I spent the last two months in the Occupied Palestinian Territories diligently looking for trouble. Strangely, despite my best efforts, I didn’t manage to find any.
I spent every Friday during Ramadan in the vicinity of Haram Sharif in the Old City, poised and ready for rock throwing and riots. There wassome rock throwing and rioting at that very location, but I was never there when it happened. The one day they really decided to have a riot, I was home in Abu Dis, grading final exams for my political philosophy class.
Another tense Friday evening at Jaffa Gate.
According to the pro-Israeli blogger Elder of Ziyon, the Jerusalem light rail system is pelted with rocks by Palestinian youth “every single day.” I was in Jerusalem in the vicinity of the light rail twenty of the sixty or so days I was in the area, and didn’t see it get pelted even once. Didn’t hear of it being pelted once, either–and I had a friend in Shu’afat (the neighborhood, not the refugee camp) who rode it without incident every day for a month. Didn’t see any broken windows, any terrified commuters, or experience any anxiety while hanging around the rail stops at Jaffa Road and near Damascus Gate. Just saw the light rail making its way from Mt. Herzl to Pisgat Zeev and back, over and over without incident.
As I’ve mentioned before, there was a stabbing at Damascus Gate one morning. I had planned to be at Damascus Gate that very morning, but got sidetracked by some paperwork that needed to get done, and never made it there. The stabbing took place without me.
On my way back from a visit to Hebron, my guide and I drove by clashes-that-were-about-to-take-place at this highly contested location near Al Arroub Refugee Camp. As we drove by, the Israeli soldiers were loading their weapons and the protesters were getting ready to engage. “I don’t think we should stop,” my guide said. So we didn’t.
I went through about thirty checkpoints. It was often a tedious and demoralizing experience, but it was mostly uneventful. No rock throwing, no terrorist attacks, no beatings. Only one arrest. That’s not to say that there were no checkpoint incidents while I was there. I just didn’t happen to be around for any. I went out to dinner with friends in Azariah immediately after the Duma attack. One friend floated the idea of driving to Jericho for dinner. “Maybe some other time,” said the other friend. Unsurprisingly, all hell broke loose that night across the West Bank. But things were calm enough in Azariah. We had a nice chicken dinner.
While in Abu Dis, I made contact with Daniel Luria of Ateret Cohanim, who invited me to tour the “Temple Mount” (Haram Sharif) with his group (Luria: “We don’t often get inquiries from Abu Dis”). Ateret Cohanim is a settler organization, and settlers who visit the Temple Mount/Haram Sharif are usually subject to harassment by Muslims who object to their presence there. I was all set to go, but had to cancel at the last minute because of a scheduling problem (once again, believe it or not, my plans to visit the holy site were trumped by the holier imperative of grading).
On my last day in Abu Dis, there were violent clashes between locals and the Israel Defense Forces. I heard the clashes from my window and decided to go out into the city to find them. Following my nose (tear gas) and ears (stun grenades) I set out in (what I took to be) the direction of the clashes. I spent an hour looking for trouble, but didn’t really manage to find it. When I finally got to the relevant location, all I found was an abandoned street where clashes had taken place, the residue of tear gas in the air, and a couple of still-burning fires.
Last time I went to Israel, I was detained for five hours on entry at Ben Gurion Airport, and for four hours on exit. This time, I was only detained for about two hours on entry, and for about half an hour on exit. In an attempt to be polite, the lady who gave me my exit permit gave it to me and tried to say, “You’re free to go.” What she actually ended up saying was, “Please go.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I said, “OK,” and left without incident.
Terror from the Midwestern skies.
So I got home to New Jersey, rested a day, and flew to Michigan to spend some time with Kate Herrick. On Thursday, Kate and I decided to go to the Ingham County Fair for some good, wholesome Midwestern fun. After eating some really unwholesome county fair food (“jalapeno poppers“), we decided to ride “The Zipper,” a vicious amusement park ride characteristic of Midwestern county fairs. Though strapped in at the waist, I didn’t realize that I was supposed to keep my arms outstretched in front of me to keep my head from being bashed against the steel sides of the car. Predictably, my head got bashed against the steel sides of the car, and I ended up in the ER with a concussion.
Aside from some headaches, cranial pressure, drowsiness, and mild loss of memory and cognitive function, I’m OK.
For months, people have asked me whether travel to the Mideast is “safe.” I rest my case. If you want danger, try the Midwest.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation for a kind of domestic follow-up to my trip to Palestine. As a friend of mine put it, “If Palestine is the Third World, get ready for the Fourth World.”
When you live in the West Bank, you get hyper-sensitive about license plates: yellow plates are Israeli, green plates are Palestinian; yellow plates can go anywhere in Israel or the West Bank (except, in theory, to parts of Area A); green plates are confined to designated parts of the West Bank (e.g., places reserved for the military or Israeli settlers).
I just saw a car on the main street of Eizariyah here in the West Bank (Area B) with Virginia license plates.
How is that possible? And for legal purposes, would it count as a yellow or a green plate?
I have no idea how to answer the first question, but here’s a guess at the second: if license plates follow passports, I’m guessing a Virginia license plate counts as yellow. As an American passport holder with a valid visa, I can go places in the West Bank that Palestinians can’t, including Israeli settlements and militarized zones designated off-limits to Palestinians (e.g., H2 in Hebron). If Virginia plates are treated as equivalent to an American passport (plus visa), the same would be true of them.
