Yesterday the semi-familiar streets and variety of faces in Hebron were reduced to a singular danger after I was assaulted. I was walking up the hill from al-Manara to catch a service taxi when I was assaulted by a man in front of one of the city’s many shoe stores. I first noticed him and his two friends, looking me up and down as though I were wearing a lace leotard. This is a common and tiresome look. But as they passed me, one of them reached his hand up and whacked me in the left breast—hard. I stopped, turned around to see if would look around to apologize—maybe it was an accident? But as they continued walking on, without an apology, without acknowledgment, I yelled “Hey!” They all turned around and the one who hit me approached. As his friends laughed I said in outrage, “You can’t hit me!” He came closer, his eyes were full of a look that said he was going to kill me, said something in raspy Arabic, then motioned with his hands to walk away from him. I did just that.
I hopped into the back of the first service taxi I saw parked on the street. The sickness of humiliation pumped and churned in my stomach. Trying to stop myself from trembling, and noticing the sting of my left breast, I texted my friend and colleague who asked where I was and suggested I call the police.
It had half-occurred to me to call the police or tell someone nearby (there were, and always are, lots of people around). But I pictured the young male cops laughing at me as I tried to explain what had happened in my terrible Arabic. The day before I’d been walking down a street near the Old City where I came across a group of 6 or 7 boys who were carrying long plastic sticks. They all started gathering around, poking me and laughing. As I yelled at them to stop, a store owner started laughing after one of the boys poked me in the ass, and as another yelled “Fuck you!” Other men, standing right next to me, said nothing.
With this memory and lack of the sense of support among civilians and police, I continued on to Bethlehem without taking my friend’s advice. I bought an over-priced bottle of white wine, and stashed myself away indoors to seek support of friends online in different parts of the world.
My awareness of acute dependency on the uncertain connections with colleagues, research connections and strangers is heightened. As a foreign woman I damn myself for not having put in the hard-time to learn more Arabic even though, before I left to start my Master’s program, I was working more than full-time and taking care of my disabled mother. I also wonder “What could I wear to make myself invisible?” I look at women tourists in their 60s with jealousy because they are admonished of their sexuality and are objectified out of a less intense curiosity. These desires to know more, to transform into something invisible or different are natural responses to sexual-physical threat and insecurity. The problem is, they involve swallowing all of the responsibility.
So today I told people at work, all men, about what had happened. It is an uncomfortable position to risk being labeled as dramatic, and I had fears and doubts running through my head that I’ll be blamed or judged, putting my good status at risk. It is always difficult to get ideal support in these situations, especially when there’s a language barrier. The general immediate reaction was shock since what happened to me had gone past the normal verbal harassment to the physical. Repeatedly, I was told “This is a shame,” or “I am sorry.” I was especially moved by one co-worker who said “How do you feel? Are you angry or sad?” To which I responded, “I feel worried.” To which he responded, “I understand. I am angry.” I had another discussion in which the reasons for the overall atmosphere of sexual harassment towards Western women in Hebron may exist, including context of poverty, aggression and problems that the youth face.
What is outstanding after all of this is the connection I feel to experiences of assault in my past. There’s no geographical distinction as they took place in at the Minnesota State Fair, at a Jimmy Page and Robert Plant concert in Minneapolis, a trip to visit my friend Italy, in Egypt, and in Seattle. Sexual and indecent assault feels fundamentally the same everywhere. But I am here in Palestine, alone, therefore the isolation is exacerbated. What’s new is that coupling this isolation are personally unprecedented acts of an adult woman: I went into an office where the perpetrators were not, and spoke openly about what happened, even with the fear that I would ruin my connection with the organization. And people listened and talked. It is a good start.
For now, I’m going to get rides and taxis instead of walking alone when I’m in the city. I wish I could find some hugs, because I really need those in addition.
