With just a short time in the West Bank this summer—a mere two and a half months—I sometimes find it difficult to prioritize how I will spend my time. I have an all-consuming job (which I love) that requires 9-16 hours a day, organizing and leading programming for 17 participants eager to experience life in Palestine; I have close friends here with whom I want to maximize my time since, regretfully, I will soon have to leave, again putting 6000 miles between us; I have friends at home whom I love, relationships I need to maintain and keep from drifting apart; and, I have the responsibility of a commitment (the result of a great passion) to communicate what is going on here to people abroad, hoping that somehow, what I report will affect others enough to make them care and act to encourage justice and peace in this place. Ah yes, and I have the oft-forgotten need for self-care (i.e. sleep).

This evening, my need to connect with my friends here trumped my other needs, so it is at 1 a.m. I am beginning this blog. Tomorrow (this morning, actually), I need to awake early to be with my group on a trip to Ramallah, continuing on Sunday to Nablus. Yet, though I will have a full and tiring weekend, I think I must blog before I take off for the weekend about my day today. Why? Nothing really new or extraordinary happened; yet, something was very different.

In January, I began a part-time volunteer placement with Pace e Bene Nonviolence Service in Oakland through the Mennonite Voluntary Service program. I came on board as their new Nonviolence Stories Project Coordinator, one in a series of interns to work on the project, collecting stories of various persons’ personal encounters with nonviolence after interaction with the trainings of Pace e Bene. It seemed like a bit of an odd project to take on given that I had never undergone a PeB training myself, but nevertheless I did, and thankfully, soon after my placement began, I did have the opportunity to spend a weekend in a PeB training on “Engaging Conflict Creatively.” (My summary of that weekend is here.) During that training, I remember reporting to my nonviolent-comrades that I was thankful for what I had learned, and I expressed my intent to use some of the techniques when I returned to the West Bank in the summer.

I have to admit, two weeks ago when I attended my first protest of the summer, commemorating the Nakba, what I had learned in January was far from my mind. I went in angry and without any sort of intention other than giving voice to my outrage at the Occupation. By chance, the protest that day never included facing a single soldier; instead, the Popular Committee had arranged a “festival” of cultural resistance: setting up a stage down the street from where the soldiers were standing with their razor-wire fence awaiting the normal confrontation, and having nationalistic music and traditional Palestinian dance instead.

This afternoon, I returned to Al-Ma’sara for another protest, this time with 14 of my 17 PSErs (program participants). So many of my charges being interested to participate/observe made me incredibly proud and also excited for the future possibilities of such a group. When we arrived, the group met with the leader of the village’s Popular Committee—the organizers of the weekly protest which has been held every Friday for the past four years—who explained the situation of the town and the strategy of nonviolence in their protest against the Israeli Apartheid Wall’s planned construction path, which will steal much of the village’s agricultural lands (essentially, their only livelihood).

In the course of this meeting, I must have heard the word “nonviolence” 40 or more times, and something finally triggered my memory and brought me back to my PeB training in January. During that training, I had expressed my surprise to the other participants that I had never considered my preparation in going to a protest. In the past, I had always just arrived, snapped some photos, yelled whatever chants were used that day, and then left feeling depressed and/or angry. Recalling this revelation, there, in the midst of the meeting, I quieted my mind and began to center. Today, I decided, I am going to confront violence, and in the process, I refuse to commit violence. After the meeting, I left the building to begin the march—a protest of which I have been a part nearly 20 times over the past two, and now three, summers. This was nothing new or extraordinary, but this time would be different.

———-

“1, 2, 3, 4, OCCUPATION NO MORE! 5, 6, 7, 8, ISRA’IIL A FASCIST STATE!” the leaders cried out with their bullhorns, the crowd calling back in unison. We walked up the hill from our meeting place and turned the corner, finally seeing the soldiers in their normal spot. As we drew closer, I noticed there was no razor-wire fence, and there seemed to be quite a few more soldiers than what I remembered from pervious years. My stomach got a bit tight; today was not the day I had planned on being tear-gassed and/or arrested, and this was the formula for that kind of interaction. Oh geez, I don’t think this is what the PSErs thought they were getting into when they decided to come. I got a bit worried.

