It was almost a year after the first Intifada had begun, and tension was high between Palestinians and settlers. To assert their fearlessness and right to the land, some settlers sent their teenage children on a hike in the hills, despite warnings from the Israeli army.
The route of the Israeli teenagers took them past the Palestinian village of Beita, and villagers gathered on a hillside to watch. Suddenly gunshots rang out and three people lay dead – a 15‑year old Jewish girl and two Palestinians. Believing that the girl had been killed by one of the Palestinians, the Israeli army entered the village and demolished 14 homes. Weeks later, Israeli ballistics tests revealed that all three had been killed by the Israeli guard of the group, a young man with a history of mental illness and violence, who had opened fire. The Israeli was never brought to trial, and the homes remained demolished.
An Israeli peace group paid a solidarity visit to Beita soon after. This was just months after I began more serious peace activism, and the very first time I had ever entered a Palestinian village. I was quite nervous about it.
The closer we get to the turnoff to Beita, the more excited we become. Will they let us through? We are 100 meters from the junction, piled up with Arab cars being stopped and searched. Suddenly someone on the bus starts to sing an old Zionist foot‑stomper and we vigorously take up the song. The soldiers take one look at our group – patriotic singers on an outing – and let us through without questions. We burst out laughing as soon as we are out of earshot.
But we cannot reach Beita, set into the hills, in this cumbersome old bus. We stop at a neighboring village and begin the climb on foot. It is near midday and the sun is ferociously hot. Men and boys lean out of their balconies to watch us walk by. Women and girls peer out of doorways. The silence is eerie. What if they don’t know that we’re friendly? What if they know we’re friendly, but they also happen to recall their 2 neighbors from Beita who were killed, the 3 who were deported, the 14 homes that were demolished, and the 10 that were damaged beyond habitation? What if all this suddenly comes to mind?
We walk past the eyes and I try to smile. I feel it coming out very tight on my face. I say “Ahalan,” “Hello” in Arabic, to a few, and they say “Ahalan” back. We pass small groups of men. “Ahalan,” I say as casually as I can, and I try a wave with my tight smile. “Ahalan,” they respond, and wave back. The woman next to me waves at the distant women, standing inside their doorways. They do not wave back.
We are now in the tiny heart of Beita, the homes leaning out over the narrow and winding road. The group stops for some reason, and I view that as a very bad idea. The young men of the village collect around us, and Maya explains to them in Arabic that we are not settlers. I am not sure that the distinction is understood. Mikado reminds us not to eat, drink or smoke, as this is the fast of Ramadan. Then we continue walking. A group of village men falls into pace beside us. No one talks much.
We pass out of the village and are on the path to the wadi. The land is beautiful, hilly and pastoral. Suddenly the silence is bombarded by a helicopter overhead. The army has found us, a mass gathering at Beita village. The helicopter dips and swoops, flying back and forth across our route. My heart is in my throat. I had not expected danger from this angle. Does the army believe we are Beita residents massing against them? Will they barrage us with tear gas to end our illegal gathering? One of the villagers gives orders to the others, and they fall away from us as if we were diseased, and return to the village.
We continue walking alone. The shadow of the helicopter frightens me every time it crosses my head. I try not to look up, but wonder where to run if things start to drop. Suddenly the helicopter is joined by a second, and they both swoop in to examine us. Then they land on the distant hill, and we can see soldiers emerge fully armed. We head toward them.
Some of our explanations work and others do not. Yes, we may stand on the hill opposite the settlers who are holding a re-enactment of their march. No, we may not hold placards or banners. I recognize the soldier who is negotiating from his pictures and the crossed swords on his shoulders. It is General Mitzna, commander of the area. He laughs with us and appears good humored. Now I am no longer worried about the soldiers.
A group of soldiers takes up positions at the crest of the hill. Are they here to protect or restrain us? We scan the opposite hill for settlers. Some say they can make them out in the distance.
Mikado tells us that we will be here for 15 minutes to make our point. We relax on the hot, exposed hillside. I sit on a rock and scan the horizon for settlers. If I cannot see the hundreds of them, how can they possibly see the 50 of us? And if they cannot see us, then what is this demonstration all about anyway? The entire gesture appears fruitless and futile, just like all these anti‑occupation activities. Frivolous and ineffectual.
We are there at least an hour, lazing in the sun, trying to make some sense of what we are doing. The soldiers also relax, sitting on the stones at some distance. Then someone says it’s over, but we must not go through the village to return – to avoid giving any pretext to the army to vent anger at the villagers. We start walking through the wadi, sun beating down.
