Two Trips to the Masik
Last Friday
Having not yet been out for the masik, the olive harvest, I arranged to head out with the Rabbis last Friday. I took the train to Rosh Ha'ayin where I met up with Abu Rami and his bus, a gaggle of rabbinical students (American), and a smattering of other volunteers (English, American, and one Israeli). I'd been told by Rabbi Yehiel that recently they were alright for numbers what with a volunteer drive, the students of the conservative seminary in Jerusalem and the current upsurge in settler violence publicising the urgency of their work.
We drove more or less north. Our destination was land belonging to the village of Deir Al-Ghusun, near the Green Line, north-west of Tulkarem. The village lies to the east of the Separation Barrier, much of its land though is cut off on its west side, tucked in between the barrier and the Green Line. See this map for illustration. Our hosts had arranged with DCO that during the masik a gate in the barrier would be opened in the morning and closed in the evening, though how long this arrangement would last I know not. The imperative was therefore not fast work for fear of settlers, but fast work because there'd only be a limited period of access. That was one version of the story which I heard. The other was this: we met our hosts at a remarkable village. Every house was a villa, massive, lavish, ostentatious. I was told that these were Israeli Arabs who'd moved there and built a grand village because it was cheaper land. Put otherwise, settlers. Both stories I heard repeated a number of times. This village was between the Green Line and the barrier, with no issues of access.
We split into three groups. No settlers meant little pressure. The trees I worked were well kept, groomed and large. I climbed high into them and raked the branches with my fingers. At least as far as those trees went, this is a very good masik. As we picked I chatted to some of the Rabbinical students, talking about Judaism and Zionism, etc. One wanted to be a US Navy chaplain. I had a brief political conversation with the Palestinians which started with the words, "Barak Obama". We worked for four or five hours. I was given herbs to use in brewing tea, something to give the grandparents.
The time having come, we clambered onto the trolley behind a shiny tractor, the Jews in the trolley, the Arabs on the tractor. We got to where the others had been working and waited for Abu Rami. Finally, some coffee turned up! I got talking to the kids. They spoke no Hebrew and I practically no Arabic, so the conversation consisted of naming footballers or football clubs in England or Spain followed by the other's theatrically exaggerated response, either positive or negative. (One kid supported Real Madrid, another Barcelona, a third Manchester United. I'm Arsenal.) We played some football, first off throwing for headers, then me piggy in the middle between the three of them, charging at whoever had the ball. We played on the flat land of an olive terrace on the side of hill. The terraces might have been two, twenty, two-hundred or two-thousand years old. The point, however, is that whenever the ball went off the edge someone (twice me) had to go leaping after it. Time to go. Hasty goodbye. Quick walk to the bus, the kids shouting names of football clubs at me, me answering with the loud proud chant, "Ars-e-nal! Ars-e-nal! Ars-e-nal!"
On the train home I talked to another yank, this time about teaching.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday (this morning)
I told Rabbi Yehiel last Friday to call me if they needed someone, (I'd felt unneeded given their glut of volunteers). Last night, as the Sabbath went out, I got that call. They were sending some experienced people, four if I would come, to Jit, next to the settlement of Havat Gilad where violence might be expected. The army and police had both been informed and given the go-ahead, but neither would be there to protect us.
7am. Back at Rosh Ha'ayin train station, waiting for the others. The four of us were Israel, Dalya, another lady and myself. The other three pensioners and me, a student who needs to finish his thesis and get a job. We drove first to Jit where we met with Zakaria, one of the Rabbis' men and arranged to buy some olive oil later on. Then to the family. We walked out of the village and across a flat plateau, surrounded by a full panorama of lower land. The trees, not many of them, were on the far end of the plateau just where the land starts to curve into the slope. On the opposite hillside, far bellow, we could see most of the couple of dozen caravans of Havat Gilad. Israel took to the initial guard duty, keeping an eye to ready us if a car came in our direction. We picked in silence. The trees were mangled. Deadwood was everywhere, twigs all over the place. I raked my fingers through them, removing the olives.
Hours passed. I saw a column of smoke not far off and pointed it out. Only dust I was told – a momentary mini tornado, or some-such-thing. We'd almost finished. The olives were packed into large bags and we set about clearing the branches of deadwood which one of the older (partly toothless) gentlemen had cropped. A white jeep started moving slowly in our direction from Havat Gilad. I mentioned this loudly. There was little to do but wait. Then we saw two policemen striding across a field toward us. One was Guy, whose number we all had on our phones. He was tall, blond, broad. He said we hadn't received permission to be there. We said that we'd been told that we had, but that we were finished and on our way. He told us that we had to move. We said that we were finished and on our way. His sidekick kept quiet. Meanwhile the Palestinians were arranging the tractor to come for the olives. Two soldiers turned up. The officer asked what was going on. Guy told him. The officer said that on the map the area was signified as being permissible for Palestinian access. Guy disagreed. The officer persevered: the presence or absence of a particular star on the map was in question. The olives were loaded. I and the others bade Guy and his sidekick and the officer and his comrade shavu'ah tov (a good a week) and farewell. We were off.
In the centre of Jit Zakaria turned up and got us our oil. We sat with his young brother, with the portly head of the village and with his ninety-something-year-old farther. I chatter with the rotund local leader, who's Hebrew was good. We drank tea and eat brownies and another sweet, both brought by the Israeli ladies. Then off back to Rosh Ha'ayin and a lift to Tel-Aviv University where I had some irritating bureaucracy to deal with.
# posted by West Bank Blogger @ 9:05 pm
