Planting the Seeds of Resistance in Occupied Jerusalem36
Hanadi Halawani
I WAS BORN IN 1980, in Wadi Al-Joz, in the city of Al-Quds, Jerusalem, and that was where I grew up. I received my elementary and middle school education at the Arab Children’s House, which was established in the year 1981 by Hind al-Husseini to look after Palestinian orphans who survived the Deir Yassin massacre. After I finished, I joined Al-Ma’munia School, where I completed my high school education, before enrolling at the Al-Quds Open University from where I graduated with a degree in Social Development. Currently, I am finishing a Master’s degree focusing on Democracy and Human Rights at Birzeit University.
I spent most of my childhood living with my family in my grandmother’s house in Jerusalem. I am filled with gratitude for the love and attention bestowed upon me by my parents. They guided my feet on the right path. Both of them lived their lives in accordance with high principles. Much of the morality that guided my every step is the morality I inherited from them. However, it was my grandmother, Katiba, who, in particular, influenced the choices I made regarding my relationship with the Al-Aqsa Mosque and my beloved city, Jerusalem. My early memories have often centered on her, as she took me with her everywhere. My grandmother is a survivor of the 1948 Nakba and the 1967 Naksa. In her heart, she carried a great deal of sadness and so much resentment for the Israeli Occupation. She always looked at the Al-Aqsa Mosque in the hope that, one day, it would be liberated, as part of the liberation of the whole of Palestine. I remember her many stories about war, always rife with a mixed feeling of agony and hope of an assured victory.
She always took me with her to Al-Aqsa. First, we would rest in the shade of her favorite tree. Then, when we stood up, she would hand me an empty bag so I could walk around the large vicinity of the holy shrines and collect every speck of garbage I would come upon. I did so with much enthusiasm, though she would remind me, now and then, that sanctifying the Al-Aqsa compound is not just about cleansing it of trash but also of the violent settlers and armed soldiers who would raid the space so very often, fire at will and disturb the serenity of the otherwise peaceful place.
My grandmother’s love for Al-Aqsa seemed to balance out her many fears about the fate of Palestine. For her, Al-Aqsa was not just a holy place, but a symbol of something much larger and more profound. She once heard me singing. She stared at me with teary eyes, saying, “I pray that, one day, I’ll hear your melodious voice reciting the Quran at Al-Aqsa Mosque.” I inherited my love for Al-Aqsa from my grandmother. She passed away, but she left us with that deep sense of responsibility for Al-Aqsa and for Palestine.
I was only 17 years old when I married Yasin Makawi, a young man from Jerusalem, whose roots hail from the historic city of Nablus. He, too, had inherited a legacy of love and warmth but also suffering. Together, we raised a family which, one day, will carry on with our mission in this life.
I was still a student at Al-Quds Open University when I had my eldest daughter, ’Ala, and my son, Mahmoud. Managing two children and responding to the demands from school while living in an occupied city was not an easy feat. However, that period has taught me to be stronger, to manage my time and to cope with life while carrying heavy responsibilities. After that, my son, Ahmad, was born and finally, Hamza. By the time Hamza was born, I was fully committed to a life dedicated to the Al-Aqsa Mosque, first as a student, then as a teacher and an activist.
Linking my life struggle to Al-Aqsa began when I became intensely involved in acquiring high-level certificates in the recitation and teaching of the Quran. Initially, I was motivated by my grandmother’s wish that, one day, my voice could resonate with the words of God throughout the Al-Aqsa compound. That wish came true when I learned that the Islamic Movement in Occupied Palestine intended to expand an existing program known as “Terrasses of Knowledge,” which was initially limited to men only, but eventually expanded to include women. That was in 2010 and, despite my humble education and knowledge at the time, I still applied for the position.
I knew that my qualifications did not measure up to those of many of the women who applied for the position of a teacher in the program. One was a strong-willed woman, with a high level of education, who was also the wife of a Palestinian martyr; another had been a religious preacher for many years; a third had unmatched certifications and extensive experience. As for me, I carried the wish of my grandmother, her love—now my love—for Al-Aqsa. I was armed with hope as I attended the job interview. I told the person who interviewed me, “I know that my certificates and papers do not meet the minimal requirements for the job, but I have something unique to me and that is my desire to turn words into action, for the sake of Al-Aqsa and our beloved Palestine.” Hours later, I received a telephone call advising me that I had been selected as a teacher in the “Terrasses of Knowledge” program. My job description included the teaching of the Quran to young children.
