Convoy to Bethlehem area
שיירה לאיזור בית-לחם
April 26th, 2002
(click here for Hebrew - לעברית לחצו כאן)
Ta'ayush Convoy to Bethlehem area, Friday, April 26th
By Yigal Bronner
Yigal Bronner teaches at Tel-Aviv University and can be reached at
ybronner@post.tau.ac.il
The sky is overcast, and it begins to drizzle on the hills surrounding
Bethlehem as we arrive at the mound blocking the entrance to the village of
Beit Jalla. We drive slowly-- a convoy of about a hundred cars and four
trucks, all loaded with food and medicine-- and then come to a halt. The
people of Beit Jalla have been under curfew for the last month, with no end
in sight. Now, for the first time in several days, the curfew has been
lifted for a few hours, allowing them to stock up supplies (not that the
shops in the village have much to offer). Several dozen residents decide to
spend this precious time on coming to the roadblock in order to welcome us.
We shake hands and embrace, and then get down to work.
The food in the
cars is unloaded and passed over the mound to a truck waiting on the other
side. Several boxes full of medicine-- urgently needed in a hospital for
the mentally ill-- pass hands as well. Three of the trucks continue to
other destinations (through a nearby road, controlled by the army), to
villages and refugee camps in the Bethlehem area whose situation is even
worse than Beit Jalla's.
Meanwhile, as in similar convoys organized by Ta'ayush, an Arab-Jewish
group that combines humanitarian aid with political action, a gathering is
organized. The Mayor of Beit Jalla is the first speaker. I listen to his
description of life under curfew and constant siege as I pass through the
crowd. I am looking for the parents of Laith, a nine year-older from Beit
Jalla. A few months ago, during a previous round of violence, Laith was
smuggled out of his enclosed village by friends, and enjoyed a picnic and a
visit to a theme-park in Israel. For one day he was like any other kid,
free to run outside and play. This is how I got to know and like him; my
family had joined him on his one day of freedom, and my six-year-old son
Amos was one of his playmates.
Now I get to meet his parents, a charming couple. It is an emotional
moment. For a brief while we have what resembles a normal conversation
among parents. They inquire about Amos, I about Laith. But Laith's
childhood is by no means normal. He has been confined to his home for four
weeks now, without a single breath of fresh air. Even now, his parents
don't allow him out. Too risky. They left him with his aunt, and must soon
return for another unknown period of house-arrest. We part with the hope of
meeting soon, perhaps under better circumstances. I try to imagine my son,
Amos, in Laith's situation, and find it hard to do. What do you tell a boy
his age? How does one explain the need to stay at home? To be patient? What
does he think when he sees soldiers roaming the village streets, imposing
curfew and taking away his freedom?
Speaking of soldiers, they surround us from all sides. Yuri, one of the
convoy's organizers is now speaking and addressing the military.
He tells
the soldiers that they are unwelcome here. He urges them to leave and
return one day as guests rather than occupiers and colonizers, and wishes
them a safe trip home. He tells them about the misery they are inflicting
on the Palestinian civilians. About the hunger and poverty. About the
feeling of the farmer who helplessly sees his crops rotting, unable to tend
to them. Yuri is followed by Liora. She speaks of the Palestinian women --
whose husbands have been detained by the army, and who are now single
mothers caring for their children-- as the true victims and heroines of
this war.
The soldiers stand around us, revealing no emotion. I don't know what they
are thinking. But it is clear they wish to be seen as part of our event. By
allowing humanitarian aid to pass, they hope to prove that they are "the
most humanitarian army in the world." One of them is even documenting the
happening with a video-camera, presumably for PR purposes. Just a fortnight
ago, the army spokesperson used footage of a similar food convoy headed for
the devastated Jenin camp, as proof of the humane nature of the Israeli
troops (who were meanwhile bulldozing homes on their inhabitants). What the
spokesman neglected to mention was that the army stopped the thirty plus
trucks on route to Jenin, despite its promise to let them through, and
allowed only a trickle of supplies to pass.
With this recent bitter experience in mind, we are determined not to leave
Beit Jalla until we are certain that the trucks have passed all of the
military checkpoints. When news arrives from the drivers that they have
reached their destination, we begin to rap things up. We part from our
hosts who must hurry home before the curfew is re-imposed, and send the
long convoy of cars back to Israel. A few of us remain to wait for the
returning truck-drivers. As it turns out, though, our day's adventures are
not quite over.
