Aussie Student in Palestine and Israel

Last day in Jerusalem

2009-02-09T18:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-03T09:03:00.000-08:00

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.

On Racism at Breakfast

2009-01-29T23:34:00.000-08:00

An hour ago I was at breakfast, sitting at a table with three others. It was lovely. I had been missing this, this easy socialising, but then came the question: 'What are you doing this weekend?'

I tried to dodge it, but finally had to answer: 'Tomorrow I'm going to Ramallah.'

'How can you spend Shabbat among Arabs?' asked J.

'She's not Jewish,' said S.

'Oh.'

Once more I was an outsider. I disliked my religion (or lack of) being spoken about without my consent, but I had become used to that. The conversation among us continued onto other subjects until another girl, D, approached the table to ask about the logistics of getting home after a Shabbat dinner that they were all invited to. It was suggested that she should take a taxi - but should make sure it was a Jewish driver.

'Why?' I asked nonplussed.

It was explained to me that it was safer to be with Jewish drivers than Arabs, who could kidnap you - supposedly it had happened in the past.

'I've never heard of that,' I protested.

'Yeah well, still, I prefer to have a driver of my own kind, I would not want to give money to someone who hated my kind,' said S. The others nodded in agreement. While she spoke, one of the staff of the place where we're staying was clearing the tables around us - he was Arab.

I had thought that I was beginning to fit in here, but how can I fit in among people who think in such a way? How is this thinking politically acceptable in Israel, and yet if someone was to say something like this in Australia it would be unquestionably considered racist. I know that this sort of thinking is not unique to Israel, but I've never been in a place where it is so openly expressed and acceptable in conversation.

I remember that in Palestine it used to distress several internationals (including me) when Palestinians would mix up 'Israeli' and 'Jew', thereby blaming the 'Jews' for the occupation, rather than the 'Israelis'. But when we addressed this, the Palestinians would always correct themselves and apologise: 'it is not the Jews we are fighting with, it is the Israelis,' they would emphasise. The convolution of Jew and Israeli is insidious, and appears at times throughout the Palestinian liberation movement and is a major issue, but where it sprouts, it is recognised by most for what it is: racism.

So there is an inequality here: what makes racism and discrimination against Arabs (particularly Palestinians) so much more acceptable among people? What makes this racism less racist? I don't understand.

Meeting Settlers

2009-01-29T07:51:00.000-08:00

My first week at the Hebrew University was difficult. Few people spoke with me as I do not belong to the Jewish communities that they belong to. Fewer people spoke to me when my ties to the West Bank became known.

Many times during the breaks between my classes I would sit alone in the hallways and keep to myself. My solitude attracted one of the girls in my course who sought me out because she was also in the periphery of the group. She was observant in her Judaism and wore long skirts and a head-covering. While she could tell immediately I was not observant, my loose clothing and long-sleeves may have led her to believe that I was at least conservative. She had not heard about the time I had spent in the West Bank, though it did not take long for it to become apparent and I thought that was the end of it. We disagreed with each other on almost every point and it seemed that she no longer wanted to associate with me. But after a few days, she was once more smiling at me and seeking me out as I waited alone for our lectures.

I knew that she planned to immigrate to Israel (make 'Aliyah') and I knew that she was currently in the process of finding a community to live in as she wished to live in an observant community somewhere in the country. What I did not realise straight away was that effectively this meant that she was planning on moving into one of the settlements.

Today, our final lecturer did not appear, so after 45 minutes we decided to leave. During this time, this girl and I spoke.

I have met and spoken with settlers before. At the end of last year I even visited a settler in his settlement. It was not an experience I enjoyed but one that I took because there was an opportunity to do so. The man that I met was kind and hospitable towards us. At first I was challenged by him because he was so different from what I thought a settler would be (he spoke Arabic and lamented his inability to make friends with his Palestinian neighbours). But then he showed us an article that he had written offering a 'solution' to the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians: he suggested that the Palestinians are all moved to Iraq. His 'reasoning': Iraq needed help to rebuild and the Palestinians could easily fill that role. He thus fulfilled the 'settler stereotype' I carried in my mind.

But this time it was different. The girl from my class, M., was an Australian and my age. She spoke and looked just like my old housemate in Sydney. The only difference between us was her headscarf and her skirt. Even her name is very close to mine.

She described to me the reasons that she wanted to move into one of the settlements: her love of the landscape and her love of the communities there. She said that if she could find a community and environment like the ones in the settlements within Israel ('within the fence,' as she put it), she would move there immediately, but there isn't such a place. She said that she understood the international law arguments about how settlements are illegal, but why shouldn't she move to the place that she loves when it's there available to her?

Her description of her love of the landscape and the feel of the environment struck a chord with me, because I also held this love. I love the rolling hill tops that are throughout the West Bank; I love the olive trees and the rock and the desert. When I go to Ramallah and walk around the outskirts, away the hectic central streets, all the stress and tension leaves me and I'm filled with love for my environment. This place is intoxicating, it sinks into the skin. But the thing that separated this girl and me is that when I dream of living here, I see myself living in a Palestinian environement, speaking Arabic in the streets. She imagines herself in a rural observant Jewish environment, a gated community, speaking Hebrew with her neighbours. And I know that there are many people in the world you share dreams like both of ours - Palestinian refugees dreaming of returning to their family's land, and Jews of the Diaspora dreaming of living in their holy land.

Both these dreams take place in the same land, but they are separated by check points, razor wire, watch towers and soldiers. Can they ever be reconciled?

Faces in Prison

2009-01-28T01:35:00.001-08:00

On Monday my course had an excusion to an Israeli prison up north of Tel Aviv. Due to the size of our group, we were split into three groups and taken to different sections.

My group was first given an introduction to the prison by the education officer and then an intelligence officer spoke with us.

According to the intelligence official, around 60% of Israeli prison inmates are Arabs, and this was immediately apparent. Outside, Arab families waited to see their loved ones - small children ran around as if in a playground, but their games involved standing in front of the prison gates when they opened for as long as possible before guards with M16s came out to escort vehicles filled with prisoners out of the compound. The windows of the vehicles were covered in bars and mesh, but you could see fingers poking through the gaps and just make out shadowed faces peering out.

Israeli prisons play a double role - as well as holding those convicted of crimes (and housing those awaiting trial), they also hold people held for security reasons; "terrorists", mostly from the West Bank.

We didn't see the "big terrorists" (as the adults were called), but we were taken by the cells of the "little terrorists": those aged between 14 and 18. These boys and young men are held in Israel, despite their families living in the West Bank. I wondered how often their families were given the necessary permission to come and visit them.

Snapshot: Silent Faces, Staring Eyes

We were taken into an open cemented area, like the rest of the prison it was cramped and in bad repair. We were shown a small 'classroom' (a grey room with a few plastic chairs) and then were then taken to see a small basketball court. As we passed through the one section to the other I suddenly realised that the cells opposite the classroom were filled with silent young faces. The faces stared at us expressionless and emotionless. Some hands grasped at the bars of their cell doors. Their eyes took in everything about our appearance but gave away nothing of what they were thinking.

