research essay
Israel's Closure Policy: an Ineffective Strategy of Containment and Repression
Author(s): Amira Hass
Source: Journal of Palestine Studies , Vol. 31, No. 3 (Spring 2002), pp. 5-20
Published by: University of California Press on behalf of the Institute for Palestine Studies
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/jps.2002.31.3.5
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ISRAEL’S CLOSURE POLICY: AN INEFFECTIVE STRATEGY OF CONTAINMENT AND REPRESSION
AMIRA HASS
This�article�exam ines�the�Israeli�p olicy�of�closur e�from �its�introduction in� 1991� through� its� consolidatio n� under� Oslo,� w hen� its� devastating po tentia l�w as�heightene d�by�an�intermeshing�w ith�Oslo�II’s�div ision�of the�occup ied�territories�into� zo nes�of� Israeli�and�Palestinian� co ntrol. The� author� argues� that� closur e,� first� ap plie d� as� a� militar y-bureau- cratic�p reemp tiv e�security�measure,�crystallized�with�Oslo�into �a�co n- scio us� p o litical� goal:� dem ograp hic� sep aratio n� w itho ut� m eaningful po litical�sep aratio n.�D esp ite�the�absence�o f�an�o rganized�Palestinian resistance �to�closur e,�the�reaso ns�fo r�w hich�are�exp lored�here,�a�sp irit of� resilie nce� and� defiance � has� enabled� the� p o pulatio n� to� bear� up under�closur e’s�intensificatio n�during�the�p resent�up rising,�w hen�vir- tually�all�m ov ement�is� banned�and�the�territories�are�under�siege.
IT WAS LATE� OCTOBER� 2000.� A� military� checkpoint� and� a� couple� of� edgy soldiers� at� the� exit� of� Beitunia,� southw est� of� Ram allah,� made� for� a� long queue� of�Palestinian �cars� that� one� by�one�turned�on� their�lights�as�the�dusk thickened.�Those�drivers�whose�nerves�were�not�too�frayed�by�the�long�wait might�have� noticed�a�bizarre�new �feature� to�the�east� of�the�road:�in�the�vast military�area�adjacent�to�the�Israeli�army�cam p�Ofer,�massive�thoug h�innocu- ous-looking� concrete � slabs� were� stacked� and� in� rows.� Beyond� the� military area�and�cam p,�a�wide�new�highway�was�in�the�last�stages�of�construction.�Its purpose� was�to�connect� Israel� to� its� distant�outcroppings� in�the�West�Bank, such� as� Ma’ale� Adum im� settlem ent� and� the� Jordan�Valley� outposts.� Further on,�less�than�a�kilometer�south�of�the�military�cam p�and�the�crawling�line�of cars,� one� could� see� thousands� of� merrily� twinkling� lights� proclaim ing� the expansive �settlem ent�of� Givat� Ze’ev.
Within�a�week,�Palestinian �cars�were�no�longer�allowed�through�the�Bei- tunia�checkpo int,�the�main�access� to�Ram allah�for�about�a�dozen�villages�in the�region.�Som e�laid�back�soldiers,�a�moveable�barrier,�and�a�row�of�spikes made�sure�that�only�foreign�diplom atic�cars�could�get�through.�A�few �weeks later,�the�road�was�blocked�altogether,�the�makeshift�barricade�having�been replaced�by�a�more�perm anent�artificial�sand�bank�and�som e�of�those�innoc-
AMIRA HASS,� the� H a’Aretz� correspondent� in� the� occupied� territories,� is� the� author� of Drinking�the�Sea�at�Gaza:�Days� and�N ights�in�a�Land�under�Siege �(Metropolitan�Books, 1999).� This� article� is� based� on� a� talk� the� author� gave� before� the� Middle� East� Studies Association�in�November�2001.
Journal of Palestine Studies XXXI, no. 3 (Spring 2002), pp. 5-20.
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6 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
uous-looking�concrete�slabs.�Now,�well�over�a�year�later,�a�new�exit�on�the completed� super� highway�allows�Israeli�access� to�Ofer�cam p.�But�the�Pales- tinian� western� road� to� Ram allah� has� been� perm anently� closed,� as� have� the feeder� roads� that� used� to� connect�the� villages� to� Ram allah.
Since� the� eruption� of� the� second� Palestinian � intifada� in� the� last� days� of Septem ber� 2000,� towns� and� villages� all� over� the� West� Bank� and� Gaza� Strip have�been�gradually�and�system atically�sealed�off�in�sim ilar�fashion.�In�som e areas,�deep�trenches�or�barricades�of�sand�and�rock�prevent�any�traffic�in�or out�of�a�given�village�or�region;�in�many�others,�sim ple�concrete�barriers�do the�job.�The�closer�the�village�or�town�to�an�Israeli�settlem ent,�the�more�iso- lated� and� herm etically� sealed� it�is.
Throughout� the� variegated� landscapes� of� the� West� Bank,� hundreds� of such� blockades� close� off� Palestinian � communities� large� and� sm all,� som e- times� reinforced�by�huge�tanks�and�other�armored�vehicles� as�well�as�fixed positions� from� which� unseen� soldiers� keep� machine� guns� and� cannons trained�on�pedestrian s.�With�Palestinian �traffic�banned�from �all�the�main�and secondar y� roads,� clusters� of� yellow �group�taxis� gather� at� each� such� barrier, and�groups�of�people�trying�to�get�to�work,�school,�clinics,�universities,�rela- tives’�houses,�or�markets�clam ber�up�and�down�sand�em bankments�or�across ditches� to� circumvent� concrete� slabs� and� soldiers,� who� som etim es� shoot� at them .� At� each� cluster,� sim ultaneously� the� term inal� and� starting� point� of� yet another�seg ment�on�the�improvised �netw ork�of�dirt�and�track� “roads,”�peo- ple� have� to� change� transport,�walking�several� hundred� meters� in�scorching heat� or� pouring� rain,� through� dust� or� mud,� to� get� to� the� cluster� of� waiting cars� at� the� other� side.� A� journey� that� would� normally� take� twenty-five� min- utes� has� turned�into� an� ordeal� of� two�to� three� hours� or�more.
This� process� has�been� spreading �and� intensifyin g�throughout� the� territo- ries� since� Septem ber� 2000,� but� it� is� not� new:� the� 1.1� million� inhabitants� of Gaza�have� been�penned� up�in�the�narrow,�360�km 2�Strip�since�1991,� unable to�leave�freely.�What�is�now�happening�all�over�the�West�Bank�replicates�and multiplies�what�Gazans�have�experien ced�for�a�decade.�In�term s�of�the�Israeli policy� of� “closure,”�it�is� a�quantitative,� not� a� qualitative,�change.
EV O L U T I O N O F A PO L I C Y
In�its�sim plest� definition,�“closure”�(seger �in�Hebrew ,�ighlaq �in�Arabic)�as it� has� evolved� over� the� last� decade� in� the� Occupied� Palestinian � Territories (OPT)� means� to� deprive� the� Palestinian � inhabitants� of� their� right� to� free movem ent.�It�involves�a�pass�system �first�introduced�in�early�1991�and�which has�been�refined�and�perfected �ever�since.�Needless� to�say,�in�the�sam e�Pal- estinian� territories�where�Palestinians�need� special� perm its�to�move�around, Israeli� citizens�circulate�freely.
