June/July 2002, pages 26-28

Special Report

From Would-be Volunteer Peacekeeper to Involuntary Israeli Detainee

By Alison Weir

Sometimes it seems essential to do more than you’ve been doing—to emphatically and physically oppose violence and injustice.

And so on Easter Sunday I made the decision to go to the Palestinian occupied territories and join those who were acting as “human shields” against the bullets my tax money was buying. For months I had been reading about courageous actions by people from all over the world who had gathered to protect besieged Palestinian families from assault by Israeli military forces.

People of all ages, “Internationals” as they were called, were going to Palestine to provide the international presence Palestinians had been pleading for since the beginning of the intifada. Had such a U.N. delegation not continuously been vetoed by Washington at Israel’s behest, it would, without question, have saved hundreds of lives and thousands of mutilations. Parents grieving for lost children; children forever orphaned; men, women and children permanently paralyzed, missing limbs, missing eyes—Palestinians and Israelis alike—would still be whole today if such an international force had been sent. But it had not.

Finally, people of conscience increasingly decided to provide this presence themselves. Some groups had already been active in the Palestinian territories for months, and sometimes years: Christian Peacemaker Teams made up of individuals from the U.S. and Canada had been risking their lives in Hebron since 1995. Israeli peace activists had joined Palestinian nonviolent demonstrations and marches, had sat in front of Israeli bulldozers to try to prevent them from demolishing Palestinian family homes—only to be met with violence from Israeli forces.

While almost none of this was covered in mainstream American news reports, I had been learning about these activities in the Washington Report and on the Internet, where it was possible to read the reports from European and Israeli newspapers. The Web sites of regional and international humanitarian organizations also provided numerous first-hand accounts.

These accounts were by turns inspiring, troubling, chilling. I read of an Israeli woman, having joined a march by Palestinian villagers, whose arm had been twisted behind her back by Israeli soldiers until it snapped. She was then held by these soldiers for hours until finally being released and allowed to go to a hospital in Israel. I learned of a European woman in a march years earlier whose eye had been shot out.

Most recently, members of this growing number of peaceful Internationals had been fired on by Israeli soldiers; five had been wounded. An Italian journalist had been shot and killed. A Boston Globe reporter had been shot in the shoulder, the bullet barely missing his neck.

I am 54 years old. I have three children. I am no longer of the age where one may feel invulnerable. I was not unaware of the nature of the place I was about to visit. I was not ignorant regarding the activities I planned to join. But I was also aware that hundreds of people were already doing this; that many were older than I, most far younger. And I was aware that their presence was saving lives.

They were living with families in refugee camps, and as a result these camps were spared the brutal shelling they might otherwise have received. They were carrying food and medicine into areas desperate for both. They were working to de-escalate the cycle of violence that ultimately took Israeli lives as well, and that, without such intervention, inevitably will claim a growing number of American lives.

I hoped to help in this. I also hoped that my presence as an American citizen would draw American news coverage, increase the information being reported in the U.S., and alert Americans to our direct responsibility for Middle East violence through the over 10 million tax dollars per day that we provide Israel.

Working temporarily with a Palestinian colleague who planned to remain in the U.S., we announced plans to organize an “emergency delegation” to join what had grown into an international movement coordinated by such groups as Grassroots International Protection for Palestinians (GIPP) and the International Solidarity Movement (ISM). Our announcement, surprisingly, drew an extraordinary amount of press attention—all of it positive and unbiased. Amazingly, our plans were given the prime spot on the front page of the San Francisco Examiner. It was the lead news story on almost every local TV channel. We were interviewed on numerous radio shows.

The response from all this publicity was overwhelmingly positive. Apart from a minute number of hostile phone calls, we were hearing from a steady flow of people asking how they could apply to join the delegation, phoning with encouragement, donating money to help pay the airline costs of those traveling to Palestine. One person specifically bought a satellite phone to send with us, and others bought bandages and medicines for us to take along. Still others brought the life-sustaining medications that their relatives, under Israeli-imposed curfews and closures, were unable to obtain.

Finally, after a frenetic two weeks, our group was assembled. Many who had considered joining the delegation had reconsidered—something I urged, given the potential danger involved. Several had joined at the last minute.

When we arrived at Ben-Gurion Airport, however, it quickly became apparent that Israel did not welcome our efforts for peace. When I presented my passport and my name was entered into the computer, there was a troubling pause, as the official gazed intently at the screen. This person told me to wait there, and brought a supervisor, who spent some minutes looking at the screen before taking me aside to a waiting area.

