Qalandia - 24 October 2000

This is one of the big stories. A moment in time which, looking back, changed everything. And which saw me, seventeen years later, unable to move off the couch for two months. It’s the first time I’ve written this story down, or indeed told it in any detail. It is reconstructed entirely from memory. Indeed, I don’t even have a diary entry for this day. All I note in my diary two days later is “We got our timing wrong on Tuesday and Wednesday, hitting clashes in Qalandia. Not pleasant – but you get through.” The understatement seems surreal now!

But, as is the case with traumatic memories, key parts of this experience are seared into my brain and I can never “unsee” or “unfeel” them. How to tell this story came to me all in a rush one evening. Telling it, I realized how much healing has happened: that I even could tell it, and that I could tell it like a story – with a beginning, a middle and an end. That is a hallmark of trauma slowly healing and moving from something fixed, and constant and stuck in our memories to just one of many stories from out past.

Important background to understand this story is that under the Oslo Accords, foreign countries could establish diplomatic missions to the Palestinian Authority. However, as only Israel was a recognized state and therefore capable of granting diplomatic recognition per the Vienna Conventions, diplomats representing their governments to the Palestinian Authority worked in Palestinian controlled areas but had to live in Israeli-controlled areas. In the case of those countries with missions based in the West Bank that meant our offices were in Ramallah, but our homes in Israeli-controlled Palestinian East Jerusalem. To get to and from our offices and homes each day we were crossing the Green Line and its associated check-points at least twice a day, sometimes more if we were back and forthing between meetings.

When the second Palestinian Intifada erupted in September 2000, the checkpoints became major flashpoints between Palestinian protesters and Israeli soldiers.

This is story of one of the days we were returning home from the office in Ramallah in October 2000.

I am cautious as I put this story out there that it may seem very far from “ordinary” experience. For all of us who battle with self-esteem or self-worth, however, there are often key incidents or moments in our past that sent us down a particular path of questioning ourselves. It may only be years later that we come to realize these moments as part of our larger story that we are in some way “not good enough”. Horrifying and terrifying though this experience was, I was still relatively protected and safe. I was an adult, I had the resources of a state behind me if I needed it. But in those moments I was powerless. And it is that feeling of powerlessness – which I have experienced more times since then - that connects me to all the other women who have had experiences where they have felt scared, terrified, threatened, intimated, diminished, demeaned or put down. Yes, the particular circumstances of this event are not “normal”. But the feelings they awoke in me are the feelings of so many other women.

It’s for this reason that I put this story out there. Our stories can come from anywhere. They can big. They can be small. They can be unique. They can mundane. They all impact us. They all feed into the narrative of our lives. And if that narrative is one that we are somehow “not good enough” they are all ultimately stories of shame.

Shame survives in the shadows. Shame thrives on secrecy. Shame cannot survive being spoken. It cannot tolerate the light of compassion and humanity. While this story might not seem to be a story about shame – how could it be? I was trapped in circumstances beyond my control – the brain doesn’t respond rationally to these things. You cannot rationalize and reason your way through experiences that leave your devastated and raw and exposed and isolated and alone.

And so this story is for everyone: everyone who has felt lost; everyone who has felt that they are not worthy.

There are other stories to come. Stories that will perhaps be more relatable to “everyday” life. This is where it started, yes. But even that is a partial truth, because my reaction to this event was in many ways patterned by previous experiences as a lonely, isolated, brainy and nerdy teacher’s kid at a prestigious private all-girls school.

In some ways I am grateful for this event. It is the one true unquestionable experience that could lead to a diagnosis of PTSD. Its not that I believe in diagnoses – I don’t – but for good (or mostly for bad, sadly) they unlock insurance coverage and other forms of help and support. Trauma can happen to us all, in ways that elude reason or logic. Mine was classic trauma. But the hidden, silent traumas of neglect, of being overlooked, of being excluded, of feeling judged, demeaned or diminished are no less real or less devastating on our psyches. 

Qalandia - 24 October 2000

“Miss Sue, ma’am, we should go” says Hassan, anxiously.

