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Sumud Story House
Life Stories
WE LOCK OURSELVES UP IN BARRELS, BOXES, JAILS,
CYLINDERS, AND CAGES
Abdalla Abu Rahme
Some 1,800 Muslims live in Bil’in. We have 4,000
dunams (1 dunam = 1 m2) of land in
the area. A large part is covered with 20,000
olive trees. There is also some open land for
animals and the cultivation of corn. Half of the
villagers are dependent on agriculture and
another ten percent on keeping animals. Others
are workers or employees. The Wall cuts us off
from more than half the land: 2,300 dunams, or
57 percent. We still have access to our land on
the other side of the Wall – that is, as long as
the gate in the Wall is open.
The building of the Wall started on February 20,
2005. We organized a committee to set up actions
against it. At first we planned to conduct
actions daily, but that was difficult to
implement, and so we settled on having two to
three actions every week. We decided to try out
a new and creative method each time so as to
make the actions attractive to the media and to
keep journalists interested in coming. We wanted
weekly continuity in our actions as had happened
before in the villages of Budrus, Biddha, and
Mesha, but we also wanted the media to keep
asking: “What is new in Bil’in?” After all, when
the actions are only about throwing stones,
people would think that it is always the same. A
friend and I have been meeting every Wednesday
night to brainstorm about that week’s next
actions – which had to be nonviolent. Other
friends join in to give their comments, and then
we prepare for the weekly action. As for
participants, we depend upon the villagers,
members of the International Solidarity Movement
(ISM), international volunteers, and the Israeli
peace movement.
Our purpose is the removal of the Wall. We will
continue our actions even if the Israelis plan
to finish building the Wall in the coming
months. If they wish, they can put the Wall on
the Green Line (the pre-1967 border between
Israel and the West Bank), but not here. If the
Wall prevents us from going to our land, we will
have a third Nakba (disaster – expulsion
of Palestinians; the first Nakba was in
1948 at the time of the establishment of Israel,
the second during the June War in 1967). Our
families would not have land on which to build
and would face a new transfer from their homes.
Our actions aim to expose the injustice of the
Wall and the treatment of Palestinians. Last
week we wore orange masks, the kinds worn by
convicted persons before their execution. It was
to tell the world what is happening in Gaza.
When you destroy power stations, you are killing
people. Last Friday we made a kind of soccer
play with the adults holding a big ball on their
shoulders and wearing T-shirts and flags of the
various countries participating in the World
Cup. On the other side of the field, some 20
children wore red-painted T-shirts that
symbolized the occupation. The message: While
everybody is watching football on TV, many
Palestinian children are killed. Each time we
bring a new element into our actions. We lock
ourselves up in barrels, boxes, jails,
cylinders, and cages. We put tape over our
mouths, chain our hands, and even chain
ourselves to the Wall.
At the end of last year we heard about the
arrival of so-called ‘illegal’ settlers on our
land on the other side of the Wall. Of course
all settlers are illegal according to
international law, but these settlers were
considered illegal even by Israel, as they have
no building permit. So we wanted to do
something. We challenged the Israeli state on
December 21, by posting a caravan next to those
illegal settlers’ houses, on our own land. We
told the soldiers, “If you want to implement
your own law and remove our caravan, you have to
destroy those 700 apartments in Matityahu East
[the settlement] as well.” Twenty persons
remained inside or close to the caravan for a
period of 36 hours. Then a big tractor came.
Soldiers took us out as if we were savages or
beasts. The caravan was destroyed and some
people were arrested. On December 25, at 15:00,
we came back with another caravan. It was rainy
and cold, so we thought that maybe we would be
successful. After an hour, a commander came and
asked us what we were doing. “You don’t have a
permit,” he said. So we asked, “What about those
other houses – they don’t have a permit either.”
The commander: “Those are houses, they have
windows and ceilings.” In response we decided to
build a house, of one room, some 150 meters
behind the Wall. We started immediately, at
21:00, on the evening of that same day. Friends
helped us quietly. It was raining so when we
passed through the gate in the Wall, the
soldiers were not looking too closely. But then
the car that transported the building materials
got stuck in the mud. We called for another car,
stuffed it with materials, and told the soldier
at the gate that we needed the new car in order
to pull out the first car. All went well. We
started building at night, with building blocks
and three to four sacks of concrete. All
together we were thirty people. To protect us
from the cold and the rain, we made a big fire
in the middle of the building place. The
difficult part was the ceiling. Throughout the
night we rotated so that at any one time seven
persons kept their hands held high to sustain
the ceiling – four by four meters. Imagine how
we looked standing there like sculptures! At
five in the morning, the room was dry. At seven
o’clock, the commander arrived, clearly nervous
and angry at the soldiers who allowed this to
happen. Photos were made; we filled in a form to
apply for a permit.
Now we have a center near the land that we
cultivate. We call it the Center for Common
Struggle. After the action, our lawyer was able
to get the ‘illegal’ building activities in
Matityahu East stopped, at least for the moment.
Jewish families would constantly enter the empty
apartments during the night. Some 35 families in
the ‘illegal’ settlement are now not permitted
to get electricity pending the court’s decision.
At the moment, we show the World Cup matches on
a big-screen TV. There are usually between 20
and 50 visitors, keeping a presence around the
clock. The army does not allow cars to enter the
gate, but visitors can walk through it.
What keeps me going and allows me to continue
with these actions? In the first place, the hope
to remove the Wall. This is our right; we have a
right to our land. We do not have a choice.
Without our land, we are in a terrible
situation. Where can we build houses for our
children, brothers, neighbors? What also
sustains us are the volunteers from many
countries who come especially to support us. We
are not alone; we have friends against the
occupation. Members of the Israeli peace
movement also come day and night. At the
beginning it was difficult to organize meetings
in the village if Israelis were included. All
that has changed because now there are relations
between these Israelis and the villagers.
Whenever we need them, they come immediately. We
are not against the Jews, or the Israelis, but
against the occupation. I always stress this. I
wouldn’t even mind going personally to Olmert to
tell him: “You are wrong!” In fact, we want to
change Israeli public opinion about the Wall. At
first Israelis spoke about security as the
reason for building the Wall. But after learning
about our case and others, many found out that
the Wall is not about security but that it
serves a policy of grabbing land and building
settlements.
