In my days here, I've learned a few lessons, religiously speaking. Here they are, in no particular order...
1) Nuns do not appreciate being addressed as "Auntie". Rather, the proper term of address is, "Ma Soeur". Do not forget.
2) For as much as Arabs kiss (when you greet someone or when you give them leave, it is always with at least one kiss, but more likely two or three, or if you're really friendly even more), they do not kiss at the Sign of Peace during Mass. Another thing to put down to memory.
3) Do not - I repeat, Do Not - cross your legs during Mass. Doing so could very likely result in public humiliation from one of the Church elders, or worse, from the Priest himself.
This third rule, I know it well, but earlier this evening at Mass, I forgot much to my chagrin.
When I was young, our family would always go to Mass together in the States. My mother was of strict Arab upbringing, and would always remind me not to cross my legs: "For shame, Mama. We are in the house of the Lord." I would always complain to my mother, "Look Mom. Look at all these other people who are crossing their legs." Truly, the better part of the congregation had their legs crossed. Still, it was of no consequence to my mother who would always respond, "Do you always do what others do?"
Now that I'm grown up, I try and keep the rules straight. But today, I forgot. Fortunately, the priest reminded me, both gently and privately, so as not to subject me to public humiliation. Apparently, it was clear to him that I had come from the States and was therefore, in his mind, excused.
23 August 2008
22 August 2008
The Latin Patriarchate of Jerusalem
Yesterday, I visited my great-uncle (my mum's father's brother) at the Latin Patriarchate of Jerusalem, within the confines of the Old City. He is a priest there and recently - on July 4th - celebrated the 60th anniversary of his vows! He showed me a photo of the day he entered the seminary; he had been only 11 years old. I honestly can't imagine making such a life-altering decision at such a young age.
My visit with my great-uncle was a lot of fun. He took me all around Il Batrachya (the Patriarchate), introduced me to the Sisters of St. Dorothy (Italian sisters who serve the priests - they cooked us an amazing meal), and introduced me to the new Archbishop of Jerusalem, Sa'idna Fuad Twal. He is super-sweet, easy to talk to, and quite funny as well. I embarrassed myself badly in front of him, though. In the States, we address priests as, "Father". In the Arabic language, we use the word, Abuna which translates to "Our Father". I rather unwittingly addressed the Archbishop as, "Abuna Il Mutron" ("Our Father the Bishop"). He is neither Our Father nor is he a bishop, so I missed on both accounts. My great-uncle hastened to correct me; the proper term of address, is "Sa'idna". Fortunately, though, the Archbishop took it really well and was quite understanding.
Chillin'with the Archbishop and my great-uncle.
I missed the old Archbishop, though. (He recently retired, in accordance with Church law, at the age of 75.) He, too, was really nice, but more importantly had the same speech impediment in Arabic that I do: neither of us can roll our R's, something very necessary in the Arabic language. The difference, however, is that I speak with a heavy, heavy American accent, while he never has. Still, it always heartened me to know that someone of such prominence spoke as I do.
Every time my great-uncle introduced me to anyone whether it was the Archbishop, the German priest, the Italian Sisters or anyone else I met, the introction went like this:
"This Doctora Lara, my niece's daughter, who has come from the States. I baptized her when she was a baby. I'll show you photos later."
Seriously?! Please, God, no! Not naked baby pictures! Fortunately, as best as I know, no one took him up on his offer to view the photos. Phew!
Anyway, speaking of photos, here are a few photos from in and around the Patriarchate:
An alcove dedicated to Our Lady; I thought it was beautiful!
My great-uncle standing in front of the altar and high altar.
The four candles I lit in the alcove dedicated to the Sacred Heart.
My visit with my great-uncle was a lot of fun. He took me all around Il Batrachya (the Patriarchate), introduced me to the Sisters of St. Dorothy (Italian sisters who serve the priests - they cooked us an amazing meal), and introduced me to the new Archbishop of Jerusalem, Sa'idna Fuad Twal. He is super-sweet, easy to talk to, and quite funny as well. I embarrassed myself badly in front of him, though. In the States, we address priests as, "Father". In the Arabic language, we use the word, Abuna which translates to "Our Father". I rather unwittingly addressed the Archbishop as, "Abuna Il Mutron" ("Our Father the Bishop"). He is neither Our Father nor is he a bishop, so I missed on both accounts. My great-uncle hastened to correct me; the proper term of address, is "Sa'idna". Fortunately, though, the Archbishop took it really well and was quite understanding.
