Gamblor
01-05-2005, 03:36 PM
Excerpt from A Psalm for Jenin.
A Psalm in Jenin introduces Doron, a principal character in the 2002 events, and portrays his formative experiences as a young officer who, with his Nahal Brigade comrades, was confronted with the hellish task of patrolling a refugee camp in Gaza during the violence of the late 1980s.
Chapter Two: Events in Jabalya
Doron was among those chosen from the unit to be sent on to Commander Training School. He graduated Outstanding Cadet. After Commander School, he was invited to undergo an additional round of special training. A new unit was being formed, a special Engineering Company that would be attached to an infantry battalion. It was the first such Engineering Unit in the Nahal Brigade, and was called the Pal-Han, the Engineering Company. This "spearhead" unit was designed to go ahead of the general infantry to sweep for mines, put bridges in place, and remove obstacles.
With the outbreak of violence in the late eighties, keeping the peace took precedence over agriculture for many Nahal units. In 1989, Doron was assigned to serve as a squad leader in a unique Nahal company of soldiers with an artistic bent. Itamar, the Company Commander, was a gifted painter. Doron's best friend Moti was a clarinetist. Doron himself was the poet of the group.
The unit was assigned to a tiny outpost in the center of Jebaliah, a teeming refugee camp in the Gaza Strip that erupted daily into spasms of violence. It was hell on earth. Open sewage ditches crisscrossed the dense neighborhoods and giant rats rummaged leisurely through mounds of garbage. A wire fence was all that separated the tiny Nahal outpost from the camp's 50,000 hostile inhabitants.
. . .
A severely retarded twelve year old took to spending long hours each day near the outpost gate. For lack of a better name, the soldiers called him Jimmy. The sentries watched him outside the compound every day, rummaging through the garbage in search of food. He liked the finely chopped Israeli salads, which he scooped out of the dumpster and ate with his hands. It was hard to watch. The soldiers asked Doron for permission to leave him hot meals. The company quickly adopted the young boy. Jimmy was the only local who was allowed to approach the outpost. The soldiers always had something for him. Whenever a care package arrived from home, the soldiers would set aside treats for Jimmy. As the months went by, he became more and more significant to the isolated young men. For a few minutes each day, they felt human. He became the company icon. One of the soldiers, a caricaturist, drew a sketch of Jimmy which was emblazoned on T-shirts for the entire unit.
Doron knew that someone was taking care of the boy, for twice a day Jimmy would reappear in clean clothes. Once, he followed Jimmy home from the base and met his mother. He learned the boy's real name. It was Anwar. Majnoon, majnoon. Min Allah, she pointed to her head. Crazy. From G-d.
At the next company briefing, Itamar warned the troops to stay away from the retarded child and to not let him near the compound. The soldiers reacted in an uproar. Jimmy was an exception, they protested. Should he be punished for the actions of others? Was that humane?
"It's for his own good," Itamar said. "They mentioned him specifically at the last intelligence briefing. It hasn't escaped the notice of certain parties that he's allowed to get close to the base. We've received an alert that he's about to be wired with explosives."
There was silence as the message sank in. Doron felt himself about to be sick and left the room. Thereafter, the soldiers left Jimmy's food in a spot far from the base and threw him candies from the jeep as they drove by. They could see him from a distance, whimpering.
When riots broke out, Jimmy would plant himself in between the stone throwers and the soldiers. "Salaam, salaam!" he would cry. Peace. Peace. Often rocks hit him, and he doubled over. But Doron never saw him cry. After one particularly violent demonstration, Jimmy remained in a fetal position on the ground after the crowd had dispersed. The company medic wanted to examine him for injuries, but Jimmy refused to let the medic touch him.
Next to the tiny outpost was a multistory UN Refugee Welfare Association (UNRWA) warehouse that housed, among other things, pharmaceuticals and toxic chemicals. Youths stole into the warehouse and tossed bottles of acid and other harsh chemicals onto the outpost from the upper windows. Sweeping up the shards of glass became a daily chore. From the nearby orchards, youths darted out to toss firebombs over the outpost gate and then quickly took cover in the orchard. The firebombs would land on the tiny volleyball court in the outpost, exploding into flames on the asphalt.