Those faces haunted me.

Whilst in the West Bank, I met many people with fathers, husbands and sons in Israeli prisons, as well as several men who had spent time there. But what I remember most is the mothers showing us photos of their young sons. I remember how much those mothers suffered at the thought of their sons so far from home.
And suddenly I was seeing their sons.

‘Safe’ and ‘Unsafe’ in the Old City

2009-01-22T11:18:00.000-08:00

At breakfast I was talking with a few students about the Old City. I said that I found the streets to be tense and the others were surprised at this comment.
‘Where in the Old City do you mean? Do you visit the Arab Quarters?’ one of them asked. I nodded.
‘Well that’s why: they want to kill you; that’s why you find it tense.’
After a moment of shock, I tried to explain that I had been there several times and I had never felt threatened, but I was repeatedly cut off with assurances that it was dangerous and we shouldn’t go there. They were not interested in seeing and experiencing the other side. For them, the Jewish Quarter was the Old City.

After breakfast, I decided to live dangerously: I took a bus to the Old City. There were several aspects of danger to my trip: (1) I was alone; (2) I was travelling on a bus; (3) the bus had several stops in Arab areas; and (4) my intended destination was the Muslim Quarter of the Old City. All these things we had been explicitly warned about. Needless to say, I returned to the campus (where I am staying) unharmed.

Like me, a number of the students are ignoring many of the warnings we have been given, but many are not. Several who had originally planned to visit certain places have rethought their plans, which had seemed so harmless yet now seemed full of dangers. I find this regrettable. I understand that there are reasons behind the warnings we have been given, and that things have taken place in the past which substantiate them, but it’s just another way to separate and alienate people. The barriers here are not just physical (in the form of the separation barrier that we can see from campus, cutting off the West Bank), they are also mental.

I went from Mount Scopus to the Muslim Quarter, I bought some mint and sage from a Palestinian woman, I looked through some of the shops, and then I left again – all without being stabbed or threatened. The only comment directed at me from anyone was ‘asalaam iw-alaykum’ (‘peace be upon you’).

Looking at the Layers

2009-01-21T07:47:00.000-08:00

There has been a shift.

I’ve stopped looking at the more right wing elements of the group I’m in and am peering through the layers around me. I was unfortunate to have found myself in a room full of people of one frame of mind on my second night here (the talk on Gaza); because it led me to believe that I was alone among a homogenous group, when this is not the case. There are always a myriad of opinions out there, even if they are not so obvious at first. I am fast realising that Israelis are as divided as Palestinians on the political issues, as are the Jews of the Diaspora.

I have spoken with people who refuse to refer to the West Bank as anything other than Judea and Samaria, but I have also spoken with people who have expressed a desire to see and experience the West Bank, though usually this desire is restricted to Bethlehem, as that is generally considered the easiest and safest option. While a desire to see the West Bank does not necessarily mean that the people expressing this desire oppose the occupation or the actions of the Israeli government in the Palestinian Territories, it does demonstrate a willingness to see the other side, and this gives me some hope.

Hearing from the Other Side

2009-01-20T08:31:00.000-08:00

I’ve now been an official Hebrew University student for three days, equipped with a Hebrew University student card. There have been a myriad of impressions that I have gathered over these days. My classes have been particularly interesting, for which I am grateful. However, it has not been easy being in a situation where I do not feel comfortable revealing myself. Instead of being open about who I am and what I have been doing over the past few months, I have mostly reverted back to concealing these things, which became a habit while I was living in Ramallah and visiting Israeli areas.

I will share one the experiences I have had here: the one that has had the most significant effect upon me.

Sunday Evening: Alone

I was sitting among dozens of Americans, Canadians and Australians. We were in the Student Centre, though more accurately it should be called the Jewish Student Centre, as religion was overt and emphasised here. The Australians around me were law students and were taking the same course as I am (a short course in Israeli and Jewish law). We were eating chicken and wedges – a free meal offered courtesy of the couple who run the Centre and whose son is a soldier currently in Gaza. They haven’t heard from him since Wednesday because Israeli soldiers aren’t allowed to contact home while in the field.

We were all there for a talk on Gaza and the current situation in Israel. I thought it would be interesting to hear about the conflict from an Israeli perspective. And it was interesting, but I have never felt so alone as I did sitting crushed in that room. It was my first experience of being in a group who held views so paradoxical to mine.

I could write out all the things that I heard during this evening, and in my first draft of this blog entry I did. But the more I wrote, the more convoluted it became. Basically it comes down to two things: rhetoric and trust.

The rhetoric expressed by the people in that room was so similar to the rhetoric I had heard in the West Bank, often just exchanging the words ‘Palestine’ and ‘Palestinian’ for ‘Israel’ and ‘Israeli’ (or ‘Jew’). The greatest difference was that here in Israel, they seem to be unconcerned about being ‘politically correct’ or qualifying their statements – after all, they need not be concerned with being accused of being anti-Semitic.

The trust issue was also simple: everyone around me had the uttermost trust in the Israeli government and the Israeli army to do the right thing.
‘I know that the army are doing all they can to stop civilians from being affected,’ said one of my classmates. They knew that ‘their people’ were good and they trusted them. Just as they knew that the Palestinians were different.
‘They don’t have the same respect for life; mothers happily send out their sons to blow themselves up and they celebrate this!’ said another. This wasn’t stated as speculation, or rumour; it was fact.

But I have been to one of those ceremonies where they ‘celebrate’ the deaths of ‘martyrs’. It was in Nablus in April 2007 at a refugee camp. The dead being commemorated had not been involved in attacks within Israel but had been killed by the Israeli Defence Forces in assaults. Before attending this ceremony (which I unknowingly walked into thinking that I was going to see a dance performance of the traditional Palestinian Dabke), I had also been told that mothers happily give their sons to the cause of Palestinian Independence. However, that was not what I saw.

I did not see mothers standing tall and proud as they received the small plaques commemorating their sons. Instead, I saw a woman bent almost double in her chair, head down, eyes red and hands clasped in her lap. She was grieving her child. Another family member, a brother, had his jaw and fists clenched trying to stop the tears that could be seen rising in his eyes. Their loved one was being publicly celebrated, it is true, but this family was not celebrating. They were grieving, just as people grieve all around the world when they lose someone. Perhaps this woman is proud that her son had been fighting for Palestine, but no mother can be happy at the death of her child.

So I thought of this woman and this man as I heard my classmates lament the twisted mentality of the Palestinian people. With their faces in my mind’s eye, along with all the images of checkpoints, M16s and army vehicles, I could not stay among them. When the speech was over and we returned to our rooms, I walked removed from the group.

I did try and speak with some of my classmates about some of the things that they were saying, but they were not interested in a conversation.

