Goodbye and Good Luck

I want to say just two things in this last blog.

The first is that my three months in Palestine have now come to an end and that few things have affected me more deeply and still fewer places have made me feel more welcome. To everyone I have met, whatever their race or religion, I want to extend my thanks. Without absolutely all of you my time here would not have been the cerebral revolution that it was for me. I will also make the promise that in the years to come I will come back to repay the kindness to all of you.

The second is I am currently so angry that I am finding it very difficult to type this. As of today, over 500 people have now been killed in Gaza with more than 3,000 wounded. The majority of these are civilians which are, of course, protected under the Fourth Geneva Convention and also by a little something called morality. For every minute the Israeli assault continues Gaza is being bled – women, children, injured and elderly have become the rule and not the exceptions in the casualty lists. From Israel and its apologists comes the sneering retort of ‘war is war’ as though to consider some form of conflict where civilians do not form the overwhelming majority of the dead and wounded is simply a liberal pipe dream.

Yesterday, a gutless individual who disgraces the office of Prime Minister issued a feeble statement on the conflict describing the ‘unprecedented barrage’ by Hamas against Israel while voicing ‘grave concern’ about civilian casualties in Gaza. He might also have mentioned that the ‘unprecedented barrage’ he describes has so far killed two Israeli civilians and that his ‘grave concern’ does little when he maintains his ‘unshakable’ support for the country currently raking Gaza with fire from every direction, including permitting the sale of military equipment to the aforementioned.

Reader, you have the privilege of turning away. You can sigh and mutter how awful things are before clicking a link to discover what flavour of Ice cream you are. You may shrug and say simply I don’t know enough about it or that you agree but have no idea what to do. To the former I say don’t stop reading; ignorance is not an excuse and if our generation has one thing it is the capacity to educate ourselves. To the latter I will ask you to take a leaf out of Colin Firth’s book and shout at the top of your lungs ‘I HAVE A VOICE!’ I am asking, no actually begging, those who have the will to speak out to do so now. Few things give our generation less credibility in the eyes of our rulers than our perceived indifference to current events. Nothing would better show how wrong they are than for us to speak in one voice against the bloodshed the Israeli authorities are unleashing on the people of Gaza.

Well? What are you waiting for?

The Camp

         It was an unbearably hot day when I first visited Aida camp. I was running late – my usual desire for promptness had collapsed amid the heat and chaos of the past month. In truth I was uncertain if I would even be able to make the visit. Originally, the plan had been for me to see five refugee camps spread out through the West Bank but the discovery of the bodies of the three kidnapped settlers had thrown all into confusion. The previous day I was supposed to see the Al Fawwar refugee camp on the far side of Hebron but that became unfeasible as IDF troops began to mass outside the city. Today, could also be a non-starter if there was violence or more likely if the organisation I was meeting with proved ineptly organised.
Aida is nestled in the crook of Israel’s wall as it scythes through Bethlehem to encircle Rachel’s Tomb. To reach it I had to pass beside the immaculate stone and glass structure of the intercontinental hotel – a building whose outer façade nods to the culture of colonial luxury that internationals indulged in the early 20th century. As the road forked right, however, I found myself entering a darker and more immediate reminder of colonialism. The initial road into the camp is lined with colourful and evocative graffiti, practically all of it political in some form or another.
As the narrow route opened out onto a wider street I glanced to the left and found about half a dozen shabab (youth) gathered by the side of the road. They were all wearing the 1948 T-shirts, emphasising the Palestinian right of return. Seeing me, some of them gave me a wary smile which I reciprocated as I followed the road towards the camp. Other than the shebab the streets were deserted and I felt a growing sense of unease as I continued to trudge through the sweltering heat.
The refugee organisation that I was due to be meeting with was situated on a road that ran directly from the Israeli separation wall to the main entrance to the camp. I looked in both directions apprehensively before entering but there was nothing but silence. It had been arranged that in the coming days I would be meeting with a refugee organisation in each camp who would show me around in order to gain an understanding of the refugee perspective. They had all been informed that I would be coming but whether they were expecting me was another matter.
In this case I was working with the Lajee Centre – an organisation run by and for refugees in Aida camp. Sure enough when I arrived at their offices I had do explain extensively exactly why I was there to one of its members (he never gave his name). He nodded, smiling before saying: ‘You should have called. No-one is here at the moment.’
Inwardly I rolled my eyes. I had called them a few days before and agreed to come at this exact time but evidently this detail had gone astray. Nevertheless I chatted to him in his office quite amiably about my time in Palestine. During our conversation, however, his eye was caught by the camera monitor on his desk which showed the same shabab I had seen earlier advancing down the street outside clutching stones. His phone rang and he answered.
‘Yes,’ he said down the line, ‘they are coming now and there are women with them.’
He grabbed his camera. ‘Come on,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s take a look.’
We went out on to the office balcony, giving us a sweeping view of the entire street. The shabab were advancing steadily, their keffiyehs wrapped tight around their heads to shield their faces, some still scrabbling by the roadside for anything to throw. They were headed directly for the wall which seemed impossibly large as they edged closer, shouting taunts.
‘Do the women usually join this?’, I asked.
‘You’ve studied the First Intifada,’ the member said as he lined up his camera. ‘Without women it would not have been possible.’
At about one hundred metres from the gate in the wall, the shabab halted. That was when they threw the stones, gradually at first and then in steady volleys. From here the stones seemed pitifully small, some landing just in front of the gate while others cracked uselessly against the concrete of the wall. They threw in silence concentrating on striking their targets. They were not a mob and there was little visible hatred, the whole thing seemed little more than a futile but defiant adolescent ritual.
Soon the flow of rocks slackened and ended, leaving the shabab standing staring at the gateway. A long minute passed then, quite suddenly, a metal doorway at the side of the gate snapped open. The shabab quickly scattered back down the road, some moving into side streets while others made straight for the camp entrance. IDF troops began to spill out and form up, forming a wall of grey and green uniforms. They were wearing riot gear but they did not display much urgency – theirs was just another futile ritual.
‘This happens often?’, I said.
‘Two or three times a week. Used to be every day but it’s Ramadan now.’

