Ariel Sharon's unilateral decision in early 2004 to disband Israeli settlements in the Gaza Strip was widely greeted by the international community as a positive gesture by the well-known war criminal. However, time has revealed that this plan, whatever its intrinsic merits, was to serve as simply the pretext for a renewal and extension of the scorched earth onslaught on Palestinian lives and property which was already underway in this part of the occupied territories. 2004 saw major state terror operations in Gaza, in particular the incursion code named "Days of Penitence" in May, along with a spate of targeted assassinations of resistance leaders, while the West Bank remained the scene of so much routine brutality and humiliation. Pictures of a Palestinian violinist forced to play for soldiers at a checkpoint near Nablus, recordings of an Israeli soldier pumping bullets into the body of a 13-year-old girl, and photographs of ultra-orthodox soldiers humiliating their dead victims by impaling their heads and sticking cigarettes in their mouths, may have forced at least part of Israeli society into a reality check with what the practice of occupation means -- namely, the moral corruption of their own society, as well as the denial of the Palestinian people's basic freedoms. But as the year draws to a close, the occupation is still firmly in place, Israeli settlers are still in Gaza, and the prospects for real bilateral negotiations, even with a new Palestinian president, seem as remote as ever. The stories and testimonies below attest to the tragedy at hand. 'Your death was not necessary' I don't have to look beyond the border in order to see the immoral results of the army's actions. I just have to look at my family, and my friends. I can see how these actions simply destroy their lives, my life, and the Israeli society with it. I'm very afraid of one moment. I pray that this moment will never come, but in my imagination it is very clear, with all the details: I open the newspaper. There is an item about the death of a close friend. I scream in my heart: "Your death is awful. Your death was not necessary. The government led you to it when it started an unnecessary war." My friends from school are fighting now in the occupied territories. They're guarding Netzarim and (Jewish settlers in) Hebron. They risk their lives there for no reason. I refuse to go to the army since I refuse to support a policy that will cause their deaths. I feel going to the army is like killing them with my own hands. Today, Israel chooses to be a conqueror. Our country has become everything that is not what my grandfather dreamed about. Israel is not a refuge for the Jewish people any more. Israel violates human rights, and by doing so puts the lives of its own citizens at risk. My refusal gives me the right to stand in front of his grave, where his name, MY name, is engraved, and say to him. "I didn't participate in these things." I refuse, since I refuse to be a traitor to his dream. I have friends whose families have no food. I can't accept their hunger. I can't accept a war that causes poverty and unemployment. When I was in prison, and before, I met many soldiers who served in the occupied territories. They told me about the roadblocks, about the searches in Arab homes. They told me about how they beat 'insolent' Arabs. They told me about shooting people for fun. My generation, the roadblock generation, goes to the occupied territories and comes back with a new set of moral values. It is a mistake to think that these values will simply disappear inside the green line. I refuse to take part in this moral corruption. Serving in the army today will help to make Israel a place where my children will never feel secure. Serving the army will help make Israel a place where my children won't want to live. Serving in the army is a betrayal of my future and a betrayal of my children's future. I'm willing to pay the price for my decision to refuse. I've already been in prison for 11 months, and that's only the beginning. I'm glad to pay this price. Shimri Zameret is an Israeli conscientious objector who is currently spending time in jail for refusing to serve in the Palestinian occupied territories. I was married to Hassan Mohamed Hassan Abu Shaaira. My husband killed a GSS (Israeli secret service) agent on 14 June 2001. The soldiers who were with the agent shot Hassan, wounding him in the head and body. He died about ten days later. When he died, the army handed his body over to the Palestinian District Civil Liaison Office. 'Death seemed only inches away' Hassan: It was the most horrible day of my life. Death was there, dancing crazily around me and my family. The bullets and tank shells were deafening, and so were the non-stop screams of my wife and children. I thought that would be it. I was with my family in our home at Brazil refugee camp in Rafah that day. In the small hours of Thursday 20 May, without warning, Israeli military bulldozers started demolishing the home over our heads. Needless to say we were terrified. My children started screaming. I did not know what to do. The deafening sound of Israeli bullets and shells was everywhere. Parts of the home had already started to fall down. I picked up my two-year-old daughter Ayah in one hand and a piece of white cloth in the other and cautiously opened the front door. An Israeli tank was stationed just outside. The occupation soldiers waved to me to come out quickly. I felt relieved. I told myself in my mind, "We can always rebuild the house as long as we are still breathing." I had gone only a few steps from our home, when heavy bullets began roaring everywhere around us. The Israelis shouted at us to get back into the house. At this point, tears overcame me. I was unable to utter a word. We tried to return to the house slowly, all the time under heavy fire. When we reached the doorstep, I saw that the soldiers were actually shooting in our direction... Hassan's wife takes up the story: I felt a line of fire going through my leg. My children were screaming. They too took bullets in different parts of their fragile bodies. We all ducked down. We were in such a miserable condition. We started crawling back towards the house. My husband helped us back into the house. He carried our three wounded children -- Nazima, 17, Tareq, 15, and Walid, 9. They all took bullets in their limbs, while Tareq was hit in the foot and shoulder. The Israeli soldiers laughed as they watched the children scream. We crawled back into the house. At that moment, death seemed only inches away. 