11 OCTOBER—My first impression of Israel, as I sat in a taxi and looked out the window on an early evening in April of this year, was shock. Much of the land I rode through on the way from Ben Gurion Airport to Jerusalem was, in a word: ugly. It was barren and dry with little to distinguish it except for high-rise buildings in the near distance. Urban sprawl appeared out of control as new construction gobbled up the fragile terrain. It wasn’t until the taxi ascended into the Judaean Mountains north and west of Jerusalem that the landscape was transformed into a rugged kind of beauty. Even at this, the startling number of Israeli flags hanging from light poles that line the freeways and overpasses on the drive to Jerusalem did nothing to improve the view. I didn’t fully comprehend this obsessive display of the national flag until, some days later, it was explained to me by a child in Hebron. “The flag is all they have,” ten-year old Sofia told me. “And guns.” I would come to understand the Israeli flag—to say nothing of the guns, or all the other weaponry—as a symbol of an insecure people. The blue Star of David on its white field is everywhere surrounding Old Jerusalem. Israelis fly their flag from cars and apartment balconies, shopping centers, intersections… anywhere and everywhere there is a place to hang it. It is, to put it quite bluntly, the attempt of a frightened people to proclaim their dominance—just as they are now doing with their bombing raids in Gaza, Lebanon, Syria, and the West Bank. One wishes they would be content with the flag. But it is impossible that Israel should be content merely to fly its national flag given all that it stands for: conquest, ethnic cleansing, and now genocide. The very presence of the Israeli flag implies the imperative of violence for a nation that has nothing more. This compulsion to fly flags, to mark and claim territory, reminded me of American astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin planting the Stars and Stripes on the moon in the summer of 1969. On one hand it is meaningless, pure hubris. But on the other hand: the Israeli flag—like the American flag—is a deadly serious symbol. It functions like a chess-piece in the opening gambit in a life-and-death struggle over the land of Palestine. The sudden appearance of an Israeli flag on a hilltop in the West Bank indicates that another land grab is in process. It begins when the Israeli occupation force seizes an area of land and establishes an outpost. Next, a flag appears along with a military observation tower. Very soon a new illegal settlement springs up around both. And from that settlement atop a hill violence rains down upon the Palestinians living nearby. It is almost as if the Israeli flag itself is the very wellspring of all the racist brutality that flows from the apartheid Jewish state. I am writing here about land. The flag being merely a symbol of Israel’s settler-colonial project. The Israeli pursuit of total conquest turns the land into a battle ground where violence is directed against the Palestinian people and against the land itself. ■ When I was in the West Bank city of al-Bireh, I met a man named Abu Hamed, not his real name. Abu Hamed was active in local politics during the 1970s. He worked with others in his community and throughout the West Bank to build economic independence and organize resistance to Israel’s illegal military occupation. He was successful enough that the Israelis arrested him. They drove Abu Hamed into the desert and left him there along with six other people. Together the seven men crossed into Jordan on foot. Abu Hamed spent the next 20 years in exile, first in Jordan and then in Lebanon, where he worked with the PLO. His sons grew up without their father. For many generations, Abu Hamed’s prosperous family has owned large tracts of land and olive groves in the West Bank. Much of it has been stolen and is now occupied by settlers. Fifteen years ago he planted new olive trees in one of his remaining groves. This year, during the Muslim holy days of Eid al-Adha, 16 to 18 June, settlers burned his young olive trees. One of Abu Hamed’s sons, a journalist whose name I cannot share, made a video of his father standing in the burned grove. This is what Abu Hamed said: “Olives trees are holy creatures for us. Nobody burns them. Even if they are cold they won’t cut a tree to heat themselves or their homes.” His son asked, “Why do you think they burned the land? Why do you think they burn the farmland and the olive trees across the West Bank?” Abu Hamed replied, “They don’t want to see either our trees or us, we as a people. They don’t want to see our people in their land.” And then Abu Hamed, who was 92 years old when the video was made said, “I need fifteen years more to start these trees again.” Two days after my visit with Abu Hamed, I drove with my guide and translator to speak with shepherds and farmers from the village of al–Mughayyir. We met on the road outside of the village and spent an hour together on a hillside in the shade of an olive tree drinking coffee made over a small fire. I listened to their stories and took notes. Kathem, one of the olive growers, was the spokesperson and our village guide that day. “We used to graze our herds on open land near the settlement,” he told me. “Since 7 October settlers have been taking our land. They put tents on the land and steal our herds. Because they don’t let us graze on our land we have to buy fodder to feed the animals and their health isn’t good. Our animals are suffering.” Kathem continued:
