West Bank

     About 40 minutes to the east of cosmopolitan Tel Aviv there is a place in Israel so wholly different from the state proper as to be unreal. It is a place ruled by fences high and barbed, hemming at all side; a place of gates, and stones placed strategically in roads; a place of soldiers weighted down not by their green uniforms and machine guns as in Tel Aviv, but by their armored vests, packs of nameless supplies, and their arrogance and cruelty barely disguising unmitigated fear. This is the West Bank.
    We hear about the West Bank less frequently than rambunctious Gaza. In the news, in our minds, a shared social consciousness it is the better behaved elder brother to Gaza, the "model Arab/Palestinian" protectorate. There is a whiff of old colonization and white man's burden to the West Bank, whereas in Gaza there is only violence. But the truth to this territory, this exemplary problem is far more complicated and far more violent than we would like to believe from our couches and lounge chairs. 
    I barely noticed going over the Green Line. There is no gate, no walls, no looming feudal castle or precise military base, just an increase in fences, barbed wire the ect. along the sides of the roads, slightly in the distance; but what are fences in Israel where playgrounds are shielded with barbed wire and entrance to a mall is contested by a man with a gun and the ability to search your person. Perhaps the most visible indicator that we were entering the West Bank was the change in physical territory. Mountains, and fertile fields of trees, greener than I have yet to see in the coastal plains of formal Israel sprung out of the land alongside our highway drive.
     Gradually the increase in fencing is such that even the unperceptive would notice its profusion. The roads are well maintained and there is little traffic. Our guide tells us this is because this is a Jewish road. Arabs are not allowed on it except in yellow cabs. But what of the Palestinian villages lining the highway, their high minarets mark them clearly as such. How do they move about? 
     Do you see that road, he points as we fly by, a feeling that if we stopped something bad might happen lurks in the bus, a faint stench of fear and the sharp, pungent adrenaline. The road to which he speaks is blocked by rubble and dirt a mound blocking the village road from the highway. On the dirt road leading up into the mountain village a neat line of cars waits. When the Israeli Army declared this road for Jewish use only they bulldozed all of its connections to Palestinian villages, he explains. The only way out of the village is to drive down to the highway and wait for an approved yellow cab to pick you up and drive you to the next check point where you wait and than pick up another yellow cab. 
     But why would they do that we all want to know? To what purpose does it serve? Most people, he continues, don't realize that the checkpoints we speak of when we are referring to the West Bank are not only between Israel and the territory, but between villages and cities inside the land. The IDF cuts these people off, isolating them inside their villages. Some of them never leave. 
    To leave a village or city inside the West Bank requires the permission of the IDF. Previously to receive permission a Palestinian had to journey to a Settlement, for which the Jewish roads are allocated, and get a pass to leave. If someone in your family has anti Israeli leanings, or pro Palestinian National thoughts it is unlikely that anyone in that family will ever be allowed to leave their village. They've learned this, he says, and so they don't even try anymore. 
     We drive on for a brief while observing cities and gates, blockades and military vehicles. Parallel to our highway is a dirt road for Palestinians. I have never been to a place so clearly under military rule. It is shocking to the senses and offends all dignity and pretensions to humanity. Yet it is confusing. Israel has a right to protect itself for suicide bombers, Israel has a right or does it not to this land? Do the rules of military conquest not apply anymore? If so the United States should give back much of south western America to Mexico. What makes this place, this territory so different from all other wars, past and future? Why is it so important, and so unclassifiable? Visiting the West Bank does not ameliorate these questions, but instead compounds them.
      Finally we role to a stop at the first check point we will visit. It is between two Palestinian cities. A sign proclaims JEWS ARE NOT ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT. I have to wonder, is it for our protection, or for IDF secrecy?
      The checkpoint itself is unremarkable at first. The road, our guide explains, is partially open now, orders from the new Likud Government to increase economic flow inside of the territories, but he does not think it will last.
     By partially open I mean that the cars have to stop and show passes to two bored looking soldiers loaded with gear who will wave them on with a lazy pass of their arms. One comes over to discover what we are doing looking at the old checkpoint kept ready to be opened in an instance, along with the pivoting yellow barriers in the road that could clang shut without warning. He glares at us with the self important superiority of soldiers on duty. We ignore him and concentrate on the checkpoint.
    It is stationed by the side of the road, an airy creation of silver metals that strikes fear into my heart. The names of concentration camps from World War II come rushing into my head, Dachau, Buchenwald, Treblinka Aushwitz! Jenn and I clutch hands our minds of the same bend. How can they not see the similarities?! Lines of humanity shuffled through these metal corridors like so much cattle. Humiliation screams from the pores of this place. It is mechanical, precise, and cold. How can they not see it?
    The procedure, our guide tells us, is much improved. Before there was no tin roof to keep the sun off the lines of hundreds waiting to pass. Before if you did not have a pass, or the soldier thought you suspicious they took you into a tent off to the side and beat you. Now they have a building to do it in. I worked here and at other checkpoints he says. There are things I have done that I am ashamed of. Things I have done here, that should not have been done. 
   I look at the soldier off to the side pretending nonchalance while glancing at us from under hooded lids. He is 19 or 20, my age, with a gun and the responsibility of a nation. I wonder if he knows the human rights violations he is committing? I wonder if he cares? Maybe this is the only way he can survive.
   We move on, parallel to the check point we paused beside. Towers covered in army camouflage dot the landscape, one beside each fenced checkpoint. Everywhere the swinging yellow metal barriers, open for now but the promise of their blockade lingers in the air.
   Along the road a Palestinian village sits nestled in the side of a mountain. It is white, as are most, a minaret or two rising above the skyline. On top of the mountain a cluster of red roofed buildings sits. Those are settlements, the guide points out, they always build above Palestinian villages, on mountain tops. They hold the strategic positions. 
    We stop at the next checkpoint, a smaller affair, no metal apparatus just the yellow gate. Beside it are Palestinian fields separated from their village up mountain, by a trench, dirt piled high in a purposeful manner.  An officer, 20 years old, decided a few years ago to separate the village from the Jewish road and so brought in bull dozes to dig the trench, inadvertently or perhaps not, parting the village from its fields. The Palestinians are not allowed the heavy machinery to rectify the situation, and so the decision stands. Not handed down from the government, or the generals of the IDF, but decided on by a young officer and never corrected.
    Back at the checkpoint our guide tells us stories about this station, where he was posted some years ago while the current soldiers watch and even search our van interrogating the one Muslim woman we have with us. When the adults aren't watching they motion flirtatiously for Jenn and I to come over. We ignore them. 
   Do you see those stone in the road, our guide begins. Every 4 months the unit on duty here rotates out with another unit. The new men need to prove that they are bigger and stronger than the last unit so they commit atrocities on the population and get away with it. Officers set arbitrary curfews in town with orders that anyone out between the hours of 2am and 4am on some days and 1am and 3am on others are to be shot on sight. 
    Those stones in the road are named New Jersey. They were set there by a new unit to block the road. Not as the checkpoint, just to block the road. Every night Palestinian children from the village would come and try to move the stones, and every day the unit would put them back. The 20 year old officer in charge became so angry that he ordered his men to shoot the next person to touch New Jersey in the leg. His men thought he was joking, but that night he drove his car out beside the stones and waited for a child. As soon as one touched the stones he got out intending to shoot him in the leg. He missed and instead hit him in the stomach. The child died. 


