But even when Palestinians are unable to prevent arson attacks, building takeovers, or arrests, they work hard to prevent the occupation from colonizing their minds and spirits.

In Hebron, the group I am with holds a program for youth every summer. They bring a group of teens from the H2 area of Hebron and provide cameras for them to capture their everyday realities through pictures. For 8 weeks, the youth gather and discuss how they can use their cameras to tell their stories, and share their artistry with one another. They discuss how to hold on to dreams under occupation and the reality of what it will take to achieve these dreams. This week, I had the great privilege to join the final session of the program, which wraps up before the school year begins. This program has run for (I think) five years. Each year brings a new cohort of future photographers and storytellers. While boys and girls are both invited to join, this year the group consisted of a group of nine wonderful, young women.

Like most things in Palestine, getting somewhere is not an easy task. The staff of the program are in frequent contact with the parents; arranging where the program will meet and how the girls will get there. As the taxis dropped them off at the checkpoint gate, we met them to safely walk them the 200 meters to the office. Though a 3 minute walk, the likelihood of encountering soldiers seeking to harass people is very high. For this reason, many do not even set foot into the old city anymore. The municipality is always finding creative ways to encourage people to visit, such as public events and discounts on utility bills paid at the old city offices.

At the start of the session, after the chatter and laughter from the girls abated, we went around and did a check in. Thankfully, I know the Arabic words for four different emotions, so I got to hear a bit about how everyone felt that morning. Lucky for me, there were only two emotions that shared by all the girls, and the staff as well. The girls said how happy they were to have experienced the program. Not just for the wonderful friendships they had made or the fun and inspiring staff they had met, but also for the things they had learned during the program. After a few more icebreakers, we went down into the street for the girls to present their photographs and their vision boards for the future. The vision boards represented the dreams and aspirations of these young women, and the pathways that will help them achieve.

For myself growing up in the US, it was often difficult for me and my friends to conceive of a world outside of our immediate surroundings. Most people I know never traveled outside of their state until adulthood. For me, my understanding of the world was filtered through The Simpsons and other popular television shows. Yet even as the US worked hard to ensure we never questioned our place in the world, we were never physically barred from leaving. No one ever prevented us from driving or flying across a border.

For these girls, borders and barriers dictate their lives. Most cannot attend school or even this program without crossing a checkpoint. And yet all of them had dreams and desires that stretched far beyond the checkpoints at the entrance of their neighbourhoods. While each had different occupational aspirations, each board highlighted the importance of education and post-secondary education to the girls. This was not the only similarity between the girls. All of the boards displayed the dream of traveling and seeing the world.

For Palestinians, the travel I undertake and the aloofness I express in undertaking it is literally unimaginable. Even in their own city, I can walk on Shuhada street and they might be shot for doing so. To simply see outside of the West Bank is a luxury not afforded to everyone. Even as I fly into Jaffa to arrive here, many who I meet only know the area through stories their grandparents tell of the time before al nakba. Another common theme on the boards is money. One of the staff tells me this is the consequence of capitalism. I too know of capitalism and the desire for money quite well.

Yet unlike in Canada, where we are facing a cost of living crisis and people must work two to three jobs to pay their bills, the economic situation in the area is dire. Many in the West Bank would give up everything to work three jobs. Indeed, many give up their freedom or their lives to sneak over the apartheid wall and work illegally. Those who own shops in the old city that Israel has not yet forced to close, are being gutted by a lack of tourism. Those who work in the public sector are often times left waiting and wondering when their salary will arrive. When your parents are not sure they can buy you school supplies for the start of the year, money becomes top of mind.

In her song, “We Have to Change”, Shadia Mansour raps that Palestinians are between two occupations-one of their land and one of their minds. To fight against one of these occupations requires fighting against the other. This is not the type of volunteering that I usually do in Palestine. But giggling with a gaggle of girls and listening to them describe their life plans is no less important than staring down a settler.

In North America, we often laud after school programs for kids. We talk about how important it is to give kids something to do. To connect them with kind and responsible adults that can support them. To provide them with the tools and critical thinking that allows for them to make good decisions and not stray from the path. But why don’t we ever talk about such things when we talk about Palestinian children? Yes, clean water and shelters are vital parts of childhood, but aren’t joy and hobbies also vital? Would you want your children to grow up without these?

Even when those in solidarity with Palestine discuss Palestinian children, we often play in to the occupation’s adultification of children. During the regular settler incursions in the city, the young boys often play a game together. They see who can get closest to the soldier before he turns around and points his gun while they run back. This game lasts until an older boy scolds the kids, telling them that they are inviting anger and harm on everyone. This to me seems like the ultimate expression of childhood under occupation. Yes children in Palestine play and laugh just like other children. Yet, their games involve soldiers with M4 machine guns instead of playgrounds. Their photography showcases happen under the shadow of the apartheid wall. When Palestinian children make the news across the world, it is often because Israel has murdered them, imprisoned them, starved them, or made them orphans.

We never hear about the children who aced their Tawjihi exam, studying through settler violence and army raids. We never hear of the children so in love with football (soccer, not the American version), that they play every day and dream of one day being drafted by their favourite team. These too are the realities of life under occupation. This too is resistance. Perhaps not the kind of resistance that gains likes across social media, but perhaps it should be. Perhaps those of us seeking to support Palestine ought to celebrate these moments just as we celebrate the prevention of demolitions and the release of prisoners. And certainly, those who continue to dream and hope and achieve under occupation are worth celebrating.

Growing up, many people in my congregation lived near to the synagogue. This was intentional so that they could go pray without having to break Shabbat by using electricity. Thankfully I was not that observant, and got to enjoy my status as car passenger on the way to shul. When I lived in Seattle, the drive would sometimes take up to an hour, but it often involved my musical playlists and maybe a breakfast sandwich.

In the old city of Hebron, there are at least 18 checkpoints that divide and isolate the various neighbourhoods. Because of the several settlements erected in the heart of the city, and the army bases erected to protect the settlements, freedom of movement is almost nonexistent in the old city. For those who had the misfortune of owning a business on a now “Israeli” street, they were forced to close and abandon their shops. The residents have either left or continue to live but with some of their doors sealed shut by the army for “security reasons”.

In the old city, every window has a cage around it. I step outside on a balcony and feel imprisoned. The residents put these up themselves for protection against settler attacks. It has mostly worked.

As neighbourhoods are divided, many who live in the old city cannot do things like attend school, go to work, or even buy groceries without having to cross a checkpoint. Oftentimes, the checkpoints are closed. Israel cites electrical issues, but the cameras seem to continue to work fine. With curfews in effect on these neighbourhoods, people must time their lives to the will of the occupation. For some, their address makes it more difficult to find a job. Due to the checkpoint, those from the isolated neighbourhoods had a reputation for not being able to go to work on time, or even at all. Places prefer to hire those with less barriers to attendance.

If the checkpoints are open, going through them often requires submitting to humiliating acts by soldiers. IDs are checked, bags are searched, and people are interrogated about where they are going and why. This is of course if one is lucky. Often, crossing through a checkpoint is an opportunity for soldiers to beat and harass Palestinians without the watchful eyes of other residents or cameras. Even small children have been subject to arrests at checkpoints. Women have reported incidents of sexual assault.

On this Friday, we arrive to see a checkpoint line that is shorter than previous times. However, those in line remark they have been waiting for close to an hour and the line is not moving. We arrive maybe half an hour before the call to prayer. Others seeking to enter arrived earlier, knowing they might require hours in line if they wish to make the prayer. As we monitor, people come up to the checkpoint and inquire from others what the line is like. Some decide to stay, but others decide it is not worth it. They will go to the mosque just a few hundred meters away. Though less holy than the Ibrahimi mosque, at least they are guaranteed entry and do not have to interact with the occupation.

Others decide to stay, not allowing the occupation to thwart their plans. My feet grow tired as we stand around watching, and some children decide to sit on the ground as their parents wait in line. I look at the elderly men with their canes and elegant dishdashas and admire their resolve. Many have been standing around much longer than I have. My Palestinian counterpart points to several men and tells me that they come every single Friday. The line begins to snake through the street as more and more people arrive for the prayer. The people in line self organize, announcing that women and elders should be allowed to move to the front. I am amazed as the men who have been waiting for what seems like an interminable amount of time cede their spot.

We watch some teen boys arrive and my colleague immediately tells me it is unlikely they will be allowed to pass. Young men are seen as a security threat-even those who have decided to spend their day off praying. We hear the call to prayer begin and an air of frustration fills the checkpoint tunnel. One teenager walks away with his hands in the air. He tells us in Arabic that he doesn’t even want to pray anymore. Forget it. He is too angry. Eventually the red X above the turnstile turns into a green arrow and slowly, people are able to pass through for inspection. They will not make it in time for the official prayer, but they will hopefully enter the mosque to pray on the occupation’s schedule.

I see through the bars of the turnstile that there is a second checkpoint after the first one at the entrance. I am told that this is the more serious one after the initial vetting at the first checkpoint. Here is where they conduct bag searches, interrogations, and sometimes body searches. If people are lucky, they will have someone of the same gender conducting their body search. But this is not always the case. Those who do not wish to be violated by the opposite gender can choose to leave, wasting the time they spent waiting in line.

Today, only about 6-8 people are turned away. Some for not having their physical identification card, just a picture. Some men in their 20’s are turned away. They are told to come back with their parents if they wish to enter. I imagine being 25 and told that I must find my mom and dad to take me somewhere. It seems almost farcical. Children as young as 8 seem to be considered old enough to be arrested, interrogated, and imprisoned on their own. Yet, they are not mature enough to go to the mosque by themselves. Seeking to find logic in the occupation can drive one mad.

Eventually, we see many people exiting the checkpoint. This marks the end to the afternoon prayer session. As they file out of the metal turnstiles, many are still waiting to enter. The occupation may have delayed them. The soldiers may have prevented them from catching the Imam’s speech. But they remain determined to reach this holy site that is just a few meters out of reach. Israel cannot stop them from steadfastness. They cannot be torn away from their homes and their lives.

How long would you wait in line to go pray? How much harassment would you endure just to reach your place of worship? These are questions that I have never had to consider. Frankly, I doubt my resolve would be as strong. My anger and my frustration would likely overpower my patience, causing me to give up on attending services. Perhaps even causing me to stray from my religious identity. But in Hebron, patience and resolve is something imbues every act. Anger, frustration, or losing one’s temper is a luxury not afforded to Palestinians. In the face of the acts of inhumanity, the people in line continue to hold on to their humanity. They refuse to allow Israel to strip them of their dignity. They hold on to their city, to their way of life. They carry on as best they can, despite their lives being dictated by checkpoints.

As I began my trek to the city of Hebron, my fear of getting lost overcrowded any other thoughts in my head. As I asked directions in broken Arabic at the bus stations in Jerusalem and Bethlehem, my religious identity was not top of mind. After all, these were places that were familiar with ajanab visitors and everyone seemed impressed when I told them proudly: Ana Canadiah (I am Canadian). I ended up taking a taxi to Hebron. Though not the cheapest option, taxi drivers have been starved for work since tourism fell drastically after October 7th. As we drive, Moayyad gives me a tour of the new outposts, gates, and checkpoints that have been recently installed. He spoke of friends who had risked their life to sneak into the 1948 boundaries to work illegally. The lack of employment outweighing the risks of dying. I am his first ride all day, despite beginning many hours earlier at 7am. He gets a call for another ride in Bethlehem and attempts to negotiate having them wait until he returns from Hebron. I hop out somewhere in the old city, hoping he will make it back in time.

