Israeli and Palestinian mark Six-Day
War
June 6 marks the 30th anniversary of the Six-Day War in the
Middle East. A decisive Israeli victory over several neighboring Arab countries
resulted in, among other things, the Israeli occupation of Gaza and the West
Bank.
One ironic twist finds an Israeli, Neve Gordon, and a
Palestinian, Jihad Hamad, both attending Notre Dame University. To mark the
anniversary and throw light on the Middle East situation, the two got together
and shared memories of their very different lives, which in turn illustrate the
very different fates of two peoples back home.
This feature was arranged by Gordon, a doctoral candidate in
the department of government at the University of Notre Dame.
Gordon
On June 6, 1967, the first shells fell on the kibbutz, killing one
of our members. I was just over two years old, and it is my mother's
recollections that I now rely on. She was with us in the shelter, caring for
the children my age, and still has vivid memories of the sound of bombs hitting
the ground.
Hamad
A few months after the war, I was born in Beit Hanun, a refugee
camp just north of Gaza city -- not in a hospital like Israelis, but at home
with a midwife. I am a sandwich kid, a robust sandwich with eight brothers and
three sisters. We lived as an extended family, 25 people in a small house. I
shared a bedroom with four brothers. We had a small orchard, and until the
outbreak of the intifada my father worked as a tailor.
At the age of 5, I went to the Beit Hanun elementary school, built
by the United Nations shortly after the occupation. I was the best student in
my class, and my mother vowed that if I continued to get good grades, she would
kill a goat at the end of each school year and give the meat to the poor people
of our village in thanksgiving.
My first political memory is from when I was about 8. I was
playing outside, above Wadi Beit Hanun, a valley that stretches across the Gaza
strip. Suddenly I heard loud explosions and shots. Frightened, I ran home.
Later, after the Israeli military imposed a curfew, it became clear that what I
had heard was a clash between soldiers and the Palestinian resistance group
Guevara Gaza, named after Che Guevara.
I can't say I really understood that we were living under
occupation. Children were not allowed to go outside, and I remember a sense of
animosity toward Israeli soldiers, but the full significance of these memories
came later. The older people did not talk about the occupation those years, and
therefore I can't recall to what extent my parents were politically aware.
Gordon
When I was 10, we moved to Beer-Sheva, a city located in the
Israeli Negev, about 75 miles from Jihad's village, Beit Hanun. My father had
accepted a teaching position at Ben-Gurion University.
Despite the fact that no other Arabs worked inside Israel, during
the early 1970s the word Palestinian was almost totally erased from our
vocabulary. For instance, we referred to work that Palestinians did as "Arab
work." I was only aware of the word Arab. Former Prime Minister Golda Meir had
denied the existence of a Palestinian people. Yitzhak Shamir and Arik Sharon
followed suit, maintaining this position through the 1980s.
Replacing the particular word Palestinian with the generic
term Arab was indicative of the attitude prevalent in Israeli society:
Arabs were our enemies and belonged to a different species. Over the years I
came to see that degrading "Arabs" was a necessary component of Israel's
draconian policies. It desensitized Israelis and helped justify the state's
treatment of "Arabs."
In 1978, the peace process with Egypt was in progress and my
father began teaching a series of seminars called Education For Peace.
University students visited our apartment regularly, and during this period I
first met Palestinians. Not Palestinians from the West Bank and Gaza Strip, the
territories occupied in 1967, but Palestinians who lived inside Israel and held
Israeli citizenship. At the time, I did not know the difference.
Most Palestinian university students were working as elementary
and high school teachers. I can still remember them describing the interference
of the Shabak (Israeli secret service) in their daily life and work. For
example, it was common knowledge that the Shabak "influenced" decisions
concerning the promotion of Palestinian teachers. Any teacher politically
active was putting his job on the line.
I first became aware of the occupied territories as a distinct
entity in 10th grade. A group of friends, all about 15 years old, had joined
the organization Peace Now. Every few months we went to the West Bank to
demonstrate, particularly against the establishment of new settlements. We
discussed political problems relating to land even while I remained blind to
the plight of the Palestinian people living in the occupied territories. I now
realize that the demonstrations were directed against the Israeli government,
and did not highlight the predicament of the Palestinians. On a beautiful ridge
overlooking Nablus, I remember shouting "money for the neighborhoods and not
for the settlements," meaning that money should be allocated to the
impoverished Jewish neighborhoods within Israel rather than to Jewish
settlements in the territories.
Hamad
I was already in middle school, another school built by the United
Nations, before I realized I was living under occupation. In 1979, I was chosen
along with one or two classmates to go to a U.N. camp in Beit Sahour, a couple
of miles from Bethlehem. There we joined kids from all over the West Bank and
Gaza Strip. One day some of the kids began singing songs. I didn't recognize
the tunes and began listening to the words: "Palestine is for Arabs," "no to
the occupation, yes to freedom," and "victory for Palestine." I asked the kids
what they meant, and they explained. From that moment, I became interested in
politics and could even say that a song had awakened my consciousness.
