It is Lag Ba'Omer, and the smoke from countless bonfires still hangs in the air from last night. The skies are grey even though the sun has already risen in the east on a cloudless day. I set out for an early morning bicycle ride through the fields that surround my community of Hoshaya, riding north-west, towards the Bet Netufa Valley. These days, the landscape of the Galilee is in flux, shifting from the rich, deep green of spring to the washed-out yellow of summer. The forest green of the pine trees, the silvery shine of the olive trees, and the soft green of the new cotton plants that are peeking out of the rows of heavy earth, fade into the greenish yellow of the drying spring weeds, and the dusty gold of the wheat stalks after the harvest.
Heading west from Hoshaya, two runners passed me with a cheerful wave. My friends Danny, a professor of philosophy, and Dubi, a pediatrician. They were both wearing professional running clothes and running shoes, and on their arms, sophisticated running watches. I veered north under the highway, with the large artificial reservoir of the national water carrier to my left, pumping and collecting the little water that is left in the Sea of Galilee before sending it southwards. And then I saw him, prodding a flock of sheep that was slowly gleaning from the remaining stalks in the wheat field. A Bedouin shepherd, walking along in measured steps, a little bent over, wearing long clothes, a plaid flannel shirt, and a pair of corduroy pants that had seen better days, and high rubber boots, in no relation to the heat of the day and the season, as if their owner forgot that the winter and its mud were already behind us.
I stopped my bicycle next to him and greeted him: "A salaam aleikum". "Aleikum a salaam" he answered warmly, pleased with the opportunity to speak to another person after spending hours in the company of sheep. We exchanged a series of traditional blessings in Arabic, covering the main topics that are important in life: health, peace, family and livelihood. As always, I was pleased to practice my Arabic, and as rusty as it is from lack of use, I still enjoy the feel of it coming from my mouth.
I quickly learned that the name of this Bedouin man was Yusuf, and that he lives in the neighboring Arab-Bedouin village of Arab-el-Heib. The village is situated directly across from Hoshaya, only about one kilometer away. Yet, despite the geographical proximity, any connection between the people of that village and those of Hoshaya is practically non-existent. The only exception is Zaki, the security guard at the school in Hoshaya. Despite his background, Zaki is entrusted with the peace and security of the parents and children alike. Frequently Zaki's presence confuses the younger schoolchildren, who, out of their Israeli reality, believe that Arab = dangerous person. When I told my youngest daughter that Zaki the guard is Arab, she answered me in innocent alarm, "What, Zaki is Arab? I thought Arabs are bad, and Zaki is supposed to protect us?!"
Without my asking, Yusuf told me that he lives next to an ancient cave carved into the earth of a hill that is visible in the middle of the Bet Netufa Valley - a cave that the teenagers of Hoshaya like to hike to and crawl into. "That cave is here in the valley since the time of the Jewish revolt over the Romans. The Jews hid out in the cave from the Romans 2000 years ago" Yusuf told me. And just like that he connected with his words our casual conversation to the tradition of Lag Ba'Omer. The previous evening, on Erev Lag b'Omer, I discussed with my four children the origins of the celebration of this holiday. I was curious to see how much they knew. Because even I don't remember all the details of the tradition, I took down from the bookshelf a volume from the encyclopedia of Jewish traditions. After I'd read enough to refresh my memory, I focused on the section that explains about the tradition of lighting a bonfire on Erev L"g b'Omer, that same one that the children of Israel have turned into the main purpose of the holiday, for which they collect wood from the end of Pesach, to sit around enormous bonfires throughout the night, eating,, telling stories and playing games.
According to tradition, lighting a bonfire on Lag Ba'Omer has its origins in the Jewish revolt against the Romans, when the sign that it was about to happen was relayed from village to village, via bonfires that were lit on hilltops across Yehuda and the Galilee.
I took advantage of the opportunity and asked Yusuf the ultimate question: "What will be?" Even without my specifying what I actually meant by that question, Yusuf understood and directed his answer towards the relations between Jews and Arabs and the longed-for peace that is slipping away from us. The old shepherd's answer began with a declaration that he belongs on the good side of the fence: "Everyone in our village served in the army as trackers, in the Border Police, and the security forces. We don't have any problems..." After that he elegantly passed the responsibility for the situation to the one who is ultimately accountable. "Everything is in Allah's hands", he declared. "I don't know what will be. Everything is in the hands of heaven".
I parted from Yusuf and he and his herd continued on their way across the middle of the wheat field. I got back on my bike and pondered our short conversation as I pedaled back to Hoshaya. The exchange with Yusuf reminded me of a large public organization I used to work for. The atmosphere in that organization at that time was grim because of budget cuts, political conflicts and uncertainty about the future. In conversations I had with some of the more senior employees, those who had worked in the organization for decades, I always got the feeling that they bent in the wind like reeds, waiting to see which direction the wind would blow and when. Who would rise and who would fall. The daily issues were less worrisome for them. Instead, they focused on the future - their pension, on life after work. To get to their retirement days in peace, they were careful about what they said, avoiding taking any position that would identify them one way or another. They understood that the boss of today may not even be in the organization tomorrow.
In conversations with Arab Israelis I sense a similar thing. Not just on the side of politicians and intellectuals, but also among the simple people, and mainly the adults among them. Sometimes it seems that the day to day problems concern them less, and they look to the long term, to the tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. They relate to the complex mosaic that binds our lives together in Israel from a long-term, historical perspective. They understand, not necessarily because of education or grasp of the details of history, but from the wisdom of life, that those in control come and go, particularly when it comes to Israel. They wait, patiently, to see who is the strongest, who will rule, and who has the power today and until when.
Because for thousands of years, in this small and amazing land that is stuck between Asia, Europe and Africa, different leaders and kings have risen and fallen, won and lost, conquered and were conquered. And the State of Israel of today exists for less than one hundred years and already it is so difficult to control what it has conquered and achieved, and the country is torn asunder by opposing powers and forces from within, and pressured by enemies and haters from outside.
Do Yusuf and those like him understand something that we, the current rulers of this land, don't?
