In recent months, our protective presence here has taken an interesting turn. Since there have been no clashes with hostile parties and since this is not the grazing and milking season, there’s nothing to do except help out in the homes. And that’s what we’re good at. We were well trained in our childhood – on kibbutz.

And since (my) real vision, when the wars are all over, is to turn Palestine into the Tuscany* of the Middle East, in my mind’s eye I can already envision a rural agricultural area, with olive trees surrounding colorful villages and guest houses full of tourists in a hilly Biblical landscape – or perhaps desert plains with streams flowing the length and breadth of the Jordan Valley.

We’ve equipped ourselves with soap and towels, items that aren’t much in demand among the locals, which is not to say that they don’t clean up, but in a world where livestock, people, and shepherds returning from pastures all live tightly packed together, where there’s a shortage of water and dust constantly seeps through where there are no windows, cleanliness plays an insignificant role. If you want to paint a prettier picture, look from a distance and you’ll get a utopian view of man and nature, a single unit divided into small units, all living in harmony with a place for each and every one.

The mother of the house doesn’t rest for a second, ready for every task like a coiled spring – she cooks, bakes bread, launders the children’s school clothes every night, so they come to class in tiptop condition, helps feed the flocks and bathes the children and helps with homework. She’s the best!

And who knows what’s good and what’s not so good, what’s right and what’s not right. And who needs cleaning when the mind if full of so much filth.

We drove to Ein el Beida to fill a gas tank and buy stuff for the families at the supermarket, and wished them a peaceful weekend. At dusk, M, a lad from the village, was tending the flock in a place the enemies considered forbidden. The army arrived and arrested him. Y, his father, who came for him was also arrested. Later on, they released the son, but kept the father. At the time of writing he’s still detained.

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*I’ve just read in Haaretz that the settlers talk about Tuscany. Mine came first and they can go to hell.