If there were no occupation of our land, we
would have good neighborly relations. Many
Israeli friends come to my home. We respect each
other as human beings. They also come to court
in our defense. It affects me when I see banners
such as “Free Abu Rahme” in court. It makes me
strong. I was arrested three times: on June 17,
2005, July 15, 2005, and September 9, 2005. Two
other times I escaped arrest. After the first
arrest, I was kept for five days and had to pay
3,000 shekels ($670); the second time, I was
detained for five days and had to pay 5,000
shekels ($1,100); and the third time, I was held
for 21 days and had to pay 6,000 shekels
($1,330). I paid the first fine myself, but the
second and third were paid by the international
volunteers. We have learned to help each other
by sharing what we have: the volunteers use my
apartment in the village.
I was twice injured by rubber bullets; about ten
times I was beaten up by soldiers, with sticks.
Because of a stick that hit my wrist, I can no
longer carry heavy things.
When people call me ‘Palestinian Gandhi’, I feel
flattered. Of course it’s great to have such a
nickname. But in the end, it’s not because I am
reading Gandhi in the library that we have come
up with our actions. I was not planning to
become a Gandhi. This is a Palestinian struggle.
We show that we can use nonviolence in
Palestine. Louisa Morgantini, the Italian
Euro-parliamentarian, recently came to the Gaza
Strip. She said on Al-Jazeera TV that if the
Palestinians would do what Bil’in is doing,
Europeans would support them. John Dugard, UN
special rapporteur on human rights, came to
Bil’in, and I explained to him the situation
here. He saw how soldiers were shooting teargas
grenades along a straight line, very
dangerously, just over the roof of a car. Those
grenades are supposed to be shot in a curve. He
saw how a 13-year-old boy wanted to plant a
little tree near the Wall, and how the kid was
arrested and then barely escaped. With all the
publicity we receive, we are writing history
with our own actions.
For me, freedom is independence – having one’s
own country, being able to move everywhere and
travel to any country. Freedom means that others
treat us like human beings and that we have the
financial means to live. Freedom is the
early-morning moment when my family and I sit
under the olive tree and breathe the fresh air.
Freedom means knowing that my daughter will one
day be able to fulfill her wish to see the sea
by herself.
Interview: July 1-2, 2006, Ramallah.
Following popular non-violent resistance, an
Israeli court decision was issued on September
4, 2007 in favor of the petition of the village
of Bil’in to change the planned route of the
Wall. Although this decision can be seen as a
victory in the non-violent struggle of the
villagers against the Israeli occupation, the
route of the Wall still deviates from
internationally recognized armistice lines and
is therefore in violation of international law.
Abdalla Abu Rahme
is coordinator of the Popular Committee against
the Wall in the West Bank village of Bil’in. He
teaches Arabic at the Latin Patriarchate School
in the village of Birzeit and is a part-time
lecturer at Al-Quds (Jerusalem) Open University.
I HAVE TO DIVIDE HOPE INTO STAGES TO MAKE IT
MORE REALISTIC
Hania Bitar
When the whole story of the Wall started, I was
somehow dealing with it in disbelief. It was
something that was about to happen, but at the
time I was pushing it away, or I dealt with it
from a journalistic or political point of view.
It was being built in this area or that area,
but still it was far away. It was not part of my
life. But when they started constructing the
Wall in the Ar-Ram area where I cross, where I
work and live, suddenly this thing forced itself
upon my existence, my daily life, my day and
night. Every time I looked out the window I saw
the Wall. It was really shocking. Suddenly this
Wall of solid concrete became very scary. I
usually try to be and present myself as a
courageous woman, but to tell you the truth,
sometimes when I am driving and it is evening,
this Wall really frightens me. It looks cold,
long, and winding – like a snake. When I am
driving alongside it, it is an endless road.
Although I am not claustrophobic, that Wall
makes me feel as though I am in a bottle. I want
to shatter it into pieces. Then I feel as if I
can’t wait until I reach the end of this road.
Whenever I drive, the Wall is either on my
left-hand side or on my right-hand side. It
really gives me a feeling of suffocation. I just
want somebody to sit beside me in the car, to
make jokes about the Wall, to laugh, to sing
aloud. We try to avoid looking at it directly.
We try to continue with our lives, but it is
always there.
The Wall and checkpoints isolate me from many
things in my life. My social life is composed of
many elements, it is not Hania alone. I have my
parents, my sisters, my brother, my work, my
colleagues, and the members of Pyalara
[Palestinian Youth Association of Leadership and
Rights Association]. Step by step, the
separation started with the checkpoints and then
it was combined with the Wall. Being cut off
from one another has taken a big toll on our
lives, our connections, our relationships, and
how we view ourselves.
I remember when I was living with my family in
Jerusalem proper, in Wadi Joz. We lived in a
rented house, and then the landlord wanted our
house. My parents always dreamed of owning their
own house. For financial reasons we were never
able to buy a real nice house, but we worked
hard to buy an apartment. After working hard, we
were able to buy it five years ago in the Kufr
‘Aqoub area, which is part of Jerusalem. My new
house was just a five-minute drive from my work.
It was so convenient, in-between Jerusalem and
Ramallah. We were very happy with it. A few
months afterwards, the Kalandia checkpoint was
constructed. Then the new apartment became a
nightmare. Suddenly all our dreams were
shattered; everyone in my family blamed
themselves for making the most stupid decision
of their lives. All the savings were put into
this house, and as we are not a rich family, we
could not buy or rent another house in
Jerusalem.
We are Jerusalemites, but we live on the other
side of the checkpoints and within the Walls. As
Jerusalemites we are entitled to health coverage
inside Israel. But how to get there? So many
things separate us from what is really ours. I
remember that a few years ago my father was sick
and we often had to go to the hospital in
Jerusalem, to Hadassah. It was winter, and we
always went in my car. When we would reach a
checkpoint, we didn’t know whether they would
let us pass. The checkpoint closed at nine in
the evening. A number of times, when we needed
to reach the hospital very quickly, we were
stopped because they had to do all their
searches, all the checks, all the stupid
questions – and all this even though we are
Jerusalemites. When my father died, he was in an
ambulance, stuck at the checkpoint.
My mom is generally fine but she has some health
problems. She cannot walk easily because of back
trouble. She now feels paralyzed because she
cannot walk the three hundred meters needed to
cross the checkpoint to go wherever she wants.
If I don’t take her, she cannot move. We cannot
enjoy going anywhere because we get stuck at the
checkpoint for at least one or two hours. Any
event we want to go to is already destroyed by
this feeling that we need to cross a checkpoint.