I began my new role as a teacher at the beginning of June 2011. Little did I know that this was not just the beginning of a teaching career, but the threshold of a long road that would eventually designate me as a Murabita—a steadfast woman—whose main mission in life is to stand guard against all attempts to denigrate Al-Aqsa and to deny Palestinian rights in the occupied city.
It was the start of a very long and arduous journey that would have never been possible if it were not for the love, support, protection and loyalty of my husband, Yasin. He stood by me, when many others did not. He defended my choices, giving me the time and space to fight for a cause that is so dear to my heart. Still, it is not easy for a mother to be involved with an initiative that begins at 7:30 in the morning and carries on for much of the day. This hardship became more pronounced when such a mother would have to pass through various Israeli military checkpoints that are intentionally designed to keep us out. Yet, it was only a matter of time before the female component in this project became a dominant one.
In the beginning, I taught a small circle of students that eventually grew in number, compelling us to divide it into two. The number of students, however, continued to grow and, along with it, the circles of knowledge. Israeli soldiers watched us with alarm and began a campaign of harassment that lasted for years. They would come into our classes and would zoom their cameras into the faces of teachers and students, taking photographs all the while. Then, for no reason, they would collect the ID cards, hold them for a while and write down the names of the attendees.
Some of the women involved in the program were beginning to worry. Some wanted to leave because they could not predict the ferocity of the Israeli response. I remember standing amongst them once and saying this: “Let’s imagine ourselves all in a bus that is taking us on a journey to a place far away. As we get fatigued by the arduousness of the journey, some of us may choose to leave. The ones who leave first pay the smallest of price, but by choosing to abandon the rest of us, the journey becomes harder for everyone else. If we stay together, we can share the hardship until we reach our final destination. Sisters, this journey we have embarked on is our path towards liberation. If we choose freedom for all of us, we have to share all the hardships equally.” Thankfully, we stuck together.
Hundreds of children were registered in the various programs. It was a beautiful sight just watching these promising young faces learning about their religion, their culture and their identity, standing up for one another, especially when the soldiers decided to bully, deny entry or arrest any one of them. They would all gather around the checkpoint and chant for the soldiers to let them through; at times, the soldiers, overwhelmed and bewildered, would release the detained children.
Sometimes, mothers and children would attend school together, some learning how to read and write, and others taking on more advanced subjects and areas of knowledge. With time, I became the Director of the entire program, and began to seek young, energetic girls to help me in the project. When we would gather at Al-Aqsa, we would be as busy as a beehive, each teacher or volunteer dedicated to a specific subject and a specific circle of knowledge. At times, my job would entail my circulating from one circle to another, directing, encouraging, consoling and leading. The girls then called me “the butterfly of Al-Aqsa.” I liked that nickname!
Parallel to our struggle for knowledge, there was another ongoing battle with the Israeli Occupation. Whenever the soldiers tried to make life difficult for us, we would find ways around these restrictions; when they tried to scare us, we remained fearless and steadfast. When they tried to threaten us, we would not budge an inch. Nothing they have done has ever changed our commitment to the educational program. Fear could not find its way to my heart, because in my heart I had my love for Palestine and for my grandmother—her resolve, her hope and her determination.
In 2013, I was banished from Al-Aqsa following an Israeli court order. The banishment order was for two months. I saw, in that unwarranted action, an opportunity to acquire yet more knowledge. So, I traveled to Jordan where I undertook several programs and obtained several certifications related to my field. Shortly after I returned to Al-Aqsa, I was banished again for fifteen days. Yet, I returned once more, this time with greater awareness that the reason behind all of these restrictions and banishments was to ensure armed Jewish settlers, who constantly raid Al-Aqsa, did not meet any resistance on their abrasive and often violent journey. Therefore, this is what I did: I changed the location of the knowledge circles to dot the path of the armed settlers.
