Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  “We do, Rafiq. But he can’t seem to get Ali released.”

  “Do you have any idea how long they can hold him?”

  “We don’t know,” Saleh said. “We understand that according to Israeli law, they can keep young people Ali’s age for eighteen days maximum. But he’s already been there for almost that long without charges.”

  “They use administrative detention to keep prisoners for six months without charges and then can renew the term indefinitely,” Rafiq added. “But most of those are adults, I believe. Does he does have a lawyer.”

  “Yes. But the lawyer can do nothing.

  Rafiq shook his head. “Farah and I are so sorry this has happened. May we pray for you and Ali?”

  “Yes.” Jamilah nodded. “Please do. We pray every day in the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful. And Fatima does in the name of Isa.”

  Rafiq lifted his head and began by using the Arabic name of God and words of the Qur’an. “All praise is due to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.” He continued by asking for divine help, for justice, for Ali’s health and comfort, and his soon release. He concluded, “In the strong name of Issa we ask this.”

  Jamilah rushed around the table to Farah and gave her a warm hug, while the men did the same, kissing each other’s cheek. They smiled and laughed as they resumed eating the dinner Sami and his mother provided.

  Sami looked at Fatima staring wide-eyed at Rafiq. The young host finally caught her eye and winked. She took a deep breath, blushed, and began to smile. She looked back to Rafiq.

  “Thank you for that beautiful prayer.” Fatima nodded. “I believe God hears and answers our requests in his time and his way, and that he will take care of Ali in the meantime.”

  Sami beamed and nodded. He remained silent as conversation picked up around the table, thinking about Fatima, how she seemed able to bridge the gap between her Muslim heritage and her faith in following Jesus.

  Sami admired her so much. She seemed beautiful in every way, but would he have a chance to tell her that? How could he possibly let her know of his feelings? He sat immobile; gazing blankly at the wall, not realizing the families had left the table. He suddenly realized as host he should be in the kitchen cleaning up. Sami bolted around the corner to find Fatima, his mother, and Jamilah talking and laughing while doing his job.

  He protested, “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

  His mother turned toward him. “We’re having a good time, and we don’t want any men around.”

  Fatima smirked and raised her eyebrows as Sami blinked. He shrugged and returned to join his father and Saleh in the main room. He never could understand women anyway.

  CHAPTER 52

  Faisal enjoyed being comfortable again and at home. Not large or fancy, but the place he wanted to be for a lifetime. Almas had become like a nurse, dressing his leg wound, now almost healed. He loved her and thought how they had planned to enjoy many more years in Zabuda with her and taking care of the orchard, the olive trees and the land, that ancient symbol of Palestine. It was a part of him. Like breathing. They can’t just jerk that away and expect him to survive. They didn’t seem to care. But he’s still here and fighting their takeover.

  But why was it so silent across the wall. He hadn’t heard any machines for a week now. What could be the reason? He couldn’t drive around through the checkpoint to find out. Perhaps when the doctor in Jenin puts him in a cast so he could walk with crutches he would be able to travel with Almas to the farm. But what will I find? And then Almas had answered the phone and said something about Jamal coming with another lawyer. Does he have any new information?

  ***

  Just after their noon dinner, Almas responded to a knock on the front door to find their lawyer Jamal with a tall, unsmiling Israeli. She welcomed both, inviting them in to join Faisal who lounged on the couch. After introductions and tea, Faisal expressed his pleasure at seeing Jamal again and silently wondered at the Israeli who spoke Hebrew and English only.

  The Palestinian lawyer addressed both Almas and Faisal. “I realize you don’t know why I called an hour ago to let you know we would be coming. And you need to know that our distinguished friend here, the honorable Uri Katsman, has agreed to help us. I’ll be translating for both of you.”

  “Yes, we were surprised, but pleased to see you again,” Almas replied. She looked at the Israeli. “We are grateful for any help you might bring. We’ve almost given up hope of being able to keep our orchard.”

  “I’ve explained your story to Mr. Katsman, so he knows what has happened to both you and your farm so far. Bringing him here is most unusual, but even more so because he is a member of the Knesset and in the Israeli cabinet as a Likud official, Minister of Internal Affairs.”

  Faisal suddenly sat up and his eyes grew wide. Uri smiled, nodding.

  Jamal continued. “The fact is there is only one way to appeal the decision of the military court to demolish your farm, and that is to petition the Supreme Court. And for that, the law now reads we would need an Israeli lawyer. Then we have the expense of finding and hiring a good one who would take our case as well as the fee to bring it to the court. Mr. Katsman has agreed to not only represent us without charge, but also to pay the Supreme Court fee. I’m going to let him explain.”

  Uri nodded to Faisal who stared at him, mouth open. Jamal translated his Hebrew into Arabic. “First, let me apologize for what our bulldozer did to you. I hope you have a full recovery. Jamal has told me your story, and before I question you directly, let me tell you mine.”

  He explained about his accident and their now mutual friends, Najid and Ashley who brought him back to life.

  “We had thought Ashley and Najid might like a trip anywhere in the world,” Uri said. “But no, they wanted me to help both families. So here I am with Jamal. I would like to hear your story directly so I can represent you in the Supreme Court.”

