Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  “Let’s continue this conversation in the morning,” Almas insisted. “You’re probably tired. We’ll show all of you to your rooms, including our bunk rooms outside for the young people.”

  CHAPTER 17

  After breakfast and tea around the kitchen table, they decided to visit the farm. The two older couples traveled in Faisal’s old Subaru and Najid drove Ashley with Sami and Fatima in back of their small rental car. The sky was blazing blue as they weaved along the rolling brown hills and scattered trees.

  Ashley turned around to see Sami gazing at Fatima, who sat quietly in her gray hijab looking out the window. She remembered his anger at being humiliated at the checkpoint they would soon encounter and his exuberance in all the adventures he had around his eye injury and his improbable friendship with Ariel, the soldier who had shot him.

  Sami met Ashley’s eyes. “Hey, you two look awfully serious.” Sami paused. “Did something happen besides Faisal’s bad news?”

  “Yes, Sami, we are still in shock along with Fatima. Soldiers took her little brother, Ali, out of his bed two nights ago, accusing him of throwing stones at them during a curfew.”

  “Oh.” Sami turned back to Fatima. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Sami shook his head slowly. “Another boy taken to jail. Do you have any idea where he is?” He spoke in Arabic.

  “No.” Fatima took a deep breath and sighed.

  “Would you tell me what happened?”

  Fatima remained silent, nodding slowly, staring blankly ahead. Finally she spoke. “Thank you for your concern. Yes, I’ll tell you. My world has turned dark since they arrested Ali. He is so young!” Fatima stopped, wiping away a tear. She swallowed several times, and then continued, telling the whole story about Ali and all that happened.

  Ashley wanted to hug Fatima as she finished. Sami sat in silence.

  Fatima continued, “It helps to tell you since I understand you have had trouble with the soldiers too.” She turned to Sami. “Ashley told me that sharing with others doubles our joy and cuts our sorrows in half. I know Jesus cares, and he’ll look after Ali.”

  Sami nodded silently. He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

  Fatima pursed her lips. “Thank you, Sami.”

  ***

  Faisal knew the soldiers at the checkpoint and explained about his visitors. The young woman soldier took their passports, examining each carefully. Ashley remembered her mistake and didn’t take any pictures this time. She watched Sami who seemed uneasy. “Keep your clothes on this time, Sami,” she said quietly with a wink. They waited only a minute or two when she returned the passports and waved them through.

  As they approached the farm, they heard loud clanking of heavy equipment grading a new highway that paralleled the old unimproved road to the farm. An Israeli soldier appeared at a checkpoint with his automatic rifle, signaling the first car to stop.

  He leaned on the car door as Faisal rolled the window down. “Where are you going?” He spoke in Hebrew.

  “To my orchard.”

  “Who are these people in the two cars?”

  “Friends of mine. We have been through the checkpoint already, so let us pass. I can see my trees from here.”

  “Those trees are no longer yours. They belong to the Israeli government as state property. You haven’t seen the demolition order?”

  “We have. But your government has no right to take our land here in Palestine.”

  “We can take it under Israeli law, once it has been declared property of the state. I’m not here to discuss the situation. But yes, you can take your friends to visit the orchard, but only for one hour.”

  Faisal turned red in the face and started to sputter. Rafiq tugged at his friend’s arm and nodded to the soldier, whispering into Faisal’s ear, “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Walking with the group down the tractor path, Ashley looked at the old wooden shed where she had visited with Sami two years ago, shamed and angry at his treatment by the woman soldier at the checkpoint. Now it was Faisal’s turn. He motioned in a circle at the mature olive and apricot trees.

  “They take my land and claim it belongs to Israel, all according to their law. What law is that? This is not their land. They even call it ‘the occupied territory.’ What can we do? I can protest with some of my friends and neighbors, but that wouldn’t stop them now. We’ll be ruined. We can’t live without any income. Where will we go?”

  “We need to find out what law they are talking about,” Najid replied. “We don’t know what it is.”