Eventually, an official told me, “You are denied entry. We are not giving an explanation.” The others in the group were also denied entry, again with Israeli officials stating they would provide no explanation. Of course, we objected vehemently, but to no avail whatsoever. We were then taken to the other side of the airport, where we were locked in two small detention cells, one for males, one for females, with a desk and an armed guard in the middle. By this time it was about 4 a.m.—approximately 30 hours since we had departed from the San Francisco airport.

One of the Israeli security officials told me that I would “never be allowed to enter Israel. The others—they might be allowed in,” she said, “but never you. Everyone is saying your name. You will never be allowed into Israel.”

I asked her why. She said, “I don’t know. You know. Everyone is saying your name. You will never be allowed into Israel. What did you do when you were here before?”

I told her that I had done nothing; I had wandered around and talked to people, taken photographs. I suspected it wasn’t about what I had done a year earlier during my month in Gaza and the West Bank. I suspected, rather, that it was about what I had done since: Traveling around my country making every effort I could to tell Americans what I had seen. I suspected it was about what I had hoped to do again—report back to Americans about how their money is being used by Israel.

In the women’s cell in which three of us were locked, we found the two double bunks already occupied There were three women from the Ukraine and a woman of Malay ethnicity who had been born in Singapore but had UK residency. She was a Christian and had come with her fiancé “to get married in the Holy Land.” Instead, Israeli officials had taken one look at her and locked her in this cell with bars on the window. (Her fiancé was a British citizen, however, and he had been allowed through.) She was told she would have to return to England for a visa, despite the fact that she had flown on El Al, and had cleared their rigorous screening. She was quite distraught, but seemed happy to find someone to whom she could tell her story.

It was harder to communicate with the Ukrainian women, but fortunately my two American cellmates knew some Russian and were able to converse a little. It seemed that one of the women—22 years old—had been locked in there for five days. All three apparently had problems with their passports, and were told they were being returned to their points of origin as soon as a flight was available. The women showed us pictures of their children; the 22-year-old, “Natasha,” showed us a photo of her four-year-old son. The boy apparently had some sort of life-threatening illness, and his mother wept when she showed us his picture.

I don’t know why these three women were incarcerated. Perhaps they were “guest workers” replacing the Palestinians who no longer are allowed out of Gaza and the West Bank to work at the menial tasks they were previously allowed to perform. “Natasha” may have been among those being brought in from Eastern Europe to work as prostitutes. Apparently when these passports are occasionally discovered to have been falsified, those who arranged them are nowhere to be seen.

As American citizens, we naturally attempted to assert our “rights.” I insisted that I be allowed to call the American Embassy and eventually was permitted to do this. I reached a duty officer at home—by now it was approximately 7 a.m.—and she said she would ask someone to call me when the business day started at the embassy. I also asked her to call my daughter to tell her what had happened.

I also called the British Embassy and told them that a UK resident was being held in a detention cell; the person I talked with seemed concerned, and said she would look into it. Next, I phoned the Ukrainian Embassy, and reached a recording.

After more calls to the American Embassy, a consular official finally arrived. This man told us he could do nothing, that Israel had the right to deny us entry. We protested, of course—again to no avail. He then said he could talk about our case publicly only if we signed a release. Most of us agreed to, until one of our group was able to see a file held by this man’s assistant, who held Israeli citizenship, which said that, according to a phone call, we were there to assist the PLO.

The person who saw this objected vehemently, and asked where this information had come from. The official said this information was confidential, and that he would look into it. The others then refused to sign a privacy release. I chose to sign the release—once again, I was there to get publicity for what was going on, not prevent it—but told the State Department representative that I wanted to see any statements that were made in regard to me. He agreed.

I also told him I was extremely concerned about the American citizens who were being held—and often tortured—by Israel, and asked what the U.S. Embassy was doing for them. He said he was also very concerned about them.

I also received phone calls from my daughters and from various activists in the Bay Area. I have since learned that these people were extremely busy phoning the media, our Congress people, etc. in an attempt to get us released. Others in Palestine, including Adam Shapiro, were also making numerous calls on our behalf. I am eternally grateful for all the work these people did. Several San Francisco mainstream radio stations telephoned and conducted live interviews with me from the detention cell. I was extremely surprised at this media attention, but very happy that what was happening to us was becoming public.