The service (bus) station isn’t hopping in Bethlehem on Sundays, so the total commute time to Hebron can take twice as long. This morning it took two hours. Whatever, I can handle it. But on the way to work, we took a turn down a road I’d never seen before once we exited the highway. Our yellow service van passed some storefronts that had just opened-up for business. I was sitting next to the window in the back, using an empty Diet Coke bottle to hit myself against the head because I was so annoyed by the unknown road and by how late I was going to be to work. Then I saw it: A camel head and neck, hanging from a hook in a storefront. I saw its big soft dark eyes outlined with long thick, sweet eyelashes. It’s a child’s toy – a big stuffed camel! Like the one you see outside of a fancy kids’ toy store. But below the neck there was nothing: A straight line at its bottom just cleared the view for the inside of the dark shop. There, in the background hung some additional part of the camel, an amorphous and hairless pale mass. No legs to be seen anywhere before the shop was out of sight as the van pulled forward. It was not a toy store, it was a butcher shop.
Every day I take a yellow service bus from Bethlehem to Hebron. There are lots of friendly people, lots of colorful ones, just like any public transportation system. In case you don’t know, I love riding the public bus. It excites me to be close to so many people with the same profound objective: to travel and to reach a destination. The service buses in the West Bank hold 8 people, including the driver. The cost from Bethlehem to Hebron is 9 NIS, or 2.50 USD. This is a bus story from this morning.
For some reason (I never found out why) our bus was pulled over by a Palestinian traffic cop in Bethlehem en route to Hebron. The cop asked the driver for his papers and ID, which he promptly provided, and a slightly contentious discussion ensued. After a few minutes and a phone call, the policeman waved the service bus driver forward. However one of the passengers, a short very tan 60-something year-old man with white hair and a really nice cream-colored cardigan with khaki trousers, wasn’t ready to go. He got out of the van and proceeded toward the cop standing on the median of the busy road.
The man reached out slowly and held the policeman’s hand, saying “Salam.” From what I gather, the older man talked about the injustice of pulling over our service bus driver over. I thought there would be a few words passed to the very young traffic bop, but an involved discussion began. Then, another older man with missing teeth and a brown corduroy jacket got out of the service to join the discussion, but was promptly but kindly told to go back to the bus.
I was surprised the service driver didn’t say “Yallah” to either of the passengers at any point so that the rest of us who were waiting (3 women) could get on our way. The woman next to me pressed her hands over her face like ‘Oh my God. Jesus. Seriously? Let’s get the F out of here. I have shit to do.’ Even I was starting to get annoyed as the minutes rolled by, just sitting on the side of the road waiting while the man in the cream-colored cardigan sought to create some sort verbal resolution with the cop even though we’d gotten the OK to get on our way 20 minutes prior.
Again, I don’t know what the full details of the discussion were, but the driver and the men seemed deeply affected by what had happened, and an intensive discussion continued in the van about the traffic cop’s behavior and its social and political implications. I get a sense that institutional bureaucracy is seen as invasive in Palestinian society.
Then, the old gentleman with the cream colored cardigan turned his attention to me. “Do you like politics he asked?” I apathetically joined him in a presentation feigned as a discussion of his views on U.S. and international policy which unraveled into a weird and contradictory antisemitic rant. I am 100 percent sure that it went something like this:
Old Guy: Where are you from?
Me: Amreeka.
Old Guy: U.S.A.? U.S.A has made problems for the world ever since Viet Nam. Afghanistan, Iraq. You’ve killed 2 million people in Iraq. Mark my words, in 20 years, things will be completely different. Of this I am 100 percent sure.
Me: What will happen in 20 years?
Old Guy: God will send a volcano to the U.S. Or an earthquake, or something. Of this I am 100 percent sure.
Me: I understand.
Old Guy: America’s language of force is the same language Israel uses with Palestine. You know, for hundreds of years Jews live[d] in Tunisia and other places alongside Muslims and there was no problem. We were gentle with them. Why are they doing this to us? They want all of the land here. They want everything in America, Europe, they are so proud. Of this I am 100 percent sure.
Me: I see.
Old Guy: I’m sorry if I am giving you a headache, but I must be frank with you. I must always be frank. If you want, I have some German aspirin for your head.
Me: No I’m OK, thanks.
Old Guy: To be, or not to be. That is the question. William Shakespeare.
Taxi Driver: Who?
Old Guy: An English writer. From the Wasteland. France, Britain…ah…much of Europe wants to make Israel strong. This is Islamic land. All of it. But you know what? There is one condition to accepting Jews in this land. Do you know what that condition is?
