“Most Israelis view Palestinians like they’re dogs.”—Anonymous

25 May—A text arrived on Friday, 15 May, from the village of Kisan. It was Adnan. He had sent a video then circulating throughout the West Bank. It showed a young Jewish settler mercilessly beating a Palestinian family’s dog while it was tied up and unable to escape. The video has since circulated widely on social and mainstream media in the Arab and Western worlds. It was reported throughout the Israeli press. But you didn’t read or hear of it in the major dailies or broadcasts in America.

I watched the short clip, unguarded and entirely unprepared for the brutality it showed. I recoil even now just thinking about it.

Perhaps you’ve seen the video. If not, here it is:

The dog’s name is Lucy and she survived the beating, as reported by The Cradle in a post on X. A cab driver who runs a “pet taxi service” and who transported Lucy to a veterinary hospital told Haaretz, “I constantly receive reports about animals being beaten by settlers.”

I reported previously in West Bank Alerts on the sadism directed toward Palestinian livestock. In all of these attacks you see exactly what you see in the above video—a pathological compulsion to eradicate all things Palestinian—to wipe the people and their animals from the land.

■

Think about your reaction to the video. I’ve thought rather a lot about mine: It was visceral revulsion. Why, I ask myself, do images of settlers brutalizing animals seem especially horrific? Have I become numb to the relentless torture and murder of Palestinian people?

I care deeply about animal welfare, as most of us do. How we treat animals is an indication of how we treat and care for each other. But unlike Israeli animal rights activists who “rescue” donkeys from Gaza—depriving Gazans of their last remaining mode of transportation—while the I.D.F. daily slaughters more Palestinian children than there are donkeys I don’t prioritize the life of animals above people.

The video is shocking to those of us with an intact moral compass because we understand that animals are inherently innocent. Brutalizing an animal is not unlike brutalizing a child. It’s a complete betrayal of trust. An animal is dependent and vulnerable and entirely unable to defend itself against violent attack. This is what I saw in the video.

Think for a moment about the settler who beat Lucy. Study the video: He wields two sizable sticks beating her repeatedly on the head in what appears to be uncontrolled rage even as she crumples to the ground and rolls over helplessly. Think about the frenzy of his attack, and then the intimacy. What you see is a complete absence of empathy. Here is a person without a conscience, lacking a capacity for rational thought, unable or unwilling to control himself. I saw this in the video, too.

The settler’s behavior—learned, condoned, encouraged in Zionist Israeli society—is sociopathic.

Sociopathic behavior is learned in the sense that it arises from trauma and abuse. This young man—once a child, once innocent like the dog he beat—was turned into a sociopath by the society in which he was raised and educated—that is to say, by his parents, teachers, and rabbis.

Jewish Israeli society is sociopathic by design, by virtue of Zionist education and indoctrination practices that are ahistorical, racist, and Jewish–supremacist. The Jewish state instrumentalizes sociopathy as a political, geopolitical, and national-security strategy for territorial expansion and regional dominance and to ensure a collective state—psychological and social—of constant terror, constant violence, constant warfare.

At its root, what I’m talking about is systemic, generational child abuse in Jewish Israeli society at all levels within the family and educational and religious environments. And this explains the behavior of Jewish soldiers and settlers whose psyches have been profoundly damaged.

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Israeli peace activist Nurit Peled–Elhanan has written extensively on the dehumanization of Palestinians in Jewish Israeli schools, a process of indoctrination that prepares them for military service. Her two books are Palestine in Israeli School Books: Ideology and Propaganda in Education (I.B. Tauris, 2012) and Holocaust Education and the Semiotics of Othering in Israeli Schoolbooks (Common Ground Research Networks, 2023). She was a professor of language and education at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem until October 2023, when she was suspended for expressing empathy for Palestinians in Gaza and accused of supporting Hamas.

I recently watched an interview of Peled–Elhanan on the Palestinian–Israeli podcast Women Ending War. The episode, “Narratives of Fear and Hatred: Holocaust Education’s Impact on Society,” explains how Jewish children are repeatedly and intentionally traumatized by stories and images from the Holocaust. Zionist Holocaust education begins when a child is three years old and continues year after year until he or she graduates and enters military service.

Jewish children learn nothing about the actual history of World War II or how Jews lived in Eastern Europe prior to the war. Instead, the focus is on every horrific detail of the violence perpetrated against European Jews during the Holocaust. Events are purposefully decontextualized. The victims themselves remain nameless and are portrayed with contempt so that there’s no actual identification with their humanity.

Children are told that the Holocaust happened because Jews didn’t have their own state. The only things protecting them from being murdered today—by all the Palestinians that surround them—are the Jewish state and the I.D.F. If the enemy isn’t controlled and eliminated today, another Holocaust will happen tomorrow and you, Jewish children are told, will all end up like them. Them: The thoroughly dehumanized Holocaust victims and survivors, deserving of scorn in the minds of Israeli Jews.

In this way a state of psychological terror is intentionally cultivated in children to instill unthinking loyalty to the Zionist project and the Jewish state. In the Holocaust curriculum, the crimes of Nazi Germany are projected onto the Arab populations that surround Israel, and onto Palestinians in particular. Early Zionists cynically conflated Nazism and Arabs well before Israel was even established to justify their crimes and the ethnic-cleansing of Palestine. Jewish children today grow up equating Palestinians with the Holocaust and with Nazism.

The consequences of what Jewish children are taught to believe cannot be overstated. If you truly think the Jewish state and the I.D.F. are all that stands between you and catastrophe, then any amount of violence against Arabs is reasonable and defensible. By the time young Israelis begin serving in the military—as all Israelis other than ultra–Orthodox are obliged to do—any form of brutality against Palestinians, without limits as is now horribly evident, is acceptable because it saves Jews from another Holocaust.

Peled–Elhanan describes this years-long process of indoctrination as “child abuse.” It turns Jewish Israelis into “traumatized heterophobic human beings.” Israelis are fearful of and have no tolerance for people who are not also Jewish. “Everyone hates a Jew,” they have been taught to believe.

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No one, according to Peled–Elhanan, has undertaken a careful study of what this perverse process of Holocaust indoctrination does to Jewish children. And perhaps a clinical study would indeed be useful. But the impact of this social and psychological conditioning is unambiguously clear. You have merely to look at Israeli society—each generation more racist and violent than the previous.

Jewish Israeli children are broken. Their humanity is broken. Their capacity for clear, rational thinking, for a developed conscience, for empathy is broken. Intentionally.

You see this in the behavior of Israeli soldiers as they carry out war crimes, as they laugh and dance and photograph themselves committing every atrocity imaginable, as they brutalize and rape and slaughter Palestinians, and Lebanese, and Syrians, and Iranians by the tens of thousands. What you see is naked sadism. And in the sadism you see the purposeful cultivation of sociopathy over many generations.

You see this in the unhinged barbarism of settlers in the West Bank. You see it in the video I posted above.

By destroying the psyches of Jewish children, Israelis destroyed their most precious, and one would have thought most beloved, resource. They have destroyed the future for their own children. They destroy the future of Israel itself. Because no nation can survive a state of permanent warfare.

This is Zionism. This is what Zionism has done to the Jews of Israel. The “so-called Jews,” to borrow Chas Freeman’s recognition of the chasm separating Judaism from the perversions of Jewish Israelis.

And this is the question I can’t get out of my mind: How is peace possible with a people who don’t want peace, who intentionally destroyed any chance of peace, and who celebrate their naked sadism?

■

Published simultaneously in The Floutist and West Bank Alerts.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this commentary. Thank you.A settler, a dog, a beating, a video, and learned sociopathy.

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Who knew—not I, did you?—the beauty of a dandelion, gone to seed, clothed in morning dew. 
—C. M. 

11 MAY—Who Knew? Who knew on 6 October of 2023 that 7 October would forever change the world?

Who knew Israel would use the Hamas attack—a long-overdue breakout from the world’s largest concentration camp—to implement a genocide?

Who knew Israel’s much vaunted “right to defend itself” extended to illegally occupied territory and justified the mass slaughter of civilians? And who knew so many Western leaders—and, it must be said, ordinary people—would accept and even insist upon this depraved and immoral premise?

Who knew most of the world, with the admirable exception of South Africa, would remain silent?

And worse.

Who knew the United States would, in the first two years after 7 October, give Israel nearly $28 billion in military aid and weaponry to sustain Israel’s genocidal assault in Gaza?

Who knew the United Sates would willingly corrupt its Constitution, shred it’s Bill of Rights, overthrow academic freedom, and destroy any international legitimacy it may have had in behalf of Zionist Israel?

Who knew that countries—including all of the BRICs nations—would continue doing business with Israel—in energy, technology, and security? All areas that support a genocide. Who knew economic relationships and advantages outweighed international law and basic human decency?

Who knew that Yemen would be the only country to fulfill its legal obligations under Article 1 of the 1948 Genocide Convention, which obligates signatories to prevent genocide?

Who knew the depths of Jewish Israeli sadism?

Who knew the genocide would still be under way as of today, as of the day you’re reading this?

Who knew that on 28 February the U.S. and Israel would begin carpet-bombing Iran, targeting schools, hospitals, apartments buildings, civilian infrastructure and industry, journalists, and aid workers?

Who knew Israel would use the cover of a fictitious ceasefire to turn southern Lebanon into a pile of rubble like Gaza and one million Lebanese into refugees?

Who knew a vast majority of Israeli Jews would support ethnic-cleansing and genocide? And who could have guessed I.D.F. soldiers would film themselves celebrating their depravity?

Indeed, who knew the depravity of Zionists or the cruelty of Jewish Israelis or the barbarity and madness the U.S. empire, in its decline, would unleash upon the world?

Who knew that we—we, all of us—would each day teeter on the edge of nuclear war?

All of that and also this:

The beauty of a dandelion, gone to seed, clothed in morning dew.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this report. Thank you.

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30 APRIL—I’m dissatisfied, it’s time to state bluntly, with reporting events from the West Bank. It seems increasingly obvious that documenting and reporting Israel’s brutality is not enough. While reportage remains important for its contribution to historical documentation and as an expression of solidarity, it’s insufficient. The foundation of the problem and those who are responsible for it remain largely unaddressed and unacknowledged.

My Palestinian contacts are ever grateful to have their stories told and heard. And indeed, I will continue to share them. But reports in this vein keep Palestinians at a distance, cast as an objectified Other, always the victims of another’s violence while we—we Americans—are nowhere present. Except in our witnessing. But what is it we are witness to? Our own failures?

Accounts of Jewish Israeli depravity have taken on a perverse and dangerous quality of monotony. The stories have become predictable and almost formulaic. How many times can you read about destroyed olive groves, demolished homes, stolen land, the arrest and mass incarceration of men, women, and children, and settler pogroms and rampages in which Palestinians are killed and wounded? People quickly become numb to the violence in all of its manifestations, from mundane cruelties to unspeakable sadism. Numb and convinced there is little to nothing they can do.

And of course this presumption of powerlessness is among the intended consequences of Zionist impunity.

But something is missing when the focus remains on Israel. We—you and I, we in the West—are removed from the picture altogether such that we become invisible when, in fact, we are everywhere present in events as they unfold in Palestine and throughout West Asia. The grotesque slaughter and destruction carried out by the Israel-U.S. empire in the West Bank—and in Gaza, Lebanon, Syria, and Iran—is a direct consequence and expression of the failure of American democracy at home—the collapse of the American republic and the democratic ideals upon which it was ostensibly founded.

And this is where ordinary Americans fit into the larger picture of what is happening in the West Bank, and of course elsewhere. The situation in Palestine has always been a call to Americans—a call to wake up and save, not Palestine, but first of all ourselves.

It is this larger context that I begin to address in a lecture I gave on 10 April in Sirnach, Switzerland. What follows is the talk in its entirety, with minor editing.

—C.M.

I’m going to talk about the West Bank where, since the assault on Iran began, every roadblock and checkpoint has been closed—nearly 900 of them at last count. Schools are closed and classes are online. Villages that lack grocery stores and medical clinics are now cut off from both. Palestinians are forced to use primitive dirt roads where there’s always the danger of ambush by settlers.

Settlers rampage daily through villages, beating and killing people with impunity and with support from the Israeli military. The Knesset just passed a law that “imposes the death penalty for the deliberate killing of a person with the intention of ‘negating the existence of the State of Israel.’” This according to Human Rights Watch.

How did it come to this? I want to address this question as we consider the West Bank. The ethnic cleansing of the West Bank, the genocide in Gaza, which continues to this day, are happening because democracy in my country, the United States, has failed. We need to make this connection: between events in the West Bank and Gaza and the collapse of our democratic ideals.

The admittance of Israel to the United Nations as a full member state in May 1949, and all that preceded and followed from that, the betrayals of Palestine, the barbarities committed against the Palestinian people, the current assaults on Iran, Lebanon, and also Syria by the U.S. and Israel—all of this is evidence of the catastrophic failure of western democracy and Western democracies, foremost the United States.

There has been no public debate in America about any of this. No American, no ordinary citizen, was ever consulted; our consent was neither sought nor ever given. Our consent is irrelevant. Congress was coopted by the Israel lobby decades ago. Zionist billionaires purchased the executive branch. Sexual blackmail ensures compliance with Israel’s diktats. There’s a straight line from the Zionist lobbies to the corruption of the American Congress to what I’m going to tell you about the West Bank.

The failure of democracy in the United States runs deep.

The authority to declare war resides solely with the U.S. Congress, but Trump didn’t consult Congress before bombing Iran. He didn’t bother to make a case for war with Iran to the American people. The executive and legislative branches of my government—the president and congress—are in violation of the constitution. The U.S. military, in obeying Trump’s orders, is in violation of the constitution. And this has been so for a very long time. America hasn’t actually declared a war since December 1941. The United States no longer acts, not at home and not abroad, according to law.

This failure of which I speak is everywhere apparent: in the corruption of our institutions of governance including the judiciary, the loss of civil liberties, not least in the corruption of the media, to name but a few examples.

In sum: The United States is in a constitutional crisis. My country is in a process of constitutional collapse that began well before Trump’s second presidency.

And this explains America’s behavior abroad including what is happening in Palestine.

While the failure of democracy is seen most clearly at the institutional level it happens within the individual as well. I’m talking about a pernicious psychological state that I see in my fellow citizens. I see it because I recognize it, if perhaps more faintly, within myself. And here I’m describing and condensing complex social and psychological processes.

Consider distraction. Instrumentalized distraction. Distraction as a tool of social control. Everything now in the United States is a form of entertainment: food, exercise, spirituality, news—you name it.

“My Husband Can’t Get a Job. Should I Divorce Him?” That was a headline on an opinion piece in the New York Tims on Monday, next to an article titled “A Harrowing Race Against Time to Find a Downed Airman in Iran.” This too is entertainment. And it’s all smoke and mirrors. Do you know this English term, smoke and mirrors? It refers to the tricks of a magician meant to obscure what he is actually doing.

The two articles I just mentioned are not value neutral. They’re subliminally pernicious. When you’re incessantly encouraged not notice or think critically about what your government is doing at home or elsewhere, you lose all inclination to do so. Distraction is a form of pacification.

Perhaps most damagingly, the distracted person becomes severed from his own intelligence, severed from his connection to others, severed from the inevitable solidarity that arises in connection with others. Distraction induces indifference. Not only do people become indifferent to the suffering in Gaza or Iran or West Virginia, for example, they become indifferent to never having been consulted about government policy and actions in the first place. Most Americans don’t even notice they haven’t been asked for their consent.

All of this encourages a willful self-sabotage. Distraction is easy. It feels good. People learn not to want the responsibilities of freedom, the responsibility that democracy demands of its citizens.

And of course distraction is compelling precisely because we all know—we Americans—that things are terribly wrong. A majority of Americans have come to believe that there’s nothing we can do to bring about effective change. This in turn leads to an acquired sense of helplessness, to hopelessness, and ultimately despair.

I’m calling this manufactured despair because it’s a direct consequence of the institutional failures of democracy. Feelings of helplessness, hopeless, and despair in turn result in a self-destructive passivity—another form of self-sabotage. But this self-sabotage is the consequence of the intentional sabotage of democracy by those in power. Despair is rampant in the United States. We have high rates of suicide and drug overdoses, which are referred to as “deaths of despair.”

And all of this—all of what I’ve just described—is directly connected to what’s happening in the West Bank.

■

When we met in August for Mut zur Ethik (an annual conference held in Sirnach, the name of which means “the courage to take a moral stand”), I gave a talk about the ethnic cleansing of Deir Alla. This was a bedouin community connected to the nearby village of Kisan through family relationships and shared land. When Deir Alla was destroyed Kisan became the next target of settler violence.

I will focus now on Kisan because it tells the story of what’s happening elsewhere in the rural areas of the West Bank.

Kisan is located roughly 11 kilometers south of Bethlehem.

All of the historic land belonging to the village, land used for farming and grazing, has been seized. People in Kisa have had to sell many of their sheep to order to buy fodder for their remaining animals and to support their families financially. This includes the families from Deir Alla who are still living in overcrowded conditions with family members in Kisan because they have nowhere else to go.

To give you an idea of the harassment Kisan residents face every single day I’ll show you a few photographs. These are from before 28 February when the U.S. and Israel launched their war of aggression against Iran. Everything is now much worse. All of my information comes in the form of WhatsApp texts from Adnan al–Abayyat, who lives in Kisan and has been documenting settler violence for many years.

