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			BostontoPalestine Boston support group for the International Solidarity Movement

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Hannah's reports Hannah is a young peace activist from Boston, currently volunteering with the International Women's Peace Service (IWPS) To subscribe to her mailing list, send an e-mail to hannahreports-subscribe@lists.riseup.net. view Hannah's on-line photo album 10-24-04 A last report 10-15-04 "These Are My People" 10-8-04 Report from Hannah 8-20-04 From pain comes poetry 7/12/04 Fahrenheit 120 6/23/04 A Peaceful Day in Dier Ballut 6/18/04 Update from Salfit region 6/14/04 Tear gas, Israeli soldiers greet Boston peace activist arriving in palestine 7-27-04 At a Nablus Checkpoint Below are reports from Hannah, of Boston, who 5 months ago arrived in the West Bank village of Hares to work with the International Women's Peace Service (IWPS). This is Hannah's second trip to work with the IWPS; she plans to stay through October and join with delegates from bostontopalestine arriving during the summer and fall. ******************************** October 25, 2004 "A last Report" Hannah I don't know quite how I got to the point where I can say this, but after 4 and a half months, this will be my last letter from Palestine this year. This week has been full of olive picking, coordination, strange travels, and goodbyes. We've had three different delegations here to help with the olive harvest (one from Boston, one from the UK, and one from Austria). Now only the Austrian group is still here, and has been picking in the north of the city of Salfit near the southern fence of Ariel settlement. Moving the group there from Marda took us about 2 hours instead of the half hour it should take. The flying checkpoint I've come to expect under the bridge at Iskaka was nowhere to be seen, but construction workers were paving the only road to Salfit (the only Palestinian road, that is - the army has their own ways of getting there), and it was completely closed. I asked why they didn't do the paving at night. "Do you think the army would let us do that?" one of the workers responded. We switched cars many times and walked several hundred meters right next to the burning tar. At one point we ran into a whole group of 10-15 year old boys. I asked where they were from. Turmus Aya. What are they doing here? They've come to visit their teacher in Yasuf who was beaten up by settlers a few days earlier. I knew the incident. I had spoken with 25-year-old Tariq, who had been attacked on the main road on his way home from work. A settler sprayed gas in his face and a group of settlers kicked and punched him until he was unconscious. A Palestinian car noticed him on the road, picked him up, and took him to the hospital. He suffered injuries to his thigh, ribs, shoulder/back, and nose. So these kids from Turmus Aya were on their way to visit Tariq. They seemed unconcerned by the delay, and were delighted to have the chance to whip out their American passports and talk to me about Chicago. I've heard that Turmus Aya is a town with large houses and no people, because all the people live outside Palestine. I told the kids this. "Nos nos," they responded (half, half). Some of these children split their time between the US and Palestine, others have never been to the US, but it seems most have family there. We arrived in Salfit just before iftar (the evening meal to break the fast of Ramadan each day). The farmers were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but not quite as irritable as I would have expected for that time of day. We sat around a table trying to split up with internationals would stay (and therefore pick the following day) with which families. After it was all finished, the mayor took me aside and told me I would be staying with him. "Everyone wanted you at first," he told me, "but then you said you were American, and then you said you wouldn't be picking tomorrow, and now nobody wants you." He said it with his typical joking smile, but I can't help but think there's some truth in it. Wait until they find out I'm Jewish, I thought. Incidentally, one of the coordinators later asked me, "Are you Muslim or Christian?" "No," I responded. "Nothing?" he asked. "Jewish," I responded, and then quickly added, "but not Israeli." "Why do you say that?" he asked. "It doesn't matter. We like you because you are a human being. Jewish, Israeli, it doesn't matter." This is the most common response I get when I tell people I'm Jewish. The other day I met a woman on the bus who, in the midst of telling me that there's no difference between Jews and Israelis, that all participate in an oppressive system, and that Islam is the best religion because it is all-encompassing, also stated that someday we'll realize that we all believe in the same one God, and that we just have different messengers. The more I find out about Islam, the more I want to know. Someday soon I'll sit down and read the Koran, but until then, I hope to have many more conversations with people and many more experiences like I had that night in Salfit. After dinner in the public gardens the Sheikh gave a speech, which was followed by what I can only call an "Ask the Sheikh" session. Women, men, and children were there, and all were asking him questions about fasting. "How old should children be when they begin to fast?" "Lots of people say they're fasting but they're not. What do you say about that?" "Why are we using plastic plates?" (this was my favorite question). The whole evening seemed very democratic to me. Interaction, interruption, camaraderie. I like seeing democracy in action, especially in religious institutions. I stayed with the mayor's family, and was excited to get up at 3:30 am to eat the morning meal before sunrise, which I'd never done. I set my alarm, and was up and ready at 3:30. I waited around for a few minutes and didn't see or hear any movement, so I went back to sleep. In the morning, they asked, "Why didn't you wake us up?" They had slept through their alarm. After a few more errands, I managed to get home and left the next morning for a short 'break' before leaving for good. I had heard from my friend George about a youth center in a building that used to be a prison in Fara refugee camp, in the Tubas region (between Nablus and Jenin, but also on the edge of the Jordan Valley). Kate and I were determined to get there, if only because it seemed like an adventure. And it certainly was. Everything we thought would be difficult about the travels was easy, and everything we thought would be easy was difficult. We snuck around Huwara checkpoint outside of Nablus with absolutely no problem, actually walking with complete confidence in full view of the soldiers, who probably assumed we were settlers or at least walking to the nearby settlement (which was feasible, since it was Saturday and there wouldn't be any settler cars driving). Getting from Nablus to Fara, though, proved to be the real adventure. One driver said he could take us, but after stopping at a broken down amusement park for at least a half hour trying to figure out if his car was strong enough to drive over the roadblock ahead of us, he decided to take us back to Nablus. So we left Palestinian style - that is, over the mountains in a jeep, desperately trying to hold on to our seats as we bounced all over the place, the car speeding over rocks to try to avoid being seen by police or army. We arrived in Fara to a confused crowd of people who kept asking us why we were there (not in an unfriendly way, but they certainly don't get many foreign visitors and were curious, to say the least). We toured the center, went to the city of Tubas for a few minutes, and then left for Jericho. No, Jericho is nowhere near Tubas, but both are east. Besides, neither Kate nor I had been to Jericho, and we figured we might as well see the oldest and lowest city in the world before leaving. We stopped at Hamra checkpoint, where we encountered hostile soldiers who we're sure are ideological settlers in that area. They wouldn't let us through, claiming that we had to get out the way we came in. Get out of where? we wondered. If we had been near the border with Israel, I would understand that, but seeing as we were in the middle of the West Bank, I was utterly confused. If we had been coming from the other direction would they have forbidden us to pass because we hadn't come through this way? Anyway, our Israeli friend Dorothy made several phone calls for us, and after an hour and a half, the soldiers let us through. Apparently one of the reasons they were worried about it was that if we go through, we might be going to Jericho, which is closed to internationals without special permission. Hamra is nowhere near Jericho, but it is on the same road. By the time we passed through the checkpoint, it was almost iftar (dark, no cars, etc.). We hitched a ride with a nice settler for