The Tour Part II

June 19th, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank

Thursday was another early morning as we headed south, through Area C (under Israeli control; Bethlehem is Area A, or under Palestinian administrative authority) of the West Bank, to Masada. The buses drove through the Jordan Valley, making a brief stop in what was referred to as the “Valley of the Shadow of Death.” The writer of the Psalms was possibly referring to this actual location. Bleached peaks collapsed into canyons aching under the sun. Adam and I went running down into the valley and up a lonely hill, providing an incredible panoramic view of the abandoned landscape.

We continued on to Masada. This imposing plateau, close to the Dead Sea, rises 1,300 feet back to sea level. A few of the group decided to hike up, so we trekked the Snake Path in the 105 degree heat. I finished the hike in less than thirty minutes. Herod the Great built a fortress on the summit of Masada between 37 and 31BC, and it became the last stronghold of the Jewish rebels in 72AD before falling to the Romans. But the Jews would not be made slaves. Instead of surrendering, lots were drawn and a group of men killed the 936 people in the community until the last man took his own life. When the Romans entered by way of the ramp that they built, everyone was dead except for a few who hid in a cistern. However, Josephus’ account of this remarkable story has been severely questioned by archaeological evidence. The primary archaeologist of Masada has been accused of falsifying evidence in order to give Israelis a heroic historical account. Even so, Masada is still an amazing place.

I basically ran down the Snake Path, which wasn’t the best idea considering my ankle and my knee. Sports will mess you up. We left Masada and went to the Ein Gedi Spa for lunch and then floated in the Dead Sea. The mountains of Jordan were slightly hidden in a thick haze. From there, we drove to the village of Jiftlik in the eastern part of the West Bank, close to Jordan. I had written a story about this place a year-and-a-half ago and was excited to return, especially accompanying a large American tour there. The doctor of Jiftlik, and Kirsty, spoke to us about the situation in the village and the extreme level of poverty. Visiting such places is sobering. I hiked part of the hill behind the village. Stones still hold the metal roofs in place. (See the first blog post for the story I wrote about the village)

We continued on to the Sea of Galilee and checked in at the Royal Plaza Hotel in Tiberias. I was extremely disappointed the first time I saw Lake Kinneret in 2001: it was so small. For some reason, this really bothered me. I think, in a way, this sort of marked the beginning of me thinking differently about many things. I began to realize that not everything is what I thought it to be or what I had been taught. For the next five years, I intentionally envisioned the Sea of Galilee as a minute spot of water to counter the previous disparity between the image and the actual thing. However, when I came back in 2006, I was shocked by the large size of the lake. My little plan worked.

One of the members of the group invited Sean and me to visit with a Messianic Jewish Zionist friend of hers who came to visit. We sat in the lobby of the hotel and listened as he talked about his views. I got chills as I listened, disturbed by what I was hearing. He offered a very sketchy history of the land, saying that this area was a deserted wasteland before 1948, that this was “a land without people for a people without a land.” According to this man, one of the greatest myths ever accepted by the world since those propagated by Hitler, is that Palestinians exist.

“There is no such thing!” he exclaimed.

He explained that part of the reason why violence is so prevalent in the land today is because the Israelites did not obey God when they were told to wipe everyone out. Evangelical Christians often skip the Gospels and go immediately to Paul’s writings; this man seemed to have skipped the Gospels and gone back to a very literal interpretation of Joshua. I am scared by people who try to use the Book of Joshua as a model for contemporary political action. Zionism is a relatively new ideology, beginning in the last two hundred years, and was very secular in its inception. Religious groups have since jumped on board and the acceptance of this worldview has skyrocketed, and is widely embraced, in conservative Christian circles. I cannot accept a view of God that not only allows, but encourages, blatant injustice and oppression. In this man’s perspective, Jesus was the public relations officer for the glorious future political state of Israel. This man offered a very interesting interpretation of Matthew 25, when Jesus says that whatever we do to the least we have done to him. Because this story precedes the Crucifixion, Jesus was quite obviously talking about the Jews, quite simply because Jews were the only ones crucified, and given the location of Matthew 25, the “least of these” that Jesus is talking about is the Jews. And the Jews also meant the state of Israel. So, according to this man, Jesus says in Matthew 25 that we are to be judged according to how we treated the political state of Israel.

“I do not want to see anyone suffer,” the man said. “I hate to see children hungry. But this is God’s land and we must obey what God wants and we can’t let social or humanitarian issues get in the way.”

My uncle Rob joined us later and very respectfully countered much of what the man had to say, asking questions and presenting the story from another angle. He did an excellent job, and I respect him immensely for the way he handled the discussion. I sat quietly the entire time, realizing that it was best for me to remain silent that night.
The next day we explored the sites around the Sea of Galilee.

(written June 20th, 2008 Karamah, Ramallah, the West Bank)
We drove to the Mount of Beatitudes, a possible location of where Jesus related his most famous collection of teachings. Some have thought that Matthew’s and Luke’s Gospels contradict one another, because one states that Jesus ascended to a hilltop in order to teach, while the other relates that Jesus descended to a level place to speak. This mount embodies both of these traits, consisting of a high summit that slopes into a wide plain. Also, the difference in the two versions can also be attributed to the disparate audiences of the writers: Matthew, writing to a Jewish audience, may have wanted to create an image of Jesus as Moses, climbing to the mountain peak in order to fulfill the Law. Luke, on the other hand, who wrote to a Greek (or Gentile) audience, may have wanted to emphasize Jesus relating to the people, coming down to them.

