Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  CHAPTER 23

  Jamal Monsur sat at his computer typing up a legal brief in a small office in East Jerusalem he shared with other lawyers. Books lined the shelves behind his desk while three stacks of papers crowded his desktop. He enjoyed putting together his cases. But with no secretary, he had to interrupt his thoughts to answer the telephone. An anxious man skipped the usual greeting to request his assistance. The man, Saleh from Bethlehem, quickly explained the plight of his son, Ali.

  “Do you have experience with children being arrested by the IDF?”

  “Oh yes, and I know the place in Haifa. I’d like to help you, but I need more information. Your son is probably scheduled to have his hearing before a judge within the next few days so there is not much time if you want me to represent you.”

  “We do. Could we talk face-to-face? I can’t come to Jerusalem, but you could come here, to Bethlehem. We will arrange to pay you.”

  Jamal remembered previous arrests of children and the anxiety it caused the parents. He shook his head and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, frowning at the continued practice of the occupation soldiers to terrorize Palestinian kids and their families. Trial preparations for his other cases could wait. “Yes, I’ll come this afternoon.” They exchanged information, addresses, and cell phone numbers.

  ***

  Over tea in their front room along with Jamilah and Fatima, Saleh told the lawyer Jamal all that happened with the curfew and Ali. They walked over to the houses of the other boys who were in the street after school playing football. They gathered around the adults asking what had happened to Ali. None of the boys had been caught, and no one saw Ali throw a stone. Jamal, balding, pudgy, and wearing glasses, remained deep in thought as they walked back. He had the story and he hoped the right facts. But why did they choose Ali to arrest and not the others?

  Jamilah served dried apricots and olives. Sitting down opposite Jamal, she asked, “What can you do to help us?”

  “First, I need to get you both a special permit to travel into Israel. Usually that takes time, and we may not get one. If that happens, I will find out when the hearing will take place and go alone to Haifa. I probably won’t be able to meet with Ali before the trial. But it doesn’t matter except to encourage your son.”

  “If we can’t go and our daughter Fatima is not allowed to represent us, we have young married friends, he’s an Israeli Arab from Galilee and she’s an American. Could they go and support Ali in our place?”

  “That would be good. Particularly the American. The authorities try to keep child imprisonment quiet. Americans would be shocked if they knew what happens to children here. Many of them think that torture and solitary confinement of kids could never happen in a democracy.” He held up wiggling fingers.

  Jamal left for the short drive back to his office where he began a series of phone calls.

  ***

  The lawyer soon realized it would be impossible for Ali’s parents to quickly get a special permit to enter Israel. Particularly since it was not a medical emergency. Even then the Israeli authorities often denied the requests. He recalled that young Palestinian women have often given birth at checkpoints, and some have died with their babies because the Israeli guards denied their entry for urgent obstetric care. He would not enjoy telling Saleh and Jamilah that they couldn’t go to comfort Ali. Just then his cell phone rang.

  “Asalam alekum,” the male voice spoke in Arabic. “I am Faisal from Zabuda near Jenin. My wife, Almas, and I would like to talk with you as soon as possible about a demolition order we have for our farm. Could you help us?”

  Jamal remained silent. His life began to look hectic; too many demands on his time. Faisal sounded distressed, as he was about to lose his farm in the northern part of the West Bank. Could he deny the fellow Palestinian his request?

  “How did you get my name?”

  “We were referred by a family in Bethlehem whom you are helping. Their son Ali is in the interrogation center in Haifa.”

  The lawyer laughed to himself about the speed of the referral. His mind raced thinking how he might travel over to Zabuda after the trial in Haifa. It just might work. He could gather the facts by visiting the farm and then bring the case to court in Jerusalem.

  “What is the date on the order for the demolition?”

  “Just twenty-eight days away.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time to get an injunction. But I’d be willing to try.”

  “Good!” Faisal breathed a sigh. “When could you come to meet with us and visit the farm?”

  “Let me call you back. It looks like I’ll be in Haifa in a day or two for Ali’s trial, and then I could swing inland over to Zabuda. Not sure of the schedule yet, so I’ll call you as soon as I find out when I’ll be on the coast.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Ashley couldn’t believe the houses in old Hebron were almost stacked on each other with water tanks on some of the rooftops. “You can always tell who lives in these houses,” Nijad said. “Israelis get all the water they want and don’t need the tanks.”

  A major street and a large square were divided by metal fences. Soldiers made sure Najid and Ashley kept to the narrow lane blocked off for Palestinians. Locked green, steel doors of abandoned businesses numbered more than the open shops in the old market area. Merchants pleaded with Ashley to buy their wares or jewelry, sometimes fruit or candy. She would throw up her hands and smile. “I wish I could buy everything, Najid.”

  They walked under a canopy of chicken wire fencing that had caught garbage thrown down by settlers living above the market. “I’ve read of this,” Najid remarked. “Now I know it’s real. Here in Hebron the settlers are in the central part of the old city, not on the outskirts or surrounding hills as in Bethlehem. That increases the hostility and harassment the locals feel.”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “It seems to be part of the Zionist dream to take the whole land of Palestine gradually by confiscating property where they can, and for the rest, making the people so miserable they’ll want to move out. Many have as you can see by the closed shops.”

