Done for the time being with friendly old Jordan (where, amusingly, everyone I met thought I was Russian), I struck out on the morning of August 9 for the Allenby/King Hussein border crossing about an hour's drive from Amman. Allenby is the one border crossing open to Palestinians, so there's a lot of traffic, and all of it gets thoroughly checked. When I first got out of the servees, I got mistaken for a Jordanian and sent to the long, chaotic line for Arab (i.e. Jordanian and Palestinian, because no other Arabs can really get a visa to enter Israel) travelers. When someone realized I didn't belong, I got shuttled into a bizarre unmarked corridor by myself where I was asked to pay a customs tax and hustled onto a fancy bus to take me across no man's land to the Israel side of the border zone. At the entrance to the Israeli complex, a ginger-haired 18-year-old in a polo shirt and a yarmulke shuffled around with a person-sized machine gun strapped across his chest. Welcome to Israel! the sign read. I waited in line for about 45 minutes before I reached the classification stage. "So where are you going after you leave Israel?" this teenager asked me after an amicable chat. "I'm flying from Amman back to Cairo!" I said cheerfully, thinking to myself how much these Israeli border patrol people seemed and talked just like people I went to college with. (After all, half of them are American anyway.) "Cairo?" he stopped. Then he marked me down a "3", which ensured me a nice little interrogation inside. As I waited in line, I overheard the gray-haired passport control official quizzing the Palestinian man ahead of me on his ancestors' first names. When it was my turn, I had to stand on my tiptoes to see and hear well -- perhaps this is on purpose, as it throws you off balance a little. The man flipped through my passport and asked me to recount my itinerary before entering Israel, seeing if I would lie about Lebanon, I think. "How many days were you in Lebanon?" he barked at me. "5," I said. "WRONG. SIX," he countered. He directed me to a cordoned-off area reserved for those being questioned further. The Palestinians with whom I shared the space immediately struck up a friendly conversation, and were also rather happy that they weren't the only ones being treated like criminals. But I was not to wait for long. A tall Russian man from the Ministry of the Interior strutted over to ask me a few questions about Clare, since staying Ramallah is a red flag, and demand the phone numbers of anyone else I might know in the country. But then I was sent on my way, taking a bus to Jericho, where there is a rather sad Palestinian Authority customs post that did nothing but look at my passport photo.
Soon I had taken a servees to Ramallah (by a roundabout route, because the direct roads in much of the West Bank are closed to Palestinians) and met up with Clare in Minara, the center of the city. I had always imagined that traveling in the West Bank would be very tough, but in fact it's very organized and people are very eager to help you find your way -- partly, as Clare explained, because Palestinians really want visitors to have a positive impression of Palestine. (On the other hand, as I found out in Jerusalem, asking Israelis about travel to or within the West Bank, was like talking to a wall... Israel bans its citizens from going to Palestinian cities except where settlers have moved in.) Ramallah doesn't have a lot of tourist sites, especially since Yasser Arafat's tomb was closed, but it is a livelier place than most West Bank cities. The seat of the Palestinian Authority, it's where most expats are based and has cafes, movie theaters, a decent selection of restaurants, and the like. Clare and I went for a walk through the city, baked cookies, and ate a delicious dinner on her lovely vine-covered patio with her roommates and their Palestinian friend who had just been granted his first permit ever to travel into Israel.