In some places in Palestine, there are no addresses and maps are not very useful. I try to navigate the directions I was given- walk past three roundabout, turn right at the coffee shop, then turn left until you get to the apartheid wall. As I pulled my luggage along the ancient streets, I felt very aware of being the only foreigner in sight. Eventually I gave up finding my way and had the person I was meeting come find me. He quickly arrived and easily strolled the winding streets over to the office.

This was the start of my first time doing solidarity activism outside of Masafer Yatta. Led by Palestinians from Hebron, the other activists had come from all over Europe. I was warmly greeted in the office by the whole team and after introductions, there was a massive lunch feast. We exchanged jokes cups of tea as I got to learn more about the folks I would be spending the next several weeks with. As they told me about the situation here and how they try to support the people, I was struck by the passion and dedication everyone had for their community. Located in the H2 area, which is under the control of the Israeli occupation, the office (and much of the old city) is surrounded by settlements on both sides. From the balcony, a military base sits in front of the office; a soldier permanently poised in a tower to watch our movements. I’m told the roof of the building is very nice, but Israel will not allow people up there and I musn’t go or I might get shot. As we walk inside from the balcony, I see a bullet hole on the door, memorialized from July 19-20, 2001.

The group has decided to take it very easy on me, and after lunch I go back to the apartment in H1, the area controlled by the Palestinian Authority. The next day I return to the office for the start of my orientation. During the conversation, I’m asked a casual question that most everyone would be asked in this situation. How did you get involved in Palestine solidarity? Abashedly, I tell everyone that I am Jewish. That I grew up an unquestioning Zionist until I was confronted with the truth of Israel’s colonialism. Everyone finds this interesting and is impressed that I split with my community over my solidarity.

I am not surprised by this response, but I do feel my body loosen as though I have confessed my sins. After coffee and a history of the city, we go for a walk to see what is happening at the Ibrahimi Mosque checkpoint. Both a deeply sacred prayer site in the city, and a highly contested area under takeover by settlers, this mosque has been the site of incredible strife for the resident of Hebron. In 1994, a Jewish extremist undertook a mass shooting in the mosque during Ramadan. Today it is considered a sacred site for the Jewish people, and subject to use by the nearby settlers (and Zionist tourists). This of course means that the access for Palestinians is highly restricted by Israel and a checkpoint regulates who pray inside.

As the call to prayer is happening, dozens of people are lined up outside, missing the prayer because of the checkpoint. After documenting, we walk back and several of the shop owners greet us on the way. One speaks some Hebrew to me in passing and my face immediately reddens. Does everybody here know I am Jewish? Later that evening I am up on the beautiful rooftop of our apartment chatting with the extremely sweet family who lives upstairs.

the rooftop garden and view of the city

I am talking to the father in broken Arabic as his wife helps translate for us. He asks me where I learned Arabic and I proudly tell him that I learned it on a previous visit to Palestine. He then asks me if I know Hebrew. A little surprised by the question, I respond back that I know a little bit. Our conversation switches to the colonizer’s language, which I am slightly better at than Arabic. His wife explains in English that he used to work in Israel before October 7th, and like many people who worked within the 1948 borders, had to learn Hebrew to manage.

He asks me where I learned Hebrew and I immediately panic. If I tell him I learned in school, he will know immediately that I am Jewish and was affiliated with Zionism. Though of course since he already knew why I was there, he probably wouldn’t have cared. I lie and tell him that I learned Hebrew in Jerusalem. Now I am even more embarrassed for lying, but I cannot take it back. He remarks that it is good to know some Hebrew and that all the Palestinians who live in Jerusalem know Hebrew very well. I agree and remark that the army, police, and settlers all speak Hebrew, so it is extremely useful to know some.

In Hebron, like in all the parts of Palestine I have been to, people are extremely kind and welcoming. In the small number of days that I have been here, I have received perhaps 100 “ahlan w sahlan” (welcome) greetings from shopkeepers, curious passerby’s, my hosts, and even small children. Yet, it is my first time being in Palestine without other Jews or with a Jewish group. It is my first time being in an area that hasn’t specifically decided to work with Jews. The practical implications of this are very small. A few small children who become frightened when they see me because they assume I am a settler, but this is rare.

And yet, perhaps it is my internal guilt and shame that causes me to feel the weight of my religious identity so strongly as I walk the streets. But while shame and guilt may be strong motivators for joining political struggles, they are rarely strategic emotions to organize from. While all those who benefit from the oppression of others have a duty to oppose such oppression, white guilt never makes for good accomplices.

It is my first time in Masafer Yatta since the murder of Awdah Hathaleen. It has only been a year, but the situation here has changed so much. It is not just the new outposts that have appeared. Inching so close that only makeshift fences separate the villages from impending ethnic cleansing. Nor is it just the gates that seem to close at will, trapping people inside or outside of their homes. Stress and fear permeates the air here and the value of my presence seems to matter less and less to the settlers and soldiers.

In Um Al Kheir, Awdah’s loss has cast a shadow over the whole village. His cousins and brothers talk about the things he used to do for the village. They scramble to figure out who will put together food baskets for the village and who will speak to internationals about the situation here. As we sit and drink tea together, we tell stories of Awdah. His cousins tell us stories from their youth and the trouble they would get into. At the end of their stories, they say things like “I still can’t believe he is gone” and “how can we go on without him here?”.

For the last week, the gate at the entrance to the village has been arbitrarily closed. Everyone trapped behind it is unable to leave. Those with the bad fortune to have needed to leave were trapped outside. Unable to leave their cars for fear of settler attacks, they waited by the gate or in neighbouring villages. As I sit inside the gate and watch the settler cars drive through their special entrance, I am asked about my travel plans. How long will I stay here and when will I return? I tell them of my plans: Hebron, Jerusalem, Jordan, and even New York. They shake their heads in amazement and one person remarks at my ease of travel. For him, even a short vacation in Jordan was denied. Because he was imprisoned after Awdah’s death, he was put on a bus back to the West Bank. He has never left this territory; he is not allowed to.

As the gate remains closed, many of the people speak of living in a prison. “It is a very nice prison”, they say, “people come and visit”. Surrounded by their families and their village, the open air prison Israel has trapped them in feels similar to Indigenous reserves in North America. While the neighbouring settlement steals more and more land, they boast about their conquests by foisting up Israeli flags. They take strolls through the village road, walking their dogs and ignoring the people whose lives they disrupt. “They don’t see us as humans.” At least six Palestinians have said this to me this week. I wonder how such terrible things can befall such good people. I toy with the thought of the settlers experiencing some of their own misfortunes but quickly dismiss them when I remember the village’s adherence to nonviolence.

In a few weeks, I will leave this place. I will take with me many fond memories and Whatsapp chats, but I will casually exercise my freedom of movement in a way that the people here could never imagine. Another activist asks Awdah’s cousin if he would ever consider leaving the village and moving to Yatta, where there are no settlers. He says he never would. This is his land. This is his life. He says that if he moves, then it is like the settlers will have won. He vows that he will remain on his land, just as his father and grandfather before him. But, it would be nice if he could leave for just a little bit. It would be nice if his home was not an open air prison.

As children, my mom tried to shield us from the most traumatic aspects of bubba’s holocaust stories. And growing up, she never really shared much about her childhood. I clung to the few stories she told me: of the first space launch, of bubba hitting her and my aunt with a slipper, of my grandpa occasionally being served pancakes with whipped cream for breakfast. My grandmother wrote an unpublished memoir of her time in the holocaust, which I first started to read as a teenager. I couldn’t get past her chapter about life in the Lodz ghetto and voluntarily signing up to go with the Nazis to help her family survive. She was once interviewed by Stephen Spielberg. Recently digitized at some holocaust museum, I too have not been able to ever get past section one.

I recently wondered to myself if what I had been witnessing in Gaza has finally hardened me enough to watch her description of genocide. My mom is retired and has flourished as a Holocaust educator and speaker, passing on her mom’s story. She tells me that people seem to mostly be deeply moved by her presentations. Often kids send thank you cards and highlight parts of the presentation that stuck with them. She tells me that she ends these presentations by explaining how the Holocaust started with othering. By seeing Jews as different that regular humans, as somehow less than. I even think she connects it to the current migration situation in the US. This makes me really proud of her. I wonder (though she read this, so now I’m putting her on the spot), if she connects what happened to my bubba to what is happening today? To the dehumanization and othering of a people that the Torah says we are related to? Though I’m thankful for her love and (apprehensive) support of my work, and I feel happy when we can frankly discuss deeply charged issues like Israel (or missed birthdays, sorry mom). I’m proud that she’s moved left alongside my journey. Mostly, I’m proud that she is my mom.

Since taking on this new role, or maybe because I am older now, she has told me more about my grandmother’s experience during the Holocaust and after, as well as how that impacted her and my aunt’s childhood. Like what I am watching now in Palestine, these stories are deeply upsetting. I’ve always said that my life has taught me that generational trauma is real. I’m not sure that I realized up until this moment though, that it is Palestinians too who are grappling to move forward with immense generational trauma and emotional pain that has lasted far longer than what the Nazis did to my people.

My mom told me on our last visit, my obligatory visit before I go get beaten up on international TV in a foreign contries with little regard for laws or other nations, and it’s is something that has been playing in the back of my head since September. She thinks I don’t listen to her, tsk.

She told me that was made the Nazis and the Holocaust so unique is the systematic nature of elimination that was so well thought through and worked like a well oiled machine. I thought about this when I was in East Jerusalem and the West Bank. Her words haunt me as I watch what is happening in Gaza. I feel weird whenever I say this, but Israel is doing a really great job carrying out its mission.

It has taken the brightest minds with the smallest heart and created an intricate system of Palestinian annihilation that is working horrifically well. Before October 7th, 2023, Israel was already limiting aid to the exact caloric intake need of all of the over 2 million residents. I think these words haunt me because what I have seen and heard with my own eyes makes it clear: we have learned from our oppressors.

We have taken the tactics used again my family in the 40’s and re-vamped them for 2025. I don’t think I can deny that any longer. I’ve been calling it genocde for a while now, but we must name this at it is. This is a holocaust. When we consider the meaning of the world holocaust, it is truly applicable to today. As I writing instructor and sociologist, I believe in using the most appropriate word to describe something. My people are committing a holocaust. Almost two years in, I can’t believe the world is just standing by. But they are. In my people’s holocaust, many survived because of the help and kindness of non-Jewish strangers.

Today we are not being asked to hide our neighbours. Rather, we are being asked to stop bankrolling the people committing a live-streamed holocaust. To stop sending the weapons and technology that allows this to continue. TO STOP LEGITIMIZING ISRAEL. Palestinians I know who are from Gaza have their entire families being wiped off the map, yet they continue to go to work and answer emails. I look at them for strength and sumud, by my little Western life has not made me accustomed to watching such preventable death and not intervening.

Indeed, we are still dealing with people saying that caring about the life, safety, and humanity of Palestinians is antisemitic. I’m so fucking sick and tired of this lame ass trope. I assure you that me and every Jew I know is fine and none have been murdered or harmed for being Jewish. We feel guilt and shame though. Some say the Jews of all people should know better. I disagree, we are not an exceptional people, we are just like you. Like the people who came to America seeking religious freedom and killing the Indigenous. Like the abused child who grows up to be the abuser. We too have our own laundry to deal with. But like we don’t excuse the actions domestic abusers because they had bad chilhoods, nor does the trauma of the Jewish community justify becoming the oppressor and losing our humanity along the way.