Me: What?
Old Guy: The condition is: All the Jews must convert to Islam.
Me: Then they won’t be Jewish anymore.
Old Guy: Exactly. But do you know who I like?
Me: Who.
Old Guy: The Germans and the Japanese. They are very clever. Have you heard of Albert Einstein?
Me: Yes.
Old Guy: He was a physicist. He was a very brilliant man.
I haven’t written lately because of the reflexive paranoia I felt after interviewing an organization that monitors social networking sites for political statements made by people involved in NGO work and activism. The message put out by the organization’s actions and discourse is that if you are critical of Israel, you are attempting to delegitimize the existence of the entire state. This has prompted some self-reflection and questions about the relationship between activism and bias in relation to the criticism and comprehension of any state power. I haven’t come to a conclusion as to whether or not activism makes your work in a non-activist context inherently biased (which the above-mentioned organization would in turn call it illegitimate), but I’ve been helped to re-imagine myself as a researcher as I carry-out my work in this conflict, and have come to the following conclusions.
My job is not to be critical of either ‘side’ of the conflict for several reasons. First of all, reducing the view to two sides is absurdly inappropriate given the reality of the many voices and ideas coming from two very diverse groups of people. My job is to deconstruct and analyze the reductionism of the ‘two sides’ in empirical appreciation of the plurality of voices that thrive outside of our TV sets and other power brokerage sites.
Second, there’s no desire in my heart or my mind to venture out into this world with the sole intent of embarrassing or delegitamizing a group of people by illuminating their government and military’s innumerable human rights violations. I also don’t set-out to underplay the human rights violations of those political groups that have strategized terrorism as a response to military siege, occupation and colonization. My job is to bring forth these arguments in light of a critical comprehension of the politically motivated violence of both ‘sides’. In addition, it would be ignorant, self-defeating and misanthropic to not make a distinction between state policies and the plurality of people’s actions and ideologies.
Finally, according to the organization in question, my work now (just writing and researching in this area) could be seen as illegitimate since I have been involved in activism. Many others, myself included, see activism as part of healthy civic participation in civil society. In February of 2003, I marched against the Iraq war in Seattle with 30,000 other people, but I’m quite sure that protesting a war should not bar me from working in or researching the U.S. government. I’ve volunteered as an after-school reading counselor for kids in Tacoma, and for Somali refugees. I also volunteered for the Olympia Co-op’s board elections in 2010 in support of those running on a BDS platform. I have seriously mixed feelings about the BDS movement’s outright boycott of all Israeli goods as opposed to goods produced in the occupied territories. But it was a community-driven measure to elect Co-Op board members who were doing what they could do, in their power, to challenge the occupation. Being involved in a way which (at times imperfectly) challenges or supports the status quo or impending changes with other community members does not devalue the work I’ve done in any capacity that I can see. At the risk of mistakenly presenting my own research as important (which it will unlikely ever be read by more than a few people) I came here first and foremost as a researcher hoping to get at the root of a few issues which have been embossed by my own intellectual curiosity and experiences as an individual who is surrogate to this conflict by way of being an American taxpayer.
I don’t hate Israel. I don’t hate any nation-state: that would be a question of hating or loving an abstract object of social construction of nationalism–but it is what it is. I am moved and made curious by history and experience, though. Just like any other colonial power, a state’s actions and policies must be seen in context of historical and contemporary colonialism.
I’m not here to argue, because as I said before I’m here to witness the argument, to comprehend it empirically, and synthesize it all in analysis.
My interview this morning didn’t go so well. I had a lovely interview in the afternoon to make up for it, and even got to run into a friend in Jerusalem. I was exhausted and almost seeing double all day. I stayed up too late last night, zinged-up on coffee, attempting to prepare for upcoming interviews at the last minute. The fire is officially under my bum. I have a LOT of reading to do, and I plan to send Judith Butler an email when I’m done.
I also got into this weird murky area with school. Not sure if I’m in hot water or not. It has nothing to do with my work, it has to do with administration. Leiden is absolute insanity when it comes to administrative and bureaucratic nightmares, and something’s gotten into my head which is propelling me to speak my mind, complain and refuse to put up with it. It’s probably the huge sacrifices I’ve made to be here, study there, all at the cost of years and years worth of not-so-fun work. Challenging this stuff is an experiment in standing up for myself while not burning bridges. My colleagues are having similar issues, so I’m not completely alone. We’ll see how it goes.