This aspect of my time here is the most difficult, but I remind myself that I am not here to try and change the minds of the people I meet, even if this was a possibility. I am here to learn, and there is much to learn here.

Back in Jerusalem

2009-01-17T03:15:00.000-08:00

For over 21 days Israel has been bombarding Gaza in ‘response’ to the rockets Hamas fires into its south. I have been in Europe, travelling and scrounging around for whatever English newspapers I could find. There have been so many deaths, so many deaths at such a disproportionate rate. The people of Gaza are dying and any security they had has been shattered.

I didn’t want to come back to this country. According to reports, most Israelis have supported their government’s actions. I’ve read the explanations and the comparisons (‘if you are in Britain and the southern regions are being showered by rockets daily, wouldn’t you defend yourself?’ etc...), but how can rational people think that this justifies what is happening? How can rational people think that a justification even exists?

I hated the idea of studying at an Israeli university as Israeli bombs rained down on Gaza. I didn’t want to live among Israelis while my Palestinian friends mourned for loved ones and lamented the carnage of the other part of their land.

Many people I met and spoke with in Europe advised against returning, and this added to my indecision. But in the end I realised it would be hypocritical to not return. How can I let myself go home without meeting and speaking with Israelis? I have always believed in dialogue, speaking with both sides – I can’t dispense with that now when it’s actually being tested.

This is my reasoning and why I have chosen to return and experience Israel, despite its horrible timing. It is difficult. I receive invitations to join ‘Boycott Israel’ groups on Facebook, and yet here I am moving into Israel and even attending one of its institutions, if only for a little while.

But for today, I am in the Old City in the Muslim Quarter. The noises outside are ‘business as usual’. I can hear shop keepers, young men and children roaming and playing on the streets, and there is even music playing an Arabic rhythm somewhere. Earlier the call to prayer rang out through the streets. There is a Mosque just outside my window and I can see its minaret against the clouded sky when I turn to the left. It is beautiful.

But there are signs that things are different from when I was here last in early December. There is more security on the streets – Israeli security vehicles are on almost every corner, their lights flashing blue. There are still tourists though, walking among the streets. I had thought that the violence in Gaza may have deterred them, but the Holy City still draws its pilgrims.

Tomorrow I will go to the university where I will be studying and it all starts from there. This is the last part of my journey, though I think it will be the hardest.

Final Friday Walking

2008-12-11T06:07:00.000-08:00

I love walking through Ramallah on a Friday. The streets are almost empty as people are praying or just enjoying their day of rest. The Mosques ring out and fill the city with their calls to prayer and sermons. Instead of swerving left and right to avoid colliding with people and cars, I can walk freely with little to inhibit my movements.

I see foreigners everywhere on Fridays as we take advantage of the absence of crowds to do what we need. It seems Ramallah is full of internationals on days like these.

On this Friday, I was more keenly aware of my surrounding as this would be my last living in Ramallah. As the midday Friday prayers filled the air I passed through al-Manara (almost empty of the usual young men who congregate there) and into Rukub Street (namesake of the famous Rukub ice-creamery), down the uneven pavement and stairways, through the wafts of shwarma and falafel, past the dumpsters so often filled with cats, and into the outskirts of Ramallah. I walked slowly, enjoying the weather and my surroundings that had become so familiar after passing through them daily for the last three months: that UN four-wheel drive vehicle was parked outside that same house; the six Palestinian soldiers stood in their usual position lolling about with nothing to do at the official end of the city of Ramallah; the electricity cables at the end of my street sounded like crickets as the electricity passed uneasily crackling through the wires; and my building was filled with children waiting for a cooking or music or ballet class, running round and laughing and annoying people.

It was one of those moments where I loved Ramallah.

It always strikes me as an irony that to the Israelis, Ramallah is a place of danger and extremists and yet it’s really one of the most liberal cities in Palestine. I’ve heard people call Tel Aviv ‘The Bubble’, and that description could be applied to Ramallah. Living here you can almost forget about the occupation with all the fashion stores, cafes and bars. Always I’m told by Palestinians: if you want to have an idea of the situation in Palestine, you need to move beyond Ramallah. And this has certainly been my experience. While it could never be completely free from the occupation (just recently eleven people were taken abducted by the Israeli army in Ramallah and taken to an Israeli prison), it’s about as close as can be.

I’m going to miss this city and its people, just as I’ll miss this land that is trying to be a country.

Discussing the Final Status Issues

2008-12-02T06:41:00.000-08:00

One of the subjects I have taken at Birzeit University is called the Palestine Question – a political science subject exploring the issue of the establishment of a Palestinian state. For our final class we were split into Israelis and Palestinians and brought together around a table to discuss the final status issues – a talk that is, in reality, almost ten years overdue.

My group was to take the Israeli position. When we were told this we all groaned, sure that we’d been given the harder task. After all, we were in a class that had spent the whole semester exploring the Palestinian position and yet now we would have to argue the other side. I think it was because we anticipated difficulty that most of us put in the effort to try and set out our position. We discussed among ourselves what we were willing to compromise on and what things we considered non-negotiable. By the time we sat down at the table we felt prepared – though still expecting to be vilified and set in our place as occupiers. And yet, that’s not how it happened.

The dynamics of the room were set right from the beginning. Over twenty minutes before the talks began, all the Israeli side were seated side by side facing the door and ready to go. While we waited, the Palestinian side slowly trickled in, taking their seats, and then wandering about again.

When the talks began, it was clear that there was a power imbalance. We, as the Israeli position, immediately took on the position of power – setting the agenda and making clear what could be discussed and what we refused to compromise on. The Palestinian side was obviously poorly prepared. It happened a number of times that one of them offered us something and then another immediately objected to that being offered. It also happened a number of times that we managed to make them angry and upset. Many a time they responded to our proposals by becoming furious and emotional – falling back on accusations of our cruelty but failing to build up any strong arguments to turn the tide of the negotiations.

How did it happen? How did it happen that even in a room in which everyone fundamentally agreed with the Palestinian position did the Israelis came out on top during negotiations? Why were we incapable challenging the power imbalance that exists between the two sides?

Our teacher offered a suggestion for why the power imbalance fell into place so simply: the Palestinian side implicitly agreed to negotiate on the terms set by the Israelis. That is, the Palestinian side agreed to the splitting up of the issues: discussing settlements, water resources, borders, refugees and Jerusalem all separately. This immediately places them in a position of weakness because if every issue is up for negotiation separately, what do the Palestinians have to bargain with?

They have one bargaining chip: an agreement to recognise the sovereignty of Israel on its 1948 borders. They want one thing in return: an end to the occupation. That means a dismantling of all settlements, the handover of all control over the West Bank and Gaza’s water resources, complete control of the borders (as set by the 1967 green line) and East Jerusalem. Anything less would be a continuation of the occupation in another form.

