Memories of Azzun

The small town of Azzun has recently (and sadly) been making headlines in Maan, Haaretz, and even on Reddit. In almost all cases, when a Palestinian town is featured in a news headline it is not for good reasons. I made a weekend visit to the town and a few of its perimeter villages (Izbet al-Tabib included) at the end of last semester and had intended on writing about the experience but never had the chance. The experience was the most deeply depressing, dismaying, yet influential one of my first three months in the West Bank, and really gave me a firsthand view of the harshness of curfews, travel restrictions, the annexation wall, and general military terror imposed on Palestinians living in their own towns and villages. Azzun, for me, was the unyielding, naked, and frightening truth of the Israeli occupation.

I arrived with three other Americans at the outskirts of Azzun in late November of last year during a period of on-and-off Israel Defense Force curfews in the town and the surrounding villages. Upon stepping out of the taxi, we were greeted by three young IDF soldiers guarding eight imposing cement blocks cutting Azzun off from the main highway between the cities of Qalqilya and Ramallah. These blocks have effectively cut off the town from the rest of the West Bank and prohibit any and all vehicles from leaving or entering the town. After making our way past the soldiers and the roadblocks, we were met by the enthusiastic town leaders who showed us to an apartment in the municipality building – our home away from home for the weekend.
The apartment afforded us a spectacular view of the main road and town square in Azzun, allowing us to watch the IDF patrols (armored personnel carriers, humvees, and patrol jeeps) ominously barrel through the town. During the day, we watched IDF trucks careen through the central square, conducting self-fulfilling hunts for young “terrorists.” As the convoy would arrive, Palestinian youth would hide around corners and in small shops with empty soda cans, water bottles, and the occasional small stone – waiting to “ambush” the invaders. Every time an object found its mark – the bulletproof steel of a humvee or patrol jeep – a strangely satisfying “clank” would ring out and the boys would disappear down alleyways or into shops.

During one of these patrol runs we watched from the rooftop of the municipality as an IDF jeep came to a screeching halt after being hit with an aluminum soda can. The back doors opened and out jumped two heavily armed soldiers, each equipped with flash bangs, tear gas, and an American-provided M-16 assault rifle. The soldiers took off sprinting down an alleyway after the boys while another soldier, rifle raised and ready, stood guard at the patrol jeep. The fact that two soldiers operating in a hostile “enemy” area had sprinted, weapons hanging loosely around their hips, down a twisting alleyway struck me as strange, if not reckless. Were they not afraid of an ambush by “terrorists” wielding pistols or AK-47s, kuffiyas wrapped around their faces? After much thought, I believe my initial reaction was incorrect. The IDF does not move in a cautious, military manner. They absolutely know they enjoy complete control over the population of Azzun. The individual soldiers obviously do not feel the least bit threatened driving (or even recklessly sprinting) down the roads and alleyways of the town. Why then, all the patrols, arrests, curfews, and oppression? We would later learn that soldiers had run down a 16 year old boy and dragged him back to the jeep, before transporting him to an Israeli prison.
Our contacts at the municipality informed us that Azzun had been under curfew 50% of the time for the last three weeks. In that period of time, roughly 30 Palestinians (the youngest a 13 year old boy) had been taken by IDF patrols, most arrested for the same stone-throwing that we witnessed. Three were still unaccounted for and had not returned.

After an anxious first night we awoke the next morning and followed a Palestinian family to their olive orchards to help with the harvest. This specific family’s orchards (or what is left of them) occupy a small peninsula approximately 300 yards wide by 600 yards long – surrounded on all sides by an illegally built Israeli settlement. The family must obtain permits each year to visit their own land during the olive harvest. Permits can be denied for any reason, and often allow for a window of time too small to adequately harvest the entire orchards – another Israeli policy which has greatly undermined or “de-developed” the Palestinian economy. As we finished with the day’s harvest in the late afternoon our host family received a phone call informing us that a village just outside Azzun had been placed under curfew.

