Another article reflected the authorities’ annoyance with the settlement’s residents. They were newcomers, mostly from the United States, who had been given government subsidies to live on confiscated Palestinian land. Most could barely speak Hebrew, and Israelis saw them as soft and feckless—Jews who had not yet been hardened by the military or the realities of the country.

“These people hate each other. If they didn’t have us to brutalize, they’d be killing each other,” Bilal said.

Now Bilal increased the concentrations of phthalates until doctors complained and major media began reporting it. Religious leaders issued authoritative assessments that the area had been cursed. Finally we had our results: settlers were moving out of the colony.

We stopped pumping phthalates. Vans of scientists tested the water, soil, building materials, roads, houseplants. By coincidence, the colony had been obtaining its produce almost exclusively from a community farm, which had been confiscated from three of Bilal’s uncles and cousins. Unusually high concentrations of pesticides were found in the soil and in urine samples from individuals tested. That was it. They identified the source and remedied the situation by reducing the use of pesticides. Case closed. But the damage was done. No one would buy anything from the farm after that.

Residents weren’t satisfied with the official report and continued moving out. The farm struggled to sustain itself. News articles reported that some of the residents who remained believed “the Arabs” had cast black-magic spells to curse them. They intended to remain, confident that God was on their side. For them, it was a battle between God and the devil. But the colony was emptying by the day.

We read it all and celebrated. We also prepared for renewed raids.

I moved Bilal’s reagents, flasks, and tubes to the underground, taking a few things at a time every day when I went to work at the salon. Jumana didn’t know, because I did it on days when I opened the store, before she arrived. I didn’t like keeping it from her, but I’d learned from Bilal that the less everyone knew in general, the safer we all were.

The military came, of course. Itamar made it a point to come himself to oversee the ransacking of our home. Bilal and I watched, our arms bound with plastic ties. Itamar spoke to us in Arabic, shadows of weariness tinting his face. “I don’t want to do this, Bilal. But I will get information from you one way or another.”

“Information on what? You cunts watch us twenty-four/seven. You know when I take a shit.” Bilal pretended indignation.

Maybe Itamar was pretending too when he squeezed his hand around Bilal’s throat and warned, “You know what we can do. If I have to, I’ll bring your wife in and make you watch my men fuck her one after the other.”