David Sokal, owner of Olive Branch Enterprises, the importer, bottler and marketer of Peace Oil, traveled with Avi Levi of Green Action Israel back in May of 2009. Avi buys fair trade Palestinian olive oil directly from West Bank farmers and markets it around the world.
Not By Bread Alone
On Sunday, May 13, 2009 I go to the West Bank to see one of the press houses where Peace Oil comes from and to meet a Palestinian farmer whose olives are pressed there.
That evening, after returning from the visit, I see a play in Israel
The narrator of the play, Itzik Hanuna, was born blind and at the age of 11 lost his hearing to Meningitis. He has a large teddy bear build, his eyes never open and he needs help moving around the stage. He shouts out his lines and never misses his cues. The intensity in his voice conveys the power of his need to reach out from the darkness.
When he tells his story about the darkness that only breaks when his friends are there communicating with him through touch, I feel a stab of pain as I realize that I am seeing in this one person a metaphor for two peoples, whom, when it comes to communication with one another, are in some way also lost in the darkness.
For me, my trip to the West Bank is like one of those moments when Itzik breaks through the darkness and feels the connection we all need to feel whole and alive.
Progress Report: Israeli Peace Activists Under Siege
On Sunday morning Avi Levi of Green Action Israel, an environmental, social action and fair trade group based in Tel Aviv, (www.fairtrade.org.il) picks me up in Jaffo, the original Arab section of Tel Aviv where I have been staying. We drive north and slightly east.
Along the way Avi updates me on activities of the Israeli peace movement. During the Gaza Israel
Another group seeks to balance the many memorials marking Jewish historical sites by commemorating Palestinian historical sites, such as villages evacuated in 1948.This has been a struggle for Palestinians for years and recently right wing elements in the Knesset (Israeli Parliament) have attempted to ban commemoration of al Nakhbah, (literally meaning the disaster) or deportation of Palestinians in 1948.
Avi is referring to the group, Zochrot (Remembrances), started in 2002 by Israeli citizens to educate the Hebrew speaking public on the Nakhbah through a learning center, preservation and signposting of Palestinian sites and dialogs between Palestinians and Jews who now live on the properties from which those same Palestinians were uprooted in 1948. Zochrot (http://www.nakbainhebrew.org/index.php?lang=english) believes reconciliation between the two people is possible if they are able to confront history squarely.
Birth of An Israeli Peace Activist
At first Avi never thought much about politics, let alone Palestinians. While training as a psychotherapist, he went to Neveh Shalom (Wahat al-Salam in Arabic, “Oasis of Peace”), the intentional community where Jews and Palestinians live side by side as a model for an integrated society (http://nswas.org/). At Neveh Shalom, Avi participated in group therapy geared towards conflict resolution; in this case, the Israeli Palestinian conflict. Avi thought what good can this possibly do, but when he saw positive results, the seed was planted. Now he cannot imagine a life without working to end the oppression of the Palestinian people.
He goes to the West Bank once every week or two. When I was in Israel West Bank were common. But over the years the darkness has crept in and even forward thinking Israelis are afraid to go there.
Crossing Over to the Other Side
We arrive at the border crossing which is a mile or so beyond the Green Line, the border prior to the1967 Six Day War in which Israel West Bank . A young soldier questions what looks like a Palestinian family in the car ahead of us. It is easy to see who is Palestinian and who Israeli by the license plates. The soldier is wearing the common green fatigues of the IDF (Israel Defense Forces). He does not appear to have any protective gear — no helmet, bullet proof vest or the like — other than his rifle and sunglasses. He leans down toward the driver’s window to better hear the answer to his question. To me his bearing and expression seem non-threatening and relaxed, but I am in a car with Israeli license plates and have a US
The Palestinian car is directed to drive to the side for further inspection. Avi drives through without any notice from the soldiers.
The road is bordered on the left by a row of closely spaced and impressively tall steel light poles. On each pole, one powerful looking light fixture is pointed at the road and another towards the area between the road and a barbed wire fence running parallel to the road about 50 meters away from it. Eventually all signs of borders and military give way to a very bucolic setting of rolling hills, goats, sheep and donkey drawn carts.
