On Wednesday, June 9th, Abu Daoud called to tell me, in a worried voice, that four or five children were picked up. All of them more or less the same age. The same age as his son, Daoud. And that Daoud was afraid they’d come for him too.

Daoud is not afraid because he has done anything. He is afraid because from his young though rich experience he already knows that it doesn’t really matter to the Occupation forces whether or not he did anything, for them to come pick him up.

First they catch someone. One child. Sometimes because he threw stones, sometimes because others threw stones, or because someone had given his name. Usually a youth or young boy. And they shackle his hands with plastic cuffs so tight they turn blue, and blindfold him, and beat him up just for fun, and take him to the checkpoint, and sometimes they beat him up yet again.
And then they tell him, give us fifteen names and we’ll let you go. And if not, we’ll beat you up some more, or kill you.
And mostly he gives names. The names he knows. Usually of his own age group. From the camp. Because he knows their names.

And then they come at night, and arrest the little ones from the list he gave, pick them up in their pajamas, and cuff them up too, and blindfold them and take them to the checkpoint. And tell them, too, give us names and we’ll let you go. And sometimes they show them photographs and ask: which of these threw stones. Say ten names and we’ll let you go.
Usually the kids give them names. Or say this one or that one threw stones. And sometimes when they don’t remember enough names they make them up.

Then again at night the soldiers come and pick more kids up. And they too mostly confess to whatever the Occupation forces tell them they did. Because they are afraid.
And even if they don’t confess, it makes no difference, really. Because there is always someone who will say they did this or that. Even if they have never seen that person before and he never saw them. Because he, too, is afraid. And he too confessed. Whether he did something or not. And mostly said what he was told to say. Or signed forms he didn’t understand.

Such are the nights in the Qalandiya refugee camp.

It was Saturday, June 12th. Three days after the first time, and we spoke again.
They came again, Abu Daoud tells me in a broken voice. At night. I know of three boys they took. All the same age.

And again I asked about Daoud. And Abu Daoud said he’s afraid. Because it’s his friends who were taken. He tells me, father, they will be coming for me, what will I do, father.
What can I tell him. But I tell him, it will be alright.

And we spoke of other things, and then we hung up, and a few hours later he called again, very agitated.
My wife went over to the family whose son they took, she’s a friend of the mother, he tells me. What can I tell you. The soldiers went in, put something over their heads, painted their faces, like commandos. And they tore everything down in that house. They spilled all the sugar, the rice, and all the clothes.
You want to take someone in, you mess up the whole house?
We don’t have a kilo of sugar; we have fifty. And there are those who receive only this from UNRWA; this is all they have.
So the soldiers spill the rice, the oil, and the sugar all over the floor.
Why?
Why do they do such things in these houses?
One strike, they took the kid. But then another strike – they trash the whole house. The food of all the other children. Like a movie. Like commandos in a movie. They think this is a movie.

It’s to frighten people, Aya. It’s to make people afraid, that they do this. Nothing else.
Just to make people fear.

What have these kids done, after all, he sighs. They haven’t even got any IDs yet or anything. They are so young. What have they done, Aya?

The next day Abu Daoud called again, Sunday June 13th, to tell me they had come again that night. And his voice was weak and sad. They took another four, he said. Same age and younger. And he falls silent.
And Daoud, I ask, how is he?
He tells me, only two are my friends, father. Maybe they won’t come for me.
And I tell him it will be alright, that he has to be strong. Everything is from Allah. And he is afraid... afraid.

And again we talked, Abu Daoud and I. Again they came at night, he said. It was between June 16th and 17th. They’ve already taken twenty boys. About twenty. He tells me he heard a noise and looked through the window and didn’t see anything, but in the morning he was told they had come again. And took a neighbor, 18-year old S. It’s open war on Qalandiya, he said. The youngsters are saying it’s war on Qalandiya.
What do they want from this age, Aya. 14-year olds, he said painfully, and didn’t wait for me to say anything, and I didn’t.

Then we were quiet for a while, the two of us. We probably thought the same thing without saying it out loud. Maybe if we don’t say it, and it will not exist in language, then it’s not real and does not exist and will not happen and is not hovering and coloring the sky of the fear of the anxious parents of Qalandiya refugee camp. And still he said out loud what what isn't usually said out loud.