  Strolling along another street they noticed balconies boarded up. Across the street a huge banner written in Hebrew and English read, Palestine never existed, and never will! Soldiers standing guard in the streets with their weapons seemed to be everywhere. Najid suddenly stopped, looking at one soldier just a few meters away. “Gilad! That’s him. The guy who stole Ali.”

  Ashley blanched. “Let’s turn around and get out of here!”

  Gilad looking around suddenly stiffened.

  “Stay here, Ashley. We’re going to have a chat.”

  “No, no, Najid, he’s fingering his AK-47!”

  CHAPTER 25

  Najid understood Ashley’s fear about confronting Gilad, the Israeli soldier who had carried a screaming Ali out the door of his home in Bethlehem, now in Hebron. He still had a sore cheek bone where Gilad’s fist had struck, knocking him and Ashley both to the floor. The soldier had been a wild man, crashing into the women, yelling. He had been startled when Najid called him by name, having been classmates many years ago in Nazareth at a private Christian school. This time his upper lip curled in a snarl.

  “Get out of here!” Gilad warned, leveling his rifle at Najid.

  “Put your gun down, Gilad. We’re going to talk,” Najid continued in Hebrew, walking slowly toward Gilad until he stood one meter away from the end of the barrel, which by this time was shaking.

  “We have nothing to talk about. Now leave!” He gradually lowered his rifle.

  “No,” Najid replied, “I have a question for you. Do you remember what we learned together in Nazareth years ago, about loving your neighbor as yourself, even your enemy?”

  “No!”

  “Ever hear of a Jewish guy named Jesus?”

  “Look, Najid. Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”

  “Just wondering where that idea we both learned so long ago fits into your
thinking now?”

  “It doesn’t. I’ve forgotten all that stuff we learned.”

  “Really? Well, I just reminded you.”

  Gilad shook his head. “That’s Christian junk. Remember, I’m a Jew.”

  “Right, and the saying originally came from Moses in your Torah, about loving your neighbor.”

  “I don’t do religion now. Besides, I’m just obeying orders. I do what I’m told. I’m not paid to think.”

  “But you can’t help it. What do you think about at night or when you look in the mirror? Who are you, Gilad? Are you happy with who you’ve become?”

  Gilad dropped his head and sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this stuff. It’ll be over someday, and maybe I can forget it. I didn’t ask to be in the army. Now get out of here.”

  “Could we be friends again, Gilad? Like old times?”

  Gilad looked startled. “Are you kidding? They’d kill me if I had contact with a Palestinian. They told us to have nothing to do with you people.”

  “Would you call me sometime? You could do that privately at home.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the kid we arrested!”

  “Neither do I, Gilad.”

  The soldier look surprised. “Then why should we talk?”

  “I just want to be your friend again.”

  Gilad looked around. The nearest soldier stood a block away. Gilad waited until his comrade turned to a nearby woman, in the opposite direction. “Okay, slip me a piece of paper with your phone number. I’ll think about it someday. Maybe I’ll give you a call.”

  Najid quickly wrote the number and slipped it into Gilad’s hand. He gave it a quick pat and walked back toward Ashley.

  ***

  On the trip back from Hebron Ashley received a call from Fatima requesting them to stop at their home in Bethlehem. She did not explain why.

  When they entered, Ashley quickly saw Fatima’s downcast eyes. She realized something bad had happened. Fatima quickly delivered the news. The family would not get a permit to enter Israel to attend the hearing in Haifa and support Ali.

  “We have no information on how Ali is doing, what they are doing to him.” Fatima spoke slowly in English and translated for her parents. “And now we can’t get a permit to see him. We wanted to be with him and defend him before the judge. Ali needs our help, but more than that, just to know we are standing by to get him released. It’s so discouraging.”

  “We understand, Fatima.” Najid spoke also to Saleh and Jamilah in Arabic. “Ali is innocent. We have no idea why the soldiers arrested him. He needs to know that you are with him all the way. But if you can’t go, is there anything we could do to help?”

  “Would you go to Haifa with our lawyer, Jamal? He will be going tomorrow morning and said it would be good to have some family or friends in the court so the judge could see Ali has people that really care about him.”

  Najid looked at Ashley after translating Fatima’s question. “Why not go and represent the family? You should know the same lawyer also works for a couple, Faisal Farhan and Almas in Zabuda, and will be visiting there after Haifa, so he won’t be returning to Jerusalem directly.”

  Ashley laughed. “Small world. We’ve just been with them. I don’t see a problem for us, Fatima,” Ashley replied. “Najid doesn’t start work for a week or two.”

  “Then we could go in support of both Ali and our other friends who are facing confiscation of their farm,” Najid confirmed.

  ***

  Ali opened his eyes and looked around. The place didn’t look like his room at home. For a moment it all seemed confusing. White walls, a bright light, no windows except a little one high up on the steel door. He rubbed his eyes and gradually remembered the events of his capture and interrogation. So this is what it’s like to be in prison, isolated. He listened for sounds of voices but heard nothing. He stood up and walked to the sink to get some water, drinking out of his cupped hand. The urge to run overwhelmed him but the room at about four meters square made that impossible.

