“We got them.” This is what my dad said when we were eating lunch together that day. We got the Palestinian permits that hard to get and dangerous to go without. Everyone was happy that now we can all go together to visit Al-Aqsa, which was the first place we decided to go to. The next day, on Israa’ and Al-Mi’raj eve, we prepared everything to go, however when we arrived at the checkpoint, we were shocked to see that hundreds of Palestinians were waiting at one entryway. Why is there only one door for all these people? Because the occupation closed the others to force them to give up and leave in all this mess. We have been waiting for hours, hearing the children crying, I start having mixed feelings. I have hate burning inside me as I see and listen to the way we are ordered by the occupation soldiers, strangers on our land. I hate the way we are forced to live in. But I realize that hate can’t face the strangers alone. I, and all of need hope so the occupation will end. Hope that they will not be in our land anymore. I’m exhausted from carrying my little sister and holding the younger in my hand. This feeling I had turned to confusion when I saw that my mom managed to pass with two of my sisters before us. But, when it was our turn (my dad, my sisters and I) to show the permits to the soldier behind the glass. Simply, he said: “Go home.” We replied: “We have been waiting for hours!” But I’m already at home. Every single centimetre is my home in this land. Then I just see a shadow behind me. What is it? It was a big man with his arms folded. He didn’t only frighten the kids; he also pushed my dad while he was on a call to see if there might be a problem with our permits. But my mom could go with two of us! It was a horrible experience. My sister started crying one after the other. Soldiers come, soldiers push, soldiers shouting and directing guns. The soldiers put us in an empty room. It wasn’t easy to see my sisters crying and afraid. I needed to hold on. It’s my responsibility as the oldest sister. But the innocent words that destroyed and broke me were the words which Fatimah (my little sister) said: “We just want to go to Al-Aqsa”. I was speechless. I couldn’t explain to her anything of what was happening. The iron door in the dark empty room opened. Another soldier came to say that there was an error on their computer, it was not responding. My dad took my sisters and me, we left the room, and saw my mom waiting anxiously for us. We finally arrived at the ancient roads of Al-Aqsa. All of this did not diminish our will, even if it took more time than usual because of the events at the checkpoint. My heart fluttered as we could finally see the dome of the mosque. It was an unforgettable moment to see the holy heart of Al-Aqsa for the first time in my life. And now, in peace, we prayed.

BANAN

After the peaceful moment that the family, Banan, and I had, we went into the Damascus Gate to return home. At that moment booms started around me. (On religious occasions there is an increase in repression towards Palestinians). Soldiers were hitting youth and men. I was about to cross the street when I saw, on the opposite side of street, soldiers hitting a young man and shooting in every direction. For me, crossing the street was a choice between life or death. I was too young for these decisions. My dad came, took me by the hand and pulled me to the other side of street. To my right, I saw that young man, who I don’t think was older than fourteen. Soldiers were hitting him hard. He was on the ground and his face was full of bruises and his bones were almost broken. The soldiers did not let him go; they were about to arrest him. To my left, I saw a cafe for settlers in which they were eating our traditional food while they were watching us as they were in a cinema. A skunk water-canon van came and sprayed skunk-water on women, men, youth, kids, and elderly. Every Palestinian was a target. I counted myself as a target for them too. We finally arrived at the bus station to return home! Fighting and resisting is what make us Palestinians. I am telling this story to show how the occupation impacts my ability of preying in Al-Aqsa, as well as having rights, as any human should have.

DANA

The first time I felt like a Palestinian was in a demonstration, when the soldiers told me: “Go away you are not from here”. It was then when I understood I am a Palestinian and I should be here. The second time I felt like a Palestinian was when I heard a story my mum told us. My mum told us the story when she came back from the Capital of Palestine, from Jerusalem during the Ramadan, when the Israeli soldiers invaded the Sheikh Jarrah and Al-Aqsa Mosque, and that destroyed some buildings in the Sheikh Jarrah neighbourhood. That was inhumane and unfair at the same time. I felt when they did this to the people in Jerusalem as if they did it to me because we are one people and one homeland. It was a terrible feeling to see the soldiers hit everyone. When the people were hungry, thirsty, and tired because they were fasting. The kids were crying, the women were praying, the men were fighting, and the elder were looking sadly at a sacred painting being destroyed. They all were reclaiming there right with honour, for Palestine, for their children, for Jerusalem, for their dignity, for freedom. I felt pride and hope. They were strong in front without weapons. They only had stones, each other, and God, and with this they are the strongest and the bravest people in history. I'm happy because the story reached all parts of the Arab World, as well as the United States of America. But I'm also sad because I didn't fight together with them in Jerusalem. It's the capital of Palestine so it's like the heart, if anyone gets hurt in it, all parts of Palestine will feel hurt. This is my story. And what important for me too, is to keep the story alive and keep the world talking about it, because this story is part of history. Many Palestinians have the same story as mine.

