ISM Reports: Omar Titi Released After Six Months In Prison Without Reason

1. Omar Titi Released After 6 Months of Administrative Detention

Nablus
28 Jun 03
Marissa

6 months ago my friend Omar Titi was taken into IDF custody when he
passed through Huwara checkpoint. No reason was ever given for his
detention; he was just told that he was on their 'dangerous list'.
The strange thing was that he had just passed another checkpoint not
30 minutes previously, his ID was checked, and he was cleared to pass
the first time but somehow in the 30 minutes between the first and
second checkpoint he became 'dangerous'. Neither Omar nor his
attorney were ever told why he was arrested. He was sentenced to 6
months administrative detention based on 'secret' information.

On Thursday I heard that Omar might be getting out of prison on
Friday. I didn't really expect that he would get out, no one else I
know who has been held in administrative detention has been released
after only 6 months. The judge sees the secret file and just renews
the sentence for another 6 months while the accused still has no clue
exactly what it is he or she is accused of.

When the word came that Omar was going to released, we knew that he
would be waiting for us at a checkpoint near Hebron, without a single
shekel in his pocket. Ella, from England, volunteered to take him
home to Nablus. Unfortunately they had so many problems traveling
from Hebron to Jerusalem (usually a 30 minute drive) and were
required to change taxis so many times (because soldiers refused to
allow the one they were in pass) that they didn't manage to arrive in
Jerusalem until 6 and a half hours after they left Hebron, hundreds
of shekels poorer and dead tired from all the walking they'd had to
do.

I was anxiously waiting for Omar in Al-Ram so I could accompany him
to his home and family in Nablus but as the minutes and hours ticked
by with no word from him I became increasingly fearful that he had
been detained again somewhere along the way. As it turns out, every
soldier they came across gave him a hard time when they realized he
had just gotten out of jail. They'd point their guns in his face and
demand to know why he had been in jail. All Omar could tell them
was 'I don't know. I was walking along one day and they suddenly took
me into custody. They never told me why.' The soldiers were not
sympathetic.

At 6:30 PM, just as I had bitten away the last of my nails, I heard
Omar's voice at the door. I smiled and my heart filled with joy and
anticipation. I went to embrace him as as I looked into his face I
couldn't help myself, I started crying. It looked as if 10 or 15
years must have passed instead of just 6 months. Omar's pitch black
hair had gone partially white. Frown lines were etched in his
previously smooth forehead and deep crow's feet framed his sunken
eyes. I can't remember the word for feeling two extreme and opposite
emotions at the same time, but whatever it is, I had it. Sheer joy at
seeing Omar again and knowing that after 6 months he was free (well,
as free as anyone in Palestine is under occupation - freedom is a
relative term here) conflicted with total sadness and depression
generated from imagining what he must have suffered to have aged him
so much in 6 short months. This was interspersed with anger at the
occupation and a renewed determination to see it end.

I wanted to know what had happened to him in jail but Omar said that
when they let him go he closed the door and threw away the key to
that period of his life and that he wasn't going to look back, he
just wanted to spend time with his loved ones. This made me smile.
Omar was still Omar after all, the same wonderful, calm, loyal, kind
and strong man I had known. It was another defeat for the occupation.
They had managed to effect some superficial changes on the outside
but they didn't break him, they couldn't change who he was, they
couldn't make him miserable and bitter. Omar's good nature and smile
are a victory for Palestine and should be an inspiration for
everyone. It sure worked to erase the anger I had been feeling. The
determination is still there though. This brutal occupation WILL end
and the other thousands of Palestinians being held in administrative
detention with no charges filed will be free too, just like Omar.




