Sebastiya and the Burning Hillsides

May 30th, 2008 Karamah, Ramallah, the West Bank

I was at the bus station Wednesday morning a little before 9, having been given the job of going north to report on a story. I found the bus destine for Nablus and spent the next forty-five minutes or so staring out the window at the bleached landscape. Sean was also coming near Nablus for the day with the Youth Center. The bus stopped at a checkpoint and where everyone got off and walked through to a crowded area full of taxis. I got a taxi, along with a guy from my bus who helped me figure out where I needed to go. We soon entered the city of Nablus, spilling out of the basin and over the hills that enclosed it. Nablus is the center of the Palestinian resistance and I have been told that if anything were going to happen to an American, it would either be in Nablus or in the Gaza strip. Truthfully, though, I’m much more concerned about getting hurt by Israeli soldiers than I am by any militant group. The taxi driver pointed me toward the buses and I walked down the street, where I was redirected by some guys to another place, where I was pointed in another direction. This went on a few times before I found the bus going to Sebastiya. I waited for a very long time until enough people had boarded for the driver to deem it worth the trouble to actually drive and we then went northwest to the town, far out into the country.
I was the last one off the bus. The driver dropped me off at the archaeological site, which was not where I needed to go, so I walked down the hill to the little circle of downtown. I found the municipality building and, climbing the stairs, I met Ali Azem, the mayor of Sebastiya. He cordially invited me into his office, offering me coffee and a place to sit. For the next thirty or forty minutes, we talked about the reason for which I was there. On Tuesday, the Israeli department of antiquities and the army took a decorated sarcophagus from a dig near Sebastiya. The excuse given was that the land on which the coffin was discovered was in Area C, meaning full Israeli control. However, according to international law, an occupying force can’t remove or destroy archaeological artifacts or sites from the occupied nation. I took notes as we talked. Before I left, Ali told me he wished to give me a gift, and presented me with a very nice copy of a book about Sebastiya and its archaeological and historical significance.
I went back down to the circle and found an ancient collection of buildings where a group of people were busy digging and cleaning. An Italian woman named Carla Benelli, one of those who worked on the site and was an editor of the book which Ali gave me, introduced herself and offered to show me around. The team working was restoring these structures so that they could be used as schools or youth centers. I really like the idea of making use of these ancient buildings. In the U.S., anything older than two hundred years is marked off and put behind tape and slapped with an entrance fee. A mosque now sits in the remains of a Crusader church which was built over the supposed tomb of John the Baptist. Unfortunately, the gate to the crypt was locked.
I returned back to the archaeological site. No one was there, so I wandered around by myself. The ruins of five civilizations, dating back 3,000 years, are built on top of one another in Sebastiya. Having ancient ruins all to oneself is pretty exciting. I climbed over the theater, basilica, and temple of Augustus before ascending a hill spotted with purple and yellow flowers that provided a panoramic view of the mountains and villages. I stood with my arms outstretched, taking in the breeze and the beauty.
Back in the circle, I got a taxi to Nablus. The driver took me all the way to the checkpoint, but I’m pretty sure he ripped me off. I need to figure out fair prices. I passed easily through security to find that the bus to Ramallah had just left. But a taxi driver graciously offered to take me . . . for a ridiculous price. I walked away. After bargaining for a few minutes, another driver agreed to my significantly reduced price and I hopped out at Al Manara almost an hour later.
I can’t really remember what I did the rest of the night. I was pretty tired.

Sean and I got to the office early on Thursday. Kirsty and Flo came in soon afterwards. I worked for awhile before Kirsty asked if I wanted to go back to Ni’lin with Hindi. I definitely did. Sean couldn’t because he had to teach English later that day. I went around the corner to the bus station that went out to smaller villages and met Hindi.
Earlier that morning, fifty armored jeeps entered Ni’lin and declared a strict curfew, keeping everyone inside their homes. The military started firing rubber-coated bullets at homes and targeted schools with teargas, injuring several children. They obviously don’t want the protests to continue. By the time we arrived, the curfew had been lifted and a large number of people were gathered near the bulldozers. Smoke billowed toward the blue sky as half of the hillside burned, set on fire from both teargas and intentional destruction by the army. By the end of the day, forty olive trees were destroyed.
Hindi and I stayed mainly in the hills, photographing the ravaged hillside. Black pockets of charred dirt and ash surrounded us from where teargas canisters had scorched the earth. We later joined a large group of people huddled under trees next to an ambulance from the medical relief society. Five people were injured, including a man who was shot and another who was beaten. I watched as several victims of teargas were carried to safety where they could be treated.

(written May 31st, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank)
Hindi and I were joined by a woman from South Africa (whose name I have forgotten) and an Australian named Bob, who was shot in the butt with a rubber-coated bullet at the last protest on Tuesday. We sat on a hillside, watching as trees were consumed in flames. We soon walked across the harsh countryside to the village where we went to the home of Hindi’s family. A large meal was placed on a table in front us. Mounds of thick, soft pita spilled over next to yogurt mixed with olive oil and some sort of delicious, warm tomato dip. Green vegetables and two platefuls of chips topped off what Hindi described as “not much.” This land is the most hospitable place on earth. The people here have little food and water, and yet they continually offer everything to us. If I ever have a house in one place, I hope I am as gracious and as giving as the Palestinians.
Their home had been targeted earlier in the morning when the village was under siege. Hindi’s father showed us rubber-coated bullets that had been fired through their windows. I peeled back the millimeter-thick rubber around the bullet to see the solid metal underneath.
Back in Ramallah, I said goodbye to the other three and returned to the office. Flo was the only one there; Sean had left earlier in the afternoon to teach English. The time was already past 5, so I checked email and a few other things before making my way toward the flat. As I did, I noticed some people playing basketball at the same place where I had played the other day. I sat down beside the court and watched. Someone playing soon invited me to join and I jumped in the game. One guy, who arrived a little later, had just returned from school in the States and had played some there. I had injured my foot pretty severely in January playing ball, bruising two bones in my right ankle. I’m still not completely healed, so I probably should be a little more careful. But it’s good for the ego to know that I can still beat up on people even though I haven’t played in four months. And I was in long pants and hiking boots.
Adam, back from his escapades, and Sean were making dinner when I got to the flat. Adam had been sick the last few days as well, but he had actually been diagnosed with giardia. He spent the entire fall semester in Zambia and had been pretty ill with the same stuff. Fortunately, he received medicine quickly this time and was already feeling much better. We hung out at the flat the rest of the night watching junky television.
We did nothing on Friday. We cleaned up the flat a little bit, bumming around on the couches. I think we were all a little worn out. Later in the afternoon, Sean and Adam decided to hit the road. They didn’t know where they were going, but neither one had to work today so they were thinking about hopping on a bus and seeing where it took them. Needless to say, I was a little frustrated and jealous. I had to work today, and I wanted to go wandering. I harnessed my anger, however, and strolled down to Karamah, spending some time writing and using the Internet. I bought a few snacks at the grocery store near the flat and watched a movie before going to bed.
I’m now sitting at my desk in the office. The window is open next to me and I can hear the cars buzzing past and horns constantly honking. Kirsty and Flo are discussing something on the other side of the room. Nickel Creek is attempting to offset the chaotic noise a little bit.
Tomorrow, I go to Hebron. And on a side note: if you haven’t heard Sarah McLachlan’s version of the Prayer of St. Francis, then find it and listen to it. Now.

PS My story on Ni'lin can be read here: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article442. And the story on Sebastiya is here: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article443.

Pictures from the Protest on May 27th

This the link to the story about Tuesday's protest: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article435. Sean wrote the text while I provided the pictures.

A Few Pictures

Unfortunately, I'm not able to post many pictures at the moment. My Internet connection is too slow to get many on the blog.

