05 August 2007

 
Tel Rumeida

At 7am on Friday, the 3rd of August, I walked from the German Colony in Jerusalem to Liberty Bell Park, (a place that had once seemed magical to me). There in the car park was Abu Rami's bus, complete with Rabbi Yachiel, some English and American volunteers, two OAPs and three men from a group called the Sons of Abraham. We drove to Hebron.

After an hour or so we came to pass through the settlement of Kiryat Arba, this being the only direct route. We were stopped at a gate to the town by a security guard, or rather a member of their private militia. He was either Ethiopian of one of the Menasha tribe of Asians who had moved to there. Abu Rami told him we were a group of American going to the Tomb of the Patriarchs. But the suspicion persisted. "Rabbi Yachiel!" shouted Abu Rami, and Rab Yachiel's head duly popped forward, complete with grey beard and large scull-cap. "Oh, Rabbi Yachiel!" said the guard, and promptly let us through.

We wound down round the settlement and into the city. We passed the Tomb of the Patriarchs and continued past the closed market, along the Jewish route deep into the city. The bus climbed a little up hill and then arrived. We were at Tel Rumeida, at the house of Issa with whom I have spoken about a joint Israeli-Palestinian students' project.

We were there to put up a fence against his settler neighbours, and to help clear up. Here the settlers were not on adjoining land, but rather a few meters up the hill, their kids sitting in the garden chatting to two soldier at the house just up and two the right. The owners of Issa's new home have, like many others, left to go to East Jerusalem for a quieter life. Issa is renting the hither-too empty property cheaply, effectively house sitting for an indefinite time. Up until now settlers would have moved in. This is the fist time that Palestinians have moved into an empty house in a Hebron neighbourhood which settlers or trying to take over.

We worked hard, scooping up broken tiles and carrying them in rubber buckets to the edge of Issa's land where the debris was chucked down the hill. The Anglo-American Jews did themselves pound, breathing in the dust, shoveling on in the oppressive heat.

A young film-maker from Finsbury Park in London asked me to speak into his camera. He asked why I was there and I rambled on for a bit. He had been to Nablus the day before and later caught a lift with us to Jerusalem on his way to stay with friends in Nahariah. Only foreigners have the right to roam anywhere between the sea and the river.

Three Americans and an Englishman from the Christian Peace Makers in Hebron turned up. We sat in a circle and spoke about Christianity. The view from the hillside took in most of the city, spread across the valley bellow and up onto opposing hillsides, at its centre the large rectangular cube and minaret of the Tomb of the Patriarchs. Gunfire went off, followed by shouting. But it was just a wedding. Then it was back to the rear of the house, clearing the rubbish and putting the fence in place.

The work done, the Sabbath closing in, everyone was gathered round. Three very short speeches were made. The Sons of Abraham men thought it was historic. Issa, more poignantly, told us how much it meant to him and to his neighbours to see Israelis come and help. To me that statement made a difference. It often feels pointless.

We went back to Jerusalem. By 6pm I was back in my flat in Tel Aviv, ready for a quiet Friday night with my girlfriend.

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