Kufr Qudum: Race against the permits

Harvesting a 300 year old tree at Kufr Qadum

For more pictures go here

The farming family we picked with on Tuesday have been told that they must finish their harvesting today, as the permits will finish and they will not be allowed to return to this area of land. So five of us accompany the family to see whether we can get all their remaining trees in the so called military area harvested by the end of the day. The permit system is an intensely manipulative system that forces Palestinians and the village council into co-operating with an incomprehensible process with the Army  able to change the rules at will. For example, the previous week permits were arranged and then cancelled at will by the Army and neither the farmers or the village council have any form of redress. Kamal, the farmer we picked with today had taken a week off work to harvest his olives during the period of his permit, which was then cancelled and rearranged by the IDF on several occasions.

Soldiers; the thug variety

Today, about half an hour after we had all started picking, a reinforced army jeep arrived and 3 soliders stood watching us. Their manner was immediately arrogant and aggressive. Kamal was up one of his trees and suddenly one soldier approached him and shouted him,  - 'Down, down'. Kamal, who up until that point has come across to me as an authoritative, dignified and confident man, immediately complied and stood in front of this soldier, looking nervous and on edge. Another unbidden thought for me - it reminded me exactly of situations in South Africa and the way in which Black South Africans were treated under apartheid by their white bosses.

Kamal had to explain that he had a permit to pick for the day, but was then asked to explain who we were. He was then told that there was no permission for us to pick. This was yet another obstructive and unnecessary army tactic - and would mean that Kamal's family would not be able to finish all their trees. We tried saying that Captina Rafi had made no objection to us harvesting. The thug solider decided that Captain Rafi should be telephoned, but instead of using his own mobile he made Ann dial the number and then took her mobile off her to speak to the captain. After a moments conversation he gave Ann the phone back and walked off without a word. We took it that this meant we could stay - this young man's manners clearly didn't extend to giving information.

For the rest of the morning this trio exacted their revenge by keeping the engine of their jeep running and hovering right over another family who were picking nearby. They also took to racing their jeep from time to time up and down the track beside us all (this track is the designated route for the Wall in this area). At one point another army vehicle came up and so that they could pass one another thug group backed into the groves, partially demolishing a portion of terracing in the process.

Hares village: Ashraf's trees again

Today five of us, Ann, Kate, Sue, Noirin and myself, returned again to Hares to help Ashraf with his harvest. Today, we were to harvest the trees between the main raod and the military road. As we clambered over the old roadblock rocks to get to his trees, a settler emerged on the military track, carrying an M16 over his shoulder. We stood watching him and waited with Ashraf, to see if the Army were present. After a minute or two they arrived and an extended conversation took place between the Capain and the settler. The impression one always got in this situation was one of partnership between the settlers and the Army. There was never any real sense that the Army were present to protect the farmers from settler violence or intimidation. Having said that, it did seem that the behaviour of the settlers was to some extent constrained by the presence of the army. Then Captain Rafi spoke to Ashraf again and it seemed that we were to be allowed to pick. Ann commented to Ashraf 'You're quite friendly with Rafi,'  to which Ashraf quickly responded 'Rafi is no-one's friend'. Ashraf knew that he had to speak to Rafi to achieve what he wanted, but he was equally clear what Rafi represented.

More ways to kill an olive tree

Ashraf showed us a row of trees that all stood adjacent to the military road. One half of them, the half that faced the road, were completely shrivelled. The leaves and what looked like the remains of the blossom are grey and dried up. there was no crop at all. But remarkably the other half of the tree looked fine, although the crop was very light. There is no other explanation that I can see than that these trees have been sprayed with some sort of poison from the road.

All day we had to look out for rolls of barbed wire: in some places the only way to harvest the tree is to climb precariously into a small gap between two rolls of wire and stand completely still to pick. I'm alert to this barbed wire, some of which is new and shiny, but I almost fall headlong when I fail to spot a brown wire stretched between two rusty electric fence posts. Its an old electrified fence (no long electrified, thank goodness) which Ashraf says was put here several years ago to deter them from visiting what remained of their groves. The final element to this exercise in deterrence and intimidation were a couple of old signs saying, in Hebrew and English: "Danger: Mines".

So, the area where we picked that day, constituting what was left of Ashraf's family groves, constituted a narrrow strip about 20 metres wide, squeezed between a road he had only limited access to, and a military road that he was not allowed to cross without a permit. Further down the slope on which we picked where two mobile homes, a newish outpost signalling the latest seizure of Ashraf's land. The barbed wire tentacles, meanwhile, represented an attempt to seize what small area of land that was still being farmed. In the face of all this - the seized land, the military track, the sprayed trrees, the severed trees, the barbed wirte, the Mines notices and the new outpost, I found it difficult to see how any of Ashraf's trees would survive much longer.