Would this argument as suggested by our teacher have worked for the Palestinian side during our class negotiations? Probably not. We as the Israeli side would probably have dismissed such an all-encompassing demand as unrealistic and ridiculous. But at least there would have been unity on the Palestinian side, and at least it would have been up to us to break up the negotiations by saying we were unwilling to negotiate on their terms, which would reflect poorly on us.

The one point that complicates this simple structuring of the issues is the Palestinian refugees. Our teacher was clear on his position: Resolution 194 must be implemented and all refugees given the right to return. But this issue does not fit neatly into the clear demand of an end to the occupation. And yet, without a resolution of this issue, can any discussion of a final status be fruitful?

Why is it possible for any Jew around the world to gain citizenship of Israel and yet the Palestinians who left the area during the violence of 1948 and their descendents are still prevented from returning? I was always taught as a child that people are people, regardless of religion, origin or ethnicity. It is overly idealistic, but John Lennon asked us to imagine a world where there was no religion – just imagine.

On 'The Currency of Lies'

2008-11-15T06:28:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned before the necessity of lies in the Palestinian Territories. You lie to get into the country (Israeli border guard: Are you going to the West Bank? You: No! I'm here to see Israel!), you lie to get through checkpoints (Israeli soldier: What are you doing here? You: I'm on a religious pilgrimage) and even when you're just talking to Israelis or Palestinians on the streets, you generally make diplomatic non-answers when asked about your movements. With the Israelis this is because you wish to avoid hostility, and with the Palestinians this is because you want to avoid offence.

I have tried to rise above this. I told the truth to the Israeli border guards at the airport - and got only a one month visa for my honesty. Fortunately, when I went to get the visa extended, I was saved from having to lie outright about what I was doing in the country since the immigration official questioning me obviously wanted to get home and so hardly asked me anything at all. At the checkpoints I have largely avoided questioning, though when I have been asked direct questions I have told the truth, though not the whole truth (Soldier: What are you doing here? Me: Travelling).

But the longer I am here, the more I see how integral lying is to the whole occupation and the more I find myself doing it. I have three different scenarios to demonstrate this.

First Scenario: Don't Side with the Enemy

I was travelling to Tel Aviv with another PAS student, R., who is from Norway. Once we reached Jerusalem we went to Jaffa Road to catch a sherut (shared taxi) to Tel Aviv. We didn't know exactly where they left from and so had to ask several people. One man was kind enough to walk us there. As we turned up the road to where they were parked, we were confronted with flashing lights and loud speakers blasting out instructions in Hebrew - the police had combed the area and were pushing everyone away. As we walked forward a few steps one of the policemen saw us and started yelling and waving us away. The man we were with tried to ask (in Hebrew) what the problem is and whether we could get to the sheruts, but the policeman just yelled something and the man turned round and led us back to Jaffa Road.

'It's a bomb,' he said, 'You know Israel, we have problems with the Arabs.'

He then proceeded to walk with us up to the Central Bus Station so we could catch a bus to Tel Aviv instead, since a sherut was no longer an option. On the way he asked us many questions: Where are we from? What are we doing here? How long have we been here? etc. etc. etc. I weaved a tale in response to his questions: we were backpackers who had been travelling Israel for a month and would return home in about two weeks. I even told him how much the youth hostel I said we stayed in the night before had cost when he asked. R. remained silent so as not to say something that would reveal my tale as the lie it was.

Perhaps I should have told him the truth. Perhaps it was my duty to tell him the truth. But right then and there, I didn't even think about it - the false tale sprang out of my lips before I even knew what I was saying.

As R. said to me afterwards: 'I only lie to the people that I like.' That is, when people are friendly, the last thing you want to do is make them suspicious of you and hostile by telling them you live in Ramallah, which to most Israelis is a city of terrorists.

Second Scenario: Loving a Kibbutz

Three of my friends went for a weekend to a Kibbutz near the borders of Gaza. They had met some young Israelis who were undergoing their military service in the Negev Desert during a visit there and had been invited. They loved it - the peace and tranquility and the welcoming people. When they returned to Ramallah, they told us all about it, how wonderful it was. And they told their Palestinian friends - some of whom have spent time in Israeli prisons (also coincidently in the Negev) and in Israeli interrogation; and some of whom belong to refugee families originally from Israel. My three friends were honest about how the felt about the Kibbutz, but in this situation a bit of restraint would have been better. Several people were upset by what they said, and some where angered.

A Palestinian friend of a friend expressed her position on these situations when she said: 'I don't care if you go to Israel - go to Tel Aviv! You should see both sides. Just don't come back here and tell me how much you liked it, because I don't want to hear it.'

Third Scenario: Access Denied

Last week, a fellow PAS student, R., had to go to Jordan to meet a friend and also renew his Israeli visa, which was running out. He flew back to Tel Aviv Airport from Amman. He was stopped for questioning. He told the truth: that he was an international student at Birzeit. He was put on the next flight back to Amman. He tried to enter by land, through Allenby Bridge, but he was turned around. His embassy couldn't help him (he's American). His Congressman couldn't help him. His lawyer couldn't help him. This is a person who never went to any of the demonstrations while in the West Bank. He is, however, half Palestinian, with family in Jerusalem. Why has he been denied entry? Security? He's nineteen.

Everyone who has lied effectively at the borders has been let in with no problems. Moral of the story?

On the Election

2008-11-05T08:27:00.000-08:00

Senator Obama will now be President of the United States!

But what does this mean for the Palestinian Territories?

I hope it means something. All the Palestinians I have spoken with hope it means something, but they don't have their hopes up. Barack Obama has already indicated that he will continue to support Israel, and that's the only policy that Palestinians are interested in.

But let's see.

Passing through the checkpoint

2008-11-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

On Sunday I went to Jerusalem and have two snap-shots to share, both involving entering and leaving Jerusalem through Qalandia checkpoint.

The First Snapshot: Too Close for Comfort

I was sitting in the back row of seating on the bus that transports Palestinians between Ramallah and Jerusalem. Beside me was an old man in a grey suit and with a smile that seems to come from the heart. When we reached the checkpoint, I pulled out my passport in anticipation for the Israeli soldiers who check the papers of all commuters entering Jerusalem. The old man beside me looked at the passport.
'Where are you from,' he asked me softly accented English
'Australia,' I replied
'Welcome, welcome' he said, smiling at me.
A soldier entered the bus - a young woman, though perhaps 'a young girl' would be a better description. She was younger than I am and her gun hung loosely to her. Her mannerisms were bored as she scrutinised people's ID cards and papers, taking her time. She reached the back of the bus. As she stood in front of me, the nuzzle of her M16 nudged my legs. I tried to move out of the way but with every movement she made it swung towards me again. I hated the feel of it.

