Jeeps that go bump in the night
29 July 2001
Parting is such sweet sorrow. A paradox among many, such as ‘peaceful coexistence’ or ‘military withdrawal’ or ‘free Palestine.’ For eleven months plus a few days I’ve lived in Palestine. Eleven months and a bit under occupation, yet still relatively comfortable in this anomaly of a place known as Birzeit: a Palestinian village, to be sure, but too small to be Palestinian-controlled yet too big and, I assume, too famous to be manhandled by the perils of military colonialism common to most other villages in the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Eleven months plus calling this refuge amidst violence home, without so much as seeing an IDF jeep pass by; rather settling for hearing (and sometimes seeing) the echoes of aggression in Ramallah to the south, or perhaps the villages, settlements, and bypass roads to the north, west, and east, or still perhaps the towns, hills, and valleys in all corners of Palestine which I might visit for an education before returning home to Birzeit. The sanctity of Birzeit was breeched at times, of course, such as when the IDF destroyed the roads in March, but otherwise it was so sheltered that I often took it for granted. So when the flashing orange lights that betray the nocturnal IDF jeep patrols emerged from around the corner, heading towards the supermarket where I like to partake of a late-night drink with some friends, all of a sudden I felt as though it were my first day in Palestine all over again.
Three jeeps descended down a small street and into the light provided by the market – a light partially obscured by the six of us standing out front. The first one came to a halt very slowly, and the middle one behind it followed suit more abruptly. But the final jeep in the caravan was a bit slow to react, and gently bumped the vehicle in front of it, all while we looked on as though we were children at a zoo. Perhaps that’s how the soldiers looked at us, for although they paused for a few minutes they did not exit the jeeps, and shortly they continued on into the village and out of our sight. I have not, as yet, ascertained what they were up to, though I’ve heard tales of them entering for reasons ranging from arrests of activists or illegal residents from Gaza to simply repossessing stolen cars.
But I digress, as this anecdote just provides me with more proof that life here is circular; no beginning and no end. It just goes on, and after Wednesday it will go on without me for a while. For eleven months and some days I’ve been writing about my experiences in Palestine, sometimes as a student, sometimes as an ad hoc journalist, a few times as an activist, and still other times as a curious child. Without trying to sound sappy, I’m pleased that my writing has struck a chord with many of you, especially since more of my audience than not finds disagreement with my subtle views and opinions that I inevitably insert into my otherwise strictly descriptive narrative. And for those who’ve found a new understanding of a place and a people that might mean very little to those who don’t experience them firsthand, that’s all I was aiming for anyway.
Again I digress, for there is so much more to write about and now no more time. I thought I might devote an entire letter to my experiences at IDF checkpoints, whether monitoring the behavior of soldiers as a volunteer initiative with other internationals, or simply trying to pass through them to go about my business. Just today (Sunday) the checkpoint between Birzeit and Ramallah (where the road was once destroyed) was shut down tightly after an exchange of fire between Palestinian and Israeli forces nearby, coupled with the day’s events in Jerusalem, where a group of extremist Jews, from Israel and abroad, attempted to lay the cornerstone of the Third Temple on the Haram Ash-Sharif (Temple Mount) in the Old City – sparking stone-throwing and tear-gassing riots (by order of the Israeli Supreme Court the group was prohibited from entering the Old City with the symbolic 4.5 ton stone). My dialogue with the Israeli soldiers over the past year has been nothing short of encyclopedic, ranging from the enlightening to the ridiculously xenophobic ones I’ve encountered. Some admitted that checking Palestinian ID’s and forcing hundreds or even thousands of civilians to wait in line under the sun for no ostensible reason was fun and a cure for boredom, while others admitted they’d rather be at the beach. More than one soldier wished me gone (in some form or another), while one other even went as far as to want to sit for tea with me. And in the middle of it all are the Palestinians who must carry around Israeli-issued ID cards and present them upon request, day or night, and who might be detained for hours while a soldier tosses the ID on his dashboard and picks up a magazine or a bottle of Pepsi.
Alas, there is just no time to write about everything. Perhaps I could have written about the subject of house demolitions and senseless destruction of olive trees and farmland. Then again, most of the downtrodden peons, mainly in the Gaza Strip, who now live in tents after IDF bulldozers razed their homes with little or no advance warning and without so much as an offer to the doomed denizens to collect their belongings, don’t really believe that anything I or anyone else writes about them will upgrade their condition from hellish to simply unbearable. There’s actually an overabundance of stories and pictures out on the Internet about these ‘new’ refugees in places like Rafah, Beit Jala, Beit Hanoun, and Al Khadir. While you’re looking you might discover that it’s not just soldiers but even settlers who are destroying or perhaps commandeering Palestinian homes, uprooting trees, and burning farmland.
Sadly, there’s too much to write and not enough time. Certainly more could be written concerning the chaotic agendas and confusing rhetoric of the Israeli and Palestinian leadership amidst the continuing violence in the Occupied Palestinian Territories (and occasionally inside Israel). Calls for war, pleas for peace, buzzwords like “restraint” and “ceasefire” and even the enigmatic, multi-faceted word “violence” itself, political leap-frogging and back-stabbing and circle-running – all these and more could do with some explanation. But I’m not very keen on politics myself ;) and as I mentioned before there is simply not any more time. So I guess I’ll have to make more time, which (I’ll gladly admit in the face of further skepticism from my audience) partly explains why I’ll be back here in January (it’s okay, breathe in and out, in and out). Briefly explicated, I’m leaving Palestine for Europe and plan to return to San Antonio, Texas in late October and additionally hope to spend December and the holidays with friends and family in Canada (a lofty and not entirely concrete plan). Then I'm back in the West Bank.
As I think back over the past year (or eleven months and 2 days, to be exact) and recall the myriad experiences in Palestine, I can’t help but muse over the frequent conversations with my flatmates about what our ‘Red Lines’ would be in the event that the situation took a turn for the worse. Once upon a time, we said that if the infant Intifada spilled into the streets and villages and less predictable areas, we would certainly consider leaving. Then there was the time where we agreed that if the IDF ever bombed Ramallah or other cities with tanks and helicopters, it would be time to go. And we extended these not-so-red lines to include things such as if Sharon won the election in February or if the escalating situation ever precluded students from getting to university or if our supply lines from Ramallah were ever cut, etc, etc. And all of these things, even to a greater extent than they could have been predicted, occurred. Yet there was always that one final crimson-red line: if the occupation ever threatened our homes – if we ever saw the occupying army in our cozy little village – we would most certainly flee. Well, on top of everything else I’ve seen and done in the past (almost) year, I’ve now seen 3 IDF jeeps pass right in front of my door and, by their very presence and severe implications therein, interrupt a quiet evening at the supermarket with a bump in the night.