BIL’IN, WEST BANK, Jan 16 – The rocky hills north of Jerusalem and west of Ramallah are shaded in deep browns, reds, and greens. Each stretch is punctuated with clusters of ancestral olive groves, many of which have been farmed by the same families for countless generations. These days, though, the tracts of farmland are being quickly replaced and divided by 30-foot-high slabs of grey concrete and barbed wire fences that leave an industrial scar in the wake of what used to be a glorious landscape.
The residents of Bil’in, one Palestinian village presently undergoing this violent transformation, have been watching the advance of the telltale red roofs of Upper Modi’in, the nearby—and getting nearer every day—Israeli settlement built on Bil’in land. Since February of last year, Israel’s “security fence” (that, in these parts, is known as the separation or apartheid barrier) has been cutting through the village environs, and will eventually cut off the village from the majority of its land. Its recent construction on privately owned land was, for Bil’in residents, the last straw. On December 21st, Bil’in fought back on the settlers’ terms.
“The idea [for Bil’in West] came from the situation. We see the settlers building facts on the ground, so we did the same,” said Mohammed Khatib, a 31-year-old Bil’in resident and member of the village council that conceived of and approved the construction of Bil’in West. “The difference is that we own the land and they are stealing it.”
About to see half their and their neighbors’ land confiscated by the barrier, Bil’in residents overwhelmingly supported the idea: to set up a Palestinian outpost reminiscent of illegal Israeli ones, just over their side of the fence, but on privately owned Palestinian land. It was designed as a symbol and a test, and was built by over 50 nonviolent activists, just 100 meters from a Matityahu East Israeli settlement outpost. Were it not for the path of the fence, the structure would have been unquestionably legal, and the current reaction to what is called an “outpost” would have been akin to calling in troops to dismantle a tool shed in a suburban backyard.
Differences between West Bil’in and Israeli settlements are grossly obvious. While the population of Upper Modi’in is in the tens of thousands, that of West Bil’in can be counted on one hand. The huge neighborhoods of the Jewish settlement continue to pave over thousands of dunams (one dunam=one-third acre) of Bil’in’s agricultural land, despite numerous Israeli court orders rendering it illegal. West Bil’in, nestled among a village olive grove, was built on a resident’s land, and consists of one small building with a dirt floor.
Within 24 hours, IDF soldiers were at the site to dismantle the temporary structure and evict Bil’in residents and their supporters.
Four days later, under the cover of night and a downpour of wintry rain, West Bil’in was established for the second time, its builders opting for cinderblocks, a more permanent material. Were it not for the Palestinian flag flying high from its roof, the hut could have been easily missed among the surrounding olive trees. Shortly after its appearance, a freeze on all West Bank construction—Palestinian and Israeli—was administered by the Civil Administration of the IDF.
Governed by a patchwork of legislation, the legal system of the West Bank is mainly based upon Jordanian law, explained Michael Sfard, the Israeli attorney representing the village council. This same patchwork governs Palestinians and Israelis in the occupied territories, but as Sfard notes, the Jews can, in practice, operate with autonomy relative to the Palestinians.
Given the theoretically equal purview of the law and the permanent nature of the second structure, the army could not legally evacuate it, whereas the first was easily—and legally—dismantled. Knowing the outpost was under the watchful eye of the Israeli army, Bil’in ceased construction upon receipt of the state order, despite not viewing its jurisprudence as legitimate. The council is currently awaiting the verdict of their application for a construction permit, since the clerk in charge has been on vacation. They do not expect it to be in their favor.
While they abided by the law, the bulldozers and workers of Upper Modi’in were hard at work continuing construction on their own outpost, despite the construction freeze and numerous court orders that render it illegal.
The symbolism of West Bil’in has been seized by Israeli and international media as an opportunity for exposing the ulterior motives behind the government’s claim that the barrier is solely for security. On January 2nd, after the release of a Shin Bet Israeli intelligence report that cited the truce—and not the wall—as the main factor in the sharp decline in terror attacks, Amos Harel, of the Israeli daily Haaretz, reported, “the security fence is no longer mentioned as the major factor in preventing suicide bombings.”
W’gee Bornat, a 49-year-old Bil’in resident and village council member has seen the fence go up. “Anyone who comes and sees this with their own eyes,” he said, “will know for 100 percent this isn’t a security fence.”
His point is well taken when viewing the fence from above. Running through a valley that is the lowest point in the landscape, the barrier is hardly strategically located. A recent series of Haaretz articles read Bil’in and countless other Palestinian villages as evidence that the barrier is a land-grab tool, shrouded in the cloak of security. Reporter Akiva Eldar writes on December 28th, that according to a report prepared by B’Tselem, The Israeli Information Center for Human Rights in the Occupied Territories and Bimkom, Planners for Planning Rights, the official map of “The Master Plan of the Upper Modi’in Area for the Year 2020” shows planned Jewish settlement immediately adjacent to the fence, thereby, “Arous[ing] a strong suspicion that one of the covert aims of the fence is to cause Palestinian inhabitants to stop cultivating lands that are intended for the expansion of the Jewish settlements, to enable the declaration of them as state lands.”
With a melancholy smile on his face and the constant clatter of construction emanating from the Israeli settlement a couple hundred yards away, Bornat describes Israel’s response to the humanitarian crisis the fence creates by cutting off residents from their sources of income. He gestured toward a clunky gate lying next beside the fence. The gate, he explained, was offered by Israel supposedly to allow the villagers access to their olives. But, Bornat said, “This gate is a whitewash because there’s no gate in the fence itself.” Indeed, the actual fence runs, unbroken, straight past us.
Sfard said that, from what he has seen, even if there was a gate in the fence itself, the precedent in other places tells us that the army would only keep it open a few days out of the year. He goes on to explain the legal ramifications of the fence in no uncertain terms: “It shows that Israel is conducting an apartheid regime in the occupied territories.”
In the meantime, Bil’in residents have been rediscovering their own land, says Jonathon Pollak, an Israeli who, along with activists from Anarchists Against the Wall and the International Solidarity Movement, has been working with Bil’in on their project, and getting arrested for it along the way.
On the nicer days, when the cold winter rains are not falling, families come out along with Israeli and international supporters. “It’s heartwarmi
ng,” Pollak said of activists’ support for the dedication of the community and the few people living in the structure. On these damp, wintry days, Bil’in West residents, under the cover of their leaky roof, have the view of the fence and the sight of the settlement’s red roofs just over the hill to remind them of their purpose.
