Friday 10th January
They killed a young boy in the Camp today. He was shot
at close range an M16 against a stone. The 14 year
old boy who lives next to me, Mohammad, was luckier
the bullet went through his thigh, missing the artery
by one centimeter, came out the other side and went
into the leg of his 10 year old friend behind him. Why
do they fire live amunition at kids? Why dont they
fire above them? Why arent they satisfied with tear
gas, with sound bombs? Why fire AT them? Why do they
fire anything at kids armed with just stones? Its the
52nd day of the Israeli incursion into the Bethlehem
area; curfew was lifted. Its Friday, the Muslim
holiday whatever that means under almost constant
curfew. The kids were out playing, people went to the
Mosque to pray, families visited each other. I had a
meeeting with Mamdouh who lives at the back of the
Camp a lovely rustic house with olive trees and
orchards. But at the back of their property the
Israelis are building a road. They have appropriated
most of the agricultural land which separates the Camp
from the Jewish settlement of Gilo. I was going to
take photos there, for Mamdouh and his family dont
know how much longer they will be able to live in
their beautiful home; it is too dangerous. He did not
come to pick me up. I worked in my room until Nisrine
came in breathless they had shot one of the boys in
my family he was in hospital. I went downstairs to
find out what had happened. The boys were inside the
Camp by the UNRWA Girls School. The jeep came down
the road at the edge of the Camp. The inevitable
game was played out. But unkown to the boys was the
fact that another jeep had came from another part of
the Camp and one of the soldiers had left the jeep and
taken up a position high up hidden from them. The
distance between the soldier and the kids was about 30
meters. The soldier fired not above them, but at
them. The close range was clearly demonstrated by the
fact that the bullet went right through Mohammads
thigh and into Saddams leg. When the two wounded boys
were taken from the street, Saddams shoes were left
behind. I want my shoes, I want my shoes, he kept
calling out. Meanwhile in another part of the Camp
another jeep had arrived. Live ammunition was again
the response to stones, and Tareq was shot in the
stomach. His friends dragged him by the feet off the
road. No ambulances came to the Camp and the injured
boys were driven to Hospital by local residents. I sat
and waited with the members of the family who had not
gone to the hospital, and I watched the children
re-enact the scene the throwing of a stone, the gun
pointed and fired. This unequal battle continues on an
almost daily basis here.
Soon after came the news that the boy who was critical
with a bullet in his stomach, had died. Died because
he threw stones at a soldier who had come into his
Camp on a no-curfew day. His mother will be desperate,
his father, his brothers and sisters, his friends. His
mother fainted at the hospital, so did the boys aunt,
whose husband had been killed last year when he stood
at the window of his home to call his children from
the street. Tomorrow Tareqs picture will be posted
over the walls of houses and shops here. Another
martyr in the Camp.
One of the boys in my family - a shy, quiet boy of
about 12 - came up to my room later with a bag full of
clothes. I didnt understand what they were at first,
but the dark red blood covering the pair of jeans made
it clear the clothes of Mohammad, my neighbour, who
had a bullet pass clean through his leg.
I was so happy last night. We had held a very
successful workshop for the volunteers of Lajee Center
- discussed the philosophy of the Center, talked about
what it means to be a volunteer, presented the
projects for the year. I had just received
notification of a donation from a Welsh author which
would enable us to record some of the songs which
Nidal had written, Maher had set to music and the
girls sang so movingly. We were all hopeful,
optimistic, eager to help the children in the Camp as
much as possible, to give them opportunities for
educational and recreational activities, to offer them
something constructive and enjoyable now and to help
them build a future. We were to have a party tonight
to celebrate the successful completion of the
Anthropology course which had stimulated the young
people in the Camp, had taught them skills, had given
them a purpose and motivation, and a knowledge of
their refugee history. And now 2 of the boys are in
hospital and one is dead.
The other day Lori, who speaks Arabic fluently, told
me about a story about another Mohammad. Hes 3 years
old, one of my extended family. His family, who are
well-educated, reasonably prosperous, live in
Ramallah. His mother is a Headmistres in a school,
his father is studying Law at the University. He is a
very cute kid, with huge dark brown eyes, and masses
of lustrous dark hair. Lori asked him to tell her a
story. There was a boy. Yes, prompted Lori, what
about him? Hes dead. How did he die? The
soldiers killed him. Why? They just killed him.
