Intensive Arabic Semester

Check out this article about David Mendelsohn, our academic director, and his passion for languages (including Hebrew and Arabic!).

Click here to read the article! 

Photos and text by Lydia Aisenberg

When the news of Gilad Schalit’s impending release in exchange for 1,026 Palestinians imprisoned in Israel was first announced I was in Britain. “Ima, Gilad is coming home next week,” I read on the small mobile telephone screen, the SMS message sent by my daughter in Israel. I fished in my bag for my reading glasses fearful I had misread the message and for once I hadn’t!

Walking down Putney High Street at the time I’m sure that if not for the noise of the traffic the people passing me by on the pavement would have heard my heart pounding and seen a smile that could have lit up Blackpool illuminations without any electricity!

Overcome with tremendous relief and unabashed happiness, I looked around to see if possibly there was someone – anyone – in the vicinity that looked as if their chest was going to burst along with mine, but nothing –gurnished, as my Dad would have said.

Frantically wanting to share with all and sundry the phenomenal feeling of joy that Gilad, whose boyish looks would have not been out of place had he been wearing a school uniform and not that of the IDF when he was kidnapped, was being released from the Hamas Gaza hell‐hole he had been kept in.

When I reached the home of my South London cousin, bursting with the news of Gilad Schalit and yelling “Gilad’s coming home, Gilad’s coming home,” I realized from the mediocre response that the name didn’t mean much – had known vaguely but forgotten ‐ nor was there any real understanding after a discussion that Gilad

could have been one of my four sons or that of one of my Israeli friends, fellow kibbutz members or work

colleagues…that he could have been – and over the years became – the son, brother and friend of all. By the time I returned to Israel the Schalit‐Palestinian prisoner exchange had been made and although still very much a topic of discussion, the initial excitement and media frenzy had calmed down.

A frequent visitor within the framework of my work at the International Department of the Givat Haviva Jewish‐Arab Center for Peace to the Wadi Ara village of Barta’a, part of which in the State of Israel and part of which in the West Bank under the Palestinian Authority, I was informed by a colleague that one of the released Palestinian prisoners was originally from East Barta’a. Following his release and banishment to Gaza – having served 18 years of a 30 year sentence – apparently there had been a huge celebration in East Barta’a (where the population is around 5,000) the fireworks seen for miles around by Israeli Arabs and Jews living in the Wadi Ara region.

Many people in the area took the celebrations in East Barta’a ‐ situated west of the electronic surveillance fence constructed in recent years and the pre‐1967 ‘Green Line’ ‐ as a show of support for Hamas and terrorism, a fact that didn’t ring true with this writer, familiar with the village residents for over 20 years.

“The celebration had nothing to do with Hamas but everything to do with a family celebrating the release of a close family member,” explained one of the local East Barta’a Palestinian merchants who said that Thaher Kabha, the released Palestinian, was sentenced to 30 years imprisonment in the early 1990’s for allowing a Palestinian suicide bomber from a nearby West Bank village to stay overnight in his home. He also said that Kabha hadn’t know that his house guest had explosives and was on his way to carry out a suicide bombing the following day in the Israeli town of Hadera, a half hour drive away.

“Thaher was engaged to a local girl and she has waited 18 years for him,” explained the same merchant. “When it became known that he was going to be released she sent to Jordan and from there to Egypt in order to be in Gaza to welcome him. They were married immediately and the celebration here in East Barta’a was to join his father – the mother died some years ago – and the family of the bride in a wedding celebration although the wedding actually took place in Gaza,” he said.

“It had nothing to do with whether he did or he didn’t deserve to be in prison, nothing to do with politics nor nationalism or anything else you want to throw in. It had everything to do with a family celebrating with and supporting close family,” he explained.

A local restaurant owner in East Barta’a reiterated the story and when asked if there was a possibility of Hamas representatives being active in the village as had been inferred to this writer, he laughed. “Nobody here wants any trouble. We are busy working hard to make a living and East Barta’a is doing well commercially so why would anyone want to endanger that? ” he asked.

Agreeing with the restaurant owner another local Palestinian merchant added that most East Barta’a folk were relieved that Thahar Kabha had been released to Gaza and not to East Barta’a. “We are happy for his close family that he is out of prison and happy for the girl’s family that she could marry the man she waited for so long – but we are also happy he isn’t here bringing attention of the type we definitely do not need nor want,” he added.

Photos and text by Lydia Aisenberg 
 
Over a period of years octogenarian Gerhilde Merz from Austria has taken it upon herself to translate from English to German articles by this writer dealing with Givat Haviva projects as well as events and stories from the daily life of the Israeli Jews and Arabs of Wadi Ara and Palestinians living in the nearby Dotan Valley in the West Bank.

Gerhilde volunteered her translating abilities following a visit to Givat Haviva quite some years ago and her efforts have enabled many a German visitor to read about complicated issues, topics and life stories which are certainly complex enough to understand even when reading the material in one’s native tongue never mind in another.

Grateful for Gerhilde’s time and efforts and an exchange of lengthy emails over the years – and taking into consideration that we have met only twice, briefly at that ‐ one can say that a friendship has built up and absolutely nothing of the mutual respect developed has been lost in translation so to say!

