The invasion of Ramllah

The invasion of Ramallah: "We have 80 people living in this building and we are out of food."

March 17, 2002

I have not been able to write to you all for a few days. I was without electricity for the three days that Ramallah was invaded and reoccupied by the Israeli military.

When I first heard the gunshots and the advancing tanks at approximately 1:00am on the morning of Tuesday, March 12, I quickly ran to my computer to write. Before I had a chance to finish typing “RAMALLAH UNDER INVASION”, the power was cut. Everything went dark and heavy shooting outside my apartment ensued. Why would the Israelis bring their tanks here? I live in a completely civilian area, directly behind the main hospital in Ramallah; a quiet neighborhood. In fact, the owner of the building promised us quiet when we were looking at the place 5 months ago. But there they were - Israeli tanks and Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs) rolling down our streets. Bang! Bang! - the sound of Palestinian gun-wielding young men trying to ward off the advancing Israeli army with Kalishnakof rifles and shot guns. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! - Israelis fired their machine guns and BOMB! - a tank shell. Adam (my fiancée) and I hit the ground and from then on, maneuvered around the house on our hands and knees, not wishing to catch any bullets that might come flying through our window. What to do? I called CNN. Did they know? “Hello, CNN? Do you know the Israelis are invading Ramallah? The tanks are on my street and heading towards the center of the city.” “Are you sure they’re headed for the center of the city and are not just going after the Amaari refugee camp[1].” “Yes! I’m sure. They’re rolling towards the center of the city. I see them!”

And for the rest of the night, the sound of heavy bombardment: helicopters flying overhead, tanks rolling in, tank shells being fired, machine guns...And in response, Palestinian shotguns. Explosions. Where? How far? Oh gosh! What was blown up? The Israelis have already caused so much damage, so much destruction. I called my family in the US to reassure them. “Hi Mary, what‘s up? Listen, when you watch the news and hear that Ramallah has been invaded, don’t worry. I’m just fine.“ “Heidi (my nickname), why don’t you just come home?” asked my younger sister. She later told my mother, who then called me pleading with me to come home. She heard the gunfire in the background. She hyperventilated.

I managed to fall asleep for a couple of hours. When I next looked out the front window, there was an Israeli tank pointing its barrel right at my building. An Armored Personnel Carrier was driving around and a soldier spoke over a loud speaker: “This area is under curfew. All men between the ages of 16-45 years, come out of your homes with your hands up. People in the hospital (which is right behind my house), listen up. All men between the ages of 16-45 years are to come out with their hands up now. You have 5 minutes.” Nothing. No one came out. I waited. Then what? Would they try to enter the hospital? They might have tried to advance on the hospital for heavy firing then came from behind our building - Bang! - Bang! Boom! - Boom! - Boom! - Boom! - BOMB! BOMB! for the rest of the day.

In the nearby refugee camp of Amaari, I have some friends. I called to check on the situation there. Were they surrounded like we were? Yes, the Israelis had invaded. They had blown up 3 homes and were rounding up the young men in the camp. Why does Ariel Sharon have a free hand to do this? He has already invaded and terrorized a half-dozen Palestinian refugee camps, in the past few days alone has killed over a hundred men, women, and children, has taken away over 1,300 Palestinian young men, and was now coming into Ramallah to continue his reign of terror. Of course he could! He has a large and powerful army and the Palestinian don’t. The international community has yet to show any good-faith efforts to uphold its obligations under international conventions and laws. Leaders were paying lip service to the Palestinian people, but no one was doing anything, and no one was going to do anything; so Ariel Sharon was going to invade, destroy and kill with impunity and with no boundary.

March 13

With still no electricity, rumors that our water supply was going to be cut because the Israeli army had destroyed a main water pipe, and fighting still gong on outside, I decided to try and leave my apartment to meet a journalist who was making her way into Ramallah. “I’ll see you in 10 minutes, insha’Allah (God willing) if I make it.” My fiancee and I walked past a number of tanks and smashed cars, crumbled walls and bullet-riddled buildings to make our way out to the main road. We met the journalist at a point where she couldn’t take her car in any further - the main road leading into the center of Ramallah was upturned. A large trench was dug across the road, a water pipe had been cut and water was gushing all over the rubble of the road. As I greeted my guest journalist, other journalist acquaintances warned me to be careful as Israeli snipers were stationed in many buildings and would have no problem shooting at us. “The army opened fire on a group of journalists yesterday and today killed an Italian journalist.” “I’ll be careful,” I said, as if I had any control over whether or not an Israeli soldier would decide to shoot me.

