Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

  With lights flashing the ambulance headed for the highway and soon accelerated back toward the city with siren wailing. The three, Ashley, Nijad, and Jamal, walked back to their car.

  “You two teamed up beautifully to save that man’s life,” Jamal said with wide eyes. “Have you been practicing?”

  “Yeah, Jamal,” Ashley replied, “we do CPR every night on Resuci-Annie.”

  He laughed. “I think I recognize that man from pictures. Let me see his card.” Jamal took it and shook his head, smiling. “You just saved the life of a prominent politician in the Likud government of Israel.”

  “We did?” Najid looked at Jamal, mouth dropping open.

  “Yes, Najid. Uri Katsman, Minister of Internal Affairs.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Faisal stood at the edge of his orchard motionless as the two-story tall Israeli bulldozer clanked forward just four meters away. His heart raced. He wondered whether the operator could see him through the dust and the bulletproof thick glass enclosure. Rape my beloved land. Uproot the olive trees. He could not bear to let the violation continue—destroying everything he’d worked to develop. Those beautiful old trees, his family, loved almost like children. You don’t stand by and watch their destruction and do nothing. He’d stop them or die trying.

  The Caterpillar pushed dirt, stones, and brush toward Faisal, closing the distance between them. The three-foot wall of debris reached his feet like a moraine before a moving glacier. It quickly pushed his legs out from under him. He fell in pain as the mound of soil and rocks almost buried him. As he fell, Faisal heard a gunshot. The machine stopped with the enormous blade a few centimeters away.

  The Israeli guard ran up with his rifle still smoking, shouting in Hebrew to the driver as he climbed out of his cab. “Didn’t you see that guy?”

  “What guy? All I know is that you shot into the glass right by my head.”

  “I had to stop you!”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a terrorist there in the dirt. You might have killed him!”

  The driver stood, mouth open, then walked in front of the blade. “Oh my God! Another Rachel Corrie! Is he alive? I’m in trouble. I didn’t see him, I swear. You saw what happened. You can tell them. We have to keep this quiet. Anyway he’s just a Palestinian terrorist.”

  “Don’t just stand there. Help me get him out!”

  The two soldiers moved toward Faisal and began to pull the debris and rocks off of his lower body, one with a hand shovel.

  “He’s alive and conscious! Can you hear me?” shouted the soldier as he dropped his rifle on the ground.

  Faisal moaned, understanding some Hebrew. “Yes. But I can’t move my legs,” he replied in Arabic. Then he became silent.

  “He passed out. We have to get help. I’m calling the commander. You keep working to get him out from under the rocks!” He reached for his cell phone and punched in some numbers.

  “Commander, we’ve had an accident here outside of Zubuda. Yeah, with the bulldozer. The farmer here tried to stop the bulldozer by standing in front of it. He’s injured.”

  The voice on the other end of the line yelled, “Is he alive?”

  “Yeah. But hurt badly. He’s not talking now.”

  “Stay right with him and keep him alive whatever you have to do. But don’t move him and make it worse. This has got to be top secret. I’m ordering a helicopter to take him to Hadassah on Mount Scopus. I have your number so the pilot can call you for location. Don’t tell anyone what happened. I’ll figure out some story when the time comes.”

  “What about his family? They’re on the other side of the wall.”

  “We’ll decide later what to do. Take care of him. We can’t have another international uproar.”

  Uncovering Faisal gradually, the soldiers found his right lower leg bloody and crooked. They let him lie there, not moving or speaking. He was breathing. After a conversation on a cell phone, a helicopter appeared and landed nearby. Several soldiers rushed out with a stretcher. They carefully splinted Faisal’s right leg while he moaned. After checking his blood pressure, they started an I.V. drip and bundled him into the chopper.

  “What’ll we do?” the bulldozer operator inquired as the bird flew away with Faisal.

  “I don’t know,” the soldier replied with a shrug as he retrieved his weapon. “He accomplished his purpose. He stopped us. Let’s get out of here!”

