Images of stone-throwing Palestinian youths are one of the enduring images of the intifada, but how does the portrayal on television differ from the reality on the ground? Having asked friends in the region for a more detailed account and I was encouraged to go to Ramallah on a Friday to see for myself.
I asked what time it started: immediately after prayers. And that was where I rubbed shoulders, literally, with the terrorists of Hamas and Islamic Jihad. I was in good company - Reuters and other television crews were covering the march. I think I saw another tourist, clutching something like the Rough Guide to Palestine.
Burning the flag
We assembled in the main square, about five hundred strong. Flags of the various factions were being waved, the chanting started and then the effigies were brought in. Men dressed entirely in black, their faces covered except for eye slits carried forward two models, the first a settlement with a train approaching and soldiers milling, the second a coffin draped in the Israeli flag rising into a helicopter.
There were children too, proudly sporting Hamas baseball caps, out with Dad and his mates – what sort of influence was this on these kids who looked no older than ten? In great theatre the effigies were doused in petrol for the cameras and then set alight. As a morale booster it was impressive, as a means of protesting the Israeli occupation, it was appalling. And I knew that that would be on the news that night and the Palestinians would be labelled terrorists as a result.
Graffiti writing to set the context
We then had a forty-minute walk to the checkpoint and I think it was on this march that I saw the graffiti that stopped me in my tracks:
A settler a day keeps the doctor away.
In much the same way as the other arresting graffiti I saw in a conflict zone (on a wall in Pale, wartime capital for Mladic and Karadzic during the Balkan Conflict - We want war, Peace is Death), it was a reminder that feelings run high, history is intertwined and the tendency for a visiting foreigner to draw simplistic black and white conclusions is wrong.
I have seen the stone throwing on television many times, but the reality was rather different from the portrayal. Careful not to get into the firing line, I settled for a spot near the ambulance crew. The driver was ready and four other medics, each with a hand on the stretcher, were crouched in sprint preparation.
Ahead, behind a concrete barricade, sat a lonely armoured jeep, perhaps forty metres from the Palestinians. What amazed me was how many stones there were lying around. I would have thought that they would have used up the national supply by now, unless they have a factory churning them out. The Israelis recently closed down an area to Palestinian access, citing the ground there had ‘too many stones.’
Rubber bullets hurt
There was a rusted base of a vehicle and that was used as a shield as the stone throwers inched forward. Some had slings and hence more distance. Most stones never even reached the front line and almost all of those that did landed some way from the jeep. As a means of letting off steam it was understandable, as a means of attack or anything that could have posed a threat, it was laughable.
The sudden crack of the first rubber bullet rang loud and all cowered. And then another. And another. The medics tightened their grip on the stretcher. Perhaps ten shots were fired without injury and then a teenager, who had been sitting quietly on a wall some way back from the main action, was hit.
Ambulance sirens and stretcher at the ready. While he was whisked off, a second ambulance and stretcher team took pole position. They tried to kick the teargas grenade away but one youth took the full brunt. As he was led away by a medic, his eyes streaming and unable to see anything, I noticed his right hand: fist clenched around his rock. Defiant to the end.
My first taste of live bullets was in Ramallah. It was suggested I go and check out the northern checkpoint to see what was happening. Things were extremely tense due to the provocative attempts to lay the cornerstone of the temple. My driver only took me so far and told me to walk the rest. Having no desire to get shot, I proceeded with caution, asking all the way whether it was safe to proceed.
I made it to a wall where some Palestinian soldiers were waiting. I felt like a war journalist, especially when I heard the first exchange of fire. It was loud, quick, intense. Bullets were whizzing through the air, but I had no idea where from and where to. I stuck closer to the soldiers who were smoking lazily and laughing at my furrowed brow.
And then I saw the most curious thing - two Palestinian teenage girls, dark hair flowing in the wind, casually walking towards the Israeli checkpoint while there were bullets flying everywhere, seemingly oblivious to the ambulance passing them carrying a man with bullet wounds to the leg. When one of the soldiers shouted at them to go back, they looked genuinely surprised. I have heard stories about being calm in war, but this was something else.
It was clear on a mere cursory visit that the whole truth about daily events does not emerge, and the propaganda war has been clearly won by one side. The greater tragedy is the human suffering on all sides, with no logical end in sight.
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
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