La Via Campesina Delegation Visited Palestine in December 2024: Notes from their Daily Diaries [Part – 2]

From December 8 to 18, 2024, a delegation of nine peasant-farmers traveled to Palestine, in the West Bank. All their organizations are part of the international peasant movement La Via Campesina, which also includes the Palestinian organization UAWC (Union of Agricultural Work Committees) as a member. For many years, La Via Campesina has stood in solidarity with Palestinian peasants in their struggle against colonization, land and water grabs, and the numerous human rights violations they endure. However, since 2023, the scale of massacres in Gaza and the openly genocidal intentions of the far-right Israeli government have led La Via Campesina to intensify its solidarity work with Palestinian farmers. Organizing a delegation visit to the West Bank thus gradually became an imperative. Due to the obstacles posed by the Israeli state for accessing Palestinian territories, all delegates were European, hailing from the Basque Country, Galicia, Italy, Portugal, Ireland, and France. We, Fanny and Morgan, are both small-scale farmers, based in Ardèche and Brittany, and members of the Confédération Paysanne. The following texts are our journal from these ten days, which profoundly changed our lives and worldview. [ Access all the diary notes here].

Day 3: Nablus and Qusra

Heading to Nablus, the largest city in the northern West Bank. The main checkpoint to leave Ramallah towards the north lies at the foot of a hill where the Israelis have established the settlement of Beit El and an important military command post.

On Tuesday morning, we left the apartment at 7:30 a.m., heading toward Nablus, the largest city in the northern West Bank.

The main checkpoint to leave Ramallah heading north is situated at the base of a hill where the Israelis have built the settlement of Beit El, home to a significant military command centre. The checkpoint is closed until 9:00 a.m., making it impossible to pass.

We take an alternative route that runs alongside the settlement’s enclosing wall: watchtowers, barbed wire, heavily armed soldiers. Along this route, our hosts point out a house whose Palestinian owners, after a lengthy legal battle, managed to halt the order for their expulsion and expropriation. This legal “miracle” came at a steep cost—the small house is now completely encircled by an eight-meter-high concrete wall, equipped with dozens of surveillance cameras and sealed with a tall gate. Only the residents are allowed to enter; friends and family are excluded.

The road offers us a stark view of the colonization process. Palestinian villages are situated in the valleys, surrounded by olive groves and other crops, close to water sources. The hilltops, which are less hospitable, are where Israeli settlers establish themselves, for obvious strategic reasons. From these heights, they dominate both literally and figuratively. They can monitor all movements, from farmers’ activities to road traffic. The suffocating feeling grips our stomachs. The settlements range from well-established small towns with hundreds of inhabitants to clusters of a few mobile homes.

Fuad explains that some of these outposts did not exist the last time he went to Nablus just a few weeks ago. Over recent months, they have sprung up like mushrooms. The Israeli government systematically connects these settlements to water and electricity networks and provides military protection. The simplest way to distinguish an Israeli settlement from a Palestinian village is by looking for water tanks on the roofs. Israel controls the water resources and drastically rations the amount allocated to Palestinians. In Palestinian homes, running water is sporadic—sometimes available for two days a month, other times not for over three months. Palestinian families are forced to store water on their roofs and severely limit consumption. In contrast, all Israeli households enjoy a constant and abundant supply of running water. On average, a Palestinian in the West Bank consumes 80 liters of water per day, compared to over 240 litres for an Israeli.

The UAWC team explains the zoning system established by the Oslo Accords in 1993. The occupied Palestinian territories were divided into three zones: A, B, and C.

• Zone A is supposedly under the control of the Palestinian Authority, including its police force. This includes major Palestinian cities like Ramallah, Hebron, Nablus, Bethlehem, and Jenin.
• Zone B is under shared Israeli and Palestinian control.
• Zone C, which comprises the majority of the West Bank, is under full Israeli military control and includes nearly all the villages and agricultural land. This division was meant to be temporary, as the Oslo Accords envisioned the creation of a Palestinian state within five years, with all occupied territories returning to Palestinian sovereignty. That promise has long since faded. Between 1993 and 2023, the number of settlers has increased nearly tenfold. Almost all settlements are established in Zone C, leaving Palestinians feeling deceived.