Chillin'with the Archbishop and my great-uncle. (If you look closely above my head, you'll see the photo of the Archbishop meeting Pope Benedict XVI.)
I missed the old Archbishop, though. (He recently retired, in accordance with Church law, at the age of 75.) He, too, was really nice, but more importantly had the same speech impediment in Arabic that I do: neither of us can roll our R's, something very necessary in the Arabic language. The difference, however, is that I speak with a heavy, heavy American accent, while he never has. Still, it always heartened me to know that someone of such prominence spoke as I do.
Every time my great-uncle introduced me to anyone whether it was the Archbishop, the German priest, the Italian Sisters or anyone else I met, the introction went like this:
"This Doctora Lara, my niece's daughter, who has come from the States. I baptized her when she was a baby. I'll show you photos later."
Seriously?! Please, God, no! Not naked baby pictures! Fortunately, as best as I know, no one took him up on his offer to view the photos. Phew!
Anyway, speaking of photos, here are a few photos from in and around the Patriarchate:
An alcove dedicated to Our Lady; I thought it was beautiful!
My great-uncle standing in front of the altar and high altar.
The four candles I lit in the alcove dedicated to the Sacred Heart. 21 August 2008
Jerusalem, Arab Style
A few days ago, I went to Jerusalem. This isn't such a big deal, as I've been to Jerusalem many, many times. This time, however, was different as I experienced the trip from Ramallah to Jerusalem, not as an American tourist, but rather as a typical Palestinian.
Palestinians, as I've previously mentioned have identity papers issued by the Israelis. For those born in the West Bank they have haweeya Diffa; those born in Jerusalem, have haweeya 'Oodsie. In order for those who have the haweeya Diffa to leave the West Bank and enter Jerusalem, they must have special dispensation, or tasreeh, from the Israeli government. This tasreeh is hard to come by, and is most often given on religious holidays: for the Muslims on their holidays and for the Christians on ours. Our friend, Umm Victor, and her family had just got their tasreeh for the day (in honour of some or other Christian holiday, I don't know), so I went along to Jerusalem with them.
Normally, when I travel to Jerusalem, I travel through the Q'alendia checkpoint along with a driver who has haweeya 'Oodsie. We, along with every other car, get stopped by the IDF, and are asked for our haweeyas (or my passport). The car is then searched - sometimes just with quick glance by a young IDF soldier, or sometimes by a thorough examination of the backseat and the boot of a car. No matter though; it is a nuisance, but is otherwise of little consequence.
Traveling through the same checkpoint with Umm Victor and her family was a completely different experience. We entered through the lines for people with tasreeh. We were forced to disembark from our taxi and walk through gated walkways that were built, quite literally, like cages. These cages, made to corrall people were completely enclosed in chain link and had barbed wire on top. At the end of each cage, was a turnstyle door (much like you would find at the Oregon Zoo or Woodland Park Zoo exits). Each one of these turnstyle doors led to yet another cage - 3 in all - before finally arrived at the IDF checkpoint. At the first turn-style, people were swarming outside. It was sweltering hot, and men and women - the elderly and young alike - were pressed up against each other hoping to push their way to the front of the gate. We stood amidst the mob for over 20 minutes before an unseen IDF soldier barked orders in Hebrew over a loud-speaker. Shortly thereafter, the turnstyle was activated and a handful of people were allowed through the first gate. We were not among the lucky ones and were once again left on the wrong side of the turnstyle. This happened a few more times - people pushing, and the IDF barking orders in a language none of us could understand. Finally, we made our way into the second holding area, which was also full of over-heated, frustrated, antsy Arabs. It was awful. Waiting amidst the mob to pass through all of the holding areas, I felt that we were much like cattle headed to slaughter. People around me were saying that we were being herded like sheep, but honestly, I felt that it was much worse. (Anyone see The Simpsons episode where they show the "educational film" in class where they talk about how beef is made and "happy cows"? Well, I felt like one of those so-called happy cows.)
