If you garner all your opinions on Israel from Guardian reports and internet message boards, as I tend to do, you expect every Israeli to be strongly anti-Arab, militaristic, and itching to brand you anti-semitic. It's true of some. Movements within Israel to increase Palestinian human rights are viewed with suspicion, and Israeli Jews working to unite the two groups are virtually guaranteed a prime spot on some loon's list of "SELF-HATING JEWS!". The insoluble problem of all states based on religion or 'race' apply: political objections are all too easily represented as anti-religious, racist or unpatriotic. The reasonable voice of the middle ground becomes inaudible over the screams of the fanatics.
Every Saturday, a group of Israeli Jews drive down to the rural areas south of Hebron in the West Bank and escort Palestinian shepherds as they graze their flocks. Today I accompany them on their 'operation'. The reason behind this weekly jaunt is to prevent conflicts arising between the shepherds and some of the Israelis who inhabit a fortressed settlement (originally illegal, now legal) on the other side of the hill from the Palestinian villages. In the past the shepherds have been refused the right to graze their own land by settlers, and Israeli police naturally take the side of their countrymen in disputes. The theory is that the presence of Israelis and internationals (like me) discourages violence or unethical behaviour. Today's operation is lent urgency by the events of the previous day, which are related by an international volunteer who lives in the Palestinian village for months at a time to document any signs of aggression by the Israeli settlers. We sit with the men of the village and drink tea on a concrete terrace as he gives us the grist for an appealing short story.
A group of settlers had come to the village, with police, to confront the villagers over the theft of some cherries from one of their orchards. "I saw an empty bag of cherries lying on the ground," says the volunteer, "but I told them that this wasn't the way to solve the problem." The settlers set about both the international volunteers, headbutting one and breaking the camera of another. The Palestinian villagers also bore the brunt of this physical attack. Black eyes are in evidence during our tea party, tentatively hidden behind sunglasses. What set this fracas apart from other experiences, he says, was that the police made no attempt to break up the fight or restrain the Israelis. They did, however, arrest any Palestinian pointed out by their countrymen. The international volunteers, working for a Christian peace organisation, caught everything on video. Digital cameras are a necessary form of protection here.
The police arrive today, too, and break up the tea party by questioning one of our group, a known Israeli activist. We leave the village and walk over a sandy ridge to summit of the next hill, from where we can command a view of the whole valley. Settlers were spotted in the area this morning, so we stand guard for an hour at our post. Israeli army jeeps begin to arrive and congregate a hundred metres away, watching us: eight jeeps for five peaceful activists. We enjoy the absurdity of the situation and the irony that had there been a fight between settlers and shepherds this morning, only half the man power would have been deployed. After a while and some more tea with the villagers, because we can, we leave.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The mundanity of poverty
What to expect of the West Bank? Unemployment is above 40% and movement across the border into Israel, where most of the jobs are, is difficult. I used to live in Loughborough Junction, South London, so I know what a shithole looks like. Here I expect to see scenes of a more stirring kind. Comic Relief stuff. Kids smeared in their own shit. Maybe a couple of desperate women eating the corpses of their husbands, killed by Israeli soldiers.
Evening in Al 'Ayzariyah, and we sit in the house of a lovely Palestinian family. When he finds out that I'm an English teacher, the father of the family tells me of a British sitcom about someone teaching English to foreigners that he saw before it was cancelled. "It was really disappointing, you know. Something really good, that I wanted to follow, and it disappeared after one episode." It's cruel living on the West Bank.
He digs out his VHS copy of the one episode shown, and we watch it. It's called 'Mind Your Language', and I soon see why I've never seen a repeat. The foreigners learning English are like children, and a lot of the humour is derived from crude racial stereotypes. It's curious to me that this show has stayed as such a touchstone in his memory, as if the world here were in stasis.
