During the first intifada, young men were tied back to back and made to sit on a rock for three days whatever the weather conditions whilst Israeli soldiers threw rocks at them. If they cried or shouted, they were then taken to a series of pit-rooms, or solitary confinement, where many 'were broken' says our guide. Their screams iliiciting laughter from the guards.
'Vietnam was not worse than this.' His descriptions remind me of the treatement allied troops received in Japanese POW camps. I am with my daughter who has been listening intently to all of this, she says she needs the toilet, so I lead her away, the perfect excuse to remove from the lingering atmosphere and the too vivid descriptions of torture.
We sit in a small courtyard where twenty young Palestinian lads, in black cycle shorts and white t-shirts are lolling in the shade. The Qualqulia cycle club have combined with Peace Cycle for this leg of the journey. I admire their white, entirely thorough knee pads (I need to find Alex some) and am just entering into some sign language with the least shy of the group, when there is a roar overhead that forces my shoulders up to my ears. A rumble, a throb, as if a thousand planes are above us. the boys carry on lolling- vaguely curious. One or two put their hands to their foreheads and peer into the cloudless blue. This is the sound of the countryside, Palestine 2009. Israeli fighter jets in formation, practising their lethal trade in death and destruction. On and on and on goes the roar, I try not to flinch in front of the young men but the urge to run inside and cower under a table is almost irresistible, to hide from the tonnes of metal hell in the air above us. The pilots would call this 'manoevres' the locals call it 'just-to-remind- you-we-are' fly pasts.
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