We reached the line of soldiers, and to my relief, the leaders of the Popular Committee stopped. No physical confrontation yet if we just stay right here. The chants continued, interspersed with the singing of “Bella Ciao” by some Italian activists, drumming by an Israeli-activist drum corps, and speeches by the leaders, magnified through their bullhorns. The son of the leader of the Popular Committee stood directly in front of some troops, defiantly holding a Palestinian flag, while a small army of photographers snapped stills of the scene.

 My normal MO at protests is keeping a low profile; I have always placed myself more in the role of an “observer” than an active “participant.” In my role as an observer, I constantly search for photo opportunities; I love to show others through powerful images what Occupation looks like. This time, though, after standing at the front of the crowd for a few minutes, amidst the speeches, drumming, and singing, I put my camera away. I positioned myself behind the boy with the flag who was confronting the soldiers. I have witnessed soldiers pointing their guns at peaceful protesters before, and I felt compelled that I needed to be available should this occur, to stand with the boy and ask the soldier to point his gun somewhere else. This decision led to me standing in the very front of our crowd, facing a line of soldiers from a few feet, nothing between us but a bit of empty pavement. 

With a cue unknown to me, suddenly the soldiers decided there had been enough action and it was time to respond. A new line of soldiers quickly formed behind me, enclosing a small pocket of demonstrators, including the boy and me. Immediately I thought, I’m going to be arrested; I have witnessed this happening before. Following the example of the leaders at front, though, I moved quickly with them and the boy outside of the pocket to the new front line.

As soon as we were in our new line, the soldiers began to walk forward, pushing in against us. My initial reaction was to resist this, stand my ground—Why should they be allowed to push a peaceful group of civilians down the road for doing nothing?; everything within me wanted to confront this, but out of respect, I followed the leaders of the village Popular Committee whom I could see to my right, backing up with the pace of the advancing line of soldiers. I must respond; I must confront this somehow. 

The soldier in front of me pressed in with his body; his gun, held sideways, rubbing up against me with each step. We danced together, toe-to-toe; he advanced slowly, while I shuffled back. Refusing to move back too quickly, I put in as much calculated resistance as I could without giving cause for extra trouble. He raised his gun, still sideways, and pushed lightly against my chest; the soldier next to him held out his hand and pushed back on my shoulder. Their supervising officer was behind them, pushing on their backs to move them forward whenever they would stall. “What’s the problem?” I looked straight at the soldier-boy in front of me and asked. “I told you to go back,” he said, softly but gruffly.

Keeping my voice low and in as conversational a tone as I could muster, “This is silly isn’t it? What are you doing here? A group of people can’t walk down their village street?” We continued moving back slowly. “Why are you here? What is the problem? They have their land, and they’re here; you have your land—why are you here and not there? What are you doing here? This doesn’t make sense, does it?”

We stopped after retreating about 40 meters, and the lines stood still. “What’s your name?” I asked the young man in front of me. No response; he looked away. “I’m John.” pause. “This is pretty silly, isn’t it? What are we all doing out here?” I gestured upward at the hot sun; I am sure he felt the heat much more in his head-to-toe gear than I did in my shorts and t-shirt. With speeches from bullhorns of the leaders behind us, I continued keeping my gaze forward. I looked at the boy, and every so often he returned my gaze. After some minutes, it occurred to me that he could not see my eyes; I moved my sunglasses to the top of my head and continued watching him. Every so often, again, I shrugged my shoulders: “What are we doing here? What is the point of this? What’s the problem?”

I stared into his eyes. I have no idea how long we remained in our positions; it may have been only a few minutes, or maybe 10 or 20. My legs, which had been rooted firmly on the ground, momentarily became shaky from within. The nerves behind my eyes tingled. I felt like I was going to cry. What was wrong? Was I afraid? Had my adrenaline run out? For a second I was unsure of what was going on inside me; then I realized the expression on my own face as I stared into the one across from me: pity.

I looked at this boy—probably 17 or 18 years old—dressed in full military gear, holding a semi-automatic weapon. Then, our eyes met again briefly; rather than looking at him, I looked into him, and I felt overwhelmingly sad. “I’m sorry,” I said. With the utmost sincerity and gravity, I said it again: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you feel like you have to do this. It must be hard to feel you have no other choice.” The boy looked at me and then looked away.

