By Rob Eshelman



At about 9 pm a group of internationals rushed into the TV room and asked if we heard the explosion. I was sitting with Dae, Connery, Greta, Reagan and Amira drinking a bottle of whiskey. We all looked at one another perplexed and answered in the negative.



An Israeli who I saw frequently around the Hostel said it was a sound familiar to her. It was a bombing. As she was telling us this, the sounds of screaming sirens from ambulances, police, and other emergency vehicles could be heard from the street outside. Most of our group got up to peer out the window and sure enough a stream of vehicles was rushing to where the sound of the blast emanated.



The group I was sitting with, well, we went back to drinking our whiskey and schooling ourselves on the history of the gates around the Old City. Reagan had the best knowledge. He correctly stated the number of gates and how many were on each side – north, south, east and west of the Old City. He fell short of my expectations, though, by not being able to list them all by name.



It wasn’t that we were totally disconnected from the event, but we knew it was only a matter of time before it happened. A few days prior, the Israeli Defense Forces had killed a senior member of Islamic Jihad in Hebron. These types of attacks don’t go unanswered. Add to that the reality that nothing has really changed for Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza since the “hudna” – checkpoints, housing demolitions, sons and husbands still in prison without charge – and you’ve got the makings for events such as this bombing.



Most of the hostel residents were glued to the television eagerly awaiting the news. Al Minar, Hezbollah’s network, was the first to report – at least 3 deaths, maybe 70 injuries. I looked over at Nidal who was translating the Arabic newscast for me. We both shook our heads. “It’s a big one,” I said. With this many injuries the death count was sure to go quite high.



Next came the BBC. They gave a similar report, but also showed some footage of the scene. Two large accordion buses were destroyed. One’s roof had completely been peeled away by the blast. The other was mostly blackened with all its windows blown out. An American woman began videotaping everyone watching the news reports – obviously trying to memorialize the “human drama” unfolding before her. Another American was dabbing a handkerchief below her eyes, wiping away tears.



A long 30-minutes passed with people milling about the TV room. Some went to the bombsite, hopping to get a view. Most just hung around flicking through the various news channels.



Suddenly we heard the shouts of soldiers from the streets below. Again rushing to the window, we saw Israeli police corralling Palestinian men at the end of the block. Some of these men rushed into the falafel shop at the end of the street. The police began banging on the large metal doors with their rifle butts and boots. Moments later the men emerged being pushed forward by the gung-ho soldiers.



A group of us understood the explosive nature of this situation – Israeli soldiers looking to avenge the bombing on the nearest Palestinian man they could get their hands on. We descended the stairs of the Faisal, entering the cool evening air of Al Quds. By establishing a presence with cameras and doing a sort of cop-watch routine we hoped to lessen the degree of repression the soldiers might exert.



Greta was already on the scene, already missing her passport which the soldiers had confiscated because she was videotaping them. The streets were empty. All the shops were closed. She was demanding the return of her passport in her best I’m-an-American-citizen-and-a-tourist-goddamnit act. Simultaneously, an Arab journalist was having his press pass taken away. The scene was pure confusion. The young soldiers had no method to their madness other than beating the Palestinians around them.



A jeep pulled up. Out of the back 4 or 5 more soldiers jumped out and immediately ran, guns pointed forward, toward the group of Palestinian men being detained. Demanding them to move, the aggressive soldiers chased them up the street.



Greta and me began to follow them, suspecting that once the Palestinians were off the main street; the soldiers would round them up and subject them to a serious beat down.



Once around the corner, by the Jerusalem hotel, our suspicion proved correct. The dragnet had fully materialized. Three jeeps were parked at the end of the block. Off to the left, partially obscured by the evening shadows, was a single file line of thirty men – hands behind their backs. A swarm of young Israeli soldiers stood around yelling.



Our small group of internationals decided the best way to proceed was to maintain a “non-threatening” distance and continue our cop-watch effort. We also decided to split up – one group maintaining the current location while another group would circle around behind the Jerusalem and occupy a location on the other side of the police interrogation.



Jane, a student from Cairo, and me volunteered for the job. We trekked around the block and took up a place in clear view of the proceedings.



Prior to taking our position, Jane had snapped a few photos and shot some video. For security reasons, and anticipating that the soldiers might extend their dragnet to include us, we switched memory cards for the camera. I placed the card with the photos of the soldiers’ round up in my pocket. Jane replaced the card with one of family photos in Jordon.



Most of the men detained by the Israelis were released after ID checks. Anybody with a history of stone throwing, a West Bank ID, or just being suspicious remained. These men where loaded one-by-one into the jeeps. We kept count of the number loaded into the vans with the intention, once back at the hotel, of alerting Israeli human rights groups of the number detained and the indiscriminate abuse of the soldiers.



One van pulled away, then another. Just as the scene seemed to be winding down with most men released and a clear number facing detention, a van pulled up in front of Jane and me.



“Give us the camera, give us the camera!” the soldiers yelled as they rushed towards us. Jane refused and cradled the camera in her abdomen, as the soldiers grabbed at her and continued to demand the machine. I tried to intervene by separating the soldiers from Jane who was bordering on hysterics. An act or genuine anxiety about being groped by three soldiers with M-16s I didn’t know, but once separated the soldiers calmed down a bit.



As this was happening, out of the corner of my eye, I saw some Israeli troops viciously beating some of the Palestinian detainees. Coincidence?



One soldier said the commanding officer had witnessed us taking photos. I could only laugh to myself at the irony of the agents of “the Middle East’s only democracy” demanding we hand over photos of their police tactics. After showing the soldiers how to operate a digital camera (cameras possess machinations not common to machine guns) they were adequately convinced that we had no incriminating photos.



We met up with the other cadre of internationals and hoofed it back to the hotel. Along the way we confirmed the number of detainees and choose who would write the report and contact the appropriate Israeli NGOs. The streets were empty, save for a few men strolling back from the interrogations. “Marhaba!” Hello, they said and nodded reassuringly of our efforts.



Back at the Faisal the speculation began of Israeli retaliation. “Hebron will certainly be hit”, said one. “Nablus and Jenin will definitely be occupied”, said another.



“All of the above”, I piped in. The noose was sure to quickly tighten on all of the West Bank and Gaza."