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2. Upate from Balata 24 June

Nablus
24 Jun 03
Joseph Phelan


Dear Friends,
I have been here five days and I am not adjusted to seeing soldiers
with guns pointed at people trying to go home, crossing a checkpoint
across a road in their country.
Here is what I learned: Palestine has a gun held to its heart. Tanks,
APCs, jeeps, hummers, f-16, Apaches, checkpoints, new road bocks
daily, settlers, snipers,
bulldozers, colonial kids with guns, all of it one big gun, the heart
of Palestine in the crosshairs, the finger of occupation caressing
the waiting trigger. Today, and yesterday no one is allowed to leave
Nablus if you live in Nablus, and no one is allowed into Nablus
unless you live here.

We woke up at 4 am today to try and make it to a nearby village
before the soldiers could block the road; we were going to start
clearing the 8 or 9 road blocks in the road. Around 5 am after
walking for a while on the early morning sand roads we came across a
large APC. They told us the internationals could pass the
Palestinians with us could not. The soldier said he knew we are not a
part pf the conflict, that our Palestinain friends are not a part of
the "conflict," but orders are orders. We went bak to Balata, tired
and disappointed.

Today we approached Aseria checkpoint, walking over a hill in the
searing midday sun when up the hill, from around the bend, on the
dusty dirt road came a hummer. It stopped sixty feet from us and two
soldiers got out immediately yelling at us in Hebrew. We told them we
did not understand. They told us to walk forward and give them our
I.D.s and we turned around ignoring their shouts, trying to avoid
being detained. A Palestinian man who walked forward with us walked
towards them and gave them his ID, after several minutes he was
released and turned around following us up the hill away from the
shouting soldiers. Their guns were aimed at us the whole time, their
angry words pressed on our backs like the black hole barrels of their
weapon, like the uninterrupted sun.

I have not gotten used to this yet. I constantly fight my urge born
from heavy exchanges with NYPD to do what the soldiers say. I
constantly have to remind myself, overcoming the slowly churning mess
of my stomach, that I, as an international, can ignore them to a
point.

Later in the day we went to Biet Iba; another check point hemming in
this ancient city. No one was allowed past the young Israeli soldiers
in drab green, hidden behind squat concrete checkpoint huts,
squinting through sniper sights at old ladies fainting in the sun
trying to get home from the city with small children hanging on their
sun browned wind worn fingers. Again they called for our
identification, again we walked away hoping to be useful here in the
future.

Here in this prison city the old walls raise up to the unforgiving
sun, the dust of history filling the cracks between the ancient
stones. When you see the market center here tucked into the alleys
that have held vegetable stalls, butchers and clothing shops for
centuries you understand why this war of erasure against the
Palestinian people is so centered on land. These homes, these places
of worship, these shops are all heritage, they are not the same as
contemporary US homes made of plastic and concrete, ready for resale,
release, re-rent. These are centers of community, homes, and hearts.
There is a bulldozer at the front door of these homes, the gnarled
metal teeth crusted with the dust of broken history and the dried
blood of family legacy are paid for with US dollars, my dollars.

Later in the afternoon we went to Wahara check point (the same one I
was turned away from five days ago. The check point was closed when
we arrived but through some negotiation with the captain we got it
open for people headed into the city with Nablus I.D.s and headed out
with outer lying village I.D.s. The negotiation took a little while.
We had to deal with a soldier who was holding a bullhorn up to
people's ears and shouting into it to go away. He also walked over to
a cab and was about to plunge his knife into the tire when we and
several Palestinians intervened. This soldier continued to pull his
gun up keeping it at chest level with everyone he was talking with,
yelling at. This one soldier is not an exception; he seems to be the
heavier end of the rule. We have encountered some soldiers a little
more sympathetic and hating their jobs, but doing it none the less.

I met a young man here who has one year left to study at Bier Ziet
University. He is studying science. He is a refugee; he wants his
land back, a single Palestinian state. He wants his families land
back. He hasn't been to university in three years, it's a thirty
minute drive away but he can't get there.

