Last year in Palestine

Last year in Palestine. Sort of. It's 2007.

I have all but packed. Well, sort of.

It's a tough place to be at, sometimes. Even harder to leave. Although the food's delicious, for many, it's becoming increasingly difficult by the day to get fat, let alone find ample reason to sing. You catch my drift. Nothing worse than long, drawn-out goodbyes. Except for Palestine.

I loved it here. I spent a full tenth of my young life here.

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The rise of Hamas

And by 'quite like' I mean 'not even remotely comparable'. There were parallels, mind you. Both January's I served as election observer, presidential and parliamentary respectively. Which entailed a lot of barreling up and down the West Bank, piling in and out of vans. An A-team of suffrage, if you will. "If no one else can help you, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire ballot monitors." 

As Palestinians enthusiastically voted for an authority with scarcely more than municipal powers, the Colonel Deckers at Huwara checkpoint played nice. Apart from minor election-day campaigning the process ran smooth and fair on both occasions. 

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A day at work

On arrival I'm set up in the veranda, which is cherished office real estate. Especially in winter. Pamper the newbie, I guess.

Back in the days the Bisan headquarters sits in Balu'a, a low-lying suburb of Ramallah of previously marshes, aquatic birds and, in summer, the occasional goat. Today offices spring up, both government and private. There's a pharmaceutical factory, and of course Plaza Mall, an air-conditioned, i.e. refrigerated, glass expanse that houses a Benetton boutique, a toy store, coffee shops, and the regal Bravo Supermarket. Descendants of that occasional goat still graze among the towering developments. I often toddle down there to chillax whenever, especially in summer, the veranda proves less cherished real estate and more NASA experiment to colonize Venus.  

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'How is Ramallah?'

My landlord Mitri's a geography teacher. Man, did he ever teach geography that day. It's January. Orthodox Christmas. Palestinian Christians from the West Bank are allowed each year to enter Israel. Some good old divide et impera. A permit for worshipping in the nebula of holy places that is Jerusalem. The joy. 

"Our church always organizes a trip to Nazareth," Mitri says to me, he says "then it's always pray here, pray there." He rolls his eyes. What to do? They got the old Opel Astra, however meticulously maintained, it doesn't discount the little fact of 'green plates'. The verdant registration brings a car, qua usefulness, on a par with the average wheelbarrow. A very expensive, air-conditioned wheelbarrow. What to do?

The Israeli-Palestinian conflict according to Scientology

It's funny how Skully and Mulder never dedicated any time to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Plenty of scope for conspiracy and yet... nothing. Which represents of course, in and by itself, a conspiracy. Time to investigate.

Coffee makes the mind race. It's the little liquid crazy you need to face the idiosyncrasies of modern life. Especially the AM parts of it. Sometimes a caffeinated boost can, as cobwebs fly, bring you closer to truth. But to approach an issue, you must first get away from it. Invest some outstanding airmiles, or in this case; light-years.

That's right, I'm going for the alien angle.

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Cleavage diplomacy

Time to get away. Escapism. We're riding up North for three days. Beach, mountains, old stones, and a blissful absence of checkpoints.

A day earlier I go to Jerusalem, get us a yellow-plate car. No use for the green-and-white. Makes me chuckle sometimes to see a green-plate Mercedes SUV in Ramallah. Where you gonna drive that thing? All the way to Beitunia and back, ey?

Anywayz, I'm at Rentals-R-Us, looking at a minivan. "Can I take it into the Territories? Like, say, Bethlehem?" I inquire.

"Why, sure," says the guy. "No problem at all."

A minute later we're going over the forms, and he turns pensive of a sudden. "Oh, by the way, the insurance only covers you to where the army goes."

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The norm at Bil'in

The IDF admits to using "agents provocateurs" at the weekly anti-wall demonstrations in Bil'in. "But they only start throwing rocks after the regular demonstrators do so." Which begs the question; what's the point of using infiltrators then? Once more, logic is that most scarce of commodities, snuffed out in the fog of tugging.
 
Then again, what's the point of a lot of things? We so often fold into our designated ruts, each to his role, unthinkingly. Ever thus at Bil'in. Left-wing, self-hating Israelis and internationals fold arms with the downtrodden, the people whose land is nibbled at, cement-trucked, ground into facts. To each his task. The army's welcoming committee, on the Palestinian side of what's supposed to be a separation fence, cross-armed, wide-legged megaphones along the script; "This is a closed military zone. Leave now or face the consequences."

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Rumplestitchkin down South

After a first concert, and the Ramallah workshops our destination is Yata, a small village south of Hebron. Mahmoud, who works for an organization that helps disadvantaged children flags our van, greets us with an energetic smile that could power Las Vegas. He'll be our unrelenting guide for the coming two days. "Welcome to Palestine!"

We follow his car; one arm flailing, pointing, gesticulating from the side, toward the day's playground. The battered Subaru seems held together by chewing gum alone, thrust onward by the sheer force of Mahmoud's pitiless enthusiasm. 

It's a sunny day, the roads are okay, and there is music in everything. From the trunk the snare drum snares effervesce, almost but not quite seashore-like with every speed bump and careful pothole swerve. A car honks for unseen reasons. I honk back, not knowing why. The blue hills demand it somehow. With newbie tact I demur.

What would Apple do

"Things are a lot more uh, uh...complex...I got certain information. Certain things have come to light...Uh... It might not be just such a simple... uh...you know?"

Ask a Middle East expert to explain, clear and succinct, what in God's holy name is the thing with Israelis and Palestinians, and you'll often get no more than incoherent Lebowskian blather. "Lot of ins and outs", to use the parlance of our times. 

People however crave categorical beams of truth, clarity, and my very own boots on the ground are often unrealistically expected to purvey just that. "Who's right?" "Who's wrong?" or, to paraphrase my uncle; "Whos doing what to who now?"

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Thank you, Prometheus

A cloud of uncertainty looms over the region... wait... no... Please don't panic! It is an actual cloud. Coming from the kitchen upstairs. Lasagnas behaving badly.

I'm ensconced at Zan Café, the Kasabah Cinema and Theater's annexed lounge/restaurant/bar general-purpose watering hole, soaking up the wi-fi. It's way too early for a Taybeh beer so I...Well, I'm having one anyway. Sue me.

"What's going on?" Shadi bellows, flinching up from his laptop beside the fireplace. Marvin Gaye prophesized this day.

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