    This isn't just a tragic mistake, this is the normalization of atrocities inside the West Bank. The Israel army is in full command and takes advantage of its position. It steals from the people and cars it stops at checkpoints, it kills children and digs ditches on the whims of its teenage officers. When a unit needs to move through a town but is afraid of snipers it comes into houses and blows out the walls connecting them to create a "safe path." (the US army does this too). And the sad thing is that soldiers giving testimony about this policy said that they were not as bad as some who wouldn't even take the family out of the house before blowing the hole, and who did not hesitate to take whatever struck their fancy. 
     Soldiers, like our guide, who give testimony to groups attempting to keep a record of these events are threatened with jail time and if they refuse to serve their next tour (Israeli men serve 3-4 years in the army and than are on reserve duty called up every year for duty) in the West Bank, they are thrown in jail.


     I cannot find it in me to blame either side for the escalation of these events. There have been wrongs done on both sides. But visiting the West Bank has erased any lingering sympathy I had towards Israel. How it cannot see the hypocrisy in its situation amazes me. How can a country founded on principles of refugee and in the wake of the Holocaust continue to subjugate a peoples so wholly.  But more than anything being in the West Bank has opened my eyes to the inflated role the Israeli Army (IDF) plays in this countries policy and every day life. The balance of Military, Executive, Legislative and Judicial branches needs to change before any real reform can happen in Israel.


