Palestine Summer 2007 ...and 2008

"Let me sort out your confusion"

2008-08-27T04:24:00.001-07:00

So, yes, I know, it's difficult to read this. Because posts appear in no apparent order. Yes, yes, got it. Deal. Sorry, I must just be jetlagged and crabby. I'm kidding.

I wrote posts either a few days after an experience or a week later (after another, more recent experience had been documented) from notes in my journal. I write in most of the posts a date in italics for when the experiences or observations took place. If you really want to read in chronological order, search for the order of the dates. Then again, it may not make a big difference. Probably just a bit strange to come to the flight home in the middle of the stories. Also, the most recently written is listed first. I debated changing this but then you'd have posts from last summer (2007) first, and that just won't do.

Therefore, I offer you, reader, my deepest apologies and then I offer, "If you are not intelligent to sort through this anti-chronological blog, then perhaps you should quit this and pick up the New York Post!" Again, I kid. I think.

Lastly, I only hope I've accurately described and with at least the bare minimum of descriptiveness given you a picture of the world of the West Bank. All I've hoped to do is open a window into a place of deep sorrow but also happiness. Because "The West Bank", or "The Palestinian Territories", or "The Occupied Territories" or "Palestine" (the land whose very name evokes strong feelings, some of intense loyalty, some of deep anger), is depicted so one dimensionally, and because every part of my experience there disputed this, I feel it my need to share with others. Thank you for reading and feel free to contact me at heidirosbe@gmail.com if you think I've misrepresented anything or left out anything of great importance. I offer only my experience and a bit of my viewpoint, but I do not claim to write the truth or give light to the full history of political spectrum.

Shukran.

House of Witches

2008-08-26T17:26:00.000-07:00

I found out that "Beit Sahour" means "House of Witches"... or maybe "House of Witch". I don't know what is the singular and what is the plural of "witch" in Arabic. Joe (as Dante dubbed Joseph) told me that in ancient times (when Beit Jala was a flourishing city, before even Bethlehem) no one wanted to come to the Beit Sahour area because it was rumored to be the place of sorcery. I'm not sure about witches, but Beit Sahour certainly is full of ghosts. These ghosts haunt the run-down streets and the shepherd's fields at night. These ghosts can be seen only in the eyes of those Beit Sahour residents who, usually so careful not to let them out, sometimes slip up and let me see the ghosts. Sometimes the ghosts actually come alive, out of the mouths of Sahouris who let free a somber song of the past. I saw one such ghost last summer when I finally heard a bit of the fear and uncertainty that had swept the area in 2001 during the siege of the Church of the Nativity. And I've caught glimmers of the ghosts when a friends mentions the army camp that was vacated only years ago, now made into a family park, but rumored to be re-converted to again house Israeli soldiers in the coming year. It's hard to miss the ghosts, but still more difficult to identify them. Sometimes these ghosts come and go so quickly amidst an atmosphere filled with hummus, falafel, Taybeh, kissses, ahlah wa sahlans, and open doors. But make no mistake, these ghosts are as alive as any ghost can be in this house of witches.

George's Story

2008-08-24T18:35:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, August 19, 2008

In 2000 (or thereabouts), when Hezbollah was bombing the northern part of Israel near the Sea of Galilee, George and his girlfriend at the time decided to take a trip to visit the Sea. They didn't have a permit, however, and were forced to turn back towards Bethlehem. On the way, they passed a group of Israeli soldiers hitchhiking and decided to pick them up. George and his girlfriend posed as Americans, speaking only English to the soldiers. After a pleasant drive they dropped of the soldiers where they'd requested. As the soldier thanked them and walked off, George called out "Masalaama!" and drove off, leaving the soldiers to ponder the fact that they'd just accepted a ride from "the enemy" Palestinians.

("Masalaama" means "good-bye" in Arabic)

View from the youth...

2008-08-22T18:33:00.001-07:00

Saturday, August 16, 2008

One of our Beit Jala youth opened himself up on video in a way I hadn’t expected—both because I hadn’t thought he was as interested in sharing personal experiences and because I hadn’t know that these experiences were prevalent in the seemingly more calm and middle-class town of Beit Jala. He told us on the camera that Israeli soldiers used to come to his house in the middle of the night and make everyone vacate the house, sometimes half-naked. He said they would rummage through household items and break things, finally leaving giving the explanation that they “hadn’t found anything”. Seeing the fear on this otherwise self-confident and happy young person was a bit heart-breaking. I can only imagine the impression 2am raids with gun-toting and screaming soldiers must have had.

A few days earlier, Nora had accompanied a few of the young men who wanted to film a fallen down house which looks more like a castle. They showed here the one hundred-odd bullet holds and where whole sections of the walls had been destroyed during the Second Intifada, probably in 2001. The youth now go there to write graffiti and hang out.

What would my childhood have been like if, instead of selling homemade cookies at the park, I'd been playing in bullet-ridden bombed out houses? Where would I be now?

Balata Refugee Camp (Mokhayim Balata)

2008-08-22T05:59:00.001-07:00

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Balata Refugee Camp, near Nablus

The camp is one square kilometer in size and is rented out to the UNRWA for one hundred years to house a refugee camp. Residents come mostly from Yafa (near Tel Aviv). They own only their homes, not the land and thus are unable to expand as their families grow. Aside from a few main streets, most streets are no more than a meter wide and the pavement is breaking apart in most areas. Children play in the streets, as there are no parks or green areas in the camp. There are no large open indoors spaces either, because of the lack of space.

We were lucky enough to visit this camp, because my friend Arwa knew a family there, so four of us made the trek. Coming from Bethlehem, we bussed it into Jerusalem on the 21, to catch the 18 to Ramallah, where we then grabbed a service (shared van-taxi) to Hawara Checkpoint--inside the West Bank, not on the "border" (the checkpoint is outside of Nablus, and Balata) where very few vehicles are allowed through. I believe only ambulances have clearance. The checkpoints have changes since last year and now people are only "checked" one-way, meaning on the wait in to Balata we just walked across, while on the return trip we would have to wait in the long line and pass through the security station manned by the usual young Israeli soldiers with their M-16s. Passing across this checkpoint, we met Arwa's friend, Ali, and hailed a taxi to take us to the refugee camp.

I feel that my faith in youth centers was renewed greatly by a visit to the Yafa Youth Center (www.yafacult.org) located at one edge of the camp, near the UNRWA headquarters building. Speaking with the director, Mahmoud, we learned about original videos produced by the youth, including two that had won in the Boston and Chicago film festivals, "Noor's Dream" and "Memory of the Nakba". Mahmoud told us about the music programs and the two young brothers who had been saving their pennies (well, their shekels) to buy a relatively expensive toy gun. After a few months in the program learning violin, they told him they had changed their mind and were now saving money for a violin. A visiting couple from Iceland overheard, and offered to buy the boys a violin. Mahmoud said with a chuckle, "Their parents now beg me to take back the violin, because they can't sleep with the constant squeeking of the beginner violinists". I think my sister can sympathize.

Mahmoud told us about the trip they'd been able to organize (after months of jumping through hoops and an enormous amount of support from international NGOs) to take 20 youth to Spain for a week. The young people performed traditional dance and plays at various venues in Spain and visited cities and sites. For most, it was the first time they'd left the camp's area. At the briefing before the trip when the kids met with the Spanish group hosting them, one ten year old boy raised his hand and asked if he could ask a question. They nodded, "Of course!" He asked "Is Spain before the checkpoint or after?" He'd never been beyond the checkpoint I'd passed through just hours before.