Most of the shabab had disappeared by now. A few strutted up and down at a safe distance, occasionally shouting some form of taunt and the soldiers. They did not respond but remained stationary in front of the wall. By now they were in quite a loose formation, some just standing and chatting to each other – probably about the heat. This went on for so long that I had time to do a head count – there were eleven in all.

Eventually the soldiers began to move slowly down the road, towards the camp. The last of the shabab scattered once more, throwing a few stones as parting gifts. The only person who remained standing was a journalist, snapping photos by the roadside as the soldiers advanced into the camp. They ignored her but a stone from the camp skimmed uncomfortably close to her position before the member next to me shouted for them to stop. He turned to me.
‘You should go down and take a look.’
I blinked. ‘Is it safe?’, I spluttered.
He shrugged. ‘You’re an international. You’ll be fine.’
So I did. In hindsight this was precisely the sort of thing to give my parents nightmares but at the time it seemed only logical. When was I going to see this again?
Down in the street I tentatively walked towards the gate of the camp. As I did so I saw, with a start, that the soldiers had abandoned their incursion and were coming back down the road towards the wall. I was uncertain where to place myself, not wanting to appear either submissive or confrontational. In the end I half leaned against a wall and watched them pass. Most of them didn’t spare me a glance except for one who looked me up and down with dispassionate curiosity.
I moved into the camp. The journalist was still there and I struck up a conversation, principally about how I could get into journalism. As we did so a couple of stones landed close by.
‘Khallas!’Enough!, she shouted down the street before calling someone in the nearby houses to ask them to stop.
‘Do you have a camera?’, she asked. I nodded.
‘Good. Use it and remember that the IDF can only stop you if it’s a closed military zone. Also, only take photos of Palestinians when their faces are covered. Otherwise, good luck!’
I stuck around for a few more minutes examining the graffiti close by. By now the soldiers were back where they had started and the shabab were just sitting in the shade joking with each other. It was just another day.

I returned to Aida and the Lajee Center the following week and was introduced to a young man, Mohammed L– who agreed to take me around the camp.
The first item he pointed out to me was a picture of a martyr, which are found in practically every city and town in Palestine. The grainy image was of a woman who, Mohammed explained, was 42 and had died recently from overexposure to tear gas. Further along, spray painted on the wall, were 12 faces of prisoners from Aida facing life sentences. Ironically the Israeli authorities have the view that even death in prison should not affect a life sentence, meaning that for years afterwards the authorities will keep the body of a prisoner in order that it may serve its full time.

Above the entrance to Aida camp is a physical expression of the Palestinian right of return: a two tonne steel key with a defiant label saying not for sale. The story of the refugees keys has been told many times – that when the Palestinians were forced to leave their homes in 1948 they kept their house keys in the conviction that they would return soon. They never did but the keys continue to be passed from one generation to the next.
The original inhabitants of Aida came from 27 villages, now destroyed, in what is now Israel. As with most refugee camps the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) established the camp in 1950 which originally housed each family in a tent until 1955 when they constructed structures measuring 3 x 3 metres for each family of up to nine people. Aida remains overcrowded and claustrophobic – some homes have to keep their lights on during the day because daylight never passes through their windows.

Mohammed brought me to the edge of the camp or rather he took me to the point where Israel’s wall has cut the camp off from the surrounding land. One of the watchtowers along its length was charred almost completely black and the ground in front of it was still smouldering.
‘The soldiers were here last night.’, Mohammed told me. ‘People tried to burn the watchtower so they came to stop them.’
He went on to tell me that while the wall was being built here (between 2002-2007) the IDF arrested over 500 people in Aida.
‘They also killed three kids.’, he added

Before he finished the tour Mohammed showed me a monument listing the names of the 27 lost villages. He told me that the memory of the Nakba is still strong here and the refugees have not lost there sense of where home is. ‘We are guests in this camp’, he told me.

Later I sat down with him to talk further. When I raised the issue of the right of return he was adamant: ‘If I wanted land in Bethlehem I could have it. It’s not about land; it’s about the right of return. Give me the right to choose.’
And what about the peace process?
‘The Israelis say they have given us peace with justice. We don’t need this fucking justice.’
Mohammed did not strike me as sentimental. If nothing else he seemed a realist but one determined to state his rights. Nothing could be further from the cynical dismissals of the right of return distributed by the Israeli government which snidely portrays itself up as the realist party trying to steer a clear course in the peace process. Of course it helps if you control the aforementioned reality and constantly shape it to your advantage.
The truth remains though that Aida is real and so is everyone in it. Indeed would be unrealistic to imagine that there will be no reckoning for the crimes committed against these people. They are waiting and they have the time.

The Little Town

Background note: It has now been over a month since I departed the sprawl of Hebron to begin my next placement in the comparatively picturesque location of Bethlehem. In that time the situation for Palestine’s largest city has deteriorated rapidly. It began on June 12^th when three teenage settlers were reported to have been abducted near the settlement block of Gush Etzion. Accusations soon followed from the Israeli government that this was the work of Hamas, though it is important to note that no known Palestinian group has yet taken responsibility for the kidnapping. The occupation forces rapidly turned their mastiffs loose throughout the whole of the West Bank; storming through many Palestinian cities to arrest hundreds of Hamas members. Hebron has been the worst hit – in the 15 days since the kidnapping the IDF has deployed 2,000 additional troops and 10 new military checkpoints within the city.