   As we left the West Bank my mind was abuzz with all of these thoughts. I argued with myself for the Palestinians, for the Israelis, trying to justify both sides, or one over the other, and unable to come to a black and white solution. One thing that was clear was the damage being done to both peoples by these policies and the possession of the West Bank. Israelis must serve in the army, and a large percentage of them serve in the West Bank. They normalize hatred of Arabs, atrocity and humanitarian violations out of fear and for the purpose of survival, but they take those experiences back to Israel when they leave their army tours, creating a culture of hatred and fear that is passed down through the generations. 
   On the way out we were stopped by a car that had just exploded. It was sitting in the middle of the road blazing with flames, looking for all the world as if a grenade had been thrown into it minutes before we arrived. The army and the police were all there, and on the roof of a building in a Palestinian village behind barbed wire above the highway sat three young men looking down onto the scene. It was all so horrifying on top of what we had seen today, but the Israelis in the bus (all who have done their service in the military) took it normally. It might have been an ambush, it might have been nothing, but they had already put it out of their minds. 
    What kind of people are being created by this conflict, Israeli's drenched in fear, bravado and mindless racism, Palestinians saturated with anger and hatred. How can there be an end with such violent emotions only getting stronger?

West Bank

 Click to view my Picasa Album of covertly shot pictures.

"Jerusalem if I forget you,let my right hand forget what it's supposed to do" - Matisyahu

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dorvuCpNug

Jerusalem is a city that contains the memories and emotions of millions of peoples. It is the dreams of three religions and the relics of our shared and diverging pasts. Since 1967 when it was taken back from Jordan it has been in the province of Israeli rule, a city split between East and West, two peoples fighting and hating seemingly without end. Days before we arrive the riots that have been flaring up around the Temple Mount reemerge.

The Wall, Al-Aksar Mosque, the Dome of the Rock, Mount of Olives, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, King David City, the old walls these all stand as testaments to the past and witnesses to the future.

Early Sabbath morning we go to the market in the new city some twenty minutes walk from our hotel. It is filled with the sights and sounds of life, matrons preparing for Sabbath, men and women in skirts and religious dress shopping for the coming rest. We taste the sweet red pomegranate offered by one shopkeeper and the pungent cheeses of another. It is a morning of life and vibrancy in this market guarded by Israeli soldiers, as every mall, grocery store and large gathering is protected, our green clad guardians.

Later that same day we walk through Mt. Herzl, Jerusalem's Military Cemetery on the way to Yad Vashem the Holocaust memorial site. It is emotional and moving seeing the graves of the young men and women who have died so that Israel can be a state. They date back to the 1948 war of independence and some are only 16 years of age. Every Israeli with us, Debora and Gal our directors, Asaf our RA all have served, all know people in this cemetery, men and women they have served with, who have died.

As we walk Debora tells Jenn and I of a friend of her who died in the first Lebanon war over twenty years ago. He was one of the first casualties, she tells us through a voice choked with tears.

Tears were to be the theme of the day as we walked through the grave yard, past the memorial for those killed in terrorist attacks and the graves of important personage in Israel, Yitzhak Rabin, Golda Meir, and Theodor Herzl on to Yad Vashem where we see the memorials for those who died, those who stood in solidarity, those of the Warsaw Ghetto, and the children, who's memorial was an emotional creation of lights representing the millions of children who died in the Holocaust. We were all in tears by the end, standing in small circles just hugging each other in silent solidarity.

At the end of the day after naps and temple we spoke as a group about our experiences that day. Our tour guide, a controversial Christian German who moved to Israel over twenty years ago, had sparked anger in the group with his callous manner of discussing the Holocaust. He brushed off the deaths of six million in comparison to other genocides still going on, or in comparison to the larger war casualties and told us to take from this a class room discourse where the Holocaust was merely the end of a "survival mechanism" among the Jewish people that made Israel possible. While his points were good his tact was nonexistent and we spoke into the night, even after the official talk was over reconciling ourselves to him and his positions.

The next day we spent touring the Old City, East Jerusalem, the ruins of what may or may not be the City of David and the beginnings of Jerusalem. We walked through Muslim cemeteries in East Jerusalem overlooking the Mount of Olives through the gate into the Muslim Quarter where we were permitted to glance on the Dome of the Rock from a "riot safe distance"

That night it was Holden and Annie's birthday (21 and 20) so we went out to a club in Jerusalem, which is surprisingly not an oxymoron. For the most religious city in the world it certainly knows how to party. The club was a typical deal, slightly shady, filled with Arseem and Frecha (Guido and accompanying bitches) but we got a private table and danced and had fun. Being Halloween back in the states some people in the bar decided to dress up, very few, but enough to make us feel a little less homesick. We even saw a Hasidic man, black coat, side curls and all shouldering his way uncomfortably through the club (one assumes hes not Shomar Sabbath).