On�the� eve� of� the�Gulf�War�in�1991,� an� Israeli�military� order� canceled� an earlier�order�that�granted�all�Palestinian�inhabitants�a�“general�exit�perm it”�to Israel.� Issued� in� the� West� Bank� in� the� early� 1970s,� the� general� exit� perm it,
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 7
which� in�effect� assured� Palestinian s� free� movem ent� in�Israel,� was� extended to�Gaza�only�in�the�mid-1980s,� but�in�practice�Gazans� had�enjoyed� a�sim ilar freedom � of� movem ent� almost� since� the� West� Bank� order.� This� free� move- ment� was� not� “conferred”� in� the� interests� of� equality—Jews� were� allowed and,�indeed,�encouraged�to�settle�in�the�1967�occupied�territories,�but�Pales- tinians�had�no�reciprocal�right�in�Israel—but�was�one�of�Moshe�Dayan’s�mea- sures�for�econom ically�integrating�the�OPT�into�Israel�with�the�aim�of�toning down�Palestinian �national� aspiration s� and� underm ining�the� feasibility�of� an independ ent� Palestinian �state.� But�whatever� the� motives,� freedom �of� move- ment� meant� a� great� deal� for� the� individual� Palestinian,� both� econom ically and� socially.� It� also� proved� extrem ely� valuable� to� the� three� hitherto� sepa- rated� Palestinian � communities� of� the� West� Bank,� Gaza� Strip,� and� Israel proper,� allowing� them � to� reestablish� direct� contacts� and� reconso lidate� the national� and� cultural� common� ground� that� endured� despite� the� difference s that� had� develope d�or�been� accentuated�during�the� years� of�separatio n.
It�is�true�that�even� at�the�outset� there�were�exceptions�to�the�blanket�rule of� general� exit� perm it:�“security”�suspects� were� prevented � from�free� move- ment�at�various� times,�as�were�criminals,�unless� they� joined� Israel’s�army�of collaborators.�But�these�were�exceptio ns,�and�in�general�the�Palestinian �right to�freedom �of�movem ent�was�respected �by�the�Israeli�authorities.�Even�when there�were�fierce�Palestinian�attacks� against�Israeli�civilians�in�Israel,�no�one dem anded� that� entrances�to�Israel� be� sealed� off.
Som e� broader� exceptio ns� to� the� rule� were� introduced� with� the� first� in- tifada�as�of�1988.�In�Gaza,�a�magnetic�card�was�imposed� on�anyone�wishing to� travel� to� Israel.� This� second� identity� card,� renew able� yearly� for� a� fee� to Palestinian s� presum ed� not� to� represent� a� security� threat,� tightened � control over� the� Gazan�populatio n.�Meanw hile,� at�about�the�sam e� time�in�the�West Bank,�the�“green�identity�card”�(as�opposed �to�the�ordinary�orange�one)�was introduced� for� “security� cases” —former� prisoners� and� activists—preventin g them �from�crossing �the�Green�Line.�But�the�majority�of�the�populatio n�con- tinued� to� be� able� to� exercise� their� right� to� free� movem ent� throughout� the entire� territory,�just� as� Israelis� did.
It�was�the�Gulf�War�that�provided�the�occasion�to�reverse�this�situation�of free� movem ent� for� the� many� and� prohibition� for� the� few .� From� then� on, there� was� a� blanket� denial� of� the� right� for� all� Palestinians,� with� exceptio ns being� made� for� certain� explicit� categories—including� workers,� merchants, people� in�need� of� medical�treatm ent,�collaborators,� and� important� Palestin- ian�personalities—which�were�granted�passes.�In�principle,�this�has�been�the rule�since�then,�though�its�practice�has�been�modified�and�tightened�with�time.
Between� the� revocatio n� of� the� general� exit� perm it� in� 1991� and� March 1993,�when�Israeli�police�began�launching�relentless�pursuits�to�capture�and arrest�“infiltrators”�and�military�courts�started�imposing�heavy�fines�on�those caught� without� the� proper� pass,� the� regulations� were� still� vag ue.� Check- points� were� not� system atic� and� there� were� no� “borders”� per� se;� it� was� still fairly�easy�to�sneak�out,�even�from�the�Strip.�Moreover,�the�new�rules�seem ed
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8 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
to�be� enforced �mainly�concerning�entry�into�Israel,�with�travel�betw een� the West�Bank�and�Gaza�being�more�tolerated.� Still,�during�those� first�two�years of� closure,� the� num ber� of� Palestinian� workers� in� Israel� was� slashed,� setting off�a�chain�of�econom ic�blows�to�individual�Palestinian�fam ilies�and�the�com- munity.� Trips� to� Israel� for� shopping �or�other� normal�activities� were� already becom ing�a�thing�of�the� past.�Gradually,�travel�betw een� the�West�Bank�and Gaza� also�becam e� increasingly� difficult� and,�finally,� almost�impossible .
A�second�“novelty”�was�introduced�in�March�1993:�the�entire�municipality of�East� Jerusalem ,�which� Israel� greatly� expanded�and� annexed� in�1967,� was incorporated�de�facto�into�the�no-entry�Israeli�territory.�Ever�since�that�time, the� Palestinian � cultural,� religious,� institutional,� econom ic,� and� commercial capital� has�been� encircled,�with�ever-exp anding �bureaucratic�measures� and regulations� forbidding� or� “thinning”� Palestinian � entry� into� the� city.� At� first, only�men�under�forty�needed�perm its,�then�women�as�well,�and�finally�eve- rybody� of� all�ages� required� them .
The�Israeli�pass�system ,�introduced�not�long�before�the�Madrid�peace�con- ference� and� at� a� time� when� the� Palestinian -Israeli� negotiating� process� was already� in�the� planning� stag es,� was� consolidated� during�the� Oslo� years.� In- deed,�it�was�with�the�establishm ent�of�the�Palestinian �Authority�(PA)�in�1994 that� the� special� bureaucratic-military� machinery� of� the� pass� system �was� de- veloped,� with� heavy� input� from � Shin� Bet.� Palestinian � officials� becam e� the middlem en� who� either� transferred� the� Israeli-approved� perm its� to� their� fel- low�Palestinians� or�transm itted� the� rejection.
The�pass�system �turned�a�universal�basic�right�into�a�coveted�privilege—or portion�of�a�privilege—allotted�to�a�minority�on�a�case-by-case�basis.�For�the privilege�was� not� whole:�it�had�gradations.� Som e�passes� perm itted� an� over- night�stay� in�Israel,�others�required�return�by�dusk,�a�few �were�for�an�entire month.�Som e�restricted�means�of�transport�to�the�special�group�taxis�parked outside� the�Erez� checkpo int�in�the�Gaza�Strip;�a� handful� allowed�the�use�of private�cars�from �door�to�door.�The�hand�that�giveth�also�taketh�away:�som e months� as� many� as� 1,000� businessm en� might� be� granted� passes,� other months� only� 300;� som etim es� the� passes� for� Gazans� would�be� for�Israel�and the�West�Bank,�som etim es�only�for�the�West�Bank.�It�was�thus�that�an�entire society�was�stratified�and�segm ented�on�the�basis�of�whether�one�had�access, and� in�what� portion,� to�the� “privilege”�of�freedom �of� movem ent.
