Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  CHAPTER 27

  IDF Captain Chaim Friedman trained younger helicopter pilots to work with ground troops in the Negev. They reminded him of his cousin Ariel, a former IDF private now continuing his education and living at home in cool, comfortable West Jerusalem. Hot, dusty, and generally boring flying, coupled with the blistering heat of tarmac instruction, was Chaim’s punishment for signing that letter to his superiors about his pledge.

  Chaim had stuck to his convictions about defending Israel but never again firing on civilians. He would never forget that his machine guns and rockets had wiped out his friend Mustafa’s entire family in Gaza, parents, brother, and sister-in-law as well as their first baby at the beginning of Operation Cast Lead. He hoped fellow officers who signed the letter had remained steadfast. They would probably not move up in rank—and neither would he.

  He’d talked this over with Gavriella, his wife, along with Ariel and the older Friedmans. They all understood and had to deal with their own conflicted feelings: Ariel about wounding his friend Sami Haddad and his uncle and aunt about living in a Palestinian’s home for many years. It seemed settled that he would continue in the IDF and that his superiors accepted his position that excluded him from operations against civilians.

  But then why the order that he meet with the general, the overall commander of the helicopter units? Involving a major general, Chaim realized, vaulted this issue over several officers below in the chain of command. It had to do with the letter apparently. He wondered if his fellow officer signees would be there.

  ***

  At the IDF headquarters in Jerusalem, Chaim in dress uniform walked down the spotless hall decorated with the portraits of famous soldiers, including Moshe Dyan and Ariel Sharon. The aide, a fellow captain, ushered him into a large room with more portraits. The general rose from behind his large desk, returning Chaim’s salute and motioned to his junior officer to sit in a large leather chair. “Shalom, Captain Friedman,” he spoke in Hebrew. “I hope you enjoy cooler weather up here in Jerusalem.”

  “Thank you, sir. I do. It’s nice coming home in the middle of the week as well. I usually see my family only on weekends.”

  “Captain, we may be able to fix that,” the general said, resuming his seat. “I’ll get right to the point. You recall the letter you and other officers signed to refuse orders to pursue our objectives in certain situations?”

  “Yes, sir, but not in defense of Israel. We are committed to that.”

  “Yes. But we’ve asked others who signed that letter to reconsider their position. We have been tolerant of your convictions up to this point and re-assigned you to non-combatant roles, being patient and willing to accept your desires during this peaceful interlude.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “But the time has come to re-evaluate. Our enemies are using the letter you signed, which is out and being circulated widely on the Internet. It puts us in a bad light as we plan future operations. It tends to limit our options in defending ourselves against the Palestinian terrorists.”

  “What options would be limited?”

  “I think you know, but they would include, for example, destroying the homes of Hamas leaders anywhere but especially in Gaza where they fire rockets into Israel.”

  Chaim broke out in a cold sweat. He turned pale and took several deep breaths. “I did exactly that, sir. I took out a whole family when our intelligence made a tragic mistake. Innocent people, five of them. Two families and a baby. I vowed never to do that again.”

  “Things like that happen, Captain. It’s unfortunate. But I’m asking you to reconsider your position for the greater good of your country. We are looking at future operations in Gaza to prevent Fatah and Hamas from unifying their governments, which would pose a greater threat to us both in the blockade of Gaza and the settlement progress in Judea and Samaria.”

  “What kind of operations are you considering?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, but it has to do with provoking an incident which would then allow us to punish Hamas for continuing to rocket southern Israel and for teaming up with Fatah. Hopefully they would increase their rocket numbers, and then we would be justified in the world’s eyes to defend ourselves by using the full force of our military against the terrorists.”

  “Would that include civilian targets?”

  “Not by design. But yes, we will go anywhere we think they hide rockets even if it means schools, hospitals, and religious buildings. We are determined this time to root out the rocket capability of Hamas, including destroying the tunnels they use against us.”

  “What if it takes longer than you think? Are you willing to destroy an innocent population in order to kill the militants?”

  “We will do whatever is necessary to stop the rockets even if they hide them in homes or churches or mosques.”

  That stopped Chaim cold. How could he retract his position on attacking civilian targets? He had faced Mustafa and felt overwhelming remorse for killing his innocent family. They had become friends—almost brothers. He had apologized and spoken out in Israel and the US in many forums and before the US Senate Foreign Relations Committee, all for justice and a peaceful resolution. But beyond that, Mustafa’s forgiveness demonstrated that reconciliation of enemies is possible, as happened in South Africa. How could he turn back now?

  On the other hand, refusal to recant would probably mean a less than honorable discharge from the IDF, with the consequences of limited job offerings for the rest of his life. It would cost him dearly.

  “Sir, I need some time to think about your request. Right now, I could not retract my decision.”

  The general, his face red, rose. “I’m giving you a chance to better your career in the IDF or face possible disciplinary measures, including punitive discharge which will have life-long consequences. So think it over, Captain, and get back to me by the end of the week.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chaim, now standing, saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

  CHAPTER 28

  A uniformed guard pushed the heavy door open and entered Ali’s cell. The ten year old jumped up from the steel bed, staring at the large officer who had a badge on and a holster with a pistol at his side. He frowned, towering over the small boy. Ali didn’t know what to expect. His face turned pale and his hands began to shake.