The gun is cocked; Israel's finger is playfully tugging the trigger.
Every night there is the hum of drones flying across the starful sky.
Every night a families house is occupied nearby, every day we wake up
to new roadblocks. Here the gun is pressed lightly against
Palestine's chest, pushing to the heart. The gun has bullets built on
fifty –five years of evictions, land stealing, humiliation, torture,
and murder. I feel like this gun is fired every second, every moment
there is the chance of death and the only thing shielding this heart
is daily resistance, daily push to live and make a life. People
continue to have tea with friends, study, argue, love and live. I am
amazed as my guts turn to nervous at the sight of a soldier walking
towards me his gun swaying with his swagger. I am amazed by people
will to live and resist.

In Solidarity
Joseph Phelan



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3. Incursion into Hi Salam

Gaza
24 Jun 03
Laura

As days were slipping into summer days, twenty tanks, 4 bulldozers,
and 2 Apaches invaded Hay Salaam area on the border of Rafah,
demolishing four houses, 3 farms, and a garden.

The damage is as follows:

In Hay Salaam area:
Husein Qeshta, 30 olive trees
from the al-Shaer family, 30 olive trees
Owad al-Shaer, 100 olive trees
Muhammed Abu Salah, a garden with mango, lemon, guava trees Husein
Abd il-Aal, one floor, 160 square meter house (8 people) Mohammed Abd
il-Aal, two floors (10 people)

At 11:30 PM, Israeli forces cut the electricity in all of Rafah. By
midnight, the sound of Apaches filled the city center. The operation
continued until 4:30 AM; needless to say no one along the invaded
areas got any sleep.

We visited Abu Ahmed this morning, an good friend of ours and
everybody's grandfather. Last night's invasion cleared the entire
area between his home and Dr. Sameer's home one-hundred meters down
the border. He was less animated than usual as he ushered us
inside. \"Ten tanks here, ten here,\" he motionned to me from his
window. \"I shine my light at them, on-off-on-off-on-off, like
this,\" he holds his flashlight up. Its light is pale in the
morning. It's a last resort tactic, we both know, if they came to
demolish Abu Ahmed's home there's little his weak flashlight could
do. Only the hope they might notice (or care) that there were people
inside and wait for them to leave before beginning demolition.

Abu Ahmed walks to the store on his bad leg and cane just to bring us
cola, even when we know he'd rather drink tea. We sit together in
the stale morning-after air.

The two demolished houses had been abandonned before the invasion -
one family left two months back and one only a week ago, when the
constant gunfire finally became too much to handle. Many families in
threatened homes continue to live there as long as they can handle
it, because once they leave their homes are marked more imminently
than ever for demolition.

A garden full of mango, guava, lemon trees and flowers, was
demolished, along with a water tank belonging to the same family.
The man who owned it has American citizenship, works in Gaza City,
and stays near his work most of the time to avoid Abu Holi checkpoint.

It is no longer surprising to anyone here that American citizens get
treated as Palestinians. It has been clear for ages that America
does not take care of its own, much less those who come from such
forgotten places as Rafah. As US passport holders, we have been
advised by our embassy to leave the area. It is our own fault for
being there if we are injured; our country has aligned itself nicely
with Israel's new policy of disclaiming any responsibility for human
life in the Gaza Strip.

Beyond the buffer zone you can see Egypt, the green reminder of a
better life elsewhere, only fifty meters away, fifty meters you are
forbidden to walk under penalty of death. Fifty meters that used to
hold Abu Ahmed's farm before it was demolished nine months ago. A
flourishing farming town, as Rafah once was, transformed tree by
demolished tree into some dark futuristic world where Apaches rule
the night.

**I'm sending photos from this incursion through our Ofoto account.
If you receive an \"Ofoto Invitation\" in the mail it is not junk.


For questions, comments, or to unsubscribe, write to horia@r...