My speculation here rests, of course, on the debatable assumption that the presence of the car with the Virginia license plate is legal–an assumption confounded by the fact that the town of Eizariyah is effectively a Lockean State of Nature without laws or law enforcement of any discernible sort. The only “exception” to that rule is the presence of an Israeli military base on the outskirts of town, between Eizariyah and the settlement of Ma’ale Adumim. But it’s not really an exception at all: the Israeli military presence serves as militarized backdrop to life here; it isn’t here for purposes of everyday policing, much less to deal with traffic violations. It’s mostly here to intimidate Eizariyah and environs, and protect Ma’ale Adumim.
That said, unless someone bought a car here and just randomly stuck a Virginia license plate on it (odd but possible), to get it here, the owner would have to ship the car from Virginia to a border crossing controlled by the State of Israel. I can see why someone might want to do that; what I can’t see is why the State of Israel would allow it.
That’s not the sort of Virginia plate I saw, but it does raise the question: if you can drive a car with Virginia plates in the West Bank, how about one with a plate like that? Granted, the State of Virginia has ordered that car owners with Stars and Bars license plates trade them in within about three months (120 days since the original ruling). But that still leaves time to ship one’s car here and drive it around for a few months as a test case. I’d love to see how that works, if only I could be around for it.
I had my first run-in at an Israeli checkpoint yesterday, only the second pedestrian checkpoint I’ve gone through in the last six weeks.
Prior to this, most of the checkpoints I’d gone through were vehicular, and little of note had happened at them. I was held for two hours at the airport, which was an improvement on my last visit here, when I was held for five. I encountered one “flying checkpoint” on my first night here on the road between Ma’ale Adumim and Al Eizariyah, but after a ten minute wait, we were waved through. My seatmate on the 263 bus to Jerusalem was detained one morning at the Ma’ale Adumim checkpoint, but hey, I wasn’t, so the trip was basically uneventful. I was briefly accosted and questioned by a security guard for standing too long in front of the Jerusalem District Courthouse (where the Abu Khdeir trial is taking place), but after convincing him that I was harmless, he walked away, whereupon I decided to confirm his opinion by walking away myself. In an irritating sequence of events, I was falsely told one night by a police officer in the Old City that a certain walkway was closed when it wasn’t; he forced me to take a left turn that I didn’t want to take, after which I managed to get lost. But on reflection, I decided he’d done me a favor, because the hour was late, and I didn’t need to be in the Old City at that hour anyway.
And that was it. All was well even if it hadn’t quite ended well.
Yesterday, I finally had occasion to go through the Har Hazeitim checkpoint I mentioned a few weeks ago. Honestly, the only way to describe my experience there is to say that the people staffing that checkpoint around 7:30 pm on Sunday night were the most consummate assholes I’ve dealt with in a long time—and by far the biggest assholes I’ve met in Israel or Palestine in the last six weeks. If Palestinians routinely get treated at these checkpoints the way I was treated last night at Har Hazeitim, it really is no wonder that they lash out as often as they do. Anybody would, especially if they got the sense that the mistreatment would persist into the indefinite future, and that it seemed to be getting progressively worse. I’m morbidly curious what happens to one’s psyche if one goes through checkpoints like that on a regular basis, so in a spirit of inductive inquiry modeled on Mill’s Methods, I’ve decided to go through that checkpoint as often as I can over the next few weeks that I’m here, just to see what happens to me. I’ll be sure to tell you.
For now, I guess I’d describe the experience as roughly what would happen if you put a bunch of college-aged kids safely behind bomb-proof glass, then gave them the power to run a version of the Milgram Experiment every day, thousands of times a day, and then crossed the Milgram Experiment with a game of Donkey Kong in which instead of Donkey Kong, the protagonist of the game was a human being, typically a Palestinian. A real barrel of laughs. I guess it was for them, because they spent the duration of my visit to the checkpoint laughing at me.
I’ve noticed that Israeli Border Police have a certain hand gesture that I think of as the “mosquito gesture.” When they don’t want to deal with you, they wave you away with this contemptuous wave of the hand–what you or I would do to swat away a mosquito. The sign language says: “go away,” or more expansively, “go away, you piece of shit.” The next time I get that gesture, I intend to do it back. If questioned, I intend to describe it as an act of assimilation into Israeli society: I’ve seen the gesture so often that I thought I’d blend in and imitate it. Judging from the frequency with which it’s used, it must mean something like “mazel tov.” What could be nicer?
Seriously, I’m curious to see what happens. Stay tuned.
Here’s Anata/Shu’afat checkpoint; the report includes a few others, like Az-Zaim, which I’ve gone through about a dozen times on this trip. It looks different nowadays than it does in the photos here.*
It’s always painful to see this gem of Jerusalem architecture in its present state — smashed windows, broken walls, filth everywhere, and now surrounded by a fence. Nobody came to stop us when we crossed the gate into the settlement area. There was someone in the booth, but he didn’t bother. The signs proclaimed “forbidden, forbidden” — and “dangerous”.
I’ve lived here for six weeks, and despite looking for it, I can’t find it. The report above is from February 2014; is the hotel gone?
This report from Bethlehem took place about an hour before I happened to visit the same exact checkpoint (I visited July 10 around 9:30 am). Things were hectic but not violent while I was there, but I was only there for about fifteen or twenty minutes. I was also farther away from the checkpoint itself than those writing the report. I don’t know how they managed to get as close as they did.
Here’s reporting from Hebron, a hell-hole I’ll describe in a forthcoming post, having recently visited there (I’ve uploaded some photos of Hebron to the header).
Container Checkpoint at Wadi Nar is fast becoming my favorite checkpoint in the whole Occupied Territories. I was going to try walking through (it’s walking distance from where I live) but a friend told me that doing so was a good way to get shot, so I decided against it. It’s also a good way to get bitten, as the soldiers at that checkpoint have befriended some aggressive stray dogs, feeding them, but taking no responsibility for their (the dogs’) behavior –a good deterrent against overly curious American tourists out for a stroll. WOHR describes Container Checkpoint as “a god-forsaken checkpoint rarely visited by our shifts.” Yes and no: it’s actually about 200 yards from the rather pleasant village of Sawahirya, so it’s not that out of the way. As for “rarely visited,” it’s a hell of a walk from where I live, but I don’t mind making the trip.