  “I can educate you a bit,” Sami declared. I brought some notes from my class on Israeli law at the university but they’re back at your house, Faisal.”

  “Good. Let’s go home then. Maybe we need a lawyer.”

  ***

  Over cups of tea that Almas brought into her front room, the group turned to Sami intently scrutinizing his notes. Ashley noted Fatima also watched him, seeming brighter as they wrestled with Faisal and Almas’ predicament. Perhaps she could turn her attention to something besides dwelling on poor little Ali. Ashley imagined the boy crying in prison.

  Sami began as Najid translated into English. “First you should remember that Israel has no constitution, so there is no appeal to what Americans call ‘constitutional rights.’ They don’t exist. So Israel has passed laws over the years by their Knesset that governs land ownership. They are very complicated and go back to the British Mandate years, with more recent changes. Some of them deal with taking over land owned by Arabs either in Israel before 1967 or in the West Bank now.”

  “Give us some examples, Sami,” Faisal asked, sitting on the edge of his chair.

  “Okay, there is the Abandoned Areas Law, 50708-1948, where people have surrendered to armed forces or fled the fighting. These are declared abandoned properties and come under Israeli authorization to dispose of them as they wish.”

  “Right. That’s how both Rafiq and Almas’ families lost their lands in Galilee in 1948. But we haven’t abandoned our land or been absent landlords.”

  “There’s a lot more, Faisal. For example, under the Emergency Land Requisition Law, 5710-1949, the state can grab the property if, and I’m quoting here, ‘it is necessary for the defense of the state, public security, the maintenance of essential supplies or essential public services, the absorption of immigrants or the rehabilitation of ex-soldiers or war invalids.’”

  “That doesn’t apply to us either,” Almas declared.

  “Not necessarily. Suppose the settlement on the hill needs your farm to ensure their security, or to absorb more immigrants,” Najid said.

  “Okay, just one more,” Sami continued. “The Prescription Law, 5718-1958. Farmers must prove uninterrupted cultivation of their land for fifteen years, or after registration of title only, twenty-five years. That’s hard to do. They don’t accept tax records. Sometimes dated photographs help.”

  Faisal sat staring at Sami, mouth open, shaking his head. He sighed. “I don’t know how we’d document that. We’ve cultivated the land for over fifteen years, but I have no dated pictures to prove that. We need a good lawyer.”

  Faisal raised his hands and shoulders. “But where can we get a lawyer that we can afford? One in Jerusalem who knows the system and can argue our case in court? It looks impossible.”

  Suddenly Fatima spoke. “But with God, everything is possible. I believe he will take care of Ali, and bring him back. And I hope that he will bring justice here also.”

  “He can, Fatima, in his time. But maybe this is not his time,” Rafiq spoke softly, and then gazed upward with hands open, palms up. “Oh, God, you know where little Ali is. Take care of him and bring him home. And now give Faisal and Alma wisdom beyond themselves, and let justice prevail here. Ahmeen.”

  CHAPTER 18

  When Ali in his pajamas had been carried from his home under Gilad’s arm like a sack of potatoes, he beat the Israeli soldier on his abdomen.

  “Let me go!” Ali screamed. “Papa, Papa, h
elp me!”

  Gilad grabbed Ali’s arms while his legs kicked wildly in mid-air. The two other soldiers helped restrain Ali, who still shouted and began to cry. One whipped out a plastic hand tie from his pocket and quickly encircled Ali’s wrists behind his back. The other soldier wrapped the blindfold around his head. They dumped Ali in the back of the Jeep and sped away.

  It seemed unreal to Ali as he bounced in the back of the vehicle with only a blanket on the hard steel floor. His arms hurt. He tried to hold his head up as every bump hit it like a hammer. He yelled through his tears, “Take me home. I didn’t do anything!”

  He heard a shout in Hebrew, and then felt a blow to the side of his head. It hurt a lot. That quieted him into silent sobbing. Where were they taking him? What would happen to him? His heart raced. He couldn’t see anything. With his hands tied behind him, Ali was helpless to lie on his back and had to remain on his side, his head bouncing with every bump in the road. He understood just enough Hebrew to learn they would soon be on a smooth highway, like the ones his family was not allowed to use. Then they would take him to an Israeli settlement.

