Ramallah

     Wow! I went with a group of friends on an after-class excursion to Ramallah, perhaps the most exciting place I’ve visited so far. We turned out of the bus lot around six, walked toward the bustle, and were greeted, shockingly, by a real city.

     The West Bank is not a prosperous place – the areas I’ve visited are generally poor and defeated. The West Bank has been occupied by Israel since 1967, and it shows. Signs of the occupation are abound – the separation barrier, refugee camps, soldiers, as well as the less direct signs in poverty and broken families. This feeling extends to East Jerusalem, which although was annexed by Israel, still suffers from many of the same problems.

For these reasons, Ramallah is a shock. Ramallah is in Area A, which means that it is under control of the Palestinian Authority, and Israelis may not enter. Unlike Bethlehem, another city in Area A, Ramallah is upbeat and prosperous. My first thought walking toward the main street was – wow, we’re in New York (the West Bank’s taxis are yellow, unlike Israel’s). Second thought – this is what Palestine will be like in the far future. Every person on the street in Palestinian, and happy. Stores are bustling, young men joke, families go out for ice cream. Palestinian culture is apparent, but no longer synonymous with oppression. Ramallah is the economic, cultural, and political capital of Palestine, being the largest and most prosperous city and the seat of the PA.

     Usually when one visits a foreign city she stands out for being foreign, a tourist, maybe lost or overly excited. In the West Bank, though, there is usually another layer of conspicuousness for being relatively extremely well-off and secure. I think that was one of the best things of walking through Ramallah, being foreign, but on the same level as her inhabitants. We ate and walked, intermittently interacting with locals walking around. We ended the night at a recommended ice cream place, which proudly serves ‘Arabic ice cream.’ It was sticky and gummier than ice cream I’m accustomed to, and delicious. The best part was sitting with my friends talking over our ice cream, surrounded by Palestinian families doing the same. One family, whose youngest child kept making faces at us, comprised three generations in Muslim dress out for a night together.

     A visit to Ramallah is an ideal way to end a visit to Israel – it leaves a visitor in the mood of her inhabitants, upbeat and optimistic.

Planned Obsolescence

I’ve come to expect that being in Israel, strange things will happen (see my Tsfat post). For example, the current situation with the toilet seats in our apartment. First off, we have two toilets. I find this to be strange, for an apartment with five rooms. It’s the sort of thing one shrugs off when becoming accustomed to an unfamiliar environment, though. Recently, one toilet seat broke. Just sort of cracked at the hinges and fell off. No matter! We have a second toilet. Two days later, the second one broke. Now we have two toilets, both without toilet seats. My roommate commented that it looks like a bunch of belligerent frat boys live here.

Possible explanations:

            1)       Planned obsolescence. A common phrase in my family at home, I had to describe it my roommates. Each of these toilet seats had been used 916 times, and was done.

            2)       Act of god. We are in Israel – and the waiver I signed before coming here specifically stipulated that my program doesn’t take responsibility for acts of god. One of us may have committed a sin for which we are all now receiving poetic justice.

            3)       The cat did it. Dinah has proven herself to be atypically both clever and nefarious, always pushing the fragile or valued object off the counter instead of the pencil.

One thing I’ve come to expect living in Israel is that if you are expecting things to make sense, then you shouldn’t. Politics provide a natural example, as well as a lot of little things. At least part of this is cultural relativism at work, but really – if anywhere in the world is poised to encourage strange happenings, it’s here.

In Which Faith becomes Political

It happened, I’m sure, predictably. Walking with a Palestinian social worker through a refugee camp then along the separation barrier, I suddenly realized – “You know? There are a lot of things I would do to see this situation fixed.” The barrier, erected ostensibly to protect Israelis, has more or less succeeded in that goal. It has also succeeded in taking the daily problems Palestinians already faced and increasing them several-fold. The wall destroys village economies, separates families, cuts people off from needed resources, excruciatingly prolongs daily acts of transportation. A recent addition to the crimes committed in this conflict (construction began about ten years ago), it has become among the most notorious. It draws on other images in our common history of such walls, frequently despised as symbols of oppression and inhumanity.

Generally mellow, evenhanded, cynical, or distant when it comes to politics, I’m starting to catch on to the fire I sometimes uncomprehendingly glimpse in activists. I explained to a friend the other day: If a person came up to me and said “You! Do you have an opinion about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?” I would now be able to say “Yes! In fact – I am very opinionated. Maybe even passionate.”

Jordan- Petra and Wadi Rum

In what turned out to be a jam-packed few days, two friends and I left from our exam to catch the last bus to Eilat, the southernmost city in Israel. We arrived late at night, crashed in a hostel, ready to depart early the next morning for Jordan.

