how do you get to work?

“Kahoua, kahoua, kahoua,” the coffee man walked outside the metal bars, his mantra competing only with shuffles and grunts. It was 3:56am and the Entrance line was already full of men on their way to work. A few minutes earlier the line had been moving, but with the flick of a switch the Israeli soldier had stopped the turn-style from spinning for a 10ish minute pause.

There was one florescent light by which I could make out boot, jeans, and, looking down the long lane, sweater sleeves peeping through the bars. I was sitting in the top of the Exit lane, empty, of course, and extending down to my right, with al-jidar (Apartheid Wall) to my back, and the Entrance lane before me. I kept my eyes on the ground.

Amir handed me a steaming cup of sweet coffee. The cold had begun to set in.

Red dots lit up the night, nicotine to make the minutes pass. By 4:09 the line started moving, but only for a few quick minutes, maybe 3, tops.  These were all Palestinian West Bank residents heading to Jerusalem and other areas on the other side of al-jidar for work, where wages are somewhere around 3 times higher (at least for legal workers. There are thousands more who cross the wall illegally and work without any guarantee of their rights).  This was the first of two ID/permit checks with an airport-like scan in between, in their daily journey through Checkpoint 300, which severs the historical Jerusalem-Bethlehem-Hebron (Al-Quds – Beit Lahem – Al-Khalil) road.

 

At 4:15 the cutting began. Amir took me half way down the Exit lane to where a puddle of men were squeezing one-by-one through a space in the bars into the middle of the Entrance lane.  Like a backwards leak. Men who had been waiting diligently for 10, 20, 30 minutes protested loudly, and when they saw I had a camera they yelled “soura, soura, soura” as though me taking a picture would somehow shame the cheaters into retreating.

By 4:30 the real chaos started. Men began climbing on top of the Entrance lane’s metal roof, almost to the top of the line, then slipping into where the lane opened up into a larger metal cage, and monkey along the bars, their feet at the level of the standing men’s heads, until they got as far up as possible, then dropping into the sea of waiters. Each time the gate opened to allow some 50 or 100 men through a fierce hustle would commence, as everyone pushed and squeezed, the cheaters rushing to be swept up by the current, the waiters yelling at the cheaters, and then the gate would close and the hustle would subside.

Amir led me down the Exit line, we squeezed past the backwards bleeding vein and got to the bottom of the lanes, where the men extended across the street in puddle of bodies. We walked up along the outside. “Jawal, Cellcom, Wataniya, Orange” Amir repeated. He is from south of Hebron, but he came up here to work, selling cellphone credit at the checkpoint all day. Amir is 18 and he lives alone, visiting his family for a day each weekend. He knows everyone who crosses the checkpoint regularly, which is how we got talking the first time, managing to tie together my broken Arabic and his broken English into a neat bow of pseudo-understanding.

At the top of the lane I realized there was a third, very short line. The “humanitarian” line, for women, tourists, and men over 60. It had a steady trickle of women and older men, though it was not open for most of the morning.  

A few of the braver line cutters would walk up the Exit lane, wait for the hustle to begin- so that the solider would be busy looking at permit papers- then slip behind the soldier’s box and go through the Exit turnstile, which moves backwards just enough to allow a body through. I also saw women doing this when in the ‘humanitarian’ lane when the bars were not moving.

Suddenly at 7am there was just a thin flow. I left Amir at the top of the Exit isle, and headed to work: a 10 minute walk. How do you get to work? 

Photos and post by Jesse 

“Jerusalem” is the English name for "Al-Quds"

When I go to al-Quds there are always a few things that strike me:

1) Joggers.

2) Dogs on leashes.

3) Babies. In strollers and in bellies. So many babies.

But the thing that really strikes me is how, in that 10-minute drive, which I am privileged to be able to do with ease, the world somersaults and I might as well be in a posh southern California town, only the Hebrew signs give it away. All the sudden, one who has the privilege to, can forget.  And one who has the privilege of being unaware, can remain blissfully so, despite the few minutes it is to the annexed eastern part of the city, or the few short miles it is to occupied Palestine.  There is almost nothing that says ‘conflict’ in West al-Quds. In East al-Quds (which is on the Palestinian side of the Green Line but has been and continues to be further annexed by Israel) one can distantly (yet distinctly) see the Wall (which divides East Jerusalem, with predominantly Palestinian residents, from the villages just outside of the city--- in some cases I’ve heard of the Wall tearing straight through those villages, forcing family members to sit on rooftops to converse.) There are also groups of young soldiers posted throughout the old city and along the streets.  If one looks closely, the segregated busses become apparent, the green Egged busses that go throughout Jerusalem and out to the illegal Israeli settlements outside the city, and the white and blue busses that go from Bethlehem and the checkpoint to the Old City in East al-Quds. If one thinks hard, one might consider how the Wall looks when it’s cutting through a village, separating Palestinians from Palestinians, or severing a family from their olive trees, their livelihood. But most people do not, or choose not, to think about those things. And in West Jerusalem, they don’t have to.

