Hatred tastes like tear gas. I got my first spoonful on Friday at the demonstration in Bil’in. It has taken me some time to formulate my thoughts. This is a neighborhood. A village where land has been confiscated for the building of a wall to link Jewish settlements.

The struggle in Palestine has become a children’s uprising. Boys, some as young as five, most not older than fourteen or fifteen, chant at the top of their lungs. They brave the march down to the wall and shout at armed soldiers on the other side. A weekly tear gas shower, and often live rounds, is commonplace for the people in Bil’in and many other villages that have chosen to demonstrate against the confiscation of their land. The tear gas used here is especially strong and toxic and heavily carcinogenic if you experience it once a week like the people of Bil'in. For me, my first encounter with tear gas and the suppression of unarmed protesters resulted in fury and anguish. For them, their anguish is no longer empowering, it is a nuisance and they just want their land back. I saw six year old boys running from the tear gas volleys, their eyes red from the burn, older protesters with scarves wrapped around their faces, carrying onions and lemons to break up the gas. Every few seconds after the smoke clears, clusters of people were visible taking shelter under trees and resting for a few minutes before they march right back to the wall only to be dispersed again by another volley.

And it is the Palestinians, not unseasoned internationals like me, that stay in the front lines, no longer afraid of the volleys. Boys throw rocks at the tanks on the other side. When the first canister ripped through the air, my surprise turned into cowardice and I ran as far away as I could. I do not know how to describe the feeling. THIS IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE RESPONSE TO UNARMED DEMONSTRATORS. The smoke goes into your lungs and it feels like you can’t breathe but you have to, and the toxic fumes go into your chest and lungs, your face burns and your eyes water. You start salivating and spitting, and many people were vomiting. The sensation that you cannot breathe, combined with the sensation that you are burning, at the same time being engulfed by white smoke and unable to see anything, truly feels like death. I am not exaggerating. In my rush to get away, I had to actively convince myself that these sensations were going to pass. An international was screaming next to me, “I can’t breathe, oh god, help me, help me”. Hearing this kind of panic amplifies the terror you feel from the gas. Slobber hangs from people’s mouths as they recover, keeled over, bracing a tree. It is as dehumanizing as it is physically painful.

Every week. Imagine your neighborhood braving tear gas, skunk bombs, rubber and live bullets every week. Afterward, walking back, I felt an overwhelming sense of camaraderie with the protesters. I hugged the Head of the Popular Committee. However worn out everyone was, it was a happy feeling to have defied this machine for an hour or so. In a funny way, adversity can bring us closer together. We need to hold on to that because that is the only weapon that is stronger than heavily organized machine warfare.