What else? Thats all. End of story. But 6 year
old Athal piped up. His mother was sad. Hes 3 years
old and that is his story.
I came back from two days in Ramallah yesterday.
Kalandia checkpoint at Ramallah was suddenly closed
when I went up (I had left Bethlehem under curfew).
Hundreds of people were waiting patiently, hoping that
at some stage it would open again and they could go
back to their homes, or see their friends, or carry
out their business. I thought of a comment from an
American visiting in Rome, who said to me: But the
Palestinians are such violent people. How many times
have I watched them wait for hours, be subjected to
all kinds of humiliations with silent resignation. I
approached a soldier, hoping that as a foreigner I
would not get a gun pointed at me, and maybe could
find out how long we would have to wait. Get back,
he screamed at me. I asked my question how long?
5 minutes, 5 hours, who knows. The checkpoint
opened eventually and we all walked through to take
the taxis to Ramallah. In the evening I met with a
Director of the International Red Cross a lovely
young woman, with her 9 year old son. He will not be
left alone now, after the horrors of the April
incursion into Ramallah. He stays with his mother all
the time. Like many other children he obsessively
draws tanks and soldiers with guns pointed at people.
She talked about the dramatic change in his behaviour
since the shelling of Ramallah and snipers positioned
on many of the buildings. Her family had to stay in
one room of their house, low in the floor, 5 in one
bed. Electricity had been cut for several days, and a
neighbour holding a candle inside her home as she went
from the kitchen to the bedroom was shot by a sniper.
One day they shot for 12 consecutive hours no
respite. She told me about a man in one of the nearby
villages who had a heart attack. His son tried to
drive him to Ramallah to hospital. A settler stopped
them with his gun and questioned them for 20 minutes.
He then called a security guard who questioned them
further for 20 minutes. Another guard came and held
them up for a further hour. When they reached the
hospital, the father had been dead for 20 minutes.
She has a 14 year old daughter who looks older. She
has a birth certificate to prove her age, but it
doesnt have a photo. She cannot get an ID with a
photo until she is 16. So with the new regulation that
no-one between 16 and 35 can travel between
Palestinian towns, she was too afraid to go to
Jerusalem (her mother has a Jerusalem ID) to visit her
grandfather. The soldiers wont believe Im 14, she
said.
I had to get back to Bethlehem before 6 p.m. the next
day, and there was curfew in Bethlehem. I left around
2.30, took a shared taxi to Kalandia checkpoint. It
was open and I walked through with Nisrine who was
returning with me. But Nisrine cant go through
Jerusalem, so we parted here and I took the easy
way. She didnt know what she was going to do. I took
another taxi to a further checkpoint, got out, walked
100 meters, got through the checkpoint, got another
taxi to Jerusalem. Here I walked another few hundred
meters to get another taxi to Beit Jala, since the
Bethlehem checkpoint would be closed. At some distance
from Beit Jala, a soldier stopped the taxi and took
all the IDs. I sat huddled in the back against the
window and watched the scene at the side of the road.
An old man with a huge cloth bag of his belongings was
being grilled by a young soldier. The man was on the
ground, the soldier standing over him with his gun,
kicking his ragged belongings in the bag. I cried in
my corner of the taxi and thought again of the
comment: But the Palestinians are a violent people.
We waited nearly an hour, hardly anyone of the 15 or
so people in the taxi spoke. They just waited; they
have gone through this hundreds of times before and
will go through it again. Eventually all the IDs were
returned, and we continued to Beit Jala. Here I got
out, climbed over the earthen barrier and found a taxi
driver on the other side, who drove me to the Camp. 5
taxis and 3 hours to go from Ramallah to Bethlehem,
two Palestinian towns less than 30 kilometers distant
from each other.
The taxi driver, of course, risked a lot by driving
while there was curfew. But how else can he live? That
evening I received an e-mail from a friend in Hebron.
I leave his language:
Yesterday I was in Taxi, the driver of the Taxi was
driving one arm as the soldiers have broken it. He
told the riders when the soldiers stopped him at the
old city circulating under the curfew; they made him
choice between fractures his arm or destroying his
car, then he has chosen fracturing his arm. I replyed
him banteringly, if you are so materialist to prefer
your car on your arm, so you really deserve what they
do for you, he replyed me directly, when you will be
married and have children like me, you will recognize
what it means to gave up your source of revenue.
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