The Circuit (5 page)

‘The town is a closed military area,’ he said.

It was an answer I’d hear again and again.

I got back into the taxi and asked Walid to drive a mile back up the road and let me out.

‘Why? What are you going to do?’ he asked.

I pointed towards the quarry. ‘I’m going to walk through there into Ramallah.’

Walid smiled. ‘Bob, you are fucking crazy. The soldiers, they will shoot you.’

I asked Walid to pull off the road and into a lay-by. I paid him the agreed fare and told him if he waited there until Will arrived, there’d be an extra two hundred dollars in it for him.

‘If the soldiers come, drive off and come back an hour later,’ I said.

Walid took the money and shook my hand.

‘Bissalama,’ he said. ‘Have a safe journey.’

I threw my day sack over my back and my black canvas duffel across my shoulders. From the lay-by, I could see Ramallah in the distance about two miles away. I stepped off the road and the ground dropped away. The quarry path dipped and rose at steep inclines and was pocked with holes just the right size to twist an ankle. The sun was bouncing off the white chalk, making it very difficult to see clearly. After a mile or so I came across a cluster of buildings that looked like the quarry company’s administration area. I stopped and crouched against the wall of one of the smaller buildings to call Will and let him know where I was and what I was planning.

Will asked me if I could see a large wall where the quarry backed onto the city.

‘I see it, mate,’ I said.

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Can you see the minaret on top of the mosque?’

I scanned the skyline . . . one, two, three . . . ‘Will, mate, I see nine minarets.’

Will paused for a second. ‘I think I know where you are. Can you see the big blue minaret? I’m about three hundred metres left of it behind the wall.’

I located the blue minaret. ‘OK, mate, got that. I’m on my way.’

I only had about half a mile to travel, but most of it was over open ground. I took a couple of minutes to survey the landscape with my binos; about six hundred yards to my left I spotted a group of IDF soldiers on a patch of high ground. Glints of light were bouncing off their position, indicating that they were looking through optics of their own. I couldn’t see their weapons so I wasn’t sure whether they had the firepower to target me effectively given their distance.

I had just tucked my binos into my day sack when I heard children’s voices approaching from behind. I looked back and saw a group of ten of them, boys and girls aged about eight to twelve, come into view. They were all carrying book satchels and appeared to be headed in the same direction as me – Ramallah. I greeted the children in Arabic. One of the older girls responded in English. I asked her where they were going. She pointed towards Ramallah and explained that the only way they could get to school during the Israeli lockdown was through the quarry. I warned the kids about the soldiers I’d spotted on the hillside and told them to be careful. The girl said the Israeli soldiers were always there and had shot at them on several occations. Before the kids headed off, the girl showed me the route they intended to follow. Though I was going in the same direction as the children, I didn’t want to walk with them. If the Israelis were onto me, my presence alone could draw fire and endanger the kids unnecessarily.

The kids hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards from me when the IDF soldiers on the hillside opened up. I could tell by the sound of the gunfire that the kids were out of range of the bullets. High-velocity bullets like rounds from an M16 travel faster than the speed of sound. If you’re in range when fired upon, you first hear the sharp crack of the round travelling past you followed by the thump of the bullet leaving the barrel. In the military it’s referred to as ‘crack and thump’.

I estimated the bullets were dropping fifty or sixty yards short of the children. The kids, meanwhile, simply glanced over at the high ground where the soldiers were positioned and carried on on their way to school. To them, it was just another day. They were seasoned veterans, and I was new to the game. I watched the kids for another five hundred yards until they disappeared into a small hollow. When the soldiers stopped shooting, I went on my way. Sure enough, as soon as I was in the open, the soldiers started firing their weapons again. The rounds were falling well short of my position and I couldn’t be sure whether they were targeting me or the kids further up the path. My life wasn’t in immediate danger but I was concerned that the gunfire could alert other IDF patrols in the area; patrols that might be in firing range.

The sun was cresting in the sky and the light reflecting off the chalk was now blinding. It was very hot and sticky and the air was heavy with the smell of wild herbs. As I neared the wall, there was no place to take cover and make a call so I rang Will on the hoof to see if he had me in his sights yet. Will said he could see me and directed me towards a break in the wall. I climbed through the wall and found Will waiting there with a big, cheesy grin on his face. We hugged each other like two lost souls. I asked him why the fuck he was smiling when he’d have to travel back along the same route I’d just taken. At six foot with blond hair, Will made a much bigger target than me.