All said our Jerusalem weekend was an emotional one, filled with the joy of birthdays and Ethiopian food, the sadness of remembrance, of mourning, the wonder at history, and the fury of conflict evident in still in this great city. With so much emotion packed into such a city, it is no wonder that any spark of conflict can ignite the conflagration of hatred, and fear and spiral out of all control. But with such a city as Jerusalem it is impossible to ever forget the ties that bind our souls to its walls, so that if we ever forget "let our right hand forget what its supposed to do."

Sderot

Sderot is a small city in southern Israel on the border with the Gaza strip. In fact it is so near Gaza that barely a mile from the city, down a small track known as the city's Lover's Lane, you can see the strip of uninhabited land providing a border region between the conflict area. And beyond that border, razed to the ground, where Israeli settlements providing 2% of Europe's produce once resided, there is the Gaza Strip so often on the news, a shimmering mirage of buildings and haze.

It didn't seem real to me, standing on this bluff looking out overlooking the valley aware that snipers from Gaza could strike, or a Qassam rocket could be launched towards Sderot at any moment. For Sderot has endured eight years of such attacks sometimes as few as one every few days, sometimes as many as seventy per day and it was for this and other reasons that Israel entered Gaza this past year in Operation Cast Lead and has been so condemned in the Goldstone report.

Back in the city we hear the stories of families who have endured an almost never ceasing bombardment, see the playgrounds with their bomb shelters painted to appear as festive caterpillars, and the schools blanketed in their low, hulking protective structures; we speak with a family who live on a street in which every house has been struck by Qassam rockets and they tell us how during the graduation party of their eldest son the Tzevah Adom, Color Red, alarm sounded forcing them to flee to their bomb shelter, 26 people in a space barely 3 by 5 feet holding babies above their heads in desperation to fit.

It is unbelievable in such a modern country such attacks are tolerated for 8 years and more. Because Israel is a democracy, a modern western democracy, we hold it to higher standards than those of the countries around it. Would we in America tolerate years of rocket fire, admittedly from a repressed people who are kept as refugees by the surrounding Arabic countries for the sake of political capital, without reacting, without taking revenge or justice? When 9/11 occurred did we not embark on two wars in Afghanistan and Iraq on the pretense or revenge? Why than is Israel not permitted this largess? I do not mean nor do I believe that Israel's actions against its Arab, Palestinian population are righteous, nor do I mean that the terrorist attacks from this refugee population should be tolerated with equanimity I merely wish to pose the question of why these two nations, or one Israeli nation and one Palestinian proto-nation, are not held to the same moral standards? This question is particularly trying in the wake of the Goldstone report which condemns actions taken by both sides during the latest operation in Gaza but only the charges against Israel have been moved up towards the Security Council, and if America did not posses a veto could result in charges of War Crimes.

When I left Sderot I did so with a new knowledge of Israel and its conflicts as well as an orange band, popularized by the Live Strong Campaign, which read "I support Sderot" but in truth the bracelet I need should say "I support humanity."

Jordan Day 3 - bone dust on my feet :(

Day 3! My food poising is gone, but i'm still on a diet of pita and water mmmhhh yummy. Anyway after that lovely breakfast we had to listen to a water lecture on Jordan. Scariest lecture I think I've ever had. Brief synopsis if Jordan doesn't get its shit together we are going to be seeing mass migration from the country within the next 5 to 10 years, Jordan is already on a water rationing system and luck houses get 6 hours of water per week! can you imagine (so now everyone feels guilty about showering), the Dead Sea will be dry very soon, mass water related casualties and lack of water for crop growing. In short its a shit show.

