خزعبلات

During these past few months my time in Jordan has turned from an adventure worthy of regular updates to a daily life like any other. I go to class, run errands, and study and rarely does anything notable happen. I have gotten so accustomed to living here that it does not seem like this experience will be over in six months. My frustrations with Jordan peaked a few weeks ago. Even though I still think Amman is such an easy place to live, there are basic struggles that can pile up and make a day unbearable. There are no gutters or storm drains, so when it rains the city becomes a muddy mess with water flooding parts of the road, making it impossible to walk or even drive in some spots. There is no insulation in buildings, so there is little difference between the outside and inside temperatures. Heating mechanisms are either expensive (electric) or dangerous (diesel). These are mostly problems for this season.

Unfortunately, what has proven to be the most aggravating part of daily life here continues year round. On any given day, a woman who dares to leave her house and walk down the street while not accompanied by a man, will likely be sexually harassed. There is always aggressive staring (which is way worse than it sounds, especially when coming from a whole group of men at the same time), creepy kissy-faces, whistling, and sexual comments. Women are also grabbed in the street. A seemingly popular replacement for this is men walking unnecessarily close, so if you move at all you will brush against them. If you’re waiting for a cab, which is how Jordanians seems to spend half their lives, then guys will walk past you a few times, staring at you and getting close so they can whisper comments about your body. Again, this is not something that happens every once in a while. If I’m standing on the street alone or with other women, then it’s almost guaranteed to happen.

If you are wondering, “does this happen to women who wear the hijab? What about women that cover themselves in black from head to toe?” The answer is yes, it does. Of course, as an obvious foreigner with questionable clothing decisions, I am probably seen as more available and therefore more of a target. It is incorrect to think that clothing has absolutely no bearing on the level of harassment, but it is also incorrect to think that there is any outfit that will eliminate harassment. In fact, my professor told us that the shabaab (young men) will adjust their harassment depending on how pious their targets are. If it is a woman wearing a niqab, they’ll pepper their comments with references to Allah and Muhammad. 

With all the frustration and resentment that builds from dealing with this, I feel like I need to react in some way and that brings me to the most irritating part of street harassment. There is very little you can do to shame the harassers, or even get the message across that you are not interested. Ignore them and they continue, insult them and they laugh, stare back at them and they think you’re flirting. I honestly think that even if I slapped them they would be excited by that. Like everyone else, they just see what they want to, and in their case it is a city full of women craving their attention.

On the topic of delusional beliefs, these last few weeks I’ve been studying Jordanian superstitions. Also children's stories and folk tales in general. Here are some of the most interesting since many of the rest overlap with Western beliefs:

-Crows and owls are considered bad luck and when you see or hear one, someone you love will soon die.

-If you ever have a guest over and, for whatever reason, do not want them to return then you should break a glass when they leave.

The children’s stories are pretty creepy. There’s ‘The Man With the Burnt Leg’ (ابو رجل مسلوخة), the Bagman (ابو كيس), The Needle Man, Half Man (ابو نص انصيص), the list goes on, but they are all meant to terrify children who talk back to their parents, take too long in the shower, leave the house too late at night, etc.

Then there are stories that were believed to be true even by some adults and probably still are in some rural areas. My favorite one is about hyenas. It is said that hyenas will hide near houses and when someone walks by, the hyena pees on them. Their pee causes the person to go insane and think that the hyena is their father. The person follows the hyena back to its den, only to realize too late that they are about to be devoured. I would really like to know how a folktale like this gets started, but my impression is that it’s been around for a while.

I was also told stories about real people who were so notorious that they became fictionalized. For some reason, all of them lived in the Jordanian city of Zarqa. There’s Abdullah Tojj, who was a huge man with face tattoos who ran the city, beating people up and robbing stores in the middle of the day without any fear of being stopped by the police. No one could win a fight with him and most people would not even try. People considered him immortal until one day when a bus drove past him and its side mirror hit him in the head and killed him. Then there’s Lubna the ‘Gypsy’ girl (the term Gypsy here just means that she was a bad person). She was a tomboy, something not generally accepted here especially for girls in their late teens, and she gained such a horrible reputation on the streets that no one would say no to her when she demanded money from them. Anyone that sold things on the side of the road or worked at bus stations were required to pay her a daily tax or else the group of 50 men who were in her gang would beat them up or kill them. Even the police would not mess with her because she threatened their families. Of course, she grew up under horrible circumstances. Her mother was imprisoned when she was eight and she never had a real home after that. She was raped as a teen and gave birth to a son who was immediately put in an orphanage. All of this may explain why she turned out the way she did, but it does not explain why so many men were completely loyal to her, working for her and following orders at the risk of imprisonment or even death.

