Before I’d left home, my wife had made me promise to be cautious. Recently, a young Palestinian out hunting birds had been shot in the back by Israeli settlers not far from where we were walking. Another middle-aged man on an afternoon stroll near his home had been shot to death by the Israeli army. I chose a route that avoided both the army post and the hill where Dolev [a Jewish settlement to the east of the security barrier– ed.] stood.
Halfway down the hill we stopped to eat our picnic breakfast of Nabulsi goat’s cheese and tomatoes – which we had to eat whole because I could not risk being stopped on the road carrying a Swiss army knife. … On the way down, we made several stops to record the morning sounds of the nearby village, the cock crowing and the pedlar selling his wares, as well as the more sinister sound of the cement mixer pouring concrete for new housing at the Talmon settlement north of the village.
Just as we arrived at Ain Qenya’s main and only street [Ain Qenya is a West Bank Palestinian village– ed.], we noticed a car parked at the side of the road. The driver wore a knitted skullcap; next to him sat a younger man with the side locks worn by ultra-religious Jews. The driver rolled down his window and asked: “Who are you?”
I thought he might have mistaken us for Israelis who had lost their way. Reassuringly I said: “I live near here.”
Looking me in the eye, the settler said in his poor English: “In different from you, I’m living here, really living here, not like you.”
I wanted to know what he meant by “not like you.” But the settler did not answer; he rolled up his window and began to dial the army on his mobile. We stood by awkwardly until the Palestinian driver of a van parked nearby called us over and invited us to hop into his vehicle.
“This settler is from Dolev,” our driver said. “He’s constantly driving down to the village and making trouble. Sometimes he blocks the road with his car, or he brings younger people who throw stones at cars and homes.”
When we attempted to turn up the hill to Ramallah, the settler swerved and blocked the road. I was wondering what lies he would tell the army, when – finally – he let us pass. After passing through the army barrier and entering Ramallah, I had the distinct feeling of arriving at a ghetto surrounded by hills forbidden to its residents. As I was driven to my house overlooking these hills, I wondered how much longer it would be before I will be prevented by fanatics from “really living here.”
Raja Shehadeh’s “Palestinian Walks: Notes on a Vanishing Landscape” (Profile, £7.99) won the Orwell Book Prize 2008. This article by Mr. Shehadeh, “A Short Walk in Palestine – Or Is It Eretz Yisrael?” (abridged above) can be read in full at the UK New Statesman issue of July 3, 2008, and at its website.
This narrative is unfair, and makes it seem that innocent non-Jews
> never cause triouble, never kill Israelis and would never be found to
> be harming Israelis out for a hike–I resent the tone of this unlikely
> story, and wish a fair telling of the hundreds of innocent boys and
> girls, pregnant women and old men who have been murdered and abused
> and tormented by arabs would be told.
> When do you tell /their/ stories?
> This is bushwa. I am embarrassed at this what-seems-to-me drivel.
> M DS Dreyfus
now I know it..