Despite being in the middle of the Holy Land, I haven’t quite felt the Christmas spirit this year. Maybe it’s the warm weather or the fact the Christianity really ranks third around here, but it just hasn’t happened. My sweet wife however, was determined to make Christmas happen and decided that we should go to Bethlehem, the apex of this holiday, it being the city of the manger and all. I then got excited at what we might find there – pieces of actual straw upon which Jesus was birthed? Preserved fragments of Jesus’ first dirty diaper? The possibilities were endless.
So we planned to go to Bethlehem, but then Huda, our landlady (see earlier posting), told us she was planning on going to visit her cousin in Haifa when she got her permit. We offered to drive her because it would have taken her hours and hours by bus and checkpoints. Yet on the 24th, Huda still hadn’t received her permit, and was told to check back at the end of the day. So we changed our plans back to Bethlehem and planned to chauffeur Huda the following day. In the meantime however, we had one more thing to do...
Our friend Neta had been arrested by the Israeli authorities and was sitting in jail waiting for her hearing. Neta had just been on the ‘Free Gaza’ boat , which sailed from Cyprus to Gaza, to break the siege and bring in humanitarian aid. She spent 3 days in Gaza, and was arrested at the Erez checkpoint back into Israel for entering Gaza as an Israeli. (1) Prior to leaving Neta had told us she was likely to spend a few days in the slammer, so it was not unexpected. Yet it was her third day of being held, and we didn’t have much information on her situation, so we wanted to see whether we could at least visit her. We didn’t know her exact location, but we started driving in the direction of Gaza and through a few phone calls made an educated guess at which police station might have her. We found the courthouse, but by the time we got there we were surprised to hear she had been released. We tracked down her lawyer and found them at a nearby café, debriefing over cheesecake and cappuccino. She told us about her time in Gaza: no electricity, supplies running low and most importantly, how over 200 people have died this past month because they can’t get cancer treatment (no medicine, no power = no chemotherapy). She also told us how they were chaperoned very closely by Hamas, and at a certain point were told it was ‘time to go’. We then swung by the prison where she picked up her belongings, but couldn’t get her cellphone or money because ‘the lady with the key had finished her shift’. Sigh….this would mean she would have to drive back to Ashkelon the next day. We then drove back to Jerusalem where we dropped her off and continued on to Bethlehem.
Getting into Bethlehem was a bit tricky as the checkpoints prohibit Israeli cars from entering into the city. A helpful taxi driver (and helping himself charged us 100 shekels) showed us a way through Beit Jala and took us right to the center where all the excitement was. We walked around but soon realized that we weren’t going to get close to the church, see the mass or any of the services. We didn’t have tickets for the church, which are apparently free, but must be ordered two months in advance. I was hungry so I bought a falafel and we wandered around the sad display of Christmas lights in the square. Everyone was gathered around the stage where there was a woman on stage rocking out to some bad Spanish pop music. Where were the Christmas carols? the mulled wine and gingerbread? Where was the fantastic display of Christmas lights? I suddenly realized I had envisioned ‘Christmas in Bethlehem’ as ‘Christmas in Heidelberg’.
We stood against the fence as those with tickets formed a huge line waiting to get into the Church of the Nativity. The police meanwhile, had pushed everyone even further back, as though we were a hostile crowd of anarchists. “What is going on?”, we asked. “Abu Mazen is coming!”, he answered. (2) Having had enough, we turned to go but were met with, Max from Costa Rica and David, from New York, gay boys equally disappointed and confused by the night’s events. We chatted briefly and decided we would all go have a Christmas drink but suddenly a procession of singing Italians passed us and Max started running off behind them, waving at us to join. He seemed to think we were on to something special and could slip to the group unnoticed. We carried on up the street with the group, but as Max was being swept into the ‘Grotto of the Milk’ (3), the three of us were immediately stopped by the nun/bouncer who wasn’t fooled by anyone (well, except Max). We stood around for awhile, but got cold and tired waiting so pleaded with a very serious looking young priest that our friend was inside and we would like to join him. He asked us our friend’s name and what he looked like and then hurried off. A minute later Max appeared with the priest, unceremoniously escorted out the gate. He pouted a bit that we had ruined his perfect plan but then soon realized he would have been trapped in there for hours of Latin chanting and god-knows-what else. We went and had our Christmas drink with the boys, discussing our experiences and impressions of Israel and Palestine. It was late and we didn’t want to drive back to Ramallah in the dark but we didn’t think we would find an available hotel room. Max and David gave us the number for the Intercontinental ‘Jacir Palace’ and we got a room without any begging or our prepared jokes of ‘no room at the inn’! What luxury: heat and hot water (4).
The next morning we called Huda to see when we should pick her up for our trip to Haifa. A depressed sounding Huda picked up and told us she didn’t get her permit. We felt terrible. We knew how she had been baking for days and looking forward to seeing her cousin. We said we would drop by her house later for tea. Considering we now didn’t have to rush back to Ramallah we decided to stop in Jerusalem, in the old city, to continue our hunt for Christmas but there was none to be found. The Lutheran church was closed and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was business as usual. We walked around in the rain, had our very festive lunch of hummous with pine nuts, and made our way back to Ramallah with a kitschy little wooden Nativity set for Huda. Christmas was not to be found in the Holy Land for us this year, or for Huda. Elle is still trying though; she is in the kitchen right now heating up some red wine with oranges and cinnamon. Merry Christmas!
Footnotes
1. Israelis are not allowed into Palestinian controlled areas and Gaza of course is a huge no-no because of the conflict with Hamas and current siege.
2. Abu Mazen is Mahmoud Abbas, leader of Fatah, controlling the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank.
3. The ‘Grotto of the Milk’ is the spot where Mary stopped to breastfeed baby Jesus on their flight to Egypt. I’m not joking.
4. Our apartment is lacking in a few basic amenities. Heating is accomplished through a system of hot water bottles, electric heaters which look like very large open toasters and propane heaters which smell like they might be leaking. Our hot water is powered with solar (which usually works), or, on cloudy days, an ineffectual boiler.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Mind-blowing Petra
If you are one of those people who has made a list of things you wish to do before you die, add ‘visit Petra’ to that list. I had heard on a few occasions how amazing the rock-cut architecture of the city of Petra was, but I must have subconsciously had scaled down my expectations (just a small self-defense mechanism I carry around with me) because I felt completely overwhelmed by our day in Petra.
We travelled to Jordan via Eilat, a resort town in Israel on very tip of the Red Sea, where there is a border crossing into Aqaba, the equivalent Jordanian resort town. From Aqaba we took a taxi to Wadi Musa, the town servicing Petra, where our hotel was. Our hotel was at first glance quite charming as a complex of one-storey stone buildings with low-slung Bedouin style furniture, tapestries and an incredible view into the valley. Elle quickly made friends with Ahmad, the concierge at the front desk who, despite his insistent sales pitch for Bedouin camping in Wadi Rum, was our new best friend. He quickly organized our appointment at the Turkish bath, made us dinner reservations and set-up a driver for our trip to Petra the next day. (mini Kappy!) Ahmad was also the first, the original Ahmad of the week (1). So after our scrubbing and steaming at the Turkish bath (by Ahmad of the towel and muscles), dinner at the terrible buffet (this was the less charming side to the hotel) we were off to bed to rest up for a full day in Petra.
This rest was a worthwhile investment as we started very early in the morning, having planned only one day to see everything. In retrospect this was a mistake as there was so much to see and we really plowed-through the sites, so as not to miss anything, rather than wander around which would have been much more relaxing. We also misjudged the weather slightly as it was much colder than we thought and found ourselves at the ticket booth freezing in our short pants and light shirts as though it was the middle of July. We ran to the nearest tourist shop and bought two brightly coloured kaffiehs, which the shopkeeper promptly wrapped around our heads. We looked like idiots but we were warm! Then we started walking.
Just a quick bit of background: Petra is known as the capital city of the Nabateans, a group of nomads and traders who settled in Petra perhaps as early as the 6th century BC, flourishing closer to the 2nd century BC and declining during Roman rule. At its cultural peak, the Nabatean kingdom prospered largely due to their strategic location (on trading routes and good defensive position) and their sophisticated control of water developed through a complex system of dams, cisterns and waterways using natural features of the stone.
The entrance is set up beautifully; you start at what is called ‘The Siq’, the shaft, a long winding path through a massive rift in the sandstone rock, gradually narrowing and widening along the way. At the end of the Siq is a glimpse of The Treasury, the impressive introduction to the city, which unfolds beyond. Petra is a real city in that streets, facades and public spaces are organized and designed, but it is not composed of buildings in that the structures themselves have little to do with interior space. Enter them and they are all the same: precisely cut square caves with little light and little spatial complexity. The beauty in these tombs and temples lies in the grandeur of their exteriors but they are essentially false fronts. But beautiful, ornately-carved false fronts. The Treasury, a prime example, emerges in a seemingly confrontational way after your cozy walk between the sandstone. Emerging into this large view, you feel instantly diminished, but almost giddy.
Surprise, discovery, excitement and annoyance with tourists became our major emotions of the day. We climbed up and wandered down mountains, through slim passageways, around hairpin turns and then suddenly discovered yet another elaborately carved tomb, expansive view of the valley or village of caves. After climbing up to a place known as ‘The High Point of Sacrifice” (which included little carved blood gutters) a young Bedouin woman showed us an alternate route down and sold us on a visit up to ‘The Monastery”, the most fantastic carved façade in Petra. It was a bit of a grueling climb by the time we got there, but she was right about the monastery, it was definitely an ‘11’ as we would say, and we hit it right at sunset, the pink stone bathed in magic light.
Yet in our pursuit of this site, this photo, we had neglected to check the time. We hurried down the 800 steps (I think they forgot to add a zero) as the light was fading and we realized we were at the complete opposite end of the site—and it was rapidly getting dark. Where were all those guys who kept pestering us for a donkey ride? We finally found one, but he was tired and preferred to ride the donkey himself. “Good exercise for you I think!” as he trotted off, leaving us to fend for ourselves. We still had to negotiate the Siq, which we were a bit scared to do at this point. Three camels came into view. Our options were dwindling so we decided riding a camel was less scary than walking back through a narrow rock passage without being able to see. After agreeing to pay twice what a camel ride was worth (our bargaining powers having long disappeared), we mounted those camels and set off back through the Siq. Overcoming my initial fear of these large beasts, I began to relax my aching calf muscles and enjoy the ride. The soft padding of the camel feet on the sand, the stars in the sky, there were worse things then a nighttime camel ride out of Petra….
For a more eloquent piece on Petra, see Josh's article at http://www.cbc.ca/arts/artdesign/petra.html
Footnotes
1) pronounced Ach-mad. Ahmad the concierge, Ahmad of the Turkish Bath, then in Egypt: Ahmad the masseuse, Ahmad who sold us the massage, Ahmad the waiter, and finally, Ahmad the doctor.
We travelled to Jordan via Eilat, a resort town in Israel on very tip of the Red Sea, where there is a border crossing into Aqaba, the equivalent Jordanian resort town. From Aqaba we took a taxi to Wadi Musa, the town servicing Petra, where our hotel was. Our hotel was at first glance quite charming as a complex of one-storey stone buildings with low-slung Bedouin style furniture, tapestries and an incredible view into the valley. Elle quickly made friends with Ahmad, the concierge at the front desk who, despite his insistent sales pitch for Bedouin camping in Wadi Rum, was our new best friend. He quickly organized our appointment at the Turkish bath, made us dinner reservations and set-up a driver for our trip to Petra the next day. (mini Kappy!) Ahmad was also the first, the original Ahmad of the week (1). So after our scrubbing and steaming at the Turkish bath (by Ahmad of the towel and muscles), dinner at the terrible buffet (this was the less charming side to the hotel) we were off to bed to rest up for a full day in Petra.
