence. Bullets were whizzing close by the window where he was videotaping. We stood in relative safety. Children were still everywhere. I felt safe with Ibrahim, who seemed to be able to sense what to do, moving organically with the smaller boys. We moved down, backing away from the olive grove where the shooting had come from, and there was more gunfire. This time, everyone really moved. Already jogging, Ibrahim looked back at me and said "Run!" in Arabic. At least, I felt very sure this is what he said. He was smiling again, almost laughing, as he held his head with his hand, gesturing to me to keep down.

We stopped, safe again, further down the hill. I was still calling Michael on the cell when he simultaneously answered and came into view. The gunfire had either stopped or was being drowned out by a very noisy tractor near us. Soon Michael was with us again (John had rejoined at some point) and we slowly made our way into the village. He was able to verify that the men we saw at the fence were shooting in the general direction of the children, but it was hard to say what or who they were targeting, though their second volley appears to have been at Michael, who they may have mistaken for a sniper in the building window.

Together we wandered back, talking about strange things like the gardens and cactus in the beautiful valley we were crossing. Michael looked at the huge field of cacti and said "Man, that's the condominium of cactuses! Before we were really out of the shooting area, we found a group of older men, sitting outside having tea. As usual in Palestine, they saw us passing and invited us to stop. We drank with them, and they seemed resigned and unaffected by the nearby shooting, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from keeping their children close by, they seemed unconcerned, even as they told us that the army would probably come in tonight.

In all this bizarre experience, I'll never forget Ibrahim's strange smile, or the deep, maddening sadness that entered my heart when I learned that Jamal wants to die, all because a razor wire fence was arbitrarily placed in front of his home, in the name of Israeli security.

(see photo 7)