All interviews have been fruitful, but I love interviewing internationals here because they can explain things in a rudimentary way as outsiders, as opposed to NGO career professionals who can’t seem to break anything down for an outsider.
So I will start a dragnet for internationals beginning this week whilst reading up.
Yesterday I cleared out a long row of wheat grass and prickly thorny plants atop the farm’s retaining wall next to the nursery. I used a landscaping hoe with a 3 lb. blade and my hands (without gloves–there seems to be a real shortage of gloves along with many other necessary tools). It took me about three hours in the direct sun, not counting lots of shade and water breaks. I felt so proud afterward! Yorky and the Swiss intern and his friend cleared two large areas and added a year’s worth of compost and a mixture of animal and human manure. Half-way through the job I discovered one of Laurel’s shoes that she’d abandoned nearly three years ago:
This is evidence that no garbage leaves the farm.
I talked to Yorky about doing an internship starting in July and he immediately welcomed the idea. It sounds like I’ll be assisting outreach projects, data collection and farm maintenance. Regardless of what my official or make-shift duties are, I will insist on being present and hearing reports about funding and NGO interaction. I got a ride to Ramallah this morning with Yorky, Mexi & Ginger and we made a stop at the an NGO they’re doing work for. It occurred to me that this NGO is one that is being monitored by the Israeli organization. So the link to the farm and my other work is set. The distinction between practice (the actual permaculture knowledge work) and program policy (the NGO administering funding) has fallen into my lap with an added dimension of an organization which does consulting and is not registered as an NGO. The scientists’ half-hour meeting with the NGO provided excellent data. Now I just need to reiterate and be clear of my intention to use this data, and figure out what all of the anonymity clauses, etc.
My hands were broken open by all of the work yesterday, and my back is incredibly sore. Doing this sort of manual life-work is a huge part of the selfish attraction to interning on the farm. I’m going to run to the shop this afternoon and take it easy this evening while I prepare for my big interview tomorrow. I’m very happy to see a clear plan emerging. However I’m going to need to do an extraordinary amount of research to familiarize myself with a functioning level of permaculture theory knowledge. Thank Gahd for youtube.
Yesterday I took a service taxi from Ramallah with a volunteer I was interviewing and her journalist/NGO worker friend. Turned out the volunteer went to The Evergreen State College, my alma mater. God bless Greeners! They young ones especially have a quality that brings Evergreen to wherever you are on the face of the globe, and they do it with conviction. She could talk the anti-oppression workshop talk to me without pausing to make sure I got it or agreed. We can just look at each other and know. We talked about Jezebel’s and The Reef and other bars, about how small Olympia is. Owing partially to this commonality but mostly to her forthright character, we had a great unstructured and semi-structured interview. I also got several more leads and further themes were elicited. It’s becoming clear, though, that I will have to start recording interviews. This is difficult because it’s weird to meet someone for the first time and pull out a recorder. So I’ll try to interview people at least twice so that trust and rapport is built up enough to use the recorder.
After visiting the organization she worked for in Bethlehem I took a cab to Beit Sahour and got out on the main drag next to gas station that struck a memory. From there I was able to walk and find my way down the steep road that leads to Waadi Saad and the farm, no directions needed. I stopped into the family-run grocery store up the street from the farm and bought a bottle of white wine. The one and only brand available for purchase at the store at 28 shekels.
When I arrived I noticed how clean and peaceful everything was. There was a group of Palestinian and international workers’ from Cinema Jenin, sitting and drinking beers next to the nursery. T came-up the nursery path and gave me a big smile, hug and kiss on the cheek. He was looking tan and handsome as ever, but rather thin. I was delighted he’d remembered me. I know this farm gets plenty of volunteers who, like me devour the impossibility of a permaculture farm in Beit Sahour.
