“Sssshh…You hear that?” Ludi Oster motions to the rolling hills. The call to prayer, coming from a handful of nearby Palestinian villages, resounds across the hills. ‘Awful, isn’t it? That noise? And they are getting closer and closer.’

Born in Siberia, Oster has been a proud resident of Barkan for a few decades already. Along with roughly two thousand settlers, Oster - long gray hair, black body warmer - lives in the West Bank settlement. In the early 1980s, Barkan was founded on land belonging to two Palestinian villages—land which has since been confiscated by the state of Israel.

But the word “settlement” cannot be applied to Barkan, Oster emphatically insists, as it sounds too temporary, too provisional. The correct term is “village”. As she gives us a tour around ‘her Barkan’, she points at a bed of flowering tulips: a gift from friends in the Netherlands. Unprompted, she mentions the Dutch radical right politician Geert Wilders. ‘He was here!’.

Oster often feels unsafe, she says. ‘There’s a constant threat.’ It’s the Palestinians living in the nearby villages, we’re told. She takes us to the edge of the settlement, to one of the many improvised guard posts. ‘The eyes’, she endearingly calls them. Oster points to a rocky outcrop in the middle of the Palestinian olive grove that directly borders Barkan. ‘Sometimes they stand there’, she says gravely. ‘They wave, they make noise.’ If they don’t leave, the settlers have to act, Oster says. ‘We go there with a car, with a gun, we fire in the air. If that doesn’t help, we call the army.’

At the other side of Barkan, a brand-new cottage overlooks the valley to the settlement’s north. Since its festive opening last November, it serves as a place where patrols can take a break. Outside of the picturesque log cabin, an Israeli flag waves slowly in the gentle wind. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of treated timber and new furniture. In the corner next to the entrance, a large sign bears the logo of ‘Building with Israel’, the business club of the Dutch foundation Christians for Israel.

It was Christians for Israel’sbusiness club that fully financed the cottage. Oster takes out her phone and shows us a video of the opening ceremony. A man is giving a speech to a group of thirty, maybe forty attendants. His words are translated to Dutch by an interpreter: ‘It was my dream to build this house here, so the soldiers who are here for our security, for the security of the people in the heartland, can come here to relax and enjoy the beautiful view.’

Dutch reformed christian organisations have been committed to the Israeli cause for decades. Through fundraisers, volunteering and building homes for Jews who wish to immigrate, they support a wide range of projects in ‘the promised land’. Each year, the various foundations raise millions. Those funds, however, are not just spent within Israel’s internationally recognised borders.

Dutch christians also structurally support Israeli communities and projects in the occupied West Bank: in 2023, at least 420.000 euro went to settlers. This runs counter to the Dutch government’s official position on the Israeli-Palestinian peace process, the recent advisory opinion by the International Court of Justice, as well as the European Union’s diplomatic position on Israeli settlement policy.

Christian benefactors are financing crucial parts of the settler movement at an increasing rate: the construction of homes for civilians, infrastructure for Israeli soldiers, providing security cameras and surveillance drones. One Dutch tax-exempt ‘charity’ even offers the possibility of funding firearm purchases for settlers. These findings are the result of a months-long investigation by the Dutch investigative platform Investico and its media partners, BOOS, De Groene Amsterdammer and the Nederlands Dagblad. We analysed more than a hundred newsletters, financial reports, lectures and archives of organisations that support settlers on the West Bank. We reported on the ground in settlements, and went undercover to find out whether Dutch christians also fund firearms for settlers.

Whilst the Israeli government quietly encourages the occupation of Palestinian land, it’s been the international funding - from the Netherlands and elsewhere - that openly supports settlers at the frontier of Palestinian expulsion, aiding them in the colonisation of the West Bank. ‘This constitutes a whole series of human rights violations’, as one expert concludes.