We tell the children not to be afraid, and he’s afraid. Because he’s little. But I’ll tell you the truth, we’re afraid they’ll tell them to be collaborators. That’s what we’re afraid of. Afraid of that more than anything else.
Because he is only 14-years old, and it’s mostly his first time to be taken in. And they’ll tell him ‘we’ll let you go’. They’ll tell him ‘we’ll kill you’. And he’s little. What does he know.
That’s what we’re afraid of. You understand?

What law is it, Aya, that lets a state take such a person who doesn’t even have an ID yet. What kind of law lets a state do that, do that to children.

What kind of law is it, I am thinking. Not law. Power. And darkness. And a line that has been crossed and perhaps was never even drawn.

And I also think of Abu Daoud’s generosity of heart. And of his wisdom. And that he cannot share with his son the terrible helplessness he feels and his numbing sense of failure, for not being able to protect his children. And him. And I know he does everything he can to calm his son. And tries to prepare him gently for what lies ahead. For the threats, the humiliation, the beatings and the fear that awaits him there, when he’ll be there all alone. The questions that will come when he is taken to that side room, where that person sits who does not wear a uniform. Captain Zaki or Yusef or Moti the Shabak man. And unbridled, he will begin to sweet-mouth or brutalize him and crush. Blackmail. Seduce. Threaten. Try to sweep the youngster into the worst track of them all. The most complex of harassments. Much worse than the prison that awaits him. The pressure to collaborate and everything that it brings with it.

14-year old Daoud’s time is up. And he knows it, in spite of his young age, in spite of his need to deny and repress. Just as his father knows it, and just as we all do.

When Daoud was seven years old he stood near a demonstration at Qalandiya Checkpoint and a soldier opened live fire at him, and shrapnel has been absorbed in his head and damaged its shape and his brain. He is a delicate and sensitive boy who cries at anything.
In the winter he has pains and he overcomes them. He work hard and helps at home, and has never harmed a soul and is not guilty of a thing, and in spite of it all they will come for him one of these nights, tomorrow or some other night, and take him, and trash Abu Daoud’s house, and spill all his sugar and oil or something else, and crush the spirit and the heart of the boy whether he took part in the resistance to this dark Occupation, or not.
And still they will take him. And ruin his life and the life of the others.

Because they are Palestinian, and their blood is there for the taking, and that is what the Occupation forces have been sent to do.

Aya Kaniuk. Translated by Tal Haran.

  Much has been said about Israel’s sinister ways of recruiting collaborators.
Denial of the right to study and work and move about, denying terminal patients their right to travel out of Gaza, elsewhere, to receive life-extending treatment – unless the dying patient or his/her relative collaborate with Israel. When they refused, they remained in Gaza and some also died as a direct result of this.
And there is this, what only at first glance appears to be the way collaborators are recruited. Only it isn’t.
Like what happened a few weeks ago in Hizma village.

They came in the afternoon, Faisal Al Khatib tells us. Between noon and half-past. Four jeeps and that white jeep. That’s how we know it’s the Shabak (Security Services). Because of the white DCO jeep (District Coordinating Office). And there’s a guy who wears regular clothes. Not a uniform. So they made the round of the village and stopped next to the mosque.

I was just coming out of my house, walking over to my parents’ place, and near the mosque I see some jeeps. I thought I’d go back inside but I noticed people passing-by as usual and no one’s doing anything to them so I thought to myself I’d go over there, the usual way.

When I was still quite far from them, I don’t exactly know how far, I see some soldier pointing his gun at me. Aiming at me. You know, his eye on the sight. Hands up, he yelled. So I held my hands up. Shirt up, he yelled. I did. Pant-legs up, he yelled. And I began to yell in all the languages and approached him. I didn’t care about anything. And he didn’t shoot me. I walked really fast until I was standing right up there to his face. And he continues to yell his Hebrew, orders at me. With his gun pointed at me.
Then the Security Services guy came. The one who’s dressed normal and is older than the soldiers. I don’t know exactly how old, over thirty maybe.
And he says to me, these are the soldier’s orders, you should respect them.
And I said, you should respect. I will not respect the orders of an occupation soldier in a peaceful village.
And he told me, you don’t know me.
I said: Nor do you know me.
Because I was angry.
I’m the officer. I’m the new Security Services man, the new captain. You don’t know who you’re talking to if you speak like that.
Who am I talking to? I answer. The Prime Minister? I know who, a little Security Services guy.

