sweet jerusalem

i met a man today in jerusalem who speaks seven languages. he is an armenian christian, born and raised in jerusalem, so for his whole life he has spoken a combination of arabic, hebrew and armenian. he attended a french school in jerusalem, where he learned french and spanish, both of which he now speaks fluently, and his mother is italian. he attended university in the united states and speaks english so perfectly that on the phone i thought he was american. seven languages, one life.

in the first moments of our conversation, i asked him question after question about the solid facts of his existence - where he grew up, where he lives now, what language he uses most frequently, what kind of ID he has here, what kind of citizenship he holds. eventually he laughed, and told me that, "you americans are always trying to simplify, always trying to place things in neat categories. it's simpler for you to understand that way, but it doesn't always work, does it?" i had never stopped to consider how i analyze the world and my experiences, but when he said this, i immediately knew that he was right. the concept of a person without a dominant national identity is almost impossible for me to understand, and even if subconsciously, i was completely unsatisfied by this man's seemingly fluid identity. living abroad, my perception of myself as an american is permanent and ever-present - it is the first thing people ask me, and the first piece of information i offer upon meeting someone. the concept of identity in this conflicted land is completely different, though, solid and flexible, personal and political, real and fabricated.

there are israelis and there are palestinians. most israelis are jewish, and most palestinians are muslim.

and then there are muslim and christian and druze israelis, and christian palestinians.

and there are russian-jewish israelis and european-jewish israelis and arab-jewish israelis and african-jewish israelis, and all of them have a special place in the social and economic hierarchy.

and there are greek-orthodox christians, and roman catholics, and latin catholics, and armenian christians, and ethiopian christians, and some of them have been here as long or longer than the jews and the muslims, and some of them are only here as visitors, and some of them are not religious at all, but their religion is what distinguishes them from the rest.

there are west bank palestinians, and jerusalem palestinians, and gaza palestinians, and palestinians in exile, and palestinians who identify as refugees, and palestinians who don't.

and everyone draws all or part of their identity from their land, or their lack of land, or the land that they perceive to be theirs. a refugee in a camp in bethlehem may never have seen his family's land in the galilee, but ask him where his home is, and he will tell you the name of his village, and promise you that his family will return home some day. a young israeli who has lived his entire life in an israeli town may try to understand the history of war and occupation in his country, but what is he to do if his identity is also so closely tied to his home, his land? if a person lives away from her original country for a long enough time, can her perception of homeland actually change, or is she permanently tied to the place where she was born?

at the same time, identity here is derived by arbitrary divisions and categorizations superficially designed to ensure security. jerusalem palestinians can't travel in the west bank, and west bank palestinians can't travel to jerusalem, nor can they travel in yellow-plated cars - cars driven by foreigners and israelis. and israelis can't travel in the west bank without a permit, and vice versa.

and there is fateh and there is hamas. and in gaza, there is not enough killing already, so these groups have started to attack one another. their political loyalties result from their oppression, their animosity toward one another is derived from the absolute desperation of their situation.

in the united states, our perception of identity may vary - gender, religion, ethnicity, sexuality, political party - but in comparison to the layers and layers of identities that people carry here, often wearing them on their sleeves, ours is a simple system of categorization. even in this system, potentially conflicted identities - a gay christian, a black republican - trouble us, confuse us, often make us angry. i'm slowly learning that here, conflict is such a permanent staple of life that it is necessarily wedded to one's identity.

The first of December

For the first time in my life, I woke up on the first of December and ate breakfast at a picnic table in the sun. In the early morning hours the air had not yet warmed from the desert night, but our sweet tea, warm bread and spread of vegetables kept us warm as we feasted and chatted about our plans for the day. Friday is a holiday here, yet each week the village is bustling with activities on that day - debka lessons, art projects, visitors coming in and out, renovation projects that develop into theatrical performances audienced by the entire village.

The first day of advent marked the annual tree-lighting ceremony, of sorts. All but six of us in the village are Muslim, and yet Christmas is celebrated with the enthusiasm and excitement of a good Irish Catholic family. After breakfast, a huge cherry-picker backed into the driveway and we all watched as he methodically draped the blinking lights around the closest thing we have to a pine tree. At first we were just a few - myself, my host mother, and a few children who had dropped their footballs at the sight of the huge machine. Gradually, though, more and more children poured out of the houses to watch, administrators took a fifteen minute break to witness the commotion, and suddenly I had a cup of coffee in my hand and was sitting comfortably on our balcony, "the best seat in the house". The novelty of the project, as well as the shared excitement of the coming holiday, was fascinating to me, and in some ways made me think of our North Wayne Carol Sing or Columbia's Tree-Lighting Ceremony (minus PrezBo and Kenneth Jackson waxing poetic about Expansion and the Christmas Spirit). I left the village yesterday feeling truly excited about Christmas almost a full month early - I haven't felt that in a while.

After the Christmas spectacle I met up with some European friends in the hopes of visiting Jericho, the oldest continuously-inhabited city in the world (how's that for a claim to fame?). As usual, we planned to meet up at the checkpoint - its crazy how normal that phrase has begun to sound for us, but realistically it makes the most sense. Anyone living in Bethlehem or Beit Sahour who wants to get to Jerusalem has to go through the same checkpoint, from which he can take a bus to the Old City in Jerusalem, and from there travel almost anywhere in the West Bank, provided he has the right papers.

I haven't yet described in detail what it's like to move through an Israeli checkpoint, so I'll try to be as detailed as possible today. First, the road to the checkpoint, called Hebron Road because for centuries it was the main connection between Jerusalem and Hebron, is abruptly interrupted by a 28 foot cement wall that surrounds the West Bank. Graffiti art and messages cover the lowest six feet of the wall, scrolled in different languages but all generally sending the same messages of desperation, anger, and a call for peace. One stencil makes me stop and think everytime I see it. It reads: "Warsaw: 1939, Compton: 1992, Bethlehem: 2004" The parallels are interesting to me on a number of levels, but particularly because the categorization of Warsaw and Compton as "ghettos" is pretty much universally agreed upon; the categorization of Bethlehem as such is not. In fact, that is exactly what Bethlehem has become: an enclosed, overcrowded area in and out of which residents cannot freely move, and which cannot sustain any real economic activity.

We enter the checkpoint through a long narrow metal cage, after which we pass through a door in the wall and enter a large, clean, neon-lit building. We wait in line to pass through the first turnstile with anywhere from 2 to 30 other people, depending on the day. Today, it is just us, a Palestinian man and two Palestinian women, so we move through more quickly than usual. At the metal detector, the women remove all of their jewelry, keys, coins, and shoes. The man takes off his belt as well and steps through the detector. It beeps. The soldier sitting in the booth instructs him to turn around, re-check for metal items, and go through again. Meanwhile, I place my bookbag on the conveyor belt and walk through. I also set off the detector, but I show her my passport and point to my watch, and she waves me through. I leave three others behind me, retying their shoes.

We then pass through another turnstile which is locked until the next soldier presses a button to open it for us. Again, I flash my passport, she smiles, and I walk out of the building back into the fresh air. I turn around and see the same wall from the other side - this face is clean and bright, and adorned with a huge banner that reads "Peace Be With You" in three languages. Where Hebron Road has been cut off, a neat little circle and garden have replaced it, giving the impression that you're looking at some circle in San Francisco.

And that's the checkpoint. I've written a lot now, so I'll save my account of Jericho, the 10,000 year old city, for another day.