So it goes, it continues, that the entity known as Zion expands itself through the opportunities presented; and from those opportunities we arrive at the Golan Heights, perhaps least contentious of Israel's annexed territories and yet very important to those who lost it. Obviously.

Syria, in its military ineptness and Israel's rousing defeat of its enemies upon these hills in 1967 remembers well what is, and was, and now might still be, but is no longer, theirs. Indeed, perhaps if Syria were a more noble state it would admit to losing the territories fair and square. Or conversely, if Israel were a more noble state it would have never pursued its annexation in the first place. But those who live in Israel need their living room, and indeed the mostly unoccupied Golan suited this purpose well.

So I was in the neighbourhood. Qiryat Shimona is a forgettable Israeli town and transport hub for all buses that would take folks north to the Lebanese border (closed) and east into the Golan, through winding mountain stretches and the military roads that criss-cross its lush plains. Perhaps when these roads were first paved they merely went to nowhere, circling around the annexed land, but now it is filled with Kibbutzes - those Israeli settlements which are part farm, part commune, part colony, populated by Israel's most ambitious colonizers; and their children, and their children's children, as the Golan's history as a part of Israel is now stretching to beyond thirty-five years.

I had visited the destroyed town of Quneitra four years ago in the buffer zone between the Syrians and the Israelis - forged by the UN, agreed to by both bitter sides, the Zone existed to keep these two enemies apart; however the town of Quneitra was in the way, and was razed (allegedly) by Israelis who retreated just behind the buffer zone. Syria has kept Quneitra in its destroyed state as a reminder of Israel's evildoings, and although it required a small mound of paperwork and confusing minibus connections south west of Damascus to reach, it was certainly educating. However, Syria's anti-Israeli propaganda is absolutely imbalanced as one might imagine. I found myself in Israel again recently, with the burning curiosity of seeing exactly what had become of Syria's most prized lost possession.

The mountains of Lebanon loom to the north of the Golan, and Syria also, serving as a marker for their border. Only twice a day does an Israeli bus make this route through the Golan, winding along first the Lebanese border and then the UN Disengagement zone - or, for the optimist, the Israeli border. In the hills there are two towns, Mas'ada and Majdal Shams, which are the home to a large ethnic minority called the Druze. Indeed, these people never wanted Israel on their doorstep in the first place, and their two towns look and feel more like the towns of the West Bank and Syria than the other, colder, cleaner, towns found elsewhere in Jewish Israel. Also along this road was Nimrud castle, an impressive structure that sits proudly on a hill, looking west across the Golan, to Qiryat Shimona and beyond. The public bus plodded relentlessly up the steep slopes, continuing its quest through the Heights, and through Mas'ada; armed with my map and the language of English, a bus driver beckoned a young woman behind me to explain where exactly it was that I wanted to go.






If you ever want to pique the curiosity of an Israeli, tell them you've visited Syria. She was eminently curious about the place, the people, and how they lived. She also knew exactly where I wanted to be dropped off, at her Kibbutz, to see Quneitra from across the disengagement Zone. Late afternoon set in as the bus crawled through the electric gates of Kibbutz Merom Golan, buried deep in Israel's annexed territories; I bounced off the bus and found myself in a sleepy gated community of apartment buildings, livestock sheds, and some hills to the east.






To the hills I went. Amongst many hills in the Golan, I had seen telltale signs of terraforming - large swaths of rich soil sliced from their sides, and in the distance, once or twice I heard a soft rumble. The blasting continued. Certainly Golan's land is enviable for its wonderful farming potential, and at this point the reality of that potential is quite important to a tiny nation of mostly desert such as Israel. Along a narrow yet finely paved street I walked, around the livestock sheds, and through another rickety aluminum gate to the east. To my left were the snowy peaks of Lebanon's mountains, and to my right was a large hill. In front, just beyond a large reservoir, was a low hill and at its base looked to be a small village - with a tiny minaret staring my way.

Syria. The disengagement zone was all but invisible; I walked along a road and right up close, as there is little demarcation to the what and where of it. However memories of Syria came back quickly: taking a small minibus through the blasted town of Quneitra, along a low barb wire fence and our guide stating that beyond it was a minefield and Israel. Those images stuck vividly in my mind, for many reasons. I sorted through the archive, gazing at the stock photos of my mind, and attempted to piece the situation together from the other side of the mirror.






The road east out of the Kibbutz was taking me nowhere in particular, so the only option seemed to be up. I climbed the hill, dodging more barbed wire and following well-trodden trails to its peak. Beside an army lookout I arrived, and beyond that lay a vast swatch of smog and dry land. Syria; again. And to my right was the prize, what I had made this visit to see: Quneitra, sitting solemn and unchanged from four years ago.






I could point out the buildings I had walked amongst: the destroyed church, the destroyed row of shops, the ever-vigilant Syrian command centre that stared so enviously to the west. The wind was slight, despite the moderate altitude of the hill, and the sun at my back. I had arrived, on the other side, and stopped where the Israelis stopped. I wondered then if they really wanted to stop at all, when Damascus was so close.

Could the Golan be handed back to Syria? After over three decades of Kibbutzes, military roads, army lookouts, and the occasional UN buses on the roads east of Qiryat Shimona, the question lingers. Israel has used its international supporters to transform what was an environmentally rich wedge of land in a barren region to an empire of farms, producing, forming, and exporting a significant size of goods to Israel's needy first-world populace. Syria should be so lucky - had Syria kept this land, surely it would not have been used so efficiently. And yet, is it really the thief's decision for the fate of the land? And did Israel steal it in the first place, or merely win it fairly and claim it as Spoils of Victor?

The UN certainly enjoys being here, to play mediator in a place where two sides have unbounded hate. It can justify itself, and justify this division it has made, here in a place where every square metre of land seems to belong to at least two civilizations. Yet like UN missions in many other places, their presence is merely a placeholder, a pause button, for unfinished business.

It's best to keep Syria away from Israel though: another failed attack on them and Damascus may very well end up in Zion. It is this unfortunate circumstance, boundless hatred for the Jewish State, which has caused this mess in the first place.

So perhaps Israel feels no pity that an enemy has lost a useful chunk of land. Syria uses the Golan as the central reason for the evility of Israel, yet the Israelis simply ignore them and continue with their terraforming. Even the Druze are little more than another marginalized community in this vast land, offering none of the resistance that the Palestinians do.

Indeed, there is no easy solution. This land is Israel now. But will it be Israel forever? After all, was it not the Jewish people who arrived in Palestine 2000 years after their departure and reclaimed it as their ancient Home?

The sun was beautiful as it marched below the hills, and I wandered down from the hill and onto a highway across the Golan. Along the finely paved and sealed highways of Israel I walked, west towards the sun, while UN buses whipped along the road in my opposite direction. The quiet farm life of these hills is deceptive - a contested land in the continuing saga of one region's brutal history.

Into the West Bank



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