Gerhilde, an activist for the Protestant church for many years including stints in Africa, is a member of Pax Christi – a nonprofit, non‐governmental peace movement working on a global scale on a wide variety of issues in the fields of human rights, human security, disarmament and demilitarization, and a just world order. She is also an ardent supporter of the Ecumenical Accompaniment program of assistance to the Palestinian people in the West Bank whereby people from all over the world volunteer their services for 3 months in different parts of the region under the auspices of the World Council of Churches.

“When I came to Givat Haviva with a Pax Christi group you showed us around and took us on a tour of the Green Line and introduced us to some of the people living in the area,” wrote Gerhilde recently. “During this tour I became familiar with the people and places you later described in your articles and can now honestly say that I truly understand the difficulties of living together ‐ and living apart.

“For many years I was involved with the Austrian Protestant Women’s Desk paper and I remember I was searching through material and found an article in English I really not only related to but translated and spoke about many times. That article had been written by you, Lydia – and then I met you and look what we have achieved together since,” writes Gerhilde.

Photos and text by Lydia Aisenberg 

Over 30,000 pages of Givat Haviva pre‐State Arabic Language FALASTIN newspaper collection now on internet

Stacked up on the  top of broad wooden cupboards in the main library of the Givat Haviva Institute in Wadi Ara are a dozen or so somewhat battered brown cardboard boxes containing scores of crumbling pages of Arabic language newspapers from the 1930s, 1940s and more. 

The disintegrating pages of history contain fascinating news reports, articles, opinion pieces and political cartoons, all of which pure gems of information for the serious researcher to the amateur sleuths of the regions past.

 Whether one knows the Arabic language or not it is easy to get hooked on the yellowing tattered edged pages of yesteryear  - the black and white photographs of Arab, British, Jewish and other personalities who were directly or indirectly connected to events in the pre-State of Israel region and major events taking place in other parts of the world in those times.

One would hardly believe that one could find a picture of the former American competitive swimmer and Hollywood movie star Esther Williams on the front page of a 1940s Arabic language newspaper dressed only in her swimsuit but it’s definitely her about to dive across a number of print columns, whilst at the same time stern faced politicians and uniformed British Army officers stand stiffly to attention on another part of the page.

Photographs taken from vintage – well these days they are – planes flying over British Mandate Palestine landscapes and others of scenes from the daily life of those living in the troubled region have been brought out of the musty cardboard boxes, brought to life with digitization and made available on the internet with the help of UNESCO and other organizations who recognized the importance of the Givat Haviva collection.   An astonishing 33,685 pages are already there at the touch of a button with plenty more awaiting the painstaking laborious and expensive process developed by specialists in the field of digitization and therefore preserving an important record of the past for both the present and future generations of researchers and seekers of genuine material from the past.

Many a visitor to the Peace Library at Givat Haviva has viewed the crumbling artifacts from the publishing world of over 90 years ago.  Immaterial if they know Arabic or not the first sight of the newspapers leaves an indelible mark on the memory boxes of those folks and for some is a definite key to another section of their curiosity boxes and motivated to know more.

“Until the recent digitization the Early Palestinian Newspaper Collection was unfortunately one of Israel’s better kept secrets,” says Canadian-born Dr. David Mendelsohn, a social linguist and Academic Director of the Givat Haviva Intensive Arabic Semester for overseas students.  Dr. Mendelsohn is fluent in Arabic, Hebrew and several others languages and is one of the founding staff members of the Intensive Arabic Semester at Givat Haviva due to start its fifth term in January, 2012.

“Having access to a local Arab journal recording the crucial years of 1936-1947 is a gift to any serious researcher into this region of the Middle East.  I would feel much more comfortable if these archives would be required reading for any leader or negotiator with the desire to influence or bring about positive change in terms of the Palestine/Israeli conflict.  Reading these records allows the for better understanding of the local Arab perspective of the time and safeguards against the natural temptation of both sides to give in to historical revisionism,” he added.

The Early Palestinian Newspaper Collection can be viewed at: www.pastnet.org

Photos and text by Lydia Aisenberg
One of the arrested leader activists of the Occupy Wall Street movement in New York is a well known and much respected member of Hashomer Hatzair in North America and with short and long stints of studying and working on co-existence projects in Israel – including Givat Haviva – under his belt and blue movement shirt.

Yotam Marom, a member of Hashomer Hatzair’s Kvutzat Orev that some years ago was involved in community work in Barta’a village where they taught English in the high-school, was among a large group of protesters arrested at the beginning of October.  After his release Yotam returned to the streets to carry on with other leaders the Occupy Wall Street momentum.

In an interview given to the RT television news Yotam, wearing his trade mark scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, Yotam corrected the interviewer who had stated he was arrested as protesters crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge.  

“I’m sorry to have to correct you but I was arrested during the mass rallies a week before the Brooklyn Bridge demonstration,” he commented adding that he saw an interesting contrast in the way police responded to the first two demonstrations in America.

