Under the Gun in the Olive Grove: An American Rabbi’s Glimpse into the Unchecked Violence Reshaping the West Bank 

In a firsthand account from a West Bank olive grove, a Manhattan rabbi describes being terrorized by armed Jewish settlers who shot at her and other unarmed volunteers during a “protective presence” mission to accompany Palestinian farmers, an experience that revealed the pervasive, daily violence and intimidation Palestinians face under a system of near-total impunity; she connects this escalating extremist violence, which is now spilling into Israel itself and is emboldened by figures in government, to the toxic legacy of Yitzhak Rabin’s assassination 30 years prior, issuing a urgent call to American Jews to honor their covenant with Israel by courageously confronting this internal threat to its democracy and soul through education, advocacy, and solidarity with those working for a shared future.

Under the Gun in the Olive Grove: An American Rabbi’s Glimpse into the Unchecked Violence Reshaping the West Bank 

The fear was a physical presence, a cold weight in my chest that made the ancient, sun-drenched air of the West Bank feel suddenly thin. On November 4th, while my fellow New Yorkers navigated the familiar anxieties of an election day, my own fear was born in an olive grove outside a tiny Palestinian village, its trigger pulled by fellow Jews. 

I was there as part of a “Protective Presence” mission with T’ruah: The Rabbinic Call for Human Rights. The premise is as simple as it is shameful: the presence of internationals or Israeli allies, particularly American Jewish clergy, can sometimes deter violence against Palestinian farmers and shepherds. Our mission was one of nonviolent witness: to stand, unarmed, alongside families harvesting their olives, a centuries-old tradition that has become a flashpoint for intimidation and assault. 

For a time, there was a fragile peace. The grove was serene, filled with the gentle rustle of branches, the rhythmic raking of olives onto tarps, and the quiet hum of conversation between strangers slowly becoming companions. The gnarled olive trees, some hundreds of years old, felt like silent witnesses to generations of this seasonal rhythm. Then, the buzz of a drone cut through the calm. 

It circled overhead for nearly an hour, a modern specter of surveillance poisoning the pastoral scene. Then, without warning, it dove. Its target was an Israeli rabbi in our group, and it struck her arm, leaving a deep, bleeding gash. The peaceful harvest was shattered. Moments later, two Jewish settlers, clad in military-style clothing, stormed into the grove. Their rifles were raised, pointed at us, and their shouts tore through the air. 

They demanded their drone, which lay broken among the fallen olives. One snatched it, and as they backed away, their weapons remained trained on our group. Then, a single, sharp crack—a gunshot. It was not a warning into the air; it felt deliberate, an acoustic weapon of terror meant to paralyze. Screams erupted. Some dove to the ground. I stood frozen, my mind racing, realizing the slender trunks of the olive trees offered no protection from bullets. In that suspended moment, I understood a fraction of the helplessness that is a daily currency for Palestinians living under occupation. When the settlers finally retreated, a wave of nausea washed over me as I scanned the grove, terrified I would see a body. Then, I went limp. 

The Lie and the Impunity: A System Failing Its Test 

The aftermath was almost as chilling as the attack itself. The settlers told the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) present at the scene that we had downed their drone with stones and attacked them with clubs. It was a brazen, cynical lie, a calculated attempt to reframe victims as aggressors. We had clear video evidence proving the truth, and in the subsequent days, we learned one of the attackers was fired from his role as an army reservist. A small measure of accountability, perhaps, but the official record still carries their false testimony, a testament to the impunity that empowers such violence. 

This is the grim reality of the West Bank today. The fear and vulnerability our group experienced for one harrowing afternoon is a constant, unrelenting condition of life for Palestinians. Settler violence is not a series of isolated incidents but a systematic tool of displacement and terror. Homes and ancient olive groves are torched. Families are forced from their land. Livestock are stolen and mutilated. People are beaten, and sometimes, they are killed. Too often, Israeli police and soldiers stand by as passive observers, or worse, active enablers. 

