The Long, Strange Trip Into Beit Jalla

The sky is overcast, and it begins to drizzle on the hills surrounding Bethlehem as we arrive at the mound blocking the entrance to the village of Beit Jalla. We drive slowly -- a convoy of about a hundred cars and four trucks, all loaded with food and medicine -- and then come to a halt.

The people of Beit Jalla have been under curfew for the last month, with no end in sight. For the first time in several days, the curfew has been lifted for a few hours, allowing them to stock up supplies (not that the shops in the village have much to offer). Several dozen residents decide to spend this precious time on coming to the roadblock in order to welcome us.

We shake hands and embrace, and then get down to work. The food in the cars is unloaded and passed over the mound to a truck waiting on the other side. Several boxes full of medicine -- urgently needed in a hospital for the mentally ill -- pass hands as well. Three of the trucks continue to other destinations (through a nearby road, controlled by the army), to villages and refugee camps in the Bethlehem area whose situation is even worse than that of Beit Jalla.

Meanwhile, Ta'ayush (an Arab-Jewish group that combines humanitarian aid with political action) organizes a public meeting. The Mayor of Beit Jalla is the first speaker. I listen to his description of life under curfew and constant siege as I pass through the crowd. I am looking for the parents of Laith, a nine year-older from Beit Jalla.

A few months ago, during a previous round of violence, Laith was smuggled out of his enclosed village by friends, and enjoyed a picnic and a visit to a theme-park in Israel. For one day he was like any other kid, free to run outside and play. This is how I got to know and like him; my family had joined him on his one day of freedom, and my six-year-old son Amos was one of his playmates. Now I get to meet his parents, a charming couple. It is an emotional moment.

For a brief while we have what resembles a normal conversation among parents. They inquire about Amos, I about Laith. But Laith's childhood is by no means normal. He has been confined to his home for four weeks now, without a single breath of fresh air. Even now, his parents don't allow him out. Too risky. They left him with his aunt, and must soon return for another unknown period of house-arrest. We part with the hope of meeting soon, perhaps under better circumstances.

I try to imagine my son, Amos, in Laith's situation, and find it hard to do. What do you tell a boy his age? How does one explain the need to stay at home? To be patient? What does he think when he sees soldiers roaming the village streets, imposing curfew and taking away his freedom?

Speaking of soldiers, they surround us from all sides. Yuri, one of the convoy's organizers is now speaking and addressing the military. He tells the soldiers that they are unwelcome here. He urges them to leave and return as guests rather than occupiers and colonizers, and wishes them a safe trip home. He tells them about the misery they are inflicting on the Palestinian civilians. About the hunger and poverty. About the feeling of the farmer who helplessly sees his crops rotting, unable to tend to them.

Yuri is followed by Liora. She speaks of the Palestinian women -- whose husbands have been detained by the army, and who are now single mothers caring for their children-- as the true victims and heroines of this war. The soldiers stand around us, revealing no emotion. I don't know what they are thinking. But it is clear they wish to be seen as part of our event. By allowing humanitarian aid to pass, they hope to prove that they are "the most humanitarian army in the world." One of them is even documenting the happening with a video-camera, presumably for PR purposes.