A common sentiment by Palestinians in Bethlehem is that no such kidnapping has taken place; that the Israelis have are simply using this as a pretext to break the reconciliation between Fatah and Hamas and perhaps even to provoke a violent confrontation that will favour the IDF’s military strength.

To this I can only respond that I don’t know if these teenagers were kidnapped. No evidence has yet been released to confirm it although the Israeli government maintains it has unequivocal proof of Hamas’ involvement that it will release shortly. All that can be said for certain is that the IDF has so far killed 6 Palestinians and arrested over 560 in the largest military deployment in the West Bank since the Second Intifada.

(Author’s note: since publishing this a matter of hours ago the Israeli Army has reported that it has discovered the bodies of the three teenagers near Hebron. If it is indeed confirmed that these are the three kidnapped teens then I would like to wholeheartedly condemn this as an unconscionable act of murder) If anyone is in any doubt about the Palestinians’ historic connection with the Holy Land, a brief tour around the Old City of Bethlehem will serve to bring the reality into sharp relief. Bethlehem has had a human presence since the time of the Canaanites in the 15^th century BC and has stood as a silent witness to the conquests, machinations, feuds and general bloodlettings that we call human history (Not being cynical, honestly). The Old City consists of a large cluster of Ottoman era buildings packed in to an archaic street plan, reminiscent of an Italian hill-town. The city’s crown is undisputedly the Church of the Nativity; a Roman Basilica built over the cave in which a certain Jesus Christ was born. The building itself is one of the oldest still functioning churches in the world and is a physical testament to Bethlehem’s rich history. This scarcely seems to matter to the bovine masses of tourists that are ushered in by depressingly insincere tour guides to compulsively photograph every inch of the sacred structure before being whisked back to the safe confines of Israel. Few of these visitors will know that Bethlehem is a Palestinian city and still less that there are such things as Palestinian Christians.

Yet for all its complex historical and religious status, Bethlehem remains proudly Palestinian and carries with it all the agony and ecstasy that this entails. For myself coming to Bethlehem from Hebron was a baffling experience. Walking through the streets I could see things that would have been inconceivable in the latter: signs written in English, cafes selling beer and local women with their hair uncovered. More curious were the crucifixes carved above many doorways often accompanied, somewhat incongruously, by an inscription in Arabic. Piece by piece, over the month I stayed there, Bethlehem succeeded in dismantling my impressions of what a Palestinian city was.

In contrast to Hebron, Christianity is an inescapable part of life in Bethlehem. For much of its history, Palestinian Christians formed the majority of Bethlehem’s population, living in peaceful co-existence with the Muslim minority. In recent years, however, their roles have reversed with the Muslims forming the majority and the Christians now reduced to 28% of Bethlehem’s population. Various hate-peddling media outlets have attempted to present this as a clear cut case of Muslims attempting to drive out Christians from the Holy Land (‘O Muslim Town of Bethlehem’ as it was crudely termed by the Daily Mail). One Israeli I encountered in Jerusalem even claimed that the Christians support the occupation on the grounds that it protects them from religious persecution. These views, of course, join the considerable amount of rhetoric in Israel, Europe and the U.S which attempts to present the Israel-Palestine conflict as a battle of western civilisation against hateful Muslim extremists. In reality, Palestinian Christians tell a very different story.

Dr Munther Isaac is a Vice Academic Dean at the Bethlehem Bible College and has long been a champion for the cause of his fellow Palestinian Christians. In an interview he made plain his views on the persecution of Christians in the Holy Land: ‘If they say we are oppressed, that is a lie.’ The truth, he tells me, is that Palestinian Christians are leaving the country because of the punitive conditions of the occupation. Indeed, he emphasised that Christians continue to play an active part in the struggle against Israel: ‘We are not caught in between; this is our fight.’

There is certainly much to fight against here. The wider city of Bethlehem is surrounded on three sides by the Wall, which cuts into the centre of the city to encircle Rachel’s Tomb – despite being a site sacred to all three Abrahamic religions. Along with the settlements, checkpoints and military zones; the Wall serves to isolate free Palestinian movement to just 13% of the 660 km² that makes up the Bethlehem Governorate. Behind closed doors, there is also feeling of hopelessness in Bethlehem. During my time here I have had the privilege of staying with a Christian family in the centre of the city. The picture I received from them was in bitter contrast to those Palestinians I had met in Hebron. G— M— was the head of the household; a quiet man who often wore a resigned expression. During pauses in conversation, which were frequent, he would often stare at the floor as though brooding something.

His wife N—, a nervous but cheerful woman, told me their story. G— had studied Mathematics and Physics at Bethlehem University before taking up a job as a school teacher in Jerusalem. In those days, it was relatively easy for G— commute to work every day to support his family. With the outbreak of the Second Intifada, however, the M— family found themselves on the front line of the conflict. As the IDF tore through Bethlehem’s streets the whole family withdrew to a single room of their parents’ home, next door. N— still recalls the sleepless nights they spent there, praying theirs would not be the next home to be hit by the gunfire. After the fighting, a slower and more painful process began for the M— family with the construction of Israel’s wall. Every day G—would have to pass through the Bethlehem 300 checkpoint to reach Jerusalem but eventually he found the process so agonising that he was forced to find lower paid work as a librarian in Bethlehem University.

‘There is nothing here anymore,’ confided N—. Her children have little means of recreation and none wish to stay in Bethlehem or Palestine for that matter. They do not have a lack of examples to follow: most of the M— family have already left Palestine. With a broken economy and an uncertain political future it is not hard to see why. ‘Now, I am afraid all the time,’ Natalie told me and with the reports still coming in of Israeli arrests, her causes for fear show little signs of disappearing. ‘I think life was better before the First Intifada,’ she says. ‘When I was a child we would visit the beaches at Jaffa every week. Not anymore. There is nothing here,’ she pauses and shakes her head.

