Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  “But they do,” Fatima replied. “I know a family in Hebron whose child was taken at age five for throwing a stone at a jeep tire.”

  “Exactly. They do this all over the West Bank. Age is not a consideration to them.”

  “What about notifying parents? How can we find out where they’ve taken Ali?”

  “They are supposed to let the parents know where they are so they can get a lawyer and attend the hearing as well.”

  “I hope my parents know this and where Ali is now. But if he is in Israel they may not even be able to visit him!” Fatima wiped away a tear as she fell silent.

  “The law now reads that they have to bring the boy to court within four days. He can and should have his parents there along with a lawyer. They can apply for a special permit to go into Israel. Usually the lawyer has never met the child before the court date. The judge then decides the case.”

  “What if they don’t have any real evidence?”

  “They use what the soldiers say.” Sami shrugged. “So they don’t need facts. Most of the boys sign a confession anyway. So the judge uses that to extend the sentence from the first few days up to thirty days, depending on the age of the child. Then they can renew the period of detention repeatedly for up to six months. They don’t even have to charge the boy. It’s called administrative detention.”

  “Do other countries do this?”

  “I don’t think so, Fatima. Much of what the IDF and its courts do is far beyond international law. They say they arrest a child for defense.”

  “It’s so cruel to children. I’ve heard they use solitary confinement.”

  “They do. I was in solitary for a week. It’s awful. But Ali is young, and they probably won’t use it in his case.”

  Fatima took a deep breath and looked out the window. She turned back to Sami. “You seem to know a lot about Israeli laws.”

  “We study them in my classes in Haifa. I’m interested after what my friends and I have been through. I’m thinking of applying to the law school at the university.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but you seem to have survived quite well.”

  “Well, I’m a follower of Jesus, Fatima, and that’s probably why I’m still here.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, knowing your brother Najid now. I am too.”

  “I suspected that, but the hijab confused me.”

  “Maybe I’ll just let you stay that way,” Fatima said with a wink.

  “No, no. I want to know more about you.”

  “What do you want to know? I’m just a college girl.”

  Sami laughed. “All this mystery about the hijab. Sometimes I think that females like to tease guys just for the fun of it.”

  “We probably do.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me.”

  “Maybe someday.”

  Sami smiled. “We’re getting close to Haifa, so I’ll be getting out. Would you give me your cell number and e-mail address? Maybe Facebook too?”

  “Couldn’t possibly. I don’t have a pen.” She smirked.

  “Don’t need one.” Sami whipped out his cell phone. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Fatima told him her cell number and e-mail address.

  “Goodbye, college girl.”

  She laughed and waved as Sami jumped out. He stood there looking at Fatima as the car drove away, forgetting to even say goodbye to Najid and Ashley.

  CHAPTER 20

  Any news about Ali?” Fatima blurted out as she rushed through the door of her home in Bethlehem. Her parents seemed sad and moved slowly out of their chairs.

  Jamilah met her with a hug, and one for Ashley, reserving a warm greeting for Najid.

  “Yes, we know where he is,” Saleh answered. Her parents looked tired and pale. “The Israeli police informed us that Ali is in an interrogation center in Haifa. And he is scheduled for a court hearing in a few days. They say he is okay. That’s all we know.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Fatima asked.

  “We’ve contacted a Palestinian lawyer in Jerusalem who is helping us get a special permit to enter Israel. If we can get that, we’ll go together with the lawyer to be with Ali at the hearing with the judge.”

  “Is the lawyer a good one?”

  “We hope so. But being Palestinian, he doesn’t have the clout an Israeli lawyer would have. It’s all we can afford.”

  “Can you contact Ali by cell phone?”

  “No. The police wouldn’t give us any more information.”

  “So you just wait to hear from the lawyer? That’s all you can do?”

  “Unfortunately, Fatima, yes. He’s working on it, both the special permit for us to travel into Israel and when we can see Ali. He should find out when the judge will hear Ali’s case.”

  ***

  Najid called a real estate agent to make an appointment to see several apartments in East Jerusalem, still part of the West Bank. They would keep in touch with Fatima, and also Faisal in Zabuda.

  The sun shone brightly the next morning as they left Ali’s family and drove to the checkpoint where they waited behind cars and buses for twenty minutes to proceed to East Jerusalem. They strolled hand in hand past shops toward the Damascus Gate of the Old City as they had several hours before their appointment.

  Ashley heard crowd noise increasing as they approached the street just outside the city wall. Mounted police held back a large group of young people behind portable steel-barrier fences. Najid hearing the conversations, explained to Ashley that the police were not allowing anyone under fifty years of age to enter the gate to pray in the Al’Aqsa mosque inside the Old City. Many people milled around on both sides of the street, some with white Israeli Star of David flags, and others with red, green, and black Palestinian ones. Mounted Israeli soldiers and police patrolled the street along with their comrades on foot, all with their automatic rifles.

  Above the crowd noise they heard a bullhorn held by a young, blond man, wearing a yarmulke, shouting in English.