An Afternoon Spent in Jerusalem

Soy cafe latte
Croissant
Cafe culture
Shopping malls
Designer clothing stores
And, of course, proliferation of religious symbolism

The Second Snapshot: Let's Make Them Wait

Once more we approached the checkpoint, this time heading back to Ramallah. Usually vehicles are only stopped and searched while entering Jerusalem, not leaving. Today, however, the Israeli police were stopping cars at random and searching them. But instead of pulling them aside, out of the path of traffic, the police stopped them in front of the other vehicles, holding everyone up. There were three police officers took their time. Five minutes went by, ten minutes... The line of waiting traffic grew and the other passengers on my bus started craning their neck to see what was keeping us. When the police finally finished their search of the vehicle, they stepped back and allowed the traffic to begin to move once more. As we passed them, they were leaning back, lounging against their vehicle, smoking and chatting to each other. One of them looked directly at the people in the passing vehicles.

Ustaazna - Our teacher

2008-11-01T05:21:00.000-07:00

Everyone in Palestine has a story of the occupation. These stories are their way of explaining why they think and feel the way they do. Whenever I have spoken with a Palestinian about the occupation and about the potential for some sort of solution they have always given their opinion and then qualified it with a personal anecdote. The occupation is not a political problem, it's a personal problem: kul yoom, kul sea'a ('every day, every hour'). These stories include confrontations with soldiers, arrests without charge, refusals of permission to travel home to Gaza from the West Bank to bury a parent, and a myriad of other injustices and humiliations.

These stories are also weaved into our classes at Birzeit University and this incorporation was especially apparent in my Colloquial Arabic class today.

My experience of studying Arabic in Palestine has been very political. An example of our vocabulary lists: war (Harb), soldier (jundi), borders (huduud), politics (siyaasa), bullets (raSaaS), missile (Saaruukh), terrorist (irhaabi), under occupation (taHt iliHtilaal), the wall (il-jidaar), the army (il-jeesh), refugee (laaji'iin)... And of course: peace (salaam).
One of the first questions I learnt to answer: 'Who hit the student?' (miin darab aT-Taalib?). The answer: 'The soldier.' (al-joondi)

We learn to say 'we want real peace' (bidna salaam Haqiiqii), but our teacher shakes his head sadly: ween salaam? fish salaam huun ('Where's peace? There is no peace here).

Today, ustaazna (our teacher) spoke to us for over half an hour in Arabic, though occasionally clarifying some words in English so we could follow. He told us some of his stories and told us his view and his hopes. I did not catch everything he said, as there were many words I was unfamiliar with, but I understood the greater part of it. I also recognised much of what he said as I had heard it from so many people here before: ana insaan, zay inta insaan ('I am human, like you are human').
And he repeated a common refrain of parents: batmanna fii salaam, mish ashaani, ashaan ibni, ashaan binti ('I hope there is peace, not for me, but for my son, for my daughter.')

At first it seemed strange, and even funny, to my classmates and I that so many words carrying the theme of war were part of the necessary vocabulary for our course. We laughed at how it seemed to be a fulfilment of the stereotype to have us learn such words in Palestine even in a university institution. But as time has gone by here, I have come to realise that the reason why these words made up the foundations of our Arabic study was because these are the words that we absolutely need to know. These words make up the stories people share with us.

On Being Overcome

2008-10-24T10:54:00.001-07:00

There are some moments where it gets too much, when it overcomes you. Tonight's one of those times.

Today I went to join the olive harvest once more but I saw more guns than I picked olives. We were driven away by settlers and soldiers. In every place where the settlers attack the harvesting Palestinians the military come and close of the area - a closed military zone. This just means that the settlers get what they want - the Palestinians are prevented from reaching their olive trees.

There were no shots fired today, no tear gas, just intimidation. The soldiers used their M16s and the settlers used their numbers to drive us out, onto the road. There was so much media - international and local. There were many photo opportunities: people yelling, chanting, arguing; soldiers shoving, laughing and joking; settlers yelling, smiling and taunting. So many photo opportunities.

Snapshot: You're Either With Us or Against Us

There was an Israeli activist in the protest today. He gave us some leaflets, but they were in Hebrew so we couldn't read them. However, he explained to us that he was part of a group that was against the settlements. When the Israeli soldiers were driving us away, a group of settlers approached the man and began to argue with him. One of the other Birzeit students who was there explained to me later how the settlers began to shove him. She said that the army came to separate them but instead of telling the settlers off for assaulting an Israeli citizen, the soldiers pushed the man into his car and ordered him to leave. I saw him as he drove away, he winked at us and said 'you do good work'. His comment seemed to be directed at M., one of the leaders of the Stop the Wall Campaign. M. did not react to this. Maybe he did not notice.

Harvesting Olives

2008-10-19T00:07:00.000-07:00

On Thursday many of the other international students and I joined the olive harvest. We were hosted by the Stop the Wall campaign and they drove us out to the villages that were requiring internationals to help harvest their olives. The villages struggle either with the Israeli army or Israeli settlers, who prevent the inhabitants from picking their olives by either blocking off the area or attacking them. And so, during the olive harvest, internationals flock to the Palestinian Territories to stand with the Palestinian farmers in the hope that their presence will dissuade soldiers and/or settlers from approaching. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. This time, for us, it worked and we weren't bothered. Though one of my classmates who went to a village near Bethlehem to harvest wasn't so lucky and the group she was harvesting with was set upon by tear gas and rubber bullets. Needless to say, they ran and the olive trees were left unharvested - for the moment at least.

We harvested in a village called M-, which is near Nablus. We were directed to focus on the trees near the Israeli road, as that was where they had the most trouble. There were about twenty internationals and we got through the trees quickly, though perhaps a little unskilfully. I have two snapshots from this experience.

The First Snapshot: A Family Affair

Picking olives is a family affair - from grandparents to babies there is a role for everyone, with perhaps the exception of the youngest. Walking through the olive groves you come across babies and young children asleep in cribs or bundles of blankets in the shade of the trees. Their families labour nearby, coming over to check on them occasionally and carrying them to the next area once they have picked all the nearby trees. The grandparents sort through the olives that have been picked, removing small branches and leaves and placing the olives into sacks ready to be carried home at the end of the day. The women gather the olives that have fallen onto the ground, weed the areas around their olive trees, brew tea and prepare meals for the family. The men climb into the trees or on ladders to reach the highest branches and strip them of olives. As visiting internationals, we do a bit of everything - though the women don't let us help with the food and tea as we are their guests.

The Second Snapshot: Picking the Olive

The best part of harvesting is when you begin a new tree: the branches are covered in olives and you can just fall upon the tree and strip them away with ease. We use a small comb devise that can strip the small branches with a single swipe. It's such a satisfying feeling hearing the olives fall on the tarp that is stretched out at our feet to catch them. After this preliminary stage the process becomes slower as you search and struggle to find and pluck the stray olives. This is when you receive the scratches on your hands and arms that are inevitable when harvesting as you must reach through the branches, balancing on your tip-toes, struggling for that single olive you see dangling tauntingly above you.