The� societal� seg mentation� resulting� from� the� pass� system � accom panied the� territorial� segm entation� Israel� initiated� immediately� after� the� 1967� war when� it�beg an� colonizing�the� occupie d�territories.� And� like� the� curtailment of�Palestinian�movem ent,�the�process� of�territorial�fragmentation� intensified during�the�“decade�of�peace.”�Not�only�did�the�settlem ents�continue�to�grow, but� a� huge� and� ever-exp anding � netw ork� of� high-quality� bypass� roads� was built�in�the�OPT�linking�Israeli�settlem ents�to�each�other�and�to�Israel�proper, while�circumventing�Palestinian �communities�and�cutting�Palestinian�villages off� from �each� other,� from�the� larger�towns,� and� even� from�their� own� fields and� orchards.
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 9
With�the� Oslo� II�(Taba)� agreem ent� of� Septembe r� 1995,� the� final� stage� of the�segm entation� was�achieved� with�the�division�of� the�West�Bank,�like�the Gaza�Strip�before�it,�into�a�confusing�mosaic�of�pieces�of�territory�with�differ- ing�status�dependin g�on�the�nature�of�the�security�control�over�them .�Area�A enclaves� were� to� have� “full”� (in� fact,� limited)� Palestinian � security� and� civil control,� area� B�had�Israeli� security� and� Palestinian �civil� control,� and� area� C, the�great�mass�of�the�land,�was�under�full�Israeli�control.�As�the�Palestinian s understoo d�it,�the�area�under�“full”�Palestinian �control,�initially�limited�to�the main�towns,�was�gradually�to�be�increased �so�that�by�the�end�of�the�interim period�(originally�set�for�May�1999)� it�would�cover�“most”�of�the�West�Bank apart�from�the�built-up�areas� of�the�settlem ents�and�the�military�installations (as� stipulated � vaguely� in� the� accords).� But� as� the� transfer� of� territory� was contingent� upon� the� PA’s� good� behavior � and� delivery� of� security� goods (fighting� terror� and� preventin g� anti-Israeli� violence),� Israel� alone� could� de- cide�the�land�transfers.�By�Septem ber�2000,�then,�the�area�A�enclaves�totaled 18� percent,� whereas� area� C—the� agricultural� and� developm ent� land� reser- voir —covered� a� full� 60� percent.� In�Gaza,�meanw hile,� 20� percent� of� the� nar- row�Strip�was�set�aside� for�the�Israeli�army�and�the�settlers,�represen ting�0.5 percent� of� the�populatio n.
In� retrospec t,� the� most� significant� feature� of� the� zoning� was� not� its� de- lineation�according�to�security�control,�which�the�PA�had�seen�as�the�primary achievem ent.�The�second�intifada�dem onstrates�daily�how�the�A�zoning�is�no buffer�against�Israeli�attacks�and�incursions.�Indeed,�it�was�only�with�the�out- break�of�the�current�uprising�that�the�extraordinary�ingenuity�of�the�“zoning” system ,�backed� by�the�netw ork�of�bypass� roads,�could�be�fully�appreciated: with�most�of�the�populatio n�living�in�the�scattered� islands�of�A�and�B,�sepa- rated�from�each�other�by�the�vast�ocean�of�C�lands,�hundreds�of�villages�and half� a� dozen� towns� could� be� totally� paralyzed �by� strateg ically� placed� barri- cades�and�ditches,�tanks,�and�IDF�sharpsho oters,�thereby�devastating �an�en- tire�econom y�and�disrupting�all�social�life.�At�the�sam e�time,�the�fact�that�the great�majority�of�the�Palestinians�live�under�ostensible�PA�civil�responsibility enables�Israel�to�disclaim �its�obligations�toward�the�civilian�populatio n�(even though� legally� it� rem ains� the� occupie r).� With� astonishing� success,� Israel, both�before�and�during�the�current�uprising ,�has�managed�to�portray�the�dire econom ic� and� other� civil� repercussions� of� the� closure-induced� fragmenta- tion,�its� own�invention �as�the� occupyin g�power,�as�none� of� its� concern.
SP A C E A N D TI M E : CL O S U R E A N D T H E IN D I V I D U A L
Space�and�time�together�make�“room”�in�one’s�world—not�only�materially to�accom plish�one’s�tasks�and�activities,�but�at�the�level�of�the�spirit,�enabling both�the�individual�and�the�community�to�breathe,�to�develop,�to�prosper,�to create.� Space� in�the� occupied �territories� has� been� gradually� but� relentlessly encroached� upon� for� more� than� thirty� years,� as� more� and� more� land� has been� expropriated.� Palestinian � groups� have� doggedly� tracked� this� theft.
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10 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
Strangely,� however,� little� or� no� attention� has� been� paid� to� another� kind� of theft,� which� especially �in�the� last� decade� has� also� reached� massive� propor- tions:�the� theft� of� time� as�a� byproduct�of� closure.
Already� with� the� “normal”� closure� policy� introduced� in� 1991,� which� af- fected� mainly�Gazans,� the� theft�of� time�was�significant.�Leaving� the� Strip�for whatever� reason —to� pursue� studies� in� West� Bank� universities,� visit� a� new grandchild,� take� part� in� a� meeting,� look� for� a� job,� attend� a� wedding,� see� a derm atologist� or� medical� specialist —required�getting� a� perm it� (never� guar- anteed).� Tim e� was� wasted�filling�out� forms� and� obtaining�supportin g�docu- ments,� standing� in� line� in� PA� offices� that� acted� as� conduits� for� the� Israelis, making�desperate �phone� calls� ten� times� a� day� to� check� whether� the�perm it had� arrived,� casting� around� for� people� who� might� know� som eone� with som e� pull� with�the� Israelis,� and� so� on.
There� is� another� consequence� of� the� closure� policy.� Beg inning� in� 1991, and� especially � since� the� Gaza-Jericho� agreem ent� of� 1994,� almost� all Gazans—and� later�on�most�West�Bankers—found�that�they� could�no�longer make� any� plans:� it� was� impossible� to� know� until� the� very� last� minute
whether� one� would� get� the� necessary � perm it.� While For ten years people have not�being�able�to�plan�ahead,�they�also�lost�the�ability not been able to decide on to� act� spontaneo usly—and� spontane ity� is� no� less� a the spur of the m oment to hum an� right�than� travel�and�food.�For�ten�years� peo- go, say, to see a sunrise in ple� have� not� been� able� to� decide� on� the� spur� of� the
the desert or spen d an moment� to� go,� say,� to� see� a� sunrise� in� the� desert� or evening with old friends. visit� a� new� bookstore� in� Ram allah� or� spend� an� eve-
ning� with� old� friends.� With� the� ability� to� plan� or� be spontaneo us� lost,� many� have� lost� the� energ y� and� determ ination� required even� to� try� to� exercise� their� right� to� free� movem ent� and� escape� from� the cage.� The� tem ptation� is� great� to� let� the� externally� imposed� shrinking� hori- zons�dictate� one’s�social,� spiritual,� and� cultural� life.