This rest was a worthwhile investment as we started very early in the morning, having planned only one day to see everything. In retrospect this was a mistake as there was so much to see and we really plowed-through the sites, so as not to miss anything, rather than wander around which would have been much more relaxing. We also misjudged the weather slightly as it was much colder than we thought and found ourselves at the ticket booth freezing in our short pants and light shirts as though it was the middle of July. We ran to the nearest tourist shop and bought two brightly coloured kaffiehs, which the shopkeeper promptly wrapped around our heads. We looked like idiots but we were warm! Then we started walking.
Just a quick bit of background: Petra is known as the capital city of the Nabateans, a group of nomads and traders who settled in Petra perhaps as early as the 6th century BC, flourishing closer to the 2nd century BC and declining during Roman rule. At its cultural peak, the Nabatean kingdom prospered largely due to their strategic location (on trading routes and good defensive position) and their sophisticated control of water developed through a complex system of dams, cisterns and waterways using natural features of the stone.
The entrance is set up beautifully; you start at what is called ‘The Siq’, the shaft, a long winding path through a massive rift in the sandstone rock, gradually narrowing and widening along the way. At the end of the Siq is a glimpse of The Treasury, the impressive introduction to the city, which unfolds beyond. Petra is a real city in that streets, facades and public spaces are organized and designed, but it is not composed of buildings in that the structures themselves have little to do with interior space. Enter them and they are all the same: precisely cut square caves with little light and little spatial complexity. The beauty in these tombs and temples lies in the grandeur of their exteriors but they are essentially false fronts. But beautiful, ornately-carved false fronts. The Treasury, a prime example, emerges in a seemingly confrontational way after your cozy walk between the sandstone. Emerging into this large view, you feel instantly diminished, but almost giddy.
Surprise, discovery, excitement and annoyance with tourists became our major emotions of the day. We climbed up and wandered down mountains, through slim passageways, around hairpin turns and then suddenly discovered yet another elaborately carved tomb, expansive view of the valley or village of caves. After climbing up to a place known as ‘The High Point of Sacrifice” (which included little carved blood gutters) a young Bedouin woman showed us an alternate route down and sold us on a visit up to ‘The Monastery”, the most fantastic carved façade in Petra. It was a bit of a grueling climb by the time we got there, but she was right about the monastery, it was definitely an ‘11’ as we would say, and we hit it right at sunset, the pink stone bathed in magic light.
Yet in our pursuit of this site, this photo, we had neglected to check the time. We hurried down the 800 steps (I think they forgot to add a zero) as the light was fading and we realized we were at the complete opposite end of the site—and it was rapidly getting dark. Where were all those guys who kept pestering us for a donkey ride? We finally found one, but he was tired and preferred to ride the donkey himself. “Good exercise for you I think!” as he trotted off, leaving us to fend for ourselves. We still had to negotiate the Siq, which we were a bit scared to do at this point. Three camels came into view. Our options were dwindling so we decided riding a camel was less scary than walking back through a narrow rock passage without being able to see. After agreeing to pay twice what a camel ride was worth (our bargaining powers having long disappeared), we mounted those camels and set off back through the Siq. Overcoming my initial fear of these large beasts, I began to relax my aching calf muscles and enjoy the ride. The soft padding of the camel feet on the sand, the stars in the sky, there were worse things then a nighttime camel ride out of Petra….
For a more eloquent piece on Petra, see Josh's article at http://www.cbc.ca/arts/artdesign/petra.html
Footnotes
1) pronounced Ach-mad. Ahmad the concierge, Ahmad of the Turkish Bath, then in Egypt: Ahmad the masseuse, Ahmad who sold us the massage, Ahmad the waiter, and finally, Ahmad the doctor.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Feasting in Ramallah
We are leaving for Jordan and Egypt tomorrow, a necessary trip to renew our Israeli visas that expire at the end of December. First Jordan, to see amazing Petra, then Dahab in Sinai for scubadiving. We are driving down through Eilat, where Israel, Egypt and Jordan all converge on the top of the Red Sea. Our friends Reem and Ziad were planning a similar trip to Sharm El-Sheikh in Sinai at this time as well but alas, no permit was granted to Ziad. Refused not by the Israelis, but the Egyptians this time. With the situation in Gaza, haram(1), the Egyptians have decided that for the moment, no Palestinian male under 40 gets a visa (2).
Right now it is Eid Ul Adha (festival of sacrifice – goat being the favourite), the second major Muslim festival of the year, which lasts about a week. The streets have been insane these past few days, with everyone buying their food for the holidays. The market is never quiet, but this time, the pushing, shouting and shoving was beyond what my ‘special place’ was capable of. I saw a beautiful pyramid of the icing-sugar-dusted date and semolina cookies, which I love, but not enough to fight my way over to them. Besides, we would have had to buy a kilo of them, which would have been way too many cookies. You can’t just buy a few oranges or bananas either, everything is minimum one kilo. We once asked for 2 pomegranates and got 2 kilos. It’s a love/hate relationship we have with the market, I dread going because I am more attached to my personal space than I ever thought, but once we get there we enjoy our little exchanges with the grumpy greens guy, the performative baker and young avocado guy (aka ‘my boyfriend’).
We walked around the downtown after the market, watching everyone out in the streets buying candy and balloons for their kids. I understand now what some said to us about Ramallah not being the ‘real Palestine’. Hebron, Jenin and Nablus are areas in conflict over settlements in the West Bank whereas Ramallah is peaceful and does not have a visible Israeli presence, at least right now. The elections are approaching and it is only when you start understanding some of the details of the political situation, that you realize how fragile this ‘peace’ is here, and how quickly things can turn. How the infighting between Hamas and Fatah are destroying any chance of a unified Palestine, how Fatah is being accused of collaborating with Israel and allowing the siege of Gaza to continue in order to weaken Hamas. How Hamas is legitimately in power in Ramallah (but most members are imprisoned) and Fatah has overextended their ‘emergency’ rule. How all the banks just closed in Gaza because the money is gone. These things seem far away from Ramallah, from the yoga studios and cafes, where new traffic lights and garbage cans are being installed daily. Gaza is now a prison of over a million people, shut tighter than a nun’s… well, you know. Nobody is getting in or out, not journalists, not food or medical supply. Gaza is probably a 2-hour drive from Ramallah, and for the moment, it makes all the difference.
Footnotes
1) We have picked up this Arabic expression from Huda: ‘haram’ meaning ‘to have pity’ and is often tagged onto the end of something sad
2) Anticipating the rush of young Palestinian males over the border from Gaza if they were to open it.
Right now it is Eid Ul Adha (festival of sacrifice – goat being the favourite), the second major Muslim festival of the year, which lasts about a week. The streets have been insane these past few days, with everyone buying their food for the holidays. The market is never quiet, but this time, the pushing, shouting and shoving was beyond what my ‘special place’ was capable of. I saw a beautiful pyramid of the icing-sugar-dusted date and semolina cookies, which I love, but not enough to fight my way over to them. Besides, we would have had to buy a kilo of them, which would have been way too many cookies. You can’t just buy a few oranges or bananas either, everything is minimum one kilo. We once asked for 2 pomegranates and got 2 kilos. It’s a love/hate relationship we have with the market, I dread going because I am more attached to my personal space than I ever thought, but once we get there we enjoy our little exchanges with the grumpy greens guy, the performative baker and young avocado guy (aka ‘my boyfriend’).
We walked around the downtown after the market, watching everyone out in the streets buying candy and balloons for their kids. I understand now what some said to us about Ramallah not being the ‘real Palestine’. Hebron, Jenin and Nablus are areas in conflict over settlements in the West Bank whereas Ramallah is peaceful and does not have a visible Israeli presence, at least right now. The elections are approaching and it is only when you start understanding some of the details of the political situation, that you realize how fragile this ‘peace’ is here, and how quickly things can turn. How the infighting between Hamas and Fatah are destroying any chance of a unified Palestine, how Fatah is being accused of collaborating with Israel and allowing the siege of Gaza to continue in order to weaken Hamas. How Hamas is legitimately in power in Ramallah (but most members are imprisoned) and Fatah has overextended their ‘emergency’ rule. How all the banks just closed in Gaza because the money is gone. These things seem far away from Ramallah, from the yoga studios and cafes, where new traffic lights and garbage cans are being installed daily. Gaza is now a prison of over a million people, shut tighter than a nun’s… well, you know. Nobody is getting in or out, not journalists, not food or medical supply. Gaza is probably a 2-hour drive from Ramallah, and for the moment, it makes all the difference.
Footnotes
1) We have picked up this Arabic expression from Huda: ‘haram’ meaning ‘to have pity’ and is often tagged onto the end of something sad
2) Anticipating the rush of young Palestinian males over the border from Gaza if they were to open it.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Two Days of Travel, 2 Days of Occupation
Day 1.
We decided to accompany Huda and her two sisters to Lod, a town near Tel Aviv, where there was a large Greek Orthodox celebration of the Feast of St. George (1). We thought we would go along to film Huda as we are thinking of her as a potential character in a small film we would like to make. As it turns out, she has great camera presence, as she really seems to not even notice it is there, or doesn’t care. So we met up with Huda, Julia and Ofa at 6:45am and walked over to the church in Old Ramallah where we waited for the tour bus to pick us up for the day. The bus as it turned out was half empty because not all who wanted to attend got their visitor’s permits. As Huda explained, Palestinians must apply for a permit to enter Israel. In fact, they also have to apply for a permit to simply leave the West Bank, regardless of whether they are going to Israel or trying to get to any other country. Young Palestinian men are often denied these permits, but as it turns out, so are elderly Palestinian women.
So off we went, everyone clutching their precious permits as we neared Qalandia (2). The bus driver got out to talk to the border guard, got back in and drove through the checkpoint. Everyone cheered. It seemed a little too easy and sure enough, he circled around and back in we went. Apparently they weren’t interested in checking the permits on the bus and everyone was made to walk through the checkpoint on foot, through a metal shed housing a system of automated turnstiles and holding pens which shuttle you periodically by virtue of a green light and loud buzzer into another area of turnstiles and holding pens. I had been through this once before on a previous visit but this time, waiting in line for over an hour with all of these of the little old ladies felt extra humiliating. Despite the sign saying ‘Welcome to the Atarot Crossing’, it didn’t feel all that welcoming. Part of the dehumanizing experience was that all of the guards were behind glass, shouting periodically through loudspeakers at us. When we got through, Elle decided to film the checkpoint, which the guard in the watchtower was not too happy about. He started through the loudspeaker ‘NO CAMERA - NO CAMERA’ (imagine thick Israeli accent) but seemed too lazy to get down from the tower and Elle pretended she didn’t hear him.
So back on the bus we went, off to Lod, with the priest entertaining everyone with his singing and theological jokes (3). Once we got there, everyone made a beeline for the church, which was way too small for the crowd pushing to get in to see the bones, light their candles and do whatever else it is they do at the Feast of St. George. I’ve never been a fan of the mosh-pit experience, and I think this was worse. Yet the three sisters weren’t bothered at all, making their way into the thick of it. “Come on, Huda shouted, you haven’t seen the tomb!” We politely declined; happy to stay in the small corner we found where we could breathe.
