I didn't know

This weekend, I took a business trip to Jordan. We had to make it to a meeting in Amman at noon, so I woke up at 4:30 am and headed to the checkpoint. I've been through the checkpoint many, many times, and thought I knew the drill. I know it's busier in the mornings when everyone heads to work. There are few jobs in the West Bank, and an unemployment rate of 40-70%, so the people who are able to get permits often go into Israel to work. But even though I was expecting to wait, I was completely unprepared for the complete chaos of the checkpoint at 5 in the morning. This video from Machsom Watch captures what it's like:



A few months ago, confronted with this scene, I would have turned around and gone home. But this time, I decided to push forward. Women have an advantage at the checkpoint and are given a special line to go through. Despite this, a crowd of men, desperate to get to work on time, had filled the women's line too. I followed the lead of an older woman ahead of me and pushed to the front of the line. Then we ducked and dodged and smiled and yelled our way through turnstiles, metal detectors, passport checks, and line after line after line. Afterward, I thanked the woman who had helped me. She beamed at me and told me stories about her two children living in New Jersey.

When I had first seen the line at the checkpoint, I had been sure that I would be at least two hours late to meet my co-workers. But I showed up only 10 minutes after our meeting time, full of adrenaline, and ready to go to Jordan. It's only now that the experience is sinking in, and I'm not sure what conclusions to draw from it. I feel simultaneously sad and frustrated by what I witnessed. I also feel slightly embarrassed that I felt entitled enough to push past everyone who waits in line every day. I started this blog determined not to write from a political or ideological viewpoint, although I certainly have them. But, at the same time, it seems important to show what daily life is like in Bethlehem, and the consequences politics and ideologies have had on almost every aspect of life here.

Boiling over

"Jerusalem is boiling," a friend said today. Riots and protests in the Old City have been escalating for days. It was strange to walk by the Old City today and see the usually bustling streets closed off and guarded by soldiers in riot gear. It doesn't help that there has been a strange gray haze settled over the city for the last few days. (Note to my mom and others concerned: This is not dangerous for me. The outbreaks of violence are far away from where I'm living and I'm monitoring the situation carefully.) "Good. It needs to boil," my co-worker replied angrily. Jerusalem has been considered a cold conflict. The only comparison I can think of is a married couple who are tired of fighting with each other and exist in a state of tense silence. So compared to that, maybe bringing the conflict to the surface is better. But, I've heard a few people say that the events of the last few days have an ominous feel.

On Fear

"But is it safe?" It seems to be the first question that Americans ask about traveling to the Middle East. My answer is almost always a confident, "Yes, of course." Even though I know that's not completely true.



I've always been a worrier. When I'm at home in Colorado, I worry about car accidents, I worry about walking alone at night, I worry about accidentally burning my apartment down. I've been known to declare my younger brother dead because he didn't return my phone call for a few hours. And so, of course I worry here too. In fact, I rely on that low level of anxiety to keep me alert and aware here, where I am so thoroughly out of my element.

But the reason that I'm so quick to gloss over these worries is because what I'm trying to say is, "It's not what you think." Being here, I realize how deeply the perception of the Middle East as a blood-soaked war zone full of hostile people has seeped into my psyche. I realize it because sometimes I'm surprised that living here is so intensely ordinary. Most days, what I focus on is getting through life. I go to the office, I buy groceries, I get stuck in traffic. And so do the people around me. They go to school, they cook dinner, they walk the dog. And instead of hostility, the people I have encountered so far have been deeply gracious and hospitable.

I don't mean to minimize the incredible suffering that conflict and war have wreaked on this region. And I also realize that being a foreigner gives me protection that local people don't have. What I'm trying to say is that, in the U.S., we've allowed our perceptions of the Middle East to dehumanize the people here. That somehow because we believe this region is violent and has always been violent, then we are able to turn off our empathy. What I find devastating about living here is that the violence occurs amidst such ordinary daily life.

It's all in the details

A friend of mine in Colorado, an intrepid traveler himself, wrote to me with a long list of questions so that he could visit the city vicariously through me. The man knows how to get down to the details, so I'm posting my answers here.