*Correction, July 18, 2015: I corrected a mistake in the original version of this sentence: having now gone through the (various) Shufaat/Anata and Az Zaim checkpoints, I now realize that there are at least three different checkpoints involved here. By “Az Zaim” checkpoint,” I mean the one on Route 1 directly after Ma’ale Adumim and before the Mount Scopus campus of Hebrew University.
I’ve been traveling these last few days, and I’m off to Hebron now, so I’ll be away from the blog for a bit. Commenting and comment approvals will be slow. Hope to blog a bit on it at some point when I get back. Patience is advised.
Meanwhile, here’s some background material on Hebron from a variety of perspectives. They’re intended as background; I don’t necessarily endorse what any particular author or speaker says here.
I went to Jerusalem’s semi-famous Museum on the Seam the other day (“MotS”). A couple of friends have asked for a report on what I saw there and how I liked it, so I thought I’d blog it.
Here’s the Museum’s self-description, from its website:
The Museum on the Seam is a socio-political contemporary art museum located in Jerusalem. The Museum in its unique way, presents art as a language with no boundaries in order to raise controversial social issues for public discussion. At the center of the changing exhibitions in the Museum stand the national, ethnic and economic seam lines in their local and universal contexts.
The Museum is committed to examining the social reality within our regional conflict, to advancing dialogue in the face of discord and to encouraging social responsibility that is based on what we all have in common rather than what keeps us apart.
It’s a relatively small place, three floors of museum plus a guillotine-equipped observation deck, housed in a building that played an important role in the 1948 and 1967 Arab-Israeli wars. The wartime damage to the facade of the building is still visible, and constitutes part of MotS’s aesthetic-political appeal. The owners are obviously proud of the fact that the place manages to look both chic and bombed-out, and though the comparison isn’t exact, the vibe is a little bit like Manhattan after 9/11.
The Museum gets its name from its physical location–on the seam or borderline between largely Arab East Jerusalem and largely Jewish West Jerusalem, two halves of an “eternally undivided” city divided by one war, and fused together by another. Strictly speaking, MotS is located in West Jerusalem, but that’s only because it’s on the west side of Hel Handasa, the street that divides the city. So it’s at the eastern edge of West Jerusalem, across the street from the Arab neighborhood of Sheikh Jarrah in East Jerusalem, and next to the ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighborhood of Mea She’arim.
Though the Museum is obviously well-named, I’m inclined to wonder whether anyone from either Sheikh Jarrah or Mea She’arim ever visits the place. As it happens, the only people in the Museum during my visit there were American tourists like me. There’s a kind of symbolism in that: East doesn’t seem to meet West in Jerusalem; the two keep their distance from one another, leaving Americans to fill the gap. I get the sense that for the most part, Americans visiting “Israel” tend to go as far East as is compatible with staying firmly in the West. In other words, they stay in Israel, and visit the West Bank, if only for Bethlehem. My visit to MotS reinforced that sense.
MotS is controversial by design, and there are at least two rival perspectives on it. Partisans of Israel sing its praises as a daring exercise in contemporary guerilla art. Partisans of the Palestinian cause regard it as an overhyped pseudo-radical exercise in Zionist apologetics and imperialist bullshit artistry. My own sensitive and deeply nuanced view sits somewhere in between those unsubtle extremes. In other words, I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to MotS, but ultimately sympathize with the Palestinian take on it. It shouldn’t surprise you that, as an American, I feel entitled to have it all.
I particularly liked four of the exhibits I saw, and through the wonders of the Internet, I can show you two and a half of them right here.
The first was this film, “Los Encargados,” by the Spanish artists Jorge Galindo and Santiago Sierra, which depicts a motorized protest up the Gran Via in Madrid, Spain in August 2012. It’s set to an old socialist worker’s anthem, and for me, that really did the trick (not because I’m a socialist, but because I liked the anthem).
The message is not exactly subtle–Spain’s leaders have betrayed the country’s working class–but aesthetically, it works, so I liked it. (Trigger warning: I’m really not that sophisticated or articulate about art, so this is the level of commentary you should expect for the rest of this post.)
This second film is a lot longer than the first (37 minutes), but frankly I think it’s a masterpiece, and I was riveted by it from beginning to end–despite knowing absolutely nothing about the issue it engages with, and having no idea how to pronounce the artist’s name. It’s Chto Delat’s “The Tower: A Songspiel,” in Russian, and it’s about a controversy concerning the (pardon me) erection of the Gazprom Tower in St. Petersburg. If you don’t have 37 minutes to spare, just watch the first two minutes. I don’t know about you, but I found it hilarious.
The depiction of the short-haired elite woman struck me, somewhat vaguely, as a parody of Ayn Rand–not so much a political parody (the woman’s views are not particularly Randian) as an aesthetic one. To be precise, it seems like the kind of parody you’d expect of someone who had heard of Rand but never read her (there’s no shortage of such people). But I still liked it.
I can’t show you the third film, William Kentridge’s 3-minute “Monument,” but here’s a description of it:
Monument is Kentridge’s second film in the series and explores his feelings of ambivalence about the privileges and comforts of the white South African society into which he was born. It was made from a basis of eleven drawings and is accompanied by music composed by Edward Jordan. Soho Eckstein, wealthy real estate developer, here assumes the guise of civic benefactor and erects a monument to the black South African work force, from whose labour his wealth is derived. The monument is a huge statue of an anonymous African workman. During the ceremony of unveiling the monument, in the first half of the film, the statue comes to life. Slowed by the enormous burden on his shoulders, he makes his way across the outskirts of the city, before disappearing into the distant landscape.