Since� the� outbreak� of� the� al-Aqsa� intifada� in� October� 2000,� the� theft� of time� and� of� any� sem blance� of� normal� activity� has� reached� undream ed� of proportions:� students� do� not� reach� universities,� ailing�people� and� pregnant women� are� held�at� checkpo ints,�and� som e�even� die� or�deliver� on� the�road; municipality�technicians�cannot�get�an�Israeli�perm it�to�repair�a�broken�pipe at� the�outskirts�of�their�own�town;�offices� are� half�staffed;� water�tank�trucks are� not� allowed� into� villages.� Travel� costs� have� tripled� because� one� must chang e�transport�every� 20�kilometers;� people� spend� hours�at�a�stretch�wait- ing�or�detained�at�roadblocks.�Raw �materials�travel�faster�betw een�China�and the� Ashdod�seaport� than� betw een� Ashdod� and� Nablus.� The� areas� most� dra- matically�affected� by�this�theft� of�space� and�time�are�the�villages�and�neigh- borhoods�that�happen�to�be�near�Jewish�settlem ents,�where�even�before�the intifada� people� needed� all� kinds� of� perm its� and� special� arrangem ents� to reach�their�own�fields�and�orchards,�with�added�inducem ents�not�to�do�so:�a ferocious� dog,� a� merciless� security� officer� em ployed� by� the� settlement,� a blocked�agricultural�road,�an� olive�grove�put� to�fire.�Today,� such�places� are
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 11
under� months-long� curfew s,� the� most� notorious� exam ple� being � Hebron, where�20,000�Palestinians�have�been�under�house�arrest�almost�from �the�first day� of� the�uprising �for� the�convenie nce� of� 500� Jewish�settlers.
For� the� last� seventeen � months,� hundreds� of� thousands� of� people� have been� almost� wholly� occupied �with�the� task� of� getting� som ewhere� on� time: through� mud� and� rain�and�under�the� burning�sun� up� and� down�the� moun- tain,�breathing�hard,�legs�aching.�Tim e�is�running,�the�tank’s�cannon�is�taking aim,� an� infant� has� started� crying,� an� old� lady� needs� assistance ,� the� dust� is blinding.� What� is� that� soldier� saying� in � H ebrew ,� sho uting,� w aving� his hands?�Is�som eone�sho oting?�Yes!�The�soldier�is�sho oting!�Where�can�I�hide ? N o� p lace�to �hide �.� .� .� isn’t�it� here�that�so meone�go t�killed�just�last�w eek?
What�is�now�given�visual�form �in�the�hundreds�of�roadblocks�all�over�the West� Bank� was� less� obvious� during� the� Oslo� years,� but� it� nevertheless� ex- isted:�the�need�to�plead,�to�beg ,�the�prospect�of�being�turned�down,�the�an- ger,� the� repeated� trips� to� the� Palestinian � liaison� office,� where� one� finds hundreds�of�people� with�incredible�stories� to�which�no�one�listens,�the�visit to�an�Israeli�official�who�suggests,�“If�you�help�us,�we’ll�help�you”—meaning, “Becom e�a�collaborator,�and�you’ll�get�your�perm it.”�The�best� minds�in�Pal- estinian�offices,�private�and�public,�are�taken�up�day�and�night�with�the�sim - ple� task� of� retrieving�a� travel� perm it.
Unlike� land,� which� can� be� restored �and� replaced� and� rehabilitated,� time lost—through�the�policy�of�closure—is�lost�forever.�The�personal�and�collec- tive� benefits� of� having� “space”� are� erased� forever� if� not� enjoyed� and� exer- cised� in�“time.”
RE S I L I E N C E V E R S U S RE S I S T A N C E
19� February� 2002.� Ram allah� is� hermetically� sealed� after six�Israeli�so ldiers�w ere�killed�by�Palestinian �militants�at�a checkpo int� w est�o f�the�city.� At�a�m ain� checkpoint� south� of the� city,� hundreds� o f� p eople� near� the� Qalandia� refuge e camp � w atch� the� ap p roaches� o n� both� sides� fo r� cars� and pedestrians.�A�child�had�just�been�shot�at,�but�a�determined w om an�carrying�a�bag�strides�tow ard�the�w ell-armed�and protected�soldie rs,�undeterred�by�sho ts�fir ed�in�the�air.�She continues�w alking.�M ore�shots�are�fire d;�p eop le�are�jump y. She�hesitates,�but�w alks�on�until�she�is�about�50�yards�fro m the�soldiers.�A�bullet�hits�the�gro und�beside�her,�sending�up a�cloud� o f� dust,� and�she�stop s.� But� her�determinatio n�has go tten�a�so ldier�o ut�of�his�jeep.�H e�shouts�som ething�at�her; she�sho uts�back.�H e�ap p roaches,�she�leaves�her�bag�on�the ground�and�gets�closer,�there�is�an�exchange�of�w ords�and finally�she�is�let�through.
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12 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
Countless� such� exam ples� every� day� testify� to� the� magnitude� of� the� phe- nom enon�of�defiance.� In�the�last�ten�years,� and�certainly�since�the�outbreak of�the�latest�uprising ,�Palestinian s�have�found�ways�to�defy�the�closure�policy with�an� arsenal� of� invention s� to� circumvent� fences� and� roadblocks,� despite the�soldiers,�to�reach�work�and�hom e,�school�and�fam ily.�In�Gaza�during�the Oslo� years,� work� perm its� were� purchased,� identity� cards� and� other� papers forged.�People� attached� them selves� to�the�bottom s�of�vans� or�hid�in�pickup trucks�full�of�potatoes�or�cabbages�to�sm uggle�them selves�into�Israel�to�look for�work.�They�traveled�overland�to�Cairo�and�from �there�flew �to�Amman�to reach� universities� in� the� West� Bank� (until� Israel� restricted� entry� of� Gazans through�the�Allenby�Bridge)—all�this�before�suicide�bom bers�used�the�sam e tricks� to� sneak� out� and� Israel� tightened� its� grip.� And� finally,� when� people were�unable�to�leave�at�all,�they�resorted�to�university�outreach�programs�for education�and�to�the�Internet�for�social�life�in�their�narrow�pale�of�settlem ent.
In� these� intifada� days,� people� in� Gaza� walk� miles� along� the� beaches when� the� roads� are� blocked� to� Palestinian s.� In� the
Closure in the Oslo years West� Bank,� they� ride� donkeys� or� trek� on� foot� on m eant suffocation, but rocky�paths�across�hills�and�mountains�under�the�per-
closure since the uprising manent�danger�of�being�shot�at�with�stun�grenades�or also means physical fear live�bullets.� Closure�in�the� Oslo�years� meant�suffoca-
and overcoming it. tion,�but�closure�since�the�uprising�also�means�physi- cal� fear�and�overcom ing�it.
Throughout� the� closure� years,� and� especially� since� the� second� intifada, Palestinian s� have� given� proof� of� an� am azing� resilience,� an� almost� limitless capacity� to� endure� hardship .� The� only� reason� it� cannot� be� term ed� “resis- tance”� is� that� it� is� not� organized.� It� is� an� individual,� personal� decision� and behavior� adopted� by� an� entire� collective,� but� it�is� not� part� of� a� centralized, calculated � strateg y� to� challenge� Israeli� orders� and� policies� and� to� force chang e.�The�collective�nature�of�this�personal�defiance�is�more�visible�today than� it�was� during�Oslo�because� closure� all�over� the� territories� has� becom e far�more�visible.�Closure�is�no�longer�the�abstract,�bureaucratic�procedure�of asking �for�a�perm it�and�being�rejected.�Closure�has�becom e�part�of�Palestin- ian� hum an� and� natural� topography.