We had drinks and caught up. A lot has changed on the farm. There’s a lack of volunteers, and they had to stop running it as a hostel. Still, the grounds look better than ever. There’s one intern from Switzerland here doing his environmental science master’s research. There’s a local who helps T out as well, and he’s a real spitfire. I’m tempted to talk to T about interning here after I’m done in Hebron. I could work part-time and then travel (walk, really) to Bethlehem to do interviews. The only thing I’m concerned about is being isolated from everything because this place feels like its own planet. On the up-side, I’d get to meet all of those internationals escaping from their NGO work. I will talk to T about it tomorrow.
Beginning tomorrow I’m going to start preparing for my very big and very special interview on Wednesday with the organization that monitors NGOs. I really hope it goes well, and I hope that there’s the possibility for additional interviews and maybe even some participant observation. I’ve been here for about a week and half now, and things feel like they’re just starting to get going. Still I’m kicking myself for not knowing exactly what I’m doing, but heck, that’s ethnography. Gain data now, ask questions, be reflexive and sort out the story later.
I’d planned to give myself some time to adjust for a few days in Ramallah. I don’t know anyone in Ramallah (everyone has escaped) and I haven’t felt inspired to visit one of the two watering holes for internationals, even though it would be a good way to meet NGO & Aid practitioners. I have gone to a fancy coffee shop several times as well as a restaurant where I’ve been privy to overhearing discussions in English between Westerners and Palestinians about documentary films being made, the allocation of aid money for projects, etc. Although I haven’t done much intensive work in the short time I’ve been here, I have come to realize that the whole ‘Ramallah as a cultural island’ thing is pretty slef-evident – nothing startlingly new sticks out as needing to be researched and documented.
My research workings at the moment
What’s pertinent to me is the third sector organizations in Ramallah who manage to operate outside of this bubble. After my first interview on Monday, I was able to elicit additional criteria for who these organizations are. 1. They do not compete for funding from USAID because of certain constrictive requisites and 2. They are part of a certain network (which I will not name here).
The first criteria I arrived with is still included and integral to the research. There is a watchdog organization in Israel which tracks mission statements and publications of organizations they deem to be political. Organizations in Israel and Palestine are listed by this watchdog group, and the source of their funding is ‘revealed,’ although I’ve come to notice that many of the organizations targeted list the same donor information on their websites. I have an interview with the watchdog organization next week.
What’s changing
I want to interview Western practitioners to get their perspectives on the aid system, and to find out how they deem their work to be ‘political’ or ‘neutral’. I’m not positive how this is going to tie into the rest of it (at this moment) but it will be important data for getting a multi-dimensional understanding of how the political and the neutral shift and change form, from group to group and person to person.
The project commences
Monday’s interview was pivotal. There was a lot of fruitful information which will guide my project, but I also learned some whopping lessons. The person I interviewed is a renowned academic, however I didn’t know that until I interviewed him and clues emerged. Oops. As a result of not looking at his background beforehand (I didn’t think they’d have me interview the head guy of the organization) I asked some pretty naive questions at the beginning. Had I known ahead of time, I would have had more to work with on the personal level because the guy’s resume is amazing. He’s had fellowships and professorial posts all over the world. I was watching TV last night, flipping through the channels, and there he was being interviewed on some hour-long serious discussion program (all in Arabic of course). Clueless while it was happening, I did my first interview with the Sartre of Palestine. The interview did end-up going great overall, but I made plenty of notes to self.
This weekend I have an interview with a volunteer practitioner, and I’ll be visiting my friends in Beit Sahour. Beginning next week I’m almost fully booked, but with interviews outside of Ramallah. I’m waiting to hear back from really really important organizations here (fingers crossed!). Last night I woke up in a cold sweat, worried that they wouldn’t want to talk to me.
So today is my last official day of rest and preliminary research for my interview tomorrow. I’m also mapping out who I need to talk to outside of Ramallah. Time for a bit of Chief Inspector Morse first, though.
Tonight I was walking down the sidewalk and a teenage boy yelled across the street to me, “Your hair is short. Like a boy!” And he and his friends laughed. I felt sad to be personally put back in time to the fourth grade l when I was meanly lampooned for having short hair. Not that I think that having long curly red hair would make me stick out any less. The lack of women running things in the public sphere makes the adjustment period somewhat agonizing to someone who really doesn’t like attention. I realize I’m not the person this culture or society is targeting to make comfortable, but the minority verbose sexists seem to go out of their way to make a Western woman’s experience here uncomfortable.