The family here live in a nice house near to Jerusalem, which was ten minutes in a car before the Wall was erected (it's now over an hour's journey). The father used to be an actor and performed often in Jordan. He's now retired because he can't leave the West Bank and has health problems. He tells me that he has written three films, that the scripts are sitting in a draw. The three children are polite, sweet and can all speak very good English, taught by their mother. She is a formidable woman whose entire energy supports women's projects in the area. The occupation is an obsession to her, and how could it not be? The first question she asks me is on my opinion of their situation. I feel like my answers can't satisfy her, and mutter something vague about it being "crazy". She is very aware of what they lack, and parades their wants openly to evoke pity.
We sit late into the evening and discuss the problems with Windows Vista (so much for stasis), along with the part we can play in the Palestinian struggle once we're back home. We drink lots of tea and eat lots of biscuits. I take a piss in their bathroom, but don't flush, because water is a problem. As we leave they cut each of us a pink rose from their garden.
Evening in Al 'Ayzariyah, and we sit in the house of a lovely Palestinian family. When he finds out that I'm an English teacher, the father of the family tells me of a British sitcom about someone teaching English to foreigners that he saw before it was cancelled. "It was really disappointing, you know. Something really good, that I wanted to follow, and it disappeared after one episode." It's cruel living on the West Bank.
He digs out his VHS copy of the one episode shown, and we watch it. It's called 'Mind Your Language', and I soon see why I've never seen a repeat. The foreigners learning English are like children, and a lot of the humour is derived from crude racial stereotypes. It's curious to me that this show has stayed as such a touchstone in his memory, as if the world here were in stasis.
The family here live in a nice house near to Jerusalem, which was ten minutes in a car before the Wall was erected (it's now over an hour's journey). The father used to be an actor and performed often in Jordan. He's now retired because he can't leave the West Bank and has health problems. He tells me that he has written three films, that the scripts are sitting in a draw. The three children are polite, sweet and can all speak very good English, taught by their mother. She is a formidable woman whose entire energy supports women's projects in the area. The occupation is an obsession to her, and how could it not be? The first question she asks me is on my opinion of their situation. I feel like my answers can't satisfy her, and mutter something vague about it being "crazy". She is very aware of what they lack, and parades their wants openly to evoke pity.
We sit late into the evening and discuss the problems with Windows Vista (so much for stasis), along with the part we can play in the Palestinian struggle once we're back home. We drink lots of tea and eat lots of biscuits. I take a piss in their bathroom, but don't flush, because water is a problem. As we leave they cut each of us a pink rose from their garden.
Questions
Israeli citizens have become inured to a high level of security. At the airport there is an extra round of questioning before you even board the plane: what is the purpose of your visit; who are you visiting; have you ever burned Ariel Sharon in effigy? I'm not used to these types of questions and my faltering answers are barely tolerated by impatient staff.
It gets worse when you land in Israel. Unsmiling women in their twenties sit at passport control and interrogate you without emotion:
What's your father's name?
Same as mine.
Why are you here?
I'm visiting friends.
Are they Jewish?
Some of them.
Where do they live?
I don't know.
What are there jobs?
They teach music to Palestinian children. Why are you putting on gloves?
As we queue for the check-in desk to fly back to the Netherlands, an airport worker comes to ask us some questions. It's 3am. The questions are direct and personal. The two men travelling in front of us have just had to confirm that they are in a relationship. Luckily, the man asking us questions smiles and is apologetic about the invasion of privacy. After a look at our passports however, he looks a little uncomfortable and calls a colleague, shows her something in our passports, and departs. His superior is cold-looking and unsympathetic to our condition at this late hour. She could be the evil vixen from a Bond movie, and is clearly trained to recognise liars.
The issue is the stamp we received when we crossed the border into Jordan, a neighbouring Arab country on peaceful terms with Israel, but this isn't immediately obvious to me in my tired state. She asks us where we've been. We list places, avoiding the West Bank, but including Jordan. She asks us if we visited any private residences while in Jordan. I feel like asking her if she's ever experienced the assertiveness of Jordanian hospitality, and how difficult it is to refuse offers of coffee from taxi drivers etc, but I don't. No, we haven't. We are allowed to fly home without further questioning.