Finally, we made our way to the IDF checkpoint. We had to put our handbags, etc through an x-ray machine much like what you'd see at the airport and then show our haweeyas (or my passport) to the IDF. The IDF were sitting in a (likely) air-conditioned rooms and we were instructed to press our haweeyas against the glass for them to see. The women passed quickly, but the men in the group were electronically fingerprinted to ensure that they truly were who they said they were. If their name appeared on the Arrest Warrant list, no matter how untrue or unjustified, they risked being arrested on the spot. It's scary business and a huge risk. Still, you see literally hundreds of Palestinians every day clamoring to take such a risk just to get to a city that truly belongs to them anyway. It's sad.
Once we made our way to Jerusalem, our trip was quite fabulous. We stopped for a shawarma sandwich, did a bit of shopping, stopped for k'nafeh - an amazing Arab-style dessert (shown below), did some more shopping, visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, prayed at Gogotha (upstairs), and then did some more shopping.
The shopkeeper serving fresh k'nafeh - yummmmm!
Here are a few photos of the Jerusalem and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Golgotha, which is just upstairs:
A typical street full of souqs (shops) in the Old City of Jerusalem.
Victor buying za'atar, ground thyme mixed with other spices. We dip bread first into olive oil and then into the za'atar and eat it for breakfast.
(Mum, I got you some of this.)
The entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It is rather unassuming.
One of the altars within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is also known as the Church of the Resurrection.
Upstairs at Golgotha. Here a woman is kneeling and praying over the hole where the Cross had been.
This is a slab from the rock that is said to have covered the tomb of Christ.
The entrance to the tomb of Christ, downstairs in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
A ca'ak seller near the Jaffa Gate of the Old City of Jerusalem.
The wall of the Old City of Jerusalem, as viewed from the Jewish portion of new Jerusalem.
Jerusalem - the Jewish part of the new city known as David City.
Umm Victor playing Israeli lotto scratch-it...
She won 100 NIS (sheikel), which is about US$25!
Israeli youth and soldiers mingle at dusk in Jerusalem.
Palestinians, as I've previously mentioned have identity papers issued by the Israelis. For those born in the West Bank they have haweeya Diffa; those born in Jerusalem, have haweeya 'Oodsie. In order for those who have the haweeya Diffa to leave the West Bank and enter Jerusalem, they must have special dispensation, or tasreeh, from the Israeli government. This tasreeh is hard to come by, and is most often given on religious holidays: for the Muslims on their holidays and for the Christians on ours. Our friend, Umm Victor, and her family had just got their tasreeh for the day (in honour of some or other Christian holiday, I don't know), so I went along to Jerusalem with them.
Normally, when I travel to Jerusalem, I travel through the Q'alendia checkpoint along with a driver who has haweeya 'Oodsie. We, along with every other car, get stopped by the IDF, and are asked for our haweeyas (or my passport). The car is then searched - sometimes just with quick glance by a young IDF soldier, or sometimes by a thorough examination of the backseat and the boot of a car. No matter though; it is a nuisance, but is otherwise of little consequence.
Traveling through the same checkpoint with Umm Victor and her family was a completely different experience. We entered through the lines for people with tasreeh. We were forced to disembark from our taxi and walk through gated walkways that were built, quite literally, like cages. These cages, made to corrall people were completely enclosed in chain link and had barbed wire on top. At the end of each cage, was a turnstyle door (much like you would find at the Oregon Zoo or Woodland Park Zoo exits). Each one of these turnstyle doors led to yet another cage - 3 in all - before finally arrived at the IDF checkpoint. At the first turn-style, people were swarming outside. It was sweltering hot, and men and women - the elderly and young alike - were pressed up against each other hoping to push their way to the front of the gate. We stood amidst the mob for over 20 minutes before an unseen IDF soldier barked orders in Hebrew over a loud-speaker. Shortly thereafter, the turnstyle was activated and a handful of people were allowed through the first gate. We were not among the lucky ones and were once again left on the wrong side of the turnstyle. This happened a few more times - people pushing, and the IDF barking orders in a language none of us could understand. Finally, we made our way into the second holding area, which was also full of over-heated, frustrated, antsy Arabs. It was awful. Waiting amidst the mob to pass through all of the holding areas, I felt that we were much like cattle headed to slaughter. People around me were saying that we were being herded like sheep, but honestly, I felt that it was much worse. (Anyone see The Simpsons episode where they show the "educational film" in class where they talk about how beef is made and "happy cows"? Well, I felt like one of those so-called happy cows.)