“The first mass arrest was just an act of desperation.  The police just did not know how to end the march as this happened for the first time.  And the arrests that happened on the Brooklyn Bridge were quite different.  That was a strategic attack to arrest an enormous amount of people and to scare away the community groups from coming to join the movement,” said Yotam.

He also commented on the heavy-handy police behavior.  

“I was hit with a metal baton and some of my friends were pepper-sprayed and beaten with metal batons as well.  I think it reflects a lot of fear and an incredibly stupid approach,” said Yotam who a few years ago was the leader of a large group of Hashomer Hatzair youngsters in Israel on summer tour with the movements Yedid Plus program.  During a one day seminar at GIVAT HAVIVA’S INTERNATIONAL DEPARTMENT the group toured Barta’a and region.

 The RT television interviewer commented that despite getting bigger and gaining more support every day the Occupy Wall Street movement has been largely criticized for not having any definite demands.  Yotam, a proponent of demands, explained that generally they are necessary as they clarify the struggle.  However, he said he believes it is not compulsory for Occupy Wall Street to come up with demands.

“I don’t think this occupation has come up with its own demands.  It can be a foundation on top of which community and grassroots organizations and movements can fight.  We have an enormous potential to really build a movement capable of both creating an alternative structure and fighting to create space for that structure,” he stated.

We are so excited to have so many great students signed up for our spring 2012 semester starting in January. We are busy preparing the kibbutz and our classroom for a new semester of Arabic students. There's still a month to register and we encourage anyone interested to email us and learn more about the program from one of our past participants. 

Request Information Now!

Photos and text by Lydia Aisenberg


The 1973 Yom Kippur War broke out four years after I made aliya.  In those four years I met and married Yitzhak (Itzik) Aisenberg, a Russian born kibbutznik and our first child Boaz was two years old when his father was whisked off to war, returning for a short leave six weeks later.

With long hair, a bushy black beard, ill-fitting army uniform and a pair of boots that the soles were partially parted from the uppers - neither I nor our son recognized the rather trampish looking character leaning against a fence in the children’s playground.  As he moved forward to scoop up his son, Boaz began yelling and ran away.  It was only after Itzik had showered, trimmed his beard to a neat chin clinging version, did his son recognize him and tag after him everywhere he went for the all too short furlough.

Many years have passed and another 4 children and 5 grandchildren born unto the Aisenberg clan, none of the latter Itzik having gotten to know as he tragically died a few months before our first grandchild was born.

Unfortunately, since 1973 we have known far too many wars and only the most naïve could think we have seen the last.

When he was four years old Boaz received a set of Lego brought over from Britain by a visiting aunt.  Whilst Boaz sat on the stone floor and trying to figure out what went where with the Lego pieces, my aunt asked how I would deal with his having to go to the army at 18.

In those days I was naïve, very naïve indeed.

“Don’t be silly Aunty, by the time Boaz is 18 there will be peace and no need for an army,” I retorted.  Nowadays 40 years-old, the father of two small children, Boaz is an invalided veteran of the IDF who for the last 20 years has been under the excellent care and watchful eye of the Israeli Ministry of Defense who also provide him with on-going necessary medical care, a car and monthly stipend.

He says he holds no illusions as to where his daughter will be in 14 years time or his son in another fifteen. 

Over the years when my late Aunty Sheila and I would meet up at family simchot in the UK she would often start a sentence with “Lydia dear, do you remember when you said…” and I would cut her short and say, “Yes Aunty, I remember.”  How could I forget?

October, 1973 – Yom Kippur and a quiet, laidback day anticipated by the Aisenberg family.  In the morning a long walk in the beautiful, extensive forest behind Mishmar HaEmek.  Boaz was perched on Itzik’s shoulders for most of the walk.  When he was not thumbing a lift from Dad, he would busily kick the piles of leaves and twigs on the ground and collected a few of the latter to take home.  My job to carry them and an assortment of stones he was particularly attracted to. 

Returning to our room and a half at that time, we set about having a siesta.  Behind our abode, in more spacious accommodation, lived Yaakov Hazan, a founder member of the soon to be 90 year-old kibbutz, co-founder of the Mapam political party and member of Knesset from 1949 to 1973.

As a Knesset member, Hazan was allowed a telephone in his private kibbutz abode – one of the very few with such a privilege in the kibbutz at that time.

Around two o’clock  noon we could hear Hazan yelling and after a short time realized – as did our neighbours – that he was on the phone, it was Yom Kippur and putting two and two together, began to realise something serious was afoot.

My next door neighbour Tammy burst into our room telling me to tune into the BBC.  After all it is Yom Kippur, no Israeli radio broadcasts and out of respect for the day, I didn’t listen to the BBC either.  Sitting around the radio in the corner of our room we hear from a clipped accented British announcer that Israel is being attacked.  We are at war.

In those days, so few phones, no mobiles, Blackberries, laptops and all the modern fan-dangled in your pocket communications systems, the system of emergency call up was simply one collected another and within six hours Israel’s reserves mobilized.

