What an Israeli settler pogrom feels like
S. E. Anderson
What an Israeli settler pogrom feels like
For the first time in my life, I found myself completely helpless. My car was engulfed in flames, but all that mattered to me was my family's survival.
I knew they were here before I saw them. It was just after midnight on July 18, and around 40 masked Israeli settlers from the notoriously violent illegal outpost of Havat Ma’on were invading my village of At-Tuwani in the South Hebron Hills — armed with sticks, stones, and gasoline.
I heard shouting, followed by the unmistakable sound of stones smashing through glass. Then I felt the heat from the fire they had ignited.
The settlers first descended on Al-Taqwa Mosque. They shattered its windows, poured gasoline on the ground, and set the entrance on fire. They spray painted Stars of David across the walls, and slogans in Hebrew including “Revenge.”
Revenge for what exactly? They blamed us for starting a wildfire that had engulfed the settlement of Havat Gilad earlier that day. Israeli authorities later announced that this had likely been started accidentally by an unextinguished cigarette.
But this false pretext was only an excuse for the settlers to unleash their wrath on Palestinians. They knew they would face no punishment for their crimes — and that if we tried to defend ourselves, the Israeli army would spring to the settlers’ defense, arresting or even shooting us without a moment’s hesitation.
After attacking the mosque, they split into several groups and moved from house to house. They threw more stones, smashed more windows, and hurled gasoline into homes before setting them ablaze.
I was at my uncle’s place when the attack began, while the rest of my family — my parents, my three sisters, and my little brother — was sleeping at home nearby. I heard my sisters screaming as they awoke to the stench of smoke and burning walls, realizing what was unfolding. I ran toward the house with a pit in my stomach.
For the first time in my life, I felt completely helpless. There was only one of me and more than 40 of them, backed by the occupation forces. They threw stones at me as I ran; I had no idea if some of them were carrying guns. I barely had enough breath to shout at them, if only to feel that I was not a bystander to the destruction of my own home.
All the while, I could think only of the Dawabsheh family from the town of Duma, whose home was set on fire by Israeli settlers in 2015, killing three of them including 18-month-old Ali. I was terrified that I could be about to lose my own family the same way.
When I reached my home, the first thing I saw was my car engulfed in flames. But in that moment, I did not care: All that mattered to me was whether my family was safe.
I found my mom and sisters crying and shaking. By the grace of god, everyone was in one piece, but the glass from our shattered windows was all over the floor. The terror, panic, and fear we all felt that night will stay with us forever — intensified by the reality that it could happen again tomorrow.
Nearby, one of my neighbors, a 16-year-old boy, was sleeping beneath a window when settlers poured gasoline inside, some of which splashed onto his clothes. Had the flames reached him, he would not be alive today. Instead, he will be forever scarred by the memory of the rancid smell of smoke, the taste of fear, and the sense of existential dread.
While this teenage boy got “lucky,” there was another tragedy in his family that night. His mother, who was pregnant, was struck by a rock that settlers hurled through their window. The Palestinian Red Crescent arrived about 20 minutes after the attack ended and rushed the woman — 35-year-old Roqaya Rabie — to the hospital, but her unborn baby could not be saved, denied even the chance to to know a life here untouched by this violence.
The settlers also attacked our dairy factory, setting it on fire. For most women in our village, it is their only source of income. We have already been cut off from so many ways of making a living: The local gas station, construction companies, and sewing factories that once operated here have all closed down in recent years. The dairy factory is all we have, and the settlers tried to destroy that, too.
The entire pogrom only lasted for about 10 minutes. But 10 minutes spent believing you are about to lose your family feels like an eternity. As they left, the settlers set fire to one last house, as though they had not inflicted enough destruction already.
By that time, we had begun putting out the fires. We tried to save the mosque, our homes, and the dairy factory. My car was beyond saving; the fire had burned it to a crisp almost instantly.
As usual, the Israeli army and police arrived only after the settlers had gone. Instead of pursuing the attackers or raiding their outpost to arrest them, they confronted us. They pushed us back and shouted at us while allowing the settler terrorists to stroll away from the scene with complete impunity. Once again, Palestinians were left defenseless in the face of coordinated violence carried out by settlers with the protection of the state.
As you sit in your home, my guess is that you never have to worry about a violent invasion. You do not expect your car to suddenly be engulfed in flames. You probably never think about reinforcing your windows or coating your walls with paint that makes it easier to wash away graffiti after an attack.
But here in Masafer Yatta, these are everyday concerns. It doesn’t matter that one of our own won an Oscar for “No Other Land,” or that, thanks to this film, the world now knows the name of our small village.
Instead of receiving protection, we were left to pick up the pieces of yet another attack that endangered our lives. Once the walls had been scrubbed clean and the soot swept away, we began taking stock of what could be salvaged — and what had been permanently lost to the violence of Israel’s settler regime. ///
s. e. anderson
author of The Black Holocaust for Beginners
"If WORK was good for you, the rich would leave none for the poor." (Haiti)
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