Feb 6 1999 ISRAELI SETTLEMENT EXPANSION THREATENS OUR PALESTINIAN MEMORIES AND HERITAGE AS WELL OUR LAND When the villagers of Artas asked me to come to their aid in the midst of a new Israeli settler attempt to pilfer Palestinian soil, I thought it would just be joining another attempt to save our land, to pitch tents and make a stand. I, however, found myself surrounded by memories that guided me along a journey into my childhood.

Part of the land that Israeli settlers are razing in Artas and Southern Bethlehem to build yet another settlement and roads for themselves belonged to my Aunt. Suddenly, I was a young boy again, waiting for Aunt Aida to return to her house that stands opposite Artas' ancient monastery. In front of me was the taboon where she had baked her daily bread, a memory suddenly so fresh I could actually smell the smoky aroma flowing out the traditional Palestinian oven. There was the old fig tree, the water well, the stone wall. It all looked like a painting of pleasant childhood recollection that emerged after being hidden away under years of other memories.

I could almost see Aunt Aida through my recollections; a thin but solid woman, like a shadow coming down a trail parallel the monastery's stone wall, bearing a large, flat basket on her head. It was always filled with figs and grapes, covered with grape leaves. The details of the shadow became so clear: the snow white scarf covering Aunt Aida's hair, her traditional black dress, with vivid red and green embroidery across the chest and down the sides, the way her basket, when hit with rays of sunset, sometimes seemed to shine like it was enveloped in a halo. I always wondered how such a tender and soft angelic human being could carry such a large basket across rugged terrain after a long day of hard work in the field.

I was by the tents we'd erected at the site, with Aunt Aida's grandsons and other relatives, who'd all come to protest the settlement activity. A fire was lit to prepare some tea. Someone threw some indigenous shrubs on the flames, releasing the scent of incense into the air. One of the nephews, an elderly man named Abu Hazem, was staring at the stone wall. He started talking, more to himself than to anyone else there. "How did he manage to carry those huge stones with his bare hands to build this wall?" asked Abu Hazem.

Abu Hazem spoke about his uncle Khalil. Apart from working his land, Khalil was a stonecutter by trade. This was before trucks and bulldozers were available in this part of the world. He carved his stones from the rocky edges of his land with a chisel and carried them to Bethlehem on his camel.

In spite of the effort needed for such a profession, it is amazing how he had the time to build a stone wall to protect his land from sheep and goats that grazed the area in those days. Where did he find the time to build this stone hut, that today stands as solid as it did nearly a century ago, where he spent the summer months? Where did he find the strength to dig into the hard rock to create a water well to collect the rain?

Aunt Aida was widowed at a young age, Abu Hazem told us. She followed the example of her husband and worked the land. She kept it as he did, well cultivated, well tended. It was her only source of income to support her seven children. The devotion to the land was passed on to the children. Even after her eldest son grew to adulthood and found a job, dedication to the family fields never wavered. When Aunt Aida died 20 years ago, her oldest daughter, who's over 70 years old now, took care of the land as long as she was able.

But times had changed. The needs of the family outgrew what the land could provide. Brothers, sons and cousins who shared ownership were not available to help as they had before. Some of them were in Israeli prisons, some were cut off from Palestine after the 1967 war, and the Israelis deported others. Most of them died in exile.

Abu Hazem returned from exile and immediately turned his attention to the land, aiming to care for it as his uncle once had. It was costly. He couldn't afford a fence. Every new tree he planted was destroyed by deer. The land was dry and the water was far away. It was only recently he and his brothers at last managed to reclaim a few dunums. Now, Israeli bulldozers have ravaged the land. They have not, however, destroyed their dreams of restoring it.

Later that day, I was called to the hospital. Aunt Aida's eldest daughter had suffered a stroke and her condition was worsening. When I saw her she was delirious, unaware of who and what was around her. Yet, her every word was about that farm, the fig tree, the cottage, the fence. "Have you fixed the fence to keep the deer away?" she asked no one in particular. Even in this condition her only thoughts were of the family land. It brought me to tears. What of the Palestinian children who won't have such land to care so deeply for, whose heritage will have been buried by these Israeli bulldozers?

What I want to know is can any human being do what the settlers are doing if they understand a Palestinian's attachment to his land -- and if they do, can one really call them human.

If you want, you can check the story. Just call Beit Jala Hospital and ask for Miriam Sanad. If you manage to get her on the line, I'm sure she'll still be talking about getting that fence fixed.

Sincerely,

Salah Ta'mari