Immediately upon hearing the news, Itzik climbed up into a crawl space in our roof where he stored an ever ready kitbag full of the necessities for such an occasion as well as the annual 5-week reserve duty.  A decorated veteran of the 1967 war, he was quickly organized, in army uniform and having laboriously lacing up the shin-high army boots.  A jeep screeched to a halt outside.  “That’s for me,” I heard him say.  He bent down, picked up Boaz, gave him a hug and handed him over to me, quick peck on the cheek, turned and left.

Three men sat in the jeep.  None of them I recognized and the jeep a private vehicle.  Yitzik slung his kitbag into the back, climbed in and the jeep sped off down the track … with our young son, screaming for his father running as fast as his little legs could carry him behind the disappearing vehicle.

We were not to see Itzik again for almost one and a half months, he was unable to call and we became dependent on postcards and letters – both ways – all of which censored by the army.

As soon as the news of the war broke the kibbutz also immediately became mobilized.  A siren system and loudspeakers placed in strategic points throughout the kibbutz kicked into action.  Members not called to duty outside are called to duty within the community.  First thing, clean out all the air-raid shelters all of whom in a sorry state.  Mattresses, blankets, water supplies and in the case of the shelters closest to the children’s houses, to put in books, toys and clean clothing.

Boaz and his peers thoroughly enjoyed sleeping in the shelter attached to his kindergarten.  The whole floor covered in mattresses and cushions, no boards in between, kids could roll over each other and over ma and possibly other siblings as well.

During the day when sirens rang out – in our case it was because of Frog rockets from Syria landing in various places in our valley or crippled planes attempting an emergency landing at the Ramat David airbase also in the valley – then one dropped everything and ran to a pre-designated place.  I was ‘attached’ to the kindergarten brigade.

When the siren’s piercing notes rang out, I would run, collect up any child in the play area and duck into the shelter.  One time I distinctly remember vaulting over the fence around one of the kindergarten courtyards, scooping up two youngsters in the sandpit as another lady took the other two and when reaching the shelter everybody burst out laughing as I had split my work pants and my underwear peeking through the gap in the back!

A list of names of members called up from Mishmar HaEmek was pinned to the notice board in the dining-room.  All windows in the kibbutz abodes, classrooms, offices and dining-room were blacked out with black plastic produced in the kibbutz factory.  The list on the dining room wall was very long, containing the names of those kibbutz youths serving their national service at the time and the reservists like Itzik who had just dropped everything and gone off.

 One name was left off from the very beginning.  Kibbutz born pilot and farmer Hanan Aitan– married with two children –had taken off from Ramat David at noon and shot out of the skies by the Syrians just minutes later.   In the morning he had gone to plough kibbutz fields running parallel to the Ramat David air base runway and was called to the base where he exchanged his blue kibbutz work clothes for his pilot’s gear.  When he was shot down his wife thought he was still ploughing the fields.

High school students became runners, bringing messages scrawled on scraps of paper by those manning the few phones in the kibbutz offices at the time.  The three public phones on the wall outside the dining-room saw long queues of members trying to phone their families outside the kibbutz or abroad.   When a message was received from one of the soldiers, a tick was put next to their name on the list in the dining-room.

After ten days there were only 3 names left tickless on the board, one of which Yitzhak Aisenberg. 

When the all awaited message finally arrived I ran to the dining-room with the largest felt pen I could find and put an enormous tick next to Itzik’s name, sat on the floor and burst out crying.  Another name on the list, a young lad doing national service with a tank unit, was ticked a short time later but Uri Alajem, the kibbutz general secretary before he was called, was missing in action in Sinai but later declared killed in action.  His body was not retrieved for a long time and his only child Itamar was one of Boaz’s toddlers group.

The first message I actually received came from a nurse in a hospital somewhere in the south of the country.  An injured soldier had given her a list of names of those he had seen alive before being evacuated from the Egyptian side of the Suez Canal.  The nurse – like so many other regular folks at the time – got down to contacting all the families.  The message I received was that Yitzhak Aisenberg had last been seen alive at such and such a time and date.  Apparently his tank force was in the town of Suez, cut off by Egyptian forces.  The seriously injured soldier had been brought back through enemy lines and before being taken into the operating theatre gave the names of soldiers he had seen before evacuation.

I never found out the name of either the soldier or the nurse.  

Carefully kept In a red folder with clear plastic pockets and Itzik’s distinctive handwriting stating YOM KIPPUR WAR and the dates 6.10.1973 – 3.5.1974 (the day he was eventually demobilized) on the cover, are army issue postcards and long letters home penned by IDF soldier Aisenberg, Yitzhak No. 255542 during that period.

The ‘postcards’ are flimsy and on one side humorous military cartoons that would be more suitable for an episode of Dad’s Army and not the real thing from whence these were being sent home from the fighting front.  One of the first written – but received quite some time later – was penned on 12.10.1973.  With little room to actually write anything, Itzik pens he is doing so by the light of a slivery moon and that he is longing to be home. 

One of the letters, written on 28.10.1973, is 6 pages long and headlined SUEZ.  He describes being in seventh heaven having received five letters and a parcel of goodies from home.  Three of the letters are from Boaz and I, two from his parents and sister in Hertzlia and the parcel of goodies from home - the kibbutz.