I grew up hearing “never again”. Perhaps it was naive of me to not read the fine print. To not realize that never again means never again for us. I wonder how I could have been raised on justice and kindness, taught about Sudan and South Africa at Jewish Day Camp, but at no point connect any of this to our Zionist learning. I used to be so proud to be Jewish. We Jews will never come and knock on your door. We will never tell you being of a different faith means going to hell. We never had missionaries. Yet today I must contend with the darker side of what it means to be Jewish. That we have been committing an ongoing genocide in Palestine for over 100 years.

I suppose most groups have their respective stains on their people’s history, this is one that the Jewish people, those who have set foot into Israel, feel ambivalent, or speak out against this, will forever bear. We are committing a holocaust. We are just like Abraham who kicked Ishmael and Hagar out of his home. But where is G-d to intervene after our transgressions like he did for them? May the world’s complicity never be forgotten. May the holocaust in Palestine end sooner than the one in Europe.

Awdah was 31 years old. Younger than me and likely younger than some of you reading this post. He spent his entire life under occupation and the things he had seen made him seem much older and wiser than his few decades of life. I think of all he had done in his short life: created bridges with Israeli and international activists, supported neighbouring villages, played high stakes football (soccer), and created a beautiful home with his wonderful wife and three small children.

I think about how I used to joke with her about Awdah not enjoying doing housework. I think about how his children used to stand in front of his car everytime he tried to leave the village, refusing to budge until they could get one more hug. I think of all the times he pulled me aside to whisper instructions to me as settlers or soldiers invaded the village. I can’t believe these moments will never happen again. I can’t believe that I need to refer to Awdah in the past tense.

I spent a great deal of time with Awdah during my visits to Masafer Yatta, but I spent even more time with his children. His oldest son, named homeland in Arabic, is only four years old. The middle child is two and the youngest is just 8 months. I can’t believe they will never be held by their father again. I know they will be too young to understand, instead asking over and over where their daddy is and crying when he won’t appear. I try to imagine what life will be like for them growing up. Already the trauma of the four year old had been featured heavily in my Substack. And now?

I try and imagine him as a young man, an activist like all young men in Masafer Yatta are forced to become. Will he give tours like his father? Will he pause at the side of the community centre and recount the fateful day his father was taken from him? I text Awdah’s widow. I know she must be beside herself in grief. I’m thankful she is surrounded by her family who all live in the same village.

I look up flights to the region. I find a flight to Athens for $2800. A bit out of my price range. A few American activists I know find cheaper flights and make arrangements to go. I’m thankful they will go and hope the village understands they each represent so many of us internationally who are there with them in spirit. Over a day later and I’m still in shock. How could such a great man die so suddenly? How did an everyday interaction in Masafer Yatta turn into tragedy for an entire community?

Me and Awdah had responded to so many incidents like the one which led to his death. Settlers from the nearby Carmel come in and harass villagers and attempt structural violence on the land and buildings. It is always terrible, but few have died from such a thing. Just a few hours before his death, Awdah had put a call out to international activists about the current situation and asked us to contact our government representatives. He said the settlers were threatening to cut the main water line. He died defending his village’s human right to access water.

The settler who murdered Awdah is named Yinon Levy. He lives in the settlement of Carmel. He owns a farm called Meitarim which is an illegal outpost. Yesterday, after murdering Awdah and also knocking his brother unconscious with the head of an excavator machine, Yinon and 5 Palestinians were arrested. Today, four Palestinians remain behind bars. Yinon is on house arrest, just a few hundred meters from Awdah’s family’s home.

According to eyewitnesses, Yinon said he was happy that he shot and killed Awdah. Today, hundreds came to Um Al Kheir to mourn Awdah. The community constructed two tents for people to gather under. The settlers came and continued the construction they had begun yesterday before murdering Awdah. The army came and demanded that the tents be taken down. There is no building in Masafer Yatta The army declared a Closed Military Zone on all of Um Al Kheir, kicking out any non-Palestinian residents of the village. They used pepper spray, stun grenades, and brute force. I watched videos of my Israeli comrades being pushed around and arrested, all for coming to support the community. They cannot even mourn in peace.

I doubt Awdah will ever receive justice. And I know that dozens of Palestinians were killed in other parts of the West Bank and Gaza on the same day. Still, something about this man who shared his home with me hits differently.

There is a hole in my heart. And I didn’t even know him half as well as so, so many others. What good is a movie, what good is an Academy Award, if it doesn’t stop your community from being murdered? We need international pressure and we need it now. The day before Awdah’s murder, he was on a webinar discussing the situation. These are some of his last words. A few years ago, Awdah’s uncle was murdered by an excavator. He wrote about the pain of this loss. Now who will write about him?

In Islam there is a saying, Allah Yerhamo, or may Allah have mercy on his soul. This is what one says when people die. In Judaism we say: may their memory be a blessing. I know Awdah will reach the highest level of Janna. He gave his life and his death for others. What I hope is that his memory is a revolution. That the brutal murder of this non-violent activist shakes some out of silence. That it renews the fire for liberation that glows inside those of us in this struggle. May his legacy live on by those who continue to pick up the torch. May we bring forth a world where his son does not have to worry about succumbing to the same fate of his father.

I learned that Abraham ushered these men to sit down and said he would go get them some water. He did get them water, both to drink and soak their feet with, but he also did much more for them. He told his wife (classic man eh) to slaughter a goat for them and also brought them other things to comfort them on their long desert journey. Abraham did all this before even asking the names of these men or why they were at him home. Because of Abraham’s generosity to these strangers, they later revealed who they were and granted Sarah childbearing abilities. The moral of this parasha has stuck with me far after Hebrew school ended: actions will always speak louder than words.

Growing up studying the Torah portion every single week, I spent a lot of time imagining what it must have been like for my forefathers and foremothers to live in a remote desert and use donkeys and camels for transportation. These biblical recreations in my head were based mostly on Disney movies like Aladdin and other Orientalist discourses about the deserts of the SWANA region (also known as the Middle East). That is, until I visited Palestine and witnessed my first real image of what it is like to live in a desert. Of course, not all of Palestine is desert, but coming from Toronto, even lush places like the Jordan Valley and Masafer Yatta feel like a desert to me.

Me posing next to the wall of a tent that used an Israeli advertisement banner as reinforcement

A longtime activist and host of ajaneb like myself in Masafer Yatta once told my group about desert/tent etiquette. He told us that when someone comes to visit your tent, it is your obligation to invite them in. Not only should you bring them in from the sun, but you must feed them and provide them water and a place to rest. Only after you have hosted them for over a week, is it appropriate to ask them what they are doing here. My comrades and I laughed and marvelled at this story. I explained that even in Canada, people don’t typically invite strangers in when they show up on our doorstep. And if we do, our first questions are who the hell are you and why are you here?

Ali and his camel

During my time in Palestine, I read over ten books of both fiction and nonfiction by Palestinian authors. Some of these books depicted Palestine before, during, and shortly after the 1948 Nakba. I read about how during the 30’s and 40’s, strange Jews just began to appear in people’s villages and in front of their homes. With this same dedication to hospitality, these interlopers were welcomed and provided for. Later, it was many of these same Jews who slaughtered those who had welcomed them in the name of a Jewish state. These stories reminded me far more of the colonial actions of the Pilgrims when they first came to America than any tenet of Jewish values or morals.

The activist who tells us this also likes to remind us that he is an 8th generation descendant of Jews. That before the State of Israel, Jews, Muslims and Christians lived in the land inconsequentially, often trading and even intermarrying. This is what occurred in his family long ago in the land we stand on now. Over those eight plus generations, his family has moved from caves to tents to buildings, but has continued to live and work the land. On good days, he likes to joke that his heritage makes him Jewish and gives him the same entitlements as the settlers on this land: security, divinity, and firearms. But good days seem to be fewer and further in between.

Growing up, this young man was forced to walk to school with an army presence so as to make it through unharmed when he entered the Jewish-only settlement cutting off his village from the neighbouring village. Often, the army did little to prevent slurs and rocks hurled at these children by the Jewish settlers. So, international activists would also accompany him and his peers to school and back. These days, it is far too dangerous for the children to walk through the settlement and they must be driven. Unfortunately, the car that takes them has been burned by settlers.

Today, this same phenomenon occurs in many villages in Masafer Yatta. Four days a week in the village I stayed in (the PA is too broke to pay for a full schoolweek), international activists join the elementary and middle school children at 6:30 for the kilometre long walk to school, and again around 1pm for the journey back. Most days, the journey is settler-free. However, in my three months in the region, I had several occasions where settlers, often teenagers themselves, blocked and intimidated the children on their way home from school.

Using my body or a car to keep a safe distance between these ‘hilltop youth’ and the Palestinian schoolchildren, I watched as dirty, brainwashed teenagers in kippot and tallit katan cursed and terrorized these small children. These acts, which occur daily and towards everyone from toddlers to seniors, are undertaken not out of cruelty, but out of piety. These young boys truly believe that ridding the Jewish homeland of its Arab savages is the holiest act they can perform. I wonder to myself how both me and these boys can have studied the Torah, but come away with completely different directives. I wonder if they think of Abraham’s generosity as they invade and destroy the homes of their Palestinian neighbours.

In many ways, I have far more in common with these settlers than I do with the Palestinians who host me. We share the same religion, language, upbringing, and core beliefs. We have modelled much of our lives based on what our faith tells us. And yet, I want nothing to do with these people. I feel a deep urge to plead with the Palestinians and explain to them that these are not my people. That this is not my faith. That these people are not Jews like me. Of course, the Palestinians do not need to experience my identity crisis on top of everything else, so I remain quiet.

In all of the places I have been in the Arab world, it is only me who has a problem with the Jews. Me who cannot seem to separate the settlers and soldiers destroying Palestine from the nice people with shofars occupying the US capitol and showing up at protests in droves. In Masafer Yatta, it mattered little to the activists who hosted us that I shared the same religion as those who relentlessly terrorized them. Trained to spot a Jew, almost as if their lives depended on it, my religion was never a secret. As I was ushered into homes and handed cups of tea, I was not asked to explain how my people could have gone so far astray. Handed meals to eat or babies to hold, I was never asked why my cousins couldn’t see the humanity of the people I sat next to.

In Masafer Yatta, I occasionally made jokes about the Jewish or Israeli activists being settlers. These jokes were always met by chastisement from the villagers. We don’t care who you are or what your religion is, if you are here to help us then we are friends in struggle. In my travels in Jordan and Egypt, I met many Palestinians who were deeply confused by my presence and ability to speak Arabic. But why? they would all ask me. Finally in Arabic, I would explain that I was a Jewish peace activist. Ohhh! they would remark. Finally, they could place me and make sense of this strange ajaneb.

Without missing a beat, every single person responded with indifference or reassurance. Everyone responded with some form of the following: we are all human, there is no difference between us. Would this response have been the same if I was wearing an IDF shirt? Probably not. But to see the humanity in others, allows them to see the humanity in us. In Egypt I met with survivors and refugees from Gaza that I have been fundraising for (PLEASE DONATE!).

All of them sit in Egypt, unable to work or attend school, and think about the spouses and siblings and parents that are still in Gaza. They feel immense despair. They wonder why the world allows this to continue. But they also invite me into their homes for meals. Offer me coffee and thank me for my support both from abroad and in coming to visit them. They too know I am Jewish. As I approach them in person for the first time, I feel the weight of all that is being done to them in my name. But as we meet, this guilt and shame melts away momentarily.