The settlers, who raid Al-Aqsa under the protection of heavily armed soldiers, began their so-called tours at the Moroccan Gate (Bab Al-Magharib), before proceeding to the Al-Musalla Al-Qibli, then to the Marwan-e-Masjid, before proceeding to the Mercy Gate (Bab Al-Rahma) in their hope of reaching the Fountain of Qaitbay (Sabil Qaitbay) to drink from its water. Finally, they often left using the Chain Gate (Bab Al-Silsila). Following my rearrangement of the knowledge circles, wherever they went they found a group of Palestinian women studying, reading and writing, reciting Quranic verses and chanting against the Israeli military Occupation. The Mercy Gate, which up to this time was somewhat abandoned—having been unsupervised, it had allowed the armed settlers more space to gather and organize—became a space for Palestinian Muslim women to learn and teach. If the armed settlers decided to go to the holy Dome of the Rock to pray at the Muslim religious sites, we would line up in front of them like a wall. We would raise our holy books in unison and chant, together, “God is greater.” Frankly, we knew that many of these religious Jewish men believed that the sight of women would violate their prayers. Therefore, intentionally, we would stand in full view in front of them as they attempted to desecrate our holy shrines.
For a while, they employed the tactic of stealing our chairs. We then replaced the chairs with rugs. They stole the rugs, too, so we sat on the bare floor. The effort of these Murabitat, these steadfast women, forced the extremists to change the route of their raids by conducting only symbolic visitations, where they would enter from the Moroccan Gate and quickly leave from the Chain Gate without desecrating much of the compound, as they had always done.
A more serious crackdown began in 2014 where many of the Murabitat were violently arrested, some jailed and others deported for long periods of time. Instead of giving up, we moved our mobile school outside of the Chain Gate. I would gather the women around me, follow up on their studies and we would finish by reading the Quran together. Whenever the settlers triumphantly exited through the Chain Gate, we would be waiting for them, chanting “Allahu Akbar,” raising our holy books in their faces, completely unafraid of their automatic rifles and unintimidated by their obscene language.
As I watched more and more women being denied access to the Mosque, we decided to reach out to the tourists who visit Al-Aqsa in large numbers on a daily basis. All of us wore similar colored t-shirts with the following words printed on placards: “Do you know why we are here? Ask us.” We explained to them, in both Arabic and English, why the soldiers had denied us the right to pray, learn and teach in the holiest of our religious shrines. Eventually, the soldiers attacked us, confiscated our placards and forced us to pay a large fine for wearing our t-shirts. Still, we kept coming back, talking to everyone who was willing to hear about the injustice of the Israeli Occupation. Frustrated by our relentlessness, the soldiers began attacking us with unprecedented violence, beating us with heavy sticks, throwing teargas in our midst, spraying us with gases that burned our eyes, throats and irritated our skin. They punched and kicked women, young and old. They dragged us down the street, they stepped on us, they spat and used all kinds of obscenities. Yet, we kept coming back.
In 2015, the Israeli military released what they called the “blacklist.” This contained the names of women who were no longer allowed to enter Al-Aqsa Mosque compound. My name was the first on the list, and everyone else who was “blacklisted” received all kinds of harassment, arrests, various types of punishment, including house arrests and, at times, torture. I told the women on the list that this was a “golden list,” as it contained the names of the most powerful and most effective of all women, whose work and activism had scared off the supposedly “invincible army.” That year, I was told that I could not set foot in Al-Aqsa during the holy month of Ramadan. Considering the significance of this holy Muslim month and the historic importance between Ramadan and Al-Aqsa, this decision was meant to break my will. My response was to break the fast outside the Chain Gate in a Ramadan Iftar like no other.
The sisters and I cooked a massive amount of Maqluba, an unrivalled Palestinian dish, loved by all. The entire meal was prepared on the street, and it was not only meant to serve the Murabitat who were deported from Al-Aqsa but was also smuggled to those who were inside. It was the first, but definitely not the last, time that the Maqluba feast became a regular occurrence in and around Al-Aqsa. Understanding the significance of our national dish to our collective identity, the soldiers would interrogate us about the reasons why we were always preparing this specific kind of food. Within weeks, we were making court appearances, as we were literally investigated for making Maqluba.
2015 was a particularly difficult year for the women of Al-Aqsa. We were treated with the same kind of violence and subjected to the same kind of torture to which Palestinian men were. We began spending long, painful nights in the dungeons of occupation. This suffering continued until an Israeli court decided, by the end of the year, to ban the Islamic Movement altogether, both in occupied Jerusalem and in Palestine ’48. Their aim was the destruction of the “Terrasses of Knowledge” program, which had strengthened the relationship between Palestinian youth and Al-Aqsa; in fact, all of Jerusalem’s holy shrines. Unfortunately, the program itself had to stop. This was not the end of the road for me. Guided by my grandmother’s love and wish to never abandon Al-Aqsa, I continued to find ways to empower women so that we could continue to play our critical role in the struggle for freedom.
