Uprooting the Olive Tree

by Lloyd Philip Johnson

“Where did you go?” Shiran asked, raising her hands.

  “To some refugee camp in Jordan, the part which is now the West Bank. I remember the white U.N. tents.”

  “Did you try to come back here?”

  “Oh yes. My father and other men from this area tried, but they were met with soldiers pointing their guns at them. We have never been allowed to return.”

  “So you ended up in Galilee, in Northern Israel?” Yaron asked.

  “Yes, it’s a long story. But we were able to get into Israel several years later, went to school, and gradually earned enough to buy some land and build our home.”

  Shiran stared out the window in a somewhat awkward silence. She had a mental picture of the family fleeing the fighting and the soldiers with their guns. She recalled pictures of refugees walking or in the back of trucks. Just like the ones showing Jews escaping persecution in Europe nearly a century ago.

  “Tell us your story and how you came to live here,” Ilias said.

  Ilias’s face showed no bitterness at the fate of his family or having to leave their home. Shiran felt the nervousness return and swallowed several times, determined to tell their story and face whatever consequences would result. She knew that Israel passed laws that Palestinians had no right of return to Israel, to their former homes. Or to the occupied territories either, the West Bank or Gaza. So Ilias and Hanan had no legal recourse to claim the property in Israeli courts even though they were now citizens of Israel. But then why had they wanted to come if it wasn’t to somehow claim the home? Ilias was only six when he left.

  Shiran had grown up here and remained in the home, marrying Yaron and raising Ariel. All her life, this was home. Why should she have to give it up? Could they eventually pay for it? They never had. But they had improved it and spent lots of money. It was so confusing. Now the original owner, actually his heir, sat here in her living room with his wife. What should they do? She realized they had all turned to her for her story. She felt her face flush.

  “My grandparents found this house empty and were told to live in it. By the government officials somehow. So they moved in and began to farm the area around the home. My father grew up here, and so did I. He then turned the house and land over to me and Yaron after he retired. So except for a few years I have lived here all my life.”

  Ilias nodded. “You’ve lived here much longer than I did.”

  “Yes, that is true. But we didn’t build this house or even pay for it. So when I learned you wanted to come, I thought, ‘What right do we have to say this house and land belongs to us?’ I assume you came here to talk about that.”

  “Oh no, no, no!” Ilias shook his head. “That is history. Events happen and things change. That was long ago. This is your home where you grew up. We did not come here to make any demands on your home. You can’t undo the past. We accept that. And we are not asking for money. I’m so sorry if that is what we made you think.”

  Shiran shook her head, fighting tears as her eyes watered. “So what made you come?”

  “I just wanted Hanan to get to know you and see the house where I began my life. It comes from getting old and wanting to revisit the past since it’s part of my life and history. That is why we came. And we just want to be friends since we have something in common.”

  “You must be Christians since you work in the school and don’t wear a hijab,” Yaron said to Hanan.

  “Yes, we come from many generations of Christians. Some have left for other countries, but we want to stay and work for friendships between our people. We’ve known many Jewish families through the school. When we get to know each other, friendships develop and we learn to live together in peace. So we don’t like the wall and the laws that keep us apart. That seems to be a lot of the problem. It seems like the Israeli government doesn’t want Jews and Palestinians to mix. Somehow they look down on us. And it carries over to the kids as well. So our school tries to get people together and the kids become friends.”

  Shiran shook her head. “I’ve been part of that separation. I didn’t know any Palestinians until recently. I’ve been afraid of them, even of you until a few moments ago. I didn’t know what to expect. But here you are, gentle new friends that will expand my thinking. Come, let me show you around the house, and then we’ll have lunch together on the veranda.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Just an hour after leaving the accident site near Haifa, Ashley recalled Zabuda from two years ago. Najid drove through the village after passing through the checkpoint at the entrance to the West Bank. It could be a small town in rural Oklahoma except for the occasional head coverings, and the checkpoint. Jamal continued working on his computer in the back seat. He would soon be interviewing Faisal and Almas about the demolition order placed on their farm.

