by Mark Thomas
I know, I know, I could have gone to Cumbria or got a train to Brighton and bounced along the wonderful chalk of the South Downs, but these places are well hiked and everyone expects the Lake District to be beautiful. Which is why it is so fucking dull. Anyone with any taste knows that predictability is the woodworm of joy. And joy was what I was after. The joy unlike any other in finding a good walk, is genuine bliss. It comes from a combination of the landscape, the route, the company and exposure to the elements that stays on the right side of exposure. Most of all, what makes a ‘perfect walk’ is losing yourself in a sense of freedom. The West Bank might be the last place a London comic might look for joy, but I was sure I would find it there. And I wondered if it was possible to have a ‘perfect walk’ along the Barrier? I also wondered if I was turning into a knob.
To organise the logistics of the trip, I assembled a team of people to work with me. First and foremost there would be a schedule. Inevitably a walk like this involves a huge amount of improvising, but I needed to know where I would need to be at the end of each day. If I didn’t have a schedule and keep to it, I would run out of time and money and if I didn’t reach the end of the Wall, nothing of the walk would count. ‘Walking the Wall’ means just that.
My long-term researcher, Susan McNicholas, would coordinate the entire ramble. ‘First you need to go to Jerusalem for a few days and talk to people, and see if they think the walk is possible,’ she had said.
Which is what I did. I talked to people at the UN, lawyers, Israeli and Palestinian campaigning groups opposed to the Wall, and Israeli and Palestinian fixers – journalists with good local knowledge and contacts who could help arrange interviews and meetings. Together we worked out the shopping list of things I would need. Firstly, translators – I speak very little Arabic and the nearest I have to any Hebrew is a smattering of north London Yiddish slang: enough to know the difference between a schmeckel and a schmairel but no more. Then there were the questions of where to stay, what places to avoid and who to try and interview.
Jamal Juma is the coordinator of a grassroots group called Stop the Wall, and he offered to help find translators and places to stay for the first part of the walk on the Palestinian side. Some of the time we would be staying in villages along the route, and some of the time staying ‘off the Wall’, in guest houses. This would sometimes mean getting a taxi in the morning and driving to the place I had finished walking the night before, picking up the route and starting again from there.
My Israeli fixer was a woman called Nava Mizrahi, an award-winning ex-journalist who now works with foreign film crews, sorting out interviews and logistical problems. She was brilliantly blunt: ‘I have never worked on a book before,’ she said. ‘But I am willing to try and make this work because I think you need someone to help you here. [And] If you only walk with the Palestinian activists then you will do the walk, yes, but you will miss a lot of what is going on.’
The final person was Phil Stebbing, a cameraman who came to film the walk. He had just finished covering the election campaign in Afghanistan, and was another award winner, although you wouldn’t have thought it to look at him. He looked like a retired drug dealer with a penchant for not shaving, and the remnants of a Mohican. Half the reason I took him with me was so that if we got stopped and strip-searched, they’d go to him first. I could tell you the things I like about him but we have a whole book ahead of us and that can wait.
Pooling our knowledge, we concluded that the best way to do the ramble and the interviews, and keep our families and bank accounts happy, was to split the walk into three rambles, each lasting eighteen days, returning to England in between them. The first ramble would start in the north-east, the second would finish in Jerusalem and the third would hopefully take me south of Hebron to the finish point at Beit Yatir.
With these rudimentary preparations done, the ramble was ready to commence. Any journey of this type is a quest for knowledge, which by its very nature is predicated upon a certain degree of ignorance. And so, fully equipped, I set off for the West Bank.
______
* ‘Legal Consequences of the Construction of a Wall in the Occupied Palestinian Territory’
PART ONE
THE FIRST RAMBLE
ONE OF MANY REASONS FOR THE FENCE
Sdei Trumot, an Israeli village just north of the West Bank. It has an air of suburban calm, or at least it would have but for the highway that runs through it. The homes have red-tiled roofs, high spreading palm trees in their gardens and hedgerows you could balance a spirit level on, but there is also an intermittent background din of someone driving somewhere else.
One of the buildings by the highway is the grocer’s: a long, single-storey affair with a front and side porch giving it the appearance of a homely warehouse. The words ‘car park’ would be too formal a description for the arrangement here; nonetheless, drivers can pull over, get coffee and pastries, and take a seat on the porch under flapping plastic bunting.
The porch has room enough for a serving hatch, a couple of tables and a public toilet. Between the porch and the highway lies a tiny flower bed, sprouting shrubs, cactus and a couple of small, long-leafed cordylines. The plants share the space with some fading hoardings advertising eggs, cheese and milk, amidst the more recognisable symbols of Nestlé and Coca-Cola. Throw in some telegraph poles and a spiky palm, and it’s just another piece of roadside clutter you’d drive past in an instant, a second’s worth of blurred view out of a side window.
In the middle of this clutter is a white stone about a metre and a half tall; it sits by a young pine. Few people would select this spot, opposite the toilet door, for a memorial stone but this is the spot that marks where Avner Mordechai was killed by a suicide bomber seven years ago. He was fifty-eight.
Dror is Avner’s son, and he runs the grocery shop on his own now. This morning he was up early, making the pastries that sit on the porch table, collecting flies as we chat.
‘It is the time of year for flies; most of the year it is fine, but not now,’ he says, as he shoos a small cloud off the pain au chocolat. Dror passes a photo I had seen earlier hanging inside the shop; a picture of his father taken at a family occasion.
‘My father was murdered in 2003.’
‘He looks the epitome of a hard-working man,’ I say, looking at the tired eyes of a man dressed in a suit that looks like it didn’t get worn that often.
‘He lived and worked here in this area since 1954. Where we are sitting is where he was blown out …’
The police believed the suicide bomber might have been waiting for more people to congregate at the bus stop opposite. It is understandable conjecture as, eight days earlier, a suicide bomber had killed seventeen people and wounded one hundred in an attack on the number 14A bus in Jaffa Road, in the centre of Jerusalem. However, regardless of what the bomber may have intended to do, what he had done was to detonate himself inside the store at 6.15 a.m. on 19 June 2003, killing Avner and destroying the shop completely.
Dror describes what greeted him as he came into work that morning: ‘I saw the crowd of people and the smoke. I was not allowed past the police line in case there was a second bomb. I felt scared. I didn’t know if my father was alive or dead.’ Dror was following the ambulance carrying his father to hospital when he heard on the radio that he had died.
When most Israelis are asked about the Barrier they give one answer – it is for security. For them the Barrier is a necessary evil, put up precisely because of what was happening to people like Avner. His death happened at the height of the Palestinian uprising, the Second Intifada, and 2003 saw twenty-five bomb attacks in Israel, which killed 142 people (figures that showed a decline from the previous year, when 220 died). The suicide bombs were detonated in hotels, shops, restaurants, ice cream parlours and a bar mitzvah but the most likely targets for these attacks were buses, bus stops and stations.
This is why Israelis call the Barrier the ‘Security Fence’. And most Israelis thin
k it has worked; since the Barrier went up, suicide bombings have stopped.
But Dror expresses a curious lack of certainty when I ask if the Barrier makes Israel more secure. ‘The Fence is a border. Two countries, two people, and the Fence divides the two people.’
Before the shop, Dror’s father was a farmer, eating, drinking and working with Palestinians, ‘but the good relations we had with them before is over now. This attack made me frightened, scared for the future of the country.’
‘Would the Fence have made it safer for your father?’
‘If the Fence existed, then 50–50 … If they want to come to make an explosion they come; the Fence will make it harder but they will find a way.’
As we continue to speak, Dror gets up and shows me around the outside of the store. After the bombing, he set to, rebuilding the shop straight away. ‘I am the only son in the family and it took time for the state to help, and so I needed to get back to work to support everyone: wife, family, mother …’
‘When did you put the marker stone here?’
‘After we finished building, we put the stone there. It reads: “In memory of Avner Mordechai, killed by terrorists 19/6/2003”.’
‘Would you mind if I took a photo of you standing next to your father’s stone?’ I ask.
‘OK.’ He shrugs and places a hand on the stone. I realise that what I like about Dror is that he doesn’t have any profound words to offer the world. His experience has not led him to make great announcements on dignity or reconciliation or revenge; nor does he have to – he has a family to support. There is a hint of sadness to him but, in truth, it is outweighed by tiredness.
chapter 1
AS I WALKED OUT
Walking to the edge of the flat roof, I stand, legs apart, hands on hips, looking through the hazy winter sunlight and to the distant hills. Two men, Palestinians, are standing behind me and together we survey the route we are to take. Slowly, I raise my arm and point to a spot on the horizon.
‘There,’ I declare with all the gravitas of an Old Testament prophet. ‘That is where we start our walk.’
‘Where?’ enquires a man called Fadhi, with a voice that sounds as if he is squinting.
‘There, where my finger points. That is where we will start.’
The wind blows lightly, and high, high above a black bird circles. Then a voice from behind says, ‘But that is Jordan.’
Fadhi pauses with the natural timing of man who has spoken at many meetings before he diplomatically suggests, ‘You can start in Jordan if you want, but it will take some time to arrange …’
The bird circles closer and I remain still, facing the hills, looking out to the valley and say one word. ‘Ish …’
‘I am sorry?’ says Fadhi.
I wobble my pointing finger, as if I’d always intended to be vague. ‘There … ish is where we will start.’
Fadhi is the Jordan Valley coordinator for the umbrella organisation Stop the Wall, who have agreed to help with translators and guides. He joins me in pointing and declaiming. ‘That is the no-man’s land, the border, we shall walk up to there … and see,’ he says, leaving the final words hanging in the air, surrounded by possibilities.
Jacob, the second Palestinian on the roof and our translator for the day, smokes and smiles.
‘Jacob farms this land,’ says Fadhi, ‘so he will be able to take you westward, right up to the Wall. What can the soldiers do? Tell him not to farm? We will see.’
The two of them debate where to start the walk, but I am distracted. From up here, the Barrier is some 400 metres in front of us, and it appears as a rather dull-looking, long fence, stretching across a plain before disappearing into the wonderfully crumpled geography of the Jordan river valley and the hills beyond.
The mundanity of this first impression of the Barrier is confounding. A line of wire mesh doesn’t fit into the image of ‘The Wall’; from my visual lexicon of walls that carve through countries, I expected romantic martyrdom, a dash of Expressionism, a nod at George Orwell and the odd soundtrack of David Bowie songs recorded in Berlin. I expected the Barrier itself to be more dramatic, more epic, perhaps. The last thing I expected was a long mesh fence in a flat muddy field. I am about to spend eight weeks walking alongside this Barrier and will come to see it dominate the land in the most dramatic ways but for now this could be Runcorn on the outskirts of an industrial estate, guarded by a sixty-year-old bloke with a dog and a Portakabin that smells of rolling tobacco and messy divorce.
This first day of any journey is full of emotions, but I wasn’t expecting disappointment to be one of them. I just don’t think I envisaged myself saying, ‘Well, it doesn’t look very oppressive.’ But one thing is sure: if the view from the roof is anything to go by, the walking should be easy. A nice flat plain, with no major rivers, mountains or fjords that we can see; just flat farming land, a slight incline and a main road to cross about halfway through. There are a few clouds in the sky but these are wispy specks that quickly get blown across to Jordan. The going appears to get a little hilly towards the end, but it doesn’t look hard. This is what you need on the first day: no big climbs, no real prospect of rain; no surprises.
