One Morning
I went to Jerusalem earlier this week to mail a letter, and found the Old City closed for what seems like the 10th day in a row. Saying "closed" makes it sound like the city is a shop, and the owners have gone on vacation or are renovating. In fact, no less than fifteen guards were stationed at every entrance, carefully checking IDs to regulate who could come in and out of the huge fortress - residents, church clergy, elderly religious worshippers - no one else. The security measure is part of an effort to protect the city during recent "clashes" over whether or not the Israeli government can run a construction project against one of the walls of the al-Aqsa complex, the Western Wall, the holiest site in Judaism. The al-Aqsa complex is the third-holiest site in Islam, behind Mecca and Medina, and has technically remained under the control of Muslim clergy since 1967. In fact, the area, where the Dome of the Rock and the mosque are located, has been the site of countless clashes between Israelis and Palestinians over the past thirty years. The second Intifada is often called the al-Aqsa Intifada, because it was sparked by Sharon's visit to the site in September, 2000.
The construction work has been put on hold for now, because of serious backlash from Palestinian protestors two weeks ago when the work began. Protestors and Islamic scholars claim that the construction could potentially damage the integrity of ancient archaeological sites below the mosque; Israeli and other sources argue that this is not true. Whether or not the stated reasons for protesting the work are factual, it seems obvious to me that the work comes at a strategic moment, when the world is focused on the new Palestinian unity government, whether or not it will recognize Israel, and whether or not it will stop the months of infighting in the Gaza Strip between Hamas and Fateh, which the UN says has been more damaging to Gaza Civil Society than Israeli incursions ever were. While we are all watching intently, criticizing Haniya and Abbas for not meeting "international conditions" at their Mecca summit, Israel continues to take tiny, almost unnoticeable steps toward gaining total control of Jerusalem. Construction work to rebuild an entrance path to the mosque seems small, but as yet another finger reaching deeper into the everyday lives of Palestinian Jerusalemites, it seems like a move worth protesting.
And then the protests are met with police opposition, which is plastered all over American news sources as "clashes". Stones v. rubber bullets and tear gas. Can we really call that a "clash"?
On the way home, I found the Bethlehem checkpoint more backed-up than I'd ever seen it - 50 people waiting to exit, around 20 waiting to enter, one young woman sitting inside her glass booth, slowly checking IDs, making phone calls and barking at her coworkers, a smoky crowd of teenaged soldiers hurrying in and out of what I assume was their lounge, clearly all on break.
So I waited in line, watching the men and women in front of me become more and more restless as their attempts to push through the crowd or convince the soldier to let them pass failed. A little boy in front of me was crying - he had no eyes, only a class eye and an empty, darkened socket, but his wails filled the neon-lit building as he moved from body to body in the line, each time thinking he had found a familiar set of legs, though his parents were both busy negotiating with the soldier. Finally, she consented to let them through, right about the same time that a male soldier stepped out of the office and spotted my blond hair in the crowd. Almost immediately he had me ushered through the turnstile and began idly chatting with me as he flipped through my passport. Usually at checkpoints I need not even open my passport, let alone talk to the officers. As usual, I froze, unable to respond comfortably, unable to lie, unable to tell the truth, simply uttering cowardly half-truths and hoping that eventually he would had me back my little blue booklet of freedom.
Are you from California, he asked me? The others in the line had resumed their frustrated pushing and yelling.
What are you doing here? We stopped for a moment as the woman struggled to carrying her bag and her child through the final turnstile. He helped her lift her bag through then returned to me.
Do you live in Jerusalem? I tried to pick up the pace of my walk.
Would you like to drink something with me in Jerusalem some time?
When I crossed the hole in the Wall, I felt like I was home. Mostly, though, I felt like I was going to be sick.
The construction work has been put on hold for now, because of serious backlash from Palestinian protestors two weeks ago when the work began. Protestors and Islamic scholars claim that the construction could potentially damage the integrity of ancient archaeological sites below the mosque; Israeli and other sources argue that this is not true. Whether or not the stated reasons for protesting the work are factual, it seems obvious to me that the work comes at a strategic moment, when the world is focused on the new Palestinian unity government, whether or not it will recognize Israel, and whether or not it will stop the months of infighting in the Gaza Strip between Hamas and Fateh, which the UN says has been more damaging to Gaza Civil Society than Israeli incursions ever were. While we are all watching intently, criticizing Haniya and Abbas for not meeting "international conditions" at their Mecca summit, Israel continues to take tiny, almost unnoticeable steps toward gaining total control of Jerusalem. Construction work to rebuild an entrance path to the mosque seems small, but as yet another finger reaching deeper into the everyday lives of Palestinian Jerusalemites, it seems like a move worth protesting.
And then the protests are met with police opposition, which is plastered all over American news sources as "clashes". Stones v. rubber bullets and tear gas. Can we really call that a "clash"?
On the way home, I found the Bethlehem checkpoint more backed-up than I'd ever seen it - 50 people waiting to exit, around 20 waiting to enter, one young woman sitting inside her glass booth, slowly checking IDs, making phone calls and barking at her coworkers, a smoky crowd of teenaged soldiers hurrying in and out of what I assume was their lounge, clearly all on break.
So I waited in line, watching the men and women in front of me become more and more restless as their attempts to push through the crowd or convince the soldier to let them pass failed. A little boy in front of me was crying - he had no eyes, only a class eye and an empty, darkened socket, but his wails filled the neon-lit building as he moved from body to body in the line, each time thinking he had found a familiar set of legs, though his parents were both busy negotiating with the soldier. Finally, she consented to let them through, right about the same time that a male soldier stepped out of the office and spotted my blond hair in the crowd. Almost immediately he had me ushered through the turnstile and began idly chatting with me as he flipped through my passport. Usually at checkpoints I need not even open my passport, let alone talk to the officers. As usual, I froze, unable to respond comfortably, unable to lie, unable to tell the truth, simply uttering cowardly half-truths and hoping that eventually he would had me back my little blue booklet of freedom.
Are you from California, he asked me? The others in the line had resumed their frustrated pushing and yelling.
What are you doing here? We stopped for a moment as the woman struggled to carrying her bag and her child through the final turnstile. He helped her lift her bag through then returned to me.
Do you live in Jerusalem? I tried to pick up the pace of my walk.
Would you like to drink something with me in Jerusalem some time?
When I crossed the hole in the Wall, I felt like I was home. Mostly, though, I felt like I was going to be sick.
posted by kate at 3:34 AM
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