The next morning Clare and I embarked on an epic self-tour of the West Bank. First stop: Hebron (Al Khalil). This is military occupation at its most obvious. The shared Israeli-Palestinian road that we took to Hebron was lined with Israeli flags, with Israeli settlements perched on nearly every hilltop. The West Bank is divided into Areas A, B, and C, with Area A controlled by the PA and Area C controlled by the Israeli government. This map gives you an idea of the proportional size of these different areas and consequently what a large portion of the WB is Area C. When we first arrived in Hebron, we were in the solidly Palestinian part -- giant posters of Arafat and Abbas, all writing in the Arabic, the whole nine yards. But then we neared the main historical attraction, which is the Tomb of the Patriarchs, part of which is reserved for Muslims and part for Jews. After passing a small Israeli army checkpoint, we approached one of many soldiers milling around the site and asked him where we could enter the holy site. He explained that because it was a Friday during Ramadan, only Muslims were allowed in all day. "But I know you're gonna go back home and tell everyone anyway that the Jews don't let the Muslims pray!" he said to us coarsely... "But so you're from New York, do you like the Knicks?" After passing a few Orthodox settlers praying outside and a horde of soldiers who yelled at us - "Dangerous up there, very dangerous!" we ascended into a Palestinian neighborhood directly adjoining the Tomb. The streets were empty but for the checkpoint boxes and an occasional Palestinian who looked at us with as much suspicion as the soldiers. On our way back, a soldier overheard us speaking Arabic to a Palestinian couple and barked at us to present our passports to him. I'm not sure what he was looking for, but all he muttered was - "Hm. You've traveled a lot." Standing behind him were 3 foreigners of various ages in brown vests. They were observers from the World Council of Churches who are sent to conflict zones to, in this case for example, escort Palestinian children to school in neighborhoods where settlers would otherwise throw stones, and to simply offer a watchful presence. We then walked to the old Palestinian souk area, which was closed down during the Second Intifada and is now off-limits to Palestinians, inhabited by a few settlers but a ghost town for the most part. The municipality's sign read: "These stores were closed by the IDF for security reasons after Arabs began the 'Oslo War' (aka the Second Intifada) in September 2000, attacking, wounding, and murdering Jews on this road." Nearby, a settler-erected sign, also in both English and Hebrew, read: "These buildings were constructed on land purchased by the Hebron Jewish Community in 1807. This land was stolen by Arabs following the murder of 67 Hebron Jews in 1929. We demand justice! Return our property to us!"
Not so far away, the "new" souk was bustling. We stopped for a long time at the stall of Women in Hebron, a local, all-female embroidery cooperative based in the old city that sells all kinds of beautiful bags, keffiyehs, jewelry, and clothing. (Apparently they've been so successfully that other shopkeepers have started falsely claiming that their products are also made by women!) But despite the apparent vibrancy of the souk that day, it all goes on under the watchful eye of both army and extreme settlers. That is to say, settlers have moved into the upper floors of the homes and shops in this Palestinian neighborhood, to the point that some Arabs can no longer access their own front doors and must climb in through the windows. The shopkeepers have also strung up tarps and wire netting to catch the trash thrown by the settlers down onto the Palestinian street. It was a shocking sight. Here is a photo, looking up from within the souk:
Nearby, leading around the perimeter of the souk, is a segregated road. The wider section is for soldiers, settlers, and tourists, while Palestinians are only allowed to use a smaller shoulder of the road blocked off by concrete barriers.
With heavy hearts, we made our way from Hebron to Bethlehem, which is awash in tour groups and feels much less troubled. We did not linger long, though. Rather, we made a beeline through the Old City for the main attraction - the Church of the Nativity. It is apparently the oldest continually operating church in the entire world and was built in the 4th century over the cave believed to be the site of Jesus's birth. One enters the church through the so-called "Door of Humility", an oddly tiny little opening aimed to remind the visitor of the sanctity of the place. While of course the church has been through lots of phases over the centuries, a piece of Constantine's original mosaic is visible through a cutaway in the floor. Decorated with the colored glass chandeliers typically of Orthodox churches, the site is actually divided square inch by square inch between various Christian sects. At one point, all the visitors were shushed and a service of some kind began at the front, with a trio of long-bearded and black-robed Orthodox priests chanting and waving incense before the altar. In the basement of the church, we visited the star that is said to mark the exact spot of the birth, and against which pilgrims were prostrating themselves. A few feet away is a candlelit area where Mary supposedly laid Jesus in the manger.
