Families bear heaviest cost

What does it look like to live with constant fear and never have a peaceful night’s sleep? How do you play outside with your small children when your husband’s shameless murderer is living next door to your property? How do you relax in your own home when a soldier with a machine gun stands overlooking your garden 24/7? The home that has been declared a “closed military zone” or simply fair game for settlers to steal? This was a very heavy day on our solidarity visit.

In Hebron and then in the south Hebron hills, we visited the home of renowned activist and Nobel Peace Prize nominee Issa Amro, and the Bedouin village of Umm al-Khair, subject of the BBC documentary No Other Land. Issa founded Youth Against Settlements (YAS) in 2007 and is the recipient of many awards and honours for his continuous non-violent civil resistance. The New York Times Magazine even named him “the Palestinian Gandhi.” For his commitment to the Palestinian cause, Issa has been regularly arrested, detained and beaten by soldiers and by settlers. On one occasion he was bound, zip-tied and tortured for 10 hours, resulting in lasting injuries, both physical and psychological. So far, the crimes he has been accused of are heinous acts such as “insulting an Israeli soldier” or “being on a march without a permit.” The man we met was inspiring, brave and passionate, but we also witnessed the massive toll his choice to continue is taking. I thought of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane as we sat in his garden looking out at his olive trees. Jesus prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Issa is a man who has set his face towards justice and is prepared to walk the road of suffering if that is what is required of him.

As we turned into the Bedouin village of Umm al-Khair, we immediately saw the brazenness of the Israeli colonial land grab, for this is what the whole conflict boils down to. A paved road cuts straight through Umm Al-Khair and leads to the fortified gate of the Carmel settlement. When a settler claims land, the state of Israel immediately ratifies it with hydro, water and military assistance. Bedouin land and property was bulldozed so that the settlers could make their presence felt as they drive past the villagers day and night. On July 28, 2025, Awdah Hathaleen was holding his toddler in his arms, urging the notoriously violent settler Yinon Levy not to tear up their land with his bulldozer. Yinon Levy responded to a cry for justice by shooting Awdah dead. Gerlyn, Sylvia and I were graciously taken into the family home to meet Awdah’s widow, Hanadi. Her grief is still very raw, and her fear was palpable. We mostly sat with her in silence as there were no words that seemed sufficient. She told us that her little boy wakes up screaming and remembers being covered in his father’s blood. He couldn’t even eat a sauce she makes from beans because it looks too sanguinous. Every day unlocks a new piece of the trauma for her. At 25, with three small children and now a widow, Hanadi told us that she feels as though all of her hopes and dreams have been destroyed. She and Awdah had been preparing to come to Canada to study. Without him, that dream has died too.

Outside, the men from our group met with the Hathaleen men to learn more of the difficulties they face. I could not help but notice the gentle hospitality of the men we met and their incredible tenderness toward the little children – children who are not having the childhood they deserve. We could hear the voices of the Carmel children playing in a school or daycare behind the fortified barrier just a few hundred metres away, laughing with none of the terror that Hanadi’s children live with. Yet they are also living in their own kind of cage in a land of razor wire, violence, hatred and apartheid. What kind of a life is that? Is this the land flowing with milk and honey they hoped for? Or must it require the murder and displacement of others to make it so? With the whole of Umm Al Khair under a demolition order, it now seems only a matter of time before Carmel swallows the Bedouin land and leaves the villagers homeless.

So many questions, so much pain, so much injustice. I lay on my bed that night with a heavy heart. The Psalms and the persistent cry of “How long, O Lord?” came to mind. On a day when we met a truly worthy Nobel Peace Prize nominee and a grief-stricken young woman whose husband’s callous murderer has been exonerated of sanctions by the Prize-hungry U.S. president, the cry of the psalmist for mercy and justice is as necessary today as it always has been. In many years of parish ministry, I have often been asked, “Do we really have to say the psalm each week? They are so whiny and complaining.” My answer has always been yes. They are the raw, honest, saccharine-free cries of the human heart. You may not be feeling those particular psalms today, but one day you might just identify with them. On that land, in that place, the psalms are as potent as ever. How long, O Lord, how long, indeed?