After several weeks of enforced rest—not an art I have perfected, or even practiced—I am back in Palestine. I yearned for this. Rain, cold winds, grey-to-black clouds, the occasional flicker of sunlight, mountains as green as Ireland, the sheep happily eating their fill, the access road slippery with mud, a sharp fragrance in the air that almost hints of spring—it’s one kind of happiness.
At-Tawil has eighteen extended families spread over the hills and the wadi. The village is, or was, hidden from the outside world. A Palestinian Shangri La. The valley and the hills are covered with fiery poppies, even more rubescent in the rain. You can’t envision a more peaceful, gentle place in the cosmos. I would live there. The shepherds: weather-beaten, soft-spoken, focused inward in words and tones. Samir Muhammad greets me. He’s holding a shepherd’s crook, believe it or not; his sheep are wet and rather chubby. He was born here, in At-Tawil, like his father and his grandfather before him; his mother’s genealogy goes back even farther, all from this village. He invites us—Alon, Ariel, Motty, Sandy, and me—to come home for tea, but it’s still early. Perhaps later.
Photograph: At-Tawil, March, 2026.
Like every other surviving village on the West Bank, At-Tawil is now fighting for survival. The hideous settlers invade every day. They aren’t far away, in their illegal outposts, and their delight is in harming the people of At-Tawil. Two years ago—April 14, 2024—the settlers murdered two of the villagers (part of a much wider series of pogroms in the central West Bank that week, in villages we know well). Farther back in time, in 2012 the army destroyed three homes in At-Tawil; but that was only the latest wave of destruction; the villagers say their homes had already been demolished eight times. I guess it’s not Shangri La anymore.
The endgame is there for all to see. Now that Ras al-‘Ain has been destroyed and its people expelled, the story repeats itself over and over. Eventually the settlers, backed up by soldiers and police, and let’s not forget the government, will no doubt harass and hurt them until they drive them out. I don’t think we’ll be able to prevent it. I don’t think I can stand another brutal expulsion. They add up. I feel the incipient agony in my chest. Actually, it’s always there. Our activists are spread out among the remaining, isolated families in the southern Jordan Valley, and now there is At-Tawil.
Midday, three settlers invade in one of the tractor-ranger vehicles that Ben Gvir has given to all the outposts (each one costs 100,000 shekels; our tax money pays for them). Those small vehicles create enormous havoc. Nidal, our host in At-Tawil, calls us in a panic. His house and sheepfolds are on the crest of the hill, where he can see whatever happens. We try to chase the ranger over the muddy roads; the settlers circle round the houses, up and down, from one compound to the next, all of this to terrify, to threaten, and to assert their ultimate, deadly authority over every living soul in Palestine. Also for the sheer ugly pleasure of it. I understand Nidal. He lives and breathes in terror. And what will happen tonight, when we are not there?
I wish you could meet Samir Muhammad and hear the sanity and softness of his voice in the rain. Or see the sheep climbing in single file up the hill to their home as evening approached. I’m no more than a knotted string of futile wishes, when I should just be grateful for today’s great gifts. But one good thing happened last week. I had an evening with the Bnei Avraham, the young activists who grew up in religious Zionist homes, many of them in the settlements, and who had the remarkable bravery and self-awareness to resist what they’d been taught. Now they’re with us in the villages, and they know what to do. Last week a hundred of them accompanied Palestinian farmers in Halhoul to their fields and worked with them for two hours until the army drove them away. They were back there again today. They say that the lethal settler violence, now very prominent in the Israel news channels and newspapers, has set off waves of mostly young Israelis who are prepared to take the risks and go out to protect Palestinians in their villages. Not huge numbers, but it’s not only a matter of numbers. It’s about becoming human.
text, and all photographs not otherwise credited: David Shulman ©2026.
Our book, “The Bitter Landscapes of Palestine,” now in its second printing, can be obtained from Intellect Books, The University of Chicago Press or from an online or local bookseller
Having words from David helps me even when it seems there is no end to this abyss of inhumanity still it is a faint glimmering of light. Thank you!
I know. David always has something positive and comforting to pull out of this terrible situation. Those young folk are a bright spot as well.