Festive days in Palestine: ‘Id al-Adha, a time for families, feasts, picnics, prayers. The call to prayer, the azan, ends with a solemn, loving formula proper to these days: labbayka allahumma, “We are yours to serve, Lord. There is no other.” At Ras al-‘Ain, toward evening: dozens of cars, young men splashing in the fresh, cold stream, small circles smoking narghilehs in the shade, picnics; and the tankers from the village filling up with water.

It is extremely rare to see Palestinians happy like this. It is as if the constant terror in which they live has receded for these few hours. For the last few weeks, armed settlers, usually backed up by soldiers and police, have tried to prevent Palestinians from coming anywhere near the spring. They also cut and destroyed the water pipes serving the village. Every day was a struggle for the miracle of cold water in the desert, in broiling heat. Today the settlers haven’t turned up; they know they are outnumbered. 

We arrive in late afternoon, Moli, Yigal, and I. André is there, with Meir, watching over the families at rest, at play.  The terminal cancer of the Occupation is temporarily in remission. We leave Moli with the other activists in Ras al-‘Ain, we wish one another a quiet night—not to be taken for granted. Yigal and I move on to Mu‘arrajat.

Sulayman, maybe 6 years old, rushes to greet us and to tell us that Jibril—that is, Gavriel from Mvoot Yericho, the notorious harasser of Palestinians, whom we know too well—was just there. “He photographed us, then he hung around for a while, then he left.”

There have been settler intrusions at Mu‘arrajat almost every day and/or night. Sulayman says that they like to drive their tractors through the Palestinian herds. We’ve seen it many times. The sheep scatter, terrified, and sometimes some of them are hurt or killed.

We have activists here in Mu‘arrajat, like elsewhere, day and night, in what we are calling “protective presence.” It has some effect, not only here in the Valley but also, particularly, in the south Hebron hills.

It’s always good to be here, but tonight it’s hard to fall asleep. At 10:00 we get news of a brutal settler pogrom at Dir Dubyan, west of the high ridge overlooking the Valley, not far from Mghair al-Dir. Apparently a large gang from the new (illegal) outposts nearby invaded the village, backed up by soldiers.

The villagers say the settlers were firing their guns. Seven people were wounded.  At least one Palestinian house (belonging to the ‘Awauda family) was turned upside down and emptied of the family’s possessions. The ‘Awauda family has no home to return to. The thugs stole a sheep, a big water tank, solar panels, and the feeding troughs for the herds. They also smashed a windshield on a car and stoned the villagers with rocks. 

Dir Dubyan is a site we know, but there were no activists tonight, no protective presence. ‘Imad, from the village: “The settlers are there. There are dozens of them.

They took everything from us and our homes. They took the food for our sheep, our clothes, our couches and beds. They took our solar panels. We can’t go back there at all unless you bring the police with you.” 

My mind is whirling as I lie on my mattress in the stifling room, an ancient iron fan buzzing. Tonight there is little comfort in the night sounds, the dogs and roosters, the dusty fragrance of the desert that I love, the faces of our friends. Too much, far too much evil, swamping us, this moral morass, the mass Israeli psychosis that begins at the top with the Prime Minister and works its way down, or maybe up, always more and more, worse and worse, always more pain and no way to stop it and no way to stop thinking and feeling it in your body. Along with its other crimes, the Occupation has murdered sleep.*

*As I write these notes, back home, the invading settlers are still in Dir Dubyan and clearly have no intention of leaving. They have brought in several vehicles, including a tractor. The soldiers are with them. They have declared the village and its lands to be theirs– a new outpost, with the name Chavat Hananya. Another piece of Palestine looted and grabbed by criminals who think, if indeed they can think, that they are hastening the arrival of the Messiah. Or maybe it’s only naked greed and, above all, the sheer pleasure of causing pain.