Aitz Bodade

Abu screamed, "God is Great!". Then the Arab shot his rifle into the belly of a kibbutz woman. She died writhing in agony, as did the nearly full-term baby that was in her womb. Abu's soldiers repeated, "God is Great!" as they slit the throats and stabbed the thirteen remaining unarmed men at Kibbutz Gush Etzion. Not content with their deaths, Abu's men proceeded to tear the flesh and dismember the bodies of the kibbutznicks. When their blood fever had cooled, the soldiers looted the small wooden buildings. After they were cleared of valuables, the soldiers set fire to everything, including the grape vines and orange trees. On the next dark, dreary morning in 1948, all that was left of 2,000 years of Jewish dreams, and the sweat and blood that reinforced them, was a blackened, charred landscape littered with torn bodies. Miraculously, there was one sign of life left unharmed, and only one sign. For almost twenty years, the land remained barren and burnt, with the exception of the one sign of life sitting radiantly in the center.

In 1967, the Six Day War changed the landscape once again. Israel was better armed and highly determined and Jewish people fought once again for Gush Etzion. When the battles were over, victorious Israeli soldiers shouldered their guns and stood, mouths gaping, at that one sign of life still growing and flourishing. It was a large oak tree, hundreds of years old. It's leaves spread out in a circle of almost 100 feet. A corporal murmured under his breath, "Aitz Bodade" - Lonely Tree.

The name stood, and subsequently it was turned into a monument and a tourist attraction. The earth turned green again in the Gush, covered with lush grape vines, and succulent orange trees. Thirty years later, Abu's descendants changed their tactics, and made war into a game of annoyance called Intifada. At the turn of the 21st century, after years of Intifada, the tired government of Israel offered to give Gush Etzion to Abu's people, in exchange for a lasting peace. It was then that the Lonely Tree changed.

Orli walked up the steep hill and looked at the Lonely Tree. The tree mirrored her feelings exactly. Half of its branches were naked of leaves, and the other half looked a sickly pale green. Orli felt tired and older than her 31 years. She was thinner than usual, having not eaten anything for two days, and just a few scraps here and there for the last week. She was not sure if she would ever again have an appetite. Her dark brown eyes were red from crying and her blouse and shorts were drenched from sweat. It was hot, too hot to be out in the late afternoon, but she could not sleep, and she could not cry anymore, and she did not want to think about Moshe, so she went for a walk. Orli sat under the Lonely Tree, which was a few blessed degrees cooler in the shade. As she sat there, she watched an Arab boy of about twelve, dressed in a dirty T-shirt, jeans, and sandals, walk up the hill in front of her. He was gathering rocks and singing to himself. He did not see Orli, as he placed stones the size of small plums in his pockets. When his pockets were full, he crept silently, like a fox, back down the hill and crouched behind three large boulders. He was perhaps thirty meters from the road, where traffic was speeding in both directions. The Arab boy stood up, suddenly, and threw three rocks, one after another, at the cars speeding by. Two rocks missed their mark, but the third hit a Suburu on the windshield causing the glass to spiderweb. The Arab boy watched as the car jammed on its brakes, skidded, lost control, and came within inches of crashing into oncoming traffic. He readied himself to run, but when the car continued on, he smiled and laughed to himself. Once again, he crouched down and waited. Orli felt her blood beating in her ears like thunder as her heart pounded in her chest. She felt an energizing rage, and this rage fueled her tired emotions. She searched under the tree for a weapon. She found a hard, thick stick lying on the ground a few meters away. Orli ran silenty down the hill until she was behind the Arab boy. Orli screamed, "Bastard!" The Arab boy whirled around, startled. With one blow, she knocked him unconscious.

When Nabil woke up, his head hurt. He tried to rub it, but couldn't, because his hands were tied behind him. Nabil called out for help, only to discover his mouth was covered with a rag, and his cries were muffled. He tried to stand up and run, but found his legs bound and tied at the ankles. When his eyes cleared, Nabil saw he was lying beneath Aitz Bodade. There was a kibbutz woman standing over him, holding a large, thick stick in one hand. She poked him hard in the stomach, and he tried to move away from the painful jabs. He retreated backwards, like an injured insect, until his back was against the Aitz Bodade.

"Stop!" he screamed in Hebrew. Orli walked up to him, poked him again, harder than before, then removed the gag around his mouth. "What is your name?" she asked. "Go to hell!" He spit at her, and she felt drops of sticky mucous on her cheek. Orli wiped it off and poked him hard in his gut, again. "I hate you!" he shouted back at her in Arabic. "Yes, you hate me, don't you. Your eyes blaze with it." Orli enjoyed the surprise of his discovery that she understood Arabic. The kibbutz woman took the stick and poked him again. He jerked his body from side to side, trying to avoid it. Instead, the stick hit him in the mouth, and cut his lips. After he licked his blood, he stopped struggling. "Please untie me," he pleaded in Hebrew. "Untie you? No, I don't think so." "I won't tell the Police. I promise." "The Police? What would you tell the Police, you rock throwing devil?" "I did not throw any rocks." Orli was no longer listening. There was an old frayed rope lying on the ground, made for leading Arab donkeys. Before she had pulled off pieces of it to tie the Arab boy's hands and feet. She picked it up once again, and pulled on it. The remaining piece still had some strength left in it. She made a loop on one end. Orli watched as panic washed over the Arab boy's face, replacing the hatred. "I promise. Please. Please. If you let me go, I won't tell anyone," he said in broken Hebrew. "Oh, you won't tell anyone, that's for sure," Orli said in Arabic. Orli enjoyed making a hangman's noose and relished the look of abject fear on the Arab boy's face as she fit it around his neck. When the Arab boy began to cry, she thought of Moshe. They cried the same way, with loud sobs amongst little hiccups. "Please don't kill me!" the Arab boy cried. "And why not? Why shouldn't I kill you? You wanted to kill those people by throwing a rock at their windshield. Didn't you want to kill them? Well, didn't you?" "I promise, I will never do it again." "Yes, and if I hang you, you will be forced to keep your promise, won't you?" "Please! No! Please .... please ... please ..." Orli tied the gag, once again, around his mouth, and his cries became muffled.

Orli buried Moshe a week before, along with his friends Ari and Tal. How is it possible to put your eight year old son in the ground, she wondered? One day, he is laughing and playing soccer with friends. The next day, they are all dead and buried. How is it possible that a life so pure and joyful could be snuffed out? Achmud Sanjil, aged 20, drove his old Fiat, loaded with a hundred and fifty pounds of explosives into Moshe's bus on his way to school in the morning. He did this in the name of Allah, and the Palestinian people. Three Jewish boys died, and 17 Jewish children went to the hospital, crying and bleeding. Achmud Sanjil was promised seventy virgins and untold riches in the next world by his priest. The captain of Hamas promised that Sanjil's mother, father, eight brothers, and five sisters would never go hungry in this world. To a poor Palestinian from a refugee camp, these were great rewards and honors. All Achmud had do was give up his soul.

Orli threw the rope over a limb above her head. She pulled until heard the Arab boy choke. "I did not think hating could make me feel so good, but I do feel good again. I did not think I could ever feel this good again." She said out loud to herself. She pulled harder on the rope and the Arab boy began to lift off the ground. His face was red as a tomato, and she could hear him strangling. "A life for a life," Orli pronounced. It was then that she heard a whisper. The voice was kind, and understanding, yet very firm. The voice whispered, "No." She pulled harder and the boy's choking sounds filled the air. "No ... no."

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