  Finally the man spoke in Arabic. “I understand you are a liar.”

  “I am not,” Ali protested, beginning to cry.

  “You dirty Palestinians are all alike. You attack our defense forces trying to keep peace and order and then deny it.”

  “I didn’t throw any stones, and that’s the truth!” Ali wiped a tear from his cheek. He wanted to be brave and not cry but couldn’t seem to stop. “Where are my momma and papa? Why don’t you let me see them?”

  “You won’t see them. They can’t come into Israel. We keep terrorists out.”

  “They’re not terrorists!” Ali shouted, kicking the guard in the leg.

  The man grabbed Ali by the shoulders, pressing his thumbs hard into his chest just below the collarbones. He cried out in pain as the guard held him at arm’s length. Suddenly he spun Ali around, grabbed his arm, and twisted it behind his back. He held it there as Ali, now facing away from him, struggled to free himself.

  “Let me go!” Ali screamed.

  But the guard only raised Ali’s arm higher until Ali thought he couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you torturing me?”

  “Because you kicked me. Now would you like to get out of here?”

  “Yes. You have no right to keep me here. I’m only ten years old.”

  “Do you want to eat?”

  “You can starve me, but that won’t make me sign a confession for something I didn’t do.”

  “All right. The other boys get food every day but you won’t. You want to go hungry? We can arrange that.” He released Ali’s arm.

  Ali grabbed his shoulder as it continued to hurt. The man slammed the door and Ali found him
self alone. The mention of food ignited his hunger. He had no idea what time it was, day or night, and couldn’t remember how long he had been here. He wondered about the other boys. He couldn’t hear or see them. Only the cell with the bright light above that shone in his eyes when he tried to sleep. Nothing to do, no one to talk with. Maybe I’ll go crazy. Ali sighed. He had stopped crying. It didn’t do any good. What would happen to him? They wouldn’t keep him forever, but for how long? Would he ever get to see a lawyer?

  He lay down on the hard bunk and tried to sleep. But his hunger kept him awake. The hours ground slowly, and finally Ali drifted off to sleep, dreaming of playing football, but he could not seem to kick the ball straight so his friends didn’t pass the ball to him.

  ***

  Startled awake by the sound of the cell door opening, Ali opened his eyes to see the guard bend down and grab his arm, pulling him upright. It made his shoulder hurt. Sitting on the bed the man pulled out a short chain, whipped it around Ali’s ankles and reached into his pocket for a lock. The guard dragged him out the door and down a hall. Ali could take only small steps. Finally the guard stopped, still holding Ali’s arm tightly and pushed him into the room. He saw a middle-aged man standing there smiling at him, and then noticed Ashley. She bent down and Ali rushed toward her with short steps limited by the shackle. He flew into her arms. They both started crying, while Ashley hugged him; neither said anything. Ali couldn’t speak. But he did notice Najid and smiled through his tears while Ashley let him go. Najid, squatting, enveloped Ali in his arms, patting his back while Ali trembled and sniffed his running nose.

  “Ali, this is Mr. Jamal, a lawyer who has come to help you,” Ashley said in English and waited for Najid’s translation. “And we’re here also to be with you because your parents couldn’t get permission to come into Israel.”

  Ali nodded. He reached out to shake hands with Jamal who continued to smile.

  “We have some work to do, Ali. Your hearing before the judge is this afternoon and I am here to defend you. So please sit down, and tell me exactly what happened that night of the curfew and your arrest.”

  While the three adults listened, Ali told in detail the story of that night, what had happened in the streets and later at home. Jamal had some questions to be sure he understood everything and looked to Najid and Ashley for confirmation of the arrest events in Ali’s home. He then explained in general what would happen in court.

  Soon their time had expired and the guard appeared. No time remained for Ali to tell his friends what the guard had just done to him. He ducked behind Jamal while the officer held out his hand for Ali.

  “Come,” he commanded Ali as he whipped around Jamal grabbing Ali by the arm and dragging him stumbling across the floor. Najid leaped forward to restrain the soldier but the door slammed shut and they were gone. Ashley turned pale. Najid shook his head.

  “What chance does Ali have in his defense?” Najid murmured.

  “Not much,” Jamal offered. “The children usually sign a confession out of fear. If they don’t the judge can choose to believe the statement of the soldiers or place him in administrative detention without charges. But I will defend Ali as best I can, and we’ll pray for justice and his release. But short of that, I will ask about his treatment while detained. They need to know that we are here and will report any ill treatment.”

  “You saw it already!” Ashley’s eyes flashed in anger. “They shackled Ali with ankle chains and dragged him out the door. Will you report that? How do we know what else they are doing to him? I’d like to see where they are keeping him. Is he getting enough to eat? How about exercise outside? Is he in with others or alone? Is he safe? Ali didn’t have a chance to tell us.” Ashley shook her head as Najid quietly translated for Jamal to be sure he understood Ashley.

