You remember the story of Zanuta, the ancient village in the hills at the southernmost point of the West Bank. Israeli settlers from the illegal outpost nearby terrorized the people of Zanuta, and after years of this torment, the villagers fled their homes. They appealed to the High Court of Justice, which found in their favor in July 2024:  they were to be allowed to return to their homes, and the police and army were to protect them there. The second clause was pure fantasy: you won’t find an honest policeman or army officer anywhere in the territories. They have fused with the violent settlers.

So the villagers came back to their homes, all of them destroyed by the settlers along with the handsome school they had there. The Civil Administration—that is, the army—wouldn’t allow them even to put one stone on top of another, or to spread a piece of cloth as a divider to provide some privacy. They were sleeping under the stars. The settler attacks resumed in full force. After three weeks, the people of Zanuta fled again.

Once more, an appeal to the High Court of Justice, which again decreed that they can go home. This time the Army imposed a Closed Military Zone at Zanuta; no Jews—whether settlers or human rights activists like us—are allowed to go into the ruined village. In the last few days, a few villagers have returned there, to work for a few hours. We stand at the periphery, just outside the road leading to the ridge above the ruins, to offer them at least some minimal sense that they are not alone. If the settlers were to attack with their guns and clubs, we would ignore the CMZ ruling and rush in.

This morning we are five: Guy Butavia, Amiel, Yara, Peg, and I. It’s hot. Within minutes, the obnoxious settler Ilai Federman arrives in his jeep. For well over an hour he won’t stop talking, if talking is the verb I want. It’s like a Monty Python movie, except that the clown is deadly earnest and more disgusting than funny. I don’t think I can reconstruct the insane monologue we listened to in total silence, as Amiel had instructed us to do. Don’t give him a platform, don’t respond. So here’s a sample.

“You’re peace activists, aren’t you? So why not make peace with me? You look like educated people. I see one of you is from the Hebrew University. But then you’re anarchists and traitors. You only come here to make a provocation. Why would anybody do that? Anyway, I love you. Really I do. You’re totally mistaken in your way of thinking, but probably someday you’ll wake up. Anyway, you’re losing the battle. Each week there are fewer and fewer of you.

Once you came in buses, now it’s in small cars. Soon you will evaporate. But why don’t you talk to me? Listen, I’ll sing you a song. [He has a really lousy voice.] Give me a grade, from 1 to 10. Why aren’t you talking to me? If you hang out with Guy Butavia, there’s no chance you’ll wise up. What do you think about October 7^th? Guy Butavia pretends to be a peace activist by day, but by night he’s Hamas. You probably think Hamas are good people. And now you are forcing these Palestinians to come back here, where they used to live. Why are you doing that? They were perfectly happy in their new homes. Now you are making them come back. But they won’t last. Mark my words. Once upon a time, you people would come down here like some sort of pacifists, but now there is something new. Now you come to attack.”  And so on.

There is endless repetition as he keeps weaving his way among the rocks, circling each of us in turn, filming us, of course, as we are filming him. Peg is torn between filming and the urge to simply turn away. On and on and on, he goes, like a power drill in my brain. Just let him stop chattering, please God, make him go away. I’m sick to my stomach, sick in my soul. I have discovered something:  boredom can be a lethal weapon. Someone who bores you to death is a sadistic torturer.

But there are moments when the true persona, crazy with hate, breaks through amidst the endless lies. Nasser and Basil are in Zanuta with the villagers; they come down the hill to meet us. They are Palestinians, so they can be there. Ilai turns against them, suddenly transformed into an ogre. “What are you doing here,  you Hamas whores. Sharmutot. Get out of my sight before…..”

I guess that, for the moment, since he can’t enter the village with his gun, his second best amusement is to harangue and harass us. He struts and strides, the Lord of the Land. He belongs to the aristocracy of the extremist settlers; his father, Noam Federman, was a leader of the Kahanist hard-core, violently right-wing party, Kach. Once that party, overtly racist, was barred by law from the Knesset. Netanyahu, true to his nature, reinstated it.

It’s hard to believe that Zanuta will come back to life, that the Zanuta shepherds will rebuild their homes and survive on their land. We have done our best to protect them and help them, we’re committed to them, but the vast apparatus of the apartheid state is against them. The government will no doubt find a way to subvert the High Court ruling, which anyway can’t be enforced. This sordid tragedy may be approaching its final act. The hideous, pathetic buffoon is now king. Still, I will never accept it. And maybe….If you’d like a word of comfort, think of Yara, who was with us there today. During the tirade she whispers to me, “I am trying to practice radical compassion.” When the morbid performance is finally over, I say to her: “Look. Compassion won.” Yara says: “In the end, compassion always wins.”

Text: David Shulman @2025; photographs Margaret Olin @2025, unless otherwise credited.