notes of a non-combatant

wisps

Over the months, I found that I could barely assemble a coherent account of the day’s events. At this point, I only hope to lay down a few fragments of that day’s memories, detailing portions of the January afternoon in Hebron when we decided to see the city’s weekly protests for ourselves.

An SMS we received that morning from a friend in Hebron, warning us of the situation and making mention of the child that was shot by Israeli military.

Women were walking along the streets, coughing through scarves that they held over their mouths, choking on the gas as it wafted along the narrow streets lined tightly with tall stone buildings. Our eyes watered and our minds raced, wondering what we were walking into.

Israeli soldiers were in every direction, manning checkpoints in the distance, driving by on the streets, or stopped in front of shops. It was possible to go several minutes without seeing a military jeep on one of the small, narrow roads, but a soldier was never too far, and neither was the action.

Israeli soldiers were everywhere, including at this grocery store.

Children filled the streets, roaming in large packs underneath the green flags. They were held over their heads like banners or draped across their backs like beach towels. Hamas flags were as common as the leather slings they would twirl and release, sending stones to sail at Israeli soldiers. None of them having reached puberty yet, it was a surprise that any of them could even hold a leather sling. No teenagers were to be seen, as they were busy driving around town through clouds of gas, distributing perfume. A puff in the palms of each hand could be huffed amid the gas, the scent of alcohol used to combat the effects of tear gas.

We could escape to quiet areas for a few short moments, finding groups of children with several young teenagers among them, leather slings dormant in pockets or backpacks. They would try to ask us questions though there wasn’t a single person among us that spoke Arabic. The only word that clearly translated was “Israeli,” which the children would say when they approached us, pushing back knit caps or pulling up shirts to show large welts and bloody skin just beginning to dry. “Israeli,” as they handed us rubber bullets, pointing to the wounds they left behind.

Young Palestinians detained at an Israeli roadside structure.

At one point, we tried to escape the city through a quiet part of town. A soft-spoken teenager led us across a graveyard. Though we barely knew any common words, he showed us the way. Upon stopping to rest for a moment, he pulled out his cell phone and gazed at the picture set as the background. A young child, perhaps his brother, stared back at him the entire time. It turned out that the graveyard’s entire perimeter was closed off, and the only wall we could cross would lead straight to the neighborhood of Israeli settlers. We turned back; there was no escape from the military action.

Exploding grenades and gunfire could be heard in all directions, near and far. We didn’t flinch or even turn to explore the nature of the sounds; we took them for what they were and continued. It was our priority to avoid the roving packs of Palestinian preteens with their green flags, black leather slings, and flying rocks- and the Israeli gunfire that always followed them.

Rocks, spent grenades cartridges, and used rifle rounds littered the streets of Hebron.

We went uphill and away from the crowds; it was the opposite direction from the only exit out of the city, but there was too much military action blocking the way. Several people walked the streets, but nobody else was to be seen. It was quiet when an Israeli jeep drove past us and parked thirty meters ahead. The only men I had seen protesting all day appeared on an adjacent rooftop and lobbed a boulder at the jeep. Three stories of free fall before it halfway crushed a side of the jeep’s roof, and we turned to run. Innocent bystanders, young men walking silently along the street, suddenly had stones slipped into slings, twirling and releasing. The grenade launcher was the first to come out, sending tear gas and percussion cartridges in quick succession. We ran downhill, turned a corner, and didn’t look back.

Smoke plumes hovered over Hebron as people tried going about their business.