Written by a Ta’ayush activist about the events in Sheikh Jarrah last week.

Friday February 24 in Sheikh Jarrah

Even in the rain and cold, the residents of Sheikh Jarrah and their supporters won’t give up. I arrived in Sheikh Jarrah at 10 am, equipped with hummus and 4 layers of clothing, leaping over puddles in a failed attempt to keep my socks dry. I quicken my pace turning off of Nablus Road, glancing up at the occupied Hanoun home and continuing down the left fork towards the Ghawi and El-Kurd houses.

Empty. Deserted. No police, no settlers, no tent even. It reminds me of the times, it must be half a year ago by now, before the evictions, before the tents (except for Umm Kamel’s), before the gatherings on the sidewalk instead of in the houses, the protests, arrests, violence, the pray-offs, the new ‘neighbors’. They were tense times, but hopeful ones. Mostly international but also many Israeli activists committing themselves to be handcuffed to the gates of the houses in case of eviction, others to shield them from the police’s inevitable blows. This situation, with an eviction constantly possible, stood over the Ghawi and Hanoun families for months. Both moved their furniture out so as not to lose it to the eviction (as had happened to the Hanouns during their first eviction several years ago). It’s unclear which situation was tougher on them, this one or that one.

Back to February 2010, and once again there is no tent. What’s happened to it? I’ve been out of town for several weeks, but I’d become accustomed to the blue tent with the bearded Sheikh Nasser al Ghawi, several playing children, several cigarette smoking middle-aged Palestinians and an inviting fire. Surely torn down by the police for the umpteenth time. Later I find out the police in recent weeks have been tearing it down every morning at nine o’clock. For a while, Nasser would take it down every morning. Then they would arrive at all times of day and night and take it down. He gave up and moved into the tent in the El-Kurd house courtyard. I walk in there, leaping over a particularly vibrant flow of water down towards the olive grove at the end of the street. Peeking into the tent, I spot two sleeping international activists. Sitting in the tent, I can’t help but notice how uncomfortable is the settler knocking on the front door to the occupied section of the El-Kurd house. He calls frantically on his phone, knocks every 5 seconds, peeks through the window. “What do you know, they aren’t home. They’ve been evicted already, in case you hadn’t heard,” I can’t help but mutter.

A couple of hours later, things start happening. The police and border police, decked out in head to foot waterproof jumpsuits, gather by the entrance to Simon the Righteous’ Tomb. Around 1 pm they set up three checkpoints along the street: one at the entrance, one just before the turnoff to the tomb, and the last one at the end of the street, by the olive grove. Non-residents (which seems to translates as people who don’t look visibly like religious Jews) are prevented from entering. The horrid weather continues, hours of rain followed by hail yielding to a moment of sun and then more fat, heavy, contemplative rain.
Wandering back out of the tent, I hear the drums and head out to the protest.

This week they have built papier mache dolls with signs like “Apartheid is here” and “Jerusalem will not be Hebron”. The dolls, many human size are protected by the remaining unbroken umbrellas. The feeling is carnivalesque, the drummers are pumped, and the police are in a circle across the street, surely cursing us for making them spend their Friday afternoon in the rain. The chants get louder and the rain harder. We are no more than 70 or 80 people, the square more than half empty. But the act itself is impressive; surely Friday afternoon in the worst storm of the year should be spent at home? Apparently not. Sahar thinks up: “With a coat and umbrella, we won’t stand for discrimination” (it rhymes in Hebrew, trust me on this one). I am recruited to help pass out flyers listing the violations of international law committed by Jerusalem Mayor Nir Barkat. Within minutes the stack is soaked, breaking apart and running ink.

A representative of J-Street (“pro-Israel and pro-peace”) is there. He wants to present the protesters with a list of signatures from their supporters in solidarity with our struggle in Sheikh Jarrah. His megaphone hardly works, the hail has returned, the umbrella being held over him is flopping wildly; we are all being soaked, and he continues with his prepared speech. At the end, he opens a scroll of some several thousand signatures, and someone pulls the other end, backing up. It is almost as long as the crowd trying to listen. The drummers return to action, the adrenaline flows, and the chanting becomes frantic, preposterous, joyful, wet. At some point “Whoever doesn’t jump is a policeman” gets going, and not a soul there can keep from smiling, let alone jumping.

After a relatively short time, we head home, people yelling out the number of seats left in their cars and where they are going. It is impossible after a protest like this to discount the importance of peaceful protest and opposition, if for no other reason than the very energy in moments like this one. It is hard for me to see how this kind of commitment can lose.