In 2009, one of the impoverished workers that made daily payments to Lubna stood up to her and was brutally beaten by her and her gang. He survived the attack, tracked her down the next day and slit her throat. She died quickly and he was arrested. While in prison he told an incredible story about dealing with Lubna and explaining why he did the right thing by murdering her. If anyone wants to read it in Arabic his name is جهاد بني خالد and the title is قاع المدينة. 

Also, here is a video of Lubna dancing, the only image of her that I could find: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1ecDGp-Nl4

Rappelling in Wadi Mukheiris

Here are a few pictures from my recent hike in Wadi Mukheiris near the Dead Sea. We went rappelling down waterfalls and swimming in the pools below which had freshwater crabs and toads. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of me rappelling since I was the one taking the pictures, but you can see what it was like.

North to Nablus, south to Amman

My last day in Palestine. I knew it would be a rough day because of all the bus and taxi transfers I would have to make just to get back to Amman. It is a complicated process getting to Amman from Jerusalem because the King Hussein Bridge that I used to come in does not issue Jordanian entry visas so I cannot use it to leave. I am still not sure why that is but I imagine it has something to do with the fact that the bridge is in the occupied territories rather than Israel proper. So instead I had to go north into Israel and then east to the Sheikh Hussein Bridge that issues visas to Jordan. Before I left in the morning I was trying to count the number of buses and cabs I would have to take to get home. After I got to seven I stopped counting. What made everything worse was my heavy pack, now even heavier since I filled it with the Taybeh beer. I lugged it out of the hostel and looked for a cab. I knew my haggling game would be weak since I was carrying such a huge bag. I felt like a wounded animal and the cab drivers knew that I would give in and pay whatever they asked to take me on a ten-minute drive. This was Shabbat, which apparently made the cab rides twice as expensive as they should have been. When I finally got to the buses, which are cheap by any measure, I was told that there were no buses to Nablus, my main destination for the day. Instead I would have to take a bus to Ramallah and then one to Nablus, which did not take much time. The drive to Nablus was beautiful. There were harsh deserts but also rolling hills dotted with olive trees. 

I had no clue what to do once I got to Nablus. I was planning on finding a cab driver who would give me a good deal and drive me to a couple places around the city before heading north. I wanted to go to Al-Aqsa, the best place for kunafeh in all of Palestine, and find some of Nablus's famous olive oil soap but mainly I just wanted to see another Palestinian city. As soon as I got off the bus, a driver honked at me and I got in, asking him how much he would want to take me to the old city.

“However much you want to pay.”
“OK, but what’s fair? I don’t want to get there and you say 30 and I say 10.”
“You know, not everything’s about money.”
“True, but I still want to be in agreement before we go any further.”
“You pay what you want. Why are you so worried?”

I told him I am just used to everyone trying to rip me off so I need to ask about the price of everything. We introduced ourselves. His name was Zaher.

“Not everything’s about money, Hannah.”

“I know that. Tell it to the people in Jerusalem.”

We parked the cab under an overpass near the old city. He decided to come with me to show me where Al-Aqsa was. We wound our way through the old city, which was more elaborate than I expected. Every few turns we ran into a friend or relative of his (Picture: Zaher and his uncle in the souq) and slowly the story of his life unraveled. He brought me to an open area of the old city that had large, framed photos of some of the soldiers that were killed (martyred) while they were serving in the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades (the military wing of Hamas) during the Second Intifada. Zaher was a member of al-Qassam and was fighting the Israelis with his brother and friends. When the Israelis were approaching and firing a bullet grazed Zaher’s head, which still bears a large scar. He escaped but his brother was arrested and is serving the remaining half of his 24-year sentence in Israel. His friend is the one pictured (could not do much about the horrible lighting).

We then found the kunafeh shop which was so packed that we had to stand and eat. It was delicious and freshly baked. We walked towards the spice markets which filled the air with smells of camphor and ginger.

We went into one of the shops and I got some of Nablus’s famous olive oil soap. After all the wandering around it was getting a bit late. I still had four hours until the Sheikh Hussein border crossing closed at 7pm, but I desperately needed that time to get there and make it through all the security. I told Zaher that but he seemed to want to show me around the city more. He put on some horrible electronic Arabic pop music featuring Pitbull and we drove around. I was getting more and more uncomfortable, partly because he had been paying for everything--the kunafeh, the soap, drinks for me, and he was even saying he did not want to take any money from me for the cab ride. When I insisted on paying for anything he explained that this was just the Palestinian way. It is true that Palestinians are world-renowned hosts and incredibly generous, but not even allowing someone to pay for their own bar of soap is a bit over-the-top. I told him to take me back to the bus station so I could catch a bus to Beit She’an and get to the border crossing. On the road to the bus station was the martyr’s graveyard, where all of his friends were buried after the Second Intifada. He wanted to stop there and show me their graves. It would have been hard to say “No, I don’t want to see your best friend’s grave” so I said we could stop for couple minutes. It was a beautiful graveyard with winding paths full of trees, but I have no pictures since I assumed that would be disrespectful. Every grave along the path we walked belonged to a Hamas soldier. The granite coffins above the ground bore the Hamas insignia, a picture of the martyr, and various engravings. He told me a little bit about each one that was killed. For years after the Intifada he could not bring himself to visit the old city because it reminded him of playing with these friends as children.

