Extreme Rambling: Walking Israel's Separation Barrier. For Fun.

by Mark Thomas

  ‘There are lots of ways to see this view.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael replies.

  ‘I see a barrier and behind it red roofs. Red tiles mean it is Israeli but they are behind the Green Line so they’re not settlers, but are near settlements. I see that side has pine trees and this side has olives, and I know settlers plant pines because they grow quickly. I see the grass on the other side of the fence is literally greener, which means they have greater access to water or can afford more fertiliser.’

  ‘Yeah, there are lots of ways to see this,’ he says, but with the sun going down, the most important view is of the map, which is not a good view at all. We need to get off the hills before dark, Michael needs to get to Jerusalem, and we have come too far into the countryside to get onto West Bank roads easily. On the Israeli side, just over the Barrier, is Road 354 – temptingly close, but there’s no checkpoint for another ten kilometres.

  ‘Ah, the army is here,’ says Michael, spotting a jeep pull up by the fence. The layout is odd. An access road runs from Israel into the West Bank to a large quarry and trucks merrily rumble up and down it, filling up and departing. But for some reason, there is virtually no Barrier here and the army would be fools if they’ve not kept the receipt, as the military road suddenly ends, the electric fence ends, the ditch ends, the barbed wire ends. All that is left of the Barrier is a line of concrete bollards, the type used to direct traffic flows, no more than a metre high.

  ‘Ahlan,’ Michael shouts ‘hello’ in Arabic, then says, ‘Oops, better use the right language. Shalom!’ The soldiers stay in the jeep with the engine running but they shout a dialogue with Michael, then, with a wave, drive off.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They asked us not to climb over the fence,’ he says smiling.

  ‘They must have assessed us as non-threatening.’

  ‘Well, I use the word “brother” a lot. It’s army slang, “How are you, brother,” “Thanks, brother,” so that helps.’

  ‘They must have me down as too old to be threatening … But now they are out of sight …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘… we could cross.’

  ‘Yes, we could.’

  We straddle the concrete Barrier, walk into Israel and get a taxi.

  The following day is a good spring morning; the breeze nudges the cloud along and the sun is warm. Four of us stride the ridgeway decked in hats: a fishing hat circa The Stone Roses for Zohar; Phil has on his straw cowboy hat; I’ve a red trucker’s cap; and Isshaq a baseball hat.

  Walking the hilltop, clapping along to Zohar’s football songs, we could well be mistaken for a stag night that has got horribly lost. Isshaq is the young translator we walked with in Bethlehem and Beit Sahour, and Zohar is the ex-soldier who trespassed with us onto the Barrier and into the arms of military detention. As he is currently singing about how much he hates right-wing religious settlers while walking past a settlement, it’s fair to say he is a man with boundary issues. Clutching a football scarf, he bellows a chant in Hebrew complete with shouts, shrieks, moans and clapping, all of which could double up as a passable impersonation of a flamenco dancer giving birth. Then he translates in a rapid monotone: ‘“I am from Katamon / and I have a song to sing / Come on and give me more, and give me more / And we will never stop marching / Because I will never stop marching / With the hammer and the sickle / the Internationale with a red shirt / and the hatred of the menorah …” The menorah, by the way, is the symbol of the fascists.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, impressed.

  ‘What about you, Isshaq, who do you follow?’

  ‘It’s Manchester United, innit.’

  ‘Oh, no, you Palestinians!’ Zohar cries in exasperation. ‘Always the big clubs!’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re the best,’ Isshaq laughs.

  Although the route is all on the Palestinian side of the Barrier, we move in and out of settler municipal areas, Area B (Palestinian partial control), Area C (Israeli total control) and a couple of Palestinian villages, so it is good to have both Hebrew and Arabic speakers to cover all eventualities. And if the walk gets dull, I might force them to sing a Paul McCartney song about peace and coexistence, out of bored cruelty.

  ‘We have come prepared,’ I say to them. ‘If the Palestinians get upset you point at him’ – I gesture at Zohar – ‘and say, “He’s a Jew!” and if the settlers go mad, he gets to point at you’ – I point at Isshaq – ‘and say, “He’s an Arab!”’