A few villagers come out to meet us. They exchange some words with the lead walkers, and suddenly we change direction to walk through the village. They encourage us that it is alright. When we reach the entrance to Beita, I am shocked to see that the entire path is lined on both sides with young men staring at us. Their look is serious, but not angry, it seems to me. As we walk through this gauntlet, I begin to relax. “Ahalan,” I say. “Marhaba,” they respond, “Welcome.”
We continue walking, and they fall in with us. We unfurl the banners that the soldiers had not let us show on the hill. “End the Occupation” and “Israeli‑Palestinian Peace”, they shout. Some young boys grab them and wave them high over our heads. The air becomes festive. We reach the village square. Maya gives a little speech in Hebrew and in Arabic. “We have come to tell you that we do not agree with the terrible things that have happened to you. Today we give you words; soon we shall return and join you in rebuilding this destruction. Peace to us all.” Her words ring simple and sincere. When she finishes, everyone bursts into applause. The parade now begins earnest, with all the young men joining us in our walk, the boys carrying the big banners.
We walk happily now, smiling, looking for people to talk to. I try the young man next to me and he is eager to talk. We communicate in English. He tells me that he has a wife and two children, that a third child has just died of illness. He says he worked in Abu Dhabi as a welder for 10 years, but the Gulf War chased him away. Back home he found a job in Netanya [in Israel], but since the Intifada, he has been out of work. He will return to one of the Emirates with his wife “when they open the gates,” he says.
We exchange names. Mazuz, he tells me. We talk about the horrible day when the villagers and the Israeli were killed. We agree that terrible things have happened. We talk about it easily. I am surprised by how little anger he shows me.
The heat is oppressive, stifling. I ask him how he holds up under Ramadan. No problem, he says. I have finished my canteen and long for another drink, but do not say so. He talks about life in Abu Dhabi – the hotels, the swimming pools. I tell him about my daughters. We laugh about the mix‑ups in understanding each other. It feels good to laugh with him. When we get back to the bus, we find a surprise. The villagers have brought us all cans of soft drinks. None of the Palestinians breaks the Ramadan fast. But they smile as we drink greedily in the heat and pounding sun. We stand around and talk some more.
By the time we move to the bus, I am sorry to have to lose touch with Mazuz. I don’t want to lose the warmth of this meeting from my heart. We stand facing each other. I take off my “End the Occupation” button and pin it on him. He does not hesitate. He takes the white kafeeya off his neck and places it on me. It is like a coronation. He puts it over my head, then wraps each end around my neck. I take his hand in both my hands and we kiss each other, alternating cheeks 3 times. I get on the bus with the warm kafeeya around me.
The ride back is full of political talk. The kafeeya is hot and I put it into my backpack. By the time I arrive home, I can feel the dust and sweat settled on me. I peel everything off and take a shower. Then I make myself a cold drink and take my things apart. Inside my pack – the kafeeya. It takes me by surprise. It looks like an artifact that I have brought back from another world.
* * *
Years later, I was asked to translate a poem about the Beita incident written by Samir al-Rantisi, a prominent Arab-Israeli poet. The poem, called “Season of the Camomile”, is written from the perspective of one of the two Palestinians who was killed, and his horror at having been plucked out of anonymity and thrust into the national struggle. The man had been a garbage collector in the Israeli town of Beit Shean. Amin in the poem was his wife, and Munira was his sister, whose home was also destroyed. But the poem is addressed to Tirza Porat, the Jewish teenage girl who was killed.
“Season of the Camomile” by Samir al-Rantisi
How many more ordinary mornings
will fill us with horror
and transform our day to another sky?
Who chose us
to be the victim and the symbol,
to be the beginning of the beginnings,
the moment of historical trial
We, the two dreamers,
the routine, the ordinary,
who chose us
Tirza Porat
to be the heart of the conflict
and the crossroads of time…
I have never wanted to be
the headline of the conflict – of any conflict
I didn’t even want to be a moment of explosion
The greatest of my dreams was Amin and Munira al-Bitawi
who no longer has
a ceiling or a wall…
Come back, ask
who is it who left the pickax
and made do with what time handed him
made do with collecting garbage
on the streets of Beit Shean
for a paltry wage
Oh, Tirza of the bad luck!
Why didn’t you find someone besides me to be a symbol?
Why didn’t they find someone besides you to be a victim?
Tirza Porat
why could they only find Beita in the spring.