‘Really, nothing.’

The Question

Note: the following assessment is derived from my experience of Hebron and should not be misconstrued to represent every individual Palestinian. I have avoided naming the persons quoted here and will, at their request, remove quotations attributed to them if they object to their usage here.

‘So, where will they go?’

Every time a discussion began on the subject of ‘the situation here’ I would end up asking this question.

Where will they go?

Those I met seemed more than ready to discuss the conflict between themselves and Israel. What is more their opinions followed a fairly similar formula.

‘Israel,’ one told me, ‘does not want peace. They just take our lands.’

The latter is factually true. Whichever way you twist the map it is abundantly clear that the Palestinians have lost their land and have carried on losing it since 1948. As for the former, it is hard to deny this to Palestinians when you admit that the latter continues to take place and that Israel has consistently sabotaged the peace process it continues to trumpet its support for.

Then I ask what kind of peace they consider just. Here they are extremely clear.

‘We want to go back to Haifa and Jaffa. We want to be able to live anywhere in our country.’

And by ‘our country’ they mean Palestine. Not the rump state of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip but the whole of historical Palestine; from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean and from the Negev to the borders of Lebanon. This is the country that was taken from them – the land they had resided in for centuries with few restrictions. A land where Jews and Christians had largely lived peacefully with their Muslim neighbours. This is the vision they have. A two state solution does not fit in here because, as far as they are concerned, the creation of the state of Israel in 1948 was an invasion and occupation of their country by a foreign people. As a result they continue to regard the land beyond the West Bank as occupied Palestine.

Therein lies a problem. The 1948 War was an act of occupation which involved the forceful displacement of 750,000 Palestinians from their homes within the  borders of what is now Israel. It was also a miracle of deliverance for a people brought to the verge of annihilation by the industrialised murder known as the Holocaust. In such a situation, the Jewish leaders regarded the establishment of a Jewish State as an absolute imperative for the survival of their people. Removing the Arabs was a necessary evil from their standpoint in order to achieve the vision of a state with a purely Jewish identity.

So what now? From the standpoint of many I spoke to in Hebron, the only way to achieve justice is to let Palestinians return to the 1948 territory; in other words to create a Palestinian state over the whole of Israel and the occupied territories. This would always prompt me to ask the question; where will the Jews go?

One individual responded bluntly: ‘To hell. I don’t care.’

Others shrug and point out that the ancient Jewish community in Nablus lives in peace with their Palestinian neighbours.

‘Can’t the others do the same?’

From what they say it is abundantly clear they would consider living in peace with Israelis within the 1948 borders. The slight snag is whose flag they would be under.

From the Israeli perspective it is clear; to consider one state is to sacrifice the intrinsic Jewishness of Israel. Israelis on both the Left and the Right would never consent to it. It would mean admitting that the two state solution is now impossible – that the Palestinians can never be safely packed away in the West Bank, that they must share the future.

Another problem, though, is that here we are speaking in terms of aspirations. When I asked my host brother whether he would happily live in one state shared with the Israelis, his response was revealing:

‘Yes, but this will never happen.’

This was a common sentiment, at least in Hebron. There was a perception that Israel will never tear down the wall, remove the checkpoints and cease demolishing homes; that this cruel reality was all they could look forward to in future. And for some the only way to change the situation is to fight back.

When speaking to one man who had lived through the misery of the Israeli penal system, without once seeing a jury of course, I received a chilling response on the matter of a peace solution.

‘If the Israelis come to me without their weapons,’ he said, ‘I will live with them in peace. But if they come with their weapons I will fight them, from the tallest to the smallest.’

He paused.

‘And I will start with the smallest.’

What is abundantly clear, however, is that the Palestinians want peace. Some even look fondly on the days before the First Intifada when there were no walls around their land. Above all though, they want a just peace – a peace that recognises how much they have lost and goes some way to giving it back.

 

 

City of Abraham

My time at the Center was as exhausting as it was enjoyable. The changes to my schedule came daily and succeeded in pulling the carpet out from my understanding of a working day. The lessons themselves largely comprised of finding as many subjects as possible for the students to discuss in English. At times this was frustrating, with some students lacking the confidence to speak more than a sentence or two in English, while at other moments the ability of the students was deeply impressive. In any event this did nothing to avert the guilt and embarrassment I felt as an Englishman with only one language, particularly when working with multi-lingual volunteers. Though I have attempted to rectify this over the last month, my Arabic is still in its infancy; forcing me to leech off the linguistic knowledge of others.

During this time, however, the Center also organised a trip into the Old City to see a building that, more than any other, epitomizes the divisions here: the Ibrahimi Mosque.

The holy site, which is both a mosque and a synagogue, is also a shrine to and the resting place of the Prophet Abraham and his close family. The bones themselves are to be found in a cave beneath the structure, which is closed to the public, while the tomb-like structures above ground are merely cenotaphs to the deceased. The first structure built here dates from the time of Herod the Great in the first century BC. It later became a mosque and then a prominent church under the Crusaders before once again becoming a mosque when Saladin conquered the area in 1188. In the 13^th Century, Hebron came under the rule of the Mamluks – an elite warrior class that seized control of Egypt and the Levant – who closed the Holy site to Jews. Humiliatingly, they were only permitted to pray on the seventh step of the eastern entrance of the very building their people had originally built. Since the Israeli conquest of the West Bank in 1967 the building has housed a functioning Mosque and a synagogue though, as I will explain, this is far from peaceful co-existence.

