THE STRIKE
Last Monday, the student council staged a demonstration at the university which closed it for the day. They set car tyres ablaze at the university entrances and prevented both teachers and students from entering in protest for the raising of the fees for first-years. The university looked very ominous as I approached it for my morning class: black plumes of smoke rising in front of it. The air was foul with the smell of burning rubber. It took about half an hour before my classmates and I decided that our classes were indeed cancelled and returned to Ramallah. Having been given this unexpected day off, two other international students and I decided to take a trip to Hebron, in the south of the West Bank.
HEBRON SETTLERS
Hebron is the home of the most radical Israeli settlers in the West Bank. These are settlers of the worst kind: violent and blinded by their Zionist ideology. To many of these settlers, the native Palestinian inhabitants of Hebron are foreigners in their Jewish homeland. In 1994, during the month of Ramadan, an American-born Jewish settler called Baruch Goldstein, entered the holy Ibrahimi Mosque (which is half Mosque and half Synagogue and where it is believed that Adam and Eve, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and their wives have their tombs) and fired upon the praying Muslims, killing several before he was killed himself. Because the area closest to the entrance is where the women and children pray, they made up many of his victims. The settlers have since erected a statue commemorating Goldstein and his deed. They see it as revenge for a massacre of a similar number of Jews during the Arab uprising in the early 1900s.
A DIVIDED CITY
There are about four Israeli soldiers for every settler and the city is split into zones: some for only settlers, some for only Palestinians, and some shared. However, due to the military presence, the settlers are emboldened to enter the Palestinian areas and make their presence felt by shouting slogans, graffiti-ing stars of David and through violence. This in turn can lead to a violent response from the Palestinians.
Walking towards the Old City of Hebron, you are greeted by the sight of army encampments on the rooftops – camouflage faded green with the outline of a soldier holding an M16 just visible. The feel of the Old City is different from any other Palestinian city I have yet been in: it feels poorer, more bereft. Old men push cheap candy towards me and beg with haggard faces for me to purchase it. I spent more money that day on trinkets and sweets than I had yet spent for my whole stay. So many of the shops were closed: packed up and abandoned by their owners who left to search for better premises. The reason for this is immediately clear: above the market place is wire mesh, placed there by the Israeli army. Caught in this mesh were rotting foodstuffs, garbage, rocks and bricks. When I had first seen this, I had been confused: where did all this garbage come from? Then I was directed to look at the second-story windows that looked over the market place: Israeli flags hung in the window frames. Settlers had either purchased or forcibly moved into the second floor of the market-place buildings so that while the Palestinian shops still attempted to operate on the bottom floor the settlers inhabit the second (using different entrances of course). All that garbage and those stones and bricks had been thrown out of the settler’s windows onto the market place below. Before the mesh had been put in place, these projectiles had found targets in the crowds below. Even now with the mesh, smaller objects and liquids got through and struck passers-by. For this reason I had been advised by a young boy to stick close to the edges of the market and not walk down the middle of the road (which made you an easy target).
There is a permanent pedestrian checkpoint between the Old City marketplace and the Ibrahimi Mosque. Last time I had passed through here (in 2007) I had been with a Palestinian friend of mine and he had been holding my back pack. The soldiers had demanded to search it and he had complied, but as one of the soldiers went through the items, another standing directly behind my friend threw a cup half-filled with salted peanuts at my friend’s back. The peanuts spilled out over my friend on impact before dropping to his feet. My friend turned around and looked at the soldier who merely returned his gaze impassively (all the time aiming his M16 squarely, hand on the trigger). My chest screamed with fury at this scene, but I also could do nothing. A foreign passport gives you many privileges in this country, but it doesn’t stop bullets, and it can’t help you protect another. So we moved on, both of us humiliated by our inability to stand against these Israeli soldiers.
Back in the present, we passed through the checkpoint without any problems, just the annoyance of having Israeli soldiers aiming M16s at our chests. There was another checkpoint at the entrance of the Mosque. Here only one of us could pass: S., who’s a Muslim. Because it is the month of Ramadan, all non-Muslims are blocked from entering the Mosque. However, this is not an Israeli instigated restriction, this is a decision of the Palestinian Muslims themselves: they do not wish non-Muslims to enter the Mosque during their holy month, when many spend long hours in prayer. S. was asked three times to recite from the Quran even after passing through the Israeli checkpoint to prove that she was indeed Muslim. The other girl and I waited near the entrance of the Mosque, speaking with a local young man who kept trying to sell us trinkets.
Once S. returned, and at the advice of the young man, we decided to pass into one of the Israeli sections of Hebron, which our international passports allow us to do. Since the other girl and I had not been able to go into the Mosque side, we decided to take a look at the Synagogue. I was nervous to be walking so near to the settlers, who were easily distinguishable by their dress. However, there were also a number of tourists, who were driven here from Israel in tour buses on Israeli-only roads. Trying to look like one such tourist, we passed through another checkpoint at the Synagogue entrance (handing in our bag to be searched), though this one was significantly more nice and relaxed. The soldiers asked us questions in a manner that suggested curiosity more than interrogation.
The Synagogue was loud! People spoke and prayed and yelled and wandered around animatedly. It was very different from what I had expected, having only before been inside the Mosque half (where I visited last time I was in Hebron), which was quiet and bare except for prayer mates. Here, book shelves lined the walls, there were seats and desks and other rooms in which people seemed to be studying or praying in groups. We only walked around once before leaving, as it was quite intimidating the way everyone seemed to know each other.
We met with S. outside and returned to the Palestinian section. We purchased some more items in the Old City before returning to the new city, which is a commercial centre of the Palestinian Territories and highly populated. After wandering around in the newer areas we found a servees to take us back to Ramallah and left.
ON THE ROAD
The roads around Hebron are overtly under the watchful eye of the Israeli Defence Forces: their ominous towers stand sentinel over the passing vehicles, always dark and always a sombre reminder of the occupation. Their presence is due to the large numbers of settlements in the area.
There are only two entrances into Ramallah (all other roads have been blocked) and on both these roads there are checkpoints. Usually these checkpoints are not so bad during Ramadan, as everyone is fasting. But that day it seems that the Israelis were restless, perhaps in need of some entertainment? Turning onto the road leading into Ramallah we were confronted by a traffic jam that in parts was four cars across and spread for as far as the eye could see. It was about 45 minutes till sundown and everyone was itching to get home to break their fast for the day. The soldiers made us wait an hour and twenty minutes. The frustration of the Palestinians was palpable, but they pulled together. When the sun set and the Mosques called out the official end of the day’s fast, people shared what food and drink they had. Though it wasn’t much, everyone got some. Cigarettes were also smoked, shared and enjoyed. Well after sunset, the traffic began to move again, until finally we were through.
For us, an hour and twenty minutes at a checkpoint was the longest we had experienced, and yet it can get so much longer. The amount of time it takes at a checkpoint (and whether you will be allowed through) depends on the soldier. There is no set Israeli policy as far as checkpoint procedure is concerned, unless it is merely to harrass the civilian population to distraction.
CONCLUSIONS
The journey to Hebron is not an easy one. Seeing the division and the hate between the two peoples there makes you lose hope for a solution. And seeing the gradual Israeli settler invasion of Hebron and the immense Israeli Defence Force presence leaves you feeling that the Israelis aren’t even interested in a solution, only gaining control over more territory and keeping the Palestinian population down-trodden and under surveillance. This may seem to be a cynical viewpoint, but I challenge people to see Hebron and its surrounding are and not draw this conclusion.
There was also another aspect of the trip that disturbed me: my exclusion from the Mosque and inclusion in the Synagogue. While I understood why I was restricted from entering the Mosque as a non-Muslim during Ramadan, I disliked the fact. All over Hebron there are divisions: checkpoints, streets walled in, razor wire and army outposts. Even the Ibrahimi Mosque is divided: half Mosque and half Synagogue with two separate entrances. And yet, with all these divisions imposed by the occupation, still others, such as this, are added by the Palestinians themselves.
And then I was welcomed into the Synagogue, the place where I felt most uncomfortable to go due to my fear and dislike of the settlers who inhabit it. This confused me: I felt that I was rejected by those I allied myself with and welcomed by those I stood against.
