UPROOTED Meron Rapoport and Oron Meiri Yedioth Aharonot , November 13, 2002 The 'separation fence' line opposite kibbutz Magal. Amos, a foreman at the Ben Rahamim Brothers firm, presents his clients with the goods: an olive grove covering the hillside on the outskirts of the village Zeita. Handsome, ancient trees, at least to the layman's eye. There' s not much time to check the merchandise. "They were shooting here this morning, from this window here", says Amos, pointing to the outer house of the village. The clients, two reporters of Yedioth Aharonot and a press photographer, cast quick glances at the trees. They look good, no dry leaves, a sign of health. Such a large tree, over one hundred years old, might sell for 3,000, perhaps even 5,000 shekels at an Israeli nursery. We ask Amos for 100 trees. "No problem," he says, "we have as many trees as you want". When can we take the trees, we ask. "Whenever you want. Tell us and we'll get them for you," Amos answers. The deal looks good, but we don't want to be suckers. "The CEO has said 1,000 shekels per tree. This is expensive as hell", we say. Amos is offended: "1,000 shekel is cheap. He gave you a discount. At 3,000 shekels I can sell it just like that, in the ground. 1,000 shekels for such a beautiful tree? Cheap, cheap." Three days later, near the same hill, we meet Ahmad Al Rafiq, a farmer from the village of Zeita. Apparently the trees Amos had so generously offered us belong to Al Rafiq. Actually, there's not much of a hill left, nor trees. Gone. A day or two earlier the bulldozers came. Of his hundred trees, perhaps ten were left. "I asked the contractors to wait a little, to let me uproot them myself", he says. "They wouldn't agree, they didn't let me near the trees. They said to me: Shut up, or we'll send you soldiers." At first they sawed off the branches and loaded the them onto a truck, then they uprooted the bare trunks and loaded them too." How old were the trees, we ask him. "I don't know," Al Rafiq answers. "I'm 73 years old, and they were here when I was born. My grandfather planted them." Behind the Zeita olive grove uprooting hides a large-scale looting operation. Huge. In recent months, reveals a "7 Days" reportage, thousands of Palestinian olive trees have been uprooted as part of the work done along the "Security Fence" line. In the area we visited, alone, Amos boasts, they have uprooted 5,000 olive trees. And these are just 2-3 km. out of a 100 km. long line. According to moderate estimates, at least 20,000 olive trees have been uprooted in the past months. Some of them were destroyed as they were being uprooted, some transplanted elsewhere by their Palestinian owners. And not the least part were sold to nursery owners in Israel. Even if only 1000 trees were sold - and the willingness of the Ben Rahamim Co. to sell us 100 trees without blinking an eye indicates that a much larger scale is in question - this means a profit of one million shekels. The Arab owners, of course, don't get a penny. Nothing. The civil administration that is supposed to care for the Palestinian population even encourages this looting. "You can take as many trees as you want, just say from where and how many", tells us Samir Mu'adi, Agricultural Staff Officer at the civil administration headquarters in Beit El. In one of the nurseries at the Sharon region, the owner admitted he knew the story. The nursery displays dozens of olive trees. Their branches are cut off. Just a bare trunk and branch stumps. The younger trees are sold for 600 shekels a tree, the older ones, 60-70 years old, sell for 1,000 shekels a piece. Several enormous trees stand in a line apart. 5,000 shekels a piece. One of them, especially large, catches the eye. "This is a 600 year-old tree", explains the salesman. "It costs 25,000 shekels. We brought it from Akraba. In the West Bank. It's the last one. There were maybe ten of them. We sold a few to local councils, and a pair of trees to someone from Savyon (wealthy villa neighborhood)." On the "fence" line as well were several ancient, expensive trees. Abd el Jelil, whose 70 trees were uprooted, remembers how delighted the contractors were with the 500-years old olive tree that stood in the middle of his plot. This is how they do it, explains the nursery owner: when a tree is uprooted during work on the "fence' line or the bypass roads, the civil administration calls in the JNF, and the JNF calls the nursery. The nursery owners come and take care of the uprooting project themselves. For a suitable price they'll gladly transport and transplant the tree in our own private garden. In a year's time, he promises, the tree will sprout new branches and bear fruit. Some facts and figures: An olive tree is a natural wonder. It has become a symbol for good reason. Professor Shimon Lavi, one of Israel's greatest experts in this field, Tells us he himself established the age of an olive tree in Gethsemane, Jerusalem: a 1,700 year-old tree, and still bearing fruit. Arabs in the Galilee speak of 3,000 year-old trees. It's a hardy tree and does not die easily. If uprooted correctly and well-tended, Prof. Lavi explains, there is a 95% chance that it will adjust to its new surrounding. Even if it's not too well tended during and after the uprooting, there is still a 25% chance that it will survive. A modern olive grove in Israel yields nearly 1.5 tons of fruit per dunum, a grove in the West Bank subsisting on rainwater alone will yield 200-300 kg olives per dunum, but this is still a very important source