Friday rain did not stop.
The blow of Israeli soldiers also did not have soldiers on the doors of the houses of Far’a Refugee Camp in the occupied West Bank.
Strong winds rushed into the houses while the doors were overturned, and the cold in the bodies of panicked and unarmed civilians forced in the streets.
In the early hours of the morning, in the middle of an eight -day seat that had cut off the outside world, dozens of military vehicles and bulldozers found themselves at the entrance to the camp.
Hundreds of Israeli soldiers spilled, swarming in the narrow alleys. Orders shouted in Hebrew lifted speakers, overlapping with the soldiers’ commands while hitting the doors with the butts of their rifles.
“Open the door!” Get out now! They shouted.
Inside, families rushed to collect what they could. A mother pleaded to hold the hand of her toddler when she was crying for fear. A father begged to take some clothes before being forced outside.
Shots crackled between the houses, mixing with orders shown in Arabic and Hebrew.
“For the love of God, let me take my bag!” A resident pleaded. “Wait, let me go slowly – I swear I’m going to leave,” begged another before being pushed forward.
In his house at the back of the camp, Essam Awad, 55, looked in fear.
Battle for earth
Far’a is found in the Northern Valley of Jordan, a strategic field of agricultural land which supports local agriculture and the economy of the isolated camp.
The Israelis living in illegal colonies have long empedically on this land, sometimes helped by the Israeli authorities, and the Palestinian farmers were increasingly blocked in their fields.
Military incursions have increased in response to the Palestinian resistance, tightening restrictions on movement and livelihoods.
Israel launched the so-called “Iron Wall Operation” while a cease-fire was settled in Gaza, trying to tighten its grip on the Bastions of the West Bank.
When the campaign reached Far’a, more than 3,000 of the 9,000 inhabitants of the camp were forced to move the threat of a weapon.
According to UN figures, 40,000 Palestinians have been moved to the West Bank since the start of the operation.
The invasion of Israel of Far’a began with total locking, sealing all the entries and exits, and cutting supplies and medical aid. The eight -day seat that followed food, water and power cut.
Formerly an animated refugee camp whose residents were pushed out of 30 villages near Jaffa in the middle of the Nakba, Far’a is a ghost town. Modest concrete houses – formerly filled with life – are held in strange silence.
Narrow alleys, transformed into sludge by implacable rains, were bulldozer, flattening all – walls, parked cars, public service posts – leaving behind a trace of destruction.
The ambulances were turned back. Journalists were forbidden to document the raid. The Red Crescent teams were prevented from evacuating the wounded. The soldiers have methodically moved away, expeling families – a neighborhood at a time.
With nowhere where to go, families stumbled in the mud, tightening children and blankets, their shoes sinking into the thick mud of the flooded streets.
Fear was just as thick. The impatience or the boredom of a soldier could mean a beat – or a ball.
“This house was supposed to keep us all”
While the soldiers moved to the end of the camp, Awad looked through his window, trying to think. The retired employee of the Ministry of Tourism knew that he had no option.
When the soldiers broke out by his door, shouting on him, he refused to leave. They beat him with the butts of their rifles and finally chased it.
“Do you see this house?” He said, pointing to the house he built, looking at him now from the door of his brother’s house, with several house pâtés, where he had taken refuge with his wife.
“I built it in stages as my family grew up. With six children, the ground floor was not large enough, “he said. Between the arrival of his elder from Dalal, 34, the youngest Ahmed, 20, the house continued to grow.
“Finally, this floor became our Diwan, where we gathered every night. The winters felt warm here-with our business, with our laughs, “he said, his swollen left eye, a deep cut below and his knee showing the marks of the soldiers.
“But when my daughters and sons got married and moved, he became colder. And when my son Muhammad was killed, he became freezing. »»
Muhammad, his community son, had left for the University of Turkiye three years earlier.
“He left once when he went to study. And then he left forever a year ago, “said Awad, his eyes fixed on the house but seemed to look beyond, recalling this fateful day in April 2024.
“Muhammad had returned to visit, just to check his family. He did not know that he entered death, ”he whispered.
His voice broke. He leaned over a neighboring chair, pressing one hand on his forehead. “My head hurts me,” he mumbled. “Let’s go inside.”
The father of six slowly headed for his bed, his heavy legs. Founded in layers to fight the cold, he pulled a woolen blanket on his feet, rubbing his hands for heat. He was moving carefully, his backs bruised from the blows.
‘They took everything’
“You have to leave,” the soldiers told him when they broke into his house. “But first of all, an interrogation.”
The questions came one after the other.
“How is your son dead?” What was he doing? Who were his friends?
Three hours spent before the soldiers give their last order: evacuate immediately.
“I refused,” said Essam. “So they beat me.”
Bruised and boxing, he headed for his brother’s house at the entrance to the camp. He knew what was going to go afterwards. The soldiers would occupy his house for a few hours, perhaps one day, then move on – leaving him in ruins.
The next day, he tried to come back, but the soldiers blocked the way. Two days later, he walked again. Obstacles had been put in place and this part of the camp was completed.
“Every Friday, my children met here. Their mother would cook. Dalal would help in the kitchen. Sometimes Samah visited Jenin. But this Friday, we will not come together. The army made sure.
He recalled marriages, engagement festivals and births of grandchildren – all celebrated in these walls.
“The memories are endless. There was so much life here. Now there are only ball holes. ” He recalled how, when Israeli soldiers entered his home and found a kerosene radiator still operating after a week’s seat, they made sure to destroy it.
He also remembered the difficult times that their house had seen. “Muhammed has always been the malicious, the troublemaker,” said Essam, his voice bearing a trace of heat. “He was not like his brothers and sisters-he did not like school, which led to a lot of arguments and quarrels,” he added with a slight smile. “But he was full of life.”
It was several days after Muhammed’s visit when he was killed. “He was just walking in the street when the soldiers shot him.
“Like that. And then they ask us why he was killed!”
However, Essam refused to lose hope.
“No matter how much they take us,” he said, his stable voice, “we will survive. You become too immune after so much pain.
This play was published in collaboration with EGAB.