Back in school, we demonstrated from time to time, but my first
real encounter with Israeli soldiers occurred in 1982, when I was in high
school. It was during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon. We protested the war,
particularly Israel's ongoing aggression and terrorist activities directed
against the Palestinian refugees who live in that country. Soldiers stormed the
school, catching me inside the classroom. They began screaming, and then they
beat me and four other kids, using both their hands and clubs. I didn't have an
identification card at the time and they didn't want to arrest a minor, so I
wasn't incarcerated. The other four were arrested, interrogated for 18 days and
then released. While I still have a scar on my left hand from that incident, I
consider myself lucky.
My second direct experience with soldiers occurred the following
summer. This time it was in our house. Since the age of 14, I had worked in
Israel every summer. I would get up at 4 in the morning and by 5 arrive outside
Ashkelon city. There we would stand at the side of the road, about 100 young
men and teenagers from Gaza, while Israeli contractors would drive up and
choose the workers they needed.
I was a painter and carried a paint brush. The days were long --
from 5:00 to 5:00 -- which explains why I preferred school to summer
"vacation." Compared to Gaza standards, I was paid well. Israelis, however,
earned twice as much. I saved my earnings to buy clothes and books and to help
out with the family bills.
On one occasion I painted rooms in an Israeli's house. When I
completed the job, he said he didn't have money to pay me. I looked around and
saw a guitar in the room, and asked him whether I could take the guitar
instead. He agreed. That night, at around midnight, soldiers entered our house.
The women were put in one room, and the men in another. My brother Faiz and I
were taken to a third room where we were interrogated. They searched the house,
took the guitar and some political magazines, and, before leaving, warned us
not to be troublemakers.
I began learning the difference between Fatah, the Popular Front
for the Liberation of Palestine, PFLP, the Democratic Front, DFLP, the Peoples
Party, PPP, and so forth, during the last two years of high school. While
nobody in my family was politically active, we understood the basics. I knew
our land had been occupied and was told that we as a family owned property that
had been confiscated by Israelis, which made us refugees. I also realized that
within Gaza there were hardly any jobs, especially ones that paid livable
wages. Thus, I became aware of our poverty.
My political consciousness grew also after I joined the Beit Hanun
El-Ahali club, which had a library. This library had many revolutionary books
-- Marx's manifesto, War and Peace by Tolstoy, Lenin's basic writings,
and Trotsky's The Russian Revolution. I began reading and exploring the
ideas I found in these books. While I did not join a political party, I was
drawn to George Habash's organization, the PFLP.
When I was 17, in 12th grade, I received an "invitation" from
Shabak in Gaza city to be interrogated and was asked to appear at their
headquarters. The Shabak also contacted the muchtar -- the head of the
village -- and told him that they wanted to talk with me. This was while I was
in the middle of the final exam period, but since such "invitations" cannot be
refused, I spent the morning at school taking exams and the afternoon with the
Shabak. They questioned me for several hours over three consecutive days, and
it all boiled down to one thing: The interrogator told me that he was aware
that I was a good student and said that the Shabak could help me financially if
I wanted to continue my education at a university. I told him that we had an
orchard and that I was going to be a farmer. It was my way of saying that I was
not for sale.
Gordon
Like all Israelis, after high-school I joined the army,
volunteering for a paratrooper unit. After six months of basic training, my
brigade was sent to Lebanon. It was 1984, the aftermath of the Lebanon war, and
the company I belonged to was stationed in the northern part of the coastal
city Sidon. We were there for three months before returning to Israel to resume
training. During three years of military service I spent a total of nine months
in Lebanon, in three-month intervals. The second time we returned to Lebanon --
the company was stationed just outside of Nabatiyah -- Yitzhak Rabin was
defense minister, and it was the Iron Fist period. It was then that I learned
the rudiments of occupation.
During the day we would walk the streets, enter houses and conduct
random searches. Sometimes soldiers would vandalize the homes, breaking
furniture, dropping TV sets on floors, or "accidentally" busting windows and
vases. Anything made of glass was fair game. Soldiers would get bored after
hours spent at roadblocks checking passengers and cars. Some stole cigarettes,
others mindlessly slashed tires. And then, of course, there was the serious
work.