Demolished Homes and Another Protest

May 27th, 2008 Karamah, Ramallah, the West Bank
(The pictures are taking forever to load, so I will try again later this evening)
We had our second editorial meeting at 9:30 on Monday morning. Only four of us were there: Kirsty had been injured at the protest in Ni’lin the day before. A piece of a sound grenade injured her hand and she twisted her ankle as she was running for cover. Interestingly, she actually just walked into Karamah to say hello and was doing much better.
Shortly after the meeting, Sean and I boarded Bus 18 for Jerusalem. We called for a taxi at the Jerusalem Hotel, just behind the bus station, and were soon on our way to the eastern part of the city. The driver dropped us off in the neighborhood called Al Tours. The Judean Wilderness stretched to Jordan behind us. We asked some people standing outside of a house next to us if they knew anything about a recent house demolition. None of them spoke much English, but they knew the name of the man whose house was destroyed, and a guy around our age drove us up the street to the site.
A large square of twisted rebar and crumbled concrete were the remains of Amin Ibrahim al Abbasy’s home. On the far end, a makeshift shack shaded a mattress and a few chairs. A heap of clothes and other items salvaged from the demolition sat in a corner. Al Abbasy built his home twelve years ago and was at work when friends called to inform him that the army had come to tear down his home. On May 19th, he was told that he had been informed a year ago that his house was to be torn down. However, he had received no official notice or a set date. He called his lawyer, who in turn phoned the Municipality. The officials had no intention of a demolition, they said. However, when al Abbasy returned later, his large home was in a crushed mess on the ground. Sean and I learned all this from an already published article. None of the people we sat with under the improvised roof spoke English, so we didn’t get much information. We simply sat with them, drinking juice and staring at the wreck beside us.
We walked about fifteen minutes to Mt. Scopus and onto the campus of Hebrew University. We strolled all over the extensive grounds, and up and down the multiple levels. Hebrew University is a big place. We sat for a while at the amphitheatre, reading and watching several guys set up for a concert later in the week. We continued walking for awhile before falling on an incredibly comfortable patch of grass near the front entrance. We both agreed that this was what we missed most about Searcy (aside from people, of course): reclining on the front lawn under a tree.
I was going to meet with a guy about a story, so Sean headed down into the city to look for a camera. I joined Nawaf Hilo, a Palestinian in his late twenties, on a bus which took us over a few streets near his home. We had to pass through a small checkpoint to get to his house. I will be writing about this for the Monitor at some point, so I won’t go into much detail, but the reason I met with him was because his house is now encircled by the university, which is continually expanding and is attempting to buy him out. A patch of land near his house where his family grew trees was leveled three years ago for a parking lot.
Nawaf drove me to the Jerusalem Hotel and I walked to the Damascus Gate, where I sat on the stairs in the shade and watched the people go in and out and the kites fly overhead. Sean met me there about an hour later and we grabbed a falafel and went to visit with Mahmoud. We sat in the back of his old shop, surrounded by ancient pottery, and sipped on juice and talked about our experiences, politics, and the “music of language.” Mahmoud can sing five of them. I have a lot of respect for Mahmoud. Incredibly hospitable and filled with kindness, he is extremely intelligent and up-to-date on pretty much everything. I enjoy visiting with him.
Our bus ride back was the longest yet. This is not a culture of walkers. Someone would hit the buzzer to stop the bus and get off, and then, ten seconds after the bus started again, someone else would ring to get off. This happened repeatedly, which is a little frustrating to two guys who walk pretty much everywhere. Maxie had new keys for us back at the flat. Sean got a bunch of groceries and we watched part of Ocean’s 13 before deciding that we needed some sleep.
Sean and I met Flo, Hindi, and a large group of people at Al Manara this morning to go back to Ni’lin. The long dirt roads to the village are becoming very familiar. Around 200 people were present for the protest, including a bunch of internationals. Large Palestinian flags waved as the masses moved toward the bulldozers, protected by a barricade of military vehicles. They looked like two mechanic monsters as they churned up the earth to make room for the Wall. A rock fence, coils of razor wire, and a line of soldiers stood between the protesters and the menacing machines.

(written at the Flat)
Within moments of our arrival, sound grenades sent the majority of the protesters clambering back toward the trees. A thick curtain of teargas hung on the wind and swept over us. Sean and I got caught in its drapes. We moved out of the thick of it, but not before we inhaled much more than we had last week. The two of us stumbled to the rock wall, our eyes bleeding water like a flood and spit dripping. We could barely breathe, continually gasping for clean air and hacking as if to cough the bitter taste out of our throats. A man walked out of the smoke and handed us two halves of an onion and motioned for us to put it to our noses and breathe. Surprisingly, this method worked. I kept the onion with me, which was good, because we were gassed two more times. The onion certainly didn’t prevent from the gas from achieving its effect, but it helped to overcome it more quickly. The gas permeated the air from the extreme number of canisters shot. A jeep drove down to the stone wall at one point with a sort of 24-mouthed launcher mounted on the top. In less than ten seconds, that gun shot off twenty-four teargas canisters. The blue sky was checkered with a gray matrix of smoke.
The incendiary devices of the teargas ignited fires which devoured the dry brush sprouting from the rocky ground. Our red eyes were constantly squinted as smoke and teargas polluted the air. All around us shrubs were crackling and lit up in blazing orange. What could God be trying to say in these burning bushes?
Instead of running away in the direction of everyone else, Sean and I stayed along the rock wall, closer to the soldiers who fired over our heads. We moved along the wall as the teargas caught the breeze, trying to stay out of the crossfire of bullets and rocks. All the younger protesters were in the hills nearby; those who remained were the older, more experienced men. These protests don’t seem to be well-organized. These teenagers march in with loud, passionate cries, but they run as soon as the teargas hits and begin throwing rocks. They successfully disrupt anyone attempt for a peaceful protest. The soldiers know what to expect, and the kids respond just as the soldiers want: run from the sound grenades into the teargas and then spread out. Then, the rock-throwing starts. More creative methods are needed. One of the men stood on the rock wall and shouted furiously, in English, at the teenagers: “What are you doing?! Why are you throwing stones?! We are having a peaceful demonstration!”
Sean and I were with Flo and a Palestinian cameraman. We watched as a soldier lowered his teargas gun and fired the canister into the leg of this cameraman. He limped significantly the rest of the day. He told us to stay around, because the soldiers won’t fire at him if Americans are close. I hate the ease we have, but I’ll exploit it if we can use it to protect some of the people here. At the end of the day, thirteen people were injured, and five were taken to the hospital in Ramallah. Two of the five were seriously injured: one man had a fractured skull from a shot with a rubber-coated bullet and another man was hit in the jaw. We heard that another man was beaten and was having difficulty with his spine.
The field outside of Ni’lin looked like a war zone. Soldiers crept behind the rock wall as stones harmlessly flew aside. These kids can’t aim. Some of the rocks bounced past my feet as I was moving away from the people they were targeting. The soldiers knelt behind the wall, moving slowly to prevent from being hit, as if they could even feel a rock under all their protective gear. The army then jumped up and raided the trees as they fired their guns, pushing the remaining band of kids back. We sat under a tree with a medical relief team who came to pick up an injured guy. Several Israeli activists, from a group called Anarchists Against the Wall, sat with us. Flo, Sean, a Palestinian man, and I walked around the hill and back to the road. While all this transpired, the machines relentlessly dug. The bulldozers’ teeth continued to shovel the earth.
We drove back to the village crammed in a tiny bus. Hindi took us back to the ancient house to which we had gone on Friday. We climbed up to a roofed patio and relaxed for awhile, visiting with some of the internationals who had come to the protest. I sat on top of one of the four-foot walls and leaned against a supporting beam, looking at the village and rocky hills. Two bulldozers churned on a knoll nearby, but these were busy preparing the foundations for a school. Drinks and food soon arrived. Someone had prepared delicious sandwiches of pita stuffed with meat, pickles, and hummus. Another bus soon bumped us along the road back to Ramallah.
Sean had to go by the Youth Center to see what time they needed him tomorrow. He will be going to either Nablus or Hebron with the workers to “do somethin’ with little kids.” I hiked back to the flat to get our computers and then return to meet him at Karamah. On my way back to the city, I met seven kids who were speaking English and dribbling a basketball. Sean had met one of them, Muhammad, the other day. Their families had moved back here after living for some time in Chicago and New York. I asked if I could play with them. We had a lot of fun, and they were pretty good. We trash-talked and joked and pushed each other around and discussed the Spurs/Lakers playoff match-up. They told me they were going to be out at the court quite a bit, so I might try to join them again sometime. Maybe they can teach me some Arabic.
Sean and I sat at Karamah until our batteries almost kicked the bucket. We made dinner out of pita, hummus, oranges, and strawberry yogurt at the flat. I’ll be spending the day tomorrow in Sabastya, northwest of Nablus, reporting on a story.
I have listened to Coldplay’s “A Message” at least ten times tonight.