I hear kiss noises when I walk down the sidewalk, a quiet “sexy” passes from a dude’s lips straight into my ear canal. Bleh. It makes me not want to leave my flat. I don’t know how I’m going to handle this. I remember getting so sick of this last time. I already am. I can see why women NGO workers may lay low and keep to Westernized places, and I wonder why more people don’t write about this. I’m seriously longing to hide behind a hijab. Where are the women? What are the tricks for dealing with this that don’t include confrontation?
The West Bank is occupied by Israel–has been since 1967–and the borders are controlled by the IDF. This is a description of my latest experience traveling from the Amman airport to the West Bank. I hope it offers some elucidation and tips to others visiting the West Bank for it is an intentionally confusing and tiring journey.
Keep in mind, things change all the time.
Why fly into Amman instead of Tel Aviv?
1. Rumor has it you are far less likely to be detained for questioning by the Israeli authority.
2. You have the option of getting a tourist paper visa instead of a passport stamp. If you have an Israeli passport stamp you can’t get into Lebanon and other countries which won’t accept the stamp.
Arrival at the Amman Airport
I had a flight that got in at 5 am. I got 50 JD at the cash machine in passport control. There’s also a money exchange place. I was out of customs by 6. Last time I’d gone from the airport straight to the King Hussein/Allenby bridge, I took a taxi which cost 35 Jordanian Dinars. I split it with my friend Loorel! But at today’s exchange rate, that’s 50 USD. I hadn’t been able to find anything online about how to get a bus from the airport, but buses from downtown Amman are plentiful. I asked the airport tourist information desk (at the front of the airport entrance/exist after you leave customs) if there was a bus. They didn’t speak very good English, and my mind wasn’t working well enough to speak my miserable Arabic well, so a young Westerner who spoke very good Arabic came up in order to help out. I was surprised that it was a very uncommon thing to want to go to the border directly from the airport (according to these guys). The Westerner immediately mansplained, “You can’t get to the border from here, by bus or by taxi.” I told him yes, you can, I’ve done it before. While he went on about his local knowledge, the nice tourist information guy went out front to the buses and started asking.
Turns out, there’s no direct service taxi or bus from Amman airport to the King Hussein/Allenby bridge (according to this guy!). However, I took a yellow 20 seater bus for 4 JD to Amman’s northern bus station (I can’t remember the Arabic name, but I would clarify this with the tourist people, they were helpful enough to figure it out amid the confusion).
It was a 40-minute, comfortable bus trip from the airport to the bus station. Once I got off the bus, a taxi driver was trying to scam me into taking a taxi to the border at 30 JD. I was like “No, bro. There’s a bus from here for 3.5 JD).
And he said “No, what they told you is wrong, you can’t get to the King Hussein bridge from here by bus, only the SHEIKH Hussein bridge.” Well, I happen to know that the Sheikh Hussein Bridge is in the Jordan Valley, and that he was trying to rip me off.
I politely said “No, I’m pretty sure there’s a bus here, but I’ll let you know if I’m wrong.”
To which he said “I’m trying to help you out. If you share it with someone, you pay 5 Dinar. But you are one person, so it will be 20 Dinar.” Slick.
I said no again, going in the direction closest to the roadside, where a guy found me and said “Allenby?”
I said, “Uh huh.”
He said, “Get on that bus. It’s 3 JD for the ride, half a JD for your bag.” In your face, scamming man. This bus ride was 40 minutes because we hit morning Amman traffic. Still, I arrived at the crossing just after it had opened (around 8:15). I recommend it if you want to save money and have the extra time.
The King Hussein/Allenby Bridge Crossing: What to do, what not to do.
There are several buildings at the Jordanian border crossing, and they aren’t clearly marked. You get off in a parking lot area and need to walk to the right of the building you first see, along the side, until you see a big round-about. The building foreigners enter is the across the round-about, to the direct left of the duty-free store (opposite the covered area with a square promenade). You go in, pass a seating area, turn to the left into a second room with more seats, and turn left again. There are two plastic-paned usher windows. First, you fill out a form writing your name, country of origin, and passport number down, and hand your passport into the first window. Once they look at it, they pass it through a hole in the wall to the second usher window, where you wait for your name to be called. Once it’s called, you sit and wait some more for more foreigners to come so that they can fill the bus up. You won’t get your passport back until you’re on the bus.