of income in the occupied territories. Nearly 60% of the agricultural produce in the territories are olives. Let alone the emotional and symbolic aspects of this tree. And this branch has taken a deadly blow. The Palestinian Ministry of Agriculture has supplied these data, cited in the Wold Bank report on the economic situation in the occupied territories: In the two years of Intifada, 160,000 olive trees have been uprooted in the territories by the army in its "exposure" operations, for bypass roads, by settler incursions, and now the latest - the "security fence" preparations. The first section of this line, 110 km, passes mostly through agriculture areas. Hundreds of Palestinians have filed complaints against the seizing of their land. At a village like Zeita, the separation line actually destroys the residents' livelihood. 450 dunum were confiscated for building the "fence", 450 dunum are on the other side of the "fence" and cannot even be reached now. At any rate, Israel's higher court has rejected all appeals and accepted the position of the security forces, claiming the "fence" essential for security reasons. Landowners will be compensated upon proof of ownership. And what happens to the trees in these areas? "Trees uprooted for the purposes of setting the "fence" will be transplanted wherever possible, in compliance with the owners' requests," answered Captain Gil Limon, the Legal Adviser to the Central Command in a letter of November 3rd, answering objections presented by attorney Azam Bshara of the organization Kanoun on behalf of landowners in the Qalqilya area. It should be noted that in many cases the contractors who are constructing the "fence" do return the trees to their Palestinian owners. At works done these days in Falame and Jayous near Qalqilya, the uprooted trees are given to their owners. This has also happened elsewhere. But in many cases it has not. At Zeita and Qefin near Bak'a al Gharbiye, at Jammal near Qalqilya, and in many other places, landowners told the same stories: they asked for their uprooted trees, the security people in charge would not let them near the trees, and the uprooted trees were loaded on trucks and gone. Where? No one knows, no one told them. The Arab press in Israel published the story that several Arabs in Israel working at one of the nurseries in the north were fired, having refused to uproot olive trees along the "fence" line. "We were to take the trees to settlements or to nurseries in Israel", they told Yedioth Aharonot reporter Faiz Abas. Apparently this time these were not fantasies. Ben Rahamim Brothers is one of the five firms that won the Ministry of Defense's tender for constructing the first phase of the separation line. The CEO Shimon Ben Rahamim did not sound surprised when we said we were interested in purchasing olive trees. "How many olive trees do you need, small or large?" he asked. We explained we'd like one hundred large trees. "No problem", said Ben Rahamim. "Talk to my foreman, Zion, look at the trees, and we'll settle the price. Around 1,000 shekels a tree. Zion will show you everything. Whatever you'll like, you'll take. Trees that no one wants, we take. If someone wants them, we move them." The olive tree is a protected species. By force of a Turkish law still valid in Israel, a tree 100 years old or older needs a special permit to be transplanted. We inquired with the JNF and they sent us to the civil administration. Agricultural Officer Samir Mu'adi was not in his office, he was harvesting olives at his family plot in the north. But he reassured us: "No problem, it's a simple procedure," he said when we asked for a permit to take trees uprooted along the separation line. "Give me the details of the mover, go to the post bank, pay 30 some shekels that go to the civil administration, and then you'll have a permit to bring olive trees into Israel. Just tell me from where and how many, and I'll arrange it." And I can take as many as I wish? No problem. Just say from where. What if the Palestinians won't agree? Won't they give me a hard time? I'm sure they won't like it. After all it's theirs, and there's a war on. And the contractors should be giving them the trees according to the agreement. But if you ask me if you can take them, I think you can. Just talk to the contractor and tell me: Mu'adi, I want to take trees from X to Y, and I'll arrange the permit for you, its' official. The next day we went to meet foreman Zion near the Bak'a el Gharbiye checkpoint. Zion sent us to Amos, and Amos showed us the trees. "Too bad you weren't here a few weeks ago," said Amos. "We had some 5,000 trees. There were a million and a half people here, taking tress." Amos, like the Palestinians from Zeita with whom we spoke three days later (they claimed "only" 3,500 of their trees had been uprooted), didn't remember his men transplanting trees for the Palestinians. At the most, they moved trees aside that were not needed. And what about the Arabs? We put on a concerned face, I don't want some Palestinian to come tell me suddenly that this is his tree, and that I can't take it, we said. Amos was irritated: "Who takes them into account, anyway? If the Arabs see me here, their balls go up into their throat. This morning they were throwing some stones. I shot my gun once or twice, boom-boom. I went into their house and told them: "One more time you do this, you're finished, all of you." I told them: "One of you goes, you all go." We got back to Shimon Ben Rahamim, told him we liked the trees, asked him