The message about Palestinian farmer shot dead by Israeli soldiers appeared in news yesterday. No big fuss around, just a message that it happened. He was walking toward a forbidden border of Gaza strip. Who drew this border? No one cares.
It is exactly two months since we have visited Israel
and Palestine. Just so, cause we were curious. And the tickets have not been so
expensive either. We have arrived in Tel Aviv on 29th of December. First person
we have talked to, was an officer behind the check of window, asking us some
senseless questions. After she welcomed us in Israel, we obtained a little
paper card, remaining me of an ID carbon copy. We had not known the value of it
yet, however this little paper made us freer than some locals.
We were supposed to spend our first two days in
Bethlehem, with a family we found on AIRBNB. There was no information about buses
driving there on the airport. I went to the info-office. “How can I help you?”
Smiling young man behind the desk seemed to be the right one. “We need to get
to Bethlehem. Is there any bus?” My question froze the smile on his face a bit.
“I do not know” He admitted. He started to chat with his colleague, in Hebrew
of course. Finally, he wrote me some numbers and times on a piece of paper.
“These buses go to Jerusalem. There should be something from there.”
It was Friday afternoon. We were hungry, but
everything was about to close. “Shabbath starts. Try Arabic quarter.” One black
man (definitely not looking like a Jew) advised us while sharing his pancakes
in front of a closing restaurant.
There was more life in front of Damascus gate. There
were huge groups of Jews, walking toward synagogue fort evening prayer (I
suppose, they did not let us in), tourists, trying to take some last photos
before the dusk, Christian part looking still so christmassy with all those
decorations and arab markets were full of shouting vendors. Quite a cultural
shock. Among the salesman’s, we found a fruit juice seller speaking English. He
told us about the blue-lined bus, running between Jerusalem and Bethlehem. Unfortunately,
there was no timetable on the bus stop, only a taxi driver trying to persuade
us to give up and drive with him for highly overpriced charge. There will be no
bus, he says, it’s Shabbat. Few minutes later, another car stops by us. Driver
makes us better price, so we agree. He is no taxi, he is privat taxi. It does
not give a sense, but that’s what he said. The white car he drives is barely in
condition to drive, mourning arabic song flow from the radio and in every curve
my stomach jumps. He uses his hooter more often that is needed. And upon all
that, he tries to keep a conversation with us, using his pidgin language. I
feel Charlie’s nervousness behind me. We try to contact Aya from AIRBNB. “Do
not enter any taxi.” Well nice. We already sit in one. Let’s pass the phone to
driver. He may explain where we are. It wasn’t that brilliant idea. The call
last quite long and we are truly worried. Both, about the price that will
appear in a message from operator and about the conversation which we do not
understand. Arabic may sound angry for outrageous observer. He left us at the
crossroad with command to wait there. We happened to be in Palestine, in the
country no official map tells about.
Aya is a young woman with two little boys around her
ankles and a baby girl. Husband’s not home yet, so she shows us the room. Most
keen in the conversation are the little ones.
Original plan was a trip to the dead sea. Her husband,
Ibrahim thinks that we should see Hebron instead. He’ll go with us. The price
is fair, and we do not feel safe going alone. There was nothing to worry about,
we found out later. Hebron is divided in two parts, same is the Abraham mosque.
One part belongs to locals, other is occupied by Israeli settlers. Those parts
are empty, only soldiers walk the streets and protect it from unwanted entry.
“Does anybody live there?”
“No. It used to be our shops. It should be
reconstructed for settlers now. They want to take the city because of the
Abraham mosque.”
Arabs are vendors. It is simply impossible to walk
their streets without buying anything. They shout all at once, offer their
goods and free cups of coffee for buyers and bargain with them. Even the small
kids are running around the streets with necklaces and little jewellery for
sale. Our companion greets them all, as he would know everyone. Just the mesh
above our heads looks so gloomy. “What is it?”
“It catches the rubbish from settlers. They throw
things from the top floors down.” From time to time, you can see a soldier
watching, if you are lucky. They don’t want to be photographed, every time we
take out the camera, they disappear.
We met a group of Europeans in one of the shops.
Dressed in blue jackets with red label on the shoulder saying TIPH. They were
sitting with the locals, drinking coffee. Temporary International Presence in
Hebron. “We observe.” Answered one of them my question about their mission
here. She gave me a flyer with all the information. They are here to observe
and report if one of the fighting sides act against the human rights or
agreements.
Whole city is controlled by Israeli checkpoints. We
passed few of them on our way. Our little “ID” gained on the airport get us
through all the gates without complicities. They check only Palestinians. There
are places, where we must on our own. Our companion cannot pass. There are
Jews, on their way to synagogue. They are nice to us. One boy offers us with
sweets, we are clearly welcomed. The checkpoints and gunmans are just for
locals. Who are these locals? Palestinians, Muslims, Christians. Lower “race”
for Jewish Israel. What a nonsense? Do they forget what is it like to be a
lower race for someone? Or were they inspired?
We leave Hebron, Ibrahim take us back to Bethlehem.
There are too many people, cars as well. Kids with trolleys full of oranges and
pomegranates cross the road here and there. Hooters jell over crowd, they have
lost their function long ago. It is impossible to locate the source when they
sound all at once. “They banned to use them in a city.” Says Ibrahim and our transport driver pulls
his one as if for demonstration, that it doesn’t work. Upon all this mess a
huge wall rear its head. It’s painted with colourful graffiti, calling for
peace and freedom. There are many faces draw on the wall as well. We recognise
only Donald Trump among them. He kisses the wall on one of the pictures.
Another one shows him with a kippah on his head, saying: I’m gonna build you a
brother.
„What is behind the wall?“
„Israeli base. Settlers. “
Noone is living in the top floors of the houses
either. Climbing on the rooftops is strictly forbidden. People could have been
stalking soldiers.
Ibrahim showed us one museum. It is built inside a
hotel, called “The Walled of Hotel”. Name speaks for itself. It’s decorated
with pictures from the wall. They all have the same author. Banksy. English
artist with no face. People call him like that, because no one never seen him. This
museum is a museum of occupation. There are stories of people from behind the
wall, from behind the border that was drawn by new citizen of this land. This
border is pushed constantly toward them and the world just watch. OSN or
someone else raises a warning finger from time to time.
One more thing is on the plan that day. We visit Ibrahim’s
sister. Hospitality of Palestinians is endless. Eating dinner, drinking tea,
coffee and smoking water pipe, we listen to even more stories. Stories of
normal people and their lives. Just one of them was ever abroad. The oldest
son. He’s approximately our age. He got a chance as a part of a dancing group,
host family payed the travel costs for him. He was flying from Jordan.
Palestinians are not allowed to fly from Tel Aviv. It is a capital, only for
the ones with correct ID.
We leave Palestine the other day. We travel around
Israel the rest of the week. It’s less full, less noisy and less dirty.
Everything is more expensive though and museums say the story of liberation
instead of occupation.
