Kingdom of Olives and Ash

by Michael Chabon

  Ballerina pumps. The route Nour took at night on her way back from an evening out in the nearby hills, like a mountain goat, her black ballerina pumps springing through the darkness, is consistent with the logic of detours and dodging. A parallel network of movement is reactivated, occupying the forgotten interstices at the back of the houses and the breaches in the walls, devising a leafy, crowded, backstage world where one slips along more than one walks, where one climbs up, leaps from one wall to another, one roof to another, where one cuts across the fields. This “circumventory resistance” denotes both the stranglehold of the occupation on the territory and the vitality of the Palestinians who live there.

  Brothers. Marwan, the elder brother, comes home around midnight. He arrives wearing a sweatsuit in the colors of the Hebron football team for whom he is a professional player, kisses his parents, shakes my hand, and goes straight to bed, worn out by training. I can feel the parents starting to relax. Later, in the girls’ room, lying on a little bed between Nour and Aisha, I hear the other brother, Hafez, arrive, the mother’s voice, and then the little band of light beneath the door goes out. Everyone is at home now, the house is still, the parents are sleeping. Hafez’s arrest in the fall of 2015 by Israeli soldiers looking for the perpetrator of a knife attack on a Jewish settler has taken its toll, even though the young man was ultimately freed without even having to pay a fine, a thing sufficiently rare that Nour mentions it to me several times. The young girl recounts this episode in simple terms, subtly hints at the misery that reigned in the household at that time, the uncertainty and the anguish.

  Smartphone. Nour’s face is illuminated in the dark by the bluish screen of her cell phone. Her fingers fly across the keypad, her eyes shining. I wonder if she is in love. I wonder if she would like to go away, to leave H2, this girl who has already traveled around Italy and Ireland, who said to me: You can go where you want in the West Bank, and me, I just can’t move freely in my own country. Then, laughing: Please, take me in your bag if you go to Gaza! Later on, when I wake up, a moonbeam shines across the bedroom and I watch her sleeping on her back, like one who does not fear the night, sovereign, her long, thick lashes absolutely still, while her little sister shifts on her stomach, wriggling, talking in her sleep, a kitten.

  Morning. In the morning, the house fills with the voices and noises of a family. Fatima, the mother, got up at five a.m. to pray, prepared the coffee, spread out sheets of newspaper on the living room rug where the breakfast foods are laid out—a cup of olive oil, pitas, tomatoes, olives, labneh, and those hard-boiled eggs she shells at high speed and hands to each of us in turn. She warns me there is no water to wash this morning. We will have to wait. Nour is kneeling on her bed, putting on her eyeliner in front of the mirror as she mutters imprecations against Aisha, buzz off. I meet Hafez, Nour’s younger brother, the one who wants to be a veterinarian and who describes to me at length the horses he saw last week in a paddock to the south of the city, in the same precise and slightly drawling English as his sister. Same long lashes too.

  Little bicycle. The house is cool but already the sun is beating down. Outside, Aisha twists and swerves around the house. The holidays have begun, she’s keeping herself occupied. With a wave of her hand she shows me which way her school is, in Tel Rumeida, she goes on foot, she too makes a little path across the hill and passes in front of the settlers’ houses. She has always lived in this hostile neighborhood. I look at her. She is on a bicycle cycling backward and forward on the kind of cement sidewalk in front of the house, both—the bicycle and the track—far too small, far too narrow for this lively little girl who is already big, always moving, and the scene is made all the more upsetting because it would be unimaginable for this girl to go for a ride in the street—Aisha is a child of H2.

