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Into the war zone with a trusty white
flag
Editors note: Chicagoans Jeff Guntzel and Kathy Kelly,
co-coordinators of Voices in the Wilderness, along with Catholic Workers Scott
Schaeffer-Duffy (Worcester, Mass.), Audrey Stewart (Ithaca, N.Y.), and Grace
Ritter (Ithaca, N.Y.), visited Israel April 8 to April 24 to participate in
nonviolent challenges to Israeli occupation of the West Bank. Upon arrival,
they joined members of the International Solidarity Movement in Ramallah and
eventually traveled to the Jenin camp. NCR began exploring alternatives
to violence in its April 26 Paths to Peace supplement. We promised
that we would continue the discussion both through readers letters and
through our continued reporting on the issue. The following, diary excerpts
from Kelly and Guntzel, is a firsthand account of being part of an
international nonviolent force inserting itself into a violent
circumstance.
Guntzel: Thousands of refugees filled the villages
surrounding Jenin. They stayed in homes, schools and mosques. Listening to
their stories, we began to piece together what had happened in the Jenin
refugee camp.
The Israeli Army invaded the camp with brutal momentum [April 2].
After three days fighting fierce resistance, the Israeli Army called in the
bulldozers and literally carved a path to the center of the camp, where the
resistance fighters were refusing to give themselves up, and began their task
of turning homes to rubble.
After two days of collecting stories, we decided to make our way
to Jenin.
Our group of five was taken by car to Route 66, the main road into
Jenin City. First we headed in the opposite direction, towards the Salem
checkpoint, where all the men we had interviewed had been taken for detention
and interrogation. On our way to the checkpoint, which divides Israel from the
West Bank, we passed the petrol station where the Israelis were daily releasing
the men and boys of Jenin Camp who had been detained during the invasion. In
and around the petrol station we saw dozens of blindfolds and clipped plastic
hand ties mixed with shells from big and little guns.
As we approached the petrol station (a few hundred yards from the
checkpoint and a dozen or so kilometers from Jenin) an army jeep pulled up and
ordered us to stop. Soon there were two jeeps and a police car. After warning
of the dangers ahead, soldiers ordered us to turn back. We thanked the young
men for their concern and told them it was our intention to press on and see
for ourselves what was going on. We were not persuasive, and now the soldiers
and the police were telling us that the entire area was a closed military
zone and that they were under orders to stop us and turn us around.
Grace, Audrey and Kathy sat down. The policeman threw his hands in the air. He
faced a dilemma inasmuch as the rules required them to summon a woman police
officer to remove women. He couldnt do a thing. Scott and I remained
standing and were taken to an army jeep and driven to the checkpoint where we
were questioned and told we would be deported and banned from entering Israel
for five years if we were caught in the West Bank again.
An Israeli soldier had spent an hour trying to reason with
the three nice girls, who had sat down in the roadside, refusing to
budge. Really, I prefer your way to our way, he said, but
believe me we have no choice at this point. Eventually, the soldier, a
reservist who normally worked as a computer programmer, pulled out water and
bread from his jeep, handed it to the women, warned of the dangers ahead and
drove off.
Gee, said Audrey. Ive been arrested for
sitting down lots of times, but this is the first time Ive ever seen
nonviolence work.
Meanwhile, Scott and I were driven a few kilometers from the
checkpoint by two grumpy police officers. They tried to make small talk in the
car. The effort was fruitless.
Predictable lines
Kelly: Soldiers stopped us at regular intervals.
What? What are you doing here? Where are you going? Its very
dangerous. You should go back.
We persisted until, rounding a final bend, we saw a huge
encampment filled with soldiers, tanks, armored personnel carriers and tents.
By this time, seasoned in dialogues with soldiers, we exchanged the predictable
lines. We agreed it was risky for all involved, but we disagreed about whether
or not they had a choice. Scott appealed to religious beliefs. I suggested that
it was in the soldiers best interests to let unarmed pacifists show that
nonviolent methods could make a positive difference.
A commander was called. He reiterated that there was no
possibility for us to go forward. We agreed together that we should just walk
on. At that point, one soldier said, Look, why dont you just go
back 100 meters and walk through those fields?