And, for a map of the \"Seperation Wall\" (separating Palestinians...
from their land) in the West Bank, see  http://www.gush-
shalom.org/thewall/index.html

In the dark times,
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will be singing,
About the dark times.
--Bertolt Brecht


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4. Roadblock Removal in Jenin

Jenin
28 Jun 03
Tarek

A tear rolled down my cheek as I thought about it. Nobody came. And
so we found ourselves digging alone: ten internationals trying to
clear the roadblock with rickety shovels, pick-axes, and hoes.

The tear hit the ground, but was quickly covered by dirt being thrown
my way by another international. I kept my head down and kept
digging. How many times could I do this? This was just my first time
and already my spirit was almost broken. The Berqin valley road is
the main method of transportation into the city of Jenin from the
town of Berqin and most of the western villages. It has been closed
and opened at least a dozen times in the past year.

Every resident of the town of Berqin has shared in the suffering of
having the road closed. When the municipality of Berqin dared to open
the road in February 2003, tanks posted themselves where the earthen
roadblock used to be, and ensured that everything that moved was shot
at. It was four months before the tanks left, to be replaced by the
earthen roadblock we were trying to dig through.

As I kept digging, thoughts raced through my mind. I could not blame
the Palestinians for staying away. After opening the road dozens of
times only to receive immediate reclosure and violent retaliation, I
don't think they believe that things can be different. We - our faces
not yet cracked by the hot sun - were idealistic. More than anything,
we believed.

A pile of dust was kicking up into the air as two vehicles
approached. A dozen Palestinian kids got out of the taxis and offered
their help. We took shifts, laughed and kept on clearing the
roadblock. The kids were young, but happy to help clear their road.
Suddenly, while working, they all started to run. They had spotted
the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) driving up to the roadblock. They
were nothing less than shocked to see that the soldiers - who would
not hesitate to open fire with live ammunition on them in most cases -
were trying to be civil with the international activists. The IOF
soldiers told us that they didn't care whether we cleared the
roadblock, but that we were wasting our time: they would most likely
reclose it soon.

There is no security reason for closing the road to Berqin. The
roadblock can be circumvented by the dedicated, who take an alternate
route that turns a 5-minute journey over semi-smooth roads into a
half-hour ordeal over dust-choked and mountainous terrain. If not
security, the only possible reasons for the roadblock are the
disruption of the Jenin economy and the oppression of an already-
broken people. The Palestinians knew, though, that allowing the
roadblock to go unchallenged was to build yet another pillar of the
apartheid-style occupation. Still, so much had already been lost, and
so only the kids came.

Another pile of dust approached. It was a bulldozer, and it marked
our salvation. Barely a dent had been made in the roadblock, even
after hours of work. We cheered our frustrations away, and watched it
open the road again.

\"They will close it again.\" The man was happy to have the road
open, but his lips puckered with the bitterness of life, and his eyes
showed only despair.

\"And we will open it again.\" The international was unphased by the
day of hard manual labour. And at that moment, when the eyes of the
international and the man met, I saw the thing I had been looking for
the whole time. At that moment, I witnessed what we all needed to
help us continue: hope.

tarek,



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5. Update From Balata 27 June

