Gush Katif Viewpoint

Gush Katif Viewpoint #64 August 24, 2005


THE "STAR WARS" EVICTION
Three Days In August

By Rachel Saperstein
Jerusalem Gold Hotel Rm. 526


There was a `Star War' quality to the operation. Not one shot was
fired, not one rifle was in view but the terror tactic used in this
eviction from Gush Katif was a brilliant tribute to the `warrior.'

They did not need to use force, they simply manipulated our minds, so
that we gave up willingly, almost with relief to be out of the horror
scene created by the IDF and the Israeli police.

Psychological warfare apparently gets more efficient results than
brutality. The removal of all Jews from Gush Katif was done with
Hollywood style, proficiency and panache.

Tuesday Night, August 16, 2005

The night before the eviction, hundreds of troops marched into Neve
Dekalim with robot-like precision. They started straight ahead.
Hundreds more sat on the sand dunes, their backs toward each house. I
went out to speak with them.

"Turn around," I cried. "Look at my house. Look at my husband. He
has no hands. We are the people who fought for the land. We are the
people you are going to throw out. Look at me! Look at me.!"

There was no reaction. Some fiddled with their cell phones as they
sat in the darkness. The streetlights were turned off. Only the glow
of our garden lights made the soldiers visible. Their commander, his
head shaved, stared into the darkness. No reaction.

Moshe sat on our porch quietly smoking a cigar as I screamed and screamed.

"Why bother," he said. "They look drugged to me. A high-ranking
officer came to speak with him.

"I am sorry for what is happening to you," he said. "We will not pull
you out in the middle of the night and tomorrow your guests can leave
with you."

We were so grateful to know that our eviction would be `kindly.' We
went to sleep in our clothes, just in case. We believe no one,
especially the IDF.

Wednesday morning, August 17, 2005

The morning air was filled with the smell of burning tires and
garbage. There were fifteen of us in the house for breakfast. The
men had prayed the Shacharit-morning service on the lawn, and now we
all sat down to eat.

As a last gesture to my new family, I pulled out packages of frozen
chicken parts, added a few teaspoons of soy sauce, a sprinkling of
brown sugar, a few cherry tomatoes and small potatoes into our one
remaining frying pan. At 10:30 a.m. we sat down for lunch—our
farewell meal. It was a grandmother's way of saying, "We're going to
be evicted, let's leave on a full stomach and with dignity." We lived
up to our standards.

Moshe called us together.

"We're leaving with our heads held up high. We will not resist but go
quietly to the waiting bus." He did this for me. He was fearful that
I would be beaten if I resisted. I had to promise I wouldn't fight.

I walked over to the synagogue complex to meet a BBC presenter for a
live broadcast. We watched the rabbis bringing a Torah scroll into
the building with love amidst singing and dancing.

BBC announcer: "What's going on?"
Me: " A Torah scroll is being brought into the synagogue."
BBC live on air: "A holy Koran is now being brought into the synagogue!"
Me: Screaming: "A Torah, a Holy Torah!"
BBC:"Oh, sorry—A Torah…"

I met Emma Hurd of Sky TV News. She interviewed me. The turmoil
continued. Play acting mostly. Enter the "mean guys." Tough looking
guys with black uniforms and dark reflective glasses. Their job was
to run in formations or large groups looking tough and scary: They
ran, stopped, muddled about, regrouped and ran in another direction.

I shouted, :Hey, you guys look real tough, I'm soooo scared of you!"

I started laughing, slightly hysterical, but laughing nevertheless.

Enter, stage right groups of young, good-looking soldiers—the "good
guys," in baseball caps and charming blue mesh vests over their khaki
uniforms, emblazoned with the Israeli flag and the symbol of the
Knesset, the seven branch candelabra sown on the vests and caps. One
could see the team of fashion designers who surely created these costumes.

I felt as if I had fallen into a real live computer game—one my
four-year-old grandson is so fond of.

