Uprooting the Olive Tree Read online

  “It’s great to see a forest here, evergreen trees with olive trees on the lower slope,” Najid said. “What kind are the evergreens?”

  “I think the English word is cypress.”

  “And your school?” Ashley asked. “What will happen to it?”

  “The school will remain on the Palestinian side, but for some of the children who walk short distances now, they will have to be driven around the wall and through checkpoints to get to school.”

  “But the forest we see ahead will become part of Israel?”

  “Yes, it will be behind the new wall and forever lost to us.”

  “But isn’t this in Area A, which is supposed to be under Palestinian jurisdiction?”

  “That doesn’t seem to matter, Ashley. They do whatever they want because they have the power to do it. We have no say in the matter.”

  “But can’t you appeal to the Israeli courts?”

  “We have and we are waiting for the decree of the Supreme Court. We have asked that the wall be put in the valley so we will still have our forest and the Cremisan facilities.”

  Stopping at the opened gate to the winery, Rashid got out, pointing ahead to the road leading to the former Walega village.

  “If you drive on you’ll see they have destroyed the village except for one lone Palestinian family who have resisted every effort to get them out. It’s another story of samud, the determination to stay in our homes. But you will also hear and see the Israelis building a new road exclusively for themselves, and the wall that goes with it. Thank you for the ride.”

  ***

  It was on that narrow road to Walega along the side of the hill they encountered the Israeli soldiers with their flying checkpoint partially blocking it. After waiting for the inspection of their documents the senior of the three soldiers ordered Najid out of the car. Still seated Najid asked for their papers back. One young man opened the car door, grabbed Najid, and threw him to the ground, striking him on the sternum with his rifle butt. Ashley leaped out to comfort Najid, kneeled over him, and screamed at the soldiers to leave. They tossed the documents into the front seat and retreated to their Jeep.

  Ashley checked Najid’s pulse and breathing. He seemed to be stable. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it just hurts to breathe. I’m sore in my chest, but I’ll be all right.”

  “Why don’t we get in the car. I’ll drive and we’ll go back.”

  “No, Ashley. I want to make the point that they are wrong and illegal. They are not going to stop us on land they have no right to claim. So you drive straight ahead. We’re going to visit Walega. I think you scared them off. They don’t know what to do with an angry American woman.” He snickered. “Ouch. It hurts to laugh!”

  Ashley took a deep breath, shaking her head. She knew he was determined to show them the non-violent resistance Palestinians championed. She helped Najid into the passenger seat and without looking back at their tormentors, started the car and drove on. Ashley checked her side mirror. The soldiers stood watching next to their vehicle. One brought up his automatic rifle but didn’t shoot. She accelerated and soon rounded a curve out of sight.

  Ashley drove for several minutes until seeing a single house up ahead, looking forlorn with open hillside overlooking the valley, Gilo settlement atop the opposite hill, and a narrow driveway. They stopped and with Najid moving slowly walked toward a middle-aged man who welcomed them.

  After appropriate introductions in Arabic, and over tea, Najid asked to hear Yassen’s story of Walega, translating for Ashley.

  “Israelis destroyed most of our village in 1948 with the Nakba, and then the rest of our neighbors’ houses after the occupation began in 1967. Many are still in refugee camps. My grandfather had papers that documented our ownership of this house and land. So my parents and my family have legal rights to stay here, and the courts have confirmed that. But the IDF has tried everything to get us out—offers of money, land elsewhere, then threats including mistreating our children walking to school at the monastery. They dug holes above us to collect rain so we get flooded when the water spills over.

  “What about the new roads and the wall?” Ashley wondered.

  “They’ve had to build a tunnel to get us out to their new road since the one you came on will be closed. And the wall? It will encircle our house so we will be enclosed on three sides, won’t have any view over the valley, just our driveway and the access tunnel. They’ve already taken all of our land except the house.”

