May 12 08:08 UTC 2002

           Lost homeland
           When Israel's army knocks

           By Zuhair Sabbagh
           .Zuhair Sabbagh teaches
           sociology at the Bir Zeit
           University
           Published May 5, 2002

           After a few days of
           hesitation, I decided to write
           about the experience I went
           through, along with my
           family, when Israeli troops
           came to our Ramallah
           apartment in March. My
           reluctance stemmed from
           the comparison I made with
           the atrocities that had taken
           place in Jenin, Nablus and
           Bethlehem. I realized that
           my experience was not
           unique but part of a
           phenomenon.

           My life in Ramallah was hectic even before
           the recent Israeli invasion. I used the shuttle
           mini-buses each day to commute to my work
           at Bir Zeit University. In the middle of the
           journey, I had to walk a distance of 2
           kilometers through an Israeli military
           checkpoint. At the checkpoint, I would pass
           an Israeli tank and soldiers. Sometimes, I
           would see my students being held for hours at
           the checkpoint. I felt powerless and
           humiliated.

           At night, I could not concentrate on my work
           or sleep well. The sound of fighting between
           armed Palestinians and Israeli tanks
           interrupted Ramallah's usually quiet nights.
           Then the clashes stopped, and
           bombardments by Israeli tanks became a
           nightly event. At the university, I would listen
           to the stories of colleagues and students about
           what had taken place the night before.

           Occasionally, Apache gunships or F-16
           bombers would raid targets in Ramallah. The
           sounds of the explosions of rockets and 1-ton
           bombs were much more terrifying than the
           sounds of tank bombardments. I felt terrified
           and more humiliated, but I did not know that
           the worst was yet to come.

           On March 29, the squeaking of Israeli tanks
           passing through the narrow streets of our
           neighborhood awakened me. A few minutes
           later, all hell broke loose. The sounds of
           heavy machine-gun fire and bombardments
           kept my family awake throughout the night
           and the next day. Then a tight military curfew
           was imposed on Ramallah.

           Although the clashes stopped after a few
           days, the sounds of gunfire, bombardment
           and explosions went on in Ramallah for 24
           days and nights. My daily routine would start
           with the sounds of shooting and moving
           tanks and troop carriers. Then we would
           listen to all the news bulletins on different
           radio stations and watch TV news and
           reports. I spent considerable time on the
           telephone, exchanging information with
           friends, neighbors, colleagues and relatives.

           On the next day, a gigantic military bulldozer
           dug a deep tunnel across the road that
           connects Ramallah with Betunia, another
           West Bank town. I watched from my window
           as Israeli tanks chased and stopped
           Palestinian ambulances and television
           reporters. I could see clearly that some
           ambulances had bullet holes in their
           windshields and metal bodies. A few days
           later, a tank knocked down part of our
           neighbor's house.

           Curfew lifted

           The curfew was lifted four times for a few
           hours. My wife, 10-year-old daughter and I
           drove our car through parts of Ramallah.
           Many streets in Ramallah were filled with
           parked Israeli tanks and troop carriers, while
           others were filled with barbed wire that
           delineated the shrinkage of Palestinian space.

           On every street and corner, Israeli tanks left
           their mark.

           Electricity, telephone and traffic pylons were
           knocked down and crushed. Debris, rubble,
           trees and crushed cars were everywhere.
           Israeli bulldozers dug out and cut water pipes.
           Ramallah was simply devastated.

           We tried to buy some food, but food stores
           were almost empty. We could not find bread
           or milk. So we went to the vegetable market,
           to find that only a few old vegetables were on
           sale. While shopping, I learned that many
           stores, supermarkets, cultural centers,
           educational institutes, television and radio
           stations, and banks were ransacked and
           vandalized by Israeli troops. This brute
           violence was directed at the economy and
           culture of indigenous Palestinians.

           What I saw was a different Ramallah. What
           had happened was detestable and depressing.

           The Israeli army managed, in a few days, to
           turn a beautiful city into a disaster area.

           The encounter

           On April 6, three tanks and two troop carriers
           encircled our apartment building.

           Their cannons were pointed at our
           apartments. The scene was frightening and
           revolting. I, my wife, Maha, and 10-year-old
           daughter, Orjuwana, got dressed at once and
           prepared ourselves for an uninvited visit from
           the Israeli army. Two neighbors came and
           stayed with us.