Kvish 60

Kvish 60 - highway 60 - runs across the length of the West Bank, connecting the southern city of Hebron all the way to the northern Palestinian cities of Ramallah, Nablus and Jenin. The highway passes by countless settlements. Some of these have grown into entire cities, complete with various schools, shopping centres and upscale restaurants. In the distance, the hills are dotted with simple, bare bones outposts: the small-scale settlements, often mere tents or an agglomeration of trailers, that serve as the front line in Israel’s colonisation effort.

Every few miles along Kvish 60 crude, concrete guardposts straddle the road, manned by heavily armed Israeli soldiers staring at the traffic through their rifle scopes. Almost invariably, a bright yellow flag is on display nearby, adorned with a blue crown and the word ‘Messiah’ in Hebrew, it’s the mark of the Chabad Lubavitch movement. The ultra-orthodox community is everywhere across the West Bank - heeding their late rabbi’s call to disperse across the globe and multiply.

It’s late January, a week after the ceasefire in Gaza came into force, and tensions in the West Bank are rising. The Israeli army launched a large-scale raid on the Palestinian city of Jenin just a few days earlier, killing dozens of civilians. Near-daily news reports warn about incidents along the Kvish 60. The change in atmosphere is noticeable everywhere - especially at the entrance to the settlements. At the gate, armed men ask prying questions: who have we come to meet? Has our appointment been confirmed? Can we show our papers?

One morning in Revava, a cheerful song rolls down the hills around the settlement. It’s a song with Hebrew lyrics, accompanied by up-beat guitar. Revava, Hebrew for ‘ten thousand’, owes its name to a Bible verse: We wish upon you that you will become the mother of ten thousands, and that they shall capture the cities of your enemies. The settlement was founded in 1991, on land that Israel confiscated from two centuries-old Palestinian villages, Deir Istiya and Haris.

At the outer edge of Revava, a handful of small white houses gleam in the sun. The newly built prefab homes resemble a trailer park, modestly housing at least ten families. Small windows overlook an extensive olive orchard: green and gray trees cover the shallow valley.

The Hebrew song sounds across the hills another time, only a few hours later. Remember Me, it’s called, and takes its lyrics from a verse in the Old Testament. ‘Remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes’. The song serves as a ‘revenge song’ for Israeli nationalists, a rallying cry that calls for vengeance against the Palestinians.

The sound reaches the small white houses at the settlement’s edge. ‘The New Immigrant Neighborhood in Revava’, a slightly worn-down sign reads at the entrance to the neighbourhood. ‘Thanks to the generosity of Kenneth Copeland Ministries’, it continues, ‘and Christians for Israel’.

16 million euro

‘Christians for Israel believes that the nation of Israel, including Judea and Samaria, belongs to the Jewish people’, the website of the Dutch foundation reads. ‘Judea and Samaria’ is the Biblical name for what is now known as the West Bank. Based on their conviction that Israel was promised to the Jews by God, the organisation strives to turn that promise into reality. As their Biblical logic goes, the Jews have to ‘return’ to Israel before the Messiah will return, finally prompting the Day of Judgement.

Dutch christian organisations have been supporting Israel not just in prayer, but in action too, our investigation finds. At least fifteen foundations, with a total budget of 16 million euro in 2023, act on their religious commitment to Israel, through both material and financial support. Ten of those foundations directly fund illegal settlements on the West Bank, contributing at least 420.000 euro. In all likelihood, this number is a substantial underestimate, as most foundations provide no transparency on exactly which projects they support, nor the amount of money involved.

The organisations range in scope and size. There is, for example, Nachamu Nachamu Ami, which has sent several shipping containers full of furniture, clothing and other goods to the notorious settlement of Itamar and its surrounding outposts. Comité Gemeentehulp Israël raises funds to support a pro-life couple and their humanitarian efforts in Na’ale, a settlement close to Ramallah. The Shoresh foundation sends money to settlers and funds night vision goggles and bulletproof vests for Israeli soldiers. Vision for Israel provides Israeli soldiers—mostly settlers-turned-reservists—stationed in the West Bank with winter coats, and Keuningshof, a rural care home for disabled people, financially supports the rapidly expanding Beit Yatir settlement. With the exception of the latter, all organisations have a charitable status—qualifying donors for tax rebates.