But such is Hebron. Its dynamic is different from any other place I have yet been to. It is a divided city and the scene of a terrible territorial dispute. And it is also the city of the Patriarchs, holy to Christians, Jews and Muslims.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Following the Roman Aqueduct to Jericho
On Saturday I was speaking with an American from Colorado, called D., about mountain climbing and general outdoor activities. He was telling me all about the things he would get up to at home and then I mentioned that there was this walk through the desert to Jericho that I would love to do here. I had done half of it when I was last in Palestine and it was one of my greatest memories. It only took a few minutes for D. to say he was keen and so we made a plan to meet the next morning at al-Manara (central Ramallah) and set out from there.
Both D. and I managed to find other people interested in joining us, so there were five of us roaming around Ramallah the next day looking for a servees that would take us to Wadi Qelt (the name of our destination). We found one that was willing to take us for 100 shekels (20 each) so we accepted and got in.
THE DRIVE
Driving anywhere in this country is a risky enterprise: the roads are treacherous! And that’s largely because of the impatient drivers who have no sense of a limit on speed. Seatbelts are only worn when there is an Israeli presence nearby – because the Israeli soldiers will fine the driver if anyone in the vehicle is without a seatbelt.
We drove through the checkpoint just outside Ramallah - no soldiers seemed to be manning it, though they could always potentially be in the camouflaged watch tower which rises ominously over the road. They are designed so that there is no way to tell for sure whether there is a soldier inside – so they work very much like Foucault's idea for the Panopticon: keeping the populace on their toes ‘just in case’ they are being watched.
We drove along the wall/security barrier which loops East Jerusalem, cutting it off from the West Bank (despite the fact that Palestinian families live on both sides). There is graffiti sprayed all over the cement sections: "CTRL + ALT + DELETE", "THE WALL MUST FALL", "PALESTINE GHETTO" etc...
Turning from the wall the landscape slowly began to change - the land became paler and dryer. Some areas along the road were littered with small stumps: olive trees cut down by the Israelis for 'security purposes'. In such a barren land as this, olive trees are a family's only hope, they are their livelihood - but with the Israelis, it's ‘now you see them now you don't’. There were also some shanty villages that looked as though they were permanently temporary, that is, built with only a short amount of time in mind, but lived in for years. These are the Bedouin who have been kicked off the areas they once inhabited - again for 'security reasons'.
WADI QELT
There is a sign pointing to Wadi Qelt and the servees dropped us off there. The only thing close by is an Israeli settlement. We are at the top of one of the many rolling desert hills and this is obviously a tourist look-out because there are souvenir-sellers and a man who wanted us to ride his camel. But we pass by them and start walking towards the valley, which winds between these rolling hills. The path is covered in a light pale sun-bleached dust from the light pale sun-bleached rock that is everywhere. At the beginning, the path is like a road, but then the track turns away from this dusty road and starts to drop down. The track is thin, rocky and steep - and looked more fit for goats than people. But a man and his donkey pass us and we see we're going the right way. We follow them - the man and the donkey - for several minutes before he suddenly stops close to the bottom of the valley (we could see the green that indicated the presence of the aqueduct). He waits for us to catch up and then asks "shay?" ('tea?'). We hesitate for a moment but, as it is rude to refuse such offers, we accept. (After all, there's five of us and only one of him.) He points down away from the track to what looks like a tent and leads the way.
TEA IN A TENT
When we arrive, he disappears inside the main tent (there are two - one large [the living room] and the other small [the kitchen]). After a little while he reappears and opens the flap to let us walk in, he's obviously just done a hasty clean up! He sits us down to one side on mattresses and pillows and sets about making the tea. We feel a bit awkward - not sure exactly what's expected of us and slightly awestruck by the situation we were in - being served tea in a tent in a secluded valley surrounded by desert. The man, named Muhammad, was actually a farmer from Jericho who had been living in this tent for eight years raising goats. He came here after the Israelis closed Jerusalem and so he was no longer able to find work - his previous livelihood had been working for the Israelis but after the second intifada, Palestinians stopped being allowed into Israel to attend their prior occupations. His family still lived in a refugee camp in Jericho and he would go there to visit and get supplies every four days or so.
After two cups of tea and a small packet of biscuits, we moved on, waving ma-salaama (goodbye) to Muhammad and his donkey and goats. We were now in the valley.
THE ROMAN TOUCH - FOLLOWING THE AQUEDUCT
From Muhammad's tent, it was a matter of walking up a steep goat's trail to reach the aqueduct. We almost stepped on a shepherd who was resting in the shade of a leafy tree, which only survived there because of the aqueduct. We exchanged a few words of greeting and continued. The path along the aqueduct is not always fit for walking, so at times we were balancing on the rock ledges on either side, which was not my favourite way to walk: fall to your right and plummet into the valley (and I assure you, survival would be a matter of luck) and fall the other way and land in the aqueduct, potentially hitting your head on stone. But it was certainly an adventure!!! I would have enjoyed the balancing, had it not been for the fear of the plummet. But further along, where there were some leaks in the aqueduct, there were more trees, which could act as a barrier between you and a potentially horrible death. Once we had that safety barrier I felt much better about the balancing, and could enjoy myself! ... until we reached the hornets.
We found a cave just above the aqueduct and when we moved up to explore I was bitten by one such hornet on my thigh - quite a painful experience!! The suddenly one of the other girls began to sprint along the rocky trail yelling that there was a hornet in her head scarf. Fortunately she managed to throw it off and all was well again - except for the several other hornets swarming nearby and my constant commentary of the rate of pain I was feeling: 'shit shit shit SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT shit shit SHIT SHIT' (the pain came in a rhythm, sometimes sharp, then dull, then sharp, the dull etc ). D. said that he thought it was the aqueduct that attracted the presence of the hornets, so we decided we would leave it and explore the valley below. First goat’s trail we found we followed down.
THE VALLEY BOTTOM
The valley seemed to have been carved out by a river that must have once flowed here. Round white stones covered the bottom. They were like a much larger version of the sort of pebbles you get to put in the bottom of a fish-tank. There were signs that people pass through here - blackened areas where bonfires had been lit, drink bottles, the odd shoe (not sure what happened to its wearer). There were even the charred remains of a car that looked as though it had fallen from the cliff - we just hoped that no one was in it at the time...
We rested here in the shade and ate and drank. Then we continued. The heat was oppressive, though not so different from summer back home. But soon it was too much for the Europeans so we started looking for a way to climb back up to the aqueduct. It was here we realised our mistake - it seems that the further along we go, the more sheer the hill faces on either side. But staying down in the valley wasn't as option, if only because of the water situation: we were running out and the plan was to use David's water filter (which he has from his adventuring in the states) and fill up our bottles from the aqueduct. Eventually we found something that looked like a goat trail - a very nimble goat trail... and we climbed.
CROSSES ON THE HILL-TOPS
I led the way up the hill face - slipping on the flakes of stone that littered the path. The further up we climbed the more steep it became, until we were all on hands and knees, digging into the blistering sand trying to stop ourselves from sliding backwards. It was on this climb that I managed to pick up several scrapes and bruises - and a few cuts on my palm from my attempt to hold onto a plant for support and being greeted with thorns. Arms slightly shaking we reached the aqueduct and pulled ourselves up onto its ledge. We had all made it!
We followed the aqueduct for the rest of the journey. Soon we could see the great crosses that mark the route to St George Monastery. And even sooner, we were overtaken by another man with a donkey. This man had a motto: 'everything is possible with a donkey'. His English wasn't good, but with our various Arabic abilities we managed to have a conversation and he kept us company.
You have climbed and climbed, following these giant crosses that appear on the tops of the rolling desert hills, and suddenly you round a bend and there is St George Monastery below you. It is built out of the cliff face and surrounded by green oasis fed by the aqueduct. There is a winding makeshift stone stairway leading down to it, which we trumped along, sweaty, dusty and tired.