“I don’t know why God let me live. I remember being hit by the bullet and bleeding, thinking I was dying. I was ready to be martyred. I just wanted to die with my friends.”

We returned to the cab which was still running and blasting dance music out of the open windows. We were finally heading to the bus station. There were no buses to where I needed to be. I was considering going to Jenin first and then taking a cab a shorter distance to the border, but everyone was telling me that there would be no cabs there, or that they would be just as expensive. Cabs from Nablus to Beit She’an were 300 shekels, about $85. If there was bus if would have cost about $3. I had no idea what to do and I was worried that all of these cabbies were just trying to rip me off, but we asked ten different people and they all agreed it would cost 300 NIS. Zaher said he would take me there for 250, so I agreed. Before leaving Nablus he said he wanted to stop and buy me some juice. I was ready to just get on the road and get to the border. I was also sick of him buying me stuff, so I told him if he wanted juice he should go ahead and get some but I did not want any.

“Why not?”
“I’m not thirsty. I have my water, that’s all I want.”
“What do want? A coke, some juice?
“No, nothing. I don’t want anything.”
“Why do you keep saying no?! No, no, no, no! That’s all you say!”

At this point he seemed genuinely angry and it was disturbing. There was no way I wanted to drive for an hour in the middle of nowhere with this guy but at the same time I did not want to get out on a blistering hot day and lug my bag around just to look for a more expensive cab. I told him I was getting out anyways and that I would find another taxi. He did not seem to understand, and seemed even more upset and hurt. I tried to couch it in terms of cultural differences:

“Most Americans don’t like it when someone else buys everything for them. I know you’re being a good host and I appreciate that, but it makes me feel guilty to have you pay for everything. I just need to get to the border and I don’t want to be stopping all the time.”

“OK, let’s just go.”

So I stayed in the cab. Sometimes convenience trumps comfort. We drove without stopping any more and in a few minutes we began seeing beautiful valleys and oases with streams and palm trees. There was even a surreal amusement park that was tucked away in an oasis with roller coasters and merry-go-rounds. Again, I wanted pictures, but I was not about to ask him to stop at this point. Most of the drive was without conversation. He was blasting his music and singing along, so he did not seem that upset anymore. 

“I just want you to be happy, Hannah. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

He showed me where the battle was during the Second Intifada. We were driving into some pretty stark desert when we started seeing Israeli flags and signs for Beit She’an. Then I remembered what he had told me earlier-- he could never go into Israel. He would likely be arrested and put in prison like his brother. I told him I wanted to be dropped off before the border but he refused, saying he was worried about me and wanted to make sure I got through OK. As we approached the border crossing there was a stop sign 50 yards from the actual inspection point, but Zaher kept going past it. A guard urgently gestured for us to stop and grabbed his assault rifle.

“They want you to stop!” Luckily, he did. The guards started walking towards the cab.

“You’re scared of them, aren’t you?” Zaher asked me.
“Yes.”
“They don't scare me at all. Us Palestinians are never scared of them and we're not scared of death.”

I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. We were at the Israeli border and with all the security measures they have it would make sense for the area to also be bugged. The guard walked up to the cab and Zaher spoke to him in fluent Hebrew. He wanted us to wait there for his supervisor. Ninety percent of the time spent at Israeli security checkpoints is just waiting. Waiting in the sun, waiting in the security line, waiting in your car. We gave our IDs/passport to the supervisor and were told where to park for inspection. Since Zaher was not taking me across the border I did not understand why they were inspecting his car. All he was going to do was turn around. They popped open the hood and trunk and all of the doors and had us take our bags inside for inspection. It was all pretty routine. 

We had to wait outside for Zaher’s cab to be cleared. Zaher sat down on a bench and told me to sit next to him and drink some water. I did but then he told me to not sit there because there was too much sun on me, I needed to sit on the other side. I told him there was no difference but finally I moved over. Meanwhile five Israeli soldiers are watching us bicker in Arabic like an old married couple and looking at us like we’re aliens. Zaher was finally cleared to leave. I ended up giving him 300 since he took what I saw to be a pretty significant risk just to make sure I crossed the border safely. We said our goodbyes.

There were no cabs or buses at the border like I had expected. One of guards asked me if I wanted him to call a cab for me and I said yes. A minute later a Palestinian family in a white Kia pulled into the checkpoint and the guard said I should ask them to give me a ride to the border. I did, and without blinking an eye the man said yes, he could give me a ride. I asked him how much he would want. He looked surprised and said he wanted nothing. I felt bad for asking but I told him I would have to pay him. Just then I look over and see his wife and three kids getting out of the car. I ask if there will be enough space, especially since I have such a big bag. “It’s no problem” he said.