Christians for Israel (CfI), headquartered in the sleepy town of Nijkerk, is by far the largest of the actively christian-zionist foundations in the Netherlands. It runs entirely on donations: roughly €13 million in 2023. They publish a monthly magazine, produce a weekly news show, and organise volunteering trips to the promised land. Jews across the world can count on CfI’s support: in 2022, the organisation spent roughly €8 million to aid some 17.000 Jews in their migration to Israel, covering travel expenses from Ethiopia, Russia and other places. A number of those immigrants have been resettled on the West Bank—even receiving a monthly stipend from CfI. The foundation’s business club, which constructed the house for Israeli soldiers in Barkan, raised half a million euro in 2023.

As far back as the early nineties, CfI made headlines with their involvement in the West Bank. Raising more than a million Dutch guilders (roughly half a million euro) for the construction of a new immigrant neighbourhood just south of Jerusalem, named ‘Holland Village’, they contributed to the resettlement of hundreds of families—on Palestinian land. The fundraising announcement caused a weeks-long debate both in Dutch parliament and media, but despite protest from the foreign minister, CfI went ahead: Holland Village arose at Jerusalem’s outskirts not much later.

“You found it!” Sondra Baras opens her front door with a big smile. A little later, pointing to the garden surrounding her house, she says: ‘Do you realize that when we came here, there was nothing? We built and planted everything ourselves.’ Baras, the founder and former director of Christian Friends of Israeli Communities (CFOIC), lives in Karnei Shomron (“Horns of Samaria”). It is one of the older and larger settlements in the West Bank, with a population just over ten thousand. Baras is from Ohio, but moved to Israel and eventually became a citizen in 1984. A year later, alongside a group of American Orthodox Jews, she started building a new neighborhood here. The quiet, green street has been her home ever since. As we take a seat at the large, round table in her living room, she disappears into the kitchen.

‘You Dutch always want coffee,’ says Baras, as she puts homemade cake and several cups of coffee on the table. ‘I only drink diet coke.’ She explains how her foundation aims to educate Christians about the situation here and to raise funds for the residents of the West Bank settlements. Christians for Israel’s financial support for settlers is spent partially through CFOIC. Until her retirement two years ago, Baras managed all incoming international funds and guided them to the settlements most in need.

International fundraising is very important, says Baras. But who are the most important international partners? ‘America and the Netherlands’, she says resolutely. So Dutch support is very important? ‘We love them deeply,’ says Baras. Christians for Israel is a crucial partner in this: according to Baras they have an ‘exclusive relationship’.

Asked what the money from the Netherlands is spent on, the CFOIC founder mechanically sums up: ‘Food vouchers for needy families, summer camps, projects for special needs children, elderly centers in the communities.’ And construction projects? ‘Hmm, no, CfI does not contribute to that, as far as I know.’ And what about the new neighborhood in Revava that we visited two days before? Baras is quiet for a moment, and looks at us intently: “Yes, yes, yes, we did do that. That was a one-off project for Ukrainian refugees.’

After Sondra offers us another round of homemade cake, she says, “How about I show you Karnei Shomron’s security room?”
Two people sit behind a large desk in a windowless room. The walls are almost completely covered by enormous screens—nineteen in total. They show live footage from dozens of surveillance cameras located near the fence that surrounds Karnei Shomron, Baras explains. She points to a screen showing a map with a string of green dots, following the contours of the settlement. ‘Those are sensors on the fence: if something happens, we get a notification here.’ She adds: ‘Nine times out of ten it’s a dog or a cat. But if it’s a person, they immediately call the army.’

