The Settler and the Stone Thrower

I managed just a few words with Mohammed before the guards led him away. After I’d turned away for just a second, the only sound I could hear was the clink of his leg irons and he was gone.

I’d come to attend Mohammed’s trial at a military court as part of an Israeli group to show support for Mohammed and his family. I’ve gotten to know his family over the past year, particularly his father, Ziad, a prominent peace activist who has forged relationships with Israelis of all political stripes and affiliations. Now, with his 15-year-old son accused of throwing stones at Israeli cars near my home in Gush Etzion, we had come to show support for Mohammed and the family, and to encourage the judge to show leniency.

Not that I take a particularly forgiving stance vis-à-vis stone throwers. Like most Israelis, I understand the need for our expansive security regime in Judea and Samaria, especially at a time that Palestinian terror attacks are happening virtually every day. Many of my neighbours in Efrat, Tekoa, Alon Shvut and elsewhere have suffered stoning attacks, and the rocks being thrown are not pebbles. The attacks have killed more than one person and injured many more. It is significant to say openly that I do not have a better solution to dealing with Palestinian terrorists than court.

But to me, calling for stiff penalties for stone throwers means also seeing first-hand what that position looks like. And although the visit was my first experience in jail, it was the latest of a series of experiences I’ve orchestrated in the Palestinian world over the past several years, trying to understand the Palestinian experience of Israel. I’ve tried to listen to ordinary Palestinians, in refugee camps at checkpoints around Judea and Samaria, in the souks and casbahs of West Bank cities and more.

Lastly, at least in this case, I was convinced that that it would be better – both for Mohammed, and for Israel, to have him at home. There, at least his father would have the opportunity to demonstrate messages of peace and reconciliation, instead of the clear messages of hate and violence he would surely ingest in prison.

In many ways, our day in court was the closest I’d come to “experiencing” Palestinian life under Israeli rule, which in many ways is simply a life-long series of delays. Palestinian friends had warned us to plan to spend the whole day at the jail – the court does not issue hearing times, only dates, meaning families arrive early and wait. Through the iron bars, we could see dozens of Palestinian parents milling in an outdoor holding cell, surrounded by fences and topped by a corrugated tin roof that provides protection from both the summer sun and the winter rains. From the outside, it was not clear if there were any drinking fountains or bathrooms.

There is no accurate way to portray the look of despair on the faces waiting to see their loved ones, mainly teenagers and young adults. It was a look I’d seen before – every time I’ve joined Palestinians as they underwent Israeli security procedures at checkpoints, at Ben Gurion Airport, at the entrance to the local Rami Levi supermarket and elsewhere. It is a look that runs deeper than an immediate issue of being frisked or having a 19-year-old soldier gruffly ask to see an ID. It is a look that betrays a deep sense of emptiness, of humiliation, of utter hopelessness. Here, the Hebrew- and Arabic language sign reading Welcome to ____ Prison  seemed like a cruel joke, accented by the announcements shouted over the loudspeaker in what sounded to me like an aggressive, abrasive Arabic.

We greeted Ziad, shaking hands through the fence to his obvious joy and the bewilderment of the other Palestinians, who couldn’t quite grasp the fact that a group of Israelis – including Orthodox settlers – had come to court with him. Then, two hours after submitting our ID cards, we were finally admitted, again for a minor taste of the Palestinian experience. Each member of the group answered some basic questions, then waited for the soldiers behind the bullet-proof glass to open the iron turnstile leading to the first of three checkpoints. Two metal detectors and a body frisk later, we were inside a maze of iron and bars.

Inside the courtroom, the judge was professional, courteous and appeared to be caring. Reporters who cover West Bank Palestinians say that trials of teenage stone throwers routinely last fewer than five minutes, and that could certainly have been the case here were it not for our presence, and the plea for leniency, made by one settler on behalf of the group.

Eventually, the judge recessed the case to gather more information. (The hearing was a closed-door session because the defendant is a minor, so the Jewish Journal cannot reveal any more details about the case.) But he did appear to have been moved by our demonstration of support.

That put the other members of the group on a bit of a high as the guards led us back to the prison gate, nearly eight hours after we had arrived but hopeful that the judge would show leniency when it came time to sentence Mohammed…

For me, however, I headed home to hug my children, thankful for the safety provided by our security establishment but haunted by the sight of Mohammed’s mother, trying hard to suppress her tears as she headed home for another night without her son, with the clink of leg irons ringing in her ears.

Andrew Friedman is a member of Shorashim/Judur, a grass-roots movement of local Israelis and Palestinians creating relationships and friendships in Judea and Samaria, as well as of the Interfaith Encounter Forum.