Visiting the Wall

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Day Two of the course is over. It was a pretty good day. We did a couple of fun exercises involving food, designed to explain some of the psychology behind conflict and the different ways it can end. They seemed to enjoy both exercises. We also got into some good discussions

It’s interesting, but they have a real problem with being journalists first and Palestinians second. I’ve been trying to persuade them that they should be professional and neutral despite how they may feel personally. For example, I was talking about how good communications, especially through the media, is vital if you’re ever going to solve a conflict. When I asked if that applied in Palestine, they said there was no point in communicating because the Israelis will just do what they want anyway. And when we talked about use of language, I suggested they had to be careful the way they described things like the barrier between the West Bank and Israel, because many word choices reflect a political point of view. They weren’t entirely convinced. And when they found out I hadn’t seen the barrier yet (give me a break, I’ve only been here two days) they told me I should go look and see if I changed my mind.

So I took them up on the challenge. After class, I took a taxi to the Qalandia Checkpoint in East Jerusalem. When you see it, you can understand their point of view. It looks like something from a movie involving Checkpoint Charlie in the Berlin Wall. Except this wall is taller.

It’s in a grubby-looking section of Jerusalem full of auto repair shops, light industrial buildings, toy stores and cheap restaurants. Giant concrete slabs roll back over a hill and behind the buildings on one side of the street, converging on a brightly lit cage of steel bars and fences where the cars  funnel through. Someone has painted big pictures of Yasser Arafat and jailed leader Marwan Barghouti amid the graffiti that covers the wall. Pro-Palestinian slogans are spray painted on the concrete barriers that herd cars into the crossing point. I watched Israeli soldiers rooting though car trunks and questioning drivers until they shooed me away with an unfriendly gesture.

It’s hard not feel angry on the Palestinian’s behalf. The wall is an evil thing that they don’t deserve. It’s built on the myth that all Palestinians are terrorists. But it hasn’t changed my mind about being careful of the language I would use in a news story. Careless reporting perpetuates the kinds of myths that led to the wall.

On the way back, I took a mini bus (they call it a “service” here, pronounced sir-VEES) and despite my lack of a sense of direction, managed to find my way from the bus to the hotel. Jerusalem stretches out to the point that it’s hard to see where it ends and Ramallah begins. The outskirts are full of residential towers that they seem to be throwing up as fast as they can. But the part of Jerusalem that I saw is not as attractive as Ramallah. It gives more of a feeling of the sprawling city without a lot of charm. Of course, the historic area of the city, which I haven’t seen, is certain to be another thing altogether.

On the way back, I also passed one of the refugee camps. It’s a bit of misnomer. It looks like a low-rise subsidized housing complex; a bit down at the heels, but still pretty ordinary concrete residential units. I guess after all these years, it would be a surprise to see anything that looked like a conventional refugee camp.

 John

PS: You can read more about the course on the Birzeit University blog at:

http://mdc.birzeit.edu/en/index.php?option=com_easyblog&view=entry&id=5&Itemid=1

 

Teaching in Ramallah

Ramallah, Tuesday, October 18, 2011

After years of hearing about Ramallah in the news, I was left with a vague impression of what the city might look like: a poor, downtrodden place marked by buildings bombed out by Israeli attacks. I was in for a surprise. The political centre of the West Bank turns out to be a lively, clean and prosperous city, a cultural hot spot with tree-lined streets that retains the charm of a place where people have lived for more than 500 years.

Getting here, however, was a less charming experience. It took an entire day to work my way through Israeli bureaucracy, pass through countless document checks and questions and hours more in taxis, buses and mini-buses to finally arrive.

The problem was that Canadians don’t normally need a visa to get into the West Bank. You just show up, get you passport stamped and go on your way. In my case, I’m also going to Gaza. That means I need a special multiple entry visa. Without it, I might get into Gaza. But I wouldn’t get out again. Israeli authorities in Amman and at the border didn’t really seem to know what to do with me. So I waited and answered questions. And waited some more and answered the same questions asked by different people.

But the only way to deal with this kind of thing is to relax and let things happen at their own pace. Once I got the visa, my faithful taxi driver Aeman, who was making a killing from my travels, drove me the hour or so to the border. Again we drove toward the Dead Sea, this time heading a little further north to the Allenby Bridge and across the Jordan River. They really should call it the Jordan Creek. At this point, so much water has been sucked from the river for irrigation and drinking that there’s barely enough to reach the Dead Sea. The flow is so small that if Jesus wanted to be baptized there today, he’d be out of luck.

From there, it was a big bus to Jericho (no city walls in evidence, standing or otherwise) and then a long wait until we got seven people to fill the minibus to Ramallah.

