The Soldier and the Boy

                                                        Jopie

My name is Jopie. I’m a soldier in the IDF, the Israel Defence Force. My birthday was last week. Now I am twenty.

My family live in West Jerusalem, which is where I went to school. I joined the IDF when I was eighteen. I have twelve months of service remaining.

Our basic training was difficult and lasted 4 months. We had to get used to tough routines, living rough and obeying orders. I’ve marched 50 km in one go and have the blisters to prove it. But we also have fun in the IDF. Both men and women can join.

Recently, we spent a week on field exercises with tanks up in the Golan Heights, north of Israel. That was exhausting and it hasn’t got any easier since then. Over the last year, I’ve lost over one stone and become much fitter. I’m also stronger emotionally.

Since completing basic training, I’ve served in the West Bank, in the Galilee area and outside Jerusalem. At the moment, I’m stationed near the Nahal Oz fuel terminal close to the perimeter of the Gaza strip. The terminal is used to pump oil delivered by tankers into Gaza.

The Gaza strip is cordoned off to protect Israel from the militants inside. There is a perimeter fence on the two sides bordering Israel. The third side to the south is short, making the border with Egypt and we patrol the coastal area, which makes up the fourth side. We also control the airspace over Gaza. We let humanitarian aid in when militants aren’t disrupting supplies.

Hamas control the strip after winning the Palestinian elections in 2006 and defeating the Fatah forces based there. Hamas do not recognise Israel and believe that our land is theirs. They tolerate the militant groups that operate in Gaza, or at least do little to control them.

The oil terminal and surrounding farmland has been attacked several times in recent weeks by small arms fire, mortars and Qassam rockets. Last Wednesday we were sent on a mission into Gaza itself.

We crossed the border early in the morning, twelve of us walking in single file, spaced out as we had been taught. We had been given intelligence that there were Palestinian Islamic Jihad fighters operating in a particular area close to the terminal. Our plan was to perform a number of house-to-house searches, starting with two specific houses that we had detailed information about.

As we entered Gaza, my breathing quickened, and my senses started to work overtime. I gripped my weapon more firmly, treading carefully over the rubble that lay across the road, aware that booby traps may have been laid anywhere.

There were few people around. Those we came across either entered houses or disappeared down side roads. We turned left and split into two groups, each taking one side of the street. I was in the rear on the right hand side.

As we moved forward, I walked backwards, covering our flank. In front of me, others looked out for gunmen on rooftops and in windows across the street. We moved slowly, not hurrying or running.

After half an hour and two kilometres, we reached our target. Our sergeant gave us the signal indicating the first house. Two volunteers on either side of the door stood with their backs to the wall while another kicked the door hard. On the third attempt it gave way and the two volunteers entered, closely followed by five others. The rest of us stayed outside, guarding the entrance and monitoring the surrounding houses. Inside, there was shouting. Then two gunshots and screaming, followed by perhaps five seconds of rapid fire. We waited. Outside, there was no sign of life. The streets were deserted and no one came to a window to see what the shots were.

The volunteers exited the building and gave their report. “Two dead, no casualties.” We moved on to the next building, and using the same drill as before I waited, back to the wall. Adrenaline was pumping through my body. The door gave way and I turned and entered, gun at the ready.

I moved into the hallway “Clear,” I shouted. Another volunteer moved upstairs to the landing.

“Clear,” he shouted. We checked each bedroom in turn. A Palestinian family was crouched in a corner of the first. I guarded them while the rest of the rooms were checked, and then we retreated downstairs and outside. “All clear, no casualties.” We moved on.

We ran into problems with the fifth or sixth house we searched. There had been shouts coming from the surrounding area, people calling from house to house. It had made me nervous. Finger on trigger, I was scanning the rooftops and windows for gunmen. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure.

I turned. I saw a gun pointing toward me. When that happens all you see is the gun, not the person carrying it. I raised my weapon and fired three times in quick succession. Then I paused. The figure lay motionless on the ground. The soldiers exited the house. “All clear, no casualties.”

We advanced to the motionless body. He was about the same age as my brother. His hands outstretched, palms open facing upwards, a stick lying inches from his right hand. The sergeant checked for signs of life, his eyes glazed over. “He should not have run towards us,” he said. “This is not your fault.” I knew it was not my fault. He turned, and we followed him.

Two hours later, our mission was complete and we were back in camp. “Two dead, no casualties,” was our report. Since last Wednesday I have cried a lot. Now I want to see my family again; I want to check my brother is still alive; I want to bring the boy I killed back. It was not my fault; but it was not his.

