I Remember Ramallah
170 Palestinians, including at least 30 children, were killed across the occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem last year. This January alone, 29 Palestinians including five children have been killed. Silverhill resident CHRISTINE O’GARA lived and worked in Israel and shares her experiences.
In January 1990 I was a kibbutz volunteer in Israel, working on Ashdot Ya’acov Ichud in the refet (dairy), milking cows and raising calves. I loved it, despite winter weather turning the refet from crusty dry to a sea of shit. I swapped my jelly shoes and t-shirt and shorts for socks and wellies and trousers, leaving my layers of clothing firmly outside on a hook on my porch, not wanting to bring them inside for fear of stinking out my little apartment.
Life was good and I worked hard over Christmas. Elaine, a co-worker in the refet, went back to England for it and I had a lot of sick calves on my hands, bottle-feeding them electrolytes at all hours to keep them well. It worked, as I did not lose any to diarrhoea but come January I was worn out and Itzik, the refet boss, suggested I take some time off. So I did, getting a lift with one of the kibbutz lorry drivers all the way to Jerusalem. Jerusalem was cold and wet but it was lovely to be there again; it felt like coming home as I checked into the Petra Hostel at Jaffa Gate once more.
Time for pizza
I ate pizza from the Arab place I’d been brought to my first ever time in Jerusalem, and saw the film Sex, Lies and Videotape in a plush cinema. It was great to just sit in the warm dark and take in the story and not worry about sick calves. I’d read good reviews of the film, and it was good, right from the start when Andi McDowell says “garbage”, through to the end. That word made me smile and think of the kibbutz – Ahmed the chef calling out to Aussie volunteer Jarvis across the kitchen – “Garbage!” – to get her attention, and laughing and us all joining in.
At the Petra, I got chatting to Kent from Canada and Chris from USA, both of them studying at the University of Bologna and on their Christmas break. They’d decided to come to the West Bank to show solidarity with the Palestinians. The next day I found myself in a taxi with them heading to Ramallah. Did I invite myself along or did they? Anyway, we arrived, me in a kibbutznik’s cast-off IDF jacket. Immediately, an older, good-looking IDF officer spoke to us, asking to see our passports. Chris and I didn’t have any ID on us. The officer advised us all to move on. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, “this is a war zone.”
A menacing presence
And it was. While the residents of Ramallah went about their lives – walking, talking, eating, drinking, shopping, smoking – IDF soldiers were very visible, up on rooftops and down on the streets, pointing their guns this way and that for no apparent reason I could see. They were a menacing presence. It was weird. Chris and Kent, both so vocal last night about the plight of the Palestinians, were now not so talkative.
We found a falafel place and stopped for mint tea, sitting at a table near the open door, able to see up and down the street, the owner over to our right behind the counter. Suddenly, outside, whistles were blowing and kids placed the branch of a tree across the street as a road block. An IDF jeep appeared at the opposite end of the street. It was noisy, the kids chanting and blowing whistles. Stones whizzed by from right to left, towards the jeep. This went on for quite some time and was terrifying; I had read so much about stone-throwing in the West Bank and now it was happening before my very eyes.
We stood in the doorway for a better view, but heard and saw tear gas canisters being deployed, so went back in. A burning tyre rolled past the doorway, towards the jeep. The jeep then roared past and Chris took a photo and was spotted. Kent had already disappeared up the road with his camera. Chris sat back down beside me and shoved his camera under my jacket, which was lying across my knees.
Camera and a slap
Two young IDF soldiers came in, the first demanding Chris’ camera, the second slapping the shop owner hard across the face. The sound was so loud in that small space and the sudden violence so shocking. “Where’s the camera?” the first soldier yelled at me. I stared up at him and shrugged, frozen with fear. He grabbed my jacket from across my knees, revealing the camera. “You’re under arrest!” he shouted – to Chris. He took Chris and the camera outside, the other soldier following. Meanwhile, more burning tyres rolled down the street.
Chris and the soldiers came back in. The soldiers then left, telling the owner and everyone on the street to shutter their shops. We just sat there while the by now highly agitated shop owner moved around, scrubbing everything clean, like someone on speed. My heart went out to him. “How can you live like this?” I’d asked him when Chris had been taken outside and we’d been alone. “It’s my home,” he’d said, simply.
We never paid him for that tea. And he insisted on checking outside for us, to see it was safe to leave. All three of us shook hands with him. Kent was back by now, saying he’d been running around with a gun trained on his back. What a life, I thought – the kids so young, the soldiers not much older, the shopkeeper in shock. What a way to live, this must stop, I thought.
Never was I so glad to leave a place. We did not talk at all in the taxi back to Jerusalem. Later that evening, I took Chris and Kent to my pizza place and then we went to see the film Black Rain. It was rubbish. We didn’t talk about Ramallah. The next day, either I left or they did – I never saw them again. I went back to the calm order and security of the kibbutz and I presume they went back to Bologna.
The mayor of Ramallah
More recently, in September 2021, I made sure I went to see Mayor here at the Electric Palace, a documentary about the mayor of Ramallah and how he copes with running the city. At one point, he and other locals were trapped in a building, watching as the IDF rampaged outside, deploying tear gas. For no apparent reason that I could see……
I left the cinema feeling sad for Ramallah, that nothing had really changed there in all these years. I’d lived happily in Israel for two years and had loved it. I’d made friends there and had been back several times and knew that I’d visit again. But I couldn’t help thinking as I walked home – “How does Israel get away with it?”
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