  Was this day or night? With no watch Ali couldn’t tell and had no idea what it might be like outside. How long had he slept? He didn’t know. He’d have to guess. Maybe his mind played tricks on him. Everything unknown—where he was, what time or even what day, no friends or family, not knowing what they would do to him. Would he go crazy? He could cry a lot but then he would have to decide what to do after that. He at least had water. Would they continue to feed him? What would he do if they brought him before a judge? He began to wonder. Maybe they were right. Did he throw a stone?

  He began to imagine his family and what they might be doing and started to cry. Sobbing he put his head in his hands and let the tears flow. He thought of the hugs of his mother and almost felt his papa’s arm around his shoulders and of Fatima who loved her brother. What would she be doing now? He began to wonder whether they cared about him. Maybe their lives went on without him and they didn’t worry. They hadn’t come to see him, wherever he was. Why hadn’t they come? He’d never known being lonely before, not like this. When would they come to see him?

  He finally quit crying. He shook his head. It didn’t change anything. He should be brave and stand up to his tormentors whenever he had a chance. He would not give them the satisfaction of a confession. He remembered the story of David confronting Goliath. He had stones too, but actually used them. Now Ali wished he had used his stones to throw at the soldiers who were responsible for his arrest. But he didn’t and that made it even worse. He had to answer to a judge for something he didn’t do. And he’d be all by himself. He started to plan what he would say when he heard the sound of a key in the door. His heart raced as he stared at the door, which opened followed by a uniformed guard.

  CHAPTER 26

  The sounds of heavy machinery coming from his farm across the wall interrupted Faisal’s breakfast. He jumped up to look through the kitchen window at the wall behind their house. It towered over them. The clanking of a bulldozer and intermittent thumping continued from behind it. “No one is to be on our land since I’m not there. What is going on?”

  “We can’t see through the wall, but they’re probably finishing the road to our farm that we saw coming down from the settlement,” Almas guessed. “I hope it’s no more than that.”

  “They have no right to be there. That road is on our land. It’s already crowding our little dirt road that I use every day. Where do they think it’s going?”

  “Probably to our orchard. What other reason would they have? If they want to take our trees out to enlarge their settlement, they need a good road to bring in the bulldozers. And then to haul in all the caravans.” Almas pursed her lips, shaking her head. “You know they always put those mobile homes there before starting to build the houses and apartments.”

  “Then they think that gives them the right to the land because no one lives there but them. So with an absent landlord, it becomes state property according to their law. Well, that’s not right, and I’m going to stop them. Today.”

  “My dear, there’s nothing you can do. Don’t get angry and get into trouble. We will be having the lawyer, Jamal, come tomorrow so we can find out what we can do in the Israeli courts to keep our place. That’s the only way we have a chance. We need to get an injunction to stop the takeover while he prepares our case.”

  “I need to get going anyway. Some of the new fruit trees need watering, with the little water we get. But I’ll be careful, Almas.”

  Faisal kissed his wife and flew out the door. He bounced along the fifteen kilometers to the checkpoint and had to wait only five minutes this time to get through. Driving back along the wall, he boiled at the presumption of those people who think they have the right to destroy what he had nurtured for a lifetime on his property.

  Faisal gritted his teeth as he drove over the rough road, mind racing. The Russians took over Crimea and tried to take part of Ukraine. So the world got angry and punished Putin. But no one cares about the Likud governm
ent taking Palestinian land. He shook his head. The nations of the world have done nothing to help us. For over forty-five years. America funds that wall and the settlements and the military and doesn’t care about us. It blames us, the victims who try to resist the injustice with non-violence. And then when we protest with a peaceful demonstration, they call us terrorists.

  The Israeli soldier he knew waved him through the checkpoint.

  Faisal fumed. Despite their confiscating our land, the Israelis say they only “defend” themselves. We are the terrorists and they are the victims. It gets all turned around, and the world never hears our story, only how the poor Israelis suffer under the Hamas rockets, which are wrong but do little damage. Hamas is stupid for even trying. It does no good except to bring down Israeli slaughter on Gaza and in the West Bank, on us.

  As Faisal drove, he bit his lip and jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car catapulted forward as he tried to dodge the potholes. Hand gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white, he determined to do something to stop them. He soon heard the noise of a rock crusher, its intermittent banging, and then the roar and clanking of a large bulldozer. Rounding the corner he could see both machines, the tall derrick with its steel hammer pounding large rocks, and the bulldozer leveling the land, clearing away brush and small trees, heading right for his farm. Red in the face, he slammed on the brakes and dashed out toward the bulldozer. Running at top speed, he passed an armed guard with his back turned, and the enclosed bulletproof cab three meters high above the stirred-up dust so thick it looked like a sand storm. He left his car and sprinted beyond the behemoth and planted himself in front of its huge blade. He would stop the desecration of his beautiful land. There he stood, hands on hips, defying the monster. He hoped and prayed that the hideous machine would stop. It didn’t but ground ominously forward.