  “I’m an American Jew here to protest the military occupation of East Jerusalem and the West Bank!” He turned, shouting in every direction. “It is against all international law and the resolutions of the United Nations. Many Jews around the world agree this is against our laws in Judaism about how to treat the stranger among us. The occupation must end. The freedom we take for granted in America does not exist here for Palestinians who are second-class citizens—”

  A soldier suddenly clapped his hand over the American’s mouth, wrestling him to the ground. Several more used their bodies to pin him down while striking with their fists. They then lifted his limp body into an armored personnel carrier and drove away as mounted soldiers galloped up to surround the car.

  Shouts went up from the crowd and the noise level rose as people from both sides screamed their approval or invectives. The soldiers and police in the street took up positions quickly, facing the people in both directions. The noise gradually subsided. Ashley, wide-eyed and shaking, looked at Najid.

  “That poor boy. I can’t believe!” She shook her head. “What will they do to him?”

  “They’ll probably let him go since he’s an American. That will calm any international reaction. Did you notice people were taking videos? This will be on the Internet.”

  “Maybe it will make the papers even in America,” Ashley ventured.

  “I doubt it. We never saw any news like that.”

  “Yeah, it’s true. That’s why we in the US have no idea what goes on day by day here.”

  “Except when a Hamas rocket lands in Israel and on rare occasions damages a home or kills someone.”

  “Let’s find a quiet place for lunch.” Ashley tugged on Najid’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Before we meet our real estate agent.”

  ***

  As the agent left the apartment, Ashley chuckled. “It won’t be forever.” She couldn’t keep from laughing.

  “I don’t understand what’s so funny?�
��

  Ashley had trouble stopping the giggles. “Okay, it’s just not what I had in mind. But we can fix up this apartment. It does have a guest bedroom, and it’s where we want to live.”

  “And it’s near the bus line so I can get to Bethlehem easily.”

  “True. And I can decorate it a bit, Najid.”

  “Having it partly furnished is good, too, don’t you think?”

  “Did you feel the bed?”

  “No. But you’ll get used to it, lumps and all.” He grabbed Ashley and hugged her tight, lifting her off her feet. “You’re in the West Bank here in East Jerusalem. I’ll bet you’ll have this place fixed up in one month.”

  She placed her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Najid. I acted like a princess.” Breaking free Ashley whirled around, dancing with her nose in the air. She suddenly stopped and nodded. “I know it’s all we can afford and really, I’m happy to be with you anywhere. I’ve wanted to live here with Palestinians and identify with them. So forget what I said, and let’s pitch in and get this place looking like a palace.”

  Najid pulled her into his arms again and kissed her. “Hey, where’s the bucket and some rags?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Driving on the road to Hebron south of Bethlehem, Ashley looked out over the picturesque farms and olive tree orchards interspersed with the low stone walls and terracing. Villages and fields dotted the landscape beneath large white Israeli settlement buildings surrounded by high walls. She knew the historic city Hebron dated back thousands of years to the time that the twelve tribes of ancient Israel fled from Egypt. They were supposed to leave the Sinai and climb up to the land near Hebron and not wander in the desert for forty years. Now the largest city in the West Bank after East Jerusalem, it had a reputation for trouble.

  She and Najid had just three more days before they’d have to return the rental car to Good Luck in East Jerusalem, so they’d decided to take the trip while waiting to hear from Fatima or Faisal and Almas. Both families would be learning soon what their lawyers could arrange.

  Ashley put her head back on the headrest, her thoughts jumbled at the complex problems of their friends, all so unnecessary if Palestine could just have its freedom and right to exist with secure borders. That’s also what Israelis wanted as well. They could live together as they had done for centuries. Why does one group consider themselves so special that they have the right to evict the other? Her thoughts stopped, and she sat upright as Najid drove into the outskirts of Hebron. He slowed at the wave of three Israeli soldiers.

  “Another temporary checkpoint.” He sighed.

  “Get out your passport!”

  They handed them to the soldiers, and after a question for Najid about his intentions the soldiers waved them on.

  “It looks like people are gathering for some kind of meeting.” Driving on through yet another checkpoint and then into the large city, they followed cars and people all heading in the same direction.

  They parked and started walking with the crowd. One young man explained that the crowd was memorializing the massacre of twenty-nine men praying at Abraham’s tomb in 1994. “Israeli soldiers stopped the commemoration with rubber coated bullets, sound bombs, and tear gas. So we’re trying again, now six months later.”

  “Anyone injured then?” Najid asked.

  “Four people were shot, one an international journalist. No deaths.”

  “Do you expect opposition this time?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see.” The young man ran ahead to catch his friends.

  “Do you think we should go?” Ashley inquired.

  “Yeah. We can stay back a ways in the crowd so we should be fine.”