And I think to myself how Faisal manages to defeat them time after time. With his non-warring upright presence. With his clear radicalism. Uncompromising. With his striving for peace. For justice. For responsibility. With his demand for morality. Even under occupation and from the occupier and in spite of all the dangers. Amazing. It’s amazing they haven’t shot him yet. He, who constantly says to them: NO.

And the Secret Services guy let the soldiers search me, Faisal continued. Not even a special kind of search. Normal. Not even a hand stuck in my pocket. And then they asked me for my ID and I said I lost it.
And the captain said, okay, and he didn’t even care that I had no ID on me, and said, you come to my office at such and such a time. And then he asked me, what’s your name? He asked so that the soldier would note it in their piece of paper.
You understand? He’s not looking for me. He has no idea what my name is. Just to summon me to him like that in the middle of the village.

I’ve seen how they do it with others. There was an army officer there standing next to him and the Secret Services guy signaled to the officer to call someone or other to him, but not the older people, just youngsters. So someone would approach and he’d ask him what’s your name, and they’d write his name down and give him a summons to the Security Services.

So the moment he gave me that note with my name on it to come to the Security Services I took it and tore it up. Sure I tore it up.
I said to him, if the Security Services or the police or army are looking for me you could have arrested me. But your law and your files forbid you to come and tell me to report to your office. And I thought that right then and there he’d get me into his jeep and arrest me. And I waited. And then he told me I’ll get back to you. At night. I’ll arrest you at night.
And I said to him, if you come to arrest me you’re wasting your fuel, your boss’ money. You’re not going to get what you’re trying to get here from me, you’ll only lose to someone like me who’s been a political prisoner for twelve years and is not afraid of anything.

Finally he left me alone. He didn’t arrest me. He forgot about me. Perhaps he had other people for his purposes.

Then I saw another poor guy, how the Security Services guy telling him - near everyone else - if I summon you will you come?
If you summon me, I’ll come, he said. What could he tell him.
So the Secret Services guy took his phone number and called him up to check. That it’s the right number. Right in front of everyone. And again he asked, if I call you will you come?
I’ll come, he said.
He didn’t give him a note or anything. He didn’t have to, because now people will talk, hey, the Security Services called him. And they’ll talk about his working with the Security Services.

There was one other guy beside me who tore up the note.

They were there for about an hour and a half and then they left.

Why? I ask him. What’s their point, after all if this was about recruiting collaborators, why do it in plain sight of everyone. It doesn’t even serve their own purposes to have people know that a guy who’s been asked to collaborate was told to report to the Security Services. What kind of sense does this make, do you get it?

So people would talk. So they’d think. Tell each other. So a kid would go out later and stab someone so that he wouldn’t be considered a collaborator. Jasoos. Or tell that he was going to do that. To go stab a soldier or something of the kind. And give up his life. And his heart would be torn. That’s the point.

And I add that it’s done to shatter the soul of this society. Its cohesiveness. Its inner force. Its collective power. To poison and disrupt. To sow mistrust among people, to make them suspect each other and fear and not trust anyone.

Another of Israel’s sins to be etched in infamy for ever and ever.
 