“My song is love/ Love to the loveless shown . . .”

Back to Ni'lin and a Trip with ICAHD

May 25th, 2008 Karamah Coffee House, Ramallah, the West Bank

We woke up early on Friday, even though it was our day off. We went to Al Manara where we met with Kirsty, Flo, Alex, and a few other internationals that would be joining us on our trip to Ni’lin. One of these people was an elderly lady named Anne from Jackson, Tennessee. A feisty woman, she’s been living in Ramallah for several years, but has been in the Middle East off and on for many years. Hindi Mesleh, a freelance photographer from the village, led the group. After arriving, we ascended a staircase into a large, sparse, room where we sat in a circle as we were informed about the situation in Ni’lin. Unfortunately, I didn’t take very good notes (although I have since contacted Hindi for some information for a follow-up to the story I’ve already written), but I did learn that the plan is for Ni’lin to be completely enclosed by the wall, much like Qalqilyah in the north. This would be absolutely devastating to the people.
After this informal meeting, our large group met with a multitude of Palestinians as we walked out of the town and into the hills. We could actually see planes arriving at Tel Aviv through the haze to the west, our right. This is a very small strip of land. At the top of a hill we overlooked a ravine which led to the construction site where we had our intense encounter on Tuesday. We sat around for quite some time before we noticed dots of soldiers on the distant hilltop, descending along the narrow valley to take position. Before anything was done by the protesters, a prayer service was held, because Friday is the Islamic holy day. On the summit of our hill, an imam led the community in their prayers, chanting through a bullhorn that echoed across the stones.
For some reason, most of those gathered decided not to go down. Many returned to the town. A number of teenagers ran to the peak of a neighboring hill, yelling at the soldiers from the other side of the hill. Streams of teargas chased the retreating youth, soon followed by rubber-coated bullets and the military. We watched as the kids ran out on a rock-covered hilltop, completely unprotected, as the soldiers stayed behind the cover of trees. Fortunately, nothing else happened and we left shortly for Ni’lin. We made a few stops as we left for Ramallah: Hindi wanted us to see a house built in the 4th century which they plan on turning into a music school.
Once we reached Ramallah, Adam, Sean, Alex, and I got some shawarma and falafel and sat on the side of the road visiting for a little while. We then said goodbye to our French friend and made our way back to the flat. As we did, we passed a bunch of guys playing soccer on a large court behind a locked gate. They motioned for us to come, so we hustled back to the flat, changed, and hustled back. We climbed over the fence and were suddenly surrounded by kids rapidly speaking in Arabic. A few knew a little English, so we learned names and started kickin’ around. A lot of the younger ones kept asking us for vodka, cigarettes, and money. And it seems that the most prevalent English phrase they’ve learned is “F*** you.” I think they’ve seen one too many American movies.
I’m not very good at soccer, but I did notice a basketball goal on the far end. They didn’t have a basketball, so we made us of the one of the footballs. I don’t think any of them had every played this sport before. I taught a bunch of them how to shoot and they chased me all over the court as I dribbled, keeping the ball away from them. They then repeatedly call my name, proudly displaying their newly-developed skills.
Adam and I left a bit earlier than Sean. I got a shower when we got back and read for a while on the couch. Suddenly, I started shivering and my head began pounding. I was on the couch shaking the rest of the night. I haven’t been sick in a year-and-a-half, so I suppose it was due time. I told Adam and Sean that I felt like some little guy was pounding on the inside of my forehead with a hammer, and I thought he had a furnace cooking somewhere in there too. Sean made fun of my metaphorical description.
“You would,” he said.
“Fine,” I replied, feigning disgust. “I’m burning up and my head’s frickin’ killing me!”
“Better.”
We all went to bed early. When I woke up, I was till feverish, dizzy, and shaky but I decided to go to work anyway. I’m not much of one for just sitting around when I’m sick. Sean and I got to the Monitor early and had the door unlocked by people in the office above us. I stared blankly at my computer screen for a while: my eyes hurt from the headache. I started having some gastrointestinal problems also, but they don’t need any further detail. Flo and Adam came in at the same time; Kirsty took the day off. After awhile, Flo came over to my desk to ask me about my story on the investment conference.
“John,” he said as I lifted my head, “you look like sh**! You don’t need to be here.”
I told him I wanted to finish the story and then I would go. I eventually got it done after several trips to the toilet, a cup of tea, and several occasions when I put my head on the desk. You can read that story at this link: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article429. Also, Sean wrote the story about the abandoned military compound at Oush Grab, which can be read here: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article426.
Adam and I left a little after 1:30 and slowly walked to the flat. As soon as we got there, I crashed. Adam returned to Salfit at around 3 and won’t be back until Thursday. I slept most of the afternoon and evening. Sean got back sometime after 8 from hanging out downtown. We figured out how to work the satellite and sat around watching crappy American television. I’m not sure why the bad stuff is picked up all around the world.
I got up at 7:20, feeling considerably better except for my stomach. I took some Imodium and that plugged me up. Anna, our friend from Bethlehem, told us that she goes to the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer in the Old City on Sunday mornings and had invited us to come along. Sean couldn’t make it because he had to teach English later in the day.
The checkpoint into Jerusalem took a bit longer, but I arrived at the Damascus Gate in time to rush through the Old City to the church. I entered the large sanctuary, which was where the Arabic service was being held. So, I exited and entered another door, going up some stairs into a beautifully simple chapel. I was very encouraged by the service. I appreciate liturgy and the thoughtfulness behind what is said. The presiding minister led the community in the reading of the Confession and Forgiveness, and this prayer was read in unison:
“God of compassion, we confess that we have failed to bear witness that you desire to draw all people to yourself. In our hearts we have thought ill of those who differ from us, and our love of others has not been genuine. We have been caught up in the cares of the world. We have neglected opportunities to welcome the stranger, to feed the hungry, and to mend broken relationships. Forgive our sins, merciful God, that our hearts may burn with love for you and for those in need, and that our lives may witness to your never-failing love for your creation.”
The Prayer of the Day concluded with:
“God of tender care, like a mother, like a father, you never forget your children, and you know already what we need. In all our anxiety give us trusting and faithful hearts, that in confidence we may embody the peace and justice of your Son, Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Amen.”
And finally, we were dismissed with these beautiful, profound, and concise words:
“Go in peace. Live the gospel.”
Amen.
I met up with Anna afterwards and we went off into the Old City exploring. She hadn’t been to David’s Tomb (which, if you will recall, is conveniently located downstairs from the Last Supper and just across the street from Mary’s Tomb), so we went out Zion Gate and ran into several tour groups at the site. We quickly peeped inside and then retreated to the roof where we talked for awhile against the background of Jerusalem. Mahmoud was in his shop and we visited with him for a few minutes.
“Can I do anything for you, my friend?”
The Holy Land Trust, I learned, is a Christian organization that does non-violent resistance training, as well as host summer groups who come to work in the Bethlehem area. Leif and Anna are the facilitators of this section of HLT. Their new group had arrived a few days ago, consisting mostly of American college students, but also an older Canadian woman and an elderly Irishman. We met them at the Holy Sepulchre, but decided to officially join up with them a bit later. They stopped somewhere for lunch, and Anna wanted some falafel from a little place near the Damascus Gate. I was still feeling a bit queasy, so I only ate two oranges as we sat on a stone ledge outside of the gate. The group picked us up and we made our way to the Israeli Committee Against House Demolitions, or ICAHD for short. That name is very encouraging. We were given a brief history of the multiple divisions of the land before embarking on a tour of demolished houses. I was very hospitably allowed to tag along.
Our journey took us to East Jerusalem, which is largely the Palestinian section of the city. Our guide, a young bearded Israeli, was not a big fan of the word “conflict” for the situation here. He believes this implies that two equal parties are involved, like two kids fighting over a slide on a playground. This isn’t the case. He explained the need to reframe the situation from a security issue to an issue concerning international law and human rights. As we drove, the distinction between West Jerusalem and East Jerusalem was striking. The latter is mainly made up of dirt roads and no stoplights, while the former is where all the money goes. Israel claims to be the only democracy in the Middle East, and since East Jerusalem was (illegally) annexed by the state of Israel, then both sides of the city should be treated equally. But this doesn’t happen. Only 8% of municipal funds go back to East Jerusalem, which is actually a substantial amount: nothing in the municipality’s laws stipulates that anything be given to the mostly Palestinian part of Jerusalem.
Since 1967, 18,000 homes have been destroyed by Israel. The Palestinian families actually have to pay for the demolition costs, and no alternative housing is provided. We drove around the backside of the Mount of Olives into the Judean Wilderness to Ma’ale Adummim. This settlement is incredibly impressive, blooming with flowers and fancy homes and an Ace Hardware Store. We drove past a fountain called the Dove of Peace. The most disturbing part about this structure is the amount of water being wasted here in the desert. Water shortages are keenly felt during the summer, and Palestinians are the first to receive cuts so that the flowers and fountains can continue to blossom and spout. Sean and I are actually going to Jerusalem tomorrow to cover two stories, one of which is a house demolition. The tour was very insightful, but I felt like the guide was a bit too abrasive. He certainly provides a balance to the nationalism so rampant here, but I felt that he could have told the story compellingly without the need to demonize the majority of Israelis. While I definitely do not agree with Israel’s prevailing policies, I don’t think it’s necessary to make all Israelis sound like they are in someway evil. This is simply not true and not appropriate.
As the bus headed back to Bethlehem, they dropped me off near the Jaffa Gate and I caught a bus back to Ramallah. I returned to the flat to get my computer and fill up my water bottle and then went back to the downtown area and over to Karamah. I haven’t seen Sean yet.
The café is filled with laughter and music. My battery is gradually dying (both in reference to my computer and to me physically) so I might call it a night.

