Tear Gas and Rock Throwing

I had only one non-negotiable agenda item for my most recent trip to Palestine: I wanted to observe/participate in the weekly Friday protest against the Wall in Bi'ilin. The Wall is being illegally constructed in part of this small village of about 1,600 inhabitants, west of Ramallah. The concrete blockade is dipping into defined West Bank territory, weaving over the Green Line and partitioning off land used to farm olive trees, an important part of Bi'ilin's economy and culture. The protest has been staged for over the last two years and has garnered international attention. At the same time, Bi'ilin succeeded, through an Israeli Supreme Court order, in getting a portion of the Wall dismantled and moved back 1.7 kilometers towards the Green Line. However, the court also allowed the existing (and illegal) Matityahu settlement to remain on Bi'ilin land.

My knowledge of the protest was limited to information supplied by Stop the Wall material and a few online articles. Had I read more thoroughly, I would have known that Israeli soldiers often use tear gas and rubber bullets, that in 2005 Israel declared Bi'ilin a "closed military zone" and that foreigners and Palestinians have been injured during the demonstrations. Alas, I entered the fray as the usual dimwitted international, well intentioned but ignorant and problematic. My presence is still an issue I'm pondering. On the one hand, I want to stand in solidarity and spread the word, which is perhaps partially what has made the event so successful, on the other hand, the Palestinian youth throwing rocks seemed to be taking dangerous chances in order to be photographically immortalized. After an hour of tear gassing, in which the soldiers didn't seem to be abating, my friend encouraged us to leave, stating after a certain point an internationals' presence is gratuitous. This situation for many, myself included, definitely isn't fun, but is exciting. While not the only outcome, it is a story to be savored over a drink with friends. This alone makes me uncomfortable. However, we might also be causing further damage and we can always leave the village. For the Palestinians, this is their home. And the tear gassing seems routine for many Palestinians. Once back in Dheisha, my Palestinian friends casually asked if we were tear gassed and smiling, merely shrugged when they learned the answer.


But enough background, I'll recap and let the reader decide. Luckily, I convinced a fellow SIT colleague to join me on the adventure. We headed toward Ramallah, having heard the city was mere miles outside. However, the few we chanced to meet in the NGO mecca hadn't even heard of Bi'ilin. When we finally arrived in the rural area, we were dropped off in the center of town. Fearing we were late and had missed the action, we rushed toward what else but the Wall. We saw a large congregation on the hill above us and assumed we were heading in the right direction. We found a dirt path and began to pick our way through the deserted land, regarding the group as we grew nearer. There seemed to be Israeli soldiers amidst the protesters, a lot of them. However, as we got to the base of the hill, four camouflaged, gun-totting youth stepped out from behind rocks and trees, only 20 feet from us but completely unseen. One young man asked if we were looking for the protest and told us to go back into town to find them. Upon learning that we were students, he told us to come back after the protest and talk to him. That we had plenty to learn from the soldiers. He then warned us to be careful, the protesters throw rocks. I'm wondering now if he was mocking us, but he seemed sincere.

As we made our way back into town, we saw a line of people walking on a road above us, which we would soon meet. Through the trees, I could make out a hint of yellow, the color, I was told, representing Fatah. At the intersection appeared perhaps 20-30 people, a variety of demographics represented, both Palestinian and International. The group encouraged us to take pictures and we joined them, walking down the hill back toward the Israeli soldiers who had been waiting for us in ambush, except now we were meeting them from a different direction. The Israeli soldiers were lined up side by side, forming another wall, this one human. As we marched, still quite a distance from the brigade, the soldiers, without provocation (as in rock throwing), shot several objects into the air. The loud bang was enough to start my heart pounding. Besides some rocks and trees, we were completely exposed. Baffled as to what they were shooting and what would happen next, I stood rooted to the road, my head craned, watching where they would hit so I would know which direction to run. My friend suddenly appeared, shaking me out of my stupor and handing me a handkerchief. He instructed me to hold it over my mouth, explaining it would help. They were shooting tear gas at us.

As the minutes unfolded and I slunk back out of the chaos, I realized most present were familiar with this dance. People were running around snapping photos as gas rose from the ground, watering our eyes. Several were wearing white masks over their mouth and nose, some protected their eyes with goggles, and others their heads with helmets. These were the men closet to the soldiers. The group dispersed, some to the left, others to the right, but the game was played on either side. The protesters would try to gain ground, throwing rocks and inching closer to the soldiers. When the soldiers felt threatened, they would shoot. My nerves began to calm as I reasoned it was only tear gas, even though it was being shot every minute or two. I made my way first to the left to see how far some had gotten to the soldiers. I could see the Fatah and Palestine flags waving in the distance, beacons among the plooms, nearing the armored men in black. This was also the area where the tear gas shooting seemed to be concentrated. I then distractedly ushered to the right. I saw a group of people hiding in the trees and grass. As I neared them, tear gassed whizzed by first my friend's head and then my leg. These were not the long arches streaming through the air, these were weapons that could be aimed. They were clipping the leaves decorating the branches near our heads. I cowered behind some trees with six other internationals, confused as to where the shooting was coming from and why they were aiming it directly at us. Several canisters came dangerously close and we even moved back to a safer tree.

Suddenly there was a boom and fire erupted before my eyes. I backed up as the smoke engulfed us and my friend was shouting at me to take his camera. The protester in front of me had been hit and my friend needed his hands free to assist and assess the damage. I looked down and blood was leaking from the man's forehead. Another shot caught my attention and I noticed the old woman we had been squatting with was standing in the line of fire, holding her head and not moving. Others surrounded her, trying to lead her away. We ushered the wounded out of the action and up the road. As we walked, he explained in an American accent that he felt fine, that the tear gas had hit him directly in the head. Others received him at the top of the road and led him into the city, taking picture after picture before offering him water or a place to sit. I'm sure he's become a great PR tool for the protest.

As we lingered, I found the older woman I had crouched beside, worried that she had been harmed. There were deep purple circles ringing her eyes. She said that a canister had hit her in the stomach and when she looked down she was literally blinded, unable to move. Her friend, who had also been hit in the head, was able to lead her out. Both women were internationals, one American, the other possibly Canadian. I told them about the young man and the blood. The nearly blinded smiled brightly, "oh, he'll be a hero now".