Embarking on a journey to understand the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is like stepping into a labyrinth of historical grievances, political intricacies, and deeply personal narratives. My own exploration began with an unsettling introduction at the airport, where an escort, hired to navigate me through customs, painted a stark picture of demographic aspirations. “We are going to be 80 percent very soon,” he declared, referring to the Jewish population, while “they,” the Palestinians, would dwindle to 20 percent. This chilling vision of ethnic dominance, delivered with the casual optimism of a vacation promise, immediately highlighted Why Dids the conflict seem so intractable: it was rooted in competing claims to the same land, fueled by desires for demographic control.
This initial encounter set the stage for a week-long delegation, a gathering of international writers seeking to grasp the realities on the ground. Our first meeting was with Yehuda Shaul, co-founder of Breaking the Silence (BtS), an organization that collects testimonies from former Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) soldiers. Why dids soldiers feel compelled to speak out? BtS aims to expose the harsh realities of the 50-year military occupation of the West Bank to the Israeli public, challenging the often-sanitized narrative presented within Israel. Shaul clarified that BtS’s mission wasn’t about distinguishing “good” from “bad” soldiers, but about ending the occupation entirely. This distinction is crucial to understand why dids some perceive BtS as controversial – some critics argue it focuses on individual soldier behavior rather than the systemic issues of occupation itself. However, Shaul’s emphasis on ending the occupation directly addresses the core political problem.
According to BtS, a central IDF tactic is to instill a sense of being relentlessly pursued in every Palestinian, regardless of age or gender. Why dids this strategy become normalized? A former soldier explained the lack of interaction and education: “I never met a Palestinian growing up… We don’t learn Arabic in Israeli schools. We don’t learn anything about Palestinian culture or history. For many of us, the first time you engage with a Palestinian is through your rifle scope.” This manufactured distance, this deliberate ignorance, helps explain why dids actions that seem inhumane become routine. We heard harrowing accounts from former soldiers: tear gas thrown at a child eating watermelon, homes raided for training exercises, a man killed for smoking on his balcony, and arbitrary detentions. These were not presented as isolated incidents, but as standard operating procedures, raising the critical question: why dids these practices become so deeply embedded in the IDF? The sniper who spoke to us, now grappling with the moral aftermath of his actions, emphasized the profound personal and ethical crisis these practices create.
An Israeli soldier, representative of the experiences discussed in the article.
The crisis extends beyond individual soldiers. Shaul pointed out that the IDF’s occupation tactics are rooted in policies developed by Israel itself between 1948 and 1966. This historical continuity raises uncomfortable questions: why dids the line between nation-building and expansion become so blurred? Even for soldiers deeply committed to Zionism, the ethical dilemmas are stark. Furthermore, these dissenting voices are largely isolated within Israel. Why dids a strong left-wing movement critical of the occupation fail to emerge in Israel? Historically, even the Labor party, often considered left-leaning Zionist, oversaw significant Palestinian land losses and restrictions on movement.
This historical complexity was further highlighted in a discussion with Palestinian scholar Bashir Bashir and his colleague Hillel Cohen. Bashir argued that the settlement project wasn’t solely the creation of the right wing, while Cohen emphasized Zionism as a project of saving Jewish life in 1948. Why dids these seemingly contradictory narratives coexist? Cohen pointed out that in 1924, US immigration law changes might have altered Jewish immigration patterns, suggesting that the drive to Palestine was not solely ideological but also influenced by external factors. He further noted how non-Zionist Jews were eventually “overpowered” by the “sophistication of Zionism” and joined the Zionist movement. Bashir then introduced the idea of binationalism, advocating for shared land and mutual recognition of trauma – Palestinians acknowledging the Holocaust, and Israelis the Nakba. Why dids such seemingly reasonable proposals for reconciliation still feel so distant from reality? The immense asymmetry of the conflict, where Palestinians had no role in the Holocaust but experienced the Nakba directly caused by Israelis, creates a profound imbalance in the call for mutual understanding.
Before going there myself, I had heard this phrase, open-air prison, and figured it was not literally a prison.