In a few kilometers we pass through a small village where, on our return, we will stop and eat at a “down-home” Palestinian restaurant. Apparently, this is a village with numerous businesses that cater to Israeli merchants, construction workers and settlers who pass through the check point.
We Meet Fiyad, Palestinian Olive Grower, at His Brother’s Auto-Electric Garage
At the next even smaller village we are to meet Fiyad, the olive farmer who will take us to the new press at the village of Qadum Israel
At the far end of town (only a few hundred meters) we park at an auto-electric garage owned by Fiyad’s brother. As we wait for Fiyad to show up, Avi explains that Israeli law forbids Israeli citizens from using Palestinian auto services in the territories, even if you have an emergency breakdown. Another security measure? Avi sees it as another example of the often inexplicable and punitive nature of the occupation.
Avi is beginning to wonder where Fiyad is when he finally calls on his cell phone. Shortly he arrives and we introduce ourselves. Fiyad is about my height (five feet, eight inches), streaks of gray in his dark hair and a somewhat stocky, muscular build at least in comparison to my wiry frame. He has a mustache and his eyes are a lighter color. He wears a light green shirt and long pants, casual but still business-like. Eightly degree weather is not hot around here and the men generally eschew short pants even in the extreme heat of summer.
A Drive Through the Countryside
Fiyad asks if it is OK if I sit in the back so he can sit next to Avi and direct him. Fine with me and off we go. The road is just wide enough for two cars to pass going in the opposite direction. The landscape is rural, gently rounded hills dotted with olive trees and cradling small groups of houses built with stone. Plowed plots of well-tended vegetables are also common. We pass a herd of goats being shepherded along the road.
Fiyad explains to Avi that the route we need to take is complicated by the fact that traffic is routed around a Jewish settlement as a security measure. Between the noise of the car, Fiyad’s strongly accented Hebrew and my minimal Hebrew skills, I can’t keep up very well with the conversation he and Avi are having. Avi, like me, speaks virtually no Arabic at all.
It is larger than I had pictured it, two stories high, a box with a few windows; your basic light industry structure made of stone and cement. We drive down a dirt road along a plowed field on our right and an olive grove on the left.
As we park the car, we see the owner is already standing in the open door of the press house waiting to greet us. He has a warm, friendly smile and is neatly dressed in a white shirt and tie with creased slacks. Fiyad introduces us to Hani, the owner. Hani’s warm greeting is exemplary of classic Arab hospitality. We shake hands and talk in English which he speaks very well.
As we park the car, we see the owner is already standing in the open door of the press house waiting to greet us. He has a warm, friendly smile and is neatly dressed in a white shirt and tie with creased slacks. Fiyad introduces us to Hani, the owner. Hani’s warm greeting is exemplary of classic Arab hospitality. We shake hands and talk in English which he speaks very well.
Inside the large and high-ceilinged room is the press, storage tanks and other equipment. Here and there empty squares show that tiling on the walls and floor is still in progress. Opposite the door we entered is a large garage door where the olives are off-loaded from trucks during the harvest.
It looks simple enough, a long metal horizontal tank painted in blue enamel. The control panel and electrical connections are all that give away its advanced technology. Basically the olives are washed, then crushed and put in the tank where a powerful motor spins them forcing out the precious oil. There are many advantages to using centrifugal force over the old method of weight or mechanical pressure. More oil is extracted more rapidly and heat is precisely controlled to ensure the process generates no more than 35 degrees centigrade (95 F), generally considered the point past which degradation of oil quality exceeds the benefit of the increased quantity extracted.
Hani says they normally run the press from 30 to 33 degrees centigrade (86 to 91.4 F). He refers to the 35 degree limit as the standard for “cold pressed”. This is not exactly accurate. The standard for “cold-pressed” in the European Union is 27 degrees centigrade (80.6 F), but there is no internationally accepted standard for use of the term, so more often then not, it is merely marketing lingo added to the label to reassure the many customers who have been told to look for this designation. (See Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olive_oil#Extraction, section headed “Label wording”.)