a couple minutes, but she was turning off the road, so we got out and began to walk. Kate insisted it was impossible to walk to Jericho, which of course I knew, but at least I needed to feel like I was going somewhere. A couple minutes later, a Palestinian man came out of his house, and we said hello to him in Arabic. He asked where we were going, we told him, and he told us we'd have to come eat with them and spend the night, because there wouldn't be any cars until the morning. I have to say this was a very welcome invitation. And I also have to say that I wasn't surprised. I have come to expect this almost incomprehensible hospitality and trust among Palestinians. Two strange foreigners wandering past his house as it was getting dark - and really, we could have been settlers. How was he to know? Anyway, we stayed, we played with the kids, we talked with the men and women in the house, we slept, and in the morning we got a car to Jericho. At the checkpoint into Jericho, where we were afraid we'd be asked for our 'permits,' the soldiers just looked at our passports and gave them back to the driver of our car, letting us through with no problem. Jericho is a beautiful city, although it's one of the places where the suffering economy (lack of tourists) is most apparent. The streets were pretty empty, and the cable car operators on the Mt. of Temptation seemed to open up just for us. An article from 1999 hanging in the building said they were expecting the project to pay for itself with Jericho's 500,000 tourists each year. That's over 1,000 a day. I doubt they had many more than 2 the day we were there. I returned to Hares to the news that Angie, one of our founding team members and a prominent activist in the UK, had been denied entry and was being held at Ben Gurion airport until they could find her a flight back to Britain. We wrote to the press, and I even had a discussion with Abu Rabia last night about an idea that Kate had: Let's get the Palestinian Authority to issue her a visa, to make a statement that if Israel doesn't want Angie in their territory, fine, Palestine wants her in theirs. We'll see where that goes. I am aware that most of this probably reads more like a travel journal than anything else. I'm not feeling so poetic right now, and I'm a bit overwhelmed with the fact that I'm leaving. I had some wonderful goodbyes yesterday, and realized that people really are going to miss me, and I'm really going to miss them. What more to say? Perhaps I'll write again sometime next week, from the comfort of my parents' home in Pennsylvania. In case I don't, I'll say my thank yous now, to all of you have been reading and writing and passing my messages along and thinking and reconsidering and apprecicating the realities that are so important to face here. Please remember to contact me if you have ideas of where I can present. Boston: Nov. 7, 2:30, Christ Church. In the spirit of peace, justice, and truth, Hannah October 15, 2004 "These Are My People" related photos: http://community.webshots.com/album/197440970cccuWX “Welcome to the most democratic country in the world.” The man, probably in his 50s or 60s, stopped us in the street to say this. Immediately we knew why. Kate and I were heading back towards the Damascus Gate of Jerusalem’s Old City, but a half hour before we had come from that direction and had seen the massive police force that Israel utilizes every Friday. I do not think the situation was more extreme today than most Fridays, just slightly more offensive. On the first day of Ramadan, hundreds come from the West Bank to pray at the Al Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem. Most of them have succumbed to the system and have obtained a permit from their occupiers to pray at the holiest Muslim site in the country, but the Israeli police still seemed to prohibit men under the age of 50 from entering the Old City this morning. When we asked why, one police officer called her commander over and told him we were interfering with her work. So when the Palestinian man walking up the street stopped us to say, “Welcome to the most democratic country in the world,” we understood exactly what he meant. “Were you turned away?” I asked. No, he lives in Jerusalem. It’s just the sight of all the people waiting, hoping to access their holy site to pray, being turned away by Israeli authorities. “It makes you crazy,” he said. “It makes you wonder why there aren’t more suicide bombings.” We agreed, and all shrugged our shoulders somewhat helplessly and walked away. I’ve grown up hearing Jews talk about the importance of the Western Wall in the Old City, about how the holiest site was forbidden to Jews for centuries. I wonder if any of the police officers or soldiers think about this as they guard the gates of the Old City preventing Palestinian Muslims from entering. It seems they have no awareness of the parallels, no empathy for the people, no understanding of themselves. And of course, it makes me feel I need to take on the burden of shame even more, on behalf of all of my people, be they ignorant or heartless or both. The Israeli army’s massacre of Palestinians in Gaza continues as I write, with at least 136 dead and several hundred more injured. The settlers also seem to be getting more and more vicious these days. A few weeks ago a Palestinian taxi driver stopped to help a Jewish settler who he thought was having car trouble. The settler shot and killed him. Attacks on Palestinian farmers are increasing in number and severity. One was killed harvesting last week. Others have been beaten, their olives stolen, their groves set on fire. Very few settlers are arrested for any of these attacks. I wonder if the settlers would think it fair for the perpetrators of these acts to be assassinated without trial, their settlements closed off, their other residents arrested, their houses demolished. Or alternatively, I wonder if they would think it fair for every Palestinian attack on an Israeli to be met with a smile and something between a pat on the back and a slap on the wrist. We picked olives and almonds last week with a family whose land lies on a hill that is now completely surrounded by settlements. The ownership of their land is the only thing separating the Gush Etzion bloc (halfway between Bethlehem and Hebron) from connecting completely to Jerusalem. They have papers dating back to 1924 from every occupying power that has been in the area, including the Israelis. Still, the settlers show up every once in a while with bulldozers and begin uprooting trees and constructing roads. Occasionally they attack people in the house, or attack the water tower or generator – structures that denote presence and sustainability. The battle over this piece of land has been in the courts since 1991. We picked olives with a different family in a different area last week, whose trees are dying because the sewage from the settlement of Elkana runs right through Azzawiya’s land. I picked olives all day trying not to breathe through my nose, wondering if the donkey that was grazing in the area would get sick, wondering if the children breathing in this waste would get sick. On the way back from the land to the village (a walk that used to take 15 minutes but now takes over an hour because of restricted roads and paths), we saw two settler children on the hill next to us. The older one, who looked about 13, was carrying a handgun. He immediately started to fondle it when he saw us. “How are you?” the Palestinians we were with yelled up to the kids in Hebrew. They didn’t respond, but started walking away. “Don’t be afraid of us,” yelled the Palestinian. The settlers turned around, and the child with the gun yelled, “I’m not afraid! I love problems!” The man we were with seemed visibly disturbed, which surprised me. This type of interaction seems relatively normal to me, but the Palestinian turned to me and said, “It’s really not good that they teach their children to hate like this. They say we cause the problems, but then when I try to say hello they say they love problems. It’s not good that such small children have weapons.” Perhaps because of the settlers’ ability to get away with anything, they have begun targeting internationals as well. Chris and Kim of the Christian Peacemakers’ Team (CPT) in Hebron were attacked while accompanying children to school two weeks ago. A gang of English-speaking (probably American) settlers in black masks ambushed the group and beat Chris and Kim with chains and bats. Chris suffered a punctured lung and bruised ribs, Kim a broken arm and injured knee. Last week settlers again attacked a group of 5 internationals accompanying the children. The army has responded by saying that if the internationals leave, the problem will stop. CPT points out that violence against the children existed far before the international presence (hence the reason for the presence). The ‘problem’ that the army refers to is clearly the public relations