AB S E N C E O F A N OR G A N I Z E D ST R A T E G Y O F RE S I S T A N C E
Throughout� the� occupation,� joint� efforts—however� ultimately� ineffec- tive—have� been� mounted� by� Palestinian,�Israeli,�and� international� NGOs� to protest� Israel’s�settlem ent�policy.�Cam paigns�have� also�been�launched,�with som ewhat� greater� success,� against� Israel’s� revocatio n� of� Palestinian � resi- dency� rights�and�IDs�in�Jerusalem ,�as�well� as�against�its�policy�of�house� de- molitions.� This� being � the� case,� the� question� must� be� asked:� Why� has� the closure� policy�received �so�little�attention?�Why� was� this�policy�almost� com- pletely�ignored�(apart�from�reference�to�econom ic�repercussions)�by�all�con- cerned� parties—Palestinian� elites,� academ ics,� political� parties� and� leaders,
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 13
Israeli� peace� activists,� international� pro-Palestinian� groups,� and� Palestinian activists� in� the� diaspora —at� the� time� it� was� taking� deep� root� in� Gaza?� And why�has�no�strategized,�organized,�nonviolent�defiance� developed �since,�as its� devastating �consequences� becam e� clear?
A�num ber�of�possible�explanations�can�be�advanced� for�the�failure�to�ad- dress� the� issue,� shedding� light� on� the� sociology� of� the� Palestinian � struggle against�occupation,�on�the�one�hand,�and�the�sociolog y�of�Israeli�policies,�on the� other� hand.
Since�closure�was�introduced�in�1991,� Israel�has�succeede d�in�portraying it�as� an� ad� hoc� security� measure,� a� preem ptive� move� against� or�reaction� to terrorist�attacks.�(Most�observer s�have�failed�to�recall�that�the�cancellation�of Palestinian s’� exit� perm it� to� Israel� in� January� 1991� occurred� long� before Ham as�initiated�suicide�bom bings�inside�Israeli�towns�and�buses.)� This�per- ception� was� strengthened� in� later� years� as� closure� regulations� were� tight- ened� following� a� lethal� attack� or� the� (alleg ed?)� exposure� of� a� would-be attack.�Even�the�Palestinian s�them selves� internalized�Israel’s�security�pretext: how�often�have�I�heard�friends�ask�in�genuine�surprise�when�denied�a�travel perm it:� “But� I� haven’t� done� anything!”� or� “But� it� was� years� ago� that� I� was detained!” �Thus,� in�Israel,� Palestine,� and� abroad,� the� overall� impressio n�has been�that�closure�is�a�tem porary�measure�that�will�soon�be�rem oved,�and�this understan ding� has� obscured � closure’s� true� nature� and� greatly� reduced� the urgency� of�protest.
Given� the� focus� on� its� econom ic� effects,� closure� throughout� the� Oslo years�was�said�to�be�“lifted”�whenever�Palestinian�workers�and�businessm en were�given�perm its�to�cross�into�Israel.�If�the�labor�flow�was�not�totally�sev- ered�and�people�were�seen�crossing�Gaza’s�massive�northern�checkpo int�at Erez,� foreign� and� Palestinian �proponents� of� the� “building�of� peace� and� the econom y�of�peace”�expressed �satisfactio n,�even�gratitude�and�optim ism .�The great� majority�of�the� populatio n,�who� could�not�leave� because� they� had� no work�in�Israel�or�business�with�Israelis,�fell�into�the�blind�spot�of�the�writers of�reality’s�“official�version” —most�journalists�and�the�officials�and�diplom ats who�talk�to�the�press.�Lost�from �sight�was�the�fact�that�even�when�the�closure was� lifted,� the� vast� majority� of� the� populatio n�still�couldn’t�go�anyw here.
With�time,� free� movem ent� for� reasons� other� than� work�or�medical� treat- ment� (and� even� that� often� curtailed� by� ad� hoc� restrictions)� was� no� longer seen� as� a� right � but� as� a� “luxury”� for� which� it� was� som ehow � sham eful� to struggle.� Exem plifying� the� kind� of� attitude� that� was� internalized� by� many Palestinian s�is�the�response �by�an�Israeli�officer�to�my�suggestion�in�the�early stages�of�the�“peace�process” �in�1994�that�a�good�“confidence-building�step” would�be�to�give�women�and�old�people�a�one-year�“open�perm it”�to�leave the� Gaza� Strip.� “They� don’t�have� any� reason� to� get� out,”�she� had� said.� With many� people� having� given� up� the� hope� of� travel� beyond� a� perim eter� of� a few �dozen�kilometers,� closure�from�the�public�point�of�view �becam e�an�ab- stract� phenom enon.
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14 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
A� Palestinian�woman�pleads�with�an�IDF� soldier�to�allow�her�and her�children�to�cross� a�check point�in�Hebron,�31� October�2001. (Reuters/Nati�Shohat)
Closure�in�its�pre-intifada�form s,�though�experien ced�by�a�huge�collective of� individuals,� was� experien ced� as� a� separate� ordeal.� Requesting � a� perm it, waiting�for�it,�being�refused,� getting�a�two-day�perm it�when�the�course�you needed� to� attend� lasts� the� whole� sem ester,� longing� in� vain� to� see� the� sea, missing� your� relatives—all� these� were� common� experiences� shared� by� an entire�people,�but�everyone �went�through�it�on�their�own:�the�individual�ver- sus�the�Restrictio n,�the�individual�versus� the�Occupation,�as�if�it�were�a�per- sonal� matter,� a� stroke� of� personal� bad� luck.� Occupation � in� its� form� of� a restrictive�pass�system �was�splintered �to�three�million�parts,�and�the�blanket prohibition� was� som ehow �overlooked.
Individuals� develope d� their� own� ways� to� cope.� When� “infiltration”� be- cam e� harder� after� the� “electronic� wall”� went� up� around� Gaza� in� 1994,� and after�changes�in�the�coded�IDs�in�1995�made�the�fabrication�and�falsificatio n of� docum ents� more� difficult,� many� resorted � to� w asta � (connections),� espe- cially� with�high�officials� in� one� or� another� of� the� Palestinian� security� agen- cies�notorious�for�cozy�relations�with�their�Israeli�counterp arts.�Som e�had�the luck�to�have�connections�with�international�organizations�that�could�help�get perm its� for� travel� abroad.� A� few � had� contacts� with� Israeli� organizations� or personalities� willing�to� help� secure� a� pass� into� Israel.� Som e� found� the� right contact� person� to� whom �to� pay� a� bribe.
Just�as�the�effects�of�closure�were�experienced�as�a�private�ordeal,�getting a�perm it�was�experien ced�as�a�personal�lucky�strike,�rendering�the�idea�of�a collective�protest�absurd.�The�“privileged”�individual�whose�entire�livelihood and�the�welfare�of�his�fam ily�depends� on�a�perm it�was�deterred �from�joining
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 15
others�in�a�public�protest�that�could�risk�his�portion�of�income�opportun ity. An�organized�political�protest�carried�no�guarantee�of�success�and�could�re- sult� in�punishm ent—unlike� good� contacts� with�a� security� officer.