  After what seemed to Ali like a long trip on the better road, he asked in Arabic to take him to a bathroom. He received another blow to the same spot on his already sore head.

  “You are mean, and I hate you!” That bought Ali another cuff to his head after which he gave up and wet his pants.

  Finally, the Jeep stopped. Gilad lifted Ali out and put him on his feet, wet pajamas sagging, and marched him forward. Ali recognized the voice of his captor and remembered that Najid had called him by name.

  “Gilad, where are you taking me?”

  The soldier answered in Arabic, “To a room. We’ll keep you here until morning when you’ll go to the interrogation place.” With that Gilad pushed Ali into a hard chair where he sat until morning in his wet night clothes, miserable, in pain, and unable to sleep. He’d heard them lock the door.

  ***

  Ali finally heard the door open and a different voice spoke in Hebrew. Someone grabbed his arm and jerked him to his feet. They lifted him up, carried him outside, opened a metal car door, and put him down on a hard floor again.

  “I’m thirsty. I need water, and I want to go to the bathroom,” Ali pleaded. He received no answer as he heard others get into the Jeep and slam the doors.

  That began a journey of hours of misery for Ali. He couldn’t see anything and had to lie on his side. They wouldn’t give him water or food. The hand ties hurt his wrists. He had no idea where he was. He assumed it must be morning. Soon the Jeep stopped. He heard other voices from outside speaking in Hebrew and understood that they were entering Israel. That terrified Ali because he knew his Palestinian family from the West Bank would not be allowed to enter Israel except by special permission. He tried to imagine what his parents would be doing to try to free him. He had not thrown one stone, although he had been prepared to pepper several soldiers for their hated curfew.

  After a long time, they stopped and again the soldiers took Ali into a room. This time they took off his blindfold but not his wrist ties. He found himself face-to-face with a man who had a stethoscope around his neck. He didn’t use it, but asked Ali some general questions in Arabic about his health. Then they put the blindfold back on. His pajamas by this time had almost dried. But they did allow him to sit on a toilet briefly. He asked for water but received no answer as a soldier lifted him back into the Jeep.

  The next few hours Ali lay on the thin blanket covering the floor of the Jeep, miserable, hot, crying intermittently as he thought of leaving his home and the family he loved. Then they stopped and said something about lunch in Hebrew while he waited in the hot car. His thirst became unbearable. Finally the soldiers returned. Somebody propped up Ali’s head, putting a water bottle to his lips. He had never tasted water so good. He hung onto the bottle with his teeth until he had drunk all he wanted.

  Ali found he could roll over his hands and arms to lie on his other side for a while. They soon seemed to be in a city with horns honking and many turns, finally stopping at what he would find out later was the Jalame Interrogation Centre near Haifa, Israel. A soldier lifted Ali out of the Jeep. Ali had no idea what was coming and tried to kick the soldier who then dropped him on the pavement. The boy struggled to his feet and started to run, seeing just enough under his blindfold to realize he had run into a road. Suddenly a horn honked and tires screeched. He yelled, “Help me,” as the soldier caught him and dragged him by the arm screaming. The soldier hand chopped him in the neck.

  Ali could hardly breathe as two soldiers then carried him into a building and sat him down hard on a chair. They tied him to it with an encircling cord. He heard conversation in Hebrew and the soldiers leaving the room. His neck throbbed with pain.

  All was quiet as he sat, somehow aware that someone else was in the room. He cried, wondering what would happen to him. He’d heard from several young men who had been in Israeli jails that prisoners get tortured and that they don’t care how old or young you are. After a short time, he heard footsteps coming toward him. “Don’t hit me again!!” Ali ducked his head.

  “I’m not going to hurt you if you tell me the truth,” some man spoke in Arabic.