  CHAPTER 34

  Captain Chaim Friedman landed his helicopter on the baking tarmac outside the training camp for IDF pilots and soldiers in the Negev. It had been a long, hot day in the southern desert of Israel, as he practiced close ground action with the soldiers in the Israeli Defense Forces. The brown, dry land mirrored his mood: hot, tired, and dirty. It had been a boring week. He hadn’t been able to concentrate much of the time, thinking about how to answer the general. The IDF, it seemed, could no longer tolerate officers who had declared in that letter they would not participate in any action against civilian targets or in attacks where innocents might be killed or wounded. The week he had been given by the general to make up his mind was almost up.

  Chaim had been in touch with some of his colleagues who signed the proclamation, noting that several had rescinded their signatures. None of them had refused to defend Israel from military attack. The problem remained that innocent civilians should never be considered collateral damage and expendable. As a career officer, his life’s ambition became to advance in rank to a position of prominence and influence, even in the affairs of government as many of Israel’s military leaders had done—Begin, Dyan, Sharon, and even Netanyahu. Now all this would be in jeopardy. A high price to pay for his convictions.

  With his weekend off he would drive home to Jerusalem to Gavriella and the kids. Maybe something could be worked out that would allow him to follow his heart but still remain an officer and pilot.

  ***

  Gavriella surprised Chaim with a kiss and a proposal. Their friends would take the three kids for the weekend and the two of them could stay at their usual place on Delilah Beach in Ashkelon. She had made reservations, and in one hour they could be there. Not observing the Sabbath they could leave that very Friday evening. He smiled that she knew exactly what he needed. A restful place, where they could spend time together and talk. He marveled that a woman so beautiful could be so wise. They packed quickly, got the kids off to their friends, and headed to the Mediterranean.

  Looking out over the sandy beach with only an occasional jogger and a few swimmers, Chaim sipped his coffee on the balcony. The salt air smell and the quiet lapping waves transported his thoughts to happy memories of his childhood at the beach. At six in the morning with the rising sun, he always woke up and knew Gavriella would join him in an hour. He soon reflected on their conversation last evening where she re-affirmed her support of whatever he decided to do. She had no doubt that he could provide for the family whether he remained in the military or not. And she could always continue her career as a budding lawyer when the kids were older. She wanted Chaim to be happy with his decision. No regrets or second-guessing. He gazed at that lovely woman through the open bedroom door, sleeping soundly, her long, black hair cascading over the pillow. He would be happy just to be with her no matter what or where.

  ***

  After an idyllic Sabbath day on the beach and in the sea, Chaim and Gavriella slept soundly until the sirens started to wail at three in the morning. Both sat up suddenly.

  “Air raid!” he warned. “We’d better get dressed and find some kind of shelter. I’m not sure where one is.”

  They walked briskly into the street along the beachfront, following others in various stages of undress, into a concrete building with no windows. No one seemed to panic. The discussion emphasized this was unusual since no rockets had actually reached Ashkelon in recent years. But it was good to take precautions. The all clear sounded in a few minutes and everyone went home in the dark.

  “What do you think is
going on?” Gavrialla asked when they arrived.

  “I’m not sure. Let’s turn on the TV.”

  The channel opened up to an announcer from Jerusalem describing an incident in Gaza where a Palestinian boy was shot and killed near the border with Israel by an Israeli soldier. The announcer continued, “Terrorists shot back, starting a fire fight followed by Israeli RPG’s and rockets, which wiped out the Gazans, about a dozen Hamas killers. Now Gazan rockets started coming into Israel with several fired north toward Ashkelon and Tel Aviv.” Chaim muted the audio.

  “That explains the sirens. I don’t think we’re in any danger. But I’m afraid this is going to escalate rapidly. We have to check out by noon—to leave this halcyon of peace. I’d like to go a bit earlier, swing south and visit with Ben, my cousin in Sderot, and also check in on Mustafa there.”

  “You mean the young Muslim guy from Gaza now in Sderot?”

