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. 

Watering the Tree of Nonviolent Resistance in Firing Zone 918, in the South Hebron Hills

“Nonviolent resistance is like a tree: it needs water to grow.” That was the motto behind Saturday’s gathering of Italians and locals in the Bedouin community of Al-Mufaqara,

which lies just inside Firing Zone 918, in the South Hebron Hills.   We went with a van of other Palestinian news agencies to report on the event- as usual, not sure what to expect.  To add to my confusion, everything was in Italian and Arabic. So this post is based on the kindness of translators. Two Italians had come to share their experiences participating in nonviolent resistance, and to show solidarity with the resistance of local Palestinians, who are currently fighting for the right to stay on their ancestral land.

Al-Mufaqara, home to some 15 families, is wedged between the Green Line to the south, and a band of illegal settlements to the north.  The settlers, most of whom are radically religious (as opposed to settlers in other areas who are just enticed to live in settlements for financial reasons, because of the huge subsidies settlements receive from the Israeli government) are known to harass children on their way to school and burn Palestinians’ crops.  Additionally, the Israeli army continually demolishes homes and other structures in the community.  When we visited on Saturday, the village’s mosque, which Israeli forces demolished twice, was little more than a pile of rubble.

The village's mosque

Sara, an Operation Dove volunteer who has been in Al-Mufaqara for over a year, explained that the group escorts children to school and provides an international, peacekeeping presence, while supporting Palestinian nonviolent resistance.  This resistance, Sara explained, takes the form of daily acts such as re-building demolished structures, continuing to shepherd and attend school despite being attacked, and most importantly, staying on the land.

Sara continued, saying the people of Al-Mufaqara don’t just wish to survive this systemic violence; instead they are fighting to bring electricity and water to the community, part of affirming their presence and their right to thrive on their land.

Operation Dove, which has been working in Al-Mufaqara since 2004, organizes one annual event for the community, in which they invite guests to share their experiences participating in nonviolent resistance. The goal of this initiative, which was started on request of the local Popular Committee, is to “water the tree of nonviolent resistance” that thrives in Al-Mufaqara.

Some girls took me to the sheep's pen, where these birds were taking advantage of the shade. 

Two men, active during the 1970’s “Years of Lead” conflict in Italy, shared their paths to non-violence.  One man was part of the armed resistance, and during one occasion had killed a cohort of Italian police. The other was the son of one of those police officers.  While the first spent 30 years in prison with multiple life sentences, the other spent those years with a ‘heart full of hatred,’ as he put it. 

Eventually, the prisoner joined a hunger strike advocating for humane conditions in the prison. “When I began to fight in a nonviolent way,” he said, “I no longer felt isolated, and it became possible for me to connect and communicate with people.” That initial step in nonviolent resistance impacted him deeply, and he began to advocate for a cessation of armed struggle. Meanwhile, the man whose father was murdered realized that his wound could not heal while he was still full of hate.  Eventually the two men decided to meet one another. 

“We are not here to give advice to the Palestinians in their struggle, but simply to share our experiences,” they said. “We want to testify that it is possible to meet [one’s adversaries] as human beings.”  In this particular interview, the questions were asked by two journalists in Arabic, translated into English by a Palestinian woman, then translated from English into Italian by an Operation Dove volunteer. The answers then went through the reverse process.  

Al-Mufaqara lies within Area C, which constitutes some 60% of the West Bank and is under complete Israeli military and administrative authority. Firing Zone 918 is a 30 square-mile area within Area C in the South Hebron Hills, which has been illegally declared a “military training zone” by the Israeli regime. The area’sresidents were evicted in 1999, however they successfully petitioned the Israeli High Court of Justice, which allowed for their “temporary return.” For over a decade since, the approximately 1000 people in the area have been living with uncertainty of their future and continued harassment by the Israeli military and illegal settlers.

The families of Al-Mafuqara, along with the other residents in Firing Zone 918 will continue to resist Israeli military and settler attempts to displace them or delegitimize their right to continue living on the land their ancestors have farmed and shepherded for over two centuries.   

photos and post 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

Dead Sea: underneath the mud & feeling funny floating

view of the Dead Sea and Jordan beyond

The Dead Sea was not misnamed.  Not only is the water devoid of life, its banks are as well, and any human floating in those salty arms does not last long.  If one has recently shaved, has a small cut, sensitive genitals, or is unfortunate enough to get splashed in the eye (as I was), that person will quickly find themselves rushing through the muddy quicksand toward fresh water to rinse off the sting of death. 

