by Assaf Gavron
“About Ma’aleh Hermesh C.? In America?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s the rumor.”
The remaining committee members watched Othniel. The meeting was forgotten. Othniel was bombarded with questions. The phone rang again. He stepped outside and the Planning Committee followed him. Darkness had descended on the hilltop, the stars were out, inviting the Shema Yisrael prayer. A large crowd suddenly materialized and gathered outside the Assis family home. Josh received a call, spoke in English, and everyone stared at him because it sounded like he was getting some interesting information. He put his hand up to his forehead and said things like “No shit!” and “You’re joking!” and “Are you sure?” and “Unreal!” and his bright eyes wandered to and fro in an expression that wavered somewhere between puzzlement and astonishment. By the time he said, “Bye” and pressed the red button, everyone had gathered around him, waiting in expectant silence.
“It’s an article in the Washington Post,” he said, “a big article, about the settlement.”
“C.?” yelled everyone en masse.
“C., C., only C. It talks about the playground. And Mamelstein. And the story with the D-9s.”
“What does it say?”
Josh had a vacant, pale look in his eyes.
The ring of an old rotary dial phone ripped through the darkness. Othniel removed his hand from his pocket, clutching the device. He looked at the display. “Unknown number,” he announced. Everyone went quiet.
“Hello?” Othniel said, and then, “Which ministry?”
And in a lower voice, as he stepped away to give himself some space to facilitate a more intimate conversation, “The Defense Ministry?”
The Article
Family legend tells that the forefathers of Joshua Levin were Marranos, or anusim—Jews of the Iberian Peninsula who converted to Catholicism to escape the expulsion of Jews from Spain in the fifteenth century but secretly preserved Jewish traditions. Many years later, in the eighteenth century, some family members decided to make their way to the New World, and journeyed, via Livorno in Italy, to the province of Nuevo Mexico, then in the north of Mexico and today the state of New Mexico in the United States. The legend goes on to say that despite the long years of Catholicism, and regardless of the undisputable fact that foreign blood types infiltrated the family fabric (Irish blood, for example, was responsible apparently for the red hair), they continued to observe customs such as the lighting of Sabbath candles up until the early twentieth century, when Josh’s great-grandmother suddenly rediscovered her Jewish roots, moved to Brooklyn, and married Israel Levinovsky, a young Hasidic Jew who had immigrated to the United States from Lithuania a short time before.
One hundred or so years later, a number of circumstances joined forces to alter the path of Josh Levin’s life: achieving the expectant, ripe-for-rebellion age of twenty; the Zionism forced down his throat day and night at the Aish HaTorah yeshiva; a touch of hot-bloodedness (the Irish genes again, perhaps); and the spark that ignited them all, September 11, 2001. The rage burned hotter inside him and told him “to do something.”
And so he immigrated and settled in the holy land of his forefathers, and ended up at a religious college in Ma’aleh Hermesh, because one of his teachers in Brooklyn had a friend there. Josh wasn’t too taken by the college, but at the grocery store one night, he met Jehu and helped him out with some small change “to make up five shekels seventy” for his shopping, and Jehu suggested he “come take a look at C.” Already sick and tired by then of the endless philosophizing with his fellow students, Josh quit college and left for C. that same week, moving in with Jehu to share his trailer.
Now he was translating the Washington Post article that Yakir had printed off the Internet. Othniel burst into laughter on hearing the headline “U.S. Donor Supports Renegade Settlement in ‘Wild West’ Bank,” and he continued to chuckle to himself while Josh, in broken Hebrew, pausing between words to think of the correct translation and not always coming up with one, told the story of the real-estate and money-market tycoon with close ties to the Republican leadership who showed up a few months earlier, in February 2009, at the small outpost on the edge of the desert to take part in a dedication ceremony for a playground he had donated. Othniel remained smiling through the article’s description of the place, its homes, its motley bunch of people, and the ceremony and the tour afforded the American millionaire. Hilik, in contrast, wasn’t smiling, and even appeared concerned when the piece proceeded to imply the writer’s unsurprising political viewpoint: “Mr. Mamelstein neglected to mention in his emotional speech the fact that the Ma’aleh Hermesh C. outpost was established in part on private land that is owned by Palestinians. Another portion of the settlement sits on a nature reserve, where the construction of residential homes is strictly prohibited.”
