Race to the summit in the snows of yesteryear

I write this late on a cold, wet night a few days after Pesach (Passover), at our isolated home at the very edge of Elon Moreh, snuggled into the shoulder of Mt. Kabir. The winds from the West gust through the pass of Shechem, bringing with them the sounds of automatic weapons fire, occasional explosions, and just a hint of the smell of spilled blood down in the darkness below.

Cold tonight, in a kind of wearying drudgery, a dark hopelessness… not like that very cold morning a few winters back, that dawned dazzling bright with incredible snow cover.

Snow in Israel? Indeed, for a day or two every few years, a cold and clean blanket covers all (and arouses buried longings for the land of the tall pines and evergreens…).

Waking the kids, who stare wide-eyed at the view from the window. Bolting some breakfast, wrapping up in the most wintry type garments we could find – to run outside, to marvel, to throw it and roll in it – before the miracle melts and disappears.

We’ve got about 10 centimeters of snow around the house – should be double or triple that on the peak some 70 meters above us, with even deeper drifts! I take with me our two youngest, who, at 8 and 10 years of accumulated wisdom and experience, don’t quite recall anything like this.

The going is heavy and slippery, so we wind our way around the peak, gently climbing as we seek out the gentler Western slope. As we put distance behind us, the barking of our watchdogs on their cables around the house is swallowed in the cold, crisp air, and the distant houses of the settlement become the small, frosted backdrop of a fairy tale.

The boys have trouble keeping up on the slope, but suddenly Shmuel puts on a burst of speed to catch up with me, and pulls my arm to emphasize where he wants me to look: “There Abba, do you see them? Who are they?”

In the distance, climbing above us on the slope, are a group of young men, also bundled for a once-a-year snow, looking vaguely military in dress. I wave to them. The closest to us waves back, then says something to his friends. They quickly double their pace, and leave us behind. I say, “Probably some of the students from the Yeshiva, enjoying the snow instead of learning – just like you!”

Yisrael is a year and a half older, and not to be outdone, he also scans the horizon for something to report. “Here Abba – just ahead and to the side are more!”

All the beauty and serenity are abruptly emptied from the day. Cold chills to the bone, despite the bright sunshine. The group above us couldn’t really be Yeshiva students. Their school was on the other side of the settlement, now hidden from us after rounding a third of the peak. The second group that Yisrael has just noticed are wearing wrapped Khaffiyot as well as some wool caps. Now that I stop to look, I can see other groups of climbers setting out from the Arab village of Azmut, a kilometer below us on the ridge.

Is this a white scenario, or a black one? Coming to play, or to attack? Paranoia! Arab villagers coming out to play in the snow, just like you are. But I’m here alone, and with 2 small kids…?

I shake off all the doubts, unable and unwilling in any event to flee. I raise my hand and call a neighbourly greeting to the man nearest us. He looks startled, and glances quickly around. My paranoia must be catching. If I don’t reassure him, he’ll probably bolt… I renew my greeting, and walk quickly towards him to shake his hand and exchange a few words, slowed by my kids who have apparently also felt the sudden chill in the air.

Another fast look around – and his nerve breaks. He turns and awkwardly starts slogging back towards the village, calling to the others…

This is starting to feel bad. My own negative thoughts have leaked out and are poisoning the surroundings. Should we have ignored them? What now? He did turn and run. Maybe he knows something that I don’t? I can’t turn my back on them and run as well…

I pull out my cell phone and punch the emergency quick-dial, while smiling nonchalantly at the dozen or so Arabs now either retreating towards their village, or standing and staring at us from a safe distance. No one speaks. The kids have seized my arms from both sides in a death-grip. If they rush us, will I throw my sons aside, fumble for my .38 revolver tucked deep into a pocket under my coat? Only holds six shots… Maybe I’ll just gather them under me, scrunch up and take their blows on my back – not responding until they tire and leave us…?

What I can’t do is run away.

Finally the emergency switchboard answers. I hurriedly describe my location and situation. The operator doesn’t understand. “Are they attacking you? Are they threatening the settlement?” Apparently I’ve described the situation perfectly. Everything that I don’t understand, I’ve managed to convey to her.

But my neighbors understand perfectly. The minute they see that I have reached someone on the phone, their indecision is broken. They all start returning to the village.

I start to feel even worse. Should I run after them, convince them it’s all a mistake – just my paranoia got loose somehow, started poisoning our mutual air? Would it help? Do they know something that I don’t?

The operator is still on the line. I diligently report my neighbors’ flight. “So,” she asks, “everything is back to normal? Everything OK?” No, not exactly. I try to explain: “There was another group of “locals” that passed us on their way to the peak 10 minutes ago, I can see them up above us. They’re making for the point that overlooks the whole settlement…” “So?” “So scramble a jeep to climb up the back side of the peak before they get there! Who knows what they’re planning on doing?”

Indeed – who knows? I know! They’re planning on building snowmen and throwing snowballs – just like us. Call it off! Let them play… who knows how many years until we will have another snow like this! “Get that jeep up there fast – we’re trailing them. I’ll let you know if they change direction.” “How many are in your group?” Good question – do the boys count? If I say “three” she’ll tell me to apprehend them ourselves (they’re only six or so…). If I say I’m alone, she’ll tell me to run for cover. And if I say I’m with my two small sons? “Don’t worry about us – just get that jeep there on time!”

So they climb, quickly and agilely, and I climb after them, pulling the kids along with me – can’t leave them! Checking with each step for possible cover – they’re above us… and we can see the settlement’s jeep, far away, puffing out clouds of smoke as its engine warms. They really are heading for the overlook, a place no Arab has stood since the first Intifada – and with good reason: a beautiful panorama of every road and house in the settlement, all within easy rifle range.

The jeep starts to wend its way slowly towards the path to the overlook. But it’s going to take him 10 minutes to drive up, if he remembers to use the 4 wheel drive for the slippery snow. My neighbors will reach the crest in less than 2 minutes.

I hide the boys behind a jumble of boulders that screens them from above, with a few stern words not to move until I return. They’re almost to the crest. I race upwards, drawing the revolver, and shout “Halt!”

Halt? From making snowballs? But the telepathy of paranoia is working overtime today. They know exactly what I mean. Just meters short of the crest they shear off on a tangent, giving me a wide berth, swinging downhill and back towards their village.

I finally gain the top, and stand there out of breath – feeling the complete fool and spoilsport. I re-holster the useless revolver. They stop at a safe distance and glare at me, a few signalling obscene gestures. What’s my response? What can I do? I took out the camera I packed for pictures of snowmen, and shot a nice group picture with the telephoto lens.

End of incident. The jeep finally arrived. I walked back down to reassure and placate my sons. Then the army arrived, and I had to tell them the story too. What a story…what a day…

We walked back home, and the kids threw snowballs until it all turned to slush. I fixed myself a cup of hot tea, and cringed to think of the damage I had caused. What if… somehow we had climbed up together, played together in the snow… they could have sent back to the village, called their younger brothers to come play as well…

When I developed the roll of film, the telephoto lens group picture of our summit-climbing neighbors showed the same obscene gestures I had seen with the unaided eye. The only addition I could now make out was that at least two were carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles.