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IN ISRAEL THEY SHACKLE (PALESTINIAN) CHILDREN
Perhaps the most shocking of all things in Israel's treat-
ment of the Palestinians is the way that children are
treated. It is unimaginable that an Jewish Israeli child
would be brought to court in shackles or even be placed
in a court of law.
Beatings and abuse of children by the Israeli military is
common and judges, such as the one below, don't even blink
an eye. Thus is legal racism established.
Below this is a paper circulated by Dr. Derek Summerfield
from Defence for Children International ? Palestine
Section, on the shooting of children working near the
northern border of Gaza.
- Tony Greenstein
The Children's Judge
True, in the military courtroom itself Palestinians are
neither shot nor beaten. They are not 'targeted for
elimination' nor even sentenced to death. At least not
in the courtroom. But the military court is also the place
where all illusions die. And hopes. Because that is where
Palestinians learn that injury caused them, is no error,
nor misunderstanding, but a matter of policy. That is where
they learn that law regarding Palestinians is nothing short
of another kind of weapon. One of many. Among the tanks
and planes and cluster bombs and checkpoints and Separation
Wall and white phosphorus and the IOF spokesman.
The military court is the end of ends. The last judgment.
The final accusation, a-priori, of Palestinians only
because they are Palestinians.
And courtroom number 2, where children are put on trial,
is the place beyond that end. The place where all the
words end.
Only two family members are allowed to come to the trial.
This is usually the only time they can come and see their
son, and they do. Time after time. They may bring
cigarettes and money for the long day awaiting them.
Nothing else. Not even medication, nor tissues, nor food,
nor a book or a newspaper. We, visitors who are not
Palestinian, are allowed to bring in a notebook and pen.
But not tissues. We have no privileges concerning tissues.
Perhaps because tissues are evidence that there is some-
thing to cry over, and the State of Israel is not willing
to name its own deeds at the end of which lies weeping.
And its necessity is the evidence and the visibility of
that which Israel is not willing to name, that and the
anticipated weeping. Perhaps that is why tissues are not
allowed in court.
One man managed to smuggle in a roll of toilet paper
despite the order forbidding tissues. Apparently deep
in his clothes he dared to hide toilet paper, soft as
tissues. Now he moved from woman to woman, handing out
bits of toilet paper to every single one of them, all
the mothers, so they would have it ready for the tears
when they would come. When he handed it to us as well
we were ashamed, because we have no spouses or sons in
jail. And because the man only had one roll of paper,
we felt uneasy that we were getting some at the expense
of someone else.
Finally we were lucky to have gotten it. Because all that
remains in this accursed place is to weep. The warmth of
the wet, salty tears is the only possibly warmth inside
this sinister ticking mechanism that no word could
encompass or cover.
Courtroom number 2. The children?s court. Every Monday. On
the podium, judge Sharon Rivlin Ahai. From 9 a.m. until
close to 6 p.m. Boy follows boy. A boy and then another
child. Wearing brown prison garb. Chained feet. Shackled
hands, one hand shackled to that of another boy. Some of
them are so small that their feet wave in the air when
they are seated on the bench. Some of them are so small
that our eyes look away. Most of them are accused of
throwing stones. Molotov cocktails. Most of them are not
released on bail, have not been interrogated in the
presence of an adult ? parent or social worker. Most of
them were picked up in the dead of night. All these are
violations of the international law in defense of children,
even those under occupation. Most of them were arrested
following denunciation, mostly by some other child, who
? like them ? was taken in the dead of night because some-
one else gave in his name. And most of them confessed, if
not immediately then later on, of anything they were told
to admit.
The prosecutor speaks, then the judge, the defense, the
interpreter, the judge once again, and Tareq Mohammad's
father writes on the palm of his hand their home phone
number to make sure that 13-years old son, remembers and
knows it. The mother cries, so does the child. In custody
now for three and a half months. For throwing stones. His
remand has been extended seven or eight times already. And
the next court session is scheduled for January 3rd. The
father signals him to get his hair cut, to be strong, to
be a man. I don't want to be here were the last words he
said before being led out, and the mother covered her
face.