He describes the beauty of the area they are in – and of his tank unit and others closely guarding 30,000 trapped Egyptian soldiers of the Egyptian Third Army, and a great deal more.  The army censor didn’t black out anything this time.

A postcard sent a few days earlier to Boaz (with my name in brackets) and also marked Suez strikes a chord of the absurd in as much it is a colour picture postcard of Bialik Street in Ramat Gan!  One of his soldier buddies was from Ramat Gan and can only assume he received the card from him – in Egypt!

Using Boaz’s nickname Bo-Bo, Itzik tells him that these tough times will pass.

“The most important thing Bo-Bo is to carry on.  Take good care of mum and tell her not to worry too much, it’s enough that I do. Okay, my son?”

Almost four decades later, with more wars and intifadas than one can count on one’s hand since 1973 – I am still worrying.

The remnants of a Palestinian flag flap droopily at the end of metal pole above the girl’s high school in East Barta’a.  The school comes under the Palestinian Ministry of Education and when school is in the flag goes up.

Inside a large courtyard devoid of any greenery and the walls rough concrete, a number of teachers make their way from classrooms to the gate.  Two groups of teenage school girls, six or seven in each group, sit against the wall on either side of a corner.  In both groups they are gathered around a weeping mate, trying to calm them with hugs and whispering words of support.

Must be the day of exam results I think to myself.  The poor girls haven’t made good enough grades, bawling their eyes out in disappointment I shouldn’t wonder.

Some of the girls smile and say ‘Salaam’ as I pass by.  Most of them are dressed in traditional clothing, some dark colors others quite lively, and all have head coverings.  They are not at all fazed at the sight of someone who could almost be their grandmother in age but certainly not in appearance as very much doubt any of the young ladies grannies would be wearing jeans, a tee shirt and no head covering. 

The office of the local council is situated just off the school courtyard, as is the mosque, madras and a well-baby clinic.  A sign on the wall in English and Arabic states that work carried out in the area was done by a certain contractor on behalf of the Palestinian Authority.

I’ve come to meet Marwan Kabha a local businessman and one of the founders the East Barta’a Council.  The council office is also off the school courtyard and somewhat dwarfed by the enormous yellow domed mosque built in recent years to replace a much smaller that collapsed on the same site some years ago.

Marwan explains that the girls weeping their hearts out are seniors who have finished their high-school education and overcome with emotion at graduating.

“This is the last day of the school year, for them the very last day of school altogether.  They are very sad to leave the premises for the final time as schoolgirls,” explains Marwan the owner of a number of shoe shops in the rapidly expanding village. 

Conducting a conversation with Marwan Kabha is not too easy as apart from his mobile phone constantly ringing almost everybody passing by seems to want to ask or tell him something – and he patiently finds time for all of them.

“There is so much going on now what with the end of the school year, building projects, permits to be renewed and the finalization of a sewage project we hope to see working very soon,” he explains.

The sewage system is actually situated in a meter-deep ditch that was mistakenly taken for the continuation of the deep valley behind the village by representatives of Israel, Egypt and the United Nations meeting in Rhodes and drawing up the 1949 Armistice Line.  That mistake was to become a more than costly one for the villagers of Barta’a as the ditch became a divide between two parts of the village, one part slated to end up in the State of Israel and the other to be annexed by Jordan.

Basically the hundreds of villagers – all from the same extended family - were divided into two different countries, were to receive different citizenships from each other and the two countries would continue to be in conflict for many years.  What were around 400 in 1949 has become around the 9,000 mark in 2011, one third on the Israeli side of the divide and two-thirds nowadays under the PA in the West Bank.

A few middle-aged women teachers approach Marwan with a number of questions.  One of them looks distinctly European, her attractive face sporting not a small amount of makeup through which freckles still quite prominent, whilst another teacher who is black, scrutinizes the Israeli visitor from head to toe.

“Who are you and where are you from?” she asks in English peering closely at the Magen David around my neck.

“I am Israeli and from the Givat Haviva Peace Education Center,” I reply.

“What are you doing here?” she asks but before I can reply states that she is from the Jenin refugee camp and then rushes off behind the other ladies who are leaving the courtyard.

Marwan begins to address the questions I had asked before the teachers approached but before he actually gets any words out of his mouth a rather attractive young girl wearing slacks, long sleeved cotton shirt and scarf pulled tightly over her head, rushes up to tell him something.  From the way she is looking at him and patting his arm as she speaks, it is obvious she is his daughter.

When she turns to carry on wherever she is going, a group of young men struggle to carry a photocopying machine down the steep flight of stairs leading to the second floor of the madras behind us.  A few of the young men say shalom and one stops for a short chat in English and tells of working in Israeli supermarkets during the summer holidays and reels off the names of kibbutzim and towns where he has spent time packing shelves and carrying customers heavy bags.

When there is a slight break in the people traffic going through the courtyard and the mobile taking some time out, a chance for Marwan to explain about the relationship between the local East Barta’a Council and the Palestinian Authority in Jenin – about 20 kilometers away but a security fence and checkpoint between them.

