'The government resents me': Bedouin communities left behind, vulnerable to Iran 

My minuscule Hebrew vocabulary is expanding with words like MAMAD, a designated safe space in a home during an attack, and miklat, a public underground bomb shelter.

As we await the Iranian-Hezbollah combo attack, I marvel at all the safety measures I have before me: sirens that will let me know an attack is coming, a safe room in my apartment, underground bomb shelters on nearly every other street corner, and the Iron Dome, Israel's defense system that shoots down rockets before they hit their target.

When I consider all these measures, I feel a great deal of reassurance. Though not foolproof, I have layers of protection, whether I'm home in Tel Aviv or working in Jerusalem.

The discussion of the Iran threat often circles back to the previous attack in April. Iran sent over 300 missiles and drones to Israel, and as Israelis often put it, nothing happened. A common meme going around in Israeli circles was a post saying, "This could have been an email," laughing at Iran for failing to do any damage.

But there was damage. A Bedouin girl was injured by shrapnel after a rocket hit her home in al-Fur'ah. Months later, she is still in a hospital recovering.

The Bedouin minority 

The Bedouins are an Arab-Muslim minority in Israel that live mainly in the Negev Desert, or up north near the Lebanon border. They are semi-nomadic people and often live in tents or in other types of temporary shelters, much as they have since 6,000 BCE in various Middle Eastern locations.

Though there are only 80,000 Bedouins still living in the desert and keeping their traditional lifestyle, they are disproportionately affected by missile attacks because, in the eyes of the government, they don't exist.

Many Bedouin communities are in unrecognized villages, so they don't show up on maps. The Iron Dome calculates where an incoming missile is going to land, and if it isn't a "populated area" they let the missile fall.

Shooting down a missile costs tens of thousands to even millions of dollars depending on the type of missile. Financially, it makes sense to let a rocket hit a patch of dirt if that's where it's headed, but the government refuses to recognize Bedouin communities, making the distinction between dirt and a Bedouin village impossible for the Dome.

On top of not protecting these communities, the government won't grant them building permits, making every building in an unrecognized Bedouin community illegal. Thus, the government then comes in and marks buildings for demolitions. Furthermore, the Bedouins have to pay for the scheduled demolition of their homes. To avoid paying the fees, Bedouins often opt to burn their homes to the ground, and start again somewhere else.

For a larger piece I'm working on for my internship I had the pleasure of meeting the Al-Zaidat Bedouin family, and interviewing them at their home in Ramat Ztiporim. They still live in the traditional Bedouin lifestyle and often host Israelis and tourists through their company (The Olive Grove Tent)4re4 and with the help of an NGO called Keshet.

Two of my fellow interns and I rented a car instead of taking an absurdly long bus ride and drove two hours from Tel Aviv to Mitzpe Ramon in the heart of the Negev. From there, we met with Ezry Keydar, the CEO of Keshet and a friend of the Al-Zaidat family, who would help translate for us, as we didn't know Hebrew or Arabic.

I grew up in the Mojave Desert in a town called Palmdale. Any desert has a place in my heart, and the Negev where the Al-Zaidats live is no different.

Keydar picked us up at a gas station and drove us along a bumpy dirt road to reach the village of Ramat Ztiporim. The homes are spaced far apart for the almost 200 residents. There is sparse shrubbery on the vast rolling beige hills that seem to go on forever. The desert is quiet, holding a profound stillness that feels untouched, a stark contrast to the restless city.

The Al-Zaidats have a lovely house made of concrete that on the inside doesn't look too far off from something you'd find in a suburb in America, just with more tile and a flat roof. Outside the house they have various tents and tin structures.

They hold on to their culture in various ways: living off the grid and raising sheep and camels. But they partake in aspects of modern life. Two of the family members I met go to a university, one studying Hebrew and the other studying biotechnical engineering.

Auda, the family patriarch, and his daughter, Nura, made us tea. Sitting together on short red and gray patterned mattresses in one of their large hosting tents, they answered our questions including, "Do you hate the government?"

"I don't resent the government, but the government resents me," Nura said.

Her response made me think back to my first time in Israel. On Birthright, they took us to a "Bedouin village" to learn about the community and the "harmonious relationship between Arabs and Jews" in Israel.

But where they took us was not a "real" Bedouin village. We went to an ultra-touristy, propped-up version of an actual village equipped with running water, showers, fake rock waterfalls, and places to charge our phones. It was the Disneyland version of the Bedouins.

The Israeli government is full of contradictions. Because of the endless accusations of apartheid, the government often points to the 2 million Arabs that make up 21% of the country, saying they have the "same rights" as the Jewish majority.

While comparisons of Israel to apartheid South Africa are ill-informed, there is racism, general unfairness, and whitewashing of the Arab-Israeli reality, especially Bedouin.

After October 7, the media celebrated the Bedouin community as heroes. Multiple Bedouins heard sirens and explosions and drove south, finding Israelis who were wounded, injured or hiding from Hamas, and brought them to safety.

Because of their deep knowledge of the desert, they were able to drive quickly and stealthily to those in need. In one instance, a Bedouin man rescued 40 people from the Nova Festival.

When Netanyahu spoke before Congress last month, he brought with him various soldiers to stand and be recognized for their bravery. One soldier he recognized was Master Sergeant Ashraf al Bahiri, a Bedouin soldier from Rahat.

I asked Auda if, in light of these heroic acts, he thought things with the government would get better.

I watched Keydar translate and relay the question to him. Auda nodded as he heard the prequel to the question. "Ken, ken," — "yes, yes" — he replied in Hebrew, listening to the translator bring up the heroic deeds of the Bedouins.

As the translator got to the question, "Will the government work better with the Bedouins because of this?" Auda erupted, shaking his head and repeating the word "no" in both Hebrew, "lo," and in Arabic,"la," seemingly needing both languages to express how "no" his answer was.

Our translator turned to us, "If anything, Auda said it's gotten worse."

The government has continued to demolish Bedouin homes since October 7, and though they haven't gotten a direct demolition order, the Al-Zaidat family and their neighbors in Ramat Ztiporim are subject to forced removal at any time. Keydar and his organization are fighting to prevent this.

"I want to live in peace," Nura said. "We are not making any problems for anybody, and I want to stay here. I love my land. I was born here."

The beauty of the desert and the beauty of the Al-Zaidat family struck me. Our visit was short, and left me longing to go back and bask in the warmth of such real, down-to-earth people. Despite the serious nature of our interview, the family joked with us and smiled, finding joy and ease in our conversation.

If Iran attacks, I will be thinking of the Al-Zaidat family and hoping that their desert is how it was when I visited, quiet and still.

Auda's daughter's name was changed for this interview so that she may remain anonymous. Molly Myers is an E-R reporter who is spending the summer on an internship in Israel. She can be reached at mollymamyers@gmail.com.