Mahmoud stressed how important trips like these were for the youth of Balata. For the youngest children, simply having a happy and fun experience helped motivate them in school. Before leaving for Spain, the older youth had spent hours at the donated computers, searching on google earth to learn all about Spain. The chance to visit Europe had opened their eyes to the world beyond their reality. The possibly it participating in future trips motivated many of their friends to study hard as only the top students are chosen to go.

As Mahmoud was finishing the story, a little girl walked in, about ten years old and cute enough for all of us to let go audible sighs of "aww, how cute!" Arwa asked "Did you go on the trip to Spain?" Mahmoud's eyes became sad. He told us how she had been with the group, and everyone had gotten past the Hawara Checkpoint, however when the reached the next checkpoint, into Israel, the security officers had determined that because the girls' mother was originally from Gaza, she could not be allowed to cross. She was the only one turned back. "It broke our hearts" he said.

Rami, who looked to be around 23 years old, and who had been working editing some video projects the whole time we'd been speaking with Mahmoud spoke up. He told us how he'd been responsible for holding all of the youth's passports on the trip, so none of them got lost. After their first day in Spain, the youth had approached him and demanded their passports. "We want to throw them into the sea, so we never have to go back", they told him. "Please call our families and tell them sorry, but we want to stay here." Rami then laughed and said, "By the end of the trip though they were all homesick and missed their parents and brothers and sisters".

It's so uplifting to know that there are people out there who work to provide opportunities for these young people growing up in a world in which there is very little hope.

Airport "Security"

2008-08-21T21:46:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 22, 2008, writing from Ben Gurion Airport

3:50am: I wake up. I feel a bit like I've been beat over the head with a mallet, but then I look at Nora and realize she clearly feels worse than I do. This trip has been a whirlwind of getting the most out of everyday and I'm exhausted. Not to mention having not gotten a solid night of sleep since I've been here.

4:21am: We leave S----'s house (He is the kind cousin of a friend who has generously put us up for the day and night in Tel Aviv and regaled us with stories the night before of the protest at Nilin, near Bilin in the West Bank, where he goes each week to take an Israeli stand against the occupation and the building of the Wall.)

4:29am: We are pleased with ourselves for quickly locating a taxi to the train station (where a train will take us to the airport) for only 25 skekels without even having to bargain

4:34am: The taxi driver drops us off. We are surprised that the train station is so close and wonder why we paid the equivalent of $8.

4:35am: We realize we've been dropped at the bus station, which is closed. We are told it will cost us another 30 shekels to take another taxi to the actual train station and we realize we will probably be too late to catch the 4:39am train. A new taxi driver tells us he can drive us to the airport for 140 shekels. We pool our 103 shekels and beg. We win.

4:50am: We arrive at the airport and go our separate ways, as I'm flying Air France and Nora is on Continental. Waiting in the line to get to the first bag x-ray machine, I'm asked what I was doing here [teaching dance], have I been to Israel before [yes], did I teach dance last year [yes], do I have any friends in Israel [yes, I stayed with a friend last night in Tel Aviv], what is his name [S----- P-----], do I have have any family in Israel [no], do I speak any Hebrew [no]. I'm good to go.

5:05am: My bags begins the process of being put through the first of their x-ray experiences today.

5:09am: I am instructed to enter a new line to the area where bags are checked more thoroughly. Last year I was sent directly here since the first question I’d gotten at stage one was “Where have you visited on this trip?”, the answer including towns in the West Bank which led to some chaos and my immediate sentencing to the line I was in now. I wonder if I should have offered that information this time even though I wasn’t asked; if it would have expedited this process since I’ve ended up here anyway, after the earlier line. This line today seems to move at a snail pace and I look ahead to where bags are opened, contents spread out across the long inspection tables, a new meaning to airing one’s dirty laundry. Jokes had been made over the past few days of leaving a fudge-cicle in ones drawers, armed with the explanation “I figured best to do all the washing when I get home!”

5:34am: I finally reach the head of the line. I am called over by a female inspection officer. Damn. I was hoping for a male, since observation has led to the conclusion that the women seem to be harsher and more strict in their searches, both at checkpoint and all security. Mine seems nice enough however, despite her obvious annoyance that my hiking pack has so many zippers and pouches.

To my right, a Japanese family of husband, wife, and son who looks to be around 19 years old are having a taste of my experience last year. A search of the son’s baggage has yielded an Arabic-English dictionary (in fact, the same one on my bookshelf at home) and a security officer who seems to be “head-honcho” is practically yelling. She demands answers: Why do you study Arabic? Why not Hebrew? Why would you want to speak Arabic? The young man speaks almost no English (and certainly no Hebrew) so his father steps in with something about him being a student and he himself being a professor. The security agent's tone suggests more that she is offended by the very fact that this kid would want to study Arabic, than that she is following routine protocol. I can't possibly imagine this scrawny Japanese kid to be much a thread of any sort to Israeli security, other than perhaps holding up some lines while officers try to communicate to him unsuccessfully. I suppose I should rejoice that this time it's not typical racial profiling--not the Arab or Muslim getting held apart, however it's profoundly disturbing to watch so much animosity rise up within this woman at the mere prospect of someone wanting to study Arabic.

I turn back to my bags as my inspector urges me to empty out its contents, but I’m reminded of the similar conversation I had last year at this airport where I was forced to explain why I was studying Arabic, as if it were a crime and why I would want to study Arabic in the West Bank as if that too were a crime. Earlier this morning, just before Nora and I parted ways, we’d wished each other “good luck” on the security check. She then thought for a moment and asked “Well, there isn’t anything we’re not being truthful about, is there?” We’d briefly entertained the thought of saying we’d spend the night in Tel Aviv at a hostel if our host had preferred not to be named, but he didn’t mind so now of course we were simply planning to answer truthfully to all questions asked. I suddenly realize anew how strange it feels to be afraid of telling the truth. Is there anything I’ve done wrong?, I ask myself.

I’ve taught dance to youth who otherwise wouldn’t have the opportunity to learn this dance. I’ve provided them the tools to express their thoughts through video.
I’ve visited a part of the world that is currently in turmoil.
I’ve been interested in a people, a culture, a language; all different from my own.
I’ve broken bread with old and new friends.
I’ve photographed and written about my experiences, both in factual form and evaluating my thoughts.

I can’t seem to see what is wrong with anything I’ve done. Perhaps I’m missing something?

I feel glad I sent the mini-DV tapes by post, mostly because it’s one less thing I have to explain (especially since I have no video cameras on me, as they were donated to be left at Aida Refugee Camp’s Rowwad youth program).

5:52am: I am packing my bag for the second time today, returning its contents to their places, unmentionables and all.

5:54am: I enter now the ticket check-in line, the part where this process usually begins in all other airports I’ve been to.

6:01am: I am through but am now instructed to walk to an elevator where my checked luggage is to be dropped because it has “too many straps”. I place my luggage in the elevator, thinking “insha’allah it makes it to the plane!”