The other men listened quietly and smoked cigarettes while Kathem spoke. A young shepherd boy with an engaging smile, the son of one of the men, joined us. My interpreter translated and I scribbled notes. Someone added fuel to the small fire and refilled my cup of coffee. “My cousin, they took his sheep and goats,” Kathem said as he pointed to a man wearing a green sweatshirt. “He had 120 animals. It was his entire herd.” Another man handed me his phone. On it were photographs of sheep and goats lying dead in a field. They had clearly been shot. Settlers routinely steal herds and shoot any animals that try to escape or run away. They also kill sheep dogs. “For the olives,” Kathem continued, “none of the land near the village was harvested this year. Olive oil is a main source of income for us. The village lost a lot of money.” When I asked why the olives hadn’t been harvested he explained, “Since October, they won’t let us near our land. They shoot at us if we get close.” Kathem had recently been given a grant from a farming cooperative to plant new olive trees. “I planted 100 little trees and they are all destroyed.” Settlers brought their sheep to Kathem’s olive grove to eat the young trees. They all died. “I have another piece of land with grapes,” he said. “But I can’t get to it because the soldiers will shoot.” I heard the same story from Bedouin shepherds in the village of Umm al–Khier, in the South Hebron Hills. One can hear this story all over the West Bank. ■ There is often little apparent distinction between soldiers and settlers who have been given uniforms and military-grade weapons. Indeed, settlers often raid al–Mughayyir wearing military uniforms. Villagers quickly learned to distinguish between the two: “All we have to do is look at their shoes,” Kathem said. “The army doesn’t issue military boots with the uniforms.” Settlers appear to enjoy playing at being soldiers. In another common bullying tactic, settlers dress as soldiers and order shepherds off of their land. But just as commonly settlers remain dressed in civilian clothing as they bully shepherds. When these illegal incidents are later reported, the same settlers don military uniforms and, in a sadistic cat-and-mouse game, mockingly “investigate” their own crimes. The villagers, who recognize their victimizers, are powerless to do anything and have no legal recourse. As one of the shepherds said, sharing a thought I had not considered, “They want people to hate themselves. That’s why they harass and humiliate people.” But the same man, who clearly did not hate himself, also told me, “I like being a shepherd. My father and grandfather were shepherds. It’s inherited.” ■ After finishing our coffee we returned to the car and drove some five kilometers into the village. Kathem accompanied us, pointing out blackened areas along the road where settlers had set cars on fire six weeks earlier. For two days in April, 12-13, settlers rampaged through al–Mughayyir and numerous other villages, throwing rocks and shooting people. Such raids are frequent. During the April raid one villager was killed, at least twenty-five were injured. Cars and houses were set on fire and sheep were stolen. The Israeli occupation forces stood by and watched. Soldiers fired tear gas and rubber bullets to disperse villagers who had gathered to defend themselves. Much of the damage was still clearly visible on the day I visited the community. Al–Mughayyir stands on the shoulder of a hill overlooking a fertile valley to the north and east. Kathem took us to a house on the edge of the village where, standing on a second floor terrace, we could look out over the farmland below. Spread across the valley were wheat fields, olive groves, grape vineyards, peach and almond trees, greenhouses, vegetable fields. Two illegal settlements were visible in the near distance: Adei Ad to the north and Mal’achei Hashalom, to the east. Any villagers approaching the farmland risked being shot at by soldiers or settlers. Since 2022, the Israeli military had prevented villagers from using the main road that cuts through the valley, thus preventing them from accessing their fields, groves, and grazing land on the far side. Since 7 October and the April raids, the villagers have lost access to the fields on the near side of the road—virtually all of their agricultural lands. The ethnic cleansing of the smaller Bedouin and Muslim communities surrounding al–Mughayyir has been under way since at least 2019. Settler violence has forced numerous communities to abandon their lands and homes. As reported by +972 Magazine—an independent journal run by Palestinian and Israeli journalists doing some of the best commentary and reporting from the region—“settlers weaponize shepherding as a means to take over Palestinians’ land and force them out.” Kathem pointed to the east and said:
As we stood on the terrace looking across the valley, the matron of the house carried coffee out to us on a tray. It was thick and dark and served in what must have been her best ceramic demitasse cups. “Last week they shot at our house,” she told me. “The kids were inside. I was sitting out here on the terrace when they started shooting. They broke one of our windows.” We sipped coffee and looked out over the land. “I have a wheat field there,” she gestured. “I have goats. Now I have to keep them penned and buy food for them. They are losing weight and getting sick. We have to sell sheep and goats to feed the other animals.” She later showed us her sheep which were languishing in stalls below the house. These were small dark pens where normally the animals would have spent only the coldest weeks of winter. Kathem looked at me. “They are made to destroy,” he said, the anger visible on his face. “They are a destruction machine. They kill, they steal, they take everything. Everyone in the world wants peace and stability,” Kathem said. “They don’t. They want to kill and steal.” He pointed to the top of a nearby hill where I could see an Israeli flag and military outpost. Beyond it was another small settlement. Few Palestinians I met would name the occupier. Rarely would a Palestinian utter the words “Israel” or “Israeli,” as if to do so might invoke their presence or intensify their brutality. It seems best to leave the evil unnamed. “They” has all the force of a four-letter word in the West Bank. But perhaps, now I think about it, this refusal to name the occupier was how Palestinians denied Israel’s legitimacy. Ugly. It was my first and lingering impression of Israel. As Abu Hamed might say: “Olive trees are not sacred to them.” Nor indeed it seemed, as I listened to the shepherds of al–Mughayyir, is anything else. |