Maze of Terror: a Settler's Diary
Fear and faith in a West Bank settlement
Fear and faith in a West Bank settlement Roughly 115,000 Jews live in 124 settlements in the West Bank, occupied by Israel since the Six-Day War of June 1967. For some, it is a dream come true, this life in the ancient land of Judea and Samaria. For others, it is a place where housing is relatively inexpensive or where jobs are available. For still others, the West Bank is a life of contradiction--of community and isolation, of joy and heartache, of security and fear.
It is all these things and more for June Leavitt, who grew up on Long Island, N.Y., attended the University of Wisconsin and moved to Israel 15 years ago. A writer, she has published one novel, finished a second and is completing a third. She and her husband and their five children live in Kiryat Arba, the West Bank settlement adjacent to Hebron, where Baruch Goldstein murdered 29 Palestinians at prayer on February 25. Her diary begins nearly 18 months ago. The following excerpts reveal one view of life in a land of promise and peril. OCT. 24, 1992. My mind ran over my life here in Kiryat Arba. Living in the "occupied territories," my two boys travel every day to Jerusalem, passing through hostile Arab villages on the way. My husband, Frank, travels in the opposite direction to Beersheba, where he teaches philosophy and coordinates a program in ethics for medical students, also passing through Arab cities. Daughter Estie travels twice a week to Jerusalem for ballet lessons. Joshua once a week for a program for gifted children.
And every trip, I worry until each one is home. Why do I worry?
Memories. My husband had his jaw and eye socket smashed with a large stone 3 1/2 years ago as he traveled. He lost consciousness and control of the car. A hitchhiker he had picked up managed to stop the car, but I will never forget that phone call.
"Mrs. Leavitt?"
"Yes."
"Your husband was injured near Bethlehem."
"Injured?"
"Yes. A rock. He's in the hospital. Can you please come?"
P.S. I didn't mention the gulf war, or Estie's Rocky Mountain spotted fever brought here by way of Kuwait, or maintaining a house with five children and a quarrelsome but loving husband.
Nor did I mention Israeli society. The sun shines three fourths of the year. People are outgoing. Noisy. Unreflective. Uncontemplative. Can a Jew be a light to the world here? Or does a Jew need the quiet and isolation of the so-called exile to be this light?
I am often asked, since the establishment of the State of Israel, how can a Jew live with himself if he lives in "exile"?
I add, how can a Jew of good faith, and higher sensibilities, live in this noisy, bureaucrat-ridden, problem-ridden, crowded, concrete, socialistic, outgoing, extroverted, communally minded, radio-ridden, television-ridden, fast, unthinking, dangerous, violent country? OCT. 25, 1992. As I delved for the first time in a month into the writing ... (of my novel) I heard gunfire. The chop-chop of helicopters filled the sky; the sound of the military police ordering a curfew; the sound of Arabs defying it, rejoicing. Something had happened.
advertisement
