Reflections from a Mennonite delegation to Um al-Khair
Building relationships as a foundation for movement building
Editors note: This a set of reflections from a Mennonite University on their briefing on the current situation in Um al-Khair and their work day. Holy Land Trust facilitates tours to at-risk communities to build broad movement of support. If you want to joint in this movement of justice, email Cody@HolyLandTrust.Org. Just this winter Dec 21 to Jan 3 in Um al-Khair. Bit.ly/About_Sumud
On the morning of October 2nd, our group loaded onto a bus and drove from Bethlehem to the Bedouin village of Um Al-Khair. It is a village with no connection to water, electricity, or sewers. As we approached the village from the main road we could see the small pieced together Palestinian houses of tin and scrap material right next to the Israeli settlement of Carmel, with nice houses, street lights, and running water. Today, we would be helping with the Palestinian’s and working in their olive goves and learning about home demolition.
Before the establishment of Israel, Bedouins moved around the land herding their sheep and goats. But after 1948, during the Nakba, when Israeli paramilitary took military control of the land, Bedouin communities were given the a choice: either serve in the Israeli military or leave your land. This community chose to leave their land, which had been located near the city of Arad. They were moved to a remote part and unoccupied part of the desert. They built small tin and mud brick shacks and remade their lives. But now, they are surrounded by Jewish settlements and new developments of Western-style houses. And the Israeli government tells them that while they recognize the Bedouins have legal ownership of the land they were moved to in 1948, they do not have permission to build anything on their land.
Home demolitions occur in Israel due to the lack of building permits. Palestinians living in Area C (an area of the West Bank that is completely under the control of the Israeli Civil Administration) are required to have a building permit before any additions or new buildings are built. But they rarely if ever are approved for one. Since the Oslo Accords, only 1.5% of Palestinian building permits have been approved by the Israeli Civil Administration. When the villagers build a new house or an addition to an older house, a demolition order is issued by the Israeli military, meaning the new building will be destroyed. Palestinians can challenge this in court but rarely win. It is usually only able to delay the inevitable. Thousands of Palestinians have been displaced after waking up to Israeli soldiers who, in the best case scenario, tell them they have 20 minutes to pack what they can before the bulldozers come. These repeated intrusions leave an environment of confusion and depression among the people in Um Al-Khair and other unrecognized communities, never knowing when or if an order is going to be carried out.
As we stepped off the bus, a Bedouin community member ushered us into their communal tent. As our group was drinking generous amounts of sweetened sage and mint tea, we heard story after story of abuse of the people and their land from the Israeli settlers throwing rocks into the village late at night to rattle the people to the multiple times the village’s oven, used for baking bread for the entire community, was demolished, rebuilt, and demolished again. And they told us of the release of sewage from the settlement onto the olive tree fields of the village, which would poison their goats which graze in the same area and look for sources of water. The injustice of this situation was overwhelming . . . and this is just one small village.
We heard yelling coming from a nearby house. The shouts grew louder and louder, nearer and nearer until the source of the yelling was standing in the same tent as we were, shouting very passionately in Arabic. This 88-year-old woman lived in one of the houses that rocks were thrown at every night, a tin-roofed house where the sounds boomed all night long and she was unable to sleep.
Tariq, our guide for the day, quickly ran over and tastefully translated bits and pieces of what the woman was saying. This is (loosely) what was said:
We have international groups here all the time. They look at us, they learn about us, but nothing changes. The Israelis forced me to move from my town in Arad when I was a young girl. And now they are going to force me to move again as an old woman? These people hate us? How can they say they are religious? They throw stones at us! I can’t sleep at night because they throw stones on my roof! I am an old woman! Why do you come here and listen to us? Are you actually going to do anything about it??? Or are you going to leave and forget about us tomorrow? I don’t want any more groups here because nothing changes. This is our reality, we live next to these people who must not believe in any God because they throw stones at us. I don’t want any more people here if they’re not going to do anything. No one knows our story.”