24 hours a day, every day, two people man the security room to monitor the settlement’s borders. Every now and then the phone rings when a settler spots something suspicious and wants to report it. Meanwhile, one of the motion sensor cameras follows a man with a donkey pulling a cart. He’s walking along an otherwise deserted road. ‘An Arab,’ says Baras. ‘He has been seen, the cameras have got him.’ The man is closely followed as he and the donkey slowly trudge on along the road. ‘For now, it just looks like an old man,’ Sondra says vigilantly. But if the two surveillance guards notice anything ‘suspicious’, they’ll send in the army.

CFOIC’s international funding is also used for this type of security project, Baras says. She also advises other settlements on setting up security systems. ‘We never fund weapons,’ she says emphatically. ‘But we do provide cameras, cars and drones, for example.’

A few days later, just before we reach Revava, we turn right onto a narrow tarmac road. We snake our way through the small streets of a Palestinian village, descend into a valley covered in a patchwork of olive groves, to climb up a quiet, winding road on the other side. It ends in the town square of Deir Istiya, where Jamal Faris awaits us.

Jamal, a cheerful man who speaks English fluently, studied in the US for a few years before returning to his village on the West Bank. At the edge of Deir Istiya lies his family land, some six hectares, which his father bought in the 1950s. In the decades that followed, the father planted olive and fig trees, a laborious task that took well into the eighties to complete. Back then, Jamal remembers, they could simply walk or even drive straight to the olive orchard - to harvest or prune the trees. In the early nineties, that changed.

‘I remember the first settlers, who came with their trailers and settled on the edge of my father’s land’, Jamal says. ‘We could not do anything against them - they mostly left us alone, and we left it at that.’ In the following years, however, it worsened. ‘There were more and more of them, and they started looking for conflict’, he says—until one day it escalated. Armed settlers came to the olive orchard and tied his father to a tree, Jamal recalls. ‘They made him watch how they cut hundreds of our trees.’

A third of the family orchard was lost in the attack. Nowadays, the section of the land that directly borders the wall of Revava is too dangerous for Jamal to enter. The rest of the orchard he only visits accompanied by human rights activists. ‘They offer me protection, that way I am at least not shot during the harvest.’

On the 3rd of December 2024, Jamal and a handful of employees and activists are working in his family orchard: it’s harvest season. After two hours, video footage shows, soldiers tell the group that they have to keep a two hundred meter distance from the settlement border. Jamal and the group refuse - as it would mean abandoning several rows of trees - and continue harvesting.

Soon after, the security chief of the settlement—a civilian—calls Jamal to tell him he will personally shoot him if he doesn’t leave. ‘I told him: come, come and shoot me’, Jamal remembers. Soldiers arrive not long after, this time with an official military order: the olive grove has been designated a ‘restricted military zone’. Jamal and his group are to leave the area, or the soldiers will use their firearm. The incident fits a broader pattern: Palestinian farmers in the Revava area are increasingly harassed, intimidated and attacked by settlers and Israeli soldiers.

At times - seemingly at random - the Israeli government reins in settlers: a new settlement outpost, or the expansion of an existing settlement, is declared illegal and in a remarkable minority of cases even demolished. On rare occasions, violent settlers are called into court to be held formally accountable for their attacks on Palestinians. In practice, however, the settlers can count on legal and military cover from the Israeli government. If there are any ‘problems’, such as a Palestinian civilian working his land adjacent to the settlement, they can call the army for assistance.

As soon as a settlement makes it through the early stages of development—slowly accumulating the essential traits of a legitimate community, like a supermarket, a school and perhaps a bakery—the Israeli government can quietly acknowledge the new frontier of their territorial expansion. But in the first stages, as the settlement is still evolving from an illegal agglomeration of hilltop caravans into an established community, international support can be an essential lifeline.

This goes for Revava, too. According to Bimkom, an Israeli human rights NGO, the construction of the new, partially Dutch-funded neighbourhood is illegal even under Israeli law. ‘All these buildings received a demolition order from the Israeli government in 2022’, says Alon Cohen Lifshitz of Bimkom. ‘Part of the neighbourhood is on land that the state of Israel manages, and part of it is on private land belonging to the village of Deir Istiya.’

