him and this time he looked to the Israeli Defense Force Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Halevy, a smaller version of the Defense Minister. ‘I propose an operation of limited scope,’ the Prime Minister ordered. ‘The village is to be surrounded and occupied, but not permanently. The occupants of the houses that are suspect are to be brought in for questioning and the soldiers are to be instructed to use minimum force.’ He turned to his media adviser again. ‘And those directions should be spelled out to the international media, but only after the operation has commenced.’ Prime Minister Chenamem Gebin surveyed the faces at the table. No one spoke. ‘If there is nothing further we will meet at the same time tomorrow.’
Yossi felt distinctly uneasy. As the Prime Minister issued his orders of restraint, the unmistakable gleam of hatred in the Defense Minister’s eyes intensified.
Deir Azun
The earth in the Samarian hills of the West Bank was red and parched. As the sun began to set behind the mountains that cradled the little Palestinian village of Deir Azun, Yusef Sartawi scooped up the last of the bitter black olives from the nets spread at the bottom of the gnarled and twisted tree he’d been working on. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bare chest and back, soaking the top of his faded baggy shorts. He stretched to his full height of 186 centimetres and pulled his shoulders back, pressing against the dull ache in his muscles and momentarily resting his forehead against the rough wood of the ancient tree. As four generations of his family before him had done, and as the Greeks and Romans had done centuries before that, Yusef shouldered his battered wicker basket of fruit. His cracked leather boots kicked up puffs of red dust as he marched purposefully down the side of his father’s hill between the rows of trees.
‘Muhammad!’
Three rows over Yusef’s ten-year-old brother sat up, startled. Guilt was plastered all over his young face.
‘They won’t pick themselves, you know.’
Muhammad got to his feet sheepishly.
‘I was just having a minute’s rest,’ he said, doing his best to sound indignant.
‘I suppose that’s why you were asleep,’ Yusef retorted, but he said it without malice. At twenty-one Yusef was the second of five children and as a Palestinian he was one of the lucky ones. His parents had worked long and hard to ensure that all their children would receive an education, and now Yusef was enrolled at college in Nazareth, training to become a sound engineer. During semester breaks he came home to help with the harvest. Yusef and his younger brother Muhammad were separated by two sisters, Liana, who had just turned fifteen, and seventeen-year-old Raya. Their eldest brother, Ahmed, was studying to become a cleric and was in his last year at Al-Quds University in Ramallah. Today Ahmed was coming home on two days’ leave to celebrate Liana’s birthday. It would be good to see him, Yusef thought. And to have the family together again.
As he approached the old wooden pressing shed Yusef could hear the unmistakable rumble of the big granite wheel, the Hajar al-Bad . The family donkey was plodding a well-worn circular path, laboriously grinding the fruit into a paste, the leather straps and wooden harness creaking in protest at the weight of the wheel. Yusef’s father, Abdullah Sartawi, was hard at work bearing down on the paste in the old lever press. He was not as tall as his sons, but he was lean and fit, his shoulders broad and muscled from years of working in the groves. His dark, closely cropped hair was peppered with grey and the years of Palestinian sun could be seen in his face. Abdullah Sartawi was a man of strong ethics and had passed on his rock-solid faith in Allah and Islam to his family which, despite the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land and the constant threat of war and uprising, gave the Sartawi family a sense of purpose, dignity and hope.
The first-pressing
Yossi felt distinctly uneasy. As the Prime Minister issued his orders of restraint, the unmistakable gleam of hatred in the Defense Minister’s eyes intensified.
Deir Azun
The earth in the Samarian hills of the West Bank was red and parched. As the sun began to set behind the mountains that cradled the little Palestinian village of Deir Azun, Yusef Sartawi scooped up the last of the bitter black olives from the nets spread at the bottom of the gnarled and twisted tree he’d been working on. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bare chest and back, soaking the top of his faded baggy shorts. He stretched to his full height of 186 centimetres and pulled his shoulders back, pressing against the dull ache in his muscles and momentarily resting his forehead against the rough wood of the ancient tree. As four generations of his family before him had done, and as the Greeks and Romans had done centuries before that, Yusef shouldered his battered wicker basket of fruit. His cracked leather boots kicked up puffs of red dust as he marched purposefully down the side of his father’s hill between the rows of trees.
‘Muhammad!’
Three rows over Yusef’s ten-year-old brother sat up, startled. Guilt was plastered all over his young face.
‘They won’t pick themselves, you know.’
Muhammad got to his feet sheepishly.
‘I was just having a minute’s rest,’ he said, doing his best to sound indignant.
‘I suppose that’s why you were asleep,’ Yusef retorted, but he said it without malice. At twenty-one Yusef was the second of five children and as a Palestinian he was one of the lucky ones. His parents had worked long and hard to ensure that all their children would receive an education, and now Yusef was enrolled at college in Nazareth, training to become a sound engineer. During semester breaks he came home to help with the harvest. Yusef and his younger brother Muhammad were separated by two sisters, Liana, who had just turned fifteen, and seventeen-year-old Raya. Their eldest brother, Ahmed, was studying to become a cleric and was in his last year at Al-Quds University in Ramallah. Today Ahmed was coming home on two days’ leave to celebrate Liana’s birthday. It would be good to see him, Yusef thought. And to have the family together again.
As he approached the old wooden pressing shed Yusef could hear the unmistakable rumble of the big granite wheel, the Hajar al-Bad . The family donkey was plodding a well-worn circular path, laboriously grinding the fruit into a paste, the leather straps and wooden harness creaking in protest at the weight of the wheel. Yusef’s father, Abdullah Sartawi, was hard at work bearing down on the paste in the old lever press. He was not as tall as his sons, but he was lean and fit, his shoulders broad and muscled from years of working in the groves. His dark, closely cropped hair was peppered with grey and the years of Palestinian sun could be seen in his face. Abdullah Sartawi was a man of strong ethics and had passed on his rock-solid faith in Allah and Islam to his family which, despite the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land and the constant threat of war and uprising, gave the Sartawi family a sense of purpose, dignity and hope.
The first-pressing
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