These photos (above) are from 13 February. They were accompanied by the following text from Adnan:

This afternoon, settler attacks against the residents of Kisan village continued. Armed settlers chased villagers away, preventing them from grazing their livestock on lands adjacent to the village and bringing settler shepherds to the area.

These photos (above) arrived also on 13 February. They show evidence of chemicals sprayed near one of the homes at the edge of the village. The chemical was most likely the herbicide glyphosate, which is frequently mixed with a blue dye so it’s application is visible. I was told by a contact who monitors human rights abuses that chemicals are being sprayed elsewhere in the West Bank.

During this same period of time the Israeli army sprayed glyphosate on agricultural land in southern Lebanon and in Syria at levels 20 and 30 times the recommended concentration. This was documented by the U.N., and reported fairly extensively, including in Haaretz but not in the U.S.

The spraying of herbicides on agricultural land is a war crime.

Here (above) is a picture of settlers using an all-terrain vehicle to chase sheep in Kisan. These animals are already stressed from malnutrition because they can’t be grazed. This is from 20 February.

Kisan is one of many small villages that doesn’t have a grocery store or a medical clinic. Since the war on Iran began, it’s been entirely cut off from direct access to the nearest villages that have both. A drive that used to take 20 minutes now takes close to an hour on dangerous dirt roads that are subject to settler attack.

Kisan is under a state of siege. The entire perimeter of the village is subject to armed attack. Settlers roam the village at will as a form of harassment. They, the settlers, bring their sheep right up next to the village and graze their animals in olive groves allowing the sheep to damage the trees (see video below). Meanwhile, the army won’t let Kisan shepherds go beyond 40 meters outside of the village.

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On 14 March settlers attacked village shepherds and shot two men: One was hit in the thigh, the other in a foot. In the same attack, a woman had several fingers broken and two other men were beaten. One of these men had his arm broken and that man, with the broken arm, was arrested. In the end, sixty sheep were stolen.

In the following video settlers are seen rounding up the sheep. As Palestinians attempt to stop them you hear two gun shots. The second video shows settlers driving the stolen sheep away in one large flock. A Palestinian woman can be seen running after them in the lower right quadrant of the video. The chaos and panic are apparent.

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The army raided Kisan on 26 March and entered numerous homes including Adnan’s. The soldiers had a message on their phones in Arabic which they played to people. Here’s Adnan’s text from that day:

The Israeli army raided several homes in the village, including mine. They told us not to gather, confront, or shout during any settler attacks. Instead, we are supposed to lock ourselves inside our homes. They recorded a message in Arabic on a soldier’s phone, essentially telling us to submit to the settlers and accept a new reality: The settlers have free rein to do as they please.

Let me be clear: Palestinians aren’t safe locked inside their homes. Settlers routinely throw molotov cocktails into homes. This happened in the bedouin community of Deir Alla this past July. In 2015, settlers burned a family alive inside their home. The only survivor, a boy of four, was badly burned over 60% of his body.

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Settlers are now building a new road that will pass along the east side of Kisan, next to numerous homes which will likely be demolished. When finished, it will complete a road belt that will encircle Kisan and its two closest villages. The road will connect all of the settlements and outposts in the area and isolate the villages in a small encircled enclave. Adnan describes this as a “new reality to create Palestinian cantons isolated from each other and besieged in a way that prevents any expansion of Palestinian villages.” In short, the villagers have nowhere to go. As the population increases in the villages they won’t be allowed to expand.

In the first map below you see the three villages (left, top to bottom) of Taqoa, al–Miniya, and Kisan (red Arabic script). The lines on the right show where the road is going, connecting the illegal settlement of Taqoa (at the top in yellow script—the settlement taking its name from the nearby Palestinian village) with two other settlements below Kisan (script also in yellow). The photo at the right shows the road swinging near homes located at the edge of Kisan—the homes vulnerable to demolition. These maps are a testament to Adnan’s unflagging documentation of settler violence and expansion as his village is threatened.

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I texted Adnan’s wife to find out how the children of Kisan are doing. She sent pictures of children’s artwork along with her reply.

When the war on Iran began, the Palestinian Authority closed all of the schools and universities. All classes are being held on line. But Kisan, like other remote villages, doesn’t have internet. Only homes that have wireless internet SIM cards have access to the internet. And the signal is weak. Each home has 4 to 10 children in it and even with internet access families don’t have enough computers and other devices for them to use. These are poor families and most children are losing their education.

Because of the constant threat from settlers, and danger from Iranian missile fragments that have already killed people in the West Bank, the children spend most of their time indoors. They don’t meet with their friends. They rarely play outside. Children’s activities at the library have been reduced out of concern for their safety.

The drawing on the left (below) shows a map of all of historic Palestine—stabbed by a knife and bleeding. The Arabic reads: “They killed her in cold blood.” In the drawing on the right bombs are dropped on residential buildings.

Students met at the library in February during Ramadan and created a cutout mural depicting their school and all of the things they miss since its closure (left, bottom left). The photo at the top right depicts a torn and bleed Palestinian flag.

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Had democracy in my country not failed by slow degrees over a long period of time, life in Palestine would be very different today. Of this I am certain. Had our media in America not lost its independence, had it reported on events and abuses of power with objectivity and honesty and attention to history, almost certainly my talk today would have been very different. At this point we might wonder if the corruption of media has not indeed been the greatest failure of American democracy. The failure that enabled all others.

But if one must occasionally despair, as is only human, let us take a lesson from Palestinians. And here I quote my friend Sadeel texting me about despair in Palestine:

Of course we feel despair. But the way we deal with it is different, and most of the time we don’t have time to express it. We barely have time to feel it. But we do feel despair. But we have to let our emotions be the fuel for change instead of sitting and whining over our occupied land.

Palestinians feel despair but it’s a fuel for their resistance and not, as too often in America, an excuse for indifference and passivity. There is a real lesson here for us.

I’ll end now with the words of another Palestinian friend, Raya, who talks about hope. Raya was one of my partners on the kindergarten playground in al–Mughayyir. I’m happy to report the playground was completed in early February (as reported here). The children enjoyed it for two weeks and then the school was closed when the war began.

Here is Raya, from a text she sent that was previously published on West Bank Alerts:

Palestinians believe that the colonial reality imposed on them cannot be accepted or endured, it must be confronted. The presence of hope does not mean adapting to this reality; it means rejecting it. Hope here is not an emotional feeling, but a conscious stance and an act of resistance.

To have hope is to refuse the normalization of this reality. And in order to confront it, hope must remain, because without hope there is no life and no steadfastness. Hope affirms our inner existence, prevents us from breaking, and gives us the strength to continue.

Hope grows from the act of rejecting this reality. Its absence, on the other hand, implies acceptance and that is a tragedy. All our steadfastness is built on hope, and all our continuation depends on it. That is why hope must remain alive, no matter how harsh the reality is.

At the same time, the daily hardships people live under—occupation, poverty, loss, repression, and closed horizons—understandably shape their emotional state. It is true that you may see people who appear exhausted, discouraged, or even hopeless on the surface. This does not mean that hope is absent; it means that hope exists under pressure.

As Mahmoud Darwish wrote, ‘We love life if we find a way to it.’ This love of life is not denial of pain, it is resistance to it. People may look tired, but they continue to live, to love, to raise their children, to plant their land, and to remain. And this, in itself, is hope.

Published simultaneously at West Bank Alerts.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this report. Thank you.

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"They want to erase our memories."
—Amer Shomali

31 March—I will always remember my first sight of the Palestinian Museum. Its austere geometry and dazzling white limestone is arresting in every sense. Deeply recessed windows punctuate the facade with rhythmic precision, playing a contrapuntal motif on the expanse of stone. Despite its modest size—3,500 square feet—the building has all the presence and weight of an ancient desert monument. I stood in the hot sun and stared.

Designed by Heneghan Peng Architects of Dublin, the museum won a 2019 Aga Khan Architecture Award for sustainable construction. Sustainability of a very different kind was what the judges focused on when they announced their decision. The jury of three had this to say:

[The museum is a] powerful embodiment of a cultural identity under duress at the intersection of land and architecture, nature and people. The building’s very existence — built despite a condition of occupation and siege — can be understood as nothing less than an act of hope for current and future generations.

If the building itself is an act of hope, what happens inside is nothing less than the resistance of cultural erasure. It affirms Palestinian presence and continuation on the land as expressed in art, archival preservation, and museum practices rooted in community and identity. Theft and destruction of Palestinian cultural and historical artifacts has been ongoing since European Jews began the process of stealing the land itself along with Palestinian identity in order to sustain the lie of their indigeneity.

I met Amer Shomali, the museum’s innovative director, in May and again in December 2024. Shomali, his small team, and the institute they oversee stand at the dangerous front line of Palestinian resistance. And they know it.

Palestinian artists, writers, poets, and intellectuals have frequently been targeted for arrest and assassination. Museums, cultural centers, schools, universities, churches and mosques—institutions of culture and learning—were strategically targeted by Israelis early in the Gaza genocide. To thoroughly obliterate a people—as is the intent in genocide and ethnic cleansing—they must be erased from history and memory.

The Palestinian Museum defies Zionist erasure as it challenges and reimagines the very idea of what a museum is, who it serves, and how it’s experienced.

This process of imaginative reinvention was precisely what most interested me about the museum and why I had arranged to meet Shomali a second time. I wanted to know how the practices (museography) and theoretical and conceptual underpinnings (museology) of the Palestinian Museum differed from those of western institutions.

“What does it mean to decolonize a museum and the museum experience?” I asked when we met in December. “And how are you doing that here?” We sat in front of a large computer screen in his office looking at photos as he talked—many of these are published below.

What follows is his answer. Shomali tells a story of determined and inventive resistance to a century of cultural appropriation and annihilation. The museum he oversees is an eloquent testimony to the creativity, tenacity, and ineradicable spirit of the Palestinian people.

I have added minimal commentary (in italics) where necessary.

—C.M.

Amer Shomali

Let’s start with the term decolonize. Decolonizing a museum does not apply to the Palestinian Museum specifically. Instead I would say “decolonizing the British museum” for example. “Decolonizing the Louvre.” Repatriation of antiquities and artifacts looted over the past centuries. That is decolonizing the museums in Europe and the West. Changing the narrative, rewriting it in a proper accurate way, giving the attribute to the original creators of those objects, I think that’s decolonizing the museums in the West.

Here, in Palestine, I think the proper term is localizing the museum and liberating it from the colonial standards. For the Palestinian Museum I see that we should be liberating ourselves from the colonial standards of what is a museum.

You can’t compare the Palestinian Museum to the British Museum, for example. The British Museum is a vault that contains the loot from all over the British empire, things from India, Egypt, Syria. You can’t compare that museum and whatever they have in their storage with the Palestinian Museum.

Eighty percent of our national collection—historical Palestinian artifacts—have been looted and eighty percent of our audience can’t even reach the museum physically. Our audience is the Palestinian people and eighty percent of our people—either in Gaza or in diaspora or in the refugee camps in Jordan and Lebanon—can’t reach the museum. So we’re a very specific case.

If we want to keep working trying to mimic the western traditions in the museums, the museum tradition, I think we’re going to be stuck and we’re not going to succeed. So we need to liberate ourselves. We should have the confidence to create our own museum theory, our own way of working, and our own traditions.

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If you look at the museum traditions in the west it started in the royal courts where the king would invite his friends and the royal family and the other rich noble people to come to see his treasures from the colonies. But in the east we had a different tradition, we call it Mawkib موكب, which means procession.

Basically, the Khalifah would send his soldiers and his servants carrying the valuable objects in his collection and they would walk through the city. People could look at that and people would sometimes get their own things and stand in the street. So it’s a community experience, a decentralized community experience. It’s a different tradition, a different way of thinking. But because of years of being under the British Mandate (Palestine) and the French Mandate (Syria and Lebanon) we started to think that we should look like our oppressors to be worthy.

If you rethink the experience of the museum, decentralizing the museum, especially in the Palestinian case, is very important. I’ll show you some of the experiments we’ve been trying to do to decentralize and liberate the Palestinian Museum.

C.M.: As he turned the discussion, Shomali recited a famous quote from George Orwell’s dystopian masterpiece, 1984: “Those who control the present, control the past. Those who control the past control the future.” No country has mastered this diabolic form of domination better than Israel. The Zionist state has long understood the necessity of narrative control to its project of ethnic cleansing and the creation of a Greater Israel. To illustrated this point, Shomali recounted several stark examples of Israel’s project of cultural annihilation.

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This is a photograph of the old Palestinian Museum—the national Palestine Archaeological Museum in Jerusalem. The whole museum was stolen including the collection in 1967. They carved a new name on the building and we lost our museum. They took the Dead Sea scrolls and everything else is the same as it was on the day it was stolen. Since 1967, everything is the same. The displays are all the same. They just carved a new name on the building in Hebrew.

C.M.: The photo below shows the inside of the museum with displays as they were prior to June 1967 when the institution and its contents were stolen following Israeli’s so-called Six Day War. The museum was subsequently renamed and is now called the Rockefeller Archeological Museum.

C.M.: The museum after its founding in1938 and before the Nakba:

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This is an important quotation by the Israeli Minister of Strategic Affairs:

There needs to be a radical change in the Palestinian education system. Without these structural changes Israel will find itself facing a hostile population.

And this is why, after 7 October, they bombed the museums and the art galleries and the archives before even bombing anything related to Hamas. They started bombing the cultural institutions on October the 28th. And the first building that was bombed in Rafa was the museum. Weeks later they started bombing other things in Rafah. But the first thing that was bombed in Rafa was the museum.

This is not something that happened by coincidence. It’s intentional and strategic. It’s strategic because they want to erase our memory and our culture. It’s not enough to erase Palestinians from the land. They want to erase our memories so we don’t know how to recreate Gaza in the future.

This photograph (see below) is a museum in Gaza, Mathaf al-Funduq. It’s a small cultural center with archeological artifacts that was looted and burned down early in the genocide.

C.M.: Al–Mathaf was bombed and then looted and set on fire. The following pictures show the museum before and after it was destroyed.

This was the storage space of the Mathaf museum (see photo below, red arrow). Look at this building. They bombed the storage. They didn’t care for the rest. They bombed the storage. They knew where it was and they bombed it.

C.M.: The third floor storage room was blow up in a precision drone attack. The Israelis knew where the museum’s archive and collection was and intentionally destroyed it. Every museum in Gaza was targeted and destroyed. When possible, the Israelis looted artifacts—some of which were put on display at the Knesset.

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They looted the national archives in 1948. And again in 1967, in 1982, and in 2002. They destroyed every museum and cultural institution in Gaza.

So how do we at the Palestinian Museum function?

One of the major projects we have is the Palestinian archives. We’re creating a digital archive. We have different copies on the cloud here and there are backups in bank safes in Switzerland and in Palestine. In that way it can’t be looted again. It’s a virtual archive. We’re building it bottom up.

We have almost 400,000 documents and photos and sound bytes and videos compared to 5 million [Palestinian artifacts] in various Israeli storage facilities—looted documents, artifacts, and archives. So we are still 1 to 10. But we are creating an alternative archive. Instead of having the official archive—which has been stolen—we are recreating the full story, the full history, from a mosaic of stories from people’s houses and private collections. It’s an alternative to the official archive.

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We have an exhibition we’re working on with different museums around the world. Basically, we are storing parts of our collection in these museums. The object or artifact is stored in a box with a logo of the Palestinian Museum, identifying it as belonging to the Palestinian Museum collection. Next to that is a brief explanation:

Inside this box there is a Palestinian artifact from the collection of the Palestinian Museum. Because of what’s happening in Gaza—bombing museums, killing artists, burning paintings, and looting artifacts—we are safeguarding part of the Palestinian Museum collection until the genocide is over.

You don’t see the painting or object inside the box. All you see is the box.

C.M: The storage boxes are on display at host museums. In this way, museums in other countries help to preserve Palestinian art and historical artifacts, keeping them safe from Israeli theft and destruction, while raising awareness about Israel’s century-long project of destroying Palestinian culture.

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The extreme experiment we did was an exhibition called Gaza Remains the Story. This exhibition represents a new tradition, it introduces a new approach to [creating an exhibition].

C.M.: Gaza Remains the Story exists in the form of electronic files that are accessed on the museum’s website. These electronic images, which include historic black and white photographs, pictures of textiles and paintings, experience boards about the history of Gaza, are designed to be downloaded and printed—at any scale large or small depending upon the available space. The show can be hung in any venue anywhere in the world. It creatively bypasses Israeli military censors who don’t allow Palestinian artifacts and art to travel outside of the occupied territories, and who would almost certainly steal or destroy them.

We created an online folder in which we have photos from the archive: paintings, artworks, photographs, videos, and podcasts. We created experience boards that tell the story of Gaza under continuous occupation and siege. There’s a promotional media kit that includes a poster for the exhibition, a social media post, for instagram or FaceBook—everything according to the size. We even have a file that enables you to cut and past the tags for the show. Everything.

Even if you don’t know how to make an exhibition, you just download the folder and there you have detailed instructions: “Cut it here, put it there.” Over the past month and a half we were booked for 109 venues around the world. We already did 40 exhibitions around the world. It didn’t cost us anything. The community—local exhibition curators who don’t need any prior experience—picks and chooses from the folder and they created their own exhibition. So this is another way of rethinking the museum.

