[Reader-list] A Palestinian poet's account of the siege

[Shikha Jhingan]

       Lives in ruins
       As Israeli forces pull out of the West Bank city of Ramallah, the truth
       about what happened there is beginning to emerge. A distinguished
       Palestinian poet describes living under siege

       Zakaria Mohammed
       Monday April 22, 2002
       The Guardian

       It was 4am when the Mirkava tank stopped outside our house. It sounded
       like an earthquake. The time has come, I said to myself; they will 
storm
       into the house any minute. Should I get out of bed, put on my 
clothes and
       try to save my dears, or wait till they bang on the door? I didn't 
want to
       be hunted in my pyjamas and unshaved. But I was afraid that if I got up
       and put on my clothes I would scare the children, who were sleeping 
next
       door with their mother, Salma - since the invasion they have been 
unable
       to sleep by themselves.
       I decided to wait for the soldiers in my bed. I was not afraid for 
myself:
       the time of fear passed away 18 months ago, when I underwent surgery 
for
       cancer of the colon. I felt as though I had been granted extra time to
       accomplish little things in my life.
       I now play with this extra time without fear, but I worry about my
       15-year-old son. They are arresting males between the ages of 15 and 
50.
       They humiliate and interrogate them and send them to prison. They are
       hunting a whole generation, not the list of 100 or 200 so-called wanted
       terrorists. I have tried to keep my son away from politics. Politics is
       blood and prison for us. But I couldn't stop him from reaching the 
age of
       15. He is therefore threatened, although his face is very childlike, in
       spite of the black line under his nose. I thought of persuading him to
       shave to make him look younger, but I didn't because I've always 
asked him
       to take care of that young moustache. If I had asked him to shave it 
would
       have planted fear in his head.
       The Mirkava left at 5.30am. The soldiers did not storm the house, 
but they
       might come back any time. I got out of bed at six and our small dog, 
Kiwi,
       followed me. Whenever he hears the sounds of tanks and bombs he hides
       under the sofa or bed and urinates out of fear.
       A friend phoned at 8.30 to tell us that the curfew would be lifted for
       four hours today, starting at 9.30. The previous two times it had been
       lifted at one in the afternoon. I had had to wake up Salma and the 
kids,
       because it is so hard to sleep at night.
       We did not want to lose precious minutes. While my wife drove the 
kids to
       meet their friends, I set off on foot for the Khalil Alsakakimi 
cultural
       centre, 100 metres from my house. On the way I heard someone 
shouting at
       me in broken Arabic: "Where are you going?"
       "I want to buy some food," I said.
       I then saw a soldier emerging from behind Aziz Shasseen girls school.
       "Go back," he said.
       I went back without arguing, but my eyes caught a group of young men
       kneeling, blindfolded and handcuffed, in the school playground. The 
school
       has become a temporary concentration centre. This explained the 
tremendous
       noise of tank and military vehicles around our house.
       I took another route to the centre. It has been ravaged: the tanks have
       destroyed the pavement and dug up the road. When I reached the once
       beautiful building, I found that the doors had been blown off. Broken
       glass covered the floor. Paintings hung off the walls or lay on the
       ground. The office of the poet Mahmoud Darwish was vandalised. Books 
and
       manuscripts of his poems were strewn over the floor, with soldiers' 
boot
       prints stamped on them.
       "Did they take anything?" I asked Manal, who works at the centre. "They
       stole 5,000 shekels [more than £700] and we are trying to find out 
if they
       took anything else."
       Alsakakimi was a distinguished Palestinian educator and writer. He was
       imprisoned by the Ottoman authorities during the first world war and 
was
       hanged for protecting a Jewish friend in his house. Eighty-five years
       later, the Israelis are paying back Alsakakimi's favour.
       I continued walking into the city, to Al-Manarah Square, the centre 
of the
       tornado. I hardly recognised it. The tanks were present. The four pink
       stone lions were the only survivors. I stood beside the northern 
lion and
       we looked together at the destruction of Alirsan, the street that 
leads to
       chairman Arafat's compound.
       It was 2pm on my watch, but according to the lion it was half past 
three.
       This is probably the only lion in the world that wears a watch - 
