Hope Valley

by Haviva Ner-David

  I talk to the Jews when they come into the book shop. I speak Hebrew just as well as most of them, and even better than some. Hebrew is closer to Arabic than it is to some of their mother tongues, like German, Polish, Russian or French. I think we can learn something from the Jews. They seem intelligent. Educated. Even the women. They talk about equality. Socialism. They are too proud, perhaps, like my brothers. And just as narrowly focused. What consumes them now is the news coming out of Europe. (How could you let that happen, Father Allah? I have to assume some things are simply out of your control.) So much so that they cannot see how their plans do not take my people into account. Just as my brothers do not take the Jews into account. Which is a recipe for disaster, I am afraid.

  My brothers listen to Arabic radio and weave what they hear into their own worst nightmares. I, on the other hand, am always seeking more information, more pieces to complete the picture. I listen to Hebrew news and English news. And I read whatever I can get my hands on. I read a history book a few weeks ago. European history. I read about the Dreyfus case, how the Jews were persecuted during the First World War, too, how persecution seems to be a recurring theme in their people’s history. Like the history of my people. We have not had sovereignty for a long time, either. But we at least have our land. Now the Jews want to share it. I can understand that. I feel sorry for them.

  If the Jews want to come live with us in peace, ahlan wa sahlan. If they are seeking refuge, why not help them? Perhaps we could help each other.

  But no one wants to hear that kind of talk in the village. Now that the Partition Plan—which would have our village and many other Arab villages become part of a Jewish state—passed in the United Nations, people are getting ready to fight. There is already rioting in Al-Quds and Hayfa. Kareem is officially one of Fawzi al-Qawuqji’s Arab Liberation Army men. I am sure Ahmad will join too, now that he is home. Kareem says that once the British leave, the ALA will be able to fight the Jews and win. Never mind that we fallaheen don’t know how to shoot a gun, and that the kibbutznikim are being trained as soldiers. Never mind that our people have not yet recovered from our failed revolt less than a decade ago. The Jews have no chance, he says.

  I am worried. Very worried. I am no soldier. I am not even one of Qawuqji’s irregulars. I know nothing about guns. Just the thought of holding a rifle scares me. I could never hold it with the confidence I hold my fountain pen. My father was right, violence is not my destiny. So who am I to say what I think? But from you, Father Allah, I have no secrets.

  I have not told anyone, not even Abu Ahmad, that I am an official card-carrying member of the Communist party. Kamal gave me Marx’s The Communist Manifesto to read, and I could not put it down. He invited me to stay late one evening for a meeting of the National Liberation League party at the shop. They are in favor of the Partition Plan, of sharing the land instead of fighting over it. This was the first time I heard any of my people make this argument I had already considered but dared not say aloud. Two downtrodden peoples would be better off joining forces rather than fighting against each other. That is what Marx would say. Let the workers and the farmers unite!

  But no one takes this position in the diwan, and I would have no chance of convincing anyone. So I keep my mouth shut. Although I do not believe, as the other villagers do, that this yellow-haired, green-eyed career soldier from Syria, Qawuqji, will be our savior when he arrives in Palestine.

  I work in an-Nasira every day. I see the signs of the fighting all around me. In the village, you can pretend life is still somewhat normal, but in the city, you can’t. Refugees fleeing car bombs and snipers in Al-Quds and Hayfa have been flooding an-Nasira. Will the fighting reach us, soon, too? Even if Al Jazira broadcasts Arab victories, when people come from Balad al-Sheikh with stories of scores of villagers dead from massive Haganah fire in the middle of the night in retaliation for that bloodbath at the Hayfa Oil Refinery —which itself was in retaliation for the fatal grenades thrown on a crowd of Arab workers outside the Refinery—it is hard to deny that there are really no victors in war. There is an old Arabic proverb: Victory shows what you are capable of; defeat shows what you are really worth. I say: Victory shows what you are capable of now, and defeat shows what you will be capable of tomorrow, and vice versa, so why bother to fight in the first place?