to give us a discount for taking 100 trees. He agreed to let us have them for 800 shekels a tree. "If you want it without AVT, no problem. Then you get a bigger discount, 650 shekels a tree." Not only the tree owner who inherited them from his forefathers and tended them all his life won't see a penny for his beloved trees, neither will the tax authorities. We got back to Mu'adi. He had already returned to his office at the civil administration center in Beit El, having harvested his own olives. We told him we found trees, closed a deal with the contractor, and only needed his permit. "Send me the money and everything will be fine", he said. We paid. 34.50 shekels to the civil administration coffers. A few minutes later we had our permit faxed: one permit for the transfer of one hundred protected olive trees from Zeita to Israel. It was simple. Much, much too simple. The Ben Rahamim Brother' response: No one is selling trees Shimon Ben Rahamim, the firm's CEO, was agitated when we addressed him officially: "We don't sell. What maniac told you to write such a story? No one is selling any trees, they're all to be transplanted!" What do you mean, transplanted? Uprooted and transplanted in their area. Which means you don't sell anyone any trees? We don't sell trees. No one's selling anything. Say I'm a civilian and have my own huge garden? You won't get one single tree. We'd rather throw them away. We had some in Kibbutz Magal, and transplanted them to Kibbutz Ma'agan Michael. At this point, Shimon Ben Rahamim slammed the phone, cursing heavily. Our next call was answered by Dori Ben Rahamim, Shimon's brother: "We haven't sold any trees, don't go telling stories. Plain slander. Got any photos? I don't want to speak crassly. I didn't sell any trees. Maybe you sold them trees. We don't sell trees for any money. This is just not done. We have no time for this. It's not our line of business. I don't know anyone who sold any trees. I don't know who sold them to you, and it's not my responsibility. I have nothing to do with selling trees." Ministry of Defense's Response: We have not given any permits to sell olive trees The Ministry of Defense spokesperson, Rachel Nidak-Ashkenazi, in response to "7 Days": "As a part of the infrastructure works in preparation of the 'separation wall' project, trees are uprooted. Before the actual uprooting takes place, the owner of the land is requested to notify the authorities where he wants to replant the trees, and accordingly thousands of olive trees have been replanted. There are cases in which we are asked to uproot the trees and pile them up, to be removed by their owners. In cases where the owner does not request an alternative site for replanting, the trees are replanted close by and the Ministry of Defense even waters them for two weeks after their replantation. The Ministry of Defense pays the contractors for uprooting and replanting work. This clause is an official part of the contract signed with them for infrastructure works. Evidently no permit has been given to trade in olive trees. It goes without saying that the Minisry of Defense would not lend a hand to any kind of trade that is not accordance with the laws of the State of Israel." ----------------------------------- THE BATTLE OF THE OLIVE By Danny Adino Ababa, Meron Rapaport And Oron Meiri OLIVE LOOT A "7 Days" reporter responded to a wanted-ad and joined the settlers' olive harvest as a simple laborer. Working along with him were settler teenagers who boasted about shooting at Arab homes. Settlement leaders gave the harvesters the "go ahead" sign to work in "abandoned" areas belonging to Palestinians. The security officer of one of the settlements upgraded the method and proposed harvesting the Palestinians' olives and forcing them to buy back the harvest. A Palestinian who would refuse, would find his trees destroyed. At the same time, along the "separation fence" line, Israeli contractors have loaded hundreds of uprooted Palestinian olive trees and smuggled them out to plant nurseries in Israel. Every such stolen tree may bring in a profit of 600 to 25,000 (!) shekels. Thus, dunum by dunum, tree by tree, canister by canister, proceeds the ugly 'battle of the olive' . Then the shooting started, I realized that this time I was in trouble. Sitting in the car with me were Yair Shalev, my new boss, Shani, the spirited soldier-girl with the M16 rifle, and two settler boys we had picked up 10 minutes earlier at Kdumim. These are not people I'd want to spend my last living moments with, not yet. I could already see the headlines: "5 settlers killed in a pirate olive harvest", and beneath, in fine print: "Among the casualties, an undercover reporter". Eventually we were not killed. The bullets buzzed by the car, I accelerated like crazy and somehow we got away. When we stopped at the headquarters in Kdumim we found out that Shani had suffered cuts from broken glass. She was in hysterics. Not because of the blood, but for fear that now her superiors would find out she had taken her weapon and gone to the occupied territories on her leave, to help settlers raid Palestinian olive groves. S. and H., settler boys, were somewhat in shock. The Shabak (secret service) people asked us if we'd identified the terrorist, and mentioned some hot warnings. No one bothered to ask what this strange bunch of people was doing in an olive grove around Nablus. After all, this is our country. In a week when Avi Dichter, chief of the security service had complained in the Knesset that his