It’s as if we are going to another country – and
even worse since we have to endure humiliations
and problems. If something happens to my mom and
it’s urgent that she get to hospital, I now have
not only to cross the checkpoint but also to
face the problem of the Wall. We are now
completely separated from wherever we want or
need to go. Even our social life has become
disastrous. I remember my birthday; it was just
a while ago. None of my sisters, nephews, or
nieces to whom I am very close could make it. We
turned from a very busy family where all came to
see each other very often – having all those big
lunches and dinners and so on – into a family
where the phone replaces the face-to-face
encounter and the social events. Having good
social connections characterizes us as Arabs or
Palestinians. But now we have to be realistic;
we cannot waste all our time in waiting to go
through the checkpoints.
The Wall has a big impact upon a youth
organization like Pyalara. I remember when we
started this organization back in 1999. It was a
melting pot of sorts. Whenever we had a training
session or workshop, kids came from various
areas: Hebron, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and
Ramallah. All would come and meet at our office.
As an organization we brought these kids closer
together. Now this can no longer happen. If, for
example, we want to plan an activity for youth
from Nablus, we have to go to Nablus. We now
have no connections with Hebron even though this
was one of the first places that we started to
work in. I have a press card, so I can travel to
Gaza. A few days ago I came back from Gaza and
literally cried. Oussama, the guy who runs our
office in Gaza, is always on the phone with his
colleagues in Ramallah. He thinks that I have
the key to bring him to Ramallah. Each time, he
says: “Please try, please try. Maybe they’ll
allow me to go this time. I just want to spend
one day with my colleagues in Ramallah.” I feel
that the separation is hardest on the people of
Gaza.
As members of an organization, we always want to
challenge tough challenges, to be even stronger
than the Wall or the barriers. We really try to
overcome whatever measures the Israelis take. We
try to facilitate connections between people
despite the fact that they are disconnected. Our
kids in Nablus sometimes leave at four in the
morning and stand in long queues in order to
make it here on time. Sometimes they get stuck
here because there’s a closure on Nablus or
another area, and then they have to sleep here.
It’s a financial burden as well. But the young
people are ready to cross the barriers just to
be together. Sometimes it is not feasible. We
have many youngsters who are below eighteen, and
for them it is risky because somebody has to
bear the responsibility for their traveling. If
we go there we can see them; otherwise we have
to work through the Internet and the phone.
The Wall has had a negative impact upon how
people view each other, even on how we relate to
each other as Palestinians. People ask
themselves: “Who is enjoying more freedom than
the other?” People start looking at each other,
categorizing each other: “Who is the least to
suffer, who more?” Thank God, the younger
generation is a little more vibrant. They are
still hopeful, they want to challenge the world;
they want to escape, to run away, to have a
fresh start. The older generation seems like
zombies sometimes, without spirits. This is
really scary. We are thankful that we work with
the young generation, but we are always afraid
of what might happen to them in the future if
the situation continues the way it is today.
What I feel is also important is the
psychological impact of the Wall upon the
Palestinian nation vis-à-vis the Israeli nation.
Already we have been disconnected for so many
years from the Israeli side. It seems that the
Israeli side has really bought the stories or
the myths about the Wall and the “protection”
that it provides. They believe that it protects
them as a nation from the invasions or suicide
bombings of the Palestinians. They didn’t really
calculate the long-term effects of the Wall.
Maybe it can save some lives in the short term,
but in the long run I don’t know what the effect
of the Wall will be. I don’t know what happens
when people feel so isolated from each other. As
Palestinians we assume that anybody living
outside the Wall just doesn’t care; we feel that
they don’t want to see what is going on inside
the Wall. If we as two nations are destined to
share one land, and if we care about the future
generations, I don’t know how this Wall will
help in actually realizing a better future.
The whole issue of the Wall reminds me of an
article that I read and responded to almost ten
years ago. It was written by Susan Hattis Rolef
in the Jerusalem Post. She advised the
Israeli government to imprison “the terrorists”
inside nets – just like what you do with
mosquitoes that bother you. You should keep them
away by putting up a net. And this is, in fact,
what her government has done. For the Israeli
government, the Palestinian people are not real
human beings with rights. If they could just
imprison those troublemakers, then their lives
would continue peacefully. Israelis may gain
some sort of tranquility in the short run, but
if no real settlement is found – a genuinely
just solution – then those mosquitoes will just
tear a hole in the screen and come to bother
them again. Whatever barriers or walls are
built, they will never preserve tranquility or
peace in the future.
There is a big difference between how I used to
view freedom and how I live or feel it now.
Years ago, freedom was a sense of calm, nature,
no borders, traveling, green things, sea – all
those things represented freedom for me. So
whenever I was traveling and high in the sky or
when I was swimming in the sea, I felt like I
owned the world. Freedom was always connected
with large landscapes, with vistas, a big view.
Maybe it was because of the fact that where we
live we almost never enjoy a big view. Only a
few have the luck to live in a place that is
high enough to have a view. Wherever we live or
work, there are many things that obstruct the
view. It’s because houses are often jammed
together here, close to each other; and even
more so now because of the Wall. So for me,
freedom was vision – literally.
But right now I see freedom differently. Freedom
has become more an emotional state of mind. In
order to feel free I cannot make a connection
with how I am living objectively, with where I
can go or cannot go. It’s more like what I can
do vs. what I cannot do. Not in terms of
traveling but with regard to what sustains and
fulfils me emotionally. In order to reach a
level of emotional satisfaction, I have to
concentrate on small things that make me happy
and make me feel free: for example, when I am
able to help someone. Last night, for instance,
I came home at nine. As I was driving along the
Wall, a man was walking along the road. I knew
that at such a time he could not find a taxi. He
was walking along this endless road. I stopped
and gave him a ride. The fact that I helped
someone gave me a sense of fulfillment and
freedom. So I have to find my freedom in very
small things that maybe don’t count at the macro
level. But for me as a person, I feel that with
each step I take, with each act I perform, I am
liberating something inside me. This gives me a
sense of freedom that is lacking around me; and
at the same time it gives me a sense of
resilience. In order to be able to continue, I
have to realize myself. I realize myself through
helping others, through being needed, through
giving hope to others. I have to produce
tangible results; if not, I don’t feel
satisfied. For me hope is not just an abstract
term. Hope has to be linked to something
concrete. I have to divide hope into phases to
make it realistic. When I complete a certain
phase, I move to the next level, and further up.
