September 24, 2026.  David Shulman on At-Tawa’il and the Poet Na’if; and Margaret Olin, on Jinba

above: photograph by David Shulman

1.

Excavated rocks at the roadside, poised to roll down onto the homes of local residents of At-Tawa’il. Photograph: Yotam Jacobson

The day got off to a harsh start. No sooner did we reach the village than the two night-shift activists, Y. and R., told us they were climbing the high hill towering over At-Tawa’il to see if there were settlers there with a bulldozer, as Hasan had informed them. And Hasan was right. The bulldozer was clearing a swath of privately owned Palestinian land to create a new road that will connect to the settler outposts just over the hill. You can imagine what this means—an apartheid road meant only for Jews, of the messianic-apocalyptic-violent-sadistic landgrabber variety. Along with stealing the land the bulldozer was also showering the houses down below with boulders and other debris. Y. and R. stopped the bulldozer, and the settlers attacked them.

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July 21, 2026. At-Tawa’il. Post by David and Eileen Shulman

1. David

It is my wife Eileen’s first day in At-Tawa’il. Her report follows mine.

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April 9, 2026. At-Tawil. Text and most photographs by David Shulman.

Settlers make themselves at home on Palestinian land. At-Tawil.

Settlers are already there with their herd of goats, climbing up toward the Palestinian tents and huts when we arrive after pushing our car out of a rocky crack in the dirt road to At-Tawil. The morning shift activists are shooing the herd away over the stones and thick thorns; but the settlers, several of them young adolescent boys well trained in the arts of vicious harassment, are pushing the goats back uphill. A Palestinian herd deep in the valley below us is being dispersed by an older settler; the shepherdess is calling out desperate curses at him in her dialect, too colorful even for my Arabic. “Come, come, let me tell you, come here, you stupid thug, you have no reason to be here, you have no right to hurt us….” I don’t think I can paraphrase the obscenities. The settler, unperturbed, his face cruel, also blank, also contorted, continues his march through the herd until we manage to scare him off.

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March 29, 2026     At-Tawil Text and Photographs: David Shulman

At-Tawil, March, 2026.

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.

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February 18, 2026.  Fasa’il and Ramun. Text by David Shulman, photos as credited.

Now all the days are hard.

A yard in Fasa’il. Photograph: David Shulman
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January 21, 2026. Requiem for Ras al-‘Ain: Nakba 2. Text by David Shulman

Residents burning what they have to leave behind, Ras al-‘Ain, January 1, 2026. Photograph: Dood Evan.

It happened fast, much faster than expected. Once the more isolated neighborhoods of Salameh and Abu Talib and Abu Musa were gone, their people expelled, the rest of the villagers also began to dismantle their homes and burn whatever they couldn’t take with them.

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January 1, 2026    Ras al-‘Ain. Text: David Shulman

I knew it was coming. I could feel it in my body, also in the air. For the last two or three weeks, settler harassment was constantly intensifying. You could see they were planning something big. They brought a settler called Micha Sudai down from the hill country to take charge of the ethnic cleansing of the Jordan Valley. Sudai has a reputation for being brutal and effective. Now he’s in the outpost just a few yards away from Ras al-‘Ain.

Salame’s compound, Ras al-Ain. Photograph: Margaret Olin, November, 2025
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Ras al-‘Ain, October 19, 26, 2025: Text: David Shulman; Photographs: Margaret Olin

Ras al-‘Ain, March, 2025

October 19, 2025

Where are the dogs of Ras al-‘Ain? There used to be lots of them. Together with the donkeys and the out-of-synch roosters, they performed the nocturnal symphony from midnight to dawn. They had a mission in life:  they could warn you if settlers were invading the Palestinian houses and sheepfolds. But now most of them are gone. We found out why. The settlers from the outpost threw cut-off heads of chickens, doctored with poison, into the village; the dogs died, and apparently some of the jackals and the wolf also died. One lonely, mournful dog still haunts the madafeh, where we sleep. He seems glad to have company.

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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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In Memoriam: Michal Peleg, 1959-2025. Text by David Shulman; photographs and additional text by Margaret Olin

Jerusalem, 2022. Photograph: Margaret Olin

Michal Peleg is now gone. Another enormous loss, just two weeks after Muhammad died.

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