I have barely had a moment to rest since coming back to Masafer Yatta. It has been heartwarming to see the families I love and heartbreaking to hear of everything that has transpired since I left last June. Houses raided, olive trees cut down, donkeys stolen, people beaten badly by settlers, people put in prison for no reason. Babies that couldn’t walk last spring now can hobble around and point to military vehicles passing by outside and say “jaysh” (army). I’ve been shown pictures of sons and nephews who have been released after being held captive in Israeli prisons who look unrecognizable from when they were captured. One man lost half his body weight.
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But I am so happy to be here. The three months I spent here last spring were barely enough time to earn the trust of and form true connections with people. Coming back feels like a homecoming. I missed the call to prayer that plays five times a day over the old speakers of the mosque down the street. And the stray cats and dogs who I swear remember me. And how the valley towards Carmel, now brown from lack of rain, turns almost pink in the setting and rising sun.
The flat in Ramallah ran out of water my first day back and I still haven’t taken a proper shower since I made it south. Although the electricity ran out so there’s no hot water, I hope to have one soon, now that I have a few hours to rest in the guest house. But an IOF jeep just idled in front of our door for a minute before heading up the street. I hope that doesn’t indicate an upcoming raid. I think I’ll bring my computer with me when I head out tonight, just in case. I heard that the oldest daughter of the family I’m staying with just got engaged and I look forward to celebrating with them. Everyone here lives in fear, but life still goes on.
