December 11, 2002

Early morning breaks on an Israeli nighttime raid in Zababdeh

Elizabeth spent a final day in Jerusalem, running a couple errands, and meeting a friend for pizza (ah, pizza!) and a rental movie (ah, movie rentals!). But in Zababdeh last night, it was the sound of unlit helicopters overhead that prematurely began the day for Marthame.

When people in the West Bank hear a helicopter, they all poke their heads out to try and follow where it's going, because it usually means the assassination of a wanted Palestinian. This has been happening regularly for the past two years, and with its high percentage of "collateral damage" (roughly one-third of those killed in "targeted" killings have been non-combatant civilians), not to mention the loose definition of "wanted," people are obviously nervous. When you can't see the helicopter, the anxiety increases.

This morning, at 4:00, it was the shooting nearby that got everyone's attention. Marthame sprang from the bed and looked out the window to see, on the other side of the Latin School, a friend's house lit up with flashlights randomly flickering everywhere, punctuated by the red laser-lights of snipers, giving the home the appearance of Christmas decoration. Soon there was shouting: "Iftah al-bab! Open the door!"

The neon lights of the home in question flickered into action, and soon someone responded, in English (the "common" language) here, "OK! Don't shoot!"

Israeli jeep lights headed toward Zababdeh

The lights of seven jeeps came down the old military road, two grinding tanks following a few minutes later. Two of the jeeps arrived at the house in question, their headlights illuminating the walls. An eerie quiet fell over the town, and for the first time since we've been here Marthame could hear the pre-dawn call to prayer echoing from other villages. We've acclimated so much to Zababdeh that we don't even hear it in the town in the morning. But for some reason, there wasn't much sleep to be had at 4:30. This morning, the call seemed much more plaintive, as if begging for relief from the situation here - or maybe that's a bit of interfaith emotional projection. At 5:00 there was more shooting, then the unceremonious toot of a horn, and the two jeeps were off.

Later in the day, Marthame stopped by the friend's house to get the full story. They, too, were woken up by the shooting, and opened the door to find 150 soldiers surrounding the house, faces painted for nighttime warfare. "Raise your hands! Lift up your shirt! Come outside!" They obeyed, then the seven students who rent the apartment downstairs did the same, following instructions. The captain arrived and began to ask around.

"Where is Abdallah? (one of the students)"

"He's not here."

"Call him and tell him we've left and that we're looking for him."

The other student did, then the soldiers waited for half an hour thinking he might come back. "It's good he wasn't here, you know. He's a dangerous man. There would've been war, and I would've had to blow up your house - I'm not risking any of my soldiers for him. I'm sorry, but if you have students staying with you, you have to pay the price." Then he began to stir the pot. "It's not you Christians (speaking to the family). The Christians in Bethlehem have many problems with rape by Muslims. Muslims are no good."

After deciding Abdallah wasn't returning, the Israeli soldiers rounded up the students. "We just want the Muslims. No Christians." We've heard about such deliberate dividing, but to hear about it first hand was somehow more disturbing. Tensions do exist between Christians and Muslims in Palestinian society, much like racial tensions exist in American society. Stoking those tensions seems much like an intentional divide and conquer policy.

As Marthame and the family continued to talk, a taxi pulled up, and Abdallah arrived. Soon, the other students did too, having spent a few hours at Salem as the Israelis tried to ply them for more information and recruit them as collaborators: "If you need anything, any help, just let us know. We're glad to help out."

Abdallah, meanwhile, was chain-smoking, trying to figure out what exactly he had done and what he was going to do next. A member of the University's Islamic Jihad organization, he has political sympathies. But, as he claims, hasn't done anything. The weight of what lay before him, being wanted by the Israeli army, seemed to be hitting him square between the eyes, and what that meant.

A rainy day at the Latin School in Zababdeh

The family patriarch dispensed his advice: "If I were you, I'd make sure I haven't done anything wrong, and I'd go to Salem alone and turn myself in. If you don't, then you just confirm that you're dangerous. They'll find you anyway, and they won't arrest you - they'll kill you, and they'll punish your family, too. Go to Salem. It's better to spend two years in jail than to be killed."

The rest of his roommates were busy below carrying away their furniture and clothes to a new apartment, fearing a return. Abdallah was off soon after, hoping to see his parents and get their advice. It's hard to imagine that weight on anyone's shoulders. And it's hard to imagine that many students and teachers in the neighborhood were able to get a good night's sleep for today's exams. But the heavy rain was a nice reminder of grace and blessing in the midst of all this.