The first person I met at Qalandiya Checkpoint last Saturday was Tareq whom I haven’t seen for quite a while. He has lost a lot of weight since I last saw him, and his lips are dry. Tareq, who lives in Biddu, not close to Qalandiya, was a taxi driver who worked for years around the checkpoint, where I used to see him. Then there was no more work, and I saw less of him.
I haven’t seen you for a long time, I said.
Yes, he said. I was in prison. Got out four days ago.
What were you in for?
Work. I worked in Jerusalem.
How long? Nine months.
Wow, I said. Nine months for that?
Yes, he said. At Damun prison. Do you know it? I had a suspended sentence. A year in jail.
He said he’d been caught three times working in Israel in the past two and a half years. Every time he was caught he did some time. This was the fourth time he was caught. In Talpiyot. At a butcher's shop where he had managed to work for eighteen days. Eighteen good days, he says. Although he hid and didn’t dare go anywhere, and didn’t go home all that time for fear of getting caught. And it’s too expensive, anyway. The ride into Israel cost him 250 shekels. That’s what the people who risk taking desperate workers into Israel charge for each.
I can understand them, he added. But it’s a lot of money. A huge sum in terms of work in Palestine.
And one day two Border Patrolmen came and noticed him and asked Tareq, what are you doing? And he said, I’m working, what am I doing? For he knew it was a lost case. And how long have you been working? They asked.
As soon as they entered and the outcome was obvious, the owner managed to hiss at him that he should say he’s been working for two days, and that’s what he told them. That he’s been working for two days.
Who employs you? The soldiers asked. This one here, he said. And they left the owner alone. Tareq was glad.
And he was taken to jail. And was inside for nine months.

And what was it like in there? I asked.
Not good, he said. Not good. Hard. And I waited. And I wondered whether he misses the way the checkpoint used to be. Less built-up and glossy, but less absolute and final and cold than it is now. And later I thought he probably doesn’t even think about that, and I noticed how much weight he’d lost.

Again he spoke about how no one had visited him all those months because his family is blacklisted from entering Israel so they couldn’t obtain a permit. What did they do to be blacklisted? He asked me, not really asking. For we both know there is no reason, and that’s the way it is.
Did you talk with them on the phone? I asked.
Yes, he said. But a minute here and there, when others let me. There’s a pay phone.
You had no money?
No, he said. There’s nothing at home. My wife can’t send me money. So there was no money. Not for cigarettes either. But sometimes guys let him have two-three cigarettes, he added.

And what do you eat there? I ask.
In the morning, a spoonful of cheese for each person and four slices of bread. At noon, rice and soup, mostly squash or carrot or something. In the evening, jam or halva or chocolate paste with four slices of bread. On Friday, meat too. Not on weekdays, usually. Once or twice we got fish.
That’s very little, say.
Yes, he says. The stomach is empty. But that’s not so bad.
You’re thinner, I say.
Yes, he says. Whoever has money buys food at the canteen to get full. But I didn’t have money.
And I’m thinking how on the hand Israel give enough food so as not to starve them, but so little as not to fill their bellies, and thus have to buy food at the canteen - more profit at the expense of Palestinians.

The awful thing, he steps into my thoughts, is that the children are crying at home. I talk to them and they cry. That’s hard. Really hard, Aya.
He has three children. The oldest is twelve, an eleven-year old girl, and another girl, three years old. Little children.
They need a father, he said. And remained silent for a while, and I waited. There’s nothing at home. I’m the only earner. There’s nothing. But they gave her alms, he adds. His wife. So there was something there. That’s how they lived while he was not home. His lips tighten as he explains.

I asked more and he said they were ten men in the room in jail, they played backgammon and domino, and twice a day they went out to walk, in the morning and at noon, for two hours, and the time passed.

Nine months, I repeat. That’s a lot of time. For working. For having worked.
For having wanted to make a living.
The judge was a good man, he said. I told him, Your Honor, if I go to jail my children will have no food. What can I do. I must work.
Work in the Territories, he said.
I told him, there’s no work in the Territories. Nothing. And no pay. Not even enough for food. What have I done to go to jail, I said, what have I done? I worked. Worked for food.
But what can I do? The judge said. If I let you go, I’ll lose my job.
And Tareq said, I don’t want you to lose your job.
But he got nine months instead of a whole year. That’s because he’s a good man, Tareq says. And I stay silent. Because I don’t think he’s good. Because if he were good he wouldn’t take a thirty-five-year-old man, a father of three children who is not suspected of doing anything to anyone beyond trying to bring some food home, and throw him into jail for nine months. Regardless. If he were good, he would simply not comply. But I said nothing.

And how did the children receive you? I asked. Suddenly, Tareq’s pale, gaunt, lined face lit up and softened and his dry lips opened and he smiled, and looked less lean and I thought that surely everything will work out after all.