Our next stop was Jaffa, where we had lunch at an amazing fish restaurant by the sea. We were then let loose around the beach just to wander around for a while. The afternoon felt more than a little melancholy in Jaffa, as the group didn’t really seem comfortable anymore — they were now foreigners there. Yet as we walked along the newly constructed boardwalk, Huda said something a bit surprising. She told us of how she used to visit Jaffa freely as a child before ’48 and then on occasion between ‘67 and ’86 (after Oslo, before Intifada). But then she said, “It’s true they took it all: they didn’t just take the meat and leave us the bones, but they took the bones too! But I’ll tell you one thing, if the Arabs were here, this place would be full of garbage, the Jews are much more organized”.
There were a few young people who looked like they had come just to get out of Ramallah for the day, and tagged along on the religious trip to get the permit. For some reason, we ended up at a park in a semi-industrial area of Tel Aviv, at dusk. The kids asked for 2 hours at this park for some unknown reason, and so when it turned dark, we sat at a picnic table at the end of parking lot, just waiting to get back on the bus. All the old ladies just wanted to go home at this point, but it was the kid’s day out, and they were going to take advantage of it. I was still thinking about the checkpoint, but everyone else was way past it. After some more shopping in Jaffa, we eventually drove back to Ramallah.
Day 2.
Today we went with our friend Neta to help her document the intricate system of roads in the West Bank. We knew this before, but there are basically two tiers of roads: those driven with yellow license plates (ISR) and those of the green (PAL). Yellow plates can pretty much travel anywhere, although Israelis are not allowed into Area A (4). Green plates are only allowed on a more third class road system, usually not in good shape, nor do they necessarily connect Palestinian areas. Finding an up-to-date map of the West Bank is difficult because the roads are constantly changing and are often blocked by either checkpoints or piles of dirt and rubble, sometimes accompanied by the Israeli army. Having our yellow plates, we could drive anywhere, and having our Canadian passports, we can go anywhere. We went to Jericho for lunch, speeding by all the green license plates in line waiting at the checkpoints. We felt like assholes cutting the line but that sense of entitlement is almost essential in these checkpoint situations (often, Elle doesn’t even look at the guards as we drive through, barely slowing the car). Jericho is known as the oldest continuously inhabited place on earth but felt like a ghost town. Once a thriving tourist destination, it is now nearly shut down, with most of the incoming roads blocked (5). The restaurant we sat in was huge and completely empty, the manager completely attentive and eager to make himself useful. After eating we left Jericho, driving past the manager waving to his only customers of the day, past the closed gift stores of Hebron blown glass, past Bananaland (7), and past the checkpoint. We had a whole story prepared on how to get out, because Neta was actually not supposed to be in Area A, but it was unnecessary. White faces and yellow plates were all we needed.
Footnotes
1) Dragon-slaying St. George who is the patron saint of England, and apparently, of syphilis (so says The Guardian). Lod is a town near Tel Aviv, known largely as the home of Ben Gurion airport. Lod (formerly Lid) is known as a bit of a pit, a poor area with a large mixed community of Palestinians and Israelis. When I say ‘Palestinians’ in this instance, they are often referred to as ‘Arab-Israelis’ as they have citizenship in Israel but are coming to identify more as Palestinians.
2) Qalandia is the checkpoint in and out of Ramallah.
3) Something about a priest who didn’t know Jesus was killed 2000 years ago. The humour got a little lost in the translation I think….
4) Areas within the West Bank are designated either A, B or C. Area A is Palestinian controlled and administered (no Israelis allowed). Area B is Israeli controlled and Palestinian administered. Area C is Israeli controlled and administered.
5) Jericho was punished with restricted access due to an incident in March 2006. Israeli Defense Forces held the Jericho prison under siege and captured six inmates, rumored to be released, who were accused of assassinating the Israeli Minister of Tourism. 2 were killed and 35 injured in this incident.
6) No idea….
We decided to accompany Huda and her two sisters to Lod, a town near Tel Aviv, where there was a large Greek Orthodox celebration of the Feast of St. George (1). We thought we would go along to film Huda as we are thinking of her as a potential character in a small film we would like to make. As it turns out, she has great camera presence, as she really seems to not even notice it is there, or doesn’t care. So we met up with Huda, Julia and Ofa at 6:45am and walked over to the church in Old Ramallah where we waited for the tour bus to pick us up for the day. The bus as it turned out was half empty because not all who wanted to attend got their visitor’s permits. As Huda explained, Palestinians must apply for a permit to enter Israel. In fact, they also have to apply for a permit to simply leave the West Bank, regardless of whether they are going to Israel or trying to get to any other country. Young Palestinian men are often denied these permits, but as it turns out, so are elderly Palestinian women.
So off we went, everyone clutching their precious permits as we neared Qalandia (2). The bus driver got out to talk to the border guard, got back in and drove through the checkpoint. Everyone cheered. It seemed a little too easy and sure enough, he circled around and back in we went. Apparently they weren’t interested in checking the permits on the bus and everyone was made to walk through the checkpoint on foot, through a metal shed housing a system of automated turnstiles and holding pens which shuttle you periodically by virtue of a green light and loud buzzer into another area of turnstiles and holding pens. I had been through this once before on a previous visit but this time, waiting in line for over an hour with all of these of the little old ladies felt extra humiliating. Despite the sign saying ‘Welcome to the Atarot Crossing’, it didn’t feel all that welcoming. Part of the dehumanizing experience was that all of the guards were behind glass, shouting periodically through loudspeakers at us. When we got through, Elle decided to film the checkpoint, which the guard in the watchtower was not too happy about. He started through the loudspeaker ‘NO CAMERA - NO CAMERA’ (imagine thick Israeli accent) but seemed too lazy to get down from the tower and Elle pretended she didn’t hear him.
So back on the bus we went, off to Lod, with the priest entertaining everyone with his singing and theological jokes (3). Once we got there, everyone made a beeline for the church, which was way too small for the crowd pushing to get in to see the bones, light their candles and do whatever else it is they do at the Feast of St. George. I’ve never been a fan of the mosh-pit experience, and I think this was worse. Yet the three sisters weren’t bothered at all, making their way into the thick of it. “Come on, Huda shouted, you haven’t seen the tomb!” We politely declined; happy to stay in the small corner we found where we could breathe.
Our next stop was Jaffa, where we had lunch at an amazing fish restaurant by the sea. We were then let loose around the beach just to wander around for a while. The afternoon felt more than a little melancholy in Jaffa, as the group didn’t really seem comfortable anymore — they were now foreigners there. Yet as we walked along the newly constructed boardwalk, Huda said something a bit surprising. She told us of how she used to visit Jaffa freely as a child before ’48 and then on occasion between ‘67 and ’86 (after Oslo, before Intifada). But then she said, “It’s true they took it all: they didn’t just take the meat and leave us the bones, but they took the bones too! But I’ll tell you one thing, if the Arabs were here, this place would be full of garbage, the Jews are much more organized”.
There were a few young people who looked like they had come just to get out of Ramallah for the day, and tagged along on the religious trip to get the permit. For some reason, we ended up at a park in a semi-industrial area of Tel Aviv, at dusk. The kids asked for 2 hours at this park for some unknown reason, and so when it turned dark, we sat at a picnic table at the end of parking lot, just waiting to get back on the bus. All the old ladies just wanted to go home at this point, but it was the kid’s day out, and they were going to take advantage of it. I was still thinking about the checkpoint, but everyone else was way past it. After some more shopping in Jaffa, we eventually drove back to Ramallah.
Day 2.
Today we went with our friend Neta to help her document the intricate system of roads in the West Bank. We knew this before, but there are basically two tiers of roads: those driven with yellow license plates (ISR) and those of the green (PAL). Yellow plates can pretty much travel anywhere, although Israelis are not allowed into Area A (4). Green plates are only allowed on a more third class road system, usually not in good shape, nor do they necessarily connect Palestinian areas. Finding an up-to-date map of the West Bank is difficult because the roads are constantly changing and are often blocked by either checkpoints or piles of dirt and rubble, sometimes accompanied by the Israeli army. Having our yellow plates, we could drive anywhere, and having our Canadian passports, we can go anywhere. We went to Jericho for lunch, speeding by all the green license plates in line waiting at the checkpoints. We felt like assholes cutting the line but that sense of entitlement is almost essential in these checkpoint situations (often, Elle doesn’t even look at the guards as we drive through, barely slowing the car). Jericho is known as the oldest continuously inhabited place on earth but felt like a ghost town. Once a thriving tourist destination, it is now nearly shut down, with most of the incoming roads blocked (5). The restaurant we sat in was huge and completely empty, the manager completely attentive and eager to make himself useful. After eating we left Jericho, driving past the manager waving to his only customers of the day, past the closed gift stores of Hebron blown glass, past Bananaland (7), and past the checkpoint. We had a whole story prepared on how to get out, because Neta was actually not supposed to be in Area A, but it was unnecessary. White faces and yellow plates were all we needed.
Footnotes
1) Dragon-slaying St. George who is the patron saint of England, and apparently, of syphilis (so says The Guardian). Lod is a town near Tel Aviv, known largely as the home of Ben Gurion airport. Lod (formerly Lid) is known as a bit of a pit, a poor area with a large mixed community of Palestinians and Israelis. When I say ‘Palestinians’ in this instance, they are often referred to as ‘Arab-Israelis’ as they have citizenship in Israel but are coming to identify more as Palestinians.
2) Qalandia is the checkpoint in and out of Ramallah.
3) Something about a priest who didn’t know Jesus was killed 2000 years ago. The humour got a little lost in the translation I think….
4) Areas within the West Bank are designated either A, B or C. Area A is Palestinian controlled and administered (no Israelis allowed). Area B is Israeli controlled and Palestinian administered. Area C is Israeli controlled and administered.
5) Jericho was punished with restricted access due to an incident in March 2006. Israeli Defense Forces held the Jericho prison under siege and captured six inmates, rumored to be released, who were accused of assassinating the Israeli Minister of Tourism. 2 were killed and 35 injured in this incident.
6) No idea….
Saturday, November 15, 2008
First Days in Ramallah: hangin' with Huda
So we’ve been in Ramallah for about a week now, in our new home. We found an apartment through an acquaintance, a friend of Yael’s, named Reem, who is Palestinian but lived in Hamilton for many years. Reem called up Huda, an elderly friend of her mother’s who rents out apartments. The place was a bit of a mess but Huda promised to paint it and have it cleaned, which she did. Being the fussy-pants’ that we are however, we needed to do a bit more work on it, like trying to air out the mattress of stale cigarette smoke and covering the kitchen cupboards in peel and stick plastic. I’ve never used that stuff in my life, but for some reason we decided it needed to go everywhere. I have become an expert in laying it perfectly – must be all those years of model-making.
I think Huda was so excited to see tenants who actually removed garbage that she decided to spring for a new fridge for us. Well, we did encourage her a little, pointing out the puddle trailing out from the rusting refrigerator door and telling her all the food we just bought was about to go bad. So the next day, off we went to the appliance store and shopping, showing us where the bakery was, where to buy the best fish, vegetables and kitchen supplies. We followed her through the streets, trailing behind her as she zigzagged through Al Manara (1), more comfortable walking in the middle of the road than on the sidewalk.
