by Mark Thomas
So what did he teach them?
With his arms flailing and torso contorting, Soffer twists himself into the third person: ‘From his ivory tower, Professor Soffer tries to analyse the situation. I am in a trap … If I return to [the concept of] the Green Line, I have to evacuate half a million Jewish settlers. It’ll be a civil war; it’s the end of Israel. My compromise is the demarcation of this Wall. It is a demographic line. Arabs here; Jewish people there.’
To paraphrase: in order to halt the settler charge to the River Jordan and the prospect of Arab-humping techniques overwhelming the state of Israel, Soffer decided the only thing Israel could do was build a barrier, thereby extracting the settlers from the West Bank by placing them on the other side of the Barrier. Believing that forced evacuations, like Gaza, will tear Israel in two Soffer’s solution is simple: redraw the border. Build a barrier over the Green Line and around the settlements on the West Bank, where anything on the Israeli side is de facto Israeli.
‘So how important was it to include the settlements into Israel?’
‘My plan, the demarcation, in my opinion, was a great victory because eighty-five per cent of all the settlers in the West Bank are now inside Israel; they are west of the Wall … Only by taking them back home and leaving the Palestinians can we live together.’
‘So is the Wall the new border then?’
‘This was my idea. The fence is going to be the border between Palestinian and Israeli. It is going to be for a long period of time.’
And so he struts and frets his hour on a stage of his own making, answering questions of his own asking and railing against enemies of his own choosing: religious settlers sacrificing Israel on the altar of their egos; politicians immersed in ignorance; and the ever-indifferent, non-breeding, dog-owning, pastry-loving elite in Tel Aviv. To Soffer, their biggest crime is in failing to comprehend the greatest threat of all: the breeding Palestinians within the one-state solution, with two nationalities living within one country. For Soffer, the economic consequences of a one-state solution are disastrous: ‘The income gap between this village,’ – he points to the Palestinian side – ‘and this one,’ – he gestures to the Israeli homes – ‘is one to twenty. There is no other such place on earth.’
He pauses as if considering the magnitude of his own insight, and stares off into the abyss of a bi-national state.
‘Six million Jews will have to support six million Arabs, and the burden falls onto my middle-class shoulders. I have to support six million Arabs, very poor, and all the ultra-orthodox Jews with thousands of children. It’s the end of the middle classes. It’s the beginning of a dictatorship. When you don’t have any more middle classes, you will find the dictator.’
‘But what of the criticism of the Barrier? What if the economic impact of the Wall creates the next intifada?’
‘I am happy to say this is not the case at the moment. More and more money is pouring in there from the West, including from Israel.’ Pointing over the Barrier in the direction of a Palestinian village called Habla, he says, ‘I would say ninety per cent of the buildings in Habla are new buildings, and you have to see the greenhouses. Go and look for yourself; there is a wonderful panoramic view of Habla – I will show you how to get there. It’s a wonderful picture. It speaks for itself. They are so happy, you cannot even imagine.’
A smile creeps across his face as if he is with them and feeling their joy.
‘So people in Habla have felt the economic benefit already?’
‘Of course. From the road you can see their plantations and you can buy fruit because they are coming into Israel to sell it. Go and see – it’s a wonderful place to take pictures.’
Habla is to the north, the village we walked through with the war-game-loving shepherds and where we bought EU-funded falafel. I couldn’t recall anyone mentioning their joy at the prospect of selling fruit at the Israeli roadside. I did, however, remember how the owner of a falafel shop had gestured at my walking stick and spoken in Arabic. The shepherds had burst out laughing but he had stood impassive, waiting, grey stubble on his chin and oil on his apron.
‘What did he say?’ I’d asked.
‘Oh,’ said the shepherds, translating, ‘he asked if your stick with the numbers on the side was for measuring our sadness.’
I had smiled, embarrassed, and the owner had walked closer to me and spoken again in Arabic.
‘He said if it is, you will need a bigger stick.’
To which extent, Professor Soffer is right: I cannot imagine how happy they are.
