The Hilltop (26 page)

King Meir, in a yellow shirt bearing the Kach Movement's fist logo and the slogan
KAHANE LIVES
, wanted to stir things up in the overly tranquil world of Second Life. He wanted to show the Arabs who was boss, cause a commotion in their virtual mosques and their other toxic spaces. He wanted a show of Jewish power! That evening the group spoke about their visit to Islam-Online, where they came across a Palestinian museum that documented “the injustices of the occupation” and “the Palestinian holocaust.” King Meir wanted to take action. He wanted the group to plan something that would really hurt the cheeky bastards. Yakir and King Meir and the others—Klaus, the German, and Menachem from California, and several others—threw ideas back and forth in the group chat for quite some time, before Othniel placed a light hand on his son's shoulder and returned him to the real world. “Enough, sweetie, it's bedtime.”

T
he massive slabs of concrete—gray, nine meters tall, two meters wide, thirty centimeters thick—the intended building blocks of the border fence arrived on the back of trucks from the Eckerstein plant in Yeruham one day in June, a day of scorching desert winds, with the summer already settled in, past the point of retreat. They were off-loaded near the bulldozers, which for weeks had been dozing in the sun and waiting for their D-day.

Othniel hastily called his regular list of associates at the council, in the Knesset, and in the army. He was told they'd look into the matter, that the alert would be sounded, and that he should continue to report on any developments.

Several days later, the High Court of Justice convened to deliberate the petition—filed jointly by legal counsel for residents of the village of Kharmish, the owners of the olive groves, and the Yesh Din human rights organization—against construction of the fence along its designated route, which would entail the uprooting of the olive groves and the loss
of livelihood for their owners. As an act of protest that same morning, many of the village's residents went out and staged a silent sit-in amid the D-9s. Captain Omer Levkovich and his soldiers arrived on the scene to maintain order.

The court heard the arguments of the petitioner and summoned the first witness for the defense on behalf of the State of Israel, a brigadier general with a wealth of security experience who served in the Seam Zone Administration. The officer was questioned on the significance from a security perspective of the location of the fence on that particular ridge, on those private groves. The officer testified to the extreme importance of the fence's location, unraveling a map and pointing at it with one of those foldout rods for pointing at maps. He explained the need to commandeer the land, station guard towers, and erect a high concrete wall to boost security for the settlements, deter enemies, and eradicate rampant and unhindered Palestinian terror.

Testifying for the petitioners was a reserve officer from the very same forces—a major general, with a long history of service in Israel's wars and a wealth of security experience with the Arab enemy in general and the Palestinian foe in particular. And he was asked: The words spoken by the brigadier general who testified before you, were they the truth? And the reservist major general responded, Bullshit. He outlined the futility of erecting a concrete barrier in the location in question, and he illustrated on the map that the region under discussion was quiet and not dangerous, and what's the point of ripping into the landscape like that, cutting off the local population from their source of livelihood and stirring anger and hate where there was none before?

“With all due respect to the beautiful landscape,” responded the counsel for the defense, “we are concerned here with a strategic location, with human lives, and with the security and safety of the Jewish settlers—”

“Who have settled there illegally, on private Palestinian land and a nature reserve, with an eviction order hanging over their heads, a petition against which was rejected recently by this very court . . . If you care to pay attention”—indicating with a metal pointer of his own—“the illegal outpost of Ma'aleh Hermesh C. doesn't even appear on the map— ”

“The community is absolutely an integral part of the outline plan for the Ma'aleh Hermesh settlement, which appears on the map, and the final permits will be arranged over the coming days . . .”

“The court is surely enjoying this lesson in how one goes about establishing facts on the fly and obtaining permits later—a feast for the mind, the upholding of the law in all its glory—”

“An honorable institution such as this High Court is not deserving of your cynicism.”

“Who are you to speak of cynicism? Now I've heard it all. Next you'll tell me that in the name of democracy—”

The presiding justice put an end to the bickering and requested a show of respect for the court. The justices stepped out to deliberate, to clarify, and to consult, and they summoned the legal representatives to their chambers, exchanged words with them, and sent them back into the courtroom. And the justices then reemerged and read out their ruling: The petition was rejected, swallowed up into the void.

*  *  *

Othniel got word of the ruling from the radio and called Natan Eliav. Natan was pleased to hear that the court had for once put a muzzle on the left-wingers and Arabs and was allowing the army to do its job.

“But what about us?” Othniel asked.

“What do you mean, what about you?”

“We don't want the fence to run along its intended route; we have land there. We were actually rooting for the leftists' petition this time.”

“Ah, yes. Let me make a few calls.”

Natan got back to Othniel within the hour with a calming message. He had been assured that despite the rejection of the two High Court petitions against the proposed route of the fence, it was up to the defense minister to decide on the appropriate timing for the work to begin. And the defense minister was scheduled to travel to Cairo the following week, and then to Washington—and anyway, he was more concerned right now with the northern border rather than the West Bank—he wasn't expected to make a decision on the matter for the next two weeks, at least.