  “So you are the only resident left in Walega? And you are planning to stay surrounded by the wall?” she asked.

  Yassen finally smiled. “Yes. They’ll be behind that wall, and we’ll be free. A famous friend of mine said it for us. ‘The land is our mother. Our mother is not for sale.’ And I would add, ‘Neither will we leave her … ever!’”

  CHAPTER 8

  Fatima walked out to the Hebron Road just as Ashley parked the car at the front gate of the Bethlehem Bible College. She had driven by the Walega checkpoint fast on their return without acknowledging the military guys sitting in the Jeep. But Ashley blanched wide-eyed as she saw Israeli soldiers standing at the base of that ominous guard tower looming above the twenty-six-foot wall, just up the street beyond the Intercontinental Hotel. She and Najid greeted Fatima as she climbed in the back seat wearing her hijab. What a contrast, Ashley thought, a beautiful, young, Palestinian-Muslim lady who chose to follow Jesus and yet keep her Islamic culture in honor of her family. Then looking back at the soldiers, she wondered what they were thinking as they stood there with their rifles. Did they want to be there?

  Ashley quickly told Fatima of their recent adventure.

  Fatima frowned, shaking her head. “I hope you’ll be okay, Najid.”

  “I’ll recover, thanks. We didn’t let them stop us. That’s the main thing.”

  As they drove off Ashley turned to Fatima. “Do you ever talk to the soldiers at the wall?”

  “No. Only at checkpoints. They seem to not want to talk to us. Also their officers tell them not to make friends with Palestinians. So they keep to themselves—unless they are coming to arrest us.”

  “Do they do that often?”

  “Oh yes. Right now the tension is high because of some recent trouble.”

  “What has been happening?”

  “Two days ago soldiers shot and killed three young men in a refugee camp in Jenin. Some young men from Aida camp just behind the hotel protested, and even students from Bethlehem University joined them. The soldiers here shelled them with tear gas and rubber- coated bullets. Fortunately, no one died, although they wounded several. So our boys sometimes counter with stones. It happened in the street just north of us.”

  “So that is why the soldiers are standing there today?”

  “Yes. They want to show who is in charge. They are continuing to fire tear gas into Aida Camp. One of my friends there who was pregnant lost her baby at five months. Just yesterday.”

  “From the tear gas?”

  “They think so.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Ashley said. “Their first child?”

  “Yes. They were so happy. It was a little girl.”

  “We’re so sorry for them. These personal tragedies never make the news, so we in America don’t know. It seems so unnecessary, that such things go on in the effort of one country to take over another.”

  “What about curfews, Fatima. Are they still being used?” Najid asked. “I remember my friends in the West Bank being frightened by them.”

  “Yes, we are frightened by them too,” Fatima said. “They use them at night when they are rounding up people to take to prison. They usually have in mind some young person to arrest and in the process surround the whole neighborhood with Jeeps and soldiers so no one can get in or out.”

  Pulling up to Fatima’s modest house, Ashley remembered the warm welcome she’d had two years ago. A small boy came running out to greet them, first hugging Fatima and then Ashley. He sp
oke rapidly in Arabic with a big grin, and then in English, “Welcome, Ashley!”

  Then turning to Najid, Fatima spoke in Arabic, “And, Ali, this is Najid, Ashley’s husband.”

  Ali extended his hand to Najid. “I’ll bet you are a football player, Ali. You look like one,” Najid continued in Arabic. “I used to play it a lot. How old are you?”

  “Ten.” Ali stood as tall as he could. “So you want to play?”

  “Maybe later, Ali. We want to meet your parents.” Hand in hand with Ali, Najid followed Fatima and Ashley into the modest house.

  “Welcome to our home,” Fatima’s father, Saleh, beamed. Ashley remembered his story of the second intifada of 2002 and how he had been hiding in the Church of the Nativity for over a month while the soldiers rampaged through Bethlehem.