Nablus
27 Jun 03
Joseph Phelan


Much has happened for me since my last update. I think I will focus
on two incidents that severely affected me and how I am functioning
here.
When you walk up to Huwarra checkpoint from the Nablus side
you see a large expanse of what would be a four lane highway backed
up with trucks and cars. There are soda, juice and peanut vendors
that you might find in the parking lot of a football stadium accept
here the people standing to the left of the road on the sun baked
dust are not waiting to see their favorite teams, they are waiting in
line for over five hours to get to a home some can see from here they
are standing. Hanging over the people sweating and frustrated is the
beautiful blue sky, cloudless and clear. The hills to the left are
faded green and topped with the red roofs of settlements. Pulled
across this would be highway is large concrete blocks at least three
to four feet high edged with razor and barbed wire. On the left are
the lines of people headed to a long hallway of chain link fence
where they approach two soldiers in a squat concrete booth where they
get their I. D. checked and are either sent through or back. There
are usually five of six soldiers in drab green with machine guns
casually slung across their chests wearing flack jackets that
have "U.S." stenciled in small black letters across the back. They
are not usually older than 20- years- old. They could have been my
classmates in school. Yesterday afternoon several of us went to
Huwarra check point. When we arrived we found a line of more than 150
people. They were standing in long lines in the sun without any form
of shade; many had been there for more than five hours. Many were
just trying to get home less then 2 km away. I was speaking with a
man who could see his home in Huwarra village, he could have walked
there in five minutes but instead he stood in line while the soldiers
arbitrarily opened and closed the check point. When we first arrived
the IOF were letting women through, but suddenly they closed the
check point. We were able to get around to the front of the line
where we found two soldiers yelling at the jumbled mess of cramped
men pushing up a plastic orange traffic barricade the soldiers had
pulled across the path. The two soldiers, no older than 20 years old,
were yelling at the men to get into lines. When I asked one of them
why the check point was closed said that until the people were in
lines it would remain closed. After a short time the captain came up
without helmet or flack jacket and started yelling at the men at the
front of the line. He threateningly slammed a magazine into his gun
and pulled the loading mechanism. He started pushing the men telling
them to get in lines and hitting the barricade with the nozzle of his
gun. One of the younger soldiers just stood and watched cradling his
gun in his hands, his eyes were sad, ready for tears, just like the
tears of an limping boy who pushed past the barricade and the
soldiers, cheeks wet, lips trembling completely humiliated and broken
down from standing line for hours in the sun just trying to get home.
When I told the captain that these people just wanted to get home he
said "I don't care." The check point remained closed until the shift
change when a new captain on the scene got the front of the check
point into lines with the use of a bullhorn, constant aiming of
machine guns at peoples chests and punching and pushing people. While
I stood there, unable to talk with the soldiers (they just ignored
us) I talked with a man waiting to get through. He told me how much
he appreciates internationals being in the West Bank. He called me
his brother and spoke about Rachel Corrie and the commitment of
international solidarity activists; I had to swallow my tears. While
standing there helplessly watching the soldiers terrorize people just
wanting to get home I forgot about the fear I originally felt when I
got here and saw all the weapons. My fear is replaced with shear
anger, shear fist clenching dreams of liberation. Fear still rides
the back of my gut but I know that I can leave here when I want, I
can return home and move around where I want, go home and to work and
to see friends without soldiers in my way. We must fight for an end
to this occupation; we must see that the Palestinians are free.

Last night as we got ready to eat some pasta that the Swedes made we
found out there were tanks and APCs at the end of the road. We went
out with our bright reflective vests. When we got down to the end of
the street all the shops were closed and it was dark except for the
lights of jeeps and APCs on the other side of the road block. I could
see kids, silhouetted by the lights, no higher than my hips running
up and throwing rocks at the vehicles. After about fifteen minutes
there were several shots and a teenage kid was rushed by on peoples
shoulder. He had been shot in the cheek. He was rushed up to Market
Street by the crowd where an ambulance came and got him. We found out
later that two kids had been shot, one in the cheek one in the chest,
both in vital areas. The kids were on the roof and were probably shot
by snipers from the hills. The soldiers come to the edges of camp and
the kids respond with rocks, the soldiers then shoot to kill. They
did not enter the camp to arrest anyone, they did not enter the camp
to take over a house, and they did not enter the camp to demolish a
house. In the reasoning of this place there seems to be no
explanation for the soldiers' activities. Two kids are now laying in
the hospital in critical condition. Rocks verse high powered rifles,
tanks, artillery. Rocks always loose. I want someone to explain to me
how an eight year old kid with a stone is a danger to an armored jeep
or tank. Someone tell why people are shot for stones, for being
Palestinians. I don't understand. I don't think I ever will.


In Solidarity
Joseph Phelan


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