Hebron

June 3rd, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank
Flo and Kirsty instructed me to leave the office early on Saturday. I wasn’t going to argue. Kirsty told me that I should take a day off, because I’ve been working nonstop since I arrived.
“Well, I am tomorrow,” I told her. “I’m going to Hebron.”
“Oh, well that’s not a day off,” she said.
I went back to the flat around 2:30, took a shower, took stuff out of my backpack, put a few things in my backpack (and tied my sleeping bag onto the bottom of it), and boarded a bus to Jerusalem.
I hiked to the Mount of Olives and sat in a shaded corner of a miniature amphitheater, reading an article by N.T. Wright about what it actually means to say that the Bible is authoritative. I really like N.T. Wright. I traversed the winding road back to the Damascus Gate where I sat for over an hour watching the people that funneled in and out. I then plunged into the Old City and wandered. The sun set as I sat on a bench in front of King David’s Citadel inside the Jaffa Gate. An older man was walking by and noticed the patches on my backpack. He introduced himself as Mike, an Israeli, and he joined me on the bench. We talked for over an hour. He had traveled extensively and we conversed about the world and everything in it. He reprimanded me for saying “Yes sir.”
“We do not say this here,” he said. Mike had to correct me a few more times.
I asked him if he was Jewish. He shrugged.
“Well, I believe in God, but I am not religious,” he replied. “You?”
“Oh, it depends on what you mean by religious,” I answered smiling. “I’m a follower of Jesus.”
As we talked, he wondered why so many people seem to take such an interest in the situation here. He thought that places like Darfur and other parts of Africa are experiencing far worse problems. He asked if I thought the rising activism among internationals with Palestinians had anything to do with suppressed anti-Semitism.
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but I don’t really think so. At least, I know that is not the case for me. As a follower of God through Jesus, I cannot be anti-Semitic. To hate another person is not of God. I am in Ramallah to serve. The Christian Scriptures, at one point, say that religion that God finds to be pure and perfect is to serve those in need. That’s what I want to do.”
“You answer very boldly and very well,” Mike said nodding.
He was surprised when I told him my age.
“You speak like someone much older,” he said. “I think that you give me hope for younger people. And for Americans.”
I was glad I could be of assistance. He thought I was very unusual for an American, even though he knew the U.S. is a big place.
Mike is a very superstitious person, he told me. Whenever he sees a black cat, he has to walk around it.
“And I sleep without any cloth,” he said, “because of superstition. And also because this is more comfortable and natural.”
He has had many travelers stay at his home and he apologized profusely for not being able to invite me to come. He, unfortunately, had to meet someone that night and early the next morning. But he got my email and told me that I had to come and visit sometime. I stood as he prepared to leave, and we thanked one another for the wonderful conversation
“Speaking with you makes me feel young,” he said before walking away. “And it is good to feel young.”
I had planned to go to Bethlehem for the night, but my conversation with Mike went too late to get a bus. So, I climbed up to the Citadel Youth Hostel and inquired about space on the roof. Of course, there was room. I stepped out onto the roof in the breeze and saw that fantastic view of the city. I threw my sleeping bag down and sat in a chair with my feet propped up.

(written at the flat)
I visited with a couple of Brits and a girl from Poland who had recently arrived in Jerusalem. One of the Brits, a guy named Daniel, and I walked through the Old City for a little while, grabbing a few snacks at the Jaffa Gate. Johnny, our golden-haired English friend who has been backpacking the Middle East, was still at the Citadel. I was glad to see him again. He had left for awhile, going back to Egypt, but was back now for a day or two before leaving. We sat in the lobby, swapping stories of our experiences over the last two-and-a-half weeks. He was a little shocked by my descriptions of the protests. I was happy to snuggle into my sleeping bag once more on the roof of the Citadel.