The oil is directly piped from the press to the stainless steel storage tanks avoiding harmful exposure to oxygen. Also, the truck off-loading area is designed so that the exhaust fumes don’t enter the building as they do in most of the older press houses. Fiyad explains that the olive oil is like a beautiful woman whose beauty is damaged just by looking at her (let alone forcing her to breathe diesel fumes).
I ask Fiyad how much of his income is from olive farming. “All of it.” One brother is a teacher in Saudi Arabia
Hani leads us over to a counter that has a beautiful cloth inscribed in Arabic calligraphy under a protective glass cover. I ask what it is and Fiyad says, “The Koran.”
Hani takes out some documents from a brief case. A discussion ensues on the organic certification for his plant. Avi hasn’t heard of the certifier based in Egypt
Coffee Break Middle Eastern Style
One of the villages has houses with burnt orange, slanted roofs. The orange coloring is from the Spanish style ceramic roof tiling, a sure sign of a Jewish settlement. Arab homes are always flat-topped and often multi-storied. Sometimes the added floors tell the story of the family’s aging and growing as a new level is added for children that have grown up and continue their adult lives, including marriage and having children of their own, in the house of their parents.
I ask Fiyad and Hani if the Jewish settlers are good neighbors. Fiyad answers by describing the security fence they’ve put around the village. I tell him there’s a saying in America Israel Oslo
Hani brings out a silver tray with four ceramic cups and matching saucers each ringed with intricate Arabic style designs; multi-colored, interwoven, fine lines accented with metallic gold. In the middle of the tray is the Turkish coffee which Hani pours into our cups. Fiyad warns me that it is hot. I lightly touch the cup and feel the strong heat and give Fiyad a confirming smile. Along with the chocolate bars and “energy” drink Hani has already given us when we were downstairs, this treat layers on the Abrahamic hospitality, telling the guests, “my home is your home.”
I ask Fiyad if the olive groves require irrigation.
“There is enough rain.”
“What if there is a drought?”
“No, the olive trees are fine even if there is a drought.”
The Nabali tree is the mainstay variety of the West Bank and has been here for centuries. Apparently it is very well adapted. Fiyad explains more about the characteristics of the rainfall in the area and its relationship with the trees’ blossoming and the ripening of the olives. I have a hard time following, but at least I can get an idea from the gestures of his hands and fingers that suggest olive tree branches holding olives, rain dripping off leaves and the warm Mediterranean breeze swaying and rustling this musical instrument whose vibrations reverberate throughout the land and history of Palestine
Talk turns again to the organic certification. Fiyad and Hani are confident it is legit, but Avi decides he will check with agencies in Israel Europe and represented in the US USA
I ask Fiyad who some of his other customers are. An Israeli in Yad Mordechai buys from him. Kibbutz Yad Mordechai is close to the Gaza Israel Gaza
Heading Back to Israel
It is time to leave so we head back downstairs. Fiyad and I stand facing the olive grove outside the door of the facility. I look towards the grove and ask, “Hard work taking care of all these trees?” Fiyad replies, “No. Plowing the weeds, trimming branches .… not that hard.”
The trees rustle in the breeze. They agree with Fiyad – life is only as hard as you make it.
We drive away from the press house. Avi and Fiyad talking in front, me in back soaking up the surroundings. As we pass through a village I see a new house being built up on a hillside. It is made of beautiful white stone and is two stories tall with classic arched windows, columns and flat roof. We also pass an outdoor workshop where a man is cutting stone with a very large power band saw, stones just like the ones used for the new house.
At an intersection a large truck with a steel container that is open at the top blocks our way. Eventually it moves on, then another comes up the road from our left, turns onto our street and roars past.
In Israel Jerusalem West Bank is Hebron West Bank still is.
I ask Fiyad what the mood is like in the West Bank . “It is the worst situation in the world,” is his somewhat surprising reply. He continues to talk, but I can’t follow. I get the feeling he prefers not to talk about the topic with his guests from Israel
We are passing a grove that has trees of varying ages. I tell Fiyad that in the states people often picture all the trees as being hundreds of years old. He points out younger ones and also older ones — easily distinguished by the gnarled, knotted trunks — that go back to the time of the Romans. He points to one with a thick, twisted trunk that could be mistaken for hardened lava, pocked with holes from air bubbles in the cooling molten rock. I ask if these are Nabali trees and he says that they are. There is also the Roma or Rumi that has the stronger flavor.