  Approaching the small house with the ominous high wall just behind it, Ashley noted Faisal’s car missing. Almas met them at the door, eyes red, trembling as she greeted the three of them, ushering them to chairs in the small living room, meeting their lawyer for the first time.

  “Please, sit down. Faisal is in Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.” She had to stop, hands gripping her knees. “I just talked to a doctor who said he had a broken leg and maybe other injuries.”

  “Oh no!” Ashley gritted her teeth on hearing Najid’s translation from Arabic. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. He left in his car this morning when we heard machinery noises across the wall. That meant something happening on our farm when he wasn’t there. I told him not to go—but he drove off to the checkpoint. I need to be with him.”

  After expressing his concerns for Faisal and offering to help her get to Hadassah Hospital, Jamal had several questions. Then he asked Almas for all the records they had about the land, title deed, and tax records. She provided a file that Faisal kept, and then agreed to go with them to the orchard first, and then to Jerusalem.

  ***

  Najid rounded a corner in the small dirt road just before reaching the first olive trees. Faisal’s car blocked the road, driver’s side door open. Just beyond it Ashley saw a tall rock crushing machine and nearby a large Caterpillar bulldozer. It had graded a strip of land through the brush approaching the orchard. It had an enclosed cab with dark thick glass, and the door swung open. No one seemed to be around in the deathly quiet. Not even the soldiers Ashley expected to see.

  The four of them stared at the scene and walked toward the bulldozer, looking in the open door. No one to ask what happened, Ashley realized. Najid walked to the front of the machine, around the huge blade that had pushed up a moraine of dirt and rocks.

  “Come here,” he said, motioning for the three others to join him. “Look here, a hole in the pile of debris with a hand shovel next to it.” He dropped to his knees, reaching down into the depression, bringing up a handful of dirt and small pebbles. “Red; looks like spots of dried blood mixed in with the soil.”

  “Faisal!” Almas screamed. “What did they do to you?”

  ***

  The drive to Jerusalem included waiting for two hours at the Qalandia checkpoint while young soldiers confirmed her husband’s need for surgery at Hadassah Hospital. Almas, Najid, and Jamal followed Ashley into the Emergency Department where they inquired about Faisal. A young physician in a white coat soon approached and greeted them at the reception desk.

  “You are Faisal’s family?” He used Arabic and quickly repeated the question in English for the blonde American.

  Najid explained, “Please address Almas in Arabic if you will, and I’ll translate for Ashley.”

  “All right. Faisal is in surgery now. The orthopedic surgeon is operating on his right leg.”

  Almas, staring with her mouth open asked, “Will he be all right?”

  “We think so. We could find no other injury except that he may have had a concussion because they said he seemed unresponsive right after the injury.”

  “So what about his leg?” Najid asked.

  “He has an open fracture
of his tibia and fibula, the bones of his lower leg. That means there is a wound leading down to the break in the bones. We found dirt and debris in it. Tried to clean it out here in the ER as best we could. But the surgeon took him to the O.R. where they can give Faisal epidural anesthesia. That is safe for his brain injury whatever it is. Then what they will do about the fracture beyond cleaning the wound thoroughly, I don’t know.”

  “How can we find out?” Almas shivered as she spoke.

  “We’ll take you up to the surgical waiting area. The surgeons usually look for the families there after they finish the operation. Have you eaten? The hospital has a cafeteria. It may be awhile.”

  The surgeon, an older man, graying, with glasses and in his green scrub clothes approached. He shook hands with the four and spoke in English. “I don’t speak Arabic.”

  “That’s fine,” Najid replied. “I’ll translate for Almas. We did talk with the young doctor in the ER. What did you find?”