"Maidele, little girl," I said to one sweet, blue-eyed soldier. "Does
your mother know what you're doing here? When you have a sweet
daughter of your own, what will you tell her when she asks," Where
were you mommy, and what did you do when the soldiers came to expel
the Jews of Gush Katif?"

Masses of these lovely Jewish soldiers fanned out and stood near each
home.. Their backs to the house so they wouldn't have to physically
see the homeowners of the beautiful Jewish homes that they were to
help destroy.

The bus pulled up to our house. The bus to remove Moshe, me and our
guests from our home in Neve Dekalim forever. Four soldiers came in to
talk to us and obviously repeated the words they had been programmed
to say to a Jewish homeowner.

In an emotional voice I said," Look at my face, and look at my
husband's face. Remember them well. These are the Jews you agreed to
make homeless. This is your shame that you will remember forever." I
turned to leave.

We brought our baggage to the front of our entrance, a bright orange
ribbon attached to each piece. Together we sang,"Ani Maamin," I
believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah.' Rabbi Eisen,
holding the orange flag of Gush Katif recited Kaddish, the Mourner's
Prayer. We each kissed the mezuza goodbye and slowly walked to the
bus and pulled away from our home.

At the next house a family of Bnei menashe residents came out. Tired,
worn out, no fight, no ceremonies. A bunch of teenage girls was
briskly hauled onto the bus, still full of spit and fire.

The bus slowly made its way out of Neve Dekalim, passing the ulpana
where I had taught English for eight years. The bus wound down the
main road leading inexorably to the gate. It halted. Dozens of
teenage girls had jumped in front of the bus.

"A Jew doe not expel Jews," they screamed as they sat in front of the
bus using their bodies to stop our expulsion. The police dragged them
away. The young girls attacked the police. The government had turned
young adolescents into frenzied fighters. They threw orange paint
onto the windshield. We hung our flag out the window.

The police had fouled up the entrance to our beautiful never Dekalim.
Piles of empty water bottles and half eaten food were strewn about
the once carefully tended lawns of our community.

I closed my eyes to the ugly scene of Jewish destruction. I forced
myself to remember the beauty we once had here—not this, not this.

We drove to Jerusalem. We talked, we cried. The accompanying police
and soldiers offered us large bottles of water and packaged
sandwiches. Most refused to accept them.

Jerusalem Gold—the name of our hotel. Our home—room 526.

The people of Jerusalem welcomed us with loving signs and plates of
fruit, drinks and cake. The policemen helped bring our pieces of
luggage into the hotel. Our son, Moshe's mother, brother and wife met
us with hugs and kisses, happy that we were out of the battle. We
wished we were still there. We said goodbye to Rabbi Eisen and Reva
and their three sons. Our friend Jochim had gotten off in Ashkelon.

The folks spoke to us. We couldn't communicate. People from
different planets with no mutual language. I saw my friend Iris from
neve Dekalim. We fell into each other's arms and cried and cried. We
didn't need to exchange any words at all.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

My ankle has a hairline fracture. I had broken it three weeks ago but
had not time to get an X Ray. Despite the pain, I ran to each
interview and cooked for ten. My foot is swollen. My son came and
between my bouts of hysterical crying he convinced me to go for
medical help. Sari, a nurse we know, came with her medical help and
brought a pad so I could write these words.

Now I've begun `Operation Band Aid.' Volunteers from Jerusalem show
up at my room and ask, "What can I do?" I tell them. On Friday night
boxes of brand new white shirts arrived. Our men and boys went to
pray looking like princes instead of bedraggled refugees.
Hairdressers and barbers arrived. We take a reprieve from our intense
sorrow. We are cold. Jerusalem evenings are chilly. I asked for and
received warm clothing from Jerusalem shopkeepers. My one request.
Every item must be brand new or in perfect condition. Treat us with
dignity.

And the folks of this wonderful city keep on bringing and bringing.
One small cell phone in my room brings us whatever immediate aid we
need. Only a band-aid box given with love.

But I cry and sob. Ariel Sharon won this battle. I couldn't stop the
expulsion.