Nablus

As I rode into Nablus, I could tell that it had a longer history as a city than Ramallah. Ramallah's rapid growth from a small village to the defacto capital of a country shows in the narrow winding streets that don't easily accommodate the heavy traffic, the new white high-rise buildings that spread haphazardly across the hillsides and the construction that is visible everywhere.

Meanwhile, in Nablus's new city, the busy, wide streets were lined with tall buildings. But the shabby, soot-stained buildings in the new city and the crubling ancient ones in the old city suggested that the city had fallen from its grandeur. My hosts told me that Nablus used to play a far more important role in the country than that it does today. “Nablus used to be the biggest city in the West Bank, both in terms of size and economic pwoer. Many companies were based here, and students came from all over the Arab world to study at our university.”

However, 1999 began a ten year siege of the city by the Israeli military. Checkpoints around the city isolated it and inhibited movement. My friend Heba comes from a nearby village which took us only 20 minutes to reach by bus, but she tol me that until they opened the checkpoints several years ago, the trip took two to three hours.

My hosts told me that nightly raids, shellings, curfews and other military operations had devastating effects. They had abandoned half of their house because rooms near the street were too dangerous, and confined themselves to the kitchen, bathroom, and living room, where they all slept.

The mother of the family told me that one night she woke up and saw light coming from the front of the house. “We couldn't have any lights on at night—only a small candle. I didn't know what the light was, but I was scared and sent my husband to go see. The house was on fire. The door was open just a little, and I took my children and fled the house.”

The room was repaired, but never fully restored. When I saw it, it was unadorned and contained some soot stains, but my friend told me, “This room used to be beautiful. There was a blackboard and many things. Everything was destroyed—the beds, the window and many things. Now this room is ugly.” The family doesn't have the money to replace everything, and is reluctant to spend their sparce resources on things that they fear will be destroyed again.

Bombing has stopped, night-raids are much rarer and most of the heckpoints have been opened, but Israeli military bases loom over the city on two of the mountaintops between which the city is nestled as a constant reminder of what once was, and could easilly happen again.

Ruins

 As we wandered the shady streets of the old city of Nablus, my friend Heba pulled me into one of the arched entryways. There sat several men and boys. She asked if we could look around, and one of the boys agreed to give us a tour.

In heavily accented Arabic in which about half the consonants took on the sound 'a, he told us that the building was a 2000-year-old palace. However, these ruins contained no ropes or fences, and we climbed up crumbling staircases, over piles of rocks and trash and through bushes, emerging to admire views of the old city.

Though ancient, Nablus is still a populated city and current life mingles with history as the population carries out daily routines on the sites dating from the Bronze age to the present. Some rooms were crumbling, but others contained fire pits, and some even displayed new doors, satellite dishes and plants outside. At many doorways or staircases, our guide would shake his head, saying, “Fi nass.” (There are people there.)

As we explore, I realized that two stories were being told. Part of the story was of an ancient Roman palace, but the descriptions of many of the rooms and the piles of rubble referred to events that took place in the last ten years. Once again, the past and present blended together, as I learned that though most of the structure was now in ruins, it was occupied fairly recently.

“This is where Israeli snipers sat to shoot down on the streets.”

“This wall was hit by a bomb and fell down on people's heads.”

He showed us a hole in the floor, saying, “There was a house here, and another one below. The floor collapsed on the family below.”

Road Rules

After several trips to Bethlehem, the route was beginning to seem familiar, but as we left Ramallah, we stopped at a checkpoint that I didn't remember. “Are we on a different road than usual, or is this checkpoint not usually here?”

My friends told me that we were, in fact on a different road. “This road is only for international NGOs.” I was confused. A road for international NGOs? “Yes, only international NGOs can pass that checkpoint.” Who would have built such thing, and to what purpose? It seemed contrary to the mission of aid organizations to further segregate the country, but I couldn't think of anyone else who would build a road for them.

I pressed further, and it turned out that the road was not just for the international NGOs—it was a settler road, but doctor's, government representatives and people from international NGOs have permission to pass the checkpoint at its entrance.

I'm no longer shocked every time I see a wall, but still thought it odd that an ID card from an American NGO got an entire car of people onto one of the closed roads. Suhaib's AmidEast ID also gives him permission to go to Jerusalem (though I'm pretty sure it won't get an entire car through that checkpoint).

Checkpoints

Driving around the West Bank, one comes across what look like toll booths. But there are no toll roads here, and the little huts are accompanied by cement watch towers, and sometimes cement corral structures by the side of the road. Oh, and those manning the huts are holding guns.

Israeli checkpoints lie throughout the West Bank, not just on the borders, and one can't drive far before encountering one. In previous years, everyone would have to pass through on foot, but I've read that in recent years, the operation has been vastly scaled down, allowing much more freedom of movement in the West Bank. I spent more than a month here, making many trips to Jenin and one to Bethlehem without actually being stopped at a checkpoint.

