From The Holy Mountain (58 page)

'It was a great day for the village when we killed Abu-Zeid,' said Usamah. 'But in the long run, what difference does it make?'

He stopped the car by a pile of uprooted olive trees and got out, indicating that I should do the same: 'Such trees are 150 years old - three times the age of the State of Israel,' he said, pulling out a clod of earth from the roots and crumbling it in his hands. 'Generation after generation our people have come three times a year to dress, fertilise and harvest these trees. All our life, all our traditions, are connected to such trees. But now they bring their powerful machines from the USA and destroy our inheritance in fifteen minutes. Like us, these trees have deep roots. Look how strongly these roots bond the trees to the soil! But now they are uprooted, and with or without Abu-Zeid, if the setders get their way we will be next. Sooner or later they will expel us all. It is only a matter of time.'

'The Americans would never let them,' I said.

'Wouldn't they?' replied Usamah.

'You want Utopia?' said Mayor Ron. 'I got Utopia! Look!'

Ron Nachman, the Mayor of Settlement Ariel, called to his secretary. Seconds later she appeared with the official photograph album.

'Ariel was my idea,' explained Mayor Ron. 'In 1977 nobody lived here. There was nothing. Look: here - nothing except a few old trees. Here's me in the first tent
...
and that's the luxury caravan we moved into a little later. Here are the watertanks and the bulldozers. You see these boulders? That's the supermarket now. And over there? Those stones? That's now a lawn.'

The secretary took the album and Mayor Ron settled down behind his desk. Above his head was a plaque:

to mayor ron nachman

For representing the people of Judaea, Samaria and Gaza.

For reclaiming our Biblical roots in Eretz Israel. For courage and conviction and deep vision. Presented by Americans for a Safe Israel, April 1990.

'I give people the chance to participate in the greatest adventure,' said the Mayor, 'the building of a new town from scratch - from nothing! Developing a new society for all our tomorrows.'

Mayor Ron clearly knows the reputation he has for public relations. He is still a young man, and exudes energy and dynamism. He talks fast, in flawless American.

'Friend, I'll tell you something. Do you know what the Arabs used to ask me? "Ron," they would say, "why do you come to this bare mountain?" I said, "Wait five years - you'll see what we can do with this land."'

'Do you have problems with your Palestinian neighbours?' I asked.

'The Arabs don't have a problem with Jews,' replied Mayor Ron. 'They have problems with Arabs - with the PLO terrorists. The PLO are enforcing a rule of terror around here - anyone who cooperates with us is as good as dead - even the
mayor
of an Arab village near here was gunned down by PLO terrorists, d'you know that? Friend, let me tell you: these Arabs don't want peace
with
Israel - they want a piece
of
Israel.'

Mayor Ron smiled a winning breakfast-cereal smile. 'But I guess you're asking about me personally. No - I don't have anything against Arabs at all. I'm no racist: I have an Arab cleaning lady.' He leaned forwards on his desk: 'That's right -
an Arab cleaning lady.
She is alone with my babies. I can't say everyone would trust an Arab like that.'

Mayor Ron paused to let the full implications of his liberalism sink in. 'You know, William, I am deeply proud of what we've built here. A nice town, a clean town, full of nice people. We accept everybody. Already we are the fastest-growing town in Israel. The land is there. All we suffer from is lack of housing. If we can overcome that, soon we'll be a town of a hundred thousand, and stretch for eight miles over these hills.'

He pointed to an aerial photograph of the area tacked to the wall beside his desk. 'Go on! Walk around! See it for yourself. This is a free country, a democracy - the
only
democracy in the Middle East!'

Outside, tanned, healthy children were racing around the crazy paving on BMX bikes. Long lines of supermarkets, cafes, shops and jeans stores were spread out across a plaza; Kenny Rogers was piped through the Tannoy. Beyond the swimming pool and the ranks of gleaming station wagons in the parking lot, the bare hills of the West Bank stretched into the distance.

The children seemed less keen on Ariel than their Mayor. 'Boring' was the opinion of most of the teenagers I spoke to, 'no nightlife'; but there was no shortage of enthusiasm among the adults. I ended up talking to Dina Salit, who had emigrated five years earlier from Canada. We sipped cappuccinos and picked at chocolate croissants, and while we sipped and nibbled, Dina enthused.

'My husband and I are very happy here, very happy indeed. I mean, if we had just gone to Tel Aviv, we might as well have stayed in Montreal. But here we are making a truly Zionist statement, doing something, you know, totally different. I mean, how many people get the chance to be in on the building of a new town?' Dina beamed at me. 'Here you feel that your presence really makes a difference. Here you feel
...
valued.'

'Yes?'

'Deeply
valued. Howard is the director of a security company, so he feels valued too.'

'And what about the Arabs?' I asked.

'Before the
intifada
we made friends with several A-rabs,' Dina said, drawing out the first syllable. 'To me, as a Canadian, that was a miracle. I didn't know it could be done. I mean, you know,
A-rabs.
But all the same we did used to have some of the A-rab construction workers in for coffee. I'm not saying we were best friends, that it was a love affair, but it was OK.'

