Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, September 2004, page 12

Special Report

A Lifeline for Qosin—On the “Road” With The UPMRC Mobile Clinic

By Anne Gwynne

A mother at a checkpoint is refused permission to return home to Nablus (staff photo A. Gwynne).

DESTRUCTION AND BARRIERS, the biggest and deepest holes in the torn-up road I have yet seen: this is the Beit Iba roadblock, which the Israelis call a “checkpoint”—what misuse of a word! No words can convey the situation here—we are in acres of mud amid long lines of waiting people who have to carry all their shopping, baggage, children, and babes-in-arms for hours at a stretch. There is no possibility of putting them down in the deep mud and water. It is bitingly cold and damp. When the line reaches a pool of water, people are ordered to stand there for hours and are not “permitted” to avoid it—it is an outrage against all humanity.

We are trying to get from Nablus to the village of Qosin with the Union of Palestinian Medical Relief Committees (UPMRC) Mobile Clinic. Our doctor tells me that “it is very difficult indeed without internationals because Qosin is a ‘closed’ village. All its roads are blocked and there is never any possibility of coming out or going in.”

We wait one hour to be allowed to pass (we will be longer on the way back). A deep, fast-flowing stream runs across the road to the village by the checkpoint. These overflows of water are everywhere because of the way the Israelis just bulldoze huge heaps of rubble and earth, creating lakes in heavy rain which eventually overflow. We climb to the top of a mountain road which has stunning panoramic views—and as we approach the village we see that all the large houses on the outskirts have been destroyed. In the driveway of one ruined house a tank is parked, in another an armored personnel carrier. The Israelis use these houses as tank parks so that they can descend onto the village at a moment’s notice andwreak havoc on the population. From the mountaintop, we also see people carrying huge loads on tiny donkeys—animal and owner suffering together. Fresh graves ring the cemetery.

The Clinic is held in a new building, the gift of an international donor. Not yet finished, it has no proper facilities for sick people to see the doctors—it’s very cold, with no heating and no equipment of any sort. An amazing number of people come, however. They are so pleased to see the UPMRC staff, who are their lifeline. In this village there no longer is any possibility of employment, and people tell me that they all help to support each other in every way—but, they wonder, for how long?

Everything here is cold, except the welcome! It is, as usual, so warm and full of affection. To the clinic come mothers with tiny, often underweight, babies. The food they are able to get now is not adequate for growing children, they say—it is restricted, and they do not have any dairy products or fresh fruit and vegetables. This is a Palestinian village, I remind you, in which live Palestinian people in their own land of Palestine, yet they are not permitted to buy the essential food their children need—so the next generation will have very many health problems. Teeth here are almost universally in extremely poor condition. An American friend asked me why we didn’t take fresh produce in the ambulance—we should be able to, of course. But this area is closed, and the vehicle will be confiscated if any item (even a warm blanket or a personal photograph) not pertaining to an ambulance is found.

The doctors must examine these babies in icy rooms on the cold surface of melamine-topped tables, and their stethoscopes are very cold indeed! Many patients arrive: old women bent double over walking sticks, children with no socks. A chill wind howls in around the windows. Everyone wants to talk, and everyone has a story of Israeli brutality and inhumanity. The manifestation of Palestinian pride in their nation is evident everywhere—there are flags, plaques, carvings, and pictures of Palestine as it was. The mothers are lovely—like young moms anywhere. They wear high-heeled boots, well-cut pants and elegant coats. But the signs of strain are there on every woman’s face. Still, everyone says to me, “Welcome, you are welcome in our land.”

This ancient nation of friendly, hospitable people has been reduced to mere existence by an illegal occupying army, contravening every relevant international law and governance. The expression in the eyes of the old—or maybe not-so-old—is an indictment of all of us who do not do whatever we can to influence our governments to end this suffering. Often I am unable to lift my eyes to meet theirs because I am so ashamed of our inaction. It often requires a very deep breath! For they do not want pity—just understanding of their suffering and some reassurance that people in other countries are with them in spirit and have not abandoned them to this.

Many of the donated medicineshave instructionsin English only, and there are not enough effective treatments, such as antibiotics—especially liquid antibiotics for the children. As a result, many of the children and adults alike have bad coughs, runny eyes and general respiratory infections which are so easily and cheaply treatable with the right medicine.