ST GEORGE MONASTERY
We were let into the Monastery and greeted by the monks with cool water and grape juice, which we took with us into an out-of-the-way corner. Eventually a Palestinian man approached us and began to speak with us. He was an old student from Birzeit, many years ago. Now he was a historian for the church, as well as a builder and a maker of mosaics. He lived in Beit Sahour (by Bethlehem) and worked at the Peace Centre there. First he asked if we had been there (to Beit Sahour) and we said no, so he invited us all there to come to see him in his home. Then he asked if we would like to see upstairs and we agreed, following him up to this shrine area, where a saint had lived in exile while being hunted by an invading army. He showed us the work he had done to the shrine - the repairs - and also the area set aside for his next mosaic. Soon it was time for us to leave, since we wanted to continue our walk into Jericho, which would be another two hours or so. So he walked down with us to the Monastery gateway to wave us off, first stopping in his quarters to gift us with some photos he had taken of the monastery as well as handing me a large poster version of one of these images which had his email address so we could contact him when we planned to go to Beit Sahour. We thanked him profusely (shukran, shukran gazeelan) and continued.
SIGHT OF JERICHO
The cliffs became more rocky and sheer, though the path was in better repair. We no longer followed the aqueduct - which had moved to the other cliff-face - but walked parallel with it. We could see several caves in the cliffs, some with signs of human habitation - such as windows hewn out or entrances walled in. We don't know if anyone would live there now though as it all seemed very old.
The large crosses still guided our path, to guide pilgrims walking from Jericho.
And then the cliffs opened and between them we could make out Jericho in the distance.
JERICHO
Jericho is the lowest inhabited area on Earth - at about 260m below sea level - and it is also one of the few areas under the full control of the Palestinian Authority, despite being surrounded by checkpoints and trenches (which mark an Israeli security zone). The city has such a different flow from Ramallah, probably because of the heat and it being just that much further from Israel (despite being surrounded by markers of the occupation and several settlements on surrounding hilltops). We walked the streets searching for a place that would serve us food and drink - which is difficult to find during Ramadan. Eventually we found a very enthusiastic restaurant owner who set before us a feast! Soup, salad, drinks, rice dishes and what looked to me like a chicken-wrap. It was delicious! And only 35 shekels all inclusive! We stayed there for a long time – eating, drinking and talking. By the time we had finished it was sundown and we had to stay even longer (now drinking tea) because it was Ramadan and sundown was the time that the fast was broken and people could eat again, so no taxi would drive us at that time. At about 6.30pm, the restaurant owner found us a taxi driver willing to take us and we left Jericho for Ramallah.
CHECKPOINTS ON THE ROAD BACK TO RAMALLAH
As I said, Jericho is surrounded by trenches that mark an Israeli security zone. These trenches mean there is no way to drive out of the city without passing the checkpoint. There was a long line of cars waiting at the checkpoint when we reached it. We thought we would have a long wait on our hands, but our driver simply drove onto the other side of the road (driving towards oncoming vehicles, if there had been any - but cars were also being prevented from entering Jericho by the checkpoint so we didn't have any problem). At first I was confused at why we were rushing by the queue, then I could have slapped myself - our driver was taking advantage of having international passengers, and perhaps more advantageous: white international passengers. He stopped the car about ten metres in front of the soldiers, gathered our passports and walked up to the soldier closest to us (who was aiming his M16 at him). It amazes me how unflinching these Palestinians are, standing in front of these large weapons knowing that only the steadiness of a teenager's grip on the trigger stood between them and death. Because once more I must emphasise: these soldiers are teenagers and these guns are loaded and ready to fire. While he seemed a little disinclined to listen to our taxi driver, the soldier eventually waved us through, allowing us to pass in front of this long queue of cars that had been waiting there for how long? It is just one of the many special privileges that a foreign passport gives you in the Occupied Territories.
We were questioned by the soldiers - 'what are we doing here?' 'why are we going to Ramallah?’ ‘don’t we know it’s dangerous here?’ etc... The others smiled with the soldiers and thanked them – one even spoke with them in Hebrew. I cringed at all of this. I cringed because for us Westerners, it is natural to try and be as affable as possible with people in the position of these soldiers, but that’s not how it works here. Here, it is like a slap in the face of the Palestinians to see us smiling with their occupiers. However nice individual Israeli soldiers may be, they are still taking part in an occupation condemned by international law. And just as readily as they would smile and joke with an American or an Australian, they would shoot a Palestinian if they were so ordered to do so. That’s the problem with soldiers – they follow orders.
We were waved through and continued on our way. Just outside Ramallah we were stopped at another checkpoint and once more questioned as to what we were doing here. And once more the soldier asking didn’t even seem interested in our answers.
Finally, we were back in our city.
HARRASSMENT NEAR HOME
In Ramallah, J. (a girl who lived with me) and I said goodbye to the others and walked back to our dormitory. On the way there was a young man who kept trying to engage us in conversation and kept walking in our direction, even when we turned off the main road. Just before our dorms we said goodbye to him (quite forcefully as we were trying to shake him) and he reached out to shake J.'s hand. Instead of shaking it, he kissed it and then kissed her cheeks four or five times. Then he did the same to me, but when he was kissing my cheeks he slowed and I had the distinct impression that he was about to go for my mouth, so I pushed him - shoving him in the chest and knocking him away from me saying 'la! hallas!' (no! enough!) He then turned back to J. and tried to embrace her again but she likewise shoved him back and yelled an Arabic word I didn't know but which means 'shame' in the sense that you are violating Islam and should be ashamed. Both J. and I walked away from him and he yelled after us 'OK! Goodbye! I'm sorry! Goodbye!' I had not been frightened through any of this – the man had in fact seemed quite harmless. Although, perhaps it would have been a different story had either J. or I been alone. It was just an example of part of what women must sometimes contend with here, particularly foreign women, who are often assumed to be sex-crazed.
CONCLUSIONS
It was an incredible journey. We experienced the hospitality of the people here, the remoteness of the desert, the deep religion of the society, a Palestinian feast, two checkpoints, the status that an international passport can give you and a taste of the harassment that women here are sometimes subject to. All this and more is Palestine, and I love it here.
Both D. and I managed to find other people interested in joining us, so there were five of us roaming around Ramallah the next day looking for a servees that would take us to Wadi Qelt (the name of our destination). We found one that was willing to take us for 100 shekels (20 each) so we accepted and got in.
THE DRIVE
Driving anywhere in this country is a risky enterprise: the roads are treacherous! And that’s largely because of the impatient drivers who have no sense of a limit on speed. Seatbelts are only worn when there is an Israeli presence nearby – because the Israeli soldiers will fine the driver if anyone in the vehicle is without a seatbelt.
We drove through the checkpoint just outside Ramallah - no soldiers seemed to be manning it, though they could always potentially be in the camouflaged watch tower which rises ominously over the road. They are designed so that there is no way to tell for sure whether there is a soldier inside – so they work very much like Foucault's idea for the Panopticon: keeping the populace on their toes ‘just in case’ they are being watched.
We drove along the wall/security barrier which loops East Jerusalem, cutting it off from the West Bank (despite the fact that Palestinian families live on both sides). There is graffiti sprayed all over the cement sections: "CTRL + ALT + DELETE", "THE WALL MUST FALL", "PALESTINE GHETTO" etc...
Turning from the wall the landscape slowly began to change - the land became paler and dryer. Some areas along the road were littered with small stumps: olive trees cut down by the Israelis for 'security purposes'. In such a barren land as this, olive trees are a family's only hope, they are their livelihood - but with the Israelis, it's ‘now you see them now you don't’. There were also some shanty villages that looked as though they were permanently temporary, that is, built with only a short amount of time in mind, but lived in for years. These are the Bedouin who have been kicked off the areas they once inhabited - again for 'security reasons'.
WADI QELT
There is a sign pointing to Wadi Qelt and the servees dropped us off there. The only thing close by is an Israeli settlement. We are at the top of one of the many rolling desert hills and this is obviously a tourist look-out because there are souvenir-sellers and a man who wanted us to ride his camel. But we pass by them and start walking towards the valley, which winds between these rolling hills. The path is covered in a light pale sun-bleached dust from the light pale sun-bleached rock that is everywhere. At the beginning, the path is like a road, but then the track turns away from this dusty road and starts to drop down. The track is thin, rocky and steep - and looked more fit for goats than people. But a man and his donkey pass us and we see we're going the right way. We follow them - the man and the donkey - for several minutes before he suddenly stops close to the bottom of the valley (we could see the green that indicated the presence of the aqueduct). He waits for us to catch up and then asks "shay?" ('tea?'). We hesitate for a moment but, as it is rude to refuse such offers, we accept. (After all, there's five of us and only one of him.) He points down away from the track to what looks like a tent and leads the way.