Finally, we made our way to the IDF checkpoint. We had to put our handbags, etc through an x-ray machine much like what you'd see at the airport and then show our haweeyas (or my passport) to the IDF. The IDF were sitting in a (likely) air-conditioned rooms and we were instructed to press our haweeyas against the glass for them to see. The women passed quickly, but the men in the group were electronically fingerprinted to ensure that they truly were who they said they were. If their name appeared on the Arrest Warrant list, no matter how untrue or unjustified, they risked being arrested on the spot. It's scary business and a huge risk. Still, you see literally hundreds of Palestinians every day clamoring to take such a risk just to get to a city that truly belongs to them anyway. It's sad.
Once we made our way to Jerusalem, our trip was quite fabulous. We stopped for a shawarma sandwich, did a bit of shopping, stopped for k'nafeh - an amazing Arab-style dessert (shown below), did some more shopping, visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, prayed at Gogotha (upstairs), and then did some more shopping.
The shopkeeper serving fresh k'nafeh - yummmmm! Golgotha was AMAZING! I had been there before, twice actually. Once in 2006 for Good Friday prayers and once in 2004 just to visit, but I had no idea just what was there. You can actually put your hand in the hole where it is said that the Cross that Jesus had been nailed on had been driven into the ground. What a powerful experience to reach my hand into that hole and pray! No words can describe the emotion. We all prayed together and then had the honour of lighting a few candles there as well, much to the chagrin of a rather disgrutled Orthodox priest. (I'm sorry that I don't have a picture of him, as he was quite the sight in his long, grey beard, black clerics, and unique hat.) Honestly, I think he was just grumpy because he must have been overheating in such an outfit - it was a sweltering day, even by Palestinian standards.
Here are a few photos of the Jerusalem and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Golgotha, which is just upstairs:
A typical street full of souqs (shops) in the Old City of Jerusalem.
Victor buying za'atar, ground thyme mixed with other spices. We dip bread first into olive oil and then into the za'atar and eat it for breakfast.(Mum, I got you some of this.)
The entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It is rather unassuming.
One of the altars within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is also known as the Church of the Resurrection.
Upstairs at Golgotha. Here a woman is kneeling and praying over the hole where the Cross had been.
This is a slab from the rock that is said to have covered the tomb of Christ.
The entrance to the tomb of Christ, downstairs in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
A ca'ak seller near the Jaffa Gate of the Old City of Jerusalem.
The wall of the Old City of Jerusalem, as viewed from the Jewish portion of new Jerusalem.
Jerusalem - the Jewish part of the new city known as David City.
Umm Victor playing Israeli lotto scratch-it...
She won 100 NIS (sheikel), which is about US$25!
Israeli youth and soldiers mingle at dusk in Jerusalem. 20 August 2008
Margie's Wedding
Here are a few pictures from Margie's wedding in Madison, WI. As noted in an earlier post, most of the pictures are of our little friend group, not of the bride and groom. Yes, we truly were our own paparazzi! The wedding itself was fabulous! The bride was stunning as one would imagine and the groom was quite handsome! Congrats to them both!
(Sorry for the random order of the photos. It took me ages to upload them from our connection at home and cutting and pasting to rearrange the order only results in a big mess. Thanks to Alex Vitus for tips on how to fix this!) So, here are a few pics in no order whatsoever... Enjoy!
Giving our love to the groom!
Our shoes at the reception.
(Did I mention the issue of vanity?)
The entire OHSU gang!
Our shoes at the wedding.
The bride and the groom: Mr & Mrs Garske
Margie with Young-Joo Kim, and Geunwon, Hyun, Sumin & Yaewon Lee.
The Girls!
The girls without the bride.
We had just finished getting ready in Margie's hotel room.
(Sorry for the random order of the photos. It took me ages to upload them from our connection at home and cutting and pasting to rearrange the order only results in a big mess. Thanks to Alex Vitus for tips on how to fix this!) So, here are a few pics in no order whatsoever... Enjoy!