And in case you're wondering - no, the soldiers that spend the day watching us show no interest in any of the above. They neither make a note of it, nor do they make any attempt to remove or report obstructions. The only activity they undertake is that from lunchtime onwards they are joined by two young Jewish boys, home from school. These boys spend the whole afternoon hanging round the soldiers and chatting to them. We are picking often no more than a hundred metres from these two boys, but we might as well be on another planet.

Earth roadblocks on the way home: just another day

On our way back from our day's harvesting, just outside the village of Al Funduq, and driving along a hillside in the dark, we come across an earthmound - a huge pile of earth which was completely blocking the road. It had been dumped there by the army no more than 30 mintues ago, we were told. Half a dozen children were stood on top of it and a car in front of us was cautiously attempting the drive round the earth - a fairly perilous thing to do as the road dropped away on one side of a hill and there wa a danger of wheels slipping over the edge. Teh four of us were in a servees with three other women, a toddler and a baby, plus a couple of men. We suggested getting out and walking round the earthmound but at first our driver wasn't having this. After watching the two drivers in front of us though, he changed his mind and we all piled out and clambered over the mound. We asked people - why has this been done? They all shrugged - no reason. As far as we knew there had been no 'trouble' in the area.

Noirin telephoned the United naion to report this human rights violation - they asked her to report the matter again if the obstruction was still there the next day 9so its Ok for the army to clock the road for a day??).

Postscript to an earthmound - a bigger earthmound

Two days later we came down this road again and now the earthmound was twice as high and the road was completely impassable. Local drivers had therefore carved out a completely new track which went up high onto the hillside and which at one point, I'd estimate, was a 1 in 4 gradient. The track was only one car wide so gettting through required skill, co-operation and some luck. It was completely unsuitable for ambulances or emergency vehicles and would not have been passable by the bus which took the university students towards Nablus (I never found out what had happened about the bus, but there was no alternative route for it). We phoned the UN again, to be told 'We understand that the affected villages have an alternative route'. This hair raising hillside track was the 'alternative'which the UN thought was acceptable. Autumnal rain, which can be very heavy and prolonged, was expected to start in Palestine at any time and as far as I could see this track would then become impassable.

Picking olives between barbed wire laid by settlers to deter farmers from gaining access to their groves

Today Ann, Noirin and I were on the road again, requested to join a farmer in the village of Hares, whose land lies in a military area, and who is forced to apply for a permit to allow him to harvest.

To get there we first took a bus from the village at 6.30 a.m. The bus was mainly filled with students all travelling to An Najah university in Nablus. One young woman on the bus got talking to Ann and very soon asked her if there was anyway she could help the local students since the journey to university was so expensive, more and more of them were finding it impossible to continue. This was a story we heard several times - and those of us who had been in Palestine the previous year had noticed that the cost of travel had gone up by at least 50%. We left the students in al Funduq, where they still had to face the queues and searches at Beit Iba checkpoint, while we got a taxi in the opposite direction.

In Hares we met our famer, Ashraf, and he ferried us and the buckets and bags by car to the end of the village, where the village lane joins the main road. The farmer's land only lies 400 metres up this road, but he cannot take his car up there, since the army will not allow him to park. This also means that his wife, who has mobility problems and cannot walk far, cannot accompany us.  However, a largish group from Rabbis for Human Rights, along with their tour bus, arrives and take us plus buckets up the road, where they drop us all off along with two young Israeli men who will work with us all for the day.

To get to the groves we have to climb over large boulders and then pick our way about 100 metres to a road track, clambering over barbed wire to do so. In the past there was a village track through all these groves, but this was blocked by boulders six years ago and the track is no more. The track which we reach, in contrast, is a military road (although armed settlers also seem to have the right to walk or drive up and down it) and we can only cross with 'permission'. The farmer has been given a permit to pick this week and it remains to be seen whether we will be allowed to accompany him. A group of three soldiers appears, with Captain Rafi (the same man who promised much and delivered nothing last week in Tell) amongst them. He clearly recognises us but we do not acknowledge one another. Ashraf talks confidently with Captain Rafi; Ashraf is a retired lecturer aged 60 and the Captain Rafis of this world do not faze him. We are asked to provide our names and all give our first name, which Rafi duly writes down on the corner of a piece of paper. He then leaves, but the three soldiers with him all remain on duty all day. We proceed across the military track and approach what I can only describe as a neat cluster of residential houses and gardens: it could have been a housing estate in Holland or even southern England.