  “Yeah. The one whose family I killed. Mustafa forgave me somehow and we became friends, traveling around America telling our unusual story. But, Gavriella, somehow these experiences with hardline Ben and Palestinian Mustafa are now part of who I am. I need to chat with them. It may help me decide which way to turn.”

  ***

  Chaim rang the doorbell of Ben’s flat in Sderot to find a bleary-eyed second cousin opening the door in his underwear.

  “Sorry, Ben, for waking you. I know musicians with late gigs don’t get up with the chickens.”

  “You military types do that. But greetings, Gavriella. Pardon my state of undress. I’ll put on some tea, get dressed, and be right with you.

  They soon discussed the current situation. Ben had not heard any sirens during the night nor knew of the recent incidents. “But I hope we slam those terrorists over in Gaza. They still haven’t learned their lessons. We ought to take this opportunity to wipe them out. We still get the occasional rocket here since we’re so close. You remember Mustafa’s girlfriend Eliana who got herself killed just walking along the sidewalk. By a rocket from Gaza. That’s the only fatality I know of, but it may not be the last.”

  Chaim glanced at Gavriella who raised her eyebrows in silent comment. They had joked about her militant cousin-in-law. But then, they didn’t live in rocket range either.

  “Speaking of Mustafa, we’d like to visit him. We became close somehow on our trip to America.”

  “Okay. I’ll call him and tell you how to get to his apartment. He drummed with us in the gig last night, which went on until two in the morning. But he’s probably up by now, almost noon.”

  Chaim knew Mustafa Hamdi, the twenty-two-year-old drummer in Ben Ami’s band, would be up for sure for his visitors. Mustafa opened the door of his small apartment and gave Chaim a huge hug. Both men bound by events once hostile, but now forgiven, had developed a special bond. One a Muslim from Gaza now living in Israel; the other a Jew from Jerusalem, a pilot who had destroyed Mustafa’s family in one burst of mistaken identity. Gavriella recalled Mustafa had lost his Jewish girlfriend Eliana ironically by a rocket from his own hometown, Gaza City. He was imprisoned later by Mossad in Jerusalem. The two men had recapped these events during a hearing before senators in Washington.

  “I don’t think you ever met my wife, Gavriella. She’s my strong tower.”

  They didn’t shake hands, but both smiled broadly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mustafa.” She spoke in Hebrew, having learned that his Hebrew language skills had improved rapidly.

  “Shalom!” Mustafa placed his hand over his heart. “My friend Chaim brags about you.”

  The conversation over tea covered many subjects from past events to present concerns as well as inquiries about Mustafa’s new girlfriend, daughter of one of the few Muslim families in town.

  Then Chaim described his dilemma. Mustafa knew of the letter the officers had signed. As they spoke of civilian casualties that would pile up again in Gaza as Israel escalated its powerful war machine, Chaim began to wonder how he could ever go back on his promise.

  “It will happen again and again,” Mustafa said. “For a small minority of radical militants, a whole civilian population gets targeted. Collective punishment. I can’t get it out of my dreams at night. Me running around Gaza City, dodging rockets and bombs, seeing children dying in the street outside their school, screaming because of the white phosphorous burning their skin. The chemical they used, brutal. My family gone, along with hundreds of others, old and young people. Nowhere to go. Trapped in an inferno of collapsed and burning buildings.” He stopped, head down.

  “I didn’t mean to bring up the past like that, Mustafa. I’m so sorry again for what I did and am comforted only by your forgiveness and our friendship. You have been through so much at a young age. It just reinforces my determination to never ever do that again. And my country

  It’s wrong to ask their soldiers to inflict such evil on a civilian population. You have helped me, my brother, again. You have shown me what it is to forgive and be reconciled into a lasting friendship. I want to tell the story of forgiveness here just as we did together in the United States. I will tell it to the general as I give him my answer. ‘Never again!’”