This is how I relate to the people around me.
Many young people are frustrated because they
want to achieve something much higher; they want
freedom; they want to get rid of occupation.
They want to find excellent jobs, to attain a
certain status in society. We cannot fulfill all
those goals right now. So we must divide them
into smaller, doable tasks. How can we find a
role for young people that helps them to develop
part of who they are, to learn to help
themselves and others in the society?
It seems to me that a comparative approach is
the most appropriate. When you compare you can
reach a level of satisfaction. Even when you are
in a very bad situation you can find people who
are worse. And because you are doing better, you
can help them. If you bring those who are in a
worse situation to your bad situation, it is a
fulfillment of one phase – and then you move to
the next phase, which allows you to do something
much better.
As a Jerusalemite, as a representative of a
youth organization, and as a journalist, I
usually have the opportunity to travel. And we
do our best to provide travel opportunities for
our young people. But it’s funny: If I am in
another country – for example, Holland, Germany,
or the United States – and I am enjoying
whatever those countries give, believe me, I
don’t feel relieved or relaxed until I reach
Kalandia checkpoint. Only then am I back home
[laughs]. It reminds me of Kundera’s book title,
The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I know
what is awaiting me. Whenever I want, I can be
somewhere else, and I could do many other things
in the world. The easiest thing is just to
escape. But somehow I want to face the
challenge. Other nations can live disasters or
epidemics. But in our case we face not just a
“regular disaster,” such as an economic burden
or even a regular Wall, but a convergence of
factors that are all designed to continuously
degrade the human being, to deprive you of your
dignity. We Palestinians are subjected to daily
experiences that drive us crazy, but still we
manage to overcome whatever experiences we go
through and are somehow able to challenge the
things that cannot be challenged. Getting rid of
the occupation has become a challenge. Of course
we are entitled to resist the occupation
according to all the international laws. But we
have to keep strong in order to maintain our
ability to challenge the occupation until we get
our rights. Meanwhile, in order to continue and
be strong, our soul has to be fed, nourished.
I nourish myself through things that I manage to
fulfill on the personal or on the organizational
level. I feel that we as Pyalara are making a
significant impact upon young people’s lives.
Sometimes we are amazed at the comments we get.
When we hear some people talking about how we’ve
influenced their lives, we react with: “Oh, my
God!” Sometimes we can’t believe how much
something small can help, how it can rescue
people. We do something small – let’s say,
giving youth an opportunity to speak on a youth
TV program – and we ourselves don’t really
appreciate its value. But it might come at a
certain point in their lives when self-esteem is
so low that our support or our ability to engage
them in something rescues their lives. They get
somehow find meaning in their lives; they feel
that they’re doing something valuable, that
there is a reason that they should continue to
live and look toward the future. Sometimes I
even feel that I myself need someone to support
me, someone to give me hope. I am a human being.
I need to believe in the things I am doing, and
so I need someone to make me believe deeply in
hope. When I am feeling down and come to work, I
get some of the feedback I need as soon as I
meet with the target groups whom we are working
with. I see how much their lives are touched.
Then I really get energy.
When we were recently in Holland with a group of
youth, I didn’t speak. The young people
themselves narrated their stories. When the
Dutch young people were clapping and embracing
the Palestinians, I looked at those young
people. They felt that they liberated the world;
that they had won a million dollars. I really
felt that they had accomplished their mission.
They worked from their heart, and they delivered
something. Those young people felt they had
played a significant role for their peers, for
their culture, for their cause. Those moments
are like a treasure. You can always lean back on
those moments.
Interview: Al-Ram, December 9, 2004.
Hania Bitar
is secretary general of the Palestinian youth
organization Pyalara (Palestinian Youth
Organization for Leadership and Rights
Activation).
LIFE IN PALESTINE: THE MAGNET THAT DRAWS ME HOME
Jizelle Salman
I need to take a detour to get to my house. I
used to take a road that has now become an
Israeli checkpoint and military camp. We heard
last year that the land on the hill above my
house, which we have cultivated for many years,
will be expropriated in order to build the Wall
and, next to it, a military road. This was of
course most difficult news for us. The Wall will
be at a distance of only 6–12 meters from our
house. We will be imprisoned by a Wall above our
house, where there is the Har Gilo settlement,
as well as a Wall below our house. Above our own
property, the Greek Orthodox Convent has lands,
and beneath our home, the Salesian Convent has
lands. Both convents started court cases against
the Israeli army. Because these are church
institutions that the Israelis respect to some
extent, we may perhaps be supported. The
Israelis have announced that they will change
the route of the Wall, but up until now we
haven’t been informed.
Because of the checkpoints my dad lost his
factory – a stone factory for building houses.
He got the raw material – the rocks – from
Hebron, but the rocks could not pass the
checkpoints. So he lost his job and left to look
for work in the United States together with my
sister who now studies and works there. I hope
that my father will come back. My mom stayed
here. She is a very strong woman; she didn’t
want to go to the States. As long as there was
still an open road that led to downtown Beit
Jala and Bethlehem, she was content to stay.
They could not close the road because there is a
hospital nearby. So we were lucky. The fact that
we have a house here protects our land from
being expropriated. If we were not here, there
would be nothing to prevent them from taking the
land so as to enlarge the Har Gilo settlement.
Palestine is divided into three areas. Sometimes
you lose count [laughs]. Area A is supposed to
be 100-percent Palestinian controlled; Area B,
Palestinian-civilian controlled, but with
‘security’ in the hands of the Israelis; and
Area C is under complete Israeli control, with
the exception of specific services such as
telephone and electricity. I live in Area C, so
the army is always around. It is very difficult
to have the soldiers coming and going so close
to our house. Sometimes they close the road when
they suspect that there are ‘wanted people’ who
have been injured and are being taken to the
hospital. Then the Israeli army comes and
searches the area for these ‘wanted’ people.
I had planned to study for my master’s degree at
Birzeit University, normally two hours away.
However, the checkpoints and the difficult roads
made it impossible. It’s not safe. Sometimes you
are stopped and prevented from reaching your
destination, and sometimes it also happens that
the road back home is blocked. Then you’re stuck
in the middle and have to endure the rain and
cold or the heat of the sun.
My uncles live in the Ramallah area; I haven’t
visited them for the last two years. You can’t
easily go to hospitals, to holy places. I
haven’t been to Jerusalem in four or five years.