Unfortunately, we didn't have time to linger in Bethlehem because we had an invitation. We were to have dinner in the city of Nablus, the largest in the West Bank, with a family Clare had befriended last year while working for an NGO there. We had iftar with Ryme, the 26-year-old mother, and her three very cute kids, Kareem, Mohannad, and baby Qais. After the home-cooked meal, we entertained the extremely energetic kids with games, chasing them with a broom, and a visit to the juice man. Then the extended family arrived for an extended visit. I kept thinking how scary it would be to have three kids at 26 years old. I was exhausted after a couple hours. But then Ryme's husband, Ramy, arrived with a fresh, warm platter of Nabulsi kunafa just for us. Kunafa is a traditional pastry filled with cheese, soaked in sweet syrup, and topped with pistachio shavings for which Nablus is famous -- and, as luck would have it, we had fallen into the home of a real, live kunafa shop owner. Before going to bed, Clare and I went for a stroll in the Balad. It was alive and decorated with Ramadan lights, but there were very few women out; those who were were all well covered and with their husbands. As Clare explained after a year of living there, Nabulsi women essentially do not go out after age 16 and all have arranged marriages, since there are no coffeeshops or other venues where men and women might hang out together.
We spent the night at Ryme and Ramy's place and in the morning went to find Naseer Arafat, a friend of a friend of my dad's. We met him at one of Nablus's few remaining soap factories (most were destroyed during the Second Intifada), and there watched it being brewed in a giant olive oil cauldron, then dried in cone-shaped stacks. Mr. Arafat took us to his office in the old souk and explained to us his work as a conservator reconstructing the old city of Nablus after much of it was destroyed during the intifada and the violence there that continued until 2010. (It was the center of resistance fighting.) The old buildings he has restored largely date to the Ottoman period. In addition, he showed us around the craft training center, art library, and children's library he runs in his family's own old soap factory. Afterward, Clare and I took our own stroll around the old city. Reminders of the conflict were never far: practically every other building had a martyr poster or plaque pasted to it. These are kind of unsettling photos you might associate with Palestine: young men photoshopped into photos with enormous guns. There were empty spaces where entire houses had been wiped out and photos of the families who had lived there just a few years ago.
A short taxi ride away but still within the city of Nablus, we visited Balata Refugee Camp, the largest camp in the West Bank. Built for 5,000 Palestinians from Jaffa in 1948, the 1 square km now holds 28,000 people. The residents of the camp continue to have many children, 6 on average, and have them young (our guide told us about a 32-year-old friend of his who is a grandfather). Only two roads are wide enough for cars to pass through, and most are barely wide enough for a person on foot. The drab concrete slab homes, some still remnants of the temporary housing erected in the 1950s, bear down on you as you pass through these sad, colorless alleys punctuated only by the occasional student mural or lone tree. The community center at the entrance, next to the cookie-cutter blue and white UN school, is a bright spot: it has a children's library and game room, a computer lab, meeting rooms, and a guest house. One of its employees, an amiable 30-something man named Mustafa, gave us a brief walking tour of part of the camp. He himself bore the scars of the Second Intifada: he was shot twice while driving an ambulance in and out of the camp.
Across the street from the camp's entrance was an oddly stark contrast: Jacob's Well. An Orthodox convent and church, it is built around the well where Jesus supposedly spoke with a Samaritan woman. (Indeed the Samaritans still live in Nablus, now on a hilltop overlooking the city.) What seemed so foreign after walking through Balata were the lush, tranquil gardens surrounding the church, and the tour groups with nametags and fanny packs strolling about inside.
Back in Ramallah that night, Clare and I went out to dinner with some of her expat friends at the hip Cafe La Vie. We then went downtown to experience the Ramadan lights and shopping scene, purchasing, as Eid gifts for one another, flip flops shaped like fish from a street vendor. At the ice cream shop Baladna, the cashier quizzed me on my politics as he rang up my cone. "Bush?" he asked. "Tsk," he answered his own question. "Obama?" Also "tsk."