  They walked downhill, following groups of mostly young people carrying signs in Arabic and waving flags of different colors, including the Palestinian red, green, and black one. Rounding a corner, the street led downhill toward what one person called Shahada Street, and explained to Najid that Palestinians are not allowed there. The crowd noise swelled as they stopped, overlooking a street filled with people. Ashley could see soldiers in the distance at the bottom of the hill, standing in the cross street. Other soldiers took positions on the rooftops of surrounding buildings. She pointed them out to Najid and then grabbed his hand. “What do you think they’re going to—”

  Her question went unfinished, stopped with a series of loud explosions followed by trails of smoke blanketing unarmed civilians. The crowd scattered as the tear gas descended in clouds.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Najid shouted, as he and Ashley began to retreat with the others through the toxic fog that burned her eyes. They ran uphill, turned the corner, and continued running. Ashley couldn’t stop coughing. A young woman in a hijab came up to Ashley, offering to help her. Producing some alcohol wipes, she dabbed them on Ashley’s face just below her eyes. Then offered a cut onion to smell.

  “Shukran.” Ashley tried to smile through her gas-induced tears remembering the Arabic word for thank you.

  “Are you okay, Ash?” Nijad asked.

  “I think so. What about you?”

  “No problem. I’ve been tear-gassed before.”

  They moved to the side of the street as two ambulances came by with their sirens blaring and lights flashing.

  “Some people must have been injured.” Najid shook his head. “Looks like they stopped the memorial again. It’s a shame. Anyway, we can still visit the old part of town with the market area. A man showed me how to get there, not far away, and it should be safe.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Ali started shaking, and his teeth chattered in the cold. Being naked and tied to the chair made it worse. He started to cry, thinking of his mom and dad and Fatima. They must be worried. But how could they find me now? It seemed like he had traveled for hours so he must be far from home. It felt like he had imagined jail—tied to the chair, unable to move, silent. It smelled like the rags his mother used to clean the floor. Why did the soldiers leave him naked and tied to the chair, unable to at least jump up and down to get warm? When would the cruel police guys come back? Maybe he should say he did throw a stone and that he was sorry he did it. They might have pity on him and bring him some clothes to get warm. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

  He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of lying about it. That would give them the reason to imprison him. No, he would not confess.

  The door opened and in walked a uniformed interrogator.

  “Have you decided to tell us what you did?”

  “I already told you I didn’t throw a stone. Not at the soldiers. Not at the Jeep.”

  The man put a paper and pen on the desk in front of Ali. “All you have to do is sign this paper. Then you will get clothes on, and we’ll take you to have some dinner. You’ll get warm. Won’t that be nice?”

  “What does the paper say?”

  “I’ll bring it over. It’s written in Hebrew.”

  “I can’t read Hebrew.”

  “It just says you’re sorry for throwing stones at Israeli soldiers.”

  “But I didn’t, so how can I sign something that is not true?”

  His tormentor shrugged. “You’ll soon wish you had changed your mind. And the judge will take the soldiers’ word for what you did and not yours!” With that he wheeled around, taking the paper and pen, and left the room.

  Ali continued shaking in the cold and wondered whether he’d made the best decision. Soon he heard footsteps, the door opened. Two men in IDF uniforms entered. Ali looked up at them wide-eyed. They began to untie him from the chair.

  Ali stared at the two men who untied him. He couldn’t stop shaking from the cold room with no clothes on and unable to exercise. They said nothing and had no uniforms on. He wondered what was coming. Almost anything would be better than sitting naked freezing. He felt shame at being exposed as they walked him out the door and down a hall where people in surrounding offices with their doors open could see him. The guards had him by the
arms so he couldn’t hide his groin area.

  “At least give me some clothes,” Ali yelled in Arabic.

  The guards paid no attention and kept walking, pushing Ali forward. They opened a steel door with no windows, turned into another hall past a row of light-green metal doors with tiny windows high up, and stopped before one of them. One of the guards pulled out a key, opened the door, and pushed Ali inside. The door clanged shut and Ali could hear the lock click. He shielded his eyes at the bright light overhead. At least it was warmer. Looking in all directions Ali noted a small steel bed and thin mattress and on it some clothes. He tried the shirt and pants, which were a bit large for him, but better than nothing. The sandals under the bed helped. Ali sat on the bed, head in his hands, and wept.

  He had a toilet and a sink. But everything was small, and the cell itself probably only two meters square. He couldn’t hear anything. Total silence. He had no chair, and the only window was the little one so high up he couldn’t reach it to look into the hall. No books or magazines, no television. Nothing to do but sit and think. He tried shouting for someone, anyone to come. But no one came. Was this what they called “solitary”? He couldn’t remember the other word.

  Hunger pangs grew, but his thirst was intense. Ali suddenly realized he could try the sink. Cold water came out of the tap, and by cupping his hands he drank, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of water. His body ached to lie down. His wrists and shoulders still hurt from being tied up for so long.

  A guard brought a tray and set it down on the sink. Ali sat up, rubbing his eyes as the guard left without saying a word.

  “Please, don’t go,” Ali implored in Arabic. He wanted to talk to someone, anyone, even the enemy. He felt so alone. He stood up to get the tray of food. It looked like breakfast, with pita bread, humus, olives, and almonds. Ali wondered. It must be morning. He ate rapidly for the first time since dinner at his home the night of the capture. He felt a little better after sleeping and now a meal, but still weak and tired. He lay down again. Nothing to do but sleep.