An illegal settlement just outside of Bethlehem. 

Recently, I was in the 24, an “Arab bus,” going to Checkpoint 300, the ominous cement pen that serves as an entrance/exit/barrier to and from Bethlehem. I was sitting next to a hajja, an elderly woman, and we were going through Jerusalem. The bus stopped to let on passengers.  Then it pulled over. A random inspection. The driver got down, and an Israeli soldier boarded the bus. She barely even opened her mouth. Her presence spoke for itself, demanding that everyone present identification & a permit or ID allowing their presence in Israel. I pulled out my blue and gold passport. She didn’t check to see if it was actually mine. She didn’t check to see if my visa was still valid. They rarely do. The hajja did not let the soldier’s presence turn her into a docile citizen. She let the soldier come all the way to her, and ask for her ID before pulling it out of her breast pocket. A small act of resistance.

That was the third random check I’ve experienced in the past week, and up until the past week I’ve never seen one happen inside Israel (granted, I’ve gone between al-Quds and Bethlehem a lot more in the past week than ever before).  These random “inspections” serve to intimidate and dehumanize Palestinians, reminding them, once again, that they are not free in their own land, they are all viewed as “potential terrorists” and they are living under occupation.

Living under occupation.

Living under occupation.

The Apartheid Wall cutting into Bethlehem to surround Rachel's Tomb

Random military outposts. Checkpoints. Makeshift checkpoints they weren’t there yesterday. Military tower. Walls. Barbed wire. Soldiers with guns. Another random military outpost. Another wall. More soldiers with guns. Did you notice, my right eye says to my left eye, that the walls are always built to hug, to squeeze, to choke the towns that are dotted with the minarets of mosques? Did you notice, how the green spaces, the groves, the valleys, are always on the other side? And how, on the other side of the green spaces, the groves, the valleys are the uniform houses, little boxes on the hillsides, with their blue and white flags? Living under occupation. My eyes are learning to read the landscape. 

the Aida refugee camp mosque

Palestinians from the West Bank and Gaza need permits to go into Israel.  Even though the Green Line runs directly through al-Quds and well north of Bethlehem, skirting the southern part of the city, the Apartheid Wall is a tight hat squeezed onto Bethlehem, and “Israel” starts after the Wall. There are several massive illegal settlements that occupy space between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, well beyond the Green Line. Some Palestinians get work permits and commute to al-Quds. Some receive short-term permissions for religious holidays. My friend Ibrahim got a 2-week permit for a Christian fest time. It arrived in the mail the day before it expired. Another time, Ibrahim applied for a day-long permit to take an exam in Jerusalem as part of an application to a German academic program. Despite having letters from the university, he was denied the permission. The bottom line is that many, many more Palestinians don’t receive permits than those who do.  Some Palestinians, mostly men, who don't get permits, work in al-Quds illegally, finding ways to get past the wall, to gain access to higher wages and, often, more work opportunities.  

Post and photos by Jesse. 

things that are thrown & other musings: stones & teargas in Aida

I sat on the roof of our new apartment this evening to write birthday postcards to my sister and niece. The weather changed quickly in the past few days from dry, heavy summer to chilly autumn and my meager sweatshirt barely cut it. Sounds of the refugee camp spread out before me, children yelling, hammers banging, the constant drone of a place that is 0.03 square miles large and is home to around5,000 people.

A boy yelled “ya allah” (oh god) and I turned to see three streams of teargas arching over rooftops near the camp’s entrance. A few more booms followed.  Kids watched from the rooftops. A voice cleared on the loudspeaker and began the evening call to prayer. Clouds turned to ash as the sun slipped behind Beit Jala.

The second time we visited Aida was our first time encountering teargas.

On that hot August day I was kneeling on rough cement with a 5 year old girl, helping her take a picture when people suddenly came running, holding cloth to their faces. The air became needles. We rushed inside, the small ones cried and coughed, and our eyes started tearing. When the air cleared Muki and I headed toward the entrance of Aida, invariably hitting clouds of the invisible gas. We still weren’t sure what was going on.  A group of young men with rock slingers and cloths tied around their faces- identity protection- ran past a waiting ambulance, followed by teargas.

We got on a roof with other local and international photographers. Below us dozens of young men threw rocks at about 10 fully armed soldiers a few hundred feet away. The soldiers occasionally rocketed a canister of teargas toward the boys, and a few of the brave ones would plunge into the burning fumes to grab the canister and hurl it back at the soldiers, or generally away from the camp, while the rest ran away until their eyes stopped crying.  We learned these clashes had been sparked by the death of three Palestinians by Israeli soldiers near Ramallah a few days previously.

We moved to Aida last week, grateful to be closer to work and be able to see another, different, Palestinian reality, but a question is growing on our kitchen table: what does it mean to choose to live in a refugee camp? People do not choose to be refugees. The people living here have been doing so for six and a half decades (since 1948) waiting for the time when they will return to their ancestors’ or childhood villages, as is their right under international law. The refugees do not own the houses they have paid to build, or the land on which they live. 