Soon I had taken a servees to Ramallah (by a roundabout route, because the direct roads in much of the West Bank are closed to Palestinians) and met up with Clare in Minara, the center of the city. I had always imagined that traveling in the West Bank would be very tough, but in fact it's very organized and people are very eager to help you find your way -- partly, as Clare explained, because Palestinians really want visitors to have a positive impression of Palestine. (On the other hand, as I found out in Jerusalem, asking Israelis about travel to or within the West Bank, was like talking to a wall... Israel bans its citizens from going to Palestinian cities except where settlers have moved in.) Ramallah doesn't have a lot of tourist sites, especially since Yasser Arafat's tomb was closed, but it is a livelier place than most West Bank cities. The seat of the Palestinian Authority, it's where most expats are based and has cafes, movie theaters, a decent selection of restaurants, and the like. Clare and I went for a walk through the city, baked cookies, and ate a delicious dinner on her lovely vine-covered patio with her roommates and their Palestinian friend who had just been granted his first permit ever to travel into Israel.
The next morning Clare and I embarked on an epic self-tour of the West Bank. First stop: Hebron (Al Khalil). This is military occupation at its most obvious. The shared Israeli-Palestinian road that we took to Hebron was lined with Israeli flags, with Israeli settlements perched on nearly every hilltop. The West Bank is divided into Areas A, B, and C, with Area A controlled by the PA and Area C controlled by the Israeli government. This map gives you an idea of the proportional size of these different areas and consequently what a large portion of the WB is Area C. When we first arrived in Hebron, we were in the solidly Palestinian part -- giant posters of Arafat and Abbas, all writing in the Arabic, the whole nine yards. But then we neared the main historical attraction, which is the Tomb of the Patriarchs, part of which is reserved for Muslims and part for Jews. After passing a small Israeli army checkpoint, we approached one of many soldiers milling around the site and asked him where we could enter the holy site. He explained that because it was a Friday during Ramadan, only Muslims were allowed in all day. "But I know you're gonna go back home and tell everyone anyway that the Jews don't let the Muslims pray!" he said to us coarsely... "But so you're from New York, do you like the Knicks?" After passing a few Orthodox settlers praying outside and a horde of soldiers who yelled at us - "Dangerous up there, very dangerous!" we ascended into a Palestinian neighborhood directly adjoining the Tomb. The streets were empty but for the checkpoint boxes and an occasional Palestinian who looked at us with as much suspicion as the soldiers. On our way back, a soldier overheard us speaking Arabic to a Palestinian couple and barked at us to present our passports to him. I'm not sure what he was looking for, but all he muttered was - "Hm. You've traveled a lot." Standing behind him were 3 foreigners of various ages in brown vests. They were observers from the World Council of Churches who are sent to conflict zones to, in this case for example, escort Palestinian children to school in neighborhoods where settlers would otherwise throw stones, and to simply offer a watchful presence. We then walked to the old Palestinian souk area, which was closed down during the Second Intifada and is now off-limits to Palestinians, inhabited by a few settlers but a ghost town for the most part. The municipality's sign read: "These stores were closed by the IDF for security reasons after Arabs began the 'Oslo War' (aka the Second Intifada) in September 2000, attacking, wounding, and murdering Jews on this road." Nearby, a settler-erected sign, also in both English and Hebrew, read: "These buildings were constructed on land purchased by the Hebron Jewish Community in 1807. This land was stolen by Arabs following the murder of 67 Hebron Jews in 1929. We demand justice! Return our property to us!"
Israeli soldiers walk through the former souk in Hebron
Not so far away, the "new" souk was bustling. We stopped for a long time at the stall of Women in Hebron, a local, all-female embroidery cooperative based in the old city that sells all kinds of beautiful bags, keffiyehs, jewelry, and clothing. (Apparently they've been so successfully that other shopkeepers have started falsely claiming that their products are also made by women!) But despite the apparent vibrancy of the souk that day, it all goes on under the watchful eye of both army and extreme settlers. That is to say, settlers have moved into the upper floors of the homes and shops in this Palestinian neighborhood, to the point that some Arabs can no longer access their own front doors and must climb in through the windows. The shopkeepers have also strung up tarps and wire netting to catch the trash thrown by the settlers down onto the Palestinian street. It was a shocking sight. Here is a photo, looking up from within the souk:
 |
| The Hebron souk, with settlers' trash |
Nearby, leading around the perimeter of the souk, is a segregated road. The wider section is for soldiers, settlers, and tourists, while Palestinians are only allowed to use a smaller shoulder of the road blocked off by concrete barriers.
