Young dabke dancers at an olive harvest festival in the West Bank of Palestine
It was the preteen dabke dancers that finally got me. Tall girls, long brown hair swaying. They wove their arms together and seemed to fly, dancing in step to a traditional song.
This scene took place outside of Nablus in the West Bank of Palestine, a territory occupied by Israel since the 1967 Arab-Israeli War. I accompanied my friend Raidah Hudson Lee, a Palestinian-American, on this trip. We had met when she took part in the “Israel-Palestine Listening Circle” I helped organize in Richmond several years ago so that Jews and Palestinians could listen to one another’s stories.
I was the only person of Jewish ancestry on the trip. For me, this journey was an opportunity to listen to the voices of Palestinian people, and to see a part of the world that has long troubled me.
Hills dotted with olive trees stretched in every direction. All over this region, extended families were gathering in their olive groves for the harvest, raking fruit from the branches as their ancestors had done for centuries. At a community press in the village, the families would turn the olives into golden oil to cook with or sell. Olives are a vital source of nourishment and wealth here, and a symbol of cultural survival.
We were enjoying a harvest festival organized by our host, Maad, a childhood friend of Raidah’s. With dance performances, speeches by local officials and demonstrations of soapmaking, the festival affirmed local tradition and celebrated the zaytoon (olive). Dozens of village families had come. Elders and children sat together on the stone stands, watching the proceedings. I sat in their midst.
A homemade meal prepared by Lee’s friends, who are displaced Palestinians
We had already seen a lot since arriving in the West Bank. Our small group had crossed the border from Jordan, passed through Jericho and explored Nablus. We’d visited a refugee camp and shared tea with families. Some of us had walked around an Israeli settlement. We’d heard many stories of loss, violence and suffering from Palestinians living under the 50-year-old Israeli occupation.
Traveling through the region, I was struck by the sheer number of Israeli settlements perched on hilltop after hilltop. Under international law, states are not supposed to annex territory acquired through war. Yet Israel is rapidly settling large sections of the West Bank.
Twenty-three years ago, the Oslo peace process divided the West Bank into three sections — Areas A, B and C — ostensibly to help transition the West Bank from Israeli rule to Palestinian sovereignty. The hills outside Nablus, where we stayed, are part of Area A. There, the Palestinian National Authority controls civil matters and security, so there is some semblance of Palestinian self-rule at the local level, even though Israel exerts ultimate control. No Israelis live in Area A. When you enter, large red signs announce that “Entrance for Israeli Citizens Is Forbidden, Dangerous to Your Lives.”
By contrast, in Area C, which we’d passed through earlier, Israel controls both civil matters and security. It represents more than 60 percent of the land of the West Bank. In Area C, you see Israeli settlements on many hilltops. Hundreds of thousands of Israeli settlers live in Area C, many of whom have arrived during the past decade. Rather than providing a transition to Palestinian rule, Area C functions as a conveyor belt for Israeli expansion in the territory. More and more land and resources long held by Palestinians are being absorbed by the Israeli settlements. As a result, there are fewer parts of the West Bank where one can witness the sort of continuity of tradition and village life being celebrated among the olive groves.
The dabke girls, with their jubilant dance, were my daughter’s age. For the first time on the trip, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. A girl from the neighboring farm noticed. She gestured for me to sit near her and she offered me a piece of pita bread.
The next day, our host, Maad, called me over to where he was sitting with some local men. They had a question: Why had I become sad watching the olive harvest festival? Was it because, as a Jew, I disliked the displays of Palestinian tradition? I was at a loss for words. No, I tried to explain in English. It was because I loved the dabke dancers. I saw a glimpse of my daughter in them. But it was more than that.
I went to the region seeking some glimmer of hope for peace. But unfortunately, I found little cause for hope.
Raidah Hudson Lee (left) and Adria Scharf (right) meet children from the Askar refugee camp near Nablus.
Many Palestinians expressed a profound distrust of any peace process, given all they have experienced. Some expressed antipathy for Israelis since most Israelis they encounter are settlers, and since many have had loved ones arrested or shot by soldiers, or separated from them by Israeli travel restrictions. The handful of Israelis that I encountered in the West Bank expressed fear of Palestinians and a sense of entitlement to the land.
I went to the region seeking some glimmer of hope.
My friend Raidah is pained by how sad and hopeless the situation seems to be, as land, water and family history continue to be taken away. Yet, Palestinians remain resilient, celebrating family and community wherever and whenever they can.
My own family faced persecution, ethnic hate and forced displacement as Jews in Europe. I understand personally the historical roots of Jewish trauma. But that history does not excuse what I saw taking place in the Palestinian territory. Real hope for peace requires a basic respect for human rights. It requires a fair distribution of land, resources and opportunity. Land theft and occupation only worsens the cycle of violence.
I've looked into the eyes of too many Palestinian children to accept another generation lost to war, displacement and hate.
Ultimately, Palestinian Arabs and Israeli Jews will have to find a way to live together. As Americans, our people and our nation must support a plan for a just and fair coexistence where everyone’s human rights and security are protected.
Adria Scharf, director of the Richmond Peace Education Center, is the granddaughter of Jewish refugees who escaped from Nazi Europe. She visited Jordan, the West Bank and Jerusalem late last year.
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