Most of our time under detention was spent talking, dozing, and occasionally singing—my two group members turned out to be enthusiastic and talented vocalizers, to the delight of the rest of us. We were given meals that were quite acceptable, but nothing to drink. I was by this time desperate for caffeine, but could not convince the various guards to bring us any tea or coffee. We were allowed out to use a filthy restroom with a door that did not lock from the inside. (Perhaps, I speculated, our incarcerators were concerned that I might construct a fertilizer bomb that would endanger the state of Israel. I did once get an A+ in organic chemistry, of course, so perhaps their fears were not entirely baseless.)

Some of the guards were hostile; others were apologetic, but spoke about Israel’s need to “defend itself.” I told them how many, many more Palestinian civilians had been killed and maimed in the last year and a half, and tried to convince them—as I did everyone—that they should care about ALL human lives, not just certain ones.

Finally, after almost 24 hours, we were to be allowed out and placed on a flight back to the U.S. By this time all the others in our cell also had been released, except for Natasha, who had cried when her fellow Ukrainians departed and she was left behind. We worried about her safety, given that all the guards were male and that one, at least, “liked women,” as the UK resident had told us. He had been stroking the Ukrainians’ faces before we arrived, she told us. I then decided not to leave before they agreed either to release Natasha or to provide a female guard.

I dozed off—by that point we had been up for approximately three days—and was awakened by three guards standing over me and telling me to come with them. Refusing, I explained my concerns and demands. They insisted that I leave, saying they would force me to if they had to. One of them said I should be equally concerned about the Israelis being held in the U.S. after Sept. 11.

When I continued my one-person sit-in, they dragged me along the floor to the outer office. When they realized that they were going to have to drag me the entire way to the plane (not the positive image of Israel they no doubt try to give international travelers), they finally brought a female guard and said she would replace the normal male guard. I then stood up, told this guard that she was now personally responsible for Natasha’s safety—that Natasha was the same age as my daughters, and that she was now directly responsible to see that nothing happened to her. I then agreed to leave.

Of course, I had no way of knowing whether any of this would do any good, but at the time it seemed all that I could do. I was then driven out to the plane, where the others were already boarding, and we began the trip home.

Upon our arrival at the San Francisco airport, we found three local camera crews waiting to interview us. Their resulting broadcasts—the ones I saw, at least—were accurate and unbiased.

I am intensely frustrated that we failed to make it into the Palestinian territories, where we had hoped to join those riding in ambulances, visiting Jenin, living in refugee camps, etc., and where, additionally and perhaps more importantly, we had hoped and expected to be able to provide live reports about Palestine on mainstream San Francisco radio and TV stations.

Since my return from Palestine a year ago, several of us have started an organization called “If Americans Knew.” Our mission is to tell Americans the facts we know, but most Americans don’t. We believe strongly that If Americans Knew what was being done with our money and in our name, all Americans would speak out against it.

Let’s tell them.

SIDEBAR 1

From an Israeli Detention Cell in Ben-Gurion Airport:

Why did I attempt to go to Palestine?

I went in the American tradition of “freedom riders”—to stand with those whose rights as human beings to live with dignity and autonomy are being crushed.

I went to join in peaceful, nonviolent opposition to the use of force to enlarge an ethnically discriminatory system.

I went to join those attempting to protect the enormously powerless from those whose power is almost without limit.

I went to shed light on shameful actions, and therefore, I hoped, to stop them.

I went to intercede in a vastly unequal conflict; in which one side delivers its murderous and maiming missiles by F-16s, helicopter gunships and tanks, while the other side delivers its by hand.

I went to save lives on all sides of this tragic carnage—Palestinian lives, Israeli lives, American lives; to attempt, through my presence, to reduce the death. I hoped that through my actions people would be living next month who now, I fear, will be lost and whose absence will produce unending sorrow.

I went because, with the knowledge I had gained, it would have been intolerably wrong to sit home while my tax money continued to pay for such devastation.

I went because I had no choice.

I am immeasurably saddened that I failed.

And so my obligation to act remains. Now it is to tell Americans the facts of which they are largely uninformed; the horrors that they, unknowingly, are empowering.

I feel certain that when Americans—regardless of their religion or ethnicity—learn the truth, they will finally work toward justice, and therefore peace, for this once holy land.

And the killing will stop.

—A.W.

Alison Weir is a free-lance journalist based in San Rafael, CA and a founder of “If Americans Knew.”

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