On Sokka Hill, rising up from Ha Ela Valley, daisies and lupines make spectacles of themselves. Never has there been a brighter yellow, a more competitive purple. The wind whistles. It startles the blooms, makes them shiver and bow, and then whooshes them between waves of tough reedy grass.
From late morning until dusk, Jewish families ascend the hill. Children lead the way chasing and whooping; dogs follow, zigzagging off the path with noses to the ground; parents climb up last, a prideful watch. Young women stoop to love the flowers; men take their pictures. At the top, a group gathers to hear their guide read from the Bible about how, in this very same valley, David outsmarted Goliath.
Approvingly, the wind wafts the smell of spring around all these multifarious visitors. Tumbling down the hill, it lingers in gentle circles above two horses grazing not far from a Bedouin tent. And then it rushes deeper into the valley, leaping into a field of towering, silvery satellite dishes with no motive but pleasure.
It is Sajid’s mares, Riyaaz and Kamil, whom the wind has paused to caress. For ten springtimes, Sajid has moved his wife Afya, his five-year old daughter Jamila, and his animals here from Rahat in the Negev to take advantage of the heavier rainfall. His lambs, kept close by his dog, romp now in late morning through sodden hills. They grow fat on tufts of fragrant baby shoots. Sajid inspects them with an owner’s appraising eye. They will bring him good...
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