Usually a museum has original artifact, expensive object, with people protecting these valuable things. But in this case, the most important thing is amplifying the Palestinian narrative. Why should we care about the original artwork or not? We should care about amplifying Palestinian voices. So, if you free yourself from the heavy traditions of the colonial museums, you can suggest an alternative way, an alternative theory, of what a museum should look like in a colonial context.

Each venue curated the show differently, each had a different design. Everyone was involved in the decision making [what to print and exhibit from the electronic files]. Some venue actually added paintings, because they had Palestinian paintings in their collection. And some people brought traditional Palestinian dresses. So it’s an alive experiment. The Palestinian Museum is a resource, a tool, people can use and pick and choose what works.

We get feedback from people exhibiting this show [Gaza Remains the Story]. Part of the process is sending us feedback. Whenever we get a comment, for example, saying “this map is not clear.” Or, “this terminology is not correct.” Or, “we suggest you add another storyboard in between those two to explain this one.” We do that. We update that folder. And the next exhibition will have an updated electronic version. So it’s a two way process, which is not common in the museums. In a museum they have a painting, they have a gallery.

We’re offering an entry point for more involvement and ownership. We’re creating a museum without borders. This [the Palestinian Museum] is the mothership but we have satellite museums all over the world. If you think of the museum beyond the boundaries of its walls then you have this kind of thinking.

In our museum we are a team discussing things. I opened up the museum for intellectual input from outside of the employee circle. Everyday we have artists coming and curators who are not on the payroll of the museum. They suggests ideas, they send emails and messages, and we follow up on that. So we’re open to receiving ideas from other people.

As a small museum we don’t have the budget to hire all the staff and intellectuals to pitch in their ideas. But if we offer the space and we always credit people, they are willing to be involved.

So this is how we see decolonizing the museum. We liberate ourself from the colonial traditions. We don’t see the museum as part of the entertainment industry. We see our museum as an institution on the frontline. We’re not part of the entertainment industry we’re part of the resistance.

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Published simultaneously at The Floutist.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this report. Thank you.

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First thought, best thought.
—Allen Ginsberg

7 MARCH—My first thought as Marwa, my guide and interpreter, drove us away from a tiny two-room kindergarten in the remote West Bank village of al–Mughayyir was one I blurted out loud: “I’m going to raise money to build a playground for those kids. Are you willing to help me?” She nodded. And she did.

That was in the final week of May 2024. Two months later and back in the U.S., I published an account of my unsettling encounter with the kindergartners—“‘Soldiers! Soldiers! Soldiers!’”—and launched a GoFundMe campaign, made successful by generous donations from many of our readers.

It is now my great delight to share with you the happy news that the playground is finally finished, as of the second week in February. To all who made this possible: Shukran. Thank you. I waited for photographs of the children at play before publishing this update.

As you might imagine, given the situation in Occupied Palestine, this project did not always go smoothly. There were significant delays, long months when nothing happened as checkpoints were closed and violence erupted. Including the first war against Iran. For nearly six months we waited for the play equipment to be delivered. The supplier, we learned, had imported it from China. It was sitting in an Israeli port and would not be released. The money was returned, all of it, and we found another vendor.

From start to finish this project was a lesson in something almost entirely missing in the United States: Trust. Trust in other people. Trust that, working together, something good can be realized even in the most difficult of circumstances.

I’m calling this radical trust.

Why radical? Consider some synonyms: far-reaching, thorough, profound. And: revolutionary. The Latin origin radix—“root” in the botanical sense—meant the foundation, source, or origin of something. Trust is assuredly the foundation of all meaningful human relationships and endeavors. Two other closely related words— and synonyms for revolutionary—include unorthodox and imaginative. Far-reaching indeed when you consider the impacts of this project: for the children a little happiness, for the parents the same knowing their children are happier—and knowing others outside of Palestine see them and care. For the community it’s an expression of solidarity.

Unorthodox and imaginative problem solving is a necessity in the West Bank, where finding ways to accomplish the impossible while flying beneath the radar are necessary skills. Everything depends upon trust. Personal safety and liberty are not infrequently at stake because anything that supports community, anyone who works to build and strengthen Palestinian community, can be targeted.

My project partners, who deserve recognition, must of necessity remain anonymous.

It’s difficult getting money into the West Bank. The money we raised was funneled through a contact in al–Khalil (aka, Hebron). This person managed the process and then held the funds for nearly 18 months as it was disbursed.

A woman from a tiny village near Ramallah made four trips to al–Khalil to pick up each of the four disbursements—in cash—and carry them north. Every trip in the West Bank entails difficulties and dangers. Carrying cash is a danger all its own—especially if a person is searched by occupation soldiers.

Yet other partners were members of a long-established and highly regarded civil-society group that Israel designated a terrorist organization in 2021—part of its demonic project to shred Palestinian society and life by all means imaginable. These women take personal risks—unthinkable in the West—to provide services for children and women in rural areas. One of my fondest memories is meeting them at a Ramallah coffeehouse.

From start to finish this project was held together and accomplished on trust. And the trust of which I write is a connection and bond between people spread across continents. Every person who made a donation did so on trust—trust that doesn’t stop now that the playground is finished, but that will reverberate into the future.

The playground transformed the kindergarten. It has and will touch and shape the life of every child who uses it. The smiles you see in these pictures—rare smiles indeed—are proof of that.

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The picture below shows the kindergarten as it was before the construction began. The adjacent vacant lot (right photo) is the site of the playground.

The finished project included repairs to the kindergarten’s roof and bathroom, a new septic tank, concrete work, a sunshade, artificial grass, outdoor play equipment, and indoor educational board games.

Al–Mughayyir endures frequent attacks by settlers and soldiers. In 2025 two teenaged boys were martyred in separate shootings, one of which I reported on here. That same year nearly all of its agricultural land was stolen—over 42,000 dunams (the equivalent of 10,380 acres) of farm and grazing land, olive orchards, vineyards, wheat fields, almond tress, greenhouses, and more. An estimated 3,000 olive trees were uprooted during a major military incursion at the end of August, as reported here. During that same operation a road was carved through the farmland to a hilltop overlooking the village where a new settlement is under construction.

The picture below shows one of the two kindergarten’s classrooms after soldiers ransacked it in the August military raid. Appreciate anew the miracle of a playground in this environment.

The day-to-day experience of these children is one of fear, anxiety, and the constant threat of violence. The smiles you see on these faces are all the more precious. The kindergarten’s FaceBook page is full of videos showing children learning and at play—smiling and laughing. I encourage you to take a few minutes and look at it; click on any video with artificial grass to see the playground. You can watch two of my favorites here and here. Another fun video shows the transformation of the playground as the equipment is installed. And enjoy the Arabic music!

The following message was appended to a post on the school’s Facebook page when the playground was completed. I’ve taken small liberties with the translation and will let this expression of gratitude stand as this piece’s final words:

We extend our sincere thanks and appreciation to all the donors and people who contributed and provided play equipment for our wonderful kindergarten. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your unlimited dedication and giving. Your efforts have been a catalyst for achievement and are a symbol of sincerity. We cherish what you have given and its positive impact. May Allah place it in the balance of your good deeds.

This was published simultaneously on West Bank Alerts.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this report. Thank you.

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6 JANUARY—I met Jamila during my first trip to the West Bank, in May 2024. Jamila, a pseudonym chosen to protect her identity, was teaching English on a Saturday morning in al–Arroub refugee camp, 11 kilometers north of Hebron, to a small group of highly motivated students. Her classes are extracurricular and supplement the English classes taught at UNRWA schools. Jamila teaches some 50 students ranging in age from 5 to 14. All of the older students I spoke with plan to attend college.

I joined Jamila’s class and spent an hour engaged in conversation. My visit gave these young pupils the rare opportunity to practice their English skills with a native speaker.

“My name is Cara. What is your name?”

“How old are you?”

“What is your favorite color?”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Do you play football?” I asked each and every boy. “Yes,” each and every boy replied. “Are you good at football?” “Yes!” was the equally inevitable answer. “And who is your favorite player?”

Boys everywhere in the world love football—soccer in the American parlance. I fell in love with the children.

Unable to return to Palestine last year, as I had hoped, I reached out to Jamila in August. Might she have some of her students make drawings that I could publish and share with readers of Winter Wheat, I wanted to know. She loved the idea.

A week earlier I’d received photographs of drawings done by Bedouin children from the community of Deir Alla. In the final days of July, Deir Alla had been ethnically cleansed and entirely destroyed, as reported here, in West Bank Alerts. These drawings documented the violence of ethnic cleansing and the life—a good and happy one—that was taken from them.

Bedouin communities and rural villages are always the most vulnerable to attack. Even so, life in a refugee camp is precarious. Violent raids by Zionist occupation forces are an almost daily occurrence. Children are routinely exposed to tear gas, stun grenades, and random gunfire. I was curious to see what kind of drawings Jamila’s students would produce.

It’s common in families and schools for parents and teachers to provide activities that offer children happy experiences to offset the violence that defines their lives. Rather than have her students draw the traumatic experiences of life in al–Arroub, she used the drawing class as a confidence-building exercise and kept students focused positively. The photographer of the wonderful pictures that follow, published with permission, requested anonymity.

They give me great joy. I offer them without comment. They require none.

—C. M.

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Al–Arroub refugee camp, August 2025.

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Note to readers: Jamila’s classes are offered through the al-Noor Center in al–Arroub. Because the economic situation in the West Bank is increasingly dire, the future of al–Noor is uncertain. The center runs on a shoestring budget. Its rent is the equivalent of $300 dollars per month. Families struggling with unemployment have difficulty meeting the minimal tuition. There is the additional cost of school supplies: paper, art supplies, books, teachings materials, etc. If you would like to make a financial donation to the center, please contact me at: winterwheat7@gmail.com. Please include “al–Noor Center” in the subject line.

I invite readers to look at the al–Noor FaceBook page. Please share this post.

Thank you.

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3 JANUARY—An email arrived in the morning of the last day of 2025 with the subject line “A cry from the heart for the New Year.” It was from a friend living in East Jerusalem, a Christian Palestinian. Now 92 years old, my friend witnessed the Nakba when she was a teenaged schoolgirl. I publish her message, addressed as a letter to God, with permission and of necessity anonymously.

Imagine, if you will, if you can, a life blessed with such longevity—a good marriage, fulfilling career, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren—and yet engulfed by unceasing violence. Imagine beloved family members in prison. Image coming to the end of just such a long life having spent it working and praying for peace, hoping for justice, believing always in mercy, and witnessing instead a genocide against your people—this as the world remained silent.

Imagine what you might say in a letter to God.

Would it be as faithful and charitable as the one you are about to read?

—C. M.

East Jerusalem, Occupied Palestine.

Dear God,

As one the most distressing years in my life is coming to an end today, I thought I would sit at my computer and have a chat with You.

To start with, I want You to know that despite all that we have gone through starting with the Nakba of 1948, the military occupation of our Palestinian territories as well as the genocide in the Gaza Strip, we have never lost our faith in You.

Inshallah (God willing) is the most common word in our language, whether we are Christians or Muslims, because we literally believe, “Your will be done.” When we see our families off to work or the children off to school we are bound to say to each one of them, “Allah Maak (God be with you). Inshallah you will have a good day.” When they all get back home safely we welcome them, “Alhamdulilah ala el Salameh” (Thank God for your getting back home safely). And when things get tough we plead, “Allah yefrijha” (May God solve the problem). Even when somebody passes away, and as sad as we may be, we accept the fact that it is God’s will, “Mashe’et Allah.”

These are just a few examples to assure You of how strongly we believe in You and that You will never abandon us no matter how bad the situation gets. So whatever good or bad that comes our way we are always thankful. Alhamdulilah.

Sadly, however, and after these long years of one Nakba after the other, one genocide after the other, and now all this stormy weather that has left the homeless in the Gaza Strip drowning in their flimsy tents while more restrictions are put on aid organizations, I could not help but cry out, “Where are You, Dear God, when we need You most? Should You by any chance have lost or misplaced Your hearing aids or Your contact lenses? La Samah Allah (God forbid).” But You do not need medical experts to help You retrieve those abilities. You are the Master Healer.

I lost my eyesight after a big fall a few years ago, but with Your blessings and mercy, and with the healing hands of Dr. Jaouni, Alhamdulilah I can now read and write You this letter. I can also read the scriptures every night and continue to be fascinated by the sacrifice of Your beloved Son.

We need Him now more than ever as we are tired, drained, and unable to cope any more with this grave injustice that has been lingering in our region for the last hundred years. We have had enough of false promises of peace, when in reality we see more aggression and more loss of lives and more young and old people languishing in Israeli jails.

Justice and only justice can bring about the peace that is meant to make our Land Holy again. We need Your help right now, Dear God. We need You to see and to hear our stories so that You can grant us justice. We will not bother You anymore, but we will keep pleading our case just like the widow did until the judge granted her justice. But after all, You are the most gracious, Allah Kareem.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this article. Thank you.

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31 DECEMBER—A New Year’s greeting arrived this morning from a friend in New Askar refugee camp, in the West Bank governorate of Nablus. It’s a powerful message of hope, and I publish it below with permission and of necessity anonymously.

May each of us do our very best by whatever means at our disposal, however great or small the effort, to make peace a reality in the land of Palestine in 2026.

—C.M.

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A message from New Askar refugee camp.

Happy New Year to all.
A year of love and peace from the land of war and pain.
From the birthplace of Jesus, Bethlehem.
And from Jerusalem, the land of peace.
Freedom and justice for the children of Palestine.
With all my love.

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Listen, world, to what I want to tell you. By God, the pain and suffering carried by the sick prisoners in Ramla Prison Clinic: If you placed it on a mountain, that mountain would collapse. It would not withstand it. 
—Prisoner, Ramla Clinic

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25 NOVEMBER—I’m pleased to publish here the last of a three-part series based on my encounter in the West Bank a year ago with Rateb al–Hribat. Arrested in 2002 during the Al–Aqsa Intifada for his ostensible involvement with Fatah’s military arm, the Al–Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades, Rateb spent 22 years in numerous of Israel’s prisons—a “network of torture camps,” to quote from the title of a report published in August 2024 by the human rights organization B’Tselem. He was released in July 2024 at the age of forty-five.

During our conversation, in the fall of 2024 in his home town of Dura, in the governorate of Ramallah, I learned that Rateb had written two books while volunteering at Ramla Prison Hospital, a facility notorious for its medical neglect and abuse. The first of these, Why Can’t I See White, was recently translated into English.

In Part 2 of this series I published the introduction and preface to Rateb’s first book. What follows are three stories from it about various of the prisoners Rateb helped during his volunteer work at Ramla Clinic, as the hospital is also known. Taken together, they sketch a brutal picture of the Ramla facility and the sadism of Israeli doctors and prison officials.

When reading these stories, it must be remembered that Israel’s occupation of Palestine is illegal under international law, making the entire prison system likewise illegal. Under the same statutes, Palestinians have a legally recognized right to armed resistance. It is precisely this legal framework that places each story and, indeed, each life in its proper perspective. Within the claustrophobic environment of Ramla Prison Hospital, where nearly every moment is one of physical or psychological cruelty and suffering, the devotion and care Rateb and other prisoners show for each other are acts of mercy and grace—and, in the end, acts of determination and resistance.

The first and second parts of this series can be read here and here.

I invite you to read these accounts in the spirit of witnessing and as an expression of respect and solidarity.

Thank you.

— C. M.

Rateb al–Hribat.

In the Beginning.

At the beginning of 2015, I was transferred from Ramon to Ramla Prison Clinic to volunteer in serving sick and wounded Palestinian prisoners held in a special section designated for so-called security detainees. At any given time their number ranged between twenty and twenty-four prisoners. This is where my story begins. It is where my journey through pain and suffering started.

I had previously visited this section for medical tests. At the time, I had a simple curiosity to learn about the general conditions there, particularly regarding chronic and long-term illnesses among prisoners who had been suffering for years. Before I started volunteering at Ramla Clinic, my knowledge was very limited. I assumed the men were simply sick prisoners, just ordinary patients. But the harsh reality was completely different.

Two common Arabic sayings come close to describing the hidden reality at Ramla: “The people of Mecca know its paths best.” And, “What you see is not the same as what you hear.”

To an outsider, or to those who visit the facility for medical tests, the sick prisoners appear normal. You might see them smiling, playing, or joking with one another—just like the rest of the detainees. At first glance, the general atmosphere seems ordinary. But the truth, as I discovered, was something else entirely.

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The Young Lions: Omar al–Rimawi and Ayham al–Sabbah.

Omar and Ayham were two young boys who had not yet reached the age of fifteen. They embodied the love of Palestine in every sense of the word. They were among the young lions who arrived at the Ramla Clinic around May 2016 after carrying out a stabbing operation at a supermarket near a settlement in the West Bank. During that attack one Israeli soldier was killed and another was injured. The two Israelis were from the Golani Brigade, which was formed in 1948 and has since been notorious for its brutality.

Ayham al–Sabbah arrived at the unit two weeks before Omar al–Rimawi. He, Ayham, embodied the purity of innocence and simplicity of childhood. He cried constantly from the pain caused by severed tendons and nerves in his right arm and hand—wounds from expanding bullets.