  She quickly turned to Fatima’s mother, Jamilah, her glowing face surrounded by a flowered hijab, and gave her a hug. Fatima translated for them while Ashley brought Najid forward to introduce him.

  “Asalam alekum,” Jamilah continued in Arabic. “You have a wonderful wife.” Ali clung to Najid’s hand. “Ali, it looks like you have a new friend.”

  He gazed up at Najid. “I’m going to take him to play football with us.”

  “Ali, let’s first get some tea for our guests,” Saleh said. “And, Najid, please both of you sit down.” That began an animated conversation with Fatima and Jamilah inquiring about Ashley and the wedding. They wanted to know how she happened to marry a Palestinian Christian from the Nazareth area since all this had occurred since Ashley’s previous visit.

  Ali sat close to Najid after serving tea to everyone. He offered cookies to their guests, and then put the plate down nearby on the small table and ate most of the remaining ones during the conversation.

  “Ali paints quite well,” Fatima said. She nodded to him. “Wouldn’t you like to show a couple of pictures to Ashley and Najid?”

  Ali ran into the back of the house and came out with two paintings on stiff paper, one of a camel in front of a Bedouin tent, and another of an Israeli soldier with his rifle pointed at a small boy. The subjects seemed obvious to Ashley, but she asked for Ali’s interpretation of his work. His artistic skill seemed unusual for a ten year old. She said so, and Ali beamed.

  “We went to a Bedouin village last year with our class and got to ride on a camel. They are different from most Arab people like us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I think you know about the soldier. We are afraid of them and try to stay away when they come. A friend of mine was grabbed by one, but he got away.”

  “Your work is excellent,” Najid said. “You must spend a lot of time learning to paint at school.”

  “We have an art class I like.”

  “He’s a good student,” his father said. “He’s learned much this year. But he has been drawing pictures since he was four.”

  “I want to take Najid to see my friends.”

  “All right, Ali, but you must come back in by six o’clock since it will be getting dark, and we’ll be having dinner a bit later,” Jamilah said. “We don’t want you out on the street then. There are soldiers around.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Najid quickly found himself playing soccer with Ali in a dirt street with ample parking room on either side, about five minutes away from his home. Multi-story apartment buildings surrounded them. Ali had all the moves of a kid who’d played football for several years, reminding Najid of his own childhood growing up. They worked well together against the team of three friends of Ali. Najid could get around his opponent with a couple of jukes and would pass to Ali who scored frequently.

  Ali fell trying to get the ball when on defense. “I’m fine,” he shouted to Najid as he bounced up on his feet again. Najid found himself breathless trying to stay with the kids who seemed to be able to run continuously without stopping. His chest still sore, Najid finally excused himself.

  “I’ll go back home, but you have fun, and we’ll see you at six.” He looked back at the boys as they gathered to re-arrange teams.

  Ali waved goodbye with a shout. “You’re a good player. You can play on my team anytime.”

  Najid laughed and waved back. “You guys play so well you don’t need me.” He walked back to Ali’s family and Ashley, smiling, thinking of this kid who reminded him so much of himself a few years back.

  ***

  “Where is Ali?” Ashley inquired.

  “He’s playing football with his friends just a five-minute walk from here. He knows to come back by six.”

  “He’s good about returning,” Saleh added. “The boys play a lot on the street over there where his friends live. Ali loves to play, and it’s good for him to exercise after sitting all day in school. They need to run since they have no playground space.”

  Suddenly he heard a man speaking Arabic over loud speakers from the street in front of the house. “This area is now under curfew. You will stay in your houses until it is lifted. Anyone coming out will be subject to detention. There will be no access to your homes from outside the area until the curfew is lifted.”

  A few moments later the message was repeated, this time obviously from farther down the street.

  Najid quickly translated for Ashley, while the family stood wide-eyed and speechless, looking at each other. Fatima’s mother cried out, “Ali! He can’t get back home! They’re on the other side of the soldiers!” She shook with hands in the air, crying.

