My Promised Land: The Triumph and Tragedy of Israel

by Ari Shavit

  The orange grower, a native of Rehovot who had worked for years in other orange groves, was disciplined and particular. He saw that his trees were watered in a timely manner and fertilized judiciously. He made sure the pruning was spare and the weeding merciless. He sealed the well walls with cement, mounted a formidable diesel wheel pump atop the well, and built a large, open square pool to collect the water drawn from the well. He laid out a network of cement canals to carry the water and dug furrows in the sandy soil of the grove to receive the water from the canals. Around each Shamouti sapling he dug a wide sand bowl, so the trees would never want for water. Then he erected a modern rectangular packing house with square windows and a red tile roof, and he built a two-story turreted house for the Arab guardian of the grove. He positioned an impressively ornate iron gate at the entrance to the grove and then waited patiently for four years for the trees to bear fruit.

  In the spring of 1935, when the orange grove is about to bear fruit, so does Zionism. Now the liberation movement of the Jewish people is no longer the wild fantasy it had been when Herbert Bentwich rode by Rehovot in April 1897. Nor is it the Spartan revolutionary endeavor it had been in the Valley of Harod in September 1921. In 1935, Zionism does not demand superhuman effort and total sacrifice of its pioneers. It already has a middle class living a life of comfort and leisure. It has cities, towns, colonies, and villages. The Jewish population of Palestine now comprises more than a quarter of the overall population of Palestine, and every year the number of Jews in Palestine rises by more than ten percent. Jerusalem already has the Hebrew University, and Haifa has the Technion. Tel Aviv, now twenty-five years old, is a bustling mini-metropolis full of theaters, restaurants, cafés, and numerous publishing houses. Yes, there is much work to be done, and the task is still Herculean. But throughout the country the signs of success are palpable; the Zionist adventure is becoming a Zionist reality. Over the verdant orange groves of Rehovot the blue skies of spring seem to carry the promise of the future.

  There is a feeling not only of success but of justice. In the spring of 1935, Zionism is a just national movement. Two years after Germany chose Nazism, the need for a Jewish home becomes self-evident. Now one does not need Herzl’s prophetic genius or Tabenkin’s catastrophic inclinations to envision the future. Now any reasonable person can see that Europe is becoming a death trap for Jews; and it is also clear that America would not open its gates in time to save the persecuted Jews of Europe. Only a Jewish state in Palestine can save the lives of the millions who are about to die. In 1935, Zionist justice is an absolute universal justice that cannot be refuted.

  At this point in time the injustice caused to native Arabs by the Zionist project is still limited. It is true that tenant Palestinian farmers had already been uprooted from their land in the Harod Valley and in Rehovot and in dozens of other locations in Palestine. But the lives of those farmers under their Arab masters had in many cases been worse than their lives as the field hands of the Jewish colonizers. Most of them did not have a solid right of possession under their Arab masters, and when the Jews took over, many of them were compensated with cash or land. Moreover, while some Palestinians do suffer, many of them benefit considerably as Zionism advances. In Qubeibeh, Zarnuga, and the other Arab villages surrounding Rehovot, Jewish capital, Jewish technology, and Jewish medicine are a blessing to the native population, bringing progress to desperate Palestinian communities. So the Zionists of Rehovot can still believe that the clash between the two peoples is avoidable. They cannot yet anticipate the imminent, inevitable tragedy.

  The first season of the young orange grove is critical. The orange grower has to start up the formidable pump that draws water from the deep well. He has to clear out the irrigation canals into which unripe fruit has fallen in winter. He has to redig the furrows and bowls, and weed, clean, and dispose of dry thorny branches. He has to make sure that all was set for the first rains of summer.

  At the end of April 1935, disaster strikes in the form of a heat wave. On April 27, the mercury climbs to 35 degrees centigrade (95 degrees Fahrenheit). On April 30, it hits 38 degrees centigrade. For ten consecutive days, dry desert winds wreak havoc with the delicate white citrus blossoms. If action is not taken immediately, half of the orange crop would be lost and the citrus season of 1935–36 would be a bust. The first watering of the young Rehovot grove is therefore an act of emergency. The pump pulls the clear water to the pool, and from there the water travels down the open, cemented canals until it emerges from the circular openings of the clay grate into the sandy furrows. The Arab guardian, his pants hiked up to his knees, his bare feet covered in mud, guides the water with a hoe from tree to tree. He quickly traps the water by each tree with a tall mound of soil so that the trees would be able to withstand the deadly dry desert winds.

  The heat wave brings with it a sense of panic. More water is needed quickly. They must save what can be saved. The orange grower and the Arab guardian are joined by their families, who work beside them in the stifling heat. Still, in the midst of the panic they can hear the sounds of children’s gaiety, shouting in Hebrew and in Arabic, as they run to watch the gushing water. After the children lent their small hands to the great common effort, they steal away to the square pool and jump gleefully into its cool waters. While the adults are still struggling with the heat and with the sense of approaching calamity, the youngsters discover all that is forbidden, wondrous, and fun in this man-made Garden of Eden.

  After the heat wave subsides and the emergency watering effort is completed, in May, June, and July the children return time after time to the orange grove. They bathe in its pool, sail paper boats in its canals, and hide among the thickening trees. And toward the end of July they watch with dismay as long convoys of camels advance toward the grove from the distant south, jute sacks heavy with sheep dung. By the end of summer, Rehovot’s rich, fertile hamra soil gives rise to a fine Shamouti grove, with gleaming young oranges beginning to emerge on its branches.

  At the end of July 1935, Alfred Dreyfus dies. In mid-September 1935, Nazi Germany enforces the racist laws of Nuremberg. From a Zionist point of view there is a link between the two events. Dreyfus was the French Jewish army officer whose persecution made Herzl fear the nightmare that awaited the Jews of twentieth-century Europe. The racist laws of Nuremberg prove Herzl right. It is impossible to imagine that within a decade, millions of Jews would be gassed to death, yet in the summer of 1935 the Jews of Berlin are experiencing something they had not experienced in a hundred years—pogroms. The news reaching Rehovot in late summer leaves no room for doubt: the great avalanche had begun. European Jewry is about to be decimated.

  At the same time, the Jews of the Holy Land have a ball. In February 1935 the new triple-decked ship the Tel Aviv inaugurates the Haifa–Trieste line. Luxury cruises are the fashion of the season. In March 1935, the city of Tel Aviv hosts the Purim festival of Adloyada. For three days and nights, fifty thousand people celebrate raucously in the streets of the first Hebrew city. In April 1935, the second Maccabiah Games are held. Thirteen hundred and fifty Jewish athletes from twenty-eight countries participate in the games, parading their muscle power in front of tens of thousands. In May 1935, the numbers are out regarding the record-breaking citrus season of 1934–35. The new figures show that Palestine had exported over 7 million crates of oranges, grapefruits, and lemons compared with 5.5 million crates in the previous year. In June 1935, the film Land of Promise is being shot in the Promised Land. A formidable team of German cinematographers documents the pioneers performing wonders in the ancient land. In July 1935, elections are held to the Zionist Congress that convenes a month later in Lucerne, Switzerland. Both the elections and the congress prove that the Zionist movement is now a mature and powerful political body, run in an orderly, civilized, and democratic manner.

  The Rehovot of 1935 reflects well the overall Zionist success. When established in 1890, the colony had a population of only 280 people, yet by June 1935, 5,500 men
, women, and children live there. And Rehovot continues to grow. In the coming January it would have 6,500 inhabitants. By the following summer it would have 9,000 inhabitants. Doctors, scientists, agronomists, architects, engineers, and musicians fleeing Germany arrive almost daily in the rural colony. Gradually they are transforming it, endowing it with new dimensions of higher learning, sophistication, and culture. In June 1935, the first proper branch of the Anglo-Palestine Bank opens its elegant doors. The new, modern town hall, with a retractable roof, shows two movies a week and hosts a monthly concert. By now, Rehovot also has an icehouse, a small pharmaceutical plant, and a large citrus juice factory. It has an agricultural institute and a scientific institute and a sports field where the young play soccer, tennis, and handball. Rehovot is no longer only about agriculture. It has science, finance, industry, culture, and sports. Every new year is better than the previous one.

  Autumn is calm. Little by little, the people of Rehovot become aware of the full significance of the new laws that went into effect in Germany on September 15, 1935. More and more information is available regarding the thirty-seven German cities in which Jews had been assaulted. But in Palestine, weather is good. August is relatively cool, and so is September. In the early morning, heavy dew envelopes the grove. The orange grower is finally satisfied that the April heat scare is behind him. Now he has to lay down the narrow-gauge Decauville tracks that in a few months’ time would carry the flat Theresienstadt-manufactured Teresina railcars from the grove to the packing house. But there is no rush now. Autumn work is slow work. It is done with a deepening confidence in the orange grove and its future.

  As the orange grower sits on the terrace of his spacious Rehovot home in October 1935, he can hear the quiet ticking of the water pump in the distance as he leafs through the local weekly. The journal is bursting with illustrated ads for Ford cars and Westinghouse refrigerators and RCA radios and Maxwell House coffee and Cadbury chocolates. He is happy to notice an article about the advertising campaign launched in Britain this week for the Jaffa orange. He is pleased to read that British cinema houses and department stores now promote the Jaffa orange. It is clear that in the British market, the Jaffa orange is ahead of its Spanish and South African and Californian competitors. When the orange grower finishes reading the paper and closes his eyes to relax in his rocking chair on his terrace, he can hear the ticking of the pump working in the orange grove. No sound in the world is as sweet as the reassuring sound of the pump’s continuous ticking. It is the sound of quiet and peace and plenty. It is the sound of the rest that comes at the end of a trying journey. For eighteen hundred years the Jews had never had it so good. For eighteen hundred years the Jews had not lived on their own land with such security, such abundance, such a deep sense of calm.

  Yet all around Rehovot is the disquieting question of the Arabs. The orange grower is a Sabra, a native of Palestine, who knows the Arabs, their tongue, and their ways. He believes that the trick with the Arabs was to honor and be honored, to give respect and demand respect. As an experienced plantation owner he thinks he knows when one must be firm and when one must be courteous and generous. So when the villagers of Qubeibeh and Zarnuga arrive for work at the orange grove at dawn, the orange grower is very strict. He puts them in line and checks them one by one to see that their hands are not dirty so they would not spread filth among his fine trees. And he checks them to see that they had clipped their nails so that they wouldn’t scratch the precious fruit. When one of the villagers is suspected of stealing a donkey, the orange grower does not disgrace the man in public but goes discreetly to the village elder, with the result that the donkey is quietly returned. When one of the villagers gets into trouble with the police, the orange grower bails him out. He provides medical and financial assistance. The Arab villagers working in the grove respect the orange grower. They admire his knowledge, they appreciate his fairness, they dread his master’s authority. They regard him as serfs regard a benevolent feudal lord. At the same time, the orange grower sees his Arabs as any plantation owner on any colonial estate views his native workers. He understands that his workers are the very best: strong, resilient, and disciplined. They are committed to their work and devoted to their master. And yet the orange grower knows that one day, one day.

  One Arab is different from the others: Abed. Abed is the guardian of the orange grove. He is totally loyal and enjoys the owner’s total trust. This is why he was permitted to live in the orange grove with his slim, tall wife and strapping sons and beautiful young daughter. When the orange grower is away, Abed is in charge. He is the one who starts the formidable pump in the frosty mornings, the one who walks the grounds when they are still covered with dew. He waters in summer and fertilizes in autumn and scrubs the packing house as winter approaches. In a knitted white cap, billowing Oriental pantaloons, and proud black mustache he rules over his fellow workers with a stern dignity. Being even more particular than his particular boss, he sees to it that all is in good order and that the orange grove is meticulously maintained.