TEA IN A TENT
When we arrive, he disappears inside the main tent (there are two - one large [the living room] and the other small [the kitchen]). After a little while he reappears and opens the flap to let us walk in, he's obviously just done a hasty clean up! He sits us down to one side on mattresses and pillows and sets about making the tea. We feel a bit awkward - not sure exactly what's expected of us and slightly awestruck by the situation we were in - being served tea in a tent in a secluded valley surrounded by desert. The man, named Muhammad, was actually a farmer from Jericho who had been living in this tent for eight years raising goats. He came here after the Israelis closed Jerusalem and so he was no longer able to find work - his previous livelihood had been working for the Israelis but after the second intifada, Palestinians stopped being allowed into Israel to attend their prior occupations. His family still lived in a refugee camp in Jericho and he would go there to visit and get supplies every four days or so.
After two cups of tea and a small packet of biscuits, we moved on, waving ma-salaama (goodbye) to Muhammad and his donkey and goats. We were now in the valley.
THE ROMAN TOUCH - FOLLOWING THE AQUEDUCT
From Muhammad's tent, it was a matter of walking up a steep goat's trail to reach the aqueduct. We almost stepped on a shepherd who was resting in the shade of a leafy tree, which only survived there because of the aqueduct. We exchanged a few words of greeting and continued. The path along the aqueduct is not always fit for walking, so at times we were balancing on the rock ledges on either side, which was not my favourite way to walk: fall to your right and plummet into the valley (and I assure you, survival would be a matter of luck) and fall the other way and land in the aqueduct, potentially hitting your head on stone. But it was certainly an adventure!!! I would have enjoyed the balancing, had it not been for the fear of the plummet. But further along, where there were some leaks in the aqueduct, there were more trees, which could act as a barrier between you and a potentially horrible death. Once we had that safety barrier I felt much better about the balancing, and could enjoy myself! ... until we reached the hornets.
We found a cave just above the aqueduct and when we moved up to explore I was bitten by one such hornet on my thigh - quite a painful experience!! The suddenly one of the other girls began to sprint along the rocky trail yelling that there was a hornet in her head scarf. Fortunately she managed to throw it off and all was well again - except for the several other hornets swarming nearby and my constant commentary of the rate of pain I was feeling: 'shit shit shit SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT shit shit SHIT SHIT' (the pain came in a rhythm, sometimes sharp, then dull, then sharp, the dull etc ). D. said that he thought it was the aqueduct that attracted the presence of the hornets, so we decided we would leave it and explore the valley below. First goat’s trail we found we followed down.
THE VALLEY BOTTOM
The valley seemed to have been carved out by a river that must have once flowed here. Round white stones covered the bottom. They were like a much larger version of the sort of pebbles you get to put in the bottom of a fish-tank. There were signs that people pass through here - blackened areas where bonfires had been lit, drink bottles, the odd shoe (not sure what happened to its wearer). There were even the charred remains of a car that looked as though it had fallen from the cliff - we just hoped that no one was in it at the time...
We rested here in the shade and ate and drank. Then we continued. The heat was oppressive, though not so different from summer back home. But soon it was too much for the Europeans so we started looking for a way to climb back up to the aqueduct. It was here we realised our mistake - it seems that the further along we go, the more sheer the hill faces on either side. But staying down in the valley wasn't as option, if only because of the water situation: we were running out and the plan was to use David's water filter (which he has from his adventuring in the states) and fill up our bottles from the aqueduct. Eventually we found something that looked like a goat trail - a very nimble goat trail... and we climbed.
CROSSES ON THE HILL-TOPS
I led the way up the hill face - slipping on the flakes of stone that littered the path. The further up we climbed the more steep it became, until we were all on hands and knees, digging into the blistering sand trying to stop ourselves from sliding backwards. It was on this climb that I managed to pick up several scrapes and bruises - and a few cuts on my palm from my attempt to hold onto a plant for support and being greeted with thorns. Arms slightly shaking we reached the aqueduct and pulled ourselves up onto its ledge. We had all made it!
We followed the aqueduct for the rest of the journey. Soon we could see the great crosses that mark the route to St George Monastery. And even sooner, we were overtaken by another man with a donkey. This man had a motto: 'everything is possible with a donkey'. His English wasn't good, but with our various Arabic abilities we managed to have a conversation and he kept us company.
You have climbed and climbed, following these giant crosses that appear on the tops of the rolling desert hills, and suddenly you round a bend and there is St George Monastery below you. It is built out of the cliff face and surrounded by green oasis fed by the aqueduct. There is a winding makeshift stone stairway leading down to it, which we trumped along, sweaty, dusty and tired.
ST GEORGE MONASTERY
We were let into the Monastery and greeted by the monks with cool water and grape juice, which we took with us into an out-of-the-way corner. Eventually a Palestinian man approached us and began to speak with us. He was an old student from Birzeit, many years ago. Now he was a historian for the church, as well as a builder and a maker of mosaics. He lived in Beit Sahour (by Bethlehem) and worked at the Peace Centre there. First he asked if we had been there (to Beit Sahour) and we said no, so he invited us all there to come to see him in his home. Then he asked if we would like to see upstairs and we agreed, following him up to this shrine area, where a saint had lived in exile while being hunted by an invading army. He showed us the work he had done to the shrine - the repairs - and also the area set aside for his next mosaic. Soon it was time for us to leave, since we wanted to continue our walk into Jericho, which would be another two hours or so. So he walked down with us to the Monastery gateway to wave us off, first stopping in his quarters to gift us with some photos he had taken of the monastery as well as handing me a large poster version of one of these images which had his email address so we could contact him when we planned to go to Beit Sahour. We thanked him profusely (shukran, shukran gazeelan) and continued.
SIGHT OF JERICHO
The cliffs became more rocky and sheer, though the path was in better repair. We no longer followed the aqueduct - which had moved to the other cliff-face - but walked parallel with it. We could see several caves in the cliffs, some with signs of human habitation - such as windows hewn out or entrances walled in. We don't know if anyone would live there now though as it all seemed very old.
The large crosses still guided our path, to guide pilgrims walking from Jericho.
And then the cliffs opened and between them we could make out Jericho in the distance.
JERICHO
Jericho is the lowest inhabited area on Earth - at about 260m below sea level - and it is also one of the few areas under the full control of the Palestinian Authority, despite being surrounded by checkpoints and trenches (which mark an Israeli security zone). The city has such a different flow from Ramallah, probably because of the heat and it being just that much further from Israel (despite being surrounded by markers of the occupation and several settlements on surrounding hilltops). We walked the streets searching for a place that would serve us food and drink - which is difficult to find during Ramadan. Eventually we found a very enthusiastic restaurant owner who set before us a feast! Soup, salad, drinks, rice dishes and what looked to me like a chicken-wrap. It was delicious! And only 35 shekels all inclusive! We stayed there for a long time – eating, drinking and talking. By the time we had finished it was sundown and we had to stay even longer (now drinking tea) because it was Ramadan and sundown was the time that the fast was broken and people could eat again, so no taxi would drive us at that time. At about 6.30pm, the restaurant owner found us a taxi driver willing to take us and we left Jericho for Ramallah.
CHECKPOINTS ON THE ROAD BACK TO RAMALLAH
As I said, Jericho is surrounded by trenches that mark an Israeli security zone. These trenches mean there is no way to drive out of the city without passing the checkpoint. There was a long line of cars waiting at the checkpoint when we reached it. We thought we would have a long wait on our hands, but our driver simply drove onto the other side of the road (driving towards oncoming vehicles, if there had been any - but cars were also being prevented from entering Jericho by the checkpoint so we didn't have any problem). At first I was confused at why we were rushing by the queue, then I could have slapped myself - our driver was taking advantage of having international passengers, and perhaps more advantageous: white international passengers. He stopped the car about ten metres in front of the soldiers, gathered our passports and walked up to the soldier closest to us (who was aiming his M16 at him). It amazes me how unflinching these Palestinians are, standing in front of these large weapons knowing that only the steadiness of a teenager's grip on the trigger stood between them and death. Because once more I must emphasise: these soldiers are teenagers and these guns are loaded and ready to fire. While he seemed a little disinclined to listen to our taxi driver, the soldier eventually waved us through, allowing us to pass in front of this long queue of cars that had been waiting there for how long? It is just one of the many special privileges that a foreign passport gives you in the Occupied Territories.
