Ramallah - رام الله
This weekend, I had the opportunity to spend some time in Ramallah and East Jerusalem with a friend from my Masters program. In many ways, the reactions of those around me were as interesting as the experience itself. Some Israelis and American Jews expressed envy and wanted to hear about every detail; it's rare for a Jew to be invited into the home of a Palestinian, especially outside the auspices of a structured program.
Other peers of mine expressed shock - and a few Israelis warned me. They implied that I might be kidnapped, that by going to Ramallah I was putting Israeli soldiers at risk because they might have to rescue me. I am virtually positive, though, that this fear stems from ignorance and xenophobia, and not from a realistic perspective of the situation. I have several friends - non Palestinians - who live in Ramallah or who visit there on a regular basis to see bars, clubs or just to visit friends. And after being there, I would go again without trepidation.
That being said, East Jerusalem and Ramallah are clearly another world. The feeling is one of having traveled to a far off country, through a time warp where there has been no flight, no customs, no long car ride - and yet you literally go one kilometer east of my apartment and enter an entirely foreign land.
R and I took the Arab bus from right outside the student dorms where I live. We waved down one of the small vans with the green Arabic writing that I see so often around my neighborhood. The door was broken and the driver had to get up to open it for us. Seconds before boarding, my friend gently suggested that we speak only in English. There were no seats together, so I sat alone near the front of the bus feeing incredibly conspicuous with my red hair and schoolbag. My friend and I were the only women on the bus without our heads covered. Most of the passengers were women and the few men looked about my age or younger. We careened down the other side of Mount Scopus and wove through neighborhoods I had never seen or heard of. We passed an Israeli Egged bus and I gazed at the variety of people aboard that transport so familiar to me. Strange and diverse styles pepper those passengers too - side curls, kippot, long flowing skirts, and tight jeaned Israelis - and yet I never feel out of place or awkward on an Israeli bus. I wondered what the passengers aboard the Egged bus might have been thinking as they saw the Arab bus drive by.
As we drove through the narrow streets of East Jerusalem, R was able to come and sit beside me. She told me about the Arab citizens of this area who are truly without a country. They possess Jerusalem ID cards, but not Israeli citizenship. They are discouraged from moving to Ramallah and gaining Palestinian or Jordanian Identity because there presence in Jerusalem is important to the Palestinian claim to that territory. Furthermore, there are more work opportunities for them from within Israel - but they have a precarious and problematic status that is a major issue for Palestinians in the conflict.
After 10 minutes, we got off the bus in a city square beside The Wall.
From here, we boarded another bus to Ramallah. In order to get through the wall, the bus passed through a small hole in the wall on a neighborhood side street. Two panels of the wall have yet to be placed and the bus passed through into the west bank unnoticed. (at least as far as I could tell...)
We arrived at R's house - a beautiful white building with a day care downstairs and her aunt and cousins living next door. Her mother had prepared an elaborate meal and was anxious to see if I enjoyed it. Later, when R's father came home, he was eager for me to sit down with him and enjoy the meal yet again.
The house was decorated beautifully with deep, regal colors, long curtains on the windows and plump, patterned couches. Inside the house featured white marble and pillars alongside the entry into the living room. On R's street were the homes of many important members of the Palestinian Authority and at one point we watched as a motorcade of police cards, Mercedes and BMWs drove by. Across the street they are constructed an enormous Movenpick hotel.
After our afternoon supper, R wanted to show me a refugee camp. For 30 years, her mother has been teaching there; she is a well known and respected member of the community there. In spite of R's pleas, and assurance that we would be safe, her mother felt that I would not be safe in the camp. In the end, we only toured the outside which looked like a poor section of any urban center. It was interesting to watch (although I couldn't understand the Arabic) the discussion between R and her mother - two woman from different generations and different political standpoints, discussing the possibility of my visiting the camp.
