December 17, 2025    Ras al-‘Ain: Text and most photographs by David Shulman

Ras al-‘Ain, last year. Abu Talib’s compound. Photograph: Margaret Olin

Afternoon shift. The sun is racing toward sunset. Naif comes to say hello and chat. He’s very shaken by what happened last night, just a few minutes’ walk from his home. A family that originally lived in the village had moved out to the ‘Auja townlet down the road; they couldn’t take the endless harassment and violence. Ironically, it was this same family that was attacked last night by some 20 masked, armed settlers. They did what settlers do best:  turned the house upside down, smashed whatever was smashable, and viciously attacked the father, his wife, and several children. The father was covered in blood, with a gaping hole in his skull. He’s in hospital in Ramallah. The others are in hospital in Jericho.

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‘Abed’s Wedding, October 31, 2025. Texts: David Shulman and Margaret Olin

We sent this message, with no pictures, to our email list last month. Some of our correspondents thought that it should be posted on our blog, so we offer it here:

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Mourning is Foreclosed: Umm al-Khair, November 1, 2025. Text and photographs: Margaret Olin

*NB: Please read to the end. Or skip the rest and go directly to the end.

Hanady’s sitting room is a shrine to her late husband, 31-year-old Awdah Hathaleen, killed in cold blood in July by a settler who was punished with three days of house arrest. Only a small diamond-shaped design of sequins to break the unrelenting darkness of her black draped clothing, Hanady tells me that everything is gone for her: everything left with Awdah: her home life, her future, her dreams, the list goes on.

Note: While I cannot photograph the faces of the Bedouin women of Umm al-Khair, I am encouraged to photograph the children.

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Awdah Hathalin (1994-2025).    August 11, 2025

Awdah Hathalin (r.), with activists, including Michal Peleg, 2016. Photograph: Amir Bitan

David:

I’m sorry to say that these recent blog reports keep turning into obituaries, including the loss of the lovely village of Mu‘arrajat (but see below). This is life in the Occupation. People, Palestinians, are killed routinely, and with total impunity, by the settlers. As Awdah himself said in an interview two weeks before he was murdered, “The life here is not a life anymore.

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July 9, 2025         Aliya

I used to be afraid to cross the road and look at my house like a stranger.
Today, what I feared has happened.
Today, we are strangers — as if the house was never ours, as if we never drank tea there, as if we never played there.
We are strangers.
When you pass by, ask the house: Where are your residents? Where is your family? Where are your loved ones?
Our names are still there on the wall — all the names of my family.
I can never forget Ma’arajat. Every time I pass through that road, I will cry for it.
Life ended after Ma’arajat. —- Aliya

WhatsApp message. Courtesy of Aliya. Identity slightly altered.
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March 15, 2025, Zanuta. Text: David Shulman, most photos: Margaret Olin

Zanuta, 2022

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.

Zanuta, 2024. Photo: David Shulman
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December, 2024, Masafer Yatta, February 2, Mu‘arrajat: texts Margaret Olin and David Shulman

Ahribat a-Nabi, December, 2024

1. Visits to Prisoners. Text and photographs by Margaret Olin

I began this post on Martin Luther King Day, 2025, a moment to think back on all we in the United States have achieved and the distance we still must go to realize King’s dream of racial equality. In 2025, this day of concern for justice and love also marked the inauguration of a president who opposes these values and many others we hold. Some, dreading this event, found ways of trying to forget about it. My way was to think back to my visit to Israel and Palestine this past December.

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December 8-9, 2024, Ras al-‘Ain, text: David Shulman; photographs: Margaret Olin

 We (Peg, Yehonatan, the Haredi activist, and I) spent a quiet night in the madafeh at Ras al-‘Ain.

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November 10, 2024, Ras al-‘Ain, text and photographs by David Shulman

“I’m a soldier in the army of peace.” Thus Yehonatan, as night falls in the madafeh of Ras al-‘Ain. The mystery has been solved: he is the ultra-religious Haredi young man who has become a familiar activist in the Jordan Valley and elsewhere. In fact, he seems to be almost everywhere. He was wounded by a settler at an olive harvest at Battir, near Jerusalem, not long ago (the settler threw a stun grenade at him). He makes light of his wound. Muhammad told us about him, with admiration and wonder, last time I was in Ras al-‘Ain. He is my partner today for the night-and-early-morning shift.

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October 15, 2024.  Ras al-‘Ain, Mu‘arrajat. Text and Photographs by David Shulman

1.

By 5 PM we’ re at the water. Long-Hair, the all-too-familiar settler adolescent, is there with his herd, as usual, on Musa’s land.  Usually he’s dour, sour, and obnoxious; this time he seems a little curious about Amir and me. Amir—he’s a psychotherapist– wants to talk to him. The conversation, if you can call it that, goes like this:

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