By twelve o’clock I am really chilled to the bone, despite my thick jeans, tights, socks, hiking boots, a cashmere polo under a sweatshirt and a hiking jacket over a duvet vest. The Palestinian women are in cotton clothes and their children in thin cotton trousers. Babies’ feet hang down coldly from the blanket in which they are wrapped. It is impossible to convey the suffering here—or, indeed, to convey the fun and merriment which bubbles out from the young men who have retained their humanity in a terrible situation. I believe it is easier, in some way, for the men, because they spend their days with each other, able to vent their anger. The women, on the other hand, have to keep the family together—cook, clean, wash, nurse sick babies and console old people with heavy hearts.

A cute boy of about seven comes alone with a toothache—a toothache in this cold with no dentist! He has on thin trousers, one-strap sandals and no socks, topped by a thin shirt. I cannot feel my toes, and my fingers are numb. A young mother has made the long trek uphill, with two children walking and one baby in her arms who is wrapped in a constantly falling-off blanket. (And in Europe we feel that bringing up children is hard!) I hold her baby, and the tears come—all around give me sympathy with their usual generosity of spirit. And they apologize for the lack of chairs!

I spend a long time with the head teacher of a school, whose daily problems of getting to work in Nablus just amaze me. He must leave his home in Qosin at 5 a.m. to walk over the mountains because the Israelis have banned him from the road. He is often soaking wet and covered in mud by the time he gets to work—and, of course, exhausted by the daily struggle. In normal times, his school is 15 minutes away. But, he says, his journey is not unusual at all here!

At one o’clock the villagers bring a delicious lunch to the clinic and no one from there eats until we have finished—bowls of olives, pita and hummus, which is all they have left now. At two o’clock we must go—there is, of course, curfew at six, and we must allow for the long wait at the Beit Iba checkpoint, where three roads converge. This time we are the first in line from our side. On the road crossing ours, going into Nablus, there is a long line of people, donkeys and carts. In 30 minutes, only one person passes through. An old man hobbles up a steep bank to sit on a cold concrete block to rest. Nothing moves. Suddenly, in the midst of all this waiting, the Israelis begin a “training” exercise. Next to us a bored truck driver, who clearly does this every day, sits eating oranges.

The line from Nablus is equally long—hundreds of people who can move only on the say-so of teenage soldiers. An armored car faces us, guns at the ready, its Israeli flag blowing in the icy wind— an Israeli flag flying on a Palestinian road in Palestine! All around are huge bulldozers, earth-movers, scoops and diggers. Everything for a half-mile in all directions has been destroyed to create this monument to Israel’s “security.” On our right is a graveyard for “confiscated” taxis and services (mini-buses)—dozens of vehicles which represent the family investment and income for hundreds of people, summarily confiscated while conveying Palestinians between Nablus and neighboring villages. Where else can a teenager “confiscate” a bus whose owner has no right of appeal and no compensation?

The Israeli “training” continues, and we wait…and wait. Our staff members remark that the soldiers are playing James Bond! They run about looking for all the world like nine-year-olds playing with guns. Except that these guys can end a life in a split second, and at will. There are now six ambulances, with their complement of staff, two on each road. Critical patients will die and pregnant women give birth at this desolate spot. No persons have been allowed through in the hour and 20 minutes we have been here. How can any kind of commerce survive when capital goods are standing about doing nothing, often for days upon end? Every hour that a truck is out of action costs its owner money.

Our doctor asks when can we leave, and is told: “Wait!” No reason. There is no pedestrian sidewalk—all the animals, baggage, children, nursing mothers, the old and the young are mixed up with trucks, buses, taxis and carts in this filthy, desolate expanse of dereliction. A women struggles by, carrying two babies, one on each arm. How has she held them for hours? How on earth have her arms endured this pain? One hour and 40 minutes later, we are “allowed” to go. And my anger chokes me.

AnneGwynne is a 65-year-old grandmotherand retired bank manager from Wales. She has workedwiththe Union of Palestinian Medical Relief Committees (UPMRC) in Nablus, and reports for Pacifica Radio’s “Flashpoints” program. She can be reached at <gwynne_anne@hotmail.com>.