  “A nasty compound fracture of the main bone of the lower leg, dirty with ground in debris. Also a fracture of the small bone, but that is not so critical. The first job is to get all the foreign material out, remove damaged tissue, and freshen the bone ends. The danger of course is infection and non-union of the fracture.”

  “So you use antibiotics?”

  “Yes. And we leave the wound open to heal from within outward. But then comes the problem of fixation. We need to also stabilize the fracture. It was too dirty for using plates and screws so we use external fixation. That is, pins in the bone away from the site, and a series of rods that connect them and hold the bones immobile at the fracture site so it can heal.”

  Almas sighed as the surgeon answered a few more questions and then left. “What will happen to us?”

  ***

  It had been a long day. Najid drove Jamal home, also in East Jerusalem, before they returned to their apartment. His cell phone rang as he followed Ashley through the door. It was Sami from his dormitory room in Haifa.

  “What’s up, brother?”

  “I’m bored. You are having all the excitement. I’m coming up to Jerusalem.”

  “What about your classes?”

  “The professors don’t care if I’m there or not. Also I’m caught up in my studies so I can be gone for a few days. Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course, Sami. We can put you up here. Actually we will be taking Jamal to Bethlehem tomorrow since Fatima and her parents want to know all about Ali and the trial. So take the early bus to Jerusalem and call when you arrive. We’ll pick you up and take you with us.”

  “Wonderful, I’ll be at the station.”

  ***

  The morning sun shone in the deep-blue Bethlehem sky as Ashley led the three men to Fatima’s front door. She gave Ashley a hug and greeted Najid and Jamal. She turned to Sami and blushed while nodding her greeting, “Asalam alekum. I didn’t know you were coming … but welcome.”

  “I got bored and needed to get away from school for a few days. I can wait out back if you want.” Sami winked at her.

  “Oh no! Come in.” Fatima turned red again, almost matching her hijab. Then recovering her composure, introduced her parents, Jamilah and Saleh, who shook hands with Sami.

  “Please sit down,” Jamilah said as she signaled Fatima to join her in the kitchen.

  Soon over tea and pita bread, hummus, and pieces of fruit around a coffee table in the modest living room, the family plied Ashley and the two men with questions about Ali. They wanted to know details, how did he look, what did he say, what was prison like, had he lost weight? Did he know why his parents weren’t there?

  Then the questions shifted to the trial. They shook their heads as they heard the injustice of a verdict of guilty when they had no evidence except a soldier’s statement. And that the judge would not take any questions about Ali’s treatment in prison or his family’s right to visit.

  The discussion gradually turned to what they could do now legally, through Jamal, if anything. Najid interjected that the three of them might go for a walk exploring Bethlehem since Ali’s family needed to talk confidentially with Jamal.

  Fatima brightened. “I’d like to go too.”

  ***

  The four young people walked up the hill along a winding street with stone houses all having black water tanks on their roofs.

  She enjoyed being back in Bethlehem with the people she had grown to love. Reaching the top of the ridge they entered Manger Square, walking past the tour groups crowding around the tiny entrance of the Church of the Nativity. Crossing the square they continued up a narrow street toward the open outdoor market, Fatima lead them past colorful stalls filled with fruits and vegetables. They strolled on past shops of many kinds, from clothing to hardware and electronics. The vendors called out their wares, particularly toward Ashley who had put on a head covering. But it didn’t hide her blonde hair completely. She didn’t want to stand out as an American or a tourist, but unfortunately had no control of what others thought.

  The narrow corridors between some stalls along with the crowds made walking four abreast impossible. Ashley soon noted Sami and Fatima walking ahead while she and Najid lagged behind, stopping occasionally to shop. The two seemed to be enjoying each other. Ashley smiled, relieved that those two college students could forget for a while the difficulties of living under military occupation in Bethlehem or as a second-class citizen in Galilee.

