Un Bantoustan en Israël

Dimanche 11 Décembre.  Camp de réfugié de Shuafat. Jérusalem-Est.

L'entrée du camp

Shuafat est le seul camp de réfugiés palestinien sous la juridiction de Jérusalem. Les habitants ont le statut de résidents permanents, mais ne sont pas titulaires de la nationalité israélienne. 

Je voulais d'abord y aller pour me rendre compte de l'étendue du mur d'enceinte qui encercle depuis peu l'intégralité de la zone, et effectivement les 11 000 résidents vivent désormais à l'ombre. Comme partout dans les territoires occupés, l'entrée du checkpoint principal est une véritable passoire, et je n'ai pas été inquiété par les soldats qui contrôlent les sorties.  

L'odeur de pourriture qui règne dancs ce camp est saisissante. Les  militaires israéliens semblent même en souffrir. L'hygiène y est déplorable du fait d'une situation de surpeuplement couplée à une mauvaise gestion des déchets. Pour moi, c'était comme retourner à Sabra et Chatila. A une dizaine de minutes en bus des quartiers chics de la ville,  Shuafat intra-muros illustre l'incroyable contraste entre l'Est et l'Ouest.

Après quelques minutes d'égarement, je me suis retrouvé en plein milieu d'une émeute. C'est assez rare pour un Dimanche. Comme dans beaucoup de manifestations ici, les plus jeunes se retrouvent  de plein gré, en première ligne face aux forces de sécurité. Des enfants à peine plus âgés que mon frère s'empressent de briser des blocs de pierre sur le sol avant de lancer les débris sur la troupe. Je me demande parfois ce qui les pousse à prendre tant de risques. Est-ce l'expression d'un profond désespoir ou la quête universelle d'adrénaline propre à l'adolescence?

Après avoir montré patte blanche devant le garde en faction, j'ai pu quitter cet enclos humain sans grandes difficultés avec le sentiment que beaucoup d'israéliens ne connaissent pas le prix de leur sécurité.

Un jeune lanceur de pierres anonyme

Nabi Saleh: reflection on humanity

Je connais Andrew Haas depuis mon arrivée à Bethléem. Il habite à l'étage supérieur du même immeuble. Il a assisté à la manifestation hebdomadaire de Nabi Saleh le Vendredi 9 Décembre. Voici son témoignage:  

  

 Recueillement autour de la tombe de Mustafa Tamimi

Friday morning, December 9^th, my friend and I set out to experience a West Bank protest. It was a first for both of us, seeing as I have Arabic class every Friday, and he lives in Tel Aviv. As protest virgins, we had no idea what to expect. What did a confrontation look like? How do people protest? How would the soldiers react? I’d heard tales of people dodging tear gas canisters and running from the Israeli Defense Force (IDF). After four months of living in Bethlehem, I wanted to experience it for myself.

We ended up attending the protest in Nabi Saleh, coincidently on its two year anniversary date of weekly protests. The source of the conflict is the confiscation of much of the town’s land and it’s only water well due to the construction of the nearby illegal Israeli settlement of Halamish.  Furthermore, the IDF under the mandate to protect Israeli citizens (the occupants of the illegal settlements), makes frequent night raids, surprise home invasions where children are dragged from their beds for interrogation, documentation and sometimes detention.

Every Friday, the townspeople and activists gather and attempt to march to the stolen water well, but as I was to experience, rarely make it out of their village.

After noontime prayers, the protest began. We walked down the main road and towards the highway leading to the well. We didn’t get far. Shortly after rounding a bend, we found the IDF waiting for us. I was a little surprised to see the soldiers so early in our march, still within the town precinct and still quit a distance from the well. Obviously intent on stopping our forward progress, the army commenced a volley of tear gas canisters and rubber bullets. In response, some of the local kids and youths began returning the military crowd retardants with stones along the road.

The inequality of their fight struck me.  It was David vs. Goliath, inaccurate slingshots vs. scoped rifles firing lead-cored rubber bullets, taunts and jeering vs. concussion grenades and tear gas, and teens in t-shirts vs. soldiers in body armor.  My image of myself as fearless faded as I watched little girls lightly skip out of the way of concussion grenades, and boys compete over who threw the tear gas canisters up wind. To me, this was the next world war. For them, this was a regular day off from school.

What seemed like a game, became deadly serious when a young man at the protest, Mustafa Tamimi, was shot in the face by a high velocity tear gas canister from very close range (approx. 8-10 meters). The ambulance that had been at the ready for the protest earlier, was already in use. Fellow protesters lifted Mustafa’s limp body into a passenger van.

Like our protest march, the bus didn’t make it very far. For some reason, the soldiers felt it appropriate to detain the vehicle at the edge of town. I watched and waited with tears in my eyes for the van to whisk Mustafa to a place that could attend to his grievous wounds. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. I watched as his family and women in the village ran wailing and screaming towards the soldiers begging them to let him go. More time passed. Finally, an Israeli ambulance shuttled Mustafa Tamimi to the hospital.

A Palestinian aid giver on her way back from having been with Mustafa, walked straight up to the soldiers and began to vent.

“You killed an innocent man today! Do you even f________ care? You animals, that’s all you are! You don’t have souls! You’re just doing what Hitler did to you, you Nazis!”

There was more said, but I can’t remember her exact words.

I felt her anger. As she spoke my sadness only deepened. Like the aid worker, I too wanted more than anything to see the soldiers show a sign of remorse—to feel the gravity of their actions, acknowledge the pain they were in no small way responsible for. However, in the face of screamed accusations, I realized that their chance for understanding was going the way of their diminished humanity.

Yesterday I learned that Mustafa Tamimi died in the hospital. Seeing as the Israeli media spin has commenced with a vengeance, it is questionable whether there will be justice for what I experienced. This doesn’t change the facts:

Men shouldn’t die while walking to their own water well

Children shouldn’t become accustomed to tear gas/rubber bullets   in their backyards

Soldiers shouldn’t be ordered to protect stolen property

Another’s humanity should never be denied

Refuse to be Enemies

Andrew Haas

Al-Quds

Café Hillel, Jaffa road

Jérusalem, me fait penser à Beyrouth sans la rue de Damas pour les connaisseurs. Les religions se croisent mais ne se regardent pas. En l'espace d'une centaine de mètres, on peut passer de l'Hébreu à l'Arabe, de la kippa à la djellaba, en un claquement de doigts. A Jérusalem, le Mur n'est pas fait de briques et de béton armé, il est dans la tête des gens. Chacun chez soi, chacun son quartier et c'est très bien comme ça. Depuis, ma première visite, la fameuse Jaffa street a beaucoup changé. Le tramway si controversé s'est progressivement intégré dans cette ville faite de pierre blanche. Juifs et arabes l'empruntent, mais ne descendent pas aux mêmes arrêts...