Grandmothers on Guard
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Back at the Huwwara checkpoint, Moravitz and Klein are nearing the end of their grueling shift. It's been a dispiriting day for Moravitz, who usually walks away with at least one small victory -- an ailing Palestinian rushed through the barrier, a university student allowed to go take his final exams. "Today, nothing," she says with disgust. At four o'clock, the jora has filled to capacity with 50 Palestinian detainees -- including a nattily dressed man from Nablus who's trying to go to his own wedding in the village of Huwwara. The ceremony is set to begin in an hour, but the Israeli troops -- a heavyset Yemeni and an ultraorthodox settler whose yarmulke and side curls are in odd juxtaposition to his shiny M-16 -- have told the groom to wait in the jora like everyone else until he is cleared by the Shin Bet. The detainees kick the dirt, smoke, and pace in boredom and growing anger; some have been stuck here since early morning. "It's frustrating," Moravitz says. "They expect I can help them, but there's nothing I can do." She pulls out a Marlboro Light and fires it up. "I'm smoking 30 of them a day now, because I don't know where to put the tension."
At that moment, a gray Peugeot 307 descends from the hills above Huwwara and drops off two Israeli women and a small boy. One woman is small and frail, her pinched face framed by a blue head scarf. The other is swarthy and mannish, with jeans and a pageboy haircut. Both cast baleful glances at the Machsom Watch women as they saunter over to the Israeli troops and hand them orange juice and cookies. "Settlers," Moravitz whispers. "They're here to make trouble."
Minutes later, the settler women approach Moravitz and Klein. As Klein tensely pours Nescafé from a thermos, the husky settler stands beside her scribbling notes, while the other snaps Klein's photo with a digital camera. Settlers and activists glare at each other, the two poles of Israeli society facing off across a great ideological and cultural divide. "These ones are quiet," observes Klein. "But some are aggressive." When Moravitz and Klein finish their coffee and return to the jora, the settlers follow, standing on either side of them and eavesdropping while they chat with detainees. Finally, Moravitz can take the spying no longer. She turns on the husky settler, who is practically rubbing shoulders with her.
"Where are you from?" Moravitz asks in Hebrew. She has to ask twice.
"We are from many places," the husky settler finally replies. "Where are you from?"
"Tel Aviv, Kfar Saba -- we are also from many places."
"Good for you," the settler says.
On the other side of the checkpoint, a second team of settlers is harassing two more Machsom Watch volunteers. "Arab lovers," they taunt. "You are helping the suicide bombers." A freckle-faced teenager with a red ponytail and a long denim skirt approaches Nura Resh, a teacher from the seaside community of Herzliya, and thrusts a note at her. Resh unfolds the note and begins to read it aloud. "Thank you for selling our blood to the Arabs," she reads. "You told them that we are not okay. You are backing their terrorist activity --" The teenage girl lunges forward, snatches the note from Resh's hands, and, with a gaping grin, tears it furiously into about 10 pieces. Then the girl tosses the fragments onto the ground and stands gloating. Resh shakes her head sadly. "They see us as trying to help the Palestinians," she says. "For them, all of them are suicide bombers."
Settlers and volunteers glower at each other; the soldiers watch from the barricades. Finally, Machsom Watch's Volkswagen van pulls up. "They're nuts," Moravitz says wearily, as she climbs into the vehicle.
Resh corrects her. "They're not nuts," she says. "They're dangerous."
Then the van pulls away and heads back toward the relative peace of Tel Aviv. The women of Machsom Watch sit back and try to unwind -- taking a breather from a battle over Israel's future that, they know, shows every sign of growing uglier.
Photo: Ahikam Seri