During my time in Masafer Yatta, I did many interviews and presentations about the situation there. The one I was most nervous about was of course the podcast I did with a diasporic Palestinian woman. Here I was, Zooming in from my illegitimate place in her homeland as she sat abroad, unable to stand where I was. But yet again, the guilt was only mine. She held no ill will towards me for my unjust privilege being flaunted in her face. I emphasized in our chat the same thing I seem to emphasize often on my social media and in this blog: the immense hospitality and warmth of Palestinians. My Palestinian counterpart responded to me by acknowledging the importance of hospitality and welcoming in Palestinian culture.

I understand and respect that not all Palestinians feel this way. Frankly, I’m surprised more don’t. Though my intent is good, my work leverages and thereby perpetuates my unearned privilege. The mere idea that I should have something to say on about a land I have no relationship with is in itself a perpetuation of white and Jewish supremacy. I don’t think I would have the patience to be friends with myself if I was a diasporic Palestinian.

me and the coolest girls in Palestine

My last night we were all given plaques as thanks in a ceremony

When visiting with a Palestinian friend in Jordan, she told me I had done something very Palestinian the night before, when, unprompted and without asking, I heaped food on her empty plate and insisted she eat it. I laughed when she pointed this out and recounted to her the many times I sat in someone’s house in Masafer Yatta, belly full, as food is heaped onto my plate and I’m being told “Kulshi! Kulshi!” (meaning: everything). We laugh at this briefly before I again think about my people’s actions in Palestine.

Jews also once had a strong culture of hospitality. Like Abraham in the desert or the folks in Masafer Yatta, we too were once known for ushering people inside and insisting on feeding them. The classic Ashkenazi trope in North America of my childhood was that of the Jewish mother who would usher in all of her loved ones and acquaintances, insisting they were too skinny and were in need of a good meal.

Today, as those who claim to be part of a Jewish state starve over a million people willfully and with glee, I know that my Jewish referents have been forever changed. How can I look at a Jewish star and see anything but the way it has been branded on Palestinians or displayed over ethnically cleansed land. The Jewish holiday of Passover, which I was invited to celebrate in a Palestinian home in a Palestinian village with Palestinians, Internationals, and Israelis marks the time that the Jewish people we freed from bondage. The text we read begins with the proclamation to let all who are hungry come eat.

As I return to Canada, I feel sick. I wonder how one single Jewish institution and one single retired rabbi have spoken publicly against what is happening in Gaza. I wonder how it could possibly be that the hearts of my people have become so hardened that we have become the very same oppressors we have always feared most. I wonder how those who grew up like me, learning like me that Judaism’s greatest value is pikuach nefesh, or preservation of life can support Israel. Maybe they don’t and are just silent. But I can’t understand this either. How can we idly stand by as so much death and destruction is occurring in the name of combatting antisemitism? How can anyone see what is happening and turn their back?

The day after I returned, I thought that I should get on a plane and go back. How could I possibly just be here in Canada doing nothing and living my life as though people are not dying? I’ve talked myself off the ledge, but I’ve also resolved to do more. To understand how much every single voice matters. How much of a difference every single dollar we donate makes . To feel sane in a maddening world is worrisome to me. I feel glad I can’t just hit the mall now that I’m back. But, I know that despair and shame are not the emotions that propel our movement forward. Yesterday a movement mentor of mine quipped that who are we to give up hope and stop trying when the Palestinians who are experiencing unimaginable atrocities right now refuse to give up.

It rolled off her tongue so simply, but struck me so profoundly. Let us open our hearts and our tents and continue to build the world we wish to see. After all, wouldn’t not trying at all be even more disparaging?

Despite living here for three months. Despite the ways we had been welcomed into the families here. Despite our deep love for the land and the people here, the adults understood that this is not our home. That many of us had family, friends, pets, and jobs that we left behind for three months. They understood that our parents wanted us ‘home’. Back to Western life and Western safety. They understood that, despite making this village our home for the last three months, that it was not our home. That we must eventually return to our ‘real lives’.

Just two hours later, after leaving my heart behind with the dusty hills and hospitable Palestinians, I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport. Despite not crossing any borders or even changing currency, I was suddenly in an entirely different world. I tried to push the Arabic out of my head as I donned a hostage pin and put on my Jewish star necklace. Here amidst the large orthodox families and youth groups, I had to pretend that Palestine did not exist. That the West Bank didn’t exist, it was merely the desert of Judea and Samaria.

I tried to hide my nerves as I passed through the various levels of Israeli border security. When describing my time here to the officer, I made sure not to lie, simply to omit some of my activities. I spoke of the beauty and magic of the old city. I described the various falafel sandwiches I had eaten in the last three months. I spoke of the beauty of the sea and showed the woman the tan I had achieved while in the land. Satisfied with my answers, I moved on to the next level of security.

Here, I described my Jewish upbringing. I mustered all my Hebrew to talk about my Jewish day schools and synagogues where I learned to love Eretz Yisrael and speak the language of my people. I described the family vacations of my childhood, where we visited the holy land. I must have been very convincing, because they did not even ask me if I had travelled to the West Bank or spoke any Arabic.

As simply as I had arrived, I departed with no issues. Nothing about a white, Jew’s presence in Israel raised any red flags, and thus, armed with my privilege, I embarked on the plane. Waiting to board, I reflected on the shocking ease of my travels. Israel’s border seemed to have no record of my arrest. They never bothered to Google my name. They never questioned my motives. I took off my Zionist regalia and threw them in the trash. People stared as I trashed my necklace, but I did not care. Fuck this place and these people, I thought.

I boarded the plane and in a bit over an hour, found myself in Cyprus. A small island country I had not heard of before, Cyprus is apparently a hotspot for Israeli tourism. Get me out of this place, I thought. A few days later, I was again boarding a plan, this time to Jordan. As I boarded the plane, I felt happy knowing that I would finally be in a place without Israelis. This was all I wanted after spending three months witnessing the Jewish supremacy of Israeli culture.

Arriving to Amman felt like a different world. I realized that I had never been to the Arab world before (not counting Palestine, of course). Here, there was a sense of freedom not present in Palestine. As people walked and talked and visited cafes, there was an ease about them. Here, there was no ever-present fear in the back of peoples’ mind. Here, there was no occupation. No fear that the army might come at any minute and wreak havoc on one’s life. It felt spectacular to witness.

In Amman, the calls for a free Palestine are loud and proud. It feels so different from Palestine, where outside of large cities, it is dangerous to wave the flag. In Jordan, much of the population is from Palestine. Many people here fled during the Nakba, the Naksa, or just because of the everyday situation of ethnic cleansing and erasure. But despite leaving their land, they have not forgotten their heritage. Here, souvenir shops are filled with pro Palestine merchandise. Murals calling for a free Palestine dot the streets.

Here, I meet many Palestinians. They wear necklaces and thobes that showcase their identity as refugees in Jordan. While many of the Palestinians here work in low paying jobs such as cleaners, servers, and taxi drivers, many others work at universities or for NGOs. They speak freely about the situation in Palestine, about the corruption of the Palestinian Authority, and about their desires to return to their homeland. I’m shocked at how these words flow freely from their mouths. Here, there is little fear of spies who will tell on you to Israel.

Some people ask me what I think about Jordan. I begin to gush about what I see. I tell them that the people are kind and hospitable, just like Palestine. That the land here is also beautiful. I tell them about the sense of freedom I feel in the air here. The ease in which Arabs move here. The magic of witnessing freedom in the Arab world. People seem surprised by my response. Here in a large, hot, busy, and somewhat grimy city, people do not expect ajaneb to praise this place.

One woman acknowledges the ease with which Palestinians can settle in the Arab world. Especially in Jordan, the language, culture, and food are extremely similar to Palestine. It is an easy home away from home. After she acknowledges this, I feel obligated to mention that this of course is not the home of Palestinians. That those who live here must contend with what it means to be a refugee. To long for a life and land that was stolen from them and their parents and grandparents.

I try to imagine what it is like to see your homeland from across an arbitrary border. To see the lights of the homeland at night in the distance and know you cannot visit. To look across the Dead Sea and see those who have colonized your land and dispossessed you of it. So close, and yet so far.

In Jordan, I am excited to practice my Arabic. Unlike the Arabs I met in Cyprus who were from North Africa, here the dialect is Levantine. In Jordan, everyone seems to know some English. They speak to me in English and I answer back in Arabic. I wonder how everyone has learned my language. Then I remember that in a country that does not struggle against occupation and apartheid, the schools likely teach English and are well funded. Here, the school week is not shortened due to lack of funds from the Palestinian Authority.

I think of the Palestinians who live here and then I think of the Palestinians who live in Masafer Yatta. Here, shepherds own many sheep and can take them out without fear of settler violence or theft. But here is also not there. Here, homeland has been traded for safety. I meet many internationals here who wish to see a free Palestine. They wear pro-Palestine shirts and keffiyehs and have Palestine stickers adorning their laptop. I am shocked at the contrast between activists here and in Palestine. I think of all the shirts I left at home, for fear of having them seen by Israeli authority figures.

I meet a few groups of international advocates who are in the country to support Palestine. Because of the current iteration of genocide in Gaza, their organizations do not want them to travel there. So instead, they come to Jordan. They ask me about my experience in Masafer Yatta and how I managed to make it in and out without trouble. I shyly explain that I am Jewish.

I try to pretend like I am on vacation like the few other tourists I see here. But my immense privilege continues to creep into my thoughts. Less than a week ago, I was in an active war zone. The day before my arrival, I was detained in the field by Israeli soldiers. And now I sit at a cafe smoking shisha and drinking coffee as though none of this happened. As though none of the people who housed and fed me for three months exist anymore. As though their freedom is now inconsequential to me.

I exchange voice notes over Whatsapp with those in Palestine. We say how much we miss each other. They tell me about the continued violence and demolitions they face. I tell them of my vacation plans in Jordan. They seem happy for me and wish me safe travels. But I feel immense guilt and shame. How is it that I can have so many more rights than those who I spent the last three months with? What is so special about me that I am granted freedom of movement while they are not?

I find no answers to these questions because there are no satisfactory answers. All humans deserve these inalienable rights. This is what I learned in school and growing up in North America. That all humans are created equal. That we all deserve the right to pursue happiness and life and liberty. And yet, the same country, which was founded on these principles, is responsible for funding and supporting the terrorist regime of Israel. The irony hits me hard.

As I resume my normal life, I question what I will do to remember, honour, and support the people of Masafer Yatta. What will I do from here that can make a difference there? How can I carry on watching Netflix and ordering food delivery to my home as though I did not spend the last three months witnessing inhumane atrocities? I end this blog not with answers, but with more questions.

It is an unsatisfactory ending, but I suppose that is to be expected. What is satisfying about witnessing war crimes happen in my name? I try not to be seized with despair, but to use what I’ve witnessed to move myself and others to urgent action. The things I have seen are things I would not wish even on my enemies. They are cruelties that no living being should endure. I resolve to fight harder, to dedicate myself more, to seize any opportunity to support Palestinian liberation. This is the best I can do, I suppose. I invite you all to do the same.

Still barely awake, I decided to take a nap. But, as soon as I fell asleep, I was awoken by one of the teenagers in the village. He said, “I’m sorry but there are settlers here”. Barely coherent, I hopped out of bed and grabbed my passport and a pair of socks before sliding into my shoes and running up a hillside to another house.