men haven't managed to infiltrate the ranks of settler youth ("the hill kids", referring to the Samaria hills where they practice the settlers' doctrines), that these outlaws are just too extreme, that they're not organized, that they don't abide by any rules, S. and H. and I sat in our trailer on a hill near the settlement Einav, froze to death and talked about our experiences. Or rather, they talked, I listened. S. and H. are not yet 18, but they've had a lot of mileage on the ground. They told me how they fired Israeli army weapons on Arabs' houses near Sa-nur, how they threw stones at olive harvesters near the settlement Yitzhar, and how, at the famous episode of the Gil'ad outpost, they were paid money not to leave Daniella Weiss on her own. I was the wide-eyed rookie, they - the veterans. It's simple, they explained: "The Arabs come up to harvest next to a Jewish settlement, so you either take their olives from them, or harvest them yourself, or trash their trees. As soon as you pick their olives once or twice, they don't come back any more." During my own pirate olive-harvesting week in the West Bank I discovered many things that S. and H. had not told me. I found out, for example, that alongside the hot-tempered 'hill kids', very respectable figures from the settlements take part in olive looting raids in the occupied territories. I found out that workers are recruited as hitchhikers on car rides, on the internet, at the course for newly converted Jews, at yeshivas, and that some of the areas destined for pirate harvesting have even been located by secretaries of settlements right next door. I also discovered that most of the olives are shipped to the oil-press in the illegal outpost Ahiya. One of my more shocking discoveries during the week, though, was that recently some settlers have started a new business: they harvest the Arabs' olives and offer to sell them back to their owners. There are even those who threaten the Palestinians that if they don't purchase the olives harvested "for them" by the settlers, someone will be sure to kill the trees in their groves. An irresistible offer. As I documented this industry of olive-looting at the heart of Samaria, two Yedioth Aharonot reporters - Meiron Rapoport and Oron Meiri - did some market research on olive trees at nurseries in the heart of Israel. They discovered a different brand of looting there, no less ugly. It seems that contractors building the "separation fence" have been uprooting thousands of trees belonging to owners of the land that has been confiscated from Palestinians. The price of such a tree runs between 600 and 25,000 shekels (!). But instead of transferring the tree for its owner to another spot to be replanted (explicit orders of the Ministry of Defense), some of the contractors sell it to nurseries within Israel. Entire olive groves have been erased this way, hundreds of thousands of easy shekels, all cash - net profit under the auspices of the civil administration. The olive is more than a tree. Both for Israelis and for Palestinians. It is no coincidence that the olive tree is both the emblem of the Golani infantry brigade, and of the Palestinian village of Zeita. They make their living from it, and we write peace songs about the proverbial dove and olive branch. But if this is what is done to the olives in our name - God have mercy on the dove. Recruiting "Volunteer for farm work in many places throughout Samaria". Thus a want-ad for 'Hebrew work' on the internet. This site, created by the cohorts of Moshe Feiglin, leader of the "Zo Artzenu" (This is Our Land) faction that is currently trying to take over the Likud party, offers a list of businesses employing Jews only. Attorney General, Elyakim Rubinstein, has considered charging the site's owners with breaking the anti-racism law, and they had to moderate their style a bit. Anyway, here is the ad: "With God's help, People are needed to help with the olive harvest in October-November. Work will be carried out in various localities in Samaria, from Einav in the north, Karnei Shomron, Imanuel, and down to Shilo in the south. In addition, armed security guards are needed, preferably with cars, to help transport people, olives etc. from and to the fields. I can pay for some of the work, but not supply accommodations. Anyone interested, whether as paid work or volunteering, we need you. I prefer people who can stay as long as possible. The olive-harvesting season lasts from mid-October at least until mid-November. In addition to helping settlements in Samaria in general, it is of utmost importance to assist Jewish farming based on the labor of Jews only. Helping the settlements' farming projects creates a buffer zone around outposts vital to our security, and keeps the enemy away. Signed: Yair Shalev, Shilo. Telephone: 02-9400054, 053-492217." On the phone I find out that Shalev is indeed looking for olive harvesters. I introduced myself as a yeshiva graduate (which is true, incidentally), a lover of Eretz Yisrael (also true), and needing money (always true). Shalev sounded interested and proposed to meet in Jerusalem. A modest looking man with short, thick glasses, casually dressed, he bears a heavy American accent. His wife, he said, works at a hi-tech plant in Jerusalem. She drives a car that belongs to her workplace, and he needs a driver to take him around during the harvest. "I have no license, when I was young I had no money, now I haven't the time for this", he said. On our way to Karnei Shomron he questioned me about