Anyway after scary water talk at 8am we got on the bus and drove to the Jordan River at the site where Jesus was baptized. This was really amazing and sad at the same time for a variety of reasons. It was amazing because on the bus ride there we all had a really great conversation on Jesus and how if he were to come back to earth now he would pray in a Temple and probably not a church and how his baptism was just a mikvah and it really brought home how close all the religions are. After that when we actually got there it was so sad because this great and famous river that was once huge, is now this tiny polluted stream. What was

interesting was that people were still going into it and filling water bottles with the water, I hope someone told them that the water is cancerous. It was also interesting because right across the border was the West Bank, occupied Palestine, the Israeli territories whatever you want to call it and believe me its a big deal what you call it. For instance our tour guide never once called it Israel he called it Palestine...the whole of Israel, he just didn't acknowledge that there is a country there. But I digress so I was standing right across the river from the West Bank and our program director, Gal, is the son of an Israeli general who had charge of that portion of the West Bank for a long time. And he told us a story about never thinking he would ever be looking into that region from the Jordanian side because when he was there as a kid was before the peace and there were always terrorists and militants coming through Jordan and now he was standing on the Jordanian side of the river next to a Jordanian soldier and it was a very meaningfully experience for him which I thought made it more meaningful for me.

After that we drove along the Dead Sea (very pretty) got out a few times to see it but never got down to it. Also we went to this cool Wadi Mujib (a dried river canyon) where I really wish we

had time to go camping. Its like this little nature reserve hidden away in this crack in the dried cliffs. And if you go hiking there you have to wear life jackets because there is a danger of flash flooding (unfortunately we didn't get in that far) The one we visited used to be a major source of water for the Dead Sea, but now they take the water and pipe it to Amman. Luckily a nature society convinced them to let the water come almost to the Dead Sea so that the habitats in the cliff are still around.

After that we went to the village of Fifa. Amazing place. Its this tiny poor village in the Dead Sea valley and this amazing Muslim family let us all 20 of us come into their house, fed us and than took us on a walk through the village. It was so touching and amazing. We all sat on cushions on the floor and ate with out hands and pita off of big trays of potatoes and peas and chicken. I was so happy that we went.

Than we went for a walk outside and it was heartbreaking the poverty here. We were surrounded by little children running after us without shoes on. One child was on a donkey that he kept whipping after us. So we walked through the village and than we were in this barren field of dust and holes that we walk across to see down into the Dead Sea valley. Well we get all the way across and than someone explains that this was a graveyard until an earthquake a

couple of years back and that for fun the children will bury themselves in it! Now I was wearing flip flops so I was a little freaked out to be walking through open graves and on the way back I def saw some bones. ewww.

Anyway after that interesting experience we went back to the village store where we all bought a coke or something to support the local economy, and our RA Asaf bought a big coke bottle and some plastic cups and passed them out to all the kids, so cute.

We were supposed to have gone hicking today but for a variety of reasons we were too late so a few of the kids took us up to their Wadi where their water catches were, and the irrigation tanks that they go swimming in, and than a few of us climbed half way up a mountain side to get a view of the valley (unfortunately no camera on me since I was wearing a long skirt for propriety sake)

Finally we made the long drive to Karak where we would stay the night. This hotel was perhaps the worst we've stayed in. A bunch of people either got bed bugs or fleas we still can't decide. Through this day one of our program directors, Marla was sick too (we started dropping about 2 a day after me) and we got her into bed but she would get bit up that night all over her face and arms by the mysterious bugs.

Anyway we wanted to go out because it really was Becka's birthday that night so we went to a cafe with our incompetent guides Gundi and Riad who promised drinks but didn't deliver, fail. And than I had to explain to them the significance of the 21st birthday in American life and that its not just about getting drunk (just mainly about that) but that its a rite of passage and all that...I don't think they got it.

So we get back from the cafe and some of the others had gotten drinks from a convince store and were drunk and Grant (one of the two gay guys in our group) decided it was a good idea to climb into bed with our bus driver and tourist police officer and watch tv with them. Well they were cracking up and Riad and Asaf were trying to get him out of there. It was all just pretty funny.

After that bed time, which wasn't really bed time because the mosquitoes kept flying into our ears and buzzing around. Eventually I made a tent out of my sheets and hid under them, but from about 3am to 5am no sleep and than just as I'm going to sleep the Mosque next door starts its 5am call to prayer and its all Alu Akbar, Alu Akbar....goodbye sleep, hello misery :(

Jordan Day 2 - Food Poising

So day two was interesting...I just wish I could remember more of it because this was they day that I got food poising.

The day started off fairly normally we got up really early, had our breakfast (which is not different from lunch or diner: humus, pita, veggies, potatoes peas and carrots in a stew thing, chicken, and hard boiled eggs...mmmhhh oily) Anyway than we were off. I wasn't feeling great I just ate some pita and some tomatoes in the morning, but we went to an old castle Ajlun built by the nephew of Salah ad-Din al-Ayyubi in the 1180s to protect the valley and the trade routes against crusader attacks.