  “We don’t know how to thank you enough. But, sir, with your position, wouldn’t you be taking on some risk to help us?” Faisal inquired.

  “Perhaps. But nothing like the risk of a cardiac arrest.”

  That began a long interview of Faisal and Almas, who answered many questions. The two lawyers then drove around the wall through the checkpoint and back to the farm. The bulldozer remained in place with no one around and only one olive tree uprooted and lying on its side, an old one of many years, partially chopped up. Uri took pictures of everything—the road coming down from the settlement above, the machine, and the destroyed tree in the front edge of the orchard.

  CHAPTER 53

  Gilad woke up in his bleak barracks smelling of sweaty bodies and dreading the day. Back in Bethlehem, he had been relieved of commanding his small group of night raiders and now was attached to a bulldozer crew to guard the IDF soldiers as they carried out their orders. Watching the huge machines crumple a house while the family pleaded and stood aside in horror increasingly revolted him.

  He understood the sergeant in charge knew which houses in the outlying suburbs of Bethlehem were close to the settlements and needed to be taken and that his immediate boss had a list of those homes with demolition orders and the dates when they were written. But it was up to the sergeant to decide. Sometimes it became difficult to identify the correct house since very few had numbered addresses on the front.

  ***

  Gilad stood back watching with his rifle ready as the bulldozer advanced toward a small two-story house. A young woman with a hijab rushed out the front door between two planter boxes of geraniums, dragging her two young children behind her. She bent over, hands and arms outstretched.

  “Please, please!” she screamed. “Don’t do this. You have the wrong house. We have no demolition order. My husband is at work. My children—” she dissolved into tears, hands shaking. The children began to scream as the bulldozer chugged forward, clanking loudly. Gilad realized that the sergeant couldn’t hear her over the noise of the Caterpillar. He rushed forward to push the y
oung family out of the way, and then waved his arms wildly to stop the machine. His driver apparently didn’t see him—or chose not to notice. It kept going, reaching the front step and then the wall. The building came crashing down in a cloud of dust. The dozer climbed over the collapsed walls to reduce everything to a pile of rubble. He looked at the mother and children, weeping uncontrolled, with the mother lying on the ground shaking and pounding her fist on the small remaining flower garden.

  Gilad felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to shoot his fellow soldier who had backed off and calmly lit a cigarette. He tried to approach the mother and children, but the little ones screamed and huddled against her. He wanted to tell them how he felt, that he was so sorry for them and that he tried to stop the destruction. But he could see the fear and hate in the children’s eyes and thought better of approaching them. Soon the bulldozer backed around and headed down the street with Gilad following. It was time for lunch.

  While they sat eating and joking about their morning experiences, the soldiers finally stopped to listen to the sergeant in charge. He asked about each house. After describing the one Gilad and his operator just destroyed, the sergeant frowned. He looked at his papers and then checked the Google map.

  “You dozed the wrong house.” He laughed. “That was dumb. Now go back and get rid of the correct one. It’s two houses down the hill from the one you destroyed.”

  “C’mon, Gilad, finish your shawarma and let’s get it done,” his driver said.

  Gilad sat looking down at his untouched lunch. While his stomach churned with nausea his mind raced. I have to get out of this, now?

  Gilad sighed and followed his comrade out to the bulldozer and then plodded down the road carrying his rifle. He wanted to throw up. They found the correct house. This time an elderly couple came out waving their hands to stop. Gilad couldn’t watch and hung back on the road fingering his automatic rifle, listening to the clanking and squeaking monster advance against the cries of the couple about to lose their home. Then the familiar scraping sound and crash of the cinder block house as it came down with probably a lifetime of memories inside. How could these people be a threat to the Israeli government?

  He looked up to see the couple in tears, holding each other close. Where will they go? Some refugee camp?

  Something snapped inside his head. Now his decision was firm.

  ***

  The knock on the door startled Ashley as she and Najid cleared the table after their evening meal. He took charge of cleanup, insisting Ashley deserved to rest after cooking Palestinian dishes, mostly labor intensive. Eight-thirty and dark outside, their one-bedroom East Jerusalem apartment was up on the third floor above the owner’s family. They did not expect visitors. She hadn’t heard anything going on outside, but still they had to be alert to any threats by the IDF soldiers. Najid went to the door and opened it slightly to find a tall man in a dark shirt and pants with a baseball cap pulled down almost to his dark glasses.

  “Shalom, Najid.”

  Najid laughed. “I didn’t recognize you, Gilad, until you spoke.”

  “Good. It’s working.”

  “What’s working?”

  “My disguise. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “Of course, come in. You took me by surprise. Ashley will also be glad to see you.” Switching to English Najid called out to Ashley in the kitchen.

  “Welcome, Gilad,” she said approaching him. “What brings you here in such a state of dress?”

  “I need to talk to you, but didn’t want to run across any Israeli soldiers out in the street.”

  “So what’s on your mind?” Ashley inquired. “Please sit. Can I get you some tea or coffee?”

  “How about a beer if you have one?”

