One doesn’t know where to begin –
§ the ruthless demolitions, in which entire homes and personal belongings are bulldozed into smithereens; these have been stepped up in recent weeks.
§ the feigned democracy of Bibi Netanyahu, calling for a national referendum to “ask the people” if they want the redeployment mandated by the Oslo accords, to delay further Israeli withdrawal from occupied lands; or
§ Netanyahu’s attempt to annex settlements in the occupied territories to Jerusalem – thereby both enlarging the Jewish population of Jerusalem (to strengthen Israel’s claim to the city) and at the same time giving these illegal settlements the protection of being considered part of municipal Jerusalem.
But I am writing today to tell you of a trip I made last Tuesday (June 23) to a tiny village just south of Hebron – a condolence call to the abu-Turki family. Abdul Majid, the father of the family, was killed last week as he was walking home from his field. He was not run over, but struck in the head from a passing car by a teenager wielding a club. The boys in the car were from the Jewish settlement overlooking Abdul Majid’s home. A day later, the principal of the settlers’ school called it a “prank”; I call it “death by occupation”.
We were 35 people who set off in 7 cars from Jerusalem early in the morning, a mix of several peace movements – Bat Shalom, Peace Now, Gush Shalom, and Ra’ash (a new university-based group). We used the expensive new bypass highways (“anti-intifada roads”) designed to circumvent Palestinian villages. The one we traveled – with 2 heavy concrete tunnels gouged out of the softly terraced hills – is off-limits to Palestinians who do not have an Israeli license plate. An apartheid road – a chilling new way to oppress another people.
Our first stop was in the Hebron office of Abbas Zakki, minister for Hebron affairs in the Palestinian Legislative Council. Though crowded, everyone had a comfortable and air-conditioned seat for the extended welcome, translated from Arabic into English, with occasional corrections of the translator by Mr. Zakki himself. I studied the large portrait of Yasser Arafat hanging behind Mr. Zakki, other prominent PLO leaders orbiting like satellites on other walls, and a small photo of Gamel Abdul Nasser on the desk where one might see a wife or children. The eagle symbol of Palestinian sovereignty, now making more frequent appearances throughout the territories, also glared at us from a wall as Mr. Zakki praised our visit and spoke of “the Israeli leaders who only understand the language of violence”. I responded for the group by speaking of “the peace treaty that is already signed and sealed between people of both nations who are seekers of peace”. Formalities over, we boarded the cars together with a contingent of Mr. Zakki’s assistants and headed to the home of the abu-Turki family.
Adjoining the abu-Turki home is the settlement of Beit Haggai built on lands confiscated from the abu-Turki family and other neighbors. Directly across the road are the remains of the Attrash family house, which has now been destroyed by bulldozers three times. It’s no wonder the army is determined to prevent them from rebuilding – it would hinder expansion of the Beit Haggai settlement, and, worse, set an example to other Palestinian families. Indeed, three other Palestinian families with homes recently demolished have begun to lay stone upon stone in the painstaking effort of reconstruction.
Beit Haggai, with its pretty orange-shingled homes and fancy gardens, is one planet (and a chain-link fence and army) removed from the impoverished Arab homes below. In a useless gesture when he made his condolence call a day before, Israeli welfare minister Yishai promised to connect the Arab hamlet to the water system. In context, it didn’t mean much. While Beit Haggai busses in teenagers from Israel to the modern boarding school on its premises, the Palestinians still study in a shack.
It was one of those boarding school teens who leaned out of a car window last week and aimed his club at the head of the Arab man walking along the road. “We were only playing,” he later told police. The car never stopped when the skull cracked, the man went down and lay bleeding along the side of the road. The boys returned to school. Not one of the six in the car picked up the phone to report an injured man. Perhaps his life would have been saved.
The 35 of us crowded into the bare entrance room to the simple family home and sat on plastic stools. At one end sat Abdel Majid’s father, mother, wife, brothers, cousins, uncles, and many children – I didn’t know which were his six girls and six boys. Perhaps the ones crying. Two young men squeezed past the stools and poured a thimbleful of bitter Arab coffee for every guest. Then many activists made speeches. Yohanan Peres of Peace Now asked for forgiveness in the name of all Israelis and spoke of how this killing was the result of the political climate and its miseducation of our children. Uri Avnery of Gush Shalom demanded the ouster of every last settler from Palestinian land. The assistants to the minister for Hebron spoke of the ongoing crimes against Palestinian homes and land. There were many long speeches. Then Nur, which means “light” in both Arabic and Hebrew, entered the room, the 12-year old daughter of the abu-Turki family. The crowd showed deference, recognizing her face from the media interviews, and the family gave her the floor, as she had already proven her oratory skills. She posed a series of questions.
“Who will now feed and clothe our family?” she wailed, her arms outstretched. No answer. “If a Palestinian had killed an Israeli, he would be put in jail for years. When an Israeli kills a Palestinian, he is called insane and goes free. Why?” This is in fact what has happened time and again, and the crowd murmured its assent. And her closing question, “Why do the settlers have a school, but our school cannot be built?” Too many questions without answers.
Nur turned to leave, but I asked to speak to her publicly, and she kindly consented. I addressed her directly, quietly. “I agree with the many political words that have been said here today, but I would like to say something else.” I took off the pin on my lapel and asked if I could put it on her. “This is the dove of the women’s peace movement in Israel. When you look at it, I hope you will remember that there are many, many Israelis who feel terrible remorse that your father has been killed. We are Israelis who would like to see peace between our peoples.” The seven women from Bat Shalom took off their doves and pinned them on the women and girls around us.
“May Allah be with you,” we said as we took leave, some of us kissing the mother and the grandmother. Outside in the broiling sun, we got into our cars. I noticed Nur standing on the side surrounded by a group of girls studying the dove on her lapel. I wonder if that pin can pierce the pain and bitterness. Time will tell.