Today was a big day in the city. Everywhere they’re celebrating the release of the first prisoners in the exchange with Israel. I missed the action because this was also the first day of my course. It’s at Birzeit University, an attractive collection of new buildings high on a hilltop about 10 kilometres north of Ramallah. There are about 15 trainees, all recent journalism graduates or students of the university. They’re a good group, not afraid to ask questions or discuss issues.

It’s interesting to hear things from a Palestinian point of view. They are fiercely nationalistic, and I think see themselves as Palestinians first and journalists second. Journalists here face all the problems I’ve seen in many other countries: corrupt bosses, poor pay, pressure from political parties. They also have the added problems that come with the Israeli occupation: physical danger covering protests, lack of access to information from the Israeli side, and travel restrictions. Still, they are very keen to do their jobs and are interested in hearing a perspective from the outside.

While I haven’t had much time to look around Ramallah, where I’m staying, I like what I see so far. It’s built on a series of barren limestone hills and the buildings have a similar look to those in Jordan; no coincidence, since this was part of Jordan until the 1967 war. The Palestinians have put a lot of money into sprucing the place up. The streets are cluttered with traffic, but attractive and jammed with shops, restaurants and cool cappuccino bars.  It isn’t cheap here either. Housing is apparently pricey and a cappuccino and a piece of cake runs almost $10. According to Lena, a Danish employee at the university who helped organize the training, they seem to be making it into the capital city of an independent country that they hope it will one day be. There are cultural events and parties all the time. This evening I went to the Danish House In Palestine to listen to a discussion about Christian Palestinians. (Yes, there is a lively but shrinking Palestinian Christian population here. Ramallah was for many years a mostly Christian city. And yes, apparently there are a fair number of Danes as well.)

 

After the talk, I walked back to my hotel. Despite its reputation as a conflict zone, Ramallah feels very friendly and safe. The people are great too. When I was trying to figure out how to get from the Allenby Bridge to Ramallah, a helpful young Civil Engineer aimed me to the right buses and even lent me his cell phone so I could let the organizers know I was on my way. I’m told that kind of thing is common. 

Next on the agenda: Day 2 of the course and maybe some more exploration of the city.

John

Afloat on the Dead Sea

Amman, Jordon, October 16, 2011

I have never considered myself much of a swimmer. I failed “Tadpoles” -- the beginner level -- twice and I'm much more accomplished at sinking than I am at floating. But a trip to the Dead Sea today changed all that.

I got away at 9 in the morning, with the day already shaping up to be hot, clear and dry. The taxi driver, Aeman, put his cheerful disregard for the rules of the road to good use, forcing his way through the clogged streets until we finally hit an open highway heading west. My initial impression of how dry and barren this country appears was reinforced by the view from the road. Rolling brown hills cut deep by erosion stretch off in the distance, occasionally spotted by the grey-green of olive groves. Here and there small determined trees are planted along the roadside and gather in the valleys, but it’s a dry, rocky land.

After a while, the road starts a steady drop down toward the Dead Sea. It’s a long way down. At 411 metres below sea level, the Dead Sea is the lowest point on the surface of the Earth.

Eventually, things flatten out a bit and we start to see signs of farming. We’re coming to the sea from the north end, where the Jordan River runs in. This is held to be the place where Jesus was baptized, and sure enough, a blue sign points the way to the site. But we head the other way, south, on a road running parallel to the water. We pass a few fancy seaside hotels (prices are apparently in the $300-a-night range) then turn in at Amman Beach. This is a lovely public beach complex. There’s a fresh water pool and patio and changing area on the upper level. Then you head down several steps to the beach. It’s free for Jordanians, but set me back 15 jay-dees (Jordanian Dinars, for the uninitiated).

It’s not at all crowded and it’s easy to find a chair to put my towel on. The beach is rough brown sand, mixed with what I first thought was white rock, but quickly realized was solid slabs of salt. The water is crystal clear with a sandy bottom, but near the shore the sand is covered with patches of loose salt, as if it was dumped there from some giant shaker.

I wade out to about waist deep and then comes the moment I was waiting for. I lay back in the water and float like a cork. So this is what's it's like to be a swimmer! It’s so buoyant that it’s practically impossible to keep your legs down, once you’re off your feet. That’s because about a third of the water is actually salts, including bromine, magnesium and iodine. You wouldn’t want to put your face in it, but they say all those salts are good for the skin and make you relax. I certainly felt pretty mellowby the time I left.

The Dead Sea is fed by the Jordan River and various springs. Once the water gets there, it has nowhere to go, except through evaporation, leaving behind the minerals. These days, though, the Dead Sea is in trouble because so much water is diverted from the Jordan for drinking and irrigation. As a result, the surface area has shrunk by 30% in the last three decades.

