Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  “The others? Are you with other guys?”

  “Yeah. There’s about six of us. Mostly older. One guy is seventeen.”

  “How come you get to be together?”

  “I don’t know. But it helps to be with others. I couldn’t stand being locked up all alone.”

  “Well, I am alone and it’s terrible. This is the first time I’ve been outside.”

  “How long have you been here?” asked the other boy.

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell day from night. I just sleep and eat when they bring me something. I had my first shower just now and then the guard brought me here.”

  “I know. I went through the same thing until I signed their paper. Then they let me out of the cell, and I got to be in with the other guys. We are still locked up in small cells, but get to eat together and come out here to play football and basketball.”

  “You signed what paper?”

  “I don’t know what I signed. It was in Hebrew so I couldn’t read it.” He shrugged. “They told me they would let me out of solitary if I would sign their stupid paper. So I did. That day they brought me to a different place and I found the other boys.”

  Ali frowned. “How long do you have to stay here?”

  “I’m small for my age, but being fourteen they said they could keep me for six months. But because I wrote my name where they said to, they told me one more month. That was a week ago, so I have three more weeks in this stinking prison. How about you?”

  “The judge said sixteen more days after spending two before my trial. But I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

  “For throwing stones?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you do it?”

  Ali bit his lip, head down and silent. Then he straightened up and took a deep breath. “No, I didn’t. They want me to say I did. I suppose that would give them the reason to keep me here in case any internationals ask questions.”

  His fellow prisoner nodded. “Right. Then you get better treatment.” He raised his hands. “So why not sign?”

  “That must be why they brought me out here. And that’s probably why they left you here to meet me.”

  “I suppose that’s it. Maybe you’ll join us and get out of your cage. I hope so. Oh, here comes the guard. He’ll take me back and then come to get you.”

  Ali kicked the football and ran hard after it to get some exercise. It felt so good to be playing even though he was alone again. He grabbed the ball after a few kicks, and tried to put it through the hoop, but his arms felt so weak the ball didn’t even get up to the rim. At that point, another guard appeared and motioned with his head toward the door.

  Ali walked ahead of the guard, past the shower room, and back to his tiny cell. The guard stepped in after him and banged shut the heavy door.

  “Did you enjoy being outside?”

  Ali looked at the floor. “Yes,” he said almost in a whisper.

  “Would you like to do that every day and be with other boys like you were just now?”

  Ali’s mind raced. Did they think I’m stupid? He’d seen their tricks on TV—good cop, bad cop. The other guys could do what they like for better treatment, but he’d never sign their paper. They’d just use it to say they had a right to arrest him. Now they had no excuse. Maybe the Red Crescent was breathing down their neck. Maybe they were uncomfortable. He’d keep it that way. The harder they pressed him, the stronger he would deny them the satisfaction of a confession.

  But then he realized they might use more torture besides chains and bright lights and no food. He’d take that chance. He could last. He would beat them at their game.

  “To answer your question, yes, it would be nice, but if you’re trying to get me to sign your dumb confession, the answer is no.”

  CHAPTER 42

  His IDF commander had re-assigned Gilad from night patrols leading his three soldiers to guarding a bulldozer crew. They’d told him he had lost his enthusiasm for leadership. He couldn’t get that little girl out of his mind and wondered whether the heavy table they overturned had killed her. It had given him insomnia. Every night.

  Now it was routine, standing around with his automatic rifle just south of Bethlehem, guarding the fence housing the big enclosed Caterpillar bulldozers used to demolish houses. He would soon be assigned to accompany them on their missions. In the meantime, it was guard duty, hour after boring hour until they returned after a day’s work. Gilad wondered what it was like to destroy a home that had been in the family for generations.

  That night after thrashing back and forth in bed for hours, Gilad tiptoed out of the barracks into the dark night and walked behind a bulldozer. He dialed a number on his cell phone. He had to call in private, even if it was after two in the morning. He waited, holding his breath as he heard the phone ringing. A muffled voice finally answered in Arabic.

  “Asalem alekum, Najid,” Gilad spoke just above a whisper.

  “Who is this?”

  “Gilad. You said to call and gave me your number.”

  “Ah … I did?”

  “Are you awake, Najid?”

  “Not exactly. Who is this again?”

  “Gilad. Your classmate from school in Galilee.”

  “Oh yes! Now I’m tracking. What time is it?”

  “Its two in the morning. But I had to call you. You said we could talk sometime.”

  “Yeah, Gilad,” Najid said, but not over the phone at two in the morning.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry for calling you. I’ll hang up.”

  “No, no. You’ve got me up now. If I go back to bed I’ll lie there and wonder why you called.”

  Gilad took a deep breath and sighed. “I never expected to call you, but I may be losing my mind. I really need to talk to you as … a friend.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “Not now. I just want us to get together so we can talk face-to-face.”

  “Where would you suggest, Gilad. You have to be careful.”

  “Yeah, I know that. One place we wouldn’t be seen by any soldiers would be in the Old City of Jerusalem in the Armenian quarter.”

  “Yes, great idea. One possibility, the Christ Church Guest House courtyard near Jaffa Gate. Do you know where that is?” Najid asked.