I waited for them to go through the same security process and when they were finally done I helped load all of their bags back in the car. I really didn’t see how my massive camping backpack would fit anywhere. When we were all piling in the car the mother took my pack from me and put it on her lap, without a word of complaint. I got in the back with their three kids Maryam, Hamza, and Ali, between the ages of 3 and 8. They were the most adorable kids you could ever hope to meet, two of them wearing little t-shirts that read, “We are all Gaza.”

We talked a lot about my experience in Palestine and the Middle East in general. They told me about their trips to Dubai and their family in Jerusalem and Hebron. Maryam showed me pictures from their trip and all of their family. They live in Amman and told me about the places I need to visit in Jordan. 

Without going into all the details of the four checkpoints and border crossings that we went through I will just say it was a huge hassle. Exit fees from Israel, entrance fees for Jordan (both of which the father offered to pay for me), car permits and different receipts, again nagging everyone to not stamp my passport. When we finally made it through and were in Jordan I told them I would look for a cab. They insisted that I ride with them to Amman but only after offering to take me to the duty free if I wanted to get anything. We stopped along the way to buy snacks and water. After a few hours on the road I felt like one of their kids-- laughing and eating candy in the back seat and tickling the baby brother. They drove me and my luggage all the way from the West Bank checkpoint, through Israel into Jordan, south to Amman and to my front door. I spent four or five hours with them and they saved me well over $100. They asked me to join them for dinner that same night when we got back to Amman but I was just too exhausted. They refused to take any money and each got out of the car to say goodbye in front of my apartment, kisses on the cheek from the mother and a handshake from the father.

I hate to get sappy and even a bit political with how I describe this family, but what follows is what I wrote immediately after they dropped me off, so I feel an obligation to include it. So much effort is made by pro-Palestinians to humanize those that are being killed in Gaza, but to little avail. Sometimes it takes just a few hours spent with a family to illustrate a very basic point that so often escapes Westerners--that Palestinians are real people.


These are real people that kiss their small children on the cheek and buy them too much candy and laugh with their wife when their youngest son is being especially silly. The sister that looks adoringly at her little brother and plays with him on her lap for the whole car ride. The mother and daughter that tease the dad for being afraid of snorkeling while the dad says his daughter would be a good Arabic teacher for me because she talks all the time. They are no different from the families in Gaza, they are no different from the Israelis, and they are no different from the family you love. 

"If it is safe enough for a bunch of sissy artists, then it is safe enough for anyone." 8/22/2014

I got my breakfast to go from a famous bagel place in the Jewish Quarter and sat in the square next to the Hurva Synagogue. It was a beautiful day and I later caught a bus to Bethlehem. I was told by a few locals that this would be the best city to visit on a Friday, when many demonstrations which can turn violent take place in other cities. The bus could not take us any further than the checkpoint and when we disembarked we had to file through the concrete complex and fenced-in queues until we reached the other side (i.e. the West Bank). I was expecting a metal detector or someone to check our passports, but we just had to make our way through the maze. I asked a cab driver how much a ride to the city itself would cost. He hesitated for a split second while a look that said "I wonder how much I can get out of this dumb tourist" crossed his face.

"Fifty shekels."
"No. Twenty."
"OK, forty."

I walk over to a man sitting on a couch on the side of the road and ask him how much a cab ride to the city costs.

"Ten shekels, maximum."

So I head to the parking lot while the other cabbie is still following me saying, "OK, OK, I'll take twenty!"
When I reach another group of cab drivers I ask them what they'll take for the ride. One shouts out, "I'll take you for just 50 shekels." I laughed, told him he's crazy and said I wasn't going to pay more than ten. One of them, a chubby, kind-faced man named Faris immediately agreed to ten and led me to his cab, explaining to me that what those men were doing was haram--it is against Islam to cheat others out of money. I told him I was not sure exactly what I wanted to see in Bethlehem, but he decided to take me to the Church of the Nativity, since that is the only place most tourists want to go.

The Church of the Nativity was built on the site where Jesus is said to have been born but he almost certainly was not born here.

He then offered to show me the separation wall up close and some of Banksy's art. We drove through Bethlehem and stopped at a car wash where he said one of his pieces was. We got out of the car and walked around the side of the building.

I had Faris stand next to the piece to give an idea of its size. This is arguably one of the most famous pieces of street art in the world. I have seen it reproduced in books and magazines and I never had any idea it was that huge. Faris seemed to like it. He explained that Banksy painted it so that the flowers were being thrown towards Jerusalem. We walked back to the cab, past the men who own the car wash. I asked Faris if I should give them some money for letting me see it. Of course, he said no and explained that Palestinians do not want money, they just want more people to come and see. This reminded me of Banksy's comment about Bethlehem:

“Because of the troubles, Bethlehem is no longer a top tourist destination, but it would be good if people came to see… for themselves. If it is safe enough for a bunch of sissy artists, then it is safe enough for anyone.”