Severed trees and a country garden

Ashraf's trees lie between the military track and these houses, but I have not seen trees like this before. At first they seem like giant shrubs, but Ashraf shows us the base of each tree, which are about two feet in diameter (indicating they must be at least 200 years old). The trunks though, have been completely cut through at a height of about one metre, and the new shrub like growth I can see is new, soft leafy growth from the severed trunks. The settlers here cut these trees down between four and six years ago. The attack means that the trees now have only the smallest of crops, high up on the new growth. Worse than this, Ashraf is rarely alllowed access to the trees to prune them, so it is almost impossible to get into or up the trees to get to the few olives that it bares. There are no strong branches or the open shape that I now understand is necessary for a healthy olive producing tree. Our arms quickly get covered in scratches trying to get to the olives and our legs are scratched too by the thorny undergrowth which Ashraf has also been unable to clear.

And right next to us, maybe four metres away from the closest tree,is a pristine garden, with a lush green lawn, flower beds, a gazebo, a hammock and two children's bikes. It must be watered every day to achieve the lushness that I can see.

In contrat, Ashraf's land looks and is neglected - for those who care to see it this way, the contrasting views could be a confirmation of Arab inability to care for their land. Of coures, his land not many yearaa ago included the site of the garden that I'm looking at - the trees that would have been uprooted to make space to create that garden would have been planted by Ashrafs great great grandfather.

We'd only been there for ten mintues and we were already incensed with anger, but Ashraf had no time for self pity. He had four of us volunteering for the day and he wanted to make the most of it. He was a smiling bundle of energy, pruning and clearing vegetation whilst we searched for olives. Meanwhile our three watchers lazed around in their little outpost.

An Israeli view point

We gradually dealt with all the 'nearly' trees and began to chat with the two young Israelis, one of whom spoke excellent English as well as Arabic. The two lived near Tel Aviv and one had volunteered to help with the harvest in previous years. It emerged that one, the talkative one, had served in the army, while the other had avoided it on 'psychological grounds'. They both thought that it was now easier to get out of  army service- that the IDF did not want 'unmotivated' people and would rather use mental health grounds to avoid the problem of such recruits. Mr. Talkative, on the other hand, said that he'd decided to serve because he had believed that he would have a 'better attitude' (ie. he thought that he would behave better towards Palestinians) than some other soldiers. He paused and then said that he was now not sure if he had made the right decision and he was not sure what he was going to do about being called up for reserve duty. His rationale for serving in the IDF was, for me, the sort of Israeli rationale that tries to make the occupation more 'humane' but completely fails to confront the central injustice of there being an occupation at all. I wandered if this was also the rationale that had brought them here as volunteers: simply trying to mitigate the worst excesses of occupation and settler behaviour. Certainly as we talked they seemed quite shocked by some of the stories we told about the beaviour of the Israeli state. They were shocked, for example when we told them that one of our group had been denied entry to Israel and about the way in which Israel prevents humanitarian aid being delivered into the West Bank.

Ashraf, though, helped us all through the day. As we sat having lunch he commented on how this was the way it should be - different nationalilities all sitting together in peace. He said that peace must come one day, that it was essential not just for Palestinians, but for Isralis and for all the other peoples of the world.

Beit Iba checkpoint: Nablus district

Today, since we were not able to harvest, three of us decided to spend some time monitoring Beit Iba checkpoint. Beit Iba checkpoint controls Palestinian movement in and out of Nablus for many villages to the south and west of the city, as well as movement northwards towards Tulkarem.

The checkpoint is at a bleak spot, in a valley right next to a stone quarry and my overwhelming impression of the checkpoint is one of heat, dust and noise. Beit Iba has a reputation for harassment, especially of students who have to travel into Nablus to get to An Najah University. There is a small enclosed space next to the soldier's room, where anyone who does not pass scrutiny can be detained. Today there was no-one in detention and there were no lengthy queues, since it was past 'rush hour' by the time we got there. We passed through the checkpoint without incident and stood at one end of the 'cattle pen' area to watch people's progress as they approached the checkpoint. Nearby was a group of about 10 to 15 taxi and servees drivers, stood calling out thier destinations to anyone walking through. In their eagerness to get first claim on any likely fare, they continuously edged forward, and every so often a soldier would come over and yell at them to get back. So, they would move back , before immediately creeping forward as soon as they saw the next possible fare. After about the 4th time this happened the soldier who approached aimed his M16 at the drivers and waved it back and forth across the group, yelling at them as he did so. The drivers were not visibly afraid, and his actions had little effect, but it was yet another small act of humiliation.

Later a driver approached us and showed us his taxi permit. This allowed him to collect fares from the Nablus side of the checkpoint, where we stood, but not to drive through. He wanted to be able to work both sides of the checkpoint and said that he had never been in trouble and had no intention of driving into Israel (we were nowhere near Israel at this checkpoint). 'Was there anything we could do to help him?' We phoned an Israeli human rights organisation who works to monitor Israeli restrictions at checkpoints. The woman we spoke to said there was no chance of being able to help this man. 'Why not?' we asked. She sighed: 'Do you know what occupation means?' 