  “I do. I’ll come in civilian clothes.” A short conversation followed, working out a time when both could meet.

  ***

  Najid arrived at the Jaffa Gate just in time. He walked quickly through the broad opening in the ancient wall of Jerusalem with its beautiful coral-colored stones dating back hundreds of years. He turned right into the Armenian Quarter and then left into the open gate of the Anglican Guesthouse, a compound of beautiful stone apartments and rooms surrounding a shaded courtyard with flowers and benches. Gilad sat on one of them and rose to shake hands with Najid as he approached.

  “Thank you, Najid,” Gilad said, hand over his heart. “Even after what I have done, you gave me your phone number and told me to call. I don’t know why you did. But I need to talk to someone, and you are the only safe person I know who can help me think this through.”

  “I’m glad you called … well, maybe not at two a.m.”

  “I had to call. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me. But for more than that. More than hitting you. It’s what I did to the boy that night where you visited. And other children. Have you heard how he is?”

  “Not the last week. We were there for Ali’s trial and visited him. He is in the interrogation center in Haifa, locked up. Parents couldn’t come. We don’t know how he is doing, but are worried. He has to be in jail for another two weeks. Maybe longer. He didn’t throw stones.”

  Gilad shook his head. “I know. We just signed a form saying he did. Someone threw a stone our way that night, but we didn’t know who it was. We did have a picture of Ali with the other boys. We could identify him from school pictures we have on file. So that is why we took him, as a statement to Palestinians to not resist our curfews and other t
hings we do to intimidate you people. That’s the word we use, ‘intimidate.’ We want you people out. We want your land, but not your people.”

  “Is that what you want, Gilad?”

  “Oh no! I used to. I was trained in all this from school days to my indoctrination in the IDF. You wouldn’t believe the things my soldiers and I have done. I can’t even talk about some of them. Hardly admit it to myself. But the pictures in my mind are there every night. I can’t sleep. I have so many regrets about my actions, including with Ali. But I can’t change anything, and I can’t live with what I’m doing.”

  “And you have to keep doing it?”

  “Yes. I have no choice now. I have to do what the army orders me to do. But, you know, a lot of what we do comes out of the head of our immediate commander. He just has general orders to create trouble and take over lands and homes. Go after people who resist and kids who throw stones or just protest with signs. We are told to make people react with violence so we can go in and take care of the problem, injuring, destroying, even killing. With no fear of prosecution. We’re under orders. Then maybe Palestinians will leave of their own accord.”

  “Do you know what happens to people whose houses you destroy?”

  “No. We don’t even care. We … I … have lost my soul. My humanity. But my conscience has come to life again. I can’t go on this way, Najid. Not just another year in the IDF. It’s the past even more. I’ve thought of every escape including suicide, but I’m afraid. I need to talk to someone who can help me. Someone safe.”

  “I’m no psychiatrist, Gilad. But I do want to help in whatever way I can.”

  “You may not be in that field, but you made me think.”

  “How was that?”

  “You spoke of both our Bible and yours teaching us to love our neighbor. I remember it says ‘as ourselves.’”

  “So what does that mean to you now?”

  Gilad sighed. “Certainly not to kill or hurt Palestinians. You people are our neighbors. So what we are doing goes against Judaism and Christian teaching. But you also asked me how I can sleep at night with what I am doing. I can’t.”

  “So it’s my fault that you don’t sleep well?”

  Gilad laughed. “I guess you could say that, but it wouldn’t be true.”

  “So where do you go from here?” Najid inquired.

  “Maybe I should explore other options. Some soldiers have done that as conscientious objectors. I understand it affects their career opportunities later in our country. Not for the better. But I don’t care now. I just need to know what to do to survive, both for what I’ve already done, and for the final year of my service in the army.”

  “So how will you find your way forward?”

  “Maybe by just having a friend like you that will listen and help me out of the mess I’ve made of my life so far.”

  “That’s what I want too, Gilad. Just to be your friend and walk through all this with you.”

  Gilad rose and gave Najid a hug. “We’ll meet again if that’s okay.”

  Najid gave a half-smile. “As long as you don’t bring your AK-47.”

  Gilad chuckled. “I haven’t laughed in a long time.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Faisal looked at his wife, Almas, from his bed in Hadassah Medical Center. His elevated right leg in a bed sling along with the metal rods fastened together to hold the fracture site steady kept him from turning onto his side. But the alternating pressure mattress worked for comfort. And the doctors assured them that the wound looked good, cleaning up nicely. His leg hurt mostly when they changed the dressing twice a day.

  “I’m not going to be of much help in saving our farm, Almas. I can’t do anything about it. I feel so helpless.” He stopped and looked away from his wife with a shake of his head. “You were right. I shouldn’t have stood in front of the bulldozer. I don’t know whether he didn’t see me or just decided I was more brush.”

  “So we just do what we can. Jamal is coming to let us know if we can get an injunction to stop the takeover of our land.”

  “I’m glad the olive harvest is finished now,” Faisal said. “We had a good crop. I wish I could be there now to protect our trees. But …” he stopped and looked up.