I started to think more about Banksy and his work in Palestine. What did it mean for a tourist to come to Bethlehem, visit random alleys and car washes that they would normally have no interest in, just to see the work of a British artist?

We continued to another random spot that Faris wanted to show me. It was the site of my favorite Banksy piece, but unfortunately it had been removed a few years ago. See it here: http://grd403.wordpress.com/2008/12/30/banksy-soldier-checking-a-donkeys-id-card-2/

The concrete was cut out by the building's owner and refilled, leaving just an off-colored square in the wall. The owner sold it for an untold sum. Banksy's pieces will go for anywhere between $300,000 to $1.8 million. To me, it is a miracle that all the shop owners have not cut out their pieces of the wall to sell to American galleries. Faris explained that they want to keep them there since it benefits the whole community rather than just an individual. 

Removing and selling street art can be controversial, especially for the galleries that purchase and resell these pieces. As Banksy's friend Marc Schiller has said, "By removing Banksy’s work from the street, you remove the context and significance of the work. In this way, the organizers have effectively ruined what makes it a piece of art." Of course, it is hard to judge a Palestinian shopkeeper who almost certainly needs money for cutting out a piece of his wall and selling it to provide for his family. For further reading on Banksy and this process here are some good articles and as always I highly recommend the documentary Exit Through the Giftshop:


http://www.stencilrevolution.com/profiles/about-banksy/

http://www.miamiherald.com/2012/12/03/3125154/five-banksy-works-in-dispute.html

http://www.theartnewspaper.com/articles/Off-the-wall-Banksy-murals-move-from-West-Bank-to-Miami/27928

He later took me to an all-Banksy gift shop (one can see how much the art has affected the economy and tourism of Bethlehem) and here are the other works I saw by him:

We drove through the Aida refugee camp. Just under 5,000 Palestinians live in this camp. They have poor sewage and water networks, have an unemployment rate of over 43%, and are prevented from traveling outside of Bethlehem and Ramallah. Most people in this camp have lived their whole lives here as it was created in 1948. Right next to the camp is the separation wall and on the other side the illegal Israeli settlement of Gilo. On the separation wall is more artwork-- most of it amateur, but some interesting pieces.

Faris told me that the local youth had been throwing fire bombs up against the wall, hence all the black soot. He said they scared away the IDF soldiers that were keeping watch in the tower and they have never come back since. I asked Faris if any of the artwork was from Palestinians.

"No. All foreigners."
"Why aren't there any Palestinian artists here?"
"We just don't do things like that. We're too tired."

He took me back to the border crossing and again the damn knife that I kept forgetting to take out of my purse was haunting me. I asked Faris if it would be a problem and he said it definitely would, trying to convince me to give it to him and get it from him another time (which would not make any sense, since I would still need to then cross the border with it). I decided to just give it a shot. I took it into the checkpoint, but there was no one to declare it to. I put my bags through the x-ray and walked through the metal detector, which was obviously set off. A British tourist behind me told me to put it in one of the bins and then walk through. I did and continued on. There was not a single soldier at the security checkpoint. It was so surreal. We just wound through the empty maze that brought us back to the cab drivers and buses. The British man asked me if my knife made it through.

"Yeah. And here I was about to give it away."
"Good for you!"

I got back to Jerusalem shortly thereafter and walked outside the city walls. I was immediately stopped by a middle-aged Palestinian man selling corn on the cob who approached me saying, "Excuse me ma'am, just a minute." For some reason I stopped despite the fact that I heard this exact same phrase dozens of times in the souq. In fact, I want to take this opportunity to explain just how aggressive shopkeepers are in Jerusalem. They yell, always in English,"Ma'am! Ma'am! Excuse me? Helloooo? Why you no talk to me? Why you so hard?" They obviously just want me to go to their shop so they can coax me into buying as much as possible but they say, "I want to talk to you, not about business." Then they get more aggressive, sometimes cursing at me. "Piece of shit. What's wrong with you?" A few of them are pretty clever. After passing and ignoring them they would call after me, "Miss, you dropped something!" just to get me to turn around and talk to them. I am happy to say that I did not fall for that once. I just got so accustomed to never looking at them or talking to them that I probably would not have blinked if one yelled out my name and social security number.

Even after all of that, I did stop and talk to the corn seller. The first thing he asked me is why I was not scared to come here like everyone else. We sat down on a bench near his stand to talk about all the things I had talked about a million times before--Gaza, the U.S. and Israel, religion. He told me about time he spent in Austria. Two of his children are living there now. 

"I didn't like Austria. The people there are too cold. My children are in Vienna but I don't want to live there. I was born here and I will die here."

