I suspected that with the construction of all the new settlements and the roads connecting them, I might easily get lost again. I decided to be extra cautious and choose my path with the utmost care.
I surveyed my prospects. I could not go to A'yn Qenya through the Abu Ameen track because much of it had been destroyed by new buildings in the course of Ramallah's expansion to the north-west. Added to this was the fact that the Jewish settlers from Dolev and Beit Eil had raised money to build a bypass road through our hills and valleys, going over private Palestinian lands to connect their two settlements. This badly designed private road caused much damage to the hills and obstructed the passage of water through the wadi. It also destroyed a number of the springs and many unique rock formations, amongst them a beautiful cliff studded with cyclamens that I often stopped to admire.
As to the valley to the south where I found the dinosaur footprints, it was now used for target practice by members of the Palestinian security forces. At night one could hear the staccato dribble of their guns. Its access to A'yn Qenya was also blocked by the army post on the hillock owned by the Rabah family half a kilometre down from the Yad Yair military outpost.
So I decided to consult a map of the hills. I had to. It was not a practice I would have chosen, for it implied submission to others, the makers of the maps, with their ideological biases. I would much rather have exercised the freedom of going by the map inside my head, signposted by historical memories and references: this area where Abu Ameen has his qasr, that rock where Jonathan and I stopped and had a long talk. That hill over which Penny and I had a memorable walk. But I had no choice. To find a track I could take that was without settlers or practice shooters or army posts or settler bypass roads had become a real challenge.
I was finally able to work out a route. I would take a taxi and travel north towards Birzeit through area B, which Palestinians could still enter without a permit from the Israeli army. Just before reaching the university campus I would ask the taxi to take a left turn and travel east to the village of Mizra'a Qibliya. There he would drop me. I still had to risk going into area C but I had found a path that avoided army posts, bypasses and Jewish settlements. I would walk down in a south-westerly direction to avoid the settlement of Talmon and its new daughter settlements: Harasha, Horesh Yaron, Nahlei Tal and Zayit Ra'anan. Then down to the A'yn Qenya spring. Walk in a northerly direction in the valley, then circle back to Ramallah avoiding Yad Yair and the other army post on Jabal Kwa'a.
When we reached Mizra'a I asked the driver to take me up the hill.
'To Harrasha?' he asked.
'Yes,' I replied, my heart pounding at hearing the name. I was driven up a steep hill to where there was a copse of pine trees.
'Here it is,' the driver said. 'Is this where you want to be dropped?' I could tell he was wondering what business I could possibly have there.
I found myself all alone in a land that might have once resembled Abu Ameen's. A green pine stood with a spring nearby high up on the hill next to a cultivated orchard. My spirits revived. I felt empowered by the memory of Abu Ameen and his much different times. I did not care what happened to me, I was going to enjoy my walk in the hills. I continued along the track, which I easily found, going south and climbing still higher until I got to 'raq El Khanouq, the escarpment overlooking Wadi Dalb. It was too high and vertiginous for me to descend. Instead I continued walking northwards until I got to the gully and found a track that was steep but made gorgeous by the view it offered of the valley below with its wide swathe of green and the water flowing in its midst shimmering in the mid-morning light. I could not get over how unusual it was to see a green valley with a brook in these dry hills. My heart leapt. I almost ran down the path but thought better of it and, out of kindness to my knees, I slowed down. I felt secure enough on this track and intended to continue on it until I got to the cultivated fields south-east of A'yn Qenya.
Just as I reached the water I realized that someone else was already there. I noticed him from the corner of my eye. I did not look directly at him. I did not want to allow him to disturb my peace. But I knew he was there and that he was an Israeli settler.
It was then that I noticed a strong, unusual smell. I realized it was that of hashish mixed with another more potent substance which I could not identify. When I arrived, the settler was busy preparing his nergila (water pipe or hubble-bubble), on a flat rock right next to the stream. He was surprised by my unexpected entry into his private little enclave and stopped what he was doing. He must have realized that I was aware of his illicit activity. He could not be immediately certain who I was: perhaps an Israeli, a man of the law, someone who could arrest him for smoking the forbidden weed. But of course he had the authority; he was the law. He also had a gun. And a settler can shoot at a Palestinian with impunity.
I took a careful look at his face. It was narrow with a prominent nose and kind, intelligent eyes. He had long straight brown hair that reached down to his shoulders falling on both sides of his head like a scarf. He was clearly an Israeli settler, as I had assumed from the start. But I didn't want to judge him. I wanted to be on my way. Without uttering a word I concentrated on choosing the best stepping stones to ford the brook. I almost got to the other side when I heard him call, in Hebrew:
'Your hat. You've dropped your hat.'