If you are a woman, this a good time for Jordanian police officers to oogle at you, giggle, and attempt to use their authority to make inane conversation because you have no choice but to talk to them. It’s not so awesome when you haven’t slept. I don’t know when it’s awesome, actually. I would recommend that you use this time drink LOTS of water (a bottle is .75 JD at the snack stand in the building opposite the Duty Free shop), use the WC and eat plenty of snacks because it’ll be hours before you have such freedom again.
There will be a call from the policeman on duty saying the bus is about to leave. Get your stuff, put it under the bus, and then stand in line at the ticket window next to the bus. If I remember correctly, it’s 5 JD for travel and 3 JD for luggage. Then, get on the bus. I don’t know for sure how long this bus ride took. I just remember falling asleep for moments at a time, and waking up as that anxiety levels of other tourists rose (they were freaked out because no one told them what to expect, and it is kind of a weird experience). Note that Palestinians crossing into the West Bank have a much more detailed bureaucracy to deal with, and they have to wait much longer at each point, spending hours upon hours on the buses. We pulled up to the Israeli-run checkpoint, some guys pulled all of our bags out of the bus, and people got worried. Don’t get precious about your luggage because it’s going to be treated like a discarded crate of deflated and hole-riddled basketballs. And it’s not like anyone is going to grab your piece of luggage and run-off because they’ll get shot by the IDF (but when you return to the Jordanian side on your way back, watch your luggage like a hawk!). Once you get off the bus you’ll find your luggage on the sidewalk, all dirty, scuffed-up and forlorn. Pick-up a cart, no reason to pull your heavy stuff around because it’ll be awhile before you meet your first Israeli border representative.
When you get to the front of the line, the agent will either look at you, or ask you questions. This time I just got looked at and they put a pink sticker on the back of my passport with Hebrew letters. Last time, I got nervous and said, like a blubbering innocent idiot, that I may be visiting Beirut afterwards. The agent circled one of the numbers on the back of my passport and I had to go through a special check where my carry-on was swabbed with some sort of substance and then run through a machine. I don’t even know if the machine was actually on. I just want to put-in a reminder: IDF people serving as border representatives are humans who are serving mandatory military service. Some of them are young, some of them are dumb, some of them are friendly and some of them just don’t want to be there (Who the F would?). There’s as much reason to pick a fight here, at the border, as there is to pick one with U.S. passport control representatives in NYC for the war in Iraq. OK, maybe I shouldn’t go that far because our passport control people aren’t controlling access to occupied Iraqi areas. But you know what I mean, why pick a fight with an unfortunate cog? I’ve known of an American who was denied because they were wearing a kuffiyeh, and there was the big ISM group of over 100 people who were denied last year in August because they said outright that they were going to the West Bank for protesting. Anyway, if you want to protest the fact that Palestinians are intentionally isolated, much respect. If you want to get in, just be chill, kind, patient and dumb. If you get asked where you’re going just say Israel. Don’t mention the West Bank, not even Bethlehem (unless you’re one of those middle-aged “Pilgrim” tourists with those awesome red baseball caps). After you pass through the first check outside, you’ll go inside, and through a metal detector. After that, pass through the scores of Palestinians waiting in line to the “International” passport desk. It’s the very last stall in the room. I went and I ‘chose’ a guy who seemed nerdy, but he ended up being a hard-ass. I won’t get into details, but all I have to say is this:
You’re going to Israel – You’re just going to Jerusalem today. You have a plan and a trip for x amount of weeks in Israel once you get to Jerusalem. Have a print-out with an itinerary on-hand with the address and phone number of a hostel or hotel there. After that you’re going to Tel Aviv. You came through the Amman crossing because you want to see Petra on the way back.
Try to avoid any pro-Palestinian stuff connected to yourself on the web. This is weird, and tough, but I swear that in between questions, I saw in the reflection of the plastic window that he was googling things, and looking on Facebook. Put everything on private! Maybe he was just Facebooking his mom, but I’ve heard that people have been asked to sit down and open their Facebook accounts for Israeli authorities to look at (although that was in Tel Aviv).