A young woman from Taiwan named Joy approached us. She was apparently a friend of Zaki's, the corn seller. She sat down next to him and took two peaches out of her bag, handing one to Zaki. He split it in two and gave half to me. Joy began telling us about her horrible experiences in the souq of the old city, specifically the men that would pressure her into buying things, look at her suggestively, and try to put their arms around her. When she was recalling one particularly bad experience and tearing up Zaki said, "Next time that happens, you punch him! Show me where he is and I will beat him." He tried explaining to Joy that there were a lot of bad people in the souq but just like any other city there are bad people and good people. 

"Just remember that the world is small for nice people, but mean people have no one."

We talked more about the U.S. Zaki seemed to think that everything in America revolves around money. He said he did not understand why people want so much money.

"Life just gets worse the more money you have. I'd rather stay poor. If I have food, I eat. If I don't, I fast."

Zaki then left to get Joy and me some orange juice from the stand nearby. Joy continued telling me about how horrible the Arabs in the souq had been to her. Again she was to the point of tears because of all the men that had ripped her off and made suggestive comments to her. I was shocked at how bad it was for her. There were certainly some sleazy men in the old city but as long as I ignored them and kept walking there was not much of a problem. It is devastating to me to think of all the female tourists who come to Jerusalem and leave with a similar impression of Palestinians and Arabs in general. 

It was now sunset on Friday meaning that Shabbat was just starting. Zaki said he wanted to take us to the Western Wall. He knew of a special place where we would have the best view. Zaki led us through a maze of alleys that neither me nor Joy had seen before until we reached a balcony overlooking the holy site.

Joy and I spent a fair amount of time trying to capture the moment in pictures, but nothing seemed to do it justice. The crowds, the dancing, the music. Many of the Jews of Jerusalem came to the Western Wall on this night to pray and celebrate Shabbat. I walked back from the balcony to the bench where Zaki was sitting. I could not help but ask him how he felt when he saw this.

"I have no problem with people getting together to pray. This is their holy place and Jerusalem is not for any one group of people. Jerusalem should be for everyone. I have no problem with them or with praying. I have a problem with occupation, with killing children, with cutting down our trees."

I returned to my hostel and talked with the owner for a few minutes about the bombings in Gaza and the assassination attempt of Mohammed Deif, which resulted in the death of his wife, his seven-month-old son, and three others. This was the fifth failed assassination attempt by the Israelis.

"Do you know why he keeps surviving all their attempts?" The owner asked me.
"Why?"
"Because God is standing with him."
"But God wouldn't stand with his wife and son?"
"…No."

Read more here: http://www.miamiherald.com/2012/12/03/3125154/five-banksy-works-in-dispute.html#storylink=cpy

Ramallah/Taybeh 8/21/2014

I caught a bus from Damascus Gate to Ramallah. It was my first time getting a good look at the separation wall. Of course, it is much more than concrete slabs that separate two territories. It is more like a complex with towers, checkpoints, roundabout lanes and separate entrances based on the license plate and type of vehicle. Since we were in a bus with Israeli plates we were not required to get out, but we still had to wait in the long lines that stifle movement in and out of the West Bank at all hours. When we crossed into Ramallah I was able to see a lot of the famous graffiti that covers this portion of the separation wall, including this Banksy piece, my first time seeing his work in person.

I wandered around Ramallah, saw a nice oud and guitar store, bought some fresh-squeezed mango and orange juice and found a cultural heritage center that was once a traditional Palestinian home, about 250 years old. I talked with the owner, who was the eighth generation of the family that used to live there and he gave me a great deal on a hand-embroidered Palestinian purse from a local woman's co-op.

I then caught a cab with a driver named Abu Muhammad who agreed to take me around the city. He was very helpful and friendly and seemed genuinely interested in my background and studies. We arrived at Yasser Arafat's tomb, where the headquarters of the Palestinian Authority are also located. I was the only visitor there, and the guards made the experience a little uneasy. The grounds of the mausoleum were immaculate and minimalist. There is one guard always watching over the tomb.

We headed south through the city and Abu Muhammad said we had to make a stop at his office first. We walked into the office and he said said proudly to his boss, "This is Hannah. She speaks Arabic, studied it in the U.S. and lives in Amman!"His boss welcomed me and offered me a seat. Abu Muhammad went to prepare some tea while his boss and I watched the news, which was all about the fresh strikes in Gaza. We started to talk about the situation and he asked me why the U.S. supports Israel so much. He seemed pretty knowledgeable on the subject, but still did not not understand the unwavering support. At that point, Abu Muhammad came back in with some tea, adding: "Hannah says that you can't get elected as president in the U.S. unless you support Israel!"

We talked more about Israel/U.S. relations and I have found in almost all conversations there are a few points that consistently come up:

-It has to be stated multiple times that Israel is killing hundreds of women and children, even if that has already been established.

