TITLE: Sha'aban Wants a House Made From Metal

AUTHOR: Amira Hass

PUB: Ha'aretz

DATE: May 14, 2001

Lined up on both sides of the narrow road, like sentries, stands a group of men dressed in white robes. Their faces are draped in white headscarves, with slits for eyes, nose and mouth. Tied around their foreheads are green headbands emblazoned with the word "Hamas." Their white robes bear the inscription: "Let me die a martyr." They are members of the Al Qassam brigade. It was this faceless guard that lined the street during the funeral procession of Mohammed Abiyat, killed on May 6 in the IDF attack on Beit Jala. As they drove by in their car, some of Abiyat's friends and fellow Fatah members fumed at what they saw as a show, a ploy to attract attention rather than a true reflection of Palestinian reality. It was a brief reminder of the unconcealed rivalry between Fatah and Hamas, both scrambling to be No. 1 in defense of the Palestinians and in the fight for independence. "We are the leaders of the battle," claims Fatah. "We head the demonstrations. Most of the dead are ours." Down the road from the Hamas sentry, the funeral cortege passes the car of Hussein Abiyat, the first Fatah activist assassinated by Israel during the second Intifada. His mangled car, hit by a missile, has been left at the side of the road. So people won't forget. Mohammed Abiyat, killed on May 6, 2001, is a cousin of Hussein Abiyat, killed on November 8, 2000. From pothole to pothole We never made it to the graveside ceremony. The mourners moved slowly from east Bethlehem to the lands of Ta'amra, where Abiyat lived, some on foot and some by car, the cars bouncing up and down over the gravel, from pothole to pothole. By the time we reached Ta'amra, the Palestinian officers and policemen who had fired volleys in Abiyat's honor were dispersing. "Next time, we'll use the other road," says one of the passengers, implying that there will be opportunities to learn from our experience. There will be another victim, another funeral. During the long drive, the conversation flitted back and forth between wisecracks and serious comments on the situation: jailhouse memories (about the detainees from Gaza, whose cells always smelled of chili peppers, a staple of the Gazan diet), remarks on the disorganized nature of Palestinian political and military activity ("if things are too orderly, we get lost"), criticism of the dictatorial regimes in all Arab societies, including Palestinian society. "I have my very own isolation cell up there," says S., one of the passengers, pointing to a hilltop in the distance. He is referring to a secluded spot he visits when he wants to be alone and calm his nerves. "I learned from Sharon that you have to head for the hills," he quips. As the procession comes to a halt for the umpteenth time, this time to allow masses of worshipers to exit from the Othman mosque, the radio announces the death of a 4-month-old Palestinian girl in the IDF shelling of Khan Yunis. S., a refugee and veteran Fatah activist who spent a dozen years in Israeli jails, suddenly remembers a scene from his youth. When he was in high school, he used to work in Israel every summer. Once he was on a bus in Tel Aviv. In the next seat was a mother holding a baby boy. All of a sudden the baby leaned over and began to play with S.'s hair. "He was so sweet," recalls S., 24 years later. Now, all of life is characterized by these abrupt transitions from joking around to mourning; from grief and anger when someone is killed, to accepting that it will not be the last; from visiting a severely-wounded acquaintance in the hospital or the site of a recently demolished home, to inspecting the new house being built by a brother. From time to time, this restless existence is punctuated by the sounds of nearby gunfire and anxious thoughts: Will they attack again today? If they do, where shall we hide? What direction will the shooting come from this time? Caught in the crossfire All the villages around Bethlehem are surrounded by army posts, lookout towers and tanks. On the morning of May 6, the shooting erupted from all directions. First gunfire, then shelling. Fardus Issa, Akram Issa and their three children were caught in the crossfire on the first night they slept in their new house in al-Iskan, a neighborhood between Beit Jala and Doha. Al-Iskan was transformed into a battleground as an IDF force that entered Area A exchanged fire with armed Fatah activists and Palestinian security forces. Among them was Mohammed Abiyat, killed when an artillery shell hit the building from which he was firing on Israeli troops. The IDF says this attack was a response to Palestinian sniping on the Tunnel Road. Fardus and Akram Issa, both in their late thirties, were born in the Dehaishe refugee camp. His family came from Zakariya and her family from Sulfa - two villages southwest of Jerusalem. In 1982, when Akram was sent to jail for a year and a half for his political involvement with the Popular Front, his mother came to visit and told him of her plans to buy a plot of land on the hill opposite Dehaishe. Akram thought it wasn't necessary. "We already have the house in Dehaishe," he said. "What more do we need?" But his mother went ahead and bought the land anyway. It was cheap, and she could pay it off in installments. Akram and Fardus began building a house there six years ago. A friend of theirs, who was studying architecture, drew up the plans. They borrowed money from friends and family, and spent most of