We were fed lunch and after harvesting two more trees the bus returned and we prepared to leave. As we walked to the buses, D. (one of my classmates) approached me and asked if I was interested in spending the night here and returning to Ramallah tomorrow. I wasn't sure if it was possible but I agreed to ask with him. The secretary of the municipality said it was not possible for us to spend the night in this village, however one of our classmates had already arranged to spend the night in the next village over, A-, and we could join him there.

Altogether, five of us spent the night in A-. Originally we were going to spend the night in their Municipality building; however when we went to one of the villager's homes to use the bathroom, the family invited us to spend the night with them. The house was actually home to two families - each taking up one half. The two halves had separate entrances and could operate independently of each other, though there were also doorways that connected the two halves so the two families could pass into each other's homes. The men of the two families were brothers. For the purpose of our stay there, the family segregated along gender lines and all the men (including D. and L., my classmates) stayed in one side of the house while the women (including me, C. and R.) and the children stayed in the other.

The two sisters-in-law were very excited to have other young women to speak with and to have an opportunity to practice their English. They were twenty-one and twenty-two years old, having been married at the age of sixteen. They had two and three children respectively and were curious as to why we were not yet married, repeatedly asking when we were going to get married? Finally I said that we would get married after university and this satisfied them - L. (the eldest) nodded soberly and said 'you are clever, it is good to get education'. They said that they were currently studying through open learning as they planned to be teachers, but L. said that she was doing poorly because with her three children (one only a baby) she had no time to study. We asked if she would be having more children and she said 'inshallah no' (God willing no). Both seemed melancholy at their situation, though L. particularly so. Perhaps it was just because they were faced with us and the possibility that we represented - being university students and not yet married with children.

I have several impressions from this night, but I will record here just two.

The Third Snapshot: Henna from Mecca and a Hijab

L. asked if I liked Islam. I replied diplomatically that Islam is lovely but I am a Christian (I find it's always best to avoid saying that I am not religious). She struggled to express her words as her English was not very good, but her body language was clear: her face lit up in ecstasy and she lifted her hands and face skyward as she said 'Islam is beauty'. I could tell she wanted to continue the conversation, but her sister interrupted by bringing in her wedding album. As we poured over the photos complimenting her on her beauty (we also looked at L.'s album but she was more self-effacing and didn't seek out our compliments) we began to speak about the difference between our clothing and Islamic clothing, so the sisters decided to dress us in their hijab and dress (a single piece of clothing that hides the shape of the body and covers wrists to ankles, buttoning right up to the neck). One by one we were dressed and the sisters laughed, though L. particularly stressed to me that this is a good way for me to dress. We also had our right hands and nails painted with henna that was a gift from their parents-in-law from Mecca. On my hand they painted a flower and a letter 'M' and on my nails all different designs: a heart, two swirls, a little flower and a diamond.

The Fourth Snapshot: Lessons in Patriarchy

L.'s daughter was playing with a ball and cup - throwing the ball and trying to catch it in the cup. She laughed as she played and we often joined her by throwing her the ball and trying to catch it when she threw it to us. Then the smaller boy (her cousin) took the ball and held it behind his back. She tried to reach for it but missed and began to cry. L. came and took the ball from the boy returning it to her daughter but then the boy began to cry so L. took back the ball with the cup and gave him both. She then picked up her wailing daughter and took her to sit with her by the wall, holding her in her lap and silencing her protests. The girl struggled to stand and reclaim her toys, but L. held her tight. The boy appeared to taunt her as he stood before her with her ball and cup in hand. He then began to play with them, laughing and running around after the ball. This was a lesson in patriarchy and both children were being schooled - the boy was learning of his superiority and the girl was being made aware of her lower status. This is how it seemed to the Western witnesses of this scene.

We did not get much sleep that night, as the sisters wanted to keep us up as long as possible so that they could enjoy our company and the children were rowdy with all the excitement. But still, we were woken early so that we could join the family for another day of olive harvesting. It was a peaceful day with the family, all of whom were so kind to us. They kept giving us food and tea and coffee until we were almost bursting at the seams. Though even in this happy time our ideas were challenged.

The Fifth Snapshot: Prejudice and Suffering

The mother-in-law of our hosts, the grandmother of the family, was a lovely woman: hospitable, welcoming and strong. She is the headmistress of the village girl's school and her husband is the headmaster of the boy's. She asked us many questions and spoke with us at length. She was obviously a headmistress, a woman of status. She was more confident in her English than her husband, despite the fact that she had not used it in years and often struggled to convey her meaning. Over lunch she turned to L. (a German) and asked if it was true that six million Jews had been killed by the Nazis, because she had heard that it was a lie. His reply was unequivocal: 'Yes, it is absolutely true.' She looked at him sceptically and said that she did not believe that this was the case, but that even if it was, what does it matter now? Israel is killing Palestinians every day.
Such a lovely woman, and a Holocaust denier.

I forgot to mention that she has two sons in gaol, one arrested only recently and being held without charge. Because the Territories are under the jurisdiction of the military court, Israel is able to arrest people in this way without charging them with anything. It is called an 'administrative arrest' and it was first introduced by the British Mandate. A person can be held for six months, though this can then be redeemed. The longest term that someone has been held under administrative arrest is about eight years.

I also forgot to mention that just one month ago a fifteen year old had been shot dead by the Israeli military at the edge of the village for being suspected of trying to attack the settlement that sits on the hill above. The end of the village is only about one hundred metres from the edge of the settlement. This boy's eldest brother had been shot dead in the same place a few years earlier. After this latest death, the middle brother who is seventeen years old, was arrested without charge.

Settling In

2008-10-11T08:03:00.001-07:00

Today I went shopping in Ramallah’s sooq (marketplace). It is busy and positively pulsates with life: the shouting vendors, the trolley boys and the keen shoppers. This was the first time I had ventured into the sooq myself; previously I had always been with another of the international students.

To put it simply: I loved it. I felt that I could almost blend in with the shoppers and just become part of the scene. I loved being able to implement my limited Arabic ability to ask for my purchases: onions, apples and bread. One of the trolley boys even asked me if I wanted to use his trolley in Arabic and I was likewise able to answer him (‘la shukran’ ‘no thank you’). It was only when buying the bread that I had to fall into English - I didn't understand why they wouldn't let me buy the bag of bread I'd picked up and it turned out that it was old and so they wanted to give me fresh instead.

These past few days I have seen and heard much to despair about. We have been learning about the 1948 war in my Palestine Question class and I have been presented with a side of the story that I had never heard before. This 'other' story that gets so little coverage in the West is backed up and supported by UN observer reports, old British mandate papers and Israeli historians such as Benny Morris and, more recently, Ilan Pappe. My professor who took us through it was obviously heavily affected by the material we covered, it was after all the Palestinian 'nakba' ('catastrophe'), and he finished our class early - a thing he had never done so far in the semester (for he loves to talk).

I read two chapters of Ilan Pappe's book 'The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine' and they shook me, because they forced me to realise that that is just what took place here. The only question is whether it continues to this day...