Another two children are led into the courtroom. They are
seated next to each other. The warden unshackles their
hands. Their feet remain chained.
One of the boys is Bilal Sami Matar, 14-years old, in
custody for half a year already. Twenty one children
and youths were caught that night in Qalandiya refugee
camp, and so was he. Some boy gave their names in.
That is how it usually happens. A child is arrested for
one reason or another. And he is told, give us fifteen
names and we'll let you go. First he says, no way.
Eventually he gives them names. Usually they are the
names of boys he knows, his age, sometimes of boys he'd
never met, in order to supply the required number. And
already the deal is made between the prosecution and the
defense, and with it the corrected indictment sheet.
Because finally he confessed like everyone else, regard-
less whether or not he really did the deeds of which he
is accused. After all, even if he did, how would the
occupation forces know whether he ever threw a stone or
not? Only because someone said so? But apparently this
really does not matter much. The main thing is the power
that tramples. That there are more means to recruit
collaborators. The main thing is to brutalize. To crush.
To intimidate. Not as a means but as an end.
First reading of the plea for sentencing is postponed until
January 10th. No one objects. Not even the child. He is not
listening anyway. Nor are his parents. They only devour the
last moments of grace to look at each other and exchange a
few more words, for this is the only time they see each
other and has been so for months, and anyway, everything
takes place regardless of the boy or his actual deeds.
How are things at home? The boy asks his parents. Well
practiced at speaking from meters away, as long as the
policeman will not keep them from looking at each other.
Everything's fine, Bilal's mother mouths expansively so
the child can read her lips.
Are you studying? Asks the father in his authoritative
voice.
Every day, Bilal answers.
Say hello to everyone, he says before being pushed again
through the back door by the warden, blows them a kiss
and vanishes.
Outside the hall his mother breaks in tears.
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Another two boys are brought in. One name is read aloud,
Mu'amin Omar Asad, he stands up, this and that is said,
something nearly identical to what was just said before
and will be said again and again, about having thrown,
hurled, prepared, wanted, meant, demonstrated, as the
young denouncer had said... Then the interpreter presents
Mu'amin with the indictment sheet which he takes in his
hand. Another Hebrew form, one of many he?s received since
his arrest, signing them without a notion of what is
written in them. After receiving the form, the hand of
the 14-year old automatically points to his parents seated
a few meters away, and suddenly freezes, stops.
Until not very long ago he would always bring home to
mother any certificate or trouble or duty or some such.
His frozen hand remains in the air for a moment, then
retreats and returns to his lap, the form is released
from his slack fingers, his parents' faces are ashen.
Does not plead guilty. For the time being.
The next court session is set in two weeks' time.
Boy after boy enter, their names are read, they rise, then
sit, then another court date is set, or a plea bargain.
The interpreter speaks, the prosecutor, the judge, the
defense lawyer. The eyes of mother and son are locked.
Don't forget to pray, the father tells the child. Yes, the
boy nods his head, his lips pursed tight, their murmurs
trying to cross the distance. Last moments of grace in
this encounter. Soon the baby will return into the dark-
ness. The mother cries over his wearing such a thin shirt.
Enough, the boy dismisses her with a smile, trying to look
grown up and brave. Then he is told to rise. Words that
tear the air and the skin and the heart. And he rises.
His parents' eyes dwell for another moment on the chain
between his feet which they repressed earlier on, he holds
out little hands, adept, the policeman shackles one of them
and connects the other to another prisoner, together they
are led outside.
Twenty three children and youths were brought into court
that day. Most of them confessed to the deeds attributed
to them already in their first interrogation. Or the
second, at the latest. Few confessed only in the courtroom
itself. The few who do not plead guilty at first usually
do later on. They confess because they are frightened.
Threatened. Because they are children. Because a verdict
on the basis of denunciation is very difficult to refute.
Especially because the military court regards denunciation
as a fact. And if they confess, so they are told, then
their prison sentence will be lightened, and sometimes
they will only be sentenced to the number of months they
have already spent in custody, several months, the months
they already spent as part of the system. And after all,
this court does not seek the truth, nor could it with such
means.