After about an hour on the road, we arrive at a new checkpoint, marked by an orange barrier, just a few minutes from our meeting point in Nablus. It’s closed. Soldiers order us to turn around.

Mustapha sighs, “30 more minutes.” Distances between cities and villages in the West Bank are short—120 kilometers from north to south, and about fifty from east to west. But the journeys can take hours. We have to find another way in. The barriers, yellow or red, open and close at the whim of Israeli authorities, resembling a massive labyrinth designed by a sadistic inventor, driving those trapped inside to frustration as they circle around helplessly, searching for a way through.

After another failed attempt, the next route works. At 9:45, we reach the Nablus governorate. We are received by the governor, Ghassan Daghlas, who explains that the city, with its 440,000 residents, is under siege. It is controlled by four checkpoints, which the Israelis arbitrarily decide to block or open. Nablus is an important industrial and commercial hub, but the restrictions on movement directly impact its economic activity. Additionally, attacks within the city have become increasingly frequent, whether from Israeli army raids or assaults by settler militias.

At the end of 2023 and into 2024, Israel’s Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben Gvir, distributed assault rifles to settlers, causing violence against Palestinian residents to skyrocket. This situation has also had devastating consequences for farmers. Of the 270 attacks recorded against Palestinian farmers, 160 took place in the Nablus region. Settlers target homes, burn olive trees, and prevent farmers from harvesting their olives.

The governor shows us a ten-minute documentary film filled with harrowing images of settlers attacking Palestinian civilians. The title of the film is “Nablus, Hope Prevails.” We’re not entirely sure we see much hope in it.

Dora asks a question: “Does international pressure make a difference or not?” The governor expresses his disappointment in the governments of Western countries. However, the agricultural advisor explains that in 2024, the olive harvest was better than in 2023, thanks to the presence of international volunteers who accompanied farmers to their fields.

In Zone C, the Palestinian Authority has to coordinate with the Israeli administration on numerous everyday matters through an organization called the DCO. Palestinian farmers must request permission through this DCO to access their land and harvest their olives. In a “normal” year, this permission is granted, but only for men and women over the age of forty. Since farmers are not allowed to visit their fields outside this period, they take the opportunity to fertilize, prune, and complete all the tasks they would have done throughout the year had they been allowed access.

In 2023, most farmers were either denied permission to access their fields or received it weeks after the olives had fallen to the ground and rotted. This was a tragedy for the region’s economy, which relies heavily on olives. Farmers are on the frontlines of colonization. Since October 7, 2023, there are no longer any limits to the crimes committed by Israeli settlers, who can commit any atrocity without facing punishment.

At the end of 2023 and into 2024, Israel’s Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben Gvir, distributed assault rifles to settlers, causing violence against Palestinian residents to skyrocket.

Fanny asks: “How do people respond to the violence of the settlers? How can you protect them as the Palestinian Authority?” The governor looks uncomfortable and responds with a speech about the spirit of peace. It’s clear that Aghsan and Taman, the two young Palestinian women from UAWC, are seething. Later, we’ll understand that the lack of action by the Palestinian police in the face of violence from the Israeli army and settlers, even in Zone A, is a source of major tension. Is the Palestinian police there to protect Palestinian citizens, or to protect the occupying power?

The minibus takes us to a vantage point overlooking the city, where we have a picnic in the sun and wind. From here, we can see Nablus, “trapped” between two mountains to the east and west, densely urbanized in the valley and on the slopes.

On each mountain, there are two Israeli military bases towering over the city, and as we noticed this morning, there are gates with checkpoints at the southern and northern entrances.

We realize that, in just a few hours, the city could be completely sealed off, transforming into an open-air prison—or worse. It’s chilling.

Tamam points out the refugee camps located in the heart of the city. Refugees from the Nakba since 1948, they had to leave everything behind and cram into confined spaces, where overcrowding and poverty are rampant.

Speaking frankly, she explains to me that it is largely from these refugee camps that the most radical young resistance fighters emerge. “Of course,” she adds, “they don’t have much to lose.”

At the time of our visit to Nablus, tensions are high in Jenin between rebellious youth and the Palestinian authorities. Tamam tells me how critical and angry the Palestinian people, particularly the youth, are toward Mahmoud Abbas’s government and its security forces, which, she whispers, seem more focused on protecting settlers than Palestinians themselves.

