Toronto Star by Gil Yaron May 15 2010

Photo Valerian Mazataud Palestinian facing Israeli repression at weekly protest in Bil’in.

He is wheelchair-bound, but every Friday Rami Burnat can be found in the front lines of those clashing with Israeli soldiers at the outskirts of Bilin, a small Palestinian village in the hills around Ramallah.

For five years now, weekly demonstrations have turned Bilin into a prototype of peaceful protest. The rallies usually run the same course. At around 11:30 a.m. the protesters gather in front of the small mosque. The atmosphere is cheerful: Colourful flags beat in the wind; activists chant rhythmic slogans in Arabic. A circle of young men is dancing to an Arab song blaring out of a cellphone connected to a speaker. Other youngsters try to pick up the female volunteers from Israel and the rest of the world, who flock to Bilin every Friday to demonstrate their solidarity with its plight. Eventually, the demonstration gets going and sets off to the fence at the outskirts of the village.

The weekly ritual of Bilin’s 1,700 inhabitants has turned into a symbol of non-violent resistance against the occupation that has been termed the “White Intifada.” In 2002, Israel began to erect a fence inside the West Bank to defend itself against Palestinian suicide attacks, which claimed the lives of hundreds of Israeli civilians during the second intifada, a terror campaign waged inside Israel’s cities. But in Bilin, as in most of the West Bank, people are convinced that the claim of wanting to keep out terrorists is a pretext to rid Palestinians of their land and to render the establishment of an independent state impossible.

Near Bilin, the fence supposedly protects the nearby settlement of Matityahu. However, its route has been planned to safeguard Matityahu East, a part of the settlement that has not been erected yet but is planned to be built eventually, partly on expropriated Palestinian land. “This fence does not protect the settlers of today, but those who will live on our very land,” says Muhammad Katib, one of the key organizers of the weekly protests.

“Almost all of my land is on the other side of the fence,” says Waji Burnat, Rami Burnat’s father. This 53-year-old farmer is not allowed to cross the barrier to tend to his land. According to Burnat’s information, Israeli settlers are now plowing his fields. His son was shot in the neck right at the outset of the second intifada in the year 2000 and was rendered a quadriplegic. The family is now suspected of being a security threat.

Like the Burnats, other Bilin residents have realized that armed resistance will not advance their struggle against the most powerful army in the Middle East. Ever since the first bulldozers came here to erect the fence in 2003, the village has begun a weekly protest against the steel barrier that separates the villagers from two square kilometers of their land. Well aware of the balance of power, the organizers are keen to keep the protests peaceful. Again and again, they ask the youngsters to stop throwing stones at the soldiers — but are rarely obeyed. “More than 120 soldiers have been injured in Bilin in the past two years, some of them severely,” an army spokesperson said. Still, in contrast to other places, guns and Molotov cocktails have so far not been used in Bilin.

Several things make Bilin’s struggle unique. “It allows us to protest while still going on with our daily routine,” says Katib. From the outset, Bilin opted for cooperation with Israeli and international activists. “Everyone who does not wear a uniform is welcome here,” says Katib. Activists from the outside play a central role in the weekly demonstrations. “If the Israelis were not here, the army would kill us,” says Waji Burnat.

After years of protest and media exposure, Bilin has finally got something to show for its struggle. Israel’s Supreme Court has ordered the army to reroute the fence, so that villagers will regain some 700,000 square metres of their land. But they want more. So they return to the fence near their village every Friday with their flags, chants and, sometimes, stones.

“There has always been a civil society calling for peaceful protest”, says the Palestinian writer and political activist Sam Bahour from Ramallah. “Suicide attacks were controversial. But now, the voice of those calling for civil disobedience has become audible.” After years of engaging in a vicious cycle of terrorism and Israeli reprisals that have cost thousands of lives and ruined Palestine’s economy, the idea of “popular resistance” has entered mainstream politics. Slowly, it is displacing the rhetoric of terror organizations.

Every week, four peaceful demonstrations take place all over the West Bank, and at least 15 other hotspots host regular protests. Instead of encouraging more suicide attacks, young activists are now organizing protests in which children write their dreams on posters, attach them to colourful balloons and set them free next to Israeli settlements. “We want to present an alternative to violence, to show how you can resist creatively,” says Warda Samara, a 24-year-old activist from Ramallah.

A change in government has encouraged this transformation. The late president Yassir Arafat promoted terrorism and financed and supported terror cells. But his successor, Mahmoud Abbas, has been adamant in his rejection of violence. Prime Minister Salim Fayad, ruling by a decree of Abbas, is a staunch supporter of peaceful protest. His government has begun to finance popular resistance committees which organize the protests in the West Bank, and has set up offices to liaise with them.

To the chagrin of Israel, ex-banker Fayad is now promoting new forms of “economic resistance.” In a widely publicized campaign, Palestinians are urged to boycott goods that have been produced in Israeli settlements. Police search stores for such goods, and checkpoints have been set up at the entrances of several cities to confiscate merchandise from Israeli settlements. “While we welcome any form of bilateral cooperation with Israel proper, we refuse to remain the lifeline of the illegal settlement enterprise,” says Dr. Hassan Abu Libdeh, minister of economy in Fayad’s cabinet.

Abu Libdeh estimates that $200 million (U.S.) worth of goods enter the Palestinian economy every year. “This is at the cost of our own industry, and without any taxes being paid to us, even though these settlements are on our land,” he says.

According to a recently enacted law, Palestinians currently employed in Israeli settlements will have to start looking for new jobs. Anyone caught earning his livelihood in a settlement in 2011 could face a fine of up to $15,000 or five years in prison. Abu Libdeh expresses no empathy for the approximately 25,000 Palestinians this law will put out of work. “They should not have been working there in the first place,” he says. “Why should they be better off than about 200,000 Palestinians who are unemployed due to Israeli policies? The struggle for statehood demands sacrifice.”

On this Friday in Bilin, the demonstrators stay next to the fence for nearly 20 minutes. Some climb over the iron gate to hang their flags and posters, while others pelt Israeli soldiers with stones. Suddenly, the small platoon of soldiers strikes back: Tear gas envelopes the protesters in a suffocating white cloud while stun grenades explode in their midst and cause commotion.

Rami Burnat stays next to the fence, driving around in circles in his electric chair. Most of the others begin a hasty retreat. Muhammad Aloush, a 33-year-old farmer from Bilin, is slowly walking back from the fence to his house in the village. Tears pour from his red eyes down his cheeks and his nose is running; he coughs and spits out remnants of the gas, which burns in his throat like an overdose of cayenne pepper. “Yes, I will be back next week, until we get our land back,” he says, gasping for breath. “Once the Israelis have given us back everything they took, we could coexist in peace. Then, even soldiers would be welcome if they wanted to be my guests.”