6:10am: I’m in line for the carry-on security check. This line is populated by irritated people, and still more irritated personnel. Again, we move at a snail’s pace. I notice that none of the staff here seem any older than me. Do they all retire at 30?, I wonder. I watch as a Muslim mother and father watch nervously as their son passes through this section of security, this point clearly being the last at which friends and family may accompany the passengers-to-be. I wonder how many times they’ve been questioned for hours upon trying to leave via air.
Last week, I’d asked my Palestinian-American friend’s 15 year old nephew about his experience entering through this airport. After his family had been left to wait in a tiny interrogation room, security came to retrieve the parents for further questioning. After inspecting their tickets, they’d overheard the officers on walkie-talkies giving the seat numbers and instructing someone on the other end to inspect those seats for possibly weapons or bombs left there. He told me that when he turns 16, he’ll be eligible for a personal questioning, apart from his parents.

6:49am: My carry-on bags finally go through the x-ray machine (again). There seems to be a problem and I have to empty out all electronic devices from my bag and send it through again. I pass the test.

6:58am: I pass through the doors, thinking I’m finally free only to find myself in yet another line. This one looks strikingly similar to that in which I waiting on my entry into the country—this is the passport check line. I enter a “foreign passports” line and wonder, Is this where they’ll finally get me and send me to an interrogation room? Will I finally be asked for a day-by-day play of my activities? I’m sure they won’t be ecstatic about my visits to Jenin and Balata. I’m fairly certain that the desire to visit those places is a bit of a crime here.

7:10am: After what feels like just an extension of the continuous line I’ve been waiting in all morning, I am passed through, just like my entry two weeks earlier, with no words uttered.

7:58am: The final straw is when for a moment, upon boarding, I’m held back because of a problem with my boarding pass. I think, Aha! This is where they’ve caught me, on my indiscretions of travel to no-no-land! However, I’m passed through.

I marvel at the fact that arriving almost three and a half hours early gave me just enough time to make my flight. And this is without any further inspection. As far as Ben Gurion Security knew, I hadn’t even ventured outside of “Israel”. I think, if I were Israeli I doubt I’d ever fly anywhere simply due to this hassle of leaving this country. And if I were Arab-Israeli I’d be even less inclined to do so. I wonder if Nora’s faired the same or been tripped up by the sticky questions of “Where did you visit?” (and consequently “Why would you want to visit there??”) If so, I wonder if she’ll make it on time for her 11:00am flight.

Call to prayer in Al Quds

2008-08-20T23:36:00.000-07:00

Thursday, August 21st, 2008

This morning we awoke (a bit moist from the dew) on the roof of a Citadel Hostel in Old Jerusalem in the Christian Quarter to the 4am call to prayer emanating from Al Aqsa mosque (and then echoed by the approximately twenty other nearby mosques). I groggily opened my eyes and looked out over the Old City and saw the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Dome of the Rock in the distance. Eerily beautiful. Less fun that I was huddled in a soggy blanket with no pillow and a strange man huddled sleeping beside me (though he was from Switzerland so we figured he was ok...)

The Old City of Jerusalem (Al Quds Al-Kadeem) is enchanting at night. That sounds overly poetic but it's not to describe it as so. As we meandered through the streets, passing through the Christian Quarter into the Jewish Quarter, I saw crowds flooding out from one direction. We pushed through and suddenly came upon the Dome of the Rock, the Western (Wailing) Wall and Al-Aqsa Mosque. Placing a prayer in the Western Wall (gotta follow suit to Obama) is no small feat. Though Nora and I were not made to wear a paper kippa as Dante was. Looking around, we realized that most of the women were backing away from the wall all the way back to the entrance, so we did so as well, nearly knocking over more than a few small children in the process. Somehow, it's such a powerful experience to see so many people believing all at once. It sort of carries you away to wonder if you could believe as well.

Continuing on into the Muslim Quarter (in which I instantly felt almost at home because it felt like Beit Sahour) we arrived at Damascus Gate, just as the evening call to prayer was beginning. I was struck by how far removed I felt leaving the Old City, feeling 100% the tourist, looking across to the bus station I'd transfered to so many times enroute to Ramallah... or Nablus... I felt like I was looking through a window into a past life, although I'd just left the West Bank that morning.

After dinner and walking back through the Armenian Quarter to our hostel, it felt like the correct way to end the journey. Perhaps standing already on the other side of the glass is preparation for when instead of imagined glass, an ocean, a few large bodies of land, and a culture gap separate me from this life.

In Tel Aviv now, I feel like my life in the West Bank is worlds away and ages ago. Today the objective? Not human rights observation. Not empowerment of youth. Not expansion of world experience. Simply to sit on the beach, grab a bit of a tan before heading home and gear up for the year ahead.

The Project

2008-08-19T14:30:00.000-07:00

When I came to Palestine last summer it was for so many reasons, only one of which was to volunteer. Coming back a second time, I couldn't really imagine not giving something of my time to the place that had welcomed me with such open arms. This is a place where the hospitality is so much that at time it's overwhelming for a New Yorker like me (despite my midwestern roots) to take in. I sometimes look longingly back to the days of people ignoring each other on the R train in the morning. I'm mostly kidding.

I had promised the youth from last year's breaking (breakdancing) program that I would send them cd's with breaking songs which I had been delinquent on, and had told them I would try to come again the next summer, bringing other bboys/bgirls... "Insha'allah I will come again" I'd said. So I brought the next best thing: a friend who could teach capoiera and yoga (which supplement breaking anyway), a team of four cameras (donated by a Palestinian-American New Yorker to Aida refugee camp, but for our use in the meantime), and another friend to help film and give us support. And I brought cd's.

The goal of the program as we'd mapped out before arriving was to work with the youth again (along with new youth) on their breaking moves, teach them some capoiera, and provide them with the opportunity to give voice to their identity through video, while learning how to operate cameras. Basically, this plan worked out, though I realized what I'd already suspected: that our time was miles too short. By the time we arrived, had meetings with the Beit Jala Library (where the program was to be held), and set up the logistics, it only gave us 4 solid days of work.

All said and done (except for the editing that will be my arduous job!), we had fun. We discussed what stereotypes they thought American youth had about Palestinian youth and came up with some they felt were most important that they wanted to address: "All Palestinians are poor", "All Palestinians are Muslim", "Palestinians ride camels instead of driving in cars", "Palestinians do not wear modern clothing" and, of course, "All Palestinians are terrorists". We then gave them a quick tutorial in using the cameras and began interviews. They then thought about what b-roll (footage to supplement an interview) they needed and took the cameras out by themselves to film their neighborhood and their lives. We also of course spent a good deal of time photographing and videotaping their progress in breaking.

The youth from last year have improved so much and the friends they brought were so dedicated, learning so much in only four days. Clearly the Beit Jala Breakerz live on and hopefully this video will live up to their dedication and willingness to share a part of their lives on video with American youth.

Checkpoint... Check Mate

2008-08-18T15:05:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 15, 2008

We are on our way to visit the Dead Sea with Khader (who will later turn out to be the husband of Rowan, who Kit lived with last year, but I won’t find this out until later in the evening, however I’m not surprised—everyone here seems to know each other somehow) driving us in a taxi. We are all anticipating the healing magic of the Dead Sea's clay, that beach-goers spread all over their bodies, expecting a dermitological miracles. I've been there before and I explain to my friends Dante and Nora how you can float in the water without even trying. Swimmers appear to be sitting in chaisse lounges when they are simply floating effortlessly in the uber-salty water. Khaled speaks very little English. A good chance for me to actually put my shaky Arabic to use. A situation in which my vocabulary actually comes in handy. I seem to have established “cab-driver useful Arabic”.

Ayye madina hatheehee?
Wen? Fowk? Naam. B’afham.
Fee checkpoint? La? Kwayyis.