And what will happen now, Tareq? I asked after a while.
I don’t know, look for work.
In Israel?
Sure, in Israel. What can I do?
Take care of yourself, I said. And we agreed that as soon as he has a phone again, he’d call.

But I also knew it was likely that I wouldn’t see him again soon. Or ever. And it is also likely that he will be caught in Jerusalem looking for work or working. And he’ll go to jail again. For a longer period of time. Because he has to go to work. Because he has children. Because there’s no work anywhere. Because he has no choice.


 

Getting off the van, I walked over to the vehicle lineup to see the children. The line stretching from the direction of Ramallah towards Jerusalem is only for holders of blue (Israeli) Jerusalem residence IDs, or for Israeli citizens. The privileged. Everyone elseall the other Palestinians, are excluded. But the line is long and slow, on purpose. So it seems. These are, after all, Palestinians.
The line being so long, so slow, is the appropriate place for the little beggars to impose upon those waiting all kinds of mostly superfluous services such as washing their windshields or selling them chewing gum, the purchase of which is in fact giving alms.
The children who crowd there and try to sell something are an especially wreched group. Three of them are from Hebron, five, six and seven years-old, perhaps. Who live in some house in the A-Ram neighborhood. They don’t see their family for long periods of time. They are usually silent. Their large eyes are wide-open. Childish. Heart-rending. They’ve already taken on the beggar signals, touching one’s chin and bending one’s head in a gesture of official misery. There are the regulars. Mostly from Qalandiya refugee camp. Ibrahim Abu Alayish who has only just been released from prison. His toes peep out of his ragged shoes. He sends a child to buy me a Coke and offers me chewing gum. Because that’s how he is. One of fourteen children, especially poor. He gives his father the pittance he manages to make in a day. There are the children of the miserable Shawamrah family from A-Ram. Yunes and Rami and Ahmad and Mohammad. Hussam, the fifth brother, works on French Hill. He still manages to cross the checkpoint because he is so little. So young. From morning to night the children of this family have to sell things, years now, winter and summer, no childhood to speak of, tormented by their father and the various Occupation forces. There’s Mu’amin, Ibrahim’s cousin. A sweet waif who longs more than anything for an adult’s hug, so it seems. And several others.

The children’s gathering place is at the foot of the ugly wall. The Separation Wall. With graffiti which is mostly done by foreigners, and it does not manage to hide the blunt, cruel destitution of it all. Amidst the broken concrete slabs the little ones place their goods, their rags, those who already observe prayers sometimes take little prayer rug out of hiding. Most of them are there from morning until nightfall. Ibrahim is there from 10 a.m. until 10 p.m. The Shawamrah children are there from the time school is out until night time. The Hebron boys are there from early morning until late night. They all pounce on every new line of waiting cars. Sometimes they feud and then they make peace again. They all struggle over their livelihood. When I come, some of them sit with me for a while, one runs out to get me a piece of cardboard on which to sit, the other shuts my bag to keep anything from dropping out. Next to us are the remnants of campfires they light to keep themselves warm at night. Trash is everywhere. In the background soldiers’ voices resound over loudspeakers. Yelling and scolding and ordering with their usual Occupation glossary. “Yalla (go on, git!), irja (get back!!), get back I said!” And again just ‘irja’!” in their habitual coarse ruffness.
The children tell me that for the past two weeks another road is being paved parallel to the vehicle lane crossing the checkpoint, which will connect to the part of the checkpoint now being constructed. Another passage. Perhaps for people more important than those required to wait in line. Who knows. They tell me that on weekdays, around 7-8 p.m. many soldiers arrive in jeeps and various construction equipment and they pave the road until dawn. The soldiers, beside being posted to the construction works, look for thrills, as usual. They walk to and fro along the road beside the refugee camp hoping the children would throw stones at them and they will then be able to shoot and hunt and relish all their other little joys, and indeed the children usually do throw stones at them and everything starts up again. Chases and shots. And sometimes no one throws anything at them. But that does not make much of a difference. And nights the soldiers also enter the camp and shoot just for fun. And the children shudder. It’s this way night after night. They say.

