A Nonviolent (?) Act of Resistance

My head is still spinning from the events of this morning.

I haven’t posted in a couple of weeks, and many things have happened during that time: I went on a trip to Nazareth and Tiberias where I swam in the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River, I attended a week-long conference on the Palestinian Diaspora and heard speakers from all over the world, I harvested grapes on the top of the Mount of Olives, and I spent another weekend in Tel Aviv, making friends within the dance community there. Those were all exciting, positive things, of which I hope to post about in the near future. However, this morning was a different kind of experience all together…

Kristen invited me to join her and many others for a nonviolent act of resistance in Beit Jala, a town on the outskirts of Bethlehem. The intent was to have a small worship service, involving communion, led by a Palestinian Roman Catholic Priest. This would occur near the land where hundreds of olive trees are currently being uprooted in order to make room for the continuation of the separation wall. This wall, which is 3x higher than what the Berlin wall was, will eventually span the length of the West Bank, cutting off all of Palestine from Jerusalem and other parts of Israel.

Part of the separation wall between Bethlehem and Jerusalem.

The land that is being cleared is owned by five different Palestinian families, some Christian, some Muslim. It has been in their families for generations, and the annual harvesting of olives off of these trees contributes largely to each family’s income for the year. They say it takes the olive trees here about 10 years to produce a full crop. Many of the trees being uprooted in Beit Jala are hundreds of years old.  

When we first arrive, the bulldozers and tractors are hard at work. It’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed the clearing of a stretch of land. It was quite shocking; just the brutality of trees being ripped from the earth, their branches sawed off, full of almost-ripe olives that would have been harvested in another month’s time. The noise of it all is jarring as well – beeping, screeching, crunching. There are media crews here. Some people have brought a table for the communion service. I’m sticking to the back of the crowd. Observing. Listening to conversations in Arabic that I can’t begin to hope to understand. 

If you zoom in, you can see the olives on the branches,
only a few weeks shy of being ripe for harvest.

 

                                    

There are many IDF soldiers there with guns. A couple of tanks. The atmosphere is tense, but controlled. The military commander and priest talk across the tape barrier. Their conversation seems friendly enough. Though I begin to feel a bit uneasy when I notice that the camera crews are all carrying gas masks, as what I can only assume is a precaution against tear gas.

The gas mask is slung over his right shoulder.

One of the Israeli tanks.

Tape barrier that marked the area where civilians were not allowed to enter

There is some disagreement between the priest and commander as to how long the service can be. The priest wants 30 minutes. The commander says 15. A Palestinian man approaches where they are having the discussion. He appears very angry; as if his agenda is different than those here for a peaceful demonstration. He begins yelling at the military commander. He is told to back away. The priest stands in the middle, speaking fast Arabic, urging the guy to be calm and to let him handle it. The man does back away, but it is clear that he is not pleased with the direction things are going in, and he continues to be a source of conflict as the morning progresses.

More people join the growing crowd. Most of these are younger Palestinians who live in the neighborhood. Some are members of the families whose lands have been taken. They bring with them several baby olive trees, saplings. Turns out they are planning to try and plant them across the fence, where the bulldozers are uprooting the others. Though still a “non-violent” act of resistance, this is not quite what I had signed up for.

Suddenly, people start clapping and cheering. One man has gotten through the fence and placed one of the baby saplings on the cleared land. Immediately, soldiers start running towards him. There is lots of yelling. The media crews rush over to the scene, as does most of the crowd. Again, I hang back. Again, I wish I understood Arabic.

After a few tense minutes, I see a man being led away in the distance, his hands cuffed behind his back. He cries out loudly. I wonder what I am doing here. The dialogue ramps up between the priest and the military commander. They are still being civil to one another, but also very direct. Very clear. They speak in English, a second language for them both. 

The commander tells the priest, “I am letting you protest here. You don’t have a permit, you don’t have a right to be here, but I am letting you have your service – so long as you do it non-violently, peacefully. I am calm. There aren’t any problems. But if your people act out, there will be problems.”

