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In occupied Bil’in, there is no P in PTSD
1. In occupied Bil’in, there is no P in PTSD
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Although the scale of suffering and loss pales compared to Gaza -- where more Palestinian children
have been killed in the past seven weeks than in the last five years combined -- violence in the
West Bank lurks at a low burn.Â
Iyad Burnat speaks with the measured voice of a veteran. As a leader of Bil'in's weekly nonviolent
protests, he's been shot at, detained, and interrogated. And he's seen his fellow villagers endure the
same. So when his 15-year-old son took a live bullet to the thigh, the father took it in stride.
"What happened to Majd is part of a longstanding Israeli policy to try and scare us, to dissuade us
from protesting the occupation," the 40-year-old Burnat said about the July 31 incident.
But watching his son get shot by Israeli soldiers was just the beginning. On Sunday, while returning
from a doctor's appointment in Jordan -- where surgeons refused to say whether the son's leg would
fully heal -- Majd was served a summons by the Israeli police. He was ordered to appear for
questioning on August 28, his 16th birthday.
Summons order for Majd Burnat, following his shooting, to appear for questioning at an Israeli
police station.
"I don't know what to do," his father said. "If I take him to the police, they might arrest him. If I don't
2. take him, they might not let him leave [the West Bank] for his next appointment."
Burnat's dilemma, say fellow villagers, is yet another example of the Israeli occupation's reach. But
it also speaks to an essential similarity between Palestinians' struggle in Gaza and the West Bank.
"Here," said one villager who asked not to be named, "the physical violence against us isn't nearly as
brutal as it is in Gaza. But it's also constant. What matters in both the West Bank and Gaza is
persistence."
Every night in this village of roughly 2,000 people, a handful of friends -- most of them between the
ages of 30 and 40 -- gathers on a hill not far from Israel's separation wall, watching the news out of
Gaza and expressing solidarity with their compatriots there.
When I met Majd for the first time, Emad Burnat was taking his nephew to pick up his school books.
It had been fewer than two weeks since Majd was shot. When he entered the school on crutches, his
teachers took one look at the teen and asked: "live or rubber bullet?"
Bil'in residents gather on a hill outside the village to watch the latest news out of Gaza.
The Burnats' case illustrates the point. When I spoke with Majd by phone on Sunday, he told me
about his experience at the Allenby Bridge. "They questioned me in the ambulance that was
supposed to be carrying me back to the Palestinian side," he said. "My father wasn't there because
we had been separated at the border, and he couldn't get to the ambulance to see me."
I asked Majd whether he was scared. "It was nothing," he said. "I'm used to it."
Majd has also grown used to the pain from his bullet wound. He paces, mostly, because to sit -- or
stand still -- makes his thigh throb. As we were carrying his books back to his uncle's car, I could see
3. him cringe, inconsolable.
In that sense, this child of Bil'in looks like so many of the Palestinian children I have seen in Gaza.
Their's is a gaze beyond their years, the kind of thousand-yard stare so common to veterans of war,
so borne of post-traumatic stress. But the disorder that bears its name -- PTSD -- does not quite fit
here. Here, Israel's occupation -- by the bombs' bellow or the sniper's aim -- leaves children in
constant pain. Here, with nowhere to flee, there is no "P" in PTSD.
As for Majd, his father tells me he will start school on August 31. Within a month, he says, they'll
both be heading back to Amman for a follow-up doctor's visit, where they're hoping for a sign that
Majd might one day regain feeling in his lower leg.
"We'll do all this," Iyad Burnat says, "if nothing happens between now and then."
http://mondoweiss.net/2014/08/occupied-bilin-there.html
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![take him, they might not let him leave [the West Bank] for his next appointment."
Burnat's dilemma, say fellow villagers, is yet another example of the Israeli occupation's reach. But
it also speaks to an essential similarity between Palestinians' struggle in Gaza and the West Bank.
"Here," said one villager who asked not to be named, "the physical violence against us isn't nearly as
brutal as it is in Gaza. But it's also constant. What matters in both the West Bank and Gaza is
persistence."
Every night in this village of roughly 2,000 people, a handful of friends -- most of them between the
ages of 30 and 40 -- gathers on a hill not far from Israel's separation wall, watching the news out of
Gaza and expressing solidarity with their compatriots there.
When I met Majd for the first time, Emad Burnat was taking his nephew to pick up his school books.
It had been fewer than two weeks since Majd was shot. When he entered the school on crutches, his
teachers took one look at the teen and asked: "live or rubber bullet?"
Bil'in residents gather on a hill outside the village to watch the latest news out of Gaza.
The Burnats' case illustrates the point. When I spoke with Majd by phone on Sunday, he told me
about his experience at the Allenby Bridge. "They questioned me in the ambulance that was
supposed to be carrying me back to the Palestinian side," he said. "My father wasn't there because
we had been separated at the border, and he couldn't get to the ambulance to see me."
I asked Majd whether he was scared. "It was nothing," he said. "I'm used to it."
Majd has also grown used to the pain from his bullet wound. He paces, mostly, because to sit -- or
stand still -- makes his thigh throb. As we were carrying his books back to his uncle's car, I could see](data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7)