Giving our love to the groom!
Our shoes at the reception.(Did I mention the issue of vanity?)
The entire OHSU gang!
Our shoes at the wedding.
The bride and the groom: Mr & Mrs Garske
Margie with Young-Joo Kim, and Geunwon, Hyun, Sumin & Yaewon Lee.
The Girls!
The girls without the bride. We had just finished getting ready in Margie's hotel room.Chasing Mosquitos
In Arab culture, it is customary for people, friends and family, to come greet the guest who has arrived. On the night I landed, we had family friends come by. Tonight, we'll have more visitors. And so the pattern will continue for a few more days, at which point, the guests will all return to bid me goodbye. It seems, however, that it was not only our friends and family who were out to greet me, but also the Palestinian mosquitos: they were out in full-force.
On the evening I arrived, we all (my uncle, my cousin, his son, and our family friends) all sat out on the portch drinking whisky and nibling on salted nuts and cucumbers. (For those of you who haven't tried such a combination, it comes highly recommended.) At some point, our friend, Abu Victor, commented on the lovely evening and mentioned that he surprisingly hadn't felt a single mosquito. We all nodded in agreement, but soonafter discovered why the mosquitos appeared to be in absentia: they had all been feasting on me. I had 19 mosquito bites on my ankles and feet. Seriously. And unlike in the States where I hardly even notice a mosquito bite, these were red, swollen, hot, and honestly quite annoying.
The traditional remidy here for mosquito bites, or any malady really, is spearto: rubbing alcohol. Do you have a cut? Put spearto on it. A bruise? Spearto. Headache? Spearto. And of course, mosquito bites? Spearto, again. Well, spearto didn't work. Neither did a myriad of other creams, sprays, etc designed to quench the sting of mosquito bites. Finally, we ordered some cortisone cream from the pharmacy. Around here, thankfully no prescription (for anything) is necessary. If you're friends with a pharmacist, anything you need is just a phone call away. Thank God.
To avoid a repeat of the mosquitios feasting on American blood, we've devised a plan to chase down the little buggers before going to bed at night. You see, these mosquitos sneak in through the screens and doorjams and attack in the night. So much so, that I wake up with my face and hands covered in welts from mosquito bites. So now, we have a plan: there are these little tennis-racket like contraptions with electric grids. Touch them to a mosquito and the mosquito goes POP! - The more full of blood the mosquito is, the louder the POP! And if you're lucky enough to get a juicy one, there's even a little spark. There's nothing so satisfying as catching a large, juicy mosquito! - Every night now, my cousin and I, along with his 7 year-old son, run around with rackets in our hands chasing mosquitos. So far, it's worked. Keep your fingers crossed!
****************************************
I just learned this morning how to download photos onto a PC! Coming soon are photos of Margie's wedding (well, really photos of my friends and me as we were vain enough to be our own paparazzi). Coming soon, too, are photos from yesterdays visit to Jerusalem and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
On the evening I arrived, we all (my uncle, my cousin, his son, and our family friends) all sat out on the portch drinking whisky and nibling on salted nuts and cucumbers. (For those of you who haven't tried such a combination, it comes highly recommended.) At some point, our friend, Abu Victor, commented on the lovely evening and mentioned that he surprisingly hadn't felt a single mosquito. We all nodded in agreement, but soonafter discovered why the mosquitos appeared to be in absentia: they had all been feasting on me. I had 19 mosquito bites on my ankles and feet. Seriously. And unlike in the States where I hardly even notice a mosquito bite, these were red, swollen, hot, and honestly quite annoying.
The traditional remidy here for mosquito bites, or any malady really, is spearto: rubbing alcohol. Do you have a cut? Put spearto on it. A bruise? Spearto. Headache? Spearto. And of course, mosquito bites? Spearto, again. Well, spearto didn't work. Neither did a myriad of other creams, sprays, etc designed to quench the sting of mosquito bites. Finally, we ordered some cortisone cream from the pharmacy. Around here, thankfully no prescription (for anything) is necessary. If you're friends with a pharmacist, anything you need is just a phone call away. Thank God.
