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Saturday, June 11, 2011

Fear and tear gas in Nabi Saleh: A coward’s story

Posted on June 11, 2011  by Shoshana London Sappir

(June 10, 2011)

Today I had a small taste of confronting the Israeli occupation from the Palestinian side, and I confess that even my brief exposure was traumatic.

Heeding the invitation of my friend Gershon Baskin for Israelis to join him at the weekly non-violent protest in the West Bank village of Nabi Saleh, in the hope of mitigating the brutal force the Israeli army exerts against the protesters, I set out early Friday morning with most of the things on the list Gershon sent me – food, water, sunscreen, a towel against tear gas – in my backpack, and a sense of foreboding in my heart.

When I said I was afraid of being hurt, Gershon replied “you’re right. It can be dangerous.” He had no words of comfort, except for repeating that he was going to call the army command before the demonstration started and tell them that dozens of Israeli supporters were going to march with the Palestinians, and ask them to take that into consideration.

As planned, we arrived at 8 a.m. for the 1 p.m. event, hoping to get into the village before the army sealed it off. But it was too late: soldiers blocked the entrance and waved us off. They had also put up a sign declaring the village “Area A” – under control of the Palestinian Authority under the Oslo Accords, which Israeli law forbids Israelis to enter. The village is really Area B, which Israelis are allowed into. The sign was a lie. We parked a ways up the road and then the dozen or so activists who had arrived hiked into the village through the fields for twenty minutes. On the way, Gershon advised us to speak quietly and silence our phones. The village had been declared a “closed military area,” and we were violating the law.

We soon found out that two activists who tried to enter the main way were arrested and charged with “attempting to break through an army barricade.”

After gathering in the village square, we were invited to the home of one of the village leaders, a friend of Gershon’s, with whom he had coordinated our solidarity visit. Over coffee in his spacious salon our host briefed us about the village’s struggle to reclaim its land on which the settlement of Halamish was built. He said the Israeli High Court ruled in their favor but they never got their land back or were allowed access to their fields abetting it. Settlers took over Nabi Saleh’s spring and for the past two years the villagers had tried to march to it every Friday but had been held back by the army.

Gershon told us that at first a lot of Israelis had signed up for this action, but as the week went on they started cancelling out of fear. He said he didn’t blame them. I didn’t either: after being the first one to sign up, as Gershon told me, out of a sense of outrage at the army’s brutality and my wish to join the campaign to challenge it, my fear took over. As the day neared I slept worse every night, and the last night I hardly slept at all.

While we waited for the march, there was less talk of principles of non-violent resistance than of practicalities: what to do against tear gas and how to behave if arrested. My friends and I agreed we were here to make a point by our presence but our cowardice would keep us at the back of the crowd where we would be less exposed. I kept thinking of my family worrying about me at home and couldn’t wait for it to be over, even before it started. An Israeli journalist who was with us felt that we were insufficiently welcomed by the villagers, that they could have been more appreciative of the effort and gesture we made in coming out. An activist answered her that it wasn’t for us to tell the Palestinians how to behave. I admit I had also expected a little more visible appreciation for what in my society is an extraordinary show of solidarity with those most Israelis see as enemies. But when I considered how badly they had been treated by Israelis for so long – and where were we then? – I understood their complex feelings. Besides, they did welcome us into their homes and tell us they would do everything they could to protect us.

In one of the homes we visited, our host told us his 19-year-old daughter had been beaten up by Israeli border police last month and put in the hospital. In an unusual turn of events, the police were put on trial and she was summoned to testify against them. When the same young woman admired my new wide-brimmed straw hat, I gave it to her in exchange for her showing me how to wrap my scarf around my head Palestinian-style. An activist offered me jasmine perfume to spray on the front of my scarf as an antidote to the anticipated tear gas. Another advised us to buddy up and a third said the most important thing about tear gas was not to panic.

As the event drew near, Gershon made his phone calls to the army but was not successful: at the two offices he reached – the local and regional commands – he was unable to speak to the officers in charge and left messages with unreliable-sounding young soldiers. It looked like the central plank of his initiative – informing the army of our presence and asking them to be gentle – was falling apart.

At 1:15 people started streaming out of the mosque and amassed for the march. A young man with a megaphone said a few words and I translated for my fellow activists: “Today we are marching for the martyrs who died on Israel’s borders with Syria,” referring to a protest earlier in the week. We looked at each other in confusion. Weren’t we marching for an end to the occupation and allowing the villagers to access their spring?

