Sometime in early November, my friend Noa told me we were going to spend our upcoming Friday picking olives in the Hebron area.
You mean, I asked her, You expect me to get up at six o’clock on a weekend morning, give up a whole day of cafe lounging, newspapers, gossip, cappuccino and croissants, and instead join a bunch of artsy-fartsy bleeding heart Leftists who are gonna bond with their Palestinian brethren in the morning so they can enjoy their sushi in Tel Aviv with a clean conscience that evening?
Exactly, answered Noa. C’mon, it’ll be a lot of laughs. We can make fun of people all day long. Plus it’ll be good exercise. And think of the hummus! They must have fabulous hummus in Hebron.
They do, I responded. But I don’t think the place I like is open on Friday.
[insert more grumbling and cynical comments from me, plus more ironic wheedling from Noa].
Finally, I capitulated. Fine, I answered. But you are responsible for waking me up, because my body doesn’t respond to alarm clocks at six o’clock on a Friday morning. And do not expect me to sing Biladi, Biladi while hugging the olive trees, either. ‘Cause that’s just not happening. There’s a limit to my willingness to Identify With Palestinian Suffering.
And so, on a sunny Friday morning, when all sane people were still in bed, I found myself with Noa and her friend Noga, rattling through the brown landscape of the Hebron Hills in an old van driven by Abu Rami, a cynical East Jerusalem resident with a nicotine-stained, bushy white mustache, who growled in Hebrew that we were late and he didn’t like to be kept waiting. We were accompanied by a couple of Israelis and a few Europeans who Identified With Palestinian Suffering. The blonde Swedish girl with the very white teeth was the object of much attention from the two Israeli men; Swedish women have been the Israeli male’s fantasy ever since they first showed up, with their long, brown legs and fabulously liberal ways, as kibbutz volunteers in the 1970’s. “Hilarious,”" I muttered in Hebrew as I nudged Noga, “Her mother’s generation picked apples on the kibbutzim, back when Israel was still the underdog; and now the Palestinians are the underdog so the younger generation volunteers to pick olives in Hebron.”
“Think of it as sustainable conflict tourism,” quipped Noa.
A middle-aged woman who spoke Hebrew with an English accent stood up to make an announcement. “We’re almost there,” she said, “So I just wanted to warn you all: if you have a camera or a mobile phone, keep it close to you at all times because The Settlers have been known to grab them.”
Well, I said. If The Settlers go for my mobile phone, that’s it. They don’t know who they’re messing with.
Soon after that, Abu Rami stopped at the edge of an enormous expanse of olive groves, pulled the lever next to his steering wheel to open the door, and lit a cigarette as he watched us piling out of the van.
“I suppose you’re going to go have a coffee?” I asked him.
“Yup,” he snickered. “And possibly an argileh, too.”
“Hmph,” I answered, as I pulled my canvas sun hat lower over my forehead and checked to make sure that my mobile phone was safely in my pocket, out of reach of The Settlers.
We trudged through a plowed field, heading toward the olive groves. I wished aloud that I hadn’t drunk so much water - because I had to pee, and I didn’t see any bushes anywhere. Let alone toilets. Or espresso machines, for that matter.
Over at the olive grove, there was no messing around. Muhammed, his neighbors and his relatives had all been hard at work since dawn, and apparently it was essential to finish picking all the olives that day. Don’t ask me why: I’m a city girl, I don’t understand these things. At any rate, this was apparently serious business. With barely a greeting, Muhammed briskly pointed us toward different trees and we were put to work. As soon as we’d stripped the branches of one tree, we dumped the olives into buckets and moved onto the next. Somehow, I found myself working rhythmically together with one family - Khaled, his wife Hadil, three of their six children and two female cousins. The women knew little English and less Hebrew, but we were determined to bond. My age and (lack of) marital status were a source of great amusement and intense curiosity, of course, but I was not so into husband talk so I took refuge in jokes. They laughed politely and asked if I had a favorite Arab singer. Um, I love Fayrouz, I said. Yes, yes, of course. Fayrouz. Anyone else?
Nancy Ajram? I offered.
Nancy! You like Nancy Ajram? So do we! What is your favorite song?
Pretty soon we were warbling through the first stanza of “Inteh Eih.” Hadil showed me how to preserve olives, and told me she was a teacher. It must be difficult to work full time while raising six children, I said, making a staggeringly original observation. Yes, she answered. I started my university studies after I had my last child. She told me she was 36, but she looked older. I gathered that it wasn’t much fun to spend one’s only day off working the land.