The sea entices any weary desert traveler with a turquoise façade that proffers little refreshment (the water is terribly warm) and lacks even life enough to lap and plead with the shore for a romance. Yet the Dead Sea is a successful siren. People come from the world over to sit in her miraculous bath, to smear her mud on their bodies, to marvel at the thought of how many humans have passed there before, the fact that it is the lowest dry land point on earth (at almost 1,400 feet below sea level) and how utterly unique it feels to be bounced along by fingers so insisting they refuse to let your buttocks sink low enough to do the breast stroke.

eggplant festival in Battir

But let me back up a little bit. On our way into the private beach, which was adorned with real live grass, Israeli flags, camels, yes, camels, palm frond umbrellas, bars and dub-step (which, for you older folks, is a type of music that sound like someone took a normal song, put it in a taffy kneader and upped the base) the guys guarding the gate (Palestinian) almost didn't allow the Palestinian man who was with us to enter.  So here's the deal: tourists have to pay to access Dead Sea beaches and the only Palestinians allowed on the private beaches are tour guides. 

They eventually, begrudgingly, allowed the man in, afraid they would get in trouble for it. Although approx. 2/3 of the western shore of the Dead Sea are within the West Bank (and the other 1/3 is in Israel and the Eastern shore is Jordan), the land along the sea became classified as Area "C" (under full Israeli military and administrative control) during the Oslo Accords. This allotment "dispossessed Palestinians of extensive portions of the Dead Sea land, effectively depriving them of the possibility of benefiting from [its] natural resources," according to a report by Palestinian rights organization al-Haq. I know there are Palestinian beaches, but I don’t really know more about the break down of the situation.

(Some 72% of the West Bank, is officially Area C, and another 25% is Area B which is under Palestinian Authority but Israeli military, leaving a mere 3% for Area A, under full Palestinian control, according to a very recent article in the Hurriyet daily. Bethlehem is Area A.)

fresh pomegranate juice is in season

Let me back up a little further.  We had to go to Jericho to get tickets to enter the beach.  Jericho is both the “oldest city on earth” (evidence from settlements dating back 11,000 years have been found there, and whether or not it is the oldest, it is certainly one of them). Specifically, we went to a place where the signs were in English and there were a gazillion tour busses and a large store full of the same sorts of souvenir items that are sold in Bethlehem and the Old City of al-Quds (Jerusalem).  And then a huge department of creams, soaps, moisturizers, salts and other body products that use Dead Sea minerals with the company name AHAVA ('love' in Hebrew) splattered everywhere. 

To quote an article by Alternet from a year ago: 

"The multinational corporation Ahava Dead Sea Laboratories... is notorious for illegally exploiting Palestinian land and natural resources to make its [cosmetic] products. With names like Natural Dead Sea Body Mud, these products are packaged as being "Made in Israel" and shipped to be sold in cosmetics stores all over the world. But these products are not made in Israel. They are made in the occupied West Bank in Palestine... Though Ahava products are made with Palestinian resources on Palestinian land, neither the Palestinian economy nor the Palestinians profit from any of these sales.... Exploiting the natural resources of an occupied territory is expressly prohibited under international law." 

(Since the West Bank was captured by Israeli forces in the 1967 war, it is subject to the Geneva Convention, which prohibits the above stated exploitation of natural resources. That is also why settlements are illegal.) 

Boycotts of Ahava have been waged, and there has been a significant amount of international awareness risen about the situation, which I knew about in the lower right left part of my brain, but it's really something else to be in that store where everything is in $ and € and outrageously expensive, and the bottles have these chic pictures of desert mountains and the sea, spouting things like “100% natural.”  (Read more and more.)

So anyhow, we floated among the throngs of people from various regions and languages, mesmerized by the feeling of being buoyed along with no effort.  Then we slathered mud over our entire bodies, scrubbing with some sand, feeling like kids left alone with too much paint. And then we washed it off and did it all over again.

Something about the Jordan Valley has worked its way into me. It is always significantly hotter than everywhere else, but the stark beauty of that open basin cradled by mountains makes me want to keep returning.

foreground: D'hesha refugee camp, background: illegal settlement

Ok, one of the many funny moments we've had recently: Muki and I were getting shekels out of the ATM, and the automated voice said "please enter your secret number." 

Stay tuned for the upcoming posts: "the words we choose: language, politics & perspective," and "things that are thrown & other musings: stones & teargas in Aida."