  Like many of the other workers, Abed had been born and raised in neighboring Zarnuga, which contributes nearly half of Rehovot’s workforce. The orange grower is deeply involved with the village. He is well aware of a recent trend: over the last ten years, Zarnuga’s population has doubled to 2,400 residents. Over the last five years its orange groves have doubled in size to 2,555 dunams. Real estate prices have soared tenfold in a decade. Just like Rehovot, Zarnuga is galloping ahead. Because so many of Zarnuga’s inhabitants work in Rehovot and spend much of their time there, they learn a lot from Rehovot. They can now drive tractors and operate well pumps and manage modern orange groves. They build modern stone houses that resemble more and more the houses of Rehovot. In Rehovot they buy Western-style jackets, Western-style furniture, pots and pans, cattle, canned goods, medicine, and baby food. So in the autumn of 1935, the orange grower can conclude that the Arab issue is not an issue. The Arabs working in the orange grove are not an issue. And Abed and his family are definitely not an issue. Even the neighboring village of Zarnuga is not an issue. As Rehovot grows, Zarnuga grows. As Rehovot prospers, Zarnuga prospers, too. When the workers from Zarnuga arrive at the gate of the orange grove each morning, it seems that all is well. And when dozens of youngsters from Zarnuga ride into Rehovot on their bicycles each day, it seems that all would be well. There is no reason to believe that Jew and Arab could not live here together in peace. No reason to believe that one day Zarnuga will cease to be and the people of Zarnuga will be gone and loyal Abed and his family will be driven out of the Rehovot paradise.

  But in the far north, a great distance from the orange grove, other voices are beginning to be heard. There is nothing concrete yet, certainly nothing the orange grower could make out from his tidy terrace, but an underground movement that had begun to form years earlier is about to surface.

  Izz Abd al-Kader Mustafa Yusuf ad-Din al-Kassam was born in West Syria in 1882. He studied Islam in Cairo, returned to Damascus, and became a fundamentalist revolutionary. From 1918 to 1920 he led a national-religious revolt against the French rule in Syria. After the revolt was crushed, he fled to the northern seaside town of Haifa, worked as a teacher, and became the preacher of the mosque of Istiklal. His charisma, his perceived Arab patriotism, and his devotion to the Arab poor turned him quickly into a local hero. Unlike the spoiled and corrupt Palestinian leaders, he was a man of the people, committed to the people, and loved by the people. Al-Kassam was no hypocrite. He created a compelling synthesis between jihad and the war on illiteracy and ignorance. He offered both religious radicalism and social radicalism. Like the socialist Zionists, he aimed to transform his society from within and without. He promoted a revolution that would have national, political, spiritual, and economic dimensions.

  In 1925 al-Kassam forged a five-phase plan: preparing the minds for revolution; establishing clandestine revolutionary cells; assembling arms, money, and intelligence; killing Jews; and launching
an overall armed struggle. By 1930 the plan was implemented and a web of secretive cells formed in northern Palestine. Each cell had five members committed to Islam, to secrecy, and to the war against Jews. At night al-Kassam trained his men in the quarries on the slopes of Mount Carmel, overlooking Haifa. He preached religion, morality, rifles, and homemade bombs. In April 1931, al-Kassam’s followers killed three kibbutz members returning from the fields on a hay cart. In January 1932, they killed a farmer at his door. In March 1932, they murdered another farmer. In December 1932, they killed a farmer and his eight-year-old son by throwing a bomb into their home in the Valley of Yizrael.

  When the police went after them, the clandestine cells went deep underground. Their leader continued to tell them that jihad was the way, that Jewish immigration was stealing Palestine from the Palestinians, that every Jewish immigrant was an enemy. But the time had not yet come. They had to be patient. They had to practice, prepare, wait for a sign.

  On October 18, 1935, as the orange grower was preparing for his first harvest, a shipment of Belgian cement barrels arrived at the port of Jaffa. One of the barrels fell and broke, and out rolled thousands of rifle bullets. There was panic in the harbor: it was clear that the illegal ammunition was headed for the illicit Jewish defense organization, the Haganah. Within hours there was panic throughout the country. Now Palestinians felt that not only was Jewish immigration a threat but so was Jewish military buildup. After a general strike was called, al-Kassam decided the day had come for action. Some eighty miles north of the Rehovot orange grove he gave his last speech. “I taught you religion and I taught you nationhood,” he said to his followers. “Now it’s your duty to carry out jihad. Ho, Islamists, go out on jihad.”