Three hours later, we stopped for a 10-minute lunch. Bowls of homemade labneh, hummus, olives, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and huge flatbreads were set out on the ground. We ate. One of the Tel Aviv women commented that the labneh was absolutely divine. So authentic!
Muhammed, noting my enthusiasm for the flatbread, reached behind him, selected a whole one from a pile, folded it in half, and presented it to me. I clutched it to my breast in exaggerated thanks, and we all laughed. Tea was poured from a huge aluminum kettle into plastic cups , and then we went back to work, striping olives with one hand as we held our cups of tea in the other.
I pulled aside one of the female cousins and, because I had no idea how to say “bushes” in Arabic, asked her where the “hammam” was.
“No hammam,” she said, firmly.
No hammam? You work all day and no hammam? Apparently, yes. But I was a desperate woman, and Hadil was sympathetic. She told one of the little girls to take me to a distant olive grove and squat guard while I relieved myself. And relief was definitely the operative word here.
Post-lunch conversation took a turn toward the political. Hadil expressed her wish to visit Jerusalem, which was only a few minutes’ drive and several checkpoints distant. But women are allowed to visit Jerusalem, I said. Yes, she answered, but I am afraid to go without my husband.
Khaled, who spoke reasonably good Hebrew, asked me if I was afraid to come to Hebron. Should I be afraid? I asked. No, of course not, he answered. But most Jews are afraid of us. I am wondering why you are not. I shrugged and continued stripping branches. Suddenly, apropos of absolutely nothing, he recited from memory the first verses of Genesis, in completely fluent Biblical Hebrew. “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth…” Then he looked at me to judge the effect of his unexpected knowledge. I took a course, he said. I’m interested in all religions.
Do you come to Hebron often? he asked.
Not often, I answered. Only sometimes, for work.
You must come visit us, he said. You will be our guest. Why don’t you stay at our home tonight?
Tonight I must return to Tel Aviv, I answered. But I will come see you the next time I visit.
When?
Soon.
Soon?
Inshallah.
I have a question for you, about Tel Aviv. It’s about the men and the women. Is it true there are no rules?
There are rules, I answered. But they are different.
Different, yes.
Pause.
Different, how?
It’s complicated. You have to live there to understand. It’s not better or worse, just different.
Khaled contemplated the olives and decided against pursuing this subject, although it was clearly troubling him. I was relieved.
By mid-afternoon it was time to leave. Abu Rami was waiting. Muhammed was disappointed. There was still a lot of work to be done, and it would be dark soon. Couldn’t we stay just a little longer?
On the way back to the van, I was introduced to Jamal - who, it turned out, was the owner of the olive groves. Jamal, who was in his fifties, corpulent and, judging by his watch and shoes, a successful businessman, spoke completely fluent Hebrew. He whipped out his 3G mobile phone and asked me if I ever visited Ramallah. Yes, I said. Actually, I might be there tomorrow. Wonderful! said Jamal. Perhaps I can invite you for coffee, to thank you for your hard work. Perhaps, I said.
I couldn’t think of a way to avoid giving him my mobile number. People were looking. If I refused, I’d insult him. If I consented, I’d be a loose woman. Jamal recorded my mobile number, then put his arm around my waist and kissed my cheek. He knew that a kiss on the cheek was almost the same as a handshake in Tel Aviv. He also knew that it was not acceptable, in conservative Hebron, for a man to kiss a woman who was not a close relative. I glanced at Hadeel, and she looked away.
Back in the van, I used my folded canvas hat to wipe dust off my face and said to Noa, “Jamal got a good deal today. Free labour from bleeding hearts who thought they were making a political statement, and a kiss on top of it.”
“Sister,” observed Noa, “You give too much.”
So I’ve been told, I muttered.
On the way back to Jerusalem, Abu Rami stopped at a roadside produce stand. Huge purple grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers - so cheap, and organic, too! I bought two kilos of grapes, most of which we ate during the rest of the journey, some tomatoes and a few cucumbers.
At the checkpoint leading into Jerusalem, the female border guard bitched at Abu Rami for pulling into the wrong queue. He growled back; she glared at him, and then waved us through.
It was dark by the time I reached Tel Aviv. Rothschild Boulevard was packed with children on their bicycles, strolling couples, and flirting hipster singletons enjoying a last cappuccino at Gili’s kiosk before he closed for the Sabbath eve. I stopped in at the Tiv Tam on Mazeh Street and bought some yogurt to eat with my Palestinian flatbread and organic Palestinian vegetables. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror above the dairy shelves, I saw that my face was covered in streaks of dirt. I licked my teeth, and they were gritty. My dust-covered hair looked and felt like steel wool.
