Ras al-‘Ain has been partly vacated. Muhammad’s compound is totally empty: no sheep, no shepherds, empty sheepfolds. We are told they went north to the hill country, near Tubas, where the temperatures are somewhat cooler. Many of the shepherds in the Jordan Valley have made this seasonal migration in the summer months. But this time it’s different. After the ceaseless harassment and attacks, the massive theft of sheep, the lack of water, the shameless complicity of the soldiers and police in the settlers’ crimes—or for that matter, their joint initiatives—Muhammad’s sons may have embarked on the first stage of leaving their homes forever.

I’d like to think that they’ll be back in September, but who knows? I’ve never seen this part of the village reduced to a ghost-town, not even in high summer. If looks forlorn. Some of the Ras al-‘Ain shepherds are still holding fast:  Abu Salama, Abu Musa, Naif and his family, and others a little deeper in the hills. Every day and night there are settler incursions, sometimes accompanied by violence, both in Ras al-‘Ain and in Mu‘arrajat, where recently settlers came late at night, lit a bonfire in the midst of the Palestinian houses, and sat there, brazenly, with soldiers, until morning. Mu‘arrajat is, one might say, accustomed to living with this kind of terror, but in fact one cannot ever get used to it. A few families have left. Still, Mu‘arrajat is intact, the sheepfolds are full, water comes from tankers (at exorbitant cost), and the people are determined to stay. I call Sulayman after dark and ask him if he wants some of us to come and sleep in the village. He says yes, definitely. We now have activists at Mu‘arrajat every day and every night.

Sulayman’s sons bring out mattresses and pillows; we will be sleeping outside under the stars, as will they. It’s cooler that way, after daytime temperatures of over 40 degrees Centigrade. All night long the roosters are crowing and the loquacious assembly of furious dogs are barking. Nonetheless, the night passes quietly; I think I manage to sleep a good three hours. But the longer the quiet lasts, the more uneasy I become. Something will happen.

We get up around 5:00, watch the amazingly dependable, rainbow sunrise. We have promised Sulayman’s youngest son that we won’t leave them before the morning shift arrives in the Valley around 8:00. Today is Rosh Chodesh, the first day of the month of Tamuz, an auspicious moment. We wait. Suddenly we see two Haredi, ultra-orthodox settlers (in disguise?) walking near the houses a hundred meters or so beneath us. It takes me a minute to figure out that these men are not Palestinians and that they are here for some vicious purpose. Haredi Jews don’t usually engage in violent crime. They may have come from the settlement of Mvoot Yericho or from the nearby outpost of the infamous Zohar. We rush, in the car, to find them, to head them off, but we’re too late. They planned it all as a quick snatch. By the time we reach Ibrahim’s sheepfold, filled with new-born lambs, they have stolen two little lambs and escaped in the getaway car waiting for them on the road.

You don’t have to be a shepherd to feel the agony of that loss. Sulayman, in shock, in despair, sits with us in silence. They bring us black sugarless Turkish coffee in tiny paper cups. One of Ibrahim’s sons appears with another tiny lamb in his arms, as if by holding him tight he can soothe the pain of the loss. The pain involves horror. If the police were still police, if there was even one honest man among them, we could go with him into the two settlements and force the thieves to return their prey. The lambs have probably been marked at birth with their owner’s sign. But there are no such policemen in Area C of the Palestinian territories. And we can’t go there alone without danger of being killed. It all happened too fast, within three or four minutes. A perfectly executed raid by hate-driven thugs. I burn with the feeling of failure.

Maybe Rosh Chodesh is indeed an auspicious day for these odious beings. I don’t care what they say to themselves, or what they think, if they have thoughts. But you and I can think about it for a moment. What does it take to make a person steal a newborn baby? Feel what the baby must feel. And the mother. And the shepherd. And his sons and daughters. And his brothers and sisters. And the whole village. And us. Think of the small, or not so small, black rip in this lousy, godly world.

****

It was a week of pogroms. First, on Wednesday, in Kufar Malik, where around one hundred rampaging armed settlers set houses and vehicles on fire; the army arrived and opened fire, killing three Palestinians and wounding seven more, one of them severely. Five settlers were arrested—a token gesture—and released within hours. Yesterday, Thursday, there was a similar pogrom in the large village of Turmus‘aya. Settler violence now routinely includes live gunfire. As we know too well, settlers can kill or maim with impunity. They know this too.

Text: David Shulman © 2025. Photographs as credited, © 2025.