It’s very difficult to even get a permit to go
there. So you can’t really live your life. At
night when you want to go out to meet with
friends or do something, you need to be careful
not to get too close to the checkpoints so as
not to encounter Israeli soldiers. It’s
especially frightening for young women.
Sometimes when the soldiers are looking for
someone, they impose a closure on the area where
you are, and the drama starts. Frankly, you
can’t understand what I’m talking about unless
you live it.
I really hate checkpoints around the house. I
used to go out and walk through the hills. We
live near the top of a very high hill; it has
nice views. The air is fresh, not like in
downtown Bethlehem. But as soon as you want to
go for a walk on a beautiful summer night, for
instance, you sense that danger is lurking. The
soldiers may think you’re a ‘suspicious person’
and take you away for investigation or something
even worse. So you’re just imprisoned in the
Bethlehem area – or more specifically, a part of
the Bethlehem area. You’re stuck in a very small
space. You can be stopped and checked every few
meters. You can suddenly find a so-called
emergency checkpoint in front of you and, just
like that, you’re taken away for interrogation.
This happens especially in our neighborhood,
because I live in an area where they look for
‘wanted’ men.
Each summer I travel abroad to study or visit my
friends. When I need to travel in June, I start
planning in March. And even with the best of
plans, I am never sure whether I will be allowed
to leave the country or not. Palestinians are
forbidden from using the nearby airport (Tel
Aviv). So I have to ask for a permit to go
through Jordan. And even if I get the permit,
I’m not sure if I will be allowed to pass
through the checkpoints on the day of my
departure. It often depends on the mood of the
soldiers who man the checkpoint. After a while,
you lose hope and want to say: “It’s enough, I
don’t want to travel.” Imagine having to suffer
three months every year just thinking about how
to leave the country. It becomes really tiring.
Then finally, if you are able to leave, you
discover another world – freedom: freedom of
movement, freedom of expression, respect for you
as a human being, respect for you as a female. I
remember the days when I went to Europe. In
Holland I traveled by train. You can go from one
city to another without a passport and, after
some hours, I discovered that I was in Belgium.
Wow! Nobody asked for my passport. I was free!
The journey back home was my biggest problem.
When you return, you find the opposite. You find
checkpoints, you find yourself stuck in cultural
issues, you can’t move, you can’t do anything. I
was really frustrated and depressed during the
first weeks after I returned. It was almost as
if I had never lived here before. I asked
myself: “Did I really used to live in this
situation?” All I wanted was to leave again.
But then, all of a sudden, after I had been home
for three weeks and had filled my days with the
dozens of things that one has to do after
traveling, I actually felt attracted to being
here – as though there were a magnet that was
pulling me to stay or reminding me of my
attachment to this land. I don’t know exactly
what it is. After all, you can only scratch the
surface of your life. You don’t know what lies
beneath the surface. But sometimes, for a brief
moment, there is a feeling that captures you. If
you were to ask me the reason, I wouldn’t be
able to tell you. At first you think that
there’s nothing to do here, and you can’t bear
your life any longer. There are dozens of
problems that fill your head, and then, all of a
sudden, something comes like this [snaps her
finger]; maybe it is the smile of a friend, or a
word from an old woman, or a cup of coffee with
your relatives, or your relatives coming to help
you. Maybe it is our family life, maybe it’s our
friends. I can’t describe precisely why I want
to stay here. It’s just an irresistible desire.
It’s strange, but that’s the reality.
After this trip, I was completely at rest with
my family again, with my friends and family. I
was back into our normal prison life [laughs].
And I thought: So why did I want to leave? It
doesn’t make sense. I don’t have many choices
here, but at least I have better choices than
other people. I have a job; I study at a
university; I have friends; I have a social
life. What do we need from life, in general? We
need respect, we need to be able to afford a
household, we need friends. It’s not very
complicated.
I once had a problem with my car, a small
accident. I phoned and suddenly three cars
arrived, full of guys – my brothers and friends
– who asked: “What do you want? Is everything
OK?” The guy who caused the accident was afraid
because he thought that I had brought all those
people to make problems for him. Wow, whenever
you need them, friends and family are there for
you.
Maybe family life is better outside, I’ve never
tried it; but I sometimes hear from my father
that he hasn’t seen my sister for two days,
although they live together. She works different
hours; she studies at night, gets up early.
Money-wise, they say it’s better there. But if
you work a lot without having the time to enjoy
your life, what will happen to you after a
certain number of years? It’s not easy when you
are under stress. Sometimes I just want to sit
with a big family around and drink a cup of tea.
When they ask me: “What do you consider a day
off, a holiday?” After having visited six
countries this summer, I say: “I am completely
free when I am away from the world and when I am
in my pajamas drinking coffee with my mom, with
nothing to do. It’s very therapeutic.
After going to Lebanon for a workshop, I was
able to say, without hesitation, “I am so lucky
to be in Palestine and Bethlehem.” I went to the
Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. There I met a
lady – she was in her late sixties maybe – and
we were carrying flowers to take to the
collective graveyard that commemorates the
massacre. She asked: “Where are you from?” “I
come from Bethlehem, Palestine,” I replied; and
she hugged me and kissed me. She even wanted to
kiss my hand. She started to cry. She didn’t
want to leave me, and she said, “Please take me
with you.” There were about sixty of us there at
the time. We had all come to visit, and we
represented six Arab countries. And all of us
were crying at that moment. Refugees have a
strong desire to see their land. When I asked
them: “Where are you from?” They replied, “from
Safed,” or “from Acca,” and they even mentioned
the names of Palestinian villages that I had
never heard of. When I came home and saw my
family around me, I knew that I would remain
here, despite the fact that life is very
difficult and really a struggle. In fact, the
struggle makes me stronger. I have been through
a lot. If you have everything, a tiny problem
becomes a big problem and you become frustrated
by it. But if you face a lot, if you face a
really tough experience, it makes you stronger,
it gives you a challenge. So I said to myself,
it’s either me or life; life is not going to get
the best of me. So now I can say that I am here
because I have certain choices – better choices
than many other people – and I must stay here in
order to save my home, to save my life, and to
encourage others.
As a teacher of children, I hope that the
children will be able to bring about change:
respect the differences of the other; respect
somebody for what she or he is. For me, the
concept of freedom means respect for a human
being. I am not sure whether we will ever reach
that stage, but I believe that we need to try –
through education for both Palestinians and
Israelis. We shouldn’t feel superior or inferior
towards other people. Feelings of inferiority
lead to hatred of the other; and a sense of
superiority prevents respect of the other. Of
course, this is my long-term goal.