Bethlehem: or, The Return of Adam Clement

May 22nd, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank
As we sat in the AIC, Sean and I met Leif Carlson from Indiana. He’s here working with the Holy Land Trust, a Christian organization that does . . . well, I’m not exactly sure what it does. But he was a very cool guy. We sat near him in the bus, discussing liberation theology and the absurdity that the word “theology” needs to be modified by the word “liberation.”
We very shortly arrived at Oush Grab. At 7:30, the sky was already dark. We had left the city, so the stars were glowing. We walked up a hill and then down an embankment next to a small building and the water tower that was apart of the compound. Some graffiti was scrawled across the little building to the left; written next to the three doors were the words, “Martin Luther King Suite,” “Nelson Mandela Suite,” and “Gandhi Suite,” misspelled as “Ghandi.” The names of these incredible activists for social justice were placed there to cover up racial slurs written by the settlers. We also met Anna Dintaman from Virginia who is working in the capacity as Leif. Just before the presentation began, we noticed a ridge behind the Humanitarian Suite which couldn’t go unexplored. Sean was covering this story, so I took his flashlight and Leif, Anna, and I hiked up the crest. The luminous moon shone fully down on the lights of Bethlehem. The three of us sat on an outcropping of rocks and talked beneath the moonlight. These two are amazing. I am continually surprised by the people I meet in such strange and faraway places. Leif had gone to seminary and Anna studied Culture and Religion at a Mennonite university. We found ourselves in agreement on pretty much everything we discussed. We sat discussing life and travel and service and how theology is a part of all these things and that Jesus came to show life lived at its fullest. We talked about McLaren, Wright, Claiborne, Brueggemann, Bonhoeffer, and Yoder. This was a refreshing conversation.
After returning to the AIC, the four of us stood outside talking, Sean and Leif visiting and Anna and I continuing to discuss how crazy and radical Jesus was (and is). We said goodnight and walked with Kristhel to her house, along with a Palestinian from Bethlehem who spoke English with a slightly British accent. We sat around the kitchen table, eating and talking and looking out the window toward Bethlehem. Kristhel very graciously provided a guestroom for Sean and me.

The next morning, we walked the fifteen minutes uphill to Bethlehem to the Holy Land Trust where we met Leif and Anna. They wanted to tag along with us as we took care of our next story. We walked through the city, passing the Bible College and the Intercontinental Hotel where many of the guests of the new Palestine Investment Conference would be staying. Sean and I would be interviewing people later concerning that.
We found our destination: a house with seven walls. A family of fourteen lives in a home which is surrounded on three sides by the Wall. We invited up by one of the residents, Claire Anastas. We sat in her very comfortable living room as she related her difficult story to us. Her mother sat beside us, watching religious television and played with a small cross connected to a string of worry beads. A beautiful woman, Claire had obviously told her story before, but she seemed (understandably) at ease as she relived the painful memories. The Christian family once owned a very successful souvenir shop because the house had been on one of Bethlehem’s main streets. However, because of the Hall, they are basically in the middle of nowhere and their business has closed. She hopes to travel and tell the story and market their merchandise in the near future. Perhaps more tour groups can intentionally seek this struggling family out. I will be doing a photo-story about Claire and her home and will provide a link to it when it is published, so I won’t go into further detail. Also, she didn’t want us to talk about certain parts of the story, or even to write it down, so, out of respect for her, I won’t write about here or on the Monitor.
I took several pictures outside when we exited. I crouched down in the dirt between the home and the Wall, overwhelmed by the oppression and injustice. And somehow these people push on, determined not to be suppressed. I have been told by numerous people that “we live on hope.”
The four of us walked around the Wall for awhile, observing its tapestry of graffiti. An old taxi-driver drove past and pointed to the Wall, shouting at us, “American money!” I knew it, but I need to be reminded.
We ate a shawarma shop near the Holy Land Trust before parting ways. We planned on meeting again in the near future. We walked back toward the main area of town, stopping in an olivewood shop to interview the owner about his view of the conference. The manager, Darwsih Hasn, was a fairly young man and had been born in California, spending quite a bit of time in the U.S. We could tell. An old Scottish priest named Father Aquinas came in and told us why version of the Bible written by St. Jerome was really the only legitimate one and explained that he is the only person in the last 2,600 years to have seen the Ark of the Covenant. The return of this ancient artifact to Jerusalem will be the seventh trumpet prophesied in the Book of Revelation, when the Dome will collapse. This, he claimed with absolute certainty, will happen within his lifetime. He’s written six or seven books on the subject, none of which I plan on reading.
After a long wait, Darwsih took us to the Conference Center where the festivities were being held. Dozens of organizations and businesses were there to present what they had to offer, setting up their displays in an open-air construction which was built to resemble the Old City’s marketplace. After some discussion with security, we were allowed inside, followed by a guard. The purpose of this conference is “to improve the economic and social living standards in Palestine through increased investment in the Palestinian economy, enabled by a strong partnership between private sectors” (obtained from some website; not very good citation for an English major). This is the first of, hopefully, many. The theme, as it has been in many places, was hope. Everyone we spoke with had hope in the conference’s success. Darwsih drove us back to his shop, where we helped him select some of his best olivewood carvings to display at the conference. He jumped frantically around the room, asking us “What do you think about this one? This one? No, I have one like that. Just choose whatever and put in the box.”
We sped through the streets until Darwsih dropped us off near the Wall. He was quite a character. He got Sean to give Darwsih’s business card to some girl at the conference. He told us that if we ever had any brilliant business plans to let him know; that way, we could all become partners. And if we knew any marketing techniques that would boost sales at his shop, we should let him know. He then said that we should come down to Bethlehem again and we could all go “pick up some girls and get some drinks.”
Sean and I walked to the gate, which was actually the wrong place for us to go. We needed to make our way down to where people are supposed to go through the checkpoint; we were at the entry for cars. The soldier on duty, however, let us go through asking if we had room in our bags to take him to America. I met an 18 year-old Palestinian American girl inside the checkpoint. She was born in Little Rock, forty minutes from my university. Another door was opened for us to pass through and show our passports. But the female guard behind the glass wouldn’t allow our new friend to through, telling her to move so we could exit. The guard smiled at me as I put my passport against the glass. I couldn’t smile back.
We once again entered Jerusalem, leaving ten minutes later for Ramallah. Maxie was actually at the flat, with her boyfriend, who is also from Germany. Sean and I left after awhile and spent a few hours at Karamah.

