The saying goes ‘prepare for the worst, hope for the best’. But as we prepared ourselves for a violent settler attack this evening, I struggled to follow either advice.
This evening, we prepared for an ambush.
At about 6:00, I changed out of my jeans and into a pair of sweatpants so that I could do some stretching. Just as I sat down to begin, my phone pinged – a group of teenage settler boys (far and above, the group most likely to be violent) were gathering at an ATV on the road into the village. I grabbed my camera and headed out as the settler boys walked into the olive grove (that I’ve written about before) next to the village. This is by no means the first, fifth, or tenth time settlers have used the olive grove as a public hang-out spot. But this time, the energy was different. While the settlers who come are often families who walk from Carmel settlement, which directly surrounds Umm al Khair, this group of 15+ arrived in cars and ATVs, and we quickly recognized many of them as residents of settler outposts from across Masafer Yatta – it was a real ‘who’s who’ of the most egregiously violent fringes of the settler movement. We sat watch as the village prepared. We gathered cameras and passports, and sat watching this group of boys laughing and joking as they built a bonfire, cooked food, and passed around a bottle of vodka.
The fear of an ambush is not concocted, it’s not hypothetical or abstract. In June, settlers (including at least one of the boys present at the olive grove tonight) came into the homes of people Umm al Khair, just feet from where the olive grove now lies; they pepper sprayed children, beat 6 women in their homes, and shot live fire into the air. Just this week alone in Masafer Yatta: On Monday in Susiya settlers beat 3 Palestinians at their homes, leaving them with serious injuries, and attacked myself and 4 other international activists, punching and shoving us, then stoning our car when we ran to it for protection, completely destroying it with us inside. Friday, dozens of settlers poured into the village of Jinba, and in an incomprehensible level of violence, were caught on camera brutally beating 6 Palestinians to the point of hospitalization, then the army detained 22 of the Palestinians who had just suffered this attack. Hours after this pogrom, in the middle of the night on Saturday, over 140 soldiers returned to Jinba, raiding the village, and systematically ransacking the school and every single home in the village, destroying food, books, furniture, appliances, cars, and more.
All of these scenes, and the thousands more like it played out in our minds as we stood watch. We’d all seen the videos of some of these attacks, and lived others of them first hand. In Umm al Khair, word spread within minutes of the scene in the olive grove, and people gathered quickly, each finding a role. Some took strategic viewpoints from which to watch the boys, some prepared cameras and called other activists, and while others took all of the children to a couple houses deep in the village where they would be far away from any violence. And then… we sat.
We sat, and we watched, and we tried to bring focus to something, anything, other than the tension of the moment. There were probably 20 of us gathered in and around the playground – some paced back and forth. A few sat glued to the livestream of the village’s security footage that looks out over the olive grove. Some looked for some task to do, something to take away the dread of violence on self, loved ones, and community, the anticipation of powerlessness and terror of a pogrom; one person handed out snacks to everyone on watch, another climbed on the roofs of the buildings to see them from different angles. One went to his house and grabbed a hard hat, in case in the anticipated attack, settlers threw stones. Personally, I kept taking pictures, fully knowing that a group gathered in the dark around a fire not only made for terrible photo conditions, but also documented nothing incriminating or identifiable, and was therefore utterly useless. But dread and anticipation are impossible emotions to sit in idly, and action offers a sense of purpose… or at least distraction.
We stayed like this for nearly 3 hours, carefully watching the size of the flames. As long as the boys added wood to the fire, we guessed, they weren’t leaving. Once the fire died down, that’s when they might be getting ready to leave, presumably to Umm al Khair. At some points, the settlers shouted insults towards the village. At another point, the police came (because we called), spoke to the settler boys, and left. The army came at some point too, were greeted warmly by the boys, and then soldiers pulled a box of firewood out of their army jeep and handed it to them.
By the grace of God, after several hours, the settler boys left. On their way out, some drove through Umm al Khair, blasting loud music and shouting out the window. Others honked at a passing activist car, following the activists and spitting on them. But they did not attack.
This past Saturday, we received word that army and settlers were stopping people in the nearby city of Yatta, pulling over and raiding vehicles, and threatening people with arrest, looking for one of Umm al Khair’s residents, who is known locally for his social media activism, sharing information about the occupation and settler violence in Masafer Yatta. That night, one of the lead activists from Umm al Khair pulled me aside to tell me that they expected the army would come to the village, and asked me to brief some guests who were staying in the village on what to do in the event of a nighttime army raid. That night, I slept in my socks, with a pair of jeans next to the bed, the belt already through the loops, and my passport already tucked in the pocket so that I’d be ready to jump out at a moment’s notice. Fortunately, that night they did not come. Again on Sunday, we prepared for the same, and again they did not come. But they might tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.
I’m finding myself at a loss of what level of alertness to respond to these situations with. The attacks are so constant and devastating, the threat so so real. And a night like tonight, hours of anticipation, dread, and alertness, only for the threat to have passed without incident, feels… I don’t know what, exhausting? unstastainable? Bad?
I attribute my own complacency and under-vigilance as part of the reason me and my friends were attacked in Susiya last week – I saw army and police vehicles on site when we arrived, took this as an indication that the settlers’ violent attack had finished, then entered the situation less than at 100% maximum high alertness, and we were ambushed. They say when you hear hoof beats, to think horses, not zebras. But zebras do exist in this world, and in Masafer Yatta, the land where the incomprehensible is a daily reality, zebras are around every corner. My central learning from the experience of being attacked on Monday was that going forward I would not allow myself to act on assumptions about relative safety. So, when, after two nights without the expected raid, I found myself climbing into bed without readying my jeans first, assuming the threat to have passed, I begrudgingly got myself back up, put on socks, and prepped my jeans yet again. And when, after seeing some young settlers walk into the olive grove (as people do almost every day), I started to head towards home to do my stretching, assuming that they were like all the others who come, I found myself stopping, and, still in my sweatpants, taking up watch at the grove, only to realize once I did, that the boys I’d almost ignored were 15+ of the most violent people I’ve ever interacted with.
I’m not sharing this as a self flagellating critique of my own activism; I know that adapting to this kind of violence and risk is an individual journey. I share this because I think it provides an insight into one aspect of life in Masafer Yatta on the frontlines of the settler movement. Consider the myriad ways that my own experience is deeply deeply insulated compared to the Palestinians that live this: for one thing, the emotional threat level is orders of magnitude higher when the lives of your children, parents, siblings, and entire community are on the line. Additionally, consider the long term impact of this calculation – week after week, month after month, year after year, facing constant credible threats, any western notions of ‘sustainability’ break down. This level of stress, fear, and activation are undeniably unsustainable. And yet, here people are. Once the settlers left, everyone poured into the community office. Cigarettes were lit, tea was poured, food was served. Within minutes people were joking and laughing.
So for now, we drink tea. And tonight, I will sleep with my jeans beside my bed, belt in the loops and passport tucked in my pocket. And tomorrow, I’ll listen for zebras.
PS – I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Writing this intense and personal recounting of my experiences, and then just sending it out into the internet is a bit of a mindfuck. If you’re down to hit me up and engage with this in some way, tell me what you noticed, what it reminded you of in your own life, what you’re thinking about or feeling, something you totally disagree with, frankly anything, I will be very grateful.