Jamal called just as I was inserting the key into the lock of my fourth-floor apartment door (did I mention there’s no elevator?). I ignored the call, intent on a long, hot shower and my favourite Friday night news magazine show. Which I watched while eating my flatbread, tomatoes, cucumbers and yogurt.
But Jamal was persistent. He called 16 times over the next 24 hours. Finally, on Saturday night, I answered and told him that one call was sufficient. Clearly, I would call him back when I had time. “But I thought you were coming to Ramallah!” he said, plaintively.
Then Noa called, and we agreed that our bodies felt as though they had been subjected to two spinning classes in a row, plus a power yoga session.
Finally, Khaled called.
“Lisa, how are you? Hadeel and I want to know: When are you coming to visit us in Hebron?”
27 responses so far ↓
Eamonn // December 27, 2007 at 4:58 am
excellent piece.
lisoosh // December 27, 2007 at 7:52 am
Dude, the Swedish girls picked avocados, not apples (and only until they got a cushy job in the garden or gan). Obviously not a kibbutznikitish kind of girl.
What did the bleeding hearts think of your presence there?
Fay // December 27, 2007 at 9:40 am
Priceless.
Liza // December 27, 2007 at 10:41 am
Lisoosh, I worked in the garden!
Great post Lisa, though everything was sort of a blur after I started picturing you in a canvas sun hat…
thenewjew // December 27, 2007 at 11:51 am
What a classic piece, Lisa. Thank you for this great read.
Maya
lisagoldman // December 27, 2007 at 12:15 pm
Aw, you all warm my heart with your approval of this piece. I’ve been meaning to spit it out for weeks, and finally sat down to do it between 1 and 4 a.m. (my most productive hours, unfortunately).
Lisoosh - The bleeding hearts didn’t know quite what to make of me, so they tended to keep their distance. I pissed the Swedish chick and a German guy off when I only half-jokingly told them that there was a lot of work to do, so maybe they should stop taking photos and get on with it.
And you’re right about me and kibbutz life being two.
Jonas // December 27, 2007 at 11:54 pm
You must, must, write a novel my dear.
JQ
Sharon // December 28, 2007 at 1:10 am
Great piece Lisa! I identified so much with the situation, having experience Hebron with “Shovrim Shtika”, the “apartheid wall” with Taayoush (I guess) and other nice stuff with Betzelem (I’m a masochist).
I was addressed to you by Sandmonkey, whom I met in Egypt. I follow you - I have to admit - not constantly (just beacuse of my laziness), but always with a lot of fun and interest.
tsedek // December 28, 2007 at 2:06 am
Pretty soon we were warbling through the first stanza of “Inteh Eih.”
Damn, you know how to sing that? You gotta teach me sometime
(Btw: I was desperately looking for someone to go with me that time to this olive-picking thing, but couldn’t find anybody interested in it, next time I will know who to turn to: you! )
adinag // December 28, 2007 at 6:29 am
loved this story.
Aaron // December 29, 2007 at 7:27 pm
Have you ever read Jack Kerouac? I’m expecting your next post to be about you, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty roaming the country, just long enough to make yourselves sick.
Wonderful story.
eliesheva // December 29, 2007 at 11:31 pm
Nice… enjoyed.
Abbi // December 30, 2007 at 8:11 pm
Um, ok, this is all very heartwarming (in a skanky, stalkerish kind of way) and pastoral, but why no honest outrage at providing free labor for an Arab who can obviously afford it while millions of his brothers (and sisters) are sitting at home unemployed?
It’s nice that you got a great, ironic postmodern piece out of it, but don’t these people deserve a little bleeding heart where it actually counts?
adinag // December 30, 2007 at 8:24 pm
Abbi - what a nonsensical, angry comment. One can only hope that you exorcise all your hostilities through nasty commentary to strangers in the blogosphere rather than those in your real life.
lisagoldman // December 30, 2007 at 8:28 pm
Abbi - I don’t know what you mean with the terms “skanky,” “stalkerish” and “post-modern,” and I expect you don’t really know what you mean, either.
As for the outrage, I’ll save it for the issues in my own domain and let the Palestinians worry about their own social justice issues.
Michael // December 31, 2007 at 12:41 pm
good on you lisa for setting straight the drivel on treppenwitz!
Laura // January 1, 2008 at 2:08 am
Love it! I can’t stop chuckling… darn my leftist-bleeding-heart ways. And, since I’m an ignorant American, I’ll have to ask my friend from Haifa about the different “rules” between men & women.
R. // January 1, 2008 at 4:29 am
Forgive me my ignorance but I need to ask the following stupid questions.
