Hebron

Hebron's old city is shadowy and ancient like that of Jerusalem and Nablus. The narrow streets are protected from the sun with tarps. The main street is filled with shops selling jewelry, embroidery and other souvenirs, but they seemed better made than the typical tourist trash.

However, unlike Jerusalem and Nablus, the neighborhoods of Hebron are seeded with watch towers and partitioned with cement walls and barbed wire fences. While most West Bank settlements sit on hilltops overlooking Palestinian cities and villages, Hebron hosts both Palestinians and settlers within the city. As such, the city is divided into two sectors, one hosting about 30,000 Palestinians and 500 Israelis and controlled by the Israeli military, and the other inhabited by about 130,000 Palestinians.

In contrast to the normally crowded streets of any Palestinian city, one section was practically deserted. Samir told me that it was because this was where trouble usually happened, espectially for youth—it was the right next to the fence dividing the Jewish area, and was where the IDF often entered. He said that people have just abandoned the area to avoid trouble. He said something in Arabic, which he translated to “We say, “If you go near the wall, god help you.” In this area, nets hung over the streets, protecting passerby from garbage thrown from above.

In one place, we approached the fence and saw that the other side held a pile of garbage. A nearby shopkeeper pointed out a building on the other side and told us that it used to be a palestinian school. He also pointed out the close proximity of the settlers and the palestinians. “I live in this building here, and the settlers are right there, so close yet so far away. We are almost like neighbors, but we never talk. We are right next to each other but have no contact.”

I'm still here

To anyone who actually reads regularly, I would like to apologize for neglecting my blog lately.  I guess I've been busy, as well as distracted by the fact that I'm preparing to leave, but I'll try to write a few more posts before I do.

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.