EIN ABUS, West Bank -- The midmorning sun was already baking hot this past Sunday, but Fauzi Hassan Mohammed Hussein jumped up and down, gesticulating wildly as he screamed in Hebrew and Arabic at three Israeli soldiers standing before him. Hussein was staring through the soldiers, unable to look away from the remnants of his livelihood. All of the trees in his hillside orchard above the village of Ein Abus (about three miles south of the West Bank town of Nablus) had been cut down, the limbs of the trees haphazardly strewn among the stumps. The vandals had been thorough and systematic: Every stump was a uniform height, and there was not an olive left in sight on any of the branches. Later, Hussein would explain that the grove of 255 olive trees had provided his family's only income since he lost his job in Tel Aviv three years ago when the Palestinian intifada began. His eyes welling up, Hussein said that the trees, and the annual harvest of olives they produced, had been part of his life longer than his children.
Just half an hour earlier, Hussein had been smiling as he greeted two buses. I was among a group of more than three dozen volunteers -- from the United States, Ireland, Wales, South Africa, Germany, France and Israel -- who had come to meet Hussein as representatives of the Olive Harvest Coalition. The coalition, made up of several Israeli human-rights organizations, sends volunteers to the occupied territories every day during olive-harvest season to help local residents reach trees that are otherwise too close to settlements or military installations for Palestinians to reach safely on their own. Without help, and the Israeli army protection that Israeli volunteers can arrange for, Hussein cannot harvest his olives, because residents of a nearby Israeli settlement -- and of the unauthorized outposts those settlers have created atop hills above Ein Abus -- routinely threaten Palestinians who try to harvest olives.
Hussein's cheerful demeanor first began to crack as he led the volunteers into the Judean Hills surrounding Ein Abus. As we walked, the settlement of Yitzhar became visible in a gap between two hills, and hilltop outposts came into view to our left and directly above us. Those outposts are illegal, but the Israeli government recently announced a new policy of providing their residents with government services, including military protection, pending the evacuation and dismantling of the sites where they live. The two outposts above Ein Abus highlight the internal contradictions of this policy. Both have been dismantled by the Israeli military in the past year, but settlers returned and rebuilt, and now soldiers and military police protect the flimsy structures the settlers have erected. The larger outpost that was to our left is known as Mitzpeh Yitzhar, meaning, literally, Yitzhar observation point. The outpost directly above Hussein's grove has existed for so little time that it doesn't even have a name; the government refers to it simply as Hill 725.
The Israeli soldiers who had come down from Hill 725 to protect the volunteer harvesters stood calmly while Hussein repeatedly asked what had happened to his trees; who were the vandals, he demanded to know, that had destroyed his livelihood? At the highest point on the hill, 40 or so yards above us and to the left, half a dozen settlers stood around the tents and small sheds of Hill 725, witnessing Hussein's despair. The military police eventually came down from the hilltop to take a report and promise an investigation.
So who destroyed Fauzi Hassan Mohammed Hussein's olive grove? It is impossible to know for sure. Rabbi Arik Ascherman, director of Rabbis for Human Rights, which is one of the member groups of the Olive Harvest Coalition, notes that settler destruction of Palestinian olive groves has been less prevalent this year, thanks to the work of the Israeli army. The military, he says, has made a "general effort" to protect the olive harvest.
But he also says the outbreak of vandalism around Ein Abus was the most destructive he has ever witnessed, despite years of working in the territories. He expressed little doubt about who was responsible, saying that Yitzhar is "one of the most aggressive and ideological of the settlements."
Ascherman believes that the event "raises the question of possible collusion between settlers and soldiers." Such cooperation would not necessarily be unprecedented. When the Israeli army battled settlers this past June to dismantle Mitzpeh Yitzhar (the first hilltop outpost to be removed as required by the U.S.-backed road map to peace), it was widely reported that settlers immediately began rebuilding the outpost with help from some sympathetic soldiers.
The settlers do not admit guilt, only schadenfreude. A spokesman for the settlers told The Jerusalem Post that they have no idea who destroyed the orchard, but that "when the Arabs creep close to the community for the harvest it becomes a security problem. We are very happy that from now on they will not be able to approach too close." He added that the trees will grow back, and that the settlers hope to harvest the next crop of olives -- which will likely be almost a decade from now -- because they believe they will be the only remaining inhabitants of the area.
That the settlers would identify Hussein as a security problem is somewhat surprising. Hussein had not been to see his trees since last year's harvest, when, as this year, international volunteers had come to offer help and protection. In the absence of such protection, Hussein feared for his own safety if he visited his land. Can a harvester visiting his trees only once per year, under guard by Israeli volunteers and soldiers, really be a security risk?
One week before, residents of Mitzpeh Yitzhar had allegedly attacked Palestinian families and Olive Harvest Coalition volunteers who had come to work one hill over from Hussein's grove. (The families and volunteers that day were knowingly picking without military protection.) Then, too, the harvesters had discovered destroyed trees. When they began picking olives from the trees still standing, a small band of young men reportedly assaulted them. The men apparently brandished clubs and threw rocks while punching, kicking and insulting the volunteers.
These kinds of incidents rarely receive media attention. In a region where the news is dominated by deadly attacks, daily acts of simple injustice, on both sides, are generally considered too trifling for scrutiny. But events that don't attract media attention shape the actual day-to-day relations between Israelis and Palestinians. Violence does not come to a halt during the periods of ostensible calm between suicide bombings and Israeli reprisals. Instead, it continues -- and builds -- through smaller-scale events.
Yesterday, the committee of Yesha rabbis -- the group that sets religious law for Israelis living in the territories -- issued a strongly worded condemnation of settlers who destroy Palestinian olive trees. "The destruction of fruit trees is clearly prohibited by the Torah, especially in the land of Israel," the rabbis wrote. "Only a special circumstance of war can permit this and only government levels may decide on it. Any act of hostility or vengeance on the part of an individual is prohibited, disgraceful, and particularly contemptible. We demand that this harmful behavior cease."
Ascherman says that he and others are looking for Knesset members who would be willing to sponsor a law requiring government compensation to Palestinians who cannot harvest because of Israeli actions. Ephraim Sneh, former deputy defense minister and current Labor Party member of the Knesset, was on the scene to investigate last week's reports of destroyed trees when he ran into our group. He condemned the vandalism as abhorrent to Jewish values, and he spoke passionately about the need to prevent future attacks. Asked what could be done about the destruction, he shook his head. Moments later, Hussein stepped in front of the journalists, edging closer to Sneh -- who put on his sunglasses and slowly backed away.
Jeff Mandell is on a yearlong leave of absence from the University of Chicago Law School. He is living in Jerusalem, where he is a Dorot Fellow and a Leifer Social Justice Fellow.
