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11 Impressions of The West Bank
story and photos by Joel Hanson
When I reflect upon my day trip to Ramallah and Nablus with my friend Louis, the memories don’t appear to me in any coherent order. Rather, they’re like a series of random snapshots which my brain—despite my inability to capture most of them on film—decided were worth remembering. These memories are pieces of a puzzle and I’m not yet sure how they fit together. Nevertheless, now that I’ve placed them in the order they occurred, they do create a striking—but incomplete—emotional montage of our day in the West Bank.
1: A disquieting goodbye
Inside their new home on the Beit Nehemya moshav, Louis’ girlfriend hugs him goodbye with a noticeable look of concern on her face, as though we might not return. For many Israelis, the suicide bombings of the second intifada are still fresh in their minds, as is the memory of the Ramallah lynching of 2000.
As the story goes, two Israeli reservists named Vadim Nurzhitz and Yossi Avrahami mistakenly passed an Israeli checkpoint and entered Ramallah. They were detained by the Palestinian Authority (PA) and brought to a police station, where word spread that “two Israeli agents” were in the building. Over 1000 Palestinians gathered outside the station. Eventually, they stormed it and beat the men to death so savagely that they needed dental records to identify them. The lasting image from the lynching is a photo of Aziz Salha raising his bloody hands to the delight of the mob outside. It’s difficult to reconcile this brutality with the warmth of the people we end up meeting in Ramallah and Nablus. Do acts of kindness and violence originate in the same place in every passionate heart?
Just to err on the side of caution, Louis decides that it’s wise to dress up like tourists so no one in the West Bank could possibly suspect us of being anything else. He sports a cowboy hat and a Brazil football jersey, while I dress in blue jeans, a bike jersey, and a New York Mets cap.
2: The Qalandiya checkpoint
On advice from an old friend, Louis parked his car on the Israeli side of the border and we snaked our way past a line of cars and blacktopped lots to the crossing. We moved through a series of metal turnstiles and fenced—in chutes, feeling like caged animals in a pen. Fortunately, foot traffic was light that day so the maze we were required to navigate was no more cumbersome than entering a stadium at game time. But how would I have felt if the lines had been long and I’d been forced to wait inside one of those cages in the sweltering heat and humid air?
The restriction of movement is the most dehumanizing aspect of the crossing. Then, imagine waiting in one of these lines every day just to reach land that was once yours. Even more frustrating is that Palestinians are not free to travel throughout the West Bank because it’s been divided into three areas: Area A is land controlled by the Palestinian Authority. Only Palestinians are allowed to live there. Area B is land that’s controlled by the Israelis, but both Israelis and Palestinians are allowed to live there. Area C is land exclusively controlled by Israel and Palestinians are not allowed to reside there.
3: An up—close look at the unfinished security barrier
The security barrier, attempting to enclose the entire West Bank like a prison, has effectively neutralized the suicide bombings in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, but also swallowed up an extra six kilometers of Palestinian land and made it easier for the proliferation of Israeli settlements to continue. The wall is pristine on the Israeli side but a riot of words and color on the Palestinian side—a giant mural, a canvas for the hopes, aspirations, and defiance of a people without much of a political voice. “Free Palestine” is a common mantra spray—painted on the wall as is the phrase, “Resistance is not terrorism.”
There’s tremendous fear—and distrust—on both sides that shows no signs of abating. Many Israelis think the next phase of the war will erupt in the coming months, but there will not be a singular catalyst. There never is. It’s always difficult to assign blame for who initiates the hostilities, although aside from the assault on the Gaza flotilla in late May, the American media usually portrays Israel as “defending itself” from Palestinian terror rather than detailing the offensive nature of Israel’s own state—sponsored terrorism.
In November of 2008, for example, the Israeli army violated a fragile truce by plowing into Gaza to destroy a tunnel it said was being used to abduct Israeli soldiers. The Palestinians responded by launching rockets into southern Israel. Massive aerial bombardments followed from the Israeli Air Force, killing 230 Palestinians and injuring more than 700 others in a single day. The Israeli Navy set up a blockade of Gaza and followed with a ground invasion. At the end of the three—week war, more than 1400 Palestinians, and 13 Israelis, were dead.
Despite overwhelming Israeli military superiority and a one—sided ratio of Palestinian—to—Israeli casualties, a lasting peace remains elusive because both sides perceive themselves as victims in the struggle, and what concessions can you make to your opponent when you believe your victimization has been greater?