Very pretty castle with great views, like all of the castles here because they were intended to be able to see all in the vicinity so are built on huge hills (which I still don't know how our bus driver got up or down) and its very interesting to contemplate how they build these massive castles so long ago and looking down at the valleys you understand ancient war strategy a lot better.

Anyway after the castle (at which we had some awesome Bedouin coffee) we went to the largest Roman ruins still around outside of Italy, the city of Jerash. Amazing city, just miles of Roman ruins, unfortunately I was dehydrated and had food poising but I walked the whole way

and manged to avoid throwing up until I got to back to the tourist center where I did throw up and than got a ride back to the bus with a nice Jordanian couple. Still somehow I managed to take some pictures in my condition... somehow :)

So after that fun part of the trip ::sarcasm:: I slept on the bus while we drove to Amman, and woke up only to see a lot of KFCs in Amman, don't ask me why they love fried chicken there, and even a few Poppeys.

Now the place we stayed in Amman...that was interesting. It looked like a regular hotel, regular for Jordan = slightly shitty, smelly rooms, and showers that don't actually work.to Such is life. Anyway after dinner in this "normal hotel" we went out to a cafe which was very cute, we didn't get kidnapped and sold on the cab ride there or the ride back, which wasn't in a cab but in some random guys truck (which was interesting with 5 girls and 2 guys...we told the guys they had to protect us when they came to kidnap us :) ) So the cafe went off without a hitch and i was even well enough to drink some tea (btw Jordan has amazing tea, its mint tea with actual mint tea in it, and like Arabic tea its really sweet. Think southern sweet tea thats hot)

So we get back to the hotel and its Becka's 21st birthday (actually her birthday wasn't for another day but we made the entire trip her birthday trip so we tried to celebrate every night) So of course we had to get drinks. Now getting drinks in an Arabic Muslim country is an endeavor. Some places have liquor stores for drinking in your private home but most cafes don't sell liquor. Which is why when we found our hotel had a bar on top we should have known something was fishy.

Now this bar was only accessible through the elevator, the stairs just ended. It was on the roof and once you get up there you see the naked silhouette of a girl on a poster. And than when you go in you realize that you are in a brothel. An honest to goodness whore house! Well it explained so much about the shady nature of the hotel.

No joke, fat women in skimpy hooker clothes with glitter and long fake hair are prancing

around, dancing with men and sitting at the bar with them. We watched as guys would come in, sit down, call a girl over and than they would disappear into the back room for 10,15 minutes and come out the girl straightening her clothes and the guy would leave. It was ridiculous. We are sitting there 17 NYU student in the middle of a brothel. Well it was pretty funny. But the best part was when my roommate Evie went out onto the roof to smoke a cigarette which was near the "back room" a woman came out of it and goes "where are you from" she says America and the woman mutters bitterly "Welcome to Jordan"

Pic of Annie (left) Becka (right) in the brothel

Skip Ahead to Jordan: Day 1

So because I'm terrible at blogging I'm going to skip about three weeks of events in Israel to go to Jordan while its fresh on my mind, but no fear I will backtrack and hit the high points of life here.

Jordan is one of the poorest and most naturally beautiful countries I have been in. Its reputation, or perceived reputation, as a leader in the "civilized Arab world" may or may not be deserved, but from what I have seen this is a country with little money or natural resources, precious little water, a failing infrastructure and a poverty stricken population surrounded by some of the worlds greatest history and natural beauty.

My journey to Jordan began on Sunday morning at an un-godly early hour. We hopped on a bus and drove northwest around the West Bank to the accessible border between Israel and

Jordan. We crossed with little trouble through the Israeli line and than took a bus across the

Jordan river to the Jordanian side where we underwent another security check, and than we were on our way.

Inside of Jordan we picked up our two tour guides, Gundi and Rihad (whom we would call Ghandi and Rihana) * note for anyone traveling, never pick up 2 tour guides it promotes competition and longer more boring talks.

Once in Jordan we drove through the country side listening (or not) to a lecture on water shortages in Jordan and how the Jordan river and the Yarmouk river have been dammed and

channeled for irrigation leading to the destruction of natural habitats and the promotion of farming over other industries even though farming uses about 50% of the water and only contributes about 2% to the GDP (also a problem Israel has but not as severely).

