"I CAN’T TELL MY FRIENDS" June 9, 2011

As we crest the hill and look down on Checkpoint #927, we sense that it is not going to be a typical morning. Not that any morning is “typical” at the Falamia farm gate. It was still dark at 4:45 am when we left our house in Jayyous to walk the 3 kilometers toward the dawn and the locked gated entrance to the farmland owned by the Falamia farmers. We were guided by the hum of the power lines that were strung along the edge of the road: the hum and occasional snapping of arcing electricity at the transformers. We speculated that these short circuits might be one of the causes for the periodic power outages in our village.

We left our flashlights dark (my European colleagues would say torches). A multitude of stars blanketed us. Night lights from scattered hilltop villages, the glow of distant Israeli suburbs and the hint of a lightening sky in the east were enough to illumine our path. The air was cool, the shadowed silhouette of the olive groves and the rustle of the grasses honed our senses and our imaginations. The gravel road bordered by ancient stone walls accepted our sandaled feet as familiar friends joining all who had come by here before us. Back among the centuries old olive trees we conjured the stirring of unseen travelers from the distant past camping overnight on their way up to Jerusalem. We imagined the smell of simmering tea and boiling Arabic coffee prepared to welcome fellow travelers.
As we descend into the valley ahead, the first Muslim call to prayer brings us back to the present. The aroma of the unseen zatar herb field on our right assures us that we are not lost. Out of the morning dusky mist a distant farmer calls out a caution as he turns on the irrigation system, as if a little water sprayed on us would be unwelcome in this hot dry land! Of more concern is the Israeli Military check point that is materializing out of the dawn at the foot of the hill. We are coming to a system of double fence lines, barbed razor wire, and electric sensors that impede farmers’ access to their fields. Daily this barrier generates frustration, belligerence, confusion, anger and humiliation. I’m thankful for the dawn walk of refreshment and solace that has given us respite from the tension and constant apprehension for what may transpire at the barrier farm gates in our path.