difficulty they might face trying to explain to foreign governments why their citizens are being attacked by citizens of Israel. I thought of this incident as I was being chased down the street by a settler last night. We had gone to a large pro-settlement demonstration in Jerusalem, partly to join the counter-demonstration and partly just to see what one of these demos was like. The experience reminded me that there is no place I feel less safe and more threatened as a Jew than in Israel, by Israelis. Anger, fear, disgust, and sorrow overcame me all at once, and I walked away from the crowd sobbing. Later I wrote the short piece below. I don’t think it adequately expresses all that I was or am feeling, but it’s a start, and, for now, an end: These are my people These are my people who gather in thousands to support the settlements whose children plaster Gush Katif bumper stickers on their shirts and cheer at the mention of a Jewish Israel from the river to the sea. These are my people who proudly don their hippie skirts and sandals who look like everyone I went to summer camp with who look like everyone I know now who only by accident of birth are greeting each other with hugs at a settler demonstration and not a peace march. These are my people who jump out of the crowd to yell at Kate for wearing a shirt with “Jews for a free Palestine” who violently push her and scream “Get the fuck out of here, murderer!” who, upon seeing my camera, raise a fist and begin to chase me down the street, hissing “Keep moving, you dirty bitch!” These are my people. These are my people who stand around watching at least a dozen policemen who chuckle as the settler attacks us who, as a response, form a line across the street and push us down, down, further and further… These are my people who push me away. attached photo captions: 1. settler chant: This girl's bumper stickers support the settlements (specifically the Gush Katif bloc in Gaza). She chants with her friends at this large settler demonstration in Jerusalem. 2. jerusalem ramadan An Israeli policeman prohibits a Palestinian man from entering Jerusalem's Old City to pray at the mosque on the first day of Ramadan. more of Hannah's photos: http://community.webshots.com/album/197440970cccuWX October 8, 2004 Report from Hannah A couple photos relating to this report: http://community.webshots.com/album/197440970cccuWX Dear friends, I feel like my mind is already halfway back home, which I suppose would put it somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, but I'll try to keep you posted on my next few weeks nonetheless. Before beginning this report, I want to ask you a favor. I'm wondering what questions and topics you'd most like to see addressed in a presentation from me about Palestine. I've started to think about what I'd like to share with people, and I want to make sure I have the right pictures, stories, and information with me before I go. So if you have any thoughts, please respond to this e-mail and let me know. I picked my first olives of the season last week. It was nice to be out there again, to think about where I was last year at this time (only physically in the same place). I wonder if Palestinians use the harvest as that kind of marker for them a time to reflect on the year as they bond with their land. Although I suppose they have an almost constant connection to the land, not only during the time of olive harvest that is, when they can access their land. So many physical, legal and mental barriers exist in this place that I think every olive picked by a Palestinian farmer (and not stolen by a settler or left to sit on the branches until dead) is an act of resistance. On Monday I picked olives with a family from Azzawiya who has land inside the settlement of Shaarei Tikvah. What I should say is that the settlement of Shaarei Tikvah has been built on land stolen from families of Azzawiya. Ah, the difficulties of language. In any case, the family was attempting to enter through a gate in the Wall (which is fence in this area) that has not been open in almost a year. The army opened it for the first time on Sunday, but only for people with permits. The people in Azzawiya do not have permits, so Ismail and his family did not get through on Sunday, but on Monday the border police who opened the gate in the morning decided to do the farmers a 'favor' and let them harvest their olives. The family entered the settlement with no problem, only to find that a new road had been built and the settlement parking lot had been expanded destroying at least 20 of their olive trees. Additionally, a new fence had been constructed, blocking the family from reaching half of the trees that remained, and also confiscating a working water well. Perhaps the most offensive destruction, however, was the new landscaping along the main entrance road. The settlement had cut down Palestinian olive trees in order to plant imported palm trees along the sidewalk. The olive trees are native to this land; the palm trees have come from outside to replace them, they stand taller and look down at the remaining olive trees, and they're a bit prickly. Draw your own parallels. The reason internationals accompany farmers to their groves is to stand in solidarity and possibly to intervene or document abuses by settlers and soldiers. About an hour after we began picking on Monday, we noticed a settler and Ismail having a conversation. The settler's wife came out to her porch as well. I walked a little closer, only to find that the settler was offering Ismail the olives from the 3 olive trees in his yard. He didn't need them, he said, so Ismail was welcome to pick them and take the fruit. Ismail said thank you, but we have our own olives to harvest. I asked the man how long he had lived there. Twenty years. How old is the settlement? About twenty-five years. All of the land was bought, he insisted, and not stolen. Ismail said differently. Some of the land was bought, he admitted, but certainly not all of it, and not his family's land. The woman then offered us water. Ismail accepted, and she brought a pitcher of cold water with cups. Ismail's wife was approaching at this point, and turned to me to comment, "They take our land and give us a glass of water." What to do? Many of the individual settlers are fine human beings, as Ismail was so intent on reiterating to me all day, but what good does it do when they're part of a system that steals tree after tree, life after life? I think of the American parallel of a white person trying to disassociate her/himself from institutional racism by claiming, "I'm not racist; I have a black friend." Monday was actually a wonderful picking day. For the first time in the olive groves, I was able to have full and deep conversations in Arabic and to translate for a non-Arabic speaker. The family asked me what my work is in the US, which is even a more complicated question these days than "where are you from" or "where do you live". I told them about the afterschool program I worked with last year, and that this time when I return I hope not to need much money and to speak about Palestine as much as possible to as many people as possible. They were curious about this, but their question was different than the first question I usually get from people. Usually people ask me, "What do you say about Palestine?" Perhaps this family trusted me enough not to ask that question, and instead asked, "What do people in America say when you tell them about Palestine?" I explained that there are activists and others who understand the situation, and they appreciate hearing more information. I also explained that I'm Jewish, and that I think it's very important for me to talk to American Jews, but that it's difficult. They immediately began giving suggestions: "You have to show them photographs and videos so they can really understand." I responded that this is exactly what I do, and that certain people thank me and tell me they've never known anything about Palestine before, while others call me a self-hating Jew. [For those of you who speak Arabic I was quite proud of myself for thinking of the following: 'Inti yahudiyye, bass inti dud ilyahuud. Inti maa bithuubi nafsik.'] David, the other international picking with us that day, commented that he had travelled through Israel about 20 years ago, before knowing too much about the situation. He could have sworn he was in the West Bank, he said, but he didn't remember any checkpoints. I asked the family. No, they said, 20 years ago there weren't any checkpoints. They could go to the beach in Tel Aviv and come back home at 1:00 am. They could go wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and easily make friends in Israel. The permit system was first introduced during the first Gulf War, they said. Early 1990s. The end of the first Intifada, the beginning of the Oslo process that turned out to be so disastrous for the Palestinian people. I've heard people talk