To get to the Mosque we had to pass through the Old City’s souqs, many of which date back to the Ottoman period. Walking past these open fronted shops you could be forgiven for thinking you were back in Jerusalem; that is until you look up and see Israeli flags from the buildings above. Even here the settlers make their presence felt – the Palestinians have been forced to put up wire netting to protect their streets from the waste that the settlers hurl down at them. IDF troops are also visible on many rooftops here and will occasionally make a sweep through the streets if there is trouble. Still the shopkeepers put on a brave face but be prepared for a fleecing if you go there without a Palestinian guide to haggle the price down. Pressing on through the markets, we found the streets narrowing until eventually we came to a final stone alleyway where we were faced with a set of metal barriers beyond which two machine gun emplacements were visible. We were facing an Israeli checkpoint.

This particular position was situated at the main passage leading to the Ibrahimi Mosque. Despite the volume of people that have to pass through here to pray the space allocated to those passing towards the mosque is totally inadequate for the crowds who are regularly forced into the cramped space between the barriers and the wall. Beyond the metal gates at each end of the alley, which irregularly clang shut in the face of those attempting to pass, the Palestinians are frisked by the IDF soldiers before being allowed to pass. That is of course if they are lucky. There are endless instances of IDF soldiers abusing and humiliating Palestinians at such checkpoints throughout the West Bank – including forcing pregnant women to give birth rather than letting them pass through to a hospital.

I should add that I have never once been asked to empty my pockets or open my bag when passing through an Israeli checkpoint. In Spain, no matter what passport I carried, I almost always had to have my bags scanned before boarding a train as part of the security measures brought in after the Madrid bombings. Indeed, when was the last time anyone was waved through security at an airport for looking like a tourist? Security measures which only apply to those of a particular ethnic group and routinely permit anyone else to pass are surely nonsensical – unless of course they serve a different purpose.

Beyond the checkpoint we emerged into the sunlight to face the imposing sight of the Ibrahimi Mosque. Were it not for the minarets this building could be mistaken for a stone keep or a fortified palace – the exterior walls have weathered the centuries and look as if they could still withstand a siege. At any rate it hardly looked like a building which would provide a warm welcome, rather it belonged to the older tradition of worship which placed value in striking awe into the faithful rather than openness.

Before entering we had to pass through a set of metal detectors whilst under the impatient eyes of three IDF soldiers. I already knew the reason for this precaution. On the 25^th February 1994, an Israeli military physician called Baruch Goldstein walked into the Mosque carrying an assault rifle and opened fire on the worshippers kneeling at prayer. 29 Palestinians were killed and more than 100 wounded before Goldstein was overcome and beaten to death. Rather than curtail the movements of the settlers, the Israeli authorities ordered the closure of 520 Palestinian businesses in the surrounding area and later sealed off the main road through the Old city to Palestinians ( known as Shuhada Street). The Mosque too became a segregated place with separate entrances and areas for Jews and Muslims. Each religious community only has unrestricted access to the whole building on certain holy days.

During that first visit we were only inside the Mosque for a matter of minutes before being ushered out so that the midday prayers could take place. In truth I felt this was all that was required – the interior carried the simplicity characteristic of many Islamic buildings. The item I found of special interest was an ornately carved Minbar at the heart of the Mosque which, I was informed, had been placed there by Salahuddin – better known in the west as Saladin. Despite being a man of immense historical significance, this was the first physical trace I had come across of the Kurdish leader who had bent most of the Middle East to his will.

In the coming weeks I would wonder the Old City many times; often crisscrossing between the Arab and Jewish areas. Unsurprisingly the contrast is marked; the Jewish areas are modern, pristine but largely empty. Many of the Arab areas, meanwhile, are gutted wrecks left in ruins since the Second Intifada. The one common denominator here is the IDF, lurking on every rooftop and around every corner. They do little to hide their lack of interest in their surroundings; besides the stone throwing there is little enough for them to do besides containing the Arab population. In conversation with one young soldier, I was asked why I had come to Hebron.

‘I was told it was an interesting place,’ I replied.

‘Not really,’ he shrugged ‘Hebron is boring.’

My host brother put it another way:

‘We cannot leave here. This place is our prison.’

‘You are welcome’

Before I recount my experience of Hebron I must first clear up the trivial matter of which country I am in. The formal peace process between the Israelis and the Palestinians began in 1993 with the Oslo Peace Accords which created the Palestinian Authority and divided the West Bank into Areas A, B and C. The Palestinian Authority was meant to be a means for the Palestinians to govern themselves before the creation of a fully independent Palestine – in theory. At present the PA only has full civil and security control over Area A while in Area B it has to share security control with Israel. In Area C, which comprises over 60% of the West Bank, Israel still has full civil and security control. Hebron, my next destination, is in Area A but still has an Israeli military presence in the city thanks to the illegal settler occupation of large areas of the Old City centre.

If Ramallah is the head of Palestine and Jerusalem the heart, then Hebron is the country’s guts. This sounds unpleasant but it is nevertheless a pretty accurate description of this teeming urban centre of around half a million people – if you include the surrounding villages. Though small by the standards of the west, when you walk the streets and see the chaos of commercial activity on every side it feels anything but. Traffic here is not so much a passing feature as a clear and present threat to your existence; traffic lights are rare and pedestrian crossings are non-existent. Given the relative decline of British high street shops, the contrast here is marked. Phone shops, cafes, falafel stands, barber shops, bakeries and butchers are packed in on every side while spilling out onto the pavement you can find lone traders selling mint leaves, corn and coffee to anyone – including passing motorists. While you won’t find bookshops, florists or Starbucks here, for every one of your day to day needs Hebron has you covered.

Sadly this energy is not what Hebron is best known for and for good reasons. The city is also home to 600 Jewish settlers who are situated in the very heart of the city while larger settlements are positioned on the city’s outskirts – effectively constricting Hebron’s expansion. Barbed wire, checkpoints and IDF soldiers are a common site in the Old City and violent clashes between troops and Palestinians are far from rare. Only last week, while I was walking through the city centre, I happened upon a confrontation between dozens of stone throwing teenagers with their keffiyeh (Arab headscarves) wrapped tight about their faces and several ranks of IDF soldiers in riot gear. On many street corners you will find the defiant slogans Open Shuhada Street (in reference to the closed street through the Old City where Palestinians are forbidden from walking) and Fight Ghost Town.

