Even The Stone Weeps
Daily Life in Masafer Yatta
I arrived in the region of the South Hebron Hills, or Masafer Yatta, last Friday. Even though it is only a short drive from Jerusalem, the landscape changes drastically through the journey. We pass into the outskirts of Jerusalem, and in an instant, we are in the West Bank. Little has changed from where we were a few minutes ago. We pass by suburban neighbourhoods that I am told are settlements, but most Israelis simply see them as an extension of Jerusalem. In some ways this is understandable. Israel has promoted them as suburbs of Jerusalem and continues to move the checkpoints further and further inside the actual border. This is just another way Israel claims land.
If there is one thing Israel has perfect, it is claiming land. They have a variety of ways they do so. From claiming so called ‘uncultivated’ land (land owned and used for grazing by Palestinian shepherd and not built upon) and turning them into nature reserves, to declaring Palestinian lands important archeological sites that must be protected and studied. These are the more ‘benign’ land thefts. The more violent land grabs are undertaken by the army or by settlers backed by the state. Here is Masafer Yatta, these land grabs happen almost daily. The military has claimed firing zone 918, an area where 12 villages live, as integral for their training purposes. Despite the many swaths of empty land within 48 borders, the army claims in needs this area to practice military drills.
All villages in this area are subject to demolition orders and foreign cars or people caught inside are subject to arrest and seizure. We discuss the possibility of doing protective presence in these villages. Of course, it is much more risky and we must balance the one-off support to these villages with our promise of long term support in others. Any arrest means a potential ban from the area, or even deportation. In addition to worrying about soldiers coming at any moment to demolish their homes, they must content with the settlers who claim land on a daily basis. From outposts that spring up and inch closer to villages from already established settlements, to teenaged boys who shepherd without impunity in Palestinian lands.
Our first few days here are meant as an introduction to the region. We are scheduled to meet with activists from several villages in the area. But here in Masafer Yatta, a schedule is only as good as the neighbouring settlers. Time and again our hosts are called to away to deal with problems that arise as they are trying to give us talks about their villages. As we wait for their return, we are offered tea and amuse ourselves by playing with the children. Our hosts are visibly stressed as they tell us about life in this land. A few tell us they have lost hope, but then backtrack when they see our fallen faces. The tension is palpable in the air as we move through different villages. In between drinking tea, smoking cigarettes, and cracking jokes, we are regaled with stories of settler attacks in the past year. My stomach churns as they recount brutality after brutality. Each of the men finish their story by talking about their children or grandchildren. The visible trauma they exhibit when they cannot sleep or fear going to school. This, they emphasize, is what hurts them the most.
In one village, our entire group is invited to the tent of a man named Yassir. Described by one of my colleagues as a “silver fox”, he recounts the story of his recent home demolition to us. With 18 children and many more grandchildren, Yassir lived in his same home for many years with his family. Then one day, the army came and demolished it, giving him almost no time to collect his belongings. He points up at the roof of then tent and then around at the one large room. “This plastic sheet is all we have now over our heads. In the winter when it rains, we don’t sleep at night. We stand and comfort the babies so they can sleep in our arms. This is no way to live.” He tells us about his two year old granddaughter. That every time they are watching the news and soldiers come on, she begins pointing to the floor and asking if they are coming to take their home. He must turn off the news before she becomes too upset.
I tell him in Arabic that he has a lot of sumud. He responds by saying he is the symbol of Palestinian sumud. We all laugh. It is a welcome break from the sadness in the room and the tears welling up in my eyes. He thanks us for visiting and asks us if the people in the world care when we tell his story and show them pictures of his destroyed home. As we mull this question and its answer over, a brave activist offers him hopeful assurances that they do. He seems happy with this answer. He talks of his neighbour, who also had his home demolished over the summer and the pain the community felt witnessing these demolitions and their aftermaths. He points to a piece of stone/concrete sitting next to the wood burning stove and tells us this is all that is left of his home. “Here", he tells us, “even the stone weeps”. My heart is heavy and brain is buzzing from the cup upon cup of coffee and tea as we leave his home and I thank him for having us.
A few minutes later, we are back joking and laughing with our hosts. We gather in the community room and chat and drink more tea and coffee as we take turns playing with the toddlers and holding the infants. As life buzzes around me, I sit back and look at this nightly community gathering. This is all they want. To gather in a warm building together. To have a place to rest their head at night. Is this not what all people deserve?
The next day, we are warned of bulldozers approaching the area in the morning. Activists track their journey in order to warn of which village they are heading to. In She’b Al Bata, they destroy (I think) over ten buildings. The community and activist supporters gather to document, but there is little else to be done. A mass line of soldiers stands between the community and the bulldozers. They are simply forced to watch and witness the destruction of their homes, of their lives, of their one bastion of safety and security. This witnessing in itself is a form of the occupation’s torture. Later in the day, we return to Yassir’s village, only to arrive as a bulldozer plowed away directly next to the village.
Though not a home demolition, the bulldozer (and its accompanying army protection) came to raze the land directly next to a home and playground in order to provide a space for the nearby settlement to plant an olive grove during Tu Bishvat. This Jewish holiday is meant to celebrate trees and nature, so the nearby settlement has chosen to expropriate Palestinian land in order to plant an appropriated variety of trees, after terrorizing the village about their own olive groves. Even in my most Zionist Jewish education, we did not learn about this. I watched the community as they gathered to watch the bulldozer. Some documented, some attempted to push back against the plans, and some simply milled about.
Unable to do anything to stop what I was witnessing, I walked behind the fence into the playground to try and distract the younger children. In between pushes on swing sets and turns on the slides, we all took nervous glances towards the bulldozers. I resolve to bring toys for the kids next time I come to the village. A young teenage boy offers us tea and ushers us from the playground to the indoor community room.
A few minutes later, more soldiers and police arrive. This time, they want to see the identification of the non-Palestinians. A few Israeli citizens go to speak with them as the rest of us internationals remain inside. We are told not to leave the room. We discuss what to do if our Israeli hosts get arrested and make dark jokes in between practical plans. Every ten minutes or so, someone comes in to tell us the situation and advise us not to leave the room. My bladder has other plans and I climb out of a low window to get to a washroom without being seen.
Eventually the army and police leave and we are able to leave the room and return to our own village. We are invited to a family’s house for dinner. As a dozen or so of us sit around the wood stove and a table saddled with food, laughter and chatter fill the air. We make jokes about the settlers, about each other, and continuously make comments about how delicious the food is. It is a welcome contrast to the day.