In the United States, it is common practice to plan a tree in Israel in honor of your Bat or Bar Mitzvah. I myself was a recipient of such an honor—several weeks after my B’not Mitzvah with my twin sister Sophia, I received a card in the mail that a tree had been planted in Israel with my name on it, courtesy of a distant relative who could not attend the festivities. I considered it a tremendous honor that there was something, no matter how small, that had been placed in the Jewish homeland with my name on it.
Until last weekend, when I found out that the tree planted in my name probably contributed to the decimation of a treasured land and peoplehood. This wasn’t just a letdown; it was a total destruction of everything I believed about Diaspora (i.e. non-Israeli) Jewry and our connection to Israel. Here’s how it happened.
The most recent Yahel seminar took us to the Negev desert, where we hiked the magnificent Makhtesh Ramon (for more details on the hike, visit my trip spotlight on the makhtesh ), visited the grave of Israel’s first Prime Minister, David Ben-Gurion, and met with social activist communities in Be’er Sheva. In addition, we spent one day touring Bedouin communities in the northeastern Negev alongside the Negev Coexistence Forum (NCF) and enjoyed homestays in the Bedouin town of Squieb A-Salam (the picture above is from an evening in their meeting tent, when the sheikh made us traditional Arab coffee). But before I discuss the tremendous impact these visits made on me, first a bit of background on the Bedouin community in Israel, paraphrased from NCF literature.
The Arab Bedouins have inhabited the Negev for over 4,000 years. They are a nomadic people whose primary form of subsistence is sheep and goat farming. Upon the creation of the Jewish state in 1948, 88% of the almost 100,000 Bedouins living in the Negev were expelled to Jordan and Egypt. The 11,000 that remained were forced to resettle in an area of the Eastern Negev called the Siyag (Arabic for “enclosure”). The now-empty lands of the northern and western Negev were in turn given to Jews to build new Jewish towns, kibbutzim, and moshavim. For the Bedouins, a people whose tradition and culture centers around historical tribal territories, this was the ultimate affront.
Today’s Bedouins live in one of three places: townships, recognized villages, and unrecognized villages. Townships are high-density urban settlements established by the Israeli government to house misplaced Bedouins. There are seven of these in Israel: Rahat, Kuseife, Ara’ra, Lakia, Squieb A-Salam, and Hura. Due to poor funding from the Israeli government, as well as crippling identity loss, these townships are plagued by abject poverty, overcrowded housing, and rampant violence. Yet for the Bedouin community, alternatives to the townships are grim. About 72,000 Bedouins still reside in rural villages that lack basic services include running water, electricity, and sewage. These villages are located on ancestral lands and carry tremendous cultural and historical importance. Ten villages out of the dozens that exist have been formally recognized by the Israeli government-- in other words, they have been given the right to live on their own land. This isn't insignificant; unrecognized villages are under near-constant threat of demolition by the Israeli government, who uses their land to construct new Jewish settlements. Nevertheless, achieving formal recognition doesn’t mean much beyond security, and certainly not for standard of living. Requests by recognized villages for basic services get caught up in bureaucracy and are rarely fulfilled. Requests by unrecognized villages are flatly denied. Which means that in the modern state of Israel, there are 72,000 people living in conditions one would find only in the developing world.
Despite what some might say, this existence is a punishment, not a choice. On our visit we spoke to a man named Salim from the unrecognized village of Um al Hiran. He moved to Um al Hiran as a child in 1957, when his family was forcibly removed from their home in the Western Negev. Salim is an impressive, imposing man; he stands over six feet tall and wears an everpresent scowl. He is educated, and speaks fluent Hebrew. Despite their traditional occupations as goat and sheep herders (which some certainly are), many Bedouin are remarkably well-educated. As Salim told us, of his village of just a few hundred, several are doctors and lawyers. They grew up attending school in the nearby Bedouin town of Hora—which required an hour long bus ride, sometimes more—and most attended Israeli universities. Like all Israeli professionals, they work outside the village in cities like Be’er Sheva or Dimona. The only difference is that they come home every evening to houses facing imminent threat of demolition.
Since its inception in 1957, Salim’s village has been slated for demolition. Unfortunately, their struggle is coming to an end. The Israeli government does not recognize Salim's claim to land, so it has instead planned a new Israeli settlement called Heran. Salim and his neighbors have been fighting the court order for 13 years but recently lost the case and are facing relocation. The only problem, Salim says, is that they have nowhere to go. The government directs them to move to Hora, but the city government is currently not allowing newcomers due to overcrowding. Any new village they built would be illegal. And, as one of the most impoverished populations in Israel, few Bedouins could afford a move to one of Israel’s larger cities.