The afternoon took us to Silwan, where the visual manifestations of occupation became undeniable. Settler schoolchildren, transported in armored vans, passed by the “City of David” archaeological site, its construction fencing adorned with sanitized images of happy children, obscuring the Palestinian reality. Why dids such heavily secured and propagandistic projects exist? We visited Palestinian homes cracked and damaged by the excavations, meeting Jawad Siyam, a community organizer whose home was under threat of demolition, ostensibly due to the “City of David” project. The demolition orders, framed as bureaucratic necessities, seemed to serve the dual purpose of clearing Palestinian presence, echoing the 80/20 demographic goal. We saw the foundation of a community center bulldozed by the IDF under a vague “cleaning order,” juxtaposed with a nearby settler home proudly displaying an “I’m that Jew” flag, guarded by armed private security. Why dids this stark disparity in security and community support exist?
In Nabi Saleh, we witnessed weekly protests by the Tamimi family against settler encroachment on their vital spring water source. Why dids these protests become necessary? The Israeli response – tear gas, sound cannons, skunk water, live ammunition – underscored the disproportionate power dynamics. The Tamimi family, symbols of nonviolent resistance, have faced immense personal loss, with family members killed by Israeli soldiers. Why dids such nonviolent resistance meet with such forceful and often lethal responses?
Traveling to Ramallah, the discussion turned to whether the occupation constituted apartheid. Yehuda Shaul recounted escorting Barbara Hogan, a former ANC political prisoner, who concluded that the situation in the West Bank was even more extreme than apartheid South Africa. Why dids even the term “apartheid” seem inadequate to describe the reality? The pervasive and inescapable nature of the occupation becomes clear upon seeing it firsthand. The concept of an “open-air prison,” initially seeming metaphorical, became literal. Guard towers, concrete barriers, and razor wire were omnipresent, a stark contrast to the manicured landscapes of settlements, raising the fundamental question: why dids a state claiming to be a democracy maintain such a system of control over millions of people?
In Ramallah, we met Sam Bahour, a Palestinian-American businessman and Tel Aviv University graduate, who, since the Oslo Accords, is barred from visiting his alma mater due to his West Bank residency. Why dids the Oslo Accords, intended to bring peace, lead to such restrictions on movement? Later, we met Fadi Quran, who as a child engaged in symbolic acts of resistance and later studied at Stanford. His experience at the campus Hillel, where he was welcomed as an “Iraqi Jew,” revealed the complexities of identity, trauma, and indoctrination on both sides. Why dids this encounter lead him to understand the shared emotional core of trauma and fear, yet not bridge the political divide? Like many young Palestinians, Fadi expressed disillusionment with political leaders and traditional solutions, even facing imprisonment by the Palestinian Authority. Why dids the PA, meant to represent Palestinian interests, also become a source of oppression?
Our visit to Arafat’s tomb and the Mahmoud Darwish museum offered a moment of reflection on Palestinian identity and legacy, even amidst the ongoing conflict. Dinner with Raja Shehadeh, a human rights lawyer, brought the personal impact of the 2002 siege of Ramallah into sharp focus. Yehuda Shaul, present again, revealed he had been stationed there as a company sergeant, occupying Palestinian homes. Why dids Shaul feel compelled to confront Raja with this truth? His need to testify, to be honest about his role, highlights the profound moral burden carried by those involved in the occupation.
The 4 AM wake-up call for Qalandia checkpoint exposed the brutal reality of daily life under occupation. Why dids thousands of Palestinian men endure this daily ordeal? Hanna Barag, a veteran activist, explained the Kafkaesque bureaucracy that controls Palestinian movement, including mass work permit invalidations and arbitrary denials. The checkpoint itself was a scene of chaos and hostility, men crammed into “cattle chutes,” facing shouting soldiers and unpredictable age restrictions. Why dids this system of control become so dehumanizing? The economic desperation driving men to seek work in Jerusalem, despite the humiliating conditions and meager pay ($16 USD per day), underscores the systemic economic pressures created by the occupation. The constant threat of permit revocation and blacklisting further reinforces Palestinian vulnerability.
The Qalandia Checkpoint, a site of daily hardship and control for Palestinians.