For a few jay-dees more, you can slather yourself with black mud from the region, which is supposed to clear up your skin, but it didn’t seem worth it. I tried floating a few more times, then went for a fresh water swim before climbing back in the taxi for the ride home.

I’m off to the Israeli Embassy first thing tomorrow to get a visa, and hoping they can issue it the same day so the first course can start on time.

John

Arrived in Amman

Amman, Jordan, October 15, 2011

I’m in a hotel in Amman with the rather grandiose name of the Golden Tulip Palace. It’s a comfortable enough place, set just off a busy road in the north end of the city, but not as stately as the name might imply.

There was some doubt I’d even be able to get here as planned. I was booked to fly out on Thursday on Air Canada, the very day flight attendants were due to go on strike. Government intervention prevented the strike (I suspect they didn’t do it for my benefit; I didn’t vote for them), but I left extra early for the airport, expecting some kind of delay. Instead it turned out to be the fastest and smoothest trip from home to the boarding gate that I can remember. The flight was only half full, so I was able to sleep through most of the first leg to London stretched across three seats.

I arrived around 9 in the morning in London and with a few hours to kill until the final leg of the flight, I took the express train to Paddington. It’s a fantastic service that once again reminds me how backward and colonial we are in Toronto when it comes to building a decent transit system. I went wandering around the streets near Paddington and soon came across Kensington Gardens, built in 1738. It was a perfect day; sunny, warm and with a slight breeze rippling the surface of the Serpentine, a long narrow lake built as part of the park project. I walked through to Hyde Park and saw the Diana, Princess of Wales Fountain. It’s not a fountain in the usual sense, but rather a large circle of carved stone set in the grass, with water running in two directions and meeting at a little waterfall chiseled into the rock.

Getting through the trip from London to Amman was a bit more challenging, as I was determined to stay awake and adapt to the different time zone. There was a last-minute change of planes and a few other delays, but I arrived at the hotel around 11 p.m. Staying awake during the long taxi ride in from the airport was no problem considering the way people drive here. The highways are good, but the local driving customs bring home the meaning of “inshallah.” As far as drivers are concerned, lane markings are a suggestion only, turn signals are for sissies and leaving a couple of feet between your car and the one in front of you is a waste of good space.

There is some evidence that things are not quite as peaceful in the city as they appear. My hotel has a barrier across the driveway. A security guard does a check for explosive residue on the car, using a swipe pad and an electronic analyzer. Then there’s an X-ray machine at the door to check suitcases, and a metal detector to check patrons. But they seem fairly nonchalant about the whole thing, usually waving me through without a second look. I guess I have an honest face.

This morning I took a taxi to the Israeli Embassy. As it turns out, the embassy is closed until Monday. Since it can take a day to get a visa, we might not be able to start the first course in West Bank on Tuesday as planned. I called one of the sponsors. After some conferring, they suggest that I hold tight and go to the embassy first thing Monday and hope they’ll be able to process the visa immediately. We shall see.

With no particular plans and a need to stay awake, I went wandering around the area on foot.  It is a beautiful day with temperatures in the 30s, low humidity and not a cloud in the sky. Amman appears to be booming. There are many large lots that have recently been bulldozed clean, waiting for new buildings to sprout. Several towers are under construction.

I’m in what appears to be an upper-middle class neighbourhood, made of condos or apartments a few stories high, mixed in with the odd single family place. The popular style is to face the buildings with pale sandstone, often worked to have a pebbled surface. It’s not surprising, since the city appears to be built on the same kind of rock. Buildings are closely packed with little evidence of gardens or back yards and there are relatively few trees. Altogether, it gives the impression of a dry, sun baked city.

At lunch, I walked down to a nearby shopping area. It’s crammed with little stores selling clothes, shoes, purses and jewelry. They all seem to have exactly the same things. Then in front of the stores are rows of street hawkers, selling cheaper Chinese versions of clothes, shoes, purses and jewelry, along with a few gaudy plastic toys.

I had lunch at a little shawarma place, eating at a plastic table by the sidewalk. It was delicious and cheap at just a little more than 1 Jordanian Dinar (or jay-dee, as we locals say).

The rest of the day I read over my notes for the first day of class, read a book and struggled to stay awake, with mixed success. It’s now dinner time (restaurants seem to start serving at about 7 p.m. here).  I’ve got no other plans for tonight, but I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Aeman, the taxi driver who took me to the Israeli embassy this morning, offered a decent price for driving to the Dead Sea, waiting a couple of hours and driving me back. So I’m off tomorrow at 9 to see if you really can float as effortlessly as it looks in the pictures.

John