Dear friends,

Again, I sit in front of the empty computer screen, and have a hard time deciding what to tell you now. Every hour, every day, difficulties and crimes pile up even in the south Mt. Hebron, and there is no justice, no pay, we cannot even help, not to mention rescue.

Since the present war broke out, our permanent aid (helping with studies and professional courses) has been augmented with existential needs of a population now denied the possibility of making a living. We can still bring them pampers and milk powder for babies, basic food for families, medication and the like - thanks to your donations, dear friends! - but we cannot affect the trampling, power mongering settlers and the government’s policy (army, police, Civil Administration). These now multiply basic needs and our abilities diminish. Sometimes I think that even Sisyphus would give up…

What we do unconditionally is maintain discourse in which our friends, and we, might find a source of strength.

Early this week we visited our friends in Taban. A. said that for a few days, settlers did not bring their flocks to graze in Taban’s farmland. “And now on Saturday again they came,” he continued. “Their large flock dined on the barley we had sown in our fields and which had just begun to sprout.” A familiar pain between smarting insult and helplessness took over the room. Into this silence, I said: “You are brave people.” They asked me why I say this, and I answered it was because they manage to control themselves and not take revenge.  I googled and found the poem “Revenge” by Taha Muhammad Ali, and asked young F. to read it aloud in Arabic for those present:

At times … I wish
I could meet in a duel
the man who killed my father
and razed our home,
expelling me
into
a narrow country.
And if he killed me,
I’d rest at last,
and if I were ready—
I would take my revenge!

*

But if it came to light,
when my rival appeared,
that he had a mother
waiting for him,
or a father who’d put
his right hand over
the heart’s place in his chest
whenever his son was late
even by just a quarter-hour
for a meeting they’d set—
then I would not kill him,
even if I could.

*

Likewise … I
would not murder him
if it were soon made clear
that he had a brother or sisters
who loved him and constantly longed to see him.
Or if he had a wife to greet him
and children who
couldn’t bear his absence
and whom his gifts would thrill.
Or if he had
friends or companions,
neighbors he knew
or allies from prison
or a hospital room,
or classmates from his school …
asking about him
and sending him regards.

*

But if he turned
out to be on his own—
cut off like a branch from a tree—
without a mother or father,
with neither a brother nor sister,
wifeless, without a child,
and without kin or neighbors or friends,
colleagues or companions,
then I’d add not a thing to his pain
within that aloneness—
not the torment of death,
and not the sorrow of passing away.
Instead I’d be content
to ignore him when I passed him by
on the street—as I
convinced myself
that paying him no attention
in itself was a kind of revenge.

Nazareth
April 15, 2006

Translated by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi and Gabriel Levin

After this there were no more questions. Only the head nods, agreeing.

Later in the week we visited A. in the outskirts of Susya. Settlers of Susya settlement and its satellites have now been harassing A. and his aging parents daily (I wrote about him in past reports). Last Saturday, February 3, 2024, work began, paving a track through his own farmland, the same land the settlers have prevented him from tending since the outbreak of the current war. They just brought a bulldozer and began works. They work at night. As usual, there is no justice. No one to turn to. We sat in the morning sun with A. and his father, next to what would be a house when A. would be able to afford completing its construction. We saw the injustice with our own eyes.

So much sadness was in their eyes, and no rage. I heard myself telling A. what I had already said in Taban this week, and for the second time this week I was asked why I said this. I told A. the Taban story and gave him the same poem, printed out.

When he was done reading, he said: “We don’t think about revenge. We think about ways to stay on our land. We would gladly live in peace with our neighbors. But they do not want this.”

A’ speaks very little, if ever. I never heard him utter so many words at once. Every word is golden and when I write them, they are etched in my heart.

I send them to you with much love.

Erella

On behalf of the Villages Group