He announces that there is “No checkpoint!” and we everyone relaxes. We’ve been told that there’s a good chance we might not be let through the checkpoint. We are on our way to one of the beaches of the Dead Sea. Supposedly we are OK to get in with our foreign passports, but we have a Palestinian taxi driver who might be denied access, and thus we would be denied access. We don’t fancy arriving back in Beit Sahour, our tails between our legs and our skin just as oily and unhealthy as before (the Dead Sea is purported to have skin-healing properties, with it’s extremely high salt and mineral content). However, our “luck” is short-lived. Not more than three minutes later, Khaled says “Oh! Checkpoint! It moves.” Apparently checkpoints are removed and reestablished in different locations without public notice. We approach and are waved over to the side of the road. Our green & white license plate gives us away as being a West Bank vehicle and not an Israeli vehicle. I wonder whether Gaza vehicles have yet a different color scheme or the same green and white.

We gather our passports together and Khader hands the Israeli solder this pile of documents we’d be doomed without. I look at the soldier, having trouble taking my eyes off his M-16. I notice he’s actually quite a cutie, and is likely no more than 19 years old. He friend joins him. They seem to speak only Hebrew. Khader tells them in Hebrew what I gather to be something like “I’m taking the Americans to the Dead Sea for three hours.” They inspect our passports closely and in no hurry. They match each one to our faces commenting “Canada… hmmm…. Ohio… hmmm”. They look at me and ask “Muslim? You?” I say “No.” They continue “Christian?” and I hesitate but answer yes. I suppose I am in the sense they mean in this part of the world, where birth religion is so much a part of identity. I determine this to be a poor time to begin discussing identity politics and my thoughts on organized religion. The continue to stare at me. “No Jewish?” I assure the that I am not. They question Dante and then they look at Nora, “You Jewish?” Again more hesitation, and Nora says “Yes” and trails off with something like “I mean” which I take to mean she’s hesitating to claim full Jewish-ness having a non-Jewish mother, and not really sure how she intends to identify. They stare longer and say some things in Hebrew that none of us understand. I’m simultaneously mesmerized by the soldiers weapons, unused to being in such close proximity to guns, and also hypersensitive, listening to every word uttered, paying such close attention to each facial movement, each body gesture, such close attention that time seems almost to stand still.

Finally they bring another officer, a woman who looks just as young, certainly much younger than any of us. I think of my cousins. She’s probably Meyer’s age. Meyer is my adorable 19 year old cousin, who seems to devote his time at Arizona State pretty evenly between partying, girls, and sports. This girl in army fatigues carries a giant gun and I wonder what she's been through so far in her army service. She keeps her finger in dangerously close to the trigger. I’m not suggesting that we’re in any really danger, but the air certainly feels tense. I can feel the adrenaline and “relaxed” can’t possibly be farther from the way I’m feeling.

Clearly the new officer has been summoned because she speaks English. She looks to me, “You are Jewish?” I answer "no" again. At this point, none of us is sure exactly what the right answers are, at least what are the answers that will expedite this process or at least not impede it. Again we affirm that Nora is the only Jewish one, and go through a bit of “What are you?” seemingly establishing to a satisfactory degree that I am Christian and that Dante is Catholic and that Nora is Jewish. The female soldier keeps her attention on Nora. “You think Jewish is bad?” She answers that no, it’s not bad. “You are not proud?... Jewish is the best, no?” Nora, unsure how to answer this, offers a shaky nod. “Why is not Jewish the best?... Jewish is better than Palestinian, no?” I sit there in silence, unable to help my friend who is clearly fighting off whole-heartedly what all of her morals are telling her to do, knowing that the only response would endorse would be no good for anyone involved, including our taxi driver who is the one likely risking the most in this situation. No need to be the hero, but here she is, forced to swallow, and give a stiff nod to phrases like “Jewish is better than Palestinian” and “Jewish is good because Jewish is power”. Finally one of the men (boys!) yells out “Jewish is Power Ranger!!” and we’re able to laugh at least superficially, breaking the tension.

Just when I think that maybe the situation is over, the officer continues on to engage me further. I can think of few situations were I’ve been less excited to speak with someone. “You speak Arabic?” Not wanting to launch into a probably lengthy conversation on why I speak some Arabic which I remember to be a bit of a doozy from my experience last year in leaving the country through Tel Aviv, I answer “Just a little”. She immediately prods, “Well, how do you talk to him?” indicating the driver. “My friend called him. He’s driving us.” Some questioning about when exactly we’ll be coming back ensues and she’s clearly trying to either catch me in a lie or else make me feel uncomfortable and scared enough to prove her power. Khaled tells her something I don’t catch and then she asks me how long we will stay at the Dead Sea. When I answer 3 or 4 hours”, she smiles what seems to be a mocking grin. “Three hours or four hours? Which is it?”, looking back to Khaled. I tell here “Well we’re leaving by 6 o’clock, I don’t know what time it is now. Not more than three hours”. She continues to stare at me grinning. The moment lasts for at least eternity. Finally, the officer says, “Ok, you can go.” And to Khaled, “Honk when you come back through”.

The whole experience may have taken five minute or twenty and I’d believe it. We’re all tense in the car past when we arrive at the Dead Sea. Nora apologizes to Khaled for the situation we’ve put him in. His body language seems to say “What? That? It’s nothing.”

I feel so frustrated, and saddened. Khaled is the only calm one. I feel like I’ve just been a white person in the 60’s watching a black person being turned away at a café and did nothing. We are all shaken. The only thing we can do is try to wash away our dark thoughts with medicinal dead sea clay, but I’m not sure even this place of miracles can heal this wound.

Fortuitous Disappointment

2008-08-11T18:30:00.001-07:00

1:30AM Tuesday, August 12th.

Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv.

Waiting for for shuttle van to Jerusalem.

Waiting in my second long-ling-moving-infitessimally-slowly of the trip, I decide to put on my ipod for the first time in the trip since I left New York literally twenty-four hours ago. Twenty-four hours almost to the minute. Since I have developed the perverse habit of "challenging" myself while traveling to wait until the last possible moment to provide my experience with a soundtrack, I've made it this far and am quite pleased with myself. I am waiting in the airport to be passed through the passport check area, the area in which last year I was questioned "Why are you here? Where are you going? Who are you staying with?" in rapid speed. Everyone has warned me that since I was here before and am known to have previously visited the West Bank, I should be ready for 2-3 hours of interrogation etc. I look around me, in the "foreign passports" line. There is a Japanese family in the line next to me and I find myself wondering why they are there before I catch myself and remember that there are plenty of people visiting Tel Aviv who aren't Jewish, but it somehow I am still surprised. I already can tell that people here assume I'm Jewish from the passing comments directed at me. Comments made in Hebrew with a smile, assuming I’ll nod “Yes, yes, of course”... etc… Then again, perhaps the Japanese family is Jewish. "Heidi", I tell myself, "Open your damn mind a little!"

I look around me, suddenly remembering what it is like to be in a place where I can't read any of the signs, not even to sound out letters. I know zero Hebrew and many signs do not have an English or Arabic translation. There are at least twelve lines of people waiting. Families, young adults, some clearly American (maybe Birthright trips?), some young couples, some elderly couples, some clearly religious Jewish people, most people unidentifiable as far as religion or religious observance.