  Their lawyer, Jamal, walked in the door with a wrinkled brow. “Asalam alekum. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “Oh no. We don’t need more of that,” Almas said. “What is it?”

  “You may know that all of the land confiscation cases from the West Bank go to military courts, which are headed by the Israeli military’s Central Command. That’s where your demolition order came from. Just this year, the top general has ordered that Palestinian Israelis are now prohibited from challenging those decisions in military courts. Appeals have to be made to the Supreme Court.”

  “Can we appeal to the Supreme Court then?”

  “Unfortunately, there are problems their also. While Palestinian lawyers can work in military courts, we are not allowed to bring appeals to the Supreme Court. So I can’t represent your appeal. You’d have to hire an Israeli lawyer, and they are expensive. Also you’d have to pay a court fee. That’s different from the military courts, which are free.” Jamal paused, shaking his head. “I wish I could help you. You need a good Israeli lawyer.”

  Faisal looked at his wife, tears forming in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. Can you help us find an Israeli lawyer? It looks like we have no other choice.”

  “I’m going to go back to your farm to see what is happening now. This is so unfair.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not charging you anymore. I’m ready to fight this, whatever it takes. Maybe I’ll ask Najid to go with me.”

  ***

  In Jamal’s car, a two-hours drive from Jerusalem, they approached the final of several checkpoints, this one in the high wall north of Faisal’s orchard. Sami laughed.

  “I always wanted to come back here, so I’m glad Najid couldn’t come with you.”

  “You’re a budding lawyer so it makes sense,” Jamal replied. “You might learn something too. But why have you wanted to return to this checkpoint.”

  Sami couldn’t suppress a grin. “Okay. We’re driving through. I make some smart remark and this female soldier orders me out of the car at gunpoint, puts me in a room with wide-open windows in their guardhouse and has me strip naked. There I sit for half an hour while the others wait for me in the car. Finally a guy soldier comes back with my clothes and we can leave.

  We found out Ashley took a picture approaching the checkpoint, and the Sabra didn’t like it. She took the camera and deleted the picture.”

  “So now you want to see if she’s still there?”

  “I hope she’s not. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Then we’d both be in trouble.”

  ***

  Jamal stopped the car in the dirt road. There at its side ran a new gravel road, ten meters wide, leading to a level spot. One bulldozer, no rock crusher. Two caravans sat off to the side of the new road: large white, metal mobile houses at least six meters long. “Don’t they always begin their settlements with caravans?” Sami asked.

  “Of course. Then they can say the new residents live there, and the absent landlords who don’t live on the property have abandoned their land. So it belongs to Israel to give it to whomever it likes.”

  Jamal turned off the engine as he spoke. He turned around in his seat to see the new road. It led up the hill to the large white apartment buildings at the top of the hill. “You can see their plan is already well along. Now they’ll be able to expand the settlement down the hill to include the farm, right up to the wall.”

  “It looks like a done deal,” Sami remarked. “They are moving ahead with their takeover of Faisal’s land.” Sami started to get out of the car when they heard the bulldozer move toward the nearby orchard. He watched in horror as it pushed over an olive tree at least 100 years old. It then raised and lowered its blade chopping up the tree. He walked around the front of the car as the machine appr
oached the next large tree in the row, and suddenly stopped.

  Sami stared, transfixed by the destruction of the very symbol of his country. Uprooting the olive tree. Just like the people, his people. Torn from the domain of their ancestors, their roots, their livelihood, their heart, their home. As the ancient olive trees in the Garden of Gethsemane two thousand years old, they belong here. They must survive.

  Jamal stayed in the car, taking pictures through the windshield, hoping to hide the camera from anyone watching. He quickly brought it down as a man in dark civilian clothes emerged from one of the caravans with an automatic rifle pointed at Sami.

  “This is state land under development. You’ll have to leave. Now!” he spoke in Hebrew.

  “This is not your land!” Sami shouted, red in the face. “It belongs to a friend of mine. A bulldozer driver nearly killed him a few days ago.”

  The settler motioned to Sami with his rifle now two meters away. “Leave.”

  Jamal rushed out of the car, pushing Sami back toward the passenger side door. “Please, Sami,” he implored in Arabic. “We’ve got to get out of here before he does something stupid.”

  Sami sighed, looking back over his shoulder as Jamal pushed him. “You’ll rot in hell for what you are doing to my friends,” he shouted in Hebrew at the Israeli. A shot rang out as the bullet grazed Sami’s head.

  Jamal pushed him into the passenger seat, his face white, raced around the car and jumped in. He gunned the engine, vaulting the car backwards into a turn, and sped off away from the settler and back toward the checkpoint. “Down, Sami! He may shoot again!” Another shot rang out.

  “Who does he think he is?” Sami gritted his teeth. “To order us off the land of our friend when it’s not his property. At gunpoint!”

  “It’s also who does he think we are Sami?” Jamal sped down the road, the car thumping and bouncing as he missed very few potholes. “We are just terrorists to them, cannon fodder. They are always afraid of us. They create enemies by the way they treat us … as nobodies, less than human. You are lucky he didn’t kill you.”