“I know, I know. I’ve just need to finish sending this report through to head office and the computer is being so slow. I had to restart the connection three times already. It’s only two o’ clock, usually we have until three.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I’ve been hearing the schools may let out a bit earlier today. It’s the one month anniversary of the start of the Intifada.”

“Ok, Hassan,” I sigh. “I’ll be as quick as I can. But I’ve got to get this report through. I’m guessing another 10 minutes maybe? Tell Nagla to get ready. We can leave as soon as I’m done and the system is shut down.”

It’s an anxious few minutes. The data connection is unstable. The old UNIX system is a bear to work with. I hate it. I can’t understand why we don’t use more modern systems. But, we’re stuck with what we have. I continue anxiously watching the transmit progress bar from the back office. It’s a pokey, dark little office, with the shutters drawn. It’s a bathroom that was converted to be the secure communications center. It’s tiled in black, with black floors. It’s not a happy place to be in. But it’s the only room in the office from which we can send and receive secure communications with Pretoria.

Lately, we’ve mostly been able to miss the clashes that start up every afternoon after school gets out. Hassan, in his anxious, planning way, is always keeping an eye out for us, listening to the radio, watching the television or checking in with his own wide network of contacts and friends that tell him what’s happening, where. We generally get through fine. There have been rocks, and burning tyres, and tear-gas. We’ve had a few close calls. But I trust Hassan. He’s an excellent driver. And he takes his job to keep us all safe very seriously.

Finally the transmission is done. “Hassan,” I call out, “It’s done. I’m just shutting down. Five more minutes.”

"Yes, ma’am,” he says anxiously, “But please do hurry. We should be going.”

This whole transition from what was to what is has been hard on all of us. As Palestinians, Nagla and Hassan have lived through this before. But for me its an entirely new thing. The peace process evaporated. All the gains lost in a matter of weeks. I shut down the old UNIX system, hurry through to my office, and pick up my hand bag and other things I need to carry on working from home. We only ever manage to get about 5, 6 hours at the most, in the office these days. And there is so much work to be done, to keep head-office updated, and to try to understand what is going on. I head to the door. Hassan and Nagla are anxiously waiting. We lock the double doors behind us and go down the stairs. The Canadian offices are already deserted – seems like they’ve left early today too.

Hassan has the car ready and waiting for us. We hop in. It’s a black car. We have the diplomatic number plates and the magnetic diplomatic decals on the sides of the car, but it’s not bullet proof. We try to make ourselves as visible and identifiable as possible, flying the South African flag from the hood of the car. But in the midst of the crush of the checkpoints, it doesn’t seem like the Israeli soldiers or the Palestinian protesters really care.

We drive through Ramallah. Its eerily quiet. No-one is on the streets or out shopping. We wind through the back roads and come out on the main road, about a mile or so from the main check-point at Qalandia. We catch a whiff of tear-gas. We hear some pops in the distance. We look at each other anxiously. Further down the road we start seeing more rocks. They are always there, but today there are more. Suddenly, we’re in the middle of it. The traffic is backed up on either side of the check point, more cars coming in from behind us. Hassan is driving, Nagla is next to him, I’m in the back. We sense the mood: angry, tense, surging.

Up ahead the Israeli soldiers at the checkpoint are checking cars, surly, abrupt, checking identification. Always holding their guns, their fingers never off the trigger. Up on the hill to the left I see a tank, its gun turret pointing down at the checkpoint. It looks ominous, sinister. The dark hole in its barrel a hole through which horrors can be unleashed. To our right the fence that demarcates the end of the runway of the long disused Qalandia airport. Behind us, in front of us, all around us, milling through the cars are young Palestinians, headscarves pulled up over their noses to try and reduce the effects of the tear gas, rocks in their hands. The atmosphere is tense. There are tyres burning off on one side of the road. Cars edge and weave around the rocks, everyone trying to get that one inch further forward. Everyone anxious. Everyone just wants to get through, past this flashpoint, home to relative safety and sanity. No-one wants to be caught up like this, trapped like chickens in a cage between the soldiers and the protesters.

