Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Shimoni didn’t respond. He drew his pistol, loaded it, and put an end to the dog’s suffering with a single shot. “Come,” he said to his family and turned back toward their home. The following morning, he packed everyone up and left for a hilltop in Samaria, branding Hilik and Othniel “worse than Korah,” the biblical villain who led a revolt against Moses.

Left behind were two families, united in their love for the land and in a singular viewpoint as to the nature of the outpost and its management, yet penniless. Slowly but surely, however, their luck changed. Because an Israeli anywhere in the Land of Israel is afforded protection in the form of a security perimeter to keep Arabs out, Israel Defense Forces troops were dispatched to the area to keep watch over the Assis and Yisraeli families and the three empty trailers, bringing with them a guard post, a water tower, and a generator that was ten times more powerful than the small one provided by the Jewish Agency. Othniel called in a favor from his friend Giora, the brigade commander in the sector, and asked to be allowed to draw electricity from the military generator and water from the tower for the trailers. “Sure. Why not?” Giora responded with a wink.

The WZO’s Settlement Division took to the idea of the farm. After all, who could say no to fresh asparagus and mushrooms, and fine goat-milk cheese, too, not to mention the true pioneering spirit of old? Settlement Division officials thus retroactively approved the expansion of Ma’aleh Hermesh B. and even included the farm in the Outposts Agreement — in which it was recorded under the name of “the South Hermesh Goat Farm”—in return for the removal from the site of one of the trailers. A new family moved in, however, and the trailer, in fact, was never removed — despite that family’s departure a few weeks later.

The Amidar housing company was then free to move additional trailers to the site.

And the Postal Authority had a green light to set up a mail-distribution post.

And the National Infrastructures Ministry could instruct the Public Works Department to make good use of days when Civil Administration officials weren’t patrolling the area, to lay down some asphalt.

And the Agriculture Ministry was able to approve Othniel’s status as a farmer and his eligibility for water quotas at a reduced cost.

And the deputy accountant general at the Finance Ministry could instruct Bank Tefahot to offer mortgages for housing units at the site — a move that brought automatic Housing Ministry authorization for infrastructure work and widened the Arab-free radius in one fell swoop.

And Amana, the settlement division of the right-wing Gush Emunim organization, got in on the act, proposing initiatives and determining criteria for working the land.

A combine harvester even turned up one day, courtesy of a German Christian organization sympathetic to the concept of a Greater Israel.

An aerial photography exercise perpetrated by some left-wingers resulted in calls from the Defense Ministry, the Interior Ministry, the Housing Ministry, and the prime minister’s office: Whose decision was it to establish a new settlement in Israel? Who owned the land and/or the rights to the land? Was it state land, state-designated land, survey land, or perhaps private land appropriated for security reasons, or maybe private land purchased from Palestinians, or even Palestinian-owned land that wasn’t purchased? And if the land was privately owned by Palestinians, was it being used for agricultural purposes or not? Was the land on record anywhere, registered anywhere? Was it Mandate-era land? Who gave the go-ahead? Were any formal planning procedures carried out? Had architects submitted master plans to the relevant planning committees? And if such plans had been submitted, were they approved? What was the jurisdiction of the new settlement? What did the state budget director have to say about it? Was there any word from the custodian general? Had they discussed the matter with the coordinator of the government’s activities in the West Bank? And the brigade officers, what did they think? And had they spoken to anyone at the office of the IDF commander of the area?

Endless questions!

All the callers were politely informed that the so-called new settlement was nothing more than an agricultural enterprise within — at least for the most part — the judicial boundaries of Ma’aleh Hermesh, merely an expansion of the existing settlement that was not subject to government approval, as the establishment of a new settlement would be, and there was nothing to be concerned about. What was the big deal? All Othniel Assis had sought was to grow the very mushrooms, asparagus, and arugula that these bleeding-heart left-wingers themselves cut into their salads and served steamed alongside a slice of salmon at their Tel Aviv dinners. So, please, give me a break, okay? The outpost nevertheless made it into Peace Now’s Outpost Monitoring Report, and even found its way onto the interactive map on the Haaretz daily’s news website. Civil Administration officials then showed up with orders to cease all work related to the family residences.

The move served only to prompt a flood of callers requesting to join the outpost.

Followed closely by approval from the defense minister’s deputy on settlement affairs for the transportation to the site of two additional Amidar trailers.

Then came assistance from the Housing Ministry’s Rural Construction Administration.

Along with a budgetary allocation from the regional council.

More families arrived, and young couples, and singles, too — some were lovers of the Land of Israel; others were lovers of serenity and nature; still others, lovers of low costs. Everything was out in the open — the minutes of the meetings dealing with the division of the land were posted on the synagogue notice board for all to see! — but no declarations were handed down. From time to time, threats of evacuation were voiced and scolding fingers were raised. But more babies were born on the hilltop, and thus, modern-day pioneering flourished, and Ma’aleh Hermesh C. grew and expanded.

A hilltop. The earth light and still, almost barren: a brownish yellow, dotted with rocks and lonely olive trees, and, here and there, soft patches of green brought on by the rain. Cutting through the center of the hilltop ran a narrow and bumpy single-lane road. A trailer — a mobile home — attached to the back of a large truck slowly climbed and descended its winding path. A yellow Palestinian cab bearing a green license plate crawled along impatiently behind. And after the cab chugged an old and dusty white Renault Express, its rear window bearing stickers declaring MY GOLANI DOESN’T EXPEL JEWS; HEBRON — NOW AND FOREVER; and BRING THE OSLO CRIMINALS TO JUSTICE. Behind the wheel of the Renault sat Othniel Assis — bearded, wearing a large skullcap, just as dusty as his vehicle. Weeping miserably in a car seat in the back sat his youngest, three-year-old Shuv-el. He had dropped his packet of Bamba as they rounded one of the sharp bends, and neither he nor his father could pick it up off the floor of the car. Yellow crumbs from the peanut butter — flavored snack had stuck to one of the child’s sidelocks. The fourth vehicle in the impromptu convoy that day on the rough road through the Judean hills was a military jeep, a David, carrying the section commander, Captain Omer Levkovich, along with his crew.

The road rose sharply. The truck shifted down a gear; its engine screamed and carried the vehicle up the incline, the same slow pace of the herd of goats that ambled indifferently along the side of the road. The cabdriver mumbled something in Arabic, blew his horn, and pulled off a dangerous passing maneuver. Seconds later, one of the cab’s tires blew — a dull thud, the sound of rubber being dragged across the tarmac, the car bouncing along the road, the driver’s curses. The cab came to a halt, blocking the road. Out stepped Jeff McKinley, the Washington Post ’s Jerusalem correspondent, on his way to interview a high-ranking Israeli government minister who lived in a settlement some six kilometers from where they had stopped. McKinley looked at his watch and wiped a bead of sweat from his wide brow. The evening before, his father had told him about the snow that was falling in Virginia; here he was in February, already perspiring. He had ten minutes to get to the meeting at the minister’s home. He couldn’t wait for the flat to be fixed. McKinley handed the cabdriver a fifty-shekel note and walked off in the direction of the hitchhiking station he spotted a few dozen meters away.