1) Is it a desert?
The desert is nearby. But compared to Colorado where it is so dry that my skin cracks and nose bleeds, it doesn't feel like it to me. It is certainly not the complete desert with sand dunes and oases that is the stereotype of the Middle East. I know that those deserts exist, but I have yet to see them. In fact, it feels lush compared to Colorado, with lemon trees and giant aloe plants. The lemon grove above is across the street from me.

2) What parts of the city can't you go to?

There aren't any parts of the city I have to avoid. Jerusalem has an intense security presence, that makes it safe to be a tourist here, but has disastrous consequences for the local population.

3) What are the holy places like?

To be honest, overwhelming. Every inch of the Old City seems to have religious significance. I've spent several days touring Jerusalem and seen maybe two percent of the religious sites. There is a church carved directly out of stone, and a church in the shape of a teardrop in honor of Jesus' tears. There are spectacular mosques, and holy pools. I will need to spend many more days wandering the city before I can properly answer this question.

4) How often do you see big guns?

Every day. It's required for all Israelis, male and female, to enter the military around 18 years old. It's disturbing to me to see eighteen-year-old girls holding guns almost the size of their body. As one former Israeli Defense Force soldier said, "Teenagers should not have that much power."

5) How often do you cross security checkpoints to Palestine and back?

About once or twice a week. It's easy to get into Palestine and harder to get back out. Until recently, internationals had a free pass and didn't get the same harassment that Palestinians get. But this week, we've been noticing that the security guards are making it more difficult for internationals to get through, questioning our visas and sending us back to other checkpoints. It's nothing that would put us in danger, and nothing near the trouble Palestinians have, but it seems the idea is more to make it so inconvenient that we'll stop traveling to Palestine.

6) What can you hear from your apartment?

Late on a Friday night, someone is practicing the flute. I live in a quiet residential neighborhood. I can hear traffic all the time, and calls to prayer over a loudspeaker five times a day. On Fridays, I can hear an entire sermon in Arabic blasted over the loudspeaker. On Mondays, many women clean house and bring their rugs out to beat them on the balcony, which makes a surprisingly loud thwomping sound. Other daily sounds include children playing, cats fighting, and my landlord's dog, Blackie, barking. I can hear American voices when my neighbors who live downstairs come home from work. Occasionally, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I hear a herd of sheep meandering their way down the street.

7) What time is it there?
11 pm, which means although I could write much more, it's time to sleep. Thanks for the questions, and I will try to flesh out my answers over time. Leave more questions in the comments section, and I will try to answer.

Stranger in a strange land

Tomorrow marks two weeks since I left home for Jerusalem. I don't know where to begin to describe this city, so I'll start with a story. I lost my passport and my credit cards a few days after arriving. They were taken out of my bag while I was shopping for chicken, of all unglamorous things to be doing. Much of my time since has been taken up at consulates and police stations, trying to replace what was lost.

The worst day was spent trying to pick up a wire transfer sent from the U.S. I needed the money to buy a new passport, but had been turned away from two Western Unions because I didn't have a passport. No money, no passport. No passport, no money. After the third attempt, I could feel my cheeks get hot and my logic drain away. I decided to take a break from the negotiations and go to the police station to file a report. After being sent through an increasingly confusing maze of hallways, I finally barged into a policewoman's office, hoping to find someone to help me. The woman snapped at me for interrupting her lunch, and then I started to cry.

While not pretty, and certainly not in line with the image of a competent world traveler, crying is its own universal language that has gotten me past tight spots before. It worked wonders. Several police officers rushed to help this strange, broken American who was demanding help, but spoke no Hebrew. A kind English-speaking medic took down my report. Confused by my tears, he told me, "Money comes, and money goes. But you're OK." I left the station armed with a new clarity and a police report in Hebrew, went back to the Western Union and got my money.

A few hours later, I was on the bus with my money in my bag, feeling strangely triumphant. The bus was packed with men returning home from work in the city. Another woman with a young boy sat down next to me. I turned and looked out the window, but soon noticed she was crying, quietly dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. She was wearing a bright blue hijab and was carefully made up. From time to time, she took out a notebook and looked desperately through it. None of the men surrounding us seemed to notice. I was unable to speak to her because my Arabic is just as bad as my Hebrew. I touched her arm softly and smiled, unsure what else to do. She smiled back, and I felt strangely connected to her, and completely separate.