Finally,�closure�during�the�Oslo�years�took�on�definite�class�overtones:�the political,� econom ic,� social,� and� intellectual� elites� always� found� ways� to� get perm its�and�get�out,�sparing�them �the�constant�pressures �of�being�locked�up and�feeling�suffocated .�This�class�phenom enon�found�its�fullest�expressio n�in the�VIP�system�institutionalized�under�Oslo:�from�the�time�the�PA�was�estab- lished,�PLO�and�PA�officials�were�granted�the�privilege�of�free�movem ent�in and�out�of�the�West�Bank�and�Gaza�Strip�to�Jordan�and�Egypt,�respectively.�It was�at�the�request�of�the�PA�(according�to�an�Israeli�official)�that�the�privilege was� soon� extended �to� entering�Israel� and� traveling�betw een� the� Gaza� Strip and� the� West� Bank.� There� were� three� categories� of� VIP,� with�progressively diminishing �privileg es.�VIP-Is�could�travel�by�car�without�prior�arrangem ent, were� not�searched,� and�could�be� accom panied� by�fam ily�and� other� escorts. VIP-IIs�had�few er�privileg es,�and�VIP-IIIs�still�few er.�The�desire�to�get�out�of the� Gaza� Strip� and� to� travel� freely� to� the� West� Bank� was� so� great� that� even former�grass-roots�militants�who�were�elected�to�the�Palestinian�Council�(PC) accepted� VIP� categorization� without� protest� rather� than� try� to� secure� their freedom � of� movem ent� on� a� less� patronizing� and� colonialist� basis.� Even� so, these� privileg es� eroded� over� time� as� Israeli� officials� claimed� that� they� were being�abused—and�indeed,�it�is�known�that�PC�mem bers�(VIP-IIs)�often�gave rides�to�Gazans�studying�in�the�West�Bank.�Still,�up�to�the�current�intifada,�PA and� som e� PLO�officials� enjoyed� almost� “normal”�freedom� of� moveme nt.
TH E MI S S I N G VA N G U A R D
Organizing� serious� protest� is� not� possible� without� the� participation� of� a political�and�intellectual�vanguard.�Yet�for�the�reasons�mentioned,�during�the Oslo�years�those�who�could�have�made�up�this�vang uard�either�did�not�fully grasp�the�underlying�purpose� of�closure�as�a�means� of�control�and�political leverag e�or�were�unable�to�participate�in�fighting�it.�This�applies,�for�differing reasons,� to�the�various� groups�that�might�have� been� capable� of�playing�sig- nificant� roles:� the� PA,� Fatah,� Islamist� groups,� Palestinian � leftists,� and� the� Is- raeli� peace� cam p.
The�PA :�With�the�transfer� of�powers�to�the�new�authority�in�Gaza�in�May 1994,� the�fact�that�the�area�was�already�virtually�sealed� off�in�a�sense� served the� leadership ’s� political� and� econom ic� needs� and� corresponded� to� their previous� experien ces.� Politically,� it� is� easier� to� mold� and� control� a� popula- tion�closed�in�a�sm all�territorial�unit,�where�movem ents�can�be�closely�moni- tored.� Moreover,� closure� and� loss�of� jobs� in�Israel� made� a� large�segm ent� of the� populatio n�directly� dependen t�on� official� (poorly� paid)� jobs,� increasing personal�indebtedn ess�to�the�PA.�Recruitm ent�into�the�inflated�security�agen- cies� and� civilian� ministries� becam e� the� greatest� job-creation� project� in� the Strip�(however�redundan t�these�jobs�were�from�an�econom ic�and�managerial
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16 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
standpoint)�and�took�the�place�of�a�state� welfare�system .�Econom ically,�clo- sure� eased� and� speeded� up� the� creation� of� the� PA� trade� monopolies,� with establishe d�local�businessm en�being�forced�to�give�up�their�share�of�the�mar- ket� and� join� the� monopolies:� if�a� “merger� offer”�was� rejected,� the� PA� could make�certain�that�the�recalcitrant�businessm an�would�not�get�travel�perm its.
PA� senior� officials� and� security� officers� never� complained� about� closure when� they� met� with�their� Israeli� counterp arts.� Som e� Israeli� mem bers� of� the Knesset�from�the�Communist�Party�told�me�that�when�they�raised�the�issue�of closure� with�Yitzhak� Rabin,� he� had� told� them �that� since� Arafat� never� raised the� issue� there� was� no� need� to� chang e� it.� And� by� the� time� the� devastatin g repercussions� of� closure� becam e� clear� to� the�Palestinians,� it�was� too� late� to develop� a�response .
Fatah:�As�the�dom inant�party�in�the�PA�and�with�the�largest�mass�follow- ing�and�netw ork�in�the�territories,�Fatah�was�the�first�organization�to�cash�in on� the� benefits� of� power—benefits� closely� dependen t�not� only�on� the� PA’s system � of� patronag e� and� nepotism �but� also� on� Israeli� goodwill.� One� of� the main� such� benefits� was� freedom �of� movem ent,� a� privilege�to� which� the�PA “new comers”�from�Tunis,�being�closer�to�power,�had�greater�access,� accen- tuating� the� dichotom y� betw een� them selves� and� the� local� Fatah� leadership. For�the�local�leaders,� freedom �of�movem ent�and�other�“privileg es”�anesthe- tized�whatever� contestin g�spirit�may�have� survived� Oslo�and�soon�alienated them �from �the�base.� This�gave� rise� to� a�bitterness�and�even� self-disgust�that expressed � itself� in� ever-g reater� indulgence� in� such� benefits� of� free� move- ment� as� econom ic�initiatives,� recreational� evenings�out� of� the� cage,� and� so on.
In� 1997,� I� asked� som e� rank-and-file� Fatah� mem bers� who� were� com- plaining� about� being � sealed� in� the� Strip� why� they� did� not� initiate� activities that� would� draw� world� attention � to� their� reality.� For� exam ple,� it� had� been suggested � that� Fatah� organize� a� march� of� tens� of� thousands� toward� the northern�“border”�of�the�Gaza�Strip�in�exercise�of�their�basic�hum an�right�to free� movem ent,� and� that� one� way� of� not� getting� fired� at� was� to� have� the dem onstration�led�by�som e�of�Arafat’s�top�aides.�But�the�young�men�had�an immediate� answ er:�the� big�shots� will�never� join.
The�Islamist�gro up s:�The�only�organization�in�Palestine�capable�of�getting tens� of� thousand s� of� people� into� the� streets� for� a� march� or� dem onstration was� Ham as;� in�January� 1996,� more� than� 100,000� people� had� turned� out� for the� funeral� of� Yahya� Ayyash,� assassinate d� by� Israel� for� num erous� lethal� at- tacks.� But� the� Islamist� groups� would� never� sponsor� dem onstrations� against settlem ents�or�closure�or�even�the�occupation�per�se,�since�this�would�imply acceptanc e�of�the�two-state�solution�and�of�the�“Oslo”�reality,�to�which�they were� ideologically� opposed .� More� generally,� the� Islamist� organizations� en- gage�both�in�charity�and�mass�social�activities�and�in�armed�actions,�but�civil disobedience� is� not� part� of� their� agenda.� In� the� nonviole nt� dem onstrations som etim es� organized� by� the� NGOs� and� seculars� in�the� West� Bank� to� reach Israeli� checkpo ints,� participation� by� Ham as� sym pathizers�is� low.