what they earned on paying back their debts. Every day, they visited the site to see how the construction was coming along. They made a few changes in the blueprints and began to weed and hoe, in preparation for a garden. The second Intifada did not keep them from going ahead with their plans. On August 1, they expected to move into a finished house, fully furnished, on a hill overlooking Bethlehem and the Judean hills. They could see almost as far as Hebron. In the meantime, only the top floor, meant for guests and hot summer nights, was ready for use, fitted with a kitchenette, toilet and shower. All their neighbors in Doha are former inhabitants of overcrowded refugee camps in the region: Ayda, Azza, Dehaishe, al-Arub. The move was preceded by arguments, hesitation and finally, a mental switch - personal and collective. "It took some time before we came to the conclusion that being refugees is part of our being, not the kind of house we live in or how much money we have," says Akram. "We accept the idea of two states, but we are not prepared to forget and erase our history. We have not forgotten that we are from Zakariya and Sulfa." For the last 10 years, Akram has been working for FAFO, a Norwegian research organization that indirectly assisted in setting up the Israeli-Palestinian talks in Oslo. At the moment, he is involved in two projects: a study of economic and social conditions in Palestinian society in collaboration with Unesco, and the revival of the People to People program which organizes encounters between Israelis and Palestinians as a basis for peaceful co-existence. This last project has been severely criticized by the Palestinian community. Many people feel it perpetuates the falsehood that Oslo created a new reality of peace between equals. "I believe in dialogue," says Akram, "but not the kind envisioned by Shimon Peres, who wants to use the Palestinians as agents." Fardus, a guidance counselor, works for the YMCA in Beit Sahur. She is involved in a family and group therapy program that helps parents, children and teachers cope with crisis. She wrote her MA thesis on treating childhood traumas. Much of her information and insight is derived from her work with families who lost their dear ones in the massacre carried out by Dr. Baruch Goldstein in 1994 at the Ibrahimi mosque (Tomb of the Patriarchs) in Hebron. Huddling on the stairs When the first bullets began to whistle over their heads at 7:45 A.M. on Sunday morning, the Issas ran for the stairway leading down to the garage. For an hour and forty minutes, the five of them huddled together on the steps, hugging one another and thinking what to do next. The main thing was not to panic. Like Fardus always teaches people in her courses. Still, it was hard to listen to children screaming and crying. The water tank was hit by bullets and water began dripping down the steps and onto their heads. Roofing tiles broke off and sailed to the ground. Suddenly an artillery shell smashed into the roof. From the impact, the garage door flew open. That was a signal for them to make a run for it. They dashed out the door, but IDF troops were already spread out on the hill, between the houses. "The soldiers were on foot," says Fardus. "They were wearing special bulletproof suits that made their bodies look round. They looked like they just stepped out of a space ship." The troops did not advance all at once because the Palestinians were firing on them. Fardus says she saw them withdraw a few times and then return as the shelling intensified. Meanwhile, another shell hit their roof. As they stood at the entrance to the garage, they heard the neighbors yelling at them to get down on the ground. Suddenly they saw that the whole family from Dehaishe was there. They had rushed over as soon as they heard about the battle going on in the neighborhood. They were all standing on the road, unable to come closer because of the shooting, unable to help. Ambulance crews and firemen tried to approach but the soldiers shot at them too. Fardus doesn't remember how long they cowered in the garage before taking advantage of a short lull in the shooting to escape to the hills. From there, they could see their house engulfed in flames. "At least you didn't lose any of your children," a neighbor said to Fardus. Several other homes had been hit, two of them with their occupants inside. "[The Israelis] don't want the refugees to have beautiful homes," says Akram. "They think only the settlers deserve them." The day after the shelling, dozens of well-wishers visited the Issas to congratulate them on having escaped unharmed. Luckily, the house was not furnished yet; otherwise the damage would have been greater. Their son Sha'aban is the only one willing to go into the empty house, its floors covered with puddles and a fine layer of ash from the fire. Black soot clings to his face, hands and clothing. "Here comes our chimney-sweep," laughs Fardus. As she looks around in shock, surveying the damage, it is clear that she has not lost her sense of humor. When someone asks her how long it has taken to build the house, she replies: "Six years. We support implementation in stages." She fears it may take another two years to raise enough money to repair the roof, windows and doors, and move in. Akram promises it won't take more than a year. But Nidal, twelve and a half, wants to stay in Dehaishe, "so we won't die," Wisan, four and a half, wants to "go away from here," and Sha'aban, 9, wants "a house built out of metal. END top