Snapshot of an Occupation
Hebron, like most monuments and cities in the region, has two names; one Hebrew, one Arabic. The Arabic name is Al Khalil. Etymologically, both the Hebrew and Arabic names can be traced back to the word ‘friend’ or a derivative. A strange irony for a city very much on the front line of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
The centre of the city is all hustle and bustle, street markets, traffic, chaos. In short, like most cities in this part of the world. The smell of good fried food hangs in the air. Car horns blare. Shouts and whistles from the market men punctuate the buzz of activity. The main market stretches down, down away from the modern centre toward the old vegetable market.
Look up.
Stretched across the street is a wire mesh. This wire mesh catches the rubbish, bottles and most other projectiles thrown by the settlers at the Palestinians shopping or selling in the market below.
Look again.
An Israeli soldier, scarcely out of his teens, patrols the rooftop above the mesh, surveying the street beneath him. He looks bored. The patched fuzz of facial hair confirms that he is no older than twenty.
Walk on.
A squat, cylindrical watchtower is parked in the middle of the street. In the midst of the Old City, it is an anachronism, an unwanted gift dropped from outer space that nevertheless offers 360-degree visibility. Though seemingly unmanned, the tower is a panopticon; it is impossible to ignore its existence.
Walk on. Look right.
Where once there were archways, tunnels, now there are thick concrete slabs, unmatched both in ugliness and efficacy. Where once there were steps, passages, now there is barbed wire and sheet metal. Where once there were walkways, now there are gates that never open.
Walk on.
The way ahead is blocked. Checkpoint. Green railings, a turnstile to turn a flow into a trickle. No cameras. A booth, manned by a soldier, female this time, but still not yet twenty five. A British passport, a curt nod, entry.
To the left, al Ibrahimi Mosque, the Cave of the Patriarchs, the Cave of Machpelah. Another religious site, another set of names, meanings, histories.
Get Alex Fusco’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
To the right, al Shuhada Street.
Now for a history lesson. In 1994, an American-Israeli called Baruch Goldstein opened fire on worshippers inside al Ibrahimi mosque; 29 were killed, and over 100 injured. The shooting sparked Palestinian protests, protests became riots, and Israeli forces closed al Shuhada street, ostensibly in the name of security. Soldiers sealed shops, and the street was marked off limits to Palestinians. In the early 2000s, the street was temporarily re-opened for Palestinian vehicles, but the shops remained closed. Following the Second Intifada, Palestinians were denied access. Today, checkpoints manned by the adult-children block both ends of the street; only tourists and settlers are allowed to pass.
The itself street is eerie, empty, an anaemic mirror image of the other side of the wall, completely drained of lifeblood. Over time, the green splendour of the shopfronts has been devoured by corrosive brown rust. In some places, the names are still visible, in Arabic and English. The Israeli flag is everywhere, fluttering in the wind.
Israeli settlers appear to be occupying some of the properties above the shopfronts. A hand written sign reads ‘Arabs are prohibited. This is Apartheid.’ Written in English rather than Hebrew, this is a message for an international audience.
Jewish people, settlers, pass by in groups of threes and fours. Today is Shabbat. One asks if I speak English. I nod, we talk. I ask him if he likes living in this place. ‘It is important that we are here,’ he says, not answering my question.
Walk on.
A memorial plaque marks the spot where Shlomo Yitzhak Shapira was killed, ‘murdered by Arab terrorists’. Another sign speaks of ‘Arab marauders slaughtering Jews’, one more how they perpetrated a ‘ghastly massacre in which 67 Jews — including women, babies and the elderly — were tortured, raped burned and butchered.’ The language is potent, flammable. Every word is weaponized.
Keep walking.
A group of children are playing in the shadow of the wall. Many are speaking French; many have left France. Their shouts ring out, floating over to the Palestinian side. Not only has the street been Occupied, it has been taken over, re-purposed. This is not the empty space of a militarised zone; this is Israeli space, civilian space. The cries of the children are a symbolic etching on the cultural palimpsest of al Shuhada street.
Walk on.
A swing bench has been attached to one part of the wall, a bizarre attempt to create the illusion of normality, like placing a picnic blanket on a tank. On the Palestinian side, someone has left a scarlet sofa next to one of the barbed wire barriers.
I cannot help but wonder if thinkers on both sides sit, metres but miles apart, divided by barbed wire and concrete, and contemplate how it has come to this.