We decided she was our new Palestinian grandmother, as she was constantly inviting us in for coffee, tea, lunch and dinner, bringing us apples from the market and fresh towels. For the first 3 days, she pretty much insisted we eat every meal at her place and we did. She seemed to be feeding everyone: the painter, the cleaning lady, the man and his 3 little boys who came to put hooks up and take away the garbage. But as she explained to us, while we uselessly protested yet another helping of fish and rice, it was their culture.
While not a great listener (although this comes in handy for avoiding certain subjects), Huda told us a lot about her life as one of Ramallah’s original residents, how she was one of 12 children, 6 boys and 6 girls, how her parents were married for 75 years and died on the same day. Her husband was a high school principal who died of emphysema and all of her children and grandchildren now live abroad, in the US and UK. When she visits them, even with her American passport, she can’t travel through Israel, she must go through Amman. She owns 4 houses in Ramallah: living in one, selling another, renting one and leaving one vacant. She explained that she only rents to foreigners, not to Arabs. I thought this was a type of grandmotherly racism that I am familiar with, but directed at Muslims, as she is Christian. Then she explained that there are old Jordanian tenancy laws (left over from Ottoman days) still in effect in Palestine, which rule that rent cannot be increased. Ever. These families pay approximately 15-25 Jordanian dollars, the equivalent of 25-45 dollars per month because their rent has never changed. The socialist principles behind this are not bad, it is a kind of rent-to–own rule, except that property values in Ramallah have increased, as has the cost of living, property taxes etc. and there is no way to adjust to the new economy. This is why she is leaving one of her houses vacant (2).
Other than hanging out with Huda, we’ve been easing ourselves into our new life in Ramallah, venturing out in the morning for walks, trying to get around in a city built on the side of a mountain, inevitably climbing steps and steep hills only to head straight back down again. Being from Winnipeg, where the only topography was the garbage hill where we went tobogganing, I feel constantly winded. We come home tired at 10am, ready for a nap.
Elle and I are happy in what we call our little ‘cave’ (3) and would be content to sit around playing with our computers all day, but we are here to make a film so we have been making an effort to get out and take in some culture. Yesterday we went to the opening of the Al-Kasaba (the movie theatre in Ramallah) Film Festival for the opening of ‘Salt of this Sea’, the new film by Palestinian-American Annemarie Jacir. We knew to expect a few speeches, having just been to Shashat (4), but we didn’t expect to have to sit through an hour of speeches, letters, musical numbers and finally a piped-in instrumental version of what I assume was the Palestinian National Anthem that we were all instructed to stand to. Having just been to yoga, we were a bit tired and hungry and just wanted to see the film. At least it was good.
Speaking of yoga, we found a yoga school one day while we were with Huda at the post office so we decided to try it. The class was of course in Arabic but we figured as long we followed along we should be okay. Little did we know that the room is kept really dark (5), so it is hard to see what he is doing. The class was called Hatha yoga but it is actually more martial arts style. Our ‘Sensei’ makes us do all the poses with a kind of militaristic flourish; high leg kicks and the like. I’m not sure it is a good or bad thing that we don’t understand a word he is saying, because he has a lot to say at the end during meditation, which I understood to be a quiet time but apparently not. We like it though, and come home exhausted and sore from climbing the hills, tai-kwon-do yoga ready for Huda to invite us in for tea and cookies. Not exactly home, but we like it so far.
Footnotes
1. Al Manara is the radial center of downtown Ramallah. I have posted a video on my Facebook page.
2. Also, tenants cannot be evicted from their home, unless the landlord is willing to give them key money, which is equivalent to the price of an apartment of the same size. The house that we live in has 5 apartments, 2 of which are rented to foreigners, 3 locked into tenancies with families who have been living there anywhere from 30-50 years as children and grandchildren have assumed the house. Despite an apparent housing shortage in Ramallah, many houses are being left vacant because it is too risky to take on a tenant you can’t ever get rid of.
3. It seems everyone else in Ramallah has beautiful views of the valley from their apartment but us.
4. Shashat is the Women’s Film Festival in Palestine going on right now.
5. We think this for modesty but it also could just be his style…
I think Huda was so excited to see tenants who actually removed garbage that she decided to spring for a new fridge for us. Well, we did encourage her a little, pointing out the puddle trailing out from the rusting refrigerator door and telling her all the food we just bought was about to go bad. So the next day, off we went to the appliance store and shopping, showing us where the bakery was, where to buy the best fish, vegetables and kitchen supplies. We followed her through the streets, trailing behind her as she zigzagged through Al Manara (1), more comfortable walking in the middle of the road than on the sidewalk.
We decided she was our new Palestinian grandmother, as she was constantly inviting us in for coffee, tea, lunch and dinner, bringing us apples from the market and fresh towels. For the first 3 days, she pretty much insisted we eat every meal at her place and we did. She seemed to be feeding everyone: the painter, the cleaning lady, the man and his 3 little boys who came to put hooks up and take away the garbage. But as she explained to us, while we uselessly protested yet another helping of fish and rice, it was their culture.
While not a great listener (although this comes in handy for avoiding certain subjects), Huda told us a lot about her life as one of Ramallah’s original residents, how she was one of 12 children, 6 boys and 6 girls, how her parents were married for 75 years and died on the same day. Her husband was a high school principal who died of emphysema and all of her children and grandchildren now live abroad, in the US and UK. When she visits them, even with her American passport, she can’t travel through Israel, she must go through Amman. She owns 4 houses in Ramallah: living in one, selling another, renting one and leaving one vacant. She explained that she only rents to foreigners, not to Arabs. I thought this was a type of grandmotherly racism that I am familiar with, but directed at Muslims, as she is Christian. Then she explained that there are old Jordanian tenancy laws (left over from Ottoman days) still in effect in Palestine, which rule that rent cannot be increased. Ever. These families pay approximately 15-25 Jordanian dollars, the equivalent of 25-45 dollars per month because their rent has never changed. The socialist principles behind this are not bad, it is a kind of rent-to–own rule, except that property values in Ramallah have increased, as has the cost of living, property taxes etc. and there is no way to adjust to the new economy. This is why she is leaving one of her houses vacant (2).
Other than hanging out with Huda, we’ve been easing ourselves into our new life in Ramallah, venturing out in the morning for walks, trying to get around in a city built on the side of a mountain, inevitably climbing steps and steep hills only to head straight back down again. Being from Winnipeg, where the only topography was the garbage hill where we went tobogganing, I feel constantly winded. We come home tired at 10am, ready for a nap.
Elle and I are happy in what we call our little ‘cave’ (3) and would be content to sit around playing with our computers all day, but we are here to make a film so we have been making an effort to get out and take in some culture. Yesterday we went to the opening of the Al-Kasaba (the movie theatre in Ramallah) Film Festival for the opening of ‘Salt of this Sea’, the new film by Palestinian-American Annemarie Jacir. We knew to expect a few speeches, having just been to Shashat (4), but we didn’t expect to have to sit through an hour of speeches, letters, musical numbers and finally a piped-in instrumental version of what I assume was the Palestinian National Anthem that we were all instructed to stand to. Having just been to yoga, we were a bit tired and hungry and just wanted to see the film. At least it was good.
Speaking of yoga, we found a yoga school one day while we were with Huda at the post office so we decided to try it. The class was of course in Arabic but we figured as long we followed along we should be okay. Little did we know that the room is kept really dark (5), so it is hard to see what he is doing. The class was called Hatha yoga but it is actually more martial arts style. Our ‘Sensei’ makes us do all the poses with a kind of militaristic flourish; high leg kicks and the like. I’m not sure it is a good or bad thing that we don’t understand a word he is saying, because he has a lot to say at the end during meditation, which I understood to be a quiet time but apparently not. We like it though, and come home exhausted and sore from climbing the hills, tai-kwon-do yoga ready for Huda to invite us in for tea and cookies. Not exactly home, but we like it so far.
Footnotes
1. Al Manara is the radial center of downtown Ramallah. I have posted a video on my Facebook page.
2. Also, tenants cannot be evicted from their home, unless the landlord is willing to give them key money, which is equivalent to the price of an apartment of the same size. The house that we live in has 5 apartments, 2 of which are rented to foreigners, 3 locked into tenancies with families who have been living there anywhere from 30-50 years as children and grandchildren have assumed the house. Despite an apparent housing shortage in Ramallah, many houses are being left vacant because it is too risky to take on a tenant you can’t ever get rid of.
3. It seems everyone else in Ramallah has beautiful views of the valley from their apartment but us.
4. Shashat is the Women’s Film Festival in Palestine going on right now.
5. We think this for modesty but it also could just be his style…
Friday, November 7, 2008
Jerusalem: getting unorthodox with the orthodox
We left Jerusalem 2 days ago, just as we were actually getting used to it, or perhaps I should say, I was getting used to it. Elle had lived here, so she knew her way around, and where everything was. I was happy to be toured around as drove through the city, Elle noting important sites such as where she went to high school, her various apartments and where her grandmother bought fruits and vegetables from Yom Tov the ganif (1). I had the inside track on Jerusalem and it made me feel less like the obvious tourist that I was. Yet despite all of this familiarity, Elle was useless when it came to dealing with our kosher kitchen in the apartment we had rented. Everything was marked with either blue tape for dairy, or red tape for meat. I felt perfectly entitled to holding up a tomato and asking what plate I should be using, but my Jewish wife? She was as hopeless as I was! I tried not to show my disappointment in her, but after the second time we had to bury the dishes, we started to be more careful. All I can say is that we really improved, and by the end of our stay, even our little Palestinian kitten knew out of which bowl he could drink milk or eat kibble.
Since we had done so much touring with Dad, we decided to dial down the tourist stuff. We did go to the Israel Museum but most of it was closed because they were renovating. I had heard so much about it from Elle so I was kind of bummed, but the Sculpture Garden was mostly open so we decided to go anyway. The garden was fantastic and worth the trip alone, and I was especially happy to see the James Turrell piece. They also have a great 1:50 model of the old city of Jerusalem, which is also pretty fun and then of course the Dead Sea Scrolls. The building that houses the scrolls is great, you’ve all see the photos, but I have to tell you, there is a lot of build-up to getting to those scrolls (the cave-like passageway, the dim lighting, the little bits of pottery) and then to find out they are not actually the scrolls, but replicas, I felt a bit ripped-off. It’s not as if I can read them anyway, but I thought the whole point is so see the actual, real scrolls, not a scan of it. To be fair, they had a few bits and pieces of the real scrolls here and there, but not in the large cylindrical display case on the pedestal. Oh well, for whatever reason, perhaps her interest in archeology, Elle found these photocopies fascinating and was in there for hours.(2)
We also decided to take advantage of still having a rental car and continue our work photographing villages for the What Isn’t There project (3). On our maps, we found two that were essentially within Jerusalem so we set out to find them. The first one, Al Malicha, was basically in Jerusalem and once we spotted the minaret, we knew we were there. The residents were none to pleased to have us taking photos in their hood and told us that were ‘weren’t allowed’ to take pictures which we pretty much ignored. The next village, Al Jura, was in a valley, mostly evidenced by the plantings (almond trees and sabras) with just one building left. The next day however, was much more exciting. We set out for Al Walaja, a village close to Al Jura, which we found fairly easily. It was alongside two hills facing each other and as we surveyed the landscape, a young orthodox man hurried by us. “Are you looking for the spring?” he said. We didn’t actually know there was a spring, but before we could answer, he said that if we didn’t mind, he would like to bathe first. He was very friendly, told us how to get there and then sped off to have his dip. We saw him make his way over to what looked like a pool across the valley and strip down. We decided to hang back on our side of the valley until he had finished his bath, but before he had come back we saw another guy make his way over to the pool. After the third bather, Elle decided that we weren’t going to wait to get to the other side any longer, naked Hasid or not. So we walked over to take our photos from the other side, snapping our photos while a seemingly endless stream of bathers carried on behind us. It was only after one invited us to join, that we decided that perhaps we had taken enough photos. I didn’t think orthodox men were exactly so free and easy with nudity, considering our experience in Mea’Sharim (4), where the man who instructed us to leave wouldn’t even look us in the eye. Yet these guys were either more focused on their ritual, or just not that shy.