I got up at 6:45, rolling up my sleeping bag and walking to the Damascus Gate. The Old City was just starting to stir, though most of the shops were still closed. I caught a bus to Bethlehem, where I would be meeting Anna, Leif, and their group from the Holy Land Trust with whom I went to ICAHD. I went through the checkpoint and walked along the Wall to where all the taxis waited. Several drivers hurried up to me, offering low prices to entice me into riding with them. They were rather disappointed when all I wanted was to verify my directions. I kept walking, going past Claire Anastas’ house, and on to Manger Street. Unfortunately, I went a little too far and turned on the wrong street. So, in the end, I was forced to get a taxi in order to make it at 8:45. Most of the group had not yet arrived when I got there, but once everyone had boarded the bus we headed south for Hebron. On the way, I visited some with Julia, one of the participants of the Palestine Summer Experience. She’s from Wheaton, and she knows of my good friend Rich Little. The world keeps growing smaller and smaller.

(written June 4th, 2008 The Flat, Ramallah, the West Bank)
Once we were in Hebron, we exited the bus and walked through the market of the Old City before coming to the Ibrahimi Mosque. We had to pass through several security checkpoints to get inside, repeating the same routine of taking everything out of our pockets and dumping our bags through a hole in the wall. Everyone removed their shoes when we entered the mosque, and the women were given cloaks in order to cover themselves completely. This place is also known as the Tomb of the Patriarchs, because it is the believed resting place of Adam, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and their wives. Large, decorated cenotaphs commemorate the tombs of the fathers of three of the world’s largest religions. Several bullet holes chip the walls of the mosque, reminders of a horrific massacre. In 1994, American-born Jew Baruch Goldstein entered the mosque on the Jewish holiday of Purim, which is also during the month of Ramadan, and began shooting the praying Palestinians. The Jewish settlers, who have been living illegally in the city as early as 1967, erected a memorial as a tribute to Goldstein. Hebron is a disturbing place.
The Tomb is actually split in half: one half mosque and the other half synagogue. We walked around to the Jewish side, passing through more security to look around for a few minutes. Our next stop was a lady’s home that our guide knew. She welcomed us graciously, providing places for us to sit in her living area as she explained the difficult situation in Hebron. She had been forced to put a metal cage around her balcony to protect her from the settlers who often throw stones at her while she hangs her laundry. Just recently, her seventy-year old mother was attacked by young settlers. We were taken up to the roof of her house where a member of the Christian Peacemaking Team pointed out sites of the city. CPT is an organization whose purpose is to provide a presence in the West Bank. They accompany children to schools and go with people through checkpoints to ensure the safety of Palestinians. However, they have often been attacked as they attempt to serve and protect. Shuhada Street, which has a reputation as a very hostile settler road, runs directly behind the home. We decided to go walk on it.
The Palestinian lady led the group down to the street. As we did, we passed a young Jewish woman who, as soon as she saw the Palestinian, ran over to a group of soldiers and pointed her out. The guards caught up with us and asked to see our guide’s ID. Eventually, they were satisfied and allowed us to continue. However, we were soon stopped by three women, furious that a Palestinian was traversing “their street.” They began taking pictures of her with their cell phones, presumably to give to the authorities. I stood in front of the Palestinian lady, moving whenever the settler women moved so that most of their pictures were of my back. One of our group, Mark the Irishman, began arguing with the women, which didn’t help very much.
“Why does she need to be here?” asked the leader of the three women. “My grandfather was killed here, and we don’t want her to kill anyone else. She comes here to kill us. Let her leave. She has her own streets to walk on.”
I have rarely heard such racism and hatred and brainwashed nonsense. What happened to this woman’s grandfather is despicable, but this older lady leading us did not kill him. The Palestinians did not kill him. One person did, and that person does not represent an entire ethnicity. Suspicious hatred crawled up and down Shuhada Street. Mark’s arguments weren’t helpful, and Leif became nervous. As the leader, the safety of the group was his responsibility, and antagonizing the settlers, who have been known to attack not only Palestinians but also international visitors, was not going to improve the situation. I certainly had things I wanted to say. Technically, this street is the Palestinian woman’s street, because the settlers are there illegally. And what scriptures do these people read in their synagogues? Certainly not the book of Isaiah, or God telling Abram that he is to be blessed so that he will be a blessing to everyone else. But I held my tongue, realizing that an American is going to do little to create a worldview transformation in fifteen minutes. I simply stood, doing my best to prevent picture-taking and making sure that our group began to move away.