Professor Soffer is late for his next engagement and so with a flourish, hurries to his car. As he drives off into the distance, he has not only left me with a bad taste in my mouth, but also a strange and overwhelming feeling of desire for croissants and chihuahuas.
______
* Former chairman of the PLO
** Palestinian president and Fatah leader
chapter 11
MY COMFORTING STAFF
As a rule I avoid shopping in places where posters of Saddam Hussein are prominently displayed. Call me picky, but it just doesn’t say ‘Fairtrade’ to me: moustachioed torturers in general, and Saddam Hussein in particular, just don’t inspire a sense of confidence in the customer service department, either.
In the West Bank it is not uncommon to see pictures of Iraq’s genocidal ex-ruler pinned up in shops or restaurants, and the village of Rantis is no exception. Here, the grocer has a photo of him – in military uniform holding a pistol in the air – displayed above his trays of cucumbers and avocados. The shop itself is dark, small and has the homely smell familiar to good grocers: the smell of potatoes dusted in mud sitting in cardboard boxes.
The shop owner is altogether less pleasant and started to furrow his brow into a frown of casual hatred from the moment we walked in.
‘Shokran,’ I say cheerfully and he nods a nod that is hard to read but doesn’t say welcome. Our translator has not arrived yet so I’m relying on the Englishman-abroad-shopping-method: to point, smile and say ‘thank you’ loudly.
‘Er … cucumbers and bananas, I think, Phil.’
‘Yeah, that’ll be fine.’
Pointing and picking up two cucumbers with a grin, I say, ‘Shokran,’ again. The owner holds a plastic bag open for me, though I can’t help feeling he would rather be putting it over my head and wiring up my nipples to the light socket.
‘And four bananas.’ I take them from the tray, hold up four fingers and say ‘Shokran,’ then put them into the bag.
The owner looks at the contents then shuts the bag and hands it to me silently.
‘Shokran,’ I say again, with a smile.
‘Fifty shekels,’ he says, without one.
‘How much?’
‘Fifty shekels.’
‘That’s a tenner for four bananas and a couple of cucumbers. No, that’s not right, surely.’
‘Fifty shekels,’ he insists blankly, thrusting the bag at me.
‘It doesn’t cost fifty shekels,’ I say in frustration. ‘It wouldn’t cost that much in … in … in Marks and bloody Spencer.’
‘Fifty shekels.’
With that, I hold up my hands and walk away. Outside Phil says, ‘I don’t speak Arabic but I think he just told you to fuck off.’
‘This isn’t going to be a good day,’ I say, as we leave the village and start back towards the Rantis turn-off. The day had started badly when we lost the guide due to walk with us: he had been behaving slightly erratically and in two days’ time he will phone me to say, ‘Sorry, I can’t make the walk.’ But this morning he is merely not returning my calls.
‘We need to get someone else,’ I had sighed to Phil.
So friends and colleagues were contacted, favours begged, arms twisted and time zones ignored, and by 10 a.m. we had a new guide, Mohammad, from Qalqilya.
‘I will get a taxi and meet you at the Rantis turn-off, just by the main road. I will be as quick as I can.’
&nbs
p; The Rantis turn-off is not as glamorous as its name might suggest. Its highlights are a dry-stone wall and the traffic. A large container truck thunders past on its way to a quarry and in the wake of its roar, I wait for the birdsong to return. This doesn’t happen (unless you are including crows).
Arriving early, we had gone into the village to get fruit and, after meeting Saddam’s grocer, we return empty-handed to sit on the Barrier and watch the traffic. After a minute a car drives past. Then another. Then a delivery van. On the stone wall I jiggle my legs with nervous energy and continually flick looks at my watch, aware that we are on the verge of becoming our own Pinter play.
‘Are you anxious?’ asks Phil.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you bored?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you anxiously bored?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or are you bored with anxiety?