But for me, the most compelling reason Salim gave for staying was not logistical, or even economic. It was emotional. During our discussion, I asked Salim why he stays. Why is it so important to live in this village, on this land? His answer was the same as one you or I would give. He said, “Because this is my home. Why would I leave?”
For Salim, home is not defined by court orders or political accords, or even ancestral claim. It is where he has spent almost fifty years building a life. He has already endured one uprooting at the hands of overwhelming political forces, and now he is refusing to succumb to a second. I, for one, think he has a point.
You’re probably wondering where the Jewish National Fund comes in. How does the tree I planted in Israel 10 years ago affect Salim? Well, to answer that, first you should know a bit about the JNF. It is a non-profit organization that receives massive funds from both the United States and the State of Israel in order to develop land in Israel, with a focus on afforestation and water conservancy. The JNF focuses on the Negev Desert, which comprises 60% of Israel’s land mass but remains sparsely populated. And, by virtue of its NGO status, the JNF has a tremendous amount of autonomy over the projects its pursues.
Next to Salim’s village, the JNF planted a vast forest called Horan. It spans hundreds of acres, and more trees are being planted every season. But despite JNF claims, the purpose of the forest is not beautification-- it is discrimination. JNF forests are planted specifically to encroach on the grazing ground of the Bedouin and make traditional livelihood almost impossible. And since Bedouins have no legal claim to such land, their relinquishing of grazing lands results in an eventual decline in their way of life. Make no mistake: this was entirely intentional. In fact, a 1989 report by the Ministry of Agriculture encouraging afforestation even gives priority to “areas in danger of incursion by the flocks of minorities” (from “The Politics of Planting” by Shaul Ephraim Cohen). In the minds of Israeli authorities—and, effectively, the JNF—the Bedouins are a people to be contained and controlled. So although abhorrent, it is no wonder that they seek to replace entire villages with a grove of olive trees.
I do not know if the tree that was planted in honor of my Bat Mitzvah stands today in Horan. It doesn’t matter much. The fact remains that money was given in my name to perpetuate unspeakable discrimination. Don’t get me wrong: at the time, that tree was important. It represented my pride at being a Bat Mitzvah, the generosity of the gift-giver, and most of all, a tangible connection that I could have to Israel. But what I did not realize was that the tree also represented something to someone else. To a Bedouin, that tree represents decades of relocation, discrimination, and pain. It represents that they are powerless over the land on which they live and even over their own homes. It represents that the wishes of a thirteen-year-old girl over 6,000 miles away are more important than the needs of a peoplehood treasured for over 600 years.
As American Jews, when we think of planting trees in Israel, we think of this as an act of peace. We do not realize that to plant a seed is to brandish a weapon. It is to threaten another on the basis of our own privilege, and their misfortune. So the next time you reach for the tzedakah box on Shabbat—you know the one, the blue tin with the JNF logo stamped on the side—think about where your donation is going. Is this really the connection to Israel you want?
Disclaimer: if you answered “no” to this question, contact me for suggestions of where to donate instead of the JNF! I know of a few Bedouin organizations that could really use the money…
the view from Um al Hiran overlooking the main road into the village. notice two things: 1. the trees at the top of the hill in the background are trees planted by the JNF specifically to encroach upon Bedouin grazing grounds; and 2. those tiny figures walking down the windy road are students coming home from school. they ride a bus 1-1.5 hours each way into Hora for school. on days when it rains or snows, the bus cannot navigate the dirt road and the students cannot attend school.
another view of the JNF forested area from Um al Hiran
a view of Salim's house, where we sat and discussed the impending demolition of his village. all roads in Bedouin villages are unpaved, and flood frequently in the winter, making it impossible to attend school or work, or get to a hospital in case of emergency.
most homes in Bedouin villages look like something to this effect: cinderblock walls and tin roofs. little insulation and no running water. in the background, the more developed houses are on the outskirts of the town of Hora.
despite relocation, many Bedouin still raise goats, sheep, and chickens in their villages. we found this particular flock roaming Salim's village. notice: the solar panel to the right is the only source of electricity for the village, as they are denied basic public services by the Israeli government.