25 August 2011

 
Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more

We left Arlozerov at 9am and waited for half an hour at the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem before boarding the bullet-proof settler bus to Hebron. Having weaved its way through a number of settlements en route, the bus arrived, not at Hebron but rather Kiryat Arba (K4, as I like to call it). I used the gents in a convenience store there, then asked for directions to the Tomb of the Patriarchs. We headed off in the assigned direction having been strenuously advised that we needed to take a lift.

Out of the settlement, then left down the hill. Almost without noticing the environment had changed: the men at the garage were Arab, the children were Arab, even the donkey seemed Arab. From speaking Hebrew we switched to English, from our Hebrew names to English pseudonyms: Edi and Ian. I got confused on the way down and took a wrong turn – I’m more familiar with the other route. I asked directions from a young Palestinian man, who insisted on taking us (through the scenic route) all the way to the Tomb. Kids came to ask us for, “shekel, shekel”, and he told them to go away. We were into narrow alleyways now, like the Old City of Jerusalem, but calmer. Round another corner then the scene opened up and we were in front of the Tomb. There the man stopped. He, as a Palestinian, could not continue through the square in front of the Tomb. But we could, and would, to meet Stefan, my friend’s colleague and our host/contact for the day. We thanked our spontaneous guide and ventured towards the Tomb.

First thing was first: we stood with the CPTers at the check point between the suq (market) of the Old City and entrance to the Ibrahimi Mosque, the Muslim part of the Tomb of the Patriarchs. Men went in. We introduced ourselves, chatted, met a hand-full of intrepid tourists. Men came out. All went smoothly.

Next part of the plan: we joined CPT for their tour of some of the central check-points, taking us a little to the south, to an area I’d not been to before. At one check-point a group of men stood, waiting in a small patch of shade. They were teachers from a nearby school with which CPT work. I’d visited that school a couple of years ago. They looked timid, one stood in white shirt and large black tie, with glasses – professorial but sheepish. They had been there for half an hour or so. They could only be held for twenty minutes without being arrested. Leyla, The permanent and local CPTer, who had lived for 26 years in Arsenal territory in North London, strode over to the teenaged soldiers who held the teachers’ green IDs (Israeli IDs are blue). She reminded them of the time. A minute later the teachers were released to continue with their day, and we too continued on our way.

All was fine at the other check-points. Back in the suq we were taken to buy a little falafel and drink, and some baqlawa (Arab sweets), a must to bring back for my missus. The narrow market, it was pointed out, is now covered with a netting to catch the detritus thrown from settlers living in the adjacent settlement a few meters up the hill. We sat in the market shop of a friend of the CPT folk, leaning to the side to eat and drink subtly. It’s Ramadan and we didn’t wish to upset anyone, but it’s not our fast and we were hungry and parched. The shop belonged to a women’s collective, the only such in the area. Women in villages in the South Hebron Hills made small bags and cushion covers, which were sold to the few tourists who came by in Hebron. I eventually relented and bought a gorgeous blue, white and back cover, which goes well with a similar red and black cover I got from my grandmother a few years ago.

We sat there and chatted, as much as we could to the shop-keeper, whose English was limited. Also to Canadian girl – Pakistani family, born in Saudi, brought up in Canada, intent on living in the West Bank – who had been with CPT. Time passed. We’d been parked there while CPT had a meeting with EAPPI, another Christian organization active in the Territories. Eventually we broke. I took Ian out of the Suq towards the Tomb. He was a little nervous, clutching his South African passport. I too had my UK passport ready. But we went straight though the check-point. White faces and western clothes/style go a long way. Then up in the tomb.

The inside of the Jewish part of the tomb looks more like a chaotic cathedral (think, Church of the Holy Sepulcher) than any synagogue I’ve ever been in. You enter, first into a room, then a corridor. Then there’s the main area: a few small rooms set around a not very large central space. In each services are condulted, in differing speeds and following different traditions. These rooms are each connected to old Sheikhs’ tombs with classic Arabic script emblazoned on the walls. Soldiers and police stand about. Settlers pray, guns rested against chairs. I wanted to show Ian around and pray a bit. But he wanted to get out of there ASAP.

Back in the Suq we me with the Internationals. Babysitting duties for the two Israelis were passed to the EAPPI and together we started up the hill towards Tel-Rumeida. On the walk we passed the old Jewish part of Hebron, which had existed until the massacre of 1929, now a settlement. A large colourful muriel told the story of Jewish Hebron: from ancient city to destruction, to massacre to return to, it seemed, the Messiah. We were approached by three American girls, wannabe settlers, dressed in the long colourful skirts popular among settler girls. They wanted to tell us not to listen to the CPTers and complained about how hard life was, how the Arabs can walk in their neighbourhoods, but they couldn’t safely walk in theirs. I said that I would chat to them about it if we meet on the beach in Tel-Aviv.

At Tel-Rumeida we went to the house run and lived in by Issa, a local activists. I’d first been there about five years ago when, with Rabbis for Human Rights and Sons of Abraham I’d helped in the massive task of clearing it so that, for once, an abandoned Palestinian house would be occupied (by agreement) by Palestinians, rather than by the settlers who’d driven the residents out. I’d also been there a couple of years ago for an abortive attempt to establish a new Israeli-Palestinian NGO.

Issa, charismatic as ever, spent some time chatting to us. One of his neighbours in the settlement is now Baruch Mazel, one of the leading lights of the settler extreme-right, known in Green Line Israel for organizing provocative marches of Jewish nationalists through Arab-Israeli towns. Issa talked about the slight conflict between his Jewish and Muslim neighbours. The irony was that one of those Muslim families had sheltered Jewish friends during the 1929 massacre, and are still in contact with the family. Issa’s house is now well fortified.

We leant on a wall, looking out on the magnificent view: the whole of the valley of ancient Hebron, with the rectangular block of the Tomb in the middle and K4 rising on the hill behind. Issa said that water was short, a cup here or there, needing to make sure that it lasts till the end of the month and the next delivery. A meter away in the settlers’ garden the new vineyard sucked water from pipes, laid out with holes in the time-honoured Israeli irrigation technique. Three or four meters away, one level above both us and the grapes, a young Ethiopian or Sudanese IDF soldier stood in his post at the corner of the settlers’ garden, keeping an eye on us. We chatted about Syria too. I mentioned how, on the massive protest march in Tel-Aviv I’d thought of them when being watched by police from the roof of a building. In Syria they’d have been snipers. Issa said that they were planning a demonstration that night in Hebron against the Assad regime. We spoke in Hebrew; the atmosphere was the calmest of the day. But time was short: I wanted to get back to Jerusalem to see my Mum before she flew back to England.

We went down the hill and sat at the bus stop, across the road from a small army base. Soldiers stood around. We waited. They waited. An enormous vehicle swept into the road. It drove at the soldiers, making them jump out of the way. It was a troop transport. A few moments later they stood in line, like a firing squad, couple of meters in front of us, facing us, almost eye-balls to eye-balls. An order was shoulder. They raised their guns. In one movement and one shout they checked their weapons: cha-chung! They turned and massed in to the belly of the vehicle. It moved off.

Soon after, we got onto our own bullet-proof transport and started our slow progress away, towards Jerusalem.

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