'The soldiers just went crazy' I have worked as a medic for the Palestinian Red Crescent for seven years. On 11 January, I left the Red Crescent headquarters with Majdi Saruji, the ambulance driver. We picked up an eight-month-old child from Nablus, who had a heart problem and was scheduled to undergo surgery the next day, and had to go to the hospital in Ramallah. Then we drove to Beit Furik to pick up another patient to take him to Al-Moqassad Hospital, in Jerusalem. At the Beit Furik checkpoint, the soldiers examined our documents and searched the ambulance, then let us pass. The same happened at the Zaatara checkpoint. Then we had to cross two makeshift checkpoints, one at Luban, and another one at Iyun Al-Haramiyah, but they both let us pass. As we were approaching the Israeli settlement of Ofra, we met another checkpoint. Here they asked us to stop. Majdi got out and walked over to one of the soldiers. The soldier kicked him in the leg. Majdi did not respond; he just handed over the documents, and came back to the ambulance. The commander ordered me to get out of the ambulance and open the side door. Then he asked me where we were going to take the patients. "To Ramallah," I answered. "Go back," the commander said. Then he punched me hard in the face. He grabbed me and smashed my head against the ambulance and raised his hand to hit me. I grabbed for his hand. I immediately regretted doing that, because the soldiers just went crazy with anger. They all started kicking me all over my body; this went on for about 15 minutes. Then they handcuffed me, pushed me down onto my knees and kept me there. From time to time, the commander came over and slapped, hit or kicked me. He also swore at me. The soldiers took the patients out of the ambulance, searched the vehicle, and told Majdi to leave. Majdi refused to go without me. He told them that he could not go alone because he would not be able to take care of the two patients. The commander grabbed Majdi's hand and shoved him against the ambulance. Majdi called the Red Crescent and told them what had happened. He was told to continue on to Ramallah and that they would take care of me. Majdi drove to Ramallah and I stayed where I was. About a half an hour later, two soldiers arrived in a jeep. They dragged me for a distance of about twenty metres and threw me into the jeep. I assume that it was Ofra settlement that they then took me to, because it was a very short ride. They sat me down with my eyes blindfolded and my hands cuffed. I should mention that I was wearing a medic's uniform, and it was clear that I worked for a medical organisation. I stayed there for hours, handcuffed and blindfolded. At the end, an Israeli soldier came and told me, "Go away! I don't want to see your face again. And don't play the tough guy anymore." I was barely able to walk. I reached the village of 'Ein Yabrod, from where I was taken to Refidiyah Hospital, in Nablus. The staff x-rayed me. The doctor told me to rest at home for a week, until I felt better. Now, eight days after the incident, my knees, thighs, and back still hurt. 'We are going to blow up your apartment!' I was married to Hassan Mohamed Hassan Abu Shaaira. My husband killed a GSS (Israeli secret service) agent on 14 June 2001. The soldiers who were with the agent shot Hassan, wounding him in the head and body. He died about ten days later. When he died, the army handed his body over to the Palestinian District Civil Liaison Office. Since my husband died, I have been raising our three children: Marfat, 12, Sharin, 10, and six-year-old Tareq. We lived in our own apartment, which was located in a three- story building near the Paradise Hotel. Last Thursday [26 February], around midnight, Jihad, my brother-in-law, knocked on our door and told us that soldiers had knocked on his door and ordered him to go to all the apartments and tell everybody to go outside. I thought that the Israeli army had invaded the refugee camp and were conducting a surprise search of all the houses. I woke up the children and we left through the main door of the building. The others also went outside. On the street, I saw lots of soldiers. I can't say exactly how many there were. They were in army uniforms. The soldiers ordered us to move, and one of them took us to the yard outside the Paradise Hotel, which was about 200 metres from our house. They told us to sit on the ground and keep silent. One of the soldiers asked, in Arabic, which one of us was the wife of Hassan Abu Shaaira. I told him that I was. He replied: "We are going to blow up your apartment. We are going to make a 'boom' inside it." He had two stars on his shoulders, and I realised he was an officer. "What are you saying?" I asked him. He replied, "You didn't hear me? We are going to blow up your apartment." I should point out that the Israeli forces had not told us anything about a decision relating to our house. I asked him why, and he replied: "Because of what your husband did." I asked him to show me an official document ordering the demolition of our apartment. He said that the Israeli military court had made a decision, and that they were going to demolish the apartment. I asked to see the decision ordering the house demolition, but he didn't show me anything. The officer gave us ten minutes to remove our stuff from the house. I managed to remove only documents proving that I own the apartment, and my gold [jewellery]. We were in shock, and did not manage to remove anything else. Ten minutes later, I went back to the yard. At around 5am, the soldiers blew up the apartment from the inside. My apartment was completely demolished, as was the furniture. Jihad's apartment was also damaged as a result of the blast. The walls of his house were destroyed, the ceiling was cracked, the windows were dislodged, and the doors were destroyed. The apartment was uninhabitable. The apartment under mine suffered cracks and splits in the walls. The engineer from the [Palestinian Authority's] General Construction Office came to check the building. He said that the entire building was now in poor shape and too dangerous for people to live in. My children and I now live in a rented apartment in the refugee camp. We do not have any furniture. Basically, we are living on the floor. We live like refugees and our situation is very bad. After the soldiers demolished the apartment, they told us it was forbidden to rebuild it, and that if we did, they would return and demolish it again. Itaf Mohamed, 33, who lives in the Al-'Aza refugee camp, Bethlehem District, speaking to the B'tselem human rights organisation on 27 February 2004. Compiled by Mustafa El-Menshawy and Salonaz Mohamed