He called out to me every day, asking, “Where is my friend Omar?” I reassured him, saying, “He will come soon, don’t worry about him. Omar is a strong man, and he will come. There is no other place for prisoners injured in the Al–Aqsa Intifada except this bleak prison.”

Ayham was very intelligent and sharp-minded, far beyond his years. Even though he was young he often said, “I am from al–Qassam Brigades.” He loved the Hamas movement and was obsessed with al–Qassam [the armed wing of Hamas]. Despite our efforts to distract him from his injury, he remained constantly in tears, crying and screaming from the intensity of the pain.

Omar arrived about two weeks later. Their reunion was filled with emotion. They had been classmates in school and now they were reunited in the dark and racist prison clinic.

Omar Rimawi entered the prison ward as a young boy of only fourteen years, but he displayed the maturity and character of a man in his twenties. He was patient in enduring the pain of his own severe wounds.

Omar had serious injuries to his chest and spine. Initially, he couldn’t move at all. Not even to turn from side to side. Despite these injuries and his excruciating suffering, Omar endured his ordeal in silence. He never cried or showed anyone that he was in pain.

Omar’s injuries were so severe the doctor told me he would never be able to stand or walk and would likely be paralyzed for life.

Omar al–Rimawi, this young lion, was a lovable, lighthearted young man. He remained in a pitiable state for about a month, unable to move, enduring his suffering with a spirit of resistance. Omar possessed a strong will, as solid as the stones of Palestine adorned with green trees and red soil. This is a temperament that infuriates the occupiers.

He would say to me, “I want to get off this bed, no matter what it takes!” And indeed, he made remarkable progress every day because of his strong determination. When Omar started physical therapy, he began to refuse painkillers. This reveals the true strength of his character and the depth of his resilience.

Omar said, “I want to walk. I want to return to my normal state despite my injuries.” And he did.

Moreover, he was considerate. He didn’t like to impose upon the other prisoners, those of us who were helping him. Instead, he insisted on doing all of his personal tasks himself, despite his critical condition.

One day I was outside the cell in the canteen purchasing supplies for the prisoners. Meanwhile, Omar needed to go to the bathroom. Can you imagine? He went to the bathroom all alone! He fell on the floor in the bathroom and didn’t call for help. He managed on his own. Omar was a young man of will and determination, and a model of good manners and respect.

Omar loved the Fatah movement [the dominant party in the Palestinian Authority]. One day he said to me, “Do you know why I love the Fatah movement?” I said, “No, I don’t know. Why?” Omar replied, “I came to love the Fatah movement after meeting you.”

Later, when the intelligence officers asked him which movement he belonged to. Omar said, “I belong to the movement of Rateb al–Hribat Abu Jameel.”

After about three months of physical therapy, Omar began to rely more and more on himself for eating, dressing, and moving on his own without assistance. He even started doing simple exercises. This was a reflection of his strong will and deep faith. Omar set a goal for his recovery and worked diligently toward it.

As he was increasingly able to move, Omar continued helping everyone in the cell, especially the other sick prisoners.

Omar was one of those young lions, possessing generosity and kindness, who truly gave to others. He was distinguished by his dignity, courage, and true manhood. Among all young men in the unit he specifically helped others who needed assistance.

The Israeli soldier that Omar killed was three times his size. But by comparison, and despite his small stature, Omar possessed a brave heart and a readiness to sacrifice far beyond that of the occupying soldiers who had invaded our land and desecrated its peace.

Omar was convinced of the justness of his actions. His attack was not a random act but had a clear meaning and purpose. Omar understood what he was doing and why, and he accepted his fate. It was clear to me, from our conversations, that Omar believed Palestine and Jerusalem were worth every sacrifice. This conviction, I believe, is what made Omar so patient and steadfast.

Omar was the top of his class and came from an educated and respected family with a strong social standing. He lacked nothing. But the call of Palestine is heard even by the deaf. How could it not be heard by heroes such as Omar?

Omar’s First Visit.

When Omar visited his family for the first time, they had no idea that he could stand. They thought he was confined to a wheelchair, unable to move or walk. This was all the family knew about their son.

You can imagine the surprise and happiness when they saw Omar standing. His parents were shocked. Suddenly their wishes were mixed with reality, their dreams with the truth. Is this really Omar? The visit was filled with many emotions—relief, sorrow, and tears. Surprisingly, it was Omar who comforted his family and lifted their spirits. It was as if he were a grown man, although at this time he was only fifteen years old.

Omar still remembers the kindness of everyone who helped him and stood by him during his injury, especially the prisoners who assisted him in the Ramla Prison Hospital. He remains in constant contact with them and asks about their families.

This is the young lion and hero, Omar al–Rimawi, a new legend added to the legends of the prisons, the heroes of the resistance operations.

Despite his young age, Omar was sentenced to thirty years in prison and a fine of one million shekels [roughly US$300,000].

The wounded prisoner Ayman al–Kurd and the ‘Nahshon’ forces.

Ayman al–Kurd was born on 14 May 1996 in the city of Jerusalem, in the northernmost Palestinian Arab neighborhood of Kafr ‘Aqab. He carried out a heroic operation in Jerusalem during the Al–Aqsa and Jerusalem uprising on 19 September 2016.

Ayman was brought to the prison section of Al–Ramla Hospital in the evening at around 9:30. He was lying on a stretcher, unable to move, crying out and repeating in a loud voice: “Allahu Akbar. La ilaha illa Allah, Allahu Akbar.” He was placed in Room No. 1, in the ward designated for sick and injured prisoners.

Ayman was injured after carrying out a stabbing operation at the Damascus Gate in the old city of Jerusalem, targeting two soldiers who were guarding the Al–Aqsa Mosque. He was struck by more than ten bullets and had shrapnel spread throughout his body. Among the bullets that hit him were dumdums. These are designed to expand and break apart in the body, causing maximum damage. The majority of these hit his spine, leaving him paralyzed.

This wounded young man cried more than he laughed. For more than six consecutive months, he spent most of his time crying and screaming from the intensity of his pain. May Allah help him and the rest of us. How could anyone not cry or feel pain in such a bleak place?

The shrapnel from the bullets was clearly visible on his foot, back, and chest. We worked carefully to remove some of the fragments in stages over the course of several days.

One day I was in the clinic assisting Ayman with dressing his wounds. I asked the Israeli doctor to sedate him before attempting any further removal procedures. The doctor agreed, and a surgical procedure began that day. Ayman remained under anesthesia until the fragments were fully extracted.

One of the bullets was removed from his hand, and it was a difficult sight. The bullet was of the explosive dumdum type, and removing it was not easy. I took it discreetly and handed it to Ayman to keep as a reminder. Anyone who saw the bullet was shocked by its size and shape, and how it had settled in his body.

More than once, we had to remove shrapnel from various parts of Ayman’s body. He remained extremely agitated and screamed constantly. The pain was unbearable and sometimes caused him to act in an uncharacteristically irresponsible manner. We tried to understand and tolerate it because his suffering was immense, and the darkness overwhelming.

At times, Ayman would lose control of himself. I, who was his brother and friend, would encourage him to be patient and to persevere. My colleagues and I would often accompany him in the yard early in the morning, at noon, and in the evening to ease his suffering, even if just a little. But he would find relief only after taking strong painkillers that helped him sleep or gave him temporary rest.

The usual painkillers helped him cope with the pain only for a few hours. Once their effect wore off, the cycle of screaming and crying would begin again in an almost daily sequence.

When it came to his trips to the Israeli court, Ayman faced many difficulties. The worst of these came from the Nahshon forces, a special operations unit within the Israeli Prison Service responsible for transporting prisoners to the court. They treated him with hatred, racism, and a complete lack of decency. Even though Ayman was confined to a wheelchair, they would pull him out of it and drag him on the ground to further humiliate him.

These terrorist forces showed no trace of humanity or mercy. Their racist reactions were inflicted upon the body of this wounded, paralyzed man. When they heard the details of his case—especially the charges against him—the violence intensified.

Ayman tried to defend himself during these repeated attacks, but he had no power or strength. What could a paralyzed person do when confronted by heavily armed, brutal occupying forces? They do not have a shred of mercy for their enemy, even if he is weak or disabled.

Ayman returned to us in the section at eight in the evening, even though he left for the Israeli court at six in the morning. He spent fourteen hours in total traveling and sitting in a wheelchair in court.

We spoke to the official in charge of the clinic about this matter, but no one listened. They didn’t care about Ayman or what happened to him in court or on the way there. They didn’t care about the constant harassment and humiliation he endured at the hands of the Nahshon forces.

Once again my eyes could not see the color white. I could not see white in the doctors’ uniforms, stained as they were by deliberate neglect, nor in their hearts, which are mostly filled with the venom of scorpions and a desire for revenge.

We filed many complaints to all the responsible authorities about what was happening to Ayman. But this blatant abuse was deliberate and intentional. It was normal procedure for the Israeli intelligence and the Shin Bet.

Despite his suffering and dependence upon a wheelchair, Ayman was known for his generosity and love for the other prisoners. He loved serving others and getting to know them. These qualities made him stand out.

What always pained Ayman, as I observed, was his recollection of the past, and the comparison between what he once was and what he had become—what he used to be and how he was today. This had a profoundly negative psychological effect and sometimes caused him to act without awareness or understanding.

Ayman was sentenced to thirty-five years and was transferred from Ramla prison hospital to Gilboa prison.

Ayman al–Kurd was released from Ofer Prison on 13 October as part of a prisoner exchange deal. The photo in the “X” post below was taken at his sentencing in 2020. He was fourteen when he was shot and arrested in 2016. Israel waited four years to sentence Ayman so that he would be older, no longer a child, and they could justify a longer term.

Mamdouh Amr and ‘Kheekh!’

Brother Mamdouh was originally a native of the village of Al Majd, which lies west of Dura in the Hebron Governorate. After the war of 1967, Al Majd was occupied and his family was forced to relocate to Dura. Mamdouh was a teacher of mathematics.

He left his beautiful village for the settlement of Gush Etzion, which connects the cities of Hebron and Bethlehem. Gush Etzion has been the location of numerous stabbing and vehicular ramming attacks, all of which are considered heroic acts of resistance.

Mamdouh went to this settlement—built illegally on Palestinian land—with the intention of carrying out a stabbing attack. But as soon as he reached Gush Etzion, where Occupation soldiers were stationed, they opened fire on him in a torrent of hatred, leaving him with bullets in his leg, chest, hand, and other parts of his body.

His condition was extremely critical, and he stayed in intensive care for a long time. But Allah’s almighty will was above all and Mamdouh survived.

Mamdouh was brought into the clinic of the Ramla prison, where we begin this story about him. The moment I greeted him, by asking for his name, I was struck by a surprise—and oh, how many repulsive surprises there are in these prisons. Mamdouh couldn’t speak because of the severity of his injuries.

I asked Mamdouh if he could write so that we could learn his name and how he was doing. He nodded in agreement, so I brought him a notebook and a pen. I asked him to write his name and where he was from. That was when I learned he was from the Dura—my own home town.

The day after he arrived at the ward, the doctor, who doesn’t know the color white, came to examine him. Mamdouh’s condition was so critical that it was difficult to manage without a doctor.

The doctor informed me bluntly that his condition was very unusual, given the fact he had just been moved out of intensive care. Mamdouh was suffering from shortness of breath because part of his lungs had been removed. He couldn’t breathe normally and the doctor noted that he wasn’t allowed to eat solid food: He was on a special liquid diet that had to be mixed with a specific substance—even water had to be mixed with that substance.

Even though his condition was critical, for Mamdouh, the most important thing was food. Despite all his pain, his biggest concern and top priority was food. He was a true “foodie” with an insatiable appetite.

Because of his excessive love for food he nearly lost his life. Mamdouh couldn’t regulate his eating habits. For two months he refused to eat anything the doctor prescribed. Every day, he would ask for real food and sometimes I had to give him some just so he would eat.

One day, he became so exhausted that he was unable to breathe. I asked for a doctor to come to the section immediately. Fortunately, this time a doctor showed up. After the examination, he was transferred to an external hospital because of the dangerous and urgent nature of his condition.

Less than two hours later, the prison doctor asked me for a telephone number for Mamdouh’s family. When I asked, “What for?” the doctor replied, “Mamdouh’s situation is very critical and he might die.” But then the will of Allah—He who revives the bones from their dust—manifested again. And indeed, Mamdouh’s condition started improving little by little. He spent almost a month in intensive care, and then he came back to us.

When Mamdouh returned to the section, I set up a special diet for him following the doctor’s instructions. And I did my best to ensure he adhered to it.

Sometime later, Mamdouh was finally able to speak, which made us all very happy. But his first word was very strange: kheekh. It wasn’t even Arabic. And no one understood what it meant. It took us more than an hour finally to understand that Mamdouh meant to say “cake.” Out of playfulness and affection we started calling him “Kheekh.”

Mamdouh’s health slowly started to improve. But the pieces of surgical metal that were still embedded in his leg continued to torment him. After nearly eight months of enduring constant pain, the doctor finally decided it was time to remove the metal. I accompanied Mamdouh on his visit to the orthopedic doctor. There I witnessed something that still leaves me in shock, wondering how I was able to endure what I saw.

The metal in Mamdouh’s foot was removed by a doctor who used tools that resembled those used for cars. He asked for a No. 12 wrench, locking pliers, and a flathead screwdriver. “My God,” I thought, “what is this?” These were a mechanic’s tools!

The doctor struggled to unscrew the bolts in Mamdouh’s leg to the point that he, Mamdouh, vomited and lost consciousness. We stood there stunned, witnessing the horrific sight. The process of unscrewing the bolts resembled what a tire shop mechanic does when removing a tire from a car.

Mamdouh was screaming at the top of his lungs and his loud cries and wails echoed for everyone to hear. The doctor carried out the entire procedure without administering anesthesia—not even a local anesthesia.

When we returned to the ward, Mamdouh took some very strong painkillers and fell asleep immediately, waking up only the next day.

A week later, by the will of Allah Almighty and his own strong will, Mamdouh was finally able to walk using a walker.

Over time we learned more details about Mamdouh. He used to work abroad as a math teacher and was known for his witty personality, always eliciting a smile from others.

As the best of creation, our Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, has told us: A smile is a form of charity and so is a kind word. Imagine the generosity of someone who shares a smile in a place like Ramla Prison.

Because of the demand for space at the Ramla Clinic, Mamdouh was transferred to another prison before finishing his physical therapy.

■

The most prominent central prisons and detention centers in the Zionist occupation state are: Beersheba Central Prison, Ashkelon Central Prison, Ramla Prison, Kfar Yona Prison “Beit Lid,” Al-Maskobiya Interrogation Center in Jerusalem, the Negev Desert Prison (Ansar 3) (in Hebrew: Ktzi’ot), Ofer Prison, Telmond Prison, Nafha Prison, Damon Prison, Gilboa Prison in Beit She’an, and Shatta Prison.

The number of Palestinians held hostage in Israeli prisons increased dramatically following the events of 7 October 2023. They are subjected to torture, rape and other forms of sexual abuse, starvation, regular beatings, acts of humiliation, and even execution. According to Addammer, a Palestinian prisoner-support and human-rights association, there are currently more than 9,250 political prisoners held by the Zionist entity.

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29 OCTOBER—This is Part Two of a three-part series on Rateb al–Hribat and his writings while in Israeli prisons. Now in his mid-forties, Rateb spent twenty-two years in the Israeli gulag, where he wrote two books about his volunteer work at the Ramla Prison Hospital—a facility notorious for medical neglect and abuse of prisoners. Why Can’t I See White? is the first of these books to be translated into English.

In Part One of this series, “‘Raw reality’ in Palestine,” I reported on my meeting with Rateb and our conversation in his home town of Dura. Readers will find Part One here. In Part Two I present the Introduction to Why Can’t I See White?, by Yasser Abu Bakr, who was also a longtime prisoner, and Rateb’s Preface. Part Three will be comprised of extracts from Rateb’s text.

After meeting Rateb I arranged for his first book to be translated. I secured funding from a local non-profit organization located in the city of al–Khalil (a.k.a. Hebron) and hired three young women to do the initial work. A fourth person joined the project to review and compile the initial translations. I edited the final version. This series will be the first time Rateb’s work has appeared anywhere in English.

This is how Rateb described his books when we met last November:

I began writing in 2017 and completed both books while I was still in prison. They tell the story of men I was imprisoned with and the suffering of prisoners in Ramla. These are men—some of them still teenagers—who were injured from previous intifadas, or who were sick. I wrote about their day-to-day struggles. These books document the abuse and slow medical assassination of prisoners.

Rateb’s book belongs to a genre of literary work known as Palestinian prison literature. This emerged as a distinct category of writing during the British Mandate. It encompasses poetry, fiction, and non-fiction written by men and women, among them well-known and first-time authors, most of whom have been in prison at some point in their lives. Palestinian writing about—and from within—Israel’s prison system expanded significantly after the occupation of Gaza and the West Bank in 1967, when increasing numbers of people were imprisoned.

Because Israel has long targeted Palestinian artists and writers for imprisonment—as well as assassination—many of Palestine’s most well-known and beloved poets, essayists, and novelists have composed works inspired, if that is my word, by their experience inside Israel’s prisons. Previously unknown writers such as Rateb—those who took up the pen in these circumstances for the first time—have made important contributions to this body of work.

