"How to find a way of talking to Israelis after all that has happened?"
Posted by Toine van Teeffelen

Occupied Bethlehem [5/6 April 2002]--Friday morning, I go out to sniff the air in the garden. Suddenly a group of Israeli soldiers appear and ask whether I am from the University. "No, I am from Holland," I say illogically, thinking that the word "Holland" helps to keep them out of the house, our main worry. Fortunately I have only to show my passport and they continue their walk. It is strange, how a Spring morning's silence can feel so threatening.

Today, the fourth day of the occupation, the municipality announces that the soldiers will allow the people a few hours each afternoon to leave our cages. But when two o'clock, the big moment, arrives, we hear shooting. Later on there is a rumor that three persons some 100 meters further down the university road were slightly injured by shots when they left the house. Maybe the Israelis wanted, in announcing the measure, to impose their own time (there is an hour difference between Israel and the West Bank).

After an hour Jeanet and I leave home, but upon reaching the gate we observe a soldiers' patrol passing. The commander tells us to wait for another five minutes. Afterwards, a boy shouts that it is safe on the road. When we finally leave, Jara starts crying and wants us to come back. I tell her that we will be back soon and that there is no need to worry. Jeanet and I walk up the university street, and see a concentration of tanks and armoured vehicles on the university hill. Soldiers wave us to go either left or right, not straight. I shout whether we can make a turn to reach Bethlehem downtown through Bab al-Zqaaq where the Jerusalem-Hebron road meets the road to Beit Jala. Yes, that is possible, the soldiers sign.

There is a cat which slowly crosses the street in front of a tank. We follow the street to the right towards Bab al-Zqaaq, walking fast. The street asphalt is damaged by the many heavy tanks and vehicles passing by. Will the roads ever be repaired? Sand comes up through the holes in the broken asphalt, and clouds trail the cars that now hesitatingly appear on the streets. Ana bachaaf (I am afraid) whispers somebody. A group of foreign visitors pass by, carrying their luggage. Several groups of foreigners are still in the area, especially in the camps, to share the suffering of the people and perhaps to form a human shield in case of attack. We reach Cinema, opposite the taxi station. More people show up; they look bewildered as if they open their eyes after a prolonged stay in a dark room. Journalists try to interview passers by who speak the right language. I see Fuad, the director of the institute, who explains to an interviewer how every house in the central Madbasseh street received bullets or worse.