There’s a vague Rand connection here, too: the film managed to remind me of Rand’s essay “The Monument Builders” in The Virtue of Selfishness, and the film’s protagonist bears an obvious similarity to John Galt from Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. That said, I somehow doubt that Kentridge has ever heard of Rand, or that the average Randian has ever heard of him; same symbolism, different messages.
A fourth piece I liked was a bitter sculpture of Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin by the Israeli artist Uri Lifshitz. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find a version online. Since you really have to see it to appreciate its power–and it was powerful–I’ll leave my “commentary” on it at that.
I should add that the Museum’s staff was excruciatingly nice to me in that disarmingly earnest, half-apologetic way that I associate with a certain brand of Israeli leftist. Maybe it’s my American imagination on overdrive, but I felt as though the staff was saying, “We realize that the occupation is in its 48th year–and we apologize for that–but we hope you’ll like the Museum anyway.” Which I did (thanks). I guess I should also mention that MotS is responsible for the “CoExist” meme you’ve probably seen, which combines symbols from the world’s religions to form an icon spelling that word. If the Museum had a slogan, it might be the one associated with Rodney King (of Los Angeles riots fame): “Can we all just get along?”
So that’s what I liked about MotS. But there were some things I didn’t like–really, one big thing with a variety of different aspects. In a way, this complaint is a response to the somewhat facile nature of the whole “CoExist” idea associated with MotS. There are reasons why coexistence is not as easy as putting a clever bumper sticker on your car.
Conflict, prejudice, racism (and occasionally coexistence) are on display at the Museum on the Seam, a socio-political/contemporary art museum that pulls no punches. …
Do not mistake it for a museum about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict; the issues here are broad and far-reaching and the Middle East conflict is just one small piece of a larger puzzle. (2010 edition, pp. 130-31)
Well, that’s one–rather euphemistic–way of putting things. I think it’d be more accurate to say that the Museum does its best to avoid the Arab-Israeli conflict, and in so doing, pulls a lot of punches. You couldn’t guess, by walking through it, that MotS is on the seam of the Arab-Israeli conflict. In fact, you couldn’t guess that the Museum is in Jerusalem, much less that it advertises its proximity to Arab East Jerusalem. Going by its contents, MotS could just as well be located in New York or Chicago as anywhere in Israel.
None of the artists featured in MotS are Palestinians. Neither are any members of the Museum’s administrative staff. With one exception, none of the exhibits had anything to do with the Arab-Israeli conflict. The exception is the Uri Lifshitz sculpture I mentioned, but even there, Lifshitz depicts things entirely from an Israeli perspective. His approach reminds me of Ari Folman’s in the 2008 film Waltz with Bashir: the theme is the anguish, from an Israeli perspective, of Israel’s having fought the 1982 Lebanon War, not the anguish of being on the Palestinian or Lebanese receiving end of the Israeli invasion. I don’t begrudge Lifshitz his perspective on things (he was a paratrooper in the IDF), but the fact remains that the closest that MotS comes to engaging Palestinians is the artwork of an Israeli paratrooper lamenting the fact that he had to kill some.
Israelis established the Museum of [sic] the Seam in the confiscated home of the Baramki family. The theme of the displays is the development of Jerusalem since 1948. Although the curators say the museum is designed to bring Arabs and Jews together from both sides of Jerusalem, the signs are only in Hebrew and English. (p. 337)
Though I sometimes find Shahin’s nationalist polemics wearing, and would dispute the accuracy of the second sentence, the first and third sentences of this excerpt are very much on point. Nowhere is MotS candid with the visitor about the complex and problematic history by which it claimed ownership of the building it calls its own (more on that below). And for a Museum that prides itself on bridging East and West Jerusalem, Shahin is right to suggest that it’s not exactly an Arab-friendly place. Shahin was writing in 2007, but things don’t seem to have changed that much since then: though a small handful of the signs are in Hebrew, English, and Arabic, the vast majority are only in Hebrew and English. You can see why the residents of Sheikh Jarrah are not exactly lining up to get in: even if you could cough up the 30 shekel entrance fee, you’d have no idea what was going on around you. No surprise that the only Arab in the whole place was the guy serving coffee in the café.
But all of that really pales in comparison with the property-rights issue, bitterly summarized by the Arab Israeli politician Awatef Sheikh in a 2011 piece in Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, “Jerusalem’s Museum on the Seam: Artful Dodging.” Reading the first paragraph, I was inclined to think that Sheikh was overdoing the polemics, but having worked my way to the end, I had to admit that he was painfully right.
The building which today houses the Museum on the Seam is, in fact, owned by the Baramki family. It was designed by Andoni Baramki, then a young Palestinian architect who designed many of Jerusalem’s houses. In 1934 he built it and rented it to two Palestinian families who were forcibly expelled from the house in 1948. The Baramki family lived in a rented house nearby and, like hundreds of thousands of Palestinians, were forced to flee their homes in search of temporary safety during the violent spring of 1948. Denied return to their home, the Baramki family lived as refugees in Gaza before moving to the village of Birzeit, north of Ramallah, in 1953. Following Israel’s occupation of the West Bank in 1967, all members of the Baramki family with the exception of son Gabi—his parents, brother and sister- managed to obtain Jerusalem ID cards and live in East Jerusalem. The Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, contacted Dr. Gabi Baramki, who was 18 when his family fled Jerusalem in 1948. A former vice president of Birzeit University, he lives in Ramallah.