I’ll skip the unnecessarily lengthy and trying process of crossing the border from Israel to Jordan to our arrival in Petra, where we spent exactly four quick hours in order to be in Wadi Rum in time for the sunset. There isn’t much to say about Petra beyond ‘mirabile visu’ -incredible to behold. The park is a pretty cool place naturally, with surreal moon-like canyons and walls. A couple thousand years ago a people called the Nabateans lived there and carved immense buildings, tombs, sculptures into the walls.

From there we taxied to Wadi Rum, a ‘protected area’ – something between a national park and Indian Reservation. Park for the immaculate scenery, reservation because it is inhabited by Bedouin, Jordan’s indigenous desert people. (Bedouin means just ‘desert people’, so the term applies to tribes all over the middle east). The situation is different from Indian reservations in the US, though, because as far as I can tell there isn’t the same history of exploitation and strife with the government in Jordan. They live seemingly comfortably off the combination of the land and tourism.

I had been skeptical of spending time at a Bedouin camp, thinking that that sort of thing inherently turns the people living there into a sort of spectacle? I was not completely sure of my objection, but ultimately I was proven wrong. When we arrived in Wadi Rum our taxi driver dropped us at an office and announced the man in the doorway as “Zedan, the tallest Bedouin in Wadi Rum.” He certainly was tall, and beautiful. He dressed in traditional Bedouin-wear (worn by about 80% of men we saw, and everyone over the age of 25 or so): a ‘mundilah’ or red and white scarf fastened to the head with a black headband and a ‘thawb’, the ankle-length long-sleeved tight-fitting robe with a little collar. He had long eyelashes, a luxurious mustache, and a knowing smile.

Zedan greeted us proudly in English and ushered us into the jeep. We set off bumpily into the desert toward the camp where we would be staying. The village out of sight but not yet at the camp, we stopped at a point comfortably distant from every mountain. Zedan announces, “Now you make take a photograph.” We got out and realized why he had been so insistent that we arrive before sunset: it was gloriously setting behind one of the mountains.

At this point I could have guessed what I slowly came to realize: the reason tourism in Wadi Rum doesn’t feel exploitative is that while Zedan is 100% Bedouin, he is also 100% businessman. He was firmly rooted in and extremely proud of his heritage, but also understood the outside world and how to most profitably exist in it. Driven by a desire to share his culture, he also had an almost alarming business sense for how to best cater to tourists.

There were six of us staying in the camp that night – the three of us, a man from Liverpool, and two young Japanese guys. When we got there we all lounged on benches looking West in the waning sunlight until dinner was announced. We gathered around to watch Selim, Zedan’s cousin, unearth our dinner having been cooking in a pit all afternoon. He pulled it chicken, onions, and potato-halves grilled on a tiered tray. We sat cross legged along low tables and dined. After dinner Zedan brewed sweet tea for us, lit his cigarette, and then pulled out his rababah (one-stringed bowed instrument) to play, ruefully apologizing that his drum accompanist was in town that night.

Afterward he talked with us for a bit before suddenly declaring, “We must go outside to see the stars.” See the stars indeed – they were the brightest and clearest I’ve seen. The four of us sat on a ledge and exchanged stories while watching for shooting stars. Zedan takes pride in the people from all over the world he’s met, as well as his family history. My friend Gui asked him at length about his feelings toward the King of Jordan, much to his amusement (“You have already asked me many questions, my friend; give the girls a chance”).

In the morning we rolled out of our sandy cots close to sunrise. I munched on pita, wandered around a bit, took a makeshift shower under a sink (sinks in this part of the world often have very tall faucets, conveniently allowing me to wash my hair even when a shower isn’t possible). Around 8:30 we gathered our things and got in the jeep with Selim, our tour guide for the morning. The sky, scenery, morning were exhilarating. We bounced around the desert, stopping now and then to climb gentler rock faces and dunes, and ascend the rocky face of Lawrence’s Spring. The tour was incredible, a stream of beautiful and untouched scenes. We saw some hardy hikers, a few Bedouin on camels, one or two other camps. Selim slowly opened to our queries, at one point proudly pointing out a steep rock face he and some friends have climbed. By the end I felt that we had a good glimpse of the desert, and a small feel for life there.

Selim deliver us to Zedan’s office, from where we had been promised a short camel ride. Zedan had told us a bit about camels, at one point mentioning their tendency to wander away now and then, sometimes for years, but always coming back. Surprised at this casual revelation, someone asked what he does if he should need his camel for something. He said that after a couple days of asking and looking, one can usually track the camel down again. My friend Jessica mused that this shows a difference in the culture of possession there- in the west one would never abide by a camel who wanders off, let alone spend so much time searching him down again. It shows an easiness with time, and a respect for whatever even intermittent gifts the desert offers.

