Category: Current Affairs

I’ve been trying to put into words how I felt visiting Gaza. For the most part, I feel that I’ve failed. Hebron, clashes, everyday life, those I can express with the written word. Gaza defies that. The contrasts are too stark. The brutal poverty is too painful. The arrogance of the wealthy too pronounced.

And frankly, I’m a little too lazy after putting up all my earlier entries.

How can you describe the pride a Gazan doctor employed by the United Nations displays when he shows you the X-Ray room at his clinic? How can you write the smell of open sewers in refugee camps when you barely know how to answer nature’s call without a bathroom? And if you can, then how do compare those things to the gravity of arrogance inherent in the high-rise apartment buildings and mansions built for Palestinian Authority ministers and officials? How do you express the magnitude of a few thousand Israeli settlers consuming 80% of Gaza’s water resources? How do you explain that just paying for water is a heavy financial burden to the million Palestinians who live in Gaza?

Only images can capture Gaza, and in that, I have also failed. My trip to Gaza lasted only a few hours, and my skills at capturing emotion in photos is negligible. But my language has failed me again and again over the last week as I tried to write about Gaza. So I’ll just use a few photos, and because of the paucity of decent shots, my subjects will be few.

Housing Construction

These makeshift, corrugated metal shacks are the homes of Bedouin. I’m not entirely sure how the Bedouin got to Gaza. Some were probably trapped in 1967 when Israel conquered Gaza and the Sinai. Perhaps some were trapped earlier and/or later by the simple difficulty of not having a passport.

The photo below is of a street in Jabaliyya refugee camp (est. 1948), home to 80,000 people and merely one of eight camps in the Gaza strip. The street here is new, created by order of Ariel Sharon in the 1980s. Sharon ordered bulldozers in and demolished an entire row of homes so that Israeli army jeeps could have quicker access. You can see the open sewers just up the street from the man on the left.

Compare this to the home of a certain Palestinian who is not a minister with the Palestinian Authority, and who definitely does NOT go by the name of Abu Mazen (Arafat’s successor designate). Of course, taking photos of Abu Mazen’s house is against the rules in Gaza (just like you can’t take photos of any Gaza police station or of Gaza security chief Dahlan’s new mansion currently under construction, or of Yasser Arafat’s guest house, or the beach nearby the guesthouse, or anything within three blocks of it), so I must point out again that, to the best of my knowledge, the house pictured here does not belong to Abu Mazen. I mean, I would never knowingly take a photo when it was prohibited. I just thought it was an attractive house.

And a bloody arrogant, conspicuous way to waste your money, especially when people are living without running water a few blocks away. Especially when you consider that Arab governments and Palestinian leaders have at times forced people to continue living in these squalid camps for selfish political reasons. Compassion does not seem to be a strong trait of politicians in this region, Arab, Israeli, Turkish, Iranian, or otherwise.

Lifting the Closure

A week or two ago, my sister asked me if the closure on the West Bank effected me. I think I detected a hint of astonishment when I admitted that I didn’t even realize  there was a closure. With a foreign passport, I can go into Jerusalem all the time, to get money, to see movies, and most importantly, to get a pint of draft Guinness at Champs bar on Jaffa Street (conveniently located just a few blocks up from the Old City’s Jaffa Gate. Happy Hour lasts from 4-7 p.m., and Ari, the bartender and former tank-driver, will dish out all the Guinness you can drink for 9 NIS/pint. I highly recommend it. P.S.–Guinness and green olives is a stunning mix. A delicious if slightly unorthodox Israeli addition to Ireland’s finest).

When we arrived at the massive Erez checkpoint, there were well over 100 taxis crowded into the five lanes of pavement on the Palestinian side. The Israeli government recently lifted a closure on Gaza, allowing tens of thousands of Gazans to enter Israel to work. When we crossed to the other side of the checkpoint, there was an unending sea of humanity walking along the side of the checkpoint reserved for Palestinians. For an hour, we had watched crowds of Palestinian workers walking rapidly along this covered corridor. When we finally left Erez, there were over ten buses stuffed with Palestinians waiting to get into Erez.

The Young

Everywhere in Gaza were little children. In Ramallah, Tel Aviv, Paris or Princeton,
it’d be considered cute, though one might be slightly concered as to whether there were enough responsible parents around. In Gaza, these children were barefoot and wearing dirty clothes–probably all received via charity, and one of only two or three "fashion options" for the summer. These three and four year-olds were playing around open sewers, in empty lots littered with broken glass and rusty refuse.

The worst is that we have shirked our responsibility to these children because they’re "Palestinians" otherwise known as "terrorists." They grow up without hope because we have refused to recognize our complicity in causing their plight. What is our complicity, our guilt? We stood by, and did little if nothing to help. Fine we have our own problems, but so little can go so far here.

For the last three months, I’ve been hearing stories about
Wadi al-Nar (pronounced WAdinnAR). It’s an ominous name. Wadi
simply means "valley." Nar, according to my
handi-dandi Hans Wehr, means "fire" or "conflagration." With the
definite article (al), nar means "Hell."