(at Karamah)
Today, we have spent the whole day at the Monitor’s office. I wrote the article about the Ni’lin protest (which can be read at http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article424 ), fleshing out the notes I took at the rally. We go back tomorrow for the protest which is now going to meet every Friday. I proofread a few things and briefly began the story about the home in Bethlehem. Adam came back around noon, high on coffee and spouting off great experiences with extraordinary people. He threw a shirt in my face as a greeting, letting his big pack fall to the floor. He will be here until Saturday, and then he heads back to Salfit. Kirsty gave him a khafiyeh as a belated birthday present.
We put in a long day at the office, roughly 9 to almost 5:30. We slowly trudged to our flat and sat on the couches for awhile, recuperating. I wear myself out on trips such as these, forfeiting sleep to see and do as much as I can. As much as I want to take a nap, I feel like I am missing out on fleeting opportunities. And I do love naps.
Sean tried his luck with wireless from the windowsill in our room while Adam slept on the couch. I pulled out Everything Must Change and read a few chapters. The three of us then returned to downtown to our old stomping grounds at Karamah. Sean is sitting outside the door on the sidewalk, leaning against the glass wall and talking with someone back in the U.S. through IM. Technology is weird. Phil Collins is actually playing in here. “Oooh, I wish it would rain down . . .” Adam and I stepped a few doors down to Baladna Ice Cream (and slushie) for a little snack. One of our friends was working there. Tall and broad-shouldered, he greets me with a firm slap-handshake and “Whatsup?” Most people don’t know the Palestine Monitor, but when I said “Mustafa Barghouthi,” he nodded and said, “He’s good, no?” I look forward to getting to know this guy during our stay here. Tomorrow, we go back to Ni’lin.
I might paste this excerpt from Everything Must Change at my desk at the Monitor’s office:
Don’t get revenge when wronged, but seek reconciliation.
Don’t repay violence with violence, but seek creative and transforming
nonviolent alternatives.
Don’t focus on external conformity to moral codes, but on internal transformation in
love.
Don’t love insiders and hate or fear outsiders, but welcome outsiders into a new “us,”
a new “we,” a new humanity that celebrates diversity in the context of love for all,
justice for all, and mutual respect for all.
Don’t have anxiety about money or security or pleasure at the center of your life, but
trust yourself to the care of God.
Don’t live for wealth, but for the living God who loves all people, including your
enemies.
Don’t hate your enemies or competitors, but love them and do to them not as they
have done to you- and not before they do to you- but as you wish they would do for
you.
I am repeatedly convinced that peace is the only way to achieve peace. We cannot fight fire with fire; we must extinguish the flames with water, something entirely different. I really do think Jesus was right. And it truly is a narrow, difficult path.

Bullets and Stones

May 19th, 2008 Karameh Coffee House, Ramallah, West Bank
The sunlight, and Sean moving, woke me up around 8:30, an hour before my alarm was set to go off. Today was Adam’s birthday. He was a little surprised when I told him.
“Is that really today?” he asked with a smile on his face. “Well, what do ya know?”
We sat around for a little while, reading and gazing out the window in the little niche where the living room sits before going to meet Kirsty in downtown Ramallah. I researched the city, and found that its name is derived from two words: Ram or Rama, which is Aramaic for “high place”; and Allah, which is, of course, Arabic for “God.” Ramallah is “God’s Hill.”
The walk takes roughly fifteen minutes, but we had a little bit of trouble finding the headquarters of the Palestine Monitor. We went from Clock Square, a short distance from the city center (al-Manara) to Rukab Street, one of Ramallah’s main streets. We turned to the left, west, and looked all over the place for our destination. We climbed to the third floor in three different buildings before we finally found it. We entered through a small door and went up the wrap-around stairs until we saw a sign reading “Palestine Monitor” on an open door. I had been here two years ago with my dad. Kirsty was waiting inside. She introduced us to Flo (short for Florent), a curly-haired, goateed Frenchman who works with the Monitor. Kirsty led us out the door and up the stairs into a much larger office complex, introducing us to even more workers. We heard a lot of names and I am definitely going to have to hear them again.
We stepped out onto the busy street. Cars raced past, barely avoiding slamming into other vehicles and people who darted in and out between the moving traffic. We caught a taxi-bus at al-Manara and drove to a neighboring town, connected indistinguishably to Ramallah, where the Palestinian Medical Relief Society is stationed. When my dad and I visited two years ago, this edifice was only recently built and was still in the process of being furnished. The very impressive facility was now finished. We met some of the workers there, including a few doctors, one of whom was in charge of the mobile clinics with which Adam will be working.