Othniel remained unmoved even when the writer described years of neglected laws and regulations throughout the West Bank. He lost his cool only when the article, with the help of quotes from “a high-ranking IDF officer,” embarked on a critique of the outpost’s historical background. Like Hilik, he shook his head in the face of the painful inaccuracy of sentences such as “In 2005, they established an office for the farm, and then brought in a trailer for a guard that soon turned into a residence for an entire family,” and he started to get really incensed on hearing himself described as “a farmer who grows parsley and organic tomatoes there.”
“Parsley? Where on earth did he get that from? And did he say tomatoes? Not cherry tomatoes? Have a quick look.” Josh had a quick look and confirmed. “Tomatoes!” cried the horrified Othniel. “Has he lost his mind? It’s a different kind of compost entirely, not to mention the seeds . . .”
The details of the political and legal history of the settlements elicited yawns, and as the article proceeded to discuss American legislation—the Clinton administration’s Executive Order 12947, which prohibits activities that disrupt the Middle East peace process; the George W. Bush administration’s Patriot Act, which, among other things, prohibits governmental funding to educational institutions except for educational or sporting activities; the law concerning tax deductions for American charitable donations abroad—the audience stared up at the sky or shifted uncomfortably and loosened bits of gravel from their sandals.
But when the report explained that by granting tax breaks on donations like Mamelstein’s, the U.S. Treasury and the American taxpayer were, for all intents and purposes—and contrary to government policy—actually funding illegal outposts such as Ma’aleh Hermesh C., smiles returned to the faces of the congregation, and some laughter and clapping erupted, too. The journalist’s “revelation” that some of the money Mamelstein donated to the outpost went toward the purchase of several pairs of night-vision binoculars was greeted with amusement. “Since when does spotting foxes on guard duty disrupt the peace process?” and “That Mamelstein is one son of a gun.” And toward the end of the article, as the reporter revisited “last week’s dramatic development”—the High Court ruling on the route of the fence, and the incident with the bulldozers—everyone again listened attentively to Josh, and even cheered the description of the action. (“The incident climaxed in a bizarre act of solidarity: The Palestinian owner of the olive groves, a religious settler woman, and an Israeli man whose ties to the area remain unclear all leaped together onto the blade of the bulldozer to bring it to a halt.”) Even Neta cracked a smile.
When Josh finished, the prevailing mood was upbeat—particularly concerning the role played by Sheldon Mamelstein. The bottom line—“The hodgepodge of laws and conflicting authorities, like something out of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, has allowed the Jewish settlers to create a kind of Wild West, where they behave like outlaw sheriffs”—did produce several angry curses from Neta Hirschson and a worried look from Hilik Yisraeli, but there was nothing new in that. Neta was usually on edge, and Hilik was always worried about something.
The Island
Yakir was in his second life, Second Life, on the virtual island of Revival, where he and his bearded friends, in their broad skullcaps and baggy sharwals, had established their settlement, off-limits to foreigners—Christians, Ishmaelites, Amalekites, and anyone else who dared to challenge the laws of the place, which declared it holy land, Jewish land, and only for them, no one else. In keeping with the rules of Second Life, King Meir knew, he could close Revival to outsiders.
The day before, his friends had again visited Second Life’s Muslim area. “We went to the mosque,” said King Meir, the Texan lawyer. “And when we went inside, we didn’t take off our shoes like we were supposed to. And we took those veils that they hand out free to women and put them on. LOL!!!”
Yakir smiled and typed: “Cool!”