On the way back from Bethlehem, the Israeli military stops one of the
empty trucks. Four armored vehicles surround it, a tank points its cannon
at it, and the soldiers aim guns at the driver and force him out. We call
the driver on the mobile phone; he sounds afraid. The soldiers who gave the
truck its entry-permission at the checkpoint promise to release it, but
there seems to be communication problem between them and the troops in
Bethlehem.
The minutes go by. It is now late afternoon, and sun is about to set. The
truck has not yet been released, and we stand waiting, talking with the
driver every few minutes to calm him down. It is cold. But, as we try to
warm ourselves, we get another chilling glimpse of the occupation. A small
army pickup arrives at the checkpoint with three Palestinians lying in the
back. They are in their fifties; their arms and legs are tightly tied, and
their eyes are covered. It is quite obvious that they are not on the top of
the army's most-wanted list, for they are left unattended. The army base is
just around the corner, but no one seems in a hurry to take them in and
interrogate them. They simply lie like cattle.
We approach the soldiers and ask them at least to uncover the detainees'
eyes. They refuse. An argument ensues, in which the soldiers insist that
their mode of action is the most humane. Nonetheless, they prohibit us from
photographing the men. After some discussion, they allow us to give them
water and cigarettes. We catch a brief word with them. They are from the
Deheisha refugee camp. They have no idea where they are now. I don't know
why they were arrested. But being a Palestinian man these days
automatically makes you suspect, and the most trivial actions such as
leaving your home turns you into a criminal.
At last, the truck arrives and we embrace the drivers, the true heroes of
the day. We learn that while passing through Bethlehem a large group of
residents desperately jumped on top of one truck, grabbing whatever they
could. "They were not thieves," the driver, a Palestinian citizen of
Israel, explains, "they were simply hungry. One old lady ran after us for a
kilometer just to get one pack of rice. I saw very difficult sights," he
added. "It is an altogether different world there, on the other side of the
army checkpoint." We exchange a few more stories, take a photo next to the
empty truck, and leave for Jerusalem. As we leave, the three men are still
lying in the military pickup truck, tied and blindfolded.
Four cars and one truck drive quickly on the empty road. As the beautiful
hills of Bethlehem turn to dusk, we hit the last army checkpoint.
The
soldiers manning it insist on stopping the Palestinians among us. They are,
after all, Arabs. They take away their Israeli IDs for "inspection" which
seems to go on for ever. They tell us that they have called the police to
make sure their "record is clean." We wait together. Another hour passes.
It is dark and the wind is freezing. Finally, we decide to protest. Two of
us park their cars so as to block traffic to and from the nearby
settlement, insisting that if we are not allowed to travel, neither will
they. This stirs some commotion. The officer in charge arrives, IDs are
returned, and we are free to go. We learn that the police had approved our
entry a while ago but the soldiers wanted to keep us waiting longer, for
the fun of it.
I arrive home a bit after seven. Galila is putting the kids to bed. I kiss
Amos and tell him I met Laith's parents, and that they say hi. I tell him
some but not all of what I experienced. I put him and my toddler-daughter
Naomi to sleep. Then I pause to think. I know I saw only the surface, had
only a tiny glimpse of what is really going on in occupied Palestine. I
haven't seen the really devastating scenes of Jenin and Nablus. But what I
saw, heard and experienced-- the child confined to his home for a month,
the old lady running after the food-truck, the men lying on the floor of
the army vehicle, the soldiers humiliating my Palestinian friends at the
roadblock-- all that was quite educational. It allowed me to understand
that what Israel has been destroying in Palestine is all but the
infrastructure of terrorism. It has been destroying the agricultural,
educational, medical and road infrastructure; it has been eroding goodwill
and undermining whatever is left of the Palestinian desire for peace. It
has been sowing hunger, poverty, humiliation and hatred, all of which only
serve to fortify the infrastructure of terrorism. I go to sleep thinking of
Amos and Laith, hoping that they can somehow grow up as friends.
Media publications:
Ynet (Hebrew)
Indymedia #1 (Hebrew)
Indymedia #2 (Hebrew)
Indymedia #3 (English)
Ha'aretz (Hebrew)
More photos:
Women Coalition for Peace