  ‘And what about you?’ asks Zohar. ‘Who gets to point at you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m “Arts and Crafts”, love. Exempt from fighting and, in the event of a hostage situation, I’m the one that does the pleading.’

  With only this southern border to complete, the ramble is coming to an end. From the settlement of Eshkolot to the final checkpoint and the end of the Barrier, it’s about twenty-eight kilometres. Today’s aim is to get to Shani checkpoint, which is twenty kilometres of hilly terrain, leaving us a short walk for the last day, and on schedule.

  With the finish in sight and no interviews to do or itinerary to organise, this is a day to concentrate on the walking. The hilltops are full of scrub and shrub and the earth here is dry and scruffy with white jagged boulders that sit between tangled thorn bushes and the odd tortoise, sometimes leaving a track only wide enough to walk one foot in front of the other. From the valley below springs a blanket of grasses that spills up the side of the slopes, stopping abruptly a third of the way up to form a line of green, a tidemark of grass around the hills.

  Zohar and Isshaq have fallen behind, eager to find out more about each other.

  ‘So do you see many Palestinians?’ Isshaq asks Zohar.

  ‘No, only on demos and protests, really. The first Palestinians I really met were at a peace conference. We met and talked, found out about each other, became friends and once that was done, we could have the political arguments.’

  They walk and chat together for most of the morning; of politics, religion, football and ice cream, instinctively compensating for the lack of contact the Barrier has brought. I walk ahead of the group, further into the hills. The sight of these has gripped my heart from the first day until these last ones. Looking at this much space unwind before you is a joyous thing, and there is something to marvel at in the scale and the distance, a feeling of insignificance, of being a mere speck in a geological expanse and, at the same time, feeling an overwhelming urge to explore all before you. The hills offer a promise of freedom as they roll on beyond human gaze and over the horizon. It’s a view that is full of yearning.

  Lunch is a communal affair, stopping in a glade of eucalyptus trees, surrounded by daisies, soft red poppies, and purple irises with white and yellow dashes on their petal tongues.

  Lying in the dappled sunlight by the Barrier is the usual (discarded) red sign: MORTAL DANGER: MILITARY ZONE. ANY PERSON WHO PASSES OR DAMAGES THIS FENCE ENDANGERS HIS LIFE. I walk over and pick it up.

  ‘A souvenir?’ asks Phil.

  ‘A memento, really.’

  ‘What will you do with it when you get it home?’ asks Zohar.

  ‘Put it up on the wall and tell boastful stories about it, I suspect.’

  ‘Could you not tell the boastful story, anyway?’

  ‘I could,’ I say.

  ‘He will,’ adds Phil.

  The walk is good with the exception of an encounter with a shepherd and his seven dogs. We politely say hello to a shepherd, and he politely says hello back, when his seven dogs go mad and we find ourselves surrounded by seething lumps of teeth and drool. We laugh and play it down and so does the shepherd, and then he fucks off! He simply walks away, leaving us with a pack of dogs that appear to have shunned water in favour of White Lightning. Clutching a red sign warning of MORTAL DANGER in one hand and a retractable walking stick in the other, I think, This is like being a judge for the Crufts Best in Rabies category, but what actually comes out of my mouth is a minimalist beat poem revolving around the word
s, ‘off’, ‘mutt’ and ‘fuck’. Then, with the sudden contrariness of a drunk, the dogs lose interest and slink back to terrifying the sheep.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent wandering dry river beds, happy to follow the dusty bends of the river corridor and the coursing curves of rocks worn smooth by water. We edge around fields of rustling barley that are growing up the lower slopes and using every bit of available land with moisture in it. We search for tracks, clambering on boulders to keep off the crops. I cling on to the red sign and we tramp the hills, one foot after the other, past clumps of thorn, shrubs and scree, walking in silence now, happy to hear only our breath and the crunching rhythm of our boots, concentrating on the pace, swapping an occasional glance or a moment to take some water. As the temperature starts to drop and the sky turns a darker blue, we come over the brow of a hill and in front of us is the watchtower of Shani checkpoint.