While referred to as “prison literature,” the Arabic term used to describe this body of writing is more accurately translated as “captive literature.” This critical distinction—between prisoner and captive—reflects the actual reality in Occupied Palestine. Palestinians held in captivity by Israel are not prisoners incarcerated for wrongdoing, but captives of an illegal military occupation.

In the Introduction and Preface to Rateb’s book you hear the voices of two Palestinian men who spent decades inside the man-made hell of the Zionist prison system, the very existence of which is a violation of international law. Yasser Abu Bakr was serving multiple life sentences when he wrote the Introduction for Rateb’s book. Yasser was released in January 2025 along with 200 other Palestinian prisoners in exchange for four female Israeli soldiers captured on 7 October. He had been incarcerated for 24 years.

For those interested in reading prisoner testimonies, B’Tselem, the Israeli human rights organization, published a lengthy report in August 2024 documenting the systematic abuse, starvation, and torture of Palestinian prisoners, all of which escalated after 7 October. Welcome to Hell: The Israeli Prison System as a Network of Torture Camps was based on the detailed testimony of fifty-five former inmates, male and female, young and old.

Rateb’s book is more than a record of Israel’s crimes: In the face of unimaginable cruelty and pain, Rateb shows us the depths of human resilience, faith, and love. What else, indeed, would motivate Rateb to help the most vulnerable and broken of prisoners and to write two books dedicated to the sacrifices each of them made for Palestine?

Resilience, faith, love: These are the ineffable qualities that enabled the prisoners Rateb wrote about to endure the unendurable. And in this respect, Why Can’t I See White? allows the reader to perceive the bright flame of Palestinian strength, resistance, and sumud—steadfast perseverance—that will not be extinguished.

—C. M.

Introduction,

Yasser Abu Bakr.

Spending any years of your life in the prisons of the Occupation is far too long, especially when these prisons belong to your enemy, who dedicates every moment to tightening the noose around you, slowly killing you by way of medical neglect. But this is nothing more than a mask for its true name and intent: assassination.

To spend time in Ramla Prison Clinic, where you witness the pain and suffering of sick prisoners every single day—that is torment upon torment upon torment.

The torment of imprisonment.

The torment of watching the slow murders of sick prisoners.

And the torment of being powerless to save them.

This is what prisoner Rateb Abdul Latif Hribat endured. He dedicated himself to serving sick and injured detainees in the Occupation’s prison, sharing in their daily suffering, becoming their family, their doctor, their nurse, their caretaker. Today, my brother Rateb brings us, in this book, a glimpse—just a small fraction—of what he witnessed firsthand during his time caring for prisoners. His words carry the weight of endless and ongoing suffering that the Palestinian people have endured for years, in countless forms and places, all while the world—especially the so-called civilized world—remains shamefully silent, drowning us daily in its empty slogans about human rights.

First, I extend my deepest respect and appreciation to Rateb and all prisoners who have dedicated themselves to caring for their fellow detainees. The sacrifice and devotion of Rateb and others like him are priceless, and we pray that God rewards them abundantly.

I also send a message to all those who claim to stand for humanity: Act before it is too late. Expose the Occupation’s crimes before assassination becomes the fate of every freedom fighter in Palestine. Work to free Palestinian prisoners—the freedom fighters—from the Occupation’s prisons, which stand as symbols of oppression, aggression, and terrorism in our time.

■

Author’s Preface,

Rateb al–Hribat.

Like everyone else, when I used to hear the word “hospital,” it immediately brought to mind a place equipped with everything a real medical facility should have: doctors, hospital beds, specialized nurses, and the necessary medical equipment to treat patients. A place where a sick person received proper care.

But the moment I entered this so-called medical section, I was completely shocked. What I saw was nothing more than another prison ward, identical to all the others: the same cells, doors, and heavy iron locks that are bolted shut every night; the same prison guards patrolling the area, watching over the detainees with hostility.

It had the same barred windows. The walls were painted the same cold, gray-blue. Even the prison beds were identical. Everything was the same. It was controlled by the same ruthless jailers who practiced oppression, cruelty, and humiliation. This was the reality of the “hospital.”

And what about the doctor? I had assumed that the medical doctor treating the sick prisoners would at least look like a doctor—that he would wear a white coat, like any other doctor. But the truth was far more disturbing. The doctor’s uniform was not white. It was the uniform of a prison officer—a police uniform.

Even the person referred to as a “nurse” was dressed the same. The medical staff wore military uniforms, not medical ones. There were no white coats, no green scrubs.

I wondered:

Why do I not see white? Is it because it is a symbol of purity, innocence, tolerance, and acceptance? Or is it because pure-hearted people could never be soldiers and officers whose main concern is to kill, destroy, torture, and humiliate freedom fighters? Even in this so-called hospital, I do not see white. Perhaps this is connected to the morning light, which never shines brightly here.

Inside the prison, and inside the prison hospital, I am constantly overcome with sorrow, grief, pain, and suffering. There is no place for white here. There is no place for light in hearts consumed by darkness.

What is expected—as I later understood and as my experience made clear— is that you must always feel you are still in prison. The person in front of you is not a doctor, but a jailer carrying out the mission of the Prison Service against sick detainees.

You can see the military doctors—officers coming in and out of the section, wearing their military uniforms. Do not even dream of seeing them in white, in the attire of real doctors. That might give you some sense of comfort or temporary security—something that is completely unwanted here. You must remain constantly tense, constantly wary. Even the nurses wear the same military uniform that fuels anxiety and distrust.

These prison doctors carry out a military mission under the authority of the Prison Service. Many of them are directly affiliated with military intelligence within the Prison Service, and some are even assigned by Israeli intelligence agencies to perform specific tasks. This includes the Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, which operates directly under the Israeli prime minister.

For the sick prisoner, this situation creates a perpetual state of tension. The very person who is supposedly there to provide medical treatment is the same jailer who shackles his hands and feet with iron cuffs and chains, restricting his movement and crushing his dreams and spirit.

The one who administers medical care is the same person who locks the doors shut. Look closely: He is the same man who conducts the humiliating and intrusive nightly searches. He is the same one who takes part in the violent crackdowns carried out day and night by the Prison Service.

Sick Palestinian prisoners, including those with severe medical conditions and paralysis, are shackled whenever the doctors see fit. They are chained at the hands and feet with iron cuffs, just like the healthy prisoners, as if they were wild animals. They are then tied to their beds, unable to move. Imagine the physical, mental, and emotional state of a sick detainee, bound by the hands and feet, unable to turn left or right.

The very act of transporting a sick prisoner is a scene of cruelty. Prisoners are frequently moved when they are in their worst medical condition, and in a way that deliberately intensifies their pain and suffering. Even if the prisoner is paralyzed or unconscious, he is transported not in an ambulance but in an ordinary vehicle with metal seats—a vehicle completely unequipped for medical emergencies. During transport the prisoner is shackled at the hands and feet. Do not imagine otherwise. Accompanying him are armed guards, their weapons pointed directly at the sick detainee.

In this inhumane and exhausting transfer process, the prisoner’s pain only intensifies. Due to the vehicle’s speed and conditions of the road, a prisoner may even fall from his seat.

The stories you hear or read about can never compare with what you see with your own eyes. No matter how much detail is given, it all seems unbelievable—until you witness it firsthand.

Only then does the shocking reality unfold before you. What you see is beyond comprehension. It is a world of the unimaginable, where cruelty is the norm.

In this place that is called a hospital, pain is your constant companion. After overcoming your initial shock and disbelief, after grappling with the sheer absurdity of it all, all illusions you may have had about finding even a slight sense of relief or a temporary escape from prison fade away. You quickly realize that there is no difference between the main prison and the hospital.

Only then do you truly understand the value of freedom—an experience and a human right that has no equal, except possibly equality and justice. All of these are completely absent under occupation. Here, inside these dark, suffocating walls, beneath the whips of the jailers, there is no humanity—only oppression.

■

I wish to thank the translators who worked diligently to bring Rateb’s book into English. I list their names in the order in which they joined this project: Sadeel Sayyedahmad, Rawia Nasereldeen, Ghalya Ashraf, Ahmad Titi.

Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work. I rely entirely upon reader support. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this article. Thank you.

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I learned about Rateb al–Hribat from my Arabic interpreter, a young woman named Sadeel. This was November of last year and we, Sadeel and I, were traveling in the West Bank as I continued research for a series of essays called “Palestinian Voices.” Rateb had recently been released from prison after twenty-two years. His was a voice I wanted to hear.

Rateb and Sadeel are from the same West Bank town, Dura, and one of her uncles is a friend of Rateb’s family. Sadeel and I were scheduled to be in Dura—a community of 40,000 located 11 kilometers southwest of al–Khalil (aka, Hebron)—at the end of November. Sadeel’s uncle arranged for us to meet Rateb.

It was a memorable occasion. We spoke for more than an hour about his experience and the Israeli prison system as it was prior to 7 October 2023. It was during this interview that I learned about Rateb’s volunteer work in the infamous Ramla Prison Hospital. Rateb had been incarcerated there from January 2015 until June 2018, when he was transferred to Gilboa Prison. The transfer of prisoners is common, and Rateb was moved more than one hundred times during his years of incarceration. While at Ramla he wrote two books about the prison clinic and the medical abuse and neglect of Palestinian prisoners.

These were the first books I’d learned of written by a former prisoner documenting life inside the Israeli gulag. Because I wanted to read them, I offered to find someone to translate the first book into English. I could not then know the extent to which it documents what almost certainly qualify as crimes against humanity.

Rateb signed copies of both books and handed them to me.

Because of the importance of Rateb’s work—for its documentation of Israeli criminality and as a contribution to the corpus of Palestinian prison literature—I decided to make excerpts available to readers of Winter Wheat.

What follows is a three-part series on Rateb and the first of his books. In Part One I report on our initial meeting and conversation. In Parts Two and Three I publish—for the first time anywhere—extracts from the English translation of Rateb’s book, which he titled Why Can’t I See White? These will be published in succession over the following days.

—C.M.

22 OCTOBER—I met Rateb at his family’s home on a quiet street in a residential neighborhood of Dura. Sadeel was with me. We were greeted at the door by members of his family. These were men and women, some smiling and some not, each as curious about me as I was about them—all extremely polite. Throughout the interview, Rateb’s family displayed the same hospitality I have come to expect when traveling in Palestine. I was never to learn names or in what way each was related to Rateb—in part a consequence of the language barrier. But that was not the purpose of the visit. I had come to interview their son, brother, cousin, nephew—the 45–year-old man recently released from prison.

We removed our shoes in the entryway, setting them among a large pile of family footwear. From there we were escorted up a flight of stairs to a spacious guest room on the second floor.

Arab houses are distinguished by a division of public and private space. Most homes, with the exception of those belonging to nomadic people or the very poorest Palestinians, have a room specifically for guests. These are formally furnished with the best a family has to offer.

Sadeel and I were seated next to each other on an elegant ivory-colored sofa that wrapped along two walls. A young woman carried in a tray and set it before us on a low table. There was Arabic coffee served in delicate demitasse cups. Small glass bowls filled with seeds, nuts, dates, and other delicacies crowded the tray. As I found in other interviews, these remained largely untouched. Sadeel’s rapid translation and my hurried scribbling of notes left little opportunity to eat.

We waited some moments for Rateb. I took a sip of coffee and noticed three books lying on the couch near me. I picked one up. One of the men explained: These had been written by Rateb while he was in prison.

When Rateb finally entered the room I was immediately impressed by his composure and the obvious respect his family showed. Rateb’s presence filled the space. His face, solemn and handsome, betrayed no evidence of the years he’d spent in prison. He was dressed in a suit and carried himself with dignity. He was articulate and soft-spoken. These initial impressions remain vivid in my mind even as I write this.

He took some steps towards me and broke the silence with a formal Arabic greeting, “Welcome. Dura is your second home.”

I thanked him for meeting with me. “I will do anything that’s related to the Palestinian cause,” he said as he took a seat.

Rateb had been released from Negev Prison at the end of July, only four months earlier. He didn’t look like a man recently freed from the hell of the Israeli gulag. “Will it be difficult for you to speak of your experience in prison?” I asked.

“No.” he said. “Because what happened to me is part of the same continuum of violence that my people have experienced since the Nakba.”

What follows from here is Rateb’s story as he conveyed it to me in Arabic and as interpreted by Sadeel. I present his replies to my numerous questions as a seamless narrative. I’ve done so for brevity and continuity and to showcase Rateb’s voice. My few interpolations, in italics, are intended as clarifications.

Rateb al–Hribat.

We are talking about raw reality. This is not related to politics. I’m not different from any of my people and the sequence of violence that has been inflicted on my people. My experience and suffering aren’t unique.

This was a sentiment I heard from others, men and women, who spent time in Zionist prisons. The immense suffering prisoners endure is apparently made more bearable because it’s a shared experience. In this way a prisoner knows he or she is not alone. It must be noted: This was before events of 7 October 2023, before the systematic starvation of prisoners, and before the escalation and intensification of beatings, torture, and rape.

I was part of the Al–Aqsa Intifada. It began when Ariel Sharon raided the mosque in September of 2000. It moved Arabs and Palestinians to defend themselves and their rights. I was one who tried to do something to defend my country. This is the result of injustice our people have been living with. Although we have eyes for peace and normal lives, Israel didn’t allow our people to live normally.

The expression “we have eyes for peace” is one I heard frequently in my travels and conversations with people in urban and rural areas. It conveys a passionate desire for peace with the poetic nuance characteristic of Arabic.

Ariel Sharon, chairman of Likud from 1999 to 2005, became prime minister six months after the Al–Aqsa incident.

In the Israeli prisons system, prisoners endure a lot of violence through the whole process. We are beaten when we’re arrested, and again during the so-called investigation process, when we’re interrogated. There is mental and physical torture.

Mental torture includes blackmail. When they arrest someone they frequently threaten to demolish the homes of their families. Mental pressure is applied to friends who have also been arrested. They spread rumors that one of your friends was martyred or died in prison. There are other methods specific to different contexts. For example, during interrogations they will say things like, “There’s no future for you. We will destroy you.”

Elsewhere during my travels I learned, reliably, of one notorious instance of sexual blackmail used to turn someone into an informant. In consequence, he was killed by the resistance. Rateb would never have spoken of sexual blackmail to a woman, but it is not hard to imagine the truth of it. This type of blackmail, at which Israelis excel, would be highly effective in Palestine, where sexuality is confined to marriage between a man and woman and any deviation carries social and criminal penalties.

The other side is physical torture. Israelis beat prisoners with tools, they keep us sitting in small dark dungeons with no room to move and no light. They harass people, forcing them to stay awake so they lose sense of time. Even the physical abuse has a psychological effect. They put plastic bags on our heads; we’re handcuffed with our hands behind our backs and forced to sit in small chairs. They scream and swear at us. They use humiliation.

■

The real struggle for Palestinian prisoners is being parted from family for years. For many years the prison authority didn’t allow family members to visit. This was used as punishment. Another way to punish or break prisoners is constantly moving us from one prison to another.

The main reason they do this is to destroy any sense of stability for prisoners, because a prisoner searches for a sense of settling, so he can have a schedule and take advantage of time in meaningful ways. Constantly moving prisoners destroys any sense of stability and any community.

Rateb is referring here not only to communities prisoners form inside of prisons, but also to communities on the outside. Families lose contact with their loved ones when they’re moved from prison to prison, oftentimes not knowing where they are. Or if they’re even alive.

Prisoners are moved in metal boxes in prison vans. Our hands and legs are cuffed with our arms behind our backs. The seats are made of metal. Prisoners are not belted to the seats and are injured during transport. The space is small and prisoners fall on each other or on the floor. Because Palestine is a small area, the distance between facilities is [typically] about 45 minutes. But they keep the prisoners in transport vehicles for about five hours. They don’t let them use a toilet, and prisoners have to hold their urine. Men who suffer from diabetes urinate on themselves.

In May 2024 I spoke with a woman from Ramallah who spent a year in prison and was released just prior to 7 October 2023. She reported a similar experience when being transported. The prison transport personnel deliberately drive for hours on rough, winding roads. They take corners and turns at high speeds. All of this is intended as a form of torture. During summer months the vehicles get dangerously hot so that it becomes difficult to breathe. There were times, she told me, when she thought she would die.

■

I was charged with being a member of Shoada Al–Aqsa, the military branch of Fatah. This was the charge. Israelis play games. They’ve been working on the Zionist project many decades. They do whatever it takes to destroy Palestinian community. The main accusation against me was resisting occupation. Trials are only for media show for Israelis. There is no justice in Israel’s law.

Being Palestinian gave me the strength to endure twenty-two years in prison. This is a benefit only Palestinians have. We can live in any circumstances and cope. Palestinian prisoners live inside the prison, but the prison doesn’t live inside of them.

Palestinian prisoners can endure their circumstances because we don’t have a home besides Palestine and because of our belief in our right to live and to live a decent life. We always look to the future and freedom for our country. Just like any other people, we don’t like violence. We don’t like killing. The occupier forces it on us.

For the family of a prisoner, their struggle is double that of the prisoner. I say this because a prisoner suffers from separation from his family. But this is a personal struggle. It’s an individual struggle. He alone suffers.

