‘Hear O Israel, the Lord our God is One” and “No other land,” every Jew knows, are the basic tenets of the faith. One God, one land.
One day, employing cultural appropriation, Palestinians created the documentary film No Other Land, in which Israeli soldiers and settlers are portrayed as heartless, criminal, and racist. Earlier this year, it won the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature. Next year, maybe the Palestinians will produce “Hear O Israel.”
No Other Land takes place in Masafer Yatta, a cluster of villages around the city of Yatta, south of Hebron.
At 95 minutes long, the movie features, among others, Basel al-Adra, an Arab, and Yuval Abraham, a Jew, who talk nonstop to each other. In between their conversations, we see video clips of innocent Palestinians being shot and of Palestinian houses being demolished on orders of the Israeli Civil Administration. Why are they demolished? Israel says they were constructed without building permits; the Palestinians say they were built before Israel was even founded.
Artistically, the movie lacks drama. It drags, and unless you derive a weird pleasure by being told that Jews are bad, very bad, it’s a strain to watch.
However, despite its flaws, some of the characters are memorable. One is Harun Abu Aram, paralyzed from the shoulders down after allegedly being shot by Israeli soldiers. The shooting itself is not clearly visible – the camera shakes too much – but it provides the movie with desperately needed drama. Then there is Abu Aram’s mother, who pours endless love on her son until his death two years later, presumably from his wounds. And finally, a striking blonde girl, whose presence infuses every scene with beauty. I’m not entirely sure who she is – clarity is not this movie’s strength – but it seems she is Abu Aram’s younger sister.
Of course, the movie offers more than just a handful of interesting characters. Politically, as a European literary critic told me, No Other Land is a resounding success. Its Oscar – the first ever awarded to a Palestinian film – conferred international legitimacy on the claim that Israel – and, by extension, Jews – is guilty of crimes against humanity. In effect, antisemitism has now been certified as kosher, irrespective of whether the film is good or not.
It is by the will of the Lord of the Jews, the One invoked in “Hear, O Israel,” that I happened to be in the West Bank, or Judea and Samaria, as the settlers call it. From there, I can easily drive to the area where the movie is set, gather details about its making, and perhaps even meet some of its characters.
Visiting Yatta
I start in Yatta.
One hundred and fifty thousand people live in Yatta, and 60,000 of them are from the Mahamra clan, a local by the name of Issam tells me. The Mahamras, he confides in me, are descendants of Jews. “My great-grandparents were Jews, the Children of Israel. Would you like to visit Khalet al-Maiyya, an Arab village in Masafer Yatta, and meet the mayor?”
Well, why not?
Let’s go!
A tall memorial stands proudly at the village entrance with a blood-red crescent on top. It’s a memorial to a shahid, meaning a martyr who died fighting Jews.
What’s his story? I don’t know.
I park on the sidewalk opposite the municipality, next to Issam’s car.
He is here to guide me.
The Adra family
As we enter His Honor’s spacious office, I notice that his name is Majdi al-Adra. Is he related to Basel al-Adra?
Yes, he is, Issam says.
On the office’s center wall are two big photos: the late Palestinian Authority president Yasser Arafat on the right side, and the current President Mahmoud Abbas on the left. I sit between them.
But sadly, His Honor suddenly got sick. Just now. If I want, I can meet his brother, Mohammed al-Adra, the municipality director.
Well, why not?
Mohammed, Basel al-Adra’s cousin, is nicely dressed, with a light jacket over a shiny white shirt, which perfectly fits the décor here.
Basel al-Adra’s family is obviously doing well. In the movie, Adra is seen living in a dirt-poor house, chased to poverty by the Israelis; but judging by what I see here, it doesn’t seem that the Israelis are busy driving Arabs to the pit of poverty.
Poverty or riches, Mohammed is worried. “I understand that you are a journalist,” he says to me. “But if I may ask, where do you live?”
America and Germany.
“You write for Germany and America?”
Always.
“Do you also write for Israeli media?”
Never. Why are you asking?
“If you write for Israelis, I can’t talk to you. I will need a special permit from the Palestinian government before we talk.”