And if they don't confess, they're told, they will likely
spend much more time in jail.
So they confess.
Most of the time.
It is hard to say what it is about this terrible place
that is worse than others. Which darkness is darker, more
painful. Is it the mothers and their broken hearts? Or the
helplessness of the father whose child is abandoned, and
he has not the power to protect him. Is it the horror of
the little ones, the feeling that this is a sold game in
which no one cares for the truth, be it as it may, because
this system does not enable one to find out the truth.
That this is not really a court, but only another tool of
occupation. Where Palestinians are guilty unless proven
otherwise. Even if proven otherwise. Guilty because they
are Palestinians.
Is it the unbearable serial sense of a child and then
another and another, and the empty eyes of the various
forces of occupation. The good-looking soldier girl, with
her long groomed hair who stands right in between the
mother and boy so they cannot see each other, or exchange
a few words while their fate is cast. Their fate that has
nothing to do with them or with who they are, but only
with what they are. And the policeman, his gaze lazy and
empty, most of the time looking to see if he got any
messages on his cell phone, while next to him fates are
determined, transparent like his victims. Or is it the
judge with her pleasant face, who does not cry to high
heaven, does not tear at her hair and feel ashamed nor
protest what she is doing in the service of her country.
How she stands silent in view of these strange plea
bargains, 13-year old children who perhaps threw a stone,
and perhaps not, because that?s what their denouncers
said, who are but children like them taken in the dead
of night. Or not wondering that everyone confesses, that
months go by until the verdict is given, that they are not
released on bail, that they sit in prison until the end of
the proceedings, three, four, six, eight months and more,
no matter what the accusation is, no matter that it's a
child. That there are no innocents, ever. That every voice
of an army man is crystal-clear fact. And every incriminat-
ing testimony, too, crystal clear. But not denial. Denial
is not crystal clear, ever. Nor the claim that confession
was obtained by force. That I signed something I did not
understand. That I was afraid. That I was beaten up. That
I did not do it. No.
I did not do it.
Even when it comes to children.
And their denying words are regarded as ridiculous, a
superfluous waste of time, and mostly changing when the
child and his parents learn that no matter what he did,
or did not do, his fate is sealed. And that the system
does not enable him to defend himself. That it is better
to confess. And indeed this is what he usually does.
And so child after child. Everything seems reasonable to
her, and to the rest of those judges. Eight months, and
six, and once again having to pay 5000 shekel. This fine
that is always eventually charge. More and more money to
be paid by those who don?t have any to begin with. Or
else the son will sit another few months, as many as the
thousands of shekels that were required in payment.
A child arrives wearing a short-sleeved shirt, shivering
with cold. Apparently he is fifteen but looks younger.
Does not know who his lawyer is. No parents. Bites his
fingernails. Sucks his thumb. His look is scattered and
scared. He is accused of having thrown stones. Attorney
Samara volunteers to take him on.
I request the postponement of this case in order to
complete it by the 13th of next month, says the judge.
Three weeks from today. And the defendant gives his
parents' phone number to the lawyer.
The policeman has already shackled the child who rises
and stands to be led out again, and the judge asks
resentfully, why is he not dressed, just such a light
shirt in this cold weather? How could this be? Her
pitying voice is not directed at anyone in particular.
Indeed, one should resent and hurt the fact that he is
cold, your honor. But why just this? What about their
having come in the dead of night to pick him up? That
he has not seen a lawyer until now? That there was no
adult present at his interrogation? That his parents
have not been informed of his whereabouts? That he was
arrested on the basis of denunciation? That he was not
released on bail? That he has been in custody for months
before his trial began?
And if he did throw stones, how would you know? Is this
the way to find out? Can one find out at all?
And if he did, your honor, is this what he deserves? Would
this happen, your honor, were this a Jewish child who
threw stones?
No need to answer, your honor, the answer is obvious.
Aya Kaniuk and Tamar Goldschmidt. Translated by Tal Haran.
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