With heavy hearts, we made our way from Hebron to Bethlehem, which is awash in tour groups and feels much less troubled. We did not linger long, though. Rather, we made a beeline through the Old City for the main attraction - the Church of the Nativity. It is apparently the oldest continually operating church in the entire world and was built in the 4th century over the cave believed to be the site of Jesus's birth. One enters the church through the so-called "Door of Humility", an oddly tiny little opening aimed to remind the visitor of the sanctity of the place. While of course the church has been through lots of phases over the centuries, a piece of Constantine's original mosaic is visible through a cutaway in the floor. Decorated with the colored glass chandeliers typically of Orthodox churches, the site is actually divided square inch by square inch between various Christian sects. At one point, all the visitors were shushed and a service of some kind began at the front, with a trio of long-bearded and black-robed Orthodox priests chanting and waving incense before the altar. In the basement of the church, we visited the star that is said to mark the exact spot of the birth, and against which pilgrims were prostrating themselves. A few feet away is a candlelit area where Mary supposedly laid Jesus in the manger.
Entering the Church of the Nativity through the Humility Door
We spent the night at Ryme and Ramy's place and in the morning went to find Naseer Arafat, a friend of a friend of my dad's. We met him at one of Nablus's few remaining soap factories (most were destroyed during the Second Intifada), and there watched it being brewed in a giant olive oil cauldron, then dried in cone-shaped stacks. Mr. Arafat took us to his office in the old souk and explained to us his work as a conservator reconstructing the old city of Nablus after much of it was destroyed during the intifada and the violence there that continued until 2010. (It was the center of resistance fighting.) The old buildings he has restored largely date to the Ottoman period. In addition, he showed us around the craft training center, art library, and children's library he runs in his family's own old soap factory. Afterward, Clare and I took our own stroll around the old city. Reminders of the conflict were never far: practically every other building had a martyr poster or plaque pasted to it. These are kind of unsettling photos you might associate with Palestine: young men photoshopped into photos with enormous guns. There were empty spaces where entire houses had been wiped out and photos of the families who had lived there just a few years ago.
Typical martyr poster in the old city of Nablus
A short taxi ride away but still within the city of Nablus, we visited Balata Refugee Camp, the largest camp in the West Bank. Built for 5,000 Palestinians from Jaffa in 1948, the 1 square km now holds 28,000 people. The residents of the camp continue to have many children, 6 on average, and have them young (our guide told us about a 32-year-old friend of his who is a grandfather). Only two roads are wide enough for cars to pass through, and most are barely wide enough for a person on foot. The drab concrete slab homes, some still remnants of the temporary housing erected in the 1950s, bear down on you as you pass through these sad, colorless alleys punctuated only by the occasional student mural or lone tree. The community center at the entrance, next to the cookie-cutter blue and white UN school, is a bright spot: it has a children's library and game room, a computer lab, meeting rooms, and a guest house. One of its employees, an amiable 30-something man named Mustafa, gave us a brief walking tour of part of the camp. He himself bore the scars of the Second Intifada: he was shot twice while driving an ambulance in and out of the camp.
Across the street from the camp's entrance was an oddly stark contrast: Jacob's Well. An Orthodox convent and church, it is built around the well where Jesus supposedly spoke with a Samaritan woman. (Indeed the Samaritans still live in Nablus, now on a hilltop overlooking the city.) What seemed so foreign after walking through Balata were the lush, tranquil gardens surrounding the church, and the tour groups with nametags and fanny packs strolling about inside.
Back in Ramallah that night, Clare and I went out to dinner with some of her expat friends at the hip Cafe La Vie. We then went downtown to experience the Ramadan lights and shopping scene, purchasing, as Eid gifts for one another, flip flops shaped like fish from a street vendor. At the ice cream shop Baladna, the cashier quizzed me on my politics as he rang up my cone. "Bush?" he asked. "Tsk," he answered his own question. "Obama?" Also "tsk."
With Clare and my new woman-made keffiyeh in Ramallah
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