Sounds good. So long! we said, nervous that he was
bluffing. For the next two hours, white flag held high, we plowed through onion
fields, then wheat fields, tripping over string, stumbling over ridges, but
confidant that wed reach Jenin before the sun went down. Spotting three
children playing in the distance, we determined to head toward them, fairly
certain that children wouldnt be out playing in front of snipers.
When we reached the street where the children were playing, we
began asking if there were any hotels open. Adilah understood our broken Arabic
and led us to the school where she and her family were among 800 refugees from
Jenin camp sharing space in chaotic halls and rooms of a four-story building.
We ducked out of the bedlam into a crowded but relatively orderly office where
we met Dr. Jamil, who had been expecting us.
He was glad to see us. He is a general practitioner but also a
public health administrator. He and a local dentist have worked night and day,
aided by a sturdy crew of young Palestinian Medical Relief Committee
volunteers, to coordinate distribution of food, water, medicine and blankets,
to run a 24-hour clinic, to organize clean-up and to preserve some semblance of
order in the center. We pieced together more of Dr. Jamils story. He
emphasized that the city had gone for 18 days without electricity, that this
center was one of the few places, tonight, where electricity worked. Dr.
Jamils eyes widened as he said, I am asked again and again, how
many have died? I try my best to tell what I know, but the truth is no one
knows. It will take time. He shrugged, but it was not the gesture of
someone who is giving up.
The next morning, we headed off, with our trusty white flag, to
enter the camp.
Hobbling to the hospital
Guntzel: Soldiers had repeatedly told us that women and
children had all left the camp before the attacks, but within minutes of
entering the camp I was called over to a window at the edge of the rubble. An
old woman was inside, paralyzed below the waist and suffering from asthma.
Andreas, a Swedish man whom we had met inside the camp, and I convinced the
family to let us carry her to the hospital. It was too much of a risk for them,
and the hospital was only three blocks away. They consented and passed the old
woman, screaming, through the window. We hobbled awkwardly over the rubble,
carrying the terrified old woman over demolished homes and to a road full of
soldiers.
Though the Israeli government had been telling the world that its
army was tending to the wounded and the dead inside the camp, the soldiers just
watched us, dumbfounded. We set the woman in the road between two groupings of
soldiers and sent Kathy off for a stretcher. I heard breaking glass to my left
and looked over and then up where I spotted a soldier peeking through the
window of a third story apartment. I held up my hand and yelled to the soldier,
not knowing if he was a sniper, that we were American citizens (the Swede did
not appreciate this) and we would be moving soon on our way to the hospital
with the old woman. Please dont shoot, I finished.
He didnt shoot, and he wasnt a sniper. He was a
soldier ransacking somebodys home. He continued smashing things and
throwing glasses and china from the window as we carefully loaded the old woman
onto the stretcher and walked her to the hospital.
Grim tasks
Kelly: April 17, we entered the Jenin camp for a third
time. Most of the homes at the edge of the camp were somewhat intact, although
doors, windows and walls are badly damaged by shelling. Each home that we
entered was ransacked. Drawers, desks and closets were emptied. Refrigerators
were turned over, light fixtures pulled out of the walls, clothing torn. The
damage we saw corroborated stories women told us earlier that morning about
Israeli soldiers entering their homes with large dogs that sniffed at the
children as neighbors fled from explosions, snipers, fires and the nightmare
chases of bulldozers.
As we climbed higher, entering the demolished center of the camp
where the Israeli Army flattened close to 100 housing units, we heard snipers
shooting at a small group of men who had come to pull bodies from the rubble.
Covered with dust and sweat, and seemingly oblivious to the gunshots, the men,
all residents from the camp, pursued the grim task. With pickaxes and shovels,
they dug a mass grave and eventually filled it with four bodies pulled out of
the rubble, including that of a small child. Little boys stood still, silently
watching.
We thought again of the soldiers assurance that there were
no children in the camp, wondering if now that lie might become true. The
concerned frowns on the little boys faces belonged to hardened old men.
One boy, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, helped carry his fathers corpse to
the mass grave.