*
Twenty minutes later I get a familiar feeling of worry and excitement as we cross the fields towards no-man’s land. Phil the cameraman, Jacob, Fadhi and I are trudging directly towards a mass of barbed wire covered in red signs. The writing on them is indecipherable at this distance, but red signs on barbed wire rarely say, ‘St Luke’s Church Fête this Saturday’; they’re generally more likely to read: ‘Blah blah Do not blah blah own risk blah blah death.’ (Later it transpires I am virtually fluent in red signs.)
Phil the cameraman is a good judge of the mood and his eyebrows signal his emotional well-being. They are currently half-raised, set to ‘Caution’.
‘Is it OK to be here?’ I ask Fadhi.
‘No,’ Fadhi says calmly. ‘We are not allowed.’
‘Not allowed,’ I repeat dully, as we keep walking.
‘Not allowed to be even here.’
But still we keep on towards the wire, doing the very thing we are not allowed to do.
‘Is it safe, though?’
Fadhi shrugs.
‘What will the authorities do if they find us here?’ I ask.
Fadhi mimes bringing a gun to his shoulder.
‘We might get shot?’
‘Perhaps,’ he says, cheerfully. ‘Who knows? … We shall see.’
It is hard to tell how serious he is because it sounds as if he is making a political point rather than expressing a genuine possibility. Phil’s eyebrows are now at DEFCON 1.
Fadhi continues: ‘If the soldiers ask you what you are doing, you must tell them you are writing a book about birds and flowers.’
‘Well, there might be a mention of birds and flowers, I suppose …’
‘Do not mention anything else. Birds and flowers, that is all. Do not tell them the truth.’
‘OK.’
‘If you want to walk the Wall, you have to be a very good liar.’ And with that Fadhi departs, leaving Phil, Jacob and me next to the barbed wire and the Barrier.
Standing in the corner of the field, we are exactly where we want to be. We about-turn and start walking.
We have begun. The walk to Jacob’s farm is a relatively short and simple one, but we’re distracted ten minutes in by the whining hum of an armoured vehicle on the Israeli side of the Barrier. It stops, sitting squatly behind the wire. Then it sounds a siren, an electronic honking sound, a warning squawk. It is an odd noise this whoop: a mixture of draconian disco and electro camp, but it saves the soldiers from having to get out of the vehicle and shout, ‘Fuck off’ in Hebrew, Arabic and English. It works, too, as we all are startled by it and possibly a little embarrassed by that.
‘We should move further from the Wall,’ says Jacob.
‘Is that what the noise meant?’
‘They do not want us so near.’
<
br /> Jacob smiles, but I am slightly nervous. The path twists away from the wire, onto the farm’s dust tracks for a while, and the military departs. Ditches run by these tracks as we leave the Barrier behind us, crowded with the burnt stalks of reeds, their short, charred stems leaving black lines of soot on our trouser legs as we brush past. We circle around an Israeli settler farm3 planted with tall, date palm trees; cut through a grove of short trees where grapefruit-like pomelo fruit hang unripe and low; turn up a stony track and in front of us, once again, is the Barrier.
‘When do we get to your farm?’ I ask Jacob, as we stop for some water.
‘You are on it.’ Jacob grins, spreading his arms open then laughing his throaty laugh. His looks are rakish, his chin chiselled, his hair swept back; his natty roll-neck jumper, however, is tattered and frayed, but you can’t have everything: if Edward Fox was a Palestinian farmer, Jacob would give him a run for his money.
Right alongside the Barrier’s barbed wire is an old blue tractor, parked sideways on an incline.
‘Is this yours?’
‘Yes,’ he says, cocking his head playfully.
Hell, I think, even his parking is rakish.
Jacob’s rented farm stretches out over forty-five dunam (just over eleven acres) and slopes right up to the Barrier. His fields are covered in thin straight lines of plastic wrapping, under which plant life vies for space: leaves push out from under the edges and the tears in the material which reveal squashes, their stems twisting to fruition. He leads us across his land, past his greenhouses, calling out the names of vegetables and pointing: ‘Aubergine … cucumber … beans …’ until we reach the very edge of the Barrier, where he tells us, ‘Here we can walk right by the Wall.’