by Mark Thomas
The Israeli use of the term ‘fence’ (eschewing the term ‘wall’ as an inaccurate and pro-Palestinian term) is somewhat disingenuous. True, actual concrete wall accounts for only about four per cent of the Barrier, but that does not make the rest a fence. In reality, and for the most part, it is a standardised configuration of fences, razor wire, ditches, roads and military patrols. It starts on the Palestinian side with six rolls of razor wire stacked three at the bottom, two in the middle and one topping it all off in a pyramid formation; this is normally about two metres high and uncoils along the ‘fence’. Next to the wire is a trench one to two metres deep: sometimes it is a ditch dug in the dirt, sometimes it is a concrete contraption. After the wire and the trench comes the sand path, enabling soldiers to see if anyone has come near the ‘fence’. Next to the sand path comes the actual bit of fencing; this is an electric fence with motion detectors and is about three to four metres high. There is then another sand track, making two in total, one on either side of the electric fence. Alongside the second sand track is an asphalt road, along which military vehicles drive. After this is another trench and finally the ‘fence’ is finished off with another pyramid of razor wire. The whole thing is constantly patrolled by soldiers and/or the border police in Humvees and armoured Land Rovers, and a series of communication watchtowers monitor just about the entire length with cameras and state-of-the-art spy equipment. From start to finish red signs adorn the ‘fence’ saying: ‘MORTAL DANGER: MILITARY ZONE. ANY PERSON WHO PASSES OR DAMAGES THE FENCE ENDANGERS HIS LIFE’ in English, Hebrew and Arabic.
A simple rule of thumb is if you can’t buy it in B&Q then it’s not a fence and if you can buy all of the above in a B&Q then you are probably in the Phnom Penh branch. To be accurate, it is a military barrier that has some fencing involved in the construction. But the word ‘fence’ suits a certain way of seeing the conflict here, because it reduces it to the idea of a neighbourhood dispute, a local tussle of equals; few neighbourhood disputes involve, however, one neighbour putting another under military occupation. (It is certainly not a neighbourhood dispute where I live and if it was, I’d imagine Lambeth Council would take extremely stern action on planning application grounds alone.)
As we walk next to the barbed-wire coils, occasionally peering through to the fence beyond, I catch sight of something that is quintessentially English – what appears to be a small trig point, about a metre high: a rectangular stone with a flat pyramid point protruding from the earth next to the Barrier. Moving closer, it starts to look as if the tip of Cleopatra’s Needle is growing out of the ground and that if we were to dig deep enough, we would find the remaining twenty metres, a plinth and some benches.
Pointing at it, I ask Jacob what it is.
‘What is that? I don’t know. I have never seen it before,’ says a genuinely bemused Jacob, whose expression also says, ‘Where the fuck did that come from?’
It seems odd that something so prominent to my eye has been missed entirely by Jacob; I wonder how anyone can have failed to spot this on their own land. Perhaps he doesn’t come this close to the Barrier normally; perhaps he is busy with other things.
‘Is it a milestone? It could be, couldn’t it?’ I say, opting for familiarity, milestones being a frequent feature of British rambles.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wonder if it has anything written on it?’ I say as much to myself as to Jacob and Phil, as we arrive at it. With one hand resting on its top, I lean in to look at its four sides. There is writing.
‘It’s in Arabic, I think. Jacob, is this Arabic?’
‘Yes.’
Jacob and I are now both peering at the writing carved into the stone. The words have been worn slightly smooth by time and weather, but the stone is certainly not so ancient as to make it undecipherable: at maybe thirty or forty years old, for a milestone this would be a whippersnapper. Jacob peers to translate.
‘“Palestine. We are coming.”’
‘What?’
‘That is what is says: “Palestine. We are coming.”’ Jacob straightens up.
We are right next to the Barrier, which here follows the 1949 Armistice ‘Green Line’,4 the de facto border of the West Bank. Across the wire is Israel, and someone has stuck a plinth here reading, ‘Palestine. We are coming.’
‘Does it mean, “We are coming” as in the state of Palestine will soon exist: in effect, “Our state is becoming”? Or does it mean, “We are coming! Beware!” or “Charge!”?’
