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".

International Pick-up Techniques

The border gods are fickle. Their change in mood and whimsical determinant of fate is as inexplicable and frustrating as Zeus or Hera, or any member of the Mount Olympus Dynasty. This weekend, I’ll admit I chanced incurring their wrath. Desperate to get in to Syria after procrastination eroded my specified time allowance for admittance, I tampered with my Visa, changing the 3 scrawled in blue ink next to the category of months into a 6. My crime was also motivated by the $100 cost of the Visa I would absorb without even getting to gaze on ancient Damascus.

Not to make generalizations, but Syria, in response to certain policies of our Government, doesn’t encourage Americans to visit their country. I therefore anticipated a struggle at the border crossing. However, when I stepped up to the window after my two friends, one Bolivian and one an amalgamation of Spanish/French, had been granted entry, I found myself easily passed through, with an official stamp in my passport and the guard offering me a sweet and a smile. We left the building in order to go through the process of buying a Visa for my Bolivian friend, who was without one. I felt elated at having come away without even a verbal scratch. I even brazenly admitted my trickery to our new European friend, whom I had kept the situation from out of nervousness.

My Bolivian friend was required to return to the same window, with the same benevolent guard to get the same stamp I had just acquired. I stood back, waiting patiently. The border guard then called us all up and asked for the America Visa, not even sure which one of us had been the owner. Confused, I handed it through the window. He stared at it for a long time, contemplating and smoking a cigarette. Then he motioned with his hand and declared “Hallas, no good”. I’m not sure why the flare for dramatics, because the number was obviously forged. However, I played dumb and was insistent even as he became angrier. My Bolivian friend pleaded on my behalf and appealed to his humanity, stating that she had Palestinian family in Syria she desperately wanted to see. If the border guard turned us away, he would be denying her a once-in-a-life-time family reunion. How could he live with the burden of that guilt? I appealed to his pocketbook and offered dinars. The guard eventually told all of us to sit, expect for my Bolivian friend. He then held a private conversation with her in which he emphasized he was doing this as a favor for her and all Palestinians and got her number.

*I forgot my camera. Pictures courtesy of Google.

Kingdom of Duloc

Palestine is difficult for me to write about in a public forum, namely because I lack crucial facts, historical context and political background. I would do well to ground my experience with research, and probably even my posts, with secondary material. No doubt my visits have encouraged me to learn as much as I can about the situation. There is nothing like the tangible to drive me towards pursuing the word. However, I don't believe my inability to ramble off the Olso Accord should prevent me from writing. Indeed, I can add nothing to the discussion, even if I were well versed about all facets of the conflict. There are just too many voices out there with more political and analytical savvy than me, not to mention better writing skills. My posts can only offer emotion and observation. But sometimes I think we discount personal experience as being one sided and subjective. Of course, they are, but the problem is we discount them.

I couch my introduction because as I began to write about Hebron, I realized I was making assertions I wasn't sure were entirely true. I started checking my validity and discovered that the situation is so unbelievably complex that authenticating my statements would be an arduous task, perhaps even an impossible one. So I will write hoping no one is foolish enough to take my word as gospel.

Hebron is a city where the Israeli occupation is shockingly visible. Former Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion declared Hebron "more Jewish even than Jerusalem". A Zionist argument claims that Jerusalem became Jewish three thousand years ago under King David but Hebron became Jewish four thousand years ago under Abraham and included a number of settlements that were destroyed two days before Israel was established.

Regardless, when the Jewish attempted to "reclaim" the land, Palestinians were well established. The city is now broken in to two parts. H1, which is under control by the Palestinian Authority and H2, which is controlled by the Israeli army, in large part to protect the 1,000 or so Israeli settlers, many American natives. I have heard that there is as many as two soldiers for every one settler. From the few Jewish settlers I was able to readily identify, one chatting casually on the phone, standing on his balcony over looking the old city, another ambling confidently down the street, they seem unconcerned by the threat of the Palestinians who out numbered them.

As we walked through the city, we came to several check points with bored Israeli soldiers. When we asked if we could pass, they told us no. Pressed to explain, they expressed concern for our safety. We assured them we would be fine and continued into the Palestinian neighborhood, only to find young children playfully asking us to take their picture or shop keepers and passersby welcoming us to the area, even though we were obviously Western, even though one of our red-headed, freckled friends could be mistaken for a Jew. I wondered if the soldiers really were that illusioned about the safety threat or if Palestinians unleash their frustration on the human manifestation of the occupation.

Hebron settlers are notorious for their aggression toward the Palestinian residents. It was in Hebron in 1994 that Brooklyn born physician Dr. Baruch Goldstein gunned down 29 Arabs praying in the Tomb of the Patriarchs. One of our Palestinian friends dubbed him the first suicide bomber. The settlers have implanted themselves literally on top of the homes and shops of the Palestinians in the old city. Palestinian shopkeepers and residents have constructed metal netting through the winding alleys in order to protect themselves from the bricks, rocks and trash the settlers drop from above. The netting doesn't prevent falling liquids, however. Posted at either end in high towers are Israeli guards, watching to assure the settlers are not harassed.

Navigating the old city feels claustrophobic with the netting and debris over head, the narrow stone walk ways, the obscured sunlight and the dank shop corners. The dominating gaze of the guards and the settlers is a constant tension. Bodies are crowded into small spaces as they shop and owners stand in their door way begging you to come inside and buy or ready to tell you the plight of their stolen land.

As you exit the Palestinian section of the old city and enter the Jewish section, the world opens as if you are surfacing the water after a deep dive. Our friends had told us on their previous visit that the Israeli's had been blaring loud religious music from the temple, at a volume that could only be described as provocative. However, when we entered music was playing softly and an eery calm greeted us. There were no cries for our patronage. Buildings looked newly renovated. Sunlight illuminated the inviting grass and transplated palm trees decorated the entrance to the synagogue. I can't properly articulate why that situation felt so wrong. Obviously the juxtaposition of the rubbles of the oppressed with the decadence of the oppressor. Yet, it was more. It was Disneylandesque. It smacked of brainwashing, or at the very least desperately trying to live a lie. Just grin and plant flowers and hum to yourself and your guilt will melt away. Their reality seemed as fake as their palm trees.


* Pictures courtesy of Eric Maddox