  From the vantage point of the roadside we stare back at the land we have travelled over, searching for the landmarks of our route, watching the fat yellow sun drop down in a purple sky, staring into ripe colours and dazzled by the haze. We blink into the glow until with speeding haste the sun dips beyond the horizon and night comes.

  An army Hummer arrives with its headlights on full. ‘OK?’ says a soldier to Zohar as they draw up beside us.

  ‘Yes, all it fine. We have been out walking.’

  ‘Are you sure you are OK; you don’t need anything?’ they ask him in Hebrew, looking at us.

  ‘Fine, everything is good, these guys are from Britain.’

  ‘And what is this?’ asks the soldier in English, through the opened door of the Hummer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That board; that sign you are holding. What is that?’

  ‘Ah, I am very glad you asked that,’ I say chirpily. ‘I was walking along and found this littering the place and I thought the Israeli army must be unaware of this or they would have picked it up, so I brought it up here hoping to catch you so you can tidy up after yourselves.’ And I hand him the sign.

  ‘I’ll keep this,’ he says.

  ‘Good. Make sure you recycle it.’

  He shuts the door and drives off down the dark road. At that point, tired, wind-blown, slightly sunburnt and even devoid of a memento, I realise I have had a perfect walk.

  On our last day in the West Bank, we ramble the remaining five kilometres to reach the very end of the Barrier. We have Walked the Wall. Tomorrow we fly home: tickets are booked, families are waiting and I will call my mother to tell her she has bought yards of yellow ribbon in vain.

  The roundabout at the Beit Yatir checkpoint is our final stopping point. This is our finish line and, as we approach it, Phil stops, taps my shoulder and we hug each other. We have rambled the entire length of the constructed Barrier, some 450 kilometres of it, and we have walked on the foundations of some of the unfinished route, too. Despite spats, sulks and too often sleeping in the same room, breathing each other’s old air, we have finished friends. This is our champagne and confetti moment. There should be some way to celebrate, a ribbon to run through, a certificate and medal to collect; I wish I had considered this and brought along something to celebrate with: Kendal Mint Cake or a bottle of fizzy pop, something, anything to mark the end of our journey.

  With their usual impeccable timing, the Israeli military provide it. We finish the walk as we had started: in the arms of security.

  ‘Hey! Hey! You!’ a soldier shouts. He’s wearing shades and with a machine gun slung around his neck, he beckons me with his hand. Feeling belligerent and having no further need to negotiate, I shout back, ‘No, you come here!’ and beckon him with my hand. He cocks his head, fetches a senior officer and they both start waving their arms in the air like a pair of armed tic-tac men offering odds.

  ‘We should go over,’ says Phil.

  As we start towards them I find myself shouting across the concourse, ‘Do you know how far I’ve bloody walked! I’ve walked the entire length of this bloody thing and you lot have shouted and told us off the entire bloody way.’

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ says the security man.

  ‘My name is Mark Thomas. I have just walked the entire length of this Barrier and I’m writing a book about it.’

  ‘ID.’

  ‘Why? We have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I have to check you are who you say you are. You cannot film with your camera.’

  ‘Yes, we can. That’s rubbish. All along here people have told us that we are not allowed to do this and not allowed to do that, and most of the time it’s been made up or completely wrong. We can film. We can walk. Here’s my international press card. Now if you’ve finished, I’ll have it back and we’ll be off. We’re walking this way and we are filming.’

  The guard hands the card back, shakes my hand and says, ‘Have a good day.’

  As we walk off, my outburst still ringing in our ears and the eyes of the security still upon us, I whisper to Phil, ‘Put the camera down, mate. I don’t fancy trying to get away with that twice.’

  We walk the last few steps to the finish, duck our heads and stroll on, job done.