The checkpoint nearest Ramallah on the way to Jenin is now deserted, leaving an empty hut and a watchtower surrounded by a barbed wire fence and covered in blue graffiti of a star of David and Hebrew letters where the road leading to Ramallah and the surrounding villages enters the major highway.

The other checkpoint on that trip is at a major intersection of two highways. Soldiers watch cars pass through, generally without stopping them, but there was often a car or two by the side of the road being searched. Additionally, the cars have to slow down to pass through the checkpoint, and during busy times, the road is backed up several miles back.

Each time I told someone that I hadn't been stopped, they said I must be lucky. Finally, however, on a drive to Bethlehem one night, it seemed that all the checkpoints were stopping people. Sometimes the soldiers would ask for passports, sometimes they would want to search the trunk, or would question us as to where we were coming from, where we were going and why. Keep in mind, we were still within the West Bank, not trying to cross a border or enter Israel.

When we opened the window, we would usually ask if they spoke English, but I didn't hear any spoken. One of my friends spoke some Hebrew, which he said he's learned at checkpoints, so he would use that, and everyone else would speak whatever language they knew. The first checkpoint demanded our passports and wanted us to turn on the light. However, it took us a while to figure it out, because they were telling us in Hebrew. We tried opening the glove compartment and popping the trunk before someone figured out what they wanted.

At one of the four checkpoints we passed, I timed the stop. It took about 20 minutes, even though there were probably only five or six cars ahead of us. It seemed like every time they let someone pass, they would stand and talk for a minute before bringing the next one up.

At the last checkpoint, they took our passports and told us to pull to the side. They said we had to get out and everyone groaned. I think that my friend was begging them not to make us—especially the two girls, though all this was being said in broken Hebrew, so I don't really know. They only made the two guys get out though, looked under the seats, in the trunk and glove compartment, asked a few more questions and handed back the passports. All they while, there was a gun pointed out of the toll-booth shack.

Palestinian Idol?

One day after work, we got into the car but didn't immediately start moving. Absorbed in my own thoughts, I missed the first part of the conversation, but when I tuned in, everyone was arguing about going to Bethlehem for something. Mays didn't want to go, and Majd was tired and wanted to take a shower, but finally they convinced her that the shower could wait. They asked if I had my passport, and we were off.

Upon arrival, we wove our way through the crowded streets of downtown Bethlehem. In contrast to my last visit, this time, I saw a city in which people live. The streets were overflowing with people, scarves and all sorts of odds and ends ranging from children's toys to tupperware. I sign caught my eye: “Holy Land Dry Cleaning.” I thought it sounded funny, but it illustrated the reality of Bethlehem; in spite of its holy history, it is also a modern city in which people go about their daily lives. As we navigated the narrow streets full of apartments, shops and pedestrians, we suddenly came face to face with a looming 25-foot wall of dark grey cement—a piece of the separation wall. In Bethlehem, it literally cuts right through the city. Then we turned corner and the wall disappeared.

The event, I was told, was some sort of singing contest. We stepped off the ancient cobbled street into a clean, air conditioned building. Downstairs, a stage was set up with a large sound system and several cameras, and several screens. As the crowd settled, the host, with meticulously styled hair and wearing a shiny dress, got up on stage and welcomed us, announcing the contestants who would be singing. One by one, they each sang a song, and were critiqued by three judges sitting below—two Palestinians and one American, who offered his comments in English.

After each judge had spoken, the host explained how to text in to vote for the contestant, and as numbers applying to cell providers all over the Arab world flashed up on the screen, I realized that this was most likely going up on international TV.

Palestinian audiences are nearly always enthusiastic, and at a few of the concerts I've attended, large groups of people have been outright dancing in the audience. This event was no exception, and everyone was dancing in their seats, clapping along, and shouting cheers for the singers.

Separation and Understandings

In the last post, I wrote about visiting an American friend from school who had a week off before starting work as a counselor in an American Zionist summer camp. I went in Jerusalem in order to bring her to Ramallah. I didn't use her name because she is afraid of getting in trouble for her visit to Palestine, but from here on out, I'll call her Sophie.

I had taken the bus to the Arab quarter in the old city, but a friend from East Jerusalem had told me that it also stopped at the main bus station, so we decided to catch it there. Sophie was pretty sure that no Arab buses stopped at the station itself, but we figured that it stopped nearby, and that we could ask people where. However, this proved to be a harder task than we had predicted.

Most people just gave us confused looks when we asked where to find the bus to Ramallah. A few genuinely thought about it and directed us either to the inter-city buses or to the station information desk, where a young women glared at us and said she didn't know. One man we asked told Sophie that we shouldn't go there. She replied that I lived there, and his eyes widened. “Crazy!” he said, first in Hebrew, and then in English, so that I could understand. Finally, we gave up and took the city bus across the city to the Arab quarter.

It had never really occurred to me that I should be afraid to come to Ramallah. I had looked at news reports a bit and talked to an Arab-Israeli friend in order to make sure that it wasn't currently a violent area and to assess its political stability in the wake of the revolutions sweeping the region.