As I arrived, there was a group of Palestinians telling a group of four settler boys and their sheep to leave. I looked around and it seemed like the whole village was there. These four boys with their sheep were shouting obscenities at us in Hebrew and aggressively getting in people’s faces. Noticing they were unmasked, I felt better knowing they were unprepared for a straight up attack on us.

I began filming and putting my body between the settlers and the Palestinians. I felt angry and upset at these young men who were harassing and intimidating these women and children. At one point, a young girl, most famous for her brief cameo in No Other Land, when she tells her father to make Hamdan and Yuval stop arguing, moved in front to shout at the boys to leave. I called her crazy and told her to move back. She turned to me and began shouting at me. She said “I am not crazy, they are crazy. This is my land. This is my home. I can be wherever I want to be. They are the ones who should move”.

I was taken aback. A ten year old had never said such a thing to me before. I considered what she said and realized she was right. Who am I to tell her where to be on her own ancestral lands? She turned around and shouted something very similar at these boys twice her height and age. The smaller children had bottles filled with rocks they were shaking to scare away the sheep.

Eventually, the settlers moved away from the house. We see a car with a yellow license plate approaching another house. We cannot decide if it’s activists or settlers. Myself and a villager ran to his house. Out of breath upon arriving, I realized the car was full of activists and the settlers were walking past the house and back to their settlement. As I caught my breath, the rest of the village walked over. Suddenly, the matriarch of the home appeared from nowhere with a giant stack of chairs. We set them up and were promptly served tea and cold water.

Just as we were all winding down from the event, a group of ambassadors from Europe arrived and promptly were offered tea and a tale about our morning. As myself and a few other activists sought refuge from the sun under some olive trees, we recounted the vile insults the settlers had spewed. They had told me that they refuse to talk to lesbians. This seemed mild compared to the way they had described another activists potentially intact foreskin before calling him gay. This too was mild compared to the “your mother’s pussy” a settler said to the teenager who woke me up as the settler pushed him.

Shortly into our debrief, the settlers returned. This time, we prevented their sheep from entering the land we were on (sheep scare easily with loud noise). So, the settlers continued on from the outskirts of the village to the main part of the village. The now large group of activists followed, filming and trying to prevent them from entering the village.

Maybe because it is my last week, maybe because I didn’t get enough sleep, or maybe because after only three months of what Palestinians in Masafer Yatta endure their whole life, I had enough. Whatever the reason, I snapped and started hurling insults at the settlers. I insulted their clothing, their hair, their families, their sexuality, and even their lack of parents. I put my middle fingers in front of their cameras and mustered all the Hebrew I knew to insult them in their mother tongue. I got so heated, an Israeli activists came to stand between me and this boy.

The army pulled up and watched as the settlers continued. Eventually, they got out of their car to stand around and hold guns on us. The settlers continued to lead their flock into the village. At this point, the Israeli activists also became enraged. Unlike me, they could actually yell at the army in Hebrew. They yelled at them about how they were standing there doing nothing. About the things the settlers had said to them. About the incompetence of the soldiers. I had never seen this side of them.

Eventually the police arrived too. They spoke to the Palestinian land owner and several of the Palestinian activists who speak Hebrew. They talked to the settler boys after shaking hands and patting them on the back. They came back and argued more with the Palestinians. Finally, the settlers and their sheep left again. They told us in Hebrew that they would be back tonight to finish what we started. I felt villagers immediately on edge.

Again, exhausted and full of adrenaline, we gathered outside another house. Again, chairs mysteriously appeared from every corner of the yard. Coffee and tea were brought out as we chain smoked and discussed what we had just been through. The teenager asked to see the footage I had captured. I handed him my unlocked phone and he and his mom and brother started watching all the videos (I haven’t watched them yet).

Afterwards, he told his mother about how I had been holding up my middle finger in front of the settlers’ cameras. He told her how I swore at them and what I said. He took this moment to gratuitously swear and make lewd gestures in front of his mother. I felt so embarrassed as she looked at my and laughed at this behaviour. This happened several times over the next few days.

As I sipped coffee and tried to regain my cool, we received word that the same settlers were now harassing people in their homes at the other end of the village. Already exhausted both mentally and physically, I’m grateful when some Israeli activists decide to go alone and later assure us they don’t need backup.

I continued to lay around and drink coffee. We discussed how the ambassadors had arrived at such a perfect time. They received a true experience of the village.Eventually we received word that the stylers had left. But then, I got a call telling me that the same settlers were harassing a family who is isolated and directly across a valley from a settler outpost. I put on my shoes, but so exhausted already, I let the Palestinians run ahead as I trudged along behind them.

Again we arrived to the same settler boys and their sheep doing the same thing they had been doing to the villagers all day. Again, the same soldiers and police officers were standing around observing the scene. They finally moved, only to ask me for my passport and sweat me about why I am here.

Finally, the Matak (border police) arrived. These are the only Israeli authorities who can actually declare a place Palestinian land and force the settlers to move. They are also the most elusive response unit and often take hours to come. In this instance, we had been waiting since morning for their arrival. Finally, after a lot of back and forth between the police, border police, army, settlers, and Palestinians, the military came over to me and the other international activist to take pictures of our faces and passports before telling us that this area had been declared a closed military zone this morning.

They further told us that because it is a closed military zone, no one but the Palestinian landowners were allowed within. Anyone disobeying orders would be arrested and charged. A CMZ order must be timestamped and presented with an actual packet of papers, which includes a map of the area. Often, these orders are just a bluff to force activists to leave.

My comrade promptly asked to see the military order. The soldier pulled out a phone and my comrade again clarified that paper was needed. Our Palestinian host gestured at us to leave it be. No more demands to see the order were made. As my comrade asked the soldier what the order encompassed, my host pulled me aside. He told me to grab my comrade and start walking. To not look back and not stop until we reached his house.

I nodded and began creating distance between me and the mass of uniformed people before texting that we should go. Still engaged in a conversation with the soldier, I started to walk away and called him. I told him to stop talking to the soldier and follow me. I thought of my last arrest and didn’t want a repeat. I did end up looking back quite a few times to make sure that he was following me.

Eventually we reached our hosts house and my comrade told me that almost the entire village was encapsulated in the CMZ. We discussed where we would go should the army arrive within the main part of the village. Eventually the Palestinians arrived back too. We sat and ate dinner and laughed off the frustrations of the day.

In my last week here, I must make sure I tell everyone that I am leaving and when. It is hard. I hate goodbyes. I’d rather quietly exit, much like I did in Toronto. But I can’t because here in a village, one cannot go anywhere without giving a reasonable explanation of where one is going. There are some spaces here in the village that I go to in order to be alone. To listen to music or write these posts, or even just think about everything. When I get up to go, I’m asked where I’m going, why I’m leaving, and what lll be doing. I’ve learned the word for “resting” in Arabic, but I don’t know how to explain I just want to go chill alone right now.

On my last week here, I’m trying to absorb all the village time I can. I sit outside peoples houses and nod along as they speak Arabic and I sip coffee. Sometimes I even chime in. Today, as my neighbour and her daughters were at work, I joined her second eldest son and his wife and child (and his older sister and her child). As we sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes, we talked in English about what it means for me to leave his family after three months.

Three months of shared laughter and shared meals. Three months of running together towards and away from settler attacks. Three months of being invited into their home and their lives with no questions asked. It feels surreal to just up and leave them. He jokes that after the occupation, I should come back and build a home here next to the one he will build for his family. Because he is married and with a child, he has moved to live in the city. With building permits constantly denied here, even if he had the money to build, the occupation would soon knock it down. And maybe even his mom’s house for good measure.

Because he lives in the city, and the economy under an occupation and genocide is so depleted, he can’t find a job. Every moment of his life is spent figuring out how he is going to provide for his wife, child, mother, and younger sisters. I look across the couch at him and suddenly remember he is only 20 years old. The weight of his world makes him seem much older.

He tells me that it is also hard for them when activists leave after spending time here. One day there are activists sleeping next door and responding to army incursions and the next minute, khallas, they are gone. He tells me what it means for his family to have people here who understand their struggle and come from all over the world to stand with them. It matters to them. Not just because of the safety, but also for the morale of international visits. They feel their struggle is not in vain, that the world feels their pain and stands with them.

He asks me if I will forget about them when I leave? I assure him that this is not possible. I vow to him to tell everyone I know about the people I have met in Masafer Yatta. About their kindness and integrity. About their struggle and sumud. He seems satisfied with this answer. The patriarch of the village asks me in English, “why you leave here?”. He asks (jokingly) if I’m scared of the settlers. I laugh and explain to him that my visa is expiring. He tells me he has family in Windsor and I tell him that I want to go visit them and we will video call the village.

I joke with the people about bringing them to Canada with me. We discuss who can fit in which person’s luggage. I tell them they are welcome to Canada anytime. That I will cook for them and they can stay at my house. We both know they will never come. Israel does not give them this much freedom of movement. We spend our last week in between responding to settlers and having special meals.

We invited the village over to the guest house for dinner and forced them to eat chili and macaroni and cheese. They were skeptical but polite. In turn we were treated to festive lunches and dinners. We tell each other how much we will miss each other and how much we enjoyed each other’s company for the last three months.

I ask myself how I could possibly leave my new family? This village that has taken me in and nicknamed me Mahmoud, son of Abu Jihad. I feel a deep pit in my stomach as I sort through my belongings and try to pack them efficiently. I try to replay in my head what has happened over the last three months. Suddenly they seem like they passed so quickly.

One of the things I love most about Bethlehem is the lack of soldiers, settlers, and general reminders of Israeli occupation. The only soldiers or Israeli flags I see are at the checkpoints in and out. Settlers of course are too afraid to enter a city filled with Arabs. Instead, Bethlehem is fortified with a giant wall around it that separates the Palestinians within from the rest of the country. In many parts of the city, the wall has been decorated in a plethora of graffiti.

My favourite thing about Bethlehem is that I feel safe there. Yes the PA is corrupt and there are spies everywhere, but there is no IDF. There are no illegal settlers. And the Palestinian flag flies everywhere. Because Bethlehem is an important place within Christianity, it has remained relatively safe under occupation. Only once was there a siege.

In Bethlehem, I enjoy a very classed experience. Though there are a myriad of refugees living in camps in Bethlehem, I don’t see them when I shop at the western grocery store or go out for sushi. Instead, I meet Palestinians who hire party planners for birthday parties, attend high schools with western curricula, and even women who smoke.

Despite the lack of violence, Bethlehem has also suffered greatly after what they call “Black October”. Since October, 2023, there has been almost no tourism in Bethlehem. Even when Christian tourists have come to Jerusalem, they assume it is too dangerous to travel across the “green line” and visit Jesus’ birthplace. Most stores are shuttered, not even finding it worthwhile to open most days.

Near the church of nativity, teenage boys follow me, trying to convince me to buy their magnets (I’ve bought a lot of magnets). Outside of the main square, i occasionally do shopping. Going into a clothing store to buy a sorely needed hoodie, I greeted the woman behind the counter before she tried to tell me that I was shopping in the men’s section. I assured her I was where I wanted to be while perusing the array of sweatshirts. Finally I decided on one.

Checking out, the woman asked me if I knew what the Arabic writing on my hoodie said. I replied I did not and in broken English, she tried to explain. I said “resistance?” back to her in Arabic and she nodded. Good enough for me. I handed her a bill to pay for the sweatshirt and she scrambled to find change. This seems to be a common problem in Bethlehem. With no tourism and little business that isn’t from locals, few places have change in their change drawers.

Vendors seems to always leave their shops for several minutes to go to their neighbours shops and find someone who can make change. This time, the woman came back and was still one shekel short. I assured her it was not a problem, but she insisted, rummaging around in her purse for a lone shekel.

I had the pleasure of being in Bethlehem for both the final night of Ramadan and Easter. At Iftar time during Ramadan, the market flooded with people celebrating, praying, and carrying huge platters of food around. Fifteen minutes later, the streets were empty as family and friends gathered in homes and restaurants to break their fast. On Easter this past weekend, I saw more tourists than I had ever seen in my three months here. Tour groups from Europe and Asia walked in groups and haggled with shop owners. There was a crowd at manger square.

Beyond just the tourists, I saw parades, musical celebrations, families in their nicest outfits, and cars honking for the lord. On Saturday, I went into Jerusalem for a few hours. I was originally planning to stop at a cafe in the Christian quarter of the old city for a cappuccino. But when i arrived at the New Gate, I again saw something I had never seen before. Massive gates and fences were set up around the perimeter of the entrance to the old city. The army and police were gathered in large numbers and seemed to be herding the Christians.

Deciding my caffeine fix was not worth it, I walked to the other side of the street to continue onwards. There, a few tourists and some Christian Palestinians were watching the scene unfold. Some news cameras were scattered amongst the crowd. I stopped and asked what was happening. Someone explained to me that the army was limiting the number of people allowed in to go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I was surprised to see white, European tourists being mishandled by the army. Surely this was not good for business?

I watched as a group of people were allowed into the old city. The crowd flooded through before the army arbitrarily demanded (with force) that the line stop moving. I watched as two western, white women shrieked and held on to a third white woman who was stuck behind the soldier. The two women tried to pull her towards them, but the soldier pushed her back. Shrieks again erupted from the women. Surely this was not the sacred pilgrimage they were expecting.

I walked on to the Muslim quarter considering the scene I had just witnessed. On our way to Bethlehem, myself and my Jewish co-activists were trying to piece together the story of Easter. Though Jesus was born in Bethlehem, he rose again postmortem in Jerusalem. Indeed, the most sacred place to be during Easter is in the old city where Jesus was lain and then later resurrected (forgive me if this history isn’t correct).

Despite Jerusalem being the most sacred place to celebrate Easter, I decided the people in Bethlehem were having a much better holiday. Unlike their counterparts in Jerusalem, no one was pushing them around or insinuating their religion was inferior. Indeed, the people of Bethlehem were doing everything in their power to ensure that the tourists had a fabulous time and tell other congregants how safe it was.

Later I saw video of army violence outside the church of the holy sepulchre inside the old city of Jerusalem. Again I felt thankful for Bethlehem. They say Israel is the safest place for the Jews. That it exists to keep Jews safe and prevent harm against us. And yet, all the harm and violence I’ve experienced here is at the hands of the state. It is the Palestinians who I feel safe around. As one shopkeeper put it: “I am not a terrorist, I just want to sell you some things.”

(me pretending to be a settler and making peyas with my hair)

This game certainly feels like a trauma response by the children of being constantly harassed and scared by Israel. Yet, I play along. I find it somewhat cathartic to play the settler and say the things I cannot say directly to the settlers. When the actual army or actual settlers really do appear, the game ends and the children start screaming and running towards their home.

At another family home in the village, the children cope with music. Unlike the music I listened to as a child, there are no pop beats or lighthearted lyrics. The songs they play are always about Palestine. About the land and the people and their struggle. A young girl here plays a song on repeat. I watch the music video as she acts it out.

In the video, a group of children begins to sing in front of a menacing gate. As they begin, a soldier dressed in green points his machine gun at the children. I wonder out loud what they are singing, but then the words turn to English. The children sing about how they are just children. How they want to play and learn and be loved in safety. How they are innocent and just want to play outside like the birds. As the song continues, the soldier continues to point his gun at the children.

As I look at this little girl copying the lyrics and dance of the little girl in the video, I feel sad. Despite not talking about the occupation much, this little girl has a clear handle on exactly what it means for her to grow up Palestinian in occupied Palestine. In the evenings, we kick around a soccer ball I gifted the village. She is very good at soccer. I wonder to myself if she will ever have an opportunity to pursue this love outside of her home. I try not to ruminate on this too long, lest I get too depressed to kick the ball back to her.

In another village, there is a young boy about ten years old. Whenever I arrive at this village, he insists on getting in the car and directing me where to park. When I succeed without incident, he tells me I did a good job. Whenever I leave, the toddlers and babies surround the car and stand in the middle of the road. Not wanting to hit any of them, I call this ten year old over to round up the babies. He does this with an ease borne of the repetition of this task. He is in charge of the younger children.

I see this same ten year old following around the young men with a look of tenacity and bravery in his eyes. The adults quickly shoo him away. I see hurt behind his facade of aloofness. He goes to find the other boys his age to play with. Every time I see this boy, I am filled with a deep desire to buy him a present. I want to make him smile and remind him that he is a child who deserves a childhood.

But what does one buy for the child who is no longer a child? And if I bought something for him, surely I would have to buy something for the other 80 children in the village. Would these present assuage my white guilt? Would they end the occupation? Solve decades of inter generational trauma? Alas, I doubt it.

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This morning, when the shepherd I was grazing with greeted me by asking me how I was doing, I responded with the only appropriate answer: Alhamduallah. He did the same when I posed this question. We then began to talk about all the things about the day and the area that were not so blessed. We spoke about the settlers spotted that morning. The settler leaders who had received ATVs from the Israeli government. And we discussed the hope for a quiet day before saying in union, inshallah.

After two months on the ground here, my group is tired and worn down. We lay on mattresses and discuss how quickly we would move our families to the nearby city of Yatta if we lived here. We marvel in amazement at the sumud of the people who continue to remain in Masafer Yatta. For them, the constant threat of violence, arrest, and demolitions are better than a life away from their family, friends, community, and livelihood. One cannot shepherd from a high rise apartment.

Today as I greet the shepherd, my Alhamduallah is one of an understanding of the assigned fate of this place. After we say inshallah, I say to the man in Arabic: some days are honey and some days are onion, but on all days we say praise G-d. The shepherd nodded approvingly as this appropriated wisdom coming out of an ajaneb’s mouth.

One day, as I was sitting on the couch in my neighbour’s house (a single mother household with three daughters), I again pulled out my honey and onion proverb. In response, the mom told me that all days for her are onion. All days in Masafer Yatta are always onion.

Using my broken Arabic, I responded that she was a liar. That she was sitting here surrounded by her wonderful family and laughing riotously. How could today be an onion day?! Of course I succeeded in getting a few more laughs out of her. Shortly after this exchange, she went back to zoning out on the couch. Her smile faded and was replaced with a tired and melancholic expression.

I revisit this memory often. I feel haunted by it. Her words and facial expression speak to the overall sentiments in this place. We laugh, we smile, we play, but always in the shadow of occupation. Always knowing that at any moment, our quiet moment can be interrupted by machine guns pointed at us.

One night, she tells us that she wishes to move to Yatta. That she cannot take living here. She feels immense worry and stress for her children. She never knows if they will be safe. She wants them to be able to attend school and play without fear of attacks or arrest. She tells us she will move when her 17 and 15 year old daughter graduate high school. She says they hate Yatta and do not want to move.

I sit and contemplate the family’s preferences. Here in the village, everyone is somehow related. When a baby is born, the entire village lines up to hold them and offer advice to the parents. Here in the village, no one calls to arrange hangouts, they simply come by and visit. Children come over to play with their cousins as their aunts and uncles ask after their parents and offer sweets.

Here in the village, we go and pick produce when we’re hungry and eat it as we watch the sheep. In Yatta, there are no fig or almond trees around the corner from apartment buildings. In Yatta, one cannot simply walk five minutes to their cousin’s house. But in Yatta (which is an area A city) there are no soldiers beyond of the checkpoints, which regulate who can come and go. In Yatta, there are no settler attacks. Settlers are scared to go into a large city populated by Palestinians.

Many families have moved to Yatta from Masafer Yatta. I meet them as they come back to visit. Some hold professions like social workers or drivers. But others seem to struggle to find employment in the city. My neighbor’s two oldest sons, who have married and moved to Yatta, come to visit frequently. They pick cauliflower and eggs and go to sell them in Yatta. They tell me the price of cauliflower is low right now. They tell me they must drive the backroads to come here and back to Yatta without checkpoints.

In Masafer Yatta, we always say: Alhamduallah. No matter what the day brings, people give thanks that they are alive even after they have been beaten and their home demolished. Here, people keep on keeping on, despite whatever terrible things befall them. Here, all days are onion. But still we praise G-d.

Farm life is very different from city life. Farmers do not have 9-5 jobs. Farmers do not go into the office. It is very strange to me that people stay at home all day, but when you live on a farm this is where you work. Despite never worrying about clocking in late, these farmers often wake up very early to take their sheep out. When the days get hotter, they wake up earlier to take their sheep out before the scorching sun hits them.

Now that Ramadan is over, these field trips often end with a meal. Some of the shepherds here take their animals out several times a day, when possible. With the high cost of feed, the danger of encountering settlers, and the livelihood of these shepherd dependent on a happy flock, more time is almost always better. As Spring comes to Palestine and the rain gives way to lush hilltops, the activists here spend more of their time shepherding too. For all the reasons above, shepherding with activists is very important for many of the shepherds in Masafer Yatta.

While our presence does not always halt settler violence or arbitrary detainment by the army, our documentation makes them nervous. Often times, I find myself in very silly stand-offs with settlers and soldiers, where we each try to intimidate the other by filming, while pretending we personally are not intimidated. Here in Masafer Yatta, walking outside your home and into a field can be very dangerous. But people are often attacked in their homes as well. In this way, shepherding and maintaining this traditional way of life is a strong and steadfast act of resistance. Even the sheep participate.

In speaking to my friends from Gaza, I tell them of my time here on the farm. They hear the goats and geese in the background of the call. I explain how I have milked the goats and bottle-fed the babies. They break out in laughter. Even for Palestinian city folk, this way of life is something from the past or in the distance. Palestinians who fled to cities in 1948, 1967, and those part of the slow trickle of ethnic cleansing cannot keep sheep in their apartments. In the 1988 Eddie Murphy comedy, Coming to America, a wealthy African prince goes to America to find anonymity and true love.

In the film, Murphy tells a girl he likes that he works as part of his family business, as a goat herder. Later, when she tells another person about Murphy’s occupation, the person responds by laughing and deriding Murphy. As an educated, white-collar worker himself, he cannot see Murphy as anything but a backwards and uncultivated plebeian. This scene often comes into my head as I am in the field with the goats and sheep. Indeed, my life in the West has not prepared me for ever meeting goats and goatkeepers outside of a petting zoo.

For children growing up in Masafer Yatta, their entire life is a petting zoo. As toddlers they love to watch the animals and imitate the noises. As children, they accompany their parents whenever they can, playing in the fields and pretending to herd the sheep. As they reach their teens, their parents often send them out for a short afternoon shift with the flock. Similar to Indigenous nations on Turtle Island, people are trained their whole childhood to follow in the footsteps of previous generations while celebrating heritage, culture, and modesty.

