The shift was devoted to the family of M. Abu Kbeita.

“If we really thought about our situation, we would lose our sanity. Only living in hope of change and faith in God keep us sane,” M. says at the end of our conversation.

1. is a strong man, physically and mentally. All his sons live with him on the same plot of land, in structures he built for them all. He has still not cleared away the ruins of a house he built for one of them three years ago.

We sat with him and his son A., who is married and the father of five, in the well-kept yard. Around us were about ten children of different ages, some his children and others his grandchildren.

A little boy of about two arrives. “You see,” A. says, “he’s my brother. He’s my sons’ uncle, but he’s younger than they are… Dad just keeps having children.”

“Of course,” says M. “That’s how it should be.”

1. tells us about their struggles with the Talia family, who live at Lucifer Farm across the road, and with the people of Beit Yatir, whose fence runs right up against them. All are on the Israeli side, beyond the separation barrier. We have been telling their unusual story for years.

Two months have passed since the start of the school year, and the bus to take the children to school in Imneizil has still not been approved. To reach the school, they must cross the Metzadot Yehuda checkpoint.

1. has also not received the permit for his vehicle, which is issued once every four years. Some months ago he received a one-year permit, but without authorization for the vehicle.

“How are we supposed to live? How can we go shopping and run errands in Yatta? How can I take my ten-year-old son with Down syndrome to his special school, and three times a week to speech therapy? Even the donkey and the horse have no permits.”

For now, A. has a permit, but it will expire in two months. And the child with special needs refuses to travel with anyone except his father. “We have permanent residency,” M. says, “but judging by the authorities’ behavior lately, we have a feeling there is a plan to revoke it.”

They are not allowed access to their land—30 dunams, legally registered and covered by a High Court of Justice ruling—not even to harvest the olives. Yet the men of the Talia family, who have received IDF uniforms and officer ranks since 7 October 2023, act there as though it were their own land, bringing their flock to eat the olive leaves and destroy the trees.

Before 7 October, the settlers fenced off the Palestinians’ plots and gave them keys to the gate so they could open it as needed. The fence was designated a “security” fence to prevent entry by Palestinians without permits. Since the war began, they have not been allowed into their plots at all. When M. tried to enter using the key he had been given, soldiers arrived and detained him at the checkpoint for eight hours, with his hands bound and his eyes blindfolded. After eight hours they simply released him.

His son A. also approached the fence with the sheep. Before he could even open the gate, soldiers, Beit Yatir security coordinator Ze’ev Shapira and his son Re’em, together with Bezalel Talia, arrived and drove him away with threats. “If you come back, you’ll get a bullet between the eyes,” they told him.

Meanwhile, the authorities have changed the locks. There is a more extreme group within the hilltop youth called “Hatifa” (“Abduction”). They wear uniforms that are not military-colored. We see them everywhere. Re’em Shapira and Bezalel Talia are particularly extreme; they look like soldiers and give orders to the IDF.

According to M., the situation has worsened over the past three years, and all agreements with the army have been broken. The residents have legal documents, but when they show them to soldiers, the soldiers reply: “We don’t care what documents you have… We don’t care… We don’t want to see them…”

“If we really thought about our situation, we would lose our sanity. Only living in hope of change keeps us sane,” M. concludes.