UCL Friends of Palestine: Mock Checkpoint & Life Under Occupation

By Layth Hanbali

(UCL Friends of Palestine)

Last year, our president won the society funding by the union of a campaigns week, entitled 'Life Under Occupation'. Throughout the year, the other winners of the campaigns requests went unnoticed but we made sure ours was different. The plight of the Palestinians living in the West Bank is still widely misunderstood where many believe that it is one side fighting the other, that there are two sides to the conflict and that this is one of many wars going on around the world. In a situation where one side has total security control over the other, transfers populations illegally onto the other's land, places hundreds of roadblocks that stop the owners of the land but not the infiltrators, where the infiltrators get 5 times as much water as the owners of the resources and where the settlers have provisions to all public services and the Palestinians to next to none, it would be embarrassing to use the words "conflict" and "war".

University Collage of London (UCL) Friends of Palestine tried to bring that truth closer to campus in our campaigns week. Despite very difficult hurdles being placed on our society by management, we still held a fantastic photo exhibition in the Jeremy Bentham Room under the leadership of our vice president. The shocking photos of Hebron, Bethlehem and Abou Dis provoked some thought into the observers who on the whole appreciated the exhibition. Those who were "appalled", however, were those we are never optimistic enough to convince anyway. The exhibition of the situation of Palestinians living under the brutal occupation ran all week and received great traffic throughout.

What I was personally most excited for was Wednesday. We decided to bring the Palestinian struggle against the illegal occupation and horrible oppression to UCL quad. After much thought, we decided to make a documentary out of it to bring it to the attention of as many people as possible, as only so many people will be walking through the quad, compared to the impressive viral nature of the internet. War on Want were kind enough to provide us with their brilliant replica of the wall being built illegally on Palestinian land and props and costumes were as convincing as we could obtain. Our two soldiers played the role fantastically and one certainly seemed to enjoy the switch from being the oppressed Palestinian to the arrogant soldier on the checkpoint, having even learnt common checkpoint phrases the night before. The harassment, beating and humiliation was made sure to be backed up by evidence, including the shocking scenarios of tens of Palestinian women who have given birth on checkpoints, with 1 in 2 still births.

Our information desk worked relentlessly to make sure facts like that aren't forgotten and to deal with any confrontation which fortunately was minimal. I was delighted when someone who had once or twice heard of Gaza engaged in a lengthy conversation with me discussing the history of the issue, but even more delighted when an Israeli guy and I discussed practical ways in which this horrible situation could one day end. The end of our well-received stunt was not so happy unfortunately as a girl from Tel Aviv categorically said she supported the starving of Gazans as she compared it to "slapping the ant crawling up your leg".

On the whole, it was a successful week which brought the suffering of Palestinians onto campus very well. The students on the whole were appreciative and supportive of our cause and we couldn't have hoped of running it much smoother. A testimony of our success was a hardcore Zionist requesting from the Zionist Battle Bus to come to UCL after the "bile" taking place on campus. We can only hope to carry on the good work to hopefully actually get a trip from what was this year a thoroughly unsuccessful Liebermann campaign.

A Simulation of a Civilian Injured 

Waiting at a Checkpoint, which normally takes hours

A Solider of the Israeli Occupation Forces

University College London 

First Death Experience

Isra.M.Migdad

A True Story By A Girl From Gaza

Walking and tears dropping on the floor and without choice I had to prepare myself for death. Whispering to myself, will they wipe us out, will everything stop, my dreams , my hopes?

And then...where will the love go and where will the flowers flow? But surrendering is not a choice to me. I was repeating victory poems while collecting my things, within my  mind there were echoes of silence addressing the world, where is your Humanity, where are the advocators of human laws that aim to protect and serve?

“The Israeli forces are at the end of our street” my brother said, “no choice to escape“, he added. I was confused and panicking sped up my steps towards my shelf to pick up things my Grandma gave me, that medal carved in it the Palestinian flag and the key of return. I took some pictures of my fancy childhood, putting them in my bag, looking at the remaining things, my files, the yellow box I bought with my cousin, and my books I bought with my own pocket money. Those slips of papers from my beloved people, my pictures on the wall, the new clothes I bought to wear for that party we were preparing for, all that will soon be destroyed; I even questioned my own survival. I tightened up my bag, wiping my tears; consoling myself that nothing will remain in my heart except nice remembrances and hope.