(written May 21st, 2008)
Adam was then told he was leaving in a few hours for the northern province of Sufat. He looked at us with wide eyes, unsure exactly what to say. We both glowered back, jealous of his immediate opportunity. Adam is a little more hesitant and nervous about certain situations, which I suppose is a good balance to Sean and me, who are a little more (perhaps ignorantly) daring and risky. We took a bus back into the city and visited the Youth Center, located in a basement. The young man working there didn’t speak English, so Kirsty translated as he explained the purposes of the center and some of what Sean would be doing (like teaching English every now and then; Sean was a little unsure about that, but he’ll try pretty much anything). The kids are now taking exams, so Sean would be working with me at the Palestine Monitor for the first several weeks until more could be offered at the Youth Center. We raced back to the flat so Adam could quickly pack a few things and then once again drove to the Relief Society’s center.
Flo and Kirsty then sat us down in a conference room and presented a sort of orientation for our work here, providing a slideshow of pictures and facts about the situation. The Palestine Monitor has never been accused of cheating with the statistics and information; they have no need to, because the truth is startling enough. I encourage you all to please visit www.palestinemonitor.org, and read the different links under the left-hand section titled “Facts @ a glance.” This is some compelling and shocking information that needs to be heard and understood. I also strongly encourage you to check out http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article382, which is an article written by Dr. Mustafa Barghouthi, one of the founders of the Palestinian Medical Relief Society and now a member of the parliament. From the little I know about him, I have a lot of respect for this man. We met him yesterday during an editorial meeting. He came in and shook our hands, his suit coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak.
The following are just a few of things we learned. During Jimmy Carter’s recent visit to the region, he met with leaders of Hamas (the group now in control of the Gaza strip) in Syria and denounced the Israelis’ ground assaults on civilians and Hamas’ use of rockets against Israel, calling for a ceasefire, to which Hamas agreed. However, Israel refused this. They refused to stop fighting, which Hamas proposed. Many Palestinians seem to say that they have no problem with a wall, but not when it is built on Palestinian land. The wall crosses every international line ever set in place, whether that is the UN Partition Plan of 1947 and the Green Line of 1967. 80% of the Separation Wall is on Palestinian land. Gradually, Israel has (illegally under international law) expanded their borders, which has had devastating effects on the Palestinian people. Many argue that the wall’s purpose is for security, but the wall can be bypassed by those determined enough to do it. Supposedly, the wall was built to prevent suicide bombers. But the first suicide bombing committed by a Palestinian was during the First Intifada (1987-1993), and the wall’s construction was planned before that. An argument can certainly be made that the wall is much more for fragmentation, intimidation, and humiliation than it is for security.
Two out of every five refugees in the world is Palestinian. A meeting was held in Annapolis in November of last year, hoping (again) to bring peace. Israel agreed to dismantle fifty checkpoints in the West Bank, but only one has been taken down. Forty-nine earth mounds (debris used as roadblocks) were dismantled, but these earth mounds were situated on roads not even in use, already cut off by the wall. The ratio of Palestinians killed to the number of Israelis killed since the attempt for peace at Annapolis is 18 to 1. I could continue, but this would grow eternally long. Again, I encourage everyone to click on the links to those sites and spend a little bit of your time reading what you find. This will not only provide another (and extremely vital) perspective, but this will help in understanding the stories that are to follow on this blog. See the world “from below.”
Adam had to leave before the presentation was over. He will be spending the week in Sufat, and then a week in Bethlehem, and then back in Ramallah. Flo and Kirsty explained more of our work upstairs, such as interviewing, follow-ups, editorial meetings, and proof-reading (which is mostly me proofreading everyone else! I need to proofread my own blog more!). We have an incredible amount of freedom in what we do.
We ended for the day between 3:30 and 4, so Sean and I walked south back into Ramallah and explored a bit, going far down Rukab Street before turning back and finding some excellent shawarma, eating it on a little balcony in the shop. As we walked, several people would nod at us, saying “You are welcome here.”
On the way to the flat, we stopped at the grocery store and I picked up some oranges. I’m a strong advocate of fruit, and these were perfect. I ate one as I proofread an article by Maxie. Sean and I walked back into the city, finding wireless at Karamah Pastries and Coffee on a street corner on Rukab. We’ve made friends with some guys who work in an ice cream and slushie store two doors over who directed us here. This is certainly a night culture. People are walking late into the night and the stores are still open. Men sit huddled together around small tables, the older men intently rubbing prayer beads as they talk.

On the 20th (Tuesday), Sean and I arrived at the Monitor’s office by 9:30. We finally met Maxie. An editorial meeting was called, and the five of us huddled in Flo’s cubicle as we discussed story ideas, dividing them up between us. Sean and I would be traveling to Beit Sahour (outside Bethlehem) that night to cover a story, as well as staying the night in order to report on a few topics the next day. My little cubicle is right next to the window, which overlooks the street. I got on the Monitor’s website to continue reading about the conflict here when Kirsty grabbed Sean and me and asked if we wanted to go to a peace rally. We certainly weren’t going to say no, so we picked up our bags and left for Ni’lin, northwest of Ramallah. We were accompanied by Salah Khawaja, a member of the Arab Non-Violence Network who is from the little village. We were also joined by a pony-tailed freelance photographer from France named Alexandre Sarlin. We visited with him as we bumped along the rocky roads in a bus. He’s originally from the south of France, near Marseilles, but he now lives in New York.
The village is quite a ways out and located on a hill. Beside a cinder-block house, a bunch of teenagers and several middle-aged men sat under a tree waiting for everyone to arrive. We climbed over a hill to where the giant bulldozer sat. The purpose of the rally was to protest the building of the wall through this remote village. The wall will, of course, greatly affect the 5,000 people of this town. I will spare some of the details, because I am writing about this for the Monitor and I will post it here as well, so some of this will be repeated.
A convoy of soldiers arrived as we stood around the bulldozers, kids sitting in front of it. M-16s and teargas guns surrounded us. One solider yelled at us not to take pictures. Alex smirked.
“What’s he going to do?” he said. “He can’t take my camera. He’s nervous. Probably the first time he’s done this.”
A Palestinian man started yelling at the kids. Salah told me he was telling them that this was a peaceful demonstration to stand for the land and that they will not throw any stones. He told them to sit quietly. Then suddenly, one of the soldiers raised his arm and said something in Hebrew. A symphony of clicks resounded as the soldiers pulled sound grenades from their sides and began lobbing them, unprovoked, into the crowd. The first one landed near my feet and all sound around me drowned out. A loud ringing resounded in my head as more of these bombs went off. Rubber bullets came whizzing past as people dashed in front and behind one another, scrambling for cover. The teargas guns were raised and fired as we all went running across the field. Sean was next to me, his fingers plugging his ears. I couldn’t reach up because I was holding my camera. I leaped over a stone fence, scraping my face against a cactus-like tree as I landed. Some of the kids started picking up stones, hurling them back in the direction from which we came. The soldiers started advancing. Teargas landed nearby and my eyes immediately started burning and watering and my throat ached.
Several kids had slings and used them to fling the rocks at the soldiers who continued to bombard us with teargas and rubber bullets. Sean and I moved away from the kids, distancing ourselves from the uneven skirmish. Part of me wanted to tell the teenagers not to throw anything, not to lower themselves to the level of others, because peace isn’t achieved this way. I thought of Martin Luther King’s words: “We will wear them down by our love.” And the words of Jesus of Nazareth echoed in my ears over the ringing of the grenades: “Love your enemies.” But I couldn’t help see the intense contrast between armored soldiers with automatic weapons and a bunch of fleeing teenagers with rocks. In some sense, David and Goliath were fighting right in front of me.
The soldiers stopped behind a rock wall which ran along the hill. Projectiles of smoke followed the canisters of teargas long after the rocks stopped flying. One of the kids showed me his shoe, which had been torn by one of the sound bombs. We found Alex back at the cinderblock-house near the tree where we began. We were warmly invited in by the residents, who offered us water and sassafras tea. A rather rotund man sat smoking a cigarette and laughed often and tried constantly to speak Arabic to us. These people were incredibly hospitable, offering us their precious water. Several of the men present started pointing at me and took pictures of me with their cell phones. I apparently looked like Mohanned, the hero of some movie who was followed around by women. How could they have known?
(Note: several other photographers were present. Check out this picture from the Associated Press: http://news.yahoo.com/nphotos/Mideast-Conflict-Israel-Ramallah-West-Bank-village/ss/events/wl/080601mideast/im:/080520/481/9b21b5c345db4a97a7fb2ae8497afd8a/. Sean and I are in the back.
We returned to Ramallah and climbed the stairs on Rubak Street to the Palestine Montior. No one was there, so we got a shawarma with Alex and then ran back to the flat to pack a few things for our stay in Beit Sahour. We hopped on a bus for Jerusalem, passed through a checkpoint, and then switched bus stations in the city to go to Bethlehem. We arrived in front of the enormous wall, through which we had to pass to enter Bethlehem. A huge sign hung near the massive gate of the Separation Wall, reading “Peace Be With You,” displaying one of the greatest representations of irony I have ever seen. We passed through security quickly. On the other side, graffiti covered the gray slates: “American Money, Israeli Apartheid”; “This Wall Must Fall”; and incredible artistic depictions, including some by Banksy, a famous British graffiti artist.
We bargained with taxi drivers until we got one for 15 shekels. He had a hard time finding our destination in Beit Sahour, but we eventually came upon the AIC, or Alternative Information Center. We were met by Kristhel, a young Dutch woman who organizes a lot of activities for the place. She led us down into the AIC where we hung out for awhile before going to Oush Ghrab, an abandoned military outpost a little ways outside of Beit Sahour. The city hopes to turn it into a park or some sort of educational center concerning the environment. But just recently a group of Israelis claimed it and want to turn it into another settlement. This was the first of three stories Sean and I were supposed to cover in the Bethlehem area.