For the family and community and friends the loss of a loved one is great. Their suffering is greater. On every happy occasion, like a birthday or wedding, the happiness isn’t complete or whole. Also, to go see their loved one in prison they must endure the hardships of traveling. Families endure constant worry. For example, when families hear bad news coming from inside the prisons and the condition of the prisoner (their loved one) isn’t known. This causes fear and worry. The prisoner knows his own condition and circumstances but the family doesn’t.

Most prisons are in “the ’48 lands” [the Palestinian term for the land stolen during the Nakba]. The families struggle to see their loved ones. They endure checkpoints and road closures, and are often prevented from traveling for “security reasons.” The prison authorities frequently take away the right to visit, and visits are limited to forty-five minutes once a month. They take place behind thick glass. Conversation is by phone. Visits are restricted to parents and siblings, spouses and children. Visits require permission. Visitors are forced through slow and elaborate security checks. Their belongings are searched. Prisoners have to endure a body search.

I went ten years without seeing my family. My mother passed away before she could see me. My father saw me once before he passed away. My sister saw me several times and then she also passed away. This is one of the sad experiences prisoners encounter, when they lose a family member.

■

Prison is like a community—a kind of village. Prisoners form friendships and support groups. Some of the strongest relationships are formed in prison. Prisoners have strong social connections and become like family inside. Of course, there is a common religious connection and practice. Through long years of protest, including hunger strikes, prisoners won some religious rights. The price was high. A lot of prisoners were martyred.

Looking back, after the protests and hunger strikes we were able to create a system to organize our lives. [There have been many strikes through the years; several large hunger strikes occurred in the 1990s.] We won the basic means for comfort: stability, a book—books were allowed inside—prisoners had eating schedules, sports, exercise. We were able to walk and read. We were able to meet with other prisoners inside our prison units. We created this improved situation with the prison administration after a long fight. Our lives weren’t so chaotic. If there was a problem we could meet and talk about it.

After 7 October, circumstances changed one thousand percent: decent food and eating schedules, contact with the prison administration—all these accomplishments and rights were taken away. Now prisoners have only a bare minimum to live—a bare minimum of food, clothes, water. The worst abuses are to their humanity and dignity. Prisoners are beaten with tools, prevented from meeting with each other and organizing, cells are overcrowded, the caloric intake has been reduced to starvation level. Sickness spreads in prisons. There are a lot of skin diseases. This is intentional.

7 October showed us the true face of the occupation. We discovered they have no decency.

■

I carried Rateb’s books with me when we left, determined to get the first one into English as quickly as possible. Over the next week I put together a team of three translators—young Palestinian women, all of them friends—and secured a modest sum of money to pay them. The initial work was finished in early February. A fourth person, also a friend and with whom I worked closely, compiled and edited the preliminary translation.

I spent three weeks editing the final English version. What I read as I edited was utterly shocking. Rateb’s book is a close personal account of horrific suffering and intentional medical abuse. The singular importance of Rateb’s work is why I decided to publish excerpts from his book.

These will follow shortly in Parts Two and Three of this series.

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6 OCTOBER—In the days following the destruction of the Bedouin community of Deir Alla—previously reported here—I wondered and worried about the displaced families. Seventeen in all. Where were they living? How, especially, were the children coping in the aftermath of a hurried evacuation after months of settler attacks?

I reached out to my friend Adnan Al–Abayyat to ask. Adnan’s texts and visual documentation were the basis of my report on the ethnic cleansing of Deir Alla. His parents and other family members lived there.

All of the families—along with their goats and sheep—had relocated to the nearby village of Kisan where they were taken in by relatives. Multiple generations and family members—brothers and their wives, children, cousins, grandparents—were living in homes meant for many fewer inhabitants. People and animals whose days and lives had been defined in part by wandering and grazing upon the land had been forced into village life, shoehorned into cramped and unsuitable living conditions. Adnan’s house in Kisan was packed to overflowing with family from Deir Alla.

People were worried, fearful, and grieving.

And the children? I texted with Adnan’s wife, who works at the Kisan school library, to ask how they were doing. I also asked if the children had done any drawings that depicted their recent experience. This was her reply:

The children in Deir Alla and Kisan have been deeply affected by the ongoing settler violence and displacement. Many of them express feelings of fear, confusion, and sadness, especially when witnessing attacks or seeing their families under threat. In some cases, the disruption of daily life—such as the inability to play safely or move freely between villages—has caused them emotional and psychological stress.

We have some drawings made by children that reflect their experiences—some have drawn demolished homes, military vehicles, or crying figures, while others expressed hope by drawing olive trees and doves. I’d be happy to share a selection of these with you.

Sabah sent the following three pictures. These, also, are important “Palestinian voices.” They tell a Palestinian story, conveyed through the drawings of children, about a way of life that’s being destroyed. They convey fear, sadness, loss, violence, and also happiness and hope. The power of these drawings is retained and conveyed despite, as I must note, the poor lighting in some of the photographs.

In the drawing above, a yellow backhoe is in the process of demolishing a home. This is the machinery typically used to destroy houses in the West Bank. They show up frequently in children’s drawings. Settlers are carrying assault weapons and killing animals. On the left, more settlers hold Molotov cocktails. These were thrown into a home one night as the family slept. This terrifying incident is depicted with flames of yellow and red.

This drawing also features a yellow backhoe and demolished home. Blood flows from animals killed by settlers. The Arabic says, “The houses were burned and people were sad. They cried because they were powerless.”

A happier scene is depicted in the drawing above. The animals, which appear to be sheep, are alive and healthy, and one animal in the lower left corner has a smile. The Arabic says, “They used to live in peace and they were happy.”

After seeing these I texted Sabah and proposed to publish the drawings, if I could get more of them. They seemed a powerful way to share the experiences and voices of Palestinian children. Sabah liked the idea. She soon organized an afternoon of drawing at the school’s library. This brought the children of Deir Alla together.

Afterward she sent the following photos along with a short text,

The children are doing better. Drawing really helps them express their feelings and share what’s on their minds. It gives them a safe space to talk and connect.

What follows are nine additional drawings and two photographs of the children at work. While they clearly function as graphic stories, they can also be approached and appreciated as any work of art might be—aesthetically, intuitively, emotionally. Indeed, it may be on that level that they are most profound. Some of the drawings depict happy memories while others focus on the destruction of the community.

In presenting this work I offer minimal commentary and only for clarification.

A taboon, a traditional outdoor oven, is depicted in the drawing below. It can be seen in the upper right quadrant—a dark circular form enclosed on three sides. Below it a dog is tethered to a leash. The community taboon appears in several of the drawings.

The houses and animal sheds of Deir Alla were made of concrete block with lightweight metal roofing. Tires were placed on the roofs to hold them down in high winds. These tires, represented by circles, can be seen in the drawing above and in others as well.

In this final drawing, a large backhoe is in the process of demolishing a home from which the Palestinian flag flies. An Arab family is gathered below the home. On the right side of the drawing, above an Israeli flag, an olive tree has been cut down and a sheep has been killed.

These drawings are expressions of emotional and psychological scarring. Even the happier pictures can be read as a longing for a lost or imagined world—a world of safety and peace that these children have never known. These works should stand in the future as valued historical records, depictions of West Bank reality under brutal military occupation and ongoing ethnic cleansing.

And also, as expressions of resistance and evidence of the resilience of children and of the human spirit.

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29 SEPTEMBER—The 80th session of the United Nations General Assembly turned out to be as momentous as many had anticipated. On Sunday 21 September Australia, Canada, Portugal, and the United Kingdom recognized Palestinian statehood. The following day, six more countries including France and Belgium, joined with the vast majority of the world’s nations to affirm a Palestinian right to national sovereignty.

It’s difficult for me to read this as anything other than the desperate appeasement of increasingly angry and vocal citizens in countries across the West—and may increasing numbers of enraged citizens fill the streets. Almost certainly this spate of recognitions is prompted in part by the cynical self-preservation of ruling elites who may begin to understand what it means to be complicit in genocide.

Opinions abound. A variety of commentators have commentated. But what we rarely hear when matters of significance involve Palestine and the future of Palestinians is what Palestinians themselves think and want. This is of course by design.

With this in mind, I texted various of my West Bank friends and contacts to learn what each had to say. I asked each person the same two questions: “What do you think about the recent recognitions of Palestinian statehood at the United Nations this week? What are people saying?”

Several of the replies are exceedingly brief. In my read, this expresses an understandable skepticism and fatigue given the global failure to stop the genocide in Gaza and numerous historical betrayals over many years, not least by the U.N. itself. Other replies are contextualized within the brutal realities of life under military occupation and settler colonialism.

My respondents range in age from twenty-four to ninety-one. They live in large cities and small towns, refugee camps and remote villages. They are students, professionals, elected officials, community activists, and goatherds. These are voices from the West Bank of Occupied Palestine where the Zionist state has escalated, in brutality and scope, its project of ethnic cleansing.

What follows are the voices of the Palestinians I texted last week—voices and opinions almost never reported upon in the West. These are the voices we most need to hear. As a necessary precaution, I use first names only, several of them pseudonyms.

—C. M.

■

Samia.

Recognition of Palestinian statehood is great but will be futile if the genocide on Gaza and occupation do not come to an end.

■

Ahmad.

As long as nothing is changing on the ground, no one is gonna have any reaction to that. People need practical measures. Not only talks and recognition.

Overall they’re happy about it. But they want policies and actual change. There is a renewed sense of hope. Palestinians feel the possibility that something significant could happen and life might get better for them.

There’s a reason for hope because, after Spain recognized Palestine, Palestinian had the chance to get Schengen visas to visit Europe for 90 days. It was an opportunity for some people to travel and have a bit of fun if possible. [Schengen visas allow entry into the 29 European countries that form the Schengen Area.]

Another reason for hope is the support of those governments who recognize Palestine—the financial and political support. Things could become a bit better in the upcoming months because of the financial support of the recognizing governments. They promised the Palestinian Authority a package of financial aid.

[Money owed to the P.A.—some 10 billion shekels in tax revenue, equivalent to US$3 billion—is being illegally withheld by Israel as collective punishment for 7 October and as a way to destroy Palestinian civil society. The consequence to government institutions that provide education, health care, utilities, and other basic services has been devastating. Government employees have gone for months without pay. All of which has crippled an already fragile economy.]

■

Rania.

These recognitions aren’t a big deal. Cutting military aid would be much better.

■

Marwa.

In general it’s good that we’re making progress in diplomacy. But they added three new checkpoints after the recognitions. The situation here is bad and unfortunately it’s getting worse. So technically nothing has changed on the ground.

Recognition wasn’t the main problem. It’s the ongoing genocide. The recent recognitions didn’t solve the problem.

I saw a social media post from a guy in Hebron, he was saying “please no one recognize us. Every time a country does that, those Zionist idiots add new checkpoints as a form of collective punishment.”

In general Palestinians get punished whenever we breathe.

Of course I’m not against recognizing but I feel like the way Westerners think is extremely stupid. It’s like seeing someone shot lying on the ground and instead of treating him and saving his life, you open up a debate about what you’re seeing: “What’s that on the ground? Is the blood real?”

And after decades you recognize that the body lying on the ground and bleeding is real.

I want to say that recognition of Palestinian statehood is better than nothing. But on the ground nothing changes after these recognitions.

Also the Palestine that they recognized is not the Palestine that we Palestinians are dying for. It’s only the West Bank, Gaza, and East Jerusalem. The 48 Lands aren’t part of the country that they recognize.

It’s bullshit.

I think these countries have to take real actions. Stop funding Israel and arrest the soldiers who killed the kids in Gaza while they’re on vacation in Europe.

[“The ’48 Lands” refers to the territory that was stolen and ethnically cleansed by European Zionist terrorists during the Nakba. This land was subsequently recognized by the international community as the state of Israel.]

■

Alia.

I generally think it’s not what we should be celebrating or talking about. It came decades late. The thing is they don’t even recognize Palestine as a whole, they only recognize what is left for us. Which means that their recognition is conditional. They don’t recognize the 27,027 square kilometers that was historic Palestine.

It’s not about if they recognize us or not. It’s about if there is even something left to recognize. It’s just a matter of technical terms other than that nothing really changes. To a homeless orphaned boy in Gaza this recognition means nothing! I would fully support it if it stopped the current madness that my people are suffering from a few kilometers away in Gaza.

If you think about it, this wave of recognitions is working as a distraction. The social media is flooded with the news of the recognitions, but it seems like it did muted the most important thing, which is the situation in Gaza—the news that should be spreading wildly instead of this.

Even many of my people are celebrating on their social media accounts and not talking about the current situation and struggles in Gaza and the West Bank. They actually fell for it. They fell for the distraction.

Israel closed the border—the Allenby Bridge—as a form of collective punishment after the recognitions were announced. And they immediately constructed additional checkpoints.

[The Allenby Bridge is the principal land crossing between the West Bank and Jordan.]

■

Adnan.

The people of Kisan are in a state of increasing fear and imminent danger, after settlers began advancing towards the village from the north-eastern side with sheep and armed men. They’ve reached an area not far from the houses, about 200 meters away. Fear and anxiety also increased after the settlers attacked Kisan a few weeks ago.

As for the United Nations and the recent recognition of the State of Palestine by various countries, the consequence for us is further punishment, an increase in violence and terrorism by the settlers and the I.O.F. against our people. Residents are now forced to cross more than 6 metal gates separating Kisan from Bethlehem. All of the villages are cut off from each other. In a minute, the army can separate the residents of villages, towns, neighborhoods, and districts from each other. All of this is a punitive measure against the Palestinians for the world’s recognition of our right to have a state.

[Kisan is a village of 400 people—over half of whom are children—located 15 kilometers south and east of Bethlehem. It’s completely surrounded by settlements and outposts and subject to routine attack by Jewish land thieves.]

■

Raya.

Palestinians in general see the recognition of the Palestinian state by countries such as Britain and Canada as a good and important step, but not sufficient. There is a strong feeling that this recognition came far too late, after decades of denial and unconditional support for Israel, especially in light of the massacres and genocide that the Palestinian people are facing in Gaza.

Palestinians emphasize that this recognition is not a “gift” or a “reward” from these countries, but rather an inherent right of the Palestinian people to establish their sovereign state, with Jerusalem as its capital, and with all rights, including the right to self-determination.

At the same time, there is a deep awareness that Britain and Canada still play a role biased toward Israel, through military and political support, covering up the crimes of the occupation, and failing to translate recognition into practical actions such as stopping the genocide or holding the leaders of the occupation accountable. Therefore, Palestinians believe that this recognition is more of an attempt by these governments to absolve themselves in front of their own societies, to show that they are not partners in the genocide. Popular pressure in the West is what forced them to take such a step.

Additionally, Palestinians remind the world that these same countries are part of the colonial and imperialist system that has historically and continuously contributed to the oppression of peoples. For this reason, any step they take must be understood in this context, not as a truly principled stance.

In conclusion, recognition is considered a good and unexpected step, but it will have no real value unless it is followed by serious and practical measures: ending support for the occupation, holding its leaders accountable, and ensuring the Palestinians’ right to a free and sovereign state.

As long as the occupation, the armed settlers, and the armed soldiers remain on our land, then speaking about a Palestinian state without sovereignty or defense is meaningless. What does it mean to declare a state under occupation and stripped of arms? It simply means a state stripped of sovereignty, where settlers and soldiers can continue to shed Palestinian blood without accountability.

As long as the occupation exists in its military or settlement form, no one can prevent Palestinians from resisting it. Resistance is a legitimate right of the Palestinian people, and they will continue to defend themselves against occupation and colonization.

Therefore, in the presence of occupation, settlements, and armed settlers, real and sovereign statehood is impossible. Any talk of a Palestinian state under these conditions is nothing but an attempt to reproduce colonial control in a new form.

[Raya was standing on her land, surrounded by lemon and olive trees when she received and replied to my text. She sent me a short video (see below) as we exchanged messages. Access to the land is blocked by two barricades and she has to hike over the mountains to reach it. Olive harvest begins in two weeks. I wonder how she will manage to haul heavy bags of olives over the mountains.]

Published simultaneously on The Floutist.

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4 SEPTEMBER—I recently delivered a talk at the annual Mut zur Ethik conference in Sirnach, Switzerland. Held each summer at the end of August and now in its thirty-third year, Mut zur Ethik, which translates as “courage for ethics,” brings together independent journalists, historians, diplomats, activists, scholars, and thinkers to discuss ethical responses to current affairs.

“Reason and Humanity” was the broad topic of this year’s conference. I considered this theme using the ethnic cleansing of the West Bank to illustrate the fundamental irrationality embedded in the Western project—the apotheosis of which is displayed in the sadism and barbarity of the Zionist state.

What follows is a slightly modified version of the original PowerPoint presentation. My full report on the ethnic cleansing of the Bedouin community of Deir Alla is here.

—C. M.

I begin this presentation by showing you pictures of the community of Deir Alla. This was a small Bedouin gathering of seventeen families in the Governorate of Bethlehem. These families are the direct descendants of people who have lived as goatherds and shepherds in the same area for generations. One month ago, in the last week of July, Deir Alla was ethnically cleansed and completely destroyed.

What you are about to see are stark images of humanity and inhumanity, rationality and irrationality. I want you to consider these images in the context of our conference on reason and humanity. This is what the clash between reason and unreason looks like in the West Bank of Occupied Palestine.

Palestine—Gaza and the West Bank—is where the West comes face-to-face with who we are and what we’ve become, as Westerners and Western nations. And what we see, we Westerners, when we look at ourselves, is the fundamental irrationality embedded in the Western project since the beginning of colonialism.

