Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“But what—”

“I’m not done. And I still know what you’re driving at, Othni, my dear. And the answer is yes. In the wake of the High Court’s decision today, the unauthorized outpost of Ma’aleh Hermesh C. will be evacuated as part of the preparation for the construction of the fence, and in accordance with the law. That’s what ‘the work goes on’ means. Thank you.”

“In accordance with the law?” shouted a square-jawed activist in a Meretz Party shirt who was holding a half-eaten sandwich. “You’ve taken land and fields away from a village. Why don’t you deal with the outlaws over there before you destroy the livelihood of dozens of people?”

“Livelihood?” yelled Neta Hirschson. “You’re talking about livelihood? First let them stop throwing stones and missiles, and stop their ax and knife attacks, and stop shooting at cars — then we’ll speak to them about livelihood.”

Giora looked at the orange-head-scarfed settler, bristling with rage. “All right, everyone,” he said. “I’ve laid it out for you. Now, turn around, go home quietly, and let us do our work. Omer, break up the demonstration. Why are there no riot police here?”

Just then, the education minister’s official Volvo pulled up, and his driver jumped out to open the door. Regional Council Chairman Dov emerged from the door on the other side. Following close on the Volvo’s heels came two news channel trucks from which crews with shoulder-mounted cameras and furry microphones on long poles spilled out. The minister approached the head of the Central Command. The major general repeated to him what he had just said to everyone. The education minister appeared displeased. He turned to face the settlers and began an impromptu address. The television cameras were pushed in his face. “The government in which I serve will not lend its hand to the uprooting of any settlements,” he declared, “and Ma’aleh Hermesh C. in particular, a pioneering and leading neighborhood in the heart of the desert that reminds us of our deep-rooted affinity with this land, that sustains the Land of Israel, the values of settling the land and of work, and the righteousness of our path. This is the true Israel, the Zionist, the pioneering—”

The square-jawed left-winger tried to interject, but was silenced by a TV reporter.

“I’ve come here on behalf of the government to encourage and bolster the settlers. You are the real heroes of our time, the defenders of the State of Israel. I’ve come here to say: No to Arab aggression, yes to the settlement enterprise, yes to security!”

Sporadic applause issued from the right of the crowd, feeble boos from the left — both sides had swelled in number. The minister responded to questions from the reporters. They then turned to the head of the Central Command, who said, “I’m a soldier and I’m following orders. I received an order and I am carrying it out.” The bulldozers meanwhile continued to flatten and shift the earth; the sounds of their tracks and their blades striking against rocks sent shivers through everyone. Roni’s eyes searched for Musa, but he couldn’t see him in the crowd. The education minister again asked his aide to get ahold of the prime minister.

“Okay, get moving,” Neta yelled toward the opposing gathering. “You heard what the minister and major general said. Go home and let the IDF win!”

“Shut up your mouth,” yelled a young Palestinian from Kharmish in broken Hebrew. “Go home, you whore.”

“What was that?” screamed Neta. “Arrest him. Did you hear what that terrorist said?”

Two soldiers approached the young man and pushed him to the ground. A sense of rage swept through the Kharmish residents and burst forth in the form of loud shouting and a threatening move forward. The soldiers cocked their weapons and growled warnings.

The major general spoke into one of his command car’s numerous communication devices, calling for additional soldiers and riot police. Omer’s soldiers tried to control the situation in the interim. A grenade launcher materialized and tear gas was fired at the Palestinian side. The wind promptly carried the terrible smell back to the settlers and soldiers. They all covered their noses and mouths. Frantic hands passed bottles of water.

“Calm down now, everyone,” Omer shouted. But his voice, despite the megaphone, sounded weak and high-pitched and less than authoritative.

The education minister hurried over to the major general. The officer made him wait. With all due respect to the minister, he was busy mobilizing forces and restoring calm. Finally he turned to him. “Make it quick, man,” he said. “We have a situation here.”

“I know you have a situation,” the minister said, “and what I am trying to say is that the situation is over. I’ve just now been informed by the prime minister that he’s issued an order to suspend the work.”

“Come again?” The noise of the yelling and the bulldozers and the megaphone was deafening.

“I said the prime minister has just told me on the phone that he’s issued an order to halt the work of the bulldozers, to suspend the evacuation, to stop everything.”

The major general looked at him skeptically. “Just a moment, Ivri,” he said into the radio to the officer stationed at command headquarters. “No one has said anything to me about it,” he addressed the minister again.

“Check with the Defense Ministry,” the education minister said.

Moving away from the command car, the major general walked toward the commotion. “I don’t have time for that now,” he said. “If new orders come through, they know where to find me.”

The bulldozers began crawling slowly toward Musa Ibrahim’s olive trees. Another wave of fury reverberated through the crowd of protestors. Dudu, the chubby operator with the wandering eye, positioned the D-9’s blade slightly above the ground, in line with the trunk of a tree, and moved forward. “Noooo!” came the cries from all around. The eight soldiers and two officers attempted to halt the protestors, but three managed to break through the human barricade and ran toward the bulldozer, wildly flaying their arms and calling out “No!” and “Stop!” and “Fool!” The soldiers gave chase, but the three outpaced them — two men and a woman, she in a long skirt and an orange head scarf, one man in baggy pants and a kaffiyeh, and the third in a Lacoste shirt and elegant trousers. The television cameramen darted among the olive trees and over heaps of rocks and dirt; Arab women shrieked; Jewish youths cursed and prayed to their Father who art in Heaven; and settlers frowned and squinted their eyes and asked, “Who the hell…?”

The D-9N bulldozer is equipped with a heavy cast-steel front blade. It weighs more than seven tons, stands two meters tall, and measures almost five meters across. Extending from the edge of the blade are sharp steel teeth, and over them and into the curved blade itself, one after the other, climbed Neta Hirschson, Musa Ibrahim, and Roni Kupper, who moments later found themselves lifted skyward by Dudu, the heavy-duty-machinery soldier, who was oblivious of the contents of his new load.

Frantic arm-waving by Central Command Major General Giora stopped Dudu and bulldozer in their tracks, with the three stowaways panting inside its raised blade. Cameramen descended, but the soldiers drove them back. Reinforcements finally arrived and helped to contain the demonstrators, who shouted slogans against the occupation or against terror, for the settlements or for human rights. Captain Omer Levkovich made eye contact with Dudu behind the controls of the bulldozer and indicated to slowly lower the blade to the ground. The three heroes were returned to earth, to applause all around from the crowd. Neta said something to Musa, and Musa replied. Roni, between them, said something, too, and the three suddenly smiled — more to themselves than to one another, more surreptitiously than openly, but still.