In the center of the camp, Hitan, age 20, and Noor, age 16, dug
through the debris with their bare hands to retrieve some few belongings. Hitan
found a favorite jacket, torn and covered with dust. She fingered the pockets,
then set it aside. Noor laughed as she unearthed a matching pair of shoes. Then
Hitan saw the edge of a textbook, and the sisters began vigorously digging and
tugging until they pulled out five battered and unusable books. Noor held up
her public health textbook. Hitan clutched The History of Islamic
Civilization. You see these girls, they are laughing and seem
playful, said Mohammed, speaking in Spanish. It is, you know, a
coping mechanism. How else can they manage what they feel? Hitan stood
and pointed emphatically at the small hole she and Noor had dug. You
know, she exclaimed, underneath here, there are four televisions
and two computers! All gone. Finished.
We asked Mohammed, a man who had been speaking with us, if he knew
a man sorting through a huge mound of rubble next to where we stood. He
is my cousin. That was our home. He wants to find his passport or his
childrens documents. Mohammeds cousin then sat down on top of
the heap that was once his home, holding his head in his hands. An army
surveillance plane flew overhead. We are clear, said Mohammed.
We are not animals. We are people with hearts and blood, just like you. I
want the life for my family. What force do we have here? Is this a force?
He pointed to the wreckage all around us. Do we have the atomic bomb? Do
we have anthrax?
As we walked away, we spotted a human bone and stepped gingerly
around it. Thawra, a young medical relief volunteer and a resident of the camp,
dipped down to pick up a veil lying on the ground, then paused a moment and
placed it over the bone.
The next week, Audrey and I returned to Jenin, thinking that by
then international relief groups would already be there to organize rescue and
relief work but that we could at least visit with people with whom wed
met during our first stay. Upon arrival, our friend Caoihme Butterly, an Irish
activist, told us a litany of woes facing residents of the Jenin camp. The
anticipated waves of humanitarian helpers were nowhere to be found.
Water was contaminated by rotting corpses and sewage, fights had
broken out over dwindling food supplies, and most of the 800 refugees staying
at the school just outside the camp had left because no food was available
there. An UNRWA [United Nations Relief and Works Association] worker told us
that Israelis wouldnt allow his team to remove unexploded ordnance from
the camp, and so they were instead burying any grenades or explosive devices
they discovered. UNICEF was distributing chlorine in parts of the camp, along
with leaflets telling children not to play with unexploded ordnance.
Theyd also held fun day for the kids, offering finger-paints
to children who daubed figures of the sun, moon, and stars on their cheeks.
These are children who risk gastroenteritis, dehydration, malnourishment,
children traumatized by weeks of shelling, sniping and home demolition,
children uncertain whether some of their loved ones are dead or alive, children
who have witnessed burials of their neighbors and relatives in mass graves. Is
finger-paint the best that the international community can offer?
Human Chain
Crossing the checkpoint outside of Taybeh, as we made our way back
to East Jerusalem, we came across a mound of clothing and bedding that looked
like an obnoxious drop-off at a Catholic Worker shelter. Children explained to
us that neighboring villagers had heaved the clothes and blankets over the
checkpoint in hopes that people on the other side could deliver it to needy
refugees from the Jenin Camp. But each time the children tried to retrieve the
goods, soldiers above sniped at them. We swiftly formed a human chain to move
the supplies down the hillside, but in minutes two Israeli soldiers were
screaming at us. Dont you know youre aiding terrorists?
We looked at the 8- to 10-year-old kids further down the hill and said
wed take our chances. Dr. Bill Thomson, a professor from the University
of Michigan, began a heated debate with a particularly abrasive Israeli
soldier. He responded to her shouted commands with soft-spoken questions, and
as the argument ensued we realized that it would buy time to continue shifting
the supplies downhill. At one point, I asked her, If he were your
professor, would you speak to him in this way? Or is it because youre
carrying a gun that you use harsh words? O.K., she said,
Ill put the gun down. Come over here.
Moving away from the larger group, the two had a reasonable
conversation. The young soldier honestly believed that the destruction of Jenin
Camp was largely due to an explosives lab set up by resistance fighters. Bill
pointed out that if the resistance actually had that much firepower, the
dynamics between Israel and Palestine might be considerably altered. It was a
small gain for refugees of the Jenin camp. In this case, dialogue replaced near
hysteria, and the pile of sweaters, baby clothes, pillows and light mats had
disappeared.
National Catholic Reporter, May 17,
2002
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