When I see young settlers out with a flock, they are often unable to manage their animals. It is difficult to get sheep to all come or go or stay. These young people have not been trained to shepherd because this is not their real task. The task is to take the land and intimidate the Palestinians. And this plan is working. Still, we often find dark humour in laughing at the ineptitude of the settler shepherds. These youth contrast sharply with the Palestinian shepherds.

Every shepherd has their own style. But what they have in common is a love for the land and a love for shepherding. My favourite shepherd lives in my village. Across some hills and valleys, his family is very isolated. They are also exposed to the main road that leads to the nearby settlement. For this, they have suffered numerous and violent attacks. The two little girls are incredibly sweet and loving, but sometimes their ongoing trauma pokes through and I am reminded they are small children subjected to unbelievable conditions. The older girl becomes visibly upset when cars with Israeli license plates slow down in front of her house. I can’t blame her.

Yet, on most days they still run around the flock and play as their mother and father shepherd. Sometimes they pick up large sticks and tubes of rubber, seeking to imitate the carved staff that many of the shepherd have made for themselves. When their dad goes shepherding alone, it feels like a moment of solitude for him from the three women in his house. Out there with his sheep, he looks on and directs them as though they are remote controlled. When not on his phone, he stands contemplatively over the flock. He speaks no English, so I am only able to image what he feels and thinks when shepherding. On some days, it is quiet and we are left in peace. On others, he will quickly begin to duck and run while shouting at us to follow. Palestinians here can spot a settler from miles away. Their lives depend on it.

I often think that this is the most idyllic place in the world. No one worries about rent or whether their boss will fire them. They spend almost all day together as a family unit. Surely this is the utopia those of us “on the grind” dream of. And yet, what stops this place from being wonderful is the Israeli state and its soldiers and citizens (not all citizens of course). I cannot imagine what it would have been like to spend my childhood entirely with my family. To spend my days playing almost exclusively with my cousins and sibling. Of course, my parents worked and I didn’t live in a village, so I’ll never know. And yet, despite the perplexity I feel at wondering why these families and siblings don’t fight more, I find something very beautiful about this type of love and intimacy between a family. This is what they are fighting for. For the same dream that you have. To be happy in your home and with your family.

K’naan, a Canadian rapper who is a Somalian refugee, has a song called TIA (This is Africa) that I used to listen to on repeat as a teenager. In this song, he pokes fun at gangster rappers like 50 cent and Jay Z. “Oh you from the hood?” He rhymes, before describing what it is like to live in a militarized, third world country to his largely American audience.

He raps about living conditions that I have never truly witnessed or experienced before coming to this land. In my youth, we occasionally came into contact with handguns. Pilfered from homes or passed on through friends of friends, these weapons made my peers feel strong and powerful. Despite this, guns, like most of our childhood shenanigans, were kept hidden from most eyes. We understood that even though the engaged in fights and stealing, that we could get in trouble for these things. That they were bad, dangerous, and illegal. That we were transgressing when we engaged in activities that made us feel ‘hard’ and ‘gangster’.

In the Wild West Bank, Jewish teenagers walk around with knives, bats, rocks, and sometimes even guns in a way that at once speaks to state-sanctioning and statelessness. The men proudly don machine guns with a surly bravado. In the Wild West Bank, Palestinian children learn early about what it means to be tough and ‘street smart’.

While none of these children have ever been mugged on a dark street at night, they have spent their entire lives being physically, verbally, emotionally, and legally abused by an enemy that seems to play by whatever rules they deem fit. Palestinians have never even gotten a rule book. I see ten year olds who direct the younger children and follow around the shebab (young men) as though they have witnessed things that have hardened them far beyond their years. I have watched little girls giggle with eachother about who can stand closer to the soldiers.

This week, several Palestinians from my village were attacked and arrested, including the Academy Award winning director of No Other Land, Hamdan. Myself and four other activists were also attacked by settlers. If you live under a rock and this is your first time hearing about this, the event gained massive media attention and the video I recorded during the incident went viral and my mama saw in on Seattle news.

My first reaction to seeing this video is cringing at the sound of my voice. At the fear and uncertainty so apparent in my speech. The world has officially witnessed what I’m like when I think out loud. After I ran back to the car, settlers, who mind you are often teenage boys, completely smashed the car window next to me. Like Hamdan said in his interviews, I too thought I might die in this moment, or at least receive a serious head wound. Somehow still filming on my phone (thanks CJNV for the training), I covered my head with my hands and tried to crouch below the level of the open window where rocks, sticks, and hands had easy access to me.

I am thinking about movies and television shows that I’ve seen where people crouch in the backseat of cars to avoid oncoming bullets. This is all I am thinking about until I hear a new set of voices yelling. I look up and see two men running towards me fast, shouting in a foreign language. This is it, I thought. There is no way I will withstand the beating of these men. Then, I look up and suddenly make out a face that I’ve seen all over the New York Times and ABC Network. Basel Adra, the other Palestinian Academy award winning director of No Other Land is the one running and shouting. My village host and OG activist, Nasser, is running behind him.

Earlier that day, myself and Nasser had been running through a village who’s name I do not even know. Trying to keep up with this man a decade older than me, I scrambled down hills and over boulders while praying I wouldn’t lose my footing. My lungs could not keep up but they had no choice, two Palestinians nearby had been beaten and then locked in their home by settlers and we needed to respond fast. Like always, myself and the other activists filmed, documented, and tried to keep up with our Palestinian counterparts.

This incident was particularly upsetting because of being locked in the home. Beatings are common, but this was new. As we arrived, two of my fellow activists got out of the car to observe as a nearby settler who was drafted into the reserve military after Oct 7, 2023 threatened him for driving a illegal car, or mashtouba as they are called here. With the price of buying a vehicle exorbidant because of both Israeli and Palestinian taxes that must be paid, in addition to the likelihood of the car being destroyed by settlers, many Palestinians drive cars that have been taken off the road by Israel and then enter the black market.

In between this incident and the now famous one, my group had been invited for Iftar at a Palestinian activist’s house in another village. As we waited for the call to prayer in order to break the fast, we joked around and made Qatayef. Literally as soon as we were about to eat, the call came in to respond to the next incident. As we talked out the plan and who would respond, I popped two olives and drank a cup of juice.

I am really happy that Hamdan’s attack and abduction received so much media coverage. Even places like TMZ and IMDB shared about the attack. Mark fucking Ruffalo called for the Academy Awards to release a statement. Rumour is that they might. The next two days were more of a blur as myself and the four activists as well as the famous directors and the head of the village council did interview after interview. The goal is always to bring global attention to what it is like here. To have eyes on Masafer Yatta. To support the residents as they try to save Masafer Yatta.

By Thursday, most of the journalists were gone. They got their story. I suppose in some ways, I got my story too. This morning, in the village of Jinba, another pogrom occurred. This time, five Palestinians were injured and taken to the hospital. When I first heard (I am away this weekend, Baruch Hashem) I first thought to check the news. Maybe something was posted. Maybe NPR was still interested?

But I stopped myself. Of course this attack, the attack hours before Hamdan’s, and every other attack I’ve witnessed in my time here has not made global news. It feels like a huge privilege for me to know Hamdan. Aside from his really fancy trophy that I hope he will let me hold one day, he is a really fantastic person. With a dry wit and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, one might at first miss his soft side. But as the father of two young kids and a leader in Susya, his life is nothing but community care.

Does a Palestinian need to be an Academy Award winner to have the world see their suffering and feel outrage? I don’t think Hamdan and Basel would want it this way. But I suspect that they, like me, wish to use whatever means and whatever platform they may have to share about what is happening to their people. Perhaps they, like me, do not wish for the spotlight, but know it must be used when it shines on us.

I am not upset about my attack. But I am upset when I think about how the amazing people who have welcomed me into their homes and lives must endure this all the time. I keep thinking to myself: this could not happen to better people. You will never know about Hamdan’s neighbours the way you know about Hamdan. For many, they would not feel comfortable telling strangers about their lives. For others, they will never have the reach that Hamdan and Basel have.

You will never know about the attack on the five residents of Jinba that you know about the attack on the three residents of Susya. This is the way the world works, and you either play the game or you lose. But, despite this, I want you to know that each one of them is a beautiful human. They have a family and a community that they love and care for. They have likes, dislikes, dreams, and annoying habits, just like you. They deserve more. They deserve humanity and safety. The Torah tells us: justice, justice you must pursue. So please, pursue it for the people of Masafer Yatta. They deserve nothing less from us.

I’m sitting on the couch with several of the internationals. Next to us on plastic chairs and stools, are the Palestinian activists of the village. They have responded to nearly all the demolitions in the area, and provided footage for the movie, but they have not watched it yet. I’ve seen it three times already, but never is Masafer Yatta. Never with the people who’s story is being told. As we watch, the Palestinians talk to each other in Arabic, and then translate for us. They name every village we see on screen. The family of each home being destroyed on the screen and where they are living now. They point out soldiers that were at the demolitions the week before.

I am watching the documentary, but I am also watching the Palestinians watch the documentary. I’m sitting across from one of the local activists who juggles his activism with his full time job as a teacher. He is raptly focused on the film, not even turning his head to respond to his friends. I wonder what he is thinking. About his family member’s demolition last week? About the demolition being shown on the screen? The only hint as his emotions are the cigarettes he continues to light up and smoke.

Part way through the film, our main host walks in with his four year old. Almost never are we all sitting around watching a movie in the office. He ends up staying to watch. He handed over his phone to his four year old to watch truck cartoons in order to distract him from what was on screen. He immediately jumped into the rhythm of the conversation, pointing out which parts he had filmed. One of the other activists asked if it was ok that his son was in there and if he wanted her to take him out. We were assured that it was fine. He lives this every day. We had a dry laugh about this reality. But still, this was a rare moment when he got to hold his parents' phone.

After the movie, the Palestinians joked that this was everything we needed to know about Masafer Yatta. That we had gotten a month’s worth of experience just watching the film. As the joking subsided, we asked the Palestinians what they thought of the film. How did it feel to have their entire lives played out in front of them? One activist, known for his attendance at, and artistic recreations of, almost every demolition in the region, and who had his own home demolished over the summer, speaks first.

He talks about how powerful the film is. How meaningful it is to see the story of his people being told on a screen. The others agree. One notes that he has seen demolitions many times, but to have it all put in a story-with music, visuals, and narration, was incredibly powerful for him. It felt validating of their struggle. It felt like maybe, the world would understand the harsh conditions of this place. Maybe they would not have to struggle so much to find activists to stay with them. Maybe they could wake up one morning without worrying their home will be demolished. Maybe, just maybe, their children could go to school and come home and play surrounded by a feeling of safety and security.

The next day, the internet discourse began to change. Instead of sharing infographics and interviews from Masafer Yatta, people were instead discussing the Israeli director, his Oscar speech, and his political stance. That evening, my group went out to eat in Beit Jala and brought a Palestinian activists from Firing Zone 918 with us. Of course, talk quickly goes to The Oscars, the impact of the movie on the ground here, and what this activist thought of Yuval and the things being said about him.

He took his time to answer us thoughtfully. He asked us if we thought that Palestinians in Masafer Yatta had no brains or free will. That of course they were capable of exerting agency and were not simply just a puppet of the Israeli directors. He then told us about Yuval and the first time they met. He told us of the fundraisers he had helped with, the articles he wrote, and the short documentaries he had produced. He assured us that this Israeli did not just step into Masafer Yatta one day and start filming a movie. That like the rest of us in this work, he had to earn the trust and respect that he is given by the community. His serious face then cracked into a smile, “But yaani (I mean) if a settler from Havat Ma’on makes a film that shows about Masafer Yatta, we will celebrate them too”.