A small church now sits on top of the mount. The area around the sea is green and blossoming. I could imagine Jesus walking from group to group as he repeated his teachings, drawing extensively from his surroundings as he searched for metaphors and similes that would illuminate (and, sometimes, hide) his message. We found ourselves next in Capernaum (or Kafar Naum). A Catholic church, strangely resembling E.T.’s spaceship, hovers over an ancient dwelling believed to be the home of Peter, with whom Jesus stayed. Very, very early Christian tradition supports this claim. A hole in the floor of the unique church building provides a view down into the small home.

The group piled onto a boat, somewhat modeled after first-century fishing boats, that would take us across the lake. The captain noticed that we were an American group, so a huge flag was lifted and the U.S. national anthem blared over the loudspeakers. I cringed, and turned away to look at the water and the hills. Some really embarrassing gospel music came next, but I was soon relieved of the pain when Rich Mullins was played and redeemed Christian-themed music. One of the crew demonstrated how fishermen would cast their nets before we arrived at Ein Gev, where we ate fish (go figure) and took a brief swim in the sea. We then continued to Gergesa (or Kursi in the Torah), where both Matthew and Luke record Jesus releasing a legion of demons into a herd of pigs, another story which contains some amazing symbolism. Our last stop was at the Jordan River Baptismal Site. No evidences supports this as the place where John the Baptizer, as his name implies, baptized his cousin. The site is simply a place to remember that event. Many people, dressed in white, were lined up to be immersed in the river.

That night, our old family friend Joseph Shulam spoke to the group. A Messianic Jew originally from Bulgaria, he is the son of Holocaust survivors and was a student of my grandfather’s at Lipscomb University. While my family and Mr. Shulam differ immensely on certain issues, he has been a close friend to the family for forty years. He came to speak about the theology of the land from a Messianic Jewish perspective. Although Mr. Shulam is a very opinionated and expressive man, his words on this occasion were nothing like that of the gentleman the night before. Hopefully, though, the group heard implications in some of things he said that caused them to pause and think again.

Sean, Adam, Alisha, and I woke up at 5:30 the next morning and hiked up the tall hill behind the hotel, crawling under barbwire and wading through the fiery-colored grass. Soon, the sun emerged from behind the mountains on the far side of the Sea of Galilee and sent a white path, framed in sparkling orange, across the wrinkled water.

I slept the entire drive to the nature reserve at Dan, the northern border of ancient and modern Israel. The gates of the old city are near a military bunker overlooking Syria and Lebanon. We then went to Caesarea Philippi, or Banias. We climbed up next to the towering rock wall, pricked with niches where idols were kept. Child sacrifices were performed in the mouth of a large cave that sunk deep into the stone. The bodies were thrown inside and, if their blood trickled out into the stream, then the sacrifice was successful. Banias, which would have been a very long walk from the Sea of Galilee, was a striking place for Jesus to take his closest followers. Simon, after following this man and watching him and listening to him and living with him, proclaimed here that Jesus is the Anointed One, the Son of the Living God. Whether or not Simon understood at that point the divine implications that would later become associated with his words, he was professing Jesus as Lord. There is a difference between Lord and Savior. Too often, I think, Paul has become Lord and Teacher, informing us how to live, while Jesus has only been consigned the position of Savior. Simon, however, knew that Jesus is Lord (Master, Teacher, and Savior), and not Caesar, not Mammon, not the U.S. government. Jesus then gave Simon the name Peter, “Rock,” as they stood next to an idol-filled rock wall, saying that on this foundation he would create his community of followers. The bloody cave was known at the time as the Gates of Hell, and perhaps Jesus turned and pointed at the gaping hole as he stated that the Gates of Hell, this present evil, would not overcome. Jesus really knew how to contextualize what he wanted to say.

We drove on to Nazareth, visiting the Well of Mary and walking through the marketplace. A church has been built over the first-century synagogue where Jesus read from the prophetic words from Isaiah. This dramatic passage in Luke 4 is probably one of my favorite stories in all of Scripture, where Jesus acknowledges that he has been anointed by God to preach good news to poor, proclaim freedom for the prisoners, recovery of sight for the blind, release the oppressed, and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. Jesus fulfills this mission, this Good News. And all are impressed by it, my uncle Rob pointed out, until Jesus starts talking about the inclusion of the Gentiles. Then they want to kill him. Rich noted something else interesting: according to tradition, Jews stood to read Scripture out of reverence and then sat down to teach. If any man in history could have remained seated to read, Jesus was that man. But he stood because he was a devout Jew, respecting his culture, conforming in order to transform. So, he stood to read. He then sat down to teach.

(written at Café de la Paix)
We moved on to the Church of the Ascension, a gigantic structure built over the traditional site of Mary’s home. The most impressive part about the place is the courtyard, decorated with mosaics from numerous countries depicting Mary and Jesus in the style of their distinct cultures.

After dinner, Sean, Adam, and I spoke to around half the group about our experiences, telling them stories such as protests and my day in Hebron. Dad presented a slideshow explaining the decreasing size of the Palestinian territories. I think it was very effective. Anna was in Nazareth with her group from Bethlehem, so she walked up the huge hill to Nazareth Illit where our hotel was located to hear our little presentation. After we were done talking, she and I walked back down into Nazareth and all the way across town to her friends’ house where she picked up some of her belongings. I really like walking through these amazing places at night, when all the tourists are gone. I left her at her hotel and basically rock climbed back to my hotel. The road took too long, so I took a shortcut and scaled a few walls.

