13 August 2007

 

Almonds Near Hawara

Last Friday, the 10th of August. We met at Arlozerov where Abu Rami's bus almost filled up. We drove on Route 5, then 505, past Ariel, left at Tapuach and along the valleys to Hawara. We passed through the town then took a sharp left at the check point, climbing up a steep road.

Suddenly Abu Rami stopped and we disembarked. We were three in our 20s, two in their 60s, and two in their 70s. Abu Rami pointed us up the hill towards the almond trees. One of the 70-something-year-olds set the pace, delighting in the brilliance of his walking stick. Then I was sent back to the road to pick up a group from the ISM (International Solidarity Movement). Then back up the hill. The daughter of the Palestinian family remembered me from a year or more ago when I came for their olive harvest. She was still the boss, even more stern than then, though still pleasant. Her many brothers shook our hands one by one, then we were off.

The pickings were poor. But we got what we could. Bit by bit we clambered down the hill, stripping the trees, trying not to loose anyone.

I talked to a Jewish-American woman from the ISM who was incredulous at my being a Zionist. She was aghast at my general support for the army and for its continued presence in the territories. I pointed out that even Abu Mazen, the Palestinian President, has said (in private) that his forces cannot currently take security control of Palestinian towns that Israeli forces might leave.

I talked with Muhammad, one of the brothers. He was called Hamudi by his sister. He was "Muhammad Hamudi", and I was "Udi Hamudi". ("Hamud" means cute). Those are the kinds of things you talk about when you have few words in common. One Hebrew word he kept repeating was balagan, a total mess. "Yehudim Balagan," he said, pointing towards the settlement. "Ana Yehudi", I said ("I'm a Jew"). "Yehudi balagan," I said, pointing at the settlement; then, "yehudi sababa", pointing at myself. (Sababa is Hebrew slang for good/cool). He grinned and repeated the gesture, pointing back to them, then to me, agreeing that they're balagan and I'm sababa.

We finally crossed the road and arrived at a massive tree, full of almonds. I climbed up to join some of the brothers. Up in tree I chatted more with Muhammad, who must be around 16. He hated all the Palestinian factions, and all their politicians. I climbed steadily higher, packing my pockets with almonds as I went.

Finally, pockets firmly packed I and we descended. I was handed some bread with za'atar and sat beneath the tree for the quick meal. One of the kids came to me and asked if we could go to the spring. He was already leading me off before I cottoned on. The freshwater spring is on their land but normally under settler control. I managed to stop him and, through one of the ISM women translating, told him that perhaps later on we could go there, when we had a better idea of the situation.

After a while we started back up the hill towards the road. Muhammad took me by the arm and walk with me. Then suddenly all the kids began to rush forward. Muhammad too broke from me and into a run. I was weary and tried in vain to calm them and find out what had happened. Then I saw that they'd all set upon a pomegranate tree, excitedly stripping it of its fruit. By the time I arrived all that was left for me was half a bitter pomegranate.

We got to the spring and plunged in. We drank from a plastic jug, like those used for Jewish ritual hand-washing. The water was fresh and sweet, cooling on such a hot day. Once each had had his or her fill we walked up to the road. A settler stood on the corner, waiting to hitch a ride. He was tall, dark-skinned, with a large scull-cap and dangling side-curls. One of the older volunteers asked me if he was typical of the kind of settlers they have in that area; he frowned and sighed when I answered yes.

The family were nervous to go back to their village alone. So a few of us went across the hillside with them. Just before we said our goodbyes one of the kids asked if I'd not had a tongue stud. Actually, he asked something in Arabic then pointed to his tongue. I had had one a year ago when I helped with their olives. Rather than going into all the reasons I said that my girlfriend had made me take it out. Actually, I pulled out my Israeli id. card and said something in Hebrew while pointing at a picture of my girlfriend. I got the requisite laughs and jibes for being controlled.

We all shook hand and said goodbye. The younger kids were, as always, surprised when I shook their hands. I was probably wrong to shake the sister's hand. I think that like religious Jews the religious Muslim Palestinians don't shake hands with the opposite sex. But she was the one in charge, and it seemed wrong to shake everyone's hand but hers. She didn't seem offended. She remained stern bet sweet as she said goodbye.

We got back to the road to find Abu Rami's bus waiting. We turned sharp right at the checkpoint and entered Hawara. The better falafel stall was shut, so we bought some at another and headed back to Tel-Aviv.


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