JANA

I’ve been on weapons searches and stuff like that. Essentially, going to people’s houses and giving them this sheet of paper that they’re being summoned to the police to be interrogated. So this one time, we came to give a summons, he (the homeowner) came, opened up for us, and then the interpreter tells him [about] the form that summons him to the police, we need you to read this for a second. [He] says okay, no problem. It’s 1:30 A.M. He turns around, and I see there’s Hebrew writing on his t-shirt. And then I realize that it’s a Golani shirt. So the interpreter tells him, what’s this t-shirt doing here? So he says, “My son is a troublemaker, so soldiers are always coming to make arrests, to give him all kinds of army forms. About six months ago, it was my birthday, so he bought me this Golani t-shirt on eBay to wear as pajamas as a joke.” His son bought it for him.
Yes, as a joke [because] soldiers from the army keep coming. He bought him a Golani t-shirt from the end of training period August 2013, something like that. That’s it. There was something so human about it, I can’t explain it.

NADAV

I remember this one time, which I’ll never forget, where we went into this house; it was always the same house, the same family whose house soldiers go into, and then we go in, we go upstairs; there were several floors, and we went up to the actual roof of the house, and we lock that part up, and the family can’t access this part of the house, because we’re there. The argument is like our safety, like they might suddenly, I don’t know, want to hurt us or do something like that. So we lock this part up, and they lose this part of their house. But on that day, the father came and knocked on the door. He said he had to get something from there, had to come in now, and then the whole team, all the soldiers, are looking at each other, and the commander, too, wasn’t so sure what he wanted to do, whether to let him or not. In the end, they did. He came in; he wanted to take some clothes that were hanging. He comes and starts speaking English with like this real accent, speaking really politely, trying to understand: But why did you pick my house? What do I have to do with it? I started talking to him, saying, trying to explain to him: Listen, we have nothing against you. This is our mission. Unfortunately, there are terrorists, there are things that happen, and we have to prevent it. I’m not here against you, and there’s nothing I can do. That’s the order I got, and I have to do it. I really talked to him, and I was someone who, like, wanted to understand. Right away, I thought to myself, if I were in his situation, where every day the police or some army comes into my house because they feel like trying to turn the house into a base, it really is a bummer. The argument was always that stones got thrown at cars. It was in Huwara, because there’s that road that’s in the middle of the village, and there’s always the argument that these things could happen, but I joined the army after Protective Edge, so it was actually a pretty quiet time. And I didn’t really see a true need to uphold like, to really go into houses and do it the way it happened. There were times when people weren’t so nice, and really went like: no, you’re not coming in. And then we’d come in using force, like no way. No one asks you. If, at first, we tried to speak politely, now it was over, and we’re using force.