I got a permit, 17-year old Ahmad runs up to tell me, who's too old to beg now, his face all lit up. Tomorrow he will be able to enter Jerusalem and go to the hospital. For one day. A few months ago a soldier hit him in the belly with his rifle butt, and he was wounded. He is alright now, he says, because he notices I’m a bit worried. Only a little not so alright, he smiles. Tomorrow I have a medical examination in Jerusalem. A very very very good hospital, he says with a wide smile.

Fatso’s sister has given birth, a tiny 7-year old from the refugee camp tells me. Another cub whose name I’ve forgotten. Fatso is one of them. Working for years now. Selling all sorts of things. To help his family.
In the background soldiers’ voices – male and female – are heard. Irja! Yalla, yalla!

Last Thursday, the little ones tell me excitedly, the soldiers came along in the evening, as always, accompanying the construction works, and just as the children gathered around the little campfire which they always light when he night gets too cold, and the soldiers came along in one of their vehicles, a kind of tractor, and poured all kinds of construction waste over the fire, quenching it. Again the children went and lit another campfire and again the soldiers poured waste over it. And again the soldiers followed them with their shuffle-dozer, on purpose. Right next to their little feet. Playing their cruel game with the children. And I really saw piles of various waste poured right around where the little ones usually sit.

I’ll take a rifle, says one of the children, his clothes filthy, fingers brown and mouth pinched – boom, boom, boom at all the soldiers, he said, pointing at the remnants of their measly campfire which the soldiers put out on purpose.

Looking at his toes through his too large torn shoes, I thought that actually that wasn't that unlikely. And might probably also happen some time in the future. And I was sad. And I stroked his cute shaggy head.

Why so, said Mohammad. Why so? Come at night, you and Tammi. To film them. How they do this to us, and then boom boom boom in Qalandiya.


Saturday, Qalandiya Checkpoint January 16th, 2010

 Faisal Al-Khatib from Hizma, a village north-east of Jerusalem, tells us:

First of all, this story I'm about to tell you started a few years ago, but it has intensified lately. I'm talking about Hizma and Beit Iksa, two villages that cannot be given to the Palestinian Authority. Because there are a lot of Jewish colonies there and these two villages are right in their midst. In the case of Hizma it is right on the main road serving the colonists from Pisgat Ze'ev to Adam, going through to Hizma. That's how we see it.
So there are rumors probably leaked by the army that they want to give our village and Beit Iksa a document under the heading 'Age no. 3'. Or just 'No. 3'. Or 4. Something like that. In other words, neither Israeli nor Palestinian citizen. A third category.
We won't be Shabak-prevented. Allowed to go to Jerusalem and to Tel Aviv. Travel and work. But not belonging – neither to Israel nor to the Palestinian Authority.

Unlike East Jerusalemites, not paying city taxes to the Jerusalem municipality. Not getting any health services. I don't know what we'll do about medical treatment. Probably have to pay.

We think it will happen after the Ramadan. Or at the end of this year. We don't know all of this for sure. But we keep hearing about it. I don't know exactly what the sources are. But the army has been leaking it. The flower vendors heard this, near the roundabout on top of the hill. The army and municipality inspectors came and grabbed their wares. Told them that people from Hizma and Beit Iksa will be getting a new document, so they could work inside Israel.

Years ago, during the Oslo Accords, Israelis talked with Abu Amar (Arafat) about this idea, but he wouldn't agree to a document that has no citizenship/residency.

There are several things related to this. That show it. They photograph us, for example. In our village and in Beit Iksa, same thing. The army came in and took pictures of every family.

This happened several months ago already, perhaps last year. Not now. They would come at night with cameras, enter each house, note down those living in the house, then they would leave. They would come at five, or at midnight, all hours. They'd come, not disrupt anything, not raise hell. Just ask whose house is this, take photographs, sometimes pictures of people as well.

They came to our own house at 8:30-9 p.m. We already heard about it. That they are coming around counting family members. Because they'd already been to the whole neighborhood. But they came just like that, no beatings, no rifles, just wanting to know exactly who lives in the house. Young, old. Didn't even demand to see our IDs. They knew in advance. Just confirmed it.
Say in our house, the parents live on the ground floor, my brother is upstairs. The soldier knew all about that. He knew everything we told him.
Then he photographs the house. Each room. And some of the children.
More than fifteen soldiers came around. But without doing anything. We thought they were on maneuvers.