We had hoped to shoot four villages that day but were a little behind now and hoped to make it next village which on the map didn’t seem far away but it was across a valley and through a national forest. We decided to take a ‘shortcut’ which turned out to be a very bad idea as we drove in circles, scraping the bottom of our rental car on gravel roads meant more for an ATV than our little Mazda. We finally found our way to the village, after a pit stop at the JFK memorial (5). As we arrived we realized our experience with the Hasidim for the day was not over. As we got out of the car, we saw a man standing in the forest, seeming be in conversation with the trees. Fools that we were, he was actually in conversation with God. Our light was fading fast, so we ran around trying to photograph quickly, not noticing there was another man standing in an open field, also in conversation with God, or the tree stump, we weren’t quite sure. They started bellowing, almost as if they were in competition with each other as to who could speak to God the loudest. Elle later asked Mike, our new friend who adopted little kitty (now called Ishmael) who is studying to be a rabbi, what this all meant. Mike said it could have been a ritual of atonement for sins which could have happened during Sukkot, that it might have something to do with rain (that seems to be a Monday, Wednesday prayer post-sukkot), or, they were just plain crazy.
Footnotes
1. meaning ‘thief’ in Yiddish ( I know most of you know that…..)
2. She also completely disagrees with my take on this.
3. What Isn’t There: Elle has been photographing the 418 Palestinian Villages within 1948 borders of Israel and I have now joined her on the project. We only have about 400 left to do.
4. Mea’Sharim: ultra-orthodox neighborhood in Jerusalem
5. JFK memorial: once a tourist hot-spot, now closed, no-more eternal flame.
Since we had done so much touring with Dad, we decided to dial down the tourist stuff. We did go to the Israel Museum but most of it was closed because they were renovating. I had heard so much about it from Elle so I was kind of bummed, but the Sculpture Garden was mostly open so we decided to go anyway. The garden was fantastic and worth the trip alone, and I was especially happy to see the James Turrell piece. They also have a great 1:50 model of the old city of Jerusalem, which is also pretty fun and then of course the Dead Sea Scrolls. The building that houses the scrolls is great, you’ve all see the photos, but I have to tell you, there is a lot of build-up to getting to those scrolls (the cave-like passageway, the dim lighting, the little bits of pottery) and then to find out they are not actually the scrolls, but replicas, I felt a bit ripped-off. It’s not as if I can read them anyway, but I thought the whole point is so see the actual, real scrolls, not a scan of it. To be fair, they had a few bits and pieces of the real scrolls here and there, but not in the large cylindrical display case on the pedestal. Oh well, for whatever reason, perhaps her interest in archeology, Elle found these photocopies fascinating and was in there for hours.(2)
We also decided to take advantage of still having a rental car and continue our work photographing villages for the What Isn’t There project (3). On our maps, we found two that were essentially within Jerusalem so we set out to find them. The first one, Al Malicha, was basically in Jerusalem and once we spotted the minaret, we knew we were there. The residents were none to pleased to have us taking photos in their hood and told us that were ‘weren’t allowed’ to take pictures which we pretty much ignored. The next village, Al Jura, was in a valley, mostly evidenced by the plantings (almond trees and sabras) with just one building left. The next day however, was much more exciting. We set out for Al Walaja, a village close to Al Jura, which we found fairly easily. It was alongside two hills facing each other and as we surveyed the landscape, a young orthodox man hurried by us. “Are you looking for the spring?” he said. We didn’t actually know there was a spring, but before we could answer, he said that if we didn’t mind, he would like to bathe first. He was very friendly, told us how to get there and then sped off to have his dip. We saw him make his way over to what looked like a pool across the valley and strip down. We decided to hang back on our side of the valley until he had finished his bath, but before he had come back we saw another guy make his way over to the pool. After the third bather, Elle decided that we weren’t going to wait to get to the other side any longer, naked Hasid or not. So we walked over to take our photos from the other side, snapping our photos while a seemingly endless stream of bathers carried on behind us. It was only after one invited us to join, that we decided that perhaps we had taken enough photos. I didn’t think orthodox men were exactly so free and easy with nudity, considering our experience in Mea’Sharim (4), where the man who instructed us to leave wouldn’t even look us in the eye. Yet these guys were either more focused on their ritual, or just not that shy.
We had hoped to shoot four villages that day but were a little behind now and hoped to make it next village which on the map didn’t seem far away but it was across a valley and through a national forest. We decided to take a ‘shortcut’ which turned out to be a very bad idea as we drove in circles, scraping the bottom of our rental car on gravel roads meant more for an ATV than our little Mazda. We finally found our way to the village, after a pit stop at the JFK memorial (5). As we arrived we realized our experience with the Hasidim for the day was not over. As we got out of the car, we saw a man standing in the forest, seeming be in conversation with the trees. Fools that we were, he was actually in conversation with God. Our light was fading fast, so we ran around trying to photograph quickly, not noticing there was another man standing in an open field, also in conversation with God, or the tree stump, we weren’t quite sure. They started bellowing, almost as if they were in competition with each other as to who could speak to God the loudest. Elle later asked Mike, our new friend who adopted little kitty (now called Ishmael) who is studying to be a rabbi, what this all meant. Mike said it could have been a ritual of atonement for sins which could have happened during Sukkot, that it might have something to do with rain (that seems to be a Monday, Wednesday prayer post-sukkot), or, they were just plain crazy.
Footnotes
1. meaning ‘thief’ in Yiddish ( I know most of you know that…..)
2. She also completely disagrees with my take on this.
3. What Isn’t There: Elle has been photographing the 418 Palestinian Villages within 1948 borders of Israel and I have now joined her on the project. We only have about 400 left to do.
4. Mea’Sharim: ultra-orthodox neighborhood in Jerusalem
5. JFK memorial: once a tourist hot-spot, now closed, no-more eternal flame.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Tour - Part 3
Back to the tour....
After Masada, we decided to avoid the tourists and spend the afternoon on a ‘nature walk’ in an area called Wadi Arugot. Elle had been there as a child and remembered hiking through a dry river bed which ended at a waterfall, where you could swim. It all sounded very idyllic, and it would have been, had not the rest of Israel decided it was a great activity for them as well that afternoon. If possible, there were more people on this nature walk than there were at Masada, and, considering we were walking along cliff edges and trying to negotiate through teeny tiny rocky passageways it wasn’t exactly communing with nature. Somehow, this walk felt more like a race, as everyone shoved past and pushed forward. I made the grave mistake of waiting to let someone pass. 10 minutes later I found an opportunity to get ‘back in line’ and that may be the last time I do that in Israel. I was pretty cranky by the time we got to the waterfall, it was really hot, and the swimming hole was full of kids. Elle convinced me nonetheless to jump in, and, being to wilted to argue, did. It was actually a really great idea, completely refreshing even though I felt ridiculous with all my clothes on (even my runners). The walk back was much more pleasant, cool and less crowded. A group of ibexes (1) crossed our path and we snapped a few hundred photos. Well worth it.
The next day we had planned an actual tour, with a real tour guide, to take us to Nazareth. Ghada (2) was a friend of a friend, a Palestinian Christian living in Haifa who toured groups through Israel, Turkey and soon Berlin. She was smart and lovely, and apparently still excited about the things she showed us that day. She suggested that we first go to Mount Tabor, near Nazareth, where there was a beautiful basilica at the site of Christ’s ‘transfiguration’. I mistakenly thought this was the place of the ‘ascension’, where Jesus was teleported to heaven, but the ‘transfiguration’ was more of a glowing and hovering event, where Jesus is kind of outed by God as his Son, with Moses and Elijah on either side. A ‘transfiguration’ is no ‘ascension’, but I tried not to let my disappointment show and just enjoyed the beautiful church and scenery. The cooler church however, was the little one halfway up the mountain within a Greek Orthodox monastery. Luckily Ghada sweet-talked her way past a very stern nun who only allowed us in for one minute. Apparently the frescoes inside had just been cleaned and they covered the entire interior of the church. We tried to stay and listen to a group of pilgrims singing, but our time was up and the nun basically kicked us out (after our 10 shekel ‘donation’).
Nazareth was Ghada’s hometown, and she told us people were always surprised that she led tours through the city. This was the city where Jesus grew up and somehow they thought there was really nothing to see here. It was sad, because even beyond all the Jesus stuff, Nazareth is really quite beautiful in many of the older areas. The market feels very much like the Old City in Jerusalem, but without the active retail. According to Ghada, since the building of Nazareth Illit, the newer Jewish side of town with shopping malls, the market really can’t sustain itself anymore. However, despite that, there were many little gems she showed us, such as old painted ceilings in people’s houses and the way you enter an Arab domicile (3). Before we broke for lunch, she took us to a gift store, which doubled as an archeological exhibit as the owner had basically found what seemed to be a ancient bathhouse while he was renovating his store. The owner was a tall pony-tailed Palestinian man in his 50s who seemed to have a pretty big chip on his shoulder that his found bathhouse had not received the recognition it deserved. After he had uncovered part of it and alerted the authorities (4), he had been told that it was a Turkish bath and he could carry on with his renovations. Well, not only was it not Turkish, it was not only Roman, but probably pre-Roman. He explained all of this to us as we sat underneath his gift store, in what would have been the heated crawlspace, full of massive arches that supported the floor. We made the mistake of telling him we had just seen the ruins of Herod’s bathhouse at Masada, at which point he nearly spit on the floor and basically said that was a bathhouse for babies compared to Masada. I felt kind of bad for him, as he was obviously obsessed with his bathhouse and frustrated that few people seemed to appreciate it. Thankfully Dad bought quite an expensive necklace at their gift store and it was time to go.
As I said, Nazareth is a big Jesus town and we hit a few of the major sites. I won’t get into all of it, but the final stop was the Church of the Annunciation, that being, the place where Mary was given the great news that she was to be the mother of God (I think at this must be at least equal to the 'Ascension'). Apparently they know that this is the place because they found some ancient graffiti on the site with Mary’s name on it. Well, who am I to argue, but could there not have been more than one ‘Mary’ in Nazareth? Any way, it turned out to be a very cool church. Of course, built upon Byzantine and Crusader churches as per usual, but this church was built in the 60s anticipating 70s Brutalism. Massive beautifully formed complex concrete. Fantastic. It was worth going to Nazareth just to see this church. Along the interior, it seemed every nation of the world had been encouraged to supply a mosaic on the virgin-mary-and-child theme. My favourite was the Japanese.
Afterwards we stood outside and Ghada sang for us in Latin, reading the inscription on the side of the chuch in the courtyard. It was all a bit much after a long day and Elle and I nearly burst into tears. Our tour was over.
Footnotes
1. Ibex. Gazelle like creature – see photo.
2. Ghada: pronounced Rada.
3. Long procedure involving coughing, announcing and pretending your husband is home or not home that has everything to do with men and women staying separate.
4. If you come across what might be something ancient while renovating or excavating, you must alert the Department of Antiquities. Instead, most people apparently phone for a large load of concrete.
