May 14, 2002

Today marks fifty-four years since Israel was first established as a modern nation-state. Today marks fifty-four years of the Palestinian "Nakba" or "Catastrophe." And the story continues…

Dear Friends,

Easter Revisited

On Saturday, May 11, I returned to Bethlehem almost six weeks to the day after I had left. An early-morning message received on my cell phone from my friend in Beit Jala, Marina Barham, said "Free movement in all areas today." The Israeli army had exited the city the previous night, after the standoff at the Church of the Nativity was finally resolved. Thirteen Palestinian militants would be exiled, first to Cyprus, and then to other European Union countries. Twenty-six others would be taken by bus to the densely populated Gaza Strip. The remaining 80 or so people would be allowed to go home, once the Israeli army had interrogated them. But what of the others? Did not the initial reports and news broadcasts indicate that there "250 armed militants" seeking refugee in the Church? How had 250 "armed militants" been reduced to only 39? And what of the supposed "hostages" these armed militants had taken? Had they disappeared into thin air?

On March 29, following a deadly suicide bombing in the Israeli coastal city of Netanya that left 21 Israelis dead (the death toll has now climbed to 29), the Israeli army launched a massive military campaign into the West Bank to "root out the infrastructure of terror" (in the words of Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon). Reports coming out of Ramallah at that time about the Israeli incursion there gave us a forewarning about what was in store for Bethlehem.

And so it was that, on Easter Sunday, March 31, I left Bethlehem along with several other foreign nationals (and some Palestinians who held Jerusalem identity cards), just prior to Israeli tanks entering the city. "What would I find when I returned," I wondered? During my absence I was in touch with friends by telephone on a daily basis, but now I was returning to the city that has been my home for the past six-and-a-half years. "What would I find," I kept thinking to myself?

During the six weeks I spent outside of Bethlehem, I was busy assisting with food convoys organized by Catholic Relief Services and five other Christian organizations, providing much-needed food aid and some medical supplies to Palestinian residents who have been under curfew and siege by the Israeli army.

The "first phase" of Israel’s military incursion is over, Ariel Sharon announced on Monday, April 22nd. But what, exactly, did that mean? Palestinians were left wondering—"What will the "second phase" bring? or "How many more ‘phases’ are yet to come?" As stories and pictures of Israeli devastation and destruction to the six major Palestinian cities of the West Bank trickled out to the world at large, I am left wondering what was really under attack here. Was it really Palestinian "terror," or was it (more likely) Palestinian culture and society?

Who could blame Israel for wanting to respond to the murder of innocent civilians, and yet, who can condone Israeli policy that enforces collective punishment on 3.2 million Palestinian inhabitants of the West Bank and Gaza Strip? And what of Israeli military actions that, more often than not, end up killing innocent Palestinian civilians instead of the perpetrators of the deadly deeds?

From Jenin to Bethlehem, Ramallah to Qalkilya, Tulkarem to Nablus, the destruction has been great. The damage to buildings and infrastructure is easy to see and to assess. The damage to individuals and families is much less visible, yet no less destructive. It will take weeks, months, perhaps years, to re-build what it took the Israeli army only minutes, perhaps hours, to destroy. It may take a lifetime to re-build people’s lives, their trust and faith in humanity shaken if not totally shattered.

In Tulkarem, our convoy delivered 900 food packages. We heard from Palestinian women about how they recognized when the Israeli army-imposed curfew had been lifted for a few hours. "All right, you can come out now to visit your girl friends," came the call from the huge megaphone blaring from the front of the Israeli tank. This is what the women of the Arab Orthodox Women’s Union told us when our food convoy finally managed to get into this besieged Palestinian city in the northwestern part of the West Bank on April 18. This is what the Israeli army blared on their loudspeaker, announcing that the curfew had been lifted for a few hours, and that people were free to leave their homes in search of food.

I say "in search of food" because very little food had made its way into these Palestinian cities, which at that time were reeling from over three weeks of confinement and military incursion that had left infrastructure in ruins. Roads, water lines, sewage systems, electrical lines and telephone wires had all been seriously damaged or completely destroyed.

"And how do you know when the curfew has ended?" we asked. The women’s response came before we had barely time to ask the question. "OK, you cockroaches have had enough." This signaled that it was time for the residents of Tulkarem to return to their homes. This is how the Israeli army treated the Palestinian residents of the West Bank.

In Nablus, we were somber as we made our way into this city of approximately 250,000 residents—only to find not a single soul in sight. "It’s as if everyone has packed up and gone on vacation," my Palestinian colleague Margo Sabella said as we drove through the eerily quiet streets. Then, she suddenly laughed, and made the comment, "Yeah, right!" "Like Palestinians could pack up and move, much less go on vacation!" She was right. Israeli tanks and armored personnel carriers were still maneuvering in the streets throughout the city as we made our way in on April 20. We delivered 19,800 liters of bottled water to the fire station in Nablus, and scrambled to get out of the way of firefighters who were called away at a moment’s notice. An Israeli tank shell had just struck a house, and smoke could be seen billowing over the city center.

We took food to the UNRWA warehouse and to the Latin Patriarchate Convent. Armed Israeli soldiers stood guard nearby as we off-loaded the food at the convent. We delivered blankets, quilts, health and school kits to the Rafidiyah Hospital. Shooting nearby confined most of us to our vehicles, and we waited while the cargo was off-loaded. The day was damp and cloudy, and rain fell sporadically as we made our way back through the deserted, muddy streets towards the military checkpoint. A young Palestinian boy, defying curfew, stopped in front of a building whose corner had collapsed due to Israeli shelling and gave us the victory sign.