There’s also a sense among the Israelis I spoke with that both combatants will have to suffer a lot more before they’ll accept a political compromise that will ultimately satisfy neither of them. “We no longer hope for peace in the conventional sense of the word,” an Israeli friend explained to me over a beer in Jerusalem, “all we hope for now is that the flames will be turned down to a simmer instead of continuing to boil.”
4: Arafat’s tomb
In Ramallah, we take a minibus to the center of town and then walk to the Mukataa, which houses the Palestinian Authority headquarters and Arafat’s grave. Based on the price of public transport and groceries, we conclude that the cost of living here is one fourth of what it is in Israel. At the entrance to Arafat’s tomb, Louis polishes the rust from his Arabic learned over 20 years ago and strikes up a conversation with the presidential guards at the entrance.
The only thing undermining our tourist disguise is his vast knowledge of the region and the intricacies of its perpetual conflicts, info gleaned while on assignment here on behalf of the Associated Press back in 1988. The guards don’t seem to be suspicious, though. They’re just happy to hear a foreigner who speaks Arabic and knows something about their home. They’re considerably warmer than the two stiff looking guards in uniform guarding Arafat’s tomb.
Louis snaps a picture of me in front of the grave and then we move on. There’s no reason to linger and nothing else to investigate save the Mahmoud Darwish poem written on a large rectangular stone and embedded in a grassy hillside to the left of the entrance. Some members of a Palestinian family that now makes their home in Chicago are the only other visitors. Louis asks one of the men to decipher the Darwish poem. The man does, but first inveighs against the major press for its misperceptions of the Palestinians. “Dude, you’re preaching to the choir,” I almost feel like interrupting him. But neither of us do.
5: Guards in front of the PA Headquarters
Outside the entrance, we stroll 100 meters to the other side of the compound and approach two other guards with machine guns and red berets on their heads. Another conversation ensues in Arabic before Louis discovers that the men speak some English.
Then, Louis asks the million dollar question: “We’ve visited Arafat’s grave. What else is there to do in Ramallah?” They scratch their heads and befuddled looks appear on their faces. Even though Ramallah’s nightlife has been touted in the New York Times as the West Bank’s up—and—coming rival to Tel Aviv, tourists are obviously a rarity in these parts. I ask to take their pictures and one informs me, with a wave of his hand, that it’s forbidden.
6: An environmentally conscious woman in grocery store
We stop in a nearby café to escape the sun’s relentless assault and inquire about the local delicacies. I find a table in the empty establishment and Louis drops by a nearby market to pick up some drinks. Still looking for insider tips from the locals, Louis again asks about Ramallah’s cultural offerings. Again looks of confusion appear on their faces before a woman behind the counter suggests visiting some old Ottoman buildings near the city center.
She also hands him a green canvas bag for his drinks. “That’s okay,” he declines, “I’ll just put them in my backpack. “But you’ll need this bag the next time you shop,” she persists. “And plastic bags are terrible for the environment.” I was just as shocked as Louis was when he told me the story minutes later. Environmental concern in the Middle East? Life is changing fast in Ramallah. Louis accepted the bag and handed it over to me as a souvenir.
7: A vendor weighs in on soccer and politics
In a busy outdoor market, Louis’ bright yellow Brazil jersey draws derisive shouts of “Brazil out!” from almost every male vendor we pass. It’s the ultimate conversation—starter. Personally, I have only a cursory interest in the World Cup and far more interest in the magical, early afternoon light streaming through the marketplace.
One man, with a look of weary resignation on his face, leans against a wall behind a pyramid of green grapes illuminated by the sun, Unfortunately, a customer blocks my view before I can capture it on film. So I decide to play along with the soccer fans by offering support for Argentina, the best team left in the draw.
“We hate Argentina,” the conversational ringleader of the group declares. When Louis asks why, he explains that the Argentinean coach Diego Maradona “hates Arab people” and thus he wants to see Argentina bounced from the cup as soon as possible. He’ll get his wish a few hours later when Germany crushes the Argentineans 4—0, each score signaled by a chorus of cheers emanating from the open windows of every café with a TV and reverberating through every Palestinian town in the West Bank.
8: A rollercoaster bus ride to Nablus
We find the central bus station and board another minibus for Nablus. Once the bus is full, the driver motions for us to put on our seat belt. A few kilometers into the journey, we’ll immediately discover why. This hilly, curvy 40—km route over narrow roads feels like a go—cart track and our driver is determined to reach our destination as quickly as possible.