           As tension and fear began to rise, Orjuwana
           rushed to her room and brought with her the
           three dearest dolls and a teddy bear. A
           moment later, she went back to her room and
           brought with her a children's book in Hebrew.
           She displayed the book between the teddy
           bear and the two dolls. When I asked her why
           she had brought the Hebrew book, she
           innocently said: "I don't want the soldiers to
           take away my dolls and teddy bear. When the
           soldiers enter our apartment, they will see the
           book and will not take my dolls and teddy
           bear."

           Maha and I placed our two identity cards in a
           handy spot and opened our door a little.

           Moments later, other neighbors informed us
           by telephone that soldiers went inside the first
           section of the building. Two out of 10
           apartments were occupied by their Palestinian
           owners, while eight were not.

           After searching the two apartments, the
           soldiers dynamited the multi-lock doors of the
           other eight. The sound of the multiple
           explosions was deafening and terrifying.
           Orjuwana began to cry in fear. Every few
           minutes, we would be shocked by another
           explosion.

           Finally, six soldiers entered our apartment.
           The officer asked for our identity cards and
           took mine to conduct a security check. While
           pointing their M-16s at my back, the officer
           and a soldier ordered me to walk in front of
           them and show them our apartment.

           While we were in our bedroom, the officer
           asked, "Do you have any weapons?" I said,
           "No, I don't." Then, while I was showing
           them our library, the officer asked me, "Do
           you have any inciting material?" I said, "I do
           not work in incitement. I am a lecturer of
           sociology." "Where do you teach sociology?"
           he asked. "At Bir Zeit University." Then, the
           soldier remarked, "Oh, this is the university
           of the shaheedim," meaning the terrorists.

           I decided not to respond.

           Explosions and flying windows

           After this search, the officer ordered us to
           remain seated. Maha then asked them if we
           could leave the apartment while they
           dynamited the neighbors' doors, but they
           flatly refused. Apparently, they wanted us to
           hear the explosions.

           When the soldiers left our third section to go
           to the last, we felt some relief for a short
           while. We quickly counted the unoccupied
           apartments in the fourth section. We both
           told our daughter: "Orjuwana, only five more,
           and that's it."

           I decided to look out the window, and
           immediately an explosion took place. I heard
           the shattering of the window glass and saw
           two aluminum windows flying down. One
           landed in the neighbors' garden, and the other
           fell in our small garden.

           We all felt humiliated and powerless. All we
           could do was put our fingers in our ears. But
           it was useless because the explosions were
           extremely strong and shook the entire
           building. Out of 40 apartments, the soldiers
           dynamited 23 doors.

           The soldiers left us after six tormenting
           hours.

           Moments later, the terrified neighbors began
           to come, and all of us went to see the
           destruction left by the soldiers. After talking
           to the neighbors, I realized that some of them
           went through a worse experience.

           An old man who suffers from prostate
           problems and his terrified grandchildren were
           prevented for two hours from going to the
           bathroom. The soldiers arrested two of the
           neighbors. The father and son of the
           neighbors opposite our apartment building
           were severely slapped by the soldiers for
           insisting that the map on the wall was that of
           Palestine and not of Israel.

           I could not, that night, go to sleep early
           because I kept hearing the sounds of
           explosions all over the neighborhood.
           Nightmares awakened my daughter twice. On
           the same night, the soldiers were determined
           to search other houses and dynamite the
           doors of empty ones. A colleague at the
           university told me that in his neighborhood,
           the soldiers refused to use the keys and said
           they prefer to dynamite the doors.

           Days and nights later, we still hear similar
           explosions.

           The soldiers' surprise visit to my apartment
           made me ponder my life in Ramallah.

           Israel's war has simply devastated the city and
           shattered our lives. We can neither sleep well
           nor function as human beings. The social
           fabric of our life has been traumatized. The
           brutalities of this war have disrupted the flow
           of normal life for thousands of Palestinian
           families.

           I realize now that for 1 1/2 years I have been
           held captive inside besieged Ramallah. In the
           past 24 days, I have become a captive inside
           my own apartment.

           The space has shrunk, and the humiliation
           has become deeper.

           Copyright © 2002, Chicago Tribune