After Masada, we decided to avoid the tourists and spend the afternoon on a ‘nature walk’ in an area called Wadi Arugot. Elle had been there as a child and remembered hiking through a dry river bed which ended at a waterfall, where you could swim. It all sounded very idyllic, and it would have been, had not the rest of Israel decided it was a great activity for them as well that afternoon. If possible, there were more people on this nature walk than there were at Masada, and, considering we were walking along cliff edges and trying to negotiate through teeny tiny rocky passageways it wasn’t exactly communing with nature. Somehow, this walk felt more like a race, as everyone shoved past and pushed forward. I made the grave mistake of waiting to let someone pass. 10 minutes later I found an opportunity to get ‘back in line’ and that may be the last time I do that in Israel. I was pretty cranky by the time we got to the waterfall, it was really hot, and the swimming hole was full of kids. Elle convinced me nonetheless to jump in, and, being to wilted to argue, did. It was actually a really great idea, completely refreshing even though I felt ridiculous with all my clothes on (even my runners). The walk back was much more pleasant, cool and less crowded. A group of ibexes (1) crossed our path and we snapped a few hundred photos. Well worth it.
The next day we had planned an actual tour, with a real tour guide, to take us to Nazareth. Ghada (2) was a friend of a friend, a Palestinian Christian living in Haifa who toured groups through Israel, Turkey and soon Berlin. She was smart and lovely, and apparently still excited about the things she showed us that day. She suggested that we first go to Mount Tabor, near Nazareth, where there was a beautiful basilica at the site of Christ’s ‘transfiguration’. I mistakenly thought this was the place of the ‘ascension’, where Jesus was teleported to heaven, but the ‘transfiguration’ was more of a glowing and hovering event, where Jesus is kind of outed by God as his Son, with Moses and Elijah on either side. A ‘transfiguration’ is no ‘ascension’, but I tried not to let my disappointment show and just enjoyed the beautiful church and scenery. The cooler church however, was the little one halfway up the mountain within a Greek Orthodox monastery. Luckily Ghada sweet-talked her way past a very stern nun who only allowed us in for one minute. Apparently the frescoes inside had just been cleaned and they covered the entire interior of the church. We tried to stay and listen to a group of pilgrims singing, but our time was up and the nun basically kicked us out (after our 10 shekel ‘donation’).
Nazareth was Ghada’s hometown, and she told us people were always surprised that she led tours through the city. This was the city where Jesus grew up and somehow they thought there was really nothing to see here. It was sad, because even beyond all the Jesus stuff, Nazareth is really quite beautiful in many of the older areas. The market feels very much like the Old City in Jerusalem, but without the active retail. According to Ghada, since the building of Nazareth Illit, the newer Jewish side of town with shopping malls, the market really can’t sustain itself anymore. However, despite that, there were many little gems she showed us, such as old painted ceilings in people’s houses and the way you enter an Arab domicile (3). Before we broke for lunch, she took us to a gift store, which doubled as an archeological exhibit as the owner had basically found what seemed to be a ancient bathhouse while he was renovating his store. The owner was a tall pony-tailed Palestinian man in his 50s who seemed to have a pretty big chip on his shoulder that his found bathhouse had not received the recognition it deserved. After he had uncovered part of it and alerted the authorities (4), he had been told that it was a Turkish bath and he could carry on with his renovations. Well, not only was it not Turkish, it was not only Roman, but probably pre-Roman. He explained all of this to us as we sat underneath his gift store, in what would have been the heated crawlspace, full of massive arches that supported the floor. We made the mistake of telling him we had just seen the ruins of Herod’s bathhouse at Masada, at which point he nearly spit on the floor and basically said that was a bathhouse for babies compared to Masada. I felt kind of bad for him, as he was obviously obsessed with his bathhouse and frustrated that few people seemed to appreciate it. Thankfully Dad bought quite an expensive necklace at their gift store and it was time to go.
As I said, Nazareth is a big Jesus town and we hit a few of the major sites. I won’t get into all of it, but the final stop was the Church of the Annunciation, that being, the place where Mary was given the great news that she was to be the mother of God (I think at this must be at least equal to the 'Ascension'). Apparently they know that this is the place because they found some ancient graffiti on the site with Mary’s name on it. Well, who am I to argue, but could there not have been more than one ‘Mary’ in Nazareth? Any way, it turned out to be a very cool church. Of course, built upon Byzantine and Crusader churches as per usual, but this church was built in the 60s anticipating 70s Brutalism. Massive beautifully formed complex concrete. Fantastic. It was worth going to Nazareth just to see this church. Along the interior, it seemed every nation of the world had been encouraged to supply a mosaic on the virgin-mary-and-child theme. My favourite was the Japanese.
Afterwards we stood outside and Ghada sang for us in Latin, reading the inscription on the side of the chuch in the courtyard. It was all a bit much after a long day and Elle and I nearly burst into tears. Our tour was over.
Footnotes
1. Ibex. Gazelle like creature – see photo.
2. Ghada: pronounced Rada.
3. Long procedure involving coughing, announcing and pretending your husband is home or not home that has everything to do with men and women staying separate.
4. If you come across what might be something ancient while renovating or excavating, you must alert the Department of Antiquities. Instead, most people apparently phone for a large load of concrete.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Kitty Update
Ramsey(most votes )/Woodstock/Tarzan/Palestine/one-eyed Jack/Guthrie/Nemesis/Herod/Barak/Gusto/Cannoli/Bureka/Ew/Magoo/Chutzpah/Shepherd's Pie/Calzone/Blintz...thanks for all your suggestions! Any way, we could never decide (although we started calling him Velcro because we would have to peel his little paws off of our clothing ) and now it is up to his new parents to formally name him. We took him to an adoption day put on by the local SPCA and luckily we found a lovely couple who fell in love with him instantly. It was a match made in heaven: Adira is from Winnipeg, Elle happens to know her brother (of course) and she has beautiful red hair which matched little what's-his-face perfectly. Mike is her sweet rabbinical school husband and they promised to give him a good home either here in Jerusalem or back to the US. He came a long way in the past few days; his eyes cleared up, he was de-flead, de-wormed and he even started normal kitty behaviour of batting around dustballs and twist-ties. We miss the little guy (official gender determination from the vet) but we know he is well looked after and we are now free to adopt new Ramallah kitties!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Name this kitty
Ok, so we're stuck with this little flea-infested, pus-filled orange tabby we scooped off the road in Ramallah yesterday. Probably a mistake, considering how we already have an overly lesbian attachment to Katie, our cat back home and we won't be bringing KittyX home with us. Any way, we had to pick him (we're pretty sure) up because he is a real contender for the cover of our 'Scrappy Cats 2009' calendar we are working on. He does need name though, and so far we have:a) Woodstock b) Osama c) Tarzan d) Ramsey
Please pick one of the following or feel free to suggest another. This cat must be named by the end of the week. Thanks and please vote either on the blog, on Facebook or to my gmail!
The Tour - Part 2
Back to the tour....
After taking my Dad to Ramallah, we realized we were almost halfway through his week and we had a lot to cover. We sat down and organized some sightseeing which basically involved non-stop touring for the next four days, whether he liked it or not. His one request was that he spend some time in the Old City in Jerusalem, so we allowed him a few hours between Yad Vachem[1] and Masada. We wandered around getting lost and getting ripped off in the market (“Tam, first he said shekels, then he said dollars, can you believe it!”) and trying to figure our how old everything was. As I was beginning to realize, with a place full of history spanning thousands of years, there are few sites which are genuinely singular in their description. For example, David’s Citadel is basically a combination of Hasmonean, Herodian, Byzantine, Mameluke, Islamic and Crusader architecture. Once I understood this, I felt much better about not understanding it. Elle would usually read to us a passage from our guidebook before we would enter yet another ancient massive arched structure but Dad and I would promptly forget and wander around just enjoying all the old stone. We also made it over to the Western Wall where it was really busy because it was the last day of Sukkot and it was the place to be for all religious Jews. Dad made it down to the wall and was happy he got a blessing from a Rabbi (for $10).
The highlight of this day however, was the The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Once again, this is no simple church of one denomination, and it shows. Somehow shared between Armenians, Greeks, Copts, Roman Catholics, Ethiopians and Syrians, it seems everyone has a piece of it and nobody wants to pay for it (and it needs a bit of TLC if I may say). Strange how the apparent site of where the crucifixion ‘all went down’ with hundreds of pilgrims pouring in and out, is lit with bare fluorescent bulbs! Any way, we skipped the big line-up for Christ’s tomb, but saw the apparent prison where he was held, and the rock where he body was laid. Well, it’s not the real rock, a substitute, but that didn’t stop those crazy Christians from throwing themselves on it. [2] One nun suddenly started pouring ‘Christ’s blood’, which looked more like Strawberry Fruitopia on it and nobody even seemed to mind if they got splashed! Dad and I were shocked, our quiet protestant sensibilities had never experienced such visceral Christianity. We shook our heads and went home.
So the next day, we headed to the desert. The first time I was in Israel, Elle took me to the Dead Sea and we drove to Masada, but were short on time so we never went up. [3] Masada is an archeological ruin excavated in the 1960s, built as a fortress/palace by King Herod around the 1st century BC.[4] We had an option: to walk up the Snake Path, which is an hour of vertical climbing, or take the cable car. Considering how cranky I get in the heat on horizontal surfaces, I thought the cable car might be best for all. Luckily we got there early because the throngs of tourists were right behind us. The money shots at Masada are on the northern side, where Herod built his ‘hanging palace’, Roman baths etc. I was interested in a cistern on the south side which was really just a huge hole in the ground, but it had an opening at one end to let in light and the picture in our guidebook looked interesting as a space. Next to the cistern was the swimming pool, which at this point really was a rectangular pit with a stone fence (I think it was a 4-lane). Considering that water had to be carried up about 1000 ft. by donkeys or slaves or whatever, the swimming pool next to the cistern is just plain mean. Then again, Herod apparently wasn’t the most sensitive of kings. In any case, the whole complex is pretty amazing; you just need to go to your special place when you find yourself pinned against a rock by a mass of passing tourists.
Footnotes
1. Yad Vachem is the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem.
2. Considering all the time I spent in Sunday School I feel entitled to a little blasphemy.
3. My sister-in-law was unimpressed with the drive-by Masada trip. To go there, but not go up was just lame.
4. The other story of Masada was the mass suicide in the 1st century A.D of a group of Jewish revolutionaries who had won Masada back from the Romans but were under siege. Having clearly no way out as the Romans built a massive ramp up the cliff and eventually broke through, they drew lots to kill each other rather than surrender.
Next up: Nazareth and Akko plus a bonus: name-the-kitty contest
After taking my Dad to Ramallah, we realized we were almost halfway through his week and we had a lot to cover. We sat down and organized some sightseeing which basically involved non-stop touring for the next four days, whether he liked it or not. His one request was that he spend some time in the Old City in Jerusalem, so we allowed him a few hours between Yad Vachem[1] and Masada. We wandered around getting lost and getting ripped off in the market (“Tam, first he said shekels, then he said dollars, can you believe it!”) and trying to figure our how old everything was. As I was beginning to realize, with a place full of history spanning thousands of years, there are few sites which are genuinely singular in their description. For example, David’s Citadel is basically a combination of Hasmonean, Herodian, Byzantine, Mameluke, Islamic and Crusader architecture. Once I understood this, I felt much better about not understanding it. Elle would usually read to us a passage from our guidebook before we would enter yet another ancient massive arched structure but Dad and I would promptly forget and wander around just enjoying all the old stone. We also made it over to the Western Wall where it was really busy because it was the last day of Sukkot and it was the place to be for all religious Jews. Dad made it down to the wall and was happy he got a blessing from a Rabbi (for $10).