And next week I am going home. It will be my brother’s birthday. He will be eight. I do not want this conflict.

                                                          Abu

My name is Abu. I am twenty-one years old and I live in South Gaza.  My parents used to live in what is now south Israel. They were moved to Gaza with their relatives and friends a long time ago when my father was ten. My father’s brother was moved on from Gaza to Jordon and there he joined the Palestine Liberation Organization. In 1970, he was thrown out of Jordan, ending up in a Lebanese refugee camp. It was there that he met my aunt. They had five children together in that camp. In 1982, all five of them were killed without ever having set foot outside the camp. My aunt was also killed the same day.

My uncle was moved on from the Lebanese camp to Tunisia, where he died last year. For over 20 years, he was a refugee, neither being allowed to return home to Palestine or to become a citizen of the Arab country he was living in.

My mother died giving birth to the youngest of my three brothers. All my brothers died before reaching the age of fifteen: one through lack of medicine; the other two were killed in an airstrike last month, along with my father.

It was not difficult for me to get out of Gaza. I was told where to be and at what time. I was told which ride to take, and when to get off. I was told which street to make my way to, and from which direction. I was told what house to approach, and how to make myself known. I was told what to expect once I arrived. And when I did arrive, I was invited in and made to feel at home. I tried to introduce myself.

“We do not need your name, brother,” a clean-shaved, tall man told me. I was given a bed for the night, and over the next two days I was shown what to do, and I was told what to expect.

Today, I am given a farewell. The tall man smiles, hugs me, and whispers an encouragement in my ear: “You will not fail.”

As I leave the house, closing the door behind me, he calls after me. Then, in a quieter voice, he repeats the words more strongly: “You will not fail.” This time it seems more like an order than encouragement.

As I walk along the streets of Jerusalem, I can still hear those words ringing in my ears. I will not fail, I will not fail. They drive me forwards as I place one foot in front of the other. I am oblivious to people around me. I feel detached, separate from the crowd.

                                                    Salam

My name is Salam. I am 12 years old and I live in Gaza City, at the north end of the strip. On most weekdays, I go to school. At the moment our school is open, although there is talk of the teachers going on strike. Other government workers have already gone on strike, mostly over lack of food and living conditions. Dad says that when he voted for Hamas, he thought life would be better; but it isn’t. It’s worse now than it ever was.

There’s always something going on in our house. Aunt Aya and mum are always cooking in the kitchen; dad is usually locked in heated discussion with uncle Abbas; he does not think Hamas have lived up to their promises. They were meant to improve our lives, help our schools and provide work for people. None of that has happened, dad says. And now we are living off stale bread and water. Recently not even the bread is as good as it used to be. Uncle Abbas says that it’s not Hamas’ fault; it’s the Israelis. They block in our land and will not allow any trade or communication with the outside world. We must fight back, he says. If Hamas are failing us it’s because they are not strong enough. We need stronger leaders to rid ourselves of oppression.

They have the same discussion every evening, and I know as they speak how the argument will play out.

It takes ten minutes for us to run to school each morning. Normally, I go with my three brothers and two cousins, Ahmed and Sayed; Ahmed is two years older than me and bosses me around; Sayed is three years younger than me and a bit of a tough guy. Normally, I don’t push him around, but yesterday was different. He’d been given some sherbet by uncle Abbas. I like sherbet, and I hadn’t seen any in twelve months. I stayed beside him on the way to school, slowing down just enough so we trailed behind the others, but not enough so he’d be suspicious. Then, when we were alone, I snatched the sherbet while he was off guard and ran ahead. I knew I’d get into trouble. He would tell his brother Ahmed and I’d get thumped. But it was worth it. It tasted delicious.

And now I am sorry. Sayed did not tell his brother and I did not get beaten up. Instead, when I got back from school, mum told me Sayed was dead. He had been playing in the streets; we always play in the streets, mostly fighting games. But this time, it was not pretend. The enemy was real, and Sayed had been shot, a stick in his hand.

I told mum what I had done in the morning. “You know that was not nice, but remember that it was not you who killed him. Be kind to people in future.” My mum’s good. I don’t like the fighting that seems to go on the whole time here. Shots ring out every few hours, echoing round the city.

Aunt Aya and uncle Abbas live with us in our house; theirs was too close to the fence so the Israelis bulldozed it. They came to live with us four weeks ago. Four adults and six children live in our house. Five children now.

