- MASHA, West Bank (AFP) --
Leaning on his old walking stick, Hani Aner sits on the one narrow strip
of porch the bulldozers didn't tear off and watches incredulously as workers
finish putting up fences all around his house.
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- As Israel completes the construction of its separation
barrier in the West Bank, the 46-year-old farmer's land on the edge of
this village has shrunk to a tiny parcel around his small home, which is
about to be completely surrounded by barbed wire.
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- The Palestinian father of six gives a tour of his shrivelled
estate.
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- "Let me show you the limits of my prison: a metre
from my bedroom window is the fence protecting the Elqana settlement, opposite
my living room an eight-metre-high concrete wall and an army gate on either
side."
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- Masha lies five kilometres east of the Green Line that
separated the West Bank from Israel after the 1967 Middle East war.
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- A month ago, the fortified barrier that had loosely followed
the Green Line along the northern section of the West Bank began to plough
its way south towards Masha, cutting deep into Palestinian territory and
ripping through the acre (one-third hectare) of land on which Aner had
his flower nurseries.
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- When this section is completed, Aner's house will be
the only one in Masha left on the Israeli side, caught in an intricate
network of walls, fences and gates.
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- "My front terrace is now a military patrol road.
I already have humvees and jeeps whizzing past my house less than five
metres away," he says.
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- Israel says the barrier is necessary to prevent infiltrations
from West Bank militants.
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- In contrast, the Palestinians charge that the true aim
is to pre-determine the borders of their future state and drive out residents
from fertile areas by slicing up villages and creating unsustainable living
conditions.
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- Out of the hundreds of human disasters that punctuate
the meandering of the barrier, Aner's situation reaches a peak in absurdity.
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- "In a week's time, my house will be in a closed
military zone and I will need a special authorisation from the army to
cross the gate and step out on the street and another authorisation to
go back," he says with sardonic smirk.
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- "I am a strong man, and I believe that sooner or
later my oppressors will be punished, but I am worried for the mental health
of my children. What kind of adults will they become, growing up in this
monstrosity?"
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- Further north, a 15-minute drive up the fence's freshly-tarmacked
patrol road, a group of schoolchildren from the small West Bank village
of Jubara are trudging across the barrier under army supervision, carrying
thir books and bags of shopping.
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- Jubara is a hamlet of 300 inhabitants, two shops and
a mosque. For several months now, the the Israeli barrier has separated
the village's 88 children from their school in nearby Arras.
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- "Today we only waited 20 minutes for the soldiers
to open the gate, but two days ago we waited for two hours, and last week
there was a day when we couldn't cross at all," says nine-year-old
Mohammed Faruq.
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- "Every morning, I take him to the checkpoint as
early as 6:30 to make sure he is not late to school," says his father,
Awad.
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- "Then I pick him up to check everything is going
smoothly with the soldiers and help him with the bags. Adults are not given
permits by the army, so the whole of Jubara relies on the schoolchildren
to bring supplies from Arras," he explains.
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- The roadblock leading to the major Palestinian city of
Tulkarem has erratic opening hours at best and Jubara is dying a slow death
in a one-kilometre-wide enclave.
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- On November 9, anniversary of the day the Berlin Wall
fell in 1989, families and communities that have been separated by Israel's
barrier, will kick off a week of activities and protests to be echoed by
events organised in scores of capitals worldwide.
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- ©2003. All rights strictly reserved.
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- http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?click_id=123&art_id=iol1068536817490A353&set_id=1
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