We were questioned by the soldiers - 'what are we doing here?' 'why are we going to Ramallah?’ ‘don’t we know it’s dangerous here?’ etc... The others smiled with the soldiers and thanked them – one even spoke with them in Hebrew. I cringed at all of this. I cringed because for us Westerners, it is natural to try and be as affable as possible with people in the position of these soldiers, but that’s not how it works here. Here, it is like a slap in the face of the Palestinians to see us smiling with their occupiers. However nice individual Israeli soldiers may be, they are still taking part in an occupation condemned by international law. And just as readily as they would smile and joke with an American or an Australian, they would shoot a Palestinian if they were so ordered to do so. That’s the problem with soldiers – they follow orders.
We were waved through and continued on our way. Just outside Ramallah we were stopped at another checkpoint and once more questioned as to what we were doing here. And once more the soldier asking didn’t even seem interested in our answers.
Finally, we were back in our city.
HARRASSMENT NEAR HOME
In Ramallah, J. (a girl who lived with me) and I said goodbye to the others and walked back to our dormitory. On the way there was a young man who kept trying to engage us in conversation and kept walking in our direction, even when we turned off the main road. Just before our dorms we said goodbye to him (quite forcefully as we were trying to shake him) and he reached out to shake J.'s hand. Instead of shaking it, he kissed it and then kissed her cheeks four or five times. Then he did the same to me, but when he was kissing my cheeks he slowed and I had the distinct impression that he was about to go for my mouth, so I pushed him - shoving him in the chest and knocking him away from me saying 'la! hallas!' (no! enough!) He then turned back to J. and tried to embrace her again but she likewise shoved him back and yelled an Arabic word I didn't know but which means 'shame' in the sense that you are violating Islam and should be ashamed. Both J. and I walked away from him and he yelled after us 'OK! Goodbye! I'm sorry! Goodbye!' I had not been frightened through any of this – the man had in fact seemed quite harmless. Although, perhaps it would have been a different story had either J. or I been alone. It was just an example of part of what women must sometimes contend with here, particularly foreign women, who are often assumed to be sex-crazed.
CONCLUSIONS
It was an incredible journey. We experienced the hospitality of the people here, the remoteness of the desert, the deep religion of the society, a Palestinian feast, two checkpoints, the status that an international passport can give you and a taste of the harassment that women here are sometimes subject to. All this and more is Palestine, and I love it here.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Journey to Jenin
Jenin is a city in the north of the West Bank and has a rocky recent history. In 2002 much of it was destroyed during an Israeli incursion. Streets of houses were destroyed, some while their occupants were still inside. It's a city without much hope. Our Palestinian guide called it 'hell'. This was our destination for the day and seven of us set off in a servees we had hired for the long drive northward. Our Palestinian guide, T., asked for one of us internationals (all pale skinned) to sit in the front - 'it will make it easier at the checkpoints,' he said. One of the Norwegian girls volunteered and T. nodded happily - not only was she beautiful, she was also blond.
I don't know if it was because of T.'s precautions, but we did have a very easy drive northward, being waved through the checkpoints without issue. However, even when you are not stopped at the checkpoints, they are still disconcerting. I can't help but feel nervous when I see a young soldier pointing their large gun right at me - what if they should sneeze or cough and accidently pull the trigger? A ridiculous fear I'm sure, but it's also a ridiculous situation.
T. told us stories of his experiences growing up under occupation. Tales of being beaten by soldiers, arrested (he was mistaken for another man and eventually released once the Israelis realised their error) and harassed. He said to me that when he was younger he thought that once you are taken by the soldiers your life is finished - 'hallas' - but now he has come to realise that you've just got to live without worrying about it. If you die, you die, if you live, you live - you just need to take it easy. 'That's how it is in Palestine - you need to just take it easy! You can't change it.'
The landscape we passed over was epic: the pale rock, the hardy trees like old crones scattered amongst the rolling biblical hills - all sun-bleached and pale. Add to all this the heat and the blinding glare of the sun.
We stopped for a short visit to the American Arab University, which was where T. had studied. The campus was beautiful: many trees. Though this must mean that much water is also used. Once more T. regaled us with stories of studying here. As a liberal Palestinian he hated it there because the conservatism of the area affects the university. He said that if he so much as touched a female student in public he would be questioned. He also told us of once being kidnapped because he had been in a relationship with a Muslim student, which as a Christian he was not allowed to do.
We continued to Jenin.
There is a theatre in Jenin called the Freedom Theatre. This theatre was originally called 'Stone Theatre' and founded by a woman called Arna - an Israeli who had married a Palestinian man. In 2002 this theatre was destroyed but was rebuilt as the Freedom Theatre in 2006, thanks to international donations. For the children growing up in the camps of Jenin there is not much hope - posters of martyrs litter the street walls. But the Freedom Theatre works hard through its productions, classes and drama therapy to give the children an outlet for their troubles and also a chance to foster some hopes and dreams. This is especially the case for the girls of the camp, who suffer from the conservatism of the area. The theatre gives girls the chance to speak out and also to spend time with their friends, which they normally would not be able to do as at home there are chores to be done. The young man (an actor) who spoke with us about the work of the theatre emphasised that here, in the theatre, 'we don't ask anything of you, we don't ask your religion, this question is haram (forbidden). We are all equal.' Both women and men.
We walked through Jenin camp, much of which had been destroyed in 2002 and since rebuilt. Posters and flags were everywhere, but the streets were desolate: rubbish was strewn about and there was little activity. In the camp there are also no trees or plant-life - just road and building. Soon we had a following of boys and some young men: a group of foreign women, several of whom with blond hair, causes quite a stir in this are! They yelled out at us and laughed as they decided who would marry who (T. translated this part of the conversation). Sad to say, I wasn't very popular, but alas! With three blond haired Europeans standing beside me, I'm not surprised!
It was hot, very hot, and we couldn't drink any water in public due to it being Ramadan, so we were soon returning to the servees.
It was a long day, for the drive between Ramallah and Jenin is long. It is made longer because many of the faster (more direct) roads have been blocked by the Israelis so that all traffic must pass by their checkpoints. Road by road, street by street, the occupation continues to but up barriers.
I have just one snapshot for you today.
The Girl's Laughter
At the entrance to Jenin camp there is a large model of a horse - built by an Italian artist from scraps of cars that had been destroyed in aerial attacks by the Israeli army with their occupants inside (targeted assassinations). T. and one the Norwegian guys who had come on the trip were playing around and decided to try and climb onto it. T. was lifted and managed to pull himself up (not an easy feat! The horse was huge!) As he called out victorious I noticed a girl of perhaps 16 who had stopped to watch us. Only her face was uncovered. She watched us laugh at T.'s antics and talk happily with each other and she laughed also, though lifted her shawl to try and hide the bottom half of her face as she did so. I turned to her, caught her eye and smiled. She lowered the shawl from her face and smiled also, eyes sparkling with mirth. Everyone was moving to get into the servees at this point and so I had to leave, but before I left I waved to her and she returned the wave. As we drove away I saw her walking up into the camp; she paused at one point and turned back towards us before continuing on her way.
I don't know if it was because of T.'s precautions, but we did have a very easy drive northward, being waved through the checkpoints without issue. However, even when you are not stopped at the checkpoints, they are still disconcerting. I can't help but feel nervous when I see a young soldier pointing their large gun right at me - what if they should sneeze or cough and accidently pull the trigger? A ridiculous fear I'm sure, but it's also a ridiculous situation.
T. told us stories of his experiences growing up under occupation. Tales of being beaten by soldiers, arrested (he was mistaken for another man and eventually released once the Israelis realised their error) and harassed. He said to me that when he was younger he thought that once you are taken by the soldiers your life is finished - 'hallas' - but now he has come to realise that you've just got to live without worrying about it. If you die, you die, if you live, you live - you just need to take it easy. 'That's how it is in Palestine - you need to just take it easy! You can't change it.'
The landscape we passed over was epic: the pale rock, the hardy trees like old crones scattered amongst the rolling biblical hills - all sun-bleached and pale. Add to all this the heat and the blinding glare of the sun.