■

The Bedouins of Deir Alla are closely associated with the nearby village of Kisan, located 15 km southeast of Bethlehem. Kisan is now completely surrounded by settlements and outposts.

The settlement of Ma’al Amos is a couple of km south of Kisan and is visible from the village. The Bedouin gathering of Deir Alla was roughly 3 km south and east of Ma’al Amos. It was from Ma’al Amos that settlers staged their attacks on Deir Alla.

Throughout this talk I use the terms settlement and settler but these are inadequate to convey the violence and criminality of Jewish settlers and the settlement project. This is a project of ethnic cleansing. Settlers are actively engaged in terrorizing, brutalizing, and displacing Palestinian communities in a process Jewish Zionists refer to as “renewing the land.”

■

In November of last year, I met a community activist in the village of Kisan, a man named Adnan al–Abayat. Adnan has been documenting settler violence for the past several years and at great personal risk. His family was from Deir Alla and much of this talk is based on his reporting.

The picture above shows Deir Alla as it was before it was destroyed. Adnan sent the following text along with the photograph:

I remember when I was young in Deir Alla. I was 5 years old, and my father used to tell me about their life in this place. They used to live in caves and in the summer they would build tents from plastic and sheep hair. Then life developed and our houses became mobile homes, and then concrete block homes with metal roofs. But unfortunately we did not get to have our dream to have homes like other people. It was a joy during the past 5 years. Then it became an illusion and was lost within days.

Next to us was the cemetery of the dead in Deir Alla, where our great-grandfathers were buried from the Turkish period, and where my uncles and my grandmother were buried, and all who died from the village of Kisan. Now, too, the settlers have taken it over, and we have no other cemetery.

The photo above shows Adnan’s father with his herd of sheep and goats.

The man in the upper right is Adnan. The other pictures are of two of his children. After Deir Alla was destroyed Adnan texted me saying: “Our life was somewhat beautiful despite the Occupation. We made happiness out of nothing.”

■

The upper right photo shows an illegal outpost near Kisan that was established in May. The young men pictured here parked their cars on a hilltop, set up a tarp, and began a campaign to terrorize local families and steal the surrounding land. This is typical of how an outposts begins. This gang almost certainly belongs to the Hilltop Youth, a violent settler group, whose members are often still in their teens.

In the lower right photo, the group is sitting on a hill above and near a Palestinian home. They’re spying on the family and letting their presence be known. In the photo on the left, they’re sitting in the remains of an old car that was left in a yard next to a house. This behavior marks the beginning of an escalation. These gangs typically break into homes, steal and destroy things, and threaten to kill the families. The harassment and violence increase until families are forced to leave.

■

This settler (see above) routinely harassed the families of Deir Alla by driving his animals into their yards. On the right he’s ducking behind a rock from where he spies on the family. The family knows he’s there. The settler wants the family to know he’s there. This is a cat and mouse game, a form of psychological harassment and bullying.

■

I’m going to show you a video of a settler attack on Deir Alla that took place on 24 May. At the beginning, settlers can be seen throwing rocks at a building where animals are kept. And indeed, numerous animals were killed during the attack.

The camera then moves to the right and focuses briefly on the valley below. Israeli soldiers stand near an armored vehicle protecting settlers as they attack the Bedouin homes. The soldiers fired live ammunition into the community as the attack began in order to force families inside their homes and prevent them from defending themselves.

In rural areas, settlers form part of the front line in a war on West Bank Palestinians. The Israeli army operates through them. It arms the settlers and provides military cover.

The following video shows the same attack from another vantage point.

Attacks on Deir Alla continued to escalate through early summer. In mid-July, settlers threw molotov cocktails into one of the homes in the middle of the night while the family slept. Children were present. By this time, settlers were threatening to kill the families if they continued to stay. Finally, the decision was made to leave.

The community was evacuated over two days in the final week of July. Everything was removed from the homes and the doors were locked in the hope that one day the families would be able to return.

■

On 26 July the last families left Deir Alla. That night, in an event that was reported by Haaretz, settlers burned four of the houses including the home belonging to Adnan’s parents. The next day settlers brought in a backhoe and destroyed all but one of the remaining houses.

I will now read several of Adnan’s texts from that day:

Like all Bedouin communities, the families of Deir Alla were displaced after continuous attacks by settlers who tightened the noose on the people.

Memories of the past and the toil of years all wasted. Homes were destroyed and razed to the ground. We dug a well, land was planted with olives, figs, and other trees. We built sheep pens and purchased equipment. The value from years of toil exceeded 100,000 shekels. All of that is gone, as if it were a dream that passed in a few moments.

The people of Deir Alla left after a long period of harsh suffering, were forced to leave for a dark destination with no less suffering ahead than what they recently went through. They left behind memories swallowed in a land they never thought they would leave in this painful and hurtful way. We can only say, ‘God is sufficient for us, and He is the best Disposer of affairs.’

In a separate text he wrote:

“An hour ago, I was with my mother. I saw her tears running down her cheeks, and she was asking me about the smallest things there, at her home. Are they still the same? Is there hope that we will go back?”

And in a final text he said,

“The settlers are keen on destruction and devastation so that there is no hope of return. But loss of home is not what hurts our hearts. It is also the land that we have loved and still love since childhood.”

■

One house that was still under construction, and that had not been lived in, was stolen by the same settler who had harassed the families for months with his herd of animals.

This is what the irrationality of the Zionist project looks like. This man (see photo above) is celebrating and thanking God for his success in destroying the lives of other people. This picture alone is why I’m talking to you in the context of this theme. There is no discussing Zionism or Israel as if it is a rational defensible project.

■

Now I want you to think about children and what happens to children in this kind of environment.

One week after the evacuation of Deir Alla I had a text exchange with Adnan’s wife, a woman named Sabah. I wanted to know how the children were doing. She sent me pictures of three drawings, one of which I share here with you.

This drawing (see photo above) shows a large yellow backhoe and a demolished house. Numerous dead animals are also depicted. The Arabic says, “The houses were burned and people were sad. They cried because they were powerless.”

The following week, Sabah gathered the children of Deir Alla at the small library in Kisan, were they spent several hours drawing together. She texted me afterward to report that the children were doing better.

In the photo above, a large backhoe is in the process of demolishing a home from which the Palestinian flag flies. An Arab family is gathered below the home. On the right side of the drawing, above an Israeli flag, an olive tree has been cut down and a sheep has been killed.

Israelis use backhoes to demolish Palestinian homes. For that reason they appear frequently in drawings done by children. Imagine the fear children experience when they see these monstrous machines.

■

Now I want us to consider how the irrationality of Zionism is instilled in and expressed by Jewish children.

The following video shows three settlers harassing a Palestinian family and forcing them to leave their home. The man is dressed in military uniform and carries a military-issue weapon, he is accompanied by two teenaged boys. International volunteers are with the family to provide a protective presence.

The armed settler tells one of the international activists the family must leave their home or he, the settler, is going to [he makes a violent gesture]. The activists says, “Explain why, this is their house.” The settler replies, “Because of the violence.”

Another activist says, “Who is doing the violence towards a woman? Towards women? Why are you doing this? Why are you supporting this? How can you support this? Do you think this is normal?”

The settler replies, “Yes.”

The activist says, “It’s completely disgusting. It’s abnormal, this behavior. Are you serious?” At that point the youngest Jewish boy puts a camera into her face.

■

The following three images are screenshots from a video of another incident in which settlers harassed the same family. The boy with the side curls holds a stick. He’s the same boy who was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood in the previous video. I’m showing you these pictures because settlers use their boys as attack dogs. The armed man stands back and tells the boy what to do.

This is called rage-baiting. The settlers are trying to provoke a reaction so they can call the I.O.F. and escalate the violence. Here the Jewish boy is focusing his aggression on the smaller Palestinian boy.

This is sociopathic behavior. This boy’s mind has been damaged if not destroyed. He’s been force-marched into a state of complete irrationality. He’s been taught to hate Palestinians and to take pleasure in tormenting and bullying them. In a few years he’ll go into the army. As a civilian he’ll carry an assault rifle.

How will he raise his children? How will peace be possible when each generation of Israeli Jews has been taught to fear and hate Palestinians and to see them as animals?

The pictures of Deir Alla show a people living a simple life, but also a meaningful and dignified life. This is a life connected to the land, culture, and traditions of Palestine. It is also a fundamentally rational life. Rational because it’s a way of living that relates to reality as it presents itself from day to day and over the course of generations. Rational also because it relies upon and expresses an inherited body of wisdom and knowledge.

By contrast, the videos and pictures of Jewish settlers show a people living and behaving in ways that are profoundly irrational and inhumane—to the point of criminality and madness.

This is the irrationality and madness of minds possessed by religious and ideological fanaticism: Messianic Judaism and Zionism, racism and Jewish-supremacism.

The settler project in the West Bank—and indeed the very creation of Israel—is irrational because it rejects established facts, history, and moment to moment reality. Instead, it uses brute force and violence to impose an imagined reality on the land and people of Palestine—a fantasy of European Jewish indigeneity in Palestine, a fantasy of a Jewish right to the land of Palestine, a fantasy of a right to a Jewish state. Indeed, a fantasy of a “greater Israel” that includes most of the Levant.

Israel’s conduct in Gaza and the West Bank embodies the quest for supremacy that infuses the Western project and in which “reason and humanity fall by the wayside,” to quote from this year’s Mut zur Ethik invitation. The very worst traits of the Western world, as led by the United States, are distilled and concentrated in the Zionist state and enacted on the bodies and lives of Palestinians. But also quite clearly on the hearts and minds of Israeli Jews.

There is a path to peace but the world will not walk it until there’s a fundamental change in the West. In Palestine, the full force of Western militarism and imperialism has been deployed against a people who are stateless, who have no military, and no means to defend themselves. And for this very reason, it is in Palestine that the West will redeem itself or, failing, as it now does, condemn itself, its history, and its future.

Published simultaneously at West Bank Alerts.

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24 JULY—Three days ago I received a letter from my friend Samia Khoury. It had been written by a man in Gaza who signed it H. S., and Samia sent it on to me. This is the second such letter, to arrive recently in my inbox—addressed to another and forwarded to me. The first was published in Winter Wheat and The Floutist under the title “‘What is this madness.’”

Samia lives in Occupied Jerusalem where I met her for the first time in April 2024 while conducting research for the project Palestinian Voices. We have become friends across a great distance communicating most often in brief text exchanges. At ninety-one years of age, Samia’s life has been bracketed by two Zionist atrocities committed against her people. She was fourteen and living in the village of Birzeit when the Nakba began. She remembers watching from the shade of an olive tree as a long line of exhausted people approached her village on a hot day in July 1948. When I began writing the essays in Palestinian Voices hers was the first story and voice I published: “In the shade of an olive tree.”

The column of survivors Samia saw all those years ago were among the survivors of a Haganah massacre of some four hundred and twenty-five people—residents of Lydda and Ramleh. An estimated seventy thousand to eighty thousand people were forcibly expelled from both communities from 11 to 13 July in what is known as the Lydda Death March.

I now publish, with Samia’s permission, a slightly abridged version of her email to me, followed by the letter, published in full, she received from Gaza and signed H. S. Samia’s mention of donkeys refers to a perverse campaign recently launched to “save the donkeys” in Gaza, as if this is a credible expression of Jewish Israelis’ humanity.

May the voices of these two Palestinians reverberate until justice is realized and Palestine is whole and free.

Samia.

When the word Humanitarian is used to describe one of the genocidal traps for the people in Gaza, then Webster’s dictionary needs to be updated. Even the donkeys that are the only remaining means of transportation in Gaza are now being stolen by Israel. What else can they think of?

I suppose it is a blessing to be blind and deaf these days and be spared the agonizing scenes from Gaza. How can the world watch children starve to death while the plates of Arab/Israeli/American/European leaders are filled with food as they discuss Gaza?

Until when will the international community stay silent with no action, while children starve to death?

■

H. S.

I am at a loss—by God—I am stumbling in disbelief like one struck, stunned by shock. How can a world so vast, a world that folds the earth in the blink of an eye, splits the atom, and pierces the heavens, fail to save a starving soul? How does it orchestrate this sinister balance, keeping an entire people teetering on the edge—neither letting them fall nor offering a hand to pull them up even half a step? A people left to choose their preferred death: torn apart by shells, drained dry by hunger, or consumed by disease without cure?

Here, in this surreal city, people sit at the mercy of metal frames awaiting coordinates to seal their fate. They eat salt—if they find any—without bread, chew pain instead of thyme and oil, and walk in slow, weary steps—not in play, but in exhaustion; not in joy, but in sorrow. They wander like the lost on a road with no sign, like the trapped in a tunnel with no glimmer of light.

Hungry—yes, but their hunger is not just in their bellies. It is in their souls, stripped bare, and their hearts, stabbed deep.

They perish before the bombs reach them, devoured by hunger that arrived first. They die not because Death has finally called, but because the world has gone deaf to their cries. They are crushed between the hammer of missiles and the anvil of empty pots, each bearing a burden no mountain could shoulder: a child begging for milk, a mother dreaming of a handful of beans, a grandfather gnawing on what stones might sprout, and a father, unraveling at the thought of what meal might shield his children. Will the world explode before he finishes the lentil stew? Or after, when his family wrinkles their noses—as usual?

And now hunger laughs. It mocks. It wasn’t enough that we ate crumbs—it introduced us to “alternatives:” fake meat, faux milk, pretend oil, counterfeit salt. Even water comes with a substitute. So do power, batteries, sunlight, money, and electronic payment. Until we searched for an alternative to the human being. Someone capable of enduring all this madness!

We now cook “substitute meals” trying to convince ourselves that “Flavor lies in faith,” and “Patience tastes sweet.” But truly? Can a human truly remain human amidst all these substitutes?! I dare say it would take a wholly new being—one beyond humanity—to endure.

Yet more terrifying than empty stomachs are the hollowed-out values. When hunger strikes, ethics collapse, and humanity crumbles from within.

I’ve seen it: an angel yesterday, a devil today—clawing at his brother’s flesh over a handful of flour. I've heard stories that make the heart bleed: of a man who stabbed his cousin for an aid parcel of food. I’ve witnessed it with aching eyes, how hunger can erase faith, fold morals, and reshape man—not from clay—but from a pitch-black, foul-smelling substance.

So I ask myself—what madness is this? Is it mere famine, or a test of the world’s humanity?

How is death prepared in the kitchens of global conscience? How is hope trapped inside a tiny piece of land with the size of a sardine tin?

I confess… crafting these words feels like pulling threads from a frayed soul. Not for lack of language, nor betrayal by the alphabet—but because hunger stole my focus, and perhaps, my will to care.

No room remains in the heart for wonder, no tears in the eyes for grief, no cunning in the mind for comprehension.

How do we explain to the world what's happening, when after twenty-one moons it still cannot see?

What manner of image demands such endless gazing to perceive?

Is it some encrypted Van Gogh? A Beethoven symphony only understood when lived? Or perhaps Nietzsche's philosophy needing centuries to decipher?

A world that climbs to the moon every hour, traverses galaxies, bends time itself... yet fails to provide milk substitutes—oh, the irony of substitutions!

Fails to feed a child—guiltless, helpless, nationless—whose only refuge is a mother's hollow bosom.

In Gaza, hunger is no mere instinct—it's a war machine... an ordeal of the soul, a moral reckoning: Is starvation kinder than shelling? Is death by hunger gentler than death by shrapnel?

I'd nearly swear our Prince of Poets, Ahmed Shawqi, composed his verses for us alone when he lamented:

From the war of al-Basus to this cruel inflation—  
It returns like seven harsh trials…  
Is there no Joseph among the people to face this?  
To calculate wisely and see the path rightly?  
Your servants, Lord, have starved in Egypt—  
Was it the Nile You gave them, or merely a mirage?

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17 JULY—“I can see things are getting worse.” These are words sent yesterday via WhatsApp by my contact in Kisan, a village of some 700 people located 11 kilometers southeast of the city of Bethlehem. I see the truth of this in the texts I receive daily from friends and correspondents throughout the West Bank. The situation is grim and grows grimmer with each passing day as the genocidal “Jewish state” escalates its ethnic-cleansing project throughout the entirety of Occupied Palestine.

What I report below marks an intensification of what is by now an established pattern of land theft, harassment, and numerous acts of terrorism carried out by Zionist Jews—Israeli Occupation Forces and the settlers they protect.

All of this while the starvation siege and bombing of Gaza continues.

West Bank Alerts is dedicated to providing reportage as close to the ground as possible. This is our contribution to the Palestinian cause. We are among the very few publication able to bring reports of this kind to western readers: first-person accounts from West Bank Palestinians living in refugee camps and rural areas—the people directly impacted, those who take great risks documenting Zionist crimes. Our intent is to humanize the dehumanized while exposing readers to the ever-escalating crimes of the dehumanizers.

What follows are recent updates sent as texts by Adnan al–Abayat, a resident of Kisan who documents settler and I.O.F. violence in his community. Abayat monitors the surrounding agriculture and grazing land, which has belonged to the families of Kisan for centuries, driving to remote locations when an attack is under way. Over many years, Abayat has created a large digital archive of photographic and video evidence of crimes committed by settlers and soldiers alike. His first report for West Bank Alerts was published 16 April under the title “Poisoning the ‘Holy Land.’”