Behind us we hear shouts. In the review mirror, Hassan says quickly “Duck, they’re coming.” Nagla and I get our heads down below the dashboard and seats. There are shouts, noise, confusion. We hear explosions. We hear the thud, thud, thud of rocks hitting cars. We hear the stutter of machine guns as the Israeli’s respond. We smell flames, fuel, tyres burning, tear-gas. There is a crash and an explosion near us. An improvised Molotov cocktail or something. There are more. It’s chaos. The young Israeli soldiers are screaming and shouting, shooting at anything that moves. The gun turret on the hill is swiveling, aiming, looking for a target. We’re stuck, trapped. We can’t move forward, we can’t move back. We’ve got cars in front of us, behind us, on either side of us. Everyone terrified. We just want to get through the check point. We just want to get home to safety. And we are caught up in this nightmare world of noise and guns and smoke and fire and tear-gas. The soldiers surge forward, pushing the protesters back. A few more cars get through the checkpoint. We inch forward.

“Please god,” I pray, “please god.” Why I did I push it? We should have left earlier. I curse myself for wanting to get that report through. Hassan warned us, he always tries to get us out early. Sometimes in his anxiety is annoying. But today, I should have listened to him. Oh that damn report. It wasn’t that important. We sit there, cowering down below the dashboard and seats, desperately hoping that our car doesn’t get hit. It catches a few stones. But, miraculously, it seems like the flag and decals do create some sort of the perimeter. Nothing hits the windows, nothing smashes the glass.

A few more cars get through the checkpoint. We inch forward again. We are getting closer, closer. But still there is chaos all around us. It’s terrifying. We’ve been lucky so many times. We’ve always managed to make it through before. Did we get it wrong today? The timing is always so uncertain. The mood can crack in instant, turning from protest to ugly horror in seconds. It can go from being just a bunch of young kids, school kids mostly, throwing stones idly, uselessly at fully geared up soldiers, to something else entirely. You never know when, you never know where. This time its mostly older teenagers, young adults. Wound up, angry, spoiling for a fight, trying to draw the soldiers out, irritate them, anger them, force them into doing something wrong, force them into creating another incident, force them into killing some of them.

How can this be? How can young men, in the prime of their life, be willing to throw it all away? But such are the choices before them. The boot of Israeli occupation on their neck, forever controlled, their movements limited, everything about their lives circumscribed. Or death. Death seems like a certain freedom here. They can be martyrs. They will be revered. Their families will say “they were fighting the occupation”. But the mothers will grieve and mourn another child lost. Another son claimed in this endless cycle of violence. Another generation lost to violence, schooling incomplete, no real skills or abilities.

Hassan’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He is unnaturally still and quiet. His normal chatter is gone. His eyes are darting everywhere. He’s tense, ready to spring like a tiger. He wasn’t trained for this. None of us were. We’re all civilians, caught up in this madness. He keeps the front bumper inches away from the car in front. He is not going to let anyone push in. He is aggressively defending his space. We move forward another few feet. I can see the soldiers at the check point now. They are just as young as the protesters. Their faces drawn, haggard, tired, scared. They feel just as trapped as we do, and they’re the ones in full body armour and full gear. No-one is winning here. No-one is safe here. Everyone is fighting for their lives, for freedom, to be recognized, to be heard.

The smoke billows around, a mixture of tyres, Molotov cocktails, other nameless things burning – whatever they have been able to get their hands on. I want to feel sorry for the soldiers, but I can’t. They’re the ones with the power. They’re the ones with the weapons. Whatever the protesters are doing they just have rocks and bottles and tyres. They’re improvising, trying, trying to defeat an occupying power that has overwhelming might on its side. It’s always been a battle of David and Goliath. But the Palestinians persist in pursuing strategies that cause more harm to innocents, more death and destruction. They’re not nimble and smart: if they were going to do this effectively, why send out-of-control, untrained teenagers head-on to a check-point for them to be mown down? What’s the use? You need smart strikes, in, out, guerrilla tactics. But no, they are staging this for the news. It’s all for the drama of television. But people’s lives are at stake. I see young men, boys, arms and legs bandaged up and bloodied, refusing to leave. Their faces are grimy with the smoke and the dust and the tears.