To avoid a repeat of the mosquitios feasting on American blood, we've devised a plan to chase down the little buggers before going to bed at night. You see, these mosquitos sneak in through the screens and doorjams and attack in the night. So much so, that I wake up with my face and hands covered in welts from mosquito bites. So now, we have a plan: there are these little tennis-racket like contraptions with electric grids. Touch them to a mosquito and the mosquito goes POP! - The more full of blood the mosquito is, the louder the POP! And if you're lucky enough to get a juicy one, there's even a little spark. There's nothing so satisfying as catching a large, juicy mosquito! - Every night now, my cousin and I, along with his 7 year-old son, run around with rackets in our hands chasing mosquitos. So far, it's worked. Keep your fingers crossed!
****************************************
I just learned this morning how to download photos onto a PC! Coming soon are photos of Margie's wedding (well, really photos of my friends and me as we were vain enough to be our own paparazzi). Coming soon, too, are photos from yesterdays visit to Jerusalem and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
19 August 2008
Getting Here...
I don't know what it is, but I always seem to sit next to the crazies. So it was on the way from Chicago to Atlanta. It wasn't the woman next to me, but rather the woman next to her who was ever-so-concerned that I wouldn't be able to sleep on my second flight and thus continued to wake me for the duration of the first flight. She was a retired medical lawyer-turned-CEO (of a hospital). I should have been able to reason with her, but her maternal instinct had kicked in and all reason had flown out the window. No matter how much I reassured her that I could sleep on both flights, she was insistant that I must stay awake, not to chat with her, but just to stay awake. It was annoying, but fortunately, the worst part of the entire trip.
The flight from Atlanta to Tel Aviv was fabulous - I think. Honestly, I slept nearly the entire way, all 11 hours and 15 minutes. I woke up for one meal (I'm good like that) and then the next thing I remember is waking up to applause on the landing. Israelis, I have learned, congratulate the pilot on a good flight and safe landing by breaking into applause and cheers on the runway. It is cute and certainly a good way to end a loooong flight.
At passport control, both the Israeli and the Foreign Passport lines were moving quickly, that is, until I got there. The rythym had been stamp, stamp, "Enjoy your stay in Israel". Then they saw me. I, as always, was detained and was immediately taken to the "waiting room". It was empty this time, save for a poor, older Muslim woman wearing a hijab. She was there when I arrived and was still there when I finally left an hour later. My hour detention was the fastest I've ever experienced, by far, and also the least humiliating. It only involved interrogation and x-ray examination of my luggage - no displays of my bras. And, thank God, no strip searches this time either, though I may yet have that honor when I depart - we'll see. The interrogation this time was benign, though absolutely innane.
"What's your father's name?"
(Typing, followed by a long delay)
"What's your father's father's name?"
(Typing, followed by a long delay)
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
(Typing, followed by a long delay)
"What is your occupation? Write your home phone number and email address. Not just work, personal too."
(More typing)
"Why have you chosen Israel?"
Ah, this was my favourite question! "I have not chosen Israel. I have chosen to come to Palestine. Unfortunatly, you idiots control the borders to my country." Oh, I how I wished to say that, but such a comment would have earned me the fate as that poor, Muslim woman - indefinite detention. So, rather I responded with, "my family lives here". Bastards.
"Okay, please sit."
And so it was, back to the waiting room. This time with the Muslim woman, a Catholic priest (an Arab), and two French guys. Ten minutes later, I was called in again, for the same line of questioning. We played this game for an hour - questioning, waiting, questioning, waiting until I was eventually free to go, and sent off with the words, "Welcome to Israel, Enjoy your stay. " The same words everyone else on my flight had heard an hour earlier.
So, today is my first full day in Palestine. I will soon go to Jerusalem with family friends of ours, who had the great honor of recieving travel passes for the day. We will go to the Old City and to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre - one of my favourite places! I'm really looking forward to it.
Around here, people are not free to move about as they wish. Even though our friends, Um and Abo Victor, live in Ramallah (probably no more than 30 km from Jerusalem) they cannot go there without special travel papers from the Israelis. Here, everyone has Identity Cards issued according to where they are born: Gaza, West Bank, or Jerusalem. Those with Jerusalem IDs cannot travel to the West Bank or vice versa. Gaza?! Forget it. They are completley isolated. So, despite all being Palestinians, people are separated from one another and separated from their own land. Sometimes, families are broken up, too. It's completely insane. Palestinians here are fenced in, literally as prisoners in their own homes and on their own land. It is so sad. In order to travel to another part of Palestine, they have to apply for travel papers months in advance: more often than not, such requests are declined. Imagine being a Christian in the West Bank and not being able to pray at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre even though it's in your own backyard. Sad. And honestly, compltely unacceptable.