The country side showed this poverty in its uniform gray bleached colors of nature and buildings and the constant irrigation lines permitting crop planting in rocky plots that barely deserve to be called fields and looked capable of producing nothing but dust. And this was all in the fertile Jordan river valley nothing to the poverty that we would see later.

A little better off than typical Jordanian town.

&

Jordanian countryside in the fertile river valley.

We drove through towns where children pointed and waved or threw rocks and flipped us off, and where every adult in the vicinity started with open curiosity at our bus, until we came to the King Abdullah Canal damming the Yarmouk river for irrigation. It runs parallel to the Jordan river and the border with Israel.

It is a small river, lessened by damming in Jordan and further upstream and from across its banks we can see the border with Israel and into the Golan Heights.

King Abdullah Cannal

Damn of the Yarmouk river into the Canal

Looking across the border into Israel

After seeing the damn we took a drive up to an "eco-park" and had a picnic lunch on benches there. The park was surrounded by a fence to protect its few trees from the Bedouins who graze their animals across the countryside and can be seen in tents with their animals dotting the mountains. Above the park a reservoir of water is hidden between two mountains. This year it is only partially filled due to the rain shortages.

Rain shortages and a general lack of water are a huge problem in Jordan where water is rationed, flash floods can't be absorbed and lowering water levels promise mass migration/flight from Jordan within 5 to 10 years if the problem is not solved.

Bedouin tents and sheep The eco park from above

The reservoir

After the reservoir (which our bus driver skilfully drove up a one way road about an inch

wider than the bus and than backed down it with all of us convinced we are going to die and making bets on who will survive the fall) we drove to see the first of our Roman/Greek ruins. I say "Roman/Greek" not only because they were occupied by both at different times according to our guide but because he could not make up his

mind for most of the trip who built what and when they lived there. Still the ruins were

interesting half excavated temple and amphitheater accompanied by a far more primitive cave near by.

After that the first day was pretty much over. We drove to a small town on the top of a nearby hill and stayed at a local hotel that was actually one of the better hotels we stayed at; it didn't have bed bugs, flees, disgusting smells and there was hot water in the shower for maybe two minutes. We ate outside on a covered patio in the cold that only happens in the desert and drank hot sweet Bedouin tea. The hotel staff put on music for us and we danced around like fools to belly dancing music, Arabic rap, ABBA and Michael Jackson much to the entertainment of all of the hotel guests and staff, before we turned in for bed.

My first impressions of Jordan were of heat and sand, houses of a uniform color with the rocks around them and little water and road infrastructure. The sides of the road were littered with trash and latter we would learn that Jordan doesn't have trash or sewage public services. All in all I was shocked at the contrast between the international image Jordan gives off as a modern Arabic country and the reality of its poverty and problems.

Lod: a story of Arab and Ethiopian Israelis

Las night I listened to slam poetry in Hebrew, a drummed narrative of Israel's formation that had my heart in my throat and my blood pounding furiously, and a bizarre video/sung/spoken compilation including dancing tomatoes, fat men cavorting to psychedelic imagery, and a man with a blue beard playing the accordion. After that I went into an art museum, drew from a live model, walked to Kikar Rabin and had drinks across from the steps where he was assassinated.

Not to be outdone by the previous night, the next day was spent in Lod, the slum city of Israel. In the early hours of the morning, 17 weary/hungover students and 3 adult/chaperon figures boarded a bus for a suburb city of Tel Aviv near the airport. The girls had all been told to wear appropriate clothing, as it was a mainly Arab city. Appropriate clothing in this case included skirts below our knees, and covering our shoulders as well as some form of shawl to cover our hair, or elbows should the need arise. I find it ironic that this is the appropriate dress in Jerusalem as well or you are in danger of being stoned.

About 20 minutes after leaving the white silhouette of Tel Aviv we were in Lod. Lod can best be described as a slum. Something within you identifies these tall, uniformly ugly buildings as projects, and the air of furtive desolation adds a grimy slime to the morning. Yet Lod is an ancient city with building and a history that returns to the Bible and beyond.

As we disembarked the bus discomfort was a haze in the air around our group. We stood warily off to the side of the road behind our guide (whom we had just recently picked up off the side of the highway in a slightly shady meeting) and the program directors.

The feeling of wrongness only got worse as we walked through the graffitied and pitted building of Lod to a residential area where we meeting our first speaker, an Arab man who had been in Lod as a child when the Israeli soldiers took possession of it.