We stopped for a short visit to the American Arab University, which was where T. had studied. The campus was beautiful: many trees. Though this must mean that much water is also used. Once more T. regaled us with stories of studying here. As a liberal Palestinian he hated it there because the conservatism of the area affects the university. He said that if he so much as touched a female student in public he would be questioned. He also told us of once being kidnapped because he had been in a relationship with a Muslim student, which as a Christian he was not allowed to do.
We continued to Jenin.
There is a theatre in Jenin called the Freedom Theatre. This theatre was originally called 'Stone Theatre' and founded by a woman called Arna - an Israeli who had married a Palestinian man. In 2002 this theatre was destroyed but was rebuilt as the Freedom Theatre in 2006, thanks to international donations. For the children growing up in the camps of Jenin there is not much hope - posters of martyrs litter the street walls. But the Freedom Theatre works hard through its productions, classes and drama therapy to give the children an outlet for their troubles and also a chance to foster some hopes and dreams. This is especially the case for the girls of the camp, who suffer from the conservatism of the area. The theatre gives girls the chance to speak out and also to spend time with their friends, which they normally would not be able to do as at home there are chores to be done. The young man (an actor) who spoke with us about the work of the theatre emphasised that here, in the theatre, 'we don't ask anything of you, we don't ask your religion, this question is haram (forbidden). We are all equal.' Both women and men.
We walked through Jenin camp, much of which had been destroyed in 2002 and since rebuilt. Posters and flags were everywhere, but the streets were desolate: rubbish was strewn about and there was little activity. In the camp there are also no trees or plant-life - just road and building. Soon we had a following of boys and some young men: a group of foreign women, several of whom with blond hair, causes quite a stir in this are! They yelled out at us and laughed as they decided who would marry who (T. translated this part of the conversation). Sad to say, I wasn't very popular, but alas! With three blond haired Europeans standing beside me, I'm not surprised!
It was hot, very hot, and we couldn't drink any water in public due to it being Ramadan, so we were soon returning to the servees.
It was a long day, for the drive between Ramallah and Jenin is long. It is made longer because many of the faster (more direct) roads have been blocked by the Israelis so that all traffic must pass by their checkpoints. Road by road, street by street, the occupation continues to but up barriers.
I have just one snapshot for you today.
The Girl's Laughter
At the entrance to Jenin camp there is a large model of a horse - built by an Italian artist from scraps of cars that had been destroyed in aerial attacks by the Israeli army with their occupants inside (targeted assassinations). T. and one the Norwegian guys who had come on the trip were playing around and decided to try and climb onto it. T. was lifted and managed to pull himself up (not an easy feat! The horse was huge!) As he called out victorious I noticed a girl of perhaps 16 who had stopped to watch us. Only her face was uncovered. She watched us laugh at T.'s antics and talk happily with each other and she laughed also, though lifted her shawl to try and hide the bottom half of her face as she did so. I turned to her, caught her eye and smiled. She lowered the shawl from her face and smiled also, eyes sparkling with mirth. Everyone was moving to get into the servees at this point and so I had to leave, but before I left I waved to her and she returned the wave. As we drove away I saw her walking up into the camp; she paused at one point and turned back towards us before continuing on her way.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Visa Issues and Jerusalem
On Tuesday I was given the unhappy news that it was not only the interview that I will have to have to extend my visa that is difficult - it is also difficult to get the appointment for the said interview. Why? The Ministry that deals with visa issues is swamped with such applications - which is made even worse because the said Ministry is only open from 8am to midday Sunday to Thursday. I was given a phone number to call, which I duly did - dozens of times! The only answer you get is a pre-recorded voice speaking in Hebrew that talks at you for about a minute before hanging up. Helpful..
One other student here is in the same position as me - a man from Texas. The difference is that he was not told he had only a one month visa - he had to find that out for himself, which he fortunately did (as he was leafing through his passport). Through our conversation we established that we must have had the same interrogator at the airport, and as we seem to be the only ones with one month visas we decided that this particular customs officer was just a cranky sort of guy who enjoys making things difficult.
This other student also had no luck with the phone numbers and so had gone to Jeruslem soon after arrival to make an appointment in person. It was difficult for him, no one wanted to help and they kept telling him to call the number, so he pulled out his phone in front of them and stood there calling the number over and over, finally they relented and gave him an appointment - set down for three weeks later. This worried me because if I could only get an appointment in three weeks time, that would be after my visa had expired. So I made a decision - I would go to Jerusalem in person as soon as possible.
I decided that this would be possible on Wednesday, as all I needed to do was register at university in the morning and then I could go straight into the Ministry. No such luck - delays, a checkpoint, and after-school traffic meant that I arrived at the Minsitry just after closing. Actually, according to Palestinian time they should have still been open, but Israel is still in daylight saving time and so is an hour ahead (Palestine had ended daylight saving early due to Ramadan). As I stood at the doorway of the Ministry I made another decision - I would spend the night in Jerusalem and go to the Ministry at 8am before returning to Birzeit University to take my classes, which would begin that day. So, I found a hostel, booked a bed in a dormitory and went in search of some food. I also tried to contact some of the other students who stayed with me at my dormitory in Ramallah to let them know what I was doing. Unfortunately, my Jawwal sim card (a Palestinian provider) did not work in Israeli areas - another mundane example of how politics affects day to day living. But I had a back-up in the form of my Australian sim card and managed to message someone.
I had never been to the Israeli sections of Jeruslem - only the Old City, which is part of East Jerusalem, the Palestinian side (though still controlled by Israel). The hostel I chose was very close to the Ministry just next to the trendy Zion Square (a name that left a lot to be desired). It was actually very beautiful there - restaurants, cafes, trees and many places to sit. There were also a number of cats, which seem to rule Jerusalem - they are everywhere! I even found an Israeli market where I bought some peaches. It was different from Ramallah's markets: it was cleaner, quieter and with more room to move. Though it was also less colourful and vibrant.
After filling my belly with my first Israeli style falafel (I prefer Ramallah's, though I may have just been unlucky with my choice of falafel stand here), I sat in Zion Square and observed. I have two snapshots, both concerning the soldiers.
The First: My Fear and Their Laughter
An army van drove up into the Square and some soldiers got out: armed and in uniform. My body immediately reacted and I looked around to the locals for signals of what I should do, but nobody did anything, they just continued eating, talking and reading their newspapers. I chided myself, remembering that here that army van did not represent the occupier, but the protector – and why would you need to run from or be wary of your protector? So I remained in my seat and continued to watch. Three young people (teenagers or young adults) cried out playfully in Hebrew and began to walk towards the soldiers. One of the soldiers (a young man) yelled a reply before detaching himself from his fellows and swaggering dramatically to the group. Just before they came together he did a kind of pirouette, to popular applause from his friends, and they all laughed and slapped each other on the back before heading off together. All the time the young soldier carried his large weapon over his shoulder – no one seemed to give it the slightest attention.
The Second: The Mall
Further up, Zion Square becomes a mall with several flashy shops – sort of like an upmarket Pitt St Mall (for those from Sydney) or Queen Street Mall (for those from Brisbane). I had just bought a juice and was sitting opposite a man wearing a kippah who had take off his shoes to read the newspaper. Two girls walked up the mall. They were walking casually, laughing and gossiping. They looked to be teenagers – young faces – and if it were Australia I would guess that they were high school students (or perhaps first year university students) who had just finished their classes and were now just wasting time window shopping. Their hair was done up fashionably and one of them was wearing tight clothing of the latest fashion (with those high leather boots you see everywhere). The other was wearing army green and held her gun casually slung across her shoulder. The juxtaposition between their looks and actions and that uniform and gun was dramatic for me. But then, I had stood on the wrong side of such a weapon before and was wary.
It was nice in the hostel, though I received some odd looks as all I had on me was my day bag – no change of clothes, no toiletries and no hiking bag! I met a New Zealander who had been spending time on a Kibbutz, an American doing a religious pilgrimage and a girl from South America who was struggling through the arduous process of converting to Judaism. I was not open with them about what I was doing there, but I listened to their stories and smiled at their jokes. When I raised the issue of the Palestinian Territories they expressed sympathy but offered no criticism of Israeli policies.
The next day I arrived early for the Ministry but already there was a queue outside. It took several minutes to get us all through the security checks but I eventually managed to enter the rabbit warren of staircases, hallways and queues. But I was at an advantage – the Texan student who had already been here had given me clear directions. So, while I may have spent an age trying to find the right office (which was well hidden and poorly signed), I reached it quickly. Perhaps it was because I was there so early, or perhaps I just got lucky, but the administration there had no problem giving me an appointment. Though the first date they gave me was two days after my visa is to expire, so I explained this and they gave me another – two days before my visa will expire. So within ten minutes of being in the Ministry I had my appointment. I also had a lot of time before I needed to be back at Birzeit, so I took the time to explore the Old City and also get a coffee.
I would like to give a description of the Old City and the dynamic there that results from the close proximity of Jews, Muslims and Christians, but this will have to wait for another time. Suffice to say there are metal detectors and bag searches to go through to get to the Western Wall, soldiers to be questioned by to get to the al-Aqsa Mosque and only two seated and drowsy police to walk past on your way into the Church of Holy Sepulcher.
Finally I returned to the West Bank, attended my classes (which were thoroughly enjoyable!) and went back home tired, dirty but satisfied that at least that part of the visa challenge was over.
One other student here is in the same position as me - a man from Texas. The difference is that he was not told he had only a one month visa - he had to find that out for himself, which he fortunately did (as he was leafing through his passport). Through our conversation we established that we must have had the same interrogator at the airport, and as we seem to be the only ones with one month visas we decided that this particular customs officer was just a cranky sort of guy who enjoys making things difficult.
This other student also had no luck with the phone numbers and so had gone to Jeruslem soon after arrival to make an appointment in person. It was difficult for him, no one wanted to help and they kept telling him to call the number, so he pulled out his phone in front of them and stood there calling the number over and over, finally they relented and gave him an appointment - set down for three weeks later. This worried me because if I could only get an appointment in three weeks time, that would be after my visa had expired. So I made a decision - I would go to Jerusalem in person as soon as possible.
I decided that this would be possible on Wednesday, as all I needed to do was register at university in the morning and then I could go straight into the Ministry. No such luck - delays, a checkpoint, and after-school traffic meant that I arrived at the Minsitry just after closing. Actually, according to Palestinian time they should have still been open, but Israel is still in daylight saving time and so is an hour ahead (Palestine had ended daylight saving early due to Ramadan). As I stood at the doorway of the Ministry I made another decision - I would spend the night in Jerusalem and go to the Ministry at 8am before returning to Birzeit University to take my classes, which would begin that day. So, I found a hostel, booked a bed in a dormitory and went in search of some food. I also tried to contact some of the other students who stayed with me at my dormitory in Ramallah to let them know what I was doing. Unfortunately, my Jawwal sim card (a Palestinian provider) did not work in Israeli areas - another mundane example of how politics affects day to day living. But I had a back-up in the form of my Australian sim card and managed to message someone.
I had never been to the Israeli sections of Jeruslem - only the Old City, which is part of East Jerusalem, the Palestinian side (though still controlled by Israel). The hostel I chose was very close to the Ministry just next to the trendy Zion Square (a name that left a lot to be desired). It was actually very beautiful there - restaurants, cafes, trees and many places to sit. There were also a number of cats, which seem to rule Jerusalem - they are everywhere! I even found an Israeli market where I bought some peaches. It was different from Ramallah's markets: it was cleaner, quieter and with more room to move. Though it was also less colourful and vibrant.
After filling my belly with my first Israeli style falafel (I prefer Ramallah's, though I may have just been unlucky with my choice of falafel stand here), I sat in Zion Square and observed. I have two snapshots, both concerning the soldiers.
The First: My Fear and Their Laughter
An army van drove up into the Square and some soldiers got out: armed and in uniform. My body immediately reacted and I looked around to the locals for signals of what I should do, but nobody did anything, they just continued eating, talking and reading their newspapers. I chided myself, remembering that here that army van did not represent the occupier, but the protector – and why would you need to run from or be wary of your protector? So I remained in my seat and continued to watch. Three young people (teenagers or young adults) cried out playfully in Hebrew and began to walk towards the soldiers. One of the soldiers (a young man) yelled a reply before detaching himself from his fellows and swaggering dramatically to the group. Just before they came together he did a kind of pirouette, to popular applause from his friends, and they all laughed and slapped each other on the back before heading off together. All the time the young soldier carried his large weapon over his shoulder – no one seemed to give it the slightest attention.
The Second: The Mall
Further up, Zion Square becomes a mall with several flashy shops – sort of like an upmarket Pitt St Mall (for those from Sydney) or Queen Street Mall (for those from Brisbane). I had just bought a juice and was sitting opposite a man wearing a kippah who had take off his shoes to read the newspaper. Two girls walked up the mall. They were walking casually, laughing and gossiping. They looked to be teenagers – young faces – and if it were Australia I would guess that they were high school students (or perhaps first year university students) who had just finished their classes and were now just wasting time window shopping. Their hair was done up fashionably and one of them was wearing tight clothing of the latest fashion (with those high leather boots you see everywhere). The other was wearing army green and held her gun casually slung across her shoulder. The juxtaposition between their looks and actions and that uniform and gun was dramatic for me. But then, I had stood on the wrong side of such a weapon before and was wary.
It was nice in the hostel, though I received some odd looks as all I had on me was my day bag – no change of clothes, no toiletries and no hiking bag! I met a New Zealander who had been spending time on a Kibbutz, an American doing a religious pilgrimage and a girl from South America who was struggling through the arduous process of converting to Judaism. I was not open with them about what I was doing there, but I listened to their stories and smiled at their jokes. When I raised the issue of the Palestinian Territories they expressed sympathy but offered no criticism of Israeli policies.
The next day I arrived early for the Ministry but already there was a queue outside. It took several minutes to get us all through the security checks but I eventually managed to enter the rabbit warren of staircases, hallways and queues. But I was at an advantage – the Texan student who had already been here had given me clear directions. So, while I may have spent an age trying to find the right office (which was well hidden and poorly signed), I reached it quickly. Perhaps it was because I was there so early, or perhaps I just got lucky, but the administration there had no problem giving me an appointment. Though the first date they gave me was two days after my visa is to expire, so I explained this and they gave me another – two days before my visa will expire. So within ten minutes of being in the Ministry I had my appointment. I also had a lot of time before I needed to be back at Birzeit, so I took the time to explore the Old City and also get a coffee.
I would like to give a description of the Old City and the dynamic there that results from the close proximity of Jews, Muslims and Christians, but this will have to wait for another time. Suffice to say there are metal detectors and bag searches to go through to get to the Western Wall, soldiers to be questioned by to get to the al-Aqsa Mosque and only two seated and drowsy police to walk past on your way into the Church of Holy Sepulcher.
Finally I returned to the West Bank, attended my classes (which were thoroughly enjoyable!) and went back home tired, dirty but satisfied that at least that part of the visa challenge was over.
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Markets
I am starting to find my feet here – the Palestinian people are all so welcoming. Today I took an excursion to Ramallah markets with two German girls who will also be taking part in the Palestine and Arabic Studies program at Brizeit, one of whom is my recently arrived roommate.
We walked from our dormitory, which is only about a twenty minute walk up a light slope. We kept our pace up (or at least, I tried to make sure we kept our pace up) because foreigners get a lot of attention in the streets here – particularly foreign women from Palestinian men. Their Gaze can be quite off-putting, but moving quickly by can lessen its impact. And I've come to learn that you avoid a lot of unwanted attention if you look like you know exactly what you're doing and where you're going. So, I tried to become one with the Palestinians: elbowing my way through the streets like the best of them. Well, at least that's what I like to think - no doubt I just looked like a hurried foreigner, but at least we avoided any of the harassment that white women can often get in Arab societies.
We took a deep breath before we joined the mass of bodies that fill markets. We passed through slowly: taking that turn, then doubling back at a dead end, getting stuck in the traffic of bodies and elbowing our way out. At times you have to jump out of the way as men with loaded wagons come tearing down the paths - the weight of their burdens seem to be so great that they couldn't stop even if they wanted to! So they just yell warnings as they go.
There are two snapshots that have stuck with me from this excursion.