I feel that by dropping words such as 'ethnic cleansing' on Israel's doorstep I will lose my credibility and be labelled as a leftist who blindly adheres to the Palestinian cause, which is why I would normally shy away from such claims. All I can do is challenge those who disagree with me to prove their case, and make clear that I am perfectly willing to defend my position if people wish to question me. Though Ilan Pappe is far more eloquent than I would be so I recommend his book to everyone, or at least the first chapter in which he presents the definitions of 'ethnic cleansing' and evidences how what has taken place in this land fits within it.

It has not just been this class and these readings that have induced the despair I have felt of late, it has also been brought on through speaking with various people. One Birzeit student opened up to many of us international students about how she felt about the current situation and where she felt things stood. It was not a hopeful picture. The thing that struck me and many of the other students was her affirmation that she would not speak with an Israeli person, even if she had the opportunity: 'We are not equal. They live in freedom and I live in occupation. How could I forget that?' We asked if she thought that the two peoples (Israelis and Palestinians) could ever co-exist side by side and she said: 'Not this generation, and not the next. Perhaps the one after.' However, she emphasised that she did not represent all Palestinians, no one could do that. And she, like so many other Palestinians I have spoken with, emphasised that she can only present the story as she knows it and that while she would not speak with Israelis, she thinks that we should so that we can hear their perspective. Just don't go telling her about it. She doesn't want to hear if we find the Israeli people to be kind and sensitive to the Palestinian’s plight: how does knowing that they are really decent people help the fact that she is living in an occupation?

People's perspectives and beliefs vary so much here. It struck me that it's no wonder there is no effective Palestinian leader: how can one person lead and represent such a diverse group of people?

Another Birzeit student I have met recently and who strongly affected me is O., who was recently released from prison (an Israeli prison in the Negev Desert). He had been charged with rock throwing which allegedly took place at the beginning of the second intifada (six years ago) when he was a minor. For this 'crime' he was interrogated for seven weeks and imprisoned for six months. He had been 'turned in' by another who had been arrested and similarly interrogated to the point where he gave the Israelis any and every bit of 'information' he could. Even now that he is released his trials have not ended as he must still attend court. Need I tell you what a warm and engaging person he is? Obviously highly intelligent and still embodying a light air and liberal attitude, despite his recent experiences. He jokes that at least he got to see the Negev (which the Palestinians call the Naqab), which he had always wanted to do and as a Palestinian he would not have otherwise been able to (since the Negev is in Israel).

And, as ever, the image of the security barrier is in my mind's eye. As are the dilapidated buildings and piles of rubble that I saw in the Golan Heights that were once Arab towns and villages.

But then there's also the marketplace - alive and bubbling.

Towns that no longer are what they were...

2008-10-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

Last week I had five days off classes and finally managed to make the journey up to the north of Israel with four other students. One of the other students, H., is half Palestinian and wanted to find the town where her father was from, called S-.

After travelling through Haifa, Nazareth, Tiberias and around the Sea of Galilee, we finally drove into S- well after sundown. Unfortunately, it was Friday, which meant sundown signalled the beginning of Shabbat in Israel. We had not even considered this because none of us had experienced Shabbat before - we had all previously only been in Palestinian areas.

The streets were empty and dark with the exception of the odd pedestrian in Orthodox dress who glared or stared in surprise at us driving along in our car. We had booked ahead for a hostel and had the address but little idea how to get there. We asked several of these pedestrians for directions but the only ones who answered us were new to the area themselves and couldn't tell us. We even asked a group of soldiers, but they had only been in the area for a few hours and couldn't help. Though they did tell us it would be best to park the car and walk: 'The locals won't like the fact you're driving round.' They even seemed slightly nervous as they spoke with us, like they would be blamed for our violation of Shabbat.

Fortunately, we had the owner of the hostel's phone number and after about twenty minutes of directionless searching, he came in his car and led us to the right spot. He was a lovely man, but obviously perplexed by the obvious culture shock we were experiencing at the Shabbat. He also probably also noticed that something wasn't right with us, that there was a tension in our group.

H. had been silent as we drove down the empty streets with only Orthodox Jews in sight. Everything was modern and had a European feel: the houses, the roads, the infrastructure.. It was a modern town, not the town that she had been raised on stories about. This was not the S- of her father.

She asked us over and over throughout the course of the night: 'what can I tell my father?'

We were all tired and hungry, yet Shabbat meant that no shops were open. The hostel man offered us what food he had leftover - some eggs and bread - and said there was a hotel that would have some food, though it would be expensive and we were on a budget.

The other four were uncomfortable here. It was not only the turmoil H. was experiencing that made the tension around us palpable - everyone else was also bothered by their surroundings: the near dead-silence, the low-lighting, the absence of activity, only the occasional Orthodox Jew appearing from the shadows and passing us by. And yet I was not uncomfortable.

I was awed by the strictness of the Shabbat in this place. I wanted to walk the streets and experience it more fully. I wanted to join the other people I had seen upstairs in the hostel who were eating their Shabbat meal together, singing their prayers. I wanted to wake up in this place and just observe.

But the others were distressed, and H. was distraught: 'this is the most horrible place I have been in in this whole place,' she said. 'What can I tell my father?'

We decided to leave. We would return to Tiberias (on the coast of the Galilee), where we knew some of our friends were spending the night.

It took about half an hour to make this decision to leave S-, all the while the hostel man hovered nearby wondering what we would do. We stood in a huddle just outside the front door. By the time we went to find the man to tell him we were leaving we didn't even have to say the words - he knew we would not be staying.

As we drove out of the town H. sobbed.

My head was full of questions. For the current residents of the town, S- is home. It is now an Israeli town with a strong Jewish culture. It has been that way since 1948. And yet, it is also still home for people like H.'s father - but not as it is, as it was. Two different S-'s.

Can you blame the people now living in S- for what happened there sixty years ago? Many of whom know no other home. The town has been in its current form for about three generations, but as one of the others said: 'does that make it right?'

Does it?

S- represents dispossession, and perhaps even cultural cleansing: the Arab culture of the past has been completely replaced with a Jewish one.

But what is right? Are things like right and wrong really so black and white? And even recognising it as wrong, what can be done? The Palestinian S- doesn't exist anymore, the Israeli S- does. This is how it is.

And yet the Palestinians still suffer. H. sobbed as we drove away. She sobbed for the town that was but no longer is. Just as so many Palestinians grieve the transformation of places that were once home: villages and towns that they still hold in their minds and hearts.

Eid al-Fitr: the end of Ramadan

2008-10-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

This year Eid al-Fitr (the celebration that marks the end of Ramadan) coincided with Rosh Hashana (Jewish New Year). This meant that both Israel and the Palestinian Territories effectively came to a halt with no public transport (or servees) and very little open. Rosh Hashana also meant that Israel closed all borders with the Territories to Palestinians, though not to internationals; another example of the privileges a foreign passport brings you here.