Pause. Then to no one in particular I whine, ‘Oh, come on …’
Today’s walk will be problematic without the added frustrations of finding a new guide. Firstly, the map shows the red line of the Barrier running through a closed military area again, which means we will have to walk around it thereby adding an extra seven kilometres to the route. Secondly, the Israelis regard this area as troublesome: there have been a number of village campaigns against the Barrier and the army has killed non-violent demonstrators, so we need to be cautious. Thirdly, we have to keep to the schedule. We still have half the Barrier to walk and if we are as delayed as we were in the first walk, we are not going to make it. With everyone still talking about the Israeli crackdown on internationals and protestors, this could be our only chance at this walk. Oh, and I’m also skint, so there is neither the time, the money nor the opportunity to dawdle. We have to keep up the pace, and we have to reach the village of Ni’lin before it gets dark.
Mohammad had said he would get here as soon as he could, so technically it is impossible for him to be late, which infuriates me. As well as being bored and anxious, I am now fretful and cross. Midday has been and gone when he finally arrives, and he barely has time to get out of the taxi before I yell, ‘Right then, let’s get on!’
I move from a standing start like a fat dad at sports day. I glance up and down the road and cross quickly behind a passing cement truck.
‘Other side; cross now! Come on!’
The others follow gingerly, peering nervously down the road.
‘On the left, facing on-coming traffic.’
A van hurtles past leaving bits of rubbish dancing in its slipstream.
‘Four kilometres down the main road and there should be a turning on the right to Shuqba.’
Another car passes with a roaring whine. As it accelerates onwards into the distance I catch Phil muttering something about ‘Colonel Blimp’.
I yell over my shoulder, ‘We’re late starting. We need to move.’
Such is our pace that it is half an hour into the walk before I look properly at Mohammad. His leather jacket is old-school ’70s and his jeans and clunky steel toe-capped boots would render him inconspicuous in Camden Market. His black wavy hair and goatee beard would fit right in, too. In short he looks like a student. Moreover, he is the first Palestinian we have met who looks younger than his thirty-four years. Most Palestinians look older than their age. (When I got home after the first ramble, my wife, Jenny, had said, ‘You look old and knackered,’ to which I replied, ‘The good news is that in Palestinian years I am only twenty-eight.’)
There may be no pavement to walk on, but for the West Bank this is a good road: new tarmac and freshly painted yellow lines with just enough room for us between them and the crash barrier. Builders’ lorries rumble past less than a foot away, our jackets in their wake. Cars speed on leaving a fading trail of blaring horns and dust. Music bursts momentarily from truckers’ cabs. Minivan buses splutter and rev as we tramp on. A Humvee whirs down the winding black line, guarding the illegal settlement of Ofarim sitting above us. Ofarim covers part of the hillside with its sprawl of uniformed blocks of white houses with red tiled roofs and air-conditioning units, and fir trees planted between them in an effort to break up the monotony. An orange and white communications mast stands in its midst and Israeli flags hang from poles. A road sign says ‘Ofarim’ written in Hebrew, Arabic and English, but the Arabic word has been sprayed over with black paint so it is no longer visible – perhaps the settlers don’t want the Arabs to know they are here.
Phil has fallen behind slightly and a settlement security car stops as it comes level with him.
‘Where are you from?’ shouts a man in shades and baseball hat.
‘London.’
He stares at Phil intently, as if by looking long enough he will be able to confirm Phil’s answer; as if he can read geography on a face. Seconds tick by and still he stares.
‘OK,’ he says finally and drives off looking disgruntled and unsure: tonight he’ll lie in bed thinking, ‘Maybe I’m getting old. I had him down for Kent …’
‘Yalla, Phil; come on!’
‘I’m coming.’
Phil runs to catch up under the gaze of the settlement, and even Mohammad answers my questions at the trot: ‘I am not working in a job at the moment. I am a political activist. In fact, this Saturday I am doing a tree planting.’
‘That sounds like gardening,’ I pant.
‘It is an action. At a village near Qalqilya there are settlers, and there are twenty-seven demolition orders … So we plant trees as a symbolic act of resistance.’
‘What reaction do you hope to get?’
‘None. The army will be there. So no reaction is good. But we hope this is just the start and it will grow into something bigger.’