For the next fifteen minutes, Will gave me what still stands as the best quick briefing I’ve ever received. When he finished, he handed me a list of written notes and the keys to CNN’s armoured Land Rover. ‘It’s got three bullet strikes in it,’ he said. ‘Every time we go somewhere, the Israelis shoot at us.’

‘I’ll see if I can match that,’ I said.

‘Seriously, mate,’ he said. ‘Keep your body armour and helmet well advertised with the letters TV. The IDF shoot at anything.’

He didn’t have to remind me. I’d already been fired on twice in twenty-four hours just trying to get into Ramallah.

CHAPTER 3

Some people never change. Others do, though it usually takes one hell of a catalyst. In my case, it was seeing Israeli soldiers take pot-shots at those kids on their way to school. Within forty-eight hours of arriving in Tel Aviv my long-held beliefs about the Arab–Israeli conflict had been dealt a serious reality check. It never occurred to me that the Israeli military would be anything less than 100 per cent professional. At forty-seven, I was starting to realize that my political views weren’t my own; I had allowed others to dictate them to me. When I was in the military I was fed a certain bias in order to fulfil an operation and I never questioned it. I guess the habit stuck when I retired to civilian life.

My assignment in Ramallah placed me in the role of observer rather than participant in a conflict. For the first time in my life, I was on a fence looking down on both sides. Suddenly the media reports I’d trusted to inform me about serious issues including the Arab–Israeli conflict didn’t seem so reliable. My intention from then on was to stay on top of that fence and seek the truth for myself. It was the start of a long-overdue political education.

I wished Will all the best as he headed down into the quarry and out of Ramallah where hopefully Walid the taxi driver was still waiting for him. I walked to the Land Rover and introduced myself to the CNN producer in the passenger seat; a young woman I’ll call Nihal.

During the handover, Will explained that I’d be working with women. I believe my response was something like, ‘You’re fucking kidding, mate.’ I had seen female war correspondents on TV but having spent nearly two decades in the Regiment, I never envisaged working alongside a woman in a hostile environment. In my view, war zones were for men only.

The women of CNN would soon set me straight. Nihal was an old hand at navigating Ramallah during Israeli lockdowns. Before I’d even got the vehicle into gear, she was giving me directions. The key to getting around, she explained, was to avoid IDF armoured checkpoints. I followed her instructions to the letter as she talked me through a series of twists, turns and backtracking right to the doorstep of our destination: Ramattan Studios, home to Ramattan TV, the main Palestinian news services in the West Bank and Gaza. Occupying one floor of a simple eight-storey building in the heart of Ramallah, it had become a temporary office/home to dozens of journalists of various nationalities covering the siege of Arafat’s Mukhata just a mile down the road.

When I walked into Ramattan, it was apparent that the siege mentality had migrated from Arafat’s compound to the press corps. Tapes, cameras, editing gear, tripods, bags, body armour, helmets, old scripts, water bottles and personal items littered the place. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and stale sweat. Everyone’s eyes were ringed in dark circles and their clothes were wrinkled and dirty.

Nihal introduced me to the rest of the CNN crew including Margaret Moth, a New Zealand camerawoman who Will had spoken of very highly indeed. The crew was getting ready for a live shot, so I left them to get on with it while I settled in.

No sooner had I put my gear down than I was intercepted by a man introducing himself as Wakil. A short, stocky lad with a heavy beard and booming voice, Wakil was Ramattan’s unofficial cook, administrator and welcoming committee. His official job was less warm and fuzzy: Wakil was a correspondent for Hezbollah TV – as in Hezbollah the Iranian-backed Shiite organization the US and UK label as terrorist. Over a cup of tea, Wakil filled me in on everything that had happened at Ramattan since the start of Operation Defensive Shield. One incident really grabbed my attention. A few days before I arrived, the IDF attacked the building housing Ramattan Studios, sending armed soldiers up the stairwell. CNN was the only network using security, so Will was the only adviser in situ. He shouted down to the soldiers that the building was full of journalists and single-handedly covered the stairwell until everyone, clients and their competitors, was safely evacuated. Will’s actions undoubtedly saved a lot of lives.