I would have liked to go to Jerusalem and wander the Old City where, no doubt, both Israelis and Palestinians would be celebrating. However, I fell ill on the eve of celebrations and found myself bed-ridden.

But today I did get a little taste of Palestine during Eid: necessity forced me to leave my dormitory and go grocery shopping.

Here's a small snapshot:

All the cars that pass are filled with families: fathers, mothers and oh so many children. All sorts roam the streets carrying grocery bags and falafel sandwiches: old women, old men, middle aged women, middle aged men and of course the children! There are always a high number of children on the streets, but today they seem so much happier, and they are accompanied by adults. Instead of the usual groups of people loitering on street corners, everyone seems to be moving along happily with places to be. Even the cars are less aggressive, driving along slowly but still with a sense of direction. Everyone is wearing their best and the young men have even more than the usual amount of hair gel in. The shopkeepers hand out balloons to the smallest children and big smiles to their parents. It's like Christmas, only it's Eid al-Fitr.

A Strike and a Trip to Hebron

2008-09-27T11:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Following the Roman Aqueduct to Jericho

2008-09-19T08:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Journey to Jenin

2008-09-08T03:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Visa Issues and Jerusalem

2008-09-06T05:18:00.000-07:00

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.

The Markets

2008-09-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Arrived in Ramallah

2008-08-28T03:32:00.000-07:00

And I have arrived! I'm in this lovely dormitory on the outside of Ramallah. Upstairs (where I am) is the guesthouse/dormitory area and downstairs is used for conferences etc.. It is quite beautiful.

There is wireless internet here, though it does not work in my room so I need to come out into the common areas to connect.

Feeling quite exhausted, I think that now I'm here I'm realising how tired I am. The girl I will be sharing my room with is not yet here. The people I have met so far are all very kind. I'm sure I will enjoy it here once I have steadied myself in this new environment - and caught up on sleep!

The trip from Tel Aviv to Ramallah was quite smooth. It's the stangest experience passing from Israeli to Palestinian society in such a small area. The two don't seem to intermingle much, but in Jerusalem Old City they cross paths. Slowly I could stop saying 'shalom' to people and start saying 'assalaam alaykum', which was good for me becuase I have a very small amount of Arabic knowledge, versus no Hebrew knowledge, so I could conduct myself a bit better. I think I was on auto-pilot for most of the trip, just one step at a time: take that bus, find that van, take that taxi etc...

I'll now go and do my first shopping experience, need to buy soap etc. Look forward to a lazy day and hopefully a proper sleep! Jet lag still hasn't left me.

Once I settle in a bit more I'll be able to dedicate more energy to this blog.

All the best
Micaela

Tel Aviv continued...

2008-08-27T21:32:00.000-07:00

I'll be leaving my youth hostel in about half an hour to begin my journey to Ramallah, but thought I'd take this opportunity to write a last post.

I see that I didn't give much information about my experience at Tel Aviv airport. It wasn't so much the amount of time it took, or the bag searching and body frisking (the female guard who conducted this was actually really kind and respectful), it was the interrogation part that irked my spirit. I was made out by the guard who was questioning me to be a liar and potentially a dangerous security risk - kept saying that he needed to establish whether I was going to blow myself up. He asked me over and over why I have come all the way from Australia? Why am I apart of all these 'peace things, like the Peace Cycle and Follow the Women. Kept saying that I can either tell him the truth or he can find it out himself, which would be more unpleasant. At times my hands started shaking (which, as anyone who knows me could tell you, is hardly uncommon for me - I could never be a dentist!), and he seemed to take this as a sign that I was lying or something. He would say 'why are your hands shaking? We are just having a nice conversation.' Really the whole experience made me feel quite dirty, made my skin crawl. Unfortunately at one point I tried to make a joke to lighten the situation, but it had the opposite affect and seemed to make the guard even more angry, since it seemed I wasn't taking this seriously. The guard also went through my entire mobile phone contact list - so my apologies to anyone whose number is listed on my phone- they took down any Middle Eastern numbers. There has to be a law against that, doesn't there? Seems silly to even ask that.

After all that, I was given only a one month visa. That just put the icing on the cake for me. I asked - 'what did I do wrong?' and he said 'Nothing. If you had you wouldn't have been let in.' Great. I had done nothing wrong and yet I was given a visa two months shorter than the standard tourist visa. In fact, the three month tourist visa is so much the standard that they don't seem to have a one month visa stamp - the stamp I have is a three month visa stamp with a hand written 1 placed over it.

That's actually another issue - they stamped my passport, which means no more travel to places such as Lebanon for me! At least until I get a new passport, which won't be for about another 7 years, since mine is fairly new.

Tel Aviv itself is quite lovely. I'd like to come back here when my mind is not so stressed so I can enjoy it. Everytime I see an Israeli official my insides start squirming - hence the fugitive feel. I'll shake it eventually.

Well, I'd best go and check out of this hostel and begin my journey to Ramallah. I hope it's without too much difficulty. It's going to be a tough few months, but hopefully it will get easier as I find my feet. I'm looking forward to classes beginning next week, it will give me something to focus on and the chance to find a place here. Only about four days till then!

All the best to everyone!
Micaela

In Tel Aviv

2008-08-27T03:52:00.000-07:00

Well, I made it!

After a three hour wait with Israeli customs, which involved questioning, searching of bags and me and lots and lots of waiting I was let through with a one month visa, despite the fact that they were completely aware that I needed a three month tourist visa, as that is how long my course at Birzeit is. When I said this the guard just said I'd have to extend it later. Thanks...

Tel Aviv is quite lovely, but I'm having trouble enjoying it as I'm still shaken up by my airport exprience. Can't shake this fugitive feeling, like I'm under surveillance... Suppose this is all just part of the experience!

This will just be a short post, just to say that while I am shaken and quite disturbed my entry experience, I am here and have at least a month here.

Tomorrow I will cross into the Palestinian Territories.

Getting there..

2008-08-22T06:25:00.000-07:00

I am a Sydney University Arts/Law student and for the next three months I will be studying at Birzeit University in the West Bank of the Palestinian Territories. I will be taking the Palestine and Arabic Studies program they offer for international students. I don't speak Arabic, half of my classes will be dedicated to rectifying this, and I'm neither of Palestinian origin or Jewish. Really I have very little that links me to this conflict over a piece of land that's called Holy. Except for the fact that you don't need to have links to the land of Palestine and Israel to be affected or concerned by the conflict there. One of the major issues that clouds the region is the lack of knowledge of the facts on the ground - the day to day of living for Palestinians and Israelis, but particularly Palestinians living under occupation. So on Monday I'm off to spend (I hope) six months in the area. For most of that time I plan to be in the West Bank, experiencing what it is like to be a university student living under an occupation. While my experiences will be incomparable to those of the people who have grown up there, I hope to at least gain enough insight on the day to day aspects of life there so as to shed some light on the conflict for people back home in Australia.

That's the plan. Takeoff's on Monday.