Sean headed back to Ramallah on Sunday morning in order to teach English and the rest of us met with the Nazareth Church of Christ on Sunday morning before leaving for Megiddo. The view from the ruins of Megiddo over the Jezreel Valley is beautiful. Rob talked about Revelation, pointing out that the point of prophecy is to call us to action in the present. The Book of Revelation is literature of the oppressed, which is a subgenre of Jewish Apocalyptic literature. The extravagant and abundant symbolism used by the writer is specific to these forms of literature.

Caesarea Maritima was the last stop of the tour in Israel. This place is very special to my family, because my granddad spent a number of years excavating here, and my dad and his brothers all spent summers digging here as well. Pooh talked to the group about the time spent there and life as an archaeologist. This was quite possibly the last time he would be speaking to such a group. Now in his late 70s, Pooh has begun to forget much of the incredible wealth of knowledge that he has accumulated in his more than fifty years of studying and teaching. My grandparents treated this as quite possibly their last trip to Israel and the Palestinian Territories, having been here nearly thirty times. At one time my granddad would take the microphone away from tour guides and correct them; now he sat quietly as a pilgrim, listening as my uncle Rob and my dad together assumed the position of leader. I watched my grandparents walk slowly through the ruins, holding hands and laughing as they reminisced. I have no problem admitting it: I choked up a little. They are two of most incredible, gracious, hospitable, giving, loving, and God-like people I know. I have been extremely fortunate, both because of my dad’s family and because of my mom’s.

We ended the tour in Tel Aviv at the Metropolitan Hotel. Everyone was parting ways very early the next morning. This was a very unique tour. People were given new eyes on this trip and were asking different questions. Many told my dad that their lives were changed. I suppose you can’t really ask for anything more. I left soon after we arrived for the airport in order to pick up Nicole Dicken, a friend of Sean’s and mine from Harding University. Early last semester, I told her that she should just come over to Israel during her time backpacking through some of Europe. She found it hard to turn down the offer. Her plane came in a little late, which gave me time to read. Once she arrived, we hopped in a taxi and shot off for the city. Sean was back when we got there. The three of us walked along the Mediterranean for awhile, sitting on a peninsula of boulders that jutted out into the sea.

We were up and moving at 3. That is way too early. Most of the group headed to the airport to fly to Greece for a few days. Others flew home. And then around twenty of us boarded a bus and drove south to Egypt. I slept most of the long drive to Eilat. We had little trouble crossing the border, entering the Arab Republic of Egypt. Another tour bus picked us up and we entered the Sinai Peninsula. We stopped a few hours down the road for lunch at the Hilton in Nuweiba. I could never stay at a place like that. I think I would feel guilty. But lunch and a swim in the Gulf of Aqaba with a view of Saudi Arabia isn’t too bad. Several hours later we arrived at the foot of Mount Sinai.

Archaeologists and scholars do not support this as the place where Moses received the Ten Commandments, but sometimes I just don’t think that matters too much. You can’t really blame the Israelites for getting lost for forty years: the mountains and canyons form a natural maze. We all turned in pretty early (I went to bed at 8:30 to be exact), because our day was starting before daylight.

We were on our way up the mountain at 2 in the morning, following closely behind a Bedouin guide. Stars in the pitch-black sky gave us a little light as we hiked, enclosed by the blacker shapes of mountains. We moved around the crowds of people walking and the camels sitting on the path, eventually ascending a long series of steps to the summit of Sinai. A small church sat on the top, and a few of us climbed to the roof. Rich read from some of the desert monks as the sun rose through a sliver of orange and became melted gold painted on the blue-gray sky. The jagged mountains were now visible, puzzle-pieced to the spreading colors. I have seen some astounding sunrises on this trip, over the Mount of Olives and the Dome of the Rock, the Sea of Galilee, and Mount Sinai. Such experiences are almost enough to make someone a morning person.

Sean, Nicole, Adam, and I blazed our own trail over the rocks because too many people were on the road going down. We made it down pretty quickly, giving us enough time to run up another path that gave us a view back to Sinai. Once we returned to our lodgings, we all got showers and ate breakfast before returning to the foot of the mountain. St. Catherine’s monastery is nestled next to the rock. We were given a very brief tour because most of it is not open to the public. They actually have a large bush that some believe to be a direct descendent of the burning bush. I feel like that might be a stretch. Despite such farfetched claims, the diligent work of monasteries such as this has preserved many ancient writings such as the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures.

The group prepared to head to Cairo and we got ready to return to Israel. I said goodbye to Rich, the Byrams, and Ms. Pam, who gave me a box of Tim Tams (a delicious brand of cookies that I grew to love in Australia). She is a wonderful woman. I love being around these people. Rich invited me to spend Christmas with them in Australia. I’m holding him to that, although my mom and my bank account might not be too lenient.

(written June 21st, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank)
I slept the entire way back to the Taba border crossing. Our driver was very efficient, getting us from Sinai to the border in around two hours. We again had little trouble getting across, although my backpack was almost completely emptied. We got a taxi-bus into Eilat and picked up the rental car before heading off through the Negev Desert. I slept most of that drive as well, waking up as we drove through Makhtesh Ramon, the large erosion-created crater in the world.

We arrived in Be’er Sheva that evening and met with a number of medical students at Ben Gurion University, most of which were Americans. We had dinner with them and talked. My dad will be starting a rotation of medical students next year who will come to Ben Gurion and Ramallah for one month. Several of these students, who were all Christians, heard him speak at the medical school last year and wanted to meet with him the next time he came to Be’er Sheva. Dad talked about his history in the Middle East and told stories about working in the impoverished Appalachian Mountains, discussing how his faith is integrated into his vocation. The students seemed very encouraged, and shocked by some of the stories he told about healthcare in the mountains of Tennessee.