And that’s what keeps me going – hope. I hope
that I can be a catalyst for change. When you’re
young, you can do a lot to bring about change.
Many foreigners stay here to live in solidarity
with us; they give. So what about us
Palestinians? Why don’t we give? In fact, I
believe that we give a lot. But we still have
the energy to give more, to stay in our country
and raise our children. We love our country and
its people. We love our home.
Despite all the terrible things that happen to
us Palestinians, we have achieved something. We
are now able to get Palestinian passports and
IDs that reflect our nationality. I became aware
of this achievement during a recent visit to
Canada. I was there for a few weeks because I
had received a scholarship. The aboriginal
people – native Canadians, don’t have Indian
passports and have just melted into part of
colonial history. I realized that I had
forgotten that we, as Palestinians, are becoming
strong and that we have our own nationality, our
own presence, our own country. We are facing
very strong international powers – the strongest
powers in the world. But we have asserted our
cultural and national identity.
There are also rewarding moments with my
children, that is, my students. Whenever I go to
class, I know that they’ll be waiting there for
me, outside the English class. Last year I told
one class that I wouldn’t be teaching them next
year. They went to the principal to ask if Miss
Jizelle could continue to teach them. They
appreciate the fact that I teach them how to be
self-confident, how to act democratically. I
don’t impose things on them; I give their
opinions weight. Sometimes, when I am tired and
nervous and start to yell, they say, “Ah, but
you said that you were a democratic teacher!”
Education is the most important means for
bringing about change. You see the sparkle in
the children’s eyes when they hear the word
‘democracy’ or ‘participation’. These eyes
reflect hope, innocence, and love for their
teacher. That’s very rewarding for me.
Living in Palestine is something special. I was
lucky enough not to have to leave the country,
not to become a refugee or an emigrant. I could
have gone to the US to get a green card or a
passport, but I didn’t do so. If ever I have to
choose again, I would still choose to live in
Beit Jala – on the top of that mountain that is
so very calm and clean and surrounded by strong
family and social bonds. Bethlehem and Beit Jala
touch your heart.
Interview: 7 December, 2004, Beit Jala
Jizelle Salman,
from Beit Jala, is an English-language teacher
and youth coordinator at the Arab Educational
Institute in Bethlehem.
AS LONG AS THERE IS A SOCIETY THAT RESISTS,
THERE IS HOPE
Maha Abu Dayyeh
My office is close to my house – I just walk
across the street. Now the Wall ends just before
the intersection where I cross. When its
construction is completed, I will have to drive
all the way through the Kalandia checkpoint,
turn right around, and cross the checkpoint
again and go to Dahiet Al-Barid, before I can
get to my office! I live on the left-hand side
of the street that goes from Jerusalem to
Ramallah, which is the Jerusalem side. However,
all the services for my daily existence will be
on the side that will be blocked off. Think
about getting vegetables or food, or getting
maintenance and household support. Half of all
Jerusalemite Palestinians are going to suffer
from this because electricians or maintenance
people all live in areas that are blocked off.
Because they will be harder to get, they will be
more expensive. Life is going to become much
more expensive, and not only monetarily. We will
also pay a heavy social and emotional price. We
will become disconnected – literally and
figuratively – from family and friends. Going to
Ramallah or Beit Jala, places actually not very
far from here, will be very difficult.
Practically speaking, the Wall is imprisoning us
even though the prison gates are not in the
house itself but beyond the house. To go in and
out you will need to have a special permit, and
you will need to pay for it. On top of that,
there is destruction to the environment in areas
close to the Wall because of the digging in the
streets, the dust, the fuel, and the fumes. Dust
and fumes are always in the house; you can’t
ever get it totally clean. Going in and out of
the house means jumping over rubble and
concrete, over all kinds of building refuse. You
destroy your clothes, your shoes. You have to
have an extra budget for all those expenses. And
the Wall blocks the view. You can see only a few
meters in front of you. You wake up in the
morning and face the massive, ugly, grey cement
blocks. We are living in chaos.
One has to realize how the Wall, specifically,
and the living conditions, as a whole, block us
psychologically. When you are psychologically
blocked, your thinking is also blocked. Your
ability to be creative is blocked. Your ability
to feel is blocked because you have to protect
yourself all the time from feeling frustrated.
These are what destroy the person. It’s a sort
of psychological torture. You always have to be
on the alert. You can’t relax. You always think
about how you are going to deal with the next
obstacle. You can’t ever plan and fully expect
to complete one plan. You always have to have
plan A, plan B, and plan C. It often happens
that you can’t achieve the goals that you worked
so hard for. You always have to face
disappointments.
An outsider to this situation has to go through
this to understand what it really means. The
Wall is one of the most violent forms of
psychological and physical aggression that is
directed against the Palestinian collective and
against the Palestinian individual. This is
especially true for those whose daily existence
requires them to cross the Wall or go around it.
Maybe there are a few people in the center of
Palestinian towns who can manage and who do not
have to move, but these are very few. The
majority of the people have to cross the Wall
all the time. You cannot cross without a permit
issued by the Israeli government, so the
Israelis control our movements. They decide who
is able to move or not. In so doing, they
control the lives of the Palestinians. They
decide who is important or not; what is valuable
or not; who can go to work or not. On a
day-to-day basis, these decisions are up to
soldiers who guard the gates. These soldiers on
the ground make a lot of their own, independent
decisions. They can sexually harass the women if
they want to. They can choose to be easy,
hostile, or violent. And when they have violated
the rights and dignity of Palestinian people,
they can always find an excuse, and the
government will cover up the violations. We live
our daily lives within this violent situation.
Because of the current situation, the
number of women who are able to reach our office
is declining. We are not able to help as much as
we could. It forces us to open more centers
throughout the region, which is more expensive –
unnecessarily expensive. It is a terrible waste
of resources. We end up using our money on
administration, rents, and other overhead
expenses, including transporting staff, rather
than on doing program work.
There is nothing like one’s own real experience.
