Solidarity Under Arrest
We know it in our bones: there is no stronger remedy to helplessness than being together. But the regime works to keep us apart.
Yahav Erez is an activist, writer, and dreamer. She works at a human rights organization and is the creator of the podcast 'Disillusioned', a platform where Israeli activists advocating for Palestinian liberation share their transformative journeys.
You can find her on Instagram at @yehavit
So much despair has flooded the streets of this land (and the veins in my body) since October 7th. I lost a friend who was murdered that day, as he was celebrating life at the Nova Festival. I lost friends who are no longer speaking to me because I’m still posting empathetic words toward the people in Gaza. While this isn’t the first time Palestinian armed resistance has taken the lives of Israeli civilians, it seems that the magnitude makes the difference for most people. I feel that every single soul lost is like losing 1,200 souls. But maybe that’s just me. Israel didn’t let us grieve properly, either. As we began to mourn the deaths of our loved ones, we were already witnessing a gut-wrenching massacre of thousands of Gazans.
As an anti-occupation activist, I've known similar feelings surrounding past events, events that were tragic and shameful as a Jewish Israeli who sees atrocities being carried out 'in my name.’ The injustice hadn't begun on October 7th, but it sure has surged since. My circle of friends – brothers and sisters who make up a beautiful, complicated mosaic of Palestinians and Israelis – have experienced extremely painful realities since that awful Shabbat, each in their own way. Some lost loved ones, some lost their livelihoods, and some their safety. But what always used to keep us from losing our faith in a future worth living is each other. In the first two weeks of the war, we made an effort to be together. The regime made it extra hard, automatically revoking work and entry permits from our friends in the West Bank, placing checkpoints at the entrances to nearly every town and city, and limiting freedom of movement to an all-time minimum; mass-arresting and intimidating Palestinian citizens of Israel, and of course, on top of it all, the missiles showering from the sky weren't helping. The various degrees of limiting our freedom of movement according to what’s written on our respective ID cards were worse than ever.
And still, we insisted on being together. We all know it in our bones: There is no stronger remedy to this helplessness. And there is no stronger resistance to this violent separation that we know all too well. So some of my friends took risks to be able to take part in this sacred act, and meet against all odds: concrete walls, checkpoints, fences, police, and military with live ammunition and a vengeful heart. Everything. I cannot describe how much respect I have for my Palestinian friends who time and again take real risks to be able to defy apartheid with such great love.
In one of our get-togethers during these first weeks into the war, we were spending time at a friend's house, soaking in the warmth of pure friendship that defies ethnicity, nationality, and other classifications if we make the conscious decision to humanize one another. It was getting late, so two West Bank friends got a ride with a '481 friend back to his place to spend the night. On the way, a pop-up checkpoint stopped them, asked for IDs, and they were arrested on the spot, simply for existing on the 'wrong side’ of the wall. Just for wanting to be with people they love and consider family. The message got out quickly to our group of friends, and we tried to do everything to help, but of course, Israeli law enforcement didn't care. They were busted. An indictment was filed against them in accordance with the new ‘emergency guidelines’ issued by the state on October 8th, and they were sent to criminal2 prison for three weeks, during which they underwent horrible experiences that almost broke their souls. We weren’t allowed to contact them, let alone visit. Their families, on the other side of the wall – during a war in which ALL West Bank Palestinians were prohibited from entering Israel – obviously couldn't do anything, and we were left trying to somehow do something for them. Our options were very limited. It was a victory to finally succeed in getting cigarettes to them in the prison. And what a disappointment it was to discover that after we’d finally succeeded in wiring them money through the sadistic bureaucratic system, the prison authorities hadn't even given it to them.
These weeks were full of tension, stress, and shame for us on the 'outside.' I recall driving back from their first hearing in court, which they were physically not allowed to attend, and in which their lawyers got 3 minutes to speak to them via video call. I cried the whole way, thinking about how I can't stand living in a place where my friends have far fewer rights than I do. Why should they not have everything that I have? Why shouldn't they be allowed to flourish, build a future, and have dreams and aspirations just like I do? And how is denying them their rights supposed to make me safer?
I was of course not surprised once they were finally able to call me from prison and told me that they can't stand living here anymore and they're dying to leave the minute they can. Sad as it is for me personally, I understand. But even after acknowledging that we'll eventually be separated by this reality, it's still a struggle for them to leave. It's not easy to get a visa to most countries if you're a Palestinian from the West Bank. Basically, you suffer if you stay, but it's a huge challenge to leave, as well. They were released from prison after a few weeks, and have been back home since, separated from friends on this side of the wall, trying to figure out a way to somehow get out of this prison of a country, and I’m trying to imagine my life here without them, a life where our community that existed against all odds is shattered. It breaks my heart to see them leave. But I want them to have a better life. They certainly deserve it. Maybe one day this place will be peaceful enough for them to come back to.
My heart aches for the dead. But I worry that while the death tolls are rising, we forget about the living. It shouldn’t take people being killed by the tens of thousands to understand that this ongoing oppression needs to end, and that people don’t only deserve to live, but deserve to live in dignity, safety, and prosperity. This is of course political, but it is through the personal that I came to understand what it means when people you love cannot move freely. Freedom of movement is such a fundamental part of life, that restricting it has become one of the main weapons used against Palestinians through the monstrous permit system.
I want to be able to imagine a future here: a place where friends can visit each other without being arrested. A future that isn’t separated, but rather shared based on justice and reconciliation. Not only do I believe it is possible, I won’t accept anything less. ⛺️
The way Palestinians refer to ‘sovereign Israel’, so essentially this means Palestinian citizen of Israel.
As opposed to ‘security’ prison, where Palestininas who have allegedly posed a threat to Israeli citizens are incarcerated.
Thank you 💗