Behind the Wall - 'The Children of Struggle'

[note: Shebab are youths or lads]

The scenes I witnessed on Friday I have witnessed many times. They happen, and have happened, all over Palestine on a virtually daily basis for years. They rose to international attention through the first Palestinian Intifada (popular uprising) from 1987-93, but are no less apparent or relevant today. But, as was demonstrated by comments made by journalists at the scene, they are not always clearly understood, and have so often been misrepresented by the world's media.

I was on my way from Aida Camp north to Balata Camp in Nablus. A journey I have made many times, and on which I usually witness many of the ugly faces of the Occupation. This journey is short in terms of distance according to maps, no more than 60 kms as the crow flies, but in real terms I have spent anywhere between three and nine hours covering this distance. Making this journey I have borne witness to shootings, beatings, and detentions (I myself was detained for four hours at a checkpoint last year whilst attempting this route during which time I was repeatedly threatened and witnessed the savage beating of a Palestinian who had dared to question the authority of the IOF). Many checkpoints and roadblocks must be traversed, and these days much of the journey is made in the shadow of concrete Apartheid (the Wall). This journey also always throws up endless displays of Palestinian determination, resilience and resistance.

Before I had even made it as far as Ramallah, which should mark roughly the half-way point in the journey, it was clear that Friday was to offer more examples of the savage Occupation against the resilience of the local populace. We had passed Container Checkpoint without interruptions for once, driven alongside the Wall past A-Ram, and followed its route towards Qalandia Checkpoint. I am unsure which of my senses had been alerted first that something was wrong. Was it the sound of heavy shooting that my ears picked up? Was it the teargas which brought tears streaming from my eyes, or maybe the smell of burning tires? Or it could even have been the sixth sense that is developed in Palestine after spending a lot of time here. The sense that just alerts you that something is happening without really being sure how you know, almost as though you can taste it in the air before turning the corner so you eyes can provide the evidence. Whatever it was that had initially alerted me, once we neared Qalandia all senses went into overdrive and painted a clear picture.

The air was thick with black smoke bellowing from burning tires and the lurid stench of teargas. Sirens wailed and tires screeched from IOF jeeps. The sound of automatic gunfire echoed through the skies and bounced off the walls of the ramshackle houses of Qalandia Refugee Camp. I was still ten minutes or so from my original intended destination of Ramallah (where I would change taxis for Nablus), but I paid the driver and quickly exited the car, pausing long enough to catch a disbelieving expression from our driver, as if to say 'you want to get out here???'.

Two jeeps were thundering up and down the narrow dirt track which runs between the Camp and the waste land which borders it at high speed. They would pause at the end of the small streets leading into the Camp just long enough to release rounds of teargas and gunfire. I could also see a barrage of rocks reigning down onto the heavily armoured jeeps as their occupants sprayed their lethal artillery at children. They were clearly shooting at the 'Shebab', and it was they, the youth of the Camp, who were attempting to repel the invaders with stones and rocks.

I made my way tentatively down the road, camera in hand hoping to make myself look like a journalist, and that this may offer me some protection. It was not rocks that concerned me, I was making way to the Shebab to speak with them and check for injuries, it was the barrage of fire coming from the IOF. A jeep span around and headed towards me at high speed. Rather than back off I made myself very obvious and continued taking photographs deciding this was the safest option. The jeep sped past me without a second glance. Without my camera this would have been much more dangerous. Had I been a Palestinian youth this would have been almost suicidal.

Heads peeped over rooftops and shouted down to me:

"Wein jeep? Wein jaysh?" ("Where is the jeep, where are the soldiers?")

I answered in Arabic saying they had driven back up the road and to the edges of the camp. This information was passed on across the rooftops and down into the narrow streets where the Shebab lurked. They began to regroup. Shop keepers pulled their shutters closed. Mothers pulled their children inside their houses. Faces watched from windows. The Shebab began to reappear; they were many in numbers, at least one hundred, maybe more. They outnumbered the IOF. They were collecting stones and watching, waiting tentatively for the jeeps to come back. I spoke to some of them explaining who I was, they were open and friendly, in no way aggressive. I ask them how this all began:

"We were waiting for someone who is being released from prison today on the main road, we were laughing and talking. Then the Jaysh began to shoot tear gas at us. We don't know why."

But to say the IOF were outnumbered I must also put this into context.

The IOF are one of the largest and best equipped military forces in the entire world. They receive their military firepower from the U.S., from European nations, and from others who are happy to provide weapons to be used in an illegal Occupation and for human rights abuses as stipulated by International Law. This is the best military equipment money can buy.

The Shebab are children, supported by no-one, armed by no-one, equipped with only what nature has provided.

At one stage the IOF withdrew to a road at the top of the Camp and call reinforcements in. Soon there are four IOF jeeps, two Police jeeps, and an IOF lorry filled with soldiers. From this vantage point they can see down into the camp and reign firepower onto it. They open the steel-plated doors of their vehicles and hide behind them, just the barrels of their weapons exposed as they shoot at children. The Shebab refuse to back down. They are defending their Camp, their families and their country.

Across the road from the Camp is Qalandia Checkpoint where more IOF are visible, as are two Israeli police jeeps. All these people are close enough to be reached by the Shebab's stones but they receive none in the three hours I am there. The Shebab have no interest as these people are not shooting at them. They are reacting understandably to an attack, and defending themselves only against those who attack them.

One youth in particular gets frighteningly close to the jeeps shooting down into the Camp. He is no more than fourteen years old, around five feet tall, skinny, and wearing a white vest with bare arms. He stands bolt upright in front of the jeeps trying to repel them. The stones cannot hurt the soldiers in the jeeps, they bounce off harmlessly. When a gun pokes out to shoot at him he ducks, or slides to one side behind a barricade ironically put there by the Occupiers themselves, but then he is back up fronting the attackers again.

By this time the IOF are shooting live bullets with the tear gas. One more than one occasion I watch as laughing soldiers pick up rocks and hurl them back at the children, shouting insults as they do this. Journalists are active near the jeeps. I hear some of them with clear English accents discussing the 'violent clashes' to camera. I talk to some of them asking if they saw this begin:

"We were waiting for the prisoner who is being released today. There were many kids around waiting too. We bought some of them Coke and sweets, then the tear gas just came out of nowhere, it was totally unprovoked."

Their story is the same as the Shebab's but their pieces to camera, talking of 'violent clashes' as though two sides are at war, imply something different. This is not the story of two warring groups. This is the story of a heavily armed Occupying force invading a Refugee Camp, yet again. Of Occupiers unleashing their firepower onto children who are trying to defend their homes, families and lives. The children do not leave the outskirts of the Camp. They are not 'attacking' Israelis in an Israeli town, they are not 'attacking' soldiers at the checkpoint. They are not attacking anyone. They are legitimately resisting an attack against their Camp. At any stage the jeeps could simply drive away and this situation would be finished, it is as simple as that, but they don't, instead they continue in their attacks.

I have seen these incidents so many times in Occupied Palestine, and expect I will see them many times again. The IOF may have the firepower to end lives, but they will not break the spirit. I have heard these kids described as violent kids. They are not. I do not see this as violence but as legitimate, yet for children very dangerous, resistance. These are kids who have nothing but will stand up for all they believe in, for justice, for resistance against the Occupation, for freedom, for Palestine. This is David against Goliath.

Last year I was talking with one of the Shebab from Aida Camp after the IOF had again invaded the Camp. He explained why he throws stones at the jeeps when they invade Aida:

"They killed my father in the Camp! Who else is there now to protect my family?"

These are the Children of Struggle.