In Jenin, we bore witness yet again to scenes of utter devastation and destruction. We delivered 1,200 food packages in Jenin, and all were graciously received and appreciated. Then we were taken to the sight of the Jenin refugee camp. There, we watched as people dug through the ruins of what was once their homes. "First, they took our land," said one Palestinian man in the rubble of Jenin Camp. "But now, they have taken the smile from our children’s faces." A wheelchair atop a pile of rubble was twisted and mangled. Neighbors of the man, who told us that he was an invalid and confined to this wheelchair, were digging frantically through the rubble and debris to search for his body, yet he was nowhere to be found. Rumors abounded that the Israeli army had carried him away in order to conceal the crime. It was enough to give one pause, as I was instantly reminded of the biblical passage from John:

Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away (John 20: 15b).

From the rubble emerged items that attested to the lives that were once present here—a passport here, a kitchen tile there—a blanket, a dress, a shoe. Children were digging with sticks, perhaps searching for lost toys. The scene was devastating beyond belief. No photos or pictures I had seen up to that point had adequately captured the magnitude of the destruction. And nothing, I thought—nothing—could have possibly justified the need for this kind of revenge.

A UN Convoy that had made its way past us earlier in the morning was turned back by the residents of the Jenin camp. The contents of the truck revealed boxes of food, stamped "A Gift from the U.S. Government". "No," railed one Palestinian man from the camp, as he raced towards the crowd of people with two missile fragments in his hand. "This is the gift from the government of the United States!" "Take your food and go away. We don’t want it."

In Qalqilya, our food convoy was the first to reach this town. Here, 800 food packages were off-loaded for distribution to needy families. And the story goes on.

But back to Bethlehem. Before I actually made it home, there were more important stops to be made along the way. I stopped to see several people, including my friend Nidal, who has been an un-employed tour guide for almost 20 months now. He took me to show me his and his brother’s cars. They had been run over by Israeli tanks the week before and were still lying in the street below their souvenir shop where we gathered for sweet tea and an even sweeter re-union. His brother’s car had been flattened beyond recognition. "Where is the engine" commented one friend? Nidal’s car, though not flattened, had been shot up and burned. It, too, had also been run over, though only slightly, by an Israeli tank. Both cars lay in ruins.

I stopped to see my barbers—two young men who have cut my hair for the past six-and-a-half years. Their shop was brimming with business. After all, this was the first day in over six weeks that there was free movement in all three areas—Bethlehem, Beit Jala, and Beit Sahour. No chance of getting a hair cut today, but we exchanged smiles and waves through the open door of their shop. I promised to return on another day.

I did not bother with going up to the Church of the Nativity on Manger Square. I knew that a massive clean-up operation was underway inside, so no need to get in the way.

I stopped at street level in front of my fourth-floor apartment, and saw my landlord approaching. We greeted one another with a handshake and a kiss and discussed the health of his family, his immediate needs and concerns, and the monthly rent. I was finally home, and pushed the elevator button that would take me up to the fourth floor.

The scene in my apartment as I opened the door reminded me of a painted still life, captured on canvas. There, on the kitchen counter, was the bowl full of chocolate eggs to give out to anticipated visitors during Eastertide. There, too, were the chocolate rabbits and eggs that were to be a gift to my friend’s nieces, right where I had left them. The Easter lilies that I had purchased only a few days before I left were still in their vase, though they were completely dried and brittle. On the coffee table were the colored eggs, still resting in their colorfully painted bowl from Turkey. On the dining room table were some Easter decorations, and an olive wood figure of the crucifixion. In short, the place was just as I had left it six weeks prior. With the exception of one of my houseplants having succumbed for lack of water, it was as if I had locked the door only the previous day, and was returning home from work as usual. In short, it looked like Easter Sunday morning all over again.

I was lucky! Others were not so fortunate. Many Palestinians came back to their homes in Ramallah only to find that Israeli soldiers had defecated on their coffee tables, urinated on their carpets and walls, looted their personal possessions, vandalized and destroyed their furnishings. Was this the same army that, only last week, Israeli President Moshe Katsav called "the most moral army in the world?"

"Operation Defensive Shield" was launched, in the words of the Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, to "root out the infrastructure of terror." Yet what was billed as Israel’s "war on terror" became, in fact, a war on truth.

Why was the UN fact-finding mission, which was slated to go to the Jenin Refugee Camp, not allowed into Israel? Why were school records dating back several decades destroyed? Why were computers smashed and hard drives stolen or damaged in almost every locale—both in private homes as well as in businesses, churches, schools, municipal buildings and Palestinian Authority ministries? Why were water and sewer lines destroyed? Why were trees and telephone poles mowed down, sidewalks and roads obliterated? Why have over 2,000 humanitarian aid workers been denied entry to Israel and turned back at the borders? I ask the question again, "What was really under attack—Palestinian ‘terror’ or Palestinian culture and society?"

It’s true. The Israeli army has pulled back from the Palestinian city centers, has entirely left the West Bank. In fact, they still maintain a stranglehold on every major city. For Palestinians, there has been no restoration of the freedom of movement (if one can call it that) that existed prior to March 29. Consequently, crossing the Israeli military checkpoint between Bethlehem and Jerusalem on a daily basis is still not a viable option for me.

Back in my apartment I cleaned out my refrigerator, throwing away food that had spoiled over the past six weeks. I grabbed up a few items, watered my remaining houseplant, and locked the door behind me. I left, not knowing if or when I will be able to return home to stay. Yet who am I to despair? For Palestinian refugees, the wait to return home has been 54 years.

Doug Dicks

The 2002 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 143