  CHAPTER 35

  Gilad tried to sleep in his barracks room in Hebron. His roommates had no trouble. Two of them snored, one loudly from several bunk beds away. They’d finally finished their shift at four that morning. But it wasn’t the sound that kept him awake. He’d slept through it many times. He couldn’t get that little girl out of his mind. She looked like his niece, same coloring, cute, eyes sparkling, ready to play. But this Palestinian child cowered in fear behind her mother at the rough soldiers. He’d certainly intimidated her. But the table crushed that child because he and his men tipped it over intentionally. My soldiers did it. Did the child die? They hadn’t stayed to find out. They looked like a family who really loved each other.

  And the boy in Bethlehem. He’d carried him out screaming, scared to death, leaving his frightened parents along with Najid and his wife in shock. He’d hit his friend of long ago and didn’t know why. He’d certainly intimidated the family. If that was success, they’d succeeded.

  Gilad turned to his side, staring into the darkness. What have I become? He couldn’t tell his family what he did. He couldn’t tell anyone outside the army. They wouldn’t believe it. Unless they think all the Palestinian terrorists deserve such treatment. But what have they done to be treated that way? Even little kids? We don’t sell them enough water, and then he’d put holes in their tank draining the little they had for the next two weeks. They are just people trying to make the best life they can under our occupation. We come into their land to make them miserable so they will leave. We don’t believe they belong here. This should be a Jewish state, all of it. But what gives us the right to say that? To take another’s land?

  He sighed, talking quietly to himself as he turned over in bed. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Two years already and one more to go. I can’t talk to anyone about what I’m thinking. They’d think I am disloyal, not a good soldier. Not defending my country. If I talk to some liberal rabbi and they find out, I could be in trouble. Najid wants to talk with me, but if I do that and get found, I’d be in real trouble. Keep it bottled up until I go crazy. Maybe I could find some relief in drugs. Girls in one-night stands don’t help. I don’t know what this is doing to me. How can I live the rest of my life knowing what I’ve done?”

  CHAPTER 36

  Shiran Friedman with her husband, Yaron, just behind her opened the front door of their house in West Jerusalem. The clock had ticked away the minutes in the quiet wait for the appointed time. She trembled inside, realizing this would be the Palestinian man bringing his wife to his childhood home. He appeared short and stocky, in a dark suit, gray haired with a face lined from years of working in the sun. The woman seemed younger, dark, graying hair, slender, an attractive early sixties without a head covering.

  “Shalom,” he said, smiling and nodding to Shiran and extendin
g his hand to Yaron. “Thank you for your invitation to visit,” he continued in Hebrew. “My wife has heard me speak of your home for years, but this will be the first time she has seen it.’

  “Come in,” Yaron said, introducing himself and Sharin.

  “I am Ilias and this is Hanan.”

  “Where are you from?” Shiran asked, leading the way to the living room.

  “We live in Galilee, Ibillin. Drove up to Jerusalem just this morning.”

  “Please sit down while I get some tea,” Shiran said excusing herself.

  They shared a bit of their lives and families over tea and cookies. Hanan, after raising three children, began to teach in the Mars Elias School. “It’s a Christian school that serves Jewish, Muslim, and Christian families,” she explained.

  “I have heard of it,” Shiran replied. “Excellent reputation for getting its graduates into universities. And what are you doing, Ilias?”

  “I still farm the small piece of land we have. It has been good to us over the years. Our two sons work in Haifa but help with the olive trees when they can.”

  “So tell us your story. You were born in this house as I understand it,” Yaron said.

  “Yes.” Ilias nodded with a half-smile. “With the help of a nurse mid-wife, right here. I am now seventy-four. We left in 1948, so I just have childhood memories of playing here and outside with other children. But I will never forget that day we left. Gunshots, fighting, Israeli soldiers coming to our door with rifles. They were a militia I found out later.”

  “So what do you remember about it?

  “Just that my parents were frightened. We were in the middle of lunch and had to leave without taking anything with us.”

  “Did they order you to leave?”

  “Yes. For our own safety. Because of the fighting between Jews and Arabs.”