Zedan called up three boys to be our camel escorts. They happily complied, arguing and joking among themselves the whole time while licking popsicles, presumably funded by their half hour’s wage. We made our way toward some temple ruins right outside the village, joltingly undulating the whole way. The camels were mostly agreeable, stopping only a couple times to snack on brush or cardboard. Although we moved at a leisurely stroll, the ride was fairly uncomfortable- I have a hard time imagining the camel races Zedan mentioned. A fun experience, though, and pleasant way to end the afternoon. We arrived for the last time at Zedan’s office where we were once more treated to tea, bid farewell, and handed over to an old friend Munir, now a taxi driver. Dizzy with gratitude to Zedan for our experience in the desert, we piled in set out for Israel.

Kibbutz

    Our program has a ‘TA’, who functions as such, but also effectively as our camp counselor/friend/supervisor.  We’re all pretty affectionate toward Ori, a history Ph.D. in his late thirties. He comes across as a history student- bookish, quiet, a little out of touch. He’s pretty qualified for this position in that he is studying Israel, and also grew up here, on a kibbutz in fact. Growing up on a kibbutz seemed pretty exotic to me, but slowly I’ve been able to reconcile it with Ori’s seeming normality.

    Kibbutzim are Israel’s famous collective farming communities, often cited as a working successful example of communism. They initially combined Zionism and socialism, forming a sort of utopia associated with the nascent Jewish state. In my last post I wrote a bit about the idea of the ‘New Jew,’ and how that tied in to the formation of kibbutzim and the new state.

    In many cases, kibbutzim took communism to an extreme. Not only were work and possessions shared, but parenting and effectively every other aspect of life as well. From birth, children lived in the children’s house, where they were cared for by nurses. For a couple hours every day children and parents visited for ‘quality time’, but all actual parenting was done by nurses. In a practical way, this system makes a lot of sense- it’s more efficient to take care of all the children together, and the important task of raising children would be left to those specially trained. Adults could continue to be most effective in their work, and children would be completely equal and grow up 100% community-minded. Economically it was better as well, because adults continued to live in their ‘room’ (literally that – just a bed and a couple chairs; dining and bathrooms were also communal), while the extra space required for taking care of children was combined in one place.

    Like most aspects of communism, it worked best in theory. Kibbutzim often succeeded economically and were a source for adept soldiers, but were not completely able to achieve their goals of complete equality or to cope with reality. Children brought these problems to light, as even in early childhood they exhibited the egotism their parents tried so hard to leave behind. Kids would leave the children’s house at night to go see their parents, who were required to bring them back, where the nurse would reprimand them. Specific attachment was shown to be inherent and unavoidable. Over time the suffering of mothers, particularly, came to light as other changes in kibbutzim were made. In a complete overhaul of the way kibbutzim work, they are now largely privatized with the communal aspects toned down. Children thus live with their families, who have more agency in their own lives, and economically kibbutzim are privatized. Many aspects are still communal, but in a way that feels like a senior citizen community: dues are paid (often in the form of work), for the benefit of a closed community with shared dining hall, pool, schools. Kibbutzniks own their own houses, property, and individual identity.

    Our class visited one such kibbutz this weekend, the one on which Ori grew up. Our class slept in the children’s house, now used not for housing but as a nursery school. We had Shabbat with some Americans enlisted in the Israeli army, ate dinner in the common dining hall, visited the kibbutz pub. In the morning Ori’s father, still living on the kibbutz, gave us a tour and told about the history. He was instrumental in many of the modernizations that took place. He said “The minute my first son was born, I became an opponent of the children’s house system.” It was an interesting moment to be able to glimpse this aspect of Ori’s childhood, also a tangible shift in the history of Israel.  

    The verdict was that a kibbutz is now overall nearly identical to summer camp. Largely a change for the better, the series of modernizations nonetheless stripped kibbutzim of their unusual and almost charming character. They still have a strong sense of community, and certain protection from world events (we were there the weekend of nakba day, and heard nothing about it), but lack the all-encompassing order that existed previously. Ori’s father summed up the common point of view by combining an assured conviction that the changes were necessary with a perceptible nostalgia for decades past.

Judith

    Have you read Midnight’s Children? Do you remember the main character, Saleem, and how he was born at the exact stroke of India’s independence? His life was inevitably thereafter intertwined with that of India. This weekend my class had the pleasure of meeting Israel’s equivalent, and 85-year-old woman named Judith. She was born in Tel Aviv about twenty years before Israel’s declared sovereignty, but her birth in 1926 occurred at the time when the idea of Israel was just taking hold. In the early 1900s immigrants from Eastern Europe poured into Palestine to enact their idea of the ‘New Jew.’ She explained to us the feeling behind the movement, and told some stories.