  Ali felt his blindfold come off. He could see the bare room with white walls and no windows with a desk and chair in front of him. Then he felt the man taking off his wrist ties. His arms ached. Ali moved them forward to look at the grooves in his wrists that had hurt for hours. It felt so good to have them free. The man, tall, dressed in an Israeli police uniform, stepped around to face Ali, frowning down at him.

  He stared at Ali for several moments. Ali looked at him now shaking, mouth open, trying to guess what would happen to him.

  “You are here because you threw stones at our soldiers. Do you know what can happen to you if you don’t tell me truthfully what you did?”

  “No, I don’t. And I didn’t throw any stones.”

  “Ah, but you did. How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Do you realize we can put you in prison for up to six months for throwing stones? Even if you deny it? Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” Ali paled to think of half a year in jail for doing nothing. Then he raised his eyebrows. “But we learned in school that according to international law on the rights of a child, you can’t question me without my parents or a lawyer present.”

  “We don’t pay any attention to those laws. We have our own rules that are fair. Now are you ready to answer my questions?”

  Ali thought the best thing would be to stay silent. He already knew they wouldn’t believe that he was innocent. “No. I want my parents to come. I am Palestinian so your laws don’t matter to me. I go by the international law and my rights as a child.”

  “All right,” he said and paused, “we’ll take off your dirty pajamas.” He pressed a buzzer on the desk and another policeman appeared. They untied Ali from his chair and took them off. Then sitting him down, they tied him again to the back of the chair and left him alone in the room—naked.

  Ali sighed. He felt exposed. At least he could cover up with his hands now free. He’d had no food for the whole day and only one drink of water. He felt weak and starving. Now cold, he sensed the room temperature dropping. Soon he began to shiver. He tried to sleep sitting up, but with the bright lights and the cold, sleep wouldn’t come. Ali thought of his bed at home. He would have to be brave and not cry. They were being mean. Why wouldn’t they believe him? He began to think back. Some of his friends did throw a few stones, little ones. But he didn’t. So they couldn’t have seen him doing it. Maybe it was the cameras. That must be it. So because his friends did and he was with them, the bright lights and cameras caught his face, and they decided to get him.

  What should he do? If he kept telling the truth, he might be tortured. If he signed a false statement of confession, would he be in jail for six months or would they let him go sooner? Would he be treated better if
he signed? Cold, hungry, thirsty, and all alone, he felt weak and began to cry again.

  CHAPTER 19

  The guests left Faisal and Almas after breakfast, going their separate ways. Both faced several checkpoints. Rafiq and Farah headed for their home northward to Genger, Israel, in the Galilee, while Najid drove Sami back to the university in Haifa with Ashley and Fatima as the first leg of their return to Bethlehem. The soldiers at the checkpoint seemed to overlook Fatima, or at least didn’t ask for her documents along with the others. Sami, who shared the back seat with Fatima, noticed she had a colorful hijab on and seemed more animated than before. It felt nice to be able to converse with a girl without having to revert to English or Hebrew. It didn’t happen often. Of course, speaking Arabic would exclude Ashley, but she was talking with Najid in the front seat.

  “I know how worried you are, Fatima, about your little brother. But remember, most Palestinian boys have been in Israeli jails, and most of us survived. Ali is young and he’ll be okay even though he’s probably going through interrogation right now.”

  “What is that like, Sami? I’ve heard they sometimes use torture to get a confession. And Ali says he didn’t throw any stones at the soldiers.”

  “Sometimes they do force children to sign a confession that they can use to imprison them. If they don’t sign, then it can be rough.”

  “But how could Ali agree to sign a confession when he hasn’t done anything wrong?”

  “Some boys sign the statement just to get better treatment until they get out. Sometimes the paper is in Hebrew so the kids sign having no idea what the confession says.”

  “So either way, they keep them locked up?”

  “Yeah. But they are not supposed to according to their own law. How old did you say Ali is?”

  “Ten.”

  “Then they aren’t paying attention to their own laws. The youngest child they can arrest and imprison, according to Israeli law, is twelve.”