I had the impression (later confirmed by R) that, while I was warmly welcomed into the house, it was still unusual and awkward for her mother to have a Jew inside her home. Her father, on the other hand, felt more at ease. He was happy to speak with me in his limited Hebrew, probably because his job has brought him to many more interactions with Israelis.
From there, we went to the grave of Yasser Arafat. A tall white pillar rises into the air, marked on top by a green light that brought to mind for me (although presumably not to the Palestinians who designed it) the green light of greed so prominent in The Great Gatsby. Later, I was frank with R about my feelings on Arafat - that while he had undoubtedly been a unifying figure, he had not been generous at all with his people - and had done to little to build infrastructure, education and the beginnings of the state they so long for. He spent far too much on himself, and his family in France.
The grave and memorial was guarded by four Palestinian soldiers. As we crossed the empty, well-lit courtyard to his glass-enclosed burial spot, I felt fear for the first time since my arrival. With my back to the soldiers, I felt vulnerable, knew that a single bullet, the crazy whims of one soldier unaccepting of westerners, could easily end my life. I thought of my Israeli friends, of so many soldiers I know, and wondered if they would be shot on site. I longed to know the thoughts inside the heads of the soldiers. Were the curious about who I was? Did they wonder if I were Jewish? Did they hate me? Or were they just young boys doing their job, like so many soldiers all over the world.
Here is a picture of the grave:
From there, R and I went into the city center. The architecture is totally different from Israel. The city is designed around a few large roundabouts with 5 or 6 streets stemming out from them. Christmas lights and trees were in every store, and strung along the streets. (at the daycare center that day, R's brother had dressed as Santa bearing presents for all of the children, in spite of the fact that they are nearly all Muslim.) The stores were stacked upon each other, a bit like in India. Inside, the prices were much cheaper than in Israel, and Jordanian, Israeli or American currencies are accepted freely. Many of the products sold are manufactured in Israel, while others come from Jordan.
Walking the streets I felt safe, although not inconspicuous. We picked up a few Christmas gifts for our classmates and I bought a scarf. At one point, a young man on the street dropped something; when I turned to see, I saw a gun lying in the street and he casually reached to pick it up. R and I ducked quickly into the nearest shop, but nothing else unusual occurred. Writing this, I can imagine some readers are going to be freak out - but it really was an unremarkable event - I suppose living is Israel for 3 months has numbed me a bit to the omnipresence of firearms.
That night, we headed back to East Jerusalem to avoid the morning craziness at the checkpoint. Surrounded by the enormous wall, and barbed wire, we waited in line at a series of turnstiles to pass back into Israel. We had to wait behind a line for a green light to signal our passage through each turnstile. I thought of the humility of it all as I watched with some sadness the patience of the men lined up to pass through. It's not unlike prisoners, and while I am glad for the security and by all means understand the necessity of it - I understand the frustration of Palestinians as well. Three or four young soldiers sat in the booth behind glass. They had Internet and they looked relaxed - feet up on the table, laughing and joking together. I was excited to see them, couldn't help a sense of camaraderie in my hearth even while my mind questioned the entire system of which they are so symbolic. I flashed my American passport and passed back into Israel where R's husband was waiting.
The checkpoint:
As we drove to their beautiful apartment, we snaked alongside the wall, only meters from where we had been a few hours earlier. We saw workers walking alongside the highway, back to Ramallah. The inside of her house was stunning, contrasting vividly with the vacant lots and trash strewn around the streets.
At her house, we drank traditional coffee and chatted for hours. I played with the baby and even watched al Jazeera in English where I learned a lot of new information about Guantanomo. The British accents of the reporters surprised me, as did the quality of the news reports. (It seemed far more accurate, for example, than Fox News) and certainly far less sensationalized.
I fell asleep in warmth and comfort on their couch until the 4am call to prayer woke me up - the loudspeaker was just outside the window. !0 minutes before class, we hopped in their car, climbed up the far side of Mount Scopus and were back at Hebrew University.
