minutes to enter: exit the camp to the main road and cross the barbed wire “barrier.” “Barrier”—the official appellation of the Separation Fence when it was first erected. Sometimes the barrier consisted of a mere pile of barbed wire coils—“curlies”—which were sometimes used for stage sets in Holocaust Memorial ceremonies. At other times the barrier might consist of a pothole, or a ditch dug in the rock, or a dirt pile. Our mission that day was as simple as could be: “escorting” civil administration officials.
Such escorts were usually easy and uneventful. But they sometimes included interesting encounters with “special forces,” such as police officers sent to search for stolen Jewish property in Palestinian towns; or Shabak General Security Services agents who spoke very little and always wore tense, impressive faces, their weapons—incidental as they were—shining under their dark jackets. We also escorted Engineering Corps units who sampled the bedrock, and waterworks employees who searched for water or planned pipeline routes, or employees of cellular phone companies and private contractors sent to put up antennas or connect residential trailers of Israeli settlers to the power grid.
We also escorted senior army officers who for some reason never followed the orders they themselves had issued and wouldn’t let us check the area before they rode through in their less-armored cars, so that our escort really had nothing to do with their security. They looked on with contempt, always, and we were especially amused to see how our tough, cruel deputy battalion commander would scurry around them like a chicken and explain and apologize in an unfamiliarly patient tone and note down their scolds and reprimands in his book as though these were direct orders to be promptly carried out.
Thus our commander faced the general, as I faced him and on down the chain of command, down to the child who was too slow to run away and would pay for the humiliation suffered by the legendary deputy battalion commander as the general scolded him in front of his subordinates.
Anyway, the escort on that day was as simple as could be. Civil administration agents arrived to survey land in various places and they were always delighted to tell us that this or that block of land was state land that the villagers had poached, or land that had been purchased by a very rich and generous American Jew who tricked the Arabs and promised them he’d build a gas station on it, and they naturally didn’t know he was a Jew and sold it to him. And now he wanted to transfer ownership to a yeshivah and so trouble might be brewing in the area. “But we of the civil administration are here only to survey the plot of land itself and pass on the maps.”
On such occasions, “locals,” as they were called, often materialized out of the fields or houses, wishing to present documents to the administration people or the “officer in charge,” which in their jargon meant the supreme authority in the region. And then, often, some passing sergeant or one of the soldiers would present himself as the “officer in charge” in order to wave off the villager, because the real officer was busy or simply didn’t feel like speaking with the Arabs. Once, “locals” showed up wishing to speak to the “officer in charge,” namely myself. And they waved and showed all kinds of maps, documents, writs of ownership dating from the Ottoman Empire. The papers were colorful and decorated with official Turkish stamps, which in their opinion was ample proof of their claim to the land. The father of the family approached me. Like any other chance “officer in charge,” I was not authorized to read Ottoman maps. What do I know of property laws? Perhaps I don’t even know of their existence? Who even decided them? And what have they to do with me? What do I care whose land this is? What business is this of mine? After all I just need to ensure the well-being of the fellow who is here to survey this plot of land and pass the map on to whoever ordered it made and paid for it and will build whatever he will on it.
But this particular escort was not meant for surveying land, preparing a map or marking the route of future construction. The officials had come there to post paper notices on olive tree trunks. And this was the content of the notice, more or less: This area is confiscated by the State for security purposes according to such and such regulations and by force of this and that law. Owners of the area may appeal within the time frame allowed by law to the legal authority set by the same law or regulation or edict or …
I don’t recall the exact words, of course, but I do remember that even then it seemed ridiculous to post such notices on the trunks of centuries-old olive trees that did not speak Hebrew, and anyway they had been planted there long before laws and regulations and edicts had been issued in Hebrew in this country, at least this time around, and if an olive tree were found that was old enough to understand, its owner certainly wouldn’t, and even if he did, he would not be allowed to cross the checkpoint in order to appeal to the proper legal authority. At any rate, the official, wearing sandals, jeans and a light striped shirt, looking so out of place in this dusty landscape, took out a camera and photographed the grove and the trees with the notices posted on their trunks.
Then we escorted the civil administration vehicle to the main road. This time we passed through the village itself and not through the barrier. I don’t remember the reason for changing our route, perhaps the road was especially rough and dangerous because it had not yet been completed. For some reason, I recall stopping on our way, at the village outskirts, where I opened the Jeep door and “stormily” disembarked—and here, my little thief, I must digress: the term “stormy disembarkation” is etched in my memory ever since my Jeep appeared on Israeli television news. It was in Ramallah’s city center that we once stopped TV reporter Uri Levy and his film crew. This was during Operation “Onward Determination,” or perhaps it was Operation “Here’s to You”—one of the two. I yelled at Uri Levy that “this is a closed military zone,” and we had our hands full as it was, chasing foreign television networks and we didn’t really have time to waste on Israeli TV crews. He was startled, and said they had already received orders to clear out and were on their way when we stopped them. Later, when he calmed down, he smiled and complimented us on our “stormy disembarkation.” I very much hoped it would be broadcast on the news, because I found it very impressive indeed.
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