He had a soft, kind voice. Still, I was surprised to be accosted by the settler. I had somehow not expected it, and was hoping to just slip by, unseen, unseeing, each to his own. But this was not to be. Not any more, not in the Palestinian hills in the spring of 2006.
My hat was going downstream, quickly. I crouched to get it but couldn't. I saw it floating and bobbing over the rocks. The Israeli rushed after it. He was younger and more nimble than me. He caught it. He stood there holding it towards me. My gaze wandered from him to the rock where he had balanced his nergila and where his gun also rested. His eyes followed mine and I saw him stiffen, evidently trying to decide between running to the gun and giving me my hat. I didn't move. I was curious which way he would go. He could not be sure whether I was Palestinian or Israeli. Now using English I said:
'Your gun is out of place, leaning against that rock. Don't you think?'
He didn't speak. Perhaps he didn't understand my English. I rephrased what I said:
'This beautiful day and the gun don't go together.'
After a brief silence he spoke. He was almost apologetic, which is most untypical of an Israeli. He said:
'I know but I have to.'
'Where did you come from?'
'Up there.'
'Dolev?'
'Yes.'
'You live there?'
'Yes.'
Looking at the nergila I asked rather pointedly: 'Do you come here frequently?' I was wondering whether he often ran away from home to smoke his dope in private, whether our hills now served as refuge for young Israeli settlers indulging in illicit practices.
'It's my favourite spot,' he answered.
Of course, I thought. A perfect hideout. I could tell the young man wanted me gone so that he could get on with his preparations for the smoke.
'Aren't you afraid of being here alone?'
'Afraid? Why should I be? I've done no evil to anyone.'
Done no evil, I thought, after all the land he and his people have stolen, after destroying our life for so long.
'Why then carry a gun?'
'I'm supposed to.'
'How convenient for you to live so close to this valley. You just walk down the hill and you're here.'
'I come here to be alone,' the settler said pointedly.
I caught the innuendo but I was not going to go away and leave him now without trying to find out a few things about this unwelcome neighbour of mine.
'Were you born in Dolev?'
'No, but my parents moved here when I was five.'
'When was that?'
'Nineteen eighty-six.'
'You're still doing army duty?'
'I finished. I'm a fireman.'
'You can't have too many fires in Dolev. It's a small community.'
'I work at the Lod Industrial Park. What about you? Where do you come from?'
I thought of giving him the nondescript answer Rema gave the settlers in Wadi Qelt: 'From here,' but decided to tell him the truth. 'Ramallah,' I answered.
'I suspected you were an Arab but was not sure. Arabs don't walk.'
'How do you know that? Are you acquainted with many Arabs?'
'No. None at all.'
'Then how did you come upon that conclusion?'
'Just from watching the village people nearby. I never see them taking walks or sitting by the water.'
'Perhaps because they're afraid?'
'Why should they be afraid?'
'Because of you.'
'Of me?'
'Yes. Aren't you carrying a gun?'
'I wish I wasn't. It's heavy and it's a burden. But as I said, I have to.'
I couldn't help saying: 'I suppose you do' in a heavily sarcastic voice though I regretted doing so almost immediately. I was inviting a fight when I had no stomach or inclination to get into one.
'What do you mean?' the settler snapped.
'To protect the land you've taken from us,' I said in a matter-of-fact way, resigned to what was coming.
'We didn't take anyone's land. Dolev is built entirely on public land.'
'Assuming it is, why should you be the only bene-ficiaries?'
'Because it was promised to us. All of Eretz Israel is ours.'
'And where do you propose we live?'
'You have your place; we have ours.'
'But you're constantly expanding and taking more land. There's hardly any left to build our state.'
'Why do you need another state? You already have twenty-one Arab states. We've only got one.'
I found myself wanting to go. Run away. Get on with my walk. I didn't want to hear more. What had I got myself into? This young man had internalized the official propaganda and was just parroting it. Why should I spoil my walk by listening to such annoying nonsense?
'Can't you think for yourself?' I blurted, reprimanding this youngster despite my earlier resolution not to get into a fight with him. 'Can you only repeat what you've been told?'
He looked at me with an expression of shock and defiance. He was not going to take this. Good, I thought, perhaps now I will get some real emotions and honest thought.
'Did you know that this land you're on has been declared a nature reserve? We are protecting this spot. Except for us it would have been ruined. As a walker you should appreciate this.'
I couldn't believe it. I said: 'You're protecting our land? After all the damage your bulldozers have done digging highways in these hills, pouring concrete to build settlements, you claim to be preserving this land?'
'No one is allowed to build here any more. Or destroy the paths or pick wild flowers. Without these regulations this beautiful spot would be ruined.'
