Al-Lajoun

A feast of fruits and wafers is piled up on the dark wooden coffee table in front of us, above and beyond the usual glasses of tea. The house is lush, with embroidered curtains and shining marble floors. “When they took our lands we became poor,” he says, but I am unconvinced. He tells us the city is too densely populated, and I wonder if the apparent luxury of his house belies its actual crowded discomfort. This man is a communist leader in the community; thoughts of armchair Marxism and wealthy revolutionaries fill my head.

We introduce ourselves around the circle. Most of us say we are students or describe our job, but Gianni admits he’s unemployed. “Maybe he’s in the CIA,” jokes our translator, relaying what he said to our speaker. “Stay here,” says our speaker. “The majority here are unemployed.”

“Our wheat was a meter and a half high,” he says. “Everyone made tons of wheat. We had many varieties, and all the technology. It was rich land. Now a kibbutz uses it. Every strip of land has a special name that we still remember.”

We go on a tour to see the village. “There is Megiddo prison. When the hagana and the Jew came, it was given to them. It was a cooperation of the British and the Jew.” The word Jew blares raspily from the mini-tour-bus microphone that our translator doesn’t put down though it is far too loud. Jew, jew, jew. There is where the mosque used to be, now with three fences around it. There is the cemetery that was used as a trash pit by settlers.

Gianni asks me if my thoughts about land are the same as they were in my confused quasi-Marxist rant the evening before during reflection session. “Actually, they’re changing a little,” I tell him. “Why?” he asks. “Because it’s pretty” I respond. What I mean is that standing in the wheat fields, I’m beginning not only to understand its power, but also to respect it.