What I saw: a 'quiet' day at the checkpoint 

So what did I see at Beit Iba checkpoint? Well nothing dramatic. but many many images that replay in my mind. There were of course, the narrow turnstiles which opened and shut unpredictably. So, as you queued, and shuffled forward, you never knew whether you were going to be able to move striaght forward through the turnstile, or whther it would suddenly lock shut, trapping you between its spokes for an unknown period of time until it was reopened. Time and again I saw men caught between the spokes, stood helpless or irritated and forced to push continuously against the bars (as there is nothing to tell you that it has reopened again).

And there are also the sawn off thick nails that protrude from the concrete floor by about a centremetre, just as you enter the 'cattle pen' in front of the turnstile. We wouldn't have noticed these if they hadn't been pointed out to us, but during our two hours at the checkpoint we saw several women trip or catch their trousers on these nails. Could these nails have possibly been put there on purpose? It was, of course, impossible to know, but certainly no-one had bothered to remove them or saw them down to floor level.

Ordinary people, leading unordinary lives

There was the father who put his hand protectively against his young son's head, guiding him into the turnstile so that they would not be separated and the boy would not bang his head against the metal.

And there were the two mothers with three young children, who ran up to the turnstiles just as if they were running to be first at the pelican crossing. And the mother's skills in scooping up one child and guiding another so that they all squeezed into one space in the turnstile.

Every so often in Palestine an association pops into your head, unbidden and unwanted. And for me, watching these parents and children, was  a memory of hearing about Jewish families in the ghettos, trying to protect their children from the realities of life around them; trying to normalise an abnormal daily life.

And of course, I saw small acts of resistance as well: attempts to subvert the petty indignities of the turnstiles. A middle aged woman appeared, a large bundle on her head. Rather than walk through the walkway to the turnstiles, she was walking straight along the road; the route by which certain cars, mysteriously, are able to pass through the checkpoint (after searching and showing of permits of course) and others are not. for ages it seemed tha this woman was going to be abel to walk through as the soldiers, preoccupied with inspecting a small lorryload of furniture, failed to notice her. On she strode, heading foe the quarryon the other side of the road from us. then a soldier noticed her and waved her back. She attempted to ignore him and marched on. Eventually two solidiers shouted at her and a furious exchange developed. She finally accepted partial defeat and came back to the ID control point, but still tried to get into positon without going back and through the turnstiles. But the soliders stopped her again and pointlessly made her trudge back up the road another hundred metres to the back of the 'cattle pen'.

When she eventually reached the queue she managed to negotiate her way past the few younger Palestinina women wiaint in front of her. Perhps she wasn't a resistance fighter after all - just a serial pusher in!

And the, there was the helplessness of those without any power. Like the couple pulling along large suitcases on wheels (they were full of olive oil to sell, they told us). they too attempted to walk down by the raodway and to explain to the solider that their cases were too big for the turnstiles. The soldier waved his arms at them in an unmistakable 'its not my problem' and waved them back. they then spetn some time tiping the suitcases onto thier sides and pushing them through the turnstiles one by one. The petty actions of the soliders were quite unneccessary; this couple were not trying to avoid being searched or having thier ID checked.

And finally, we saw a man walking with the aid of a stick and leaning heavily on another man. A catheter protruded from his trousers. He too had to walk through the checkpoint, although he was not made to negotiate the turnstile. Three hours later I was back at the checkpoint, after going into Nablus to do some shopping. As I passed through the checkpoint ID control myself I suddenly saw the sick man beside me - presumably returning form a medical appointment in Nablus. He was leaning even more heavily on his cimpanion now, and I walked behind him as he slowly walked the 200 metres minimum to where the taxis waited. He stumbled twice during this walk and would have fallen without his friend's help.

Today five of us spent the day harvesting with a family whose olive trees lie directly below a settlement housing estate and next to a large complex of Israeli glasshouses. The glasshouses are built on what used to be the family's land.

On Saturday about 6 p.m Liz and Ann, two of the other volunteers from the UK, set off with me for the journey out of Nablus; Liz to return to Jerusalem and Ann and I to join another team of volunteers for our second week.  We were a motley crew - Liz and Ann with large rucsacks and Liz suffering from a bad back (an olive harvesting injury), while the 'Bag lady of Sheffield' (me) followed on behind. As I still had not been reunited with my rucsack (strangely, Israeli airlines are not keen to deliver lost baggage to addresses in the West Bank) my worldly goods were then stored in one small rucsack, one conference style documents folder ('Non violent Resistance Conference: Bethlehem, 2005') and 2 small, flimsy black carrier bags.

