Many words fill me with horror. Harsh words, stories of abuse, bursts of violence, murder, rape, humiliation. They all infuriate me. And there is also the terminology of the occupation: closure, siege, liquidation, shelling, population transfer, initiated action… but one word makes me shiver: curfew.

The word curfew is usually sounded in the dead of night ­ and sometimes in broad daylight ­ spoken by a soldier through a loudspeaker in broken Arabic, and sometimes in correct Arabic. It is enough to immediately stop the course of life, no entry or exit. It is enough to stop the freedom to move, the freedom to live. Under the cover of this word, crimes of war are committed, and all the expressions of the occupation raise their heads.

I skipped one word, and for good reason: massacre. Because of its familiarity to me and my familiarity with it. On the night of October 29, 1956, the soldiers of the Israeli Border Patrol obeyed the orders of their commanders and declared curfew on Kafr Qasim, the village where I was born eight years later. Villagers who came back from work and did not know about the curfew were shot to death by the soldiers. Some were critically injured, physically and psychologically, and these injuries were passed on to their children. I am one of them: the son of a man, then a 12 year-old boy, who intimately experienced the massacre under the cover of curfew. I grew up surrounded by stories of the curfew and the massacre, and until a much later age I could not distinguish between these two complicated words: majzara [massacre] and mana`a al-tajawul [curfew].

Last Saturday, July 6, 2002, another convoy of Ta’ayush, a Jewish-Arab movement in which I am active, headed to the Occupied Territories. It was not just another convoy: it was the first act of solidarity and protest in the Occupied Territories since the most recent IDF invasion of the Territories, officially named "Operation Determined Path." We did not expect 350 participants. The destination of the convoy was the town of Salfit, located in Area A of the Palestinian Authority, forbidden to the entry of Israelis “for their own safety.” We brought with us essential medical equipment to the small local hospital, built from donations of the local population, since the closure and the siege prevents thousands of patients from reaching the main hospitals in the cities of the West Bank. This aid is part of our struggle against the closure. The Jewish-Arab convoy is our way of breaking it, if only for a few hours.

We worked a long time to prepare the convoy. In extended meetings with our friends in the Salfit region, we discussed different scenarios. Will the army try to prevent us from delivering this vital equipment, as they have done in the past? Will we be able to enter Salfit, located in Area A? On July 2, a few days before the date of the convoy, local activists in Salfit informed us that the IDF had entered the town, as it had done in other cities in the occupied West Bank, and placed it under curfew. The hated word put the whole activity in doubt. After some consideration we decided to go ahead with the convoy, with all its potential outcomes.

On Saturday, July 6, the convoy embarked on its way: seven buses carrying activists seeking to enter besieged, occupied Salfit. That morning the curfew was lifted for a few hours to enable students to take their matriculation exams. Entering the town, which we had imagined would be virtually impossible, looked more and more feasible.

And indeed, we entered the town. Apparently the Israeli authorities had decided to allow our entry and to avoid confrontation, the price of which we would have paid with our bodies, but which they would have paid much more in political terms. Our previous convoys had proven as much.

Thus, the army was forced to refute its own official excuse for barring the entry of Israeli citizens to Area A. The prohibition, justified supposedly by the threat to our safety, is intended to hide the horrors of the occupation, to blind the hearts of Israeli citizens. We did not enter as soldiers, as occupiers or as settlers. We were received with open arms.

I was filled with joy when embracing Nawaf Souf in Salfit. I see Nawaf almost every week, but this time our encounter had a different flavor. I have been to Salfit many times, but never have I been so happy. Perhaps it was our little victory over the separation, the closure and the curfew, if only for a few hours.

Joy and sadness were mingled in our encounter with the local population. At the hospital we unloaded the equipment ­ the ultrasound, the photo-spectrometer, the computers, boxes and bags with medicine, donated by pharmacies in the Tel Aviv area and the Triangle area - and then walked through the streets of Salfit, where marks left by the tanks were clearly visible. Men, women and children waved to us from windows and balconies.

At the end of this demonstration we entered a hall to meet the representatives of the local community. As is appropriate on such occasions, speeches were made on both sides. This is the part which, if I may say so, appeals to me least in these activities, but it is unavoidable. It allows our hosts and ourselves to convey an important message to the people in the Occupied Territories, in Israel and in the Arab world. It is our challenge to the silence all around.

After the speeches, while we were still inside the hall, a 12 year-old boy named Mustafa approached me. Mustafa Fattouni. A vivacious boy, resolved and sharp, his eyes shining. He begged my pardon and asked if I had a minute to speak with him. He began telling me about his year and a half year-old niece, Lin Muhamad Fattouni (October 15, 2000 - July 8, 2002). Lin was born with a serious defect in her intestines, and underwent operations in Ramallah and Jordan. She completed her treatment in the Jenin hospital, where she was supposed to return regularly in order to replace the tube in her abdomen and to prevent infections. But Operation Defensive Shield prevented this, and her condition deteriorated. Now she needed another operation. This time advanced equipment was required, available only in Israel. All of this was explained to me later by her uncle, who was also recruited by Mustafa to take care of Lin. I exchanged phone numbers with her uncle and promised to help as soon as I returned home. But Mustafa wasn’t satisfied. I saw him running towards another Ta’ayush activist. He was intuitively looking for someone who could help, found another person to translate, and went on. The boy’s devotion touched me. The whole convoy seemed insignificant compared to his rushing around between the activists for the sake of the baby.

On the way back, before we returned to the buses, Mustafa approached me again. This time he said something that remains engraved in my memory: “If only you could see Lin. She is in great pain.” Perhaps he said this to urge me, to use the momentary freedom granted him to help Lin. Other people also urged us to stay: “As long as you are here, the army will not enter and the curfew will not return."

We left the town. Our goal was achieved beyond our expectations. The policemen and soldiers counted us and searched our belongings. “So, how was it? Did they throw stones at you?” Later that night, the curfew and and the siege were re-imposed.

The next day we received Lin’s medical records from her father and put the family in touch with Physicians for Human Rights. They began working on the case immediately and with great devotion. On Monday night, Lin Muhamad Fattouni passed away. She was not killed by a stray bullet or in an aerial bombardment. She was killed by the curfew, the indifference, the hatred. Damned be the Occupation.

The IDF is everywhere in the Occupied Territories. Most of the cities, towns and villages are under curfew. How many more Lins are out there?

Azmi