Blog # 2
June 12, 2014, part two, Jerusalem, Bethlehem,
Disneyfication of the Old CityJune
12, 2014, part two, Jerusalem, Bethlehem,
Disneyfication of the Old City
The sherut drops me in front of the dusty Jerusalem
Hotel, a former Arab mansion, where I stop for a bottle of water and a deep
breath. A breeze wafts through the grape vines that cover the outdoor
restaurant and the smell of sweet tobacco and soft conversation calm my
exhausted brain. The #21 bus to
Bethlehem is a few blocks around the corner, through dusty construction and
open markets, across from Damascus Gate and the grey/cream walls of the Old
City. A woman helps me with my
bag, everyone says “sleecha” (excuse the Hebrew transliteration of excuse me),
and young men repeatedly give up their seats for older women. The bus driver
stops for a late passenger and opens the door. Folks talk in a low hum and
Arabic music pulses from the radio.
Forgive my stereotyping again,
but I feel a sense of respectfulness and basic decency towards each person. The
lady sitting next to me and my pile of back packs and computer case works as a
cook in Jerusalem and commutes from Beit Jala every day. She asks how can she
help me (I surmise that I look like someone who needs help) and offers me a
candy. We pass signs for the City
of David where a massive highly politicized archeological excavation and park
development is underway, designed to prove that the Jews were here first and
thus can toss out the several thousand years of subsequent ownership and
history. We pass Silwan and Sheikh
Jarrar where there is an active program to dispossess the local Palestinians
and turn property over to right wing Jewish settlers. As the bus fills to standing room only, my new friend points
out a tunnel which goes under a no-man’s land she explains between Arab and
Jew. I notice a new somewhat more
ominous version of the separation wall, large concrete panels with vertical
elements that meet another wall extending out at an angle, clearly constructed
to deflect thrown objects or humans attempting to scale the barrier.
I am met by
a friend outside of Deheisha Refugee Camp in Bethlehem where he is working on a
three year project titled Builders of Peace, funded by the EU and organized by
the Lagee Center in Aida Camp. He is working with 72 college students all over
the West Bank and they are now discussing issues of Identity and Memory. He is
showing my documentary film, Voices Across the Divide, (www.voicesacrossthedivide.com) which
tells the story of the Israel/Palestine conflict through the stories of
Palestinians living in the US.
This is complicated on so many levels and I am both humbled and excited.
The screening at the camp was met with lively conversations and many questions
about the motivations and messages of an American Jew. I cannot blame them.
We head to
the village of Al Walaja, a small town northwest of Bethlehem located on the
seam zone where there is an active struggle over the separation wall and the
continuing loss of land in the shadows of the Jewish settlements of Gilo and
Har Gilo. In a small community center, the eleven
students listen politely, I am washed with a sense of amazement and wonder that
my documentary, (with Arabic subtitles), carefully designed for US audiences,
has made its way to this remote and resilient place; of what use could it
possibly be? How will the students feel about a Jewish woman presenting their
story? Have they heard their own histories or has that been swallowed in the
memories of the traumatized and the Israeli occupation. I am relieved to hear
the students are well versed in history; two are upset that I refer to the war
in 1948 as a civil war as that implies that the Jewish immigrants have equal
claim to the Historic Palestine as have indigenous Palestinians. They all want to know what is my
message? How do I describe Israel?
We talk and talk. I am glad I have come.
I return to
East Jerusalem that evening in a car with Israeli plates rented in East
Jerusalem by the Palestinian American wife of my friend who is working on the
EU project. She also has Israeli citizenship through her father who is an
Israeli Palestinian, but spends the summers with his family in the Aida refugee
camp in Bethlehem. We are stopped at a checkpoint, two white appearing ladies,
maybe Jewish who knows? Middle aged. Yellow plates, that’s kosher, and waved
through. I always forget the
intensity of ethnic profiling in these parts.
Instead of a
quick trip, we are soon stuck in massive amounts of barely crawling traffic; it
seems that tonight is part of the festival of lights in Jerusalem. There are all sorts of gaudy, sparkly,
twinkly light sculptures and over the top multi-colored light displays, but I
am completely appalled by the light show projected on the magnificent, ancient
Damascus gate and the stone walls on each side that surround the Old City,
supposedly a hotly contested, ancient, sacred site to the three Abrahamic
religions. To the accompaniment of rousing movie score music, the stones are
bathed in multicolored displays, covered with Persian (ie Iranian) tapestries,
large eyes blink and hands move turrets, curtains sweep open, the walls are
striped, plaid, bathed in flames, water, cob webs, ancient figures, and
monumental machinery, a massive gyration mish mash of bad Disney movies:
Arabian nights meets The Little Mermaid, My Little Pony, and the Lion
King. It is awesome and awful,
tacky and tasteless. I am too amazed and sleep deprived to wrap my brain around
this, (fanatic Jewish settlers are plotting to blow up Al Aqsa Mosque and build
the third temple while a tacky Hollywood display cheapens the entire place?
Really?) and head off on the cobbled stones and dark alleys to the Via Delarosa
and the Austrian Hospice where a clean bunk bed and a large cross on the wall
await me. I fantasize that I am joining a convent and
this is only the beginning of a life of simplicity and austerity when sleep
finally sweeps me away into the land of official insanity.
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