  Home. Nour’s family, which used to live in the other part of the city, moved to Tel Rumeida in 2003. An uncle let her father know that his house would soon be vacant and asked him to come live in it. It was the opposite of the usual journey made by Palestinian families in the area who, weary of living in H2, leave the zone and move to H1, abandoning empty houses, shops, and offices, which are coveted by the settlers, who often waste no time in squatting in them. I wonder what discussions this decision may have provoked between the parents, who already had four young children at the time and a fifth on the way. I imagine their hesitation, given the danger, the periods of strict confinement during the intifada, the perpetual difficulties of daily life in occupied territory: gas and water are supplied to the Palestinian houses in H2 by the services of the Palestinian Authority, and to deliver to the houses the trucks use designated corridors lined with security fences, the access to which is strictly controlled by the Israeli army. All the same, they were knowingly taking a risk, a leap in the dark. I talk to Nour about it, and she shakes her head and simply says that the hardest thing for her mother was to leave her family, who still live in the town of Halhul, north of Hebron. But that her parents did what had to be done—her little chin quivers.

  Occupation. The old Palestinian neighborhood of Tel Rumeida, to the west of Hebron and to the southwest of the Casbah of Shuhada Street, has since 1984 been the location of an Israeli settlement, Admot Yishai, composed of around ten families. The property rights to the land and the houses lie, here as elsewhere, at the heart of a violent conflict between the two communities. These lands and these dwellings, which are farmed or owned by old Palestinian families, are the subject of claims by the settlers, who argue a prior Jewish presence based on archaeology: Tel Rumeida is also the oldest site in Hebron. Or else they base their claim on title deeds—in reality ninety-nine-year leases—acquired in 1811 by a rabbi of Egyptian origin with whom the current settlers share no family ties whatsoever.

  Desert and tomb. I am sitting in front of a souvenir shop, a few meters away from the checkpoint that controls the ascent to the Cave of the Patriarchs, in the Old Town. It is deserted here. There is no one in the streets, no one in the square, except for the soldiers on guard duty, two or three boys hanging around, a few old Arab men drinking tea beside me, a small group of tourists who have emerged from a white van with its curtains drawn, and a pair of girls with rucksacks who are sipping freshly squeezed orange juice. The sun is blazing, not a cloud in the sky. On the other side of the road, a Palestinian family—a couple with their three children—is waiting in the shade beneath a tree, while their papers are inspected in the armored hut that serves as a checkpoint. There is a feeling of emptiness made all the more paradoxical by the fact that the Cave of the Patriarchs is an important place for both Judaism and Islam. According to religious tradition, major biblical figures are buried here in the Cave of Machpelah—Abraham and his wife Sarah, but also his son Isaac, and Rebecca, as well as his grandson Jacob, and Leah—and it is the second-holiest place of Islam in Palestine, after the Temple Mount/the Noble Sanctuary of Jerusalem. Hordes of pilgrims should be thronging here. I wonder where the inhabitants are, where the life has gone.

  Cohabitation. The Muslims and the Jews—the latter always forming a small minority community—lived together in Hebron for four centuries under Ottoman rule (1517–1917), and then under the British Mandate (1917–1947). This cohabitation experienced violent incidents, and broke down in 1929, when sixty-seven Jews were massacred by Palestinians who also ransacked their houses. The Jews fled the town or were “moved on.” The memory of this killing is omnipresent in H2, commemorated by numerous street signs. In 1949 Hebron came under Jordanian control and the Jews were no longer allowed to visit the Cave of the Patriarchs. Their “return” to the heart of Hebron began in 1968 and became effective in 1979 when a group of women left the settlement of Kiryat Arba, walked toward the Old Town, entered the Beit Hadassah building, which had previously been a Jewish hospital, and moved in. Hebron became the only town in the West Bank whose historical center was occupied by Jewish settlers, protected by the IDF. Since February 1994 and the massacre of twenty-nine Muslims by a Jewish extremist from Brookly
n, Baruch Goldstein, a long-term resident of Kiryat Arba, the Cave of the Patriarchs, already under Israeli army control, was split into two and access strictly controlled. Moreover, when I get up to go, the Palestinian family is still waiting beneath the tree, in silence.

