West Bank bloodshed seeps through my life
HEBRON, WEST BANK It is 6:50 a.m. I have to get to class.
Before I head out to Al- Quds Bard College in East Jerusalem, I have to check the news. You might think that’s because I am a reporter. But the truth is, I might not be able to get to class because of road closures, protests, clashes between protesters and police or, sometimes, mourning processions.
Last month, for example, as I prepared to leave, the news was full of reports about Muhammad Halabiya, a 17-year-old who died when a bomb he was carrying blew up during a clash with Israeli Defense Forces in Abu Dis, near my school. The neighborhood called for a public strike to mourn him. So no school for me.
I went back to bed asking myself, “When will all this bleeding stop?”
Usually, I walk from my house in Hebron to the main road, Route 60, where I wait to grab a taxi for the hour-long trip to school. One recent morning, traffic on the road was worse than usual. Later I heard that Israeli soldiers closed Gush Etzion, an Israeli settlement in north Hebron, because of a stabbing attack. Up the road, three young Israeli soldiers were preventing cars from stopping or dropping off passengers.
Still waiting to be picked up, I was startled when two Israeli soldiers started shooting at a roof nearby.
Another morning, clashes broke out near my morning taxi spot, killing a 16-year-old boy. I got caught in the middle of flying stones, tear gas and sound bombs.
These are my mornings in the West Bank.
Usually, if I make it to school, I try to escape the madness. But it’s hard. The events invade my university, too: There are photos of three students killed in this violence posted around campus.
It hits closer as well: My cousin Khaled, 19, was killed during clashes in November.
So I throw myself into studying, and my stories. I try to document what’s going on, shooting video of teenagers throwing stones at armored vehicles, and soldiers firing tear gas and bullets in return.
I also try to become a better reporter so I can effectively show what is happening here. It’s not easy, personally or professionally.
When Omar Jawabreh, 16, was killed at my taxi spot, for example, I was working on a story about Palestinian children jailed in Israeli prisons. My brother was dis- consolate. Omar was his high school classmate. What could I do? I had to finish my story. I hugged my brother and returned to my laptop.
Also, it’s hard to get people here to trust you. In general, they think all journalists working for international media are controlled by Israel and see no point in talking to you. But, I tell them, it’s important for balance to hear Palestinian voices. And besides, it’s critical to have firsthand information from the ground, I say.
Sometimes that doesn’t work. During my reporting on the jailed Palestinian children, I literally begged a media officer in a Palestinian institution to answer my questions.
The spokesman told me he was annoyed by all my calls. I responded that I have to have a source for everything — I can’t just copy from Google. I didn’t hear back from him. He turned off his phone.
For another story I reported about the recent role of the Palestinian Authority in foiling attacks on Israelis, Palestinian officials constantly asked me, “Why do you want to write about this thing. Forget it.”
And then there is the fear factor: My family, my friends, my colleagues and classmates constantly warn me: “Don’t write anything related to Palestinian officials.” They worry I will be hauled in and interrogated by the government over what I write.
Sometimes I fear it, too, especially when I call Hamas officials in Gaza for comment. Every time I do, I wait for that knock on my door from Israeli soldiers or Palestinian officials, wondering what I am doing, wondering if I am up to no good.
Regardless, I will still ask those questions, make those calls and write my stories — in spite of hearing “be careful” 10 times a day, in spite of electricity cuts that force me to write stories on my cellphone, and in spite of the madness on the streets.