the yeshiva I went to, where I came from, which prominent rabbis in Samaria and Judaea do I know, and most important, how I came upon this job offer. "Through the internet", I said. "Also, a friend told me." Shalev was glad. "Many people call me because of the internet ad", he said. "Actually I have people sending in their friends". He liked the names of the rabbis I mentioned, and my Ethiopian roots were an obvious asset. He explained that a friend of his employs Ethiopian Jews in the Golan, and that they're the best workers. "I want you thinking big," he said. "You'll make a lot of money. Come with me to all my meetings in Jewish settlements in Samaria and Judaea." He said it, and meant it. The Method During the week in which I drove Shalev around, we went from the office of the head of Karnei Shomron settlement, to the bureau of the vice-chairman of the Kedumim local council, and from there to the office of the secretary of Shavei Shomron. Shalev's brother serves on the secretariat of Einav, and Shuki Levin, security officer of the ultra-orthodox settlement Kiryat Sefer, who had also served as security officer in several settlements previously, is a friend and comrade in arms. Rabbi Yehoshua Mordechai Schmidt, head of the yeshiva Birkat Hatorah at Shavei Shomron, also welcomes him for a long tete-a-tete, and promises to send him yeshiva students to help out. Olive harvest is even more important than studying the Torah. Everyone knows that Shalev has been running the harvest outside the settlements themselves. At least they don't inquire whose groves exactly he intends to harvest, and in most cases they lend a hand. These are no longer "hill kids". These are the aristocrats of Samaria and Judaea. The point in his meetings with the heads of the settlements is quite simple: to get their permission to work in plots next to their settlement "which are not owned by Jews", as he puts it. According to the army's orders, the army is supposed to enable Palestinians harvest their own olives everywhere. But if the trees are at a distance of 500 meters or less from the settlements, they must coordinate the work with the army for security reasons. In fact, many of the settlements have annexed the adjacent groves at distances much larger than 500 meters. Any Palestinian who dares approach risks being shot to death. At Yitzhar, for example, settlers prevent the residents of Einabus, a village 3 kms. from the settlement, to approach their olive groves. The Einabus villagers who were permitted only last Friday to come to their groves under army protection, have discovered that in the meantime someone has harvested their trees down to the last olive. Until the army bothers to arrange the Palestinians' access to their groves, the heads of the settlements permit Shalev and his workers to harvest the trees. He enters his meeting at Karnei Shomron by himself. He doesn't trust me enough yet. An hour and a half later he comes out grinning. He claims he's spoken with Yehuda (Hudi) Lieberman, head of Karnei Shomron local council and brother of Bentzi Lieberman, head of the Samaria and Judaea Regional Council, and asked his permission to work in an area "not owned by Jews". Shalev is convinced that Lieberman will give him the 'go ahead' sign. Lieberman, on the phone from abroad, claims he doesn't know Shalev, but "a man called me about an olive harvest inside Karnei Shomron, our trees, property of the council, perhaps his name is Yair Shalev. I told him very clearly: my dear friend, I can't help you. Wait until I get back and we'll see what we can do together. On principle I won't let anyone touch olives that are not our own. Anyone who does that, commits an illegal and immoral act." In the case of Karnei Shomron, Shalev has his eye set on an area called Neve Aliza, a new neighborhood named after Aliza Begin, a few minutes' ride from the center of the settlement. Between the settlement and the new neighborhood, a corridor of trees has been formed, and Shalev has targeted them. "All these trees you see here belong to an Arab from the village of Yazoun", he explains. "The owner has probably not come to tend them for quite some time. We may help ourselves. This is our land." At Kedumim, he made a similar request. Shalev targeted an 'open area' east of the settlement, and is going to ask the vice-chairman of the local council for permission to work there. After the meeting he says that the vice-chairman, Esther Kerish, has let us do whatever we want, only we should speak with the settlement's rabbi first. "She said that as far as she was concerned, there was no problem," says Shalev. "Tomorrow she'll update Daniella." Daniella is, of course, Daniella Weiss. At the beginning of the week Kerish emphatically denied that she let Shalev harvest olives on Arab lands: "Someone came to me. We have lands to the east belonging to the Zar family. If it's on Zar land, that's perfectly alright, they can harvest there. But if the land belongs to Arabs, we won't touch it." The secretary of Shavei Shomron, Gadi Shtetman, is very clear on the subject: "I don't care if you work here," he tells Shalev and me. "In the settlement's master-plan are areas that did not belong to Jews. I hope that soon everything will belong to us and things will be easier. So you can work here. I say it's alright." He even introduces us to the security officer of the settlement, to vouch for our safety. Gadi Shtetman, secretary of Shavei Shomron, confirmed to us, a week later: "I know Yair Shalev. I approved his olive harvest