The first: The Boy and the Apple
I took out my camera to take a picture of the market place while we were waiting for one of the girls to buy some vegetable at the next table. Then a boy's head popped out (he was obviously looking after the fruit store we were standing in front of). He looked at my camera intently, smiled approvingly and then started speaking to me in Arabic. When he realised I didn't understand he just said 'Welcome, welcome!' in heavily accented English. He picked up an apple and pointed it towards me, I shook my head and said 'la shukran' ('no thank you') but he kept pointing the apple towards me and despite my repeated protests he took it and stuck it on top of my bag. Seeing another of the girls standing behind me he also gave her an apple. We thanked him ('shukran, shukran') and he looked very pleased with himself. Then an old lady walked up to the table, and this is the next snapshot.
The second: The Old Woman and the Potatoes
The old woman was wrapped in traditional Palestinian dress - blacks and reds with a light long head scarf. Her years were etched onto her face, deep wrinkles and tough skin. Her teeth were dark and she was missing some. She was speaking to the young smiling boy but he shook her head to her and pointed to me before walking away. I don't know what passed during their exchange, but when the boy walked away the old woman turned to me and looked up into my face (she was over a head shorter than me). She said something that may have been 'ahlan' ('welcome') and took my hand in both of hers, they were soft and warm but calloused. She spoke some more to me before releasing my hand and turning away. As she turned away her eyes alighted on some scraps of potato on the ground - they looked like two halves that had been dropped onto the floor. Quickly she swung down and picked up the pieces, flicking them into the plastic bags she carried before standing up again and moving onwards through the markets. A passing woman caught my eye and I was suddenly aware that this woman had seen that I had witnessed the old woman's actions and I realised that I was ashamed to have witnessed this old woman's poverty like a common spectator, a tourist.
We left the market and realised that we had still not found a spice shop (one of the Germans wanted some zaatar). I decided to take matter into my own hands and approached a woman sitting on the side of the road to ask for directions in my woeful Arabic:
"bidi zaatar, eine?" (I want zaatar, where is?)
But the woman just stood up saying "I don't speak English, I don't speak English" and I was quite put off that she thought I had been speaking English with her! But a young woman passing by stopped and said
"What is wrong? Can I help?" Her English was heavily accented, but clear
"We are looking for zaatar, you know zaatar? The spice" I said with many hand gestures
The woman pointed and said "This way, this way, come come" and she walked with us through the streets. I kept trying to speak Arabic with her, but beyond the simple expressions of what my name is and how I was pleased to meet her, I could say very little. Her English abilities were also limited, so we spoke little, but smiled lots. She brought us to a pastry shop that seemed heavily European influenced, they man had a booming voice and that coupled with his hand movements suggested that he fancied himself an Italian! He spoke English with ease so even though it wasn't a zaatar pastry we were after but rather the zaatar herb, we decided to buy one anyway! We said goodbye to the woman who had brought us there and thanked her, wishing her well. Then we took our pastries and began to walk out onto the street, but before we left the Palestinian man-cum-Italian reached out to us and handed us all a necklace with a beaded Palestinian flag upon it - another gift! We thanked him profusely, he waved us away and we continued on our way.
As we walked down the street we noticed a higher number of Palestinian army men along the road. Every ten metres or so a soldier stood in uniform with his weapon hanging over his shoulder on either side of the road. This was the case right down the long road. I turned to the two German girls and told them that I recommended we increase our speed because while it probably means nothing, we don't want to be here if it turns out to mean something. So once more we sped up our pace. Because the paths were narrow, we often had to weave right round one of these many soldiers. They didn't say anything, which was strange in itself because soldiers usually revel in calling out to passing foreign women. Finally we reached the last stretch of our walk some and left the soldiers behind, so we could slow down our pace a bit again. We reached our dormitories safely, put away our things and felt satisfied with a day well spent.
We walked from our dormitory, which is only about a twenty minute walk up a light slope. We kept our pace up (or at least, I tried to make sure we kept our pace up) because foreigners get a lot of attention in the streets here – particularly foreign women from Palestinian men. Their Gaze can be quite off-putting, but moving quickly by can lessen its impact. And I've come to learn that you avoid a lot of unwanted attention if you look like you know exactly what you're doing and where you're going. So, I tried to become one with the Palestinians: elbowing my way through the streets like the best of them. Well, at least that's what I like to think - no doubt I just looked like a hurried foreigner, but at least we avoided any of the harassment that white women can often get in Arab societies.
We took a deep breath before we joined the mass of bodies that fill markets. We passed through slowly: taking that turn, then doubling back at a dead end, getting stuck in the traffic of bodies and elbowing our way out. At times you have to jump out of the way as men with loaded wagons come tearing down the paths - the weight of their burdens seem to be so great that they couldn't stop even if they wanted to! So they just yell warnings as they go.
There are two snapshots that have stuck with me from this excursion.
The first: The Boy and the Apple
I took out my camera to take a picture of the market place while we were waiting for one of the girls to buy some vegetable at the next table. Then a boy's head popped out (he was obviously looking after the fruit store we were standing in front of). He looked at my camera intently, smiled approvingly and then started speaking to me in Arabic. When he realised I didn't understand he just said 'Welcome, welcome!' in heavily accented English. He picked up an apple and pointed it towards me, I shook my head and said 'la shukran' ('no thank you') but he kept pointing the apple towards me and despite my repeated protests he took it and stuck it on top of my bag. Seeing another of the girls standing behind me he also gave her an apple. We thanked him ('shukran, shukran') and he looked very pleased with himself. Then an old lady walked up to the table, and this is the next snapshot.
The second: The Old Woman and the Potatoes
The old woman was wrapped in traditional Palestinian dress - blacks and reds with a light long head scarf. Her years were etched onto her face, deep wrinkles and tough skin. Her teeth were dark and she was missing some. She was speaking to the young smiling boy but he shook her head to her and pointed to me before walking away. I don't know what passed during their exchange, but when the boy walked away the old woman turned to me and looked up into my face (she was over a head shorter than me). She said something that may have been 'ahlan' ('welcome') and took my hand in both of hers, they were soft and warm but calloused. She spoke some more to me before releasing my hand and turning away. As she turned away her eyes alighted on some scraps of potato on the ground - they looked like two halves that had been dropped onto the floor. Quickly she swung down and picked up the pieces, flicking them into the plastic bags she carried before standing up again and moving onwards through the markets. A passing woman caught my eye and I was suddenly aware that this woman had seen that I had witnessed the old woman's actions and I realised that I was ashamed to have witnessed this old woman's poverty like a common spectator, a tourist.
We left the market and realised that we had still not found a spice shop (one of the Germans wanted some zaatar). I decided to take matter into my own hands and approached a woman sitting on the side of the road to ask for directions in my woeful Arabic:
"bidi zaatar, eine?" (I want zaatar, where is?)
But the woman just stood up saying "I don't speak English, I don't speak English" and I was quite put off that she thought I had been speaking English with her! But a young woman passing by stopped and said
"What is wrong? Can I help?" Her English was heavily accented, but clear
"We are looking for zaatar, you know zaatar? The spice" I said with many hand gestures
The woman pointed and said "This way, this way, come come" and she walked with us through the streets. I kept trying to speak Arabic with her, but beyond the simple expressions of what my name is and how I was pleased to meet her, I could say very little. Her English abilities were also limited, so we spoke little, but smiled lots. She brought us to a pastry shop that seemed heavily European influenced, they man had a booming voice and that coupled with his hand movements suggested that he fancied himself an Italian! He spoke English with ease so even though it wasn't a zaatar pastry we were after but rather the zaatar herb, we decided to buy one anyway! We said goodbye to the woman who had brought us there and thanked her, wishing her well. Then we took our pastries and began to walk out onto the street, but before we left the Palestinian man-cum-Italian reached out to us and handed us all a necklace with a beaded Palestinian flag upon it - another gift! We thanked him profusely, he waved us away and we continued on our way.
As we walked down the street we noticed a higher number of Palestinian army men along the road. Every ten metres or so a soldier stood in uniform with his weapon hanging over his shoulder on either side of the road. This was the case right down the long road. I turned to the two German girls and told them that I recommended we increase our speed because while it probably means nothing, we don't want to be here if it turns out to mean something. So once more we sped up our pace. Because the paths were narrow, we often had to weave right round one of these many soldiers. They didn't say anything, which was strange in itself because soldiers usually revel in calling out to passing foreign women. Finally we reached the last stretch of our walk some and left the soldiers behind, so we could slow down our pace a bit again. We reached our dormitories safely, put away our things and felt satisfied with a day well spent.
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