Protective Presence: Experience of a Settler Police Force

I sit in front of the investigator at the police station. Sarah is an American/Jewish Hasidic with a beautiful, cold face. I am lodging a complaint with the police about Nehoriah’s attack. Activists do this often, and most of the time you never hear about it again. But it’s still documented. Another settler attack to add to the growing pile.

Sarah’s job is to take down my complaint word for word, along with any corroborating evidence in the form of videos. I feel waves of dislike emanating from her. She barely looks at me. My insecurities rise up, and I pathetically try to woo her.

“It doesn’t matter what our politics are, does it? Decent humans have the same red lines. History condemns every instance of the strong oppressing the weak.” I thrust the video that shows Nehoriah circling me like a predator. “Surely you don’t agree with this type of behaviour? Young Jewish men beating up older Jewish women?”

Sarah’s eyes bore into her computer. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m here to record your complaint.”

She turns her computer so I can read my complaint. She has written in Hebrew, so I have to read very slowly. These are supposed to be my words, but there are several mistakes. For example she wrote, “The complainant added that the settler had kicked her after she had given her testimony.”

“I certainly didn’t add it afterwards. It was part of the attack. Kick-hit-kick-hit. There’s no way I mentioned it as an afterthought.”

Sarah stabs in my changes furiously, but refuses to let me look at the revisions, so I don’t sign the complaint.

I leave the police department feeling worse than when I came in. Maybe I’m getting a tiny glimpse here of how rape victims feel when police don’t believe them. Definitely get how the events in the West Bank aren’t regulated to a small group of loonies, no matter how desperately I wish they were. The police are on the side of the perpetrators. Every country has loonies, but my country is run by them.

But…there are elections in October.

An activist picks me up. “Satan has been prowling around Abu Waseem’s  house all day,” they tell me. “Three activists have been there since the morning, and they need back up. Satan has been violent, as usual. They’re in bad shape.”

How stupid I was to feel so upset in the nice, safe police station! The last time Satan kicked me the open wound festered and my leg swelled up. I re-watched the video of his kick several times, frame by frame. You can see exactly when he does it. For a split second, his grin drops and his face contracts involuntarily with the force of his kick. Not enough evidence for Sarah to sneeze at.

The car turns towards Taybeh and I can see the herds out in full force today—camels, goats, sheep. Three activists, Abu Waseem and his two sons face four settlers. Satan towers over tiny, Jewish-Canadian Miriam, his evil grin plastered to his face.

Miriam thrusts her phone in his face, limping as she inches backwards, away from that manic grin. I bet she’s limping, if he’s been kicking her all day. Her hand trembles, but her voice comes out like a strong Canadian. “Why are you here? Why are you trying to break down this settler’s fence? It is illegal for you to be here.”

I’m filming your whole body so don’t kick,” I inform Satan as I approach, plunging into my typical monologue. “Know of another creed—anywhere in the world—that justifies a young man kicking a non-violent female elder?”

Suddenly I can see the pus in his pimples as he looms at me. “I just want to understand,” I earnestly address his zits. “I’m a logical person. If your reasons for this behaviour really make sense, maybe I’ll come over to your side?”

Miriam grins at me in relief. “I’ve been out of film for hours,” she tells me. “Just pretending to film. We’ve phoned the army and the police like, a dozen times.”

Most Hilltop youth don’t understand English. God knows what type of education they’re offered. They all reek too, and many of them wear the same clothes every day. But they seem well-fed, and someone explained that the donkey transportation, the herds, the keffiyehs, are all ways of returning to their roots. Like they want to return the land to its roots. Some activists try to get social services involved, but stink isn’t neglect. I’m not an over-stringent washer myself. If I were 20 years younger, I’d probably find their stench titillating.

Suddenly, Satan veers towards Wassam so aggressively it looks like he’ll run him over. Miriam and I are on him.

“Go ahead”, screams Miriam. “Make my day!” I smile. We Canadians really rise to the occasion.

Wassam stumbles backwards from Satan’s charge, but he doesn’t fall. If Wassam responds to any of Satan’s aggressions, he’ll end up in jail.

“Excellent! Caught that, asshole,” shrills Miriam in triumph, clutching her dead camera victoriously.

Another settler whispers in Satan’s ear. They call their herds and mount their donkeys. The police and army have finally arrived. Relieved, we rush up the driveway to meet them.
“Quick! Quick! They’re still here—you’ll catch them if you hurry.”

But the powers-that-be don’t want to hurry, because they don’t want to catch the aggressors.

Afterwards, we sit in Abu Waseem’s madafa and drink tea, watching videos of the day’s events obsessively. Usually I chain-smoke, but Miriam has asthma.

The family come in, perch beside us. They have also taken videos.

Abu Waseem pulls a cigarette out, offers one to me.

“Thanks. I’ll smoke outside. Miriam has asthma.” Unlike most of the Bedouin, Abu Waseem speaks Hebrew.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Abu Waseem says with his usual gentle courtesy. “But we all smoke. Perhaps, if you have asthma, Miriam, you can go outside?”

I sink into the sofa, puffing contentedly. I fucking LOVE the Middle East.