So here I am in Aaron Neville bliss, my music oddly juxtaposed with the situation. I've decided to simply hit "shuffle" for all of the music stored on my ipod and let fate set the tone. Next up: perfection--Stevie (Wonder). Now I’m truly enjoying the wait. I’m nodding my head, transported to a better place, transcending the passport line. Almost excited now, gear up, pumped up for my impending interrogation. I stand on the threshold in anticipation, as if for a track race, or a bgirl battle. I wait an extra two seconds as the woman ahead of me is dismissed, to see what shuffles next on my ipod. A sign! Matisyahu’s “Salaam/Shalom”. I laugh to myself, hit pause, remove my headphones and step up into the officer. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at me. Takes my passport. Stamp (on the passport). Nod (indicating I should move on). I wait a second longer, not understanding. Finally realizing I’m done, I realize I’m disappointed. The disappointment floods over me. Am I really not even worth flagging? Am I not dangerous enough? Not enough of a threat?! I’m indignant! Then realizing I have the freedom to get my bag and get the hell outta the airport, I discard my grief and head off into what is now familiar territory. Off to meet Nora at the hostel.

I have to wonder, Isn't the Israeli security rumored to be the best in the world? I feel I certainly have enough of a history of suspect behavior to warrant a five minute interrogation? For a moment I question the quality of the government's intelligence. Then again, I'm not a danger after all to the state, so perhaps their intelligence is so good, they knew that me and my breakdancing wasn't worth their time. Maybe if I could do windmillz, I'd be more dangerous.

Anticipation

2008-08-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

As I sit in a Brooklyn coffee shop, attempting to study for a graduate school math placement exam I will take in a month... at the end of our orientation... which is after I return from Palestine... it's hard to stay focused, but the prospect of returning to Palestine looming. I leave in nine days. I arrive in ten and a half. I'm nervous. I'm nervous that Israel will turn me away at Ben Gurion. I'm nervous that something won't work out with working with the youth. I'm nervous my video camera will be taken away. I'm nervous that my friends won't have fun. I'm nervous that something will go wrong politically or otherwise. But mostly I'm happy to be going back and happy that my nervous-ness cannot top that which I felt leaving last year. I can't wait to see John and Joseph and Jumana and George and Michel and all the youth....

Stream of Consciousness Observations

2007-07-19T04:43:00.000-07:00

**(at least in the Bethlehem area, I dont know about beyond) No one wears seatbelts unless they "have to" by Israeli military order. This means that as soon as we enter an area near a checkpoint or where the IDF patrols, everyone puts on his/her seatbelt. The minute we leave that area, the seatbelt are immediately unclicked. It's a small gesture of resistance. I'm all for that but I've gotta say, my life's been in danger more than once due to this form of resistance. Ah well, what's resistance without some threat of danger? :) Hish and Philip had a great experience where their taxi driver, in a newer car with the alarm that reminds you to put on your seatbelt found the man was so adamant about refusing to wear a seatbelt that he prefered the CONSTANT BEEPING of the alarm to putting on his seatbelt. That means 8-12 hours a day of "beep... beep... beep... beep... beep..." Amazing.

**Half of the time the things asked of us at checkpoints (which I should remind all are NOT just between the West Bank and Israel/'48/historical Palestine but also simply between sections of the West Bank for no reason other than control of the entire occupied territories) are clearly only for show to make sure we know who is in charge. "Open this door" and then they don't even end up looking in. or "Where are you from?" when they have a passport in front of them. Or randomly disallowing some people to come through on a given day for no apparent reason.

**The boy who walked us through the old city of Nablus and took us through the martyrs graveyard. He's an ambulance driver. When we passed on grave, he said "This is my cousin". He'd been driving the ambulence that night during the 2nd Intifada and was called to a scene. The victim died on the way to the hospital. Only after reaching the hospital did he realize it was his cousin. His eyes become misty. We keep walking and he quickly changes the subject to ask me if I like football...

**Watch "Bili'in Habibati", a film by Israeli filmmaker and activist, Shai Pollack. It shows in detail the ignorance and detachment of many soldiers and the humanity as well as both the strength and helplessness of the people of Bili'in Camp while protesting the construction of the Wall through their land. Shai did incredible work with this film and has done much to try to further the case for human rights in Palestine and to change the minds of his fellow Israeli compatriots. Watching this movie with a group of Palestinian students from areas including Jenin, Nablus, Abu Dis and Hebron made me also realize that while I'm still shocked by seeing these images they are not--these are somewhat commonplace to those who have grown up with such violence.

Mostly from an email to my friends... probably pretty redundant...

2007-07-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

Keef halkum y'all?

It's been a while but I wanted to give a mini update...

Some of you have asked what i do here... Basically, I'm part of a program called Palestinian Summer Celebration (corny, i know) but it's part of the Siraj Center ( www.sirajcenter.org if you're interested...)

We take intensive Arabic in the morning and then I go to my volunteer job at the Beit Jala Public Library (Beit Jala is a town next to Bethlehem). There, with one other staff member (from the town) I've organized a summer camp for kids with 40 kids aged 3 to 14 (yes I KNOW!) and do things like arts & crafts, games, trips to the park, etc. Luckily they were very receptive to me teaching bboying/bgirling (breakdancing) to the kids so that's been a lot of fun. I just have fun with the little kids doing what i guess I'd call "breakercise" (a shout out to the "jazzercise" I took as a 6 year old where we dance to "Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!!" clearly, this guided me through my formative years...!) But I also have a core group of the older kids who are incredible and just lapping it up. We're doing a performance and then exhibition battle on Thursday. I can't wait!

After the library (4 hours a day) I head off to either a lecture on various topics, or to a documentary screening, or a debkeh class (traditional dance), or a cooking class, or just a bar-b-que with the gang. Other times I help out at the Rapproachment Center with the newscasts for a local news station (proof-reading the english newscast or, today, actually reading the english version!!) Wow. I'm famous. Who knew? "This is live from occupied Bethlehem with Heidi Rosbe and Ghassan Bannoura reporting" Amazing. "Gooooooood Morning Palestine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" For a transcript of the newscast visit: http://www.imemc.org/article/49489

Evenings are basically spent like this:
"Ya Heidi, Eat more Makluba [insert here mensef, or mashi, or falafel, or shawarma, or ...]! You must eat! You"
"La, shukran, I'm really very full"
"Buss heidi... you are not eating enough? Do you not like it? Here, you can have more [insert any food]!"
"Really, I'm stuffed, but thank you"
"Heidi Heidi! Really there's enough to go around... don't be shy... eat more... here let me fill your plate"
"No no... really..."
[later]
"no!!!!!!!!!!!!! my stomach hurts! Please no more food!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"

Anyway, I'm safe and happy and eating well--Which of course is the most important after all.

On Safety

2007-07-12T01:55:00.000-07:00

Before coming here to Palestine this summer, I'd had my doubts... Fighting had broken out just between Hamas and Fatah a couple of weeks before and everything seemed so intensified when watching western media and friends kept warning me to cancel my trip. I remember speaking with George a few days before I was to leave and he kept assuring me that everything was safe and that I would get to Bethlehem and see that life was going on as normal. This could not have been more true. People here go to work, play with their children, go to bar-b-ques, have parties, attend weddings. The violence currently ravaging Gaza feels as far away as America. Farther really. Intense violence has ripped apart families here in the past and the scars are visible everywhere. However, I have absolutely zero regrets on my decision to come here and only wish I were staying the entire summer... I definitely feel both that the area of Bethlehem is safe and that the program (and the family I am living with) have my safety and my best interests in mind. I'm actually already planning out how to come back next summer...
Does that cover it, George? :)

My Palestinian Bgirls & Bboys...

