Requiem for a Jewish Settler

Whenever I'm tempted to make snap judgments about Israel, I remind myself of Dubak, “The Bear”. Try to imagine Mad Max as a middle aged Jewish settler. Dubak was built square. He reminded me of a rusty old washing-machine, with a mass of contradictions spinning inside him.

Dubak, whose real name was Dov Vineshtok, was that rare species of Israeli: one who had actual contact with Arabs. When an Israeli hiker got lost in the desert, Dubak would hop onto his dune buggy, round up some Bedouin scouts and find the hiker before the vultures got to him.

On our last ride with him, to the cliffs above the Dead Sea, we passed an olive grove. Along the road, a row of the ancient trees was cut to stumps, amputated. “I did that,” said Dubak. “The Arabs were throwing rocks at the settler's cars. And after I cut down the first row, I told the Arabs that if one of our cars was hit by another rock, I would cut down a second row. And you know what? The rock-throwing stopped.”

I didn't think this eye-for-eye stuff was fair: one smashed windshield was equal to part of a Palestinian family's livelihood? “The Arabs respect strength,” he retorted. During the Intifadah uprising, some Arabs in a car shot and killed Dubak's teenaged son, waiting at a bus stop. The Israeli authorities kept an eye on Dubak; they thought he would go on an Arab killing spree, but he didn't. He believed in justice, even if his interpretation ran to the harsh side. It wasn't in his nature to take revenge on innocents.

The man who carved the tombstone for Dubak's son was an Arab, and he refused to take any payment. “I heard about how your son died,” the Arab mason replied. “And I'm very sorry.”

Unwilling to accept charity from an enemy, Dubak pushed his wad of shekels across the counter.

“You don't remember me, do you?” asked the stonecarver.

Dubak shook his head.

“Many years ago, I was breaking stones on the road. You came out and offered me water. A pitcher of iced water.”

After his son's murder, Dubak spent less time inside the walls of Gush Etzion settlement, on a hill near Jerusalem. He would roam the desert, often taking along troubled teenagers. They were entranced by his gruff humor, his wildness. He taught these youths to respect Arabs, particularly the Bedouin. And many of them went on to elite combat units. Dubak also taught them that they must be prepared to defend Israel with their blood.

Dubak cleared out a cave and would spend time there, sometimes with the teenagers but most often alone, like a hermit, not far from his son's grave beside a spring.

On our drive to the cliffs, Dubak stopped to water a eucalyptus tree in the desert. I saw a Bedouin boy on a donkey come riding over the hills towards us. “Dubak! Dubak!” The boy called. He galloped over, swung off the donkey and came forward to solemnly shake Dubak's hand. That was all that the boy wanted.

Once I asked him how this would all end, between the Israelis and the Palestinians. Would there be peace? No, he replied. “How can there be? We want the same land. And in the end, I'm afraid that the Arabs will win.”

Why? I asked.

“Because the Arabs love this land more than we Jews do.”

On Thursday, Dubak's heart gave out. He was only 60, but he was ready to go. He loved the land, but his long and anguished fight for it had worn him out. Dubak told friends that he looked forward to dying, for he would be joining his son.

---by Tim McGirk/Gush Etzion