Upon notification that there would be a night mission, a soldier
would confiscate four cars that attempted to pass through the roadblock -- we
chose the very best, usually Mercedes. The drivers were tied up and put in a
tent at our base. At around 10 p.m. a group of 16 heavily armed soldiers,
accompanied by two secret service agents, would leave the base using the
confiscated cars for transportation (although no other cars traveled at night,
these were considered to be our camouflage!). We would park the cars a few
miles from a village and walk quietly to the designated house. Most of the
soldiers would stay outside and surround the house, while four or five entered
accompanied by the secret service agents. The women and children were separated
from the men while the secret service agents interrogated the latter. I
couldn't understand what was said, yet it was obvious that the people were
terrified. Once an agent shoved the barrel of a gun into a person's mouth.
Sometimes we took prisoners, though occasionally the person we were looking for
had escaped. We returned to the base from such missions at around 5 in the
morning and by noon we were expected to be on duty at the roadblock.
Why, I have since asked myself, did I participate in this
occupation? I knew we had no business in Lebanon. I had protested against the
Lebanon War during my last year of high school. And yet I had become an
accomplice. I remember telling my officer that the next time I was sent home
for vacation, I wouldn't return. He argued with me, saying that the army needed
conscientious soldiers in order to ensure that other soldiers wouldn't violate
the rules. I knew he was wrong but let myself be persuaded.
My last period in Lebanon was the most difficult. Israel had
withdrawn its forces to what is now called the buffer zone, and my company was
stationed on a ridge overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, 15 miles north of the
Israeli border. We didn't have contact with the local population and spent the
days guarding our base and the nights in ambushes trying to stop terrorist
infiltration into Israel.
One night we were alerted by the radar station at the Israeli
border. An empty rubber boat had been sighted on the rocky coast, and it seemed
that an infiltration attempt was under way. A group from my company drove back
to the border, where troops had already surrounded the area. We were to go in,
to find out whether terrorists were hiding in the burrows. It was an ugly
business and ended badly on all sides. Four terrorists were killed, but only
after they had killed two Israeli soldiers and wounded 11 more, including me.
One of the dead soldiers was a good friend. He was 20 years old.
Hamad
I graduated from high school in 1985, and my father wanted me to
go to Abu Deis College of Science and Technology. This isn't the best
university, yet it was known to be apolitical. Because I had been interrogated
by the Shabak and was a "politically hot" teenager, my father insisted I go to
a college where I could concentrate on my studies. Abu Deis College is located
in East Jerusalem and is affiliated with Jordan and Kuwait -- that's where the
money to run the school comes from.
During my second year, I moved off campus and became politically
active. One struggle, for example, was to cancel the school holiday celebrating
King Hussein's birthday. But more important, we formed a group of students to
fight the administration's decision not to allow a student senate. We also
organized demonstrations against the Israeli occupation.
Like other universities, Abu Deis College had students who
collaborated with the Shabak. Occasionally, during their nightly excursions,
Shabak personnel knocked at my apartment door. They would threaten and warn me
against any kind of activity. I believe the objective was to break down trust.
Following a demonstration at which I spoke, students clashed with soldiers. At
the end of the year about 50 students were expelled. My name was on the list.
Fortunately, all the other universities in the West Bank offered to admit us. I
chose Bethlehem University, a larger campus that had a student senate and
allowed freedom of speech on campus.
On Oct. 28, 1987, four weeks after I had arrived at Bethlehem
University, the student body held a demonstration commemorating the victims of
the Israeli massacre at Kfar Kassem, which had been orchestrated by Israeli
Gen. Arik Sharon. Several hundred students marched while holding a number of
empty coffins in their arms and shouting slogans against Israel and the
occupation. Soldiers stormed the campus and attacked us with tear gas. We
responded with stones. A friend, Yitzhak Abu Srur, was shot, and dropped dead a
few yards from me. After the demonstration I became a "wanted" Palestinian.
Collaborators had seen me throw rocks and informed the Shabak.
I was arrested on Dec. 18, nine days after the beginning of the
intifada. I was living in Beit Sahour, and on that day some teenagers
had thrown stones at a settler's bus that was passing through. The whole
village was sealed, and soldiers accompanied by the Shabak searched every
house. I was living with two friends, one from Hebron and one from Jerusalem.
Capt. "Maradona" and Capt. "Jack" (undercover names) entered the house at
around midnight and arrested us. I must admit that we were a suspicious bunch
-- each one had a different identification card. From Gaza, I had a green one,
my Hebron friend's was orange and the Jerusalemite's blue. The captains were
elated about their catch, thinking they had nabbed a terrorist cell red-handed.
The story in the following day's paper read: "Leaders of West Bank uprisings
captured." Even an aunt in Saudi Arabia heard about my arrest.
They took me to El-A'Mara prison, the Shabak's central
interrogation compound for the entire Hebron area. I was put in solitary
confinement. The following day the interrogation began. I was tortured by Capt.
"Adam," and Capts. "Abu Haitham" and "Abu Yusef," who claimed they had come
from Gaza especially to interrogate me. For the first couple of days, they
brutally beat me. On the third or fourth day they put me in the middle of a
room with the usual filthy sack on my head.
It was quiet, until suddenly the interrogators began cursing,
threatening and screaming at me, and from time to time beating me. I sensed
there must have been about 10 interrogators in the room. I was terrified, but I
didn't cry. Only when I was returned to the cell did I let myself cry. One day
someone spoke to me from outside the metal door: "Crying will not help you. If
you want to end the interrogations just tell them what they want to know."
That whole first week they played with my mind, through physical
and psychological torture. They told me they would bring my mom and torture
her, but I didn't break. After 20 days of solitary confinement, brutal
beatings, constant intimidation, sleep deprivation, subjecting me to cold air
and depriving me of regular meals, they produced a confession made by a
Palestinian that implicated me as a member of the PFLP and of throwing Molotov
cocktails during the October demonstration at Bethlehem University.
The fact that these were mere allegations with no proof didn't
stop them. They were determined to produce a confession. They threatened to
lock me up for 10 years and to kick me out of the country. Finally the
psychological impact of the torture triumphed. I broke and signed the document
that they had prepared. It was irrelevant that the statement was false.
Attorney Lea Tsemel took my case and saved me. Instead of the nine
years imprisonment asked for by the prosecutor, she reached a compromise, and I
was sentenced to two and a half years, most of which I spent in Gaza Central
Prison.
It was in prison that I began studying sociology, reading Emile
Durkheim, Max Weber and others. I also studied Hebrew, the history of the
Arab-Israeli conflict and the history of Zionism. All classes, of course, were
given by other inmates. While I don't want to romanticize prisons, I learned a
lot there.
Following my release, I returned to Bethlehem University,
transferred from the sciences to social studies, and completed my B.A. The
intifada continued, and I began working for the St. Yves Society, a
Catholic human rights organization located in Jerusalem. Through St. Yves, I
learned about Notre Dame and applied to the Peace Institute. A month after I
graduated, in August 1994, I flew to the United States.
Gordon
During the years that Jihad had been imprisoned, I had also spent
a few days in an Israeli jail after having illegally protested the demolition
of a house in Kalkilya. A 16-year-old Palestinian was suspected of throwing a
Molotov cocktail, and his house was to be demolished. Such injunctions were
based on draconian laws inherited from the British mandate and are still
applied to non-Jews living in the West Bank and Gaza Strip.
With 26 Israelis, I intended to sit inside the house to interfere
with the demolition. We walked through orchards until we reached the center of
town where we were arrested by the national guard. We sat in jail for five days
waiting for the judge to release us on bail. Our trial, which lasted for
months, ended in acquittal on a technicality. The house was destroyed.
I completed my B.A. in 1991, and although the intifada
continued, it was out of the public's sight. I volunteered to work for the Gaza
Team for Human Rights and began going to the Gaza Strip on a regular basis in
order to file complaints of human rights violations. For security reasons, we
would enter the strip in cars with Palestinian license plates.
I can still remember my first visit and the sense I had of
crossing from a First World into a Third World country. We drove through the
streets of Jabalia refugee camp on our way to Gaza city. Sewage was running in
the street and the stench coming from giant heaps of trash was appalling. The
driver told us that large segments of the population did not have access to
running water. In Gaza the average income per capita is 10 times lower than in
Israel.
But it was only after I had conducted hundreds of interviews with
Palestinians, listening to their stories, that I began to comprehend the real
suffering of the Gazans. Through these stories of violation and abuse, a
picture emerged in which the Shabak was the king of the land. It used soldiers
to intimidate and beat the population. It tortured and harassed and, like every
secret service, it bought people and later abandoned them. Despite what most
Israelis think, I learned that the collaborators were used not merely to gather
information but perhaps primarily in order to fragment the social structure.
Solidarity was considered a threat to Israel's ongoing attempt to control the
population.
The following year, I was hired by the Association of Israeli and
Palestinian Physicians for Human Rights. I have become acutely conscious that
while Jihad and I grew up an hour's drive from each other, we came from
different worlds.
Hamad
After I had been accepted to the Peace Institute at Notre Dame, I
applied for a visa at the American consulate in East Jerusalem. But because of
my time in jail, my application was rejected. I thought it was all over. I
called the Peace Institute, and they told me to wait a few days and that they
would try to do something. Someone from the institute called the State
Department and convinced them to give me a visa. The first year here was
wonderful. It was the first time in my life I could live normally, with no fear
and not in poverty. I was accomplishing my dream and the prayers of all the
people who loved me. Last September my wife and I had a baby boy. I called him
Salaam, meaning peace, after the Peace Institute in the hope that one day my
son will be able to carry the message of justice and peace.
National Catholic Reporter, June 6,
1997
|