  Saleh took Jamilah in his arms and held her, weeping on his shoulder. “He’ll just stay with his friends until the curfew is over. That’s what we’ve told him to do. He should be safe since they’re playing on the other side of the curfew line.”

  “But we can’t call them. I don’t know the parents’ cell phone numbers.”

  “Would it be okay for me to go look for him,” Ashley asked. “Surely they wouldn’t arrest an American woman.”

  Fatima didn’t wait for Najid’s translation. “Don’t even think of it, Ashley. They shoot first and then ask questions.”

  When Saleh realized what Ashley offered, he shook his head. “That would be terrible for you. These are young men who are probably looking for a person from our neighborhood to arrest. They sometimes shoot anyone wandering around as suspicious and a potential enemy. It has happened several times. I know from my own experience.”

  They all stood, stunned, not speaking. Saleh finally continued, “There is nothing we can do but wait and pray. Let’s keep the lights off as it gets dark. Sometimes a young soldier goes wild and sprays bullets from his automatic rifle randomly at houses. Some of my friends have had narrow escapes in their own homes.”

  Fatima spontaneously held out her hands, palms up, and gazed upward. “Oh God, the compassionate, the merciful, hear our prayer. You are King and to you we cry for help. Guide Ali on the right path, and bring him safely home. Please, God, we pray in the strong name of Issa.”

  The family with Ashley and Najid postponed the dinner Jamila had prepared to celebrate Ashley and Najid’s marriage. Dusk outside quickly turned to darkness inside and out. They sat in silence, waiting, wondering. Ashley prayed silently for Ali and noticed Najid did as well, his lips moving slightly. The clock on the wall ticked off the minutes as time seemed to almost stand still.

  CHAPTER 10

  When Ali and his friends had heard the curfew announced they soon saw Jeeps full of soldiers with their rifles pointed upwards, driving right down the street. He stared nervously, and then with the boys fled quickly back into an alley between several houses, hiding from the soldiers. Ali followed one of the boys into a gravel parking spot and began to gather small stones. Ali’s hands shook. He’d never been so close to soldiers setting a curfew line. They were taught at school and home to hide. But the idea of an army coming into his neighborhood and threatening all of its residents made him grit his teeth.

  “How can they do this to us? What have we done to them?” Ali asked.

  “Nothing. We’ve done nothing to deserve this,�
� his friend Ibrahim replied. “We have no guns to fight back with, but we can show them how we feel with these stones. We can tell them they don’t belong here and to go home! Get out of Bethlehem! You have no business to be here and arrest our friends. Let’s wait until it’s dark and then speak to them with these stones.”

  So the boys crept into a small shed awaiting darkness. It had some old tools and smelled of oil. Ali’s heart raced as he felt wet with sweat. He had never thrown a stone at a soldier and wondered whether doing so would still be a form of non-violent resistance. What is a small stone compared to an automatic rifle? he thought. It would be just a way to tell the soldiers to leave. It probably would never hurt them with their helmets and flak jackets.

  He had seen older boys throwing stones at the wall and at soldiers at the tower on the Hebron Road. But would he actually do it? What would his parents think? His father hid from the soldiers in the church long ago and even escaped their shooting into it without ever throwing a stone. What should he do? He would be brave and not dash inside his friend’s house. But he would be prepared to run and try to get back home once it got dark.

  ***

  Ashley and Najid sat as darkness fell, trying to understand from Fatima what was going on. “Has this happened before?” Ashley wondered out loud.

  “Not right in front of our house,” Fatima explained. “We have heard of curfews many times in other places. The closest trouble we have had here came with the demolition of our neighbor’s house three years ago. I think you saw the rubble of the building last time. It’s still there. Our neighbors went to a refugee camp near Ramallah. He works for the Palestinian Authority now.”

  “Does Ali understand what the soldiers are saying about not coming out of your houses?”