What does it mean for the Council to be answerable to the Palestinian Authority and do you receive a salary from them?

“Salary, are you kidding.  For those of us in the council it’s more a case of it costing us money rather than making money! The Palestinian Authority are responsible for the infrastructure and civil administration here in East Barta’a as we are an Area B in accordance with the Oslo agreement,” he explains.

“Every new building we want to construct means applying for building permission in Jenin, plans need to be submitted, passed and licenses issued.  All the official paperwork for births, marriages and deaths needs to be processed in Jenin as does the arranging of all the different kinds of permits for the residents of East Barta’a.”

Marwan is personally responsible for following through on all the permits – and they are many.  Palestinians living in the area need to carry papers allowing them to remain in their homes, a permit that needs renewing every year.  They also need permits to be able to pass through the checkpoint to go to the banks, hospitals, clinics, do shopping and visit relatives on the other side of the security fence.  There are those in the village who are allowed to work in Israel but need special permits to cross over the – or rather walk over – the ditch that is the Green Line running diagonally through the village.  All this paperwork Marwan does on behalf of the local residents – a job he took upon himself when the elderly village mayor who dealt with such things before the council was formed, died.

“A number of us realized that we needed to start to take care of things for ourselves, that our situation here in East Barta’a with the Green Line on one side and the security fence on the other meant that we were in a more than complicated situation and if we didn’t take the reins ourselves nothing would improve,” said Marwan before adding that whatever goes on in East Barta’a is known by the Palestinian Authority in Jenin.

The schools for the younger children and separate high-schools for boys and girls in the village all come under the Palestinian Ministry of Education and the locals cars are registered with the Palestinian Ministry of Transport although many of the plates in East Barta’a have the yellow Israeli issued ones.  Over the years there have been many marriages between East Barta’ans and West Barta’ans and other Arab folks from the immediate area on the Israeli side known as Wadi Ara.  About 50% of East Barta’a today has Israeli citizenship or Teodat Zehut (ID) through those marriages although for the last six or seven years no longer can Palestinians obtain Israeli citizenship through marriage as in the past.

What about collection of taxes and to whom do they go?

“Local businessmen pay some tax, well most of them do anyway,” he replies with a laugh.  Astonishingly there are no less than over a thousand ‘businesses’ working in East Barta’a today.  The ‘businesses’ are anything from a hole in the wall kiosk selling falafel to small shops selling herbs, fruit and vegetables, shoes, clothing, kitchen wear, furniture and a large selection of colorful decorative what-on-earth-would-I-need-that-for items imported from China, Korea and Taiwan.  Approaching the outskirts of the village in the direction of the checkpoint, huge areas filled with the twisted metal carcasses of every make of car one could possibly spot on the Israeli roads as well as other ‘businesses’ taking up large plots full of building materials, stone and marble pillars and balustrades popular with the Palestinian home builders as well as the Arab citizens in Israel.  The latter come in their droves to shop in East Barta’a where the prices are a lot lower than those in the nearby Arab towns and cities over the Green Line – just – in the State of Israel.  In the last year or so the number of Druze from Israel shopping in Barta’a has been very noticeable because of their traditional dress – women wearing long black dresses and white scarves loosely sitting on their heads, the men’s headdress being very similar to the Turkish tarbush – and the religious among them wearing baggy pants.

Things look pretty good in Barta’a but if one scratches a bit under the surface there’s a great deal more than meets the eye.  Many of the young Palestinians working there do not have permission to be on the Israeli side of the fence but they certainly are.  They cannot pass through a checkpoint and use a ‘smuggling service’ run by Israeli Arabs and some Jews – last year one religious Jewish woman living in a West Bank settlement was caught trying to smuggle Palestinian workers through a checkpoint.  They were squashed in to a false compartment built between the driver’s cab and the back portion of the vehicle.

I have been told by these young men that they pay anywhere between 250 – 400 shekels to get across from ‘over there to over here’ and of course the same amount exchanges hands once more when they want to pay a visit home.  For someone earning 10 shekels an hour that is a hell of a lot of money.

There are hundreds such Palestinians living and working on the Israeli side of the fence but mostly in the area that has sprung up and I have named Limboland – not here, not there … a large swath of land between security fence and Green Line.

Marwan can be found often at the checkpoint of Barta’a – either waiting for someone to come through from the Jenin area or when he is on his way to the Autonomous Palestinian city in order to get papers put in order and have the PA stamp of approval on decisions made by the East Barta’an Council.  I had met him at the checkpoint a few days earlier whilst accompanying a group of Norwegian students on a one-day study tour organized by Givat Haviva.

In the middle of the courtyard of the East Barta’a girl’s school there sits a very large and quite deep stagnant puddle – dark green algae covering most of it.  Apparently this has been caused by a rupture in the water pipes leading out of the mosque.  When I question Marwan about the stagnant water, a class A breeding ground for disease spreading mosquitoes, he proudly points out that in the near future that also will disappear once the new sewage system kicks into action.