While Will left some very big shoes to fill, his accommodation was another matter. I took over Will’s old ‘room’; a four-and-a-half- by three-foot broom cupboard where I slept curled up with my feet against the wall. I don’t know how Will managed it; I’m only five foot nine and like I said, he’s six foot. I swear he slept standing up. Cramped or not, I was grateful to have my own private space where I could get away from the cigarette smoke.

It wasn’t long before I’d settled into a daily routine. Throughout the night I’d hear explosions and gunfire. Then around 5 a.m. there’d be a lull. The silence was my alarm clock. I’d get up, put the kettle on and head to the shower. There was only one bathroom in Ramattan to accommodate forty-odd journalists. It would have resembled a cow field were it not for Wakil; every morning he’d get up before me and clean it. No one asked him to – he just took it upon himself. Regardless of what you may think about Hezbollah TV, their correspondent in Ramallah is the most immaculate journalist I’ve ever met.

After a shower, I’d make a brew for myself and the rest of the CNN team. I’d then head downstairs to check the armoured car to see if it had been tampered with overnight. I’d also check the fuel, oil and lubricants to ensure it was roadworthy for a day’s wandering around Ramallah. If the crew didn’t have an early shoot scheduled, I’d load up my medical pack and take a drive around Ramallah on my own to see if the Israelis had changed their checkpoints overnight or moved in sniper positions or more tanks. When my recce was complete, I’d return to Ramattan, meet up with the CNN crew and map out what they wanted to achieve for that day.

Most of my time was spent helping the crew evade Israelis while they gathered elements to turn into stories. A lot of the reports focused on how Ramallah’s residents were coping with the curfews and lockdowns, some of which lasted more than a week. Basics such as food and medicine were constantly in short supply. At one point, a United Nations food convoy bound for Ramallah was turned back by the Israelis.

Many of the Palestinians featured in the reports were determined to carry on with their daily lives as normally as possible. I really admired how quickly they tidied up when the Israelis pulled back. During the lockdowns, I’d see Israeli tanks and APCs rolling over cars and smashing through pavements. As far as I could determine, the practice didn’t accomplish anything strategically but it did have the psychological impact of creating one hell of a mess. As soon as the tanks backed off, however, the Palestinians would emerge from their houses armed with brooms and dustbins to clear the rubble. Sometimes their defiance took a humorous turn: one Palestinian artist created a sculpture from a pile of flattened cars.

All in all, I found working with the media immensely satisfying and very insightful. One thing I hadn’t realized before was just how hard journalists work to get a story out. Three correspondents and crews rotated through Ramallah during my first assignment there. When they weren’t on the ground gathering elements for a story, they were back at Ramattan Studios doing live shots that lasted well into the night.

I was also learning to appreciate what women can bring to the table in a hostile environment. Margaret Moth, in particular, seemed like she was born to be a war photographer. Her energy for the story was relentless. She thrived on the long hours and never missed an opportunity to get a great shot. Whenever we’d head out in the armoured car, she’d sit in the middle of the backseat with her camera facing the front window, ready to roll. It came as no surprise when I learned that 70 per cent of CNN’s international promos at that time used b-roll shot by Margaret Moth.

In addition to being extremely talented, both Margaret and Nihal were incredibly brave. One episode in particular stands out. It was mid-morning, just after curfew. I had accompanied a CNN crew to Ramallah’s old town to shoot a story. We arrived to find an armed Israeli unit dispersing a crowd of Palestinians, many of whom were upset and wailing. When Nihal asked what was happening, she was told that the Israeli unit had shot dead a ten-year-old boy.

Nihal learned that the boy had been sent by his parents to buy bread at the local shop. He’d left his house two minutes before the curfew ended to be first in the queue. He was running – alone – along a wall on his way to the bread shop when the Israeli unit fired on him from approximately thirty yards away with a general-purpose machine gun (at that distance, there’s no mistaking a ten-year-old for an adult). By the time we arrived on the scene, the boy’s body had been taken to hospital but his blood was still splattered on the pavement and the wall along with bits of his skull and flesh. One of my sons was ten years old at the time. I tried to imagine him running to buy bread for the family only to be blown away by a group of soldiers.