To be continued . . . (rather dramatic end)

More Pictures, Less Words

Shabbat and the Road to Ramallah

May 17th, 2008 Citadel Youth Hostel, Jerusalem, Israel
(Note: I made a small change, and now anyone can comment on the blog whether or not you are a registered user, so feel free to drop a line! Also, the pictures were not working so I hope to load some on tomorrow)
I was wrong about having only one roommate. Soon after I stopped writing we met Johnny, a 19-year-old, golden-haired Londoner. Before starting at Cambridge in October, he’s been traveling throughout the Middle East, going first to Syria, then Jordan, Egypt, and now Israel. Starting on July 4th he will be working at a school in Tanzania. We liked this guy immediately. We stood around talking for a long time, swapping crazy travel stories and making a few plans for the next day. He might even visit us in Ramallah.
The call to morning prayer failed to wake any of us up. Our extensive walking the day before had exhausted us. We started stirring around 7:30, and I washed my face and made a cup of tea. Adam and I combined some of our food with Johnny’s for a modest breakfast of Peter Pan peanut butter, Nutella chocolate spread, and a loaf of bread. Once Sean dragged his lazy butt out of bed, we made our way to the Dome of the Rock. We passed quickly through security at the Western Wall, which was filled with the prayers of Shabbat. Unfortunately, we found that the Dome is closed on Saturdays. We were told we could try again early tomorrow morning. Johnny had only been in Jerusalem for a day, so he had seen very little of anything. We didn’t mind revisiting a few places, so we all journeyed to the Holy Sepulchre.
The church was much more crowded this time. Several priests, dressed in red robes collared with white, conducted a ritual service upstairs at the supposed site of the Crucifixion. An enormous line circled the shrine over the tomb, which was guarded by a priest who accompanied those who went inside. We left before being trampled.
The Lutheran Church of the Redeemer is directly out of the archway which leads to the square in front of the Sepulchre. We ventured inside, paying 5 shekels to climb up its tall white tower. Young by the standards of basically everything else in the city, the church was built in 1898 over the remains of the 11th century church of St. Mary la Latine. We barely squeezed through the coiling staircase, popping out in a four-walled room, each with a door leading to a small balcony overlooking the Old City. Every new viewpoint of this place is exciting.
We split up for a little while, Sean and Adam trudging off together and Johnny and I leaving to wander through the large cobbled streets. Just off David Street, a man stopped us, telling us we were now exactly in the center of Jerusalem, where the four quarters of the Old City (Jewish, Muslim, Armenian, and Christian) met. He told us that there was a great view up a staircase behind us. This same guy stopped my grandparents and me two years ago as we walked together on this same street. Johnny and I hopped up for a few minutes, taking a quick peek at the layers of rooftops before coming back down. Surprisingly, he didn’t ask us to buy anything, but he simply asked our nationalities. When I told him I was from Tennessee in the U.S., he smiled.
“Ah, Memphis!” he cried.
“No, Memphis is way over in the west,” I told him. “I’m from the other side.”
“I have been to Graceland,” he countered proudly. “Elvis! I bought his license there. It is in my shop. You can come and see!”
His clever move to encourage us to enter (and by something from) his shop didn’t work. We said we had to move on and walked briskly forward.
A little ways down the street, we noticed a man rushing into a synagogue on our left. We quietly stepped into the little courtyard and tiptoed up the stairs leading into the synagogue. A woman stood at the door. We asked if we could come in and look; she asked if we had anything to cover our heads. We didn’t.
“It’s all right, we don’t have to go in,” Johnny told her. “We’re not Jewish.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “In that case you can definitely come in without a kappa!”
She pulled the head rabbit close to her, asking him, and he motioned enthusiastically for us to enter. Several groups of men were clustered in the room, gathered around books which they read and discussed fervently. The women sat behind us through a grated wall. The lady told us that this is one of the oldest synagogues in Jerusalem. We didn’t want to overstay our welcome, so we wished them “Shabbat Shalom” and left. We went out the Zion Gate, following the road for awhile before heading to the Western Wall near the Dung Gate. Sean and Adam were waiting for us. We were supposed to meet Heidi and Kiran at 11, but they were rather late in appearing. The night before, they told us that they had once accompanied a Jewish family to their home for the Shabbat meal. After a lot of looking around, we were invited by the same rabbi with whom they joined before. We followed a long processional, singing loudly, through the streets of the Muslim Quarter and out through the Damascus Gate. Sean disappeared, which was what I wanted to do. I think he realized we were in for a long trip.
We walked past the Garden Tomb, turning right and then we walked and walked and walked . . . and walked. Eventually, we came to a home in an apartment complex. The walls of the room into which we entered were completely covered with books, all of which (I was told), the rabbi had read. Numerous fold-out tables made it very difficult to maneuver. At least fifty people were soon seated. A large man sat at the head table next to the rabbi. His long salt-and-pepper beard, tangled at the end in sweat, covered a beaming red face. In a loud raspy voice he started bellowing Beatles’ songs, nodding and smiling at us as he sang. For some reason, he reminded me of the Ghost of Christmas Present.
A lot of the people sitting with us were young Jewish Americans who were studying at universities in Israel.

(written May 18th, 2008 St. Andrew’s Scots Memorial Church, Jerusalem, Israel)
An assortment of drinks sat on the table. Several platters were handed through the room and we plucked bits of food off the trays as they passed. The host, Mordecai, spoke often, standing and sharing lessons from Torah or the Talmud. He spoke in English most of the time, and did so with a slight New York accent. I appreciated some of the things he said, such as the need to look out for one’s brother and to share the shalom experienced on Shabbat. However, he made extremely nationalistic comments which, in that setting, are not uncommon but are rather disconcerting to me. I certainly do not feel the same way about my country that he does about his. He expressed the need for all Israel’s enemies to change their actions and help the Jews, who are blessed, with whatever they needed. I kept thinking of the passage in Genesis where God tells Avraham that he and his descendents are blessed so that they will be a blessing to others. In spite of such comments, eating the second meal of Shabbat with Jewish friends was an enjoyable experience.
We left at an appropriate pausing point, hustling back to the Garden Tomb before it closed. Johnny had not gone in yet, so we told Kiran and Heidi that we would see them later that night and then sped off. Like the Holy Sepulchre, the tomb was much more crowded than before. Still, the garden is a tranquil place in the midst of the noise and bustle of Jerusalem. The three of us returned to the hostel, checking to see if Sean had come back. When we saw that he was still gone, we left to hike up the Mount of Olives for the third time in as many days. The sun would be setting soon so we hurried, making it from our hostel to the summit of the mount in thirty-five minutes (which, in case you aren’t aware, is pretty fast), quoting Rowan Atkinson’s comedy sketches as we went. We arrived with time to spare, so we went to the back of the Seven Arches Hotel, which is directly behind the lookout point of the mount.