With sudden jarring of the floor, a trespass upon our zone, tanks and bulldozers surrounding all buildings in the place, all families were in distress.

Mummy closed the doors and windows for safety, father rushed with my brothers to protect us, my brother’s wife say pregnant on the floor doing nothing. Waiting.

Cautiously, I went peeking from that broken window to see what’s happening outside. More than 17 tanks were settled, I caught the eyes of those Israeli ‘Defense’ Force Soldiers who were perched with indifference on the knife-edge of their offensive machines, popping seed after seed into the black holes that were their mouths: waiting, to pounce on my life. The bulldozers savagely advanced on the planted orchards…Other soldiers set about fencing off the street.

I heard a knock on the door that pulled my attention away from concentrating on this terrifying view.

With a quick stand, I reached the door. Looking through the door lens I saw our neighbors gasping and asking what shall we do? We told them in a hurry to come to our flat; it might be safer than theirs. My young siblings, my brother’s wife, our neighbors, and some more; we all were trapped in the house. Five hours after, the Israeli soldiers reached our zone, they took our location and distributed themselves amongst the buildings. They started bombing and striking bombs randomly. The operation started. Many bombs were thrown towards our building; fire ate every single thing.

We were waiting to die. We reached death station: every voice of the bombs we heard made us move to the opposite side of the room thinking wrongly it would be safer! It was all quite like a horror movie. You know the one where you are trapped: waiting?

I never stopped peeping from the broken window, this time I saw one tank moving its artillery to a near place. Suddenly, a big explosion in our building without knowing in which floor, you can’t scream, you can’t walk, you have to lean yourself on the floor  not to make shadows, to ask in silence, it was our language that day.

Electronic wires were cut, transmitter station was ruined. The soldiers opened fire on water drums and barrels of water with apertures everywher. Minutes later, we would find no water, no light and no communication network, but few candles and some water mum has saved for need.

We were isolated..!

My father prevented us to open any door which leads to rooms in our flat, “we don’t want them to know we are here” he said, otherwise we will all be killed. I wanted to check if there was any damage in our room. I tried to open the door, but another series of bombs stopped me. Fear and the peak of frightening feelings settled upon us, they began throwing the firebombs. Smoke was frightening us more than rockets and bombs; it was the slowing down of death.

My young sister was talking to herself, looking at the blazing fire behind the window “I don’t want to be killed by smoke, rockets and bombs are much better...” I interrupted her asking why? “I don’t want to see any of you dying in front of me by suffocation, gasping for air, smoke will kill the weakest, the rocket might kill us at once.”

The fire reached the fourth floor, curtains caught fire, the windows smashed and broke, and there was no way to put out this fire. We used a white cloth to put on our noses to breath air, no place to protect us from smoke. It was everywhere.

“Shall I open the window for oxygen mum,” asked my sister. With no answer, my mother began to look for a safe place without smoke, but there was none. She held them and went to my brother’s room.

We stopped peeping out of the window, knowing nothing about what is happening outside, the situation got worse, and the sound of helicopters above us throwing rockets to the building, waiting for the minute, the land gulps us all.   Closing our eyes, holding our hearts, and saying: “Ya - Allah”.  We all were repeating after my mother’s praying and with one voice we said “Ya- Allah.” I fell upon my knees, raised my hands to pray for mercy and for rain... “Please Allah be with us “

“Where can we go Dad,“ my brother asked. Silence was all the answer.

I went to the toilet, to escape from the fire to find fire inside. Where I thought to be with no fire and smoke, but more badly, the wall was boiling, I couldn’t even touch it.

My elder brother lit a candle to try to see in front of us, we were all sitting beside each other I  embraced my young sister in my ribs, hugging her all time, she eased off her arms upon my chest, and closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Looking to my brother’s wife, I was afraid she would miscarry after this strained day. I was thinking, how one of us can bless those children in this hard time, thinking about that strange winter that passed upon us, with no rain.