-Coming to an agreement on what term to use to refer to 'them.' Practically all of the Palestinians I talked to started the conversation using the word 'Jews,' but when I asked them if they meant 'Jews' or 'Israelis' (or 'occupiers', etc.) they would all immediately clarify that they do not mean all Jews. That would be followed by comments about how much they respect the Jewish faith and Jewish people, but not the Zionists.

-Saying that the status quo cannot continue and that major changes will happen once the U.S. loses some of its power, resulting in Israel changing its policies towards Palestinians and ending the occupation.

Abu Muhammad's boss started telling me about how the U.S. supports ISIS. This is a theory I have heard a few times now. They seem to think that it would be advantageous to Israel and American corporations if ISIS continues to destabilize Iraq and Syria, increasing the demand for weapons and military contractors. The boss asked me if I knew about Blackwater. 

Abu Muhammad came back in the room with a huge dish full of chicken and potato stew. He heated up some bread and handed me a piece with a bowl full of stew. It was delicious, especially considering a group of cabdrivers had just made it in their office. We headed back out to Mahmoud Darwish's grave. Darwish is the most famous Palestinian poet and one of the most famous modern Arabic poets. This is a poignant work of his: Silence for Gaza.

I still had to get to Taybeh that day so Abu Muhammad drove me to the bus station. As soon as I got on the bus a woman my age gave me a big smile from her seat at the front. We began talking and she immediately offered me a Snickers from her purse. She told me when and where to catch the cabs and buses in Taybeh. I am lucky she told me because I probably would have missed the last bus out of Taybeh at 6:30. My sole reason for visiting Taybeh was to go to their brewery-- the only one in Palestine and one that has an Oktober Fest every year.

The owner and his niece gave me a tour of the brewery and a few samples. The niece told me all about the brewing process and the Oktober Fest, but told me how difficult business will be this year considering the huge drop in tourism (due to people's fears about the security situation). I bought a 12-pack, half Amber and half Golden and hauled it back to Ramallah, then to Jerusalem. We crossed the border again and this time I was able to get a picture of the wall. Photographing the wall is difficult, or at least inconvenient, because most of the time you are near it you are also near Israeli checkpoints, where photography is usually a bad idea. But here is a shot I got from the bus in the evening. The wall is 26 feet tall, 430 miles long, most of it built on Palestinian land, and it is hideous:

The border crossing is a much different experience when one is entering Israel. This time a soldier got on the bus with us, checked our passports, and asked some questions. The queue was especially long, but it gave me more time to look closely at some of the art on the wall. There was a large fire burning at one end of the wall and a Palestinian boy throwing rocks, but I could not see if anything serious was happening (probably not).

On a normal day I look pretty foreign in Jerusalem's old city but lugging around a clanking box clearly labeled BEER in the Muslim Quarter was not helping my situation. I was so happy to finally get back to my hostel that night and relax with this delicious Palestinian drink:

"Why can't you just be a normal person?" 8/20/2014

I loved leaving my hostel in the morning and immediately being in the old city. I just had to turn a corner and I was walking in the souq in the Christian Quarter. I was still waking up while I was trying to figure out which route to take to get to the Temple Mount when an Orthodox man in a long black coat walked briskly past me, talking on his cell phone in English and said loudly, "I hope we kill as many as we can. Two thousand this time." It took me a second to understand what he was talking about but then I remembered Netanyahu's vow to strike Gaza again after the collapse of the ceasefire the previous night. I felt sick. I know those sentiments are there and I hear about them all the time, but to hear it in person as a casual comment was quite a blow. 

I continued towards the Temple Mount. As I was nearing it I was stopped by a Palestinian man sitting in a lawn chair on the side of the street. 

"You can't go there." He said in English.

"Why not?" I responded in Arabic. He seemed surprised and told me that the street led to the Dome of the Rock. I would have to be a Muslim to enter. I knew that before but I thought I would at least be able to get to the Temple Mount. He explained that there were specific hours when non-Muslims could visit and I was about two hours early. He showed me another way to get to the Western Wall where I could see Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock. I headed down, saw a security checkpoint and remembered the knife I had in my purse. I decided to try to get through anyways so I entered the checkpoint and told the soldier about the knife. He asked to see it.

"You know, this kind of knife is a problem in Israel." He said.

"Well they let me in at the border with it."

"Come back another time."

I obliged and I was just happy he did not confiscate my knife. I met the guard, Munib, back at the top of the hill and told him about the knife. He asked to see it and told me he would hold on to it for me while I went back in. I went back through security and got near the Western Wall. I walked around a little bit but came back soon because of the horrible heat.

The top picture is the Mount of Olives. It is famous for a lot of reasons, but its most striking feature is the 150,000 Jewish graves that cover the side of it. It has been used as a cemetery for over 3,000 years following the belief that when the Messiah comes, the resurrection of all people will begin there. The other two pictures are the Western (Wailing) Wall and the Dome of the Rock.