about going to the beach late at night, even in the late 1990s. I suppose they had to have permits at that time, but the point is that they felt at least a bit more free than they do now. Abu Rabia told me recently that he doesn't feel any differently now than he did when he was in prison for 13 years. Often I wish I would have come to Palestine earlier, or had some of the awareness I now have when I spent a year in Israel in 1997-1998. I want to understand how things have changed in a way I can't quite understand by reading and talking to people, or even by seeing pictures. What does it mean to have your land constantly disappearing before your eyes? I think often of Munira and Hani Amer, who live with their 6 children in the house in Mas'ha that is enclosed on all four sides by fences and walls not of their making. Recently I've looked through their photo albums at some incredible pictures taken just 5 years ago of the greenhouses in front of their house. There are no longer any traces of these greenhouses, and a monstrous concrete wall stands in their place. My favorite picture is one of Munira lying on a hill posing for the picture amongst flowers and grass. The picture was taken during her first week of marriage, about 20 years ago. Now the houses of Elkana, a settlement established in 1986, sit on that land. There's one amazing Israeli organization I know that goes back even further in history and confronts its nation's own birth Zochrot. Their brochure explains the name: "In Hebrew, 'Zochrot' is the plural feminine form for the words 'remembering' or 'rememberers.' Although Zochrot activists are men and women, we chose the feminine form of this word to represent an alternative, less militaristic, and more humanly inclusive conception of collective remembering." Zochrot (www.nakbainhebrew.org) works to raise awareness of Al Nakba ('the catastrophe' referring to 1948) by visiting and marking destroyed Palestinian villages within the current boundaries of Israel (although I can't quite say 'boundaries,' since Israel is still the only country in the world that has not declared its borders). A few of us in IWPS went with Zochrot to the village of Al Lajun on Tuesday. Megiddo kibbutz now sits on some of Al Lajun's land, and the rest of the land remains unoccupied. We were joined by over 100 Jewish and Palestinian Israeli citizens, several of whom were born before Israel and remember being kicked out of their homes in 1948. They didn't even know about the war until it came to them, the Palestinians told us. They had little awareness of Europe's plans for the area, and simply lived their lives. They were mostly farmers, but were also quite 'advanced' for their time, running a bus company that travelled to all parts of Palestine Jenin, Tulkarem, Haifa, Yaffa, Jerusalem, etc. Hearing about pre-1948 life in Palestine is a simple act, but one that remains so important for me. I still remember the Zionist education that taught me that no people, no towns, no civilization was here before the Jews came. I looked around at all the trees that had been planted on this 'state land' in the last 56 years in order to ensure that the Palestinians can never return. I wonder if any of my tzedakah money given to the JNF (Jewish National Fund) years ago planted any of these trees, or whether that money went to the theft of a different piece of land. (Over 90% of Israel's land is considered 'state land' and is mostly owned by the JNF. Non-Jews are not allowed to purchase or build on this land.) I looked into the eyes of the men from the village who live only a few kilometers away now, but who still remember their childhood in Al Lajun and still have dreams of returning. And hope. Something I noticed among the Palestinian population of Israel that day, at least among the folks that joined us, was a true hope, and even a certainty, that things will change and that Palestinians and Jewish Israelis will live in peace someday. Perhaps the urgency isn't as great as in the West Bank, perhaps there's another explanation, but for whatever reason, a certain calmness (even if a little sad, even if a little eerie) filled the air of Al Lajun as we planted signs of recognition in the ground and listened to traditional Palestinian music. Zochrot has published an account of the day with pictures on their website: http://www.nakbainhebrew.org/index.php?id=168. So what's my conclusion? It's all about land. Um Rabia asked me the other day if I can find her a copy of the Torah in Arabic. She wants to understand how much of this conflict is religious, to know whether the Jewish scriptures really tell Jews that this land is theirs and only theirs, and that removal of Palestinians by any means necessary is a religious mandate. I told her that people use religion in different ways, but that at its roots I think this conflict is more about land than religion. And goddamn, this land is precious. A couple photos relating to this report: http://community.webshots.com/album/197440970cccuWX also visit : www.iwps.info www.palestinemagnets.net August 20, 2004 From pain comes poetry by Hannah, in Jerusalem Dear friends, I've been with this delegation from Boston for 5 or 6 days now, and it's been incredibly intense, incredibly stressful, and incredibly wonderful. We're taking a day off in Jerusalem today to catch up on sleep and gather our thoughts together. The group is a fascinating mix of people with a high level of creative energy, and I've felt my emotions open and my creative juices flow more in the past couple days than in a long time. And so, I will share with you a few poems that I've written, and hope that you can read them out loud (I wrote them with this intention). I apologize if the format doesn't come through, and I'm pretty sure underlining and italics don't come through e-mail either. The first is called "Khalil," the Arabic name for the city that in Hebrew and English is usually called "Hebron." The second is a response to a very painful (for me) visit to the settlement of Bat Ayin, a right-wing ideological settlement strategically placed in the Gush Etzion block between Bethlehem and Hebron (and still referred to as 'the Jerusalem area'). One of our delegates has family living there because her cousin's husband is studying at the yeshiva on the settlement. We met with the rabbi of the yeshiva, and my poem is a response to him. In the third poem, I refer to Yad Vashem, which is Israel's Holocaust museum, and to Al Naqba, meaning 'the catastrophe' in Arabic and referring to the killing and displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians during the war of 1948 (what to Israel is the 'war of independence'). And I think that's all you need to know. Read on. In the spirit of love, Hannah Khalil "What's the difference between an Arab and a trampoline?" the question, the set up, the joke begins in Hebrew, on the wall of a Palestinian home or a Palestinian store where once there were people where once there was life and how can the people not hate in response? but somehow they don't somehow the Arabic words on the walls say instead "Congratulations to you on your pilgrimage to Mecca" and "My store has moved to the market outside" sometimes the truth is so clear that it hurts sometimes no response is necessary the answer, the punch line, the joke ends "On a trampoline you jump without shoes." __________________________________________________________ To Rabbi Natan Greenberg of Bat Ayin settlement Why do you think there are armed guards outside our kindergartens? you asked it rhetorically, Rabbi you asked it so you could answer it so you, who have never set foot in your Palestinian neighbor's village, could tell me that if you did, you would be dead in an hour so you could tell me that if a Palestinian came to your colony, he would be fine, and in the next breath tell me that if a Palestinian came to your door, you would have to assume he was there to kill you and thus take appropriate action Why do I think there are armed guards outside your kindergartens? I think there are armed guards outside your kindergartens because it helps to feed your myth of fear because it helps to feed your fear of reality Do you feel safer with the guns? Do you tell me Jews are not a warlike people? Do you tell me you hope you have never killed an innocent person but you can't be sure? Do you believe there are innocent people? Do you believe there are any other kind? Why do I think there are armed guards outside your kindergartens? I think there are armed guards outside your kindergartens because it is easier to demonize the victims than to stop victimizing them because you feel more powerful with an illusion of control than a reality of trust because you cannot see beyond the walls of your own ghetto and the limitations of your own understanding because "never again" means only one thing to you and you've copyrighted the phrase and stolen the experience of suffering from every other group of people on this earth in your mind because you don't know quite what to do with power but you're damn glad you have it and you have no intention of sharing it or dismantling it because myth creates privilege and privilege creates blindness and blindness creates you because when myth becomes reality it is that much more difficult to disarm Why do I think there are armed guards outside your kindergartens? because the view from Bat Ayin is beautiful and you don't know your neighbor's name. __________________________________________________________ A poem with no name street signs marking settlements Hebrew, English, and when not crossed out or faded, Arabic crossed out or faded crossed out or faded whitewashing street signs whitewashing history a mockery of the land a mockery of the people i'm starting to understand the importance of naming i'm starting to understand why every refugee can tell me the name of her family's prior village and why this is often the answer to "where are you from?" i'm starting to understand why every mother of every prisoner wants to tell me her son's name, his age, the details of his arrest, the prison where he is being held the prison where he is being held the prison that she most likely does not have permission to visit i'm starting to understand why every martyr has a poster in his name, with his photograph, on the walls of every city, village and camp the same cities, villages, and camps that the street signs forget the same cities, villages, and camps that have been erased from the Israeli consciousness as quickly as you can say 1948 the same cities, villages, and camps that have been forgotten by history because thus far, history has been written by the winners and thus far, justice has not won i imagine a new permanent exhibit at Yad Vashem like the one they have now the room of mirrors and candles (or is it one candle reflected hundreds, thousands, six million, twelve million times?) the room where, as you walk through, you hear the reciting of names victims of the Nazi holocaust names that are so many that the tape has yet to repeat itself i imagine a room a bit like this but a room instead in which every destroyed village is named and every victim of Al Naqba is named and every refugee is named and every prisoner is named and every prison is named and every uprooted tree is named and every demolished home is named and every town trapped behind the Wall is named and every victim of the Jewish psychosis of fear and particularism is named including ourselves and i imagine every Israeli, every Zionist, every Jew walking through that room and seeing herself and seeing himself reflected in the mirrors, in the names, in the light of the candle reflected in hundreds, thousands, millions as many times as it takes until there is not one more rabbi who can look me in the eye and say "this settlement was built on empty land" At a Nablus Checkpoint July 27, 2004 Northern Exposure This past Saturday, I organized a trip to the north (Hares and Mas'ha in the Salfit region) for the people in my Arabic study and volunteering program. It began with a 40 minute wait at the Bethlehem checkpoint that is, 40 minutes with our bus in the front of the line and the soldiers completely ignoring us as they let people through from the other side. Finally I got out of the bus and slowly walked towards the soldiers until they yelled at me in Arabic to stop. I asked what the problem was and told them we were late for our tour in Jerusalem. I must have spoken enough English to confuse them or make them decide that it was more tiresome than desirable to give me a hard time, so they motioned the bus to come forward. It's always hard to tell whether something like that will work, whether getting out of a bus or car to complain to the soldiers will get us through quicker or slow down the process for everyone. And of course, it was only my status as an international that allowed me to try at all. The day went smoother after that, and we moved from place to place with ease and on time. Our last stop was Munira and Hani Amer's house in Mas'ha, the house that is completely enclosed by the Wall, 'security' gates, and the settlement fence. Their prison is a microcosm of the prison of Palestine, and the occupation gets played out in front of their house on a daily basis (soldiers harassing them, settler kids throwing stones at their house on Shabbat, etc.). I don't know that I can ever visit them and be completely happy with what I see, but it was wonderful to see the mural that their children and children's friends painted last week on the Wall. [Kate was there and wrote a wonderful report about it, which you can find, along with pictures, on the personal blog page of the IWPS website www.iwps.info go to link at bottom.] Saturday was also the first time in a long time that I've seen Munira and Hani relatively happy. Munira says everytime she looks at the Wall now, she'll remember who painted which parts of the mural. After our visit, the Holy Land Trust folks headed back to Bethlehem and I joined the IWPS women for what I thought would be a relaxing evening in Nablus. They had planned to take the evening off and visit the hammaam (Turkish bath). So we headed to Huwara, the main checkpoint into Nablus, and were told that Nablus is closed to internationals. The soldiers claimed they were just trying to protect us didn't we know there was an incursion going on? So often I've heard soldiers talk about military operations like they're simple facts of life that humans cannot control, like they're saying, "Be careful, it's slippery over there." This time I'm glad I didn't talk directly with the soldiers, because I probably would have been tempted to say something like, "There's an incursion going on because you - the Israeli army - are invading," or at least to ask, "Why are you so concerned about me? Isn't it also dangerous for Palestinians to be there?" In any case, there was no getting through Huwara, and the taxi drivers (who always have the most reliable up-to-date information about the travel situation in Palestine) suggested that the only way we'd get in is by hiking over the mountain. Call us crazy, but we decided to do it. The trip involved a couple cars at the beginning and the end, and about an hour of hiking in the middle. "We'd better not get shot trying to get to the hammaam," we kept half-joking to each other. Luckily we made it without running into any soldiers, and aside from the few cockroaches in the hammaam (and the fact that the sauna felt a bit too much like all of Palestine this time of year), we managed to have a relatively relaxing evening. It was getting out of Nablus that was anything but relaxing, and certainly reminded me that checkpoints are perhaps the most blatantly frustrating manifestation of the occupation. I figured I would try to go out through Huwara, because it is far quicker than leaving any other way. Since the army didn't want me in Nablus to begin with, I thought maybe they would let me out. This turned out to be the case (although it wasn't the case for other IWPSers later), but the treatment of the Palestinians that I witnessed was enough for me to question the humanity of the Israeli soldiers. I arrived at Huwara with Um Fadi, a friend from Hares who I randomly ran into on the way out of Nablus. We stood in line together, although we decided it would be best for her if we didn't try to go through together. About 100 women and 50 men were standing in several lines (4 lines for women, 2 for men) waiting for the soldiers to call them forward to show their IDs. I looked around and on all sides saw watchtowers and army vehicles (jeeps, a tank, a camouflage bulldozer). Much has been written about the architecture of checkpoints, but it's something that particularly struck me on Sunday. The soldiers stood in front of the lines alternately blocking one or another with concrete blocks, plastic barriers, tables, and anything else they had lying around. At one point a soldier began moving quickly towards one of the men's lines, pushing them backwards. "Irjaa', irjaa'" he kept repeating ("go back, go back" in Arabic). He was looking one man in the eye while pointing his gun directly at the man's groin. It was as clear a power game as I've seen. He was obviously trying to provoke the Palestinian man, and occasionally moved his gun up to the man's stomach. When they were parallel to me, I turned to the soldier and said, "What's the problem? Is there a problem?" I knew this might diminish my chances of getting through, but I could not stand there without at least letting him know I was watching. The soldier ignored me as I repeated my question. Finally he turned to me and said, "Uskut!" I wanted to correct his grammar, to tell him the appropriate way to say "shut up" to a female in Arabic is "Uskuti," but I thought better of it. He then repeated himself in Hebrew. I asked again, "What's the problem?" and finally he told me, in Hebrew, that the men needed to stand behind 'this line' (he pointed to a random spot on the ground, and turned around and walked away). For the next half hour or so, he called people only from the other men's line. One at a time, two at a time, four at a time (he would hold up a certain number of fingers, and that many people would be allowed to advance). I remembered a comment I heard recently from a woman in Machsom Watch (an Israeli women's organization that monitors checkpoints). She said, "Soldiers are always asking why Palestinians can't stand in a straight line Israelis invented not standing in line!" Meanwhile, I heard another young soldier shouting at the women's lines. "Lo lazuz!" he kept yelling in Hebrew ("Don't move"). Apparently a couple of the women were fidgeting under the hot sun as they tried to calm their young children, some of whom were crying. The soldier stood a few meters away and pointed at whichever woman he decided could advance to the next soldier, who was checking IDs. If the wrong woman stepped forward, he would yell at everyone and threaten to send people back to the beginning of the line. Most of the women had been shopping in Nablus, and the soldier first made them put their bags on a table and take out their contents. Apparently this was not good enough, though, because he stepped forward at one point, picked up a large plastic bag that one of the women was carrying, and dumped it from a height onto the table. "Kulam roim?!" he yelled condescendingly at the crowd ("Does everyone see?"). "This is what you must do," he told them in Hebrew. He then stepped back a few meters again, but enforced this absurd and humiliating rule that all women must pick up their bags and completely dump out their contents, rather than carefully taking their new clothes, books, and food out to be checked. I struggled to keep my composure during these 45 minutes, and noticed that Um Fadi was making conversation with people and keeping a bit of distance between the person in front of her and herself. Checkpoints, like most lines, are crowded and frustrating, and often people will begin pushing each other to get through. Um Fadi instead created camaraderie among the women around us. When I was finally chosen to move forward, I handed my passport to a soldier. Without opening it, he held it up for another soldier to see, and though he didn't say anything, his eyes were asking her, "Should we give this international/American a hard time or not?" She said something about the visa that I didn't understand, at which point he opened my passport, looked at the picture and the visa, and slowly closed it. He then gave me a look that said, "Okay, time for the power game." I was both tired and frustrated, and decided the best strategy was to look ahead (away from him) as though I was ready to walk away, and put my hand out. Apparently he decided it wasn't worth the energy to harass me, and after a slight hesitation he put the passport in my hand. I walked away slowly without looking at him, and he didn't stop me. No words passed between us at all. This doesn't always work, but on Sunday it did. Of course, I am again aware that most Palestinians would not feel comfortable trying this, and that if they did, it could cause serious problems for them. The power game is always a delicate balance between confidence and obedience. It's a moral issue, a strategic issue, a political issue, a human issue. On our way out, I noted about 10 young men on their way into Nablus being held in a small concrete pen. I walked past them at first, not wanting to jeopardize my own luck, but then turned around and decided to give them cards with Hamoked's phone number (Hamoked is an Israeli organization that speaks Arabic and helps fight human rights abuses at checkpoints, among other things). I managed to talk to the men for about a minute before the army seemed to notice. The Palestinian men were slightly confused (I can only imagine what they think when a random foreigner approaches them, gives them a card of an Israeli organization, and tells them to call the phone number on it), but at the end they seemed to understand at least enough to make the decision about whether to call. As soon as the soldiers noticed and started to yell at me, I walked away and caught up to Um Fadi. The soldiers had opened the boxes of pastries she had just bought for the Salfit girls' summer camp the next day, but otherwise she exited unscathed. She had kept her composure the whole time we stood in the line, but after showing me her open boxes, she threw her hands in the air and said, "They ask why Palestinians make explosives." I responded with something I had been thinking for the past hour, and in general since I first came to Palestine: I am constantly shocked when I see the restraint of Palestinians. I often truly marvel over the fact that there isn't more violence towards Israelis. One of our meetings Saturday was with Issa Suf, a friend in Hares who is a long time peace activist and was an athletic trainer before being shot and paralyzed by a soldier almost 3 years ago. He has recently written a letter to the soldier who shot him, telling him that he feels only pity, and not anger, towards that soldier and all other soldiers. One of the internationals in our group Saturday said he finds that sentiment almost incomprehensible, and asked Issa what he thought of an early Malcolm X quote that went something like this: "To respond to violence with nonviolence is not only wrong, it is criminal." Issa replied: "I know it is much harder to use nonviolence than to use violence, but it's the right thing to do. Violence is just not what we are taught. It's not part of our culture or our religion." I think this is ultimately true. Inshalla (God-willing), the world will someday soon realize the simple truth that Palestinians are overwhelmingly a peaceful people. Maybe justice can unfold from there. Seeking peace, justice, and truth, Hannah July 12, 2004 "Fahrenheit 120" from Hannah, Tel Aviv view Hannah's on-line photo album Okay, so maybe it's not quite 120 degrees here (although I hear it's about that in Baghdad right now), but it certainly feels like it at times. Especially in Tel Aviv. That's right, I'm back in Tel Aviv for the day. I don't know how I went two months last time I was here with virtually no break, because now after only a month I'm desperately needing these few days I have before heading to Bethlehem. The Salfit region has been relatively quiet recently, although I'm not sure exactly what I mean when I say that. Maybe it's just that there haven't been as many demonstrations, and most of the work on the Wall has temporarily stopped in our area, so when things do happen, I just don't know about them right away. The IDF invaded the village of Rafat last week, not far from us, but I was sleeping soundly in my bed in Hares. I went to take pictures and talk to families the following day, but by that time it was 'quiet.' Of course, the army came back every night that week to throw sound bombs from 11pm until 5am. Certainly not your typical definition of quiet, but I don't think anyone was injured or killed. Not there, anyway. Nablus and Gaza are a different story, of course. I think there were 17 Palestinians killed in one day last week. But I just read it in the news, like the rest of the world. It's amazing how close we really have to be, how much we really have to see with our own eyes, before true empathy can surface. Sometimes. I guess the pain might overwhelm us if the empathy were present all the time. But it does frustrate me. For myself, and for all of you who are out there reading and who I desperately want to understand aspects of my experience, of Palestinian experience, of Israeli experience. I've been having more and more conversations with Israelis recently in which they've told me that they're completely depressed, that their country is suffering from a deep and unrecoverable psychosis, that they want to get out of here. These are people who have and haven't served in the army. Especially the ones who have served recently - kids whose political awareness and conviction were not quite strong enough at age 17 or 18 to stand against their families and their countries and refuse to serve. And I think of myself at age 17/18, spending a year in Israel before going to college, believing in peace as an abstract concept but not yet aware that the very things I'd been taught to love most were the things that most obstructed the possibilities of peace in this region. So these women tell me of their roles as commanders, training hundreds of soldiers to use weapons while they themselves are suffering nervous breakdowns and are heavily medicated for depression. One tells me that her brother used to come to all the peace rallies with her when she got out and he was still in high school. Now he's driving a tank in Gaza. I think it will take longer for deep and lasting change from the Israeli side than from the Palestinian side. From