The Israeli Occupation continued to target me despite the violent closure of our educational program. In 2016, I was arrested during the trial of one of the teachers involved in the “Terrasses of Knowledge” program. They interrogated me for seven days, during which time I was mostly in shackles, being transported in the Bosta—the armed prison vehicle—between my prison cell and the interrogation room. These were days of constant humiliation, which included the insistence on degrading searches where one would have to be stripped naked every time. This was not the first, nor the last of my detentions. At times, they placed me with convicted Israeli criminals to scare me and to break my spirit. At other times, they placed me in solitary confinement, a tiny cell that felt as if it was a filthy toilet. My interrogators seemed to enjoy humiliating me, making fun of me and even calling me crazy. They often pulled off my hijab and forced me to attend court sessions without it. Once, and without any justification, they forced me to remove all of my clothes and sit in a small room surrounded by cameras. This lasted only 15 minutes, but it felt as if it was a lifetime.
In the following months, the Chain Gate itself was shut down with iron bars and barbed wire, so the women and I relocated our protests to the Hitta Gate (Bab Al-Hitta). Inevitably, our numbers began to dwindle. By Ramadan 2017, I was the only woman still protesting. I eventually relocated to a new spot, between the Hitta Gate and the Lion’s Gate (Bab Al-Asbat). This new spot still exists, and the number of protesters is growing once more.
True, our educational program had been disrupted and many of the women were, once again, preoccupied by their own challenges in life, but my message and my mission did not stop. I then took the message of Al-Quds, Jerusalem and the struggle of all the Murabitat to many countries around the world, beginning in Jordan, then Kuwait, Indonesia, Bahrain, Turkey and elsewhere. Wherever I went, my audiences were always worried about the fate of Jerusalem, and every time, I would reassure them that we Palestinians will continue to stand at the frontlines of resistance against Israeli military occupation.
Upon my return to Jerusalem, I contacted many of my students, teaching them what I could and whenever possible. This, too, from Israel’s perspective, was too dangerous, so the Israeli Occupation continued to make my life difficult, limiting my movement and denying me the right to travel. First, I was blocked from traveling for three years but, as soon as I regained that right, an Israeli court imposed it again in 2020. My family and I are denied health insurance and constantly forced to pay heavy fines for things that make no sense, simply to punish me. On any given day, I am denied entry, either to the West Bank or to Jerusalem’s Old City, or placed under house arrest in lieu of prison time. However, the most painful of all punishments is when Israeli soldiers would break into my home and savagely begin to destroy everything in their way: my children’s computers, desks and beds. With every break-in, they would confiscate my papers and my certificates, and they would drag me in handcuffs, often late at night, to an Israeli prison. On one of these occasions, I cast a glance on the street only to see a seemingly endless stream of Israeli vehicles, police cars and Special Forces. The military caravan that took me to be interrogated was so loud and massive, as if I was a dangerous criminal. In the interrogation room, I asked one of the Israeli officers why it was necessary for them to deploy such a large force to arrest an unarmed woman. He answered with a smirk, “But you deserve more than this, you are the most dangerous woman to Israel’s security.”
But I am going nowhere. Our rightful struggle cannot be negotiated, and it will continue, no matter the passing of the years. If we cannot fulfill our mission in this life, another generation of Palestinians will. I know the price will always be high because dignity, freedom and victory are precious. Now, I am back at the University, studying Democracy and Human Rights. I want to take my message, the message of the Murabitat in the streets, to every international forum that is willing to hear our pleas. I try to take every opportunity to address the world, whether online or whenever I am allowed to return to my spot outside the Al-Aqsa compound. My message to the Israeli Occupation is that we will never give up and my message to the new generation of Palestinian Murabitat, “Do not be scared, but carry on with your noble fight for freedom.”
Sometimes, I feel that my grandmother’s heart is beating in my chest and that I am a mere messenger, carrying her message to the world. My grandmother’s legacy has taught me that when you plant a seed, do not worry if you are not the one who eats from the fruits it bears. Our fight for freedom is inter-generational—my grandmother planted a seed in my heart, and I am planting the seeds in my children’s hearts. The more I carry on with my fight for freedom, the more courageous I feel, the more unmoved, unafraid. I feel that God is always with me. He gives me courage and strength. Even when I sit alone outside the walls of Al-Aqsa, surrounded by hordes of soldiers, inside of me, I feel the power of Palestine, all of Palestine, and her people.
36 This essay was originally written in Arabic and was translated by Ramzy Baroud.