We continued to Jerusalem that night, leaving the car in the parking lot at the Notre Dame, and catching the last bus to Ramallah. We arrived late at our flat in Al-Masyoun. I was glad to have a night of sleep that lasted longer than four hours.

The Tour Part I (See Pictures Below)

June 9th, 2008 Citadel Youth Hostel, Jerusalem, Israel
(Correction: the settlement which was involved in the protest on Friday was Hashmon’im, not Modi’in. That story can be read at this link: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article458)

After a quick shower and quick packing, Adam and I journeyed to Jerusalem and returned to the Citadel. Our friend Faydi was working and we told him a few stories of our experiences as we paid for the next four nights. We watched the end of Hilary Clinton’s concession speech on TV and met two American sisters who were traveling together for awhile. The four of us walked to Ben Yehudah Street, wandering around before meeting some other people on a little side street. I get uncomfortable around large crowds. Places with loud, obnoxious American music and people dressed in apparel that would get them stoned in parts of the world are just not my places. I want to know what brought all these people here, where they come from, and if they know the sort of things that are happening less than fifteen miles away. Back at the hostel, I visited with two other Americans and told them about what I’m doing here and some of the things I’ve seen. They were shocked. We talked about Jesus and how his message of Love, Reconciliation, and Peace can transform people, which can lead to overcoming oppressive narratives. We cannot forsake what is most important to God: “justice, mercy, and faithfulness.” These conversations are a huge part of why I am here.

(written June 10th, 2008 Notre Dame Guest House, Jerusalem, Israel)

Adam and I were up by 7 and, after splashing our faces with water, we were off to the Mount of Olives. We walked a bit more leisurely than usual. I didn’t see anyone from the group on the summit, so we found a spot in the shade and waited. I thought the group was supposed to arrive around 7:30, but we had reached the summit close to 7:45 and no one was there. At 8 I decided it might be smart to turn on my cell phone. And of course, soon after I did, I got a call from my dad saying they were in the breakfast room of the Seven Arches Hotel and had been there since around 7.

Reunions are always great, especially when they occur in amazing places. My dad, my grandparents (who we call Honey and Pooh: Pooh comes from the Grand Pooh-bah on Happy Days, and Honey derives from their nephew thinking that this was her name when my granddad was using a term of endearment) were there, as well as my dad’s brothers, one of which, Rob, is a minister at a church in Nashville and the other, Barry, is a professor at Wheaton College. My aunt Judy, Rob’s wife, and cousin Mitchel, Barry’s son, were there also, accompanied by slightly distant relatives and old family friends. Rich Little, my close friend who was one of my professors in Australia, Gary Byram and his family (another close friend who was my other professor in Australia), and Pam Little (Rich’s mom who is the coordinator of Harding’s program in Australia) were all there and it was so good to see all of them. The group is very large. Seventy-two constitutes a very large group. I have very much enjoyed getting to know some of the people, especially Greg Watts. Mr. Watts and his wife went to the church at which my uncle Rob preached in Milwaukee. I have met their son before, who used to date the sister of my best friend’s fiancé. He seems like a wanderer. Also, I have had several very good conversations with an old family friend named Les Williams and his daughter Alisha. Overall, this is a good group.

Because of the group’s size, two buses were rented in order to accommodate everyone. And two guides were hired, both of which are Palestinian Christians: Jamil (or Jimmy) and Tony.

(written June 18th, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank)

I am exhausted. I have had little sleep and no writing time over the past week, which explains why I have not been able to update the blog. Therefore, I am going to (attempt to) forego my desire for immense detail and simply run through most of the week, which should make most of the very few people who actually read this blog quite happy.

Our first stop with the group was the Harem al-Sharif, or the Temple Mount, followed by the Western Wall. We then walked along the excavations that have been done around the edge of the Temple Mount as my uncle Rob explained much of the history and significance. The group made a short visit to the Pool of Siloam before going to the Jerusalem Hotel for lunch. This would be an appropriate place to note the extreme amount of food we ate with this group. Amazingly, our meals and lodgings were paid for and we took advantage of it. I think I am going to fast for the next week.

We returned to the Mount of Olives for a view of the city and walked down the Palm Sunday Road to the Church of All Nations and the Garden of Gethsemane. The group was staying at the Notre Dame Guest House and that night we met in the chapel of the Notre Dame for a worship service. My granddad spoke about “Four Decades in the Holy Land as a Teacher, Archaeologist, and Pilgrim.”

A few people wanted to go explore some, so Adam and I offered to show them around. Sean arrived just as we were about to leave, so we he came with us. We ventured through Jaffa Gate and down into the Old City, making our way to the Western Wall to see it lit up at night. We explained some of our experiences so far and briefly described the situation.

(written June 19th, 2008)

This is getting ridiculous. I just need to spit it out.
Monday was a fairly relaxed day. Mount Zion was the first stop, visiting Herod’s family tomb and the Church of St. Peter in Gallicantu (or “and the Cock Crow”). A lookout point provides a wonderful view of the Mount of Olives, the Wall, and the Valley of Hinnom (or Gehenna), translated as “hell” in most Bibles. The mistranslation, and misuse, of such things has led to some very serious problems in the history of Christianity. And that is all I will say about that.