    The “New Jew” was born out of the pogroms of Russia, where he hid, suffered, and waited, harassed by the government. The Jews who left had an idea to form a new culture- where they would learn to fight back, build the land, be the change they wanted to see. Young young people – aged 15-22, came to Palestine filled with this notion. They decided to speak only Hebrew (not a spoken language known to them), said only positive words, accepted suffering and didn’t cry. Judith said she was in the generation that didn’t know how to cry.

    Politeness, additionally, was discarded. To be polite was thought of as hypocritical. Judith points out that the distant product of this culture is still witnessed by all travelers entering Israel; all visitors are greeted at the gate by scowling Israeli soldiers toting large black guns. She remembers visiting the United States for the first time where everyone smiles and thinking that Americans must be the nicest people in the whole world.

For the ‘New Jew’ physical labor was held in the highest regard. Judith’s father had been a paver, and took great pride in his profession. Every night he came home and propped his 5-kilo mallet next to the front door so that any visitor would immediately know his occupation. Judith showed us her hands and said how for everyone in her generation, hands are of utmost importance. What one’s hands can build for the country is the greatest good a person can do.

    Kibbutzim started during this period as well- unable to be hired in competition with stronger and more experienced Arabs, Jews had to form their own farms. As part of the society they were forming, and in opposition to the inequity experienced in Europe, they embraced socialism. All things were shared- food, work, belongings. Life on the kibbutz was difficult, but empowered by the common sense of cause. Men and women worked equally, and trained equally with weapons.

    Judith commented with pride on the trees and buildings around us and throughout the country, representative of her and her generation’s success. When they came the land was barren, a result of over-grazing of Bedouin herds. Now the area around the Galilee is fertile and green, as she sees it a testament to the success of Israel.

    However touching and interesting her perspective, the reaction from our class was still cautious, aware of the price of this Jewish vision paid by the Holy Land’s previous occupants. She touched on this concern, saying that now because of technology there is room for everyone. Nonetheless she remained firm in the necessity of the formation of the Jewish state – pushed away by everyone else, they needed a place to make their own. Jews weren’t wanted in Europe so they came to Israel, where similarly Arabs from every side tried to ‘push them into the sea.’ For this reason the wars that followed (which ultimately wiped out hundreds of Palestinian villages and towns) were right and necessary.

    At the end of her talk she told us her theory of historical cycles: that events always follow the same pattern. Israel came about in reaction to the evils that were going on in Europe. The pain of intolerance built up until a group formed to make a change. Likewise, any time a society is in a bad situation it will necessarily revolt. Judith connected this to the current Israeli government, which she called bad and immoral. Her firm belief that people will get fed up and change it gives her optimism.

    Although I might not agree with her proposed system of progress, it was refreshing to hear her tie her history to reality. I think a problem faced a lot in this country is prevalence of views based on history or reality, but rarely both. Judith did so, scoring points by us for Israel (a rare achievement for our group) and surpassing our expectation to humor her based on her age.

Prisoner Story

I’ve decided I want to write more small stories. Here is one:

            Our class took a trip to Al-Quds University today, the only Palestinian university in Jerusalem (Al Quds is the Arabic for Jerusalem). Maybe predictably, the university thus holds a place of great pride for Palestinians, and great ire for Israel (who have gone to impressive lengths to try to close it down). Our itinerary began with a meeting with some administrators and students for a discussion, then a brief tour of the Abu- Jihad Museum for Prisoner Movement, and then most centrally a talk with the university’s prominent president – by chance the college roommate of our current professor. When the last event fell through (meetings about the faculty strike), our strikingly blue-eyed host and guide gave us a more extensive tour of the museum. One exhibit showed letters from prisoners to their families. Sinan, our host, explained the unusual make-up of Palestinian prisonry. He gave as an example his father, a Ph.D. in clinical chemistry, who was imprisoned for distributing leftist pamphlets. Because of the peculiarly arbitrary nature of imprisonment, it was not unlikely for someone highly educated to become roommates with an illiterate farmer. This stands in contrast to most of the rest of the world, where prisoners are generally uniformly poor and considered by society, at least on some level, to be immoral. The display showed a series of three letters, the first written by the educated prisoner for the illiterate one. Over the course of their time in prison, the latter came to learn to write from the former. The second letter shows the unpracticed handwriting of farmer in a letter home. The last shows the same handwriting, much improved and sophisticated, in a letter sent just prior to release.  This prisoner went on to get a high school education, attend college, and is currently working on his dissertation. That former prisoner is currently the director and curator of the museum we visited. The abuses and harm of this prison system are innumerable, but this story provides a more positive outlook – always present in situations of solidarity.