The first person I heard talking about Wadi Nar was a
Palestinian student who traveled with us to Bethlehem
in February. His permission to enter Israel had expired the
day before, but he wasn’t overly concerned about getting turned back at
the border: he could always get home to Ramallah via Wadi Nar.

When I asked another Birzeit student who grew up in Bayt
Sahur (a town due east of Bethlehem and no more than two miles west of
Wadi Nar) about it a few days later, he threw another log on my fire of
speculation. According to some Muslim and Christian myths, on Judgment
Day, Wadi Nar will become the Anvil of God, the place where all souls
will be judged.

Almost by osmosis, I absorbed information about the legendary
Wadi Nar. About its importance, and its dangers. (OK, I’m being a
little bit melodramatic).

Wadi Nar, mind you, is just a name for a road. It can’t be
more than two miles in length. Width-wise, it would have to be
considered a secondary road. At the bottom of the valley, a one-lane
bridge crosses a narrow creek that seems just a smidgen wider, deeper
and faster than Harry’s Brook–a tiny drainage ditch that runs near my
home in Princeton.

Wadi Nar, however, is not a secondary road. After the signing
of the Oslo Accords, the Israeli government established permanent
checkpoints along major roads from the West Bank to Jerusalem,
and–since Palestinians need special permits to enter Israel–the flow
of people back and forth was reduced to a trickle. As the region’s
oldest and biggest city, Jerusalem has always been the capital–if not
the political one, then the economic, religious and social one, and as
a result, the transportation hub of the region. In other words, for
most Palestinians, the transportation hub of the West Bank is no longer
accessible, making other, longer roads necessary for travel between the
north and south of the West Bank.

Wadi Nar is the critical link in the path bypassing Jerusalem.
This past Sunday I joined a trip to al-Khalil (accent on the "i,"
a.k.a. Hebron or Hevron) organized by Birzeit University for foreign
students, and instead of utilizing our privileged status as passport
holders, the responsible parties decided to have us travel the way
Palestinians have to travel: through Wadi Nar.

As a jaded world-traveler and cynical American youth, I am
rarely impressed by the sights of the countries I visit. In high
school, I was severely reprimanded by a girlfriend for not getting
excited at seeing the hills of Tuscany for the first time, I find the
Holy Sepulcher tacky, and frankly, the Eiffel Tower ain’t that high.

Wadi Nar, however, lived up to its billing. I’m at a loss as
to how to describe this road. Lombard Street in San Francisco is
perhaps too mild a comparison, but is in the ballpark. [Photo
right, the roughest part of Wadi Nar. Sorry for the blue lines, but it
makes the road a little more obvious.] The two hillsides
that the road must climb are on the steep side for a ski slope, and
require that the road be barely wide enough to accommodate two lanes.
Wadi Nar is rumored to be one of the most dangerous stretches of road
in the West Bank. It’s reputation is such that, in a country where I
can only conclude that the majority of drivers are on
methyl-amphetamines, driving habits in Wadi Nar are more conservative
than Dick Armey. There are some five to six hair-pin turns on the more
severe of the two slopes, and no room for error.
Trucks–18-wheelers–use this road, straining in first gear to climb
the mountain. In a television interview, one truck-driver claimed that
he replaced his brakes weekly. Perhaps his habits are on the obsessive
side, but if your breaks fail, your options for recovery on this road
are nil. You just slide off the mountainside. Just for atmosphere,
there were one or two burnt out shells of cars along the way (probably
placed there by the Ministry of Tourism).

The whole trip took two hours. Considering that the distance
between al-Khalil and Jerusalem is about 25 miles, and that between
Jerusalem and Ramallah about 12, two hours is a little excessive. After
we left Ramallah, our driver seemed to alternate between minor roads
leading south-ish and roads leading towards Jerusalem. We just kept
circling around the outskirts, constantly following signs to Jerusalem.

The road was relatively free of settlements as compared to
other areas. As I recall, every hill top along the road to Nablus
seemed to include concentrations of identical, semi-detached, pre-fab
houses with red tile roofs, all surrounded by fences of razor wire and
reinforced concrete. The primary settlement we passed was Ma’ale
Adumim, one of the largest West Bank settlements outside of Jerusalem.
In contrast, just after Ma’ale Adumim, we caught a glimpse of what
looked like a dumping ground for old metal containers carried by
trucks. The catch was their neat arrangement in rows and columns. These
containers are provided by the Israeli government as housing for
Bedouin who were expelled from their land. (You can even see laundry
out to dry on the right edge of the photo).

One of the things you notice living here is the vast
difference in reporting. For the most part, the States has pretty
homogeneous reporting when it comes to foreign events. Even for
domestic issues, coverage is generally on the fair and even side.