'Has the
intifada
changed everything?'

'Yes and no. We don't have Arabs in for coffee any more, but you know, the political scene is seldom a topic of conversation here. We're all much more concerned about gossip, or street cleaning,' Dina giggled. 'That's a
much
greater problem!'

I paid the bill, and Dina walked me over to the Ariel bus stop. As we strolled, I asked: 'So what would you say to those Israelis who would give away your settlement and the rest of the West Bank in return for peace?'

'I've never heard any Arab say they want Judaea and Samaria only,' she replied. 'For them it's only the first step. They want to drive the Israelis into the sea. Everyone knows that. I won't be taken in by that terrorist Arafat - forget it!'

She paused, and in the silence I could hear the strains of Kenny Rogers still drifting over the shopping arcade.

'Arafat and his terrorists are playing political games - and we're talking people's homes. You know what that means?
People's homes.'

The Anglican Hostel, Nazareth,
20
November

Around 570
a.d
.,
after he was first professed as a monk at the Abbey of St Theodosius, John Moschos withdrew into the wilderness and spent ten years in the remote cave monastery at Pharan, to the north of Jerusalem.

Pharan, the modern Ein Fara, is reputedly the oldest abbey in Palestine. It was founded in the early fourth century by the great Byzantine hermit St Chariton, who, it is said, settied here in a cave above a pool of pure spring water. There he gathered a community of like-minded ascetics around him, living a life of silence, self-abnegation and severe fasting, interspersed with long hours of prayer. Two hundred years later, Moschos appears to have been drawn to the site less by its antiquity than by the wisdom of its then
hegumen,
Abba Cosmas the Eunuch. In a crucial passage in
The Spiritual Meadow,
Moschos credits Cosmas with first giving him the idea to collect the sayings of the fathers: 'Whilst he [Abba Cosmas] was speaking to me about the salvation of the soul, we came across an aphorism of St Athanasius, Archbishop of Alexandria. And the elder said to me, "When you come across such a saying, if you have no paper with you, write it on your clothing" - so great was the appetite of Abba Cosmas for the words of our holy fathers and teachers.' It was advice that was eventually to lead Moschos to compiling
The Spiritual Meadow,
and so to preserve the otherwise largely unrecorded histoiy of the monks of Byzantine Palestine.

By a remarkable coincidence, at the beginning of this trip, on Mount Athos, I had met a monk who claimed to have been the last hermit to have lived in the very same cave as Moschos at Ein Fara. Fr. Alexandros was a tall, rubicund figure with a faded serge cassock, a short Orthodox pigtail and a grey beard, matted and tangled like John the Baptist's on some early Byzantine icon. I had stumbled across him on a walk one afternoon, soon after digging out the manuscript of
The Spiritual Meadow
from the library at the Monastery of Iviron. He lived alone in a small wooden hut in a clearing in the forest, high above Karyes. It was an idyllic place, a bright and silent retreat, fringed with lilies and ilex and commanding an astonishing view down over the silver domes of the Russian Skete to the deep, fragmented blue of the Aegean far below. But this, Fr. Alexandros told me, was not his home, nor where he longed to be: he had moved to this Greek hilltop only a decade before, after being driven out of his hermitage in the Holy Land.

For most of his adult life, he explained, he had followed the ways of the desert fathers in the cave at Ein Fara, a millennia and a half after St Chariton first founded the monastery. But Fr. Alexandros had been the last of the line. About ten years after the Israeli conquest and occupation of the West Bank, he had begun to receive death threats which he believed came from a group of Israeli zealots who had established a settlement nearby. Then one day in the winter of 1979 his spiritual father and distant neighbour, a Greek monk named Philloumenos, was hacked to death in his cell at Jacob's Well near Nablus; someone had poisoned his dogs, attacked him with an axe, then incinerated his remains with a grenade. Shortly afterwards, Fr. Alexandras returned from a trip to Jerusalem to find his cave-chapel desecrated and his books and possessions scattered and burned. The pulpit in the chapel had been axed into a hundred pieces. The hermit fled, caught ship to Athens, and had eventually found his way to Athos. The cave and spring had apparently since been wired off and absorbed into a new settlement.

Like many hermits, Fr. Alexandras was a deeply eccentric man, a holy fool who talked to his pet owl, fed the lizards, and claimed to receive occasional visits from angels. He was a man whose statements could not, perhaps, be taken entirely at face value. I was therefore a little surprised to discover, on my visit to the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate in the Old City of Jerusalem, that much of what he had said had indeed been true. A bearded Greek Metropolitan who had known both Philloumenos and Alexandras showed me a file full of reports and correspondence about the desecration of the cave of St Chariton and the violent murder in Jacob's Well. A mentally ill Israeli from Tel Aviv had been charged with the Jacob's Well murder, I learned, as well as with two other killings. I was even directed to the Martyrion at the Orthodox Seminary on Mount Zion where Fr. Philloumenos's shattered skull and axe-cloven bones lay on permanent - if rather grisly - display, dressed in his old habit, awaiting potential canonisation.