  Ghost town. Further on, Shuhada Street is quiet, our footsteps echo, the atmosphere is leaden. What was once one of the most lively shopping streets in the town, rows of shops squeezed together leading to the different traditional markets—meat, vegetables, fruit—is now a ghost road. In a cruelly ironic twist, the 1994 massacre resulted in an intensification of the military occupation. The security perimeter around the settlements in the center of town was widened, the pressure on the Palestinians increased with systematic inspections and searches, and the vicious cycle was set in motion whereby the shops close—over 1,800 businesses in the area are said to have shuttered—and the houses are abandoned to the settlers’ attempts at appropriation. By “sterilizing” Shuhada Street, the settlers are working to connect the different settlements together and to create a secure corridor between the settlements and the Cave of the Patriarchs. I walk past the closed shops, their metal double doors sealed shut, their celadon-green awnings eaten away by rust, their shutters down: it is dead here.

  Cages. The windows of the houses along Shuhada Street, like those of many homes in Tel Rumeida, are covered by iron grilles that turn the houses into cages. Seeing my gaze linger on the grim facades, Nour remarks laconically: The gratings are there to protect the inhabitants from the stones the settlers throw at us, there are some at my house as well, did you see? The settler houses are located just behind and slightly above her own, scarcely a few meters away. The settlers have sometimes thrown dirty water or garbage. These incidents are indicative of the reality of living in a neighborhood filled with hatred, bound in a strange intimacy: the everyday noises, the shouts of the children, the dog barking, the conversations in the courtyard, you can hear all of it, and the insults too.

  Sandals and boots. Today, Saturday, Nour doesn’t have class at university but we are heading into H1 all the same, to the other part of the city to attend a meeting of the association founded by the young girl and her friends, Hope for Children in Palestine. I would also like to take the opportunity to buy a pair of sandals because my own are worn out. Nour laughs, perfect timing, this town is actually famous for its shoes, this is where the boots for the Israeli army were made, did you know that?

  The Michelin men. On this part of the road leading down to the checkpoint, only settler vehicles are allowed, while the Palestinians must travel on foot. From the bottom of the slope two soldiers on guard duty watch us coming, Michelin men with pale, youthful faces squashed by their helmets, bodies trussed, assault rifles held with both hands. Nour walks by without looking at them, but she tells me: It’s ok, those ones aren’t too bad. Oh really? Do you know them? She nods, then adds: Each change of unit is an important time for us, the commander’s personality, their leadership style, has an impact on life here. She goes on: At the moment the soldiers are from the Nahal Brigade, they behave well, are fairly polite—respectful—they don’t even shout!—I catch that phrase. The ones before were much less polite, and the ones before them were terrible, their commander was a manipulator whose behavior was constantly changing, he could be violent, shout, shoot using real bullets and then tell us with a smile, okay, it’s open, you can go through now.

  Intimacy. In Hebron, around 650 soldiers are responsible for the security of some 800 settlers who have come to live in the heart of the city. The soldiers are young, called up between eighteen and twenty years of age for military service lasting three years for the boys and two for the girls. They rarely stay more than three or four months in the same posting in Hebron, as elsewhere, which prevents any relationship from forming with the Palestinians. When, nevertheless, a relationship does develop, it is established on the basis of inspecting and being inspected. In the end you know the faces and you know the names. Domination assumes a human face here: the army is not a nebulous power, a powerful and anonymous armed force imposing its laws, it is this young man here, nervous, sweating uncontrollably in his army jacket, it is that one there, who decided this morning to take his time, or even that one, who dares to ask Nour if she has a boyfriend. The soldiers end up knowing who are brothers, cousins, friends, which ones are students, who works and at what times. The Palestinians also end up identifying the ones who follow instructions to the letter, those who humiliate them, those who answer their questions, those you shouldn’t antagonize. It is the intimate side of the occupation.