If it is the latter, you have to admit, it is a classy bit of gang graffiti.
‘“We are coming, Palestine is coming.”’ Jacob shrugs, indicating the former.
In my world, a stone like this would state a fact: the height above sea level, or the distance from a city. This one, with the formality and certainty of something literally set in stone, announces an event that has yet to happen; it is a declaration of intent. It is such an ordinary object, a fixture of the landscape that ceases to be seen: despite sitting right next to the Barrier, it seems to have drawn no attention from the Israeli military. It stands looking at them each day as they drive along in their armoured cars – staring them in the face, mocking them almost, if only they would look at it properly – and saying, ‘One day this will be ours.’
Perhaps we have stumbled upon a stonemason’s gag. If so, it would be the first time I have knowingly seen anything witty by a Mason.
We ramble on, past the translucent sheeting that covers the tubular greenhouses full of cucumbers and beans, stopping for tea made in a blackened kettle balanced over the flames between breeze blocks, then past demolished workers’ huts of flattened concrete sheets, lying like folded cardboard. We pass families in the fields, pass barns with no walls – just roofs stuck on stilts – until we emerge from the track onto the main artery road of the Jordan valley, the A90, by the Bisan checkpoint.
The Bisan checkpoint is primarily for vehicles, and is laid out like a series of toll booths, manned by heavily armed attendants. I should point out this is not a toll road, and no one asks for money (if they did you would be well advised to be sure you had the right change in advance).
The differently coloured car number plates indicate where the driver is from and we watch yellow plates pouring through the checkpoint from the Israeli side and roaring off down the A90, which heads south past Israeli settler farms and down to the Dead Sea.
Walking along the side of the road, a short distance from the checkpoint, Jacob lightly holds his hand up to my chest.
‘Wait,’ he says.
We have managed to stop right at the point where cars change gear and accelerate away, so we have to talk loudly, amid the roar of revving engines.
‘Is it always this busy?’ I ask.
Jacob shrugs and smiles. ‘Sometimes.’
Phil is lifting his camera to the checkpoint when Jacob says, ‘Try and keep the camera out of sight. They do not like people taking pictures of the checkpoint.’
‘OK, no problem,’ says Phil over the noise of the cars.
We cross the road and, one minute later, I find myself in front of a soldier, saying the words, ‘I am writing a book about birds and flowers.’
‘What is your name?’ asks the soldier.
I want to reply, ‘Is your teacher around? Or any other grownup?’ Israel has military service so its army is predominantly conscripts and this one is fresh-faced and hairless.
After I give my name, he asks, ‘Where are you from?’
I reply, ‘England,’ but I’m actually thinking, If this conversation goes on for much longer, it’s going to look like I am grooming him.
And when he asks, ‘Why are you here? What are you doing?’ I think, Just tell the truth, you have nothing to conceal.
Fortunately, the soldier knows as much about birds and flowers as I do. He hands us over to a private security company, who are also twelve-year-olds in wraparound shades.
‘Have you taken any pictures of the checkpoint? Becaus
e this is not allowed,’ asks one of them, who seems a pleasant enough chap.
‘Why is it not allowed?’ I ask.
‘Security,’ he says, on autopilot.
‘Well, I don’t think we did …’
‘We need to check, and look at your bags and passports.’
In a small cabin just to the side of the checkpoint, they run our bags through an X-ray machine and rummage through them by hand. Security drops my notebook in a plastic tray, along with my handkerchief, some keys, a pen, suncream, and then he stops, turning something over in his hand.
‘What is this?’
‘Kendal Mint Cake.’
‘What is that, exactly?’
‘It is the personification of Englishness enshrined in a mint and sugar-based confectionery item.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘An energy bar.’
‘OK.’ He slowly puts it onto the tray. I feel a bit sorry for him and I want to offer him some Kendal Mint Cake, but I don’t want to spoil his tea.
Outside is a shaded waiting area with seats, so I grab my notebook while Phil is being searched, and start scribbling ideas. Just as I was writing, the lad who searched my bag asks incredulously, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Writing.’