Our premonition that something is different today is confirmed as we approach the farm gate. The Israeli soldiers have arrived early. We are five minutes early ourselves. The gates are already unlocked, and being swung to the sides of the road. The usual deliberately slow plodding movements of the soldiers are missing. Two of them are briskly moving the gates into their open position as they greet us warmly with sincere eye contact, “Good morning.”
Even as we offer our own greeting, the soldiers have already turned to greet the waiting farmers and call them forward to present their documents. The soldiers are professional and thorough as they search wagons, inspect tractors and converse warmly and respectfully with the Palestinian farmers and their families. The bluster and the threatening countenance the soldiers usually displayed are missing. The farmers, their families, workers, donkeys and vehicles move smoothly through the checkpoint and on into the farmers’ fields.
Soon there is a lull in the traffic through the gate of the fence barrier. There is time for us to speak with the soldiers. They come to meet us as we step through the first gate. We observe, “We haven’t seen you here before.”
“It’s our first day,” one of the soldiers replies. “We’ll be at this gate for the three weeks of our annual reserve duty.”
“We come here two or three times a week from where we’re staying in Jayyous. I’m John from the America.” My two colleagues introduce themselves, from Switzerland and Ireland. “Where do you live when you’re not on active duty?”
“I’m David. I’m in a town near Haifa. I’m a school teacher there. This is Benjamin.” David is about 5’ 10 and wears glasses. His uniform hangs loosely on his thin frame. He appears self assured but a bit disengaged from the roll of soldier. His rifle is slung unmindfully over his shoulder as if it might not be there. Both David and Benjamin are in their late 30’s.
“What is your first impression of this place,” I ask?
“I’ve never before seen any of these barriers,” David responds, looking along the fence line stretching as far as he can see. “I didn’t understand that they stand between the farmers and their land. It’s kind of sad to see.
What are you doing here?”
We explain that we are here with the World Council of Churches Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and Israel. We accompany Palestinians and Israelis who are concerned with the conditions of the Occupation of the West Bank and East Jerusalem and seek peaceful change. We monitor check points, interactions between Israeli settlers and Palestinians, and document what we see.
“We notice this morning that your administration of this checkpoint seems considerate and respectful of the dignity of those seeking to passing through the gates. This is in contrast with our observations on other days. We have seen soldiers be abrupt, controlling and challenging of the right of the farmers to pass through to their fields. Sometimes they change the rules from day to day.”
David replies, “Most of the soldiers at the checkpoints are very young, right out of high school. It’s unfortunate that they often feel they need to prove themselves. Also, they reflect their training that emphasizes the threatening subterfuge of the Arabs that endangers the soldiers and all of Israel.
We have more life experience,” he explains. “We have jobs and families. I think we’re able to have more empathy for the farmers as we all struggle with a difficult situation. We can understand how stressful it is to them as we fulfill our responsibility for the security of Israel. But what can we do to change things?”
“We also feel helpless,” one of my EA colleagues responds. “But we can tell your story and the stories of the Palestinians to the people back in our home countries. The more the stories are told the more possibility for change as more and more people begin to question and understand.”
“I would like to be able to do something to make things better here,” David broods. “But I don’t know what I can do. It’s all in the hands of our government and the concern for security.”
“You can,” I reply. “When you go back to your home you can do the same thing we’re expected to do: tell your family and friends about your experience here. People may pay attention to our personal experiences.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not possible for me. They will not understand me. They will think I’ve become an Arab sympathizer. I will be isolated from my teaching colleagues. I could lose my job. My only choice is to keep it to myself.”
During the next three weeks we talked at the gate a number of times. We became friends, as much as we’re able when everyone around us, Israeli soldiers and Palestinian farmers, are watching us. Few people, Palestinians or Israelis, are willing to grant expressions of civility as anything but taking sides.
If I were to return to Gate #927 to continue my conversation with the Israeli reservist, David, it would not be so easy to expect that he could tell the stories of his experiences at the checkpoint in his home town. I would need to respect his situation in the same way he respected the Palestinian farmers.
At this gate gather the powerful and the powerless. Open communication and trust seldom thrive here. If only there could be some sharing on an equal basis. Learn that many of the powerful feel powerless. Many of the powerless seek to hold their heads high and maintain their dignity.
I come home to tell this story mindful of an Israeli military reservist who must segregate his three weeks assignment to a farm gate from his life as a teacher, husband and father. There are strong barriers, not only between Palestinians and Israelis, but also among ourselves. It’s not just this Israeli reservist who would face strong resistance and condemnation if he told about his experiences in the light of justice and human dignity. If I could talk with him again, I would have to confess that the stories we tell have a cost no matter where we live.
I was confident as I talked to the soldier about my intention to tell people in my home country about the things I have seen and heard in Occupied Palestinian territory. However, the reality is not so different from what the soldier would face in his home town. Just this week there was a letter to the editor of my home city paper harshly critical of a piece I wrote earlier about a goal of equal justice for Israelis and Palestinians. The writer said I “was wrong in so many ways.” He was convinced that “Muslims and Palestinians do not want equality and justice… They want to annihilate Israel.” His implication was that I was blind to the truth of the situation. The Israeli reservist, David, and I have more in common than I had chosen to recognize, even though the pressure on him may be much more severe.
Internationals, Israelis, Palestinians, Muslims, Jews, and Christians have all left the memory of their feet on the ancient rocky paths of the land of Israel and Palestine. To those of us who are not used to the rocky arid hills, the land may appear inhospitable and threatening. The farmers I met there taught me to see the land as “the most fertile land in the world. It can grow anything!” Perhaps one day we will all be able to recognize the hospitality of the land reflected in the people who live there. Hospitality is an ancient tradition of these people. If all of us listen carefully we may be able to hear the invitation from those embedded deep in the ancient olive groves calling us to drink their sweet coffee and share their breakfast. Wherever we meet: under the stars blanketing the night sky, next to the pungent zatar fields, at the farm barrier gates under the scorching summer sun, may all of us come to understand that we are on holy ground that welcomes and nourishes all people.