‘Is this a popular form of action?’
‘Planting olive trees? Yes, you can say it is.’
‘Still sounds like gardening to me.’
And so we go on, chatting and shouting over the rumble of lorries, the pace steady as the road curves downwards. Our heavy boots clump time with one another as taxi buses trundle by, packed with passengers. Clouds merge into silver streaks across a greying sky. A pack of curs yelp at us from the roadside, raise half a hackle and then return to sniffing each other while we tramp on, hoping to reach Ni’lin by nightfall.
Having left the main road, walked down one side of a valley on a dirt track and up the other on something resembling a road, we have come to Shuqba. From a distance, the village is a picture of cubes and blocks pinned to the hilltop by a minaret.
A rest stop is forced upon us: in the village centre, a downpour catches us suddenly and we shelter under a tiny corner-shop awning.
‘Water?’ Phil asks me.
‘Coffee.’
‘Food?’
‘Whatever’s there.’
Clutching coffee and chomping chocolate biscuits, we huddle and watch people dash, crouching, in the wet, turning up collars and holding anything that comes to hand to save them from the rain; covering their heads with plastic bags, newspapers and even the odd bit of old sacking. As everyone scatters in the downpour, our moments under the awning are strangely calming. The hot coffee warms us, while puddles swell in the street and oily rainbows swirl in concrete ruts. It is a minute of peace, listening to the gurgling of pipes and gutters and the soft incessant clatter of rain.
The road out of Shuqba is a single strand of tarmac in the middle of the countryside that stretches out into the distance. Lined with half a dozen dead dogs, it’s home to a boy racer who constantly zips back and forth, possibly looking for dogs to run over.
‘This place is known for car-stealing,’ says Mohammad, as the low-slung motor cruises towards us for the fourth time.
‘You know there was one car thief …’ Mohammed smiles and puts on a set of wide eyes before continuing ‘… and he was really well known. He was famous!’
‘A famous car thief?’
‘Oh, yes. He would steal ten cars a day. He used to say, “I will make the Israeli
s ride donkeys.”’
‘So he only stole Israeli cars?’
‘Of course … At least, that is what they say.’
The sun makes fleeting breaks through the clouds and the pace picks up again as we pass through the countryside. Nothing matters beyond getting to Ni’lin before nightfall, and time makes a route march of our ramble.
‘Can we slow down a minute?’ says Phil at one point, wanting to get some water.
‘Catch us up,’ I shout back, glancing at my watch and the map. Every delayed step is now an irritation, no matter what the reason. Phil puts the camera down and takes his bottle from his bag.
Mohammad asks, ‘Shall I pause for a cigarette?’
‘If you can’t walk and smoke then you shouldn’t smoke,’ I say ungraciously.
‘Better obey the colonel,’ sniggers Phil.
‘We’re late,’ I snap, and walk on.
We hurry through the village of Qibya and then Budrus. Qibya was the site of a massacre in 1953 when, led by Ariel Sharon, Israeli troops murdered about seventy civilians. Outside the mosque, Mohammad talks to an old man in a crumpled jacket.
‘Did you live here in ’53?’
‘Yes,’ snaps the old man. ‘And I have told my story to journalists many times before. And do you know,’ he says with a dismissive stare, ‘I have not had so much as one cigarette out of it.’
Quick as a flash, Mohammad pulls a cigarette from his pocket and says, ‘Please smoke and tell us your story.’
The old man laughs, gruffly says, ‘Give me a light,’ then, after inhaling deeply, rolls up his jacket sleeve to show us the bullet scars on his arms, talks of his best friend being killed, and hiding from the Israelis.
Cigarette finished, he says, ‘I must get to prayers,’ before shaking hands and leaving us.
‘That was fascinating to meet such a person,’ says Mohammad in genuine respect.
‘Right,’ I reply morosely. ‘And now that he’s finished we should walk.’
In Budrus, the local council gathers to explain their campaign against the Barrier, of how they fought and organised, and yet such is my anxiety that I can only return their courtesy by trying to be discreet when I look at my watch.