‘What are you writing?’
‘Thoughts about being here,’ I explain, though not in an overly friendly manner.
‘Writing about here? This place? It is not allowed!’ he replies quickly.
‘Why not?’
‘Security,’ he answers firmly and, again, automatically.
‘What security, exactly?’
‘Er …’ His answer is not so quick now. ‘You could be writing a report?’
‘I am. I am writing a book.’
‘A report for terrorists!’ he splutters.
‘And what would I be writing?’
‘You could tell them we have guns and … shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘You could give them information, yes,’ he says, exasperated.
‘Do you think your enemies don’t know you have shoes? What threat do you face from a terrorist who doesn’t know you have shoes?’ I knew I should stop but my frustration at being delayed by a group of kids on a whim was starting to get to me.‘Do you think Hezbollah are unaware that Israeli security has shoes?’
‘It is not allowed.’ But his eyes are wide behind his shades, and he knows he has said something foolish.
‘Is the fact that you have shoes a state secret? If Hezbollah find out about your shoes, how will it affect security?’ I liked the thought of a cloaked cleric reading a report: ‘Shoes! I thought so! The time has come,’ and, sweeping his cloak around him, he would cry: ‘To the Bunionator!’
The young soldier backs away to his cabin, and I feel I have bullied him.
An hour later, we walk away from the checkpoint. On our first morning, we have been detained and questioned, and we are only a third of the way to our evening’s destination. I have no idea if this ramble will work. As we traipse away, heading further into the West Bank, an army jeep passes us, heading the other way. It is the soldiers who stopped us earlier and, as it drives past, one of them shouts out of the open door, ‘Welcome to Israel!’
It is intended to be a sarcastic greeting but he seems oblivious to the fact that he is technically in the West Bank, the Israeli Occupied Territories of the West Bank. I shout one word at the roaring truck – ‘Israel-ish!’
But it is too late; I am not quick enough, and the jeep is through the checkpoint, heading to the military road and driving east along the fence, past a stone that looks like a trig point.
chapter 2
THE AL AQABA VILLAGE GREEN PRESERVATION SOCIETY
We are less than halfway to our destination of the village of Al Mutilla, and already it is well into the afternoon: our first day and we are behind schedule. Unfortunately, the next section of the map is covered in irregular, small, black dots: great swathes of them, like an infestation. They are the symbol for a ‘closed military area’. At this stage I’m not sure what ‘closed military area’ actually means, but I make an educated guess by the words that are not employed: the area is not ‘open’ nor is it ‘civic’ and it has none of the usual redeeming suffixes like, ‘World of Adventure’ or ‘Admission Free’. What lies ahead is probably more red signs and a line of questioning that will test my knowledge of birds further than, ‘I like the blue ones.’
Our proposed route from the Bisan checkpoint to Al Mutilla takes us over six kilometres of ‘closed military area’, and Phil is worried: ‘We need to discuss this.’
Phil has just finished working in Afghanistan (as a cameraman, rather than as a mercenary or drug dealer, for anyone who has picked up this book thinking it is written by Andy McNab) and sports the rough tan and goatee beard of a jazz-loving hobo. He is slightly shorter than I and substantially skinnier and, as a counterpoint to my big, fat Middle Eastern nose, he sports a broken, Roman model. Despite living quite close to each other in south London, we have only known each other for a couple of weeks and are still discovering each other’s habits.
One of Phil’s habits is to use the word ‘we’ when he means ‘you’. So: ‘What do we know about the area? Do we know how heavily patrolled it is?’
‘We don’t know,’ I reply, realising that my habit is to use the word ‘we’ when I mean ‘I’.
Phil presses on. ‘Did we know this was a closed area before we set out this morning?’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘So what contingency plans did we make?’
‘We thought it would be sensible to see how it went this morning before we made a decision.’
Whichever way you look at that, one thing is for sure: ‘we’ have slightly fucked up. So I defer to Jacob, saying, ‘You know the area; what do you think? Is it safe to walk this route?’
Jacob shrugs unsmilingly, in a deliberate manner. They are both staring at me expectantly and I feel I must give in to common sense.