The woman’s shouts persisted for quite a while. She was angry. Angry at the Israelis for making her live this way. Angry at the settlers for keeping her from sleeping. And angry at us, or at a generic us, visitors who come, drink tea, say “it’s a shame this is happening” and then move on. She had a right to be angry.
We made our way down to the fields to start our service work for the community. After the woman’s angered speech, I wasn’t sure that anything we could do would help. We walked down a long dirt hill to a valley beneath the Bedouin village and Jewish settlement. It was hot, dry, and dusty. We worked for about four hours in the heat of the day digging trenches around olive trees and placing stones around the trunk to prevent weeds and preserve the scarce moisture in the soil. Some of us were singing, some of us were quiet. All of us shocked by our powerlessness to help. And all of us exhausted. That exhaustion, that shock, that ringing in our ears, felt like nothing compared to the hurt of the community. As I worked, I was weighed down by the fact that through this physical work, in my mind, I was doing nothing constructive to help the long-term situation. We knew the Israeli military might come with a bulldozer and destroy all of these olive trees. We know that happens all over.
I was disgusted with the unfairness of the world. How do I justify being a “poverty tourist”, coming in and listening to a few stories of pain? How can I communicate my thoughts when I can only say a few simple phrases in Arabic? What about my privileged life gives me any right to communicate my thoughts? Language barriers make communication and understanding arduous. I could not say, “I see the injustice”. I could not form the words “I’m sorry.” I could not say, “I see you”. The loss of the phrase — I see you — was the hardest thing about this day. But would it even have mattered to this woman who probably heard this, in Arabic, from many other tourists who left and went on with their life, never giving another thought to her and her life?
After rehydrating with water and more sage tea, we climbed back up the mountain. The community shared their precious water with us to wash our dirty hands and sweaty faces. They had prepared a meal of rice and lentils for us. We sat and ate, mostly in silence. Most of the time our group has lots of questions and are eager to talk. But today, we could not put words to our feelings. We didn’t have questions because we understood now. We’ve had many lectures with lawyers and experts on the Israeli laws and policies and permit requirements that are making it impossible for Palestinians and Bedouins to live on their land in peace.
This is the story of one village that is not seen by the rest of the world. But their pain and suffering are real. We saw it. And we need to never forget it. The injustices done to them continue to happen every day. The people of Um Al-Khair live in complete neglect. They have no reliable sources of water — only purchased water bottles from an hour out of their village — no electricity, waste management, transportation to and from school… the list could go on.
They are being watched by the Israeli Government 24/7. If they try to build a small oven to bake bread, Israelis will come and tear it down and explain that they need a permit. But the government won’t give permits. The point of the permit system is to make it so miserable for these people that they will leave and go somewhere else. But the problem is this community has nowhere to go. They can’t just move to another country. It is illegal and is not an option. The Israeli government wants the Bedouin land so they can build more nice homes for Jews. But what will happen to the Bedouin children and families? We, as a group, feel the weight of that question.
We must listen to the 80-year-old woman who is exploding with rage at the injustices of her world. However, we must also make the choice to believe that the healing of the hurt (that can be found in all corners of our world) materializes through the sharing of stories. This is the choice that, I believe, will transform the unproductive nature of “poverty tourism.” I have chosen to view our group as a team of story collectors. In order to make any kind of change, we must share our collection.
Note:
The community of Um Al Khair has a Facebook page. Here is also a link where you can sign up to get updates about Um Al Khair.
There is also a short film about Eid Hadaleen, the artist who worked with us in the fields at Um Al Khair made by Amnesty International. The 2-minute film shows his art about the home demolitions. The famous Chinese dissident artist Ai Wei Wei came to Um Al Khair. He worked Eid Hadaleen, a self-taught artist from Um Al Khair, and they had an exhibition together in Germany about dislocation. See this article.