The highlight of this day however, was the The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Once again, this is no simple church of one denomination, and it shows. Somehow shared between Armenians, Greeks, Copts, Roman Catholics, Ethiopians and Syrians, it seems everyone has a piece of it and nobody wants to pay for it (and it needs a bit of TLC if I may say). Strange how the apparent site of where the crucifixion ‘all went down’ with hundreds of pilgrims pouring in and out, is lit with bare fluorescent bulbs! Any way, we skipped the big line-up for Christ’s tomb, but saw the apparent prison where he was held, and the rock where he body was laid. Well, it’s not the real rock, a substitute, but that didn’t stop those crazy Christians from throwing themselves on it. [2] One nun suddenly started pouring ‘Christ’s blood’, which looked more like Strawberry Fruitopia on it and nobody even seemed to mind if they got splashed! Dad and I were shocked, our quiet protestant sensibilities had never experienced such visceral Christianity. We shook our heads and went home.
So the next day, we headed to the desert. The first time I was in Israel, Elle took me to the Dead Sea and we drove to Masada, but were short on time so we never went up. [3] Masada is an archeological ruin excavated in the 1960s, built as a fortress/palace by King Herod around the 1st century BC.[4] We had an option: to walk up the Snake Path, which is an hour of vertical climbing, or take the cable car. Considering how cranky I get in the heat on horizontal surfaces, I thought the cable car might be best for all. Luckily we got there early because the throngs of tourists were right behind us. The money shots at Masada are on the northern side, where Herod built his ‘hanging palace’, Roman baths etc. I was interested in a cistern on the south side which was really just a huge hole in the ground, but it had an opening at one end to let in light and the picture in our guidebook looked interesting as a space. Next to the cistern was the swimming pool, which at this point really was a rectangular pit with a stone fence (I think it was a 4-lane). Considering that water had to be carried up about 1000 ft. by donkeys or slaves or whatever, the swimming pool next to the cistern is just plain mean. Then again, Herod apparently wasn’t the most sensitive of kings. In any case, the whole complex is pretty amazing; you just need to go to your special place when you find yourself pinned against a rock by a mass of passing tourists.
Footnotes
1. Yad Vachem is the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem.
2. Considering all the time I spent in Sunday School I feel entitled to a little blasphemy.
3. My sister-in-law was unimpressed with the drive-by Masada trip. To go there, but not go up was just lame.
4. The other story of Masada was the mass suicide in the 1st century A.D of a group of Jewish revolutionaries who had won Masada back from the Romans but were under siege. Having clearly no way out as the Romans built a massive ramp up the cliff and eventually broke through, they drew lots to kill each other rather than surrender.
Next up: Nazareth and Akko plus a bonus: name-the-kitty contest
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Olive Harvest
I intended to keep writing about the tour we made with Dad through The Holy Land, but was sidetracked by yesterdays events:
A few days ago we met Ezra [1] in our neighbourhood because we literally live one street away. He had been working all day but invited us in for tea because he hadn’t see Elle in probably 2 years. He told us of the work he was doing around Hebron, which is in Palestine, south of Bethlehem. He explained that he had been trying to work with Palestinians and Bedouins on the water problem in the South which was becoming more and more serious for the poor who simply didn’t have enough for their livestock, olive trees or drinking. He was fairly unimpressed with our plan to live in Ramallah, as it wasn’t the “real Palestine” but agreed to take us along with him on Saturday as that was his usual day of causing trouble in the Occupied Territories.
We left this morning, and picked up Nissim, yet another filmmaker who has made a film about Ezra and set off for Hebron. We didn’t really know what we were going to do this day and soon realized the day would just unfold with Ezra the way it would. I thought we were going to look at some dry wells but it seemed we were going to help some Palestinian villagers harvest their olives. Not knowing anything about how to pick olives, I asked the stupid question as to how this was done and he said, “olive by olive”, which apparently was some kind of dirty joke in Hebrew because they all started laughing.
It was olive season and we had heard through Neta, that various peace activist groups had organized around helping Palestinians in areas where their groves were close to settlements. Despite the fact that Palestinians owned the land, settlers were harassing them when they went anywhere near them. We had read about an incident a week ago, where some settlers beat up a Palestinian journalist who was reporting at one of these harvests. The government had been getting some bad press for essentially letting these situations get out of control so the army was apparently now taking a greater interest in keeping the peace.
We ended in a tiny village (which I couldn’t find on the map) next to a small village called Beit Amra. The settlement next door was called Otni’el and we made our way into the olive groves in the valley between the village and settlement. The villagers had picked the trees closest to their village but were afraid to go to their other grove, which was in the shadow of the settlement. There ended up being approx. 15 of us ‘whiteys’, who, through our presence alone, was hopefully going to deter the settlers from behaving badly.
Well, nobody was beaten but it didn’t exactly stop them from descending on us before we could even reach for an olive. I quickly understood why the old men were hustling us along to pick those olives toute suite, as we were suddenly being yelled at by lot of young settler guys, most of whom were carrying very large guns. There was one soldier who seemed fairly nervous about the increasingly tense situation, and another guy, a.k.a ‘big asshole’, who seemed to be the self-appointed authority, who we learned was the ‘security officer’ from the settlement. The general argument being yelled by the big asshole was that this was a military zone and we needed authorization to be there. The argument being yelled back by the old Palestinian man was that this was his land and he didn’t need anyone’s permission to be on it. [2] So this went back and forth as the rest of us tried to get those damn olives off the trees, meanwhile more soldiers were showing up and more settlers were coming down from the settlement. The soldiers were trying to calm everyone down but were making it clear that we weren’t going to be able to cross the road to pick the last grove. Things were fairly tense with all the yelling and the large weapons but I weirdly wasn’t that scared and admittedly a little excited by all the action. The person I wanted to yell at was this annoying activist who was playing some kind of ‘Friendly Giant’ music on her lute when I think she could have been more useful filling up pails of olives like the rest of us. Apparently this was some kind of political statement because you weren’t supposed to play music on Shabbat.[3] To be honest I thought this kind of provocation was unnecessary.
At a certain point, once the police from Hebron came, Ezra decided it was time for us to call it quits. We walked back to the village and were invited to tea. A bunch of little kids came out and instructed us to take their pictures. They were very cute and excited to see us until one of the men beat them off with a stick. Apparently he was from the child rearing school of ‘not seen and not heard’. Sigh. Anyway, we had our tea, took our photos and then left. We stopped at another harvest site where there was a large group of Israelis and foreigners helping out but it was already over. At this point Ezra had bigger fish to fry at some mysterious ‘situation’ and didn’t want us around so he packed us off on the do-gooder bus and back we went to Jerusalem.
Footnotes
1. Ezra is the star of the award-winning documentary Zero Degrees of Separation by Elle Flanders. If you haven’t seen it yet, I highly recommend it.
2. Palestinians around Hebron refuse to apply for permits in these situations because in doing so, it would be some kind of acknowledgment that the land is somehow not theirs, when in fact it is. Even the settlers today did not take issue with the ownership of the land.
3. Saturday, the Sabbath.
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Tour – Part 1
My Dad had decided a long time ago he was going to come and visit us while we were in Ramallah so he added a week onto his trip of ‘The Old Country’ – that being Mennonite villages in the Ukraine – to see Israel and Palestine with us. So we planned a tour trying to basically cover off the entire country in terms of both geography and religion in a week. I think we pretty much covered everything, except the Dome of the Rock, but only because Elle was unsuccessful in convincing the security guard she was half Muslim (and half Christian). Her heart just wasn’t in it.
So we started in Tel Aviv. I first had some trouble convincing Dad to leave the apartment not because he had jet lag, but because he wanted to fix a few things up. “Look Tam, if I just had a caulking gun I could at least make sure the shower curtain doesn’t fall down anymore”. We walked all day, looking for sandals in the market, introducing falafel to him for lunch and ending up in Jaffa. Old Jaffa felt a bit sad, a beautiful Arab city with apparently the oldest port in the world, which now felt a bit like Harbourfront Centre in Toronto (minus the beautiful stone, architecture and ancient ruins), full of touristy Israeli shops selling ‘certified’ antiques and crazy macramé.
The next day we drove to Jerusalem, and were met by our new landlords, who we liked instantly not only because they were newly minted lesbians, but because they had fresh laundry and bought us cake. They invited us for lunch, and Dad gave them the history of the Mennonites while we tried to figure out our next destination. (“Mennonite?” they asked. “Anabaptists”, Dad clarified. Blank stare.) Jerusalem was crazy busy at the time, with the beginning of Sukkot(1), and the roads and streets were both packed. So we planned to go into Ramallah the next day to check out an apartment we heard about that was available for November 1st. Ramallah was on our itinerary for Dad so we drove in the next day, but only after we spent the morning in the market, helping Yael (2) with a project she had been planning but needed a bold Hebrew speaker. Elle volunteered and asked people on the street to finish the sentence, “The end of Israel is the beginning of _________”. Thinking this question may be slightly provocative, I felt we should bring Dad along for protection; he may be 66 but he is quite fit. As it turned out, nobody was really offended by this question, but many were more baffled at the notion of an end to Israel, which just didn’t seem plausible. One ultra-orthodox guy seemed quite okay with the concept though, because it meant the coming of the Messiah.
Waved through the checkpoint, we made a stop first at the Moqata, Arafat's tomb, and drove to Ramallah to pick up Reem, a friend of Yael’s, who had arranged the apartment viewing. As we waited for her in her living room, we watched an Arabic version of “The Biggest Loser” which apparently was produced out of Dubai. Funny how through the tears, music and supersize graphics broadcasting their weight loss, we were able to understand everything perfectly. In fact, we had to pull ourselves away from the TV once it was time to go. The apartment was in a great area, was a great price and only needs a bit of “freshening-up” (and is a bit dark…) but it has fig trees in the yard so I was sold and convinced Elle it “didn’t need much work at all”. We were then invited in for our first of many cups of tea for the day by Huda, the landlady, and when an elderly Palestinian woman invites you for tea, you don’t say no! As we found out, Huda is one of Ramallah’s 1500 original residents, the other approx. 175,000(3) being Palestinians from other villages. All of Huda’s kids are in the US.
Our next cup of tea was at Sonia’s, another friend of Yael’s who is a tough, wonderful woman we hope to get know better once we are living in Ramallah. She had been thrown in jail in her youth for her anti-Israel activities and told us how they showed them holocaust films in jail. It was interesting though, because unlike Ibrahim, another young activist we met, who had lots to say about the Occupation, Sonia used one simple word: It is ‘unfair’—‘unfair that my son cannot be a regular scout and camp outdoors, too dangerous, unfair that we cannot move around’. Ibrahim was a young guy who came hobbling into the restaurant on crutches. He claimed he had been injured 81 times as a peaceful resister in the village of Na’alin, and wouldn’t stop until the Occupation was over. He and Neta(4) got into a passionate argument (in Arabic) on the finer points of what effective resistance was, but quite honestly, despite the translation, it was beyond me. I was simultaneously drawn to his passion, admired his commitment yet felt somehow unsure of this guy who seemed to wear his injuries like badges. It felt confused. I suddenly understoof our “vacation" was about to end. I looked over at my Dad smoking perhaps too much narghila. We still had to finish our tour.
