The bullhorn crackled, "You have one minute to leave, or we will
have no choice but to use force." The announcement was greeted with
several responses. Several people chuckled, "That's what you said
five minutes ago." Others tried ethical arguments, saying, "What do
you mean, you'll have no choice? You always have a choice." I
didn't say anything because I had heard something in the officer's
voice that frightened me. I was also watching the soldiers put on
their helmets. I knew they were serious this time. So one minute
later, when the shove came, I thought I would be ready. But when the
Israeli soldier lunged forward with all of his weight, when I felt
the blow to my chest, as I fell backwards onto the stones and dirt, I
realized that this was something for which I could never be prepared.
By the time I got my bearings again and looked up from the ground,
the entire scene had become a tableau of chaos and violence.

We had come here, to the neighborhood of Silwan in Jerusalem, to join
a non-violent demonstration. About one hundred activists from
Israel, Palestine, and around the world had come together to protest
the take-over of four Palestinian homes by Israeli settlers on June
8th. Most of the group sat themselves in the middle of a driveway
that led to the homes. We sat in protest of the settler presence in
these homes; and we sat to illustrate the non-violent nature of our
protest.

When the order was given to remove the demonstrators by force, I was
standing to the side taking pictures. I and the few other
demonstrators who were standing were shoved backwards as the soldiers
advanced. Those who were sitting were dragged one by one along the
ground towards the street. I was one of the first to be taken out,
through the gravel, feet first, with one soldier on each limb. They
didn't seem to care that they were hurting me. When we reached the
sidewalk, they released me and went back up the driveway to get
someone else. I followed.

As I was running back up the driveway to the place where the bulk of
the protesters had been sitting, and where the last of the
demonstrators were being kicked, beaten, and dragged, I saw one group
of about 5 or 6 soldiers standing over someone. It was Bob (not his
real name). I had met him only a few days earlier at a Palestinian
solidarity conference. He had been speaking to the police before
they came at us, and they must have picked him out as a leader. They
held him face down on the ground. One soldier crouched over his
back, pulling his arms behind him in a pain/compliance hold. Another
soldier kicked him in the ribs as he lay there helpless. While this
was happening Bob yelled over and over, "This is a non-violent
protest! This is a non-violent protest!" I tried to move in past
the soldiers standing above him, but was only pushed back again. I
focused my camera to record what was happening. Because of tunnel
vision through the viewfinder, I didn't see the soldier approach
from the side. He lunged forward, forcing the butt of his hand into
the front of the camera, which in turn knocked me in the forehead. I
couldn't believe the pain. Again I found myself on the ground being
dragged towards the sidewalk. Luckily the camera was still intact.

After being dumped at the curb a second time, I went back again. By
this time, Bob was on his back and they had handcuffed one of his
wrists. At least one of the soldiers was still kicking him with
impunity. I managed to get to him and laid myself over him as a
barrier to the beating. Almost immediately, I felt a forearm around
my neck, pulling me backwards. On the ground again, I scrambled to
get back to Bob. As before, I was only able to be there for a few
seconds before being pulled away by my camera strap.

Now they had both handcuffs on Bob and were carrying him out. He had
one soldier on each leg, and one police officer was holding him by
the chain of the handcuffs. He appeared to be in intense pain as his
weight caused the cuffs to dig into his wrists. He was yelling at
the soldiers, "Please let me walk! I'll walk if you put me down!"
I tried to hold him up to relieve some of the pull on his wrists, but
the soldiers shoved me away once again. I had to content myself with
pleading in the police officer's ear, "Please let him walk. You're
hurting him. He doesn't mean you any harm. He's in pain. Why are
you hurting him? Please stop."

Finally, when we reached the sidewalk, another soldier intervened and
allowed Bob to stand. He assured me that no more harm would come to
him. From the look on the soldier's face and the tone in his voice,
I knew he was sincere; Bob was being arrested, but the worst was
over.

Now most demonstrators had been removed, and the last few were
dragged and carried out with little trouble. I stayed close, taking
pictures and watching to see if anyone else was being beaten. When
everyone was out on the street, I slump