We hear the wail of an ambulance come up behind us. But the traffic can’t move, it has no-where to go. We don’t how many are injured. How many dead? We have tunnel vision. We just want to get through.

The tank on the hill, it’s ominous cannon eye keeping watch on all of us. Will it fire? It’s turret keeps moving. What will it do? What’s it loaded with? Will we all just evaporate? Is it just there to intimidate? Or what?

Finally it’s just one car in front of us. We’re almost through. It’s surreal and bizarre that in the middle of this chaos, this battle that isn’t, the checkpoint keeps running, soldiers keep on checking cars and letting them through. It’s one of those absolutely inexplicable aspects to this conflict: how somehow some things keep going on as “normal”, even as all around there is screaming, shots, fire, tear-gas.

Hassan’s face is white. He is drenched with sweat. Nagla’s too, crouched down in the footwell of the car. Her face tight. Me in the back seat, not able to think straight. “Please, god, can we just get through?” A soldier aggressively waves Hassan to roll down the window. He says something I don’t understand. Hassan responds in rapid fire Hebrew. I hear “Janoub Afriqia”. I hear “Mumathalia”. He’s explaining we’re diplomats. He hands over the papers. He reaches back for my ID card. I give it to him The soldier looks at it, scowling. It seems like he’s reluctant to let us through. Why do we get the privilege? What am I doing in this land as a foreigner? What am I here to report on? With a surly gesture he shoves the papers back to Hassan, who rolls up the window. We get the command to go forward. Hassan wants to race through, but we can’t. There are rocks on the other side and we have to thread our way between them, navigating our way through the debris and detritus of the weeks of clashes that have proceeded this.

Finally we get through. We are on clear road. We all sigh with relief. The air in the car seems to lighten. We all seem to start breathing again. It’s as if we have held our breath for an eternity. Nagla turns around to look at me, her big dark eyes questioning. “Are you OK”, she asks? “I think so, you?” She nods, shakily. “Thanks, Hassan,” I say, “You got us through.” Hassan’s voice is cracked, broken, his usual blustery, breezy manner gone. He is clearly shaken. “We couldn’t have left any later, ma’am. It’s getting worse. It think we will have casualties before this day is done.”

He drops each of us at home. I walk quietly up the stairs, unlock the door. I am greeted by the cats. My hands are shaking, my breath is shallow. I go make myself a cup of tea and come and sit down on the sofa, facing the windows. The windows face north, towards Qalandia, towards Ramallah. I see the smoke billowing up into the sky. Three, four columns of it. I hear a helicopter coming up from the south, speeding up to Ramallah. I shudder. What building is going to be demolished? How many people will be in it? The insanity of it all rocks me. I break into great, shuddering, sharp sobs. Relieved to be alive, safe, back in my apartment.

And yet, feeling as is somehow I don’t deserve it. I’m a diplomat. I’m protected. I can leave. I have rights. But the people out there, the scared young people, fighting to protect themselves, fighting to protect their land, fighting to protect their existence - what do they have? They have nothing to lose. They’d rather give their lives than carry on experiencing the humiliation that is occupation. It’s unwinnable. The more force that Israel applies, the greater it builds up the animosity against it. And if they don’t apply force, then they are accused of being weak and the government is threatened with yet another take over. It’s a mess. It’s a mess that’s been going on 40 years. It’s a mess that will go on for another 40 years.

I sip my tea. The cats come and snuggle on my lap. This moment, here, this is sanity, this real. Tomorrow we get up and do it all again. We cross the lines in the morning and again in the afternoon. How long can we carry on doing this? How long will our luck hold out? How long will the Israeli’s continue to let us access our offices? How long can I carry on being brave?

I don’t know.

I don’t know.