Othniel hung up and scratched his beard. He glanced at his watch.
Time for coffee at home and then off to the dairy. For some time now, he had wanted to reorganize the operation, replenish products, replace machinery, but current events had put everything on hold. Perhaps he'd finally have a few quiet days to himself to get back on track. He had read a helpful book on the subject,
101 Ways to Build Your Business
, by some young American financial wizard, and decided to adopt a number of them. He filled the kettle and flipped the switch. Yes, he'd go to the dairy. And later that evening, he'd speak to Rachel and Hilik, and they'd schedule a meeting of the Planning Committee to discuss the next stages in the development of the settlement—fixed structures, a single-purpose synagogue, a mikveh, the absorption of families. The water came to a boil and the switch dropped and he stirred the instant coffee and sugar and water and milk and brought the mug up to his nose, ahhh . . . the aroma of the coffee. He sat down, and the phone rang.

“The loaders are on the move,” Gavriel Nehushtan reported.

“Not loaders—bulldozers. So they're packing it in?” Othniel's mind was still awash with positive thoughts.

“What do you mean packing it in? They're starting to work. They're readying the route, moving dirt.”

“What?”

As he reached a spot overlooking the neighboring hilltop, Othniel could clearly see the huge machines in motion and people milling around them. Hilik appeared at his side, and together they headed toward the bulldozers. The telephone interrupted with an update from Regional Council Chairman Dov that the Yesha Council has issued a harsh statement and that thousands had been mobilized via text messages, calls, and e-mails and told to get to Ma'aleh Hermesh C. as quickly as possible.

Othniel's mug of coffee, half full, grew cold on the kitchen table.

At the scene were scores of Kharmish residents, most of whom had been sitting there since morning, about a dozen settlers, the two bulldozer crews clearing a route along the edges of the hilltop, at a fair distance still from the olive groves and the outpost, and Captain Omer with eight soldiers.

“What's this all about?” Othniel yelled at Omer Levkovich.

“Haven't you heard? The High Court rejected the petition. The Defense Ministry gave the order to begin work.”

The education minister's aide called Othniel. It turned out that the minister was conducting a tour that morning of various educational institutions in the area, and while he hadn't planned on visiting Ma'aleh Hermesh C., was there any truth to the rumors that the settlement was being evacuated at that very moment?

“Things could go that way very quickly,” Othniel responded, recognizing the opportunity. “If the minister could come by to show support and perhaps say a few words to the soldiers and the media, it certainly wouldn't do any harm.”

“We're on our way,” the aide said, and at the behest of the minister, he placed a call to the prime minister's office to demand a suspension of the work.

Meanwhile, a large military command vehicle, adorned with a range of antennas, lights, and other devices, arrived on the scene. And out stepped none other than the officer in charge of the IDF Central Command, and with him, the brigade commander in the sector.

“Giora!” Othniel Assis called out.

“Othni? Is that you?” responded the major general, smiling behind his sunglasses. “Shit! All I can see is a beard.” They embraced. “So, Othni, are you and your buddies making trouble again?” the officer asked.

“Us? Never! We're simply watching. But those monsters dare not try to get anywhere near our homes over there.”

“Are you still at Hermesh C.? Really? You're unstoppable, man. Where's Levkovich?”

He approached Omer and spoke with him for several minutes. They wandered over to the bulldozers, whose crews alighted and saluted and exchanged a few words with the officers. Omer's soldiers formed a dividing line between the residents of Kharmish and the settlers. The Palestinians wanted the Jews off their land, but the soldiers ignored the request and wouldn't allow them to cross an arbitrary line drawn by the company commander. A handful of peace activists joined the Palestinians, brandishing placards denouncing the occupation. God only knows how they
appeared on the scene so quickly. Roni Kupper cast a watchful eye over them, hoping to find the well-endowed leftist from the time before, but he didn't see her.

The head of the Central Command and Omer returned, and behind them, the D-9s started up again.

“The work goes on,” the major general said to no one in particular.

“What do you mean the work goes on, Giora?”

“The work goes on means the work goes on, Othni, my friend. Look”—he turned to point at the bulldozers, which were moving off slowly on their tracks—“the work goes on.”

“But what work? Uprooting the olive trees, and then what?”

The major general smiled. “I know what you're driving at, Othni, my friend. Come, let me explain it to you once and for all. Listen, understand what we are doing, and then all of you—settlers, Arabs, left, right, and you, too, pretty horse”—he pointed at Killer—“can turn around and go home to rest.” The crowd was silent. Giora adjusted his sunglasses and continued. “As you know, a decision was made to erect the fence along this route here. So we are clearing and preparing the ground for construction.”

“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.