‘I think we can get to Al Mutilla another way,’ I say, ‘and, if we are lucky, it won’t involve any scrapes with the military.’
Jacob nods, all smiles once more.
I make a few phone calls and a plan is made: we will drive to Al Aqaba, a village on the edge of the closed military area, and from there get help to guide us round the zone and get us back onto our route. Fadhi agrees to drive us, the mayor of Al Aqaba agrees to meet us and so we set off on the only open road through the black dots. The ‘closed military area’ runs across virtually all of the Jordan Valley;5 covering most of the map page in black dots, it’s like navigating through a rash. The drive towards Al Aqaba is up through the mountains, past steep ravines and Bedouin tents perched on green slopes.
Just short of the village we are stopped at one of the many internal checkpoints the Israelis have set up to control movement inside the West Bank – this one is eight kilometres south of the Barrier and has nothing to do with getting in or out of Israel. After ninety minutes the military still refuses to let us pass on the grounds that, ‘It is just not allowed for you to use this checkpoint.’ We are forced to go further south, and by the time we find another checkpoint, the daylight has gone.
‘Al Mutilla’s not happening tonight,’ says Phil.
‘No, it is not,’ I answer, quietly.
It would be foolish even to attempt to walk the mountains at night, so all we can do is sit in silence as the car potters onwards, pondering the fact that we have failed on our very first day.
With the mood still sombre, Fadhi delivers us safely to Al Aqaba. We thank him, wave goodbye and are left momentarily alone, huddling in the street under the minaret of the mosque.
After the warmth of the car, the cold mountain wind is sharp and sudden, matching my profanities. Then, out of the night air suddenly comes an Arabic voice, speaking in impeccable English: ‘Mark?’
‘Yes?’
‘Come with me, please.’ A man in a raincoat comes out of the
dark, holding out his hand. He waits for us to pick up our rucksacks before leading us across a small compound, half-lit by the moon. ‘Haj Sami is waiting for you,’ he says, and we turn at the sound of a humming motor as a figure in an electric wheelchair drones out of the shadows towards us.
In the bright light of the whitewashed meeting room, I see the mayor properly for the first time. Mayor Haj Sami Sadeq is sitting upright in his wheelchair. With as much greying hair on his chin as his head, he is dressed in smart institutional wear: a grey, zip-up fleece in care-home casual style; padded old-man shoes (black, comfy, flat and clumpy); and a pair of beige trousers.
The mayor’s assistant, the man who had come out to meet us, is Ala’a Subaih and he is fastidiously well groomed. His crisp and clean raincoat is carefully folded and he sits attentively behind a desk in the communal hall.
‘First, we will show a short presentation, then we can talk, then some food,’ says Haj Sami when we are all settled, and he signals with a flick of his hand for the lights to be turned down. A film bursts onto a screen hung in the corner of the room.
My heart sinks. I have seen an inordinate amount of short campaign films in my time, and the only good thing about them is their length. They usually run with an opening shot of the village/ factory/military base, with a commentary running over the top to explain the issue; then there’s a shot of a banner with a campaign slogan; shots of local resistance and demonstration; and then there will be the key incident (usually violent) in grainy footage (which if it is not shot on a mobile phone will look like it is) that has sparked the film; then a school photo of a victim; grieving relatives; and poignant statistics finishing with a plea for justice. I may sound cynical, but even if Che Guevara had been there, he’d have been thinking, ‘Please God, let it be Rambo by mistake …’
The reality is worse. It’s a three-minute video comprising a series of photo-montages set to a group of local schoolchildren singing what appears to be their own composition, ‘We sing a song of peace’. Pictures start flashing up of kids dressed in matching white baseball hats and T-shirts marching in a line around the village and then waving peace signs, all the while singing their song of peace. When they get to the lyrics: ‘hand in hand across the land’, guess what? Yes, shots of kids walking across the land and, by golly, if they are not hand in hand, too. Look carefully and you can spot Mayor Haj Sami in the background: while the kids dance wearing black and white keffiyeh headscarves, he is in the corner smiling, like an Alfred Hitchcock cameo.