when the
       artist completed his sketch for the sculpture it was half past three 
and
       he drew a watch on the lion's paw indicating the time. Later on they
       sculpted the lion with the watch - not realising that it was the 
artist's
       joke.
       All the city's institutions have been stoned and vandalised. All the 
doors
       are blown off; computers, hard disks and files stolen. People 
believe this
       destruction is a deliberate and systematic attempt to cripple the
       foundation of our state to come.
       I went to the office of a local radio station where I had got to know
       Ahmad Hisham and the guard, Abu Hussein. When the Israelis arrived 
on the
       first day of the invasion it seems Abu Hussein tried to resist them and
       was killed. Ahmad tried to escape by jumping out of the window, but 
broke
       his back. He is now paralysed. Everything in the office was burned. In
       memory of my friends I collected a burned stapler and hole punch. On 
the
       table of an adjoining office I found Hisham's half-burned mug with a
       Lipton tea label still in it.
       Later, I met my wife in the city centre. We walked together, greeting
       friends. They asked about those who were arrested or killed. We met 
Vera,
       my wife's colleague, who hugged Salma and cried with sorrow. She had 
been
       taken as a human shield to break in the houses in her neighbourhood. 
She
       was pushed around by at least 20 soldiers. Two of them were aiming 
rifles
       at her head. They arrested 20 young men and Vera felt responsible. We
       tried to assure her that it wasn't her fault.
       We also met Ali, an eight-year-old with special needs. As we were 
leaving
       he said: "Miss Salma, there are no cars on the streets." Ali is 
obsessed
       with old Beetles. He spends hours sitting on the fence of his house,
       waiting for one to pass by. For 18 days, the cars have stopped passing.
       We greeted lots of people. "Thank God you're safe," we called. Then 
we saw
       people running in panic. We hid behind the door of one of the shops. We
       were later told that some kids threw stones at the soldiers, who in 
return
       threw tear-gas bombs.
       From a distance, Walid greeted me. "Haven't they arrested you yet?" I
       asked. I had not expected to see him - I thought he might have been
       arrested or killed, or even blown himself up among them. I could never
       forget the story that that young man had told me more than a year ago.
       During the first intifada in the late 80s, when he was 10 years old, 
the
       Israeli border guards forced his father to kiss the buttocks of a 
donkey.
       "Either you die or you kiss the donkey's buttocks," they told him. 
Walid
       had to lift the tail and his father kissed under it.
       We bought bread and batteries for the radio, then picked up the kids 
and
       returned home. We would not be able to leave the house for the next 
four
       or five days: Israeli snipers were stationed on rooftops all over the
       city.
       After 16 days of curfew, we needed to hang our laundry on the roof 
to dry.
       "I will go up," I told my wife. "No, they might shoot you. They won't
       shoot women," she said. We checked all the windows from all 
directions. We
       could not see any soldiers or tanks. My wife went up, hung the 
laundry and
       returned safely. But we could still hear the sounds of explosions
       continuously.
       "Zakaria, come and look," my wife called; she was watching the tanks
       through the window with the children. Before I got there I heard the 
sound
       of bullets. My wife and children were on the floor, terrified. A 
soldier
       had seen them and shot towards them: I don't think he meant to kill 
them,
       he wanted to scare them away from the windows, because they were 
marching
       about 50 blindfolded, handcuffed men in front of a tank, the soldiers
       poking rifles into their backs. They were being taken to the 
military camp
       at the school. The soldiers did not want anyone to see this horrifying
       scene.
       At 8pm I received a phonecall from my friend, Mohamad.
       "How are you, where are you?"
       "I'm in Chairman Arafat's compound."
       "Stop kidding," I said.
       "I told you, I'm in the chairman's compound. I was bringing a 
journalist
       here when it was attacked, and now I'm under siege with the 
president," he
       said. "Listen, the battery is finishing. I just wanted to say it 
will be
       very tough and long. Take care of the children." The line went dead.
       "What's going on? Is Mohamad under siege with the president?" Salma 
asked
       me. "We are all under siege with the president," I answered.


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