Huwarra checkpoint

Part one of the journey was a servees to Huwarra checkpoint. Huwarra is a large, although not yet high tech checkpoint which controls all Palestinian movement between the central part of the West Bank and the Nablus, as well as on into the north of the West Bank.

The checkpoint was crowded at the end of the working day and after being dropped off with tens of other taxis and servees we trudged the 200/300 metres or so down to the checkpoint. We had to walk down a "path" with a concrete barrier to one side and a fence to the other. The "path" consists of rough rubble and you cannot see where you are walking because the flood lights from the checkpoint shine directly onto you, preventing you from developing any night vision. We passed a woman with a pushchair and a group of children being led by their father.

When we reached the actual cattle pen (checkpoint) there are four lines for people to queue, each separated from the other by concrete blocks up to chest height. Three queues are for men and the fourth (which unlike the others has no actual turnstiles to pass through) is apparently for women, or maybe for people who cannot get through the turnstiles. In this queue is a man carrying a sleeping child and in front of us is an elderly woman, bent double, being led by a young man who is presumably her son. I wonder how they managed to negotiate the rubble pathway.

I notice that Ann and I scarcely speak to each other as we pass through a checkpoint. I think it is partly out of anxiety (we have been in Nablus a week now. Will we be allowed out and what will we be asked?), but mainly a desire to concentrate on what is happening. Neither of us want to get used to this - we want to hold on to the fact that a whole population is subjected to this treatment every day of their lives.

There must be at least a hundred people in the four queues, lots of men returning to their villages from work, shopping or other activities in Nablus, and also lots of university students, as well as families. The university students all hold their books and papers in their hands - not carrying a bag is one way to try to minimise the delays and searches at a checkpoint. A young man in the 'Women and others' queue is sent back - he is presumably not allowed to be in 'our' queue. We shuffle slowly forward and each of us is stopped in turn by an uptight soldier who has his M16 pointed in a lazy sort of way at whoever is next in the queue. He points to Liz's rucsack and indicates that he wants her to open it. there is no real space to do this properly, but she opens up the top and he gets a few things out before turning his attention to Ann, who gets the same sort of attention from him. Then it is Bag lady's turn. I'm a bit nervous about my non violent resistance bag (donated to me earlier in the week to keep a few things in) so I'm glad its dark and that the writing is in English. He rummages in amongst my bags then wants to see my rucsack. Oops, I've only got two hands and the contents of the bags (mostly dirty clothes, since we've had no water in our flat in Nablus for the last two days) are in danger of going all over the floor. Ann tries to help but there is no real room because of her large rucsack. I manage to open my rucsack and he has a good look at my camera before asking what it is. The urge for sarcasm is great but I resist. This soldier's way of telling you he has finished with you is simply to turn to the next person. I want to repack my things as slowly as possible in a vain and illogical attempt to annoy him, but I hurry up because I'm aware of the queue behind and the man still carrying his sleeping child.

We shuffle forward to the next soldier, who stands in a sort of kiosk and examines our passports. He asks where we are going and where we have been, but after no further questions we are through.

We walk down to an area of rough ground: a makeshift car park for the tens of taxis and servees all competing for fares. A hurried goodbye to Liz, who is on her way to Jerusalem and then home, and we find our way to a servees going in our direction. Although everyone is desperate for a fare, I have seen little ill humour in these taxi parks and there are always people wanting to help the slow foreigners who scarcely know where they are going or how to pronounce the name of the place properly. Our journey onwards is going to lead us right into the heart of settlement land and on to the village of Kufr Quduum, which lies periously close to settlements. Its dark and so we can see how clearly the settlements are lit up and how they snake along the hillside.

We have been told to get dropped off at the olive press in the village; as usual there turn out to be two olive presses and as usual, we get dropped off at the wrong one. But we are soon met by Tom, one of the British volunteers and we walk down to the 'Town Hall' (built coutesy of USAID) where the group are staying. Its early evening and very few people are around: like so many villages, very few people venture out at night here.  

Today was our day off, and we were going to be shown round the ancient city of Nablus, one of the oldest cities in the world. Our treats for the day included a visit to the Hammam, the Baths of Nablus.

Today we headed east of Nablus, to the village of Beit Djan which lies almost in the Jordan valley. To reach the village we had to get a servees to Beit Furek checkpoint, pass through it on foot, where we would be met by a taxi sent from the village. We were warned that we may well be asked at the checkpoint where we were going, since the road after the checkpoint only leads to one of three villages. We were advised to say that we had been invited to lunch at the municipiality (the village council). (great plan - it was just that since we arrived at the checkpoint at 6.45 a.m., we were clearly the sort of people who liked to be on time for their lunch engagements.)

