Bonded in Resistance to the Barrier

'How Do We Trust?'

At the top of the valley, along the unmarked road into the village, sits the Obaidallah family home, where 45 people spanning three generations live among plots of cucumbers, tomatoes and squash, the rooftops of Tzur Hadassah visible over the ridgeline above.

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"The people there say it is better to have Arab neighbors than to have Betar Ilit as a neighbor," said Hamed Obaidallah, the 70-year-old patriarch, over large dishes of lamb and rice. "But I cannot say that all the people in Tzur Hadassah are like this, only a few who want peace."

Some of the men gathered in the sunny rooftop parlor told stories of working in Tzur Hadassah and the kindnesses they had received over the years.

One Friday, recalled Jamal Obaidallah, Hamed's 47-year-old son, a doctor there asked him if he planned to pray at the al-Aqsa mosque on the Muslim Sabbath.

"I told him I had no permits to go to Jerusalem," said Jamal, who owns a small grocery store. "He stopped what he was doing and said, 'Get in the car.' And he drove me right past the soldiers, and I prayed."

But Jamal's brother, Sami Obaidallah, 42, who works for a U.N. agency in Bethlehem, asked, "Do we really know them?"

"I mean, you know there are Israelis up there -- you can see them," he continued. "But it's like switching on a TV, as if they are in Britain or France, because our lives are so different. I can make a friendship with someone in Tzur Hadassah, but will that make any difference?"

Tzur Hadassah's master plan calls for the suburb to grow fivefold in the coming years, including down a slope toward Wadi Fukin. Ghaleb Bader, Wadi Fukin's mayor, said the construction above the village has left many residents suspicious.

"They think the opposition from Tzur Hadassah to the fence is because they want to expand onto our land," Bader said.

On a hot April morning, over a rise in the road leading to the springs, a group of young Jewish settlers appeared in wet boxer shorts, their leader carrying an M-16 rifle. They had come from a swim.

"We're celebrating these beautiful places," said Eitam Arzoni, 27, tapping the rifle on his shoulder. "We never have any problems here, but we need a weapon."

His charges attend a yeshiva in a nearby settlement, and they oppose the barrier because it will mark a distinction between Israel and Palestinian territory they say is part of Israel.

"It will divide our country," said Roi Shashar, 16. "It's strangling the land."

Over tea in an eggplant field a few days later, Sukkar and Mohammed Rashad Manassrah, 65, snapped at each other with the easy bluntness that comes from years of practice.

"Not all the residents of Tzur Hadassah are working with us, only about four of them," Sukkar shouted at his friend, whom he has known since their childhood in the Deheisha camp. "Is there a threat from Tzur Hadassah? I say yes. How do we trust?"

In the stiffening breeze, Manassrah, who usually smiles broadly beneath his bushy mustache, listened placidly.

"I know there are those here who say this is like blowing into an empty goatskin -- that there is nothing in there," Manassrah said. "And I know there is another group who says this is against our collective interest, against our religion -- and our homeland."

He paused.

"But to anyone who stands with us to protect our land, I extend my hand, regardless of who they are."