2007-07-11T23:02:00.001-07:00

In the summer camp in which I volunteer here environs Bethlehem (Beit Jala Library) I've been lucky enough to be able to teach bboying/bgirling (breakdance) to the youth there... For the little kids (age 3-10) it mostly consists of stepping here and there, jumping around, clapping, dropping to the floor and then doing some shuffles, or something that seems to be similar. But they love it. And I love seeing them rock out to The Mexican and You Got Soul.

Now the older group: Natasha (14), Noura (12), Alfred (11), Nader (14), Khader (14), Nadia (17) and Bakir (13) [**I might have the ages wrong!!] is really rocking out. They are more dedcated than most older friends of mine who bboy/bgirl... They want to break ALL THE TIME. We sessioned for about 3 hours yesterday and I only ended it because I had to get to the Siraj Center for a class. They've pretty much all got 6-step, 4-step, cee-cee's, grapevine, and kick-outs. They're shakier on top-rocks but are doing pretty damn gooood considering this is the end of their second week as bboys and bgirls... Natasha actually has this one top that evolved out of another one I was teaching and I think she's got somethin' on Floor Phantom--completely his rocking style. They've got some sweet drops and they're into making up variations. Basically these kids got mad style. We're working on a routine to "This or That" for a performance next week during which we'll also either have a cipher or a battle and then maybe have them teach some audience members.

I NEED TO COME BACK HERE NEXT SUMMER. Any bboys or bgirls interested in coming with, hit me up!! They'd actually asked if I'd bring Fifo (since they saw a clip of him on youtube--the one battling Bounce, who they loved too). It's hilarious, everyday this one girl asks, "Can you bring Fifo next year??" Fifo: doubt you're reading this but if so, ya up for it?? ;)

Damn, this kids really want to know it ALL and I feel like I'm abandoning them by leaving after next week...

Daily Life for me here...

2007-07-11T22:43:00.000-07:00

Beit Sahour. House of Joseph & Jumana Awad. Alarm goes off between 7 and 7:30. Drag myself out of bed. Breakfast with Jumana and Jessi (the 2 month old) consisting of nescafe, pita bread with cheese (arabic or provolone), meat, and sometimes eggs, sometimes pastries or oatmeat or "cornflakes" which seems to mean cereal because usually the "cornflakes" are some form of coco krispees.

Off to catch a service (2.5 sheklels.... "shekleen wa nus") or walk (40 min) to Jama'a Beit Lahem (Bethlehem University). Two hours of intensive spoken Arabic with Ustaz-na Sami (our Professor Sami). Lunch at the little restaurant outside the gates of the University, usually falafel, sometimes schnitzel. Almost always a Kinder chocolate thanks to my new British friends.

Head off to Babiskak to either walk or take another service (2 shekels) to Maqtaba Beit Jala (Beit Jala Public Library) for our summer camp (for kids age 3 to 14). There playing games, art projects, teaching bboying (breakdancing), etc from 12-4pm. Head off to walk back through Bethlehem and back to Beit Sahour and the Siraj Center for time to work on my video and then various evening activites: Debkeh (dance) class, documentaries, lectures my professors, swimming at the YMCA, etc... Usually George hollering out to his "habibis" (the English boys) to come play football (soccer), David nowhere to be found due to his dedication to his painting project at a local school, and me, grumbling about how my photos won't upload fast enough. I then chat with Ghassan of the Rapproachment Center about politics, music, video production (yes, i know i know nothing!!! ha ha), and how many times i have to have been shot at and imprisoned in order to earn the title of honorary Palestinian.

Dinner at the family home (or a BBQ with the group at George's home)... or BBQ with my family and their friends... or dinner at Grotto Restaurant... varied but ALWAYS pretty damn tasty. (Seriously, I'm getting obese... just kidding)... Chats with Joseph about politics, history, american pop culture... this man is a wealth of knowledge... and John (the 5 year old) asking his daily (or hourly) question of "Shu y'anni 'hamar-awash' fil inglese?" ("What's 'zebra' in English?")

Plop into bed barely able to get past one page of journaling, one page of reading or one song on my ipod...

That's the daily grind here at the Palestinian Summer Celebration. :) Hallas.

massdisempowerment

2007-07-08T14:06:00.000-07:00

this was initially an email to a friend, but i think it deserves to be copied into my blog (sorry P for reusing the email...!)

Notes from Palestine:

wow, it's been a wild ride here... i hurt my foot pretty badly a week ago playing soccer (football) and it's still not great but have been teaching breaking to kids here as part of my volunteer work and that's amazing. they are so interested and dedicated. otherwise it's just been a lot of soaking up the culture and political situation and of course the food. i am truly loving it. i'm already planning to try to come back next summer (theoretically i'll be starting grad school of some kind the following september)... i'd love to come back and teach the group more breaking and also work on more promotion stuff for the organization.

visited jericho and the dead sea yesterday and ramallah today. all filled with great historical significance and immense beauty. it's been a lot of crossing ridiculous checkpoints and witnessing the incredible disrespect shown to grown men and women by 16 and 17 year old israeli defense force soldiers at these checkpoints. the baby-faced soldiers carry enormous guns and wield unnecessary power (whether or not someone may pass to get to their work or their family and exactly how much humiliation they have to put up with to get there) for their age and for what our morality deems acceptible. it's really upsetting. sometimes it's more overt --i've heard numerous stories of women being handed (in their ID cards as handed back after inspection) soldiers numbers and then being berated the next time they pass for not calling the man... and then, of course even more disturbingly, men --and women --being forced to strip with very little cover from the public eye in order to be searched (over and over again as they pass weekly or daily) at checkpoints. it's this undercover "violence" as one man put it... might not be overt but it ends up leaving these people with a sense of powerlessness and impotence that leads to violence mis-directed at friends, wives, children... and of course other israelis who are somewhat complicit of course, but not necessarily any more so that any of us americans are with respect to the situations in iraq, congo, nicaragua, to name a few. The whole power structure of palestine seems broken and i dont know how one could fix it. that being said, there is beauty everywhere and vibrant culture and happiness, and humans seem to make out of any situation. palestine is not a country filled only with slums and poverty and sadness. it is filled with fresh meat, a near-constant stream of weddings, music that makes old men shake their hips like shakira, and the quintesential "arab hospitality". there are of course millions of things to cite regarding the things that don't work well and and are not positive but that's found anywhere. i'm not meaning to idealize or idolize the region, but it's worth noting that people are not entirely without hope and certainly not without life.

My Perception of the Perceptions of Israelis by Palestinians in the West Bank

2007-06-28T04:11:00.001-07:00

Something I've perceived about many many Palestinians here:
they all seem to get the difference between the settlers and other israelis
at the checkpoint today my host dad was telling me that they seem to put the super poor people who've recently emigrated to israel from eastern europe or places like ethiopia (and therefore are likely still working to fit in with israeli culture) at the checkpoints and that they're very disrespectful and mean, but that any time he encounters an israeli soldier who grew up in israel, they're very apologetic for having to stop him and are respectful, i've heard that before from others.
it's kinda the same (in my mind) when you see the customs border agents who are extremely rude in the U.S. especially to foreignors...
and usually i can tell they're someone who grew up really poor in detroit (thanks to institutionalized racism in the U.S.) with very little prospects of a future there and a chance as a guard to weild some power... and or you can compare it to the prison guards i encountered in michigan when working with PCAP (Prison Creative Arts Project) where they took this opportunity to once again hold power over someone else...

Al Khalil (Hebron)

2007-06-28T03:58:00.000-07:00

June 23, 2007

It's hot today. 45 degrees celcius. But very dry.

We travel as a group with George (siraj center george) to Al Khalil. We see the settlements on the way. Once again huge fortresses that look just like new subdivisions in California. The settlements have created a new road that will eventually cut off Palestinians from getting to Al Khalil without going either some other way or opening a checkpoint. I'm not clear on which exactly. Either way, it makes life that much harder. We visit TIPH (Temporary International Presence in Hebron) which was agreed upon by both Israel and the Palestinian Authority in 1997 (date?) and they report back to their countries (Denmark, Switzerland, Norway, Sweden, Italy and Turkey) on all breaches of international law but are not mandated to act. They do however try to help the community by bringing supplies to schools and subsidizing grain, etc. They try to make themselves known in the community. Nevertheless, after the Danish cartoons came out, (January 2006) about 200 school kids attacked the headquarters, breaking windows and causing other damage.

Al Khalil has a population of 170,000. About 400-600 (?) are Jewish settlers but this small population ends up taking over a great area of the city. The main road is almost entirely devoid of commercial activity and many of the people have moved out because of harassment. The TIPH has documented about 13,000 incidents since 1997 (about 4 per day). Most of the town is Hamas but they have a Fatah governor and major. Mostly family clans are more important here than political parties. Police are almost useless in comparison to the power the families wield. The police are unarmed (on orders from the Israeli government). The family leaders are armed. Mafia style all the way.

There was a small population of Jews living peacefully with Arabs in Al Khalil prior to a massacre in 1929 in which 69 Jewish inhabitants were killed (by outside perpetrators). Jewish settlers returned later in 1968... but they were not the same families.

On February 25, 1994, Baruch Goldstein (from New York) killed 29 worshippers at the Ibrahimi Mosque as they prayed. He was later killed by surviving worshippers. He (and the settlers in Hebron) subscribe to the Kach ideology which states that the whole of the land of Israel/Palestine/whateveryouwishtocallthisland must be devoid of Arabs (and other foreignors) and only populated by Jews for the messiah to come.

There are checkpoint to get into the Old City and to the Ibrahimi Mosque. Our guide forgot his ID so he does not come with us into the Old City. This area is labeled "H2" and is in the center of the city, where most economic activity was in the past. Now with the checkpoints and the driving away of the Arab population it is almost a ghost town with the exception of a few streets. Since the second Intifada in 2000, 1,829 Palestinian shops have been closed and 1,014 Palestinian housing units vacated. The Arabs live on the first level, with Israeli settlers in the upper levels. There is mesh drapings above the walkways (over the first floor) and we are told by the TIPH observers that the settlers often throw things down on the people and the mesh is to protect. Often the TIPH workers are doused with water from above. We are told to walk fast under these.

Beit Sahour--First Days

2007-06-28T03:57:00.000-07:00

June 21, 2007

Not sure how to express that I am in Palestine (Falasteen) and that it really feels like a home. Maybe not my home, but a welcoming home. Some thoughts, not necessarily in order:
The cab driver from Jerusalem tells stories of the "religious peoples" (Jewish, orthodox I assume, maybe Hassidic) who he drives to Tel Aviv and Talpiot to go to visit prostitutes. They ask first if he is Arab or Jewish and finding he's Arab they get in. That's how he already knows where they want to go. They dont want someone to drive them who might tell their family and ruin their reputation. He says "they are coming fast fast... ha ha ha..." and tells me how they consummate their marriage through a hole in a sheet. All an odd and somewhat uncomfortable conversation to have with my cab driver. Talked about the Gay Pride parade set for 5pm tonight. He says 2 years ago the "religious peoples" stabbed someone and now they're trying to protest the parade again. So many cops out. No soldiers at the checkpoint. Mohammed (my cab driver) is happy.

I arrive at Bethlehem University and then take another cab to the Siraj Center where I meet Wilandra, Kit, David and Rodrigo (others in the program) and George and Micheal directing the program. Micheal takes us on a tour of Bethlehem, the Church of the Nativity, great falafel at a place right on the square. There are muslims and christians and tourists all milling about. He shows us the bus station and how to get to Bethlehem University. At the University we're given orientation and a brief overview of the problems the university has experiences with the intifada and the closure of schools for three years by the israeli government in the early 80's. We meet our professor and agree to start the course on Monday after the other two students arrive.
Micheal takes me to his brother's home where I will live. Joseph is 31, his wife, Jumana is 28, John is 5 and Jessie is 3 month old. All very friendly and hospitable. My room is on the third floor with a balcony. Amazing. I nap and then Micheal takes me to get a cell phone and shows me how to walk to where Kit et all are staying. He drives me by the settlement "Har something". It looks like a huge imposing subdivision. And it's so close. The settlement and it's surrounding fence has confiscated a lot of what was Beit Sahour land. People dont have access to their fields anymore. Some people still build on what they believe is their land but because Israel now considers it theirs these houses can be destroyed at any time.
The watch American Idol and Charmed here.
Dinner is tasty... maashi ("stuffed") this time squash, liver, chicken wings, pita bread and salad. John is super cute and talks nonstop. I say he's my "ustath arabi" and he says "nooooo!" but i think he feels important.

Joseph confirms there really are hyenas here. [AWESOME!!] Says they're native. But he says he's only seen one in his life.

Joseph's opinion of Palestinian political situation: there's no chance for a Palestinian state. everyone knows this but the politicians dont want to say it. Gaza they call "Hamastan" and the West Bank is "Fatahland". The West Bank will come eventually under Jordanian control, with Palestinians still having their own president, etc. Gaza under Egypt. He complains of the kids who are poor and easily bribed at the checkpoints to bring across bombs city to city through the checkpoints. The Israelis know this happens so now they target all children for more intensive searches. Joseph is really really mad at Hamas and extremists in general.
Jumana's brother and mother came by after dinner. Very sweet. We eat "fowkoos" which is like a slightly-furry cucumber and it's much better than cucumber. Beit Sahour is known for them.

Joseph used to guide tourists to Herodian (Herod's tomb I think?) and the Sea of Galilee (once again I might have this wrong, maybe it's the Dead Sea?) as it's a 5-6 hour hike, but now he can't take them there anymore because there are soldiers and it's not permitted. He's lost a lot of work. He works in a tourist agency. Joseph and Jumana have lived in Germany and he mostly guides German tourists as he speaks German fluently. His father was one of many sons in a poor family and a german Father came and basically adopted him. The German man was an important person of opposition to Hitler and also is supposedly famous for some book he wrote about communicating with spirits... his name is Joseph [cant remember last name right now!] and Joseph is named after him.

June 22, 2007

Breakfast is bread, cheese, meat, jam, coffee or tea. Kit and I shared a taxi (5 NIS-New Israeli Shekels each) to the checkpoint. There we get out and enter through a turnstyle into a steep pathway up to the checkpoint. This is next to the gigantic separation wall. I'm a terrible estimate of distance but it's at least 5-8 times my height. at least. lots of pictures of the grafitti on the wall. "Israeli Apartheid, American Dollars" and such. At the top of the cement walk (enclosed by fence) you reach the first side of the checkpoint and a soldier with an M-16 checks my passport. After this, we enter walk about 50 feet and enter another building with a metal detector and our bags are checked. Then we stand in line and watch as some women in hijab are taken to a private room for searching. We then go through another turnstyle and have our passports checked again and David is sent back because he forgot his passport and is trying to get in with only a Colorado driver's license. We then are finally allowed to exit and I survey the barbed wire fortress I've been allowed to leave. Only a small number of Palestinians have permission to go into Israel. The family I live with only gets to go on Christmas and Easter to Jerusalem.