My time in Hebron has largely been spent working at the Excellence Center – an organisation which largely teaches English to Palestinians and Arabic to internationals. The Center itself is a fairly small set of rooms just off Ein Sarah Street( the main road through Hebron)but it was nevertheless a welcome sight to me as I entered, still amazed that the journey from Jerusalem to Hebron had gone so smoothly. I was then greeted by the EC’s manager, Rafat Shantir, an irrepressibly friendly man whose broad smile never slackened as we spoke. He reassured me that all was organised and introduced me to my schedule which (as I would learn in the weeks ahead) defied reason, planning and the laws of physics. He then sat me down in the kitchen and poured me a cup of sinfully sweet mint tea and again asked me the question which I seemed to encounter everywhere: ‘Why Palestine?’

‘I want to help,’ I answered ‘in any way possible.’

Rafat seemed pleased with this answer and we chatted amicably for a few minutes. He then stood and announced that someone from my host family was on their way to collect me before giving me a warm but unexpected hug, which I discovered was due to the fact he was leaving for Mongolia and would not return until after my placement had ended.

Soon enough, a cheerful young man from my host family arrived to collect me. His English was good but, as he explained, I was the first native English speaker he had ever spoken to. I soon learned that I spoke far too quickly and that at times my accent could not be understood. Nevertheless, we were able to make some conversation as we threaded our way down Ein Sarah to catch a shared taxi back to his home. My host family, who I won’t name here, live in a relatively wealthy neighbourhood on the edge of Hebron; the Arabic name of which I have consistently failed to pronounce correctly but translates as Valley of Olives. From where the taxi dropped us I could see on every side new and spacious buildings built in a distinctly western style. The area could have been lifted from Spain, Italy or even Israel come to that.

Even this place was not unscathed by the conflict though. As we rounded a bend we found ourselves facing the green, sloping countryside that stretches southwards from the city. However, squatting on a hill to the east with a commanding view of the valley was a group of near identical, red roofed homes drawn in a close formation at the summit like a group of circled wagons. My host brother pointed to them and said simply: ‘Israeli settlement.’

The settlement in question is Beit Hagai. It was established in 1984, is home to 95 families and is completely illegal under international law. Not that this concerns the settlers. Their motivation for being here can be gauged simply from the knowledge that the name Hagai is an acronym formed from the names of three students killed in an attack by Palestinians. This settlement is naturally under the protection of the IDF and it is forbidden for Palestinians to even approach the settlement or attempt to walk on the surrounding hillsides. And by forbidden I mean they will be shot – no warnings or questions needed. Even if they were to make it into the settlement it is worth noting that most settlers carry firearms with them and already have a history of violence and harassment towards Palestinians living nearby, as is the case with practically every Israeli settlement in the West Bank. There are over 500,000 such settlers in the region and their numbers are only growing thanks to the support of the Israeli government. As well as being morally wrong it is also illegal under Article 49 of the Fourth Geneva Convention  for an occupying power to ‘deport or transfer parts of its own population into the territories it occupies’. The UN Security Council, the UN General Assembly and the International Court of Justice have all agreed that Article 49 applies to the West Bank as territory occupied by Israel during the Six Day War (1967) and hence the settlements are illegal. Funnily enough, the only nation to seriously dispute the illegality of the settlements is Israel.

My host brother showed me to his home- a comfortable, flat roofed building with a beautifully modest garden. It would be impossible for me to describe the countless and continuing incidents of kindness and hospitality that my host family has shown me during my stay in Hebron. From that first evening  they have made me feel beyond welcome and have left me wondering how on earth I can ever repay them for taking me into their home. When I return from work in the evening (no matter how late)I am greeted with smiles, warm words and far more food and drink than I can manage. Afterwards, I sit with the men of the family (gender segregation is a necessary evil when living in Hebron) and draw on an argila pipe while exchanging phrases in Arabic or English and chuckling at our respective pronunciations.

It is always surprising to me how the common experience of sitting, eating and laughing together allows people, for a short time at least, to cross the vast gulf of languages between them. This joyful phenomenon was and remains of great comfort to me, though I am still over two thousand miles from my home.

The Navel of the World

My first stay in Jerusalem was brief and as such I only experienced a hint of this city’s character. I will say to begin with that I was largely confined to the Old City and only glimpsed the modern expanse of West Jerusalem that lay beyond the medieval ramparts. However, I can say with certainty that my stay there inspired in me one thing – a pressing need to go back and see it again.

The moment you step out into the streets of the Old City you feel swallowed whole. The buildings are packed so close and high that you often find yourself walking in the shade of a stone canopy. Getting lost for me was an inevitability but not one that I was concerned with. It scarcely mattered that I had no idea where the Muslim Quarter ended and the Armenian Quarter began or whether I was heading in the right direction for the Western Wall; just wandering here and stumbling through the Souqs, churches and ruins was indescribably joyful.

At one point on my first stroll through Jerusalem I rounded a bend and saw at once that I was in the Jewish quarter; first by the quantity of new buildings and second by the presence of half a dozen soldiers of the Israeli Defence Force (IDF). During my stay in Jerusalem there was not a single day where I did not see IDF troops. They were often to be seen relaxing, after their duties, in the Jewish Quarter; young and cheerful people of roughly my age who had the good fortune to be serving their military service here rather than at some sun scorched checkpoint in the West Bank. They did not usually carry rifles but on one occasion when I was sitting in a café eating Shwarma, a young IDF soldier sat down on a table opposite me with his parents with his rifle lying in his lap. His parents seemed utterly unperturbed by the presence of the firearm and at one point he passed the firearm to his father who patiently adjusted the strap for him before handing it back. The thought of having a family meal in public whilst visibly carrying a lethal weapon like that was inconceivable to me. But then, I reflected, there were a vast number of things in this country that were inconceivable to a mild mannered, leftie-liberal Englishman like me.