Soon after that, the boy’s supervising officer came up behind him and pulled him back, ushering a new soldier into his place in line. Watching through the gap between the young men in front of me, I watched the supervisor near-whispering in the boy’s ear; I imagined it was something about not listening to me. With that boy gone from the line, I turned my attention to the other young men in front of me. I had a mostly one-sided conversation with three of them, asking the same questions over again. One of them couldn’t hear me with the speeches and drums in the background, and asked me what I had said, so I repeated myself. The supervising officer came up behind them and sternly gave them orders in Hebrew. They looked away from me and didn’t talk anymore.

The leader of the Popular Committee finished his words in the background: something like “They are the ones who are occupied. They have to live with themselves. Yallah, let’s go home and live our lives; leave them to this.”

I gave a final look to the young men in front of me, waved, half-smiled, and turned, slipping my sunglasses back down to my sweaty nose. Gathering for our taxi-ride home, a group of PSErs came around me and started buzzing with questions about what I was talking with the soldiers about. I hadn’t raised my voice or shouted; none of them knew what our interaction had been. I gave a brief report, and we continued on our way, ready to return to our homes in Bethlehem.

———-

Today was not new, but it was very different. Today I took part in the Ma’sara protest for the something-teenth time, but today was the first time I believe I was truly a nonviolent demonstrator.

Nonviolence is widely talked about from a tactical standpoint here in the West Bank, including at the Um-Salamona (“The Peaceful March”) protest at Ma’sara. “NONVIOLENCE!” M., our organization’s Village Coordinator, always declares when speaking of how protesters must act during this particular demonstration. He strongly scolds kids who have asked to throw stones. During the protest, however, numerous times, the leaders, shouting through bullhorns, scolded the “killers,” “the ones who love violence” they were facing.

It is certainly true, as a generalization, that the so-called Israel “Defense” Force is extremely violent. (I would say defense is definitely a misnomer given that what they do is rarely defensive, but nearly always offensive.) Technically, under international law, those who took part in the Gaza Massacre of December 2008 – January 2009 should be tried for war crimes, possibly crimes against humanity. (Review the UN Human Rights Council press release regarding the Goldstone Report and results of the fact-finding mission.) Israeli human-rights organizations like B’tselem openly report numerous, repeated grievous human-rights violations of the Israeli military.

Yet today was different for me; I did not feel at ease with the labels hurled at the young men across from me. Rather than approaching the demonstration as a tactical-believer in nonviolence, I had approached it as spiritual-practitioner of nonviolence. I will not judge any Palestinian’s right to approach nonviolence from only a tactical standpoint, but I will bear witness to what it did for me today to frame nonviolence in a broader, spiritual sense: it finally allowed me to feel compassion for the Oppressor.

In two summers of living in the West Bank, I have seen many depressing sites. I have seen little children playing in martyr graveyards because they have no parks. I have walked through refugee camps where 20,000 people live in a square kilometer. I have seen Palestinians held hand-cuffed and blind-folded at checkpoints in the middle of their city’s streets. I have seen bullets and tear gas fired at peaceful demonstrators. These offenses have made it very difficult for me to open myself to see what I finally saw today in a soldier-boy’s eyes: humanity of the Oppressor. When I could finally see his humanness, I was moved. With this movement of spirit, the hate and anger toward the Oppressor I have always held during these protests flooded out of me, replaced with compassion. Hate for the acts of oppression remained steadfast, but love was all that remained for the boy.

I really do believe that the boy with a gun who had to push me 40 meters down a hot, dusty desert road in the middle of village that isn’t his deserves my compassion. There is Truth in the statement: “They are the ones who are occupied.” Certainly, there is absolutely nowhere near the amount of destruction and harm done to the Oppressor in this situation as what they have caused; but, they do wound themselves in the process of oppressing. Oppression does not harm only the oppressed; it breaks the spirit of the Oppressors as well. Oppressors cannot oppress without sacrificing a bit of their own humanity. Just as certainly as Occupation destroys the spirits and lives of many Palestinians, it must also wound the human spirit of the young boys and girls wearing IDF uniforms.

I am encouraged because today I found more humanity in this miserable conflict. But, alas, even in this ray of hope, I have found one more reason to grieve over Occupation: the scarring of that humanity as it is forced to don the uniform of the Oppressor.