Rightly proud of the progress made in East Barta’a the last year or so Marwan is painfully aware that there is still a considerable amount to be done with the infrastructure of the village, educational and health facilities of the residents but he says, he’s hopeful for the future of his portion of the divided village of Barta’a.

Having met teachers from that school some six months ago who said they had not been paid a salary from anywhere between one to two years, Marwan Kabha explained that because Israel had held up moving over the millions of shekels collected by the State from Palestinians working in Israel, importing goods through the ports of Israel, there had not been sufficient funds to pay the teachers.  “Most of the teachers have now been paid,” he says.  When I had spoken to the teachers not one of them made a connection between withheld taxes from Israel and their plight at the time.

About to leave, I point out to Marwan that his pride in the Palestinian part of Barta’a and the way things are panning out is very strongly felt and suggested that the tattered flag be replaced with a new one.

“Of course, before school starts again there will be a new flag for sure,” he replies, above the babble of chatter as another group of young men descend the steps of the madras, greeting Marwan as they pass.

It’s that time of year again – and the search for suitable Rosh Hashana greeting cards well under way. Long gone are the days of sitting down with my children in the kibbutz children’s houses and creatively making cards to distribute to other kibbutz members. It must be at least twenty years since the last time I found myself drawing piles of red apples and honey pots – usually with Winnie the Pooh lurking somewhere in the background.

Present day Israeli Rosh Hashana cards in general lack the warmth they radiated years ago when I first made aliya. But then again in recent years we have been treated to fresh‐off‐the‐press ‘antique’ cards the likes of those that were common in Israel in the 60s and 70s – very Zionistic, very nostalgic, extremely glitzy and unlike in golden olden times, rather expensive.

The cards of yesteryear often featured a smiling Jewish postman delivering good wishes for a happy, healthy and peaceful – little did we know – New Year to the lady of the household, often found popping her head out of the window to receive both her mail with a smile and a few encouraging words to the bearer of her cards. Chirping birds twittered away on the sidelines in most of the greeting cards that featured postmen, policemen and soldiers – many of the cards postcard style, no necessity for envelopes – those were the days when Israel was chugging along on the bare necessities.

Israeli Rosh Hashana cards told the story of Zionism, the building of the State of Israel and showed pioneers physically enduring the hardships draining the swamps in the center and north of the country, toiling the soil, planting trees, guarding their communities and in the south, the struggle to make the desert bloom.

Military and political personalities of the day were often featured and the flag of the State of Israel held a prominent place as did the Magen David and menorah. I remember well visiting Haifa in the mid‐1960s and passing through the stalls selling Rosh Hashana cards an Israeli friend had to explain who those featured on the cards were and as I recall, I’d not heard of any of them.

Nowadays a greeting can be sent off in a jiffy, just a quick click on the mouse and yet another automatic electronic greeting whizzes off into cyberspace ‐ and dozens more whiz back. Here all sorts of animated characters strut their stuff on the computer screen, glitter, twitter, dance and prance with background music ranging from rap to classical and bit of everything in between.

Nothing personal and certainly wouldn’t print off to put on the table with my apples and honey. Always a sucker for creative cards immaterial what they are celebrating I’ve a number of shoe boxes full of the special ones and my grandchildren love to plod through as I tell them stories about what is depicted thereon and who sent it to me.

If it weren’t for folks like me who find it difficult to throw away practically anything, then Yuval Danieli, an Israeli artist and curator of the Kibbutz Movement Art Archives at the Hashomer Hatzair center of Givat Haviva, would not be able to boast a collection of over 7,000 Rosh Hashana cards from Israel and the Diaspora many of those from kibbutzim and featured in a coffee table size book some years ago.

Stored in protective albums the thousands of Rosh Hashana cards make fascinating inspection. The collection also includes cards printed for those serving in the Jewish Brigade of the British Army, many of whom members of kibbutzim. One of the cards shows a group of uniformed Jewish soldiers from Palestine standing under the Arch of Titus in Rome and dated 1945 – a scene that generates a great deal of discussion. Will I save any of the cards I get this year – I doubt it.

As quick as the click on the mouse sends, a click on the mouse deletes - but the cards in the Givat Haviva collection will be there to tell their stories year after year even though those who sent them, and those who received them, are long gone.

This article was originally publish in the Jewish Telegraph, published September 16, 2011. Text and photos provided by Lydia Aisenberg.

A walk in the dark with one of the gifted blind and partially sighted guides at the Holon Children’s Park Dialogue. in the Dark Center is a journey to places and situations either unknown or little thought about by sighted folks. After an hour of walking, talking through a very feely‐touchy experience one’s head is full of so many different thoughts, feelings, sensations all adding up to a powerfully deep appreciation for having the ability to see, hear, smell, touch and taste and together with that, a surge of admiration for the blind and how they tackle all the twists and turns of life, good and bad, in total darkness.

Coming out of the darkness, the youngest child in the 10‐person group (an 11‐year American girl) tripped over her own feet in the light, something she had managed not to do in the dark! Her mother put out a hand to steady her and said what so many of us parents/grandparents always blurt out in such situations, the ever‐on the‐
 tip of the tongue “watch where you’re going, silly.” Having just spent an hour successfully navigating passageways, steps and even getting on and off an imaginary boat and purchasing a bag of goodies at the bar in the dark, the mother’s comment cracked through the air like a circus trainers whip.