The reason for the military presence lies on the far side of the Jewish Quarter with a place that is difficult to name without, linguistically at least, choosing a side. For the world’s 2 billion (approx.) Muslims it is known as the Haram al-Sharif but for 13.8 million Jews it is known as the Temple Mount.

If anyone is in any doubt as to what the conflict is with this holy site I will give a brief explanation as best I can. The area that now comprises the holy site was where Abraham is said to have been instructed by God to kill his son, Isaac. Later, King Solomon is thought to have built the First Jewish Temple here in the 10^th century BCE which was then destroyed by the Babylonians when they seized Jerusalem in 586 BCE. In 515 a Second Temple was built and the entire complex was expanded and upgraded to its current size by Herod the Great. Of this vast structure the Western Wall is all that remains after the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in 70 AD. Nevertheless, this last edifice is regarded as the most sacred site in Judaism.

After the Arab conquest of Jerusalem in the 7^th century the Dome of the Rock was constructed on the Temple Mount over the site where, it is believed, Mohammed made his ascent to heaven while the Al-Aqsa Mosque (‘farthest mosque’) was established on the edge of the compound in what is thought to have been a church. Today the Haram remains the 3^rd holiest site in Islam and is controlled by Jerusalem’s Muslim community – something which does not always sit well with the Israelis. In a brutal display of defiance, or desecration depending on your perspective, future Prime Minister Ariel Sharon made a crossing of the Haram on 28^th September 2000 – surrounded by riot police. Sharon had a special significance for Palestinians after he permitted a Christian militia group to enter the Shatila refugee camp and slaughter the Palestinian occupants during the Lebanon war. Shouts went up of ‘Murderer!’ and before long stones were being hurled from the Haram down on the Israeli soldiers below. These events sparked the Second Intifada in which hundreds of Israelis and thousands of Palestinians would die as the Israeli government forcibly dismembered the Palestinian Authority and asserted its de facto control over the West Bank. Every Friday, as Muslims gather on the Haram to pray, Israeli soldiers and riot police assume their positions; waiting to react to any Palestinian provocation. Meanwhile the Palestinians are constantly alert to any infringement of their control of the Haram – convinced that the Israelis harbour designs to destroy this sacred place.

Regrettably the Temple Mount was closed during my stay in the Old City – possibly due to violent street clashes that occurred a few days prior to my arrival, although this was not clarified. Instead I turned my attention to a monotheistic shrine free of police barricades: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. As a non-believer, this was not a site I could claim much knowledge of and I would advise those in a similar position to do specific background research so they understand exactly what they are looking at – there’s no English Heritage style signage to help you along. The interior has that gloom, unique to all churches, which ensures that everything inside is taken seriously. Taking in Calvary (where Christ is thought to have been crucified), the Holy Sepulchre (where Christ was supposed to have been buried) and the various chapels is an interesting experience but with no spiritual connection between myself and these places I could not claim to have found the building inspirational.

Another slightly problematic factor for me was the authenticity of the place. The Church was founded by Helena, the mother of the Roman Emperor Constantine, in the 4^th century AD who visited Jerusalem and, upon excavating a hill resembling biblical Golgotha, discovered three crosses. When the question then arose of how to identify the True Cross, Helena utilised the fool proof method of getting a sick man to touch each one. Conveniently he was cured by one which was then proclaimed to be the True Cross. Even more conveniently there was a pagan temple on the site beforehand which naturally had to be replaced by the Church. And still more conveniently this all occurred during the period when the Emperor Constantine had ended the persecution of Christians and commissioned the construction of many new churches. But maybe I’m just being cynical.

As my stay in Jerusalem came to an end I had the sense that to get as much as possible out of the city required better planning and more time than I had available. There was also a slight twinge of sadness at every new sight – there was no-one around me to share the experience with, no-one to break the tension or to bicker over the map. Travelling solo was a completely new experience for me and not a wholly positive one.

However, the day soon arrived when I would escape crowded atmosphere of Jerusalem and embark on the next stage of my journey – into the heart of the West Bank.

Day One in the Holy Land

The point of this trip is to throw myself in at the deep end. I don’t remember a time in my life where I wasn’t nervous or fearful of something – often for no good reason. When the time came to decide what to do with my life after the safety blanket of Sixth form was pulled away, I resolved to do something different; something that would change me as a person. In other words I became that most risible of things: a gap year student. But this was a gap year with a dark twist – I wasn’t going to any ordinary third world country, I was going to Palestine.

After months of shuffling and reshuffling my plans, I finally arranged for a couple of volunteering placements in the heart of the West Bank. Some part of me kept asking myself why and to this I had very little answer except why not? With the indispensable help of my contact, who I won’t name here, the trip moved from a vague aspiration to a definite reality while through the stern prodding of my sister, who had also completed a long placement abroad, the finer details of the trip emerged.

When the day of my flight came, I was not in the best of spirits. That morning, a visit to the hospital had me diagnosed with Tonsillitis which explained why, in the last few days, I had been reduced to a shivering, sweating ball on my sofa. The rest of the day was a flurry of preparations and tearful goodbyes before, all too soon, I found myself bidding my parents goodbye at Stansted airport before weaving through the vast, emptiness of the departure lounge to reach the correct gate.

I could hardly believe I was going through with this. My first solo trip abroad…and I was going to Palestine? The very idea seemed half mad for anyone else but for a bookish, introvert like myself it was positively insane.

