I spent one day in Bil’in.
I got off at the mosque in the center of town. Another man also getting off the bus waved me to follow to where some people were gathered. He exchanged a few words with a youth who then led me through a gate and to my friend’s door.
We went first to see the wall. There were dry hills in every direction. We looked over the olive trees and across the valley to where there was a fence, waiting to be replaced by the concrete wall that you could see to both sides. There was a tall thin tower with a camera on top and a military building there behind the fence.
We waited for a minute until a pair of army vehicles drove up behind the fence and we could see soldiers getting out. My friend told me they were out in force. He was calm but I could tell his mind was at work.
Back home his wife had prepared a heaping platter of chicken and rice and we gathered around the table in the living room. There was a Japanese woman staying there as well, a real estate agent from Kobe, a gentle and friendly person.
Over the next day she would tell me a few times, in her limited English, that Israeli people are not normal. This while looking at soldiers with tear gas and machine guns waiting for us, unarmed protestors, regular people, doing nothing other than showing our disapproval of the wall. The wall was wrong for stealing farmland and water. Wrong for making space for Jewish-only settlements. Wrong because a concrete wall surrounding a people on all sides is a prison wall.
Before we went out for the evening, to patrol the town and organize for the next day, I spent some time with my friend’s children. Such fierce, strong little people. The adults weren’t trying to control them or to hide the truth from them. They were part of the resistance as well, it was in their eyes and their bodies.
It was dark now and we went to the house of another organizer. There were a few of us there. We waited and drank first coffee, then tea. They smoked one cigarette after the other. We looked out the windows and across to the military outpost every few minutes to see if the soldiers were on the move. The men with guns could raid during the night. They would find no weapons, no bombs, no papers, just people and families in their homes. Their raid would be an attempt to break our will, to shake us, to scare the children.
They guys made some phone calls and talked about the plans, but mostly we waited. They spoke to each other in Arabic about the nature of love. They kept on the topic for some time.
They told me the goal was not to confront the soldiers. The goal was to show people around the world that what was happening here was a crime, something so terrible that people would gather and shout, chant, sing, give speeches, and march until they were dispersed with violence. Then they would regroup and march again until broken by violence. Then do it again until they were too tired to go on. Then repeat each week until the world took notice.
The next morning we gathered in front of the mosque. Boys sold coffee from tall metal pots that they carried or propped somewhere. Townspeople young and old were there, more arriving each minute. People shook hands and greeted each other and talked.
The soldiers had put floating checkpoints on the major roads coming into town, trying to stop the media and other protestors from getting to us. The organizers were on their phones, explaining alternate routes. If they were also blocked, people could park their cars and hike over the hills. And like this they arrived, Palestinians, internationals, and Israelis, soon there were hundreds of us.
A motorcade of black cars pulled in. The prime minister, Salam Fayyad was here. Men with suits and collared shirts stood around him while he shook hands. There was good energy in the air. Then the prime minister and his entourage took off their shoes and went into the mosque.
Everyone gathered around the stage. The organizers gave speeches and the prime minister made a speech. Middle Eastern music blasted from a truck in the intervals. I held a banner with my friend’s son. Men and women waved flags and cheered. Then we started down the road.
Before we got close the soldiers launched a volley of tear gas. The canisters hissed and released their smoke in the air or on the ground. It smelled sweet at first then your face, lips, and the inside of your mouth began to sting. If one landed right near you or on both sides, you tried to hold your breath and run. You were coughing and spitting and thinking that you couldn’t breathe, trying not to panic.
Townspeople offered slivers of raw onion to be rubbed around the eyes and nose. Rubbing alcohol was passed around to soak handkerchiefs and wipe the toxic powder off your face.
Some people were able to get down through the valley and start up the other side. A group of soldiers advanced to meet them partway down the slope. I could see the protestors were still. The soldiers formed a semicircle and had their machine guns ready.
Acrid air blew up at us from the valley. Some youths marched by with a twisted length of metal fencing. They had gotten to part of the fence and cut the wires and ripped it out. Some people cheered but most just watched them, too tired to respond.
Eventually we all pulled back towards the town and fresh air. We were completely spent. The sun came out again and I talked to some journalists, an Israeli based in Tel Aviv and a Palestinian in Beirut.
A family waved some of us over to their porch, and offered us fresh squeezed grapefruit juice. They picked the fruit from their tree. The said they always made juice for the internationals after the protests.
People were leaving now, to get back to Ramallah or Jerusalem. Shared taxis were organized, photos and emails were exchanged.
I learned the next day about the woman who died from the gas. I hadn’t met her. My friend had showed me the video capturing the death of her brother the previous year, shot in the chest with a canister from close range. The violent murder was terrifying but the courage he showed was inspirational. Like brother like sister.
I had always learned about the protest and violence from a distance. I would shake my head and ask my friends, ‘Did you hear what the Israelis are doing in Bil’in?’ But to go there and take part, to follow the lead of the people of Bil’in, this was to join in the shared struggle, a universal struggle for our principles and rights.