Then a few days ago they came and photographed the village streets. Didn't enter houses. Just around the neighborhood. Jeeps of the Border Patrol and army. But the ones doing all the photographing are army.
And three months ago they photographed schools. They stood on the roadside, the one leading to Pisgat Ze'ev or to Anata. And took pictures of the village. They photograph everything.

And there's something else, that's connected.
Say I'm from Jaba. So it's written that my place of residence is Jaba, Ramallah municipal district. If I'm from the Qalandiya refugee camp, then the city is Ramallah.
But our IDs are different. We have Hizma written as our place of residence, and near the word city it says nothing. Just 00.
We asked our authorities why this is so in our IDs, and were told there is yet no solution for our village from the Israeli side.

On the one hand people in the village say this idea is not logical, Israel wants to get rid of all Jerusalemites. So suddenly Hizma residents would be permitted into Jerusalem? And suddenly we're not Shabak-prevented? Allowed to cross over. It doesn't make sense. From their side it's not logical.
But I think that it isn’t because our village is good for them. If they give us this document, they'll steal the rest of the land of this village.
That's people's idea. That maybe they're giving this so they can take whatever is left of the village lands.

And also because lately they've built the Adam colony. And they want to enlarge it. And Adam is next to us.
They've already put up a wire fence and taken land. About a month ago. I don't know exactly. They put up a fence and our lands are now on their side.
And another thing about Adam: there was a colonist outpost near Ramallah. And they dismantled it because of all that talk in the world about Israel and Obama, and they moved to Adam a month ago.

Maybe this way too, if people from these two villages come to work in Israel, then
all the workers from the Territories will no longer be allowed in.

I'll explain their method to you, about the fence. You've seen how they sometimes put up a wire fence, and sometimes concrete walls. No one can move a concrete wall, but they can move a wire fence whenever they want. I say you got to check and see if they intend to take the land and then switch from wire fences to concrete walls.
Say near Anata there's now a concrete wall and near Hizma and Jaba only a wire fence, it's because they haven't taken all the land yet. They've taken a lot but not all of it. Hizma's lands are out in the direction of Jericho.
Maybe they want to take them and cut the land in half. Separate. That's what I think.
The upper part will be Nablus and Ramallah districts and the lower part Hebron and Bethlehem districts.

I also think this is just a preparation for what will be done to Jerusalemites. I don't know exactly how it will be done, but that's what I think. To make them go away.

We're worried. There are rumors but we don't know anything.
 

We have known Nabil for some years now. We first met him with a group of children who used to sell chewing gum at the occupied French Hill junction, and Jerusalem policemen would often harass them. They would beat them up and rob their paltry goods, regularly.

On Friday, August 8th, at 10 a.m., the villagers of Nabi Samuil climbed to face their erased village, destroyed in 1971 – and protested. They protested the fact that they live imprisoned. Prevented from every direction. Isolated. No one may come to visit them. They protested the fact that they are not allowed to build homes, that they are robbed of their land, deceitfully, bit by bit, that they have no work, that their homes are demolished, that they are driven out.
Slowly the villagers arrived, carrying signs saying "No to hunger, yes to food and drink", "Yes to come and go, no to checkpoints", "Yes to life, no to death", "Yes to construction and dwelling, no to demolitions", "No to hate, yes to love".
They stood aside, no shouts were heard, just standing, silently holding their signs.
Several Israelis joined them in their protest. Soldiers and policemen showed up immediately, to monitor them. A policeman filmed the demonstrators, to intimidate them, several Jewish-colonists cursed and called out their racist slogans and whispered with the soldiers. The protesters stood there until the noontime prayer, and then we dispersed.
More protest demonstrations are likely. It is hard to believe that the inhabitants of this tiny, unmarked place will manage to face the forces of dispossession and occupation and land-grab for the colonists in the area. A Palestinian stain. A superfluous Palestinian stain.