(Ramallah, the West Bank)
The Judean wilderness stretched away from us in pallid hills. Bethlehem sat beneath us, partially enclosed by the Separation Wall, which some strangely refer to as the “security fence.” If so, this is the tallest, largest, and most abrasive fence I have ever seen.
The sun went down behind the old city in a deep orange. Sean, Johnny, and I sat in a miniature amphitheatre while the sun disappeared and the city’s diminutive specks of light began to appear. We walked comfortably down to the Dung Gate under a darkening bluish-gray sky. The lit-up Western Wall still echoed with Shabbat blessings as we strode toward the hostel. We made a pit-stop for schwarma, but grabbed mine and left in a rush. My dad ordered a phone for the three of us to use while here so that we could contact people from the relief society and so people at home could reach us. I had called Kirsty Sutherland (our friend and main contact in the organization) in order to discuss our arrival in Ramallah the next day, but the phone died. I left Adam and Johnny eating schwarma and hurried back to the hostel. Kirsty returned the call later that evening and we set up a time to meet the next day in order to go to Ramallah.
Sean and I sat on the second level visiting with Faydi (or Freddie to those who didn’t listen well the first time). Growing up, he had lived for some time in Ramallah and he now worked there in the mornings doing computer software repair. We told him of our plans for the next two months.
“You guys give me a call if you need anything,” he said. “Do you already have a place to stay?”
We discussed some of the recent history of Jerusalem, such as the separation of the city prior to 1967 when it was controlled by Jordan. Ahmed from Egypt, his long thick hair pulled back into a shaggy pony-tail, joined us for the conversation as we talked about the activities involved with Ramadan. He had arrived only a few hours earlier, spending the next several months working at Hebrew University doing research with Parkinson’s disease patients. He now lives in New York and earned his PhD in Neuroscience from the University of Arizona. Sean and Ahmed left to find food and only after they had been gone for some time did I decide to join them. Faydi said they went toward the Damascus Gate, so I ran through the deserted streets to find them. The Old City is desolate at night. During the day, the streets, narrowed by the overflowing products of the burrowed shops, are vibrant and filled with the noises of thudding footsteps and shouting. But at night, the streets grew wider and emptier and a thin stream of water slowly filtered through the notched stone floor. I came to the Damascus Gate, but the South Carolinian and the Egyptian were nowhere to be seen. I returned to the hostel by way of the New Gate, which is just up the street, taking my time and enjoying the streets of Jerusalem all to myself.
We awoke at 7:30 Sunday morning, quickly gathering a few things and rushing off to the Dome of the Rock. Another Brit named Steve joined the four of us. The line was already lengthy by the time we arrived. Somehow, Johnny and Steve got separated from us and we didn’t see them again all day. We left a note on Johnny’s pack at the hostel before we left, saying goodbye.
Sean almost didn’t make it to the top. The entrance to the former Temple Mount is next to the Dung Gate entrance of the Western Wall. We had to pass through a small security station and Sean was told by one of the soldiers that he couldn’t take the computer that was in his bag. He was going to have to leave because he had no other place to leave it. As Adam and I walked up the ramp, Sean suddenly stood beside us.
“They just stopped paying attention,” he said. “They didn’t seem to care about me too much, so I just came on in.”
Walking across the stones of Mt. Moriah sends slight chills through me. This place is one of the “holiest” sites in the world and is at the center of so much deep-seeded conflict. According to Jewish lore, God made humanity from dirt scooped from this mount. Muhammad is believed to have leapt to heaven in order to converse with Allah from this same rock. Adam, Noah, and Abraham all supposedly made sacrifices at its summit, including the time when Abraham almost offered his son Isaac. The Al-Aqsa mosque gave way to a wide courtyard which ascended in a row of steps beneath connecting arches. The Dome of the Rock peered through the openings. The intricate Arabic script ornamented the blues, greens, and yellows of the structure’s walls. Built between 688 and 691, its impressive gold dome was actually removed and melted in order to pay off debts. Anodised aluminium now doubles remarkably well for the material which once represented the light of Islam.
We walked all the way around it before climbing a wall on the edge of the mount in the direction of the Garden of Gethsemane. We learned we weren’t supposed to be up there, so we got down and walked a few minutes more before leaving.
We had originally planned on attending a service at the Garden Tomb, but meetings are no longer held on Sunday mornings. We were told of a Church of Scotland down the street from Jaffa Gate. We began another long walk to the left outside the gate, which led down a steep hill and rose to a steep hill. St. Andrew’s Scots Memorial Church was situated at the top. The minister warmly greeted us inside the simple sanctuary. He was slightly bent with age and his eyebrows were tufted like Gandalf’s in The Hobbit. The service was fairly short, consisting of several songs and Scripture readings, and a sermon on the Trinity by the minister, Colin Anderson. After the service, we went down to the guesthouse where some refreshments were provided. We visited a little with members of a Canadian group that was visiting and then we chatted with Mr. Anderson. He was a very kind, jovial man from Glasgow who has been working at the church since February and will be doing so for several more months. He was very supportive of the work we would be doing this summer and he expressed the need to work for peace and equity. He gave us his number and told us to come and visit and tell him about our work when we came back to Jerusalem. He took us up to the roof of the guesthouse and showed us the view of the Old City from the south. We said our goodbyes to Mr. Anderson a little later. The three of us agreed that this was the best experience at a religious setting by far. Everyone was incredibly hospitable and friendly, making an effort to come and speak to us. We sat in the library for close to two hours, reading and relaxing.
We returned to the hostel and began packing our bags. Kiran and Heidi were sitting on the roof and we took a picture with them and hugged them goodbye. We sat in front of the Damascus Gate for over an hour, watching the people. At 4:30 we went to meet Kirsty at the bus station across from the Garden Tomb. Kirsty arrived several minutes later. A short, slim, Scottish woman, Kirsty is the Media and Advocacy Officer of the Palestinian Medical Relief Society. She had been in Jerusalem for the day on a tour to see destroyed villages. We boarded Bus Number 18 and began our journey to Ramallah.
Kirsty explained a few things about our jobs, but decided to save most of it for tomorrow. She pointed out a tram that is being built to connect Jerusalem to Israeli settlements in the West Bank. This tram will penetrate Palestinian neighborhoods, but will not stop in them, only serving Israelis. We remained in Jerusalem even after we drove alongside the Wall. Suddenly, Kirsty announced that Jerusalem had ended and Ramallah had begun. We exited the bus onto the crowded streets, closely following Kirsty. We passed the city’s center, marked by five roads meeting at a monument edged by five sculpted lions, representing the founding families of the city. We hailed a taxi around the corner and drove a few streets over to our apartment. Two flights of stairs led us to our suite. The three of us were immensely impressed by the spaciousness of the place. A large window framing a portion of the city backed a small living area. The large kitchen was connected to the little balcony where we could eat and drink or hang laundry. One of the bathrooms had a washing machine. Kirsty was surprised by our enthusiasm.
“It’s rather a dump right now, really,” she said.
“Oh, anything is fine with us,” I told her. “Four bedrooms and three bathrooms is a lot for us. We’re university students.”
“Yeah, we usually live in boxes,” Sean added.
We thanked Kirsty for her help and agreed to meet with her at the Palestine Monitor at 10:30 tomorrow morning. After she left, we took a few moments to take in the place. Sean almost hopped around, extremely excited about finally being in Ramallah. We sat in the living room and attempted to learn to count to ten in Arabic, sounding absolutely ridiculous as we did so.
Right now we have one roommate: a German girl named Maxi. She wasn’t there when we arrived. We waited for her for awhile, but when we she didn’t come we decided to go explore a little bit. We found a grocery store at the corner of our street and a bakery a short distance in the other direction. We visited with a few kids who tried to learn our names and welcome us to the city. We brought back the food we bought to the apartment and made a decent meal out of pita, hummus, juice, and several meat and cheese pockets from the bakery.
The city is fairly quiet now. A few cars are humming as they speed through the street. Sean went to bed and Adam is asleep on the couch across from me. Maxi still hasn’t come.
New and different adventures await us tomorrow. We are now in Ramallah.