After 1967, when the family was able to cross over to the west side of the city, Gabi’s father, Andoni, fought for his right to his house. He went to the Israeli Custodian of Absentee Property, presented the deeds to his house and his identification documents. According to Gabi, “My father, a 6’4″ tall man, stood in front of the Custodian and told him: ‘I’m Andoni Baramki and I want to return to my house.’ The Custodian looked back at him and replied: ‘you are absent.'” The family then turned to the court but received no justice there, either. “You will get your house when there is peace,” the judge told Gabi’s father. People often told Gabi that his father, a very well-known figure in Jerusalem, “stood in front of the house for hours looking at it the way Romeo used to look at Juliet.” Andoni Baramki was never allowed to set foot inside his house again. He died in 1972.
Given betrayals of this nature, it becomes hard to take Israeli liberals’ claims about the need for mutual understanding and tolerance at face value, and tempting to regard their brand of liberalism as a self-deceived charade. When they tell you that “art lacks boundaries,” I guess they really mean it: boundary violations, you might say, are part of the picture.
I hate to end on that downer note, but unfortunately, that’s the way Jerusalem is, at least in my limited experience. Every time you find something to feel good about, you find something bigger to feel bad about. And that was my ambivalent experience of MotS as well: the premise of the place seemed to be protest of injustices located at a safe remove built on injustice perpetrated nearby.
For me, the lesson is to disavow the smiley-faced, faith-based interpretations of this place one so often hears back home, of which Birthright Israel is perhaps the most nauseatingly delusional exemplification. In fact, Jerusalem is the scene of deep tragedy, worthy of a Sophocles or a Shakespeare, and built on tragic flaws that seem to reproduce themselves with every passing day. And while MotS was interesting and enjoyable–I’m glad I went–it wasn’t a catharsis. I’ll tell you if and when I have one. But don’t hold your breath.
Postscript, August 21, 2015: Here’s an interestingly if indirectly relevant item from The New York Times: Holland Cotter’s “What I Learned from a Disgraced Art Show on Harlem,” discussing the “Harlem on My Mind” art show at the Met in 1969, from the Times’s “Virgin Eyes” series.
Ramadan just started a couple of days ago, and I’m already wiped out from fasting. The fast is just too long. It starts at 3:54 am and doesn’t end until 7:48 pm: no food, no drink, no coffee. No coffee….
Fasting used to be easier when I was a kid. Somehow, back then, I had the capacity to fast and then play basketball or go to track practice. When did I become such a soft and pathetic wimp?
The thing is, I had planned to go to Jerusalem today, but canceled those plans at the last minute, because, due to fasting-fatigue, I hadn’t gotten any work done over the last few days. So I stayed home today and finished some of that work instead, fighting the ravages of my confused metabolic system.
An Israeli border policeman was critically wounded in a stabbing attack at the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem Sunday morning. The officer was stabbed in the neck, but managed to shoot the attacker before collapsing.
“When we arrived, we found a young man around 20 lying unconscious with a number of stab wounds to his upper body,” Magen David Adom paramedic Aharon Adler told Haaretz.”
“We immediately provided life-saving treatment and evacuated him to Shaare Zedek hospital in very serious condition.” The officer’s condition stabilized after undergoing surgery, the hospital said Sunday afternoon.
According to an Israel Police spokesperson, the perpetrator was an 18-year-old Palestinian who lives in the West Bank. He was evacuated to Hadasah, Ein Kerem hospital in critical condition.
Following the incident, security forces began combing the area with police helicopters.
As a friend of mine laconically put it: “It wasn’t a good day to go to Jerusalem.”
Mere coincidence? Or yet another survival-conducive miracle?
Well, survival-conducive for me, at any rate. Otherwise, too few miracles to go around.
So I decided today, in defiance of common sense, to walk from Abu Dis to Jerusalem. I mean, I can see the Mount of Olives from my kitchen window, so how hard could it be to get there? Seeing is believing. Kind friends showed me the way there en route to a nearby restaurant a few days ago, albeit from the comfort of their car. It all seemed simple enough. You take the short cut from Abu Dis to Eizariyah, take Route 417 down to the Khatib Bakery shop, take the road after it, and walk up the road to Har Hazeitim* Checkpoint and into Jerusalem. Easy!
You forget that the holy land is not just holy, but hilly. Yes, Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount, but we tend to remember the sermon at the expense of the mount. And now I get why Jesus didn’t walk to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. I really get it: one mile of walking up a 45 degree slope in 80-something degree heat from Abu Dis to Eizariyah, and I begin to think that this whole “walk to Jerusalem” thing is a really bad idea. (I could at this point too easily resort to an “ass” joke, but I’ll spare you.)
So I get to the town of Eizariyah, and the time comes to put those directions to use. You know, the directions my friends gave me while driving through this town? So here I am on Route 417. Now, I seem to remember them saying that the turn-off to Har Hazeitim Checkpoint is after Khatib Sweets and Bakery on this road. Khatib Sweets. And Bakery. After it. It seemed so clear at the time.
I get to Khatib Sweets and Bakery, and wouldn’t you know it, there are two roads after it. Two roads diverged in Eizariyah after Khatib Bakery, and I–I cannot figure out what “after” means in this context. Right after? Somewhat after? Which has the better claim?
Whatever “after” means, I get it wrong: right direction, wrong turn-off, wrong destination. I end up at a checkpoint, all right. But it’s closed. And it’s not called “Har Hazeitim” (or, for that matter, Herzliyah).* I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s ugly as sin, covered with trash, and totally abandoned.
I keep walking a few miles up and down the hills of Eizariyah, feeling like death itself. “Jesus,” I think. “Get me out of this.”