'Let me tell you how things looked when this was truly a nature park. Before you came and spoiled it all. You could not see any new buildings, you did not hear any traffic. All you saw were deer leaping up the terraced hills, wild rabbits, foxes, jackals and carpets of flowers. Then it was a park. Preserved in more or less the same state it had been in for hundreds of years.'
'Nothing can remain untouched for hundreds of years. Progress is inevitable. You would have done the same as we are doing. Only you lacked the material and technical resources to connect these distant areas to power and service them with water and electricity. Look at the villagers here, your fellow Arabs. They still have to fetch their water from the spring. I see them trudging every morning with their heavy buckets. It must be a hell of a life without running water. And look at the areas where your people come for picnics further upstream. They are rubbish dumps full of plastic bags and disposable plates and cups and chicken bones left from their barbecues. You lack the know-how and the discipline. Leave planning and law enforcement to us. We have built many towns and cities out of wild empty areas. Tel Aviv was built on sand dunes and look how vibrant it is today. The same will happen here.'
'God forbid.'
'I love these hills no less than you. I was raised here. The sights and smells of this land are a sacred part of me. I am not happy anywhere else. Every time I leave I cannot wait to get back. This is my home.'
'What do you call this wadi ?'
'Wadi Dolev.'
'And the spring?'
'A'yn Dolev.'
'After the plane tree. You pronounce it Dolev, we say Dalb.'
'Isn't it glorious in spring?'
'This one in particular.'
'Yes. There was more water this year than ever.'
'So unusual for this part of the country.'
'It's very peaceful here.'
'This too is unusual.'
'Where're you heading?'
'No particular place. I came to see what is happening to the valley. It's been a while since I walked.'
'I too love walking. I do a lot of it around these hills.'
I held my breath. I wanted to blurt out all the curses I had ever learned: You … you … who've taken my land and now walk it as master, leaving me to walk as a criminal on a few restricted paths. But this time I held my tongue.
'Would you put out a fire in Ramallah?' I asked.
'You have your own firemen, I suppose.'
'What if they couldn't cope and they called you?'
'Would you guarantee I would not be lynched?'
'We're not exactly savages, as you could find out if you visited. Have you ever been to Ramallah? It's just a few minutes away by car.'
'No, not as an adult.'
'As a child?'
'Yes. We used to pass through the city to get to our school in Beit Eil. But I don't remember a thing. The only memory I have is of when we were stoned and the fierce, awful face of that Arab who threw the stone at us. All wrapped up except for the eyes. He flung that stone with such anger and hatred. I felt all this in its impact on the glass. Nothing broke. None of us were injured but it destroyed something inside me, perhaps for ever. This was much worse than if we had been physically injured by broken glass. Then I would have healed. I was so afraid. I cried all the way to school. Not because of what my teachers thought, not because of the rock, but because I could not understand why the Arabs hate us so much. When we got to school I asked the teacher why.'
'And what did she answer?'
'“Because they are bad people,” she said, “and they hate Jews. This is why we have to be strong to defend ourselves.”'
'And you still think this?'
'I have very little to do with Arabs. Now we have our own roads.'
'The valley road?'
'No. We stopped using that one.'
'You dug our hills for nothing.'
'Building roads is progress, not destruction.'
If only he knew what the presence of that road now used by the army has meant to me. But I wasn't going to tell him. I didn't think he would understand.
'You are aware, I hope, that your presence here means perpetual war.'
'Why?'
'Because you've taken our land and refuse to even recognize the fact.'
'Let's say we give it back: what guarantee would we have that you won't ask to get back Jaffa and Haifa?'
'What about international law?'
'It's for the weak.'
'It's a marker of a better, more civilized world.'
'I went to the army for three years. I will defend everything my family fought for. There was a war and we won. Our presence here is a fact that you will just have to live with. My grandfather died fighting in the war of independence.'
'Independence from whom?'
'The British.'
'But they came to take our country from us and give it to you. Haven't you read the terms of the Mandate?'
'They restricted us. They woul
dn't allow the immigrants to come. They wanted us to have only a tiny piece of the country. Israel would not have been a viable state. We had to get rid of them to run our own affairs, to be able to welcome here any Jew from anywhere in the world without anyone telling us not to.'
'Will you pay compensation for the properties you took in '48?'
'If you pay for Jewish losses in Cairo, Baghdad and Yemen.'
'What have we to do with Egypt, with Iraq, with Yemen? Ask them. They are different countries. As far as I'm concerned all people who lost property should be compensated. But you should not link the two cases.'
'They're Arab, aren't they?'
'You're just repeating what you've been told. If you just think about what you're saying you'd realize how ludicrous it is. Let's say we accept that you keep your settlements, would you be willing to be confined to the built-up areas?'
Palestinian Walks Page 18