I internalized the violence of the Wall after I
heard that it was built around Qalqilia. But
hearing about it and internalizing it in an
intellectual way are incomparable to the actual
experience of having to go around or walk or
drive by it. You drive next to the Wall, but
there are also buildings bordering the other
side of the road. They built the Wall in the
middle of the street and you’re stuck between it
and the buildings in a narrow channel, like
cattle. You know what happens with cattle: The
cattle are lined up, and the machine takes them
one by one while they can’t move, as though they
were in a cage. The same happens to us. You
cannot run away. You cannot backtrack. You
cannot go left or right. You are stuck between
the Wall and the other buildings. You’re in a
line and whatever happens, you cannot act on
your own or control your own destiny. This
happens all the time. You get the feeling that,
inevitably, you are going to be destroyed,
killed, stampeded, caught in the middle of a
shooting, as if you are living your life in one
giant, ubiquitous crossfire. You are constantly
on the alert and feel very vulnerable. To say
this is a disempowering experience is an
understatement. In fact, you are being choked
unmercifully, cold-bloodedly.
All our lives we have to deal with crises. You
become weaker as a person. Your capacity to
tolerate difficulties becomes much smaller. You
are emotionally charged most of the time.
Personally I am deeply affected when I observe
the children. The kids are nervous all the time,
agitated, so much of their energy and
effervescence is restrained. They are afraid,
especially of soldiers. When they see a patrol,
they all run away and start crying. If they
start crying, I start to cry. And that shows
that I too have been, and continue to be,
traumatized. It is a new thing for me. I am
affected by the whole situation. It is a
horrible way for children to grow up.
Freedom, for me, is the ability to walk
endlessly without being stopped. To be able to
keep moving forward. For me this ability is
physical and also mental. To think without being
restricted. I find that my ability as a thinking
and moving human being is handicapped because my
physical movements are continually hindered and
restricted. Freedom also is being able to do
what I want to do; to see my friends when I want
to see them. Freedom is not being restricted
irrationally and arbitrarily, that is, when I
don’t understand why I am restricted. As a
child, I could never accept a “no” without an
explanation. I wanted to see friends, to be with
people, to have activities, and to be able to
participate with my friends in joint activities.
And to be able to think freely and to express my
thoughts freely without being shut up or being
told that I am stupid or unrealistic or
otherwise blocked in my ability to think. As an
adult living under Israeli occupation, I see the
same patterns. The restrictions and hindrance
are more sophisticated, but the same principles
are still there. There is an English expression,
“the sky is the limit.” That means that one’s
imagination and ability to be an actor in the
world should be far-reaching, limitless,
unrestricted. But in the Palestinian context,
the Wall is the limit.
As an individual, I cannot complain. Indeed, if
I compare myself to many other people, I am a
lucky person. I am able to travel abroad and
meet very interesting and creative people. They
help me overcome my own thinking blockages. I
think with them, learn from them. When I return
home, I am better able to overcome my own
limitations in thinking freely. Traveling and
seeing other realities enable me to regain my
sense of balance. When you travel you see that
the situation here is abnormal and that the
normal should be what people out there
experience. When you stay here you get used to
the situation and come to believe that there is
no other way of life.
So my level of anger is elevated when I come
back and see the situation again. My anger means
that I am alive. My anger makes me act more, be
more constructive with my colleagues, with my
kids. I try to help them cope with the situation
that they are in. Being able to use my anger to
help others is important to me because it gives
me energy. If I can maintain my anger at a
steady level, I am energized. Anger means that I
am trying to act on what happens. I think people
need to be angry all the time about the
situation. People have the right to be angry and
express their anger. It’s a sign of living – a
refusal to die. Through anger, you say no to a
brutal situation. We should not walk quietly in
the face of brutality. One should resist, for
instance, by showing anger to the soldier and by
breaking the rules. Refusing to respond to
instructions given in the Hebrew language is a
form of resistance. Everybody has a chance to
resist by any small way or means. It builds
one’s strength. Resistance is not the same as
survival. Survival is barely making it, just
going on with your dealings. Resistance is
acting consciously, purposefully on your
situation. Some people just choose to survive
because they are tired of resisting and
fighting; I can’t blame them. I consistently
hope that not all people in our society fall
into that mode. So far, it looks as though they
are resisting and fighting. My organization
supports coping strategies but also the fight to
maintain humanity, to refuse to be dehumanized,
to maintain hope. When we implement our
educational programs in the community, we just
remind people of the issues of justice and the
rule of law. You can always find hope for
building a better life.
I personally refuse to be killed emotionally or
psychologically. I will not give up. I am a
resister. As long as there is a society that
resists, there is hope. I see people’s
resistance as a profound, courageous expression
of choosing life. I see it all around me. It may
not be tangible in the immediate, but when
people choose life, there is hope. I also see
happy children all around me. As long as there
are kids laughing, there is hope.
Interview: December 20, 2004, Jerusalem.
Maha Abu Dayyeh
is director of the Women’s Center for Legal Aid
and Counseling (WCLAC) in Jerusalem.
Ismail Mukbil
A LIFE STORY OF PATIENCE AND HOPE
(interview 2002)
I am a school principal at an UNRWA school in
downtown Hebron. During the Al-Aqsa Intifadah,
my school was closed, and my students were
obliged to go to another school outside Hebron.
Many of them were in fact unable to attend
classes, due to the curfew in Hebron and the
many problems in traveling.
I was born to a simple Palestinian family of six
boys and one girl. My father worked hard to
raise us in spite of his old age. He worked in
menial jobs that mostly depended on muscles.
When I was six year, he was in his sixties and
my mother in her forties. His sole aim and hope
was to once see his sons and daughter in good
and dignified jobs. He did his best to give us
the opportunity to complete our university
studies. When I was a grown-up child of
fourteen, I remembered him saying: “My son,
study hard to be a teacher so as to get rid of
all the hardships that I faced during my life.”
It was the aim of every Palestinian refugee to
have well-educated sons and daughters since they
lacked the land to earn a living. I never
forget what happened when I was at secondary
school in Hebron. The students of my age wanted
to become friends with me, but as soon as they
heard that I was a refugee they stopped trying.
Once a good student from Hebron wanted to become
friends since I was also a very good student and
known for my quietness and politeness. However,
when he asked me where I came from and I told
him that I was from Al-Arroub refugee camp, his
face turned red and he managed with difficulty
to continue talking to me although he clearly
preferred not to do so. Most people in Palestine
consider Palestinian refugees – especially the
ones who live in camps – as of lower standing
and class.