what I've seen, the hatred is both deeper and more ideological. Palestinian hatred for Israelis gets expressed in very concrete and tangible terms of loss - my brother, my son, my house, my land, my job, my freedom of movement, etc. Israeli hatred for Palestinians gets expressed through fear, misconception, paranoia, racism. Not that Israelis have nothing tangible to fear, but I think the hatred comes from a different place and goes beyond reality in a way that I haven't seen as much from Palestinians. It's not easy to express what I'm trying to say. It's not easy to ascertain in the first place. And it's certainly not easy for me as a Jew to accept that the global representation of Judaism has strayed so far from any Jewish values I might want to identify with myself. I saw Fahrenheit 9/11 last night here in Tel Aviv. Maybe my expectations were too high, but I have to say I wasn't impressed. Or let me say that a different way: I think the movie wasn't made for me. I think it was made for the 'mainstream American public' (whatever that might mean). The film plays on the same fear of terror in general, and Arabs in particular, as it tries to denounce. It could, however, prove to be an extremely useful propaganda tool; if Americans add Bush to their/our list of fears, maybe we really can get him out in November (now we just need a real candidate to run against him...). The point, though, is that Moore is a smart man who knows his audience, and he knows that the best way to affect the most people at this point is through fear. I personally would have preferred compassion - not only for the families of a few American soldiers (which he does quite effectively), but also for Iraqis, Afghanis, Saudis, etc. Compassion for 'the other.' Are we not there yet? When will be at a place where compassion can be as powerful and as effective as fear? Especially in America. Especially in Israel. Khallas - enough. If you want a more narrative account of my past week, complete with images, go to my online photo album at http://community.webshots.com/album/160611867KbUPzG. Photos and captions tell about a tour of East Jerusalem; demos in A Ram, Azzawiya, Biddu, and Ramallah; a checkpoint and an incursion in Azzawiya and Rafat; and a parliamentarian's hunger strike against the Wall. Still hoping somewhere deep inside that our creativity can see us through this, Hannah June 23, 2004 A Peaceful Day in Dier Ballut "T]he sky was full of stars, and even the sound of the bulldozer blended eerily with the breeze." I realized today that part of what's been so hard for me during this past week and a half is that I have a very clear concept of the destruction of life, but not a grounding in the life itself. I've seen the taking, but not what's being taken. I've come straight into a world that is in complete upheaval and haven't had a 'normal' day in Palestine. It's true that I've been here before, but I forget things, and I can only imagine that it's much harder to understand for those of you who have never been here at all. So I'm happy to report that I had a wonderful night with a family in Deir Ballut last night, and my past 24 hours have been relatively quiet. I'd like to give you a glimpse into life in the village of Deir Ballut. At around 7 or 8 last night, we received a call from Fatima saying that the women of Deir Ballut wanted to have a meeting and plan an action for 6 am the next day (today). Deir Ballut, with a population of 4,000, is one of three villages (with Az Zawiya and Rafat) that will lose over 90% of its land when it becomes trapped in an enclave of the Wall. The village invited us to come and stay the night, so we made a quick decision to send 3 of us to Deir Ballut to see what was happening. We picked up Fatima on the way, and were greeted warmly when we arrived, which is typical in Palestine. Nobody seemed to know whether there was a meeting or where it was, which unfortunately is also quite typical. We spent a good amount of time trying to contact the women of the village and the mayor, and in the meantime we talked, laughed, and watched a strange Hollywood film with aliens, half-naked women, and other elements that one of our hosts insisted were regular aspects of American culture. I had forgotten about the incredible power of women's affection here. As we sat and talked, the mother of the house braided my hair and her daughter made tea. We laughed with each other and discussed the meanings of our names. The youngest daughter is also named Hannah (it's a common Arabic name), and the family reminded me of its meaning: contentment. The women in Deir Ballut have a different relationship to their land than in some other villages. Most Palestinians are both attached to and dependent upon their land, and in Deir Ballut it is primarily the women who work the land. The men used to work in Israel, and now that they're forbidden to enter Israel, some of them work in places like Ramallah and others don't have jobs at all. Like almost every village in the West Bank, Deir Ballut has thousands of olive trees, but they also grow a wide variety of other things: potatoes, eggplants, almonds, beans, garlic, onions, cucumbers, tomatoes, and more. In addition to Deir Ballut's 4,000 residents, over 1,000 people from the village are now living abroad, many of whom are in Brazil and Venezuela. The family we visited with has many relatives in Brazil, and most of them have spent time there themselves. We managed to understand each other quite a bit when I spoke Spanish and they responded in Portuguese. Of course, there was much Arabic, English, and Hebrew thrown into the evening as well. The older woman who had braided my hair took me to the roof at one point when I asked about the Wall. The bulldozers work most of the night, she explained, and sure enough we could see the lights of the army jeep in the distance and hear the faint noise of the uprooting of trees. The rest of the land looked absolutely peaceful, the sky was full of stars, and even the sound of the bulldozer blended eerily with the breeze. We returned downstairs and finally someone had contacted the mayor, who came over around 11:00. He was worried about a demonstration, he said, and it didn't seem people were organized enough to pull it off yet. I could see his stress, knowing that his village will be encroached upon so severely by the Wall, but also worrying about his people being injured. Ambulances can't get to the land very easily, he explained, and if people were hit by gas or bullets, they wouldn't make it to the hospital on time (Deir Ballut doesn't even have a proper clinic). There hadn't been a proper meeting of women or anyone else in the village, so people decided they couldn't possibly plan an action for the morning. Fatima decided she would rather be hungry than angry about it, so we had a small meal sometime after midnight and managed to stay awake for a few more laughs and some conversation. This morning we returned home to Hares, and though I was disappointed that the women had not organized an early morning action, I was somewhat relieved to know I wouldn't be spending my day marching towards soldiers of the fourth largest army in the world. Tomorrow morning Deir Ballut will have a demonstration. I have no doubt that we will all face tear gas and possibly other weapons again, but I hope that my fear may be lessened and my purpose heightened by the knowledge of the beauty that these people are trying so desperately to hold onto. ----------------------------------------- Update from Salfit region June 18, 2004 Dear friends, Unfortunately, I can't say things have gotten any better since I last wrote, but there are ups and downs each day. I've seen more guns, inhaled more tear gas, and heard more sound bombs than I ever could have anticipated. Because things are so bad, though, and because this new section of wall will cut 25 kilometers into the West Bank to surround Ariel and steal 65% of the land from the region of Salfit, journalists have been showing up to demonstrations in the past few days. I can only hope that some of you are seeing news about what is happening (people from CNN and NBC have been in Iskaka in the past couple days, as well as Palestinian, Israeli, European, and Arab media). The positive : 1. Residents of Iskaka managed to stop the bulldozers from working on Thursday. 2. The Israeli High Court ruled yesterday that no more construction should happen in the towns of Iskaka and Salfit until an oral hearing on the matter. This doesn't necessarily mean the bulldozers will stop working, but it does mean that if they continue to work, Israel will be violating its own law and not only the international laws that they consistently ignore. 3. The United States State Department has issued a statement against the current wall construction around Ariel. [Of course, this happened last year as well and it hasn't stopped anything. Words only go so far. If the US were to stop giving Israel $13 million a day, perhaps Israel would take the warnings more seriously.] 