LOUIS

My journey to become an activist started when I was thirteen years old. I realized that I live under an occupying force, and I was looking for ways to defend my human rights and my community rights. I started to learn how to be an activist from my family, from my father, from my grandmother. My grandmother was evicted by the occupation in 1948 from her village near Be’er Sheva. After the eviction, she and my grandfather ran away and came to Susia. They stole the lands of my grandparents. After Susia, they came to Twani, there they decide to stop running away and resist the occupation and fight for their rights and land. While I grew up, I started to learned from them how become an activist. My big brother was looking for youth, to assemble a group which goal will be to defend human rights and reclaim the lifestyle of the village that was evicted in the 90’s and to disturb the plans of the occupation to confiscate the land. We face night raids, arrests and detentions, confiscation of our belongings like mattresses and blankets. But we don’t stop, we just continue our activism, helping to accompany the shepherds to the fields and accompanying the children on their way to school. I was always focused on the rights for education of the children. The Tuba village children on their way to school, need to walk next to the illegal outpost of Khavat Ma’on. Once, a road connected Twani village and Tuba village, but the outpost of Khavat Ma’on and the settlements cut this road. The children used to walk on this road to go to school and be educated. The settlers were attacking the children, beating them, cursing them, and throwing rocks at them. In 2004, when two international American activists were accompanying the children to school, the settlers attacked them and beat them up. One of them broke their hand, got hospitalized and was very dangerous condition. It was then decided to have an army jeep accompany the kids on their way to school. But the army did not do their job as they were supposed to do, they see the children as potential terrorists. Sometimes they came to protect the children, sometimes they didn’t. I took responsibility to take the children to their house, to their homes, so they do not fear going to school and receive education. My main weapon is my camera to show and document the reality of the occupation, show it to the world. The occupation forces tried to make me afraid of being an activist, to keep the children safe. I was arrested and detained. But I do not stop. I just continue, I help the children, I give them hope. It is a psychological battle against the occupying forces and the settlers. They try to make us fear to go to school, trying to make us stop receiving education, by giving up on going there. Education is the main way to resist the occupation.

MOHAMMAD

My older brother’s name is Sami. He is like a second dad to me and also my best friend. I share with him everything about my life, tell him about every situation which is I face in my life. I tell him all my secrets. I feel happy to have someone who listens to me, understands me, and tells me what I have to do when I need advice. I feel relaxed because I don’t need to keep anything inside. But when something dangerous happens to him I feel worried, scared, sad and broken, like the time my brother, his friends of Youth of Sumud Group and my dad, went to Sarura village which is nearby our village to build a bathroom. That day I was with my mom and sisters working at home. After we finished work, we started decided we will cook a Maqloba. All of us cooked together. One is cleaning the chicken, another making the salad, my mom cooked the rice. Suddenly we heard car doors closed strongly and fast near home. I went to see What it was all about. I saw my brother’s friends there. I asked of what’s happening, but no one answered, they entered the car and drove off. I told the family what happened. I was confused when we were tried to call my dad and Sami but there was no answer. After several tries my cousin answered to say that Sami was hit by settler’s car. I knew he left to Sarura to help build a bathroom for a family that their home was demolished. How could this happen to him? I asked myself. My mom closed the gas under the stove, and all of us started running to Sarura to see what has happened with my brother. While we ran running my mom felt exhausted because she was pregnant, so she couldn’t keep up with us. I told my sisters I’ll stay with her so they can keep going. When we arrived and asked them where Sami is they said an ambulance took him. I felt relaxed that they took him so they can treat him but also sad because he is going to the hospital. When we went to the hospital to see him and arrived at his room, I opened the curtains to see and hug him. My dad stopped me, and told me Sami already finished the operation, but they (the surgeons) had to add a metal plate to his leg. I froze like furniture. I didn’t know if it’s reality or a dream. Unfortunately, it was the truth. And I ask you, dear reader, what would you feel if that would have happened to your close brother.

GAMAR

I am from the village of Umm al-Khair, which is in Masafer Yatta in the South Hebron Hills. I am sixteen years old. When I was young, at the age of eleven or twelve, I was afraid of the settlers, especially of the settlers from Carmel settlement, which is located on the side of Khirbet Ak Al-Khair, on the border with our village. From a young age I was raised in fear and injustice because of the settlements. I was afraid of every Israeli person, but witnessing the many demolitions of our homes, made me used to the injustice. Nothing goes away with fear. I told myself that I must change the fear inside me and overcome it. Now, I am numb to the injustice, the demolition of our simple homes, the opportunities to work inside occupied Palestinian which are not given to us, and the deprivation from electricity or any water. I am not afraid of this unjust occupation anymore.