  There is one more thing to do before going home and that is to sit on a drain inspection point with a member of the Christian Peacemaker Team. Frankly, that’s all I am fit for, as I’m possessed by tiredness and end-of-term elation. I share the concrete manhole with Janet, who is small, retired, Scottish and calmly tenacious. The morning sun feels good and takes the edge off the chill, in fact, I wouldn’t mind sitting here for a while and if anyone had a cup of tea on the go … At the top of the hill in front of us, a lane runs between the illegal Israeli settlement of Ma’on and the even more illegal outpost of Havat Ma’on, then on down the hillside to the concrete manhole where I sit with Janet. In 2002, one of the settlers from Havat Ma’on was arrested for taking part in an attempt to blow up a Palestinian school, which pretty much defines the ethos of the place.

  ‘The children from the villages on the other side of the hill have to walk between the settlement and the outpost to get to the school here in At Tuwani,’ explains Janet, sitting cross-legged on the concrete. ‘The children have been subjected to attacks from the settlers, with rocks thrown at them, death threats …’

  ‘How old are the children?’

  ‘Between six and thirteen. In 2004, after four years of this, the Christian Peacemaker Team was asked to escort the children to school.’

  ‘To protect the kids with an international presence, presumably?’

  ‘Yes, but twice they were attacked by the settlers. Serious attacks with clubs and chains and serious injuries, broken bones, hospitalisation. The ensuing publicity forced the army to say they would escort the children as long as the internationals didn’t accompany them because they said we were a provocation to the settlers.’

  To sum up: settlers stone six-year-olds. Israeli army does not raid settlement to drag these settlers to jail. Settlers continue to stone children for four years. Faith group and children are attacked by settlers. Army blames faith group.

  Janet’s own kids have grown up, so she now lives in At Tuwani for much of her time, sharing a home with other members of the team. I rather like the fact that a retired Scot chooses to spend her time working with this village, but I have to ask, ‘If the army provide the escort now, why are we here?’

  ‘Well,’ says Janet, getting out a pair of binoculars, ‘sometimes the army don’t turn up or they only escort them part of the way. So we monitor the army and if the jeep doesn’t come we have a number to call. There have already been a couple of stonings this year.’ Janet looks through the binoculars. ‘Sometimes you peer into these for ages and they’re there right in front of you.’ She looks down, taps her watch and mutters, ‘Come on, kids.’

  They emerge on cue from behind the pine trees up on the hill. Gambolling would be the best way to describe their entrance: twenty kids gambol down the lane. Two boys sprint ahead in a race,
others play, giggle, chat and tig their way down. A game of grass darts breaks out, kids flinging sticky darts from wild barley, twisting to avoid them, throwing, feinting and laughing. A girl runs with her hijab covered in darts, laughing as she plucks and pulls at them, then turns to reuse them on her opponent. Driving slowly behind them is an army jeep with its headlights on.

  A painful thought occurs to me. The children’s walk today under military escort is as good as that walk gets. There is no ‘perfect stroll’ to school under this Occupation. I’ve just watched the best it would ever be. So how can my walk ever be ‘perfect’? It can’t. It could never have been. The entire notion of finding a perfect walk on the West Bank is folly. How could my experience be perfect when so many people are denied access to their land because of their race? How could I ever hope to experience the freedom walking brings when so many have so little of it? How could I wander in a reverie on the back of others’ misery? The shame of my stupidity numbs me. The walk yesterday could never have been about experiencing freedom: it was a good day because nothing happened. It was a freak event; it was one day in fifty-one of them. It was a ‘perfect walk’ because the Occupation forgot to intervene; my enjoyment was entirely dependent on the random whim of the Israeli authorities and military law. Yunes our translator was right: no one knows if the views and the fields will be here tomorrow. Samia the Ramallah rambler was right: these walks are to escape the reality of the Occupation; they can never be moments of true freedom. How can escapism be freedom? These walks can only be moments of reprieve. I wince at how stupid I have been.

  epilogue

  Nava the Israeli fixer raises her glass. ‘Congratulations. Well done and much success.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say and lift my glass to hers.

  ‘Wait. The toast is not finished. I have spoken with you every day. I answer your calls every day; I came out of a step class to answer a question for you. I am with my family on Shabbat and I answer the call and get the army to release you. I even wake up wondering why you have not called. So this is the toast. Well done. Now go home, don’t call me and let me sleep!’ She lifts her glass in the air, we clink, and Phil adds, ‘You’re not the only one thinking that.’