Jamil Qassas

My family is originally from the village of Al-Qubayba, which was ethnically cleansed in 1948. My story and the suffering of my family starts that year. They used to live in one of the most beautiful Palestinian villages, but as a consequence of the war, all of the inhabitants ran away except for my grandfather. He refused to run. As a result, he was killed in his own home.

After that, my family moved to Hebron because it was the closest city to Al-Qubayba. They were hoping that they would return to their village one day. But it did not happen 一 and over the following years our suffering only worsened. In 1967, my family was displaced for the second time. They fled to Jordan, tried to establish a new life there, and this is where I was born in 1971. Soon after, two of my uncles joined the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) in Lebanon and my mother decided to return to Palestine. We moved to a refugee camp near Bethlehem. 

In 1982, the Israeli military invaded Lebanon and one of my uncles was killed. My other uncle watched him die and was forever traumatized. We also mourned for three days when we heard about the massacre of two Palestinian refugee camps near Beirut: Sabra and Shatila. There, 3,000 Palestinians were killed in only 24 hours. We started demonstrating and throwing stones at Israeli soldiers and settlers in our camp. Growing up, I experienced violent demonstrations in front of our house on a daily basis.

Every time stones were thrown at soldiers, they would enter our house and check everything, including us 一 my mother, my siblings and me. They were beating us every day and terrified us. They would call my mother all sorts of terrible names. I asked her once: “Why are these soldiers here? Why do we not have an army to protect us? Why can’t we go back home to our village?” I used to have many questions, but my mother gave me only one answer: “The Israeli army is occupying and controlling the Palestinian people.”

Years passed, and in 1987 the First Intifada broke out. I took part in the uprising by throwing stones and helping block streets. I wanted to take revenge on those soldiers who humiliated my mother and I. This was my way of expressing my anger. I became one of the most active protestors in the refugee camp and a leader in the demonstrations.

More than once as a young teen, I was shot by live ammunitions. I was eventually caught by the army and put into administrative detention for six months. After my release, I found the refugee camp profoundly transformed: the army had built a fence nine meters high around the streets and ordered a curfew from 5:00PM until 5:00AM. 

Shortly after, my younger brother, who was then 14 years old, went out to visit our uncle, who lived barely 50 meters from our house. It was in the evening, passed the curfew, and soldiers who were stationed in the alleyway surprised him. He got very scared and started running. The soldiers ran after him 一 and shot him. It was a “Dumdum” bullet, which explodes inside the body into small parts, destroying it from within. My brother was transferred to a hospital in Jerusalem and when I entered the emergency room, I saw him lying in a pool of his own blood. He was dead. I didn’t know what to do. I felt the sky falling on me. How could I tell my mother? I brought my brother’s body from the hospital back to our camp in Bethlehem. On that day, I lost my brother, but I also lost my mother’s smile forever.

When the Second Intifada started, there were regular suicide bombings in Israel. One day I came home to see my mother and brothers gathered around the television. There had been a bombing attack on a bus and many people were killed, including children. My mother was crying. I asked her: “Why are you crying, Mama? Those are Israelis who were killed, not us.” She looked at me and said, “Those kids who were killed have mothers. And those mothers will feel the same feelings and the same pain that we went through. The tears of a Palestinian mother are no different from the tears of an Israeli mother. Blood has only one color.” When I heard her reaction, I realized that my suffering was only a drop in the sea compared to her suffering.

I first met Combatants for Peace during the Israeli-Palestinian Joint Memorial Ceremony. I was amazed to see and hear what they were doing. I soon joined the movement and became an activist.

Today, I continue to fight for the freedom of my people, but I do so peacefully and alongside my Israeli friends. In Combatants for Peace, we work together, Palestinians and Israelis, for justice, peace and equality.