crushed the buildings. Now some family
members live in Red Cross tents.
Whenever the Turkmans tried to cultivate
their most fertile fields, which are closest to the
Qaddim fence, Israeli soldiers shot at them.
For almost three years, the Turkmans could
not tend the young olive trees in these fields.
Desperate, they knew the law dictates that land
not worked for three years belongs to Israel.
In autumn, Joe, Liv and other ISM mem-
bers came to help. The internationals and
Turkman women followed the tractor, col-
lecting rocks and stacking them on terrace
walls. When Israeli soldiers asked why the
internationals were there, Liv said, “We’re
students learning about subsistence farming.”
Days of tense but bullet-free plowing, plant-
ing and rock-collecting ensued.
I visited during Eid al Fitr, the three-day
November holiday that ends Ramadan. The
Turkmans were resting, and pale green
sprouts of winter wheat and lentils were
sprouting in the moist soil near the settle-
ment. In the daytime, men talked, kids chased
each other perched on remnants of toy cars,
and women did each other’s hair, roasted a
sheep, brined green olives in soda bottles, and
cooked pita bread in a small outdoor oven. In
the evenings, the family gathered on mats
around the edges of their biggest room and
drank coffee, talking and laughing.
Chickens, ducks, cows, goats, and sheep
slept in a shed adjoining the house where we
were staying. But at 5 am, gentle animal nois-
es were overlaid by a loud “chukka-chukka-
chukka.” Frightened people rushed outside to
look up into the sky, where Apache helicop-
ters circled in arcs toward Jenin. That morn-
ing Israeli tanks rolled into Jenin searching
for militants.
In March I learned that a local “security
fence” would be built around Qaddim
(though many settlers have moved back to
Israel, leaving only about 30 houses occu-
pied). Bulldozers cut a wide strip through the
Turkmans’ newly cultivated fields. The fam-
ily was informed that half their land, 25 acres,
had been confiscated for the fence.
In the background of West Bank land-
scapes, I often saw the path of the Separation
Wall (the Security Fence, the Apartheid Wall,
depending on who you are talking to) as a
wide, pale strip crossing distant hillsides.
Sharon’s government says the Wall is neces-
sary to protect Israelis from suicide bombers.
Many Palestinians say it is a way the Israelis
can annex West Bank land and water, sepa-
West Bank farm children with Joe Gessert
rate Palestinians from each other and make it
impossible for them to survive in what
remains of their homeland.
I saw the Wall up close in Zbouba, where
it was outside the back windows of every
house we visited. There the Wall consisted of
multiple rows of high barbed wire fences and
trenches, with a raised roadway in the mid-
dle. After a mighty Palestinian feast at the
home of Joe’s friend Mahmoud Jaradat —
hummus, stuffed zucchini and grape leaves,
roasted chicken, olives, greens, and chickpea
soup — we strolled through the village’s
olive and almond orchards. We adults talked
and picked a few last almonds, and
Mamoud’s children frolicked along until the
lane ended abruptly in barbed wire. An Israeli
jeep whizzed past on the patrol road.
Traveling through the West Bank, I wit-
nessed the fears and grinding, repetitive frus-
trations of people’s lives. Here is one of the
moments that haunts me: Joe, Liv and I were
in a taxi driving toward Jenin. A Palestinian
girl, about three years old with dark, wavy
hair, stood in the yellow dust beside the road.
She wore a lacy, pale green dress and pink
hair ribbons, and swung a green purse that
matched her dress. It was the first day of Eid,
when Muslims gather for family feasts. Near
her stood a somewhat older boy who looked
like her, and a half-dozen Palestinian men,
including an elderly fellow in a white djelle-
bah who was shouting at Israeli soldiers.
Another Palestinian man, laughing nervous-
ly, pulled him back and shushed him.
The soldiers who had emptied these pas-
sengers out of a taxi-van belonged to one of the
roving Israeli military patrols that set up “flying
checkpoints” and made our talkative taxi driv-
er freeze when he spotted them. A young sol-
dier strutted up to our taxi — narrow face, dark
glasses, M-16 automatic rifle in his arms.
“Where are you going?”
“Yamoun,” answered Joe.
“Why?”
“To visit our friend who studies Arabic at
the university.”
The soldier screamed, his mouth twisted
in rage, “Your friend is studying to make
bombs and blow up Israelis!”
He yelled, “Go!” and we went, leaving
the little girl and her relatives and fellow pas-
sengers behind. Was this hysteric the person
who questioned them? How many hours did
they stand beside the road?
Did the little girl ever get to the feast of
Eid? I still wonder.
ew
james von boeckmann
attorney at law
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Toga
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Toga
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September 4th, 2004
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AUGUST 12, 2004 13