The Israeli army’s pogrom in Qalandiya refugee camp lasted for three days: three days of invasions of homes, shooting, property vandalization and looting.
Three days during which thousands of residents had neither days nor nights. Only fear and pain. Three days ending with dozens of people in custody and many wounded and hospitalized.
I came to meet the direct and indirect victims, and learnt that they were all direct victims, hurt in body and/or soul. The thugs did not spare children, women and men, nor their homes and property.

There are not enough words to describe the quiet that follows the storm.
Not enough words to describe the feelings of people whose house door was broken into, whose wives and children were kicked by booted thugs, whom many rifle butts had beaten their bodies, who were chased away from their home confiscated from them and inhabited by soldiers, soldiers who destroyed, broke and stole valuables and cash.

A taxi owner said he found all four tires of his taxi punctured by bullets. Another said he and his family members were forced to leave their home for a whole night, and when allowed to return they found their savings looted and their furniture broken.

Not only the refugee camp was “taken care of” by the Israeli army. The armed men also raided shops and vendor carts around the checkpoint compound, confiscated them, fined their owners and made them sign a document that if they were back with their goods, they would be jailed. Some of them endanger their liberty and return with their goods for a time and leave again. They family must eat, no?

Since the week began, the prominent thing on the eastern side of the checkpoint compound has been neglect and screaming silence.

On the way back, having successfully passed the national inspection and found worthy of crossing the checkpoint, a security guard told me it was very dangerous for Jewish women to be there, in Qalandiya.
“Only if they come armed and uniformed”, I said.
“Yes, it is dangerous”, he repeated. “I know, I fought near Gaza so I know”, he answered.
“You fought near Gaza but never made it to Nir Oz”, I said.
“Who is Nir Oz? I don’t know anyone by that name”, said the armed man.
And me? My claims were out and I left thinking that this ignorance is not the fault of my conversant. It comes from above, and intentional.