Returning from the olive orchards, we arrived in the small village of Izbet al-Tabib just in time to see an Israeli convoy of two humvees and a huge military bulldozer rumble across the intersection toward Azzun. Although the vehicles were not stopping this time in Izbet al-Tabib, I could not help thinking about the uncertainty and fear the village’s residents live in. The village, one of the “unrecognized villages” in the West Bank, is not officially on any Israeli military map and thus, is considered by the Israeli government as an illegal Palestinian settlement. Nearly every structure in the village has an IDF demolition order and can be bulldozed at any time, regardless of the fact that this is in the West Bank on undisputed Palestinian land. The residents live in constant fear that each day holds the possibility that they could lose everything they’ve earned and built. Compound this with the ominous, nearly incessant rumble of Israeli bulldozers and armored vehicles around the village, and sanity becomes a guarded resource.

After a twisting, 30 minute round-a-bout journey through villages and towns because of curfews, roadblocks, and checkpoints, we arrived back at our generous host’s home near the center of Azzun. As per Arab custom, we were enthusiastically led into the sitting room, where mint tea graciously served to the four of us by our host’s wife and oldest daughter. We were carefully introduced to every member of the family and any visitors who happened to be at the house as well. A jovial, carefree attitude permeated the occasion, despite all we had seen of the Israeli presence in and around the town. The host, his family, and his many visitors laughed and sat together in the cozy living room. Dinner was prepared, and we listened to stories, jokes, and Palestinian poetry from an oversized and intricately decorated volume of poems. A light rain had begun outside, adding to the intimacy of the occasion.

As the smell of roasted chicken and rice began to emanate from the kitchen and tease our senses, the evening’s atmosphere took a startling turn. The electricity snapped off and an eerie silence, albeit for the sound of rain on the windows replaced the happy conversation and laughing. Our host quietly whispered to one of his older sons, probably close to my age, who quickly left the room to retrieve candles to light the room. One of the other visitors, a man we had met from the Azzun municipality building, received a call on his cell phone. Israeli military vehicles had entered the town and imposed a curfew on Azzun’s 10,000 citizens. He also announced, calmly, that two Palestinian boys, one 16 and another 18, had been taken to an Israeli prison near the Hawara checkpoint, presumably for throwing stones. Shira (whose own experience can be found here) asked about the electricity. Had the Israelis cut power to the town in addition to the military curfew? The man from the municipality simply shook his head, remarking that the rain could have something to do with the power outage.

Our host began ordering us not to worry, adding that we were all safe as long as we were inside and inviting us to claim places at the long table in his dining room. We all quietly made our way to the table, only the occasional whisper between the younger boys breaking the tense silence. Approximately 20 family members, neighbors, and other visitors (along with the four of us) sat down to our improvised candlelit dinner. As we began the meal, our host trying to force conversation into the uneasy dining room, a menacing blue light darted around the darkened room. “Everyone of Azzun into your homes. Stay in your homes!” a mechanical-sounding voice boomed in Arabic. Through the window we watched an Israeli patrol vehicle, its spinning sapphire emergency light bathing the street and homes with an eerie glow. The jovial atmosphere of the sitting room was now completely gone, victim to the worry and anxiety of yet another curfew. Dinner finished in this same concerned fashion, and everyone quietly filed back into the sitting room at the conclusion of the meal.

The man who had informed us of the curfew via cell phone from earlier, made hurried calls concerning the arrested boys in the dark, candlelit room. Forced conversation was punctuated by the disembodied Israeli voice and accompanying ominous blue lights from outside. When we asked, would the curfew be over? Could we return to our apartment at the municipality or must we stay here? Would there be home invasions during the curfew? Our questions had an almost frantic quality to them, and our worry was noticed by our hosts. The same worry was not shared with the Palestinians we were with. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to this, or had simply quietly resigned themselves to the helplessness of the situation in Azzun. Our hosts unanimously replied that the curfew could be over at any time and would not be announced by the Israeli military. The armored vehicles would patrol and then leave as quickly as they had come, lifting the curfew. Palestinians would then cautiously leave their homes and return to the tasks they had abandoned when the curfew was imposed. After an hour or so, the electricity came back on and our guide from the municipality offered to show us a nearby home that had been invaded a few nights before during a curfew. As we had not seen a patrol vehicle for quite some time, we reluctantly agreed, bid farewell and repeatedly thanked our hosts, and exited into the rain and darkness outside.