I look up. It’s the Tomb of Lazarus. I take a random left turn. Hey, there’s the bus stop. I pay the fare. It’s eight shekels. I have exact change. I get to Jerusalem.
*Postscript, June 17, 2015: Not only did a screw up my friends’ directions, but I got the name of the checkpoint wrong in the original post (I had originally written “Herzliyah Checkpoint”). I’ve fixed it now. Of course, for purposes of the post, this piece of revisionist history erases the fact that I not only misremembered my friends’ directions, but misremembered the name of the checkpoint that was central to the directions.
My friend Awad Mansour informs me that the abandoned “checkpoint” I describe in the post is actually a large gate that (years ago) used to be opened at times to allow schoolchildren back home from school in Jerusalem. Apparently, it’s been the scene of clashes with the Israeli army–including some particularly intense ones this past fall.
Postscript, June 24, 2015: With the help of Wikipedia, a bit of OCD, and some help from my friends, I’ve figured out what I did wrong. See the yellow road that stretches somewhat horizonally across the page underneath the words “Abu Dis”? That’s not the road I took. But if you look at the “s” of “Abu Dis,” you’ll see a sort of vertical white road that heads to Eizariyah. That’s the “short cut” I mention in the post. If you take it to Route 417, there’s a roundabout there, probably not visible on this map. I got lost in those squiggly white lines (roads) and kept knocking into the purple thing (the wall). But see how only one of those roads crosses over the blue and white line into the city? That was the road not taken.
You can’t see Lazarus’s Tomb, but I walked down from it to Route 417 and walked over to the red sign with the horizontal white stripe through it. That’s the bus stop at the wall (in purple). The bus then takes 417 in the opposite direction, through Eizariyah, Jahalin, Ma’ale Adumim, to Route 1, and into the city via the checkpoint at Adumim Interchange (where we were ordered to stop and our documents were inspected). Whether the further route continued via Sawaneh, Wadi Joz, or Sheikh Jarrah, I don’t remember (will pay closer attention next time I go). But whichever it is, it’s a pretty circuitous route, and would obviously be much shorter if it went through the Mount of Olives via 417 heading northwest.
So here I am, blogging “live” from Abu Dis. I’ve settled in a bit, the jet lag is starting to wear off, and I’m getting ready for my first class tomorrow, which I’m hoping will be a case of found rather than lost in translation: I’m speaking in English, and a translator is translating into Arabic for the students, and then back into English for me (and so on). We’re working on acquiring and distributing serviceable Arabic translations of Plato’s Republic, Aristotle’s Politics, Machiavelli’s Prince, Hobbes’s Leviathan, Locke’s Second Treatise, Mill’s “On Liberty,” Marx’s Communist Manifesto, and just maybe, Marx’s “British Rule in India.” With the possible exception of the very last reading, I’m pretty confident that translations are out there and can be found–though I suppose that you’d want more than a vote of “pretty confident” from a professor whose class starts tomorrow morning.
That said, I do wish I had paid more attention in Arabic 101 (as well as Arabic 102 and Arabic 103) in college, but I clearly didn’t learn enough to understand or carry on an ordinary conversation, much less teach a political philosophy seminar. Let that be a lesson for all students everywhere who ask that ridiculous question, “But when will I ever use this stuff that I’m learning?” How about: “What will you do when the unforeseeable occasion arises that demands knowledge you were supposed to have gotten but didn’t?” You’ll plead ignorance, that’s what you’ll do. And you’ll look and feel like a blithering idiot. How’s that for an answer?
How this translation thing will work is anybody’s guess, but I’m game, and I hope the students are, too. I met three of my students the other day–we exchanged enthusiastic smiles at one another for lack of being able to engage in mutually comprehensible discourse–and I’m told that I’ll have a total of between 12 and 15 students in the class. (A colleague at Felician tells me that they’re running summer classes with enrollments as low as 5. Ha!) We’re scheduled for a nice seminar room with a long rectangular table. A few cups of the Arabic coffee I’ve been having lately, and I think I’ll be ready for anything.
I don’t mean to be minimizing the hardships of life under military occupation–at least for people without an American passport like mine–but you could hardly have dreamt up better conditions for philosophical contemplation than the ones I’m currently in. I’m living in a spare but comfortable dorm room on the eighth floor of a four-tower housing complex. I’m the only human occupant of any of the four buildings: it’s like living in a non-scary version of “The Shining” (if that makes any sense). The other occupants include an unending series of pigeons whom the building manager allows to roost where they will–because “they’re guests, too.” Those bloodthirsty Palestinians!
The weather has been clear everyday, with temperatures hovering in the upper 70s and low 80s during the day, and upper 60s at night. A Mediterranean breeze riffles through my open window, and my ears are caressed by the twittering of birds, and the melody of children at play (never thought you’d see me write that, did you). I’ve had nowhere to go today, and apart from a quick trip into town, nothing to do but read, write, and look idly out of my eighth-floor window. It’s like a single person’s version of that old Belinda Carlisle song (if that makes any sense).
I’ve had a whirlwind few days. Last night, Rawan Dajani, one of the many hard-working people who work at AQU’s PR office, took me–of all places–to a reception at the U.S. Consulate in West Jerusalem, where I hobnobbed with the movers and shakers of Jerusalem. The food was good (grape leaves, sushi, hors d’ouevres, Jerusalem-style pizza, Palestinian pastries), but the music was even better (a jazz group from Nazareth), and the company was better than either. We got there too late to hear the departing Consul General’s speech–all I heard was the word “terrorists” as I went through security–but here it is.