The posted speed limit is 80 kilometers per hour, but on several downhill stretches the driver easily tops 150. He passes slower trucks around blind corners and at the base of rolling hills in which visibility is no greater than 300 meters. At one point, he even creates a third lane in the middle of the road, half of the vehicle veering into oncoming traffic in order to pass a line of sluggish vehicles.
Now I understand Louis’ caveat about never making this trip after sunset. Fortunately, neither of us is sensitive to motion sickness. Twenty—two years ago, Louis made the mistake of taking this trip during Ramadan with a family just after iftar. The rocking of the bus eventually caused one of the boys to vomit. And then the stench triggered a chain reaction in the vehicle as the rest of children expunged the contents of their stomachs onto the floor of the bus in sickening succession.
Louis recalls that the driver opened the back doors of the van and the mother, sitting in the passenger’s seat, poured water from a bottle to help the river of vomit slide to the back of the bus, sullying Louis’ open—toed feet in the process.
9: Future members of the Al—Aqsa Martyrs Brigade
In the center of Nablus, we investigate disheveled stone memorials erected for key members of the Al—Aqsa Martyrs Brigade—a Palestinian militia created at the beginning of the second intifada whose fallen members, mostly young men in their late teens and early 20s, are revered like heroes in these parts. All of the memorials have a makeshift, homemade quality to them—as though the barbed wire encircling the fences and sloppy Arabic on the plaques and marble stones was completed in haste.
We stroll through a covered central market and focus our attention on tattered posters of the martyrs plastered all over the walls. In a nearby alley, we count 64 names written neatly on rectangular plaques on a wall—one of them, a man explains, is his older brother, but his story is difficult for Louis to decipher. Was he blown up while riding in a car? Or shot?
Further down the alley, kids act out their own war games with makeshift guns made of wood and wrapped in duct tape to look like miniature Kalashnikovs. When we approach, they point their weapons in our direction and shout, “I am a member of the Al—Aqsa Martyrs Brigade!” They proudly pose with their weapons and ask to see their photos afterward. Eventually, an old woman in a burka shouts “Halas!” (Enough!) and makes the boys pose with smiles on their faces and their guns innocently dangling from their hands.
10: A death-defying driver
When it’s time to make the return trip to Ramallah at sunset, we pile into another yellow minibus and set off. This time, the driver only pushes the pace to 110 km per hour, modest in comparison with the daredevil who brought us over these roads a few hours earlier.
Nevertheless, a white unmarked car on the shoulder pulls in front of the van and slows down. Two Israeli policemen emerge from the vehicle. They’re in plain clothes and the one with a machine gun seems more interested in taking a smoke break than giving our driver a speeding ticket.
The driver pleads his case with sweeping arm gestures but eventually returns to the vehicle with a 250—shekel ($65) ticket in his hands, wiping out his profits for the next four trips between Ramallah and Nablus. When he sets off again, he keeps his speed around 90 kph, the ticket a momentary deterrent to his aspirations of becoming a Formula 1 driver.
Eventually, a man in the passenger seat hands him the ticket for closer inspection. He keeps one hand on the wheel and grabs for the ticket with the other and begins to read through it, far more interested in its contents than the traffic on the road! Top that Michael Schumacher!
11: A new Facebook friend?
On the trip back to Ramallah, Louis and I converse with two young university students who seem eager to practice their English. The more aggressive of the two wears a stylish black headscarf with a red pattern on it. However, the brown hair of her sexy, pink—shirted friend flows freely in the breeze rushing in from the windows.
Once our conversation dries up, I take out a piece of paper and write the question: “Do you use Facebook?” on it. They initially shake their heads no. Five minutes later, the brown—haired woman (Her name is Ranya) hands me her phone with a message on the screen: “Yes, I use Facebook,” it says. So we continue to pass notes back and forth, the two of them pooling their knowledge of English to collectively answer my questions. Some miscommunication occurs as I try to get Ranya’s last name so I can “friend” her of Facebook.
Ranya, however, seems to have other reasons for keeping the conversation going. To my surprise, she includes “I love you because you’re very nice” in one of her responses and then asks me to send her my photograph. When we exit the vehicle, Ranya winks at me, waves, and the saunters away into the night with a mysterious smile on her face and a little extra swing in her hips.
Joel Hanson is sometimes a resident of Seattle, but has mostly been teaching English abroad for the past few years.
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