  Over his drink for the next half hour Gilad explained his distress at participating in the home demolitions that day, including destroying one by mistake. “I can’t do this anymore.” He sighed. “I’m not eating or sleeping much. I dream every night now about families with children losing their homes.” He stopped, head down. “I need to quit. Something has to change. I’m losing my humanity like some ogre, some evil thing. I’ve become a monster to children, including the one I took from your friends in Bethlehem.”

  “So how can you quit when you are ordered to get rid of a house?” Ashley asked.

  “I will just refuse to do it. Like your friend Chaim. He’s my model. He signed that letter of officers refusing to harm civilians. I’m going to do the same. I’ll write a letter to my commander using their language and tell him I refuse to do this anymore.”

  “So what will happen to you?”

  “Maybe they’ll put me in jail. They do that to some soldiers. Not always the conscientious objectors, the reservists who refuse to serve in the IDF, but the guys who are in the army already and will not obey orders. They call that insubordination.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Najid inquired.

  “Yes. I’d rather be imprisoned than do what I am doing now. At least I won’t be hurting civilians anymore. And I won’t lie awake every night agonizing over what I’ve done that day.”

  “How long would you be imprisoned?”

  “I’m not sure. But I didn’t ask to join the army. I had to go in for active duty like all of us reservists and put in my three years. And since I have one year left, I’m hoping that it would not be more than one year. But I’ll pay the price. I don’t care. I can’t continue what I’m told to do anymore. I used to excuse myself by saying I’m just obeying orders. But what we are doing to Palestinians is so bad.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help you?” Ashley asked.

  “Yes, and that is really why I came. Not about being a refusenik. That I’m clear about doing.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s about all the people and families I have hurt. I can see them in my mind, in fear and in hate for me. I regret what I have done. But I can’t go back and apologize or change anything or make it right. I can’t bring myself to tell you what I’ve done. It’s too awful.”

  “So what is your solution, Gilad?”

  “I don’t have one, except to break the silence with other soldiers like me when they get out, guys who are ashamed of what they’ve done. They tell some of the things in public.”

  “That will help.”

  “Yes, Ashley, but can I never get rid of that terrible guilt I feel all the time?”

  “You can ask God for forgiveness. He’s in the forgiving business. And then you can forgive yourself. You don’t have to carry that burden around the rest of your life.”

  “Have you done that? Or forgiven someone who has hurt you?”

  “Yes, Gilad, both. I experience God’s forgiveness every day. And I have forgiven the guy who nearly killed me in a jihadist bombing. He knows that, by the way, and forgiveness has begun to change his life even though he’s in prison.”

  “I don’t know about that God stuff. I’ve never been an observant Jew.”

  “Well, if you ever want to know we can talk about it. It has to do with your Messiah becoming your Passover lamb as the basis for God’s total forgiveness.”

  “That sounds wonderful but strange since I don’t know Jewish history about God. But I’ve taken enough of your time. It helps a lot to talk, so thanks. I’ll get back in touch with you when I can.”

  CHAPTER 54

  As they walked up to the Supreme Court building with its complex architecture symbolizing both past and recent Israeli history, Jamal smiled at being with a lawyer who commanded such respect among the movers and shakers of the country. Walking down the impressive stone halls with well-dressed people entering and leaving courtrooms, he appreciated the speed with which Uri had obtained a court hearing. It had taken less than a week to petition the court for a hearing, provide the briefs, and obtain a court date. Uri had assured him that since both Ali’s situation and the farm in Zabuda were straightforward and simple, they could expect quick decisions
, meaning days not months.

  The court had convened for a previous case in an ornate room with just three judges robed in black occupying high desks in front, one woman and two men. A court recorder occupied a table in front of and below the judges. Jamal followed Uri to a table for lawyers in front of a fence behind which were rows of spectators and several reporters for various media outlets.

  The president of the court presided. She along with her two male colleagues picked up Uri’s briefs as he and Jamal walked in and stood behind the table.

  After taking an oath to tell the truth, they sat to listen to the judge speaking in Hebrew.

  “It is a bit unusual, Mr. Katsman, to have a prominent Minister of Internal Affairs representing small Palestinian petitions,” the chief justice said. “But welcome to the court. Would you introduce your colleague?”

  “First, let me explain why I’m here with Mr. Jamal Mansur, a Palestinian colleague in Jerusalem.” He related briefly his cardiac arrest and resuscitation by a Palestinian and his American wife. “I owe them my life. I wouldn’t be alive but for them. These two families are friends of theirs, and as I insisted on doing something for the young couple their only choice was to ask me to represent them to you in petitioning for relief from the military court decisions. So here I am, unusual though it may be.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Katsman. The court has read your petitions regarding the imprisonment of the boy Ali Saleh and the demolition order for the Faisal and Almas Farhan farm. We have several questions for clarification from my colleagues.”

  The oldest of the three judges spoke first. “Mr. Katsman. We have two conflicting statements on whether Ali Saleh threw stones at our soldiers. The initial charge said he did, while the defendant denied doing so. Then later we have a written statement from an IDF soldier, Gilad, who admits he issued the original statement of the defendant’s guilt, which he then stated was false in a subsequent signed note. So which one are we to believe?”