  Ashley remembered that a wise Palestinian farmer near Bethlehem spoke of four ways for Palestinians to handle the occupation with its oppression. One to fight back with violence, and that only produced more of the same. Gaza knew that. Some of their militants didn’t. The second, cry and play the victim role. That changed nothing. Third, simply leave. She knew six million Palestinians had left for other countries voluntarily and had been prohibited, against international law, to return to their lands in Palestine or Israel. Escape was one way to handle conflict. It didn’t change the situation. The issues remained for those left behind to face them.

  Just then a particularly vehement shopkeeper insisted on her coming into his dress shop. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. She declined again and again wondering how she could apply the fourth principle right now. The farmer has called it the “Jesus way.” It’s making enemies into friends by loving them. He refuses to be an enemy. He resists injustice by every legal and non-violent means. He appeals for justice in the courts. When they cut off his electricity he uses solar panels. When they stopped all water to his farm, he collects rainwater storing it in cisterns. When they prevented building on his farm, he constructs underground facilities in caves. Najid had met him at his farm.

  How do you deal in the “Jesus way” with a pesky merchant who must have you buy something in his kiosk? Ashley grabbed Najid’s hand to see how he would handle this. They followed the man into his shop. Najid asked about his family. He described a sick wife with five children at home. Najid read his eyes and seemed to believe him. They discussed the situation in English and then decided to buy a small item that Ashley might enjoy. She picked out a colorful vest. The merchant beamed his thanks, receiving the shekels and shook hands with Najid, bowing his thanks to Ashley. She wondered whether she did the right thing. She didn’t bargain the man down for a lower price. Possibly they were “taken” by a story that was not true or a price too high. But that would be his problem, not hers. Maybe she was learning a better way, even knowing they didn’t have the money to buy any more vests.

  By this time Fatima and Sami had disappeared. “Should we try to find them, Najid?”

  “No. They know the way back and so do we. They’re probably having a good time together … if I know Sami.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Sami and Fatima ambled through the narrow streets of the Bethlehem market oblivious to the external world of the colorful market and the vendors shouting. At least he didn’t notice the shops nor hear the merchants. And he had no idea they had wandered out of sight of Najid and A
shley. Sami watched Fatima with her red hijab flowing. Her long, black hair showed a bit at the edges of the head covering, contrasting with her light olive skin and dark eyes. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as they moved through the alleyways.

  Sami wanted to know more about her. This hijab wearing didn’t seem to fit with her interest in the Bethlehem Bible College, even working there. Not that they wouldn’t hire a Muslim young person. It just seemed unusual. She didn’t wear the hijab in the college, even with men around. And then she had said that she is a follower of Jesus.

  Fatima smiled at Sami’s sudden silence from chatting about the old market and the latest cell phones neither of them could afford. She waited for him to speak as they came to a short stone wall and sat down.

  Finally he broke the silence. “I just need to know more about you, some things I don’t understand. You told me in the car on the outskirts of Haifa that you would explain, someday.”

  “Maybe this isn’t ‘someday.’”

  “But perhaps it is time for you to tell me what you are thinking inside.”

  “How about you telling me about your life up in Galilee first. You come from a Christian background, right?”

  “Yeah. Our family traces its roots back for ten generations in northern Israel. Our Melkite church claims it began in Antioch, Syria, shortly after Pentecost. We’ve been here for centuries at least.”

  “So you were born “Christian” just as I was born Muslim. So does that mean you have Christian genes?”

  Sami laughed. “I’ve never been asked that question. I don’t think my genes are any different from yours or any Palestinian’s. Or any Israeli’s either.”

  “We aren’t different from Jewish people?”

  “Now that I can answer. Najid in his biology classes studied the DNA of all Semites in this part of the world, Palestinians and Jews, Sephardic and Ashkenazi. We are all the same. No differences genetically. And that shouldn’t surprise you because after centuries of living and marrying together, we Semites, Jewish, and Arab are a grand mixture.”