In the slope below us lies the Christian quarter. Further south, Fuad points out the Samaritan Jewish quarter. They are Palestinian and proudly claim this identity, having always coexisted peacefully with other communities. As Palestinians, they, too, endure the aggressions, hatred, and racism of settlers and Israeli soldiers.

We realize just how far removed this reality is from the binary, black-and-white narrative of a religious war often presented to us in the West.

We hit the road again toward Qusra, a small rural village completely overtaken by the occupation.

On the way, Fuad surprises us with a stop at a bakery that also serves as a tea room. It’s our first sweet break of the week, and surely not the last—our hosts have quite the sweet tooth, which delights us! The Nablus region is renowned for its pastries, particularly knafeh, made with a type of gooey cheese covered in breadcrumbs. Fuad makes it regularly but refuses to share the recipe—it will remain a mystery. As has been the case everywhere we’ve gone since we arrived, we’re served cardamom coffee.

Before heading back, Dora, Malu, Tamam, and I go upstairs to the restroom. There, we find several dozen middle school-aged girls seated at tables, all wearing identical white veils and accompanied by their teachers.

Four of the liveliest girls come up to talk to us, with Tamam acting as our interpreter. They can hardly believe we’ve come from France and Spain and insist on taking a photo with us. This, of course, sets off the rest of the group, and suddenly, we’re surrounded by thirty or so overexcited girls, thrilled to see us there. They bombard us with questions, hold our hands, and all want to talk at once. There’s so much energy, curiosity, and joy that Dora and I are soon laughing so hard we’re crying.

It’s a magical, heartwarming moment, yet it leaves a bittersweet aftertaste. For the first time on this trip, I realize just how isolated Palestine has become—how few visitors come here anymore, how much the people yearn for connection, for exchange, for sharing.

We then head to the village of Qusra, where we are welcomed into the municipal council hall by local officials and farmers. The mood is heavy. The mayor briefs us on the situation.

The entire local economy relies on agriculture, but for over twenty years, six Israeli settlements have gradually encircled the village. There are only 600 settlers compared to 7,000 Palestinians, yet the settlements now control five times more land than what remains for the villagers. In this community, UAWC had initiated a legal land reclamation program, which involved securing legal recognition of Palestinian farmers’ property titles to prevent confiscation by settlers. In 2017, a farmer involved in this legal battle was murdered on his way to his parcel. The day after his killing, settlers terrorized his family and plowed his field. The farmer’s son is in the room with us. He tells us what happened next.

“This is how they do it. They plant a flag on our land, where our grandparents planted olive trees, and after that, we’re not allowed to come within 200 meters. What can we do? They’re armed.”

Aware of the dangers, the municipality had informed the DCO about the funeral arrangements. Despite this, settlers attacked the ceremony and killed two more people. The portraits of those who were killed hang on the walls of the room. The mayor speaks again: “We’re in Area B, but we barely have any land left. How are we supposed to survive?”

We get back on the minibus to see the situation on the ground. On the edge of the village, the mayor points to the right, at the top of the hill, where the settlement sits: “There were only 47 of them two years ago. Now there are 200.” Opposite, on the peak of another hill, an enormous Israeli flag flutters in the wind. “This is how they do it. They plant a flag on our land, where our grandparents planted olive trees, and after that, we’re not allowed to come within 200 meters. What can we do? They’re armed.” A fence marks the boundary set by the settlers. A Palestinian shepherd grazes his sheep nearby.

Fuad is visibly uneasy. He notices someone watching us from a lookout post on the edge of the settlement. We quickly get back on the bus.

Now we head west of the village, on the other side of the same settlement. We stop in front of a red barrier blocking access to the main road. This barrier has been closed since October 7, 2023, as part of a collective punishment measure. The newly paved road leads straight to the settlement, which is controlled by a checkpoint and a watchtower. Israeli cars speed by, skimming past Palestinian homes. Around the area, settlers have taken over the land and planted vineyards “for export to Europe,” the mayor explains.

He details the many difficulties this barrier creates, particularly for farmers, who can no longer pass with their tractors, but also for small businesses.

Suddenly, a military pickup truck speeds in. Two heavily armed soldiers step out, shouting, “The foreigners need to leave!” The mayor approaches them, trying to negotiate. We step back. Palestinian children gather around us. Aghsan translates what they’re saying: “Why are you leaving? Make them open the barrier!”