After a few unsuccessful attempts, I even managed to have a conversation with the Consul General, Michael Ratney. Mr. Ratney and I discussed the complexities of the political situation. It was a productive conversation, and we agreed to re-convene in the near future for further talks. In a highly positive development, he told me–and here I quote directly–that he was “very pleased to meet” me. So I’m happy to report that progress is being made on all fronts, and look forward to continuing conversations with him on matters of mutual concern.
Well, except for one thing: I gather from a report on CBS News that there was a protest and some police action in response to the Festival a few days ago, but the only disturbance I managed to encounter that night was sleep disturbance due to jet lag. Incidentally, I find the line of questioning by the interviewer in the CBS video I just linked to rather silly: “Things have been calm in Jerusalem ‘lately,’ so was there anything that precipitated these protests?” The assumption seems to be that protesters are stimulus-response machines who won’t protest unless some proximate event precipitates it. But tensions have been “simmering” here for years, and the underlying problems have gone unresolved, so there’s nothing surprising about protest in East Jerusalem when it does arise.
Anyway, as I said, I’ll save discussion of the politics (and in the case of the Festival, the aesthetics) for later posts. For now, I’ll just say that Rawan and I were there for about an hour last night; it was packed with throngs of Israelis, Arabs, and foreign tourists, but I perceived no tension at all.
So what’s it like here in the West Bank? I’ve put a photo of my immediate surroundings in the header photos (and I’ll putting more in as I take some), so you’ll see that come round the photo carousel every now and then. I’ve already told you about the weather, and I haven’t had enough meals to tell you about the food, so about sound? What does it sound like in the West Bank?
Here, from a few days’ experience, is what the average evening sounds like in Abu Dis:
7:30 pm: preliminary call to maghrib (evening) prayer followed by call to prayer followed by prayer (VERY LOUD)
8:30 pm: celebratory machine gun fire and fireworks** followed by loud amplified music (yes, every night)
9-10 pm: dog fights and miscellaneous dog howling that echoes throughout the valley
10 pm: night time (isha) call to prayer
11 pm: eerie, reverential silence…until….
12 midnight: roosters crow midnight for half an hour
1 am: cat fights
2 am: dead silence punctuated by random horn blowing and trucks in low gear straining to get up the hill
3 am: cats, roosters, pigeons, donkeys, and occasional dog engage in high volume interspecies call-and-response communication, the cats being the loudest and sounding weirdly human
4 am: morning call to prayer (fajr)
5 am: in direct contradiction of all rooster stereotypes, roosters fail to crow for sunrise
9 am: someone operates a pneumatic drill for an hour
The strangest thing is that I actually slept rather well, and feel totally refreshed.
It’s a rather paradoxical place, this Palestine. More soon.
*I was originally going to call this series “Live from Abu Dis,” but dropped it for two reasons: (a) The blog currently has more Palestinian than American readers, and I’m not sure Palestinian readers would understand the (not all-that-funny) allusion to “Saturday Night Live”; (b) every blog post from anywhere is live, so “Live from Abu Dis” ultimately makes no sense. I almost called it “Postposts from Abu Dis,” but I think you can figure out why I didn’t. So “Postcards” it is. Wish you were here!
**I had originally written “celebratory machine gun fire,” but I discovered last night that they were fireworks. Less dramatic, I realize (June 14).
August 3, 2015: I later discovered that machine gun fire was interspersed with the fireworks (and vice versa).
I just got back from Nicaragua, and I’m ready to blog.
Now that I’ve recovered a bit from my trip–in other words, now that I’m no longer chained to the bathroom–I’ve been sitting here trying to compare what I observed in Nicaragua with what I’d observed on recent trips to Pakistan and the Palestinian Territories. I haven’t come to any conclusions, but a series of anecdotes about postcards conveys something about the flavor of each place. I swear I’m not making any of it up.
Nicaragua. I had time to kill one day Augusto Sandino International Airport in Managua, so I decided to get some postcards. I went over to a vendor, and asked her, in half-assed Spanish, for five postcards. She gave them to me, I paid for them, and then thought to ask for stamps. She didn’t have any, so I asked my friend and colleague George–who’s Nicaraguan–where I could get some stamps. “What the hell for?” he asked (he speaks American). “To mail some postcards,” I said. “Dude,” he said, “What’s the point? Nicaragua doesn’t have a postal service.” Oh. A revelation. (Not that this made a difference to my postcard issue, but it turns out that Nicaragua doesn’t have any accurate street addresses, either.)
Stereotype 1: Nicaragua, land of postcards but no postal service.
Pakistan. Compare this to Pakistan, which has an exemplary postal service, care of its erstwhile British colonial overlords. One day I had time to kill at Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore, so I went over to a vendor and asked him, in perfectly fluent Urdu, for some postcards. “What are those?” he asked. That’s when my Urdu started to break down.
Irfan: Well, they’re cards with a picture on one side, and blank space on the other, so that you can write on them and mail them to people.
Vendor: What would you want one of those for? Just get a calling card. I have the best prices! Check these out…
I really had no idea how to respond to that, whether in Urdu or in English, so I tried to mumble an excuse and started backing slowly out of the store. The vendor started to panic.
Vendor: I have batteries too! All kinds. You need double A’s? Lithium? Duracell?
Irfan: Thanks, I don’t need batteries.
Vendor: Tea? Coffee? Chicken kebab? When does your flight leave?
Stereotype 2: Pakistan, land of a British-style postal service and pushy vendors, but no postcards.
Israel/Palestine. I ended up having no time to kill at Ben Gurion International Airport. A colleague from Al Quds University Law School had persuaded me to join him and about a dozen people for a jaunt to the Golan Heights the day before my flight was supposed to leave. We left East Jerusalem early in the morning, and headed north to Golan on the understanding that I had to be back in Jerusalem by midnight to catch a taxi to Tel Aviv for a 5 am flight. Security regulations required me to get to the airport by 2 am.