His house was a pleasant surprise after the heat and desolation of the streets. From the outside it appeared a bleakly walled compound indistinguishable from his neighbors, but inside we were greeted with a pleasantly cool courtyard to shelter us for the 90 degree heat present even at 10 in the morning.

It was shaded by small fruit trees and an overhanging attached to the house. The floors, a cool white marble, radiated a pleasing chill and the outside world seemed to fade away. He and his daughter had set up a circle of chairs around a small table and a lemon tree. On the table they had placed juices and cookies and as we sat our translator/guide explained that he wanted to express his apologies at not serving us, his guests, better food but it was Ramadan and unfortunately he could not.

I was surprised to see that he had laid out anything, seeing as in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan it is illegal to eat, or drink or even have restaurants open during the day in the month of Ramadan. But we all tucked into the cookies (those who were hung over with slightly more relish behind their sunglasses) and settled in to listen to his story.

The Story of Lod:

Before Israel achieved independence in 1948 Lod was a primarily Arab town on the ancient pilgrimage path from the port of Jaffa to Jerusalem.

During the fight for independence Lod became an important strategic city as well as a place that the Arabs forced out of Jaffa and its surroundings fled too. Within a few days the population of Lod tripled swelled with refugees. When the Israeli troops took it they forced all of the Arab inhabitant out of their homes and set them walking on the roads towards Arab countries or Arab towns in what is now the West Bank.

It is known that the Israelis purposefully used the Arab refugees to clog the roads and hopefully block the armies coming from Jordan and the other Arab countries with a wall of living deterrents. But as this Arab man told the story of what he lived through as a young boy fleeing his city with no possessions on his back I could not help but see the similarities between his plight and that of the Jews just a few years before in Europe.

He told of slaughter in the Mosque where men had fled for safety, and of men women and children pushed out of their houses onto the road with no belongings or supplies, dying without water or food. And when they were finally allowed to return only a fraction of their lands were returned and only some of their citizenship's granted trapping parts of the family in refugee camps in other countries, and granting some Israeli citizenship, or the version of it that is granted to Arabs.

By the time he had finished telling his story and relating all the work he has done to try to integrate Lod and Arab Israeli citizens with larger Israel I could not help but feel that the centuries of built up grievances here were so misunderstood by the international community that there was little hope for peaceful resolution.

Our next stop was to speak with an Ethiopian Israeli who immigrated in the 80s. Lod is comprised mostly of Arab Israelis and Ethiopian Jewish immigrants both of which are poorer communities in Israel.

The story this woman told was heart rending in its sincerity and horrors. As a young girl she lived in Ethiopia with her family. When she was 15 there was a lot of talk about trouble in their community. Ethiopia at the time treated Jews similarly to the way Jews were treated in the Jewish Pale in Russia with Ghettos and frequent riots/abuses. She decided the solution was to walk from Ethiopia to Sudan where there was supposed to be a way into Israel, but her family wouldn't go with her so at school one day she and her best friend never came home and started walking towards the border of Sudan and Ethiopia.

The hardships she endured traveling through war torn Ethiopia and Sudan are too numerous to be told but along her journey she amassed a following of more than 30 people and as a 15 year old led them to Israel enduring starvation, deprivation, detention, capture and harrowing escapes.

It was crushing to listen to her translated tale and think that she did all of this at 15 years of age, but more than that, that she did all of this in the 1980s, a short time before I was born, tragedy too close to the present brought too us not through books or newspapers, stories or history, but through a woman who lived this life. A woman standing before us telling horrors in a pretty white dress and wedge sandals.

And when she finally reached Israel through all this pain and suffering, a miracle occurred, and the man who interviewed her and the other Ethiopian refugees turned out to be a distant relative who was heading to a family brisk that night and took her as a present to the family embracing her into their midst.

Her journey to this point had taken over a year and a half walking. Mine from America to Tel Aviv, took less than 12 hours.

In the places I would go in the next few weeks people would speak of Lod as the drug capital of Israel, a dangerous place where hubcaps where stolen, people were shot and riots and stoning between the Ethiopian Jews and the Arab Israeli population were common, but for me Lod will always be a place of duality. Where an Arab Muslim man will welcome us too his house, but where we are refused entrance to the Mosque courtyard because the women have not covered their hair; where ancient buildings lie fallow next to crumbling modern conveniences; where two communities live in hatred of each other and are hated by the outside world; and where I can see clearly the scared and cruel beauty this country possesses.