Itamar warned the owners of the orchards. "Keep the teenagers out of there. If there are more firebombs, we'll have no choice but to remove the trees."
"Cut off my hands, just don't cut my trees," one of the old men said. The orchard had been in the family for over two hundred years. But the firebombings continued, and bulldozers arrived to clear the orchard back to beyond the distance from which a firebomb could be thrown. Two elderly women and one old man lay down in front of the bulldozers. The local youths looked on with contempt. Doron and his soldiers wept together with the old men and women. There was something about the destruction of an ancient orchard that tore deep into his soul. He felt a pervading sense of futility. They knew they were punishing the innocent. Doron tried to remind himself that it was self-defense, but it didn't change how he felt. Forty meters of trees were uprooted.
Back then it was firebombs. The firebombs could do serious damage, and more than one took a toll on Doron's soldiers. One soldier, Mario, suffered third degree burns on his hands when a firebomb exploded near him. But as bad as the firebombs were, it was an era of relative innocence. The use of rifles and grenades was extremely rare.
The soldiers learned to identify the 'sharks', the inciters who fomented the crowds. The sharks had subtle ways of working a crowd into a frenzy while at the same time using it for cover. They were often masked. After the sharks had gotten a crowd going, one of them would dart out in front, throw a firebomb, and then disappear within the throng.
"They're all going to be sorry they met me," averred Udi, the Lieutenant Company Commander. "So will most of you." He took great pains to stake out his reputation as the toughest warrior in the Gaza Strip. He professed unbridled contempt for Doron's openly empathic nature. He called him xnoon. Wimp. "You're yellow. You'll see what your bleeding heart will get you."
But it didn't take long for the chinks to appear in Udi's gruff exterior. He had a way of making money mysteriously appear in the bank accounts of less fortunate soldiers. Doron would overhear conversations between Udi and the Mashakit Tash, the company personnel clerk. "Deposit this in Yakov's army bank account. He has a tough situation back home. Tell him it's a bonus from the army for soldiers serving in Gaza." Udi's father was a wealthy building contractor. Whenever a group of soldiers stopped anywhere for food, Udi always insisted on picking up the tab.
During one violent riot, Udi spotted what he was sure was the main inciter.
"Wallah, I caught the shark. Look at that guy. He's definitely the main one. I'm going after him." A tall, heavyset, bearded man, thirty five or forty, was by far the most animated of the rioters. He was holding a bicycle at arms' length above his head and was shaking it in the air. He seemed uncertain where to throw it. In the end he threw it on the rioters next to him.
"Are you sure about that one, Udi?" Doron asked him. Something looked wrong about him. The hatred in the eyes of the other rioters was unmistakable. But this man seemed randomly wild. His movements were frenzied and chaotic. He didn't seem to be focused on any one object in particular.
After Udi brought him in, it quickly became clear that the man, Abu Lutfi, was severely disturbed. At first he spat at the soldiers and tried to bite them. His body convulsed violently. After Udi gave him a cup of water, he calmed down.
Doron was amazed at Udi's tenderness with the prisoner. Udi even spoke a passable Arabic.
"Listen, Abu Lutfi," he explained to him slowly. "Whenever soldiers bring you in here, there are two words that I want you to say. 'Ayfo Udi?' Where is Udi? Then the soldiers will come and get me and I'll explain to them that you're not dangerous. OK? Can you say those two words for me?"
"Ayfo Udi". Abu Lutfi grinned broadly.
"Excellent. You'll be fine." Udi sent Abu Lutfi on his way.
As far as Doron was concerned, Udi's cover was blown.
* * *
Near the end of his stay in Jebaliah, Doron and his patrol caught a hail of rocks from a group of stonethrowers. Doron, with his wiry build and long legs, quickly took the lead as they raced after the group. He zeroed in on the leader of the gang. The man sprinted towards an alley. It was now or never. Doron leaped and tackled him by the legs. As Doron struggled to keep hold of his quarry's legs, the man reached into his jalabiyyah, his flowing robe, and pulled out a kitchen knife. Doron grabbed his hand, keeping the knife at bay. The other soldiers, who had caught up by now, fired in the air. The man appeared to surrender, but then grabbed for Doron's rifle. Doron retained his grip. After the attacker was subdued, Doron's soldiers wanted to pummel him. Doron wouldn't hear of it.
"He's our responsibility now. You all know the rules."
"But he was going to kill you!" they protested. Doron began tying the prisoner's hands.
"Don't tie him!" One of the soldiers yelled. "We know you. Then you won't let us touch him at all."
Itamar had lectured them often on the subject of Tohar Neshek, the IDF Purity of Arms ethic. "Remember," he had stressed, "You have no right to punish with violence. Only to defend."
He had a saying, "Never forget what it means to be a Jewish soldier. The significance goes far beyond that of obeying orders. Our first obligation is to act like a Jewish army."
One of the soldiers objected. "Isn't it a bit bombastic to paint ourselves as morally superior to other soldiers?"
"Take it however you want," Itamar responded. "I put it to you as an obligation, not as a badge of superiority. If anything, it's about humility. Remember: we didn't choose this situation, but the obligation to conduct ourselves as Jews is no less compulsory."
It wasn't easy, thought Doron. Hands had a tendency to take on a life of their own.
They brought the prisoner to a tent. A group of non-combat personnel were assigned to guard him until the Military Police arrived. Doron brought the prisoner food and water. His hands were still bound, so Doron held the plastic cup to his mouth as he drank. Allah yirda aleik, said the prisoner. May Allah watch over you. He was sobbing now. My enemy's blessing, thought Doron. Perhaps this is what Jacob felt after wrestling with his angel.
Doron returned to the Company Command Post to fill out an incident report. He later found out that the soldiers placed in charge of the prisoner had beaten the man. Doron was angry and disgusted that it had happened on his watch. He had taken great precautions to treat his would-be killer with honor. Itamar brought all of the guards up on charges. Regulations on excessive use of force were stringent. If the Border Police received a prisoner who had been beaten, they would set him loose as a lesson to the arresting soldiers. "If you think you can take the law into your own hands, then he's free to go." As a result, prisoners were treated with kid gloves. This was an egregious exception. All for naught, thought Doron. His enemy's blessing had been undone.
A Psalm in Jenin introduces Doron, a principal character in the 2002 events, and portrays his formative experiences as a young officer who, with his Nahal Brigade comrades, was confronted with the hellish task of patrolling a refugee camp in Gaza during the violence of the late 1980s.
Chapter Two: Events in Jabalya
Doron was among those chosen from the unit to be sent on to Commander Training School. He graduated Outstanding Cadet. After Commander School, he was invited to undergo an additional round of special training. A new unit was being formed, a special Engineering Company that would be attached to an infantry battalion. It was the first such Engineering Unit in the Nahal Brigade, and was called the Pal-Han, the Engineering Company. This "spearhead" unit was designed to go ahead of the general infantry to sweep for mines, put bridges in place, and remove obstacles.
With the outbreak of violence in the late eighties, keeping the peace took precedence over agriculture for many Nahal units. In 1989, Doron was assigned to serve as a squad leader in a unique Nahal company of soldiers with an artistic bent. Itamar, the Company Commander, was a gifted painter. Doron's best friend Moti was a clarinetist. Doron himself was the poet of the group.
The unit was assigned to a tiny outpost in the center of Jebaliah, a teeming refugee camp in the Gaza Strip that erupted daily into spasms of violence. It was hell on earth. Open sewage ditches crisscrossed the dense neighborhoods and giant rats rummaged leisurely through mounds of garbage. A wire fence was all that separated the tiny Nahal outpost from the camp's 50,000 hostile inhabitants.
. . .
A severely retarded twelve year old took to spending long hours each day near the outpost gate. For lack of a better name, the soldiers called him Jimmy. The sentries watched him outside the compound every day, rummaging through the garbage in search of food. He liked the finely chopped Israeli salads, which he scooped out of the dumpster and ate with his hands. It was hard to watch. The soldiers asked Doron for permission to leave him hot meals. The company quickly adopted the young boy. Jimmy was the only local who was allowed to approach the outpost. The soldiers always had something for him. Whenever a care package arrived from home, the soldiers would set aside treats for Jimmy. As the months went by, he became more and more significant to the isolated young men. For a few minutes each day, they felt human. He became the company icon. One of the soldiers, a caricaturist, drew a sketch of Jimmy which was emblazoned on T-shirts for the entire unit.
Doron knew that someone was taking care of the boy, for twice a day Jimmy would reappear in clean clothes. Once, he followed Jimmy home from the base and met his mother. He learned the boy's real name. It was Anwar. Majnoon, majnoon. Min Allah, she pointed to her head. Crazy. From G-d.
At the next company briefing, Itamar warned the troops to stay away from the retarded child and to not let him near the compound. The soldiers reacted in an uproar. Jimmy was an exception, they protested. Should he be punished for the actions of others? Was that humane?
"It's for his own good," Itamar said. "They mentioned him specifically at the last intelligence briefing. It hasn't escaped the notice of certain parties that he's allowed to get close to the base. We've received an alert that he's about to be wired with explosives."
There was silence as the message sank in. Doron felt himself about to be sick and left the room. Thereafter, the soldiers left Jimmy's food in a spot far from the base and threw him candies from the jeep as they drove by. They could see him from a distance, whimpering.
When riots broke out, Jimmy would plant himself in between the stone throwers and the soldiers. "Salaam, salaam!" he would cry. Peace. Peace. Often rocks hit him, and he doubled over. But Doron never saw him cry. After one particularly violent demonstration, Jimmy remained in a fetal position on the ground after the crowd had dispersed. The company medic wanted to examine him for injuries, but Jimmy refused to let the medic touch him.
Next to the tiny outpost was a multistory UN Refugee Welfare Association (UNRWA) warehouse that housed, among other things, pharmaceuticals and toxic chemicals. Youths stole into the warehouse and tossed bottles of acid and other harsh chemicals onto the outpost from the upper windows. Sweeping up the shards of glass became a daily chore. From the nearby orchards, youths darted out to toss firebombs over the outpost gate and then quickly took cover in the orchard. The firebombs would land on the tiny volleyball court in the outpost, exploding into flames on the asphalt.
Itamar warned the owners of the orchards. "Keep the teenagers out of there. If there are more firebombs, we'll have no choice but to remove the trees."
"Cut off my hands, just don't cut my trees," one of the old men said. The orchard had been in the family for over two hundred years. But the firebombings continued, and bulldozers arrived to clear the orchard back to beyond the distance from which a firebomb could be thrown. Two elderly women and one old man lay down in front of the bulldozers. The local youths looked on with contempt. Doron and his soldiers wept together with the old men and women. There was something about the destruction of an ancient orchard that tore deep into his soul. He felt a pervading sense of futility. They knew they were punishing the innocent. Doron tried to remind himself that it was self-defense, but it didn't change how he felt. Forty meters of trees were uprooted.
Back then it was firebombs. The firebombs could do serious damage, and more than one took a toll on Doron's soldiers. One soldier, Mario, suffered third degree burns on his hands when a firebomb exploded near him. But as bad as the firebombs were, it was an era of relative innocence. The use of rifles and grenades was extremely rare.
The soldiers learned to identify the 'sharks', the inciters who fomented the crowds. The sharks had subtle ways of working a crowd into a frenzy while at the same time using it for cover. They were often masked. After the sharks had gotten a crowd going, one of them would dart out in front, throw a firebomb, and then disappear within the throng.
"They're all going to be sorry they met me," averred Udi, the Lieutenant Company Commander. "So will most of you." He took great pains to stake out his reputation as the toughest warrior in the Gaza Strip. He professed unbridled contempt for Doron's openly empathic nature. He called him xnoon. Wimp. "You're yellow. You'll see what your bleeding heart will get you."
But it didn't take long for the chinks to appear in Udi's gruff exterior. He had a way of making money mysteriously appear in the bank accounts of less fortunate soldiers. Doron would overhear conversations between Udi and the Mashakit Tash, the company personnel clerk. "Deposit this in Yakov's army bank account. He has a tough situation back home. Tell him it's a bonus from the army for soldiers serving in Gaza." Udi's father was a wealthy building contractor. Whenever a group of soldiers stopped anywhere for food, Udi always insisted on picking up the tab.
During one violent riot, Udi spotted what he was sure was the main inciter.
"Wallah, I caught the shark. Look at that guy. He's definitely the main one. I'm going after him." A tall, heavyset, bearded man, thirty five or forty, was by far the most animated of the rioters. He was holding a bicycle at arms' length above his head and was shaking it in the air. He seemed uncertain where to throw it. In the end he threw it on the rioters next to him.
"Are you sure about that one, Udi?" Doron asked him. Something looked wrong about him. The hatred in the eyes of the other rioters was unmistakable. But this man seemed randomly wild. His movements were frenzied and chaotic. He didn't seem to be focused on any one object in particular.
After Udi brought him in, it quickly became clear that the man, Abu Lutfi, was severely disturbed. At first he spat at the soldiers and tried to bite them. His body convulsed violently. After Udi gave him a cup of water, he calmed down.
Doron was amazed at Udi's tenderness with the prisoner. Udi even spoke a passable Arabic.
"Listen, Abu Lutfi," he explained to him slowly. "Whenever soldiers bring you in here, there are two words that I want you to say. 'Ayfo Udi?' Where is Udi? Then the soldiers will come and get me and I'll explain to them that you're not dangerous. OK? Can you say those two words for me?"
"Ayfo Udi". Abu Lutfi grinned broadly.
"Excellent. You'll be fine." Udi sent Abu Lutfi on his way.
As far as Doron was concerned, Udi's cover was blown.
* * *
Near the end of his stay in Jebaliah, Doron and his patrol caught a hail of rocks from a group of stonethrowers. Doron, with his wiry build and long legs, quickly took the lead as they raced after the group. He zeroed in on the leader of the gang. The man sprinted towards an alley. It was now or never. Doron leaped and tackled him by the legs. As Doron struggled to keep hold of his quarry's legs, the man reached into his jalabiyyah, his flowing robe, and pulled out a kitchen knife. Doron grabbed his hand, keeping the knife at bay. The other soldiers, who had caught up by now, fired in the air. The man appeared to surrender, but then grabbed for Doron's rifle. Doron retained his grip. After the attacker was subdued, Doron's soldiers wanted to pummel him. Doron wouldn't hear of it.
"He's our responsibility now. You all know the rules."
"But he was going to kill you!" they protested. Doron began tying the prisoner's hands.
"Don't tie him!" One of the soldiers yelled. "We know you. Then you won't let us touch him at all."
Itamar had lectured them often on the subject of Tohar Neshek, the IDF Purity of Arms ethic. "Remember," he had stressed, "You have no right to punish with violence. Only to defend."
He had a saying, "Never forget what it means to be a Jewish soldier. The significance goes far beyond that of obeying orders. Our first obligation is to act like a Jewish army."
One of the soldiers objected. "Isn't it a bit bombastic to paint ourselves as morally superior to other soldiers?"
"Take it however you want," Itamar responded. "I put it to you as an obligation, not as a badge of superiority. If anything, it's about humility. Remember: we didn't choose this situation, but the obligation to conduct ourselves as Jews is no less compulsory."
It wasn't easy, thought Doron. Hands had a tendency to take on a life of their own.
They brought the prisoner to a tent. A group of non-combat personnel were assigned to guard him until the Military Police arrived. Doron brought the prisoner food and water. His hands were still bound, so Doron held the plastic cup to his mouth as he drank. Allah yirda aleik, said the prisoner. May Allah watch over you. He was sobbing now. My enemy's blessing, thought Doron. Perhaps this is what Jacob felt after wrestling with his angel.
Doron returned to the Company Command Post to fill out an incident report. He later found out that the soldiers placed in charge of the prisoner had beaten the man. Doron was angry and disgusted that it had happened on his watch. He had taken great precautions to treat his would-be killer with honor. Itamar brought all of the guards up on charges. Regulations on excessive use of force were stringent. If the Border Police received a prisoner who had been beaten, they would set him loose as a lesson to the arresting soldiers. "If you think you can take the law into your own hands, then he's free to go." As a result, prisoners were treated with kid gloves. This was an egregious exception. All for naught, thought Doron. His enemy's blessing had been undone.