Issawiya

by Jill

Shortly after arriving to the office this morning, the Director asked me if I felt up for going out into the field to do some reporting. Without hesitation, I said definitely. A few moments later, I was told I would be going to Issawiya, a small neighborhood along the road between Jerusalem and Ramallah, where house demolitions were supposedly taking place.
She told me, “Grab a cab and when you get to Issawiya, call A. and he will tell the driver exactly where to drop you off. He will meet you there to help you. 80 percent of cab drivers in Jerusalem are Palestinian, so any one of them will take you there. If you land on one of the Jewish-Israeli drivers and they don’t want to take you, don’t worry.”
I was warned. Of course, once outside, the first two drivers I asked turned out to be part of that 20 percent minority. “Isawwiya? Oh, no. Find an Arab,” one driver literally told me, before he sped off. Finally, I “found an Arab” and was on my way.
Once in Issawiya, the large group of Israeli soldiers sitting along a dirt road at the top of a hill signaled where I had to go. I hesitantly stepped out of the cab, and made my way towards them. Unsure of where A. was, I kept my video camera in my bag and forced a smile on my face.
I was immediately stopped as I tried to walk nonchalantly by the Israeli soldiers and reach the large excavation machines. “Where are you going?” Just to those houses, I replied. Why? What is going on here? “You can’t go there. Go away.” Why can’t I go? “Because I’m the police and I said so. Go away.” But I just want to get to that house. “No. Leave now.”
Dejected, I turned back, and called the office to let them know what was going on. I was told to stay put, and A. would be on his way shortly. A few minutes passed, and I decided to try to get some information from a group of Palestinian teenagers who had gathered to watch the army at the bottom of the hill, along the main road.
Min fadlik, weyn il’bayt? I awkwardly asked one of the teenagers in Arabic. (Where is the house?) They laughed. I obviously wasn’t making much sense, so instead I resorted to hand signals to show them what I wanted to know: was there an alternate route to reach the demolition point, where the house was? One brave teen decided he would show me the way.
Walking through the shrubs and rocks, we were greeted by a new group of soldiers this time, just below where I had been blocked the first time. The Israeli soldiers adjusted their guns as they saw us coming (clearly meant to intimidate my young guide, who was ahead of me), and told the boy we had to turn back. Why, I asked. What’s going on here? They smirked, and ignored me altogether, instead focusing on intimidating the teenager with me. Mish mishkila (no problem), I told him, once we had turned back. I didn’t want to put him in danger. He headed back to rejoin his friends.
Alone once again, waiting for A., I asked another soldier what was going on. He told me that if I wanted to know, I should talk to the commander. So I did. What’s going on here, I asked him, as he was calmly sprawled out on a boulder along the dirt road. “Nothing. Where are you from?” Jerusalem. “What are you doing here?” I’m just walking around. I’m curious to know what’s going on. “Are you a journalist?” Yes. “Show me your press pass.” I have never been so pleased with the fact that I still carry around that tacky (and laughably unprofessional-looking) Concordia Press Pass they gave us on the first day of university four years ago.
“Where are you from?” Canada. “You should go back there.” Why? “Because. It’s nice there. I went to Toronto and Montreal. Where are you from?” Montreal. “Ahh, very nice.” It’s nice here too, especially when houses aren’t being demolished. (I mumbled that last part, and I don’t think he understood me) So what’s going on here? “If you want to know, you can call the Army Media Relations.” Why am I not allowed to go there? “It’s a closed zone.” Why is it closed? “I can’t tell you. If you go beyond this point, I will send soldiers to arrest you.”
A few moments later, A. finally showed up, and took me down the hill with him towards the large construction machines, which since my arrival had been digging into the dirt and rocks just beyond my field of vision. We walked through someone’s home and out the back, before heading back up the hill, just ahead of the Commander and the group of soldiers with him. There was no way they couldn’t see me, camera in hand. Indeed, it only took a few seconds before three soldiers – a young man, a young woman, and an older man – were on me.
“What didn’t you understand? We said you can’t be here,” the female soldier yelled at me. Oh. Here? I thought you meant over there, I said, pointing to a spot just off the path. “No. Here. Now move, get back.” Ok, calm down. No need to yell. “Go.” Calm down, I’m going. What’s your name? “…Sharon.” (She was clearly taken aback by the question) Hi Sharon, nice to meet you, I said.
Once again, I was back to square one. A. signaled me to join him from a distance. But I knew I couldn’t blatantly walk past the army again. Sharon, who was still eyeing me, took out a cigarette. The Commander was talking to a man who looked like his superior and when both men looked in my direction, they laughed. They were clearly pretty pleased with the situation. I felt calm, surprisingly, and in control of what I was doing. I knew I had to be careful and not get arrested (I wasn’t even sure if these Israeli officers had the authority to arrest me, but I didn’t want to push my luck). Still, I knew that I needed to get some footage on tape.
Suddenly, another villager pulled up beside me in a white van, beckoning me to get into the front seat. I did, and he took me down the hill, and around to the outskirts of the neighborhood near a scrap metal plant. We parked, and went through the plant to a small house. Just ahead, I finally saw what I had come to see: two huge excavation machines digging into the ground.
Different Israeli soldiers were overhead; the Commander, Sharon and the rest of those I had spoken to couldn’t see me. My one fear, though, was that the Commander would somehow be told I was here and he would send soldiers to get me. Still, I took out my camera and filmed as much as I could. The entire time, I was almost sure soldiers would be on their way. I interviewed two villagers and filmed the army manning the machines. After about 20 minutes, A. and I headed back to the car and back towards Jerusalem. No more soldiers and no arrests.
***
I later found out that a house demolition wasn’t taking place. Instead, the Israeli army was destroying all of the village’s farmland: uprooting trees, overturning the soil, etc. The army argues that the Palestinians have no right to exploit the land since it has been zoned as “green space.” In other words, the land is meant to just sit there and not be farmed. Cutting people off from their means of sustenance and survival: just another example of Israeli crimes.
I’m not exactly sure what I want to convey with the long story above. Maybe I simply want to release the fears and anxieties I felt this morning. Maybe I want to give you Ballz readers a glimpse at what Israeli “democracy” really is: threats and intimidation of journalists, using the excuse of “closed military zones” to hide what’s going on and restrict access to information, and senseless and traumatizing policies towards Palestinians.
Or maybe I just want people to understand that events like the one I experienced happen every day, in virtually every corner of Palestine/Israel, and most often they go undocumented or unreported.