There were clashes the day we moved in, sparked by the intense repression of Palestinians in Hebron that had been sparked by the death of an Israeli soldier.  From what we have gathered, throwing stones is a form of everyday resistance practiced frequently, and is always responded to with teargas, rubber bullets and stunt grenades. It’s so common, in fact, that I haven’t really noticed how often the clashes have happened in the past 10 days living here. But they are especially intense when there is a peak in violence against Palestinians in the area.

A few days later, our friend Ibrahim got a permit to cross the checkpoint into ’48 (as Israel is called here). It was supposed to have been a two-week permit for a time of Christian feasts, but it arrived in the mail the day before it was going to expire.  We went with him to al-Quds (Jerusalem) so he could visit a few friends and we all could have one day in the city together.  Initially we weren’t sure if the Old City would be open, as there have been intense clashes there for a few weeks during which extremist Jews have stormed the al-Aqsa Mosque compound (closed to all non-Muslims except for weekly tourist hours) (it’s the compound that has the Dome of the Rock, but the al-Aqsa mosque is a different building).  Reports have come out about Israeli soldiers firing teargas at Muslim worshipers and that extremists have damaged parts of the mosque.

It turned out that the Old City was open, and as we meandered through the winding cobbled streets I got a call from by boss at PNN. She asked if everything was alright. I was confused, said yes, and realized there must have been something going on in Aida. The next day I learned that the camp clashes had been particularly intense, sparked by the continued violence at al-Aqsa mosque.  

The next day our tap water tasted vaguely, but distinctly, like teargas.

photos & post by Jesse

Supporting Palestinian Businesses in Jerusalem

"Buying from Israeli businesses supports the occupation"

After work on Tuesday, Muki and I hung around the office a little longer than usual connecting with an American who we had met briefly at the Prawer Plan protests (she used to work for PNN and had come by the office to help out with an article). 
Our boss came in saying the film crew was heading out to an awareness-raising campaign at the wall, and would we like to come. Muki looked at me, we shrugged and realized that in the first month of being somewhere new its important to say yes to (almost) everything. 

We drove to Aida Refugee Camp- somewhere we had been hoping to find- picked up some more people and headed to the checkpoint. When we arrived a woman handed out Palestinian flags, the PNN guys shouldered their cameras and I realized I wasn't quite sure what we were going to. Following along, waving my flag, I learned that the activists here were trying to raise awareness and encourage Palestinians visiting Jerusalem during Ramadan to support Palestinian businesses, not Israeli ones. 

The activists, part of a larger campaign called “Now I have a Permit, Where do I go?” handed out lists of Palestinian-owned stores in East Jerusalem and pasted the lists on the separation barrier, as Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) watched. Those who weren’t handing out papers waved Palestinian flags and held signs. 

Munther Amerah, an Activist in the Popular Committees to Resist Wall and Settlement said that those who obtained permits to enter Israel must support the Palestinians there, and foster communication between Palestinians living inside the Palestinian territories of 1948 and those living in the West Bank. He stressed the importance of supporting stores in East Jerusalem belonging to Palestinians over Israeli stores.

Amerah said, “We distributed flyers at the main entrance of Bethlehem checkpoint that had a list of names and maps of Palestinian stores and businesses within Israel.”This campaign was ignited because of the increased number of Palestinians in East Jerusalem during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan. Throughout Ramadan the Israeli government grants permits to almost all Palestinians (except men under age 40) to cross the boarder. Many Muslim Palestinians travel to Al-Quds (Jerusalem) to pray at the Al-Aqsa Mosque (near the Dome of the Rock) in the Old City. (Someone laughingly told us that you get 'extra points' for praying there. It is the third holiest site in Islam.... now think about why control over Jerusalem is such a contentious part of the conflict.)

However, the Israeli government’s motivations for handing out so many permits during this particular month have been questioned. 

In the words of Mohammed Hirbawi, head of the Chamber of Commerce in Hebron, the holy month of Ramadan “is known for its shopping sprees… Palestinian shop-owners feel that the permits' purpose at this time is to benefit the Israeli economy, which consequently adversely affects our own."

The activists were gathered in front of the main gate that facilitates the movement of equipment from one side of the wall to the other. As local media representatives interviewed the activists, IOF forces opened the gate three times to move military and industrial vehicles, causing the interviews to be disrupted. Activists, journalists and supporters were obliged to disperse and regroup three times. I couldn't help but wonder if the movement of the vehicles had been absolutely necessary at that particular moment... it seemed to be more of an intimidation-fragmentation-disruption technique.


The Boycott, Divest, Sanction (BDS) movement has gained a lot of traction internationally. Two instances are that the European Union announced a ban on further financial support of Israeli institutions operating beyond the 1967 Green Line and Stephen Hawking refused to speak at a conference in Israel. The action we were at was not directly linked to BDS, but it was certainly in a similar vein, if coming from more of a pro-Palestinian economy, than an anti-Israeli occupation.