The student’s behaviour aroused something within
myself. I decided to prove myself despite the
bitter circumstances. I wanted to complete my
secondary school although I had not enough money
to even take a taxi. During some days of the
week I walked the three kilometers to the
school. When other students asked me why I
walked, my reply was that I preferred to read
some class topics while walking. My parents
tried to give me the best they had. In 1970 I
joined the tawjihi, the last class in the
secondary cycle. I worked hard so as to get a
high average. I was able to join the Teacher’s
College in Ramallah. My father, who was very ill
at the time, was happy to see me coming back
from the college. Each time I shook hands with
him, hugged him and kissed him. I know from the
expressions of his face and his unseen smile –
he was completely paralyzed – that the aim of
his life was fulfilled. I wanted to help him and
support the family.
From that time on I learned the lesson that one
needs to give more than to take, to help
deprived people and to raise children the way
that my father dreamed of. The people of my camp
are simple, poor, and with a good heart. They
need somebody to support them, to help them
overcoming their problems and bad conditions,
mainly at times of crisis. They are deprived of
many things, of freedom, humanity, social care,
health care and all the necessary things that
many people inside and outside Palestine have.
The only thing I can give to support them is
education. I help many students in my camp in
different subjects and encourage them to
complete their study. My advice to them is to be
patient since patience bears fruitful results
for those who believe in it.
It was on Ramadan 1992 when my family and I were
invited by my brother to share the Iftar meal, a
special meal for Moslems that is eaten after
sunset. At noon on the tenth of Ramadan we left
Al-Arroub camp for Jerusalem where my brother
and his family live. Relatives, friends and
neighbours enjoyed a special meal together. As
we had school the next day, we decided to travel
back home at midnight. My brother drove us back
in his yellow [Israeli-]plated van. When we were
about one km from Al-Arroub camp, we saw a car
driver along the road who waved at us. He did
not speak Arabic so my brother, who knows Hebrew
fluently, asked what he needed. Initially the
stranger was very frightened when he learned
that we were Palestinians. My brother reassured
him and told him that we were ready to help him.
My brother said to me that he was an Israeli
from West-Jerusalem who was on his way back from
a wedding party in Harsina (a settlement inside
Hebron city). His car had broken down, and he
was looking for a mechanic. He worked as an
engineer at Jerusalem Municipality.
My brother and I left to find help in Al-Arroub
camp. We told a mechanic about the Israeli
engineer and his car. The mechanic was willing
to accompany us and fix the car although it was
late in the night. He took all the tools and
equipment needed and came to the place where the
man was waiting. After the car was fixed, the
man was pleased and gave the mechanic some money
which was refused. The Israeli thanked all of us
and urged us to visit him in the coming days.
The event passed and became history.
In summer 1999, history came back. While my
daughter took part in a Seeds of Peace
summer camp in Maine in the United States, she
became a close friend of an Israeli girl who
supported the Palestinians and peace. One day
while my daughter called us, the Israeli girl
told my daughter that she was familiar with the
phone number. Her family turned out to be that
of the man from Jerusalem. He called us and our
relationship came alive again. They expressed
their sadness to what is going on now and
opposed the oppression and suffering of the
Palestinians. We started to exchange visits and
phone calls but everything stopped after the Al-Aqsa
Intifadah. Still my family and I respect the
Israeli family who are full of humanity and
against what is happening now to the
Palestinians. We are praying to see peace spread
all over the Holy Land, the land of the holy
religions and the holy places.
Rami is a thirteen-year old smart boy, whose
behaviour says more than a thousand words. He is
very clever but shy. Before the mid-term exams,
Rami was absent. As school principal, I
investigated the reasons for his absence since
he was not ill and he had not asked permission
for a school leave. To my astonishment, one of
his friends told me that he had seen him at a
bakery near his house.
The next day, I decided to visit him at the
bakery. It was sad to see Rami in his poor
clothes helping a baker in his job. I asked the
baker whether I could speak with him for a few
minutes. After a moment of hesitation, he agreed
and asked Rami to bring two wooden chairs and to
attend for the tea. After I introduced myself,
he told me that Rami’s father had disappeared
and that nobody knew his fate. He was a man who
was often drunk. Because of that his wife had
left him, together with Rami’s grandmother, and
the wife had married an uncle. After the
grandmother died, Rami was forced to leave
school so as to earn a living. The baker
sympathized with Rami and gave him work and a
place at the bakery to sleep. I thanked the
baker for the tea and his explanation, and he
agreed to let me with Rami alone for a while.
Rami started to weep in front of my eyes. I felt
very sorry for what happened to him, and assured
him that his teachers and I would provide him
with the money and all what he needed. He agreed
to come if his mother also agreed. I invited his
mother to come to school and asked her to help
us to solve Rami’s problem. She supported Rami
and us and she told us that she was afraid that
her husband would prevent her from taking care
of Rami. She told us that most of Rami’s cousins
were uneducated people. Although they were of
school age, they all earned a living by carrying
things at the vegetable market.
We – I as principal, the school counselor and
the teachers of Rami – did our best, and Rami
joined school for a few weeks. He then
disappeared again. He rented a cart to work with
vendors. I decided to see him personally again,
and ran into him in the vegetable market while
he pushed a cart full of fruit and vegetable
boxes. When he saw me he almost fainted but I
smiled at him. He promised to visit me at school
after class time, so that there would be no
students and teachers. He kept his promise and
visited me in May 2000. He told many sad stories
about himself, his family and relatives. I
suggested him to join a school for orphans,
which is in fact one of the best schools in
Hebron. He agreed after some hesitation and I
assured him that I would do my best to support
him. He accompanied me to the new school where
he found food and a dwelling place together with
his classmates whose lives were not better than
his. I promised to visit him from time to time
and to keep contact with his new principal and
teachers.
Now Rami is a different student. He is a good
friend of most of his classmates. His teachers
and principal support and respect him. Rami
became like a cousellor to his cousins and he
advised them to go back to school again. I am
happy to help Rami and save him from the
negative influences from his environment. As a
school principal, I face many cases like Rami’s,
sometimes more complicated, sometimes less. My
school is in an area of Hebron which is deprived
of many things, including educational
opportunities, health care, and social services.
My teachers and I try to lessen the burden on
the shoulders of these deprived children.
Ismail Mukbil was principal of the UNRWA (United
Nations Relief and Work Agency) School in Hebron
(now principal of UNRWA Boys’ school in the
village of Wallajeh. He lives in Al-Arroub Camp
north of Hebron. |
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