  TIKVAH

  TIKVAH DROVE TO Haifa. Libraries were scarce in Israel. Certainly no grand, beautiful free public libraries like she had grown up with. But she knew of an old British library in Haifa where she could look for history books on the Mandate period and 1948.

  “Can I help you?” a thin woman with hair pulled back and a strong British accent asked in Hebrew.

  Tikvah answered in English. She preferred to speak English with native English speakers. It felt almost like meeting long-lost family. “I am looking for books on Israel before 1948, when it was Palestine. Where would I find them?”

  “That would be downstairs, in the stacks. Row P4,” the woman said, switching to English and pointing towards a staircase leading down to where the stacks must be. “There’s not much, though. You may be better off going to archives. But you have to get special permission for that.”

  “I’m looking specifically for information about the history of Galilee before 1948.”

  “So try down there.”

  “Thank you,” Tikvah said as she headed in the direction of the staircase.

  Tikvah found Row P4 easily. It was one of the higher shelves. She found a step ladder and searched the titles, one by one, looking for something that seemed relevant. Towards the end of the row, she noticed a fat hardback book with a title that sounded promising. As she removed the large volume from the shelf, dust came down into her face. She coughed and tried to get as much dust out of her eyes as possible. The weight of the book almost knocked her to the floor.

  Tikvah sunk down onto her rear right there in the stacks and opened the volume. It was a collection of the names of all of the Arab villages that had been destroyed in 1948 in Palestine, with information about each one; at least that was what the author wrote in the introduction. It was not an old book. It had come out only ten years before, in 1990. Yet, judging from the dust, it was not a popular item. She scanned the table of contents. There it was: Yakut al-Jalil. That was the name Ruby had mentioned. Tikvah’s eyes started to tear. Was it only the dust, or were the events of the past weeks getting to her? She closed the book in her lap. Did she want to read what was written there? She opened the book again and turned to the listed page number.

  According to this author, the village of Yakut al-Jalil had a long history, dating back to ancient times. It had been a Jewish city that was conquered by the Romans. Tikvah felt vindicated when she was reminded of what the name of the city had been: “Sapir.” Just as she had thought. Ruby was wrong to accuse the founders of the moshav of appropriating her father’s village’s name. Even this author admitted that the name dated back to when it was a Jewish city, before there were Muslims or Christians on this land. Before either religion even existed at all. Although Ruby’s ancestors could still have lived in the area before Muhammad or Jesus were born, of course. Tikvah’s may have, too, before being expelled by the Babylonians or the Romans or the Greeks. She read on:

  When the Romans conquered the city, they changed the name to the Roman equivalent of “Sapphire of Galilee.” Jesus’ mother Mary was born in the city, which was the home of a group of Talmudic scholars.

  Tikvah had always known that a group of Jewish scholars had lived and studied on this land during Jesus’ time, or even before, perhaps. Of that history she had also been aware; she and Alon included it in their promotional materials for Galilean Dream Cabins. The archeological park next to the moshav prominently displayed a synagogue from that time period that had been uncovered in the dig.

  When it became an Arab village during the Islamic conquest, the name was changed to the Arabic, Yakut al-Jalil.

  If anyone stole the village’s name, it
was the Muslims who conquered it from the Romans. Should she tell this to Ruby? Perhaps the information would bring her down from her soap box. Tikvah continued reading:

  During Crusader times, a church and convent were built on the outskirts of the city, dedicated to Mary. During the Ottoman and British Mandate periods it was mostly an agricultural village, with an overwhelming majority Muslim population. In 1948, the Jewish Haganah conquered the village, the majority of whose residents were anti-Zionist and pro-Arab Liberation. Twenty-eight young men, anti-Zionist activists suspected of murdering six Haganah soldiers, a kibbutz platoon, the night before, were shot in the village mosque. Others were mauled by military dogs, including an older man. The village was emptied. The Haganah destroyed the village, but the church and convent outside the village were spared.