The flight from Atlanta to Tel Aviv was fabulous - I think. Honestly, I slept nearly the entire way, all 11 hours and 15 minutes. I woke up for one meal (I'm good like that) and then the next thing I remember is waking up to applause on the landing. Israelis, I have learned, congratulate the pilot on a good flight and safe landing by breaking into applause and cheers on the runway. It is cute and certainly a good way to end a loooong flight.
At passport control, both the Israeli and the Foreign Passport lines were moving quickly, that is, until I got there. The rythym had been stamp, stamp, "Enjoy your stay in Israel". Then they saw me. I, as always, was detained and was immediately taken to the "waiting room". It was empty this time, save for a poor, older Muslim woman wearing a hijab. She was there when I arrived and was still there when I finally left an hour later. My hour detention was the fastest I've ever experienced, by far, and also the least humiliating. It only involved interrogation and x-ray examination of my luggage - no displays of my bras. And, thank God, no strip searches this time either, though I may yet have that honor when I depart - we'll see. The interrogation this time was benign, though absolutely innane.
"What's your father's name?"
(Typing, followed by a long delay)
"What's your father's father's name?"
(Typing, followed by a long delay)
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
(Typing, followed by a long delay)
"What is your occupation? Write your home phone number and email address. Not just work, personal too."
(More typing)
"Why have you chosen Israel?"
Ah, this was my favourite question! "I have not chosen Israel. I have chosen to come to Palestine. Unfortunatly, you idiots control the borders to my country." Oh, I how I wished to say that, but such a comment would have earned me the fate as that poor, Muslim woman - indefinite detention. So, rather I responded with, "my family lives here". Bastards.
"Okay, please sit."
And so it was, back to the waiting room. This time with the Muslim woman, a Catholic priest (an Arab), and two French guys. Ten minutes later, I was called in again, for the same line of questioning. We played this game for an hour - questioning, waiting, questioning, waiting until I was eventually free to go, and sent off with the words, "Welcome to Israel, Enjoy your stay. " The same words everyone else on my flight had heard an hour earlier.
So, today is my first full day in Palestine. I will soon go to Jerusalem with family friends of ours, who had the great honor of recieving travel passes for the day. We will go to the Old City and to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre - one of my favourite places! I'm really looking forward to it.
Around here, people are not free to move about as they wish. Even though our friends, Um and Abo Victor, live in Ramallah (probably no more than 30 km from Jerusalem) they cannot go there without special travel papers from the Israelis. Here, everyone has Identity Cards issued according to where they are born: Gaza, West Bank, or Jerusalem. Those with Jerusalem IDs cannot travel to the West Bank or vice versa. Gaza?! Forget it. They are completley isolated. So, despite all being Palestinians, people are separated from one another and separated from their own land. Sometimes, families are broken up, too. It's completely insane. Palestinians here are fenced in, literally as prisoners in their own homes and on their own land. It is so sad. In order to travel to another part of Palestine, they have to apply for travel papers months in advance: more often than not, such requests are declined. Imagine being a Christian in the West Bank and not being able to pray at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre even though it's in your own backyard. Sad. And honestly, compltely unacceptable.
18 August 2008
Welcome to Israel, Enjoy Your Stay....
After 15 hours of flying, one layover, and an ever-so-short detention by the IDF in the Israeli airport, I am home in Ramallah. It was a lovely reunion with my Amo (uncle) and the rest of the family. Part of me feels like I've been away for ages, and part of me feels like I've never left. It's strange to simultaenously feel so at home and yet so much like a visitor in a strange land. I've only been here a couple of hours, though, so I'm sure I'll settle in nicely. More later - for now, I'm embroiled in a tense battle of 'Hmar, the Palestinian equilvant of Old Maid, with a 7 year-old, no less. We'll see who wins...
xx
xx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