  Pressure point. Checkpoint 56 is a major transit point between H1 and H2. The inhabitants of Tel Rumeida cross it every day to go to work, to seek medical care, to visit people or to go shopping—apart from a tiny minimart near the Jewish cemetery, there’s nothing in the neighborhood. In concrete terms, it is a border post set up across an alley and overlooked by a lookout post, while at ground level the area is divided into two lanes. The first, which you take to leave H2, is a simple turnstile door like those found at the exit to the Paris metro. The second, which you take to enter H2, is an entirely different prospect. There is a first holding area, a glass-enclosed counter behind which a soldier inspects the papers—in other words, they call an office to give them an ID number, which is verified with another service, then yet another, before the answer makes its way back the other direction. There is a baggage scanner, onto which you place your bag like the ones you find at the security check in an airport or at the entrance to a prison, then a second holding area, which leads onto the street. So it is access to H2 that is controlled: who gets in and who doesn’t. In this, the checkpoint is an embodiment of the occupation, it symbolizes it, makes it manifest. Each crossing reminds the Palestinians of H2 that they are subject to the power of the soldiers, that they are “occupied”; every crossing hits a nerve. Like a pressure point in a congested body, a suffering body, an overflowing body. And the flip side is that here, too, the soldiers are visible, immobile, this is where you can find them if you come looking for them. The checkpoint thus crystalizes the violence of the occupation, and creates a highly volatile space where a simple inspection can quickly turn into a tragedy.

  To pass or not to pass, enter/exit. Obtaining a permit requires all your energy when randomness remains the rule. A complex bureaucracy has been put in place: there are dozens of permits. Sometimes the zone is completely sealed off: when Nour’s uncle had a heart attack after having been exposed to tear gas, the soldiers wouldn’t allow through the ambulance that was supposed to evacuate him to the hospital. He didn’t receive treatment in time and didn’t survive. In the same vein, pregnant women leave H2 several months before giving birth for fear of being unable to get to the hospital in good time, and becoming, as it were, trapped.

  Shrinking world. On the days when she goes to university in H1, Nour goes through checkpoint 56. Sometimes she waits there for over two hours, after which she takes a taxi, which brings her in ten minutes to the university, where she studies English and teaching methodology. Sometimes she has to turn around at the checkpoint and go home simply because today “it’s closed.” During the period when Tel Rumeida was declared a “closed military zone,” the Palestinians had to register in order to receive a number, a number that is checked every time they go through—who is outside, who is inside—and the wait has become unending, humiliating. Enough to discourage all movement. Studying, visiting a friend, running to the store, all of it becomes too much, too hard, too complicated: Nour gives up. Likewise, when I ask her if her friends come to visit her in H2, she shakes her head: no, one of them went through the whole process once, was set upon in the street, got scared, and she never came back. So, there are days when Nour doesn’t leave the house, days when her world shrinks to four bare walls.

  Another world. On the other side is H1, and it is another planet. Massive traffic jams, a cacophony of klaxons, air-conditioned malls, traditional corner shops, people everywher
e. This is the Arab street, potent and chaotic. Your senses, the way you move your body, how fast you move, all of it has to adapt, to solicit other reflexes, as though this were another environment, another atmosphere. We make our way along the packed sidewalks, weave between the guys waiting in the shop doorways. I am looking for gifts for Fatima, a perfume, a bag, I don’t know. Nour guides me. She chose her outfit carefully for going into town, wearing a long red dress and a flowery headscarf identical to those of her best friend whom I meet later: they are twins, it makes them laugh. Nour takes makeup lessons every Saturday in Bethlehem, one of her uncles brings her in his car. There, she learns how to put on mascara, to apply eyeshadow, to blend foundation. She meets up with friends, tries out the products and the techniques: I’m doing this just for myself, I don’t want to make a career of it. I like the fact that this young girl puts time and effort into her beauty, that the earnestness of her activism gives way to this levity that is so precious when one lives here, a shopping trip, a fit of laughter, a shisha pipe shared with friends at the Orange Café. A hit by Adele sung at the top of her lungs while dancing with Aisha in the half light of their room.