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.
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.
Daily settler attacks on Ras al-‘Ain are becoming tougher, also more dangerous; more settlers involved, more outrageous acts, more physical violence, a surplus of arrogance and burning hatred. Every day they invade the village, on horseback, on donkeys, in their vehicles, with their herds of sheep and camels. It feels like something bigger is boiling, about to spill over. They know they are completely immune to punishment of any kind; the police and soldiers stand with them. As for the government, the extremists, including the prime minister, initiate, fund, arm, and fully support lethal settler violence everywhere on the West Bank, with the unmistakable aim of expelling the entire Palestinian population of Area C.
“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.
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:
Moments of respite. Seven, maybe eight water tankers manage to fill up at the ‘Auja stream toward sunset. We are there to greet them. For once, no settlers come to ruin things.
It’s hot in Ras al-‘Ain, in more ways than one. It’s become a flash point. The settlers are fully focused on driving the shepherd families of this village out of their homes and fields. And it’s high summer. Nights are stifling in the tent where we sleep, though the flaps are open to the stars and the distant lights across the river, in Jordan. At 4 AM there’s a cool breeze, a tease; as soon as the sun rises, at around 6, the temperature hits 40 degrees Centigrade; by mid-morning, it’s somewhere between 45 and 50. Sometimes a strong wind blows boiling dust over everything and everyone—our tent, the sheep in their pens, the few vehicles parked on the gravel paths, the shacks of tin or asbestos, the scraggly trees. At first you don’t notice how thirsty you are. Then it hits you and won’t go away, no matter how much you drink. I feel the thirst, first, in my eyes, every minute (even drier than usual). And then there’s the other kind of thirst, in the heart.
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: labbaykaallahumma, “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.
View from Magha’ir ad-Dir, 2024. photograph: Margaret Olin
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April, 2024. photograph: David Shulman
Eighteen families live in Magha’ir ad-Dir, high in the hill country overlooking the Jordan Valley. It’s a rocky, dusty place. One could easily die of thirst. The village survives with water drawn every morning from a pumping station belonging to Mekorot, the Israeli water company; the villagers pay for the water. All that is fine. But there is a problem. Israeli settlers from the illegal outposts nearby often come to attack them at dawn beside the pump. There have been several recent attacks, including shooting live fire. So now every morning we are here beside them as they fill the tankers.
