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.

On resourcefulness

This is where we've been watching the World Cup from.



I think the waiters are a little shocked about all the new business they've been getting. They're so busy, it takes about an hour to get a cup of coffee.

Reading List

One of my favorite places to go in Jerusalem is the Educational Bookstore on Salah Eddin Street. It's tiny, but packed with books in English. It attracts the expat community with a bias toward Palestine. They also make very good cappuccinos. I've dropped a good portion of my paycheck there a few times and my shelves are quickly filling up with treasures I've discovered there. My latest purchase is Palestine by Joe Sacco. It's a graphic novel written during Sacco's trip to Palestine in the early 90's. It's important to note that what he describes is not my experience of Palestine, but it's a good primer on things are such a mess today.

The book is addictive, in fact, B. is sitting across the table from me now, completely engrossed. The characters are done in broad brushstrokes, and are a little too simplistic for me to say that they resemble the friends I've made here. But, despite that, I've found the book to be a masterpiece of documentary journalism. Many of his observations are ones I've had as well, but found much too contradictory or confusing to ever say out loud. This book would be a good place to start if you know little to nothing about Palestine. (Like I did before I got here.)

Another night in Jerusalem

So I haven't written much about what the conflict/occupation is like. The trouble with it is it sneaks up on me. Last night, when I left my Arabic lesson the dry, dusty heat had faded into a soft evening. The Jasmine smelled stronger than I had ever smelled before, and there was bright pink bougainvillea that stood out against the white limestone wall and the fading blue of the sky. And I was picturing what this city would be like if there were no settlements or soldiers, if people had time and money and energy to invest in it. Kids were playing in the street. When I first moved in, they used to stare at me suspiciously, but now they were used to me and ignored me as just another adult interrupting their games.


Coming to the end of the street, I saw my bus waiting. It was the last bus of the night and if I missed it, I would have to take a taxi to the checkpoint and then another taxi after I got to the other side of the checkpoint. Relieved, I ran to catch it, not realizing until I got to the doors that the bus wasn't going anywhere. The end of the street is the soldiers come to "fish". They take everyone's i.d.'s on the bus, looking for anyone without a permit. I often see the results of these fishing expeditions: a line of young men sitting on the sidewalk, waiting to be taken to jail. Soldiers milling around glaring at everyone who walks by. The soldiers don't ask me for my i.d. as I get on the bus. Racial profiling has become an art form here. Once, I'm seated, the bus sits in place for a long time. The driver keeps getting out to talk to the soldiers, and inside people get tenser and more and more angry, asking what is happening. After 30 minutes, a new army vehicle pulls up inexplicably. After more milling around from the soldiers, they finally hand out all of the i.d.'s. The passengers on the bus form an assembly line trying to get them back to their owners as quickly as possible. By the time we get to the taxi stand, all the taxis to Hebron have left, except one. Passengers sprint to try and get a place in the taxi. I'm glad that I'm staying on the bus. The remaining passengers are quiet, subdued. Just another night.