Jerusalem & the West Bank

Hi everyone,

I got stamped. After half an hour of pleading with a grumpy border official she lifted the stamp, hovered cruelly, then thumped it down onto my poor passport. So I am now stuck between Israel and the erstwhile visited Jordan and Egypt. Every land border around this threesome (Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Sudan and Libya) is now inaccessible, so I am forced to fly out of here. However it does mean I have unlimited time to explore the most religiously significant country on Earth.

I arrived in Jerusalem almost two weeks ago and I was surprised by how similar it felt to Jordan. Unbeknown to me at the time I had arrived on the Arabic occupied East side of the capital, and it was only after a taxi ride to the centre that it became very clear that this was no longer the Middle East...this was Europe. I met couchsurfer Kfir and caught a bus to the outskirts of Jerusalem, where he lives in an impeccably clean house with his mum and brother. I spent my inaugural evening having a long, hot shower and a home-cooked meal. Lovely.

For the first week I used the house as a base to explore the fascinating city of Jerusalem. My first stop was the famous Old City, which is split into four distinct quarters; Jewish, Christian, Muslim and Armenian. I asked several people about the latter, and nobody could explain why the Armenians (who are Christian) get their own section. The Old City, despite covering less than a square kilometre, houses the capital’s most recognisable religious sites; the Dome of the Rock (where, according to Islam, Mohammed ascended to heaven), the Western Wall (or ‘Wailing Wall’, Judaism’s holiest site) and the Church of the Holy Sephulcre (the location, according to Christianity, of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial). Christians also boast a bonus significant spot with the Church & Monastery of the Dormition where, supposedly, the Virgin Mary (a moniker that was surely outdated by this time) ‘fell into eternal sleep’. Or ‘died’, for the less pretentious among us. This site was probably my favourite in Jerusalem, and the only time I have been genuinely blown away by mosaics! Also around the Golden City I’ve been to several out-of-the-way churches, mosques and synagogues, to the beautiful Mount of Olives and to the Tower of David. But however long I travelled around, I still couldn’t get used to seeing so many people wandering the streets with rifles hanging by their sides.

During my stay Kfir has made several efforts to indoctrinate me into Jewish life. He took me to a briss (‘snip-snip’) on my third day here and to a synagogue for an hour-long Shabbat service, then fed me on fish and bread until I was fit to burst. Saturday is normally reserved for nothing – as Shabbat lasts from sundown on Friday until sundown on Saturday – but I decided to join a couple of Germans I met in a bar on a trip to the Gazan border. As far as I was aware this was an aid mission, as the Israelis had closed the border to supplies (anyone watch the news?), so I bought a decent quantity of dried food and water and expected simply to watch it cross into Gaza before toddling back to Jerusalem. To my surprise it was a planned demonstration against the blockade (most people didn’t even bring food) that lasted three hours. In retrospect it is quite obvious – if it was just about the food, why take people as well? – but for some reason it didn’t occur to me. In the end, the protest was peaceful (aside from a short-lived scuffle between some idiot protestors and some armed soldiers) and I managed to watch without actively taking part. As much as I’m convinced the blockade is unjust I simply didn’t feel well informed enough to join in with the protest...though I spoke to several other protesters who were unsure exactly had outraged them enough to make unimaginative banners and shout unimaginative chants. When I returned to the house, Kfir and his brother were very disappointed that I had gone to the border. They (along with every other Israeli I have talked to) seem convinced that all Palestinians deserve any humanitarian crises coming their way. Despite this, they did everything they could to dissuade me from heading into West Bank, should I witness something to make me side with the enemy.

Ignoring them, the next day I walked the eight kilometres to Bethlehem. At the border (an unsightly twenty-five foot grey wall) I flashed my passport and was waved straight through – I didn’t even break stride. By contrast the trip back into Israel involved tight security and a thorough search. Once into ‘Palestinian Territory’ (if you can call it that) I walked aside the graffiti-covered wall. The daubings are mostly political, with various comparisons to Berlin or the South African Apartheid, but my particular favourite tag read “Is this piece of s**t still here?” Bethlehem itself was a disappointment – the Church of the Nativity is thoroughly unimpressive (and, sadly, is decorated with tacky Christmas lights) and aside from some souvenir stalls, there are few hints that anything remotely significant occurred here. The following day I ventured deeper into the Occupied Territories to Hebron. This had a very interesting mosque split unequally between Muslims and Jews (with seperate entrances and security measures) and an Arab market that has a horizontal metal fence erected above to catch the debris thrown by Jewish settlers. For the next few days I was confined to the house, as a mild snowstorm bought the city to a complete standstill (when I did decide to walk into town I discovered everything was closed), but on Friday I went to Ramallah. Again, this was fairly uneventful, and most places were still closed – the remaining half-inch of snow on the pavements was obviously immutable. The West Bank is undoubtedly a fascinating contrast to Israel, but if you’ve come from Arabic countries it has little new to offer. The border is the most interesting factor of heading into Palestine, plus the kick you get from starting a day in Europe, spending it in the Middle-East and being back in Europe in time for dinner.

I had my second Shabbat meal last night and today mainly consists of eating a lot, watching films and listening to a friend of the family, who is a Hared (ultraorthodox Jew), talk about how we can all learn lessons from birds. Kfir accidentally mentioned Jesus at the breakfast table and she started yelling at him in Hebrew. She then translated to me; “don’t mention his name at the Shabbat table!” What if you use it in a purely historical context?

I’m off to Haifa tomorrow, then we’ll see what happens from there.

Take care,
Joe x