Don’t worry. Are you a Mahamra?
“Yes.”
Do you believe in a two-state solution, dividing the land between you and the Jews?
No, he doesn’t. There should be only one state, Palestine, from the river to the sea. “The Zionists,” he tells me, referring to Jews, “should go back to where they came from – Germany and Britain.”
We have a couple of laughs about it until I bid him well.
Outside, Issam tells me that Palestinian officials are not allowed to tell Israelis that they want the Jews out of the land. If they did, the Israelis would say that there’s no reason to pursue any peace with the Palestinians and would give them nothing.
Got it.
I drive.
Umm al-Khair and at-Tuwani
I reach Umm al-Khair. What’s this place? I don’t know.
Ahead of me is a structure, a house or an office, from which an Arab man emerges.
He approaches me and asks, “Who are you?”
A journalist.
“What are you looking for?”
Is this Masafer Yatta?
“Yes.”
Was No Other Land shot here?
“Most of the movie was filmed in at-Tuwani.”
I hook up with Robby, an Israeli “peace activist,” a code name for people who criticize Israelis and support Palestinians, and we go to at-Tuwani.
There we meet Mousab.
Mousab knows Robby, and since I’m with him, I’m a good man by default.
Mousab points out to me Basel al-Adra’s house, plus a couple of caves, in case I’d like to visit Adra or the caves.
Fantastic!
At the entrance to the bigger cave, I see an elderly couple, next to a beautiful blond girl.
They welcome us to their abode.
The movie stars
Wait a second! I have seen this girl before. Where was that? Oh yes, in the movie! And, oh Lord, I’ve also seen the woman; she is Abu Aram’s mother.
This cave, too, was in the movie! There, the cave looked like a dreadful place, but that’s not the impression I get being right next to it.
Let’s get inside.
“From the sea of martyrs’ blood a state is made,” I read on a poster hanging on a wall inside the cave, bearing the picture of Abu Aram, “who ascended [to Heaven, meaning died] after being shot by the occupation forces in Masafer Yatta. To the eternal gardens with the prophets, the righteous, and the martyrs. What excellent companions they are.”
The poster features a map of Palestine, with no sign of Israel. The Jews have gone. To Germany, perhaps.
Time to chat.
Life is not bad, says the mother, especially since she’s surrounded by “peace activists,” who rush to help her whenever she calls them.
She doesn’t want me to take her photo in the cave. “People come here, take photos, but I get no money from them. Like with Basel. He promised me half of the receipts from the movie. He got the Oscar, but he didn’t give me a penny.”
Oops.
I walk out, where I see some demolished houses. They were built, I read, by the EU and EU countries, in recent years.
Long, long after Israel was founded.
I continue to Adra’s place.
His house, which I’m told is also his parents’ house, looks quite different from the one in the movie. In the movie, the house looked dreadful, but it’s a beautiful place. If it is the same house, then it must have gone through some serious renovations – which is kind of funny, considering his movie’s all about demolitions. Interesting.
Adra’s wife, who opens the door, says that Adra will come in momentarily.
I didn’t know Adra was married. In the movie, he says he’s single, but who knows, maybe he got married for the Oscars.
The wife, new or not, leads us to a waiting room. It is a beautifully decorated room, not the poor, broken place that I expected to see.
I am waiting and waiting, but no Adra.
Finally, instead of Adra, his brother, Salem, shows up and says that Adra will be coming soon.
When exactly will he come in?
“Soon.”
When is soon?
“In five hours.”
Maybe I will come back later, or tomorrow.
We leave.
Moments later, Mousab calls Robby and accuses him of bringing a Jew, me, to the area.
Oops.
Someone, I don’t know who, must have told him that I’m a Jew.
Oy vey.
I call Adra, telling him that I have some important questions to ask him, but he says that he doesn’t have time to talk or meet.
I write him a message.
“I have a couple of questions, and I’d appreciate it if you took the time to answer.
“– In the movie, you present your living quarters as the one by the gas pump. In reality, you and your parents live in a different place. Could you explain the discrepancy?