It gets worse when you land in Israel. Unsmiling women in their twenties sit at passport control and interrogate you without emotion:
What's your father's name?
Same as mine.
Why are you here?
I'm visiting friends.
Are they Jewish?
Some of them.
Where do they live?
I don't know.
What are there jobs?
They teach music to Palestinian children. Why are you putting on gloves?
As we queue for the check-in desk to fly back to the Netherlands, an airport worker comes to ask us some questions. It's 3am. The questions are direct and personal. The two men travelling in front of us have just had to confirm that they are in a relationship. Luckily, the man asking us questions smiles and is apologetic about the invasion of privacy. After a look at our passports however, he looks a little uncomfortable and calls a colleague, shows her something in our passports, and departs. His superior is cold-looking and unsympathetic to our condition at this late hour. She could be the evil vixen from a Bond movie, and is clearly trained to recognise liars.
The issue is the stamp we received when we crossed the border into Jordan, a neighbouring Arab country on peaceful terms with Israel, but this isn't immediately obvious to me in my tired state. She asks us where we've been. We list places, avoiding the West Bank, but including Jordan. She asks us if we visited any private residences while in Jordan. I feel like asking her if she's ever experienced the assertiveness of Jordanian hospitality, and how difficult it is to refuse offers of coffee from taxi drivers etc, but I don't. No, we haven't. We are allowed to fly home without further questioning.
Flags
The Israeli flag is never far from view. Our visit coincides with Israel's independence day, and in the build up to the celebrations everything is decked with the iconic blue star of David: not just government-sponsored efforts, those on poles bordering every highway like malnourished albino trees; but privately owned car dealerships; ice cream sellers; shopping centres. These flags fly from Israeli settlements in the West Bank, and from the sides of the roads bisecting Palestinian land.
Nationalism is important for Israel because it is still young and because it is at war. Everyone serves in the army and everyone knows the threats. Bumper stickers exhort you to 'Support Israel' on the back of the cars of settlers. If you don't support it fully, you are against them. The lines are clearly drawn. For fundamentalist zionists, to separate religion, race and politics is to equivocate. To be sceptical of Israel's expansion into the West Bank and their treatment of Palestinian people is to be anti-semitic.
One site of nationalist pilgrimage is Masada, the ruin of a fort on top of a desert mountain. When the ancient Roman armies invaded Judea, the men living there made a suicide pact and killed themselves rather than be enslaved. This example was seized as an example of Jewish strength and heroism by the early Israeli youth movement. They were obviously quite desperate. "All the Romans found," states the video introduction in the visitor's centre, "were a few women and children." Noble sacrifice.
Nationalism is important for Israel because it is still young and because it is at war. Everyone serves in the army and everyone knows the threats. Bumper stickers exhort you to 'Support Israel' on the back of the cars of settlers. If you don't support it fully, you are against them. The lines are clearly drawn. For fundamentalist zionists, to separate religion, race and politics is to equivocate. To be sceptical of Israel's expansion into the West Bank and their treatment of Palestinian people is to be anti-semitic.
One site of nationalist pilgrimage is Masada, the ruin of a fort on top of a desert mountain. When the ancient Roman armies invaded Judea, the men living there made a suicide pact and killed themselves rather than be enslaved. This example was seized as an example of Jewish strength and heroism by the early Israeli youth movement. They were obviously quite desperate. "All the Romans found," states the video introduction in the visitor's centre, "were a few women and children." Noble sacrifice.
Introduction
In May 2008 I traveled to Israel for the first time. Friends were able to take us to villages on the West Bank, where we met Palestinian families and experienced their abundant hospitality. The trip gave me a clear idea of how life is for people living in, and between, Israel. In this blog I've tried to organize my impressions into a coherent whole, taken from the travel diary I kept as we moved. The entries were scrawled hastily in the back of cabs, on stone benches next to the Jaffa gate and in the rooms we stayed in during the trip.
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