Apologies for the delay on this post. We moved to Project HOPE's other apartment across town, which is much nicer, but there's no internet access there, so we've been scrambling to blog in whatever free time we have hanging around the Project HOPE office. Much to tell you.
On Friday we traveled to the small town of Bil'in, about half an hour outside of Ramallah. We went with five other volunteers - four French and one Egyptian-German Londoner.
The path of Israel's Security Barrier has put the town of Bil'in on one side and its farmland on the other. Some of the land is not only inaccessible but has been appropriated by the settlements which continue to expand in violation of international law. And so every Friday the people of Bil'in hold a protest against the wall. The town has become somewhat famous and so its weekly protests attract a significant crowd of international supporters. (Approach a taxi driver on a Friday in Ramallah (when the city is very empty and internationals stick out even more than usual) and he will ask "Bil'in?" before you even get a word out.)
On the Friday we were planning to go to Bi'lin, we were told that, instead of the weekly protest, there would be a celebration because the Israelis had agreed to move the wall back one whole kilometer. But either the celebration or the agreement to move the wall was only a rumor. (Which is not surprising. The UN International Court of Justice declared the wall a violation of international law and called for its removal over a year ago, but no sections have yet been dismatled and construction still continues). The Israelis would not in fact be moving the fence and there would be no celebration, only the usual protest.
When we got out of the cab in Bil'in we had little idea of where to go or what to do. We wandered towards a small grocery store where a group of other internationals were clustered. As we waited in the blistering heat, one of the French volunteers who had been to Bil'in for a protest last year recognized a man he had met on his previous visit. The man promptly invited all seven of us back to his home while we waited for the demonstration to begin.
We were warmly welcomed into what could have easily been an American living room - plaid couches, a TV, photographs of the family, drawings by the children. The kids were adorable - two boys, maybe 11 and 7, and the most precious little girl who couldn't have been more than two. But of course these are not American children. The oldest boy already has a scar on his knee from a rubber bullet and at one point, the little girl brought out a plastic bucket (the kind kids normally fill with Halloween candy) full of rubber bullets, live ammunition, and tear gas canisters that the family has collected over I have no idea how many Fridays to show everyone. She gave everyone a rubber bullet and a real bullet to hold and then went around the room again to collect them. If the term 'rubber bullet' sounds at all innocuous to you, holding one, feeling its weight, will permanently dispel that illusion. They are actually large metal pellets coated with a rubber jacket.
The children's grandfather confirmed their danger, telling us about a ten year old boy in the neighboring town of Nil'in who was killed by rubber bullets, as well as an Israeli protester who was hit in the head with a rubber bullet and has been in the hospital for three months. (He also told us that on the day of the boy's funeral the Israelis closed the road to Bil'in so that all those who attended the funeral in Nil'in had to wait from noon until sundown to return to their homes.)
The grandfather was quite talkative and seemed to appreciate having an audience - having people who were genuinely interested in Bil'in and the things that had happened there. He told us about an eighteen-year old who was shot repeatedly at close range with rubber bullets. A young girl filmed the incident and released the footage to the media. Shortly afterwards, her father was arrested on unspecified charges. An eighteen-year-old college student spent a month in prison for pulling a prank and climbing to the top of an Israeli watchtower. He had to pay 12,000 shekels ($3,500) to be released from prison. In a region where salaries can be as low as 600 shekels a month. And where the family who so graciously entertained us is supported solely from the profits of selling embroidered bags and bracelets now that they have lost their land. (John and I both bought similar bracelets with the design of the Palestinian flag from a group of boys who rushed us as soon as we got out of the cab for 10 shekels apiece (about $3)).
After afternoon prayers, we all finally gathered in the street. There were probably about a hundred people - a hodgepodge collection of local residents, internationals from all over the map (including a contingent of deightful old hippies in their sixties and seventies from Anarchists Against the Wall), and a handful of Israelis. (We were told that that Friday's demonstration was a little smaller than normal because there were simultaneous demonstrations in neighboring towns - normally it's closer to 200 or 250 protesters). A group of locals with Palestinian flags led the march and tried to start some chanting (1 2 3 4 No No to the War... etc.) The chanting died out pretty quickly though as we labored along a winding dirt road towards the fence and the group became more spread out.
Finally we came in sight of the fence and of the Israeli soldiers guarding it. The last stretch of the walk uphill towards the fence suddenly seemed longer under the eyes of the soldiers perched on the cliffs above. As we got within earshot, the soldiers ordered us to come forward with our hands up. Everyone complied. We were all walking with our hands in the air. The only thing that could be called remotely aggressive was one guy holding a poster of the ten year old boy killed in Nil'in against the fence and shouting. When we had approached as close as possible so that they could gas us without gassing themselves they started firing tear gas. Tear gas was not used as a last resort to disperse an unrulry or threatening crowd. It was a first response. Most people started to run back the way we came, but a small group stayed at the front in spite of the gas. The soldiers continued to lauch tear gas as the crowd dispersed, aiming for the largest groups.
We ran back coughing and spluttering, eyes streaming (they call it tear gas for a reason). We finally stopped by a piece of a wall where several others had gathered. A group of locals had taken up a post under a nearby tree having brought cardboard boxes to serve as makeshift lawn chairs. They taunted the Israeli soldiers, daring them to try to reach their tree, shouting in Arabic, "It won't reach! Try harder!" At first, I was surprised and impressed that they were so bold and could treat it so casually (especially because the tear gas launchers actually could reach the tree - one canister set fire to the brush just in front of it) but I suppose that if you do this every Friday, it must become routine. It almost seemed a game for both sides - the Israelis playing paintball and the Palestinians playing some kind of Dare.
When the number of teargas launchings seemed to be slowing down, John and I started walking back towards the front to check on our friends, several of whom had stayed. Just as we finally reached the fence they fired more teargas nearby forcing us to turn back again. We gave up and waited by the wall for the group at the front to return. Everyone evetually made it back ok. A man in a motorized wheelchair (he was injured in the first Intifada) who had been at the front of the parade from the beginning was one of the last to return.
A little boy was collecting the tear gas canisters as we were going home. He had eleven in his box (only a fraction of the canisters fired). When I asked him how old he was, he held up five fingers.
The trip home was perhaps even more dangerous than our encunter with the Israeli Army as we had the misfortune to get in a cab with a maniac driver who wove in and out of oncoming traffic to go around everyone who was driving too slow (I don't know if they have speed limits in Palestine, but if they do, he was over them). At the end of the day we arrived home covered in dirt and dust and sweat and completely exhausted. And it was just a typical Friday for anyone in Bil'in.
love,
Gabriella
On Friday we traveled to the small town of Bil'in, about half an hour outside of Ramallah. We went with five other volunteers - four French and one Egyptian-German Londoner.
The path of Israel's Security Barrier has put the town of Bil'in on one side and its farmland on the other. Some of the land is not only inaccessible but has been appropriated by the settlements which continue to expand in violation of international law. And so every Friday the people of Bil'in hold a protest against the wall. The town has become somewhat famous and so its weekly protests attract a significant crowd of international supporters. (Approach a taxi driver on a Friday in Ramallah (when the city is very empty and internationals stick out even more than usual) and he will ask "Bil'in?" before you even get a word out.)
On the Friday we were planning to go to Bi'lin, we were told that, instead of the weekly protest, there would be a celebration because the Israelis had agreed to move the wall back one whole kilometer. But either the celebration or the agreement to move the wall was only a rumor. (Which is not surprising. The UN International Court of Justice declared the wall a violation of international law and called for its removal over a year ago, but no sections have yet been dismatled and construction still continues). The Israelis would not in fact be moving the fence and there would be no celebration, only the usual protest.
When we got out of the cab in Bil'in we had little idea of where to go or what to do. We wandered towards a small grocery store where a group of other internationals were clustered. As we waited in the blistering heat, one of the French volunteers who had been to Bil'in for a protest last year recognized a man he had met on his previous visit. The man promptly invited all seven of us back to his home while we waited for the demonstration to begin.
We were warmly welcomed into what could have easily been an American living room - plaid couches, a TV, photographs of the family, drawings by the children. The kids were adorable - two boys, maybe 11 and 7, and the most precious little girl who couldn't have been more than two. But of course these are not American children. The oldest boy already has a scar on his knee from a rubber bullet and at one point, the little girl brought out a plastic bucket (the kind kids normally fill with Halloween candy) full of rubber bullets, live ammunition, and tear gas canisters that the family has collected over I have no idea how many Fridays to show everyone. She gave everyone a rubber bullet and a real bullet to hold and then went around the room again to collect them. If the term 'rubber bullet' sounds at all innocuous to you, holding one, feeling its weight, will permanently dispel that illusion. They are actually large metal pellets coated with a rubber jacket.
The children's grandfather confirmed their danger, telling us about a ten year old boy in the neighboring town of Nil'in who was killed by rubber bullets, as well as an Israeli protester who was hit in the head with a rubber bullet and has been in the hospital for three months. (He also told us that on the day of the boy's funeral the Israelis closed the road to Bil'in so that all those who attended the funeral in Nil'in had to wait from noon until sundown to return to their homes.)
The grandfather was quite talkative and seemed to appreciate having an audience - having people who were genuinely interested in Bil'in and the things that had happened there. He told us about an eighteen-year old who was shot repeatedly at close range with rubber bullets. A young girl filmed the incident and released the footage to the media. Shortly afterwards, her father was arrested on unspecified charges. An eighteen-year-old college student spent a month in prison for pulling a prank and climbing to the top of an Israeli watchtower. He had to pay 12,000 shekels ($3,500) to be released from prison. In a region where salaries can be as low as 600 shekels a month. And where the family who so graciously entertained us is supported solely from the profits of selling embroidered bags and bracelets now that they have lost their land. (John and I both bought similar bracelets with the design of the Palestinian flag from a group of boys who rushed us as soon as we got out of the cab for 10 shekels apiece (about $3)).
After afternoon prayers, we all finally gathered in the street. There were probably about a hundred people - a hodgepodge collection of local residents, internationals from all over the map (including a contingent of deightful old hippies in their sixties and seventies from Anarchists Against the Wall), and a handful of Israelis. (We were told that that Friday's demonstration was a little smaller than normal because there were simultaneous demonstrations in neighboring towns - normally it's closer to 200 or 250 protesters). A group of locals with Palestinian flags led the march and tried to start some chanting (1 2 3 4 No No to the War... etc.) The chanting died out pretty quickly though as we labored along a winding dirt road towards the fence and the group became more spread out.
Finally we came in sight of the fence and of the Israeli soldiers guarding it. The last stretch of the walk uphill towards the fence suddenly seemed longer under the eyes of the soldiers perched on the cliffs above. As we got within earshot, the soldiers ordered us to come forward with our hands up. Everyone complied. We were all walking with our hands in the air. The only thing that could be called remotely aggressive was one guy holding a poster of the ten year old boy killed in Nil'in against the fence and shouting. When we had approached as close as possible so that they could gas us without gassing themselves they started firing tear gas. Tear gas was not used as a last resort to disperse an unrulry or threatening crowd. It was a first response. Most people started to run back the way we came, but a small group stayed at the front in spite of the gas. The soldiers continued to lauch tear gas as the crowd dispersed, aiming for the largest groups.
We ran back coughing and spluttering, eyes streaming (they call it tear gas for a reason). We finally stopped by a piece of a wall where several others had gathered. A group of locals had taken up a post under a nearby tree having brought cardboard boxes to serve as makeshift lawn chairs. They taunted the Israeli soldiers, daring them to try to reach their tree, shouting in Arabic, "It won't reach! Try harder!" At first, I was surprised and impressed that they were so bold and could treat it so casually (especially because the tear gas launchers actually could reach the tree - one canister set fire to the brush just in front of it) but I suppose that if you do this every Friday, it must become routine. It almost seemed a game for both sides - the Israelis playing paintball and the Palestinians playing some kind of Dare.
When the number of teargas launchings seemed to be slowing down, John and I started walking back towards the front to check on our friends, several of whom had stayed. Just as we finally reached the fence they fired more teargas nearby forcing us to turn back again. We gave up and waited by the wall for the group at the front to return. Everyone evetually made it back ok. A man in a motorized wheelchair (he was injured in the first Intifada) who had been at the front of the parade from the beginning was one of the last to return.
A little boy was collecting the tear gas canisters as we were going home. He had eleven in his box (only a fraction of the canisters fired). When I asked him how old he was, he held up five fingers.
The trip home was perhaps even more dangerous than our encunter with the Israeli Army as we had the misfortune to get in a cab with a maniac driver who wove in and out of oncoming traffic to go around everyone who was driving too slow (I don't know if they have speed limits in Palestine, but if they do, he was over them). At the end of the day we arrived home covered in dirt and dust and sweat and completely exhausted. And it was just a typical Friday for anyone in Bil'in.
love,
Gabriella
2 comments:
Thank you for writing. I feel like sending a link to this blog to everyone I know. Much love.
It is unfortunate that things have gotten this far. I have been in Israel 3 times and have seen both sides. Land was given for peace and that did not work. More land was given for peace and it still did not work. Perhaps if eveyone would essentially just stop there would be a peace.
Gary
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