Sophie, however, had been more concerned, and had only agreed to come after contacting the US embassy and enlisting me to accompany her through the checkpoint. Even so, she wanted to keep her visit a secret from most of the people she knew. In the morning before we left for Ramallah, Ariel, a family friend of Sophie's who we were staying with, asked me what we would be seeing in Jerusalem that day.

Her Israeli friends had expressed fear of visiting the Palestinian territories, though she told me that the only one who could verbalize a reason why they would be afraid to come wanted to be a politician and didn't want a West Bank visit on his record.

Apparently politicians aren't the only ones who experience trouble over connections to Palestine. Sophie's phone was turned off after she tried to call me at my Palestinian number, and on top of worried lectures from friends and family members, she was pretty sure her Israeli employers would forbid her visit.

In fact, the Israeli government bars its citizens from visiting cities like Ramallah, which are in the Palestinian controlled Area A. While it seems the ban is rarely enforced, Israelis risk arrest, fines, and even prison. As far as I can tell, the Palestinian government does not prohibit Israeli visitors, though police could technically turn people over to the Israeli authorities.

Meanwhile, my friends in Ramallah were confused, and thought it somewhat funny that people would be afraid to come to visit them.

A trip to Jerusalem

Last week brought me on a very quick visit to Jerusalem. A friend of mine was there and wanted to come to Ramallah, but was nervous about the trip, so I went down for a night in order to accompany her.

The old city is a shadowy maze of stone buildings, arches, and of course tourist shops. We began in the Arab quarter where the bus dropped me off, and as we wandered, my friend tried to figure out where we were. In the narrow cobbled street, we were surrounded by spices, souvenirs, head scarves and children darting about. “I just have to find someone who speaks Hebrew and ask for directions.” She saw someone in an Israeli military uniform and asked him how to get to the Jewish quarter. “Umm, I can talk to any of these people,” I pointed out. She laughed, saying, “That occurred to me as soon as I started to as I started to ask that soldier.”

We stayed with some of her family friends—her Israeli “grandparents.” They were both from the US, but have lived in Israel for about 30 years. Ariel, who first visited Israel while in Rabbinical school, said that she had immediately fallen in love with it and simply decided not to go back. She started a Torah-study group for neighborhood women, which has grown into a school. They were incredibly welcoming and gave me a big hug as soon as I walked in the door.

Over dinner, I mentioned that I was living in Ramallah, and was surprised to see their faces immediately freeze and tighten. “What do you define as the borders of Palestine?” David demanded. I said I defined them as the current ones because that's where they are. I didn't mention that I distinguish between what they are and what they should be. My answer to the other question would be that I don't consider myself sufficiently wise or educated to make a decision, and that it wouldn't matter anyway, because it's not like I'm drawing the map.

However, David was satisfied with my answer. “Good, because a lot of Palestinians define them as all of Israel.” “No, I don't think so,” I replied. “At least that's not what I've heard from the people I've met there. They are asking for the '67 borders.”

This didn't actually seem to mean anything different from all of Israel. They informed me that the '67 borders are unreasonable because they are indefensible, and are almost at the sea. I tried to argue that they are the Green Line—the current West Bank plus the settlements and aren't really any closer to the sea than the separation wall. (I forgot that the '67 borders also include the militarized zones, which claim most of the Jordan Valley.) They disagreed with this, but seemed to think the green line was unreasonable too.

I think what surprised me was the aggressiveness of their reactions, as well as the fact that my friend said that they were very knowledgeable politically, and was surprised when we looked it up and they were wrong (the '67 border are in fact, the Green Line). To their credit, though, as soon as they were done grilling and lecturing me, they resumed being perfectly pleasant. 

 

Breakfasts Across Borders

Every morning at the office, I eat matzah for breakfast. I'm not sure if anyone realizes that this is a very Jewish food. Considering the response Majd received when she returned from the supermarket holding a coffee package containing Hebrew writing, I doubt it. (William chased her around the office as she insited, “Made in Turkey! It's Turkish!” Eating Matzah in Palestine is ironic, but it might also be fitting—the food of an oppressed people, the food of exiles.

Shortly before leaving the US, someone asked me, “What do they eat for breakfast in Palestine?” I had no idea, but my mom suggested, “It's probably the same as Israeli breakfast.” I don't know much about Israeli breakfasts, but I suppose she's probably right. Much of the same food is shared between the two countries, sometimes referred to identically and sometimes differently. When I visited my friend in Jerusalem, she wanted to make sure I tried all her favorite foods. I had eaten nearly all of them already.

It's rather funny to me how the two groups have so little casual human interaction in daily life, but also share so much. One day, driving by the checkpoint bus stop, Majd thought it odd that the groups of settlers and Palestinians stood side by side. I thought it odd that they most likely waited side by side for the bus every morning, and yet apparently kept to their segregated groups standing ten feet apart and had likely never said a word to each other.