We asked people and they said they thought that Palestinians of the Occupied Territories are still forbidden to bathe in the Dead Sea, almost the last recreation site left for residents of the Occupied West Bank.
A year ago we went there and saw for ourselves – it was out of bounds. We saw how the soldiers beat up Palestinians there.
So we got there on Friday, July 25th, at 10 a.m. We spent some time there, and saw what we expected to see. Cars with families on their way to the Dead Sea: if they were Palestinians, they were sent back. If they were Jews, they were allowed to proceed undisturbed.
Palestinian citizens of Israel are stopped, required to show their ID, and usually allowed to continue. They too have an uneasy time of it. They do not belong to the 'right race'.
We met a young man we know from Nablus, who tried to go to the Dead Sea and was chased away. He said the soldiers told him there was closure. He knew it was out of bounds but he tried anyway. It had been so long since he had bathed in the sea, he said.
We stayed for a while, photographed some, became very sad, and left.
On our way home we called the Civil Administration hotline and asked them, in our Jewish voice, if this was true, what we were seeing, that Palestinians were not allowed to bathe in the Dead Sea.
Yes, this is a known phenomenon, the soldier at the other end informed us in his friendly manner. It's political, all that. Political representation and all that. The Palestinians are simply not allowed to go down to the seas. But it will be solved, eventually.
But how do you see it, what is your opinion of this, what do you really know, we insisted. In our nice manner.
It's alright, he said. It's simply to prevent any contact between Israelis who go down to the Dead Sea and Palestinians who go down to the Dead Sea.
Don't worry.

On Sunday, July 7th, soldiers from Qalandiya Checkpoint in their jeeps passed by the poor vendors who sell coffee or vegetables by the roadside between Qalandiya and A-Ram, and threatened to tear down their stands if these were not removed within the hour. They told T. that the road was Area C (full Israeli control) and the land not his. Although it is. Others were told they were a public nuisance, although they were not, and yet others were not told anything, only threatened.
This is not the first time. Soldiers come in jeeps, threaten, destroy, sometimes steal the scales, worth up to 600 shekels, without handing out any sort of official notice, of course.
Sometimes they tell the vendors that if they want their scales back, they should come to the checkpoint. The vendors do not dare go there for fear that if they do, they will be pressured to collaborate, or be arrested and have a file opened against them. Nor do they believe they would get back whatever was taken away from them.
Two months ago, the Shabak (Security Services) came and photographed T.'s stand and took his scales. Come to Beit El, they told the vendor, we'll talk there. Of course he didn't go. He knew what that meant.
On Monday morning, officials of the Jerusalem Municipality came around in their big car, with soldiers from the DCO, to hunt vendors. They stole some of their carts and loaded them onto the municipality truck. They stole some scales, some cash boxes. Other vendors were threatened, and they took the rest of their wares and ran.
How will people live, asks Sh. who owns a cart and managed to get away in time. How do we disturb them, I just don't understand. we don't disturb anyone, we just want to eat.

19-year old A. of Qalandiya refugee camp who – like his entire family – is prevented entry into Israel, was on his way to have medical treatment in Jordan. This is a treatment he is prevented from receiving in Israel, and is not available in the West Bank. He was detained at Allenby Bridge and prevented exit to Jordan. He was ordered to wait. And he waited. Some time later he was summoned into the office of the Shabak (Security Service) official on the spot, called 'the Captain'. Like many others, he was told that if he wants to get to Jordan and have his worrisome hypertension condition treated, he certainly can, and not only in Jordan, even in Jerusalem's Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital, despite his being prevented entry to Israel. He certainly can, if he would just do this or that for the Captain. In others words, collaborate. Betray his people.
A. said no and was sent back home. If you don't agree, he was told, you will not leave for your treatment. And indeed, he did not go. His condition is stable, so far.
 

65-year old H. lives in Jordan, and for a long time now he has been applying for permission to visit A., his 74-year old sister who lives in a small village in the Occupied West Bank and is terminally ill, suffering from a chronic disease. His sister misses him terribly, says her daughter, F. He is her only brother and she has not seen him for many years now.
The authorities refuse to allow him across the Allenby Bridge, not even as a tourist, for he is considered a refugee, and as such – according to the Occupation forces – constitutes a 'risk factor' for he might want to implement his
'right of return.'
 

published 8.7.2008