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Special to The Jewish News
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FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1990
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rom the interior of a
stone-proof military
jeep, the streets of
Gaza take on a whole new
meaning. No longer do they
conjure up just images of
rioting children confronting
well-equipped soldiers.
Those are the images seared
into memory from television
clips or daily wire reports.
From the inside of a bounc-
ing jeep, as it makes its way
past villages, fertile fields
and overcrowded refugee
camps, the situation on the
ground becomes real, at
times even surreal. And so
do the people who find them-
selves in the middle of it —
the Israeli soldiers, the Pa-
lestinian children, the Arab
refugees, the workers as
their convoys of cars pass
through the checkpoints on
their way to work in Israel.
The image that jumps
right out are the children,
the way they run for cover at
first sight of an army vehicle
on patrol, making its way
down the dirt road that leads
through their village.
A moment's hesitation —
maybe he's deciding
whether or not to scoop up
stones and take aim —and a
young child, perhaps five
years old, grabs his sister
and scurries toward the
closest alley. He is convinced
—perhaps by brainwashing,
perhaps from experience
that an Israeli jeep signifies
danger.
At the same time, a diff-
erent kind of fear, a by now
innate one, signals the
commanding officer of a field
unit to instruct his passen-
gers to flip up the shatter-
proof windows to protect
themselves from those little
children, the same children
who, on more violent days,
have succeeded in inflicting
severe wounds.
In this largely refugee
society where more than 70
percent of the 650,000 in-
habitants ay under the age
of 30, the children have been
the vanguard of the intifada,
the uprising that erupted on
these very streets nearly
three years ago.
On a dry and hot summer
day last month, and on most
days in recent months —un-
til Iraq precipitated the
Lisa Hostein is a writer
for the Jewish Exponent
in Philadelphia.
latest crisis to grip the Mid-
dle East —the children, as
well as their parents and
grandparents, seem to be in
a more subdued mood.
Children in the Jabalaya
refugee camp still taunt
Israeli soldiers perched on
the hillside above the camp
with shouts of "Maniac!"
and "You're not a soldier,
you're a woman!"
But the older Palestinians,
out doing their shopping at
the few shops not closed by
the daily afternoon strikes,
just eye the military vehicles
as they descend down a main
street in Gaza City.
One older woman, dressed
in a long blue peasant smock
with a white rag protecting
her head from the searing
heat, even waves as she
fights with a sabra bush,
struggling to knock the fruit
to the ground.
Since the Iraqi invasion of
Kuwait last month, Pales-
tinian popular support,
displayed in marches and
rallies, has favored Saddam
Hussein.
Despite this visible sup-
port, the territories have
remained relatively quiet,
and Israeli officials offer
varying explanations for
this improved state of affairs
that has pervaded the area
over the past three months.
Some attribute it to new
army policies meant to
reduce tensions. Others say
it results from a sequence of
events that have otherwise
occupied the local popula-
tion: a two-week curfew that
blanketed the area after the
May massacre of seven Pa-
lestinians by a deranged
Jewish man in Rishon Le-
zion; the ensuing need of the
inhabitants to recoup econ-
omic losses incurred during
the curfew; the world soccer
championships that engaged
the attention of local
residents; school exams for
the youth.
But these events have
come and gone, and still the
relative calm prevails. Au-
thorities note repeatedly
with a mixed sense of pride
and relief that not one Pales-
tinian has been killed by
Israeli soldiers in Gaza since
the beginning of June.
The policy change, in-
stituted under Defense Min-
ister Moshe Arens, limits
the patrols on the streets
and avoids population
centers as much as possible,
in order to avoid provoca-
tion.
"There is no unnecessary
driving around," according
to IDF spokesman Michel
(soldiers are instructed not
to give their last names to
reporters). "We have to show
our presence, but there's no
reason to show it too much."
Indeed, traveling from the
Erez checkpoint, at the en-
trance to the Gaza Strip,
toward Gaza City, the
spokesman drives a cir-
cuitous route, avoiding the
main streets as much as
possible.
"We have to balance bet-
ween letting them live their
lives and maintaining con-
trol," Michel said.
Also, according to Michel,
the soldiers have orders not
to shoot except in a life-
threatening situation, and
even then, only a high-
ranking officer is allowed to
give the order to shoot, he
said.
There are few settings in
Israeli society where polit-
The image that
jumps right out are
the children, the
way they run for
cover.
ical subjects are taboo, but
one such off-limit place is
among men dressed in their
army uniforms in the middle
of the Gaza Strip.
The same group of reserve
soldiers who display a cer-
tain political reticence while
milling around their Gaza
base with Uzis in hand
—and in earshot of their
commanding officer —would
most likely be eager to voice
their political views to a
reporter if sitting, dressed in
their shorts and sandals, in a
Tel Aviv cafe.
Still, when asked what it
feels like to be doing miluim
(reserve duty) here, and how
their experiences in Gaza af-
fect their lives back home,
some of the opinions —and
some of the frustrations
—seep out.
At first, there is silence;
then a tall, middle-aged
soldier joked, "Do you want
the truth?"
"Does anyone really care
how we feel?" demanded an-
other.
"It doesn't feel good, but
this is our job," offered a
third. "We do the best we
can. That's what you can tell
the American people and the
American Jews."-
"Hopefully, some day it
will be calm here and we