It’s the hardliners, the extremists, who claim God gave them the land. They’re never going to change their view.’
‘Exactly,’ Ahmed said.
‘But it’s not as simple as that, Ahmed. Over half the Israeli population are not religious at all, but it’s the ultra-orthodox hardliners who hold the balance of power in the Knesset, particularly in the current government, and they effectively veto any moves that would halt the settlements and achieve peace.’
‘Which is why I support Hezbollah,’ Ahmed replied, his eyes blazing with indignation. ‘The only way we’re going to force Israel to negotiate is at the point of a gun.’
‘When I was your age, I probably would have said the same thing,’ his father responded, ‘but now I’m not so sure. Israel is becoming more and more aggressive, and as a result, more and more isolated. She has very few friends left in the international community, and even the Egyptians and the Turks are beginning to distance themselves. Ultimately, I think international pressure will force Israel to negotiate.’
‘In the meantime, I’d still like to join Hezbollah,’ Ahmed protested. ‘Cousin Kazim’s now a team leader,’ he added wistfully.
‘And your cousin Kazim doesn’t hold an engineering degree,’ Mansoor admonished his son gently. He puffed on his hookah and stared into the night. Way in the distance, he could just pick out the faint glow of the security lights that marked the Israeli border fence.
Kazim focused his treasured pair of battered binoculars and searched the barbed-wire fence and the dusty road beyond that marked the UN Blue Line border between Lebanon and Israel. For the moment, the road was empty. The stocky team leader from the Lebanese border town of Aita Ech Chaab was a veteran of more than a hundred raids against Israel. He knew every detail of the rocky hills covered with abundant laurel trees from which his family extracted oil and made soap.
Kazim motioned the two younger members of the team to begin setting up their Katyusha rocket launcher behind a thick clump of laurel trees. The bearing to the town of Ma’alot Tarshiha in Israel, five kilometres to the south-west, was 217 degrees magnetic. Kazim stood behind the short, stubby missile, with its eight-kilogram projectile, signalling the team to adjust the launch direction and elevation. Tonight, Hezbollah’s headquarters in Beirut had ordered all teams to set their timers for ten-fifteen p.m., when Israelis in the northern border towns would be in their homes. Once the missiles were positioned, a simple battery would trigger the firing remotely. As well as Ma’alot Tarshiha, the Israeli towns of Safed, Nahariya, and Karmiel were all on the target list. The Katyusha rocket, Kazim knew, was not known for its pinpoint accuracy, but that didn’t matter. The powerful payload of explosive was designed to strike terror into the hearts of the Israelis, and as long as they landed somewhere in each town, that was all that mattered.
‘Sooner or later, Insha’allah, ’ Kazim muttered to himself, ‘the arrogant Israelis will get the message and stop building their illegal settlements on Palestinian land.’
Kazim set the timer on the battery and again scanned the border,less than a kilometre from his position. Suddenly, two Israeli armoured Humvees rumbled to a halt and then reversed onto the bend on the border road, just north of the Israeli settlement of Shtula. Clouds of dust rose into the circle of arc lighting from the fence. Fearing the Israelis might have their night-vision goggles trained for any sign of movement, Kazim took cover and signalled for the two younger guerrillas to do the same. The Israeli Defense Force was more active than usual, he thought, but by the time the deadly Katyusha arced into the night sky, he and his team would be long gone. Lying on his stomach, he focused his binoculars.
Reservists, he thought contemptuously. The Israelis had dismounted and put on a brew
‘Exactly,’ Ahmed said.
‘But it’s not as simple as that, Ahmed. Over half the Israeli population are not religious at all, but it’s the ultra-orthodox hardliners who hold the balance of power in the Knesset, particularly in the current government, and they effectively veto any moves that would halt the settlements and achieve peace.’
‘Which is why I support Hezbollah,’ Ahmed replied, his eyes blazing with indignation. ‘The only way we’re going to force Israel to negotiate is at the point of a gun.’
‘When I was your age, I probably would have said the same thing,’ his father responded, ‘but now I’m not so sure. Israel is becoming more and more aggressive, and as a result, more and more isolated. She has very few friends left in the international community, and even the Egyptians and the Turks are beginning to distance themselves. Ultimately, I think international pressure will force Israel to negotiate.’
‘In the meantime, I’d still like to join Hezbollah,’ Ahmed protested. ‘Cousin Kazim’s now a team leader,’ he added wistfully.
‘And your cousin Kazim doesn’t hold an engineering degree,’ Mansoor admonished his son gently. He puffed on his hookah and stared into the night. Way in the distance, he could just pick out the faint glow of the security lights that marked the Israeli border fence.
Kazim focused his treasured pair of battered binoculars and searched the barbed-wire fence and the dusty road beyond that marked the UN Blue Line border between Lebanon and Israel. For the moment, the road was empty. The stocky team leader from the Lebanese border town of Aita Ech Chaab was a veteran of more than a hundred raids against Israel. He knew every detail of the rocky hills covered with abundant laurel trees from which his family extracted oil and made soap.
Kazim motioned the two younger members of the team to begin setting up their Katyusha rocket launcher behind a thick clump of laurel trees. The bearing to the town of Ma’alot Tarshiha in Israel, five kilometres to the south-west, was 217 degrees magnetic. Kazim stood behind the short, stubby missile, with its eight-kilogram projectile, signalling the team to adjust the launch direction and elevation. Tonight, Hezbollah’s headquarters in Beirut had ordered all teams to set their timers for ten-fifteen p.m., when Israelis in the northern border towns would be in their homes. Once the missiles were positioned, a simple battery would trigger the firing remotely. As well as Ma’alot Tarshiha, the Israeli towns of Safed, Nahariya, and Karmiel were all on the target list. The Katyusha rocket, Kazim knew, was not known for its pinpoint accuracy, but that didn’t matter. The powerful payload of explosive was designed to strike terror into the hearts of the Israelis, and as long as they landed somewhere in each town, that was all that mattered.
‘Sooner or later, Insha’allah, ’ Kazim muttered to himself, ‘the arrogant Israelis will get the message and stop building their illegal settlements on Palestinian land.’
Kazim set the timer on the battery and again scanned the border,less than a kilometre from his position. Suddenly, two Israeli armoured Humvees rumbled to a halt and then reversed onto the bend on the border road, just north of the Israeli settlement of Shtula. Clouds of dust rose into the circle of arc lighting from the fence. Fearing the Israelis might have their night-vision goggles trained for any sign of movement, Kazim took cover and signalled for the two younger guerrillas to do the same. The Israeli Defense Force was more active than usual, he thought, but by the time the deadly Katyusha arced into the night sky, he and his team would be long gone. Lying on his stomach, he focused his binoculars.
Reservists, he thought contemptuously. The Israelis had dismounted and put on a brew
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