We will replant these trees.
8:3o pm, May 19, 2007
Artas Village, Bethlehem, Palestine
We arrive in the deep, silent valley shortly after sundown. The path is unpaved and dark - we can only see ahead by the harsh power generator light beating down on our camp from the mountain above. The generator was built yesterday morning in the first step of an Israeli project to seize and clear the land in this valley, to destroy the farmland on which the Abu Sway family cultivates apricot and almond trees, to clear way for a sewage system to serve the nearby Israeli settlement of Efrat. We are about fifty, a gathering of Palestinians, Israelis and foreign activists huddled around campfires getting to know one another. We will wait until 4 am, when the military is scheduled to enter and clear the piece of land.
10:15 pm
A group of foreigners has just taken off for the night, though we're told more will come early in the morning. Erin and I take a walk away from the group, and look up the mountain to watch the security guards wander around their base above. We can see and hear the crackling of their own bonfire, and the faint sound of a radio playing music. The soldiers are younger than I am.
1:15 am
About seven soldiers arrive at our camp and circle around us for a few minutes, taking photographs and speaking quietly to each other. They come down into the camp and speak to our leader, Awad, and ask if they can take a few photographs of the Palestinians participating in the campout. Among us are three older women, at least seventy-five years old, and two old men, the owner of the land and his brother. Awad refuses the soldiers' request, and a small confrontation breaks out. I am scared; I pull my hat down lower over my eyes and stare at the fire, waiting for something, though I'm not quite sure what. There is talk of a dangerous gunman roaming the area, possibly a deranged settler, and we are warned to leave the area to protect our own lives. It is a lie, a scare tactic.
2:20 am
The armed gunmen never came, so we begin a game of hearts with a few of the younger Arab guys. I'm terrible at cards, and it only takes a few rounds for me to acquire three or four advisors pointing hastily at cards telling me to put down, pick up, pass, I have no idea. I eventually give up, pass my cards to my head advisor, and try to take a nap. It is cold, colder than I expected in May, and I am hungry and tired. I lie sleepless with my eyes closed, listening to the night birds sing behind the laughter and chatter of my comrades.
5:05
I haven't been able to fall asleep, probably due to some combination of the rocks below me, the conversations around me, and the three cups of Arabic coffee I've had to drink. I sit up and chat for a while with two other foreign women, one from Britain and one from Canada, and we wonder why the army never showed up. I'm sure that they have postponed their action, figuring that if they postpone it long enough there won't be any activists left to oppose it.
The sun is beginning to rise and gradually our group is stirring, wondering why the soldiers never arrived. I'm looking at a group huddled around a newly lit fire. In the center, the wife of the landowner wits, gesturing wildly and smiling, exposing a set of perfectly white teeth. She warms her wrinkled, strong hands against the flames, and her white scarf surrounds her face, strands of grey and black hair sweeping down her eyes, eyes whose years have been drawn in delicate lines that deepen when she laughs.
5:15
The arrival of thirty soldiers is forewarned by the mighty rumble of a bulldozer descending from the top of the mountain. The soldiers stand in a line facing us, and one, I imagine the head officer, warns us that we have ten minutes to leave the land. A discussion begins, dominated by the same woman, who keeps repeating, "This is our land! May God forgive you! Put me in jail, what else have I got?" Behind her, Israeli activists are tying themselves to the twenty-six apricot trees in the grove. Five minutes pass, then eight, and we are reminded over and over again that we are in a closed military zone illegally, that the land is not Palestinian, and that we have no right to be there. There is yelling, and some pushing, and I back away and begin to take pictures.
The soldiers line up in a row and begin to walk across the field, pushing the demonstrators back as they go. Those who resist are removed forcefully; some are picked up and carried by three or four soldiers, their bodies limp to demonstrate their non-violent resistance. The soldiers grab the Palestinians forcefully and drag them away from their trees; one man is thrown roughly against the wall and is surrounded by three soldiers when he attempts to stand up. When all of the demonstrators are pushed back to the stone wall surrounding the grove, they are lifted up above the wall and pushed over, five feet to the ground on the other side. Some manage to slip back into the grove, but they are removed again in the same way. Some of the Israeli activists are shouting at the soldiers, though I can't understand what they are saying. The soldiers' faces remain cold and detached - they do not respond nor do they flinch.
Meanwhile the oldest woman is walking around, grabbing soldiers by their shoulders and frantically chastising them for their heartlessness. Two other women from her family are seated at the top of the grove, cross-legged, crying as they watch the bulldozer enter the field and begin to uproot each tree, one-by-one. We have all been removed from the field by now, and though some attempt to hop back over the wall, they are quickly pushed back by soldiers. Only the women's cries are heard over the grinding gears of the bulldozer.