We didn’t have long to ponder this because within 100 meters and 60 seconds the first tear gas canister was fired from far off at the entrance of the village into its center. Immediately everyone started running back, away from the soldiers, but, as it happened, towards the tear gas: it had landed behind the group, and the only way to get away from it was to run right through it. I found myself with two of my buddies, one particularly affected and, sure enough, panicky. Although I too was gagging and tearing, this put me in the position of being the abler one and my attention was on helping my friend. The three of us found our way to the home we had been invited to use for shelter, and there we were cared for until we felt better. Our hosts had much experience with gas, as it was used in the village in large quantities every week and often fired at or into homes. When this happened, the effect lingered for days. Sometimes, furniture caught fire.

As we left to rejoin our comrades, our host said “please remember us and come back not only in situations like this, but to visit us.” I promised to remember but doubt I will visit.

Outside we could hear the repeated pounding of canisters being fired at a distance, but we stayed in the village center while the confrontation was elsewhere. I informed my friends that I had had enough, I really couldn’t take it anymore, and was ready to go home. They were too, but it was not at all clear there was a safe way out of the village: the army was likely to spread gas everywhere, even in the fields. I felt trapped and hunted. There was nowhere safe to go. It was also clear that there was nothing I could do or say, and it didn’t matter who I was: the military machine was proceeding apace, and its orders were to act relentlessly to contain and especially deter the Palestinian resistance. Activists observed that not only did the presence of Israelis not make things better, it had apparently made things worse. Huge amounts of tear gas were fired for hours and several activists and villagers were evacuated by ambulance.

We were told the village was sealed and there was indeed no safe way to leave. But my friend and I got lucky and got a lift out with a BBC van that had managed to enter the village with its press privileges.

The terror of being exposed to physical harm did not leave me for hours. I know I am not brave in that way. Besides a relatively mild whiff of tear gas I was not even hurt. But worse was the feeling of being trapped and threatened. The activists who have been experiencing this regularly for years can laugh, and the Palestinians who have no choice can scoff at my delicacy. After all, I can decide that I did my bit for the struggle, this is not for me, and go on to entertain my friends with stories of my little adventure. But if I multiply my brush with fear a million times over, I think I got a glimpse of what it feels like to be under military occupation, having no voice and living under the constant threat of violence day in and day out.

In the comfort of my home in Jerusalem, I wonder if the jasmine is blooming outside, or if that scent rising up from my neck is just lingering in my imagination.

Michael Sappir
An Israeli living in Germany, linguistics undergrad at the University of Leipzig, a graduate and proponent of Sudbury schools and currently Council Chairman of EUDEC.
http://www.didyoulearnanything.net/2011/06/11/fear-and-tear-gas-in-nabi-saleh-a-coward’s-story/

THE GENERAL'S SON

Miko Peled is a peace activist who dares to say in public what others still choose to deny. Born in Jerusalem in 1961 into a well known Zionist family, his grandfather, Dr. Avraham Katsnelson was a Zionist leader and signer of the Israeli Declaration of Independence. His Father, Matti Peled, was a young officer in the war of 1948 and a general in the war of 1967 when Israel conquered the West Bank, Gaza, Golan Heights and Sinai.

Miko's unlikely opinions reflect his father's legacy. General Peled was a war hero turned peacemaker.
Miko grew up in Jerusalem, a multi-ethnic city, but had to leave Israel before he made his first Palestinian friend, the result of his participation in a dialogue group in California. He was 39.
On September 4, 1997 the beloved Smadar, 13, the daughter of Miko's sister Nurit and her husband Rami Elhanan was killed in a suicide attack.

Peled insists that Israel/Palestine is one state—the separation wall notwithstanding, massive investment in infrastructure, towns and highways that bisect and connect settlements on the West Bank, have destroyed the possibility for a viable Palestinian state. The result, Peled says is that Israelis and Palestinians are governed by the same government but live under different sets of laws.
At the heart of Peled's conclusion lies the realization that Israelis and Palestinians can live in peace as equals in their shared homeland.

My Jerusalem Diaries: A Permit for Home


By Rana B. Baker - Gaza

What a pity being asked if you have ever been to your capital city and all that you have to say is: 'I would love to go there one day,' or that the last time I visited Jerusalem I was nine years old. There could be a third way to answer this question: yes, I passed by it, but I was not allowed to step out of the bus because I didn’t have the special permit required for such visits.

Indeed, the first picture my mind summons for Jerusalem was 11 years ago, in 2000, when I went there for the first time with my parents, grandmother and older sister.  I was staring at a crowd of Rabbis through the window of the bus that carried us to Jerusalem. They looked alike: dressed in black outfits and black hats with straggling beards and two curls dangling from their whiskers.  I asked my mother who they were. She answered “religious Jews”.

My parents held my hands as we all got out of the bus among other “tourists,” many who were Palestinians like us. I was too naïve to realize that this visit could be the first and last time I walk in the Holy Land for many years to come.