A short drive from Deir Istiya takes us to the border of Jamal’s land. We pull over at the side of the road as cement trucks roar past. ‘Here it is’, he says. In front of us, the downward sloping hill is covered by his family’s olive orchard, stretching all the way until the section where settlers once destroyed hundreds of trees. At the edge of Jamal’s land, Revava’s tall outer wall rises. In just thirty years, the hilltop trailers have turned into a thriving community: multiple schools, a synagogue and a pizza restaurant serve an ever increasing number of inhabitants. Jamal motions at some heavy machinery hard at work in the settlement.

‘You see that? That whole section is new.’ His finger points towards the Dutch neighbourhood, less than two hundred metres from Jamal’s orchard. He fears the next settlement expansion will be built on his family land. ‘Settlers are the worst’, he says. ‘Soldiers have rules they have to stick to. But settlers? They can torture us if they want.’

If you lay out a current map next to one from, say, the seventies or eighties, it’s immediately clear just how many settlements have been added across the West Bank. The once carefully drawn borders between Israel and Palestine are dotted and punctured by exclaves and enclaves, complicating further an already incomparably complex territorial division. That division is all the more apparent for those who travel across and along the settlement-covered hills: bright yellow flags are draped everywhere, checkpoints abound and towering fences are crowned by brand new razor wire glittering in the sun.
In the settlers’ language, they have already successfully erased Palestine: the West Bank is called ‘Judea and Samaria’, Palestinians are ‘Arabs’ or ‘terrorists’. Conversely, settlements are ‘villages’ and settlers ‘pioneers’.

‘Shabbat shalom, to all our friends all over the world!’ It’s November 29th 2024, and Nati Rom is recording himself with his phone. Dressed in his army uniform, he stands next to his bulldozer in North-Gaza. ‘We will do whatever it takes to bring redemption here in Jabalia’, he continues. Slowly turning around, he smilingly shows a completely destroyed city in the background.

Rom is a reservist in the Israeli Defence Force (IDF), and when he isn’t in Gaza with his battalion, he works as a lawyer—counting among his clients some of the most extreme right Israeli settlers. In the past year or so, his defendants figured in high-profile cases that made headlines abroad. He gave legal aid and representation to extremists who attacked and damaged aid convoys headed for Gaza and IDF-soldiers accused of gang-raping Palestinian detainees. Though it isn’t merely the headline cases he’s engaged in: one of his core areas of expertise is acquiring - and defending - firearm permits.

Besides his law practice and stints in the army, Rom has been travelling the world for over a decade to raise funds among Christians passionate about ‘Judea and Samaria’. In 2023, Rom raised at least 300.000 dollars for his ‘pioneers’ in the West Bank. To make things easy for his donors, he started two charitable foundations outside of Israel. The first is registered in Florence, Texas (population 1.136), the other in the quiet town of Reeuwijk, nestled between Rotterdam and Utrecht.

The Dutch foundation serves as a channel for nearly all European funds meant for Rom and his mission: ‘protecting Israel’s heartland.’ Its budget more than tripled in 2023, raising around 85.000 euro. Late that year, Christians for Israel also directly contributed to Rom’s Israeli foundation.
In one of the videos uploaded to the website of his Israel Heartland foundation, a group of fifteen men—half of them in civilian clothes—are lying down in a small, abandoned quarry. It’s a few days after October 7th, and Rom, who’s recording the video, narrates: ‘We are training a lot of new soldiers.’ The men, all of them armed with an assault rifle, receive the order to shoot. Dozens of rounds fly towards the far end of the pit, piercing the practice targets. Plumes of dust and sand appear where bullets hit the rear wall.