6:45 am
The soldiers have cleared the field of the twenty-six fruit trees that stood only ninety minutes ago. The stone wall surrounding the grove, which has stood for over one hundred years, took only three minutes to topple. Four Israeli citizens have been arrested - their hands are bound by plastic bands and they sit waiting to be taken away on a hill nearby. The last two women have been removed from the field, by the hands of a soldier who looks like, and probably is, my age. I caught him more than once grinding his teeth and doing what looking to me like holding back tears - he was the only one whose face betrayed any kind of emotion. I catch his eye for a moment and can't think of anything to say, so I just hold his eyes for a few seconds, hoping that maybe a bit of the pain that I'm feeling, which is only a fraction of the pain the owner of the land is feeling, will somehow penetrate his years of training and brainwashing.
Two new soldiers bound down the hill from the generator carrying bags of cookies and juice for the soldiers. Congratulations on a job well done, now rest a while.
8:00 am
We've decided that it's time to leave, since the soldiers have all but left the premises and the whole place seems to be crying against a blue sky. I look up the mountain and stare for a moment at the red-roofed buildings of the Efrat settlement. In only a few weeks, their sewage will be pumped through this field, destroying the entire valley's ariability. My eyes cast down to one of the younger Palestinians, the son of the land owner. Last night we kidded with each other about the urgency of bringing an arguila (water-pipe) to the camp. This morning, our eyes meet and I am overcome by the despair seeping from his eyes, his unwavering yet defeated stare, his youthful face aged years since our joking only a few hours ago.
Note: I will put pictures of the morning on facebook in the next two days, or I will post a link to them here.
Artas Village, Bethlehem, Palestine
We arrive in the deep, silent valley shortly after sundown. The path is unpaved and dark - we can only see ahead by the harsh power generator light beating down on our camp from the mountain above. The generator was built yesterday morning in the first step of an Israeli project to seize and clear the land in this valley, to destroy the farmland on which the Abu Sway family cultivates apricot and almond trees, to clear way for a sewage system to serve the nearby Israeli settlement of Efrat. We are about fifty, a gathering of Palestinians, Israelis and foreign activists huddled around campfires getting to know one another. We will wait until 4 am, when the military is scheduled to enter and clear the piece of land.
10:15 pm
A group of foreigners has just taken off for the night, though we're told more will come early in the morning. Erin and I take a walk away from the group, and look up the mountain to watch the security guards wander around their base above. We can see and hear the crackling of their own bonfire, and the faint sound of a radio playing music. The soldiers are younger than I am.
1:15 am
About seven soldiers arrive at our camp and circle around us for a few minutes, taking photographs and speaking quietly to each other. They come down into the camp and speak to our leader, Awad, and ask if they can take a few photographs of the Palestinians participating in the campout. Among us are three older women, at least seventy-five years old, and two old men, the owner of the land and his brother. Awad refuses the soldiers' request, and a small confrontation breaks out. I am scared; I pull my hat down lower over my eyes and stare at the fire, waiting for something, though I'm not quite sure what. There is talk of a dangerous gunman roaming the area, possibly a deranged settler, and we are warned to leave the area to protect our own lives. It is a lie, a scare tactic.
2:20 am
The armed gunmen never came, so we begin a game of hearts with a few of the younger Arab guys. I'm terrible at cards, and it only takes a few rounds for me to acquire three or four advisors pointing hastily at cards telling me to put down, pick up, pass, I have no idea. I eventually give up, pass my cards to my head advisor, and try to take a nap. It is cold, colder than I expected in May, and I am hungry and tired. I lie sleepless with my eyes closed, listening to the night birds sing behind the laughter and chatter of my comrades.
5:05
I haven't been able to fall asleep, probably due to some combination of the rocks below me, the conversations around me, and the three cups of Arabic coffee I've had to drink. I sit up and chat for a while with two other foreign women, one from Britain and one from Canada, and we wonder why the army never showed up. I'm sure that they have postponed their action, figuring that if they postpone it long enough there won't be any activists left to oppose it.
The sun is beginning to rise and gradually our group is stirring, wondering why the soldiers never arrived. I'm looking at a group huddled around a newly lit fire. In the center, the wife of the landowner wits, gesturing wildly and smiling, exposing a set of perfectly white teeth. She warms her wrinkled, strong hands against the flames, and her white scarf surrounds her face, strands of grey and black hair sweeping down her eyes, eyes whose years have been drawn in delicate lines that deepen when she laughs.
