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An old aerial photo from the Ragolsky family shows Jewish settlers leaving Sinai as part of Israel's withdrawal. |
Sinai:
Withdrawing the Border
Only once in history did Israel withdraw its settlers and
its land claims and succeed in a real peace settlement. In 1979,
Egypt and Israel signed a land-for-peace agreement. By April
1982, most of the 5,000 settlers had voluntarily returned to
Israel, with compensation packages ranging from US$100,000 for
city dwellers to US$500,000 for farmers.
Some resisted. When 3,000 Jewish militants from Sinai and
the West Bank hunkered down, refusing to leave, then-Prime Minister
Menachem Begin and then-Defense Minister Ariel Sharon sent 7,000
troops to remove them. The militants blockaded themselves onto
rooftops and dumped cabbages, burning tires, handfuls of sand
and cooking oil onto the soldiers who were climbing ladders
to
remove them. Finally, the soldiers were lowered down onto one
roof in a cage by a crane. From that vantage point, they subdued
the militants with thick, white foam from fire hoses. Stunned
and covered in foam, 300 resistors were shepherded into a giant
cage. By nightfall, they were on buses to the Israeli desert
city of Beersheva. The border could be moved.
The family of my friend Hadas Ragolsky was among the hundreds
of Jewish settlers whose homes were removed to Israel peaceably.
Hadas's community, Netiv Ha'asara, was the only one to relocate
from Sinai to Israel and retain the same name and many of the
same residents.
Netiv Ha'asara II: Lilies and Tanks
The new Netiv Ha'asara is scrappy and luxurious: yards of sand
just two minutes north of the Gaza Strip with odd patches of grass
where richer soil has been deposited and carefully watered. The
sand dunes, the Ragolskys say, remind them of Netiv Ha'asara the
First.
Pnina Ragolsky hangs laundry outside her
house in the second town named Netiv Ha'Asara, relocated
from Sinai. |
Pnina Ragolsky, a vibrant woman in her 50s, recounts how she
had moved with her husband Amnon to Sinai in 1973, the year
of the Yom Kippur War. She was a teacher, Amnon wanted to farm,
and they both wanted to start something new. The government,
which had occupied Sinai in 1967, was encouraging settlement.
"The government decided it belonged to Israel," says Pnina.
"There were no borders. Israel has no borders to this day. The
borders are all questionable." Over almost a decade, they nurtured
cucumbers, tomatoes, baby's breath and gladiolas, living the
Israeli myth of making the desert flower. And then the families
were evacuated and came to this new place.
Today, dozens of lilies in vases scent the Ragolskys' sprawling
house, products of one of the most successful farms in Israel.
Here, on the edge of the battle zone of Gaza, the atmosphere
is easy and bucolic. Still, two Qassem rockets launched from
Gaza recently landed in the fields of Netiv Ha'asara II, Pnina
said, and one hit 200 meters from the Ragolskys' home.
Pnina's son Ilan used to ride his bicycle unimpeded over the
sand dunes to a Jewish settlement just moments away in Gaza.
For Ilan, borders still seem malleable. When I mention that
I'd like to visit Nisanit, a settlement inside Gaza, Ilan says,
"That's not Gaza. It's really not. That area is going to become
part of Israel." He speaks with such assurance that I get out
a map to make sure Nisanit is inside the rectangle of the Gaza
Strip.
A Thai worker in the Ragolskys' greenhouse
replaces Palestinian workers whom the Ragolskys laid off,
citing security and closures, after the start of the current
Intifada. |
Until a few years ago, most of the Ragolskys' workers came
from Gaza -- some had commuted to the farm for 15 years. Yet
violent events have led the family to enforce borders around
them. After the current intifada started, border closures often
prevented Gazans from getting to Israel. The Ragolskys fired
all the Palestinians and replaced them with contract workers
from Thailand. "I'm not feeling good with it, because I know
they have no money at all," says Pnina. "Two days ago, Abu Rayyed,
our worker, called again and asked if maybe we can find a way
for him to come. We're not afraid of him. I am sure I
can trust him, no doubt. But we can't just have him."
At night, outside in starlight, we drink coffee to the sound
of tanks grinding up neighboring hills. Pnina says there is
no military solution, and walls can't protect anyone. "The only
reason we feel safe," says Ilan, "is that we have them." He
means the Jews in the Gaza settlements. "If they're gone, we're
the first line." I watch the fireflies as I hear bursts of automatic
rifle fire.
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