Jaffa

Jaffa, Yafo, Yafa depending on who you are, is the city that Tel Aviv is build on. Originally it was not part of Jaffa but build some ways to the north of the old Arab port town famous for orange exportation from the surrounding farms. Eventually Tel Aviv grew from a suburb be take over Jaffa and in one of the uglier chapters of Israeli history expelled most Arabs from Jaffa during the war of liberation.

Tel Aviv literally broken apart means Tel = an archeological term for a man made hill created by building cities on top of cities so that when you cut into the ground you can see the cities piled history, and Aviv = Spring.

The drive to Jaffa is incredible. From our hostel on Hayarkon in the North of Tel Aviv it is a 15, 20 minute bus ride to Jaffa on a bluff in the south. As you move through the city the white bow house architecture (I know this because of an exhaustive lecture on architecture during orientation) morphs into a strip of, for lack of a better word, of destroyed slums so different from northern Tel Aviv. I should mention that Tel Aviv's real name in full is Tel Aviv-Yafo in an attempt to include Jaffa, but this strip of bombed out houses a remnant from the liberation war back in 1948 tells a different story. Why does this literal separation land, this barren ground reinforce the cultural separation present here??

Through the bombed land there is old Jaffa. It is a random collection of ancient structures and tiny streets, half bombed houses that have been either preserved or included in new uglier houses. To the far south there are building complexes of villas and mansions that attempt without success to mimic the feel of old Yafo interspersed with the actuality of old Yafo.

Our tour is hot, and wearying and ultimately satisfying as we sit on a grassy hill overlooking the old church, mosque, port and the ocean eating hummus, pita, falafel, fool, tahini and more off an old torn blanket sipping clean cool water. It is perhaps the most satisfying meal I remember because of the heat and hunger that preceded it.

Inside the winding streets an old market exists selling junk, and jewelry, bikes and dresses, movies, and tea sets and so much more. We joke it is the place where chachkas go to die. It is crowded, and smelly, at times pushy and frightening but so much a continuation of the culture that is steeped not only into the architecture but the minds of these people that you can not help but feel a connection to it however unwillingly.

Within a book store on the main square where the clock tower in the foreground is accompanied by the remnants of an old building that has clearly been bombed we took shelter for the sake of air conditioning. In the sudden cool our brains could again work and we browsed the English section attempting to look occupied. I accompany a friend to the counter while he buys War and Peace and the Israeli woman and I converse about where we are from as she practices English. Suddenly in the Arab Jaffa I am bonding with an Israeli woman over Twilight and scenes from Beauty and the Beast where the Beast gives Belle the giant library. We are not so different.

On the way to the hill where we would later have lunch we stopped into a shop with interesting hookahs and other chachkas. I am drawn to the back of the store where the new fronting merges with the old building behind it. There are voices coming from behind a grated arch and all of a sudden I realize I am seeing into a Mosque where men are praying on Ramadan. As I make this realization the shop keeper sees my prying and shoos me away from the opening. I move off to the side and turn my back and listen to the Arabic trying to make sense of what I was hearing.

On the bus ride back we pass through the burnt zone and again into Tel Aviv proper. The weight of history lessens only slightly. It is difficult to digest what we have seen. Later we will return to visit our teacher at her house in Jaffa, but already I knew that this place would have a special meaning for me in the future.