Archaeological evidence supports St. Peter in Gallicantu as the location of the High Priest Caiaphas’ house. A 2,000 year-old staircase leads from the valley in which the Garden of Gethsemane is situated to the church on Mount Zion. Jesus probably walked these steps as he was taken to be tried.

We next visited the Church of St. Anne and the Pool of Bethesda, where Jesus healed a man who had not walked in thirty-eight years. I continue to find it amazing how the signs of Jesus are so closely related to the message of Jesus. Jesus recovers the sight of the blind, enables the lame to walk again, and raises the dead to life, all symbolizing the renaissance that he came to bring. I don’t think Jesus asks us to see things differently; I think Jesus asks us to see with completely new eyes, to walk a completely new path, and to experience a completely new life.

We had lunch on the roof of the Ecce Homo Convent in the Old City before splitting the group up for a free afternoon. Rich and I wandered the Old City, weaving through the streets before sitting on the rooftop above the Tomb of King David. I have immensely missed my conversations with Rich. We discussed social issues, the possibility of writing a book, and how Jesus and his message look in the midst of the Israeli-Palestinian struggle. Rich asked me how I was staying pure and unpolluted from the temptation to hate, encouraging me to remember the way a Jewish carpenter confronted injustice and inequity without demonizing those who perpetuated the two. And he told me not to find my identity in the issues about which I am most passionate. He said that when he burrows back to finding himself as a follower of Jesus, he is then able to be more effective in his actions. As we talked, Jewish and Palestinian children ran by us throwing water at one another, laughing as they played.

That evening, Alex Awad from Bethlehem Bible College spoke to the group about “The History of the Conflict from the Palestinian Perspective.” At one point, Mr. Awad said something that I hope affected everyone there: “I do not want the United States, or anyone, to be pro-Palestinian. I want them to be pro-justice and pro-equity.” I spent some time talking with my dad in the lobby later that night. I may be very much against certain ideologies, but I never want to be anti-people, because when I do that I hate, and then I might as well go home because I will not help anything. This land has too much hate for me to add to it.

On Tuesday, we went through the New Gate to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and then went to the Garden Tomb through the Damascus Gate. After seventy-two people filed into the ancient room, we gathered for a reflection, led by Rich, who spoke of the transformative power of the Resurrection and the symbolism of rebirth and renewal in the message of Jesus. We journeyed to West Jerusalem and visited an incredibly impressive model of the city in the late Second Temple period. We then went to the Vad Veshem Memorial to the Holocaust. One cannot understand the Israeli narrative without first understanding the significance of the Holocaust.

I had been to Yad Vashem before in 2001, but it was just as depressing and as moving now. I trembled as I walked through, looking at the pictures and reading the notes and listening to recorded stories of survivors recounting one of the worst periods in history. I still cannot fully fathom that people can do such things to other people. Jesus’ quoted prayer from the Psalms, “Father, forgive them because they don’t know what they are doing,” seems to be an adequate appeal for much of human history. But something else struck me as I walked by the walls filled with horror-pictures of murder and people being forced from their homes. Many survivors came to Palestine looking for a haven from the persecution they had known for so long. But some of these same people who were killed and kicked out of their homes began to kill and kick out the people who were living in this land before them. Past injustices cannot, and do not, justify present or future injustices.

Our good friend Mahmoud Abu Eid spoke to the group at the Notre Dame that evening, and did an excellent job. My two distant cousins, Holly and Betsy, went to Ben Yehudah with Adam and Sean after the lecture. I was not keen to return, and Alisha wanted to explore the Old City on her last night in Jerusalem, so I led her around, showing her the view from the Citadel Youth Hostel, sneaking up on the ramparts of the ancient walls, and walking through the Muslim cemetery at the foot of the Harem al-Sharif facing the Mount of Olives.

We left early Wednesday morning and crossed over into Bethlehem. A good friend of the family, Edward Tabosh, owns a shop just inside the Wall, so we took the group there to shop. This group really liked to shop. Sean and I took two small groups to walk along the Wall and view the graffiti and the House with Seven Walls. We then went to the Church of the Nativity. For some reason, I have re-noticed something on this trip about Jesus’ birth. The first people who honored this newly-born child were impoverished, local shepherds and wealthy, foreign rulers. The symbolism of that story is remarkable.

I opted not to go in the church and instead walked down the street to the Holy Land Trust and chatted with Anna and Leif for a little while before meeting up once more with the group. We made our way to Beit Sahour and the Shepherds’ Fields before going to the Al-Basma Center, directed by Mr. Abdullah Awwad. I met him two years ago, and he is one of the most passionate people I have met. A Palestinian Christian, his center provides care for mentally handicapped in the area that have been rejected by their families. The Al-Basma Center provides jobs for them making Christmas ornaments, cards, and other objects. Mr. Awwad and his wife accompanied the group for lunch at the Tent Restaurant, and he spoke to us about hope and service and quoted William Wordsworth.

The group went to meet with Dr. Salim Munayer, who is in charge of an organization called Musalaha (reconciliation in Arabic). Among other things, Dr. Munayer takes Israelis and Palestinians into the Negev Desert for several weeks and attempts to deconstruct prejudices as they tell one another their stories. Unfortunately, Sean, Adam, and I weren’t able to attend because we had a meeting in Ramallah. Mahmoud’s son, Jamey, had been with us during the day and came with us to Jerusalem. As we went through security, the soldier was confused as to why Jamey had a Jerusalem ID, because Jamey was speaking excellent English. Jamey explained that, obviously, he is a Jerusalemite.