5:15
The arrival of thirty soldiers is forewarned by the mighty rumble of a bulldozer descending from the top of the mountain. The soldiers stand in a line facing us, and one, I imagine the head officer, warns us that we have ten minutes to leave the land. A discussion begins, dominated by the same woman, who keeps repeating, "This is our land! May God forgive you! Put me in jail, what else have I got?" Behind her, Israeli activists are tying themselves to the twenty-six apricot trees in the grove. Five minutes pass, then eight, and we are reminded over and over again that we are in a closed military zone illegally, that the land is not Palestinian, and that we have no right to be there. There is yelling, and some pushing, and I back away and begin to take pictures.
The soldiers line up in a row and begin to walk across the field, pushing the demonstrators back as they go. Those who resist are removed forcefully; some are picked up and carried by three or four soldiers, their bodies limp to demonstrate their non-violent resistance. The soldiers grab the Palestinians forcefully and drag them away from their trees; one man is thrown roughly against the wall and is surrounded by three soldiers when he attempts to stand up. When all of the demonstrators are pushed back to the stone wall surrounding the grove, they are lifted up above the wall and pushed over, five feet to the ground on the other side. Some manage to slip back into the grove, but they are removed again in the same way. Some of the Israeli activists are shouting at the soldiers, though I can't understand what they are saying. The soldiers' faces remain cold and detached - they do not respond nor do they flinch.
Meanwhile the oldest woman is walking around, grabbing soldiers by their shoulders and frantically chastising them for their heartlessness. Two other women from her family are seated at the top of the grove, cross-legged, crying as they watch the bulldozer enter the field and begin to uproot each tree, one-by-one. We have all been removed from the field by now, and though some attempt to hop back over the wall, they are quickly pushed back by soldiers. Only the women's cries are heard over the grinding gears of the bulldozer.
6:45 am
The soldiers have cleared the field of the twenty-six fruit trees that stood only ninety minutes ago. The stone wall surrounding the grove, which has stood for over one hundred years, took only three minutes to topple. Four Israeli citizens have been arrested - their hands are bound by plastic bands and they sit waiting to be taken away on a hill nearby. The last two women have been removed from the field, by the hands of a soldier who looks like, and probably is, my age. I caught him more than once grinding his teeth and doing what looking to me like holding back tears - he was the only one whose face betrayed any kind of emotion. I catch his eye for a moment and can't think of anything to say, so I just hold his eyes for a few seconds, hoping that maybe a bit of the pain that I'm feeling, which is only a fraction of the pain the owner of the land is feeling, will somehow penetrate his years of training and brainwashing.
Two new soldiers bound down the hill from the generator carrying bags of cookies and juice for the soldiers. Congratulations on a job well done, now rest a while.
8:00 am
We've decided that it's time to leave, since the soldiers have all but left the premises and the whole place seems to be crying against a blue sky. I look up the mountain and stare for a moment at the red-roofed buildings of the Efrat settlement. In only a few weeks, their sewage will be pumped through this field, destroying the entire valley's ariability. My eyes cast down to one of the younger Palestinians, the son of the land owner. Last night we kidded with each other about the urgency of bringing an arguila (water-pipe) to the camp. This morning, our eyes meet and I am overcome by the despair seeping from his eyes, his unwavering yet defeated stare, his youthful face aged years since our joking only a few hours ago.
Note: I will put pictures of the morning on facebook in the next two days, or I will post a link to them here.
posted by kate at 11:18 PM
4 Comments:
Kate, this is beautifully written. Tragedy made worse by its silence...how could anyone read this and not care?
Oi, achei teu blog pelo google tá bem interessante gostei desse post. Quando der dá uma passada pelo meu blog, é sobre camisetas personalizadas, mostra passo a passo como criar uma camiseta personalizada bem maneira. Até mais.
Kate,
I met your mom yesterday at a Memorial Day picnic. I started reading your blog this morning and read it straight through. It is a great story and beautifully written. What a great opportunity you have had. I'm going to suggest your blog to a few high school juniors I know. I would love to meet you when you return to Wayne.
Kate,
Your experiences in Palestine seem so surreal to me, a world I can't imagine. Your stories are tragic yet beautiful--the people stand out so vividly in your accounts. I think you're making a difference, pardon the cliche, in changing views on this side of the ocean, just by being there. I hope you're well and I miss you.
-Steve
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