Even the “humanitarian” checkpoint for women offered little respite. We witnessed a woman carrying a desperately ill man, and a Palestinian engineer forced to navigate this barrier daily to reach her job. Hanna Barag, former secretary to David Ben-Gurion, expressed her disillusionment, admitting she could never have imagined this reality of checkpoints and occupation. Why dids the vision of Israel’s founders diverge so dramatically from the current reality? She believed that change, when it comes, would be sudden and transformative, a “vroom.”
At Ofer military prison and court, Gerard Horton from Military Court Watch drew a chilling analogy: imagining the US placing 400,000 citizens in Afghanistan and tasking the military with their security. Why dids this analogy resonate so powerfully? It highlights the inherent instability and injustice of the settler project. A key tactic of control is mass arrests, including children, maintained through informants, collective punishment, and intimidation. Night raids, door torching, and the threat of soldiers in bedrooms are used to instill fear and suppress resistance.
The interrogation of children is particularly disturbing. Why dids the system target children so aggressively? Blindfolded and sleep-deprived children are coerced into confessing, often to fabricated charges, with confessions written in Hebrew, a language they don’t understand. The court system offers no real justice, with a 99.47% conviction rate. The rare acquittal anecdote, where the translator didn’t even know the Arabic word for “acquitted,” underscores the systemic bias. Why dids this legal system become so skewed against Palestinians? The experience leaves children angry, distrustful, and disillusioned, with no faith in truth or justice.
Ofer military court itself, reeking of sewage from surrounding canals, felt like a symbol of this broken system. We witnessed the trial of a Bedouin farmer whose tractor was dismantled for driving on a temporarily closed road, facing fines and no translator. Why dids such disproportionate punishments become commonplace?
The kid said to the soldier, “What are you gonna do, detain me like I’m an Arab?” The soldier let him go.
The 25-foot separation wall around East Jerusalem, costing millions per kilometer, further fragments Palestinian life. Why dids this wall become a defining feature of the landscape? Ali Ayyad, a resident of Abu Dis, described how the wall severed his community, turning a one-minute walk to family into an hour-long, expensive journey. His poignant humor – joking about the military offering back only “the legs of the wife” after ruining his hotel – captured the absurd tragedy of the situation. Despite the immense hardship, Ayyad’s plea for peace, for a life of simple pleasures, resonated deeply: “We all need peace. We want peace.”
Hebron, with its “sterile” areas and the memorial to Baruch Goldstein, the perpetrator of the 1994 massacre, represents an extreme point in the conflict. Why dids Hebron become such a flashpoint of religious zealotry and settler violence? While often presented as an outlier, Hebron reflects the broader patterns of settlement expansion and Palestinian displacement across the West Bank. The aggressive behavior of settlers, even children, reinforced the sense of entrenched hostility. The anecdote of the settler child challenging a soldier, “What are you gonna do, detain me like I’m an Arab?” and being released, chillingly illustrates the differential treatment based on ethnicity. Why dids such blatant discrimination become normalized within the system?
My time in Shuafat Refugee Camp offered a different perspective. Why dids refugee camps like Shuafat continue to exist decades after the initial displacement? Despite being technically part of Jerusalem, the camp is neglected, lacking basic municipal services, infrastructure, and security. Yet, amidst the poverty and neglect, I found a sense of community and resilience, embodied by my host, Baha Nababta, a dedicated community organizer. The crazy hope I felt, drafted from Baha’s optimism, was tragically cut short by his murder just weeks later, highlighting the ever-present dangers faced by Palestinians even within these marginalized communities. Why dids such acts of violence against community leaders occur with impunity?
Reflecting on the Dead Sea, with a young former IDF soldier, brought a moment of personal connection amidst the larger political tragedy. Why dids she, from a religious background, question Zionism and risk everything to testify against the occupation? Her struggle with faith and conscience mirrored the broader moral crisis of the conflict. Her willingness to question deeply held beliefs offered a glimmer of hope, a reminder that even within this seemingly intractable conflict, individuals are grappling with the complex questions of why dids this happen and how can it be changed. Leaving the region, the multitude of “why dids” questions remained, a testament to the enduring and deeply complex nature of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