Most of the incidents reported below occurred in or near a small Bedouin community—a “gathering,” to use Adnan’s word—known as Deir Alla. This tiny rural community is composed of several herding families, each with a permanent home along with pens and sheds for their animals. Deir Alla is part of the larger Kisan community and is located on land historically belonging to Kisan. Mothers, fathers, children, and grandparents call Deir Alla home.

All of what follows was reported and dispatched by Abayat. With each entry I include the time it was sent from the West Bank, time-stamped EEST, Eastern European Summer Time. The interpolations are mine, provided for clarification.

■

Kisan and Deir Alla.

Deir Alla is located 3 kilometers from the Ma'ale Amos settlement. It is from here that Jewish settlers descend upon the remote community to terrorize people, kill animals, and advance their illegitimate hold over historic Palestinian land. Whenever an attack occurs, I.O.F. soldiers show up to participate, actively or sometimes passively but always to defend and protect the settlers. Palestinian resistance or self-defense is severely punished. Previous updates from Deir Alla were published 10 June under the title, “West Bank impunities.”

The map bellow locates Kisan, circled in red, relative to Bethlehem and Hebron. The second map identifies the location of the illegal Ma'ale Amos settlement and Deir Alla relative to Kisan.

■

Text, 3 July, 8:16 p.m. EEST: “Settlers’ provocations are increasing, with attacks on citizens’ property in the Deir Alla area, southeast of the village of Kisan. Jewish herders set their livestock loose on the homes of residents on a daily basis, amidst the escalation in their terrorist attacks on the area and its inhabitants.”

The following two photos, screenshots taken toward the end of the video above, show the same herder ducking and hiding behind a rock. This Jewish settler is using his herd to trespass on Palestinian land. He makes his presence known as he spies on the family he’s targeting.

His behavior is routine. It’s a typical method of Zionist intimidation and harassment throughout the West Bank. Imagine, for a moment, the mental and emotional toll it takes on Palestinian families and children. This is a form of psychological terrorism.

The screenshot below shows the targeted home. The Bedouin land is what the herder wants. This land and home are what he—and all Zionist Israelis—intend to steal, one way or another.

■

Text, 5 July, 11:15 p.m. EEST: “This evening, settler herders attacked the Deir Alla Bedouin community located southeast of Kisan with the support of the occupation forces, beating and shooting Palestinian residents. Three young men from the community were arrested, Aref Al-Abayat, Fadi Al-Abayat, and Yousef Al-Abayat. They were taken to an unknown location amid the fierce assault, which included attacks against the residents, their property, and livestock.”

The following video, taken after the attack, shows settlers leaving the scene of their crime. I.O.F. solders, who protected the settlers as they engaged in what amounts to a pogrom, stand around watching. Jewish herders can be seen leaving the area with a large flock of goats. These herds, frequently driven through a community at the beginning of a settler attack, are used as a pretext for Jews to call the I.O.F.

Having trespassed on Palestinian land with their animals, settlers call in the I.O.F., claiming to be under attack by Arabs. Again, this is standard operating procedure. The lies are part of the Zionist joke.

Palestinians aren’t allowed to defend themselves from attack. Anyone who attempt to do so is either arrested, beaten, or shot. All of the men arrested during this attack were relatives of Adnand’s, his brother among them. The men were beaten before and after arrest. They were subsequently held for five days. They were fed a starvation diet, which consisted of four pieces of bread each day with a smearing of yogurt. Ultimately they were forced to pay a fine of 1,000 shekels for their release.

No settlers were arrested for attacking the community.

The photograph below shows settlers leaving the scene of their crime.

It takes a lot of Occupation soldiers to protect a gang of Zionist thugs:

■

Text, 10 July, 11:44 a.m. EEST: “Last night, 16-year-old Awad Ibrahim Ahmed Ghazal Munsef sustained several serious injuries and fractures after falling off his bicycle when a settler attempted to run him over in a car. This happened on the main street adjacent to the village. He was transferred to a hospital in Hebron for treatment.”

A separate source in Hebron reports that the boy remains hospitalized in stable but critical condition, as of today’s date. He sustained a severe head injury.

■

Text, 13 July, 11:41 a.m. EEST: “A number of settlers set up a tent this morning on private Palestinian land. This tent is located on the western side of the village of Kisan.”

Pitching a tent, anywhere on a hilltop on Palestinian land—and it is always a hilltop—marks the beginning of an illegal outpost, which in time will become a recognized settlement. From the outpost, settlers spy on nearby villages and home, launch raids, and steal Palestinian animals and agricultural equipment. They terrorize Palestinian herders by chasing them in all-terrain vehicles, setting dogs on them, and, when that fails to drive Palestinians away, Jewish settlers shoot at them, or call in the I.O.F. to do it for them.

There is no meaningful difference between settlers and soldiers. Settlers are inducted into the I.O.F. and given uniforms and military weaponry. They frequently attack Palestinians while dressed in uniforms. Curiously, the Zionist army doesn’t give settlers military boots and so their shoes give them away.

Text, 13 July, 11:41 a.m. EEST: “In light of the fierce attack of 5 July against the residents of Deir Alla, settlers stormed the community again this afternoon. They attacked residents and property with the support of the occupation army. They stole agricultural equipment. Deir Alla residents face constant provocations.”

When I asked Adnan about the photo below, he explained:

“They are settlers who stole equipment from the sheep pen. This equipment is for feeding young sheep and a tool for making yogurt from milk.”

■

Text, 14 July, 11:03 p.m. EEST: “The house of Ahmed Nassar Mohammed Rashaida was burned by settlers at dawn today after they threw a Molotov cocktail and broke the house windows.”

This house is among those of the Deir Alla Bedouin grouping. It is the most remote of the houses, farthest away from the other homes, and so most vulnerable to attack. Children were present at the time.

■

All that is published under West Bank Alerts, frequently republished here and at The Floutist, has taken on additional significance beyond its contribution of reportage: However modestly, it documents and archives a partial record of Israel’s criminality, impunity, continued violation of international law, and disregard of all norms of civilized society. And this: from the experiences of ordinary Palestinians, living in locations not generally known about or reported on. It’s a record for future historians and—one can hope—criminal trials.

Note to reader: An anonymous aid organizations in Hebron has promised to build a new and separate road for village use only, as a way to protect the children of Kisan from settler attacks. I know this organization well and have worked with it on past projects with success. If any reader is moved to make a donation to the Kisan road project, please send me an email: winterwheat7@gmail.com

Published simultaneously at West Bank Alerts and The Floutist.

Everything published on Winter Wheat is freely available. The nature of what I publish makes any kind of paywall inappropriate. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting this work financially. You can do so by taking out a paid subscription to Substack, by clicking on the button below. You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share these reports. Thank you.

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10 JULY—During my trips to the West Bank last year—made possible thanks to the generous donations of many readers of The Floutist and Winter Wheat—I traveled through the governorates of Ramallah, Bethlehem, and Hebron and visited numerous refugee camps along the way. One of these was al–Arroub, located seven miles north of the city Hebron, where I had the pleasure of meeting Ahmad al–Titi, in his capacity as a camp tour guide. We have since become friends.

It is because of that friendship, and the several projects we have worked on together, including a report published in West Bank Alerts, that I bring to your attention a GoFundMe campaign Ahmad started last November.

My young West Bank friend has hopes to improve his life by continuing his education. He plans to move to Germany and earn a master’s degree in information technology. I am entirely confident he will make a success of this.

“Why Germany?” I asked, when Ahmad first told me of his ambitions.

“Because they have the best technical programs,” he replied.

Like many Palestinians I’ve met, Ahmad values education. He graduated in 2023 from Palestine Polytechnic University with a degree in computer systems engineering. But employment prospects are few in Occupied Palestine—by design—and poverty rates in the West Bank are high. This is especially true for people born and raised in refugee camps. A master’s degree will give Ahmad better employment opportunities when he returns to the West Bank.

Ahmad’s commitment to the Palestinian cause remains unwavering as he pursues his advanced education. Upon returning to the West Bank he plans to start an IT club in al–Arroub, offering technical training to young people. He currently offers technical advice and help to anyone in the camp in need of assistance—free of charge.

Ahmad has been accepted into a masters program at Clausthal University of Technology in Clausthal-Zellerfeld, Germany. In 2023, he began studying German and easily passed the Goethe B1 German language exam in partial fulfillment of the language requirements for graduate-level studies. Through his own efforts, Ahmad has raised half of what he needs to relocate to Germany and begin graduate school.

Ahmad is known in the camp—and beyond it—for his superb English and the informative tours he leads for visiting internationals. Anyone who has taken one of Ahmad’s tours comes away with a deeper understanding of Palestinian history and life in a refugee camp. An excellent article about Ahmad was published this past December in Roar, the official student newspaper of King’s College London.

In March of this year, I worked closely with Ahmad on the translation from Arabic into English of an important book that documents conditions inside one of Israel’s notorious prisons. Ahmad helped with the final translation and I edited the English. It was a genuine pleasure working with Ahmad. He has a remarkably disciplined work ethic and is always kind and good humored. I know he will thrive in graduate school.

With your support, Ahmad—born and raised in a refugee camp, intimately familiar with all of the violence that circumscribes Palestinian life—will be able to realize his dreams for a better future. Your generosity will benefit many others well into the future because of Ahmad’s commitment to his community and people.

Please contribute at whatever level you can to Ahmad’s GoFundMe campaign. His funding goal of €6,000 is a modest one and he is already half way there. All he needs is another €3,000 to meet his goal. Together, we can make it possible for Ahmad to start school in Germany in September.

You can also help by sharing this funding appeal.

Thank you!

7 JULY—I received a note the other day that I think it is imperative my readers see for the shocking realities it describes. The email message arrived from Mazin Qumsiyeh. Some of you may recognize Mazin’s name from the two-part series published earlier this year about the environmental destruction Zionism has inflicted on the land of Palestine: “Scars on the land,” and “An imagined reality.” Qumsiyeh is director of the Palestine Institute of Biodiversity and Sustainability at Bethlehem University. He is also an unflagging activist for his land and people. I hold him in high regard for all of his work.

I’ve been on Mazin’s extensive listserv for over a year. The email I publish below arrived from him on 2 July. It was written by a man named Omar, who wrote to Mazin from Gaza, where he is caring for a group of 22 people as they try to survive starvation and continuous bombing. Among all else it conveys, Omar’s email documents a heinous crime committed by Americans working at one of the food distribution sites.

I am also moved, as I am sure readers will be, by Omar’s description of his daily life, his hour-to-hour life, reduced to brutal bare existence, and for the way Omar confronts us—we Americans above all others—with our responsibility to act.

I share Omar’s letter with permission.

—C.M.

Omar.

Perhaps tonight is the last night I write to you. I hope it isn’t the last—or maybe it’s better if I don’t hope at all.

This soul is weary; it craves peace. The tanks are near. Their roar sits heavy in my lap, rattling this exhausted body. Gunfire crackles without end, everywhere. The grinding of treads devours what little memory remains—I hear it so clearly, crushing my dreams. My dreams! What a hollow word. I don’t even know how it slipped through my fingers. A burst of bullets—first, second, third… Dear God, what is this madness?!

My hand trembles again as Ahmed, my nephew, crouches like a hunted thing, clinging to his grandmother. Fear gnaws at him, crouching over his small body like a predator savoring its prey. Children are easy meat for terror. The tanks roll closer. The wail of ambulances swells. And I wonder: Will another image emerge? A man burning, his body torn open, while the world feasts on his agony—only to forget him in two days?

Has our suffering become a stepping stone for others’ success? I don’t know if morning will come. Not tomorrow’s dawn—but the dawn of the sky, when my soul rises to a place wrapped in peace, where love flocks like doves. A place untouched by this screaming violence.

The price of sugar in Gaza is extremely high, and the Americans involved in the American aid know this very well. What happened today is one of the worst crimes ever committed. Read carefully what I’m about to say:

As soon as the first wave of American aid arrives, people rush to get sugar first. Today, the Americans deliberately placed the sugar in a separate area. Then, they dug a deep pit just before the sugar zone, covered it with nylon, and lightly sprinkled it with dirt so that no one would see it or notice. The starving reached the sugar first, and seven people fell into the pit. Then a bulldozer came and buried them alive. Meanwhile, a man in his fifties was returning from the aid area, nearly collapsing. I held him, and he said to me: “I’d rather die of hunger than go back to that aid—it’s aid of death.”

Omar’s letter ends here.

All that Omar wrote in his email to Mazin stands as a condemnation of the United States—an indictment of the gravest magnitude. America and specific Americans—two presidents and their administrations among them—are complicit in the very worst crimes against humanity.

America alone is the country that could have prevented, and subsequently stopped, this genocide but that instead armed and funded it against the wishes of a majority of its own citizens. The two questions each of us need consider are these: What am I doing to stop it? And is it enough?

Published simultaneously in The Floutist, and West Bank Alerts.

The following is dedicated to the memory of Malak Musleh, Gaza’s youngest female boxer, and the twenty-nine other people killed along with her when the I.D.F. bombed a seaside cafe yesterday. Al-Baqa Cafeteria was frequented by journalists, artists, athletes, and those looking for an internet connection and a break from daily slaughter.

1 JULY—Establishment reaction to rap duo Bob Vylan leading a chant of “Death to the I.D.F.” at Glastonbury’s music festival this past weekend strips bare the utter depravity of the Western political class and the mainstream press that serve it. And no surprise. I actually laughed when I learned the U.S. had revoked Bob Vylan’s visas, forcing cancellation of a planned concert tour through part of empire central.

We must never forget: These are the very institutions and people aiding and abetting Israel’s criminality—criminal conduct carried out by the I.D.F. Equally, we must remember: This is the very same conduct—the commission of genocide—for which German commanders, soldiers, and civilians hanged in the aftermath of WWII.

Death to the SS.

The failure of Western nations to stop the I.D.F.—by any means necessary, according to the Geneva Conventions—is a violation of international law, as we all by now know. I am not an international lawyer but I assume, quite reasonably I think, that any means necessary necessarily and obviously means the killing of I.D.F. commanders and soldiers, if that is indeed what is required to defend the people of Gaza from genocide. What can possibly be controversial about this?

Israel does not have a special dispensation to commit genocide. The fact that Israel was founded as and declares itself to be a Jewish state does not entitle its army to commit genocide. The I.D.F. is the machine perpetrating a genocide. It’s soldiers are the men and women running that machine. Neither ignorance—nor a childhood of Zionist indoctrination—can possibly excuse participation in a genocide. Wishing for the I.D.F’s total destruction, wishing for death upon the I.D.F., is as morally defensible as anything can possibly be.

The genocide needs to stop. Stopping it means stopping the I.D.F.

So long as the I.D.F. continues its genocidal campaign and Western countries continue to arm and enable it, “Death to the I.D.F.” should be defended as a logical and moral proposition.

Published simultaneously at The Floutist.

22 June—Cultures throughout West Asia have a tradition whereby a man may ascend to a revered position within his community due to his spirit of benevolence. Such a man assumes no political position or elected office. These are ordinary men—ordinary but extraordinary who, by virtue of long years of community service, generosity, kindness toward others, and a sense of justice, are beloved and respected by all. The Arabic word for this person, الأب الروحي, translates roughly as godfather. In Iran such a person is known as a javānmard.

Two days ago, 20 June, I asked a friend in al–Arroub refugee camp to see of he could get a statement from a community leader, in the form of a direct appeal to Americans. President Trump was then contemplating the bombing of Iranian nuclear sites. My friend visited the nearby refugee camp of New Askar and spoke with a respected community leader—just such a man as described above. I cannot say anything more about this person. Nor can I provide a photograph or name. To do so would put him at significant risk.

What follows is this man’s statement. It arrived yesterday via WhatsApp, time stamped 11:25 a.m. Pacific time. American B–2s dropped their first bombs four hours and twenty-one minutes later.

I publish this now as a call to Americans—spoken from the heart of one Palestinian man who, in all that he imparts, is representative of many West Bank people I have spoken with. His is a call to remember and take responsibility for our humanity, to connect with our best aspirations, and to answer for the government that acts and commits monstrous crimes in our names.

—C.M.

■

We cherish life just as you cherish freedom.

To every heart and mind of an American citizen struggling through daily hardships to achieve a decent standard of living,
To every American father and mother whose son or daughter serves Trump’s economic interests,
To every American citizen who has the right to vote,
To every living religious conscience,

I appeal to you: Stop supporting the apartheid state, the state of genocide, the Israeli occupation state.
With your tax money, they occupy our land and destroy Christ’s dream of love and life.
They defy the teachings of Moses: Do not kill, respect human rights.

We can live together in the Holy Land without occupation,
We can pray in Jerusalem without apartheid walls.
With your help, we can build a more beautiful homeland where justice and peace prevail.

Call for love and peace in the land of peace.
Be our voice. Stand for freedom. Stop the war and the massacres.
Let your prayers be for ending the war,
For freedom,
So that our peoples may live with hope, believing that you stand with justice.

We live in refugee camps within our own homeland.
And we declare clearly:
No to war,
No to bombing,
No to Trump’s support for Israel.

Your money is better spent:
On strengthening your economy,
On healthcare programs,
On supporting the homeless—
Not on funding killing and occupation.

Published simultaneously at The Floutist and West Bank Alerts.