This culture of impunity has festered, moving from the fringe towards the mainstream. On public WhatsApp channels, extremist settlers proudly catalog their “achievements”—the number of vehicles burned, homes destroyed, and “Arabs” injured. They share videos of their brutality, like the recent footage of a settler bludgeoning a 52-year-old woman as she harvested her olives, treating human suffering as a trophy. 

The Metastasis of Violence: From the West Bank to Main Street Israel 

Perhaps most alarming is how this ideological violence has begun to metastasize, bleeding across the Green Line into Israel proper. It is no longer confined to the occupied territories. 

Last May, in the city of Raanana, a mob of extremist Jews attacked a Reform synagogue hosting a screening of a joint Israeli-Palestinian memorial service. They smashed car windshields, shook the synagogue doors, and hurled firecrackers at congregants as they fled. They spat on them, tore kippot from their heads, and shouted, “Go to Gaza!” Only three suspects were arrested, and all were quickly released. The message was clear: the cost for such violence is low. A local Likud official underscored this, posting ominously after the attack, “This is only the opening shot. Don’t try us.” 

As I was writing this very article, a young Palestinian friend of mine, an Israeli citizen, texted me. She was attending a speech by Arab lawmaker Ayman Odeh when a right-wing mob assaulted the crowd. They cursed, spat, threw eggs and bottles. My friend’s eyes were still burning from coffee that had been hurled directly into her face. 

This crisis is escalating in plain sight, prompting unusual public concern from U.S. officials and a rare rebuke from Israel’s own president following a major settler rampage through two Palestinian villages. And too often, this violence is incited, or at the very least tacitly endorsed, by figures within the government. One far-right minister crassly referred to the Gaza war following the October 7th atrocities as “a time of miracles” for the settlement movement, exploiting national trauma to advance a radical political agenda. 

The Ghost of Rabin and the Reckoning for American Jewry 

The date of our attack, November 4th, hangs heavy with history. It marks the anniversary of the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, murdered 30 years ago by a fellow Jew, Yigal Amir. 

Rabin, the soldier who became a peacemaker, represented a Israel that prioritized security through diplomacy and a shared future. His killer was not a lone wolf but the product of a virulent, messianic ideology that sanctifies land over human life and power over peace. Tragically, that same ideology now sits comfortably in Israel’s halls of power. Days before Rabin’s murder, a 19-year-old was televised proudly displaying an ornament he had ripped from the prime minister’s car, boasting, “Just like we got to this emblem, we can get to Rabin.” That teenager was Itamar Ben-Gvir, today Israel’s Minister of National Security, the very official who oversees the police and Border Police in the West Bank. 

This is the stark crossroads at which American Jews now stand. Our historic covenant with Israel has always been one of unwavering support for its safety and its soul. But true love is not blind allegiance; it is the courage to speak hard truths when a loved one is on a destructive path. Supporting Israel’s safety requires confronting the existential threat posed by this internal rot of extremist violence and the government ministers who empower it. 

The work is multifaceted and urgent. It begins with continued education—following the brave, on-the-ground work of organizations like Rabbis for Human Rights and B’nei Avraham. It means using our voices as American citizens to support legislation like the proposed West Bank Violence Prevention Act, which seeks to hold perpetrators accountable. It means standing in solidarity with the brave Israelis—journalists, activists, ordinary citizens—who are risking their own safety to speak out against this scourge. 

Thirty years after a bullet meant for peace ended Rabin’s life, Israel is still bleeding from that unhealed wound. I felt it in the olive grove, in the cold fear born of unchecked supremacy. But I also felt the enduring strength of Rabin’s legacy there—in the determined hands of Palestinians and Jews alike who still believe in a shared future. The olive tree, a universal symbol of peace, has roots that run deep. To honor Israel, to truly love it, we must help it tear out the weeds of hatred that threaten to choke those roots forever. The time for a reckoning is now.