I head back to Munib and sit down with him on the side of the street which was a great place for people watching. It was unclear what Munib's job was. He obviously was not an official guard, nor was he a shop owner. He was just hanging out, watching the swarms of tourists and giving them directions in Arabic, Hebrew, English, and Russian. We talked for a while about American politics and Israel, religion, and people's attitude towards the massacre in Gaza. I noticed tattoos on his hands and commented that I had seen more Palestinians with tattoos than most other Arabs. He said that was true, they do have more tattoos and he explained the significance of his. One was a short Arabic phrase that meant something like, "It is what it is." The other one was three dots in the shape of a triangle.

"This one is about the occupiers (referring to Israeli soldiers). It reminds me that I don't see them, I don't hear them, and I don't talk to them."

Just as I was about to say that they looked like American prison tattoos he said, "They arrested me. Put me in prison for six years." 

"For what? And when was that?"

"I got out four years ago. They said I was working for the resistance, providing them with arms."

"Six years. That's a long time. So were you guilty?"

He stares past me with a distant and pained look on his face. An American tourist behind Munib is smiling wide, hand on her hip, posing for a photo next to some tapestries.

"So what, were you innocent?"

He looks at me and blinks hard, meaning yes. 

He tells me about everyone he knows in the old city. See that guy? Do you know who he is? He's the muezzin for Al-Aqsa. And that guy there? He's an Israeli informant. I asked him how he knew that.

"Oh, he always tries to be so nice to me saying 'Munib, how are you? How is your family? I hope you have a nice day.' I know what he's up to."

I asked him if he has many Jewish friends and he assured me he has every kind of friend. His ex-girlfriend was Jewish, but he said she was too self-centered so they broke up. A young man with a tray of pita bread balanced on his head walks by and Munib stops him, grabbing a piece from the tray.

He gave half to me and we sat and talked some more. He told me he is not scared of the IDF. They are the ones that are scared of him, because Palestinians do not fear death. We talked about my experiences with Israeli security and I explained that the border agents think it is strange that an American would want to be in Palestine. He tells me to just say I am a tourist and to not speak Arabic at the checkpoints. He asks me, "Why can't you just be like a normal person?"

I still have over an hour until I can visit the Temple Mount so I head back to my hostel for a little while and then meet Munib at the same spot soon after. He seemed surprised to see me, probably thinking I would not come back. Again, I forgot to take the knife out of my purse so I gave it to him for safekeeping and head to the Temple Mount.

I go through security again and there are different guards this time. They ask me if I have any guns with me and when I say no they ask me why not. I tell them if they want to give me one, go ahead.

I get down near the Western Wall but I do not see how to access the Dome of the Rock since all walls seem to be blocking it. I see two female IDF soldiers and ask them in English and Arabic where the Dome of the Rock is. Irritated, they responded in English, "Sorry, we don't know what that is." The Dome of the Rock of course being the most iconic structure in Jerusalem and less than 100 feet from where we were standing. I end up having to leave the Western Wall area and re-enter through another security checkpoint.

"Is this the way to the Temple Mount?" I ask.

"That all depends." The soldier says.

"Depends on what?" 

"If you can smile."

So I do and they let me through. At every turn of the enclosed gangway, which you can see by Al-Aqsa Mosque in the picture above, there are groups of soldiers. At the end there is another group and one tells me I need to take off my sunglasses, apparently just to tell me I have beautiful eyes.

I pass Al-Aqsa and make my ways towards the Dome of the Rock. The Temple Mount is quiet and spacious.

As I was walking around the Temple Mount and preparing to head back, two young Palestinian women approached me and told me I needed to cover my head to be in the area. I asked them in Arabic why no other foreign women were wearing the hijab.

"We're going to tell them now. Oh, you speak Arabic."

"Yeah." I pulled out my hijab from my purse and wrapped it around my head. "So is it okay like this?"

They said it was, but now they were more interested in what I was doing in Jerusalem and about my background. After I explained, and of course mentioned that I was from the U.S., one of them asked me what my opinion was on the attack on Gaza and how I felt about the occupation. She then rolled up her left sleeve and showed me quarter-sized wounds on her arm. 

"This is from the Israelis who fired at us while we were praying a few weeks ago."

I really did not know what to say. I asked them about the attack and the demonstrations and they asked me why America is supporting their occupiers. I said what I could about not all Americans supporting the occupation, but it was little consolation. I headed back to Munib and asked him if it was true about the Israelis shooting at people on the Temple Mount. He said it happens pretty often. I took my knife back and wandered around the old city for a few hours. 

I passed the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and then caught a bus to the Mount of Olives so I could see the sun set over Jerusalem. It was a beautiful view from a terraced park at the top of the Mount: