Meet your local Jewish terrorists

Life in a small Palestinian town under assault, part 1

Note: Faces and details in some of the photos below have been blurred.

I sit outside the police inspector’s office in Jerusalem waiting for my number to be called.

I am with Ada, an Israeli Jewish activist in her 70s who volunteered to accompany me in the process of submitting a formal report. I have been warned that engagements with the Israeli police can feel like interrogations for activists, even when they’re the victims, and few accommodations are made for people who don’t speak Hebrew. So it seemed wise to arrange for some support.

Ada is one of the core volunteer leaders of Mistaclim LaKibush Ba’Aynayim (“Looking the Occupation in the Eye”), one of a handful of protective presence groups operating throughout the West Bank. Their primary focus over the last couple of years has been on supporting the village of Ras Ein al-Auja (“Ras”), a Bedouin herding community of about 550 women, men, and children living in the dark shadow of a Jewish terrorist encampment.

My conversation with Ada in the waiting area is wide ranging. We enjoy the kind of easy familiarity that can emerge in first encounters between activists. We trade reflections from our lifetimes in social justice work of one sort or another. We laugh about the failings and foibles of the Left, which can be nearly as irritating as those of the Right. She recommends a few (actually, the few) Jerusalem bars where Jews and Palestinians hang out together. I pitch a few program suggestions that came to me over the previous four days, when I was serving as a member of the Mistaclim team in Ras. She coaches me on what to expect once I step into the inspector’s office and suggests that I lower my expectations and prepare for frustration and disappointment.

An hour has passed by the time the police inspector makes his first appearance in the waiting area. He chats briefly with each person holding a number.

“מה קרה לך?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hebrew.”

“It’s not a problem, I speak English. I said, ‘What happened to you?’”

I take a breath and look him in the eye.

“A masked man carrying a club attacked me last night.”

Pause. His voice slows just a bit.

“Where did this happen?”

“Ras Ein al-Auja.”

A light seems to go off. He nods, subtly.

“You mean the village ‘Ras’? Near Auja? Is that right?” I nod.

He confirms the information in Hebrew with Ada. She asks him if he knows it. Yes, he says to Ada, he knows it.

He tells me to wait until my number is called and walks away.

Ada seems pleased.

“You see how he knew about Ras al-Auja? That’s good, I’m glad to see that they know.”

It looks like it will be a long night; there are at least four other people ahead of me and the line hasn’t moved since we arrived.

The inspector comes back in about ten minutes to announce that he is going on break for an unspecified amount of time.

---

The work of the protectors in Ras is simple, in many ways. There’s a daily routine and the routine doesn’t change from one day to the next.

On a set schedule, they set out in patrol teams of two or more people and follow the movements of the Jewish terrorists as they travel around and through the village. A few other protectors are left behind to guard the home space, which they refer to as the madhafa (Arabic for “guesthouse”). At times when the terrorists are back in their home den, the protectors rest, or chat, or have something to eat, or share updates with Palestinians who come by to check in.

The protectors are here because the residents of Ras invited them and want them to stay. The rationale behind this arrangement is that the presence of internationals and Jewish Israelis allows local families to stay in their homes longer than they would be able to otherwise. The round-the-clock watch shifts provide further security by creating a dynamic buffer between residents and terrorists. Relieved of the responsibility of constantly tracking and confronting the terrorists directly, the residents can then live more normal lives – to whatever extent the word “normal” applies under such circumstances.

You may think this a questionable, quixotic, or even pitiable aim. After all, the adults in the community are aware of the settlers’ incursions, and they take place multiple times a day. Aren’t they completely consumed with anxiety 24/7? How are they raising children in that environment? What kind of life is that?

And is it a life worth protecting?

---

This is my second visit to Ras. Last time, I came for the day with some Jewish Israelis from Jerusalem. Most of the volunteers from Mistaclim come for one 8-hour shift at a time and go home to Israel at night. Some come once a week, others show up more sporadically.

The other group of protectors on site are with a group called UCPiP (Unarmed Civilian Protection in Palestine). These individuals have committed to a 3-month posting here in Ras so this is where they sleep at night when they are not on leave. Their base camp is another madhafa about 50 yards away from the Mistaclim madhafa. The shared activist compound is perched on a small hill which provides a wide view of the village, the road going in and out, and the area where the terrorists live.

View of Ras from Mistaclim’s madhafa

Combined dining and sleeping area in UCPiP’s madhafa

All spaces in the two madhafas are communal; as one activist explains to me, the only place where you can get any reliable privacy is in the bathroom, and only for a short time. In the field, no one is allowed to be alone because lone activists are easy targets for violence. On the morning that I arrived for my first day shift, a Jewish Israeli man who was in Ras for the first time had been assaulted with a club. He had apparently been invited to a private “heart-to-heart” with one of the settlers and he was cocky enough to think he’d have some influence; as soon as the settler got him separated from the group, he started beating him.

The activists are instructed to film from a few meters away when violence is taking place. This is the only way to document – and hopefully, some day, prosecute – the daily crimes of the Jewish terrorists.

---

There are three or four large Palestinian clans living in Ras. Their society is polygamous and some male heads of households have as many as twenty children and fifty or more grandchildren. Just a few days before my first visit, a beautiful baby was born. This has inspired a joyous feeling within the family’s household, as well as among the activists. They have been taking turns holding the baby. All signs of hope and resilience are treasured and celebrated here.

The only children in the area are Palestinian, for now. They play in groups and you can often hear their voices and laughter throughout the village. In the mornings, they walk to the elementary school together in striped uniforms while others board a bus to attend a secondary school in a nearby town. As much as the adults in the area must try to shield them from the terror of their circumstances, they have to know something. There are times during the day when Jewish men in black ski masks can be observed walking or driving through their village.

One of the Arabic-speaking members of the UCPiP team goofing around with a group of kids

The Palestinians are incredibly warm and hospitable toward the activists. Someone will commonly come out of their home to offer glasses of tea to protectors stationed nearby when it seems safe to do so. Meaningful communications can be challenging; only a tiny number of protectors speak any Arabic and the villagers typically don’t speak Hebrew or English. The primary communications liaison is a Palestinian man named Naïf, who is fluent in both Arabic and Hebrew.

During my second visit to Ras, which is scheduled to last for four days and three nights, I have the pleasure of meeting Zeinab, a Palestinian woman in her 60s who lives alone in a house above the madhafas. Zeinab is a regular visitor to the Mistaclim madhafa and knows many of the volunteers, but when she arrives I’m the only one there to receive her because the rest of the group is out on patrol.

We smile and greet each other, and she asks about a few of the Israeli activists she knows by name. I shake my head to indicate that they’re not around. She sits down anyway and I offer her some “café”. She nods yes. After that, I realize there’s a small problem. Google Translate, to the rescue.

“لا أعرف حتى كيف أصنع القهوة على الطريقة الفلسطينية، لكن سأحاول!” (I don’t even know how to make coffee the Palestinian way. But I will try!”)

I type in English and then play the translation out loud in Arabic.

Back in the “old” days of travel, you couldn’t get past the most basic exchanges when there was no shared language. Now, you can talk about anything you want to talk about, as long as you have some patience. While we drink coffee, Zeinab explains to me via Google Translate that she gets lonely at home because she was not able to have children. She has a husband, but he has another wife and he spends most of his time with her and his other family. I tell her that I also don’t have children and that this was something that I chose.

Zeinab tells me that her mother is the one who makes the lunches for the UCPiP team. She has also been cooking today; I am invited over to her home for some stuffed cabbage once I confirm that I am not vegetarian. I have to wait for some of the others to return before I can step away.

At Zeinab’s home, while we are eating and chatting, I get a reminder on my phone: It’s time for my daily “thumbs up” message to my mother to let her know that I’m ok. I ask Zeinab if it would be alright for me to send a picture of the two of us in lieu of the basic emoji.

My mother responds with a message and a photo which I show to Zeinab.

We continue in this way, with my mother now included in the visit from 6,000 miles away. Zeinab takes a traditional Palestinian embroidered dress out of a chest and invites me to try it on.

It’s time for me to go back to the madhafa. Soon, the activists will be out on patrol again.

Continue to Part 2