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.

Water

Israelis say they came and made the desert bloom, and driving through the desert south of Ramallah, the green lawns of the settlements stick out among the bare, dry, rocky hills. 

Meanwhile, in Jenin, the water has been cut off for almost three weeks.

We arrived at Majd's family's house last Wednesday afternoon to find the faucets unresponsive. The family's storage tank had just run out, but apparently the water had been shut off for 13 days. “It's just what happens sometimes,” Majd tells me, but she's nearly as frustrated as I am shocked. “Israel controls our water, so they can do whatever they want.”

Many who can afford it store water in cisterns, which provide a safety net of reserve water. Majd's family is even luckier—her father has another tank at his shop, and when their tank ran out, they siphoned water from his. Still, the stored water won't hold out forever, and we have to be very careful about things like washing dishes. And we're the lucky ones. “Lots of people have to buy water when this happens,” Majd says.

I was confused about what was going on. How is it ok to cut off a city's water? So I started researching the issue. I've heard so much about disputes over land, but in such a dry region, it makes sense that water is a valuable resource. Like everything surrounding the conflict, there's really no simple answer, and figuring out what is actually going on amid the angry accusations and defenses feels like separating tangled jewelry. Of course it's more complicated than Israel arbitrarily deciding to cut off Jenin's water supply, and I'm still trying to piece it all together. Another post should be coming soon.

Back in Jenin

Jenin was a sweltering 96 degrees when I arrived in late May, and it's only getting hotter. Therefore, when we arrived in the heat of the afternoon, the streets were pretty much deserted, and only a few people could be seen lounging in the shade outside of their shops.

However, when the sun goes down, everyone comes out. I still haven't gotten over being afraid for my life every time I get into a car, and driving with someone who is just learning through streets filled with children and bicycles was even more nerve wracking than my own sister's debut of canyon driving in Colorado. All the while, of course, the seatbelt alarm was beeping away, as no one here uses them in town.

Palestinian life is rarely solitary, and afternoons and weekends are usually spent receiving a constant stream of friends and family, or paying visits to various aunts. This weekend, Majd's mom and brother are preparing to leave on a trip to Saudi Arabia, and it seemed that everyone in town stopped by to bid them safe travels.

I hadn't seen the family for two weeks, and when we walked in, Majd's mom squealed, gave me a big hug, told me she missed me, and announced to everyone in the room that I was her daughter. However, I also think I'm settling in and being treated more like a member of the family rather than a special guest. They no longer insist that I eat constantly, instead asking if I'm hungry, and I was allowed to help sort grape leaves.

Bethlehem

It's not too often that one can casually pop on over to the birthplace of Christ, so when I overheard (and understood!) that two of the guys at the office were going to Bethlehem for a meeting, I asked if I could come along.

Bethlehem is only about 13 miles from Ramallah, but unfortunately for anyone without an Israeli permit (ie: most Palestinians), between them lies Jerusalem and it's ring of settlements, which must be circumvented. It took us nearly an hour and a half to get there.

Just south of Ramallah, the land gets much dryer. The stark canyons are striking, and the hills are dotted with Beduin villages. I even saw camels on a distant ridge. More striking, are the walls and fences that cut through the landscape, protecting Israeli settlements and their roads.

The West Bank contains different classifications of roads. Many of the roads I've driven on are shared roads, which connect to both Palestinian and Israeli roads and are populated by cars with both nation's license plates. The roads to the settlements, as well as certain express highways are reserved for Israeli's only. Their entrances are guarded by soldiers, and in the area I was driving through, almost all of them are fortified with some combination of concrete walls, fences and patrol roads. Israelis are prohibited from driving the roads to certain Palestinian cities and villages, but the entrances are marked with signs rather than guard houses, and the prohibition is only inforced by the Israeli government, not the Palestinian government or the people. “We welcome everyone.” Majd tells me. Generally, the only Israelis using these roads are ones who come to protest with the Palestinians.

I've mostly stopped asking about every wall and fence, but when we came to fields of tree stumps, I had to inquire, “What happened to the trees?”

My coworkers definitely had information, but seemed unsure as to exactly what applied to these particular fileds, how to explain it to me, and how to say it in English.

I think it's because the Palestinians made a lot of operations in this area, and it was to show them that the visitors can do whatever they want,” explained one.

“I think Palestinians are not allowed to plant on this land, even though it is Palestinian land,” said the other.

In Bethlehem, ancient-looking buildings made of sandy white stone sit embedded in the hillside. The streets and the church were full of groups of tourists, some wearing scarves on their heads, and others wearing tank tops. Since the real purpose of the visit was a meeting, and we all had work to do back at the office, I didn't see much of the city, but they did take a break to show me the Nativity Church, allegedly the place where Jesus was born. The church was ancient and stately, but also teeming with tourists and their cameras (including myself). As a whole, in comparison to Ramallah's vibrant, colorful chaos, Bethlehem seemed kind of sterile and artificial, and it made me glad to be living where I do.

Settlements

As I run through the streets of my neighborhood in Ramallah, I can spot a clump of houses perched on a hilltop above me. This neighborhood contrasts with those which I run through because the roofs are pointed, and because the dense development doesn't flow down the hill, merging with the farmland in the valley or the outskirts of Ramallah, but stops abruptly, leaving the hillside bare.

It serves as a useful landmark for orientation, but also looms over the city as a constant reminder of occupation, and that land can easily be confiscated.

I first began to recognize settlements as Majd pointed them out on the bus ride to Jenin on my third day in the country, and it took only a few times before I could pick them out for myself. It seems that wherever I go, I can spot a settlement or two on a nearby hilltop.

My first question was, “What are they doing here?” Wouldn't the desire for one's own land and borders to be respected lead to respect for the land and borders of one's neighbors?

My second question was, “How are the settlers not afraid for their lives?” To build a town on someone else's farmland expecting not to encounter violent revenge requires a strong assumption of either people's goodwill or of their powerlessness.

And the most stumping of all: if Israel wants to support a two state solution, why re they still being built?