The child and her mother both gave a short nervous laugh and before moving on, ma gave her daughter a really tight hug. Given the situation and place we were in, the hug was translated by this writer as a silent statement of thank goodness you were born with all your faculties you clumsy twit!

Foreboding, frightening and also fascinating – knowing the inability to see anything is only a temporary thing of course – the voice and occasional helping hand of guide Meir Mattityau stops one getting into a panic but not, unfortunately, the use of some rather colourful language at times when a wall, tree trunk or whatever suddenly connects with the end of one’s nose or someone’s cane pokes you and not an empty space the person behind thought was in front of them. If they were embarrassed and red in the face I wouldn’t know just heard a muttered apology.

Meir does not physically show himself to those temporarily entering his world of blackness and as bleak as one might think that world would be, he quickly begins to draw a picture of the lighter side of the dark world within which he lives and we are trying to navigate – the blind leading the blind so to speak.

What one does effortlessly in the light becomes a more than difficult task, confidence suddenly replaced with apprehensions, hesitations and because we are only at the beginning of a journey hopefully never to be truly travelled, so dependent on another to move forward, avoid falling, crashing into something and above all, to start listening to all the sounds we don’t normally give much – if any – conscious attention to.

Meir’s voice is a shining light in the darkness. Soothing, encouraging, warning, guiding to the left, the right as one makes one’s way through the tunnel of darkness. Concrete flooring is suddenly replaced by wood, such a totally different sound made by the tapping of the canes we’ve all been given at the beginning. The wood is replaced by gravel, then grass as the sounds of birds, animals are heard. Quietly in the beginning but as one progresses, louder – and then – in this writer’s case anyway – a small collision with a tree and leafy branch.

Immediately drawing a deep breath and saying: “Darn it, I didn’t see that.” Of course you didn’t dummy, you are with eyes wide open in the pitch blackness of another world. “We are going for a boat ride,” announces Meir, the humour in his voice not lost to one’s now overly attentive ears. “Be careful of the steps going down, hold on to the banister, gently sit on the bench and scoot along to the end.” Easy – if you can find the banister to start with that is!

On the boat, Meir’s humour comes out full force. You can sing if you want he says as the ‘boat’ rocks gently and fine spray falls from above. Silence, nobody feels like singing it would seem, too busy hanging on hoping not to fall overboard. Trust the British to kick in when there’s a difficult situation to be handled. “Row, row, row the boat,” two Israeli‐Brits begin to sing although personally thought afterwards that ‘Michael, row the boat ashore’ would have been more appropriate for those who wanted to get back on to familiar land – the light at the end of the Holon tunnel of darkness.

At one point, having survived the boat outing, we enter a market place. Strong smells, lots of chatter and clatter. Feeling one’s way along the wall, all of a sudden one’s hand ends up wrapped around a rather large soft piece of fruit. Within a few minutes Meir the guide, who tells absolutely nothing about himself, calls every one of the ten by their names. He knows that an American student is very tall and picks up on so many facts about his invisible guests bringing one to think that he is partially sighted and wearing night vision goggles.


The last stage of the Dialogue in the Dark is ordering something at the bar in the dark and being talked toward a table and benches. The crackle of a bag of Bamba and hiss as a bottle of fizzy drink is opened – after the worried customer wondering whether they had been had with the change they cannot see – Meir begins to tell about himself.

Have you thought about how I look or how old I am he asks? Personally I thought he was of medium height, stocky with black curly hair and in his late 20s, all of which built up according to his voice of course. He explains he is 41 years‐old, had been born prematurely and totally blind from birth, the eldest of four and lives in Jerusalem. He had studied for two years in the United States, lives alone and travels to work in Holon by bus.

He loves his work and described the Dialogue in the Dark center as “my favourite playground.” The children asked what he sees when he dreams, if it bothers him if people offer assistance when crossing the road for instance. How did he figure out how to colour coordinate his clothing and how about reading, writing and … none of them asked about arithmetic!

We discover there’s a special piece of equipment that can ‘read’ colours, that there are ‘talking computers’ and that Braille is written phonetically and so he can read in English, French and Hebrew. The chat in the café is over as is the visit to the dark side of the seeing world. Little by little one comes out of the darkness into semi‐darkness and then into the light. Meir is still talking and says he will come and say goodbye.

Out steps a tall, slim gentleman with thinning black hair, eyes tightly shut and a big grin on his face. “Do I disappoint you?” he asks laughing. Dialogue in the Dark is not a show, not an exhibition but an amazing experience because one literally sees nothing whilst relying on the other four senses. Reintroduction to sight, light and ceasing to shuffle with hands outstretched to the unknown, is a huge relief and gratification swamps one from head to toe.

Leaving the pointed sphinx like building and out in the open air, immediately to a bridge over an artificial lake where excited children and adults paddle their boats on the placid waters, quick to pick up on someone under the bridge whose boat has been bumped by another:

“Hey, watch where you are going, stupid.”