Last day in Jerusalem

Saturday.
Even on this day, the day I was leaving to return to Australia, I was challenged by events that took place around me. These are my last three snapshots.

Snapshot One: Body-Search

There is a ledge outside the Jaffa Gate to the Old City where you can sit and face West Jerusalem. I sat there; reading and watching the people filter past. It was Shabbat and dozens of the faithful filed past me on their way to the Wailing Wall. Beside me was a man enjoying the sun and around us milled tourist groups waiting to see the Old City. Two security officers - one in police blue and the other in soldier green - came and stood by the entrance to Jaffa Gate. I was reading and didn't see them stop a man walking past. Suddenly the man beside me looked around, stood up and walked away. His sudden movement disrupted me from my reading and I also looked around and saw that the security officers had asked the man they had stopped, who was Arab, to remove everything from his pockets and allow them to search him. He placed everything on the ledge before lifting up his shirt and turning around so that they could see if there was anything on his chest or back. This searching and questioning all took place publically, in front of the tourists and the passers-by and me. When the soldiers found nothing they told the man that he could leave. He gathered his things, straightened his shirt and walked away.


Snapshot Two: A Hurled Can

Nablus Road is a busy street in East Jerusalem; it ends at Damascus Gate and goes up to one of the two Arab bus stations, where the buses to Ramallah leave from. My sherut to the airport was to pick me up outside the Jerusalem Hotel opposite. On my way up from the Old City, carrying all my bags, I saw an Orthodox family walking towards me heading towards the Wailing Wall to celebrate the end of Shabbat. Some young Palestinian men were walking past talking loudly; one of them had just finished drinking from a can. They turned and saw the family and upon registering their Orthodox clothing, the one with the can took it in his hand and threw it at the father of the family. He missed. This took place publically, in front of the commuters and the passers-by and me. The father said something to his family and they all kept walking quickly onwards, not even looking at the young men.


Snapshot Three: Driving Past Razor Wire

The route the sherut took to the airport brought us partially into the West Bank. I'm not sure why we took that route, but suddenly there was razor wire on the side of the road and security fencing. I looked out at the hills that had become so familiar, saw some yellow servees in the distance, and even saw a sign pointing in the direction of Ramallah, and I realised that I did not want to leave. I wished with all my might that we were going to follow that sign, but we drove on. After a few minutes, we passed through a checkpoint (whose purpose is to make sure only Israelis and Internationals use the road - no Palestinians) and drove back out of the West Bank into Israel. We left the rolling hills behind us.

I was going home.

From Jerusalem to Ramallah

I feel the difference immediately and the tension leaves my shoulders: I am in Ramallah again and my body knows it. Gone is the tension of the Jerusalem Old City streets; gone is the stress of not knowing whether to say 'shalom' and 'toda' or 'marhaba' and 'shukran'. I'm back in familiar territory and I love it.

But I'm not alone.

It begun mid-last week. I was sitting at breakfast and I heard D. discussing his plans to go to Nazareth: 'I'd love to go to Ramallah or something, but I can't go alone,' he said. Immediately I volunteered to take him.

D. is from a Zionist family - he said that if his family knew what he was doing they would disown him: 'Well, not really, but you know what I mean.' I did.

I brought him into Ramallah last Tuesday and I returned him back to Jerusalem safely. We walked the streets, we met my Palestinian friend M., we saw the tomb of Arafat at al-Muqata and we had a drink at Stars and Bucks. It was a beautiful afternoon. In the old city of Ramallah, which is below the main centre, little children played and called out greetings to us.

D. described the experience of Ramallah as 'shattering', and I think that that sums it up in many ways. We have such a negative view of the Other that to discover their human face and kindness shatters our perceptions and our sense of right.

I know that much of what I have experienced in these weeks in Israel has been very hard for me - the racism, the Zionist discourses, and the arrogant unfeeling attitudes towards Palestinians - but I had expected that. These things have shaken and distressed me, but they weren't shattering. If anything, they confirmed impressions I had built while in the West Bank.

What I have found shattering is the insight into Israeli suffering. I cannot discount this suffering merely because they are Israeli; that would be ludicrous and immoral. However, recognising and accepting this suffering has been shattering for me. It would be so much simpler if the situation here was completely one dimensional, if things were essential in nature: essential good versus essential evil. But that's fantasy.

I have spoken with and heard from a number of international lawyers here about the occupation, the Palestinian Territories and the siege on Gaza, and I have been challenged. I have discovered that many of my previously held ideas about the status of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict in international law are potentially problematic. I have been looking at this conflict through a telescope, but one must remember the rest of the world when applying international law to any situation.

I have also heard from people who have friends and family members in Israeli military uniform - I have a friend in the Israeli military uniform. This has been shattering.

I have been given an insight into the suffering of the Israeli population, but I still see a difference. To my mind, the Israeli population have the power and agency to rectify their situation, to ease their suffering. They have an autonomy that the Palestinians, as a population subjected to long-term belligerent occupation, are lacking.


I returned to Ramallah again on Saturday - and once more I was not alone.

This time two others had joined me: A. was volunteering with the ambulance service in southern Israel and had been throughout the siege of Gaza; and M. was from my course. Once more we wandered the streets of Ramallah, passed the children playing in the old city, met with my Palestinian friend, ate some Palestinian falafel and hummus, visited the tomb of Arafat in al-Muqata and took a drink at Stars and Bucks. At one point M. received a call from his mother and in answer to her question said that he was in Jerusalem. He said that he would probably tell her the truth about being in Ramallah, but not now - later.