as employment for residents of the settlement who have no employment within the settlement. I have no control over the groves around the settlement. He came and asked permission to harvest outside the fence, in places where Arabs do not approach. As for the groves outside the settlement, ask the army. Most of the Arabs who come, even the best of them, come for reconnaissance purposes, to pass on information to hostile elements for terrorist activity." Q: The areas included in the master plan, are these yours or the Arabs'? They belong to the army, not to the Palestinians. The Arabs are not allowed in there. On the road between Karnei Shomron and Shavei Shomron, Shalev expounds his philosophy: "It's good for the tree to be harvested. Right now no one tends them, the area is neglected. If the owner would come now, whether Arab or Jew, and bring documents proving that in court, he could place charges with the police." Q: And in the meantime, we." We work, okay? If someone comes along and proves possession, we'll sell him the lives in return for our labor. Q: He would pay us and we'll give him the olives from his own land? If the land is really his, if it's proven in court and he has papers and everything, no problem. Let the Arab come and pay me for the day's work. Q: But he can't come, he can't harvest. What do you mean, he can't? If the police decide to bring an Arab, I can't say anything. But as soon as that happens, just tell me. I'll see to it that it doesn't. The Girl-Soldier Shalev is meticulous, working with people who aren't. And he also has the money to pay them, though I'm not sure where he gets it. He stops at every junction, picks ups hitchhikers. "Want to come work for me?" he asks the boys, promising both money and the glory of "rescuing the land". The boys respond enthusiastically, take his mobile phone number. He has picked up at least ten people this way. On the lookout for veteran soldiers, Shalev waves a tempting offer. Work in the pirate olive harvest is not 'preferred' work, namely employment that makes soldiers fresh out of the army eligible for a grant of several thousand shekels if they work for at least 6 months. But Shalev can organize this. "If your friend has just finished his army service and wants to receive this grant, tell me," he says. "I can arrange it. Mine is not recognized as 'preferred' work, but I have a good friend who can get us the document that the guy worked for him, so he'll get both the grant and be paid for his work." The day after I started working for Shalev, we get unexpected reinforcement: Shani, a girl-soldier from Kefar Saba, on leave. "She comes from a secular home, and is presently finding strength in religion", Shalev fills me in, as we pick her up from home. "I told her that Adonai can help you get stronger while you work." Shani bears an important dowry: an M-16 rifle that she brought with her from the army. She's in civilian clothes, and very excited about the ride. "My mom is anti-religious, she doesn't know I'm off to the occupied territories. If she finds out, she'll die," she says. "I've been to all the hills. I was with the 'hill kids' two weeks ago, with Daniella Weiss whom I admire. Weiss is an amazing woman." Shalev suggests she act as our security guard, because she's armed, and Shani happily accepts. What is a secular girl looking for in such a dangerous area, I ask her. "Nothing, I just want to make some money and get stronger," she answers. "I've had a really rough year. Two good friends of mine were killed by terrorists, another committed suicide." Shani says that her best friend, Elazar Leibovitch from Hebron, was killed at the end of July, a day before his 21st birthday, at a terrorist ambush at the Zif junction. Another friend, lieutenant Yar Leventhal from the settlement Neve Tzuf, was also killed by an ambush on his way home. The terrorist lay in wait for his car at the side of the road, hiding among the olive trees. "We asked the army several times to clear the roadsides of olive trees in order to prevent the terrorists from hiding there", says the bereaved family's neighbor, Dr. Yoav Mark, after the attack. "There have been many shootings on this road, but the army did nothing." The army did nothing, so now Shani is here with us, in Yair Shalev's wife's new Ford Focus. With her M-16 on the back seat, between S. and H. We are on our way to Shavei Shomron, and at Jit junction (or Gil'ad jucntion, named after Gil'ad Zar), we stop to let off the two boys who want to continue hitchhiking to Itamar. Facing us, across an unmanned roadblock, stands a group of Arabs busy with the olive harvest, loading sacks onto a white truck. I stop at Shalev's request, he has arranged to meet a friend here at the junction. He gets out of the car for a moment, taking a break to stretch his legs. Suddenly a white Renault Express pops up in front of us. Two shots are heard. That was close. Aimed at us. Shani gets hit by by shreds. Superficial wound, heavy bleeding. In less than a second, we're out of there. Within 7 minutes the whole area is swarming with soldiers. No sign of the white Renault Express. We're already at the headquarters in Kedumim, answering questions fired by army officers and Shabak men. Shani is in panic. So are we. She no longer shows up for the harvest on the next day. Perhaps she'll come next week. The Indians The two 'hill kids' and myself were supposed to be foremen, actually. At Shavei Shomron we took charge of 64 workers from northern India, now living in the settlement. Rabbi