Footnotes
1. Sukkot – Jewish festival of ‘booths’ (aka The Feast of Tabernacles—not to be confused with Quebecois ‘tabernac!’). It involves building a ‘Sukkah’ in which you have your meals for the week. Sukkot and various other holidays all just finished on the 22nd.
2. b.h yael – friend of elle’s, and mine who happened to be in Jerusalem at this time.
3. Huda told us the population of Ramallah was approx. 180,000 but I can’t seem to find any real statistics.
4. Neta Golan – friend of ours who we have visited in Ramallah before. She is an Israeli activist who lives with her Palestinian husband and two children.
So we started in Tel Aviv. I first had some trouble convincing Dad to leave the apartment not because he had jet lag, but because he wanted to fix a few things up. “Look Tam, if I just had a caulking gun I could at least make sure the shower curtain doesn’t fall down anymore”. We walked all day, looking for sandals in the market, introducing falafel to him for lunch and ending up in Jaffa. Old Jaffa felt a bit sad, a beautiful Arab city with apparently the oldest port in the world, which now felt a bit like Harbourfront Centre in Toronto (minus the beautiful stone, architecture and ancient ruins), full of touristy Israeli shops selling ‘certified’ antiques and crazy macramé.
The next day we drove to Jerusalem, and were met by our new landlords, who we liked instantly not only because they were newly minted lesbians, but because they had fresh laundry and bought us cake. They invited us for lunch, and Dad gave them the history of the Mennonites while we tried to figure out our next destination. (“Mennonite?” they asked. “Anabaptists”, Dad clarified. Blank stare.) Jerusalem was crazy busy at the time, with the beginning of Sukkot(1), and the roads and streets were both packed. So we planned to go into Ramallah the next day to check out an apartment we heard about that was available for November 1st. Ramallah was on our itinerary for Dad so we drove in the next day, but only after we spent the morning in the market, helping Yael (2) with a project she had been planning but needed a bold Hebrew speaker. Elle volunteered and asked people on the street to finish the sentence, “The end of Israel is the beginning of _________”. Thinking this question may be slightly provocative, I felt we should bring Dad along for protection; he may be 66 but he is quite fit. As it turned out, nobody was really offended by this question, but many were more baffled at the notion of an end to Israel, which just didn’t seem plausible. One ultra-orthodox guy seemed quite okay with the concept though, because it meant the coming of the Messiah.
Waved through the checkpoint, we made a stop first at the Moqata, Arafat's tomb, and drove to Ramallah to pick up Reem, a friend of Yael’s, who had arranged the apartment viewing. As we waited for her in her living room, we watched an Arabic version of “The Biggest Loser” which apparently was produced out of Dubai. Funny how through the tears, music and supersize graphics broadcasting their weight loss, we were able to understand everything perfectly. In fact, we had to pull ourselves away from the TV once it was time to go. The apartment was in a great area, was a great price and only needs a bit of “freshening-up” (and is a bit dark…) but it has fig trees in the yard so I was sold and convinced Elle it “didn’t need much work at all”. We were then invited in for our first of many cups of tea for the day by Huda, the landlady, and when an elderly Palestinian woman invites you for tea, you don’t say no! As we found out, Huda is one of Ramallah’s 1500 original residents, the other approx. 175,000(3) being Palestinians from other villages. All of Huda’s kids are in the US.
Our next cup of tea was at Sonia’s, another friend of Yael’s who is a tough, wonderful woman we hope to get know better once we are living in Ramallah. She had been thrown in jail in her youth for her anti-Israel activities and told us how they showed them holocaust films in jail. It was interesting though, because unlike Ibrahim, another young activist we met, who had lots to say about the Occupation, Sonia used one simple word: It is ‘unfair’—‘unfair that my son cannot be a regular scout and camp outdoors, too dangerous, unfair that we cannot move around’. Ibrahim was a young guy who came hobbling into the restaurant on crutches. He claimed he had been injured 81 times as a peaceful resister in the village of Na’alin, and wouldn’t stop until the Occupation was over. He and Neta(4) got into a passionate argument (in Arabic) on the finer points of what effective resistance was, but quite honestly, despite the translation, it was beyond me. I was simultaneously drawn to his passion, admired his commitment yet felt somehow unsure of this guy who seemed to wear his injuries like badges. It felt confused. I suddenly understoof our “vacation" was about to end. I looked over at my Dad smoking perhaps too much narghila. We still had to finish our tour.
Footnotes
1. Sukkot – Jewish festival of ‘booths’ (aka The Feast of Tabernacles—not to be confused with Quebecois ‘tabernac!’). It involves building a ‘Sukkah’ in which you have your meals for the week. Sukkot and various other holidays all just finished on the 22nd.
2. b.h yael – friend of elle’s, and mine who happened to be in Jerusalem at this time.
3. Huda told us the population of Ramallah was approx. 180,000 but I can’t seem to find any real statistics.
4. Neta Golan – friend of ours who we have visited in Ramallah before. She is an Israeli activist who lives with her Palestinian husband and two children.
Tel Aviv: the bad luck, sticky streets and the yelling
We started off continuing a string of bad luck which really began before we left. “Have we done the right thing?” we asked ourselves as the seemingly hostile crew of movers mashed our stuff into the storage locker, intent on placing 50 lb. boxes of books on top of anything marked ‘fragile’. Maybe we were overly sensitive, but we had just said goodbye to the pets and were feeling a bit vulnerable. I didn’t really make too much of it but after the car broke down on the way to Montreal (having paid $3000 to service it before we left), being nearly struck by a falling tree branch in Ottawa on a ‘nature walk’ and getting charged another $250 by Continental for extra bags (we did have a lot, but it was the first day of Rosh Hashana so the plane was empty!) it started to seem like we were maybe being given some kind of sign—a sign like this was a stupid idea.
I had been really looking forward to Tel Aviv. We were there last March and had a great time with Elle’s friends, who were now my friends, hanging out at cafes and strolling along the tree-lined boulevards. Tel Aviv is called ‘the bubble’ as it is geographically removed from the ever-present political issues existing everywhere else in Israel, as well as largely secular, as compared to Jerusalem. It was to be our vacation before we got serious about our work. I imagined our flat which we had rented through a friend, in one of those beautiful light-filled Bauhaus buildings with a groovy curved balcony. Unfortunately, the only thing that matched my fantasy was the part about the building being built in the Bauhaus era. I think Dad summed it up best when he said that he had seen Soviet era apartments in the Ukraine that beat this dump. We could have lived with the student-like amenities and the musty smell, and even the woman next door who yelled at when we ate breakfast on the balcony (the only place we could see what we were eating), but when Eli the super came to fix the plumbing and left us with a kitchen flooded with a black puddle, no more hot water (an issue described as a ‘Pandora’s box’—‘impossible to fix’ he explained as he asked if we had a cigarette) and the cupboards ripped out. It seemed things had reached an all time low. You see, there were a few other things which had brought us to this point, the point where we almost turned around and headed home, even though we have no home to go to. I won’t get into all of it (losing a cellphone, being charged by UPS another $1200 in VAT taxes to bring in the video camera) but there was the incident the very first day we arrived, where we found ourselves held captive by a hotelier (perhaps a slightly loft title for a man who lived on a hobby farm and rented out a Bavarian style cabin…of sorts) who demanded an additional 400 shekels from us before he moved his car so we could actually leave (we actually ended up at the police station where we met a very nice policeman who told us we were the first married lesbian couple he had ever met and that we should have children - right away).
There was a lot of yelling during these weeks. I’m not great at yelling, but Elle is well-practiced and seemed to confront Israel the way it was confronting us. It was only after we ended up squealing out of a parking lot after Elle gave some bad driver the finger that we realized things needed to change.
So we calmed down and tried to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. We went to the beach, made fruit salads with guava, persimmons and pomegranates and sat around for hours in cafes with Dorit, drinking coffee and giving her unhelpful relationship advice. We even had a beautiful day on Yom Kippur walking down the streets without any cars. It’s actually an amazing feeling, to have a city literally shut down for a day. Of course we heard the next day that Akko had erupted in flames because a Palestinian man had driven to pick up his daughter and ended up being pelted with rocks for his religious insensitivity. Yet for us, in Tel Aviv, where we didn’t read the paper and played backgammon that day, something felt like it shifted. And for that reason, I have attached photos of some nice things we found in Tel Aviv - see sidebar.
Any way, things have turned around since then. My Dad came to visit and we moved to Jerusalem for the last part of October to tour and find our apartment in Ramallah. I had zero expectations of our Jerusalem rental so when we walked in to our clean, quiet, newly renovated apartment with freshly baked goods on the table, I decided that things were looking up.
I had been really looking forward to Tel Aviv. We were there last March and had a great time with Elle’s friends, who were now my friends, hanging out at cafes and strolling along the tree-lined boulevards. Tel Aviv is called ‘the bubble’ as it is geographically removed from the ever-present political issues existing everywhere else in Israel, as well as largely secular, as compared to Jerusalem. It was to be our vacation before we got serious about our work. I imagined our flat which we had rented through a friend, in one of those beautiful light-filled Bauhaus buildings with a groovy curved balcony. Unfortunately, the only thing that matched my fantasy was the part about the building being built in the Bauhaus era. I think Dad summed it up best when he said that he had seen Soviet era apartments in the Ukraine that beat this dump. We could have lived with the student-like amenities and the musty smell, and even the woman next door who yelled at when we ate breakfast on the balcony (the only place we could see what we were eating), but when Eli the super came to fix the plumbing and left us with a kitchen flooded with a black puddle, no more hot water (an issue described as a ‘Pandora’s box’—‘impossible to fix’ he explained as he asked if we had a cigarette) and the cupboards ripped out. It seemed things had reached an all time low. You see, there were a few other things which had brought us to this point, the point where we almost turned around and headed home, even though we have no home to go to. I won’t get into all of it (losing a cellphone, being charged by UPS another $1200 in VAT taxes to bring in the video camera) but there was the incident the very first day we arrived, where we found ourselves held captive by a hotelier (perhaps a slightly loft title for a man who lived on a hobby farm and rented out a Bavarian style cabin…of sorts) who demanded an additional 400 shekels from us before he moved his car so we could actually leave (we actually ended up at the police station where we met a very nice policeman who told us we were the first married lesbian couple he had ever met and that we should have children - right away).
There was a lot of yelling during these weeks. I’m not great at yelling, but Elle is well-practiced and seemed to confront Israel the way it was confronting us. It was only after we ended up squealing out of a parking lot after Elle gave some bad driver the finger that we realized things needed to change.
So we calmed down and tried to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. We went to the beach, made fruit salads with guava, persimmons and pomegranates and sat around for hours in cafes with Dorit, drinking coffee and giving her unhelpful relationship advice. We even had a beautiful day on Yom Kippur walking down the streets without any cars. It’s actually an amazing feeling, to have a city literally shut down for a day. Of course we heard the next day that Akko had erupted in flames because a Palestinian man had driven to pick up his daughter and ended up being pelted with rocks for his religious insensitivity. Yet for us, in Tel Aviv, where we didn’t read the paper and played backgammon that day, something felt like it shifted. And for that reason, I have attached photos of some nice things we found in Tel Aviv - see sidebar.
Any way, things have turned around since then. My Dad came to visit and we moved to Jerusalem for the last part of October to tour and find our apartment in Ramallah. I had zero expectations of our Jerusalem rental so when we walked in to our clean, quiet, newly renovated apartment with freshly baked goods on the table, I decided that things were looking up.
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