  Tikvah stared at the pages in front of her. This was the massacre Ruby had mentioned. Had this horror really happened on the site of her pastoral home? It was hard to push herself to read what was left of the text, but she did.

  Members of nearby Kibbutz Zohar began working the land and building a moshav on one part of the ruins of the village, and in 1949 Moshav Sapir was officially established. A pine forest was planted by the Jewish National Fund on the rest of the land, and around the Sisters of Mary convent and church. About a decade later, an archeological dig began. When the dig was completed, the Sapir Archeological Park was established, with no mention in its signage of Yakut al-Jalil having been there.

  Tikvah knew about those Jewish National Fund forests, but she didn’t know the forest right next to her moshav had been planted by the JNF. She herself had bought a tree in one of the Israeli JNF forests through her Zionist youth movement when she was a teenager. Her counselors had encouraged her. She had even gone around selling them, door to door. She wondered now if her tree was in the forest next to her moshav. The JNF never did tell her or her friends where their trees were being planted. If she had known her tree could have been slated for soil where a family’s home had once stood, would she have been so eager to buy one?

  Tikvah turned the page. There were photographs from before 1948. The village had been large. In the photographs were men in traditional Arab garb—kaffiye head scarves and long white jalabiye dresses—walking camels and donkeys and going about their day. There were women in hijab and jilbab, carrying baskets on their heads or babies on their hips. Tikvah had not wanted to believe that such a substantial village had stood in the place of her moshav. It had seemed impossible, exaggerated. But this photograph supported Ruby’s claim.

  And then she saw it. She blinked and looked again. There was another photograph, an old black and white one of the neglected stone building Tikvah and Alon had purchased in 1983 from the moshav board. The board had explained that the building had been used for storage for many years, although they had not said of what or by whom. Tikvah had assumed the property had been owned by the moshav since 1948, like the rest of the land, and that the building had been used by members to store agricultural supplies. But the photograph’s caption explained that the Israel Defense Forces had left the building standing to use as an army outpost because of its location at the edge of the hill. While soldiers left the outpost in the 1970s, it was still used by the IDF to store military supplies. It was years before the IDF turned the property over to the moshav. It was sold to private owners in 1983. Those “private owners” were Tikvah and Alon!

  Next to the black and white photograph was a more recent colored photograph, from about ten years before, when this book was published. It was of Galilean Dream Cabins. Beneath the photo was a caption which read: “These Jewish settlers turned the old Palestinian home into a bed-and-breakfast.” Tikvah had never thought of herself as a “settler” before. Settlers were in the occupied territories, not in Israel proper. This author was blowing the truth out of proportion, for his own political agenda. Trying to sway public opinion against Israel and in favor of the Palestinian national cause. That is why the book was in English. It was a propaganda book, so people would sympathize with the Palestinians and side with them against the so-called Zionist occupiers.

  Tikvah closed the book.

  BACK HOME IN the safe familiarity of her kitchen, Tikvah called Talya, on the land line. She and Alon still had a phone with a cord in the kitchen; Tikvah saw no reason to replace what still worked. The sun was still up, but according to the clock, it was nearing evening. These summer days lasted almost until Tikvah was ready to get into bed with a book and drift off to sleep.

  “Hi, Ima. What’s up? Udi and I were about to sit down to dinner. We both have evening classes tonight.” Reminded of her daughter’s new living arrangement, Tikvah wondered if she should just tell her she’d call again later. She was not sure she wanted to have this conversation now, anyway. And the abrupt way their dinner had ended at the restaurant a few days before continued to bother her.