  Jamal nodded. “Yes, I will report any kind of torture that we find, but I have to tell you it usually doesn’t change anything. The Israelis don’t respond to reports, only to international pressure. So if we become aware of really bad treatment we can tell the U.N. or other human rights organizations. Of course, this whole business of arresting and imprisoning children is illegal by international law anyway.

  CHAPTER 29

  Men, remember that our task is to prevent terrorism. It is a defensive action to burn the Palestinian consciousness.” The speaker raised two fingers of either hand.

  Gilad sat in the front row of the bare meeting room the army had taken on Shahadah Street in Hebron. A former Palestinian office building, it displayed the Israeli flag in the window of the large room filled with rows of plastic chairs. His fellow soldiers listened to the instructions. Gilad had never really understood that phrase fully although he had heard it many times. His IDF company commander, a burly captain, addressed his several platoons and their leaders. “You are to intimidate and punish the civilian community. They are Arab interlopers from other countries. We need to drive that sense of being Palestinians out of their minds, out of their consciousness. Palestinians never existed and they never will. They need to be afraid. If they fear enough they will not revolt against our authority.”

  Finally it began to make sense to Gilad. They’re just Arabs from who knows where, not native to the country. They came and claim to be Palestinians. When the soldiers burst in the door of a home and people cower in fear, there is less chance of a fight or the need to use their weapons. Somehow it didn’t work in the case of Najid’s friends. Why didn’t they cower in fright instead of resisting the arrest of the kid?

  The captain explained that those who resist in their homes need to feel intimidated and frightened, and if not, then they need to be physically hurt or see their home ransacked. “So you burn the Palestinian consciousness by making them afraid of us … terrified to be ‘Palestinian.’ We need to make our presence felt. They need to be subdued, alarmed. They are our enemy; they practice terrorism. Even if they talk of non-violent resistance, they still protest in demonstrations, and the young men and children throw stones. So to stop them, we need to look at every Arab as an enemy. They resist our efforts to unify this land. They are to be attacked. So we make our presence felt. Arrest anyone who might have thrown a stone, whether you saw it happen or not.”

  “What about little kids, sir?” a soldier asked.

  “Age doesn’t matter. You attack us, you pay the penalty.”

  A lieutenant asked, “Sir, sometimes we don’t see them cower in fear. So what do we do to make our presence felt?”

  The captain suddenly pulled up an imaginary rifle. “You make them confused if nothing else, not knowing what you will do. Knock over furniture, make a mess of the house so they know we are in control.”

  He jerked both hands upward. “You are to patrol the streets by day and night, enter homes at random, it doesn’t matter which ones. You don’t need intelligence information to do this unless you have a specific target.”

  “Let me tell you a story,” the captain continued, with a smirk. Gilad shifted in his chair. He wanted to know how better to intimidate people. “A little girl died in an Israeli community and we put out the information that a Palestinian from a nearby village killed her. So we entered every house in that town, rounded up all the men for questioning. We didn’t find anyone who could have done it, but because we arrested all the men and invaded every house, we produced fear. They will be afraid to try anything in the future.”

  Gilad left the room energized to get tougher. Then he remembered Najid. He still had his cell number in his wallet, but no way would he call him. Maybe they were friends in the past, but now he had become an enemy, and you don’t traffic with them.

  ***

  Gilad’s duty shift began at eleven, finishing at seven the next morning. He and three of his comrades patrolled the streets of Hebron in the darkness except for the few streetlights. The Israeli settlers lived above the local Palestinian residents for the most part. Many had Israeli flags in the windows, and in any case, the terrorists’ homes all had water tank
s on their roofs to identify them.

  One tank in particular shone in the streetlight. Gilad raised his rifle and put two holes in the tank. Water spurted out in two streams onto the roof. It would empty in an hour and the family wouldn’t have water. He knew they’d think at first their two-week allotment had already run out. Laughing, the soldiers decided to ransack the home.

  Gilad banged on the door, and when no one came, he and two of his comrades beat down the door with their rifle butts and kicked it open. A man appeared in his pajamas and then a woman in her robe, blinking in the bright headlamps and staring, mouths open. Suddenly a little girl dressed in a pink nightgown darted to her mother and hid behind her robe. She had olive skin and black hair. Gilad noticed her dark eyes wide and staring at him. She began to scream.

  “What are you doing in our home?” the man demanded in Arabic. “Get out. You have no right to break down our door and enter.”

  “You are illegal residents. Show me your papers.” Gilad pointed his rifle at the young father. The man flipped on a lamp and walked to a file cabinet, searching through several documents. A soldier smashed a porcelain figure of Jesus on a small table and then swept off a tall vase of flowers.

  “Here,” the man said, handing the title deed to Gilad who shone a light on it.

  “These are not legal documents. We will see that you will get an eviction order. This house belongs to the State of Israel.”

  The young mother burst into tears. “Don’t say anything, my darling. Please!”

  Their little girl ran around the dining table toward her father just as one of Gilad’s comrades tipped over the heavy table. The edge knocked down the child and pinned her. Her father quickly righted the table and picked up his child. She seemed pale and lifeless in his arms.

  “Get out of here, you monsters!” he shouted.

  His wife sobbed hysterically. “Call an ambulance!”