things that are thrown & other musings: stones & teargas in Aida

I sat on the roof of our new apartment this evening to write birthday postcards to my sister and niece. The weather changed quickly in the past few days from dry, heavy summer to chilly autumn and my meager sweatshirt barely cut it. Sounds of the refugee camp spread out before me, children yelling, hammers banging, the constant drone of a place that is 0.03 square miles large and is home to around5,000 people.

A boy yelled “ya allah” (oh god) and I turned to see three streams of teargas arching over rooftops near the camp’s entrance. A few more booms followed.  Kids watched from the rooftops. A voice cleared on the loudspeaker and began the evening call to prayer. Clouds turned to ash as the sun slipped behind Beit Jala.

The second time we visited Aida was our first time encountering teargas.

On that hot August day I was kneeling on rough cement with a 5 year old girl, helping her take a picture when people suddenly came running, holding cloth to their faces. The air became needles. We rushed inside, the small ones cried and coughed, and our eyes started tearing. When the air cleared Muki and I headed toward the entrance of Aida, invariably hitting clouds of the invisible gas. We still weren’t sure what was going on.  A group of young men with rock slingers and cloths tied around their faces- identity protection- ran past a waiting ambulance, followed by teargas.

We got on a roof with other local and international photographers. Below us dozens of young men threw rocks at about 10 fully armed soldiers a few hundred feet away. The soldiers occasionally rocketed a canister of teargas toward the boys, and a few of the brave ones would plunge into the burning fumes to grab the canister and hurl it back at the soldiers, or generally away from the camp, while the rest ran away until their eyes stopped crying.  We learned these clashes had been sparked by the death of three Palestinians by Israeli soldiers near Ramallah a few days previously.

We moved to Aida last week, grateful to be closer to work and be able to see another, different, Palestinian reality, but a question is growing on our kitchen table: what does it mean to choose to live in a refugee camp? People do not choose to be refugees. The people living here have been doing so for six and a half decades (since 1948) waiting for the time when they will return to their ancestors’ or childhood villages, as is their right under international law. The refugees do not own the houses they have paid to build, or the land on which they live. 

There were clashes the day we moved in, sparked by the intense repression of Palestinians in Hebron that had been sparked by the death of an Israeli soldier.  From what we have gathered, throwing stones is a form of everyday resistance practiced frequently, and is always responded to with teargas, rubber bullets and stunt grenades. It’s so common, in fact, that I haven’t really noticed how often the clashes have happened in the past 10 days living here. But they are especially intense when there is a peak in violence against Palestinians in the area.

A few days later, our friend Ibrahim got a permit to cross the checkpoint into ’48 (as Israel is called here). It was supposed to have been a two-week permit for a time of Christian feasts, but it arrived in the mail the day before it was going to expire.  We went with him to al-Quds (Jerusalem) so he could visit a few friends and we all could have one day in the city together.  Initially we weren’t sure if the Old City would be open, as there have been intense clashes there for a few weeks during which extremist Jews have stormed the al-Aqsa Mosque compound (closed to all non-Muslims except for weekly tourist hours) (it’s the compound that has the Dome of the Rock, but the al-Aqsa mosque is a different building).  Reports have come out about Israeli soldiers firing teargas at Muslim worshipers and that extremists have damaged parts of the mosque.

It turned out that the Old City was open, and as we meandered through the winding cobbled streets I got a call from by boss at PNN. She asked if everything was alright. I was confused, said yes, and realized there must have been something going on in Aida. The next day I learned that the camp clashes had been particularly intense, sparked by the continued violence at al-Aqsa mosque.  

The next day our tap water tasted vaguely, but distinctly, like teargas.

photos & post by Jesse