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 17
The� leftist� group s :� The� Dem ocratic� Front� for� the� Liberation� of� Palestine (DFLP)�and�the�Popular�Front�for�the�Liberation�of�Palestine�(PFLP)�devoted their� flagging�energies�to� attacking �Oslo�and� the� PA’s� conduct� but� failed� to develop�strategies�of�oppositio n.�Aware�of�their�weakness�within�society�and vis-à-vis� the� PA� (on� which� many� of� them � depended � for� their� salaries� and budgets),�they� were�further�disadvanta ged�by�an�antiquated�system �of�“cen- tralized� dem ocracy.”� Policies� were� dictated� from� headquarters� abroad, where� different� realities� prevailed .� Of� the� various� leftist� organizations,� the People’s�Party�(former�Communists)�has�been�the�most�engaged�in�the�grass- roots�anti-occupation�activities�that�dem anded�cooperation�with�Israeli�activ- ists,� though� such� activities� addressed �mostly� settlem ents� and� land� confisca- tions.� The� larger� PFLP� refrained� from � joint� actions� with� Israelis� on� the grounds�that� such� cooperation� represented�“normalization.”
The�Israeli�p eace�camp :�In�1991,� the� peace� cam p� mistakenly� interpreted closure�as�a�return�to�the�Green�Line,�which�it�welcom ed�as�a�kind�of�proof that� the� solution� to� the� conflict� lays� in� ultimately� giving� up� the� territories. What�the�peace�cam p�failed�to�see�was�that�the�Green�Line�was�a�border�for Palestinian s� only� and� that� Israelis� could� cross� it� to� settle� and� move� about freely.� This� misperception� persisted� deep� into� the� Oslo� years.� Moreover, from�the�start�of�the�Oslo�process,�the�great�majority�of�Israeli�peace�support- ers� believed� that� their� intervention� was� no� longer� needed� in� the� march� to- ward� a� Palestinian � state.� The� peace� cam p� preferred � not� to� notice� such “trifles”� as� the� draconian� restrictions� on� Palestinian� movem ent,� settlem ent expansion ,�the�construction�of�bypass�roads,�and�the�splintering�of�the�Pales- tinian� territories� into� sm all� enclaves,� perceivin g� all� these� developm ents� as tem porary,� accidental,�and� am endable.
IS R A E L ’S ST R A T E G Y : PR E M E D I T A T E D O R IM P R O V I S E D ?
Besides�the�question�of�why�there�was�no�strategized,�organized�Palestin- ian�response �to�closure,�a�second�question �must�be�asked.�This�is�the�extent to� which� the� Israeli� decision� makers� foresaw � the� debilitating�side� effects� of closure�when�they� began�introducing�it�as�of�the�late�1980s� and�devised� the policy� accordingly.� Judging� from � the� piecem eal� way� in� which� closure� was applied�in�the�early�years,�my�own�reading �is�that�the�concept�of�the�system and�its�colonialist�“advantages”�were�realized�and�elaborated�with�time.�The lack� of� international,� Israeli,� and� Palestinian � attention� to� the� phenom enon allowed� the� Israeli� policies� of� dom ination� to� take� root� and� develop.
Yet� even� in� its� em bryonic�form ,� prior� to� Madrid,�the� pass� system � illumi- nated�som e�basics�about�Israeli�concepts�that�gradually�shaped� what�was�to becom e�an�apartheid �rule.�Restrictin g�Palestinian �entry�into�Israel�proper�was seen� as� an� answ er� to� growing� Israeli� concerns� that� the� still-continuing� in- tifada� would� “spill� over� into� Israel,”� especially � if� Palestinian � national� de- mands�were�not�met.�A�scattering �of�deadly�individual�attacks�against�Israelis (though�not�at�all�on�the�scale�known�later)�reinforced�such�fears.�And�with-
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18 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
out�any�pressure�from�the�Israeli�populatio n�to�get�to�the�root�of�the�problem by�addressin g�Palestinian �dem ands—on�the�contrary,�the�overw helm ing�de- sire� was� “not� to� have� Arabs� in� our� midst”—there� was� certainly� no� govern- mental� inclination� to� address� the� issue� politically.� Moreover,� the� “security” concerns�dovetailed �nicely�with�developm ents�in�the�labor�market�and�con- cerns� about� reducing � dependen ce� on� Palestinian� labor.� Jobs� hitherto� per- formed�by�Palestinian s�cam e�to�be�seen� as�possible� em ploym ent�outlets� for the�influx�of�new�immigrants�from �the�Soviet�Union,�and�the�long�curfew s�of the�previous� three�years� of�intifada�had� already� accustom ed�Israeli�em ploy- ers,� especially � in� industry,� to� replacing� Palestinian � workers� with� Israelis. (Ariel� Sharon,� as� housing� minister� in� the� 1980s,� was� one� of� the� first� to� en- courage� the� import� of� foreign� workers.)� The� first� full-fledged� imposition�of closure,� then,� responded�to� both� these� concerns.
But�what�had�begun�as�a�military-bureaucratic�measure�aimed�primarily�at containing�and�suppressin g�unrest�soon�developed �into�som ething�more�far- reaching.�A�pass� system �on�such�a�scale� cannot�but�acquire�its�own�bureau- cratic� logic,�and� within� a� few � years� had� becom e� entrench ed� in�such� a� way that�reversing �it�would�have� required�a�determ ined�effort.�At�the�sam e�time,
changes�in�the�international�environm ent�in�the�wake Occupation, after all, does of� the� Gulf� War� and� the� end� of� the� bipolar� world not necessarily require a made� it�clear� that� Israel� could� not� continue�its� direct direct m ilitary presence if occupation� undisturbed—occupation,� after� all,� does the military power is able not� necessarily� require� a� direct� military� presence� if to control the developm ent the� military� power� is� able� to� dictate� and� control� the
of the nonvoting developm ent� and� future� of� the� nonvotin g� commu- com munity. nity.� The� result� of� this� new� approach � was� Oslo,� into
which� the� by-now� well� entrench ed� pass� system � was seamlessly �incorporated.
Closure�also�had�very�clear�immediate�advantages�in�the�negotiating�pro- cess� underw ay.�Particularly�under�Rabin�and�Peres,� the�use�of�closure�as�an instrum ent� of� econom ic� leverage� over� the� PA� was� blatant.� “You� arrest� this one� or� that� one,� and� we’ll� give� you� 500� more� work� perm its”� and� “If� you behave� yourselve s�and�agree�to�our�(slow)�implem entation�timetables,�we’ll allow� you� to� export� more� vegetable s� and� release� from � Israeli� custom s� the heavy� machinery� you� imported”� were� the� unexpressed� but� widely� under- stood�prem ises� underlying�negotiations.
With�time,�what�had�originally�been�an�ad�hoc�military-bureaucratic�mea- sure� crystallized� into� a� fully� conscious� Israeli� strategy� with� a� clear� political goal:� separation � between� the� two� peoples� with� an� app earance � of� political separation ,� but� with� only� one� government—Israel—having� any� effective power� to� shape� the� destinies� of� both.� The� hopes� vested� in�Oslo�as� a� peace process� by� the� international� com munity� and� the� Palestinian s,� coupled �with the� debilitating� side� effects� of� closure� described �above� and� the� stunted� na- ture� of� Palestinian� politics,� blurred� this� overriding�vision� and� paralyzed� the Palestinian s’�ability� to� combat� closure� as� an� instrum ent� of� control.
