In the second instalment of her reports from the occupied West Bank, Tamar Fleishman* describes sentences handed down in Israeli military courts What does a military judge know about childhood in the Qalandiya refugee camp, about growing up in the shadow of the Wall, or by the checkpoint that in its very essence is an expression of violence? What does such a judge know of a habitat of poverty and wretchedness that for a while now has been serving as a hunting ground for soldiers who with no hesitation follow a commander that says "make them feel hounded" and perform what is known in their jargon as a "violent patrol"? Both of these expressions are to be found in testimonies from Israeli soldiers. What do military judges know about a life of precariousness, where locked doors are burst open in the middle of the night, when a father's arms and a mother's bosom aren't able to provide protection in the face of incriminations, thefts, false accusations and beatings? On the way to Ofer on the occupied West Bank I always hope that I will not recognise those on trial, that anonymity will be preserved, and that I will only get a glance of their desperation. I always hope that the names will not be familiar and that the faces will not be carved in my memory. However, these hopes were crushed one morning when I froze in front of a child, the youngest of those I had seen on the bench on trial. Ibrahim Abul-Aish was 16, but his body appeared smaller than would be expected at that age. This was before the Israeli authorities changed the age of adulthood for Palestinian children, in order to create the appearance of equality before the law. Up until recently, anyone who had reached his or her 16th birthday was considered an adult in the eyes of the Israeli military court system. None of Ibrahim's family members were present at his trial, so there was no one there to give him words of encouragement or a supportive look. It took a while before I managed to catch his attention, to detect a sparkle of acquaintance, to greet him and to get a frail response, a smile, a tilt of the head. He seemed detached, as if only his body was present, or as if he had shrunk and made himself smaller than he actually was. The face of a child, the body of a child, but according to the law of the occupation, a man was on trial. I entered when judge Moshe Levi announced that "an indictment has been served on the grounds of sabotaging an Israeli Defence Force (IDF) facility, which caused damage to a metal bar that belonged to the security forces." This meant that Ibrahim had been caught in front of a checkpoint while wiggling the metal bar that blocked the vehicle lane to Ramallah. The procedure that followed included a request from the defence attorney that the teenager be released. "The defendant didn't cause any damage. It was a child's game at the checkpoint. All the children play it, and no damage was caused to the bar." The representative of the prosecution then requested that bail be set at 3,000 Shekels on top of some additional terms. "In the light of the financial status of the family, the circumstances and the minimal damage caused, a hundred should suffice," said the defence attorney. The judge then said that there was a prior conviction for stone-throwing. In Ibrahim's case, the charge was "nothing more than the folly of youth, with no actual intent to cause damage to an IDF facility," he said. He ordered that the prisoner be released under terms that amounted to 5,750 Shekels (bail + bail from a third party), and set a date for a further session at which the indictment would be read. Given the financial position of Ibrahim's family, the sum could not be raised for his release, and Ibrahim wasn't released. I returned to witness the reading of the indictment, and the list of detainees in the children's court already had 26 names on it. This meant 26 ID numbers, 26 faces, and 26 damaged childhoods before juvenile court judge Sharon Rivlin Ahai, each child having his wrist handcuffed to the child next to him. There was Ibrahim Mahmoud Hasin Abu al-Aish, who had surprisingly been released since I had seen him alone and neglected on the day he had stood trial. I saw him again in the alleys of the Qalandiya refugee camp, standing behind the checkpoint in silence. I thought perhaps they had scared him, perhaps telling him to swear not to speak to anyone about his ordeal. I tried talking to him, but he was persistent, holding his peace and remaining silent. After a while he disappeared. His brother said he had been arrested. During the months to follow the child not only grew up, but his offence was also upgraded to "possession and distribution of weaponry". Reading the charges against Ibrahim didn't take more than ten minutes, as was the case with others. These ten minutes were taken as opportunity for an exchange of words between the child and his family, ten minutes in which tears ran down the mother's suffering cheeks. The court adjourned until the following week for further discussion on the case. There was Ayad Hosni Mohamed Bazia, whose parents I met as they were rushing out in order to make a payment to the state of 2,000 Shekels. This was required on the grounds that their son had been convicted of throwing stones at a military vehicle and had finished serving his time. There was 17-year-old Zuhib Isa Haled Habel, whose charges read that he had "created and thrown an inflammable object." Hastily, as though in a hurry, the judge read the charge. The translator also seemed to be in a hurry, and it was all I could do to keep up with them to write down what was being said. I might have missed a clause or two, but what I managed to pick up was enough to understand that on the four stated dates Zuhib had allegedly thrown stones at passing vehicles on road 443, a road that Palestinians are banned from using in spite of the fact that it was built on land taken from them and was supposed to be for their benefit. Apart from stone-throwing, Zuhib was also accused of making and throwing a Molotov cocktail. Zuhib denied the allegations, and the case was postponed. On another occasion, I visited judge Sharon Rivlin Ahai's court again to hear cases against Palestinian children from Qalandiya. These included the case against Fares Halil Yussuf Badran, a slim 15-year- old boy who was standing trial without even an escorting parole officer (as is obligated by the law of the Israeli state) and without the presence of his parents. The charge against him was "possession and distribution of weaponry." The witness for the prosecution from the Israeli police said that Fares and two of his friends had been caught trying to transfer a bag with a Molotov cocktail in it through the Qalandiya checkpoint. They had intended to give it to people waiting on the other side, the policeman said. Discussion focussed on the question of whether Fares had known what was in the bag, but the obvious question remained unasked: how could anyone imagine that a teenager whose home is in the refugee camp could cross the Qalandiya checkpoint in the first place? Even had he been able to do so, he must have been aware, as are all the children and people in Qalandiya, of the military cameras documenting every corner of the checkpoint and its surroundings. He must also have known that had the Molotov cocktail miraculously slipped through under the noses of the cameras, the teenager and his bag would still have had to have passed through a scanner. There was also 17-year-old Ayad Hussein Bazia, accused of throwing stones at an Israeli military vehicle. His father was informed that his son would be released in four days, after he had paid 1,500 Shekels. However, the cards were stacked against him. After the judge had authorised the plea bargain and the fine, records showed that Ayad had a prior conviction for the same offence. He had been caught throwing stones at Israeli soldiers before, and he had received a prison sentence and a suspended sentence that was still in force. "Had he gone to school and not thrown stones," the judge intoned, "he wouldn't have ended up in jail." * The writer is a member of the Coalition of Women for Peace and a volunteer for the organisation Breaking the Silence.