Nati Rom lives in Esh Kodesh (‘Holy Fire’), an outpost settlement that’s illegal even under Israeli law, a short drive from Nablus. We want to find out where the Dutch donations for the ‘pioneers’ in the West Bank end up. We call Rom to schedule a meeting, or even just a call, but to no avail. ‘I don’t speak to international press’, he says. Dozens of subsequent messages and calls are left unanswered.

“Albert”

We decide to go undercover as a wealthy, Dutch Christian benefactor: Albert Dijkstra, a man who has inherited a small fortune and wants to support the Israel Heartland foundation. Once we’ve returned to the Netherlands, we call Arjen Domburg, the man responsible for running the foundation’s affairs from Reeuwijk. Domburg, a chatty and amicable man, becomes guarded once we ask whether any funds are spent on weapons: ‘No, no, we don’t do that sort of thing, really.’ He’s willing to set up a call between Rom and ‘Albert’, to discuss in detail what his donation could best be used for.

Two days later, Nati Rom calls as he’s preparing to return to Gaza with his battalion. Raising funds for small, irrelevant projects—barbecue events for IDF soldiers, flowers for Jerusalem—is easy, he says. But finding donors for ‘the real deal’ is different. The pioneers in Judea and Samaria are the ones who are most in need of support, he emphasises, as they do the ‘strategic and important’ work. Donors like ‘Albert’ can help out exactly those communities, Rom explains: ‘Camera’s, pepper gas, and pistols’ are among their urgent security needs. ‘One of the things we can do, for example, is subsidizing pistols’, he continues. ‘We don’t have to subsidize the full price, but like half of it, or maybe three quarters.’

Rom also needs money for another one of his projects—one that ran into significant difficulties since last year. The European Union has sanctioned several violent settlers, banning European citizens and companies from supporting them in any way or form, hampering Rom’s effort to channel European funds their way. ‘But between you and me - we don’t know each other yet - that’s the reason I started using food cards. They aren’t just for food, you can use them in like a hundred stores across Israel, to buy tools for example.’ When ‘Albert’ asks whether Rom has come up with that to evade sanctions, he confidently answers: ‘Yes, exactly.’

For other projects, Rom prefers to keep things ‘off the books’. Cash is the best, he repeats multiple times. That way, he can do whatever he wants, and one thing should be clear: ‘I don’t do flowers.’ Cash allows for Rom to spend freely. ‘I can’t write in my Israeli NGO “subsidizing pistols for pioneers”. Even when I build homes’, he says, referring to housing for settlers, ‘it’s easier’.

We hang up and immediately call the Domburg, pretending to be an enthusiastic Albert. ‘We’ve just agreed with Rom that our donation is meant for cameras, subsidies for firearms, and an ATV. You can transfer that immediately and take care that it’s spent on those three things?’, ‘Albert’ asks. Domburg: ‘A hundred percent of the money, I’ll transfer it immediately to Nati’s foundation, and he can make use of it directly.’

One thing, however: it will be hard for Domburg to keep ‘Albert’ exactly up to speed on all the purchases. ‘Camera’s and ATVs I can just mention. “Firearms” I will never use, in internet things’, he says. ‘Those things, even I don’t get to see.’

After the conversation with Rom, ‘Albert’ wonders whether it might be better to donate in cash. But how would the money make it all the way to Rom? Domburg happily explains: he can count on a network of loyal Israel supporters who regularly visit the country and are willing to bring along a suitcase of cash. ‘I trust them a hundred percent. I tell Nati: this guy or that guy is on his way, and he’s got 10.000 euro on him. Then it’s just a matter of them getting together, having a cup of coffee, counting the money and everything’s good.’

Both Rom and Domburg have travelled with Dutch cash headed for Israel. ‘A few years ago, when Rom was in the Netherlands to do a few lectures together with Christians for Israel, we had three nights where we held a fundraiser. One night, there were five hundred people attending’, Domburg remembers. ‘The cash piles up quickly in a situation like that.’ On those occasions, the money was handed to Rom, but not before signing a few documents for tax purposes, ‘effectively leaving a money trail—which is what you want to avoid, really.’