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IS R A E L ’S CL O S U R E PO L I C Y 19
Meanw hile,�settlem ent�expansio n,�aimed�at�establishin g�the�would-be�in- ner�borders�of�Palestinian�enclaves,� was�accelerating�during�the�Oslo� years. The�PA’s�prom ise�to�fight�terror�and�violence�while�continuing�to�negotiate despite� the� ongoing� settlem ent� activity� gave� Israelis� the� impression� that peace�with�settlem ents�was�possible.� Thus�settlement�expansio n�was�not�an innocent�mistake,�as�Yossi�Beilin,�one�of�the�architects�of�Oslo,�tries�to�por- tray� it�now.�It�consolidated� the�creation�of� “one� state� in�one� country.”�With an�occupyin g�power’s�free�access� to�land,�water,�and�space,� Israel�was�able to�send� its�settlem ent�offshoots�into�the�West�Bank,�along�the�Jordan�Valley and� the� Green� Line� and� adjacent� to� the� big� Palestinian � towns� and� refugee cam ps.� The� State� of� Israel� and� its� sovereig nty� were� extended �de� facto� from the�river�to�the�sea:�Israeli�infrastructure,�Israeli�laws,�Israeli�taxation�and�tax- exem ptions,� Israeli� electricity� grids� and� water� and� telephone � netw orks,� Is- raeli� subsidies� and� ministries� and� schools.� And� wedged� in� betw een� these offshoots,� hem med�in�by�the�vast,�superm odern,�carefully� planned� network of�connecting�bypass�roads,�a�second�“state”�was�allowed�to�exist:�a�chain�of mini-entities�and�disconnected�enclaves� where�another�people�lives�under�a different�set�of�laws�(a�combination�of�Israeli�military�orders�and�Palestinian crippled�rule� of�law�overruled�by� arbitrariness).� But� this� second� “state,”�de- prived�of�elem entary�access�to�land,�water,�and�space,�is�likewise�deprived�of any� chance� of� free� developm ent� for� individuals� or�community.
The� Palestinian � leadership,� having� underestimated� the� effects� of� Israeli policies� and� having� been� blinded� by� the� personal� benefits� Oslo� offered, failed� to� challenge� the� creation� of� the� One� State� and� the� de� facto� dem o- graphic�separation �(closure)�by�a�planned�strategy�of�civil�disobedience�that might� have� drawn�world�attention �to� the� combined� implications� of� closure and� settlem ents� in�time.
Closure�during�the�Oslo�years� succeede d�in�totally�severing �relations� be- tween�the�Gaza�Strip�and�the�West�Bank,�creating�a�de�facto�Palestinian �mini- state� in� Gaza.� The� Labor� governm ent� in� 1995� had� calculated � that� Arafat would� eventually � accept� this� ministate� and� agree� to� postpone � indefinitely the�creation�of�a�Palestinian �state�in�both�the�West�Bank�and�Gaza�Strip.�But here,�the�PA� stood�its�ground,� and� closure� as� an� instrum ent� of� pressure� did not� achieve� its� ultimate� political� goal:� Palestinian � legitimation� of� dem o- graphic�separation �term ed�“statehood,”�but�without�any�of�its�true�attributes or�meaningful�sovereig nty.
CO N C L U S I O N
Prior�to�the�Oslo�years,� Israel�could�not�have� ignored�(as�it�does� now)�its obligations�as�an�occupying�power�to�the�occupied�populatio n:�the�hope�of “containing”� the� deep� disconten t� in� the� territories� could� not� yet� go� too� far beyond� the� constraints� of� international� conventions.� In� those� times,� Israel could�not�have�resorted�in�the�OPT�to�the�Grapes�of�Wrath–type�offensives� it unleashed �in�Lebanon� or�tried� to� “uproot�terror”�by�shelling� refugee� cam ps
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20 JO U R N A L O F PA L E S T I N E ST U D I E S
from� the� air�and� land,� using� tanks� and� helicopters�to� massively� target� civil- ians�in�the�hopes�of�killing�gunm en�and�potential�suiciders,�bulldozing�hun- dreds�of�houses,�wantonly�sm ashing�private�property,�and�razing�vast� green agricultural�areas.�Also,�Israeli�direct�military�control�of�Palestinian-inhabited areas� naturally�limited�Palestinian �access� to�arms,�am munition,�and�the�abil- ity� to�develop� hom em ade�bom bs�and� rockets,� which�becam e� possible� dur- ing�the� years� of�limited� self-rule.� This� has� facilitated �Israel’s� public� relations task,�enabling�it�to�present� its�war�against�an�entire�populatio n�as�sym metri- cal� warfare� betw een� two� political� entities:� the� PA� as� aggressor� and� Israel compelled� to� defend� itself.
Attem pts� to� challenge� closure� nonviole ntly� have� proven� risky,� even deadly.� The� Israeli� army—which� does� not� hesitate� to� fire� on� civilians,� even international�solidarity�activists�who�occasionally�visit�the�OPT�to�protest�the siege—has� made� clear� that� it� will� not� tolerate� any� mass� dem onstration� ap- proaching�its�well-protected�tanks�and�armored�cars�and�positions.�From�the very� first� days,� the� al-Aqsa� intifada� devolved� into� a� situation� where� armed men�engaging�in�“macho”�shooting �into�the�air�next�to�unarm ed�dem onstra- tors�gave�Israel�the�pretext�to�“shoot�back,”�killing�and�injuring�hundreds�of people.�Guerrilla�attacks�on�the�roads�of�the�occupied �territories�and�terrorist attacks�against�civilians�in�Israel�resulted,�inter�alia,�in�expanding�the�practice of�internal�closure�at�the�junctions�betw een�“Israeli”�(area�C)�and�Palestinian territory,�as�defined� under� Oslo�II.
There� is�no� intifada�now�in�the� real� sense� of� the� word.�There� is�no� mass civilian�participation�in�anti-occupation�activities.� There�is,�however,�a�spirit of�intifada,� which�is� now�expressed �in�the�individual�but� massive� resilience in� the� face� of� a� relentless� siege.� The� intifada,� then,� is� now� reduced� to� the resilience�of�three�million�people�under�the�weight�of�Israel’s�brutal�suppres- sion� of� a� nonexistent� intifada.� Just� as� was� the� case� in� the� Oslo� years,� three million� individuals� are� drawing� on� immense� personal� reserves� to� bear� the hardships� of� siege� without� surrender.� What� they� lack� is� a� vanguard� central power� that� could� consciously� work� at� transform ing� this� vast� individual� ca- pacity�into�a�collective�strateg y�of�nonviolent—and�thus�far�more�effective— resistanc e.
During� the� Oslo� years,� it� seem ed� that� the� Israelis� were� hoping � that� the leverag e� of� closure,� with� its� overall� debilitating� effects,� would� eventually produce� Palestinian�consent� to�the�final�status� deal�envisaged .�The�fiasco�of Camp�David�proved�how�wrong�they�were.�The�current�intensific ation�of�the closure�policy�was�imposed�with�the�intention�of�containing�the�latest�Pales- tinian� uprising.�Instead,�it�is� developin g�into�a� ruthless� war�betw een� one� of the�strongest�and� best� equipped �armies� in�the�world�and�a�battalion�of� vol- unteering�suiciders.�Closure,� far� from� helping� to� crush� the� defiance,� is� now adding� fuel�to�the� fire�of�the� frustration�and�wrath.�Palestinians� increasingly are� resorting �to� individual�acts� of� killing�and� suicide� attacks,�backed� by� the great� majority� of�an� em bittered,� caged� populatio n.
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