4. A representative of the UN has implicated Caterpillar in human rights abuses against Palestinians. 5. Palestinians from many villages continue to demonstrate every day of the week, and today are marching in large numbers to their land for mid-day prayers. The negative : 1. Israel is quickly beginning construction in so many new areas that Palestinians, internationals, Israeli activists, and journalists are struggling in our capacity to deal with everything (obviously an intentional move on the part of the Israeli government/army). 2. More and more people are injured each day, and the human rights abuses are piling up. Some examples : · A woman in Azzawiya who was 9 months pregnant was badly tear gassed last Thursday. Five days later she gave birth to a stillborn baby whose skin and blood were blackened, which doctors say is a direct result of the tear gas. · The army has been firing gas into the center of villages houses, buses, etc. in Iskaka and Azzawiya, if not more places. · Soldiers fired gas directly at a group of Palestinian government representatives and old men in the town of Salfit, and threatened young boys with live ammunition. I feel completely heartless reporting on what I'm seeing in this way, but you can imagine it's hard to put my feelings into words right now. I want the information to get out there. My own analysis and story-telling can wait. Below is a link to my online photo album, where I've uploaded some photos from the past couple days. There's also a link to a video that Kate made yesterday in Salfit. Thanks to everyone who has sent supportive e-mails. I can't always respond, but I really appreciate them, and the Palestinians I'm working with are happy to know how many people in the US really do care about where our money is going and are prepared to stop it. Peace and strength to all, Hannah Hannah's photo album : http://community.webshots.com/album/153832591uvaNuo Video (Thursday, June 17, older men lay down in front of bulldozers to stop the uprooting of their trees. Army responds by gassing them. Border police threaten youth with life fire) : http://www.iwps-pal.org/ftpiwps/videos/salfit_june_17.rmvb TEAR GAS, ISRAELI SOLDIERS GREET BOSTON PEACE ACTIVIST ARRIVING IN PALESTINE** June 14, 2004 by Hannah, in Hares, West Bank Dear friends, I've been back in Hares for less than two days and already I have disturbing news to report. I don't like to dwell only on the negative so let me start by saying that transportation from place to place seems easier than last time I was here. A few roadblocks have been removed (including the one at the entrance of our village!) and a major checkpoint has been moved slightly so that we no longer have to pass through it to get here from Jerusalem. Our landlord has a new baby who is three months old, and their 3-year-old son seems as happy and carefree as ever. I'm writing tonight because I don't know what else to do. I'm writing because I feel burned out after being tear gassed just once and Palestinians continue to demonstrate nonviolently every single day, knowing the tear gas and rubber bullets are coming. They have more at stake, I suppose it's their land that is being stolen. I've seen some incredibly strong and brave Palestinian women in action, telling soldiers who are young enough to be their grandsons that they are not afraid of the guns, the gas, and the bulldozers. I actually become less afraid when standing next to the soldiers as well (they're unlikely to gas themselves). It's trying to hide from tear gas in the olive groves that really makes me feel vulnerable. But let me start over. The Israeli army began uprooting Palestinian trees in the village of Azzawiya about a week ago to make way for the Wall. The village will lose 90% of its land. Just today Israeli newspapers announced that the "Ariel loop" of the Wall (which will run right past or through? - our house) will begin soon and be completed by May 2005. An hour after we read that article, we got a call from the mayor of Salfit to say that Wall construction in Iskaka is scheduled to begin on Wednesday. Iskaka is east of Ariel (with almost 20,000 settlers, Ariel is the largest settlement and was strategically placed smack in the center of the West Bank). Meanwhile, construction all around the Jerusalem area (but east deep into the West Bank) is ongoing. PENGON (Palestinian Environmental NGO Network) has good maps of the projected path of the Wall at www.stopthewall.org. We have been spending our time in Azzawiya these past few days. Every day the men, women, and children go out to demonstrate nonviolently. Yesterday, the day I was there, was apparently typical. About 300 of us began marching up the road towards the land that the bulldozers were destroying, armed only with onions, lemons, and bandannas and dentist masks covered in perfume and cologne (tear gas sends a signal to your brain that tells it to stop breathing the strong smells remind you to continue). The army immediately fired several canisters of tear gas at us, which split up the crowd. Some went forward, some went backwards, we went into the olive groves below. About 20 of us Palestinian women, internationals, and Israelis wandered through the groves trying to make our way up to where the bulldozers were working. The soldiers could obviously see us, because they kept firing gas directly at us, but we couldn't see them. I'll spare you the hot journey through the groves, but we did manage to find our way back up the hill. Soldiers began running at us and we put our hands up and said as loudly as we could who we were and what we were doing there. As they got closer, I started to relax a bit. I am more familiar with face-to-face confrontation with soldiers, and I still have some faith that they are less likely to injure people when they can see people's faces. This is also perhaps the most difficult moment for me, though the moment at which I myself remember that the soldiers are human. How frustrating to ask an 18-year-old kid, "Do you think what you're doing is right?" and hear him respond, "It doesn't matter." "Of course it matters!" we said. "It's my job," he responded, "I'm following orders." "Do you know who that argument didn't work for?" asked another Jewish international. "Don't compare," said the soldier, but without much conviction. The soldiers stand there stone-faced as they tell the women they have to return home through the groves and not on the road we had finally reached. They seem emotionless, but of course they must react this way, because they are human beings. Most of them are not monsters or rabid ideologues, so if they don't shut down, they will no doubt face a decision many of them are unprepared to face to serve in an army of occupation or to refuse to do so. Other soldiers react to their job differently giving each other high fives and laughing while smoking their cigarettes and taking a break from throwing tear gas. I am running out of steam and I'm sure you are too, so I'll only add a few details: As far as I know, 5 Palestinians and 1 Israeli have been arrested in the past 2 days. All but one Palestinian (and possibly the Israeli) have been released. There have been over 80 injuries, mostly from tear gas, 12 from rubber bullets, 4 or 5 from being beaten with sticks by soldiers, and one (a journalist) who was badly burnt when a sound bomb hit his back. Tear gas has been fired into at least one ambulance. Today a number of fires raged (the mayor says the IDF was intentionally burning the vegetable gardens), and Palestinians who tried to put the fires out were further gassed. This is completely insane. I want to believe that nonviolence will prevail, that the army will get tired before the Palestinians do, that Americans will wake up and see where their money (over $13 million a day) is going. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I can confidently say that right now. I can say that Israeli journalists have been responding to our press releases and showing up more than usual, and also that an overwhelming majority of the internationals I've seen so far are Jewish. I just heard that an Israeli lawyer will take this case to the Supreme Court tomorrow to try to change the route of the Wall. I implore you to do something to stop this atrocity. Call someone (a friend, a family member, an army, a Congressperson). Organize an action. Say a prayer. Come to Palestine. Do something. If you don't, what's happening here is likely to become another of our many moments in history that future generations will look back upon and say, "Why did people not act to stop this? What were they thinking?" I'm not particularly thrilled about the fatalistic tone of this first dispatch, but I can't think my way out of it right now. Thanks to everyone for your support (especially the B2P folks you're wonderful!). Hoping to center myself in the coming days and send more positive thoughts your way. Love Hannah