We stayed till 9 pm, smoke began lessen and vanished, without knowing if the Israeli are still in the place or withdrew. I opened my eyes to pray, in the gloomy night, but I couldn’t move, otherwise ill awake my small sister who’s sleeping beside me. I didn’t know what time it was, I looked right and left I just saw the blackish night, took a breath  and a tear of mine dropped on my sisters cheek awakened and paniced her. She flopped on me and began crying.

All members of my family woke up and didn’t grasp what happened, we all got up looking around, finding no sound, and silence controlled all the surroundings.

I went in a hurry to my room, looking and checking my things, the injured dove amazed me, pooh!!   Even this dove is a purpose.  What’s this wrong? What’s this guilt? Damage was everywhere, smoke and broken glass on the floor, halls in the wall, files of mine were disorganized, books, everything was targeted, shrapnel everywhere.

O Palestine, to you I will express my sorrow, there’s no tears in my eyes, all have been dried, to your eyes I tell my sadness. My eyes were deprived of sleeping, afraid that my dreams would escape! Why is the life painful? When heart suffers from what is happening, When the echo of groans are grief, we are still living of what is called “humanity”.

A village, A Well and Two Graves.

Zachariah Sammour

In this story these three nouns are the centrepiece; the beginning, middle, and end. They are the where, the why and the what. They explain everything.

In a normal story these three nouns could only be connected through location; they may exist together in the same place but no other connection would be feasible or meaningful. But this is not a normal story; a normal story would be located within a normal context, a normal setting and it would be subject to the general constraints that our lives are. This, however, is a story set in a place where a well can be a catalyst for death and destruction, where an entire village can be hounded and harassed because of it and how two young boys can be shot dead because of it.

This is clearly not a normal place. And I do not mean to blame the well for the tragedies which I shall disclose to you in this story; it is of course an inanimate object and unable to be a cause in and of itself. It is rather what the well represents that will emerge as the villain of our story, as the prime antagonist, as the murderer of two young boys.

And so to begin.

The village is called Iraq Burin. It’s a small village, a cluster of houses nestled atop a small mountain. In another time and place the village could be considered beautiful; surrounded by steep hills on one side and by an even steeper drop from the other, the views are truly incredible. But it is not the aesthetic value of the place which makes it of interest; it is rather its location.

This village is home to hundreds of Palestinians and has been for over a century. The surrounding hills and the flowing fields below have provided the inhabitants of that village with sustenance and commerce since its inception. But the village is also home to another, allegedly far older than even the olive trees planted by these Palestinian farmers’ years before- a well.

If you ever, per chance, stumble upon this small village you would certainly be forgiven if you did not in turn stumble upon this well. It is not signposted, there are no tour guides waiting eagerly to show you it or too teach you of its historical importance, waiting to bore you with a lengthy monologue on the style of architecture it exhibits. It is a simple, small, concrete block protruding from a hill facing the village; nothing more. Despite its relatively unimpressive looks however, this well is believed by some to be Jacob’s Well, immortalised by its mention in the bible and holy to Jews and Christians alike;

John 4:5:  So he came to a town in Samaria called Sychar, near the plot of ground Jacob had given to his son Joseph. ⁶ Jacob's well was there, and Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. It was about noon.

These poor villagers! Little did they know that this entire time they have been living on the very sight that Jesus (pbuh) once sat and drank; where he preached a message of brotherhood between Jew and non-Jew. We could perhaps forgive them for never making the connection however, particularly in light of the fact that the villagers claim the well was built in the 60’s. We might also forgive them when one discovers the fact that a short drive away in Nablus a colossal church sits atop the sight that most Christians and Jews believe Jacob’s Well to actually have been. A church which itself has witnessed the brutality that a well can cause, but that’s another story.  

But nonetheless, the scene is now set and our tale can begin to unravel. A village of Palestinians living atop a Judeo-Christian religious site; of course it must be made open to worshipers. As Christians (and the rest of the world) believe the site to be in Nablus, it will only be Jewish worshipers who will come to pay homage. If they are to journey down and pray at the Well there must also be a place for them to rest, store their prayer materials and so forth. Of course, these worshipers must therefore have a plot of land around the well in order to have such a place to rest.