We took a (very) leisurely drive to Golan, spent the day at a water park there (I think it was Kfar Blum), had a (very, very) leisurely six-course barbecue in the park, and then headed (in leisurely fashion) to Lake Tiberias around 8 pm, where we spent a few hours dancing on a very large, loud, DJ-outfitted dance boat full of drunk Russian Jews and hyperactive Israeli Arabs. (Actually, among “us” Palestinians, the men danced. The Arab/Palestinian women sat on the sidelines, clapping, ululating, and urging us on. I’m gratified to say that one of them told me that I “danced like a Palestinian.”) After that, we had a four course dinner on the shores of Lake Tiberias, when around 11 pm–gorged on chicken, fish, watermelon, Turkish coffee, etc.–it began to occur to my hosts that at this rate, I might miss my flight. We then rushed, dangerously and at full speed, down the Tiberias coast. Eventually, we rushed into the West Bank via Jericho (stopping only for ice cream), dropped everyone else off at Abu Dis, then rushed back into Jerusalem past its checkpoint (by this time my tipsy driver was sweating bullets and weaving all over the highway), and got me to my taxi 90 minutes late.
The taxi driver–who was patiently undisturbed about the delay, and either a member of Hamas or a Mossad agent impersonating one–rushed me to Tel Aviv, administering an alarming ideological-theological purity test along the way, but getting me there in record time.
Taxi Driver: Are you Christian or Muslim? [‘Jewish’ or ‘atheist’ were evidently not among the conceivable options.]
Irfan: Muslim. [A bald-faced lie, but the right answer in context.]
Driver (after a pause): Are you Shia or Sunni?
Driver: Good. The Shia are kaffirun [infidels]. They are fanatics. They will all burn in Hell. I am glad you are a Sunni.
Irfan: Well, I know who he is. [It seemed important here not to equivocate on ‘know’.]
Driver: What is your opinion of him?
Irfan: I don’t like him. He seems like a fanatic.
Etc. Repeat for forty-five hair-raising minutes, each ad hoc fatwa condemning more people to death or damnation, and each fatwa getting closer to revealing that I deserved the same fate. By the end of it, I was praying to be detained at an Israeli checkpoint.
Before long, I was detained at an Israeli checkpoint–or, well, a series of them. The first stop was just outside the airport, and took about half an hour. Then I got to the airport itself and was searched yet again. Then I got in line to check my bag, and was approached by an adorable security agent speaking Hebrew-accented English.
Security agent: We have reason to believe that you are bringing a bomb onto this flight.
Irfan (after a long pause): Sorry, what?
Security agent (rolling her eyes, and speaking very slowly, in exasperation): We…have…reaaason…to believe…that you…are bringing a bomb…onto the plane.
Irfan: Well, you might, but I don’t.
I didn’t mean to sound like a smart-ass, but I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t put a bomb in my bag (or anywhere else), but I had no way of proving that she had no reason to believe that I was bringing a bomb onto the plane. It just didn’t seem like the time or a place for a critical reasoning lesson on the burden of proof. (Philosophy, I’ve found, is a liability in most situations involving security agents, armed troops, law enforcement officers, or officers of the court.) She didn’t seem to like my answer, so she handed me over to another (very attractive) young lady, who walked me over to Strip Search Guy, who was much less fun than either of them had been.
I won’t bother to summarize the strip search part of my visit to Ben Gurion International Airport. Suffice to say that there was more stripping and searching than dialogue in the Strip Search Room. It also took longer than I thought it would. Who knew that there were that many orifices and surfaces in and on the human body large enough to hide a bomb? I guess by the end of it both Strip Search Guy and I had the answer.
After the strip search, I had to have my bag searched for the fourth or fifth time–once again by a very cute female security agent (a different one). She politely ransacked every millimeter of my bag, asking my permission to undo (and then redo) all of my packages (which I cheerfully gave)–including the bubble wrapped plaques of the Dome of the Rock that I had been cheated into buying by some scam artist in the Arab Quarter named “Ahmad” (what else?) who said that I “owed” it to him, to God, to Palestine, and to my Mom to shell out $200 to buy her (my Mom) a premium Dome of the Rock plaque with a nationalist-approved Quranic verse intended to prove that the Dome of the Rock was and shall forever remain within the exclusive sovereignty of the Palestinian Authority. I can’t believe I fell for it.
Anyway, this whole security process took three hours. By the end of it, the Alitalia airline agent who’d been waiting for me looked both alarmed and relieved when I emerged from security. “We thought you were going to be detained,” she whispered, and ushered me at last onto my plane. I hadn’t changed clothes or taken a shower in almost 24 hours, and was still damp from the Golan water park, with clumps of mud stuck to my socks and shins. I didn’t detonate a bomb, but I stank all the way to Rome, where I finally had the chance to clean up, buy some new clothes, and throw the old ones away. Bottom line: there was no time for postcards at Ben Gurion International Airport.
Stereotype 3: Israel, land of postcards and postal service, both of which are rendered inaccessible for security reasons.
I’m not sure what that all means, but these three anecdotes are the foundation for all of the stereotypes I now have about Nicaragua, Pakistan, and Israel/Palestine.
In other, unrelated news:
1. Kate, Carrie-Ann and I are on the final edits of Reason Papers 36.1, which will be coming out on Monday the 18th (it clocks in at 223 pages).
2. Within the next few days, I’ll be turning “Policy of Truth” into a group blog. At some point in the near future, I’ll also be putting as much of my writing as I can find (and as is presentable) under the “Writing” tab of the site. Stay tuned.