Have friends in Israel. If you have contacts there, pretend like you’re going to see them. If not, make some up. I said I was going to meet friends in Tel Aviv who were flying in from the U.S. I pictured exactly who those friends were because I could easily explain how I knew them, and why we’d be in Tel Aviv together.
Be Dumb. They will try to trick you, especially if you’re there alone, and if you’ve been there before. I got extra intensive questioning this time for a reason I won’t disclose right now. But I was asked “Will you be going anywhere under the Palestinian Authority?” (which is a typical question) and I replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I’ll be going to Jerusalem, but I don’t know if I’ll be traveling through anyplace under the Palestinian Authority.” To which he said, “No problem, you won’t be going anywhere under the Palestinian Authority. One minute later, though, he was asking if I was going to Bethlehem, Ramallah, etc. I said “No, nothing like that.” Then he asked me about my friends I was visiting, then more about where I was going. Therefore have one simple story and stick to it. Nothing to elaborate.
And again, be dumb about the occupation and conflict. Act like you don’t know what’s going on in Palestine, and as though you don’t want to know. Hey, it’s all above your head, right? Better leave it for John Kerry and the experts to figure out while you get drunk on the beach in Tel Aviv, riiight? *shrugs.*
Someone next to me was taken to a separate room for questioning. I think I would have fallen flat on my face if they’d done that to me. My dumbness and simple story paid off. I have a tendency to blabber in general, but I was mindful of answering questions without providing details.
I have heard people recommend to be honest about where you’re going in the West Bank. If you aren’t doing anything that may be misconstrued as political or interpreted as critical of Israeli policies, then yeah, you have nothing to worry about. There are lots of religious tourists who get in without a hitch who say “I’m going to Bethlehem.” However, everyone I know who has been forthright about what they’re doing (for instance something seemingly innocuous like working on a permaculture farm) has been detained for further questioning, put through a full body search or banned from entering if they were overtly political. I have no interest in going through any of those things, and I’ve managed to get through each time by being clueless.
The Paper Visa
Since 2011 there’s been a program where the Israelis issue you a paper visa (after they scan your passport) instead of stamping your passport. I felt so weird and unsure after all of the agent’s questioning and phone calls this time that I didn’t want to ask for the separate stamp, but he offered it anyway. Phew, I guess. More stuff for me to lose, right Loorel? If you want to be proactive about it, just say “may I have a paper visa?” But be prepared for questioning as to why you want the paper visa. You can just say “I heard that others have been issued the paper visa and I’d like one too,” or “I read on the U.S. State Department website that it’s an option.” Your passport is scanned, and you’re given a 3 month paper visa that has your image on it.
After the Visa
You’ll go to a massive luggage area with several chutes. Again, people will be throwing your luggage around like old tires. Look for it. No one will is going to take your luggage because again, everyone is too scared and just wants to get the hell out. After the luggage there’s a currency exchange place, but no ATM.
Getting OUT
Once you get out, there’s a ticket booth for buses to areas in Palestine directly to your right. To the left is a taxi service where you can go straight to al-Quds (Jerusalem). If you want to go to Ramallah, Beit Sahour, anywhere in the West Bank, you have to go to the Jericho bus station first. It’s only 13 Shekels (with 1 bag) to go to Jericho (that’s only 3.70 USD). Once you get to Jericho, ya’int done. People pull your luggage off the bus and take it into the station. You have to go through the Palestinian passport check. Just say that you’re there for tourism, and that you’re going to Ramallah, Bethlehem, Hebron, wherever you’re actually going. After you pass the desks, your luggage will be waiting. When you go out, you can yell “Ramallah!?” unless someone finds you first. I paid 45 Shekels to Ramallah. That’s only 12.5 USD, and I think the ride was an hour or so, not sure because I kept nodding off. I talked to someone in the taxi, and he told the driver to drop me off just a few blocks from my hotel. Seriously, talk to people, ask if they speak English, ask if they can help because they are super helpful!
After getting into Ramallah, I asked for directions from some teenage girls. They walked me all the way to my flat, I checked in and passed out at about 2:30 pm.
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