And so the trouble begins. Land atop the hill is appropriated and turned into an ‘outpost’, a place where Jewish worshipers can rest, store their materials and protect their holy site. Of course the appropriation of land owned by the villagers of Iraq Burin will not occur without protest, thus more land must be taken in order to establish and IDF Security Zone. The outpost naturally grows as more and more Jews flock to pay homage to the site of religious significance, more and more land is appropriated atop the hill, and the Palestinians at the bottom grow more and more agitated.

Animosity is high, over 100,000 square metres of the Villagers land has been appropriated as a result of the discovery of a Jewish religious site in their village. The entire hill is now a Security Zone, prohibited to Palestinians to access. The Palestinians are envious of their new neighbours who have large, well maintained homes with decent access to water, nice cars and their own roads- far more direct and safe than the winding, pothole ridden roads designated for the indigenous inhabitants. They are angry that these people, most of whom having arrived recently in the continent from Eastern Europe, have taken the lands there fathers and grandfathers farmed and loved without so much as a courtesy note.

One day the settlers walk down the hill, accompanied by IDF soldiers, and violence erupts. Some say it was Palestinian stone throwers, others say the settlers attacked a Palestinian man who was trying to graze his flock of sheep, this part of the story is unclear. Perhaps a Palestinian wished to expel the invaders from his land, perhaps a settler wished to push the Palestinian further from it.

The reaction is predictable. IDF soldiers flock into the area in order to protect the settlers; they impose a curfew on the entire village. Armoured cars, soldiers with state of the art machine guns, children with rocks; the reality of conflict descends upon this small village atop the mountain. A jeep proceeds down the hill, it is hit by stones from nearby youths. Muhammad Qudus turns to run from the advancing soldiers, the 16 year old boys heart racing at the excitement; he finally gets to confront the enemy, he can finally vent his anger, showcase his machismo to his friends. He stops. The rock in his hand drops to the floor, he soon follows. Everything goes blank. A bullet entered his back, travelled through his abdomen and erupted out of his stomach, taking with it all of young Muhammad’s dreams, his anger, his hate, his life.  

Muhammad’s cousin, Asaud, see’s his kinsmen fall to the ground. He sees the massive hole in his cousin’s stomach; he watches the blood pour from it like the tears of a bereaved mother. He run’s to his cousin’s side when his world too goes blank. A bullet from an IDF rifle pierces his skull and enters his brain, nestling there like the village atop the mountain. Asaud is rushed to hospital, but there is nothing that can be done. Just as the village will not disappear at the behest of the invading settlers, the bullet will not disappear at the behest of the doctor’s scalpel.

So Muhammad and Asaud now lie together in an eternal sleep; their new, clean, white graves surrounded by flags and flowers bringing life to the graveyard.

The village, the well and the graves; all connected in this abnormal and abhorrent course of events.

And so we see that it was not the bullets, or the settlers, or the IDF that really killed these young men. It was the well and everything it represents. It’s assertion that my past is greater than your present; that my religion trumps your existence, that my needs are greater than any of yours, that I am greater than you. The religious observance at this well should not be mistaken with a real attempt to honour ones religion and God; it is the inverse. It is the perverse use of religion to facilitate the illegal annexation and occupation of another’s land. It is the opportunistic attempt to delegitimize the existence and claims of another to land by usurping them with blatantly false claims of historical significance.

The well is Israel; the logic which drives the settlers to steal land from the Palestinians, to live on their own in communities exclusively for Jews, with Jew-only roads and Jew-only water; to exclude and harass the Palestinians and to in turn create a ‘Jewish’ utopia. It is the logic that drives the settlements and drove the Nakba; it is logic of Zionism. So what if you live here, if your father lived here, if your grandfather lived here; Jews once lived here and therefore this land is mine. My claim is greater than yours.

The inability of Zionism to acknowledge the legitimacy not only of Palestinian claims to land but of the Palestinian people is the driving force of this conflict. The story of Iraq Burin is the story of any settlement, of any outpost, it is a case study of a settlement in its embryonic stage. A historical claim, an outpost, a settlement, armed action in the Palestinian village, a gradual exodus of non-Jews, the Juadisation of the West Bank.