Deir Sharaf, Beit Iba, Sunday 9.06.2006 PM Observers: Aliya S., Susan L. (reporting) Summary Today’s shift was full of the oppression we see not only at the checkpoints and on the roads in the Occupied Territories, but also midst the Palestinians’ olive trees and groves. The anguish we witnessed today revived reflection on the ancient forces of culture, geography, tradition and community, and how sterile as well as evil is the workings of a country – ours – that fails to understand what roots us and anchors us, and the Palestinians, to this land. A tree without roots will never be stable. Today, we witnessed, firsthand, how a family’s olive trees are prized for their historical presence, beauty, symbolic significance, and most importantly, for economic significance. It’s so easy for the occupier: the olive groves around the lone settlement of Shavei Shomron have been declared security zones, which gives the army a free hand to do with the land what it will. And who of the army echelons or in the settler community either cares or remembers that the oldest living cultivated tree and its olive branch have long been a symbol of peace, and the silvery-leaved olive tree considered sacred by the Greeks, by our own Biblical ancestors, by the Koran? On the way from Qalqiliya: Azzun: no entrance from the apartheid road. Now people have to go further west, along a roadway parallel to the main road, the entrance of which is blocked. There the usual yellow taxis congregate and people make their way over the new mounds (erected in the past ten days). At the entrance to Azzun proper, just before the car repair shops (now eerily empty), a group of huge concrete boulders plus a Hummer block the roadway. No way in or out of this village as a few weeks ago. 13:50 Jit A rare sight for this time of day: a rolling checkpoint on the road leading south towards the village of Jit and the settlement of Qedumim. Cars quickly checked, about six or seven. 14:00 Dir Sharaf We learn from Jamal, the minimarket owner, that of his 180 olive trees, only eight or ten are left standing, the rest have been moved and “plonked” down on land that doesn’t belong to his family but to his neighbors. We go with him to “bear witness” with our own eyes. Jamal tells us that he could never bring his father to behold what we now view, and that first, when he saw what man — no, what Israel has wrought, he cried. We stumble over new earth mounds and view “man’s” latest handiwork: the road will start from the end of the new wall on Rte. 60, still only a ditch and parallel, of course, to the settlement of Shavei Shormon above. Already a huge white swatch has been cut, 25 meters wide: for a “security” (?) road. Hundreds of olive trees have been cut down, their wrinkled branches full of still tiny fruit. Two huge earth movers are doing exactly what their names depict, and a man, with a metal tape (nothing larger than the home use variety), is measuring the slope of the hill now being gouged out. He’s the foreman, tells us that. “Shavei Shomron needs a security road.” The army is nowhere visible. They don’t need to be. Their work and their will have been done. Shimon is “just carrying out orders,” to replant the trees, but just anywhere that’s easy, heedless of custom, family ownership or the health of the trees. They won’t survive, who, in fact, except for the settlers and the army with its hubris can or will in this cruel land? 15:00 Beit Iba Today there is an APC, parked firmly across the vehicle passageway, on the Nablus side, making it even harder for trucks to pass. There are a lot of trucks, overly laden, often huge cement trucks and, as always plenty of donkey carts. Atop the APC a soldier, shouting, as, indeed, all shout today. Below, a soldier with gun pointing. In other words, more soldiers at Beit Iba. Most shouting, most of the time. Worse, the APC now acts as if it were traffic police, making life even harder for passing vehicles. As is usual, the end of the line, coming from Nablus, is not in sight. The soldiers at the vehicle checking post make a habit today of wandering back to the soldiers in the APC. The line to Nablus, quite short at first, but never less than ten, grows, and people wait. When we leave an hour later, the truck drivers tell us they’ve been there for an hour – waiting — and still haven’t gotten to the checkpost. In the detention compound, 14 men, of all ages. Age no longer counts. The list from which the soldiers work is huge. An entire page covered in, perhaps, ten columns with at least 30-35 names in each, i.e., probably over 300 listed numbers. And it takes, obviously, a while, even to glance down this list to check each ID against it. We mention to Y., the commander, that the list seems to be growing longer: he nods his assent. The DCO representative tells us that the commander, a sergeant, is in charge, that he can do “what he wants.” This in response to our concern about the number of detainees. The role of the DCO, we’re told, is nothing more than to deal with “humanitarian” cases, and ensure that the humanitarian line is open. It is. The sun beats down on it. 15:20 — the large group of detainees is let go, the soldier in the central military checking area tells each, “This is the last time..” It seems, they tried to go around the long line of people trying to cross the checkpost, coming from Nablus, at least 100-150. 15:40 — one of the porters, this one minus donkey but plus a supermarket shopping cart, stops to talk to us, a soldier yells at him. The soldier atop the APC yells, the commander yells, the soldiers yell. What is this? The heat? Certainly the checking isn’t facilitated by all this shouting, just relief for the occupier. 15:45 — the detention compound again has eight men in it. It’s clear that there are no restrictions for passing, but people are just made to wait and wait and wait. The DCO representative checks the people in the humanitarian line, about 50 of them, seems to take pleasure in sending an adult man to the back, to start his wait all over again. The commander arrives, having decided to deal with the crowd. “Everybody back, ok, let’s go, get on with it.” The DCO representative and he now talk, the people in line wait, nothing moves, it’s very clear who’s in charge, that the DCO representative can do nothing. The DCO representative leaves, taking off helmet and removing his gun from around his body as he climbs the steps up to his waiting jeep. 15:50 — “Ola, hello, hello, hello, move back, go on.” And so it continues. The commander holds a young woman’s ID aloft, using it as a kind of conductor’s baton to wave at people to move back, to direct them. He spends more time trying to control the humanitarian line than actually checking people. Except for one man: “how old are you?” “40” is the reply, the line is held up, but it’s clear that the commander was ready to send the man back – to another line, to another wait. The APC soldier shouts at a donkey cart porter conveying a young family, mother, father, toddler children. They descend from their ride, and walk. The uprooted olive trees in nearby Deir Sharaf merely reinforce — that their universal symbolism of wisdom, peace and reconciliation have no place in this setting. The flood is far from over.