“It’s a shame we can’t drop a little bomb there,” wrote King Meir. His eyes, hair, and beard were black, his skullcap yellow, and his shirt, with the Kach Movement fist logo, also yellow.
“Maybe we can write some code?” Yakir typed.
“You can do that?” King Meir asked. Yakir explained to him that while it was impossible to damage the belongings or property of another user without his consent, you could make something yourself and then destroy it. For example, you could create a copy of a mosque, and then blow it up, or a Palestinian flag, and then burn it.
“Awesome,” King Meir enthused. “That’s way better than wandering around with the Uzis and not doing anything with them—like aiming them and saying boom-boom . . . But do they have any rules regarding this kind of thing?”
Yakir did a search and showed him Second Life’s Community Standards: “The use of derogatory or demeaning language or images in reference to another Resident’s race, ethnicity, gender, religion, or sexual orientation is never allowed in Second Life . . . Physical assault in Second Life is forbidden.”
King Meir gestured with his hands. “What a load of crap. Isn’t it supposed to be like real life? And what if the mosque offends me?”
Just then, the door to the trailer opened and Yakir heard the thunderous voice of his father, speaking on the telephone. He quickly switched tabs to open the farm’s Web page. Othniel came up behind Yakir, gave him a friendly pat on the head, with its thick mop of hair that practically swallowed up his green skullcap, sat down next to him, placed the telephone on the armrest of the easy chair, and rubbed his eyes.
“Sorry, another call came through, can you hear me, Assis?” came a voice from the device.
“I hear you, Dov, I hear you,” Othniel said, his head tilted back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. Yakir pretended to focus on the computer screen.
“So the education minister briefed me on this morning’s cabinet meeting. They discussed the Washington Post article, too. The Foreign Ministry, and the embassy in Washington in particular, will keep tabs on any White House response to the report, prepared of course with strenuous denials and threats to sue the newspaper for implying that any illegal actions have been or are being committed at Ma’aleh Hermesh C. or any other settlement in Israel, either within the Green Line or beyond it.”
“Good.” Othniel chuckled, his fingers rubbing his eyes.
“Furthermore,” the head of the regional council continued, “a decision has been made to send the defense minister to Washington within the next few days, for the stated purpose of attending a charity event organized by the Jewish lobby, but he’ll actually be there to sniff around, drop in on the secretary of state, the defense secretary, and perhaps even the president himself, if and when the opportunity arises—” Just then, the telephone sounded several feeble beeps and died. Othniel gazed at the device, perplexed. Yakir took it from him and immediately understood the problem. He went into the kitchen, retrieved the charger from behind the refrigerator, plugged it into the Nokia, and placed the device on the refrigerator.
His father went to the bathroom, sprayed deodorant under his arms, and tried a little with his fingers to tidy his beard, which had grown hypericum flowers. “Yakir,” he instructed, “make a note in the calendar that Herzl Weizmann, the contractor, is coming tomorrow, and that I need to call Motke at the Housing Ministry to discuss a subsidy for the work he will be doing.”
Red-eyed, Othniel looked at Yakir, who was typing on the keyboard. “Okay, son?” he said abruptly and stepped outside again. Yakir peered cautiously through the window and watched his father get into the dusty Renault Express, the original color of which few at Ma’aleh Hermesh C. were able to recall—in an effort to conserve water, Othniel hadn’t washed it in years.
Yakir promptly returned to Second Life and met up with the small, bearded, skullcap-wearing group outside the Flame of the Revival synagogue. “Ah, Yakir, you’re back,” King Meir said. Hanging from his shoulder was the Uzi that had cost him next to nothing at an arms store in one of Second Life’s commercial areas. “We were just trying to decide where we should go now, after yesterday’s successful action at the mosque.” Yakir helped him to search for an Arab club. There was the Scheherazade Club, a nightclub with belly dancers, and the Orient Bazaar, which sells jalabiyas and kaffiyehs, and also Taste of Arabia, an Arab city with palm trees, mosques, and horses. The problem was that not many people hung out there. King Meir finally opted for the large mosque in Taste of Arabia. They’d go in and do some “item spamming” and bombard the mosque with Stars of David.
