Divided Stories

He is surrounded by wonderful plants of all kinds. The shade is cool and refreshing. Mohammed is enjoying the company of a couple of friends in his greenhouse. Naturally, they are sipping sweet Arabic tea. The light dances all around them through the bullet holes in the roof above them. It reminds them of the heat outside and of earlier encounters with Israeli soldiers. A section of the Israeli “separation fence” appears beyond a small, barren field of land just next to the greenhouse. This is Qalqiliya.

Ahmed is busy planting a tall and proud tree. Other trees are being planted by his fellow schoolmates while they are chanting some energetic songs. He is part of the summer camp partly funded by UNICEF here at the school in Ras‘Atya, a small village near Qalqiliya. “It will provide shade for those waiting to pass through the gate,” says his teacher, Samara. Trees were uprooted to build the barrier. Now, new ones are planted because the barrier is here.

Recently, I found myself visiting these places together with the other Ecumenical Accompaniers of the Jayyous team. Two stories emerged. Two lives intrinsically linked to the occupation and the Wall. Mohammed has seen his business collapse. The teachers in Ras‘Atya know why Ahmed does not always come on time or to school at all. There is a fence in the way. This is not any fence. It truly separates and divides. Not only Israelis from Palestinians, but also Palestinians from Palestinians. It divides the people from their lands and from their livelihoods. It separates a child from his school and his playground.

Mohammed tells us that he used to have the most prosperous greenhouse, or nursery, as he calls it, in the whole West Bank. “People would even come from Israel to buy here,” he says. He shows us a plant for which he used to get 50 New Israeli Shekels. Now, he must negotiate hard to even get 10 for it. His greenhouse is next to the north gate in Qalqiliya; however this gate is not open. It used to take him 10 minutes to reach the neighboring city of Tulkarem through this road. Now, he must pass through the checkpoint on the western side of the city in order to get out of town and, if he is lucky, it might take him one hour to get to Tulkarem. To do this, he needs a permit and so does everybody else. Israeli restrictions on movement and commerce prevent him from selling in the larger markets, such as the one in Nablus. He is confined to the local market in Qalqiliya and the neighboring villages where there is minimal demand and low prices. In addition, his city of approximately 45,000 inhabitants is surrounded by a barrier on all sides. Several kilometers are actually a concrete wall of up to eight meters high with watchtowers and cameras. It is hardly a place for commerce any longer. Now people are trapped. Unemployment is high and money is not spent on Mohammed’s plants.

This once-thriving city used to be an important trading post. Wide roads ending at the Wall and abandoned merchandise stalls are today’s reminders of this recent past. “I cannot reach my markets any longer and the customers cannot reach me,” he sighs. Incursions by the soldiers and curfews have also taken their toll on his buildings and plants. Mohammed looks up and lights another cigarette. “Now, I smoke a lot, but before there was no time,” he says.

Young boys wearing white T-shirts with UNICEF written on them are busy playing football, planting trees, talking, and running around. The school in Ras‘Atya is a busy place even in summer. “This is an ecological summer camp,” explains Samara. Ahmed and his friends need this. The smiles and energy can be read in their eyes. Perhaps this helps them to forget that the outer wall of the school is only a meter away from barbed wires and a solid fence with a gate that opens only three times a day. “We asked the Israeli authorities to move the fence only 100 meters when they were building it, because it is so close to our children,” Samara says. They would have nothing of it. Instead, Ahmed’s 13-year old mind has needed to endure explosions shaking the entire school while in class whilst the construction of the fence was going on. His eyes have also met those of the soldiers that come into the classroom to check and ask about everything. Ahmed excuses himself and makes his way through the gate together with a few more teenagers. Twenty of the 430 pupils live on the other side of the fence, as do three of the 22 teachers. They live a Qalqiliya-like situation trapped on all sides. “I am tired of showing my pass to the soldiers when I go to school,” was one of Ahmed’s last comments before parting. “They were not checked today because you and UNICEF are here,” Samara observes. Ahmed passes through the gate without his two books in his bag being opened and browsed. “It is good that you came, but you cannot always be here,” Samara concludes.

He is right. The division on the ground is deep. What divisions are being carved in young people’s minds? Samara continues speaking with his uncle, who soon must pass to the other side of the gate. It is approaching closing time. His uncle has come to spend some time in the summer camp and to speak with Samara. He can come to Ras‘Atya, but Samara cannot visit him and his family in Ras Al-Tina. He has been denied a permit to cross. People in these borderlands need permission to live.