After a few nervous minutes walking along the shadows in the street, we arrived at a street where two adolescent boys had been keeping watch for Israeli patrols. They accompanied us to the house where we met the victims of the home invasion. The family, which included a young father, his pregnant wife, and four children, eagerly invited us in and served us mint tea and strong Arabic coffee. The oldest son swiftly prepared an arguileh (an Arabic water pipe) while the youngest son and daughter happily played with Shira. The father and owner of the house sat and slowly explained what had happened a few nights before.

That night a curfew had been imposed by the IDF at roughly 9 P.M. The family stayed inside, prepared the youngest children for bed and then the father worriedly stayed awake watching for Israeli patrols from the kitchen until he too, retired to bed around midnight. Between puffs on a cigarette, he talked of how he was awakened by loud explosions outside the house. Israeli soldiers smashed in the front door, shattering the dead bolt lock, and stormed into the house. The soldiers then threw a flashbang grenade into room where the youngest children were sleeping and crashed into the bedroom. A flashbang grenade emits an ear-shattering bang and a magnesium-based compound to stun and disorient potential hostiles. Another group of soldiers burst into the room where the man and his pregnant wife were, using another flashbang to stun the room’s occupants. The family was then rounded up into the living room, where soldiers with assault rifles guarded over these “criminals” the two young children (both less than six years) included. After a frightening few minutes, the soldiers left as quickly as they came – but not before shooting holes into the family’s rooftop water canisters, emptying the containers and depriving the home of its only water source. The man then detailed the damage to his house, leading us on a tour where we witnessed the smashed lock and door, bullet-ridden water canisters on his roof, and two spent flashbang grenades. He explained that he had indeed repaired the canisters, but not yet undertaken the extremely expensive process of having them refilled.

“They did not arrest anyone! They did not even question us,” he lamented. “Why do they break into the homes for no reason?” None of us had the answer. The man was becoming restless after telling the story, one I am sure he had told many times before in just the last few days. Before leaving the room, he informed us that his wife had been complaining of chest aches and trouble breathing since the assault. His children, no doubt, were also left scarred by the experience.
Shira talked to the daughters and mother, while the other three of us smoked arguileh with the son, some neighbors, and the municipality man. The son was in a very pleasant mood, and cracked jokes in between draws from the water pipe. A younger neighbor stood watch a few hundred yards down the street for patrol trucks. Every time a car could be heard nearby, the group snapped to attention, sentences cut off, ascertaining whether the sound was an IDF vehicle or a Palestinian car braving the arbitrary curfew. As the night wore on, we thanked our family, wished them better days ahead, and returned to our apartment in the municipality for another fitful night of sleep

We awoke early the next morning and called a taxi driver from the nearby town of Qalqilya to save four seats in his shared service to Ramallah. He met us at the roadblocks outside of Azzun and we left the town, memories of the day before deeply embedded in our minds.

I left the West Bank after an extremely busy and rushed two weeks without writing or seriously reflecting on all that had happened in Azzun. I have also not returned to the town since this November visit. After reading an article in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz, I was reminded of the people I met and the situations I saw in the town. As usual, the situation has only worsened since my visit. Haaretz described the atmosphere there as that of the second Intifada. A new, brasher, and far more brutal Israeli military commander has assumed control of Azzun and life for the Palestinians there is harsher and more frightening. Azzun is not a special case. There are many more towns and many hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in the West Bank (Gaza is a different case entirely) that share these experiences of occupation and Israeli military oppression. Sadly, occupation spares no one.

This piece was written with the intent of further thanking my generous hosts in Azzun by sharing their story. The conflict has so many intricacies, viewpoints, and counterpoints. But it also has a disgusting number of human victims. It is so easy to separate the political situation from the individual stories and experiences of the victims of this tragedy. This is an attempt, however small, to cast light on the victims of the conflict. Please share this with friends and family if you feel motivated, and do not shy away from a discussion of these very real, yet seemingly hopeless situations. There is hope, although small, here in Palestine. Most importantly, please be thankful of the gifts, both big and small, in your own life. If freedom is one of those gifts, cherish it every single day, and never give up even a small piece.