“Then why are you traveling with these people?” the solider asked aggressively, motioning to the three of us.
“Because they are friends of my family,” Jamey said.
The soldier then made Jamey go back through the detectors five more times before allowing him to leave. We stood there the entire time, refusing to walk ahead and leave our friend.
“I’m sorry,” Jamey said as we left.
“Don’t apologize to us,” I said, almost sharply. “This is not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

We met Flo, Kirsty, and a few others at a restaurant near Clock Square and discussed the near-future of the Palestine Monitor. Flo would soon be leaving (and is now, sadly, gone) and Kirsty is going on holiday for the remainder of our stay. So, the operation of the Palestine Monitor will fall to us. Kirsty will be available for help if we need it, but we will be in charge of reporting, editing, and publishing, making sure that the purpose of the Monitor continues to be fulfilled. We were rather humbled by the trust they were placing in us. At first, we were a bit daunted, but if we work together and with the others who will be around then we will do fine. This kind of thing looks very good on a résumé.

We returned to Bethlehem that night, getting a taxi to the wall. As we walked through to the other side and into the caged walkway down to the street, we realized that all three of us really needed to relieve some very full bladders. Toilets were a little scarce in that vicinity. Then, almost in unison, we looked up at the towering slabs of concrete beside us. We lined up in the shadows and let loose on that structure of segregation and fear. I have never felt that good about the act of peeing, or the object on which I peed, in my life. We call that “peeful resistance.”

We walked to the incredibly fancy Intercontinental Hotel where the group was staying (for a very discounted price). I dropped my stuff off and took a taxi to the Church of the Nativity, walking down to Anna’s apartment. I visited with her and her roommate, sitting up on the roof. The stars shone brightly over Bethlehem.
(To be continued . . .)

The Tour in Pictures

Bil'in and Ni'lin

June 6th, 2008 The Flat , Ramallah, the West Bank
My hosts were asleep on Sunday night when I came in and asleep when I left around 7 the next morning, so I left them a note thanking them for their hospitality. Anna had offered to make coffee, so I went back up to her flat and drained a mug to help me stay awake the rest of the day. Anna gave me directions and I was on my way, going up the hill and through the market to the bus for Jerusalem. We were held up for some time at the checkpoint in Beit Jalla. The soldiers took the IDs of fifteen or twenty people for over thirty minutes before handing them back, but not before pulling two people from the bus.
Maxie was on the same bus to Ramallah and we hurried straight to the office for an editorial meeting, arriving a little after 9:30. Sean and Adam were there. They had taken a weekend trip to Tel Aviv, sleeping on the roof of a hostel across the street from the Mediterranean. Sean said he used “A Boy Named Sue” the day before to teach in English class.
We were given a lot of stories to cover in the meeting. Most of them were small, but we knew we would be fairly busy during the week. After awhile, Kirsty said we had a meeting in the conference room, so we all jumped up the stairs into the other office. A large cake topped with white icing and fruit sat in the conference room table, surrounded by several of the workers who had gathered to wish me a happy birthday. We sat around for awhile, slicing up the cake and passing it out and enjoying talking with everyone who filed in. I really appreciated that a lot. These are a great group of people with which to work.
At around 4 we left. Adam and I got some food at the little bakery down the street from our flat. I took a shower and felt like a new man. I’ve gone several days without getting wet a multitude of times, but for some reason this time was particularly uncomfortable. A hot shower and hot food were refreshing. We did little until 7 when we walked up the street to the home of Anne Roberts, the lady from Jackson, Tennessee, that we met in Ni’lin. Around ten people came to watch three short documentaries by B. H. Yael, an Israeli-Canadian filmmaker. They were very interesting, one of them dealing with the massacre of a Palestinian village in 1948. We discussed each one and our impressions of the situation. Understandably, the political and social occupation is a constant topic of conversation here. Back at the flat, we watched a movie and chatted with Maxie and her boyfriend Felix.
I sat at the office for most of the day on Tuesday working on the story about Claire Anastas’ home in Bethlehem. Adam returned to Salfit for the day to take pictures for a story he was writing. Later in the afternoon, Sean and I took a taxi to the medical relief headquarters to meet with Flo, who was going to show us how to publish on the website. The training took awhile because the Internet was acting a little sporadic.