Though it was an overnight flight, I found myself unable to sleep. Instead my eyes drifted between the screen above my seat marking the gradual progress of the aircraft and the endless lights of Central and Eastern Europe drifting below us. At around five in the morning we arrived at Istanbul to change flights. Part of the compromise of getting a cheap flight had been making a changeover in Istanbul’s smaller airport; Sabiha Gökçen. I had pictured a few concrete blocks beside a single airstrip but I was pleasantly surprised to enter a completely modern airport. If it weren’t for the large Turkish flags on display this place could be anywhere in the western world.

The sun rose slowly over Istanbul. The Golden Horn and the Hagia Sophia were out of sight. Instead all that was visible through the windows was Istanbul’s urban sprawl and the hills of Anatolia where, almost 1000 years before, the Turks had ejected the Byzantine Greeks and settled in Asia Minor. They had ruled that land ever since.

The flight to Tel Aviv was decidedly brief – barely two hours – but it offered stunning views of the landscape beneath as we edged closer to Israel. As we flew I began to mentally rehearse what I was going to say at Israeli border control. I had heard the horror stories – of suspected volunteers being taken aside and strip-searched before being questioned for hours. Some I knew were just sent back if the Israelis suspected they were lying at any point. In order to avoid this, my contact had advised that I simply tell them I was here to visit historic sites and holy places. To complete this deception I was wearing a cross, a pair of beige chinos and a cream jacket that had belonged to my great-grandfather. I looked absurd; like some walking colonial relic but at least I looked nothing like a volunteer.

My anticipation grew as a stepped off the plane into the pristine corridors of steel and glass that greet you first at Ben Gurion Airport. The building is a marvel in itself – at its heart is a fountain where water pours vertically from the ceiling into an artificial lagoon beneath. Beyond that the corridor leading to border control consists of an avenue of enormous stone columns. If nothing else, I thought, I will have at least seen this if they send me back.

Waiting for me at border control was a rather tired looking man who regarded me with dispassionate interest from inside his glass booth before he began questioning me.

‘So, why are you visiting Israel?’

‘I am here for the history,’ I replied ‘and the holy sites.’

‘Which ones?’

‘The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Dome of the Rock, Nazareth-‘

‘Do you know anyone in Israel?’

‘No.’

‘Then where are you staying?’

I told him about the hostel I booked for Jerusalem. He then moved to why I decided to come to Israel in the first place.

‘I am studying War Studies at university later this year,’ I replied cheerfully before waffling about the battle sites I wanted to see while I am here. He stared at my passport for a while, obviously uncertain. Then, quite suddenly, he handed it back to me along with my visa.

‘Enjoy your stay in Israel,’ he said with an attempt at a smile. Well that was easy, I thought as I collected my bags.

Once I passed into arrivals I felt myself relax; time to start enjoying myself at last. Before I caught a shared taxi to Jerusalem I attempted to purchase a pre-paid SIM for use in Israel.  In my exhausted and partly exhilarated state I made a hash of explaining myself. It transpired that I had to buy a cheap new phone altogether with the SIM, all of which cost me 500NIS or about £85. Slightly put out by this I did not enjoy the drive to Jerusalem. Gazing out at Israel, all I could see were patches of pine trees and quite ugly, square blocks of housing. I remembered from my reading of The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Ilan Pape) how Israel used forests to cover cleansed Palestinian settlements during the dark days of the 1948 war. I wondered whether these trees serve the same purpose. It says a great deal about the intractable conflict here that even nature itself has been used as a weapon.

After about 15 minutes on the road I noticed something chilling. On both sides, stone walls topped with barbed wire rose up. When I saw signs to Male Adumim I realise why – we are entering settler territory. Though Male Adumim looks and feels like a suburb of Jerusalem and the majority of its 40,000 residents are employed there, in fact this area is inside the Palestinian West Bank. Every house and structure here is built on expropriated Palestinian land; a clear violation of international law. Worse, the settlement is situated at the choke point between the northern area of the West Bank (containing Ramallah, Nablus, Jenin and so on) and the south (containing Hebron and Bethlehem). Thus the West Bank is split irreversibly into two halves, dividing the Palestinian population and making territorial contiguity impossible for an independent Palestine. At a conference earlier this year Jeff Halper, the Director of the Israeli Committee Against House Demolitions, called the continued expansion of Male Adumim the death of the two state solution. If ever there was tangible evidence of Israel’s territorial ambitions in the West Bank then this was it – a knife held at the throat of Palestine.

The taxi dropped me at the Jaffa gate and I immediately lurched towards the nearest information point, desperate to find my hostel and relieve my back from the ghastly weight of my bag. I am pointed down a narrow street lined with shops and after a few wrong turns I saw signs to the Citadel Hostel. Salvation! After one last wrong turn I made it into the hostel lobby to be greeted with an unsmiling receptionist who pointed me towards the roof where, for reasons that seemed clearer at the time, I elected to sleep. The Citadel Hostel had the feel of a place that had seen better days – there were awards displayed behind the reception desk for the Hostel’s hospitality but the most recent one dated from 2012. The archaic stone walls and twisted staircases that had seemed so characterful on the website seemed, to my eyes, sparse and frankly a bit tacky. As for the shared bathrooms, I had rarely seen a more squalid arrangement and this was not for lack of experience with youth hostels. Nevertheless, the rooftop views were every bit as stunning as I had imagined; while the song of church bells mixed with the calls of the Muezzin, I gazed endlessly at the Temple Mount which glowed gold in the dying light.

Eventually I lay back and allowed the exhaustion that I had held back all this time wash over me.  None of this seems quite real, I thought to myself. I had only ever read about Jerusalem in books and yet here I was gazing out across the city. I then realised, almost for the first time, that I will be in this region for the next three months.