Singel

Author: Rami Mahdawi

Some villages you enter through a road, and some villages you enter through pain. And Singel, these days, does not welcome you with its people first, but with iron gates and barbed wire, as if the occupation decided to write the town's name in the language of siege before people read it on maps.
Our journey to Singel was not an ordinary one. I was with my friend Suhaib Jarrar, heading to bring our third friend, the town's son Yahya Habayeb, who cannot leave in his car, as is the case for more than ten thousand residents of Singel, within a village that has turned into a large prison.

The town is no longer merely besieged by settlements; rather, the occupation surrounded it with barbed wire, sealed its entrances with iron gates, earth mounds, and concrete blocks, making it a long and arduous journey to enter or exit, as if the punishment is no longer aimed at an individual or a group, but at an entire village that chose to remain.

As you enter Singel, you feel that the place is unlike the Palestinian villages we have known. There is a heaviness in the air, something says that this town lives in a state of daily siege. The roads are cut off, and farmers look at their lands from behind obstacles, while residents speak of the closure as if it has become part of their daily life details.

Yahya took us to the town of Jifna; we wanted a few hours away from this suffocating reality. We sat, talked, laughed, and tried to reclaim something of the normal life that the occupation seeks to confiscate. But a person does not leave the siege merely by leaving the place; the siege remains in the heart, in the anxiety for family, and in the constant question: what happens after returning?

At night, we returned Yahya to Singel, and within minutes the news began to arrive. Settlers attacked the outskirts of the town and set fire to the crops, while the youth of Singel moved from all directions to support their families and protect their homes and land. In moments of danger, the true image of this town emerged: young men leaving their homes not in search of confrontation, but in defense of an olive tree, a house, and a simple right called living in safety on one's own land.

This is not just the story of Singel. It is a microcosm of what is happening in many Palestinian villages and towns. In Al-Tira, settlers placed concrete blocks to close the roads in front of residents, in a scene that reveals how settlers have become partners in shaping the details of Palestinian daily life. In Al-Mughayer, Turmus'ayya, Qaryut, Kafr Malik, Burqa, and Masafer Yatta, and the Jordan Valley, the same story repeats: land is besieged, roads are closed, and residents are pushed towards despair in an attempt to turn emigration into an imposed choice.

What is happening is not the chaos of unruly settlers, but part of a policy aimed at changing the reality on the ground. When the road is closed, the village is besieged, crops are burned, and farmers are prevented from accessing their lands, the goal is not just to harm the moment, but to strike the relationship between people and their place and memory.

Singel knows this well. It is not a passing village on the map of Ramallah, but a town with a deep history, bearing the traces of civilizations in its land, and in the consciousness of its people, the story of Palestinian steadfastness. Therefore, its battle today is not just for the road or the field, but for the very meaning of existence.

We left Singel, but the image of the wires and gates remained present. The face of Yahya was still vivid as he returned to his besieged town, and the scene of its youth heading out to protect their land from the fire remained with us.

The occupation may be able to close a gate, place a concrete block, or cut off a road, but it cannot close the memory of a people who are more connected to their land than to the road leading to it. Today, Singel is not just a besieged town; it is a living testament to Palestine, which is besieged from the outside but grows stronger from within.