(written June 7th, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank)
Sean left a little earlier than I did to meet with someone from the Youth Center. I worked for a little while on publishing my Bethlehem photo-story on the Monitor’s website. I then walked the forty minutes or so back to the flat and got some food at the bakery down the street. We did little that night.
Sean and I met Flo, Kirsty, and Maxie at Al Manara in order to drive to Bil’in. The 3rd International Conference on Nonviolent Popular Struggle was beginning on Wednesday and meeting through Friday. Palestinian Prime Minister Dr. Salam Fayyad, Louisa Morgantini, vice president of the European Parliament, and Mairead Maguire, the 1974 winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, were among the speakers. Some of it was very good, but nothing incredibly new or progressive was said. Most of it was in Arabic, so we had to listen to monotone translations on a headset with the Arabic blaring over the loudspeakers. Adam showed up later with Anne Roberts. The three of us quietly snuck out around lunchtime and met with one of Sean’s English students. A volunteer with the relief society, he showed us around to a table filled with food. We piled it on our plates and went to the top floor of a building where we were soon joined by the other participants of the conference. We opted not to stay for the entire day, because the conference was running late into the evening, so we caught a taxi with a young Irishman back to Ramallah. Adam and I spent some time at Karamah before finding food and hanging out at the flat.
The weather is becoming increasingly warmer, and this makes it difficult to sleep at night. Sean’s and my room was incredibly hot and I woke up sweating. The three of us spent the day at the office working on stories. I wrote a brief article about the fact that the conference was taking place. Sean left around lunch to get ready for English class. Adam and I ate at Obama’s Pizza directly beneath the Monitor’s office, visiting with the owners, both of whom have spent extensive amounts of time in the U.S.
Adam decided to stay at the office for awhile and work on a story; I left for the flat. I read a little and pretended like I was working on the computer while watching some TV. At 5:30, I met Adam in Clock Square and we went to Stars and Bucks, an obvious rip-off, but which had a great location above Al Manara. One of Sean’s students was having a small birthday party so we visited for much of the evening, hookah smoke filling the air and cars circling around Al Manara below. Our Irish taxi-mate from Wednesday, Fiachra, was there also. Sean had seen him walking around Ramallah earlier and invited him to come along. Everyone slowly left, leaving Sean, Fiachra, and me. A piece of his left ear is missing, bitten off in a boxing match. Even though he’s from what is technically designated as Northern Ireland, he is very adamant that he is Irish and not British. He is fine with people saying they are British, but he is very proud of his Irish heritage and claims that completely. Adam had invited him to stay with us, so we led him back to the flat, picking up some food at the bakery and the grocery store as we went.
We rarely sleep in. The sunlight and the heat and the cars serve as very effective alarm clocks. Fiachra left soon after we woke up. We were lazy for awhile, watching The Sting on one of the few English-speaking channels before deciding to be productive. Sean had the cramps, so Adam and I left him behind and went to the bus station behind the Monitor’s office. We were soon on our way back to Bil’in. We saw Sean as we were leaving, so he would join us later.
The service (pronounced ser-vees) dropped us off where the conference met on Wednesday. No one was there, so we went down from the town toward the mosque. The demonstration was taking place not far away. A bunch of people had been playing soccer when the soldiers began firing at them, dispersing the crowd. We met Tom Greenwood from England, who has been here since October making an independent documentary. The huge number of people gathered again and we all began walking down the road to a doublewide fence in front of stone barriers, behind which the soldiers stood. Large cries of “Free Palestine!” echoed across the fence to the hiding soldiers. Soon, the shooting started. This crowd was a little more experienced than the protesters at Ni’lin, because they stayed put, ducking when shots were fired. But the barrage kept coming. A teargas canister landed directly behind me. I was able to move without breathing it, but the chemical floated through my clothes and my skin felt like it was burning. Sean and I stuck around for awhile, crouching
Unfortunately, this sort of thing isn’t new at Bil’in, or many other places in the West Bank. Every Friday, someone gets hurt at this protest. I saw several people go down from extreme exposure to teargas. I wasn’t sure, but I think someone was shot. The medical relief team lifted him on a stretcher, his arm dangling off the side. Perhaps I’m naïve (but I choose to think not), but I am still disgusted that people sit around and concoct things with the intent of inflicting pain on other people. We have serious problems.
We went back to the spot where people had been playing soccer and spread out across the field. Armored jeeps sat behind tall fences across from us. The sixteen-mouthed teargas launcher was mounted on top of one and soon it belched every single one of its canisters. Sixteen spears of teargas cut through the blue sky and a massive cloud of smoke rose from where the canisters landed. I got caught in it. I couldn’t see and I stumbled over the rocky terrain, coughing and spitting. My throat felt like it was being scraped with sandpaper and my eyes turned blood-red. I fell out of the burning mist and regained my composure. But another onslaught came and the wind blew the smoke toward us. Sean and I went racing across the field, barely escaping down a hill. We returned once the air was clear and watched as kids pelted the side of jeeps and bashed the fence with rocks. After awhile, we walked back to the town with Tom and caught a service to Ni’lin. We were going to another protest. Apparently, swallowing teargas twice in one day wasn’t enough.
Dr. Mustafa Barghouthi spoke to a crowd of people in the top room of a building in the town center. The speech was in Arabic, so a man sat next to us and translated the main parts. Once Dr. Barghouthi finished speaking, we joined a massive amount of people in the square and hiked out of town to the neighboring hilltops. People were beating on drums and blowing whistles and banging pots and pans. The purpose of this creative protest was to disturb the nearby settlement of Modi’in as they prepared for Shabbat. The time was opportune because the soldiers would not be present at this hour. Part of me was a little hesitant about disturbing people on their religious holidays. But, these settlements and the bulldozers disrupt the villagers’ entire lives, and the noise being made that evening was meant to represent a small amount of what the Palestinians experience everyday. Sometimes you have to step on people’s feet to be heard. Or beat loudly on drums as the sun goes down.
