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A Jewish settler at the checkpoint

Even at first glance, it is clear that Issa Abu Aram, the former head of operations for preventive security in the West Bank, is a founding member of the Palestine Liberation Organization, with a chiseled, worn, leathery face, rotting teeth and a no-nonsense manner.
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June 3, 2015

Even at first glance, it is clear that Issa Abu Aram, the former head of operations for preventive security in the West Bank, is a founding member of the Palestine Liberation Organization, with a chiseled, worn, leathery face, rotting teeth and a no-nonsense manner.

Abu Aram had come to Gush Etzion to discuss the evolution of this thought on Israeli-Palestinian issues with a group of Jewish residents, and to present a new peace proposal, Two States in One Land, a new framework for resolving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The two-hour session was honest and straightforward: He acknowledged Jews’ historic and religious connection to the land of Israel, and that 90 percent of Jewish holy places are located in Judea, Samaria and East Jerusalem. In return, I challenged him about the tone of Palestinian discourse vis-à-vis Israel (Abu Mazen’s incitement against Israel, in contrast to the late Egyptian President Anwar Sadat’s emotional call for peace at the Knesset in 1977), and about Israeli concerns about the children and descendants of Palestinian refugees “returning” to the homes their parents left in Israel proper, etc.

[MORE: A settler’s Nakba]

On the way home, Mahmoud, a new acquaintance from a Palestinian village abutting Gush Etzion, asked me for a ride to the entrance to the village. I readily agreed — we’d forged a connection when a mutual (Jewish) acquaintance had introduced us the previous day, so I was happy to move the relationship toward a “regular” friendship, past the manufactured politeness of “get-to-know-you” dialogue groups. Actual human relations, with simple interactions,  often look groundbreaking in the midst of our conflict. 

In any event, as we pulled on to Route 60, I was struck by fear. Near the Gush Etzion traffic circle, police had set up a temporary checkpoint, forcing cars to slow in order for the soldiers to get a closer look inside. Mahmoud had seen it long before I did — his eyes are obviously conditioned to spot that danger, and he was clearly tense as he pointed it out to me. By that time, it was too late to turn back. 

For the first time, I felt the panic of my Palestinian neighbors, or at least a limited dose of it. Although we passed the roadblock without incident — apparently the cops saw the kippah on my head and figured automatically that I posed no threat, without looking too closely at the passenger seat — the danger to Mahmoud and to me was real. The roadblock would by definition have established a mindset of suspicion for the soldiers. Add to that the unusual sight of a settler “just giving a friend a ride,” and you had the makings of an explosive situation. 

For the first time, I felt the panic of my Palestinian neighbors, or at least a limited dose of it.

But I knew the roadblock incident could have ended differently, for me and especially for Mahmoud. What if they’d stopped us? Would they pull Mahmoud out of the car for questioning, or worse? Would they do it to me? Would Mahmoud disappear into the nasty-looking, bullet-proof, quasi-military police vehicle that was parked by the side of the road? Had I put Mahmoud and his family in danger by offering him a ride?

What would I have said if they’d asked who my passenger was, and how it had come to be that I was “just giving him a ride home”? Could it mark me as a “troublemaker,” with a subsequent visit from the Shin Bet security service? 

One of the worst aspects of the whole incident was that I didn’t know what the legalities of all this were. Seventeen years after moving to Efrat, I had no idea if the surrounding Arab towns were in area A, B or C, meaning I was potentially setting up to commit a crime by driving Mahmoud home, if it had turned out that his home is in Area A. I’d ventured into the village the previous day in order to make a small, defiant gesture of peace, but in real terms I had no idea what legal realities my Palestinian neighbors lived with. 

Past the roadblock, Mahmoud and I breathed a sigh of relief, and I asked my passenger if I could treat him to lunch, cherishing the subversive notion of spiriting my new friend into a settlement and then thumbing my nose at Israelis who would no doubt be unimpressed with the “security risk” of an Arab enjoying a slice of pizza, and at Palestinians who object to “normalization” with Israel.

“No, thanks,” said Mahmoud, clearly imagining a host of unpleasant scenarios that could have been triggered by a thick Arabic accent ordering lunch. “I told my brother-in-law I would help him move today. But I would like to meet your family — please feel free to bring them around whenever you like. It’s an open invitation.” 

Seems that home-field advantage is important when trying to bridge the ethnic divide in this part of the world.


Andrew Friedman is a member of Shorashim/Judur, a grass-roots movement of local Israelis and Palestinians creating relationships and friendships in Judea and Samaria, as well as of the Interfaith Encounter Forum.

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