“– Some of the participants in your movie told me that you promised them a certain percentage of the movie’s receipts, but that to this day you have not honored your commitment. Would you like to comment on this? I will be honored to get your kind response.”
I don’t mention anything about renovations, but I do mention the gas pump because I personally didn’t see any gas pump, and I’m intrigued.
Three weeks pass, and Adra doesn’t reply. It’s his right.
The Hilltop Youth
On the opposite side of the Palestinian spectrum are Jewish settlers, especially the Hilltop Youth, and I think I should visit them as well.
I drive to Or Nahman, a settlers’ outpost named in memory of a Jew who was killed by a shahid or two, and park there.
I enter one of three structures in the area – a self-made tent, where mattresses, blankets, towels, forks, knives, and items I don’t know what they are lie strewn on the dirty floor.
There are five boys inside, between the ages of 14 to 20, and all are proud Hilltop Youth, known worldwide as “satanic Jews.”
As far as I can tell, they are just kids.
Not everybody is in now, the satanists tell me.
Where are the others, killing Arabs?
Not really.
They went for a few hours, the kids say, to bathe in a well nearby because they felt the need to purify their bodies in a ritual bath, for a fresh injection of holiness.
These Hilltop Youth, the ones here, specialize in “mystical Judaism,” whatever that means. One of them, who’s smoking something, don’t ask what, says: “Do you want to study a little, a page or two of Likutey Moharan [the magnum opus of Rabbi Nahman of Breslov’s books]? Only if you want. Here, we don’t force anything. Here you can do whatever you want.”
Mysticism, building, and praying
Other than studying mysticism, they tell me, they are busy building stuff. What are they building? What not! What exactly? Everything! What is it? Who cares!
Suddenly, rain pours down on their living quarters, dripping all through their palace.
The kids, being creatures of flesh and blood, look for ways to stop the dripping rain. How do they do it? They pray.
Yes!
If prayers don’t do the trick, they will cover the roof, or whatever you call the thing that’s over their heads. What will they cover it with? Plastic. Not that they have any plastic. They don’t need to have plastic in their possession at this moment because God will supply the plastic at the right time, when they will need it the most. God created the world in six days; He can supply plastic in six seconds.
I listen to them speak, cheerful as if this day were their wedding night.
“Want black coffee?” one of them, who seems to be the group leader, asks. “We have coffee, but what can I tell you? I don’t suggest you drink it. It will give you stomachaches, and it doesn’t taste good, either. Want tea, real tea, with caffeine? We have excellent tea. No, we don’t have weapons. The army doesn’t give us weapons, and the police do not allow us to carry them. But I have a knife, in case something goes wrong.”
The water for tea or coffee, I learn, they haul from a nearby settlement or from wells, whichever is closer. Which is closer? Depends on the day. Sometimes, as everyone knows, the hills move. Maybe not in Tel Aviv because the people who live in Tel Aviv are leftists who don’t believe that the earth can move; but those who believe, like them, know that everything moves. Arabs also move. Once upon a time, a hill nearby moved, and the Arabs on it moved with it. Gone. For good.
I learn a lot today.
These Hilltop Youth, I realize, are willing to live like street cats, all because they believe that this land is holy and that it’s theirs. It may rain, it could be cold, their bodies might freeze, but nothing matters as long as the bride is with them. Who’s the bride? God’s bride, the Land of Israel.
I look at these settlers, the exact opposite of Basel al-Adra’s portrayal, and wonder.
Sorry, Basel.
And then, within just a few weeks, their story takes a turn.
In the dark of night, when humans usually sleep, officials of the Civil Administration and a large contingent of the Israel Police show up at Or Nahman and demolish it to the ground.
It was built, you see, without building permits.
Nobody is going to make a movie about Or Nahman, the kids know, and no Oscar is waiting for them. But that’s okay. They still have tea, caffeinated, and – don’t tell them I told you – some weed as well.
And plenty of blankets.
Tuvia Tenonbom’s new book about Judea and Samaria, Excuse Me, Is This Yours?, will be published next year.