As the discordant noise of rebellion rang out through the ravine, people in the settlement began to appear on their porches. Several kids ran down the side of the hill and then up to the fence surrounding Modi’in. The sun was setting behind us, and the protesters on the hill were silhouetted against the fading light. Sean and I decided to join the kids on the other side, so we descended down to a stream that ran at the crevice of the two hills. A disgusting stench issued from the water, because this stream that lies on Palestinian land holds the sewage from the settlement. The water was a sickly green and lumps of brown clung to the edges of small inlets. We were careful as we crossed a large tire to the other side.
Before we could climb very high, the kids started flying past us. Settlers came out with sticks and some were actually shooting from their rooftops. Also, the military had arrived. We jumped back over and sat halfway up the hill on some rocks, watching as teargas canisters spiraled to the ground. I felt like I was watching some perverted fireworks show. We moved with ease away from the fumes. The wind was on our side in the evening, very unlike earlier at Bil’in. Sparks from canisters caught the dry grass on fire. Adam, Sean, and I hurried over to the spreading flames and began stamping it out and flinging dirt. Hindi quickly slid down and handed me a tree branch and he and I then beat the fire until all that was left was black earth.
The teargas kept getting closer, so we continued to move up the hill. Someone shouted and pointed and we all looked down to the water: fifteen or twenty soldiers were crossing and starting to move up the hill. They had never chased us before. The deep pop of rubber-coated bullets resounded, accompanied by a higher pitched click: live fire. We rushed over the summit of the hill and stood by some trees. But the soldiers kept advancing, their helmets and muzzle flashes soon visible over the ridge. The military were lowering their guns and taking aim. Slings were twirling and rocks were whistling. But the soldiers kept charging. We turned and sprinted across the rocks, hurdling over the stone walls and ducking as shots were fired. I crouched behind some cactuses (or cacti; both are appropriate) to take a few pictures. I saw one soldier aim and fire at a group of teenagers beside a tree. The bullet knocked off a branch not two feet away from a kid’s head. We were near the town, so we joined Hindi and Tom on the road. I turned to look at the chaos behind me. A rubber-coated bullet hit the ground about ten feet in front of me and bounced just over my head, whizzing past Adam and Sean.
Salah Khawaja was waiting at the entrance to a courtyard and directed us inside. I think this was the home of a doctor. We ran up the stairs and onto the roof, kneeling down and peering over the edge of the wall. Everyone was surprised that the soldiers actually came all the way to the town. A field spread out below us, dotted with a few olive trees; the road was to the left. I could see the creeping soldiers through the knotted branches and cactuses. Several stone-throwers jumped onto the road and started pushing the soldiers back with slings. Soon, the rocks stopped hurtling and the bullets stopped roaring. Whatever the reason, the soldiers turned and moved back toward the settlement.
We got a service back to Ramallah, but as we entered the main road a police jeep sped past us. The driver immediately whirled around and returned to Ni’lin. A checkpoint was being set up just down the road and we had too many people in the bus. We got out and waited until word came that it was safe to leave. Adam and I found a plastic plate and used it as a Frisbee. Sadly, it broke, but a kid found a bucket lid that worked even better. A small crowd watched as we threw in the dark, impressed with our skills. We had some light for a few minutes as real fireworks were set off. I gave the bucket lid to one of the boys and we left, taking a back road into Ramallah.
Instead of going to Al Manara, we got off with people in our service and went to the restaurant at the top of the Royal Suite Hotel. Sean, Adam, and I were joined by Hindi, his fiancé (or girlfriend; we haven’t really figured out which she is) Vivien from Holland, Tom, Benoit from France, Maxie, another guy from Germany, and Vanina from Italy. Several others, who had not been at the protests, arrived later. We had a good time, telling stories and discussing the day, including the settler who was posing as a photographer. A large, red-faced man with two cameras and a ball cap worn backwards had told some of us very different stories abut who he is. Apparently, he is in reality a settler. Vivien said he took pictures of quite a few people, including Sean and me.
At 11:30 we began the short journey back to the flat. Clock Square was just up the street, so we were in our lodgings in around twenty minutes. I went to bed soon after. A cool breeze found its way in through the window, which made sleeping much more comfortable that night.
I came to the office early this morning. Adam was not far behind. Sean has the day off, so he’s not sure what he was going to do. He’ll join us later in Jerusalem. Adam went to a small demonstration at Al Manara and found some people we had met yesterday in Bil’in: Jo, a girl from Ohio, and Ian from D.C. They came back to the office with him and the four of us went looking for food before settling in at Obama’s. Interestingly, they are living for several weeks with the incredible woman (whose name I is Zalinca Mustabe, or something like that) I met in Hebron last Sunday, who was harassed by the settlers. They had heard of our encounter with the settlers and came back after awhile to record my version of the story. I took them to the conference room and Jo asked me questions about myself, such as where I’m from, how I became involved here, and what I am doing this summer. I then told them the story from Sunday and my impressions of it. Jo ended with a few questions about the protest yesterday in Ni’lin and whether or not I think protests are effective. Ian filmed Adam and me pretending to do work for B-roll footage and then the four of us chatted on the balcony before they left.
On Sunday morning, we will hike up the Mount of Olives and meet my dad, my grandparents, two of my uncles, and my professors from Australia (who are two very close friends). My dad is leading a tour of the traditional sites, as well as introducing those involved to the Palestinian side of the situation. Call me biased, but I can’t think of better people to lead this tour. My dad has spent a lot of time here, as has my uncle Rob. The two of them are coordinating the group. My dad’s parents (who have been archaeologists, writers, and professors) have been to the Middle East almost forty times. Many people decided to come on this tour because of them. This is going to be a very unique experience for the people on the tour and I hope to share stories of my experiences so far with them. I am not much for tours, but this is a good way for people who have not been before to see the famous sites and to here seldom-heard perspectives. Sean, Adam, and I will be traveling with them for the next week-and-a-half.
I am very excited about seeing all of these people. Basically, I’m having a small family reunion. I do, however, feel a little guilty because of this little holiday. The people with whom we are living and working are not able to just take a break from occupation.

PS This is the link to the story about the home in Bethlehem, called “The House with Seven Walls”: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article450. Relief Web, which is “the world’s leading on-line gateway to information . . . on humanitarian emergencies and disasters,” picked up the story and published it as well. Pretty darn cool.

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.

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.