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Report of the demonstration in Susiya 22.6.2012
From: The Villages Group
Date: Mon, Jun 25, 2012 at 10:31 AM
Subject: Demonstration in Susiya 22.6.2012 - David Shulman`s Report
http://villagesgroup.wordpress.com/


June 22, 2012 Susya

I doubt if Palestinian Susya has ever seen so many people. Some 500, maybe more, have arrived from Jerusalem (including a large Palestinian delegation from East Jerusalem), Tel Aviv, Beer Sheva, and various sites in the occupied territories: Beit Umar, Mufagara, and the khirbehs close to Susya. It`s a mixed Palestinian-Israel crowd. I see many veterans of the early years of Ta` ayush, some of them returning to Susya after a long time. We know the Susya people well: we have stood by them in the face of many violent attacks by settlers and soldiers, celebrated weddings and births with them, accompanied them to their grazing grounds, fought the legal battle with them, installed wind-turbines in the village and the surrounding khirbehs, plowed and harvested in the fields, ate and slept in their tents. Today they are serious, even grim, and with good reason: two weeks ago the Civil Administration sent its inspectors to distribute demolition orders covering nearly the entire village, its tents, ramshackle huts, animal pens, the wind turbine, the cultural center everything. If the bulldozers arrive next week or the week after, it will be the fourth large-scale expulsion of these people from their lands. If you add the partial expulsions over the last ten years, this will be at least the sixth or seventh.

Today there are no speeches; there is no need to retell the story. It is late morning, the summer sun a dusty fire, the hills parched yellow, gold and white. We hit the ground running. Within a few minutes, as the buses disgorge their passengers, we are marching with the Susyans toward the archaeological park that was once the original village, where many lived in caves. They were driven out of it in 1986, three years after the Israeli settlement of Susya was established over the hill. Today they are heading home.

We ascend through the village escarpment, turn left over the rocky slopes. A strange, focused solemnity takes hold, mixed with pride, despair, a trace of joy. They are going home. We all know, of course, that the army will never let us reach that goal, but there is something right and true about expressing it directly, mapping it, with our feet. Can a person forget a first home? The women of Susya are conspicuous today, often leading the marchers. Children wave flags. A contingent of clowns has arrived, in full costume a memory of the Sheikh Jarrah demonstrations. We pass close to one of the old wells off bounds to the Susya people for years, under threat of being shot and weave our way rapidly through the thorns toward the heavy green metal gate at the entrance to the archaeological site.

The first stun grenades go off. They seem to come in volleys, an announcement by the army that they won`t let us go any farther. One explodes beside Eyal, deafening him, for now, in one ear. We mostly ignore them. Soon they are followed by minor rounds of tear gas. It takes a minute or two before I feel the slight burning in my eyes and throat; I watch the white trails of smoke rise and dissipate in the blue sky. I`ve stupidly forgotten to bring along an onion, the only effective antidote to tear gas; fortunately, the soldiers seem not too eager to saturate us with gas at this point. The real threat comes from the Bo esh the Skunk, the army`s Doomsday Weapon, which sprays an unbearable stench into a crowd, effectively paralyzing it. I`ve never experienced it directly, but I`ve heard about the misery it inflicts; the stench sinks into your pores and clothes and stays there for days. People vomit for hours. The Bo`esh sits atop a long white military vehicle, with a movable turret that has a way of seeking out targets, swerving from side to side, up and down. It`s a little scary when it fixes its sights on you. It`s also maddeningly impersonal, an infernal machine that lacks a human face; you can`t see the driver or the gunner or the officer who will give the order to open fire.

A Palestinian man walking beside me laughs. Let them spray me, he says. It`s only right. It`s a stinking Occupation. He`s not afraid. A few more stun grenades go off. By now the soldiers have formed a long line, a human wall, to keep us from advancing. They`re a mix of Border Police and reservists; all of them are sweating heavily in the sun under their inevitable load of lethal metal, loaded guns, helmets, ammunition belt, boots, vest, the standard getup designed to maximize misery.


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