We arrived at the checkpoint and headed for the metal turnstiles, which, predictably, failed to open. One of the many unendearing things about Israeli checkpoints is that it is never quite clear where you should go or when a turnstile is open or shut - no helpful signs or directions here. It all serves to increase one's sense of total powerlessness as you attempt to pass a checkpoint. There were four bored looking young soldiers at the checkpoint who looked rather surprised by our appearance and who clearly wanted to engage us in conversation. But other than asking us where we were from and then calling out the names of several English football teams, they did not delay us any further after looking at our passports.

We then waited at a dusty road junction, in the middle of nowhere, for our 'contact' to arrive. It was an unlikely start to a lunch engagement really. We got quite a few stares and a couple of women came up and clasped our hands...." Zaytoun?" they enquired, smiling at us. It was Friday, so no school, and as we waited two or three groups of familes came through the checkpoint and some piled into the open back of a farm truck, clearly off somewhere for a day's harvesting. It was a very normal event in every sense, except that that every one of these children, aged from about 3 upwards, had just passed through a sort of cattle pen afffair (the checkpoint) where soldiers armed with M16s had checked and questioned each of their parents and older brothers and sisters.

Eventually a taxi turned up for us and we clambered in (6 in a car plus driver - no problem!) and sped off towards our destination for the day. Beit Djan lies on the side of a hill overlooking a wide flat valley which spreads for miles into the distance, with hills either side. It could perhaps be seen as bleak, but it is the kind of bleakness that I find incredibly beautiful and in the far distance you could see an almost desert like landscape, the Jordan valley (the west bank of the Jordan River - hence the name - West Bank).

Harvesting with this family started with arabic coffee at their house - my friend Ann is a coffee junky so this was her kind of day - and I was pretty happy about it too. This was a male only event though - this house was one of the only ones I visited where women stayed strictly in the kitchen during our visit. Then we were off again - another ride in a packed car along a track leading along the valley. Stupidly I fantasised that there was not going to be too much walking today - how wrong you can be!

The reality of occupation and land theft

Today's farmers, two young men, were clearly keen to give us a political and historic introduction to their village and they were wanted to show us the impact of settler encroachment on their land and trees. The valley is very wide and open but on each distant hillside was some sort of military installation and it became clear that the village is surrounded, albeit at a distance, by some sort of Israeli settlement in each direction, although no actual houses were visible to us. And this is a village which lies many miles from the Green line (the 1948 ceasefire line which demarks the actual borders of Israel).

The car stopped about a mile from the village, at a point where olive groves spread from the valley floor up the hillside, as far as the eye could see. I asked where the track led on to - to the Jordan valley was the answer, but it was only possible  to travel along it about one kilometre further - after that you would be stopped by a permanent Israeli roadblock. So although this village initially appeared to be in the most open and free of situations - in fact it was situated in yet another version of an Israeli controlled prison. There was only one way in or out - via the checkpoint that we had passed through, and on each hilltop surrounding the village the Israeli military was watching over.

The lower slopes of the groves had a sprinkling of farmers picking with a number of women amongst them. Great, I thought, this will be a really sociable occasion. But we walked on past the families and began to ascend the valley side, which gradually became steeper and steeper until we could no longer see the families below us. We walked first by an area where there were no trees at all and our hosts told us that all the trees in this area had been destroyed by settlers. In total the village had already lost over 50% of its trees, due to settler land theft or destruction. We climbed higher and from time to time had to cross barbed wire fences, which have been placed there over time by settlers, attempting to make their claim on the land. We were also shown evidence of trees which had been burnt. We then saw some very young trees which had been planted by the villagers. They were being protected by being grown inside old oil drums. This sort of replanting must be a real act of faith - the villagers must know that the chances are really strong that the trees grown here will in turn be lost to the settlers.

By this time we were well out of sight or of hearing of the other villagers - this was the reason of course that we had been asked to accompany these farmers, and also the reason why no children had come with us. Oh great - another isolated day on the hills........

We eventually stopped high on the hillside, where we could see clearly an Israeli watchtower way across the valley from us. At first we felt quite tense: we imagined that settlers might creep up on us from over the top of the hill. However, it became clear that although the village land was under continual threat from settler encroachment and land theft, the settlements were actually some distance away, and we would have heard anyone coming from a long distance before they reached us. And I reckoned I could get down that hill a lot faster than I had climbed up. So we settled into our picking and began to enjoy the incredible views towards the Jordan valley.

Picnic banquet for Ms Grumpy

The day was really hot and we picked for many hours. the trees were also not quite big enough to afford much shade. And today, I did get irriated at times by the ability of one of the young men with us to have frequent and lengthy cigarette breaks. There was no real sense of rush about the picking (in contrast to yesterday) and I began to wonder how much we were a source of labour for the day rather than helping to protect the farmers from any real threat. However, my uncharitable thoughts, which had a lot to do with hunger, were extinguished when during the afternoon what can only be described as a banquet arrived, having been carried all the way up the hillside by two other members of the family. Two sumptuous dishes of chicken, rice and couscous, on large silver dishes, which had been wrapped in newspaper to keep them hot on their long journey up to us. Now this was what you call a picnic - sandwiches are never going to hold much interest for me again!

AS the afternoon drew on a sort of pinkish light comes over the land and the view over towards the Jordan valley looked fantastic. However, our position felt even more isolated and I was glad when packing up started. It was decided that rather than drop down the steep hillside the way we had come, we would cut across the hillside diagonally and head back towards the village directly. This meant not following any track that I could see and as we set off I realised that it would send us below the site of what looked like an army watachtower. We made our way without any problems but on several occasions had to climb over old wire fences and I got the distinct impression that this alternative way back had been chosen as a small act of defiance against the settlers and the Army. Fair enough - it was all Beit Djan village land that we were on, but I was very glad to reach the village and the little knots of children that gather whenever we arrive on the scene. The most confident amongst them always call out 'What's your name?' while the shyer ones hide behind and giggle.

Zuwarta village: Thursday

Today we went back to the village of Zuwarta to support the farming family who had been held on the military road the previous week (see post for Monday 22nd). Four of us were allocated to accompany the family, including Chris who is a 6ft 4in Londoner who has a cowboy hat to protect him from the sun, and as you can imagine attracts quite a lot of attention wherever we go.

The village co-ordinator was there to meet us as we arrived in the village, and we met up with the family. Ali's brother in law was joining him to harvest and we were also joined by Ali's mother, his wife and their two year old, plus a sister with a toddler and a baby. To my relief the 11 and 12 year old sons who had suffered the ordeal of thier five hour wait on the road the previous week, plus seeing their father assaulted, did not appear. They had been sent off to school for the day.

A combination of toddlers, women and gear was squeezed into a car and Ali drove us really carefully down the track towards the groves. We then all joined up and walked for about 20 minutes over rough ground and through olive groves, the baby being carried in a car seat. Eventually we stopped by some trees that lay directly next to a tarmaced road. This was the military only road, used by the army and police to move back and forth from the Army base, which lay somewhere out of sight over the hillside. This was another graphic example of how the Israeli occupation literally entwines Palestinians - you are never ever far from some evidence of the occupation. And this was the spot where Ali had been assaulted. Some army vehicles passed by us almost immediately and there was a steady flow of them throughout the day. At first we would all tense up as they passed - but as the day wore on and none of them showed any sign of stopping we soon scarcely noticed them.

A family day out: almost

This, was, I guess olive harvesting as it should be, a real family day out with everyone working together from the youngest to the oldest. As soon as we stopped the two year old grabbed a branch and started trying to pull some olives off - he know what to do! However, although the day went smoothly there was also a real sense of urgency - Ali's brother-in-law scarcely stopped all day as they both wanted to finish their work in one day. He spent a lot of the time pruning trees and generally tidying up the groves, getting rid of undergrowth and so on. Now this pruning work would normally take place about a month after the harvesting had finished. But because of the dangers of the family visiting the land, they were simply getting as much done as possible on this one day, and would probably not  return to the groves again.

As we started to clear up at the end of the day, Ali's younger brother, a young man of I would guess, 19 years, who had joined us during the afternoon, couldn't resist one small show of resistance. He walked out onto the military road and started to walk down the middle of it. In a split second Ali was there, yelling at him to get off the road. Nobody sadi anything - there was nothing tosay. Why shouldn't a young man just walk down an empty road - a road that lay on his village land?

Palestinian generosity

We made our way back to the village and Ali and his wife invited us in for a drink. We were acutely aware that this was by far the poorest family we had spent time with - their home was little more than one room with a bare concrete wall and floor. It was good to be able to accept their hospitality and very good to drink strong sweet coffee. It was clear that the family had eaten their one good meal of the day out with us in the fields. While we drank we saw again the smashed window in their room and the smashed door lock that we had seen on our first visit. We had been told that these had happened a year ago when the Army had raided the village to arrest a neighbour of Ali's. As is Israeli army practice, they had broken into the neighbouring houses as well, to 'dissuade' any resistance. Ali was left, of course, with the damage caused by the Army and he had no money to replace the glass or the lock.