I ask if he has a family and he replies that he is unmarried even though he is in his early forties. He goes on to explain, “unlike you where each person finds a mate from among all the people, that attraction is what matters, here the marriage is determined by the family. There just hasn’t been a good match.”
Fiyad sees a truck go by and loudly tells Avi to stop as he reaches to the steering wheel and honks. He gets out his cell and calls the driver in the truck. He tells us he is going to join his friend in the truck. We are far enough along that Avi knows the way from here. We say goodbye and Fiyad dashes away.
Palestinian Cuisine – The Real Deal
We get to the village we passed through earlier and get out to eat at the restaurant that Avi had pointed out. We walk up the stairs to a covered porch and are warmly greeted by the staff. I get the feeling they are all part of the family that owns the restaurant. One of the young men grabs my right hand vigorously with a combination of a handshake and “high five.” Well … I am obviously an American.
Inside, one wall is lined with large plastic bowls, maybe twenty or thirty, each with its own tasty item. A wide variety of vegetables, beans and grains prepared in traditional middle-eastern style, as well as fresh fruits and vegetables, like chopped cucumbers and tomatoes, and even tortilla chips for dipping in hot sauce. Avi and I pile as much as we can get onto our plates and take our seats. We order lamb slow roasted on a split and sliced thinly, and within five minutes an assortment of plates is brought out and served to us. Dipping sauces including the traditional humous — a mix of creamed garbanzo beans, tahini (sesame butter), lemon and garlic — and large circular pitas (pocket bread). The humous is served on a round plate with olive oil and herbs in the middle that you mix with the humous as you dip your pita. And of course the tender slices of lamb are added to the table along with the plates of fresh foods we’ve already selected from the bowls. The humous is the best you can get. The sesame flavor is so strong and fresh it tastes like it was made that day.
After our good meal and conversation, Avi pays the bill and we say goodbye. On the covered porch I notice a clay or cement oven, probably used to cook the lamb. We walk down the stairs and to our right I see large white, bulbous shapes. There are also some entrails and I realize these must be freshly removed lamb skins and intestines. So fresh, there’s not a fly in sight yet. If these are the lambs we just ate, that would explain why it was so tasty.
Crossing Over to the Other Other-side
Back in the car we drive to the checkpoint. We arrive and wait for the car ahead of us to pass through. We move up to the gate and the soldiers stop us and ask for our IDs. I search for mine and Avi tells me he’s never been stopped in the hundreds of times he’s gone through. “My bad luck,” I tell him. Avi is impatient and a little ticked-off with the soldiers. He needs to get home by 2:00 PM for an interview with an Israeli paper. I find my passport and hand it to the young, light-haired kid with the bright smiling eyes. He reads over it along with another soldier. They finally seem satisfied and hand it back. Just as Avi starts to pull away, the light-haired kid smiles at me and says, “I have an uncle in Seattle
That evening, back in Jaffo, the play, Not by Bread Alone, ends and the audience is invited to come up on stage to meet with the actors. They actually were baking bread onstage throughout the performance and now its smell fills the air. I am the first one to take them up on their invitation and head straight for Itzik, the narrator with the strong, clear voice. I know I can’t talk to him, so I give him a pat on the shoulder as I say thank you, it was great. One of the theater staff comes over and puts a piece of paper in front of Itzik. It has the English alphabet for me and Braille under each letter for him. I hold his hand and slowly spell out thank you, you were great. He then takes my hand and asks me where I’m from. We have a short conversation this way and then it is someone else’s turn.
For now anyway, I have done my share of helping Itzik break through the darkness.
I leave the theater. It is a cool, quiet night. I walk to a high point Mediterranean Sea and the skyscrapers of Tel Aviv. The lights of the city reflect on the black water, highlighting the tops of the waves as they play their song on the sandy beach below.
In a few days I will leave Israel Palestine. Avi will continue his difficult and rewarding work here. I hope I can sell enough Peace Oil to remain a part of his effort.