Today, no one is cooking. Aunt Aya is crying and screaming in the lounge, and mum is trying to console her. They keep hugging and both of them have wet eyes.

Dad and uncle Abbas are in serious conversation, using whispered tones. They talk softly trying not to raise their voices, but I overhear them talking anyway. It’s different from their normal discussions and less heated. There’s more agreement between the two of them. I hear uncle Abbas say he has some friends whose houses the Israelis also demolished. They were fighting back. They had joined a militant group: the Islamic Jihad, I think he said, though it was a whisper. Tonight they were planning an attack. Uncle Abbas was meeting up with them and he asks dad to come too. I can see dad pause, thinking. He looks sideways at mum, who is holding aunt Aya’s head on her shoulder. Then he looks at me; I look down, but I can feel his eyes searching for an answer before coming to a decision.

He turns back to uncle Abbas and I once more look at the pair. “I will come,” I hear my father say. “This situation is not fair. There is no other way we can stand up for ourselves.” They stand up and embrace each other. I have not seen them do that for a while. And ten minutes later, they are gone, telling us they will be back soon.

There are three bedrooms in our house. Tonight, mum and aunt Aya are sharing one, the second is locked and we sleep in the third, four of us sharing two beds and Ahmed by himself on a mattress that Sayed would normally have shared. The mood in the house is subdued. We fall asleep early, without our normal fighting and games.

And when I awake, my father and uncle Abbas are back. They look exhausted but excited at the same time. Uncle Abbas is consoling aunt Aya, telling her that they are fighting back, that they had fired mortars over the fence last night.  Aunt Aya is still crying, but she lets my uncle console her. Mum is very angry with my father. She is shouting and throws a cup at him.

My father stays calm, trying to convince mum that what he’d done was right; mum says all violence is wrong. Uncle Abbas is hugging aunt Aya; they are not fighting.

My father is calmly talking to mum. I recognise the same phrases that my uncle used with him, over and over again during the last four weeks.
“They have taken our freedom and imprisoned our friends.”
“They have taken our land; they have demolished our houses.”
“They have killed our children; they hold food back from us.”
“They steal our water from beneath us; they stop our exiled relatives from returning home.”
“They control and manipulate us. They kill five of us for every one of them killed.”

And I think that all that is true, but I also think:
“I want my cousin back; I want to give him his sherbet and say sorry to him.”
“I want to live in peace and freedom; I do not want to fight.”

And I wonder how long it will be before my father wears down mum with those words, and how long it will be before they work their magic on me.

                                                      Jopie

I have one week’s leave from the IDF and today is my first day. Before I return to my parent’s house, I stop in town to buy presents. It is my brother’s eighth birthday today. I buy a large toy bear for him. I am excited, looking forward to seeing him again: to see how much he has grown; to see what new questions he has for me.

                                                        Salam

I am visiting Jerusalem with my father. Last week, we buried my cousin. We got a pass to exit Gaza for a week.  We are visiting relatives, to tell them of our news, and of Sayed’s death. Before making our way to their house, we stop to pick up a few small gifts. I buy a candle, and holding it in my hand, I follow my father along the street.

                                                            Abu

My heart is pounding fast. In front of me, I see a young Israeli man, holding a large toy bear. He is the right age to be in the IDF, although he is not in uniform. I walk towards him, knowing that I will not fail. As I reach him, I turn and see a young Palestinian boy close by. He is smiling, holding a candle. But it is too late. I cannot fail.

And so I release the button. Everything is still. My arm gently rests across your chest. My head is softly nestled behind your knee. My legs lie awkwardly where they fell.

                                                            Jopie

I noticed you approaching me nervously and I drop the bear I am carrying. Then the blast hits me. As I fall, I think I see my eight year old brother beside me. He is holding a candle. I am on the ground now, not too far away, my hand outstretched towards him. He is also lying down. He stretches out his arm, and puts his hand in mine. Then, he closes his eyes. I squeeze his hand tightly in mine, and close my eyes as well.

                                                            ****

In this conflict, the one thing that is inevitable is peace.  No matter how many religious doctrines preach hatred; no matter how many times Israeli and Palestinian authorities trade human lives to keep their hold on power; no matter how often Western and Arab governments interfere for their own ends; no matter how many individuals are driven by revenge to kill, peace will prevail.

No matter how futile the right path seems to religious leaders; no matter how many negotiations fail to deliver a solution; no matter how often world leaders are frustrated in their efforts to bring a settlement; no matter how often individuals fail to get justice, peace will prevail.