We all laugh at this idea, before getting serious again. He tells us about the various ways they have tried to share their stories about the plight of Masafer Yatta. Now, with this film and it’s Academy Award, millions of people know of the place Masafer Yatta. Millions of people know about the demolitions that are happening and of the sumud of the people who insist on remaining on their ancestral lands. This is what is most important. This is what the film is about. This is why I am.

What will you do to support the communities of Masafer Yatta? Well, go see the damn movie already Then donate to support the steadfastness of my wonderful hosts. And, maybe come here yourself and bear witness.

The village council has funded food baskets for every family in the village during Ramadan. The families are very happy and thankful as we haul giant bags of flour and massive jugs of oil out of the car. I experience my first two Iftars (the meal that breaks the fast after sunset). The first night we eat maqluba and the second night we eat mansaf. Both are traditional dishes that require love and labour to create. I watch the women in the kitchen work to prepare the Iftar meal as they continue their fast and their children demand their attention. The second day of Ramadan, I fast as well. The smells of fresh bread and meat wafting towards me as I prepare the salad (the only task I was allowed to help with) challenges my dedication to the fast.

But joy here is always interspersed by pain and hardship. Not long after the Iftar meal in the village I am banned from, groups of settlers come to attack several families. They throw stones and break cars. We hear screams of frightened little girls as we listen to voice-notes from the activists in the village. I feel guilty that I am not there. I anxiously watch real time updates of smashed windows on homes and cars. But before this incident is over, something happens at the village where I am staying. As this four year old swipes through Tik Toks on my phone, we hear the dogs suddenly begin to bark. The boy asks if something is happening, but we shrug it off. After all, the dogs are always barking at something.

A minute or so later, I receive a call that the army is here and jump up to go respond. There are 60 or so officers walking around the village. They eventually move to the newly erected olive grove of the nearby settlement, which has surrounded the village and pushes up against the community centre. They start a bonfire and begin preparing food. But before they eat, they begin to pray. In a volume far louder than needed to reach God, they begin chanting what I had until that moment felt was sacred text.

For many years, I cringed at the term Jewish supremacy. I didn’t like the idea of myself and my identity as a supremacist. But watching those soldiers pray, I find myself realizing there is no other phrase that so aptly describes the weaponization of Judaism for cruel and fascistic purposes. I tried to keep my indignation quiet as we filmed the soldiers and made it known we were watching them. One of the villagers asked me to go sit with the young boy who had first suspected that something was afoot. “He is scared and no one is with him.” I nodded and hustled over to join him on the couch.

With his mom’s phone in his hands and Youtube playing truck cartoons, it was hard for me to imagine this child was scared. He tilted the phone to show me what he was watching before yanking it away and hiding it so only he can watch. He let out a loud giggle as I complained that I wanted to watch too. Mesmerized by the cartoon, he didn’t seem to notice as the army started marching through the town. Or perhaps he chose not to notice and instead focus on the red truck on the phone.

As the soldiers crossed the gate that separates the settlement from the village, a collective sigh of relief filled the air. Coffee and sweets were brought into the room and laughter staved off the fear that permeated the air just minutes earlier. A few hours later, I decided to retire for the night. As I slept, No Other Land, a documentary about Masafer Yatta directed by two of the residents here (and two Israelis) won the academy award for best documentary. I awoke to the news and was momentarily stunned. Then elated. Then indifferent. I watched Basel’s acceptance speech where he spoke about his desire to give his daughter a different life. I thought of the child last night, on the night of the Oscars, and how this was no life for children.

After my arrest, I had remarked to someone that I regretted not wearing a bra during the incident. After discussing the importance of sleeping in a bra in Masafer Yatta. I was then told the story of a young Basel, who slept in his sneakers for a period of time. One night, he had been detained in a raid on his village. He had been barefoot at the time and was freezing as he waited outside with the other men. For a stretch of time after this incident, Basel would not go to sleep without his sneakers on, fearing another incident. We laughed when this story was told, but this morning as I watched his speech, I cried remembering it.

Every time I come to Masafer Yatta, I am reminded that an innocent childhood is a luxury not afforded to the children here. I watch ten year old boys act like men and I am reminded that it is my people, my religion, my tax dollars, that are going to destroying the souls of these children. Here in Masafer Yatta, there is so much love. Families spend the entire day together and children have an entire cadre of playmates living right next door. Babies are passed to uncles, cousins, and sisters who lovingly dote on them before passing them off to the next relative.

Today is a strange day. I hear the Oscar speech and subsequent interviews blaring on every phone today. We discuss the reaction of Israeli newspapers and laugh at words like “mockumentary” and “alternative reality”. Today, many of the people here are happy and proud. But I am sad as I try to square the realities of last night with this Oscar winning film. I worry that the settlers will retaliate for the choices that Hollywood made. I worry that Basel’s daughter will not have a childhood different from his.

Read this piece from Basel Adra on the impacts of the film and this piece by Hamdan Ballal that was just published. Donate to support communities in Masafer Yatta and to help families in Gaza make it through Ramadan

It was still dark out, but it seemed the entire village was there to witness this arson attack. We watched and filmed as the youth attempted to get near the car and their parents yelled to keep their distance. The car completely enveloped in flames, it felt like a scene from a movie. The smell of the melting tires tinged the air and black smoke billowed above us. An hour later, as the car still burned, it was time to take the children to school.

I’ve had many late nights before early morning classes throughout my school career. But as I watched the children leave the scene to go to class, I couldn’t imagine how they would pay attention that day. I wondered what I would say to a student who arrived to my class and told me their family car had been burnt down an hour before. Would I still ask for their homework? Would I send them back home? Here, it seems that no child would ever go to school if they were excused every time a settler attacked them.

Eventually, the police arrive. They argue with the Palestinians and walk around the car ‘collecting evidence’. Eventually, the Israeli Special Forces arrive. Wearing plainclothes and strapped with machine guns, I have no idea who they are. I move towards the Palestinians to film the interaction, until one of our hosts pulls me aside and explains they are special forces and it might be best to go into the house and out of their sight.

I move back to stand next to the women who are watching and chattering from further back. It is too late though, and the men come to demand my passport. I’m tempted to ask them for identification or some sort of proof they are police officers, but the mood is tense and I decide not to try my luck. They snatch my passport from my hand and take pictures of it and then photos of my face. They do the same with the other three internationals I’m with. Contented with their intimidation, they turn back to the Palestinians.

I debate heeding my hosts advice and leaving the situation. I don’t want my presence to cause more problems for the village, but this is what I came here to do. To film these interactions for court proceedings. To make my presence known and have state actors feel as though the world is watching them. I move closer to try and catch the audio of a particularly tense interaction, before an officer yells at me in Hebrew.

Not knowing what he says, I ask him if he wants me to move back and he nods in response. I return to sit on a rock near the women. As the officers aggressively move towards our host, I pull out our Nikon camera and start filming. Through the lens, I see an officer pose for the camera. I get nervous and immediately stop filming. I put the camera down behind me and try to act nonchalant. Within a minute, the same officer who demanded my passport moves to grab the camera. I try to hold on to it until suddenly, he is grabbing me. He pushes me forward and puts his hands in my pockets to take my phone. In English I tell him this is unnecessary. His colleague persuades him to push me more gently.

I ask if I am being detained and they tell me I am. That I was told not to take photos during an active investigation and I disobeyed these orders. I try to explain that it was a misunderstanding. That I couldn’t understand the Hebrew being barked at me. They are unmoved. The other international I’m with is also taken, though she had not moved or filmed. Guilty by association, she told me later. As I sit on a rock surrounded by officers, she is forced into the middle seat of an empty car and an armed male officer piles in back on either side of her. I’m chain smoking and contemplating my actions. Should I have left? Declined to film these interactions? Would my comrade be detained right now if not for me?

Eventually we are taken to the police station inside the settlement of Kiryat Arba. My first time inside a settlement, I’m shocked at how quaint it is. A sleepy little gated community, it didn’t feel evil and illegal as we traversed parks, schools, and libraries to get to the police station. Stripped of our electronics , but not our backpacks or the things on our person, we sit in the hallway of the police station for hours. We see the settler boys brought in for the arson. Handcuffed and feet shackled, they emerge every so often for police supervised smoke breaks.

As we sit, the police occasionally come and try to make small talk with us. My comrade, a bit smarter than I, asks each time if we are being interrogated. One officer emphatically says no, that this is a democracy and here we have rights. We do not need to answer if we don’t want to. He just wants to know though, why we think he is the bad guy. I can’t help but smirk as we stare back in silence. Finally he concludes that we “have nothing between our ear” as he stomps back to his office. In between his Hebrew barking, he says loudly in English that he will get us deported from the country. Seeking to calm my racing heart, I remind myself that these are intimidation tactics.

We are brought to another building and made to sit across from the mother of the two settler boys who were arrested. When they are released into her custody she plants a big kiss on each of them. As they leave the station, she asks the younger one if he thanked the police. He turns and does so. After being yelled at by a police officer about my national identification number, which I try to explain is not a thing in North America, we are returned to the other building. Now a Palestinian man who looks in his 20’s has joined us in the hallway. He is handcuffed and his feet are shackled. Unlike us, he is made to sit in the corner and face the wall. Our personal police guard leaves us to go sit next to Mohammed and train his gun on him instead of us. As he brings him past us to the washroom, I notice Mohammed’s clothes are covered in paint splatters, and I can’t help but wonder what crimes a painter had possibly committed in the middle of his work day.

Eventually I am brought into an office and connected with a lawyer. After we speak, a man brings me in to another office for my interrogation. He asks me where I’m from, how I got here, and if I am drawing a salary while I’m here. Finally, we turn to my crime: disobeying an order from a police officer and impeding an investigation. I plead my case and complain that none of the English speaking officers bothered to give me any orders. I ask him if he thinks this is reasonable. He responds by asking me what I think would happen if I was in the United States and disobeyed a direct order from a police officer. My face scrunched in confusion. “I will tell you”, he says, “In the US, you would be shot for this.” He asks me if I agree. I search this white man’s face for some hint of irony, but I find none. Rather than pointing out his racial privilege, I suggest the police might give at least one additional warning before opening fire. He disagrees and offers the hypothetical situation of him driving in the US, being pulled over, and not understanding the request to put his hands up. “They would shoot me in the head and the ass". He continued to repeat this. He told me how lucky I am that this happened in Israel, where the police are not like American police. He told me I’m lucky to be alive.

I was presented with a document that outlined my crime and punishment-a 15 day ban from Judea and Samaria. I asked for a copy after I signed, but was told it would be sent to my lawyer (it wasn’t). I was told that if the police called me, I would have to come back to the station. I clarified if we were currently in Judea and Samaria, he said we were, but I could return if the police told me to. I considered asking him to show me a map. I have no idea where the fuck Judea and Samaria are. I decided this would be pressing my luck. My phone, camera, watch, and battery pack were returned to me as I waited for my comrade’s interrogation to finish. She too was banned for committing the same crime. I mused out loud when the police had possibly given her an order, since she had never gotten close to them. Guilty by association. We were separated from our belongings once again and driven in the back of a police car to the gate of the settlement. Perhaps from a mixture of adrenaline and lack of food, I vomited in the back of the car. My final act of resistance before we were picked up by our crew and driven back to Jerusalem.