From there we take Bus 124 (3.5 NIS) to Damascus Gate and Kit and I walk to Jaffe Gate, while Wilandra takes a taxi. The day is spent wandering around the old city... the Jewish Quarter, the Arab Quarter, the Christian Quarter, the Armenian Quarter. Kit and I pay 16 NIS each to enter the Ramparts Walk which circles the Old City from above. We see Al-Aqsa and many churches... Finally we find ourselves at the Western Wall (the Wailing Wall) and put our long sleeve shirts back on so we can enter. I show Kit how to get to Zion Square where we explore Ben Gurion street (my second time) and buy cheap earrings. I'm starting to get used to the civilian-looking people carrying M-16's (Paige had told me they might be guiding groups). Kit's still getting used to this. We try to take a photo in McDonalds of the salads they offer--truly fresh, made in front of you (not that we ate there) but photos are apparently forbidden in McDs, which is funny because three soldiers had posed with us earlier. Unfotunately for McD's I'd already snapped a shot... As we walk back, it's amazing to be talking shop with a bgirl, we're discussing freezes and the scene, when all around us is the "Holy City" and we keep having to remind ourselves it's real. Arriving back at Jaffe Gate, we find Wilandra still wait for her new cell phone from a "friend" who may not be as friendly as she'd hoped, so we decide to head back to Bethlehem. People are very helpful in helping us find the bus back and my little arabic seems to come in handy. On the way, we're stopped by an Israeli police officer who checks that everyone on the bus has the ID pass... entering is pretty much the same as leaving. Maybe a little quicker. A lot of walking and a lot of obedience to the young female IDF officer working there. She does not smile.

I meet the family Kit and Wilandra live with. The daughter works at the ice cream shop across the street, Flavors and Wasim, the cousin works at a toy store a few doors down. Wasim likes rap and is actually a fan of KRS-1, Q-tip... and Atmosphere! His brother is a DJ and DJs parties and weddings. He studies in 6 of October, Egypt. When asked about the siege of the church of the nativity in 2002 (?) he says it was "cool" and laugh shyly. "It was exciting at least--it's usually so boring here". There were tank rolling through the small town's streets (18,000 people live in Beit Sahour), curfews and his house was searched many times. He once had to make a run for it to make it home.

Dinner at Joseph & Michael's parents house: 8 priests from Germany, Chile, Argentina and Switzerland are being entertained. Jiryis arrived to surprise them. He's the younger brother of Joseph & Michael who has been working as an engineer outside of Abu Dhabi.
Ice cream that night on the rooftop with John yelling over to the neighbors and Joseph trying with very little success to quiet him. It's strange being in someone else's home because I never know when I'm being perceived as standoffish and when as a nuissance. They are so hospitable and I dont want to take advantage!! They are so welcoming, I can imagine wanting to spend a lot longer than the one month here.

Experiences en route to Palestine

2007-06-28T03:55:00.000-07:00

June 20th, 2007

3:45am I arrive at Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv.

They lost my luggage (thanks Air France who, due to a delayed flight and then an overbooking --i voluntarily surrendered my seat in exchange for a 300 Euro voucher for another flight-- sent me JFK-Paris-Budapest-Tel Aviv, so I arrived at JFK at 4:30pm on Monday and arrive Tel Aviv 3:45am on Wednesday). I was supposed to be in Bethlehem (West Bank, Palestine) already, but my new plan is to go to Jerusalem and hopefully meet up with Nicole's friend Paige who is currently living in Tel Aviv but taking a break for a couple of days in Jerusalem. This way I'll have the luggage sent to my hostel and will end up being much closer to where I eventually need to be. It's now around 5am and I'm just taking it all as it comes. Waiting for the shuttle bus to Jerusalem. Dawn is slowly awakening. Morning in the "Holy Land". Holy to so many many people. It's not that I never imagined I'd visit someday in my life. But still it's all a little surreal.

Some thoughts: pretty decent food on all my flights. No problems at immigration. Though I was the only person stopped randomly about 100 yards from exiting the plane. The no-nonsense female officer: "Show your passport. What is your name? Where are you going? Why are you here? What are you planning to do? How long will you stay here? Do you have any family here?" Then "Ok, go." I wondered did I look particularly less Israeli or less Jewish than the rest of the passengers? Tell that one to New York and Montreal.

7am puts me in the Old City of Jerusalem (I think I'm in the Armenian Quarter). At a guest house Elad recommended. Citadel Youth Hostel off David Street, near Jaffe Gate. No check in til 11am. Free internet. Thank goodness for gchat because I'm able to feel like i'm not so far away. Which is of course a blessing and a curse. We'll say blessing on 3 hours sleep since Monday morning and no idea what's going on... Yoni recommends "Cafe Hillel" on Jaffe Road and give adequate directions, so off I stomp into awakening Jerusalem. People watching over a capucchino and croissant reminds me of a 100 backpackers hangouts I've visited (well, 12 maybe? have I travelled that much?) but I wonder how many people are visitors like me, how many are here studying or living for a year, how many have made aliyah, how many are natives. I see some women in hijab, some men in black hats and with side-curls... others are hard to identify as one religion/ethnicity/nationality or another. There is a surprising amount of diversity. I've seen quite a few people who are most likely of African descent. A few who possibly could be Asian though not entirely sure. I am just surprised. Lots of men with noserings. I love it.

I'm right near Jerusalem Hostel, which is where my email from Paige said she was staying so I check in to the dorm room and find myself in a bed next to the one labeled "Paige". Perfect. Too easy. 65 shekels per night. That's about $15.

I wander down Jaffe Road and turn left into the Market. The halvah man gives me sample after sample of halvah each more delicious than the last. He explains that halvah is Turkish and is made from sesame seeds. They then add nuts or coffee or whatever flavor of the day... But it's hot out and halvah is not exactly thirst quenching. I walk down to one of the many fresh orange juice smoothie stands to get an orange-banana-strawberry-mango smoothie. More meandering on Ben Gurion Street, which looks like some plaza cobblestone area in L.A. Nap time. It feels like midnight. It's 11am. I sleep til 6pm.

Paige and I eat at Vegetarian Garden. The security guard stops me to check my bag. "No guns?" he says, smiling. "No gun" I say and laugh. It's not really all that funny though. I remember this scenario entering the mall in Bogata, Colombia. We meet up with Yoni's friend Adam and his friend David at Bar 33(name?) and I drink Israeli beer--Goldstar. Not bad... The place is dark and dimly lit and perfect for the "Holy Land". I feel like I'm sitting with friends in the East Village though... When we discuss my immanent departure the next day into the West Bank, they express concern for my safety but are all genuinely interested in my experience and are excited for my trip. Adam takes us to a giant "secret" hole in the ground which he calls "Sultan's Pool" though we're not really sure what it actually is. Surrounding it is an Arab cemetary. We continue on bar-hopping, stopping in Mike's Place for a look (hommage to my friends who've spent many a night there) and then some other bar where David's friend played in what seemed to be a folk-country band from the two songs I heard, curiously placed above the bar in what looked like a giant TV screen. Final stop is Schnitzi's for chicken schnitzel... pretty damn tasty. And I've only been eating meat again for two days. But it ain't half bad here...