Daytime in Bil’in is fairly quiet. It is mostly spent working on projects (for those who are fortunate enough to be employed), saying hello to friends in shops and street corners with a lot of free time to drinking tea and coffee. At night, when people are sleeping, is when the violence breaks out. Every night a group of Palestinians & solidarity workers gather on the roof tops, staying awake to watch for military raids. Most of the peace workers travel during the day where foreign presence is necessary and return at sundown for night watch in Bil’in.
However, this particular day was different. Around 4 p.m. I was in a house doing my spinal stretches, (trying to keep my back in tact so I can stay here as long as possible), when a man ran in yelling, “soldiers, soldiers!” I ran outside, when I reached the rooftop I saw a convoy of military vehicles had passed through the apartheid wall. They were speeding down the road to the village; an immediate sense of fear and urgency griped my throat and head. What could I possibly do to stop a military invasion!? All I could think of was to grab my camera and sprint to the streets. I have learned in a few weeks here to trust that my instincts will guide me in the right direction.
After attaining information from the people running in the streets, I figured out where they will enter the village from. I can hear the roar of the engines growing louder, they will arrive soon. I realize that the other international Lorenzo from Italy, is still unaware of what is about to happen and is on the street where the soldiers will soon enter. I run down the street to a chorus of people yelling “la! la! la!” (“no! no! no!”). I continue to run anyways because I fear what might happen to him; this is his first day in Palestine, he arrived only 3 hours ago. I get to the room where he is checking his email and tell him there are soldiers coming. We sprint back to the street where humvees armored to the teeth and with metal rods stretching across all the windows to protect against rocks are arriving. The last humvee is that of the Shibak, the Israeli secret police. All I can do is take photos and hope that my international presence will be of some help.
Once they fly past I run through the streets choked with smoke from burning tires and other flammable objects. Children yell insults at the soldiers as they hurl rocks from the streets and rooftops. This is the only way they can resist the occupation that illegally holds them prisoner in their own homes, but also threatens to occupy their minds and dreams. Exhaustion has been taking over my body, but it is no match to the adrenaline, which seems to override everything. Oxygen that burns like a oven’s heat, shoots from my lungs, my heart teeters on the edge, threatening to bursting as it pumps battery acid through my veins. Families barricaded inside their houses cheer me on as they look out their window and see me running through alley ways to catch up. Luckily the resistance in the village, and hopefully the international presence, deterred the soldiers. They had to pull back across the wall.
It seems like a small victory when the people in the village yell “welcome!” and smile widely as I walk back through the streets. That night everyone stands on edge during the watch, waiting for the roar of the engines to return with truck lights coming across the dark horizon. Every time we see the flares from an Apache helicopter light up the night our hearts skip a beat, relaxing only when the light goes out without hearing gunfire. That night nothing else came. The other peace workers return and take over; I finally get to sleep for a solid 4 hours.
When I wake, a strong wind blows through the morning sky and we embrace the first rain of the year. The air is crisp and the rain is cool as we all stand outside letting it soak into our skin. When the clouds pass the warm sun returned and the fresh smell of the land rises up to engulf the village. The rest of the day is peaceful so Eric (a Scottish activist) and I take the time to have a wonderful Middle Eastern sunbath on a rooftop.
By sundown the atmosphere returns to a state of tension. The town next to us engages in conflict. There is no international presence in that village and we receive no word on what is happening. We can only prepare for the defense of Bil’in as we look across the land at the besieged village, with thick black smoke rising from behind the mosque. Finally, a call for people to help with the town’s resistance comes through, but the connection cuts out before finishing the message. We get no more messages from the village and all we can do is look out, fearing what the people are going through, as the sound of several explosions echo across the hills. Over time, everything becomes quiet and the land returns to its state of stillness, the day brings a quieter atmosphere.
The next night storm clouds return, lightning and thunder crack over us and we are back to waiting for the next invasion to occur. This is how life is under occupation. The Palestinians that live here have no choice for action or change. I wait with them; we come from all around to stand in solidarity, as they try to live under the fear of the Israeli occupier; who rule on their own terms, with no regard for Palestinian life.
I have made it through this far without being hurt. Having no time to think in most situations, I have my instincts to thank for that, but I can only think about how long this streak of luck will last. Perhaps this is a common feeling for someone going through their first war experience, but sometimes I get a heavy feeling. It covers me like a thick blanket and the fear that I will not make it back suffocates me. I do not know what is going to happen tonight or any other time, and it is a weight that makes me want to cry and give up. I am scared.
Yet, through this all, I am finding a strength inside that was hiding; the strength all living things posses to endure, to hold on to love, even when surrounded by hardship. To resist extinction and have the resilience to live life and never give up.