EJDEA3

It was a night we were enjoying the accomplishments of our newly built community centre and all the plans we had for it. I remember being satisfied with life in a way that I had not experienced in a long time, a feeling of dreams coming true. My friend Eid burst into the community centre, telling me to hurry up and get up. He woke me up in such a way that I wanted to yell at him, until I looked over his shoulder and realized he was accompanied by the Israeli military. The Israeli Civil Administration had told Eid to get everyone out of the community centre because it was about to be destroyed. The Israeli officer spoke to me, but I did not understand anything he was saying. I did not know what was going on, and because the Israeli did not speak Arabic, I could not tell him what I wanted to say. I could not even express my anger to him or to demand that my basic human rights will be respected. But for Israelis, listening to Palestinians is not important, because if it was, they would send Arabic speaking people. Instead, they force the locals to deal with it. Eid was forced to deliver the message by the Israeli authorities, having him carry the weight of ordering his own people out of their homes and taking their belongings, instead of putting that shame on an Israeli soldier. This is how it works here oftentimes. It is supposed to spare the guilt of the soldiers. I took out all the important things in the community centre I could gather: the TV, the antenna, and the video equipment. When I walked out of the door of the community centre, I was shocked and overwhelmed with how many Israeli soldiers and military vehicles had overtaken our small village. I looked over the crest of the hillside and saw, even more soldiers and military vehicles creating a blockade around our village, so that human rights organizations and the local and international media could not reach us to document what was going on. After I was pushed off to the side, I remember the Israeli bulldozer’s tracks churning and chewing through the play area and advancing onto to the community centre. I remember watching the walls crumble and the photos and the art on the wall being pulled apart. The demolition took about fifteen minutes, destroying the community centre and destroying the dreams of many of the children who considered the centre a home for them. Then they moved to my mother’s home. Some of the young people took out some furniture and papers from the house, but they could not take out all of them before the Israelis demolished that home as well. They just move through our village demolishing one home after the other with their bulldozers, smashing one after another and crossing them off their list. I was wondering where we were all going to sleep that night. Fifteen of us and seven little children. It’s strange to think how much pain and trauma you can be stuck with and then immediately must switch to survival mode and find shelter. We find that this pain, even though it happens so often, is still healing over time through the relationships we hold, through each act of resistance. It is this faith in our friends, family, and our God that one day, justice will be achieved, and we will live in peace.

ODEH

When I was 16, I finished school and started to think about going to university. Since university is very expensive, and costs a lot of money, I couldn’t afford to pay it. I started to think about ways I could get money so I can go to university. There were no real ways to get money, but to go and work in Israel. And since I was too young, I could not get a permit. Nevertheless, I went to work in Israel, and I started to earn good money so I could sign into university. One of the days when we were working in Israel, the police, the Israeli authority caught us and took us to the police station where they put a flag on my file which says that this is the first time, they caught me while being illegal in Israel. If you are flagged three times, you cannot get into Israel for 5 years, at all, and you will go to jail for around five years. They let me leave, but I’m back here with the same problem, I want to go to university but there is no money. So, I went to Israel another time, just a few days after they caught me the first time. And they caught me another time. I spent ten days in jail. They let me leave again, but I came back to the same problems again, no money to pay for education. I had to risk it again, but I was careful when I back to work in Israel. I managed to save up some good money, managed to pay for and finish two years in university, but then the same problem appeared. The university is expensive, so I had to stop. With the money I managed to save up, I started a project, a gas station in my village of Umm Al Khair, and it showed good returns. I was earning good money so I might be able to finish my university studies. Unfortunately, after just three months the Israeli civil administration came by, with their army and with their trucks and they started, without any warning, confiscating my gas station. They took everything I bought with my own hard-earned money. And I find myself, again, with nothing. Until now I’m facing this problem. Until now I didn’t find a solution for my education. Sometimes I get help from my family, sometimes from friends, but it is not a good solution. It is not a good long-term solution. So, until now I’m in the same point I’m trying to get help from here and from there, I started a greenhouse to grow cucumbers, but it can maybe cover just my transportation, some of the university’s tuition, but not all I need. Getting a permit from Israel is very hard and difficult. You need to be married and I’m not thinking about this now, because even if you want to get married life will become even more expensive. Everything here about money, and there is nowhere to get decent money from. No help. The life here is very hard, very difficult.

IHMEED

*The soldiers' verified testimonies are taken from Breaking the Silence. 

To find out more visit www.breakingthesilence.org.il