Louis Theroux spends time with ultra-nationalist Jewish settlers and discovers a small, but very committed subculture.
On a hilltop in the Northern West Bank, not far from the large Palestinian city of Nablus, I met 17-year-old Yair Lieberman.
A part-time labourer and student, Yair’s home was a makeshift canvas-covered structure, only slightly more solid than a tent, which he shared with three other young men. The bed was a tangled mess of sheets, in the style of a conventional teenager’s, and hung around the dwelling were posters – though not of pop groups, but of favourite rabbis. Outside, in the neighbouring lots, was a scattering of fifteen or so caravans and trailers – the outpost of Havat Gilad.
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