Relentless protests and a steady flow of casualties

Atalla Fayoumi hobbles on crutches across the flat, sunbaked plain near Israel’s border fence in the Gaza Strip, gazing toward plumes of smoke rising from a clutch of burning tires in the distance.

The 18-year-old Palestinian’s right leg was amputated after Israeli soldiers shot him in April at one of the mass demonstrations held weekly for the past eight months against Israel’s long blockade of Gaza. Yet, like other desperate young men in Gaza who feel they have nothing left to lose, he has kept returning to the protests.

The Gaza Strip has been on the front line of confrontations between Palestinians and Israel for generations. But the territory has been brought to its knees over the last decade by three punishing wars with Israel and an air, sea and land blockade.

The 11-year blockade, imposed by Israel and Egypt, is aimed at weakening Hamas, the militant group that seized power in Gaza from the internationallybacked Palestinian Authority in 2007. But its impact is felt by all. Raw sewage flows directly onto oncescenic Mediterranean beaches, tap water is undrinkable, and electricity is available just a few hours a day. More than half the Gaza Strip’s 2 million people are unemployed; most residents cannot leave.

While most Gazans see the protests as the inevitable reaction to Israel’s siege, Israel views them as coordinated attacks and says it must defend itself.

“We don’t see them as protests,” said Israeli military spokesman Lt. Col. Jonathan Conricus. “We are confronting attacks, violent attacks along our security fence.”

Since they began on March 30, Israeli troops have killed more than 170 people and shot nearly 6,000 others. Thousands more have been wounded by tear gas or rubber-coated bullets. On the Israeli side, one soldier was killed by a sniper and six others wounded.

Every Friday, there are more.

When Fayoumi arrived at one of five protest sites along the border just after 2:30 p.m., the area was largely empty. A few days earlier, he swore he would keep participating despite his wounds. But why?

“Because I want to die,” he said.

Yes, he hopes the blockade gets lifted so he can leave Gaza to get a new, prosthetic leg. But if that doesn’t happen, “what’s the point of living?”

By 5 p.m., at least 13,000 people are gathered along the border, throwing rocks and burning tires. Ambulance sirens begin to howl soon after, signaling the start of the day’s violence. At a medical triage tent about a half a mile from the frontier, they bring the wounded: a 22-year-old shot in the left leg, an 18year-old struck by shrapnel, a 31-year-old shot in the chest.

“Every Friday we wait for the injuries, and every Friday it’s always the same,” says one of the staff, Dr. Khalil Siam. “They always come.”

A few dozen yards away, five men in checkered, black and white headscarves are performing a traditional folk dance with their arms crossed for a captivated crowd under a massive tent. Behind them, in the distance, the border fence looks like a war zone; the sky is completely black, burning tires are shooting flames into the air, and gunfire is ringing out every few minutes.

Almost every Friday protest is followed by at least one funeral on Saturday. This week, there are three, including one for an 11year-old boy.