“If physical violence is out, spam is good. We’re smarter than them, let’s take advantage of that,” King Meir said, and gave everyone the objective’s coordinates. Yakir entered the details and appeared in the mosque with his friends. They were greeted with a hearty “Salaam alaikum!” from a woman who didn’t appear Arab, and they responded with a barrage of Stars of David: Yakir had used Photoshop to create a Star of David that was compatible with the Second Life graphics, had colored it blue, and had found a simple duplication program. And now, with his mouse, he dragged the Star of David and placed it on the floor of the mosque, where the graphic then duplicated itself thousands of times. The mosque filled with floating blue Stars of David.
“Let’s do the same at the Orient Bazaar!” yelled an exuberant King Meir, and he relayed new coordinates. Two minutes later, the bazaar, too, was filled with Stars of David. The bearded, Uzi-bearing bunch rejoiced. Not only had they filled those loathsome locations with some Jewish beauty, they had also messed with the computers of their owners and anyone who visited them. “You’re the man, Yakir!” King Meir exclaimed as they returned to Revival. “And you know what the next stage is!”
Yakir laughed. He would try to work on creating a copy of a mosque to blow up and a Palestinian flag to burn. Perhaps he’d have some time that night. He heard his father pull up and park, and a minute later, the door opened and heavy-duty work shoes thumped across the floor.
“What are you doing there, son?” Othniel asked.
“Nothing,” replied the son.
“What do you mean, nothing? I heard you laughing . . . Okay, let’s go, you coming to prayers?”
“Okay,” Yakir said, and clicked on the X in the corner of the screen.
The Campaign
Ariel woke half an hour before his alarm was set to go off. His mind remained clouded for a moment before he snapped to and remembered, and a slight tremor coursed through him, a shudder of anxiety that quickly took flight. He rose, rushed through his morning routine, woke his wife and young son, and prepared breakfast for them.
“What’s up?” his wife asked, and he replied, “Nothing, I just woke up early.” But she had known him long enough to know better. “Do you really have to go there?” she asked, and he responded immediately with “Oy, don’t get started. Yes, I really do have to go there. What’s the problem? I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s a safe road, which the army uses, on which—”
“On which no one has been killed in two years—I know, statistically, the chances of dying in a road accident in the center of the country are much higher.�
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“Look, Daddy,” their son said. “Look, Daddy.” He pointed at his plate.
“I can see,” Ariel said. “That’s lovely, a plum!”
“Pum,” his son responded.
Do I really have to do this? he asked himself in the car. Why did I take the day off work? He tuned in to Razi Barkai’s radio talk show: settlements, the U.S. president, the prime minister. Boring. He switched over to 88FM, cold air streamed from the air conditioner, the sun was still rising in front of him as he headed east.
On Route 443, his confidence started to erode. Roni was right, it wasn’t so scary the second time around. But on the 443, there was a real sense of having stepped it up a notch. Not due to the road’s history so much, but more so the discernible changes. The outside temperature displayed on the dashboard dropped, the landscape morphed, the hilltops revealed themselves, Arab villages and villagers appeared on the sides of the road. And then there was the checkpoint, and the fence that rose up along the side of the road on both sides, and he had no idea if he was beyond the barrier or inside it, in a narrow corridor between the sides of the barrier itself. The air, too, was different, and past Jerusalem came the sense of being sucked out of a vacuum into the pale yellowish brown, into the desert, with more villages and mosques, more yellow taxis and Palestinian trucks—green-and-white license plates caused a rise in blood pressure, yellow ones were somewhat soothing—and suddenly the radio switched of its own accord from 88FM to Arabic music. His hands squeezed the wheel, eyes darted back and forth between the hilltops and the road. These Arabs drive like lunatics, he thought, and pictured one of the trucks plowing mercilessly into him, not necessarily with deadly intent but as the result of reckless driving.