Eliahu Avichail, head of an organization in search of the ten lost tribes of Israel, claims they belong to the tribe of Menashe. The Shavei Shomron Indians are presently being converted to Judaism, and since the Jewish Agency does not subsidize them, they have been living at the expense of the settlement and employed in temporary jobs. In the meantime they harvest others' olives. "Two months ago, Rabbi Eliahu Avichail called me, saying that a group of Jews from northern India is making its way to Shavei Shomron, and that he needs room immediately," recounts Rivka Bondi, director of the Conversion Course at the settlement. Residents of Shavei Shomron do not know much about the new Jews. "It's not easy", Bondi explains. "Most of them don't speak English, and we don't speak Hindi." The only Indian who speaks Hebrew is Michael, who immigrated 8 years ago. "We are Jews who love Israel," he says. "We even observed all the Jewish laws when we were still in India. I am very glad to be here in Israel." Michael is considered the success story of Shavei Shomron. Since his arrival he has married a local girl, "Polish, no less." Tikva laughs. In the settlement he's nicknamed "the Indians' eyes". In fact he is both their spokesman and work chief, foreman. It is not clear if any of them really grasp where they've ended up, and what risk they've taken, and whose trees they are now harvesting so vigorously. At any rate, you won't find more industrious and efficient workers anywhere. Guaranteed. The Hill Kids If Yair Shalev is the company commander and the Indians privates, the 'hill kids' are the company sergeants. They've had their share of fighting experience. They were at Yitzhar and Sa-nur, and all over. They've had it, actually. They work hard, and hardly get paid. Perhaps a hundred shekel a day. "No money to live, no money to breathe", they complain. The Zionist idealism that Shalev preaches at me and the hitchhikers no longer works for them. "It sounds good," H. says cynically. "They tell you that you can take from the Arabs not for gain, but for the sake of taking from the Arabs. But really, Yair couldn't care less how you live, or if you eat, as long as he gets his olives." S. sums up: "Action is the last thing we need. Now it's all a question of money. We don't even make a thousand shekels a month." In the evening, in our frozen trailer (did you know that the cold doesn't affect Samaria mosquitoes?) H. recalls the good days in which he roamed the territories for ideals, not money. "We were sent to the settlement of Sa-nur. Not the army base, the settlement. It was empty. No one else lived there. We ran into explosive charges, shootings. We lived there in fear. We'd go around there at night with bulletproof vests. The lights next to our rooms were out because we lived closest to the fence." "We were only a couple of 16 year-olds, no standby platoon. So the army decided this was a para-military yeshiva, and gave us a weeks combat traning. We didn't eat all week, just trained all day. A whole day of marksmanship training. We weren't allowed to carry weapons, but at night each room had one rifle." Q: You carried a gun? It's like the civil guard in town. If something happens, say there's shooting at the settlement, everyone runs to the armory, takes a weapon and stands in line. Q: Have you shot at Arabs? Not at Arabs, but in their direction, and at the houses of Arabs, or their solar-heated water tanks. A year later the army evacuated the boys from Sa-nur. Adults replaced them, 20 year-olds. The 17 years old Sa-nur veterans were sent out to set up a new outpost near Yitzhar. "We put up a tent with a generator", H. says. "We were four guys, you had to stand guard all alone there. Scary. Twice as scary as in Sa-nur." At Yitzhar they learned the art of handling the Arab olive pickers. H.: "The Arabs would approach, and I'd start throwing stones." Such boys who had had army or settler training of one sort or another are now found in every corner in the West Bank. The Palestinians have learned this first hand. Issa Smandar of the Committee for Land Defense at Ramallah, claims that since the beginning of the olive harvest in early October, some 1,000 incursions by settlers against Palestinian farmers have been registered. Throughout the West Bank: Jama'in and Yassuf near the settlement Tapuach, Awarta, Akraba and Yanoun near the settlement Itamar, Burin and Einabus near the settlement Yitzhar, Turmus-Aya and Jalous near the settlement Shilo, Khader near Efrat, and so forth and so on. Over 84 villages. Some cases ended with casualties, some wounded, even dead. Just last week, at the end of the harvest season, the Chief of Staff Moshe (Bogi) Ya'alon remembered to promise the Palestinian harvesters some security. In many places no olives have been left for them to pick. Someone got there first, courtesy of the 'hill kids'. The army The army's attitude to our pirate harvest, and ours to the army - is complex. On the one hand, Yair Shalev boasts that he is on excellent terms with the deputy commander of the Ephraim brigade, a religious lieutenant-colonel named Ophir, and according to him he could even request an escort of soldiers to safeguard the harvesters, if required. On the other hand, our activity is legally questionable, and there's a limit to official eye-turning. On the ground, Shalev warned us not to get into quarrels with soldiers if they show up. Just get away. Next to the settlement Einav, three reserve soldiers suddenly turn up, headed by a lieutenant named Kobi, skullcap on his head. He asks us whether the olives we picked belong to Jews. We said no, these olives are "wild". This time we've hit on a sympathetic officer. Lieutenant Kobi looks happy enough, quotes Jeremiah 31:4: "And you shall plant groves in the hills of Samaria." He says that as far as he is concerned, we may stay. Just keep in mind there 's been a hot warning of terrorists in this area. "If you need us to guard you, talk to the brigade deputy-commander or operations officer", he tells Shalev. Shalev get upset. "Hey, you stupid or what?" He says to the well-meaning Lieutenant Kobi. "You understand us better than anyone else. If we call the army, it will be swarming here and throw us out. If you can watch over us, fine. If not, so be it." Lieutenant Kobi is not stupid, but neither is he free to disobey orders too blatantly. For the time being he backs off, lets us go on, and after a while comes back with orders from the higher brass to get out. Not because of the harvest, but for security reasons. Another workday shot. The oil-press The settlers don't really make much of a profit from the olives they pick. 200-300 kgs olives per dunum, about 75 kg olive oil, a bit over 750 shekels. In Palestinians terms this is a fair amount, but it too is not enough. In Israeli terms it is next to nothing. Shalev's workers get 2.50 shekels per kg olives. In two workdays they've made 100 shekels a person. Peanuts. Still, out of this bit the settlers still make light industry. At the outpost Ahiya, an unofficial outpost near the settlement Shevut Rachel, a sophisticated oil-press has been in operation for two years now. The olives we picked at Shavei Shomron were taken there. Our car was crammed full of olives picked by the Indians. The road from Shevut Rachel to Ahiya, so I hear on the way, is out of bounds for Arab traffic. "There's an electric roadblock here. Only if you give a Jewish surname or get out of the car and identify yourself as a Jew or press a special code number, does the gate open for you," Shalev says. "Where does this road go?" I ask. "It used to serve several Arab villages", he answers. We get to the gate. We mention Shalev's name, it opens. We've reached Ahiya. Not a soul on the hilltop, and the only Jewish oil-press in the region. A sophisticated pressing machine, worth hundreds of thousands of shekels. Ahiya outpost is infamous for miles around. Fauzi Ibrahim from the neighbor village of Jaloud, who owns much of the land and has 1,500 olive trees to his name, said that in early October, when he started to pick his olives, settlers descended from the outpost and took ten sacks containing 700 kgs olives from him by force. The same thing happened the next day. This time they took five sacks. Eventually, because of the settlers' incursions, he had to give up harvesting most of his trees. If you wish to purchase fresh olive oil, Ahiya is not the place. Settlers from all over the West Bank - from Itamar, Yitzhar, Karnei Shomron, Shavei Shomron, Kedumim - bring their olives, or others' olives here. The oil-press charges them a small fee, as oil-presses normally do, and gives them their oil. The settlers' names are written on huge yellow containers, each container awaiting its owner, an ample year's supply, at least. The residents of the neighboring Arab villages see the yellow containers, understand exactly what is going on inside. And fume. The Tree's Soul We meet Shuki Levin, the security officer of Kiryat Sefer, an urban ultra-orthodox settlement a bit beyond the "green line", at Shavei Shomron. His sister, Rivka Bondi, lives there. Levin, an old friend of Shalev's and one of the prominent figures in this area, has an idea about how to empty the Arabs' groves and still get away with it, righteously: go to the Arabs and offer to sell them the olives he picked from their groves. Levin says he doesn't want to be a swine. Just cover his expenses, and make a littleprofit. "You should see how much it costs you to have workers, friends who work, and see that you don't lose money. Don't take too much, see to it that you make something. I always say, don't work hard, work smart." Q: What do you mean? If the landowner comes and proves he owns the land, we'll have something to offer him. If you just come and take it, that's theft. I don't care about his olives, what do I care - if he can prove ownership. Q: Are there Arabs who would agree to such a deal? They don't have to be asked. Q: And if they don't agree? I can tell them that ten years ago they had trees here inside the settlement, and the trees were ringed. You know what that means? You made a special ring, cut the bark all around, with a special knife. All the tree's nutrition passes through the outer bark. You make a ring, and the tree's soul is gone. No fruit next year. Q: That's harassment, isn't it? Yes, it is. I told him (the Arab), your trees will be finished. If I don't tend your soil, if I don't pick your olives, if I don't get that ten percent, no harvest next year. Rivka Bondi, Levin's sister, and director of the Indians' conversion course, stares at the ground as her brother speaks. She whispers to me that she doesn't like her brother's methods, nor Yair Shalev's work. "Two things the Arab values most: his woman and his land. We hurt his pride this way. "Say," she points to Shalev, "have you heard that he was shot at?" Q: I was there. I don't know if that was a coincidence. I don't know that it wasn't because of the business he runs. That's how they murdered Gil'ad Zar, of blessed memory." |
