An eastern Jerusalem hilltop that once hosted caravan housing for immigrant Ethiopians and Russians and is now largely abandoned has become the latest focus of international controversy regarding Israel.
The entrance to Givat Hamatos is accessible only from the winding roads of the Arab community of Beit Safafa next door, or via a sharp turn off the Hebron Road.
The Israeli government last month announced plans to build 2,600 housing units there. Together with nearby Gilo and Har Homa, the new neighborhood would create a near-contiguous chain of Jewish neighborhoods along Jerusalem’s southern fringe, all in portions of the city captured in the 1967 Six-Day War.
While the Israeli government has been adamant in asserting a right to build in all parts of its capital city, Palestinians, as well as Israeli peace activists, see the Givat Hamatos plan as a land grab and part of an effort to cut off eastern Jerusalem’s Arab neighborhoods, which the Palestinians envision as their future capital, from the West Bank.
Not all of the planned housing, however, is intended for a new Jewish neighborhood. Under the plan, 800 of the housing units are to be an expansion of Beit Safafa, a comfortably middle-class Arab neighborhood of approximately 5,500 people.
International attention has focused on what the new development means for Israeli-Palestinian relations, but the story has another element. For the dozen down-on-their-luck Israeli families who are still living in caravans on the hill — long after most of the hill’s residents have decamped for more settled environs — the planned construction has stirred a sense of uncertainty about their future.
“I don’t know where my parents will go,” said Barak Hasid, 29, an Israeli fireman who was raised and still lives on Givat Hamatos. “They don’t have any money to buy anywhere.”
Hasid’s story is similar to that of the other poor Israeli families who ended up on this nearly abandoned hill, living alongside several hundred Ethiopian and Russian immigrant families who have since left.
Hasid’s father lost all his savings on two apartment deals that went sour, his son explains. The family lived in a series of temporary housing situations before moving to Givat Hamatos.
“All my friends were Ethiopians, not just one or two but nine or 10,” Hasid said.
The immigrant families eventually headed to new homes bought with generous government assistance. But the Hasids and some other native Israeli families stayed, many adding onto their simple caravans for lack of a better plan.
The neighborhood’s name means Airplane Hill, for an Israeli jet that crashed there in 1967, and there is a small memorial at the entrance.
When the government first placed caravans at the site, the Jerusalem municipality was concerned the area would become a slum. In time it became a neighborhood with kindergartens and day care centers, synagogues, a health clinic, clubs for youth, adults and the elderly, as well as sidewalks, lighting and playgrounds.
All that remains now is a smattering of dilapidated caravans, an abandoned playground and a few turkeys whose owner lets them wander around.
The Israelis who still live there pay a small rental fee, as well as property taxes, electricity, water and gas. The Hasid family’s once-simple caravan is now a four-room complex, but it is far from luxurious.
Still, there is plenty of space, a great view and the feel of a pastoral moshav, says Hasid, who has created his own little Shangri-la behind the caravan with an outdoor bar, poker table and living room carpeted with artificial turf.
“It’s a great place, the best in Jerusalem,” he said, before adding that he and his pregnant wife will soon move to a newly purchased apartment — in Petach Tikvah, near Tel Aviv.