‘Albert’ proposes to handle the donation via a bank transfer after all, which is fine by Domburg, who immediately warns us: keep the transfer description as neutral as possible. ‘I got into trouble before.’ A donor had written ‘ballistic glasses’ in the payment description, causing it to be flagged, Domburg recounts. ‘Bunq [a Dutch online bank] was on the case immediately.’

Domburg is audibly nervous about issues with his bank. ‘Even just getting an account was a mega problem.’ After three failed attempts with different banks, he finally got lucky with Bunq. ‘After a lot of prayer and a miracle, suddenly we got an account. The owner of Bunq is a Turk (founder and director Ali Niknam is a Canada-born Dutch entrepreneur with Iranian roots, red.), so he won’t be too happy about us,’ Domburg says, before adding offhandedly: ‘Or maybe he is. You never know.’

‘Oh, and are you aware that our foundation has a charitable status?’, Domburg remarks at the end of our conversation. ‘Tax-wise it’s that might be interesting’, referring to rebates that donors to Israel Heartland can request. After we hang up, he sends ‘Albert’ an email, proposing a fitting description for his considerable transfer to the Israel Heartland foundation: ‘donation for purchase atv with camera etc’. Underneath, Domburg comments: ‘The description above is obvious enough for you, but ambiguous enough for people who hate Israel.’

‘This constitutes a whole series of human rights violations’, says Anne de Jong, senior lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Amsterdam, specialised in the West Bank conflict. ‘Firstly, Israeli settlers are not allowed to expropriate land in the occupied territories—let alone build houses on it. That violates individual human rights as well, namely those of the Palestinians who lose their land.’

Arming and supporting these settlers does not only contribute to human rights violations, De Jong emphasises, ‘but also makes you complicit in the lawless aggression of settlers and their one-sided armed raids, threats, extortion and even murder.’

‘It should be made clear that you don’t get sanctioned as a settler easily’, she adds. The settlers that Nati Rom has supported as a lawyer have been sanctioned for—among other things—involvement in deadly raids on Palestinians, and leading a violent pogrom on a Palestinian village which drove scores of families off their land.

But even the food cards—the coupons Rom hands out to sanctioned settlers—are clearly illegal. ‘It is a clear-cut violation of European sanctions if you provide vouchers to sanctioned settlers’, says Yvo Amar, lawyer and expert on sanctions. Sanctions against an individual or organisation mean that neither money nor so-called ‘economic means’ may be provided to them. ‘That means anything that holds any value whatsoever’, Amar explains.

In a written response, Nati Rom states that his foundation never received any donations ‘off the books’ or in cash from Christians for Israel. ‘They have never donated for any weapons and never will. These are the facts. We act fully according to Israeli law, in all the work we do.’

In response to our questions, Arjen Domburg writes: ‘As a foundation, we have done nothing illegal nor do we have any intentions to do so in the future. All the above automatically means that we have never donated funds off the books and/or for the purchase of firearms.’

According to Sara van Oordt, spokesperson for Christians for Israel, her organisation has never financed arms purchases, and they will halt any funding for Nati Rom until further notice. Commenting on the immigrant neighbourhood in Revava, for which her organisation made 300.000 euro available, she says: ‘There is indeed a claim’, referring to the Palestinian landowner, ‘but that has never been taken to court.’ If an Israeli court were ever to decide in favour of the Palestinian claimant, Christians for Israel will ‘relocate the houses’.

Van Oordt adds that Jamal’s situation ‘moves her’. With regards to the actions and statements of organisations that Christians for Israel funds, she says ‘it is good that we’re being kept sharp’, but she cannot promise that they will not make any more mistakes in the future: ‘It is a very complicated part of the world.’

This publication was made possible with financial support from the Fonds Bijzondere Journalistieke Projecten and the Postcode Loterij Fonds.