We also spoke to Ali's nephew - he was one of those young men that I was beginning to recognise in Palestine, with restless eyes that are always on the move, never relaxed or at peace. I was not sure what he made of us and whether he trusted us, although he, like almost everyone we met, was really polite and open. We learnt that he had been in prison in Israel for 3 years and had been out about a year. Life for someone in his position would be really hard - he would be unlikely to be able to travel out of the Nablus area and getting work almost impossible. As we left he rose to accompany us and make sure we found a taxi to take us back to Nablus. In a minute he had found a driver and car and I guessed that his eagerness was to make sure that a relative or friend of his got the much needed fare. And then I realised why he had hurried - he had paid the driver for our fare - and however much we protested, he insisted that the fare was paid.

Qusin village: Wednesday afternoon.

We had received a message that a farmer in this village needed some help and we decided to travel over; hoping that we might actually get to pick some olives today. Getting to the village necessitates passing through the Beit Eba checkpoint, a bleak place situated right next to a quarry, with the air full of dust. (About Beit Eba - more later as I was able to spend a few hours here during the second week of my visit.)

We arrived in the village via a second servees and waited at the village olive press for our farmer, Saeed, to meet us. He arrived in a battered old car and we piled in for the drive down to his olive trees, along a farm track. Palestinian cars appear to have an extraordainry ability to drive over the roughest terrain, with what to me in this case appeared to be impossibly deep potholes. Halfway along we reached a large earthmound - blocking three quarters of the track. Saeed manouevred carefully round this. The earthmound had been dumped there by the army (I never did find out how long ago) and the villagers do not dare to remove it, although whatever purpose it had served the army in restricting movement had long gone. Now, it was just a nuisance.

Poisoning of the land ?

Saeed's olive groves are towards the end of the track before the land drops away fairly steeply down towards an 'Israeli only' road. On the other side of the road, 'nestling' in what would have once been a beautiful olive grove filled valley, lies a large factory complex, complete with chimmneys. It was explained to us that this is an Israeli chemical factory. The reason the factory is there rather than within Israel itself, is that it would not meet health and safety legislation in Israel. In one of those Kafesque aspects of illegal occupation, within the West Bank Israeli owned factories do not have to comply with Israeli legislation, since they are not inside Israel. But guess what, the Palestinian population have no rights to impose any standards on the factory, let alone to prohibit its existence on stolen Palestinian land. The villagers say that the factory often operates at night and they can smell it clearly. They believe that it is causing health problems in the village, including breathing problems. On top of this they believe that it is poisoning the olive trees. Saeed showed us the leaves of his trees, many of which have small brown spots on the, as have many of the olives. Obviously it was impossible for any of us to know whether the trees were being affected; the problem for the village is that they have no right or means to investigate any of this and of course, the factory owners will not give them any information. We took close up photos of the trees and also some samples, as one of our group is hoping to link up with a sympathetic scientist who has done similar types of investigative work for Palestinians elsewhere in the West Bank.

Saeed was a great character, full of life and clearly enjoying his harvesting, in spite of the challenges. His wife is currently with their youngest child in Amman, Jordan, where the baby has just undergone surgery. But today Saeed had had good news that the surgery had gone well, so he was beaming all afternoon. Sicne the groves are relatively near the village a number of children, both his own sons and some other boys, came after school to help out. Ann produced her endless supply of lollipops for them, and we were soon all the best of friends.

One of the best things about the end of the day's harvesting, when you will seize on any excuse to sit down, is the job of separating the olives from the leaves and twigs, prior to them being bagged up ready for the press. On this occasion one of the children had a plate and showed us the trick of throwing a pile of olives up into the air - the olives miarculously land back on the plate while the leaves etc fall to the floor. Needless to say it didn't work quite like that when I tried it.

ASBO boy

An older boy, aged maybe 14, hung around on the outer fringes of our group. At one point he wondered off and then we heard a pop pop sound. It turned out that he had a gun of some sort and was taking pot shots towards the Israeli road, although at far too great a distance to do any harm. Saeed, accompanied by Scott and Ann, went off quickly to stop him and get him back to the village. I stayed with the other children, who were in a state of mixed excitment and nervousness (so was I, minus the excitment). I could see shows of bravado building in the older two - they wanted to get a piece of the action, whatever that was. Quite how do you distract two 12 year old boys in this situation? They all had their school books with them - inclduing a briiliant student text book called 'English for Palestine'. I grabbed hold of one of the books and challenged them to show me who was best at reading English. And so we moved from gun bravado to giggling English lesson.....

ASBO boy had by now run off back to the village so harvesting resumed. Saeed told us that this boy was 'trouble' - he suspected that the boy had stolen some of his olives earlier in the day. So just how does a local community deal with an out of control teenager growing up in an environment where his parents have no authority and the only people he sees with any power are young Israeli men and women who carry huge M16s slung over their shoulders?