Spring Team 05 Report: "Raid in the Night"

Spring Team 05 Report: "Raid in the Night"

April 19, 2005
by Mary

Tonight we are in a small village outside of Ramalah. The day began with a gathering of internationals at a vacant apartment, where signs protesting Caterpillar (the tractor maker) are made. Caterpillar, an American-based company, supplies bulldozers to the Israeli government, which then in turn uses them to either tear down the homes of Palestinian families they suspect of being "terrorist sympathizers", or to uproot centuries-old olive groves as they work to build an ugly 3-story tall cement wall that separates not only Israelis from Palestinians, but Palestinians from each other and from their own land. Most of those present today in this simple, unfurnished apartment speak English, but the different accents and inflections used give testimony to a small but important global awareness of what is going on in Palestine. The sun is hot and high in the sky before we gather with townspeople at the mosque to begin the protest march to the Apartheid wall. At first there are smiles, and some posing for the media with the signs ("Cater-KILLER", "Build bridges, not walls", etc.), and a gradual procession in the direction of where a constant "rat-tat-tat-tat" - jackhammers breaking apart the earth to force a monolithic wedge between peoples. We progress no further than a few hundred yards (well within the famous "green line") when the Israeli military makes it quite clear that any attempts at dialogue will be savagely squelched. There is no longer any wonder why Palestinian boys ("shebob") resort to throwing stones: right or wrong, it is as close as the military will allow them to get to file a complaint on the Occupation. Eventually retreating from sound bombs, tear gas, and the threat of rubber bullets (which by the way, aren't rubber at all, but solid steel missles coated with rubber), our nonviolent contingency of Palestinians and Internationals makes its way back to the security of the unfurnished ISM apartment. Removing our shoes, the polished stone floors feel cool to our tired feet. Still, despite our physical fatigue, there is excitement in the air - - a "welcome home" party is planned for Ruben, who was shot in the head with a tear gas canister during another nonviolent protest earlier in the week. For the next few hours, the preparations are made, then the cry goes up that Ruben has arrived, driven directly from the hospital. A large square of gauze covers the stitches, but nothing can cover his smile of appreciation when he enters the courtyard to a round of applause. Before him is spread the most amazing feast imaginable - - heaping plates and bowls filled with roasted chicken and humus and red cabbage and pita bread and a plethera of things I don't know the names of. Cheap plastic chairs and lawn furniture have been transformed into a banquet hall in the front courtyard, and the fire roars as more chicken is cooked even as the current offering is devoured. As we sit and eat, many of the Palestinian men ask us about where we are from, and remind us to please tell of all we have seen when we get back to America. "We must change each others' brains", says Jamal.

"Your people must see our suffering, and our people must see that, if you know about it...You believe it?...you will care". Cool glasses of soda wash down the meal, but not the shame of how oblivious most Americans are to a world outside their borders. Eventually, the evening comes to a close, with a handful of men lingering behind to talk further into the night, gathered around their water pipes. It has been a long day, and sleep is a priceless reward. I do not sleep long.

"Get up! Get up!" It is very late (or is it very early?), and in the pitch blackness the whisper holds urgency. "The soldiers have entered the village". Are they coming to collect the boys they think threw stones? We scramble to get shoes on, grab a flashlight, pull on clothing. A cacophony of voices and accents and languages as this small slice of global concern comes together en masse to confront the Israeli raiders. We gather in the courtyard for a head count, then turn and sprint at a fast walk towards the home that has been targeted. Annette links her arm through mine so I can keep up. "Yalla, Yalla!" "Hurry, hurry!" It is so dark I can barely see the person in front of me, and the ground below me, not at all. The air is thick with the urgency held in that whisper, and my eyes strain to see the intruders through the night veil. Suddenly, we are upon them -- three soldiers make a quick escape to their jeep. They rev the engine loudly, and pretend to charge us - - no one moves. Throwing the jeep into reverse, they turn and charge again: a frustrated bull with too many matadors. Again they meet with no success, and retreat a ways down the road where a companion jeep is waiting. There is some kind of strategic interchange, then apparent surrender as both vehicles roar in defiant anger through the crowd of peacemakers to exit the town. For the moment, we have won!

A discussion ensues in Arabic between the ISM coordinator and some of the townspeople. It is decided that some of the Internationals should sleep at the house that had been targeted this evening, offering a buffer of safety for the family should the soldiers return before daylight. All of women with MPT volunteer, so we return to the ISM apartment to gather cell phones and warm clothing. Tonight, 5 american women sleep on a layer of thin mattresses at the foot of the bed of household's oldest son: paralyzed from the chest down by an Israeli bullet through the neck, the punishment he received for participating in a demonstration against the Occupation. The hospitality offered by this poor family goes beyond description, but the head of the household is realistic: We have protected them, but just for the night. The Occupation is not over, the soldiers will return, more houses will be raided, more children arrested, more lands confiscated, more people will die. We've stopped the onslaught, but only for a little while. That they are so grateful for such a tiny reprieve makes me feel very humble indeed. And more determined than ever to make sure the world hears of their struggle.