In this moment, there’s a clash between the desire for dignity and the need to avoid escalating the situation. The Palestinians don’t want to back down. After all, this is their village—they’re even standing on their side of the barrier.

Fuad tells us, “Wait, don’t move.” The tension rises. Thirty seconds pass. Fuad then instructs us to get back on the bus.

We leave, filled with shame at our helplessness.

On our way to a third stop in Qusra, we picked up two international volunteers, two young women. Now we’re in the southern part of the village, on slightly higher ground. In front of us, there are two more settlements. The first consists of just a few scattered mobile homes on the rocky slope of a hill. These 200 hectares are intended for future Israeli cattle farmers. For now, it’s almost empty, but still off-limits to Palestinians. Another settlement is established on the next hill.

Between the village of Qusra and that settlement, just a few hundred meters away, we can see chicken coops—six or seven buildings, each capable of holding between 5,000 and 10,000 chickens. These modern farms were a source of pride for the villagers. But after October 2023, the Israelis cut off the electricity and prohibited access to the buildings. The chickens were well-fattened, ready for sale. We asked if the settlers had stolen the chickens. A farmer responded, “No, they just left them to die, locked inside, without water or food.”

The house where the volunteers are staying is right behind us. The two young women are Italian. Two months ago, at the start of the olive harvest season, they endured a raid while about 15 Westerners were present in the village. Several had to be hospitalized. Despite this, the volunteers remain. The farmers confirm that their presence has significantly reduced the violence they suffer and that this international presence is likely the best defense against colonization. One of the volunteers explains, “It’s sad, but our lives as Europeans are valued more in the eyes of the world than the lives of Palestinian children. We are attacked sometimes, but it’s nothing compared to what Palestinians endure.” She adds, “Our weapon is our phone—photos and videos. It terrifies the settlers, the idea that we might show Europe what they’re doing.”

Around 4 PM, we left Qusra and hit the road again, deeply impressed by the courage of the farmers and the volunteers, by their resilience, but also filled with questions about what could drive people to settle in colonies surrounded by barbed wire. Fanny exclaimed, “It’s crazy.” Why? Why?

On the way back, the same landscape greeted us: red and yellow barriers, checkpoints, barbed wire, and watchtowers. Almost every hilltop bore an Israeli flag. Occupied West Bank. Occupation. Colonization. At the entrance to each settlement, dozens of Israeli flags fluttered. Along the road, there were Hebrew advertisements and a yellow poster with the face of a rabbi. Suddenly, we saw a large 4×3 billboard in Arabic, the first we had seen all day. I asked Tamam, “What does it say?” She explained, “It’s the Israelis who put up this sign; it’s aimed at us, to discourage us. It says: ‘No future in Palestine.’”

Today has been incredibly emotional. We’ve truly come to understand the impossible situation Palestinians in the West Bank are living in. We saw how quickly settlements are being established, stealing farmers’ land, taking over space, seizing power, and trampling on the rights of the residents. We saw how settlers impose a climate of fear and absolute domination. We felt fear in front of the soldiers, and we were left utterly powerless and devastated in the face of the farmers and children who accompanied us.

All day, I kept wondering over and over how people could choose to become settlers. How do they accept living a life filled with hate? How can they imagine raising their children in this hell, barricaded behind fences and barbed wire, hating the people around them, suspecting them of the worst, and being willing to kill them? How can propaganda, indoctrination, brainwashing succeed so completely in turning humans into monsters?

Back in Ramallah, we went to eat in the old city. It was lively, with cafés, restaurants, and shops in old stone buildings. You could almost believe the war doesn’t exist. At the restaurant, we were served a feast of small dishes: tahini, yogurt sauces, tomatoes, salads, grilled meats… we indulged! Carlos and Ollie had bought two bottles of wine nearby, and Morgan raised his glass to toast my birthday. I had received a few sweet messages from loved ones early in the morning but had completely forgotten that it was December 10.

I noticed that Aghsan and Tamam had slipped away, and a few minutes later, they returned with a chocolate cake and a big candle on top. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me in English and Arabic, and of course, I had tears in my eyes! What a precious gift to celebrate my 43rd birthday here, surrounded by extraordinary people, on this land of resistance.

This post is also available in Español and Français.