I don't know what happened next, but I remember that we went to al-Aqsa Mosque. I was fascinated by the grandeur of the Dome of the Rock as it proudly basked in the sun, which made it look even more beautiful. My mother handed me the prayer rug and prayer gown and told me to pray.  I unrolled the rug, wore the gown and made my prayer in the yard of al-Masjid al-Aqsa, under the blue sky of the Old City.

I remember relishing the special flavor of Jerusalem embedded in its Nabulsi Kunafeh (an Arab Palestinian dessert) at a shop in one of the Souqs of Jerusalem’s seven-open-gates old City.

The last scene I can summon is my mother, sister and grandmother trying to remember the name of the gate by which we were to meet my father. “Al Qat…, al-Qat…, al-Qataneen!” I yelled with joy for being the one who reminded them of the name, and they cheered for me.

After all, I had to go back to my house in Gaza the same day, in accordance with the conditions stipulated on our permits.  I was not more than a tourist in my own land.

The second trip was in 2007, the year the siege on Gaza was imposed. I was in a group of young “privileged” Palestinians who’d been chosen to participate in the Arab Digital Expression Camps in Cairo for three weeks. We were given permits to leave Gaza through the Bait Hanoun border (Erez crossing), travel via Israel to Jordan, then fly to Cairo. It was impossible with Mubarak’s regime to allow us to cross to Egypt directly through the Rafah crossing and spare us the humiliation at Erez. Our adult leaders were banned from accompanying us and we had to make it all the way from Erez to Jordan on our own.

To reach Erez, your taxi will drop you meters away from the gate. We dragged our feet and pulled our luggage under a hot August sun toward the gate. Not a gate like the one you might be picturing. It was more like jail rods than a gate of a crossing point. Beyond the gate you could see at first glance that the whole area is bugged. Cameras everywhere to tell you they are there to punish you if you act in a way that might bother the Israeli officers. Large posters on the walls offered millions of dollars to those who will report to Israel the location of Shalit, the Israeli soldier held in Gaza.

A long fenced road led to many searching machines at checkpoints. You must leave your luggage on the machine, take off anything that contains metal, even a necklace, and pass through the checkpoint. If it beamed, you’re in trouble; if it didn’t, go to the next.

One machine was much larger than the ones I’d “gotten used to.”  It’s the one with the X-rays that reportedly causes cancer. The one I had always heard about. Once I got inside it, a woman ordered through a loudspeaker to raise my hands and stand still.  The machine too was bugged!

There was something wrong with me. The woman’s voice with a distorted English accent ordered me to get out of the machine and re-enter. She screamed at me saying that I was not raising my hands the way I should have been doing. She made me go in and out of the machine five times. When she let me out, I thought there was no doubt I will get cancer.

Through many gates we were then meant to pass. If the gate beamed a green light, push it and go to the next. If it beamed red, what will happen to you is identical to what happened to me.

I was taken to a special room with an x-ray luggage detector, a female officer and a table with a metal detector wand on it. The officer ordered me to take off my pants. All of a sudden I thought I didn’t not understand.

“Did you hear me?” She inquired. “Take off your pants and put them in the searching machine.” 

I felt humiliated to the extent that made me force myself to pretend that I’m totally fine. She picked the searching device and approached me. “Are you scared?” She sarcastically asked. “No” I retorted, although I was soaking in fear. The device ran across my body. At that point I was wondering what one could hide under his/her skin or underwear!

When she let me out, I found the rest of the group waiting on a bench. I burst out in tears.

Suddenly I burst out with laughter; it was the absurdity of the situation.

Our luggage was unpacked and mixed together. We spent hours separating our stuff and repacking our bags. In the end, we walked out of Erez and rode the bus to Allenby Bridge that leads to Jordan.

In the bus we screamed out of excitement, ecstasy and shock. We were in the Occupied West Bank. We asked the driver to take us to Jerusalem and let us step on the ground of the Holy Land. Alas, to walk on our land we needed a permit from the strangers! We could only pass by Jerusalem and see a little spot of the Dome of the Rock. But even seeing it from afar made me ignore, at least for a while, the treatment I had received at Erez.

And thus, we were carried to the Bridge, Jordan and eventually flew to Egypt.

I really wonder how a minor’s body can cause a threat to the security and well-being of the state of Israel, “The only democracy in the Middle East.”

The news of opening the Rafah Crossing cannot yet refute the following fact: Palestinians are still denied their indispensible right to move freely within their own land, their own home.

- Rana B. Baker, 19, a student of business administration and a member of the Gaza-based BDS. She contributed this article to PalestineChronicle.com. Visit her blog at: ranabaker.wordpress.com, and follow her on twitter at: @RanaGaza. (A version of this article was first published in The Electronic Intifada - http://electronicintifada.net)
http://palestinechronicle.com/view_article_details.php?id=16917