1. Was Khaled hitting on you too? His question about rules was not so innocent……
2. Did you see any settlers?
3. Were the internationals aware that they were doing free labor and how often this goes on?
The ISM website advertises olive harvesting as a big direct action thingy. Are they in cahoots with the landowners?
4. And finally, I read your comments on Treppenwitz. Yikes! Why bother? It diminishes you both.
Thanks!
Enjoyed the piece. I want more!
lisagoldman // January 1, 2008 at 1:27 pm
Hi R. - Nice questions, actually. Answers are as follows:
1. Khaled wasn’t exactly hitting on me. He was a good guy, very devoted to his career (pedagogue) and his family, etc. He knew his questions were inappropriate, but he just couldn’t restrain his curiosity - which was puerile, no doubt. Hebron is a very conservative place, and it’s really all he knows, so my lifestyle - unmarried, living alone in a liberal city - was as exotic and bizarre for him as the life of a burkha-wearing, Afghani village woman would be for us. I should add that a lot of people in Ramallah, Bethlehem and East Jerusalem think Hebron is hopelessly conservative, too, in that big city versus the boondocks sort of way.
One of the themes I tried to underline in this post is the sexual aspect of the conflict - which is a universal aspect of all conflicts. It’s a kinda hackneyed theme, so I tried to be, um, subtle.
Khaled is curious about me less as a Jewish Israeli, and more as a “modern woman.” Hadeel and her cousins worry a bit about how to find common ground with a woman whose lifestyle is so foreign to them - again, not as a Jewish Israeli, but rather as an unmarried woman living alone in a big city.
The Israeli guys are more into the Swedish woman than their political activism.
With his fluent Hebrew, superficial knowledge of Israeli cultural mores and privileged socio-economic status in Palestinian society, Jamal tries to take advantage of his position in order to simultaneously taste a little forbidden fruit and show his compatriots that he is more sophisticated than they, and that he can have what they can’t - in more ways than one. Jamal also put me in an awkward position by playing the conflict card. If he were a sleazy Israeli guy asking me for my phone number in a Tel Aviv cafe or bar, turning him down would’ve been a no-brainer. But he disguised his come-on as a sort of political gesture - i.e., I want to thank you for your support of the Palestinian people.
And, of course, there was the power imbalance aspect: as a woman in a traditional society, I had less power; but as a representative of the occupying power, as it were, I had more. So agreeing to give him my phone number was kind of patronizing, since I had no particular desire to stay in contact with him. On the other hand, my refusing to give him my number could’ve been disingenuously misinterpreted as discrimination. After all, Israeli girls give their phone numbers out to any guy who asks. Well, don’t they? So that must mean you’re turning me down because I’m Palestinian.
So that’s where Jamal’s lack of understanding of “the rules” in a sexually liberal society comes in. He’s seen Tel Aviv, but he didn’t “get it.” I didn’t particularly care whether or not I insulted Jamal. I just didn’t want to make an easily misinterpreted scene in front of all those people I’d spent the day working with. That’s why I waited until we spoke on the phone to tell him off.
2. I didn’t see any settlers that day. There are, however, many well-documented instances of the extremist settlers who live in the Hebron area attacking Palestinians while they were picking olives, herding goats, etc. I’ve had quite a few very unpleasant run-ins with those settlers, who really are the loony fringe. I use the term “loony” quite deliberately, because a lot of those extremists seem to have serious personality disorders. Their way of expressing their political/religious ideology is just a manifestation of their personality disorders. I’ve been spat at, cursed and shoved. I’ve seen the loonies wearing T-shirts emblazoned with slogans that praise Meir Kahane, while they were demonstrating and chanting racist slogans under the protection of Druze and Bedouin border police. On the other hand, when I once showed up in Hebron wearing a long skirt and without a reporter’s notebook in my hand, they were very welcoming.
I think it’s really important to emphasize that “the settlers” are not a monolith. That’s why I poked fun at the English woman on the van, because I think the Israeli Left makes a huge mistake in painting a disparate group of people with a single brush. This creates unnecessary schisms and alienation where conciliation could easily be effected with a different attitude. I know lots of non-ideological, non-religious people who live in largely secular West Bank Jewish towns for simple economic reasons. They’d be perfectly happy to live inside the Green Line if they could afford a nice bungalow with a garden, instead of a cramped two-bedroom in a marginal neighbourhood. There are also a lot of religious settlers who do believe in a two-state solution – just not precisely along the Green Line. In that sense their political POV is quite similar to mainstream Israeli opinion. The extremists are the minority, but they make the most noise so they get the most media coverage - as usual.