  Udi’s cousin being one of the terrorists arrested in Jericho; hearing on the radio that they had connections in Jaffa: it had all been too much. Tikvah had driven home from Jaffa that night clutching the steering wheel so tightly, that she had woken up the next morning with a terrible stiff neck. She had called Talya right away, while lying in bed with a hot water bottle and Eucalyptus oil. When Talya had reassured her that Udi said his cousin was wrongly accused, she had felt the tightness in her neck practically disappear. She felt mildly foolish now that it had crossed her mind that Udi was involved in terrorist activities. He was a law student at Tel Aviv University. An Israeli citizen. And Talya was savvy, even if she was idealistic. Still, that scare brought home the harsh reality of how complicated her daughter’s new romance was. Like Ruby had said, all Arab Israelis were also Palestinians. There was definitely no way she could tell Alon about their relationship. She had to just pray it would end soon.

  “So maybe it’s not a good time.”

  “I have a few minutes. I can talk now.”

  Tikvah had no excuse now to hang up. “I thought you might be able to help me with something.”

  “I don’t know. Try me.”

  “I’ve been doing research about pre-State Galilee.”

  “Really?” Talya sounded surprised.

  “Yes. Really.” Tikvah wound the phone cord around her wrist and looked over at the kitchen windows. She had a clear view of Ruby’s house from where she stood. She wondered if Ruby was looking at Tikvah’s house, too, from across the valley. “Do you know anyone who would know something about that history? I wanted to know about a specific village.”

  “You mean, an Arab village? A Palestinian village before the Jewish State was established?”

  “Yes. Well, I mean, if it existed at all.”

  “Most likely it did but was captured by the Haganah. There were hundreds of villages around the country that were wiped out in ’48, you know.”

  Tikvah sighed. “No. I didn’t know. Not exactly. Not that many. And not such large ones.”

  “Well, the people on the moshav don’t talk about it much, I’m sure,” Talya quipped. “Does Ruby have something to do with this?”

  “Yes. I suppose she does.”

  “Anyway, there are no official published records, and certainly no memorials put up by the Israeli government. The villagers themselves were mostly illiterate, so it’s not like they’re writing memoirs or history books. Academics are trying to preserve some of the history before it’s too late. Taking oral testimony, looking for photos. But there weren’t even cameras in the villages.”

  “So there are no photos at all? Photos claiming to be from then would have to be fakes?” Tikvah hoped her daughter could not detect the wishful tone in her voice.

  “I didn’t say that. There are some. Just not many. They have to be searched out. Photos of the village would mostly have been taken by Jews or U.N. officials, British soldiers, or foreigners visiting the village for one reason or another. There may be some photos in shoe boxes under a bed, or a rare photo hanging on a wall . . .”

 
Tikvah let out a long breath. When had her daughter amassed all of this knowledge of a topic about which Tikvah knew so little? Talya had a complete life of her own, separate from her parents. Perhaps even in opposition to their life in some ways. Tikvah nibbled on her nail as she wondered how much she wanted to reveal “Well, I did see a book. In the British library in Haifa. A big book. A supposed compilation of the names of the villages with some history, testimony, and photos. In English. Are you saying no such book exists? At least not a reliable, respectable one?”

  “Hold on a minute, Ima. Let me ask Udi.”

  Tikvah tried to tell her daughter that was unnecessary, but it was too late. Biting her thumbnail again, leaning on her kitchen table, she waited for Talya to get back on the line. “Ima? Are you still there? Udi says he heard about that book. It’s a really important work, by a Palestinian in exile in the U.S. An academic. What did you find?”

  Tikvah hesitated. But she had been the one to make this call. She wanted to know the truth. “I read about the village of Yakut al-Jalil. The writer says that it was a large village before 1948 that stood right where our moshav stands. That it was destroyed by the Haganah.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the massacre. “And that the villagers were expelled and never let back in.” She looked out the window again. The sun was starting to set as the sky turned colors around Bir al-Demue. “So I guess it’s all true, what’s written in that book?” she managed to get out.

  “Yes. As far as I know, it is,” Talya answered. “I don’t think it’s a bunch of lies, if that’s what you’re asking. The editor had an agenda, but that’s understandable.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Tikvah mumbled. She was ashamed of her ignorance, but she was also angry—at her government, and at her counselors and educators from her Zionist youth, for keeping this important information from her.