After our service, we drive down from the Jordan River in the fog, but the rain has stopped. Along the way, we pass Israel’s oldest kibbutz, founded one hundred years ago. It stood against the Syrians in 1948; the border was right behind it. We make our way through the Jordan River Valley past Mount Tabor, and Roni explains to us some of Israel’s agricultural triumphs: cotton engineered to grow in different colors and seedless grapes. He tells us also that Israel manufactures rain—if the rainy season ends without precipitation, they spray the clouds with silver iodine which causes molecules of moisture to bind together and become heavier so that they can fall.
We have lunch at Movenpick, topped off with wonderful coffee and vanilla ice cream, then drive through Afula and the Jezreeel Valley. On the right we pass Har Megiddo—the hill of Armageddon; the last major sword fight in history took place here between the British and the Turks in 1917.
Finally, we arrive at Givat Haviva, a Jewish-Arab center for peace founded in the beginning years of Israel’s statehood. We are shown into an octagonal room with low, cushioned wicker seats, squat tables, oriental rugs and walls covered with maps. While sipping Turkish coffee, a distinguished-looking Arab fills us in on the background of the Institute, established to teach Arabic to Jews and vice versa, as well as conduct cross-cultural meetings and exchanges. In the eyes of the Palestinians, Givat Haviva is the most accepted Israeli institution; all here are peace activists and work for Palestinian autonomy. Our host tells us, “We are Jews and Arabs of good will who want to build a new and positive humanistic alternative.” The institute houses a center for the history of the kibbutz movement and for cross-cultural arts (especially for youth) as well as a media center. Hosting 30,000 Arabs and Jews per year, the center communicates the idea that peace is better than war, and living together is not a burden to be borne but rather a privilege. It is their hope that those who spend time at the center will then continue to work for an open, tolerant, democratic and integrated society in which differences are accepted. Those at the center are not official diplomats, but they do enjoy a good relationship with the PLO (both before an after the Oslo accords). Givat Haviva aims for popular diplomacy which reaches the common people, and is entirely autonomous—the center does not deal directly with politics, and is non-partisan.
After a lecture, we drive to an Arab home. The home is decorated entirely in green and white with low cushions placed in a semicircle on either end of the oriental carpet laid over white tile; ceiling to floor windows with green curtains and white valences take up two of the walls. Stepping into the wooden entry, we take off our shoes and go upstairs through an arch. A few tasteful paintings adorn the walls that aren’t windows, and bronze roses with dried flowers sit in a vase on a low table between the floor cushions. A sleek black cat steps purposefully among the guests as the family’s twenty-year-old son introduces himself to us as an Israeli by citizenship, and Arab by nationality and a Palestinian by geographical identity. The father comes in and sits on the floor, not caring for the chair his daughter brings him. The daughter (19 years old) tells us of the differences between Arab and Jewish schools and towns; she describes the Arab facilities and villages as backwards, poor, third world. She says that while Arabs are not drafted into the army, they can volunteer to go. If they don’t volunteer, they are discriminated against in society with schooling and jobs; if they do volunteer, they are discriminated against in the army—no Arab is ever put in a position of authority that requires trust. Also, very few Arab students study chemistry, because they are automatically suspected of terrorism. If they do advance in the field, their prospects are limited, since most of the jobs center around defense, and that area is not open to Arabs.
The family lives in the town of Ara—a combination of tin shacks and opulent villas positioned along dirt roads and almost non-existent pavements. They apologize profusely for not offering us food or drink; it is the last day of Ramadan.
We drive next to Barta’a, the town split in half by the Green Line. All of the people in the village, some 7,000, are members of the same extended family. The Green Line was drawn by representatives of Israel and Jordan in 1949, and from ’49 to ’54 people could more or less move freely from side to side. Starting in 1954, however, the Jordanians came in and patrolled the border; this lasted until 1967. During that time, our guide explained, if someone died and people on the other side of the line wanted to pay their respects, the body had to be brought to the line for viewing. With Israel’s 1967 occupation of the West Bank, the people on the Palestinian side came under Israeli military administration. Now, the area is divided into three sections (A, B and C); who controls the land you’re standing on depends on which section you’re in. Barta’a is in Area B, but I never quite understood what that meant. On one side of the line are 3,000 Israelis; on the other are 4,000 people who either have no citizenship, are Jordanian (if born before 1967) or have recently applied for Palestinian autonomy citizenship cards.
We disembark in Barta’a. There is a large white mosque with a green dome, and a stand with falafel. Under the awning, we speak with some of the people rushing to and fro, getting last minute shopping done before the end of Ramadan. We walk down a few yards to a wadi which marks the Green Line. On our side is Israel. The roads are paved, and there are sidewalks. On the other side is the West Bank. There is no pavement; only a yellow line along the curb which stops abruptly at the wadi. The street deteriorates into a patchy road filled with holes. Children with no shoes wander in the rain, waving to us, and five or six peer out at us from a house built over a septic tank which, we are told, often overflows. From a passing car a man shouts, “Welcome to our beautiful city!” Later, another leans out of his window to say, “Welcome to Israel!”
Our guide, Lydia, explains to us that during the intifadah, it was too dangerous to take groups to the spot where we now stood—rocks and molatov cocktails were thrown into the streets, and from the minaret the imam intoned day and night, inciting all Palestinians, especially those on the other side of the Green Line, to rise up and rebel.
Lydia tells us about the mayor of the town. Being an Arab Muslim, he had two wives, and when the town was partitioned, he had to choose which one to live with. He chose the wife in the West Bank, because she had given him more sons. Lydia saw him once during the intifadah, surrounded by a group of children, running from one to the other. When he saw Lydia, he asked her, “How many hands does it look like I have, Lydia?” She said, “Two, of course.” And he replied, gesturing to the minaret, “Then how can I cover all of their ears so they won’t hear what’s coming from that?”
Lydia stopped two men walking up the street and asked them if they would speak to our group. We find out that they work illegally in Israel, that sometimes they can’t work at all because the roads are blocked off, and that every week a full day’s wages has to be put towards buying water, since the town’s water is not drinkable.
Seeing our expressions, Lydia is quick to caution us that while things look very bleak and one-sided here, there are equally valid and compelling arguments on the other side, and reasons given for why things happened the way they did.
We drive home, dropping Lydia off at her kibbutz. Back at Kefar Ha Choresch we have Mass and dinner, and then we pack. Dinner was nice, especially talking to Roni and Jerry. It is difficult to go to sleep, however; the chanting, drums, shooting and fireworks last all night.