3. I’m quite sure the internationals were unaware they were being exploited for free labour. But that’s quite typical of well meaning but badly informed volunteers in any situation where the motivating factor is political ideology. I don’t believe the ISM is in cahoots with the landowners, but that’s the only even marginally positive thing you’ll get me to say about that messed up organization and its twisted, inflammatory ideology.
Laura // January 1, 2008 at 9:10 pm
Lisa,
Thanks for the extended, in depth explanations.
R. // January 2, 2008 at 1:16 am
Well, thanks Lisa. That’s a post in itself! I am sure many people would like to know about this sexual angle of the conflict. I know a bit about Islamic mores but this adds an interesting element. May be you should write something on CIF? I am getting tired of Seth!
lisagoldman // January 2, 2008 at 12:02 pm
Hi R. -
I think Seth’s doing a pretty good job over at CiF. I only take the occasional peek, though, because I haven’t the stomach for the commenters - most of whom seem to be psychotics off their meds.
About my responses to your questions: I just want to emphasize that the sexual aspect (a.k.a. the culture clash) is *not* specific to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It’s a universal theme, about the meeting of a liberal and a conservative society. The latter need not be a Muslim society.
Semper gumby // January 2, 2008 at 4:54 pm
Good read! It’s like an alternate universe. Thanks.
Jameel @ The Muqata // January 2, 2008 at 6:32 pm
Lisa -
Actually, your comment could easily be rewritten swapping the word “settler” for “leftist”…
I’ve had quite a few very unpleasant run-ins with those leftists, who really are the loony fringe. I use the term “loony” quite deliberately, because a lot of those extremists seem to have serious personality disorders. Their way of expressing their political/religious ideology is just a manifestation of their personality disorders.
Though, leftists aren’t a monolith, and I have many leftists friends
On a much more serious note, are you going to help organize a “Israeli bloggers stand united with imprisoned Saudi blogger Fouah al-Farhan“?
Personally, I find this incredibly offensive, and offer my support (for whatever it’s worth).
(The Muqata Stands for Freedom of Speech on Blogs…provided they aren’t inciting to murder)
lisagoldman // January 2, 2008 at 8:52 pm
Geez, Jameel…
The opposite of leftist is not settler, ja? For example, at Haaretz I used to work with a graphic artist who lived in Ariel. She had a Peace Now sticker that advocated withdrawal from the territories on her office door. In fact, she was one of those “settlers” who told me she’d be perfectly happy to live inside the Green Line - but she had a disabled husband who was unable to work and received only a pittance in National Insurance benefits, two daughters and a very small salary. On that small salary she could afford a three-bedroom bungalow with a garden in Ariel, or - as she put it - “a two-bedroom apartment in the worst part of Bat Yam.”
The opposite of extremist is - last time I checked - moderate.
As for the loony extremist settlers- c’mon! I know you wouldn’t defend spitting, cursing, chanting racist slogans, and shoving. Nu? Neither would I - from anyone. This has nothing to do with politics. This is about civilized behaviour. And yes, those people I met in Hebron were totally nuts - violent and foul-mouthed.
Oh yeah, and I never said that some of my best friends are settlers. (they aren’t). I mean, I have friends who live in West Bank settlements. But they aren’t my best friends.
Plus, the Left is actually *not* a monolith. In fact, you’ve just given me an idea for my next post. Which I shall dedicate to you, my settler (not best) friend.
Re. the Saudi blogger: yes, horrible story. But no, I’m not going to organize an Israeli bloggers’ campaign of support. It wouldn’t help him, he probably wouldn’t be too pleased, and that there is the sad reality of the Middle East.
Jameel @ The Muqata // January 3, 2008 at 11:07 am
Hey Lisa.
If you really want to write an interesting posting about the Left not being a monolith, you could also balance it out at the same time, including settlers not being a monolith.
However, your analogy was incorrect; a settler with a “peace now” sticker has no corresponding relevance to a Leftist…ie, a Leftist with a Eretz Yisrael Hashleima sticker?! No such thing. My point was that there are extremist loony leftists who uproot settler olive trees, spit, curse, chant racist slogans, and shove IDF soldiers…
My Leftist friends are moderate leftists who don’t condone or participate in the above behaviour. (Some of them used to even be my best friends)
Looking fwd to your post
Aphemia // January 27, 2008 at 3:30 am
Hi Lisa!
Just recently found your blog while starting to look up some mideast news sites and I just had to thank you for the fascinating commentary on your olive picking trip. Sort of Sex in the City meets post-feminism meets political commentary. You are awesome! Just be careful, I read your Lebanon blog which I know is ancient news but OMG, you were taking some chances there! Best of luck!
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