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June 23, 1995 - Image 56

Resource type:
Text
Publication:
The Detroit Jewish News, 1995-06-23

Disclaimer: Computer generated plain text may have errors. Read more about this.

Gigantic

Symbol Is Found
In A Druze Village

ERIC SILVER SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS

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T

he first thing you see dri-
ving into Majdal Shams,
the biggest of the Golan
Heights' Druze villages —
with 8,000 people living 4,000 feet
above sea level in the foothills of
Mount Hermon — is a bronze
monument to the Druze fighters
who joined the 1925 Syrian re-
volt against French colonialism.
It is a potent symbol.
Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak
Rabin last week dismissed the
Golan Heights, captured from
Syria in the feverish closing days
of the 1967 war, as "tank land,
not holy land." He is ready to give
the land back for peace, but
wants to withdraw over four
years to test his new partner's
good faith. President Hafez As-
sad of Syria thinks 18 months
should be long enough.
The American Secretary of
State, Warren Christopher, has
kickstarted their stalled negoti-
ations by persuading Damascus
to give Israel's security concerns
first priority. He will be back in
the Middle East this month try-
ing to narrow the differences.
The quickening diplomacy has
revived the hopes and fears of the
15,000 Druze and 12,000 Jews
who live on the heights in four
villages and 32 settlements re-
spectively. The Druze, a defiant
mountain sect who broke away
from Islam in the eleventh cen-
tury, are still Syrian citizens,
even though Israel annexed the
plateau in 1981.
"First and foremost we are Syr-
ian patriots," insists Hassan Fa-
her Eddin, a 47-year-old father
of five, sitting beneath a gold em-
broidered Syrian eagle and por-
traits of President Assad and the
Egyptian apostle of Arab unity,
Gamal Abdel Nasser. "If the
treaty goes ahead," he adds, "we
will be happy to live again in our
homeland, to get rid of the occu-
pation."
Israel barred Eddin from
teaching and imprisoned him
eight times as a Syrian nation-
alist agitator. He acknowledges
no doubts about the future. Most
of the villagers echo his joy. While
the Golan is not Gaza, Israeli rule
has left its scars.
But will totalitarian Syria be
better for the Druze?
"It doesn't matter if I will be
free to speak out against the
Government or not," argues
Fawzi Abu Jabal, a 43-year-old
mechanic who served 10 years
in an Israeli jail for spying for
Syria. "The main thing is that
I will be living in my homeland.
Assad may put you in prison,

but don't they do the same thing
here?"
But if you press them, the
Druze agree that the switch will
not be easy — 1995 is not 1967.
Their traditional baggy black
pantaloons, white turbaned hats
and walrus moustaches are giv-
ing way to blue jeans, Coca Cola
T-shirts and Elvis haircuts. The
Majdal Shams coffee shop sells a
passable pizza. The Druze have
added Hebrew to their native
Arabic. Many of them have pros-
pered — growing apples and
cherries for the Israeli market, or
working on Israeli building sites.
A tiny minority have become
Israeli citizens. Everyone knows
somebody with an Israeli pass-
port, but no one will admit to be-
ing one of them. Israeli officials
estimate that 300 might leave the
Golan villages and settle in
Galilee for fear of being brand-
ed collaborators. The Druze put
their number at no more than 50.
The majority is bracing for the
unknown. "There is no euphoria
here," says Asa'ad Safadi, 30, who
has a PhD in biology from Haifa
University. "We know we shall
face difficulties. There will be ups
and downs. People are earning
good money under the Israelis,
but they are also paying a lot of
taxes. In Syria, they may not get
as much money, but they will pay
less tax. Sure, the standard of liv-
ing is not as high there, but eco-
nomic wellbeing is not everything
in life."

The Druze have heard that
cars are harder to come by in Syr-
ia, so many are buying new cars
(the bigger the better) while they
still have their Israeli incomes.
But they are postponing plans to
build on to their stone and ce-
ment houses. For the time being,
they prefer to keep their savings
in cash (U.S. dollars bought on
the black market), knowing they
can always build later when, once
the Syrians are back, it will prob-
ably be cheaper. Prudence is the
watchword. Eiman Safadi is a 22-
year-old electrical engineer. He
was thinking of taking a second
degree. Instead, the plump, affa-
ble Technion graduate opened a
workshop making picture frames,
with a booming sideline in em-
broidered Syrian eagles. "I de-
cided," he explains, "to wait a bit
and see what happens."
In the shadow of the Majdal
Shams war memorial, a skittish
quartet of high school boys linger
on their way home for lunch.
They relish the chance of getting
the Israelis off their backs. But

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