The priest agrees to these terms, but then can’t help but reiterate his own perspective, “Ok, but we should not need a permit. These are our lands. Palestinian lands. We have a right to be here.” 

        “It is against the law for you to protest here.”

        “Against whose law? Your law, or our law?”

        “Against the law. Israeli law.”

People are getting angrier. Tempers begin to flare. There are armed soldiers in the background. Palestinian and international supporters in the background. Destruction of trees in the background. And the table is set for communion

The Palestinian man who had tried causing trouble earlier is back at it again. He pushes his way through to the front of the tape and yells at the soldiers standing near there. Others try to pull him back, the priest tries to calm him, but to no avail. He begins a chant in Arabic that a handful of people join in on. I am told later that it translates to, “Israel is a terrorist state.”

The military commander approaches, the guy takes a swing at him. And all hell breaks loose. Soldiers run forward, Palestinians push towards them. People are fighting. Others try to separate them and get tossed around in the confusion. A soldier falls to the ground. A Palestinian falls to the ground. A soldier kicks him. Women are crying. A child yells. These men are their husbands, their sons, their fathers. The priest puts himself in the middle, trying to stop the wave of violence, trying to quell the tide of anger that is rising with each push, with each shove.

Eventually, two more arrests are made and those men are taken away. The tension dies down. People care for those who were injured in the struggle. There are some sprained and broken fingers, a few deep cuts and scrapes. The priest returns to behind the communion table. We all gather in for the worship service. His hands shake slightly as he holds up the bread and wine.

The service is in Arabic, so I don’t understand what is said. I join the other voices in the Lord’s Prayer, however, everyone speaking it in his or her own language. Each sentence takes on new meaning as I speak it in the midst of the destruction, the fear, the chaos. I get a lump in my throat as I say, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespassed against us.” I think about the families whose trees are being uprooted. I think about the young Israeli soldiers who are just following their orders. I think about the angry men who came out that morning looking for a fight – and about how this life of oppression and entrapment leaves them with no other means of feeling heard. I think about the trespasses done on both sides. I wonder where Jesus would be in the midst of it all.

The priest breaks the bread and invites us to communion. I approach and he dips a wafer into the cup and places it in my mouth. I hear the sound of the tractors constant bulldozing; the bread of life being given while trees representing life are uprooted. 

“This is his body, broken for you,”

…as trees are stripped of their branches and trunks are ripped from the ground.

“This is his blood, shed for you,”

…as mothers cry out in sadness and fathers cry out in rage.

I want to reiterate that, throughout all the conflict and outbursts of violence, I was on the outskirts of the crowd. I did not run towards the clashes, but hung back, observing – trying to understand what was happening from both sides. I’m still shaken by what I saw: the destruction, the anger, the violence, the despair. I struggle to see a way out. I struggle to see hope.

But, today is just one day. Tomorrow will be another. As I returned home to my apartment this evening, I was greeted by two of the children who live above me (my apartment is housed within a small complex, owned by a Palestinian family who are Israeli citizens, and are thus allowed to live in Jerusalem, on the other side of the wall). The girl is 7 and the boy is 4. The girl is learning English in school, and is always eager to practice it with me. I said hello to them and chatted a while, and then they followed me to my front door.

They asked, with the directness only children possess, if they could come in. I said yes, and they cheerfully rushed past me, eager to discover what lay inside; opening drawers and cabinets – the boy going so far as to examine the contents of my fridge. I showed them my guitar. I gave them chocolate. I tried speaking Arabic. They tried speaking English. After 15 minutes or so, they headed back home for dinner, with a promise to come back and visit tomorrow.

Even after the stress and sadness of today, I couldn’t help but smile as they said “goodbye” one last time while shutting the door. The little girl said, “I love you!” (her favorite way to both greet and leave me), and I replied, “I love you too!” If only love was that simple and easy to come by. If only the angry man chanting and the young soldier standing could go back to an age where a square of chocolate made you friends for life.