I showed the journalist around the almost deserted streets of Ramallah. Children would peek out of the windows of their homes and wave. A look of disbelief showed on the faces of the adults who must have thought us crazy. We walked by a home and noticed an elderly woman standing in the doorway. “Do you know where I can get bread?” she asked. “Not really ma’am. I haven’t seen an open shop or bakery.” Across the street a man hollered to get my attention. “Can you help us get food?” he asked from the window of him home. We have 80 people living in this building and we are out of food.” “Sir, did you call the Red Crescent? Perhaps they are organizing food convoys,” I responded. How would I be able to get food to the thousands of people that surely needed it by myself? I didn’t even see one open bakery. However, I also knew that the Red Crescent was having trouble getting their ambulances to the injured due to Israeli blockades and fire. They surely would not be organizing food convoys. Perhaps the Red Cross? I called the Red Crescent to check and sure enough they confirmed that they were having trouble maneuvering their ambulances and they were waiting for the Red Cross to somehow coordinate something with the Israeli military.

Gunfire could be heard from many different directions and we were standing in the middle of the deserted city center. The Palestinian security, turned resistance fighters, were the only other people in the streets. My journalist friend wanted to interview one of these young men. “Aren’t you afraid to die” she asked him. “No. Life under occupation and death is the same thing. I must fight for my freedom and for the liberation of my country. If I can’t live free, there’s no reason to live. I’m not living right now.”

We made our way over to the Qadoura refugee camp. Evidence of the Israeli tanks having made their way through the narrow streets of the camp was prevalent. Electricity poles were knocked over, as were the walls of the home of our next interviewee. I began talking to little Wael. Two years old, he wasn’t really talking, just looking at me and laughing bashfully. “He wouldn’t stop screaming and crying yesterday” his father told me. “Today it’s a little easier.” I heard the young woman being interviewed by the journalist start to sob. “The worst thing is the feeling of helplessness. Your kids look to you to protect them and you can’t.”

Our last stop was the Amaari refugee camp. Although the journalist was getting a little nervous and anxious to get back to Jerusalem, we made our way into the camp en route. Tens of young children ran up to us as soon as they saw us entering. The kids knew Adam and I from previous visits to the camp and from various protest actions we had organized, including soccer games in front of occupying Israeli forces. An older woman grabbed my arm. “Are you going to help us? Can you find out where our men are? They took my son and my husband and I’m left here with the little children, waiting. I don’t know….I don’t know….” The heavy sound of tanks rumbling could be heard on the next street over. Another woman peering down at me from her home asked, “Can you just check up on our young men? Can you find out what they did to them?” “They took them yesterday,” a 12-year-old boy by the name of Mahmoud told me. “They took my father and my uncle,” he whispered. The journalist stopped to talk to a boy who was subjected to the round up but had been released. He was 15 years old.

“The Israeli soldiers came around demanding that all men between the ages of 16 and 45, report to the boys school.[2] I’m only 15, but I have an ID card, so I didn’t want to take a chance. The soldiers announced that they would be conducting house searches and if they found anyone within age that hadn’t voluntarily turned himself in, he would face harsh punishment, and maybe even death. So I went to the school. The soldiers were taking us in one by one. They forced us to strip down to our underwear for searches. Then we were lead into this room where we were asked questions about who the activists in the camp were and who in the camp had weapons. Then we were gathered in the schoolyard and made to remain there, with our hands tied above our heads. I was there from 11am until about 7pm. I started to cry and felt like I was going to pass out. I was cold and hungry. I had pleaded with the soldiers earlier, telling them that I was just a child and couldn’t take this, but they didn’t listen. When I finally broke down crying and looked like I was going to faint, one soldier told me that I could go home. Just me. The rest stayed and I don’t know what happened to them. There were about 300 of us.”

What could I do for the woman who asked me to check on the men? What could I do for Mahmoud whose father was taken? What could I do for the thousands that were husbandless, childless, fatherless? I knew where they were. The Israeli army was taking these men to their bases. In all likelihood they were being physically abused, if not tortured.

The children wanted to continue walking with us, but as we approached the edge of the camp, the Israeli tank blocking the entrance could be seen. “You guys please stay behind. I don’t want these soldiers shooting at you so don’t get near them. If I hear that one of you gets hurt, I’ll come back here and kill you myself,” I said trying to smile. “It’ll be OK. It’ll all be OK.”

END

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[1] The previous weeks had seen the Israeli Armed Forces surround and invade Palestinian refugee camps in Nablus, Jenin, Tulkarem, Gaza and Bethlehem, arresting hundreds of young men and causing large-scale destruction, injury and death. The Israelis claimed that these invasions of refugee camps were “operations” designed to capture Palestinian militants.

[2] The Israeli soldiers occupied the schools in the camp and used them for their base. In Ramallah city, one of the main boys school was used by the army as a command post.

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