It reminds me of Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, a movie
where some men stuck in a rain storm gossip about the trial of a
brigand charged with raping a woman and killing her samurai husband.
All three testify (including the husband, through a medium), and all
have different stories, stories with big holes. Then, one of the men
stuck in the rain admits he witnessed the crime. His story is the most
reasonable, the one we all piece together from the stories of the first
three. Except there’s an even bigger hole in his story, too. In the
end, you have no idea where the truth is.

Anyway, here in the West Bank, the political statement is more important than the
events, and if the events don’t quite match your agenda… well, just read for yourself.

(more…)

Nigel and Hanan and I went back to Ma’alufiyya/Arak/Khammara yesterday.
A cursory glance at the site, just driving past, you would never have
realized
that there were clashes there.

A few days previous–last Saturday night actually–I took a
cab back
from Jerusalem that passed by Ma’alufiyya (it is the
main road from
Ramallah/Al-Bireh to Jerusalem). It was kind of like the morning after,
the hangover from too much drinking making you dizzy while surveying
the
wreckage your friends had made of your apartment the previous night.
The
van zig-zagged all over the obstacle course the road had become,
dodging
piles of rocks, dumpsters, the burnt-out shells of cars, and destroyed
Port-a-Potties that had been used as shields and obstacles during the
day. Earlier
that Saturday evening, Abdullah Khalil Salah had been shot once,
precisely
through the center of the left side of his chest. [Photo
left: Carrying Abdullah to the ambulance. Photo copyright Al-Ayyam]Through
his heart. I
didn’t know that at the time. I was busy convincing myself that I was
happy
that I had been stood up by an Israeli woman, that I hadn’t really
wanted
to go out with her that evening anyway.

But that was why we went back to Ma’alufiyya. Cathi Grosso–a
coordinator
with Birzeit University’s Human
Rights Action Project–wanted Nigel to photograph the area
where Abdullah
had been killed. We were also dreaming foolishly of finding one spent
cartridge
of live ammunition. Some piece of evidence. Reports have reached the PR
office that a few Israeli officials are saying that, because an autopsy
was not conducted, Abdullah must have been shot by Palestinian police.

(more…)

Nigel accused me of being a bleeding heart, knee-jerk liberal.
Perhaps I am, perhaps not. It still doesn’t change the fact that my
back hurts.

"Why did I try to carry that kid?" [Photo right, resting my
back] That is the question which I keep asking (and to which Nigel gave
the above answer). The kid–maybe 15 or 16–was almost throwing up, but
he clearly had the presence of mind to roll over on his side. Perhaps I
should have taken that as a sign that he just needed a few minutes to
recover. But he was writhing there on the ground, and the scent of gas
in the room was palpable.

So I yelled upstairs to the shabab (men between 14 and 44) to
come down, to help me, there is an injured kid. Finally, one of them
came down, informed me that the kid didn’t need an ambulance, but that
we should try and get him upstairs and closer to some fresh air. So I
grabbed his legs, the other fellow grabbed his shirt, and we carried
him up this narrow, unfinished staircase. The kid was a bit on the
chubby side and I strained my back so bad that I couldn’t walk right
for hours.

I keep telling myself, no, Michael, you were being a nice guy,
you were genuinely worried, but part of me wonders whether I just
wanted to carry an injured Palestinian youth like I’d seen on TV (you
know, Americans, too much TV, imitating TV, that kinda thing). Just for
the full "Palestinian Experience."

Yesterday was definitely a part of the "Palestinian
experience." The day before, Birzeit University student leaders had
decided to head down to the nearest Israeli checkpoint between Ramallah
and Jerusalem and throw stones at Israeli soldiers. Of course the
decision was made to leave at 9:00 a.m.–an unreasonably early hour for
college students in any country–so they really meant 10 a.m., and by
1:30 p.m., most of the University was still chatting and laughing on
the quads, soaking in the warm spring sun.

With weather like that, I reasoned that they wouldn’t want to
ruin the day with tear gas and ambulances. I’m not a very good judge of
resolve, though, and the decision to leave was made and carried out
while I was shaving back home. It was catch up ball then. I missed them
by no more than ten minutes, grabbed a cab to Ramallah, thinking the
protest would take place at the Surda bypass road like the first
Ramallah area protest I went to. But not a creature was stirring at the
interesection, not one lonely shab, so I took the
cab the rest of the way to Ramallah, and grabbed another one to
Jerusalem. The trip wasn’t that interesting, so I won’t prolong it. The
PNA was redirecting traffic, so our cabbie took back roads that met up
with the Jerusalem road near the airport–a mile or two further south
than I wanted to be. I got out right in front of two Israeli army
jeeps, greeted the soldiers with a "How ya dowin," crossed the street,
and grabbed another cab back north. A minute later, I was there.

(more…)

Several times in the past week, I had resolved to go to Jabal Abu Ghenim, simply
to see with my own eyes what will soon become Har Homa. Most of those abortive trips
were planned to coincide with Peace Now protests advertised in the paper, but for
various reasons, something else always came up. So I just decided to go, just to see–just
to spend five or ten minutes taking pictures.

(more…)