The husband of the most vocal of the women arrived. He was a civilian, but he had an M-4 strapped over his shoulder. The situation grew increasingly uncomfortable. For every settler in Hebron, many of which are armed with automatic weapons, four soldiers stand guard on rooftops or in the streets. 12,000 Jews live in the vicinity of Hebron. At one point, I knelt down in the middle of the road and prayed, “God, forgive us because we don’t have a clue what we’re doing. We’ve screwed up this world. Let your justice and peace roll down like a mighty stream.”
A band of soldiers soon joined us, once again requiring our friend’s identification. She was absolutely incredible. I have heard ridiculous sermons back in the States about Paul’s admonition to have joy in suffering. This passage is often relegated to situations like illness or schoolwork, examples that belittle the weight of the statement. This Muslim woman embodied the heart of Paul’s words. She stood quietly, complying with the unjust orders of the soldiers and ignoring the putrid insults of the settlers. She smiled kindly at the people around her and waited patiently as she was racially profiled. This woman displayed the kingdom of God.
One of the young soldiers walked up to me and said, “Don’t worry. Not all Jews are this crazy.”
The lead settler started spitting at him in Hebrew. I asked him what she said.
“She doesn’t want me talking to you.”
“Is that really her decision?” I asked him.
He shrugged helplessly, and nodded slightly.
The Palestinian woman was placed in a car and driven back to her house. We followed on foot and climbed the narrow staircase to her living room. We sat in silence for several minutes. As we left, I told her I was sorry.
“You have no need to be sorry,” she answered with a smile on her face. “Salaam alaikum. Peace be with you.”
The entire time we stood on Shuhada Street I repeated to myself “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.” The settlers weren’t attacking me, but I was compelled to whisper these words so that my disgust for the peoples’ actions didn’t spread to the actual people. Anna told me later that it’s hard to hate someone who is so infected with hate. One actually feels sorry for them.
We were given a presentation of the situation in Hebron by an organization whose name I have forgotten. On our way out of Hebron, we stopped for lunch. I had an amazing falafel, and it only cost three shekels. The last stop of the day was at a refugee camp next to Bethlehem. I missed much of the presentation because my mom called to wish me a happy birthday. I have spent several birthdays in some very violent-stricken cities: the concentration camp at Dachau, Belfast, Jerusalem, and now Hebron.
We were led through the streets of the camp (which has become a village in the sixty years since these people were displaced from their homes) to a display of pictures and stories. The dreams and nightmares of children in the village were pasted on the walls. One kid wrote “I dream of freedom . . .”
Anna, Leif, and I got off the bus near the Church of the Nativity and sat on some steps for awhile, processing the events of the day. We walked around the corner to a hookah bar and restaurant next to the Holy Land Trust, getting something to drink and talking about the day and about lighter subjects, such as movies. Leif is a big movie buff too. Anna almost fell asleep from boredom.
Leif walked quickly to his house to retrieve his computer and joined Anna and me shortly at her apartment, which is down the road from the Church of the Nativity. Anna made a chocolate cake with peanut butter as the icing for a birthday cake. One of Anna’s friends, a girl from Canada, came over and visited for a little while. Anna has to renew her visa soon, so she and her friend are going to Petra in Jordan. Sean, Adam, and I are going to try and make a weekend trip there before we leave. The friend left, soon followed by Leif, and after awhile Anna showed me down the stairs to her neighbor’s flat, who had graciously offered me a bed. I had met this American couple at church the week before; they had noticed the Duke shirt which I changed into because he had studied at that fine institution. He wasn’t, however, a big basketball fan. A bed was pulled out in a den area and I was soon asleep. Midnight had come and gone quite some time before.
This had been an eventful birthday.