Pulse
As we advanced closer and closer to the buffer zone, then within it, the Local Initiative organizers linked hands and kept everyone behind them. This was done exceedingly well—they determined the pace and line of advance, letting press and internationals pass by them, to capture audio-visual images, making sure that it did not get out of their control and their careful management—particularly important because they were concerned that the IOF would abduct Palestinians, a common occurrence. We kept on advancing, through the green fields, dotted profusely with yellow flowers, until we were within a stone’s throw (no stones, though) of that miserable concrete wall, with its concrete planks and guard towers, its egress points for tanks and bulldozers and jeeps and soldiers. One lone shebab broke through the lines as we were within 60 or 80 meters and planted a Palestinian flag close to the wall, joining others that were still closer. Then we left, trailing behind. To the west were huge piles of pulverized rubble, the remains of buildings destroyed during the massacre. The ambulance waited. They had expected injuries. Reportedly the IDF had ordered our dispersal, or they would shoot. The threats cost nothing. That is why they make them. In the hand of one of the EMTs waiting in the ambulance was a thick handful of wheat, from land that the Israelis had illegally prevented him and them from going to, probably for a long time.
Uprooted Palestinian
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