Ramallah for Real: Jingle Bells

So it's Christmas soon. The joy. Jingle bells.

I'm not at all sure what to make of it anymore. Then again, it's a religious holiday, not a lump of clay, so I'm pretty much off the hook on that account. Before, on grounds of scathing sarcasm, I'm lumped into the atheist euro-trash category I might add that my hostility toward all things pertaining to the supernatural, hailing from rebellious puberty, has somewhat lost its Jacobin vigor over the years. I can see the charm, and even the value of it when grandmother asks me to "Say hi to baby Jesus in Bethlehem!"

"Will do", I coo over Skype, even though entry to midnight mass there is harder to obtain than Led Zeppelin tickets. Hell, I might actually wind up at Cosmos; the West Bank's one and only, true-blue dance club; lit dance floor tiles, hard liquor, crowds-don't-show-up-until-one-ish and all.

There are, in addition, recitals to attend, and all sorts of solemn, embellished-pine occasions for imbibing glühwine. Among expats in Ramallah the chart-leading question nowadays is; "Are you around for Christmas?" and "Will you come to my/John's/Martha's/Suha's/Eric's/Muhammad's party?"

It's become a social reflex like shaking hands or dilly-dallying in the restroom long enough for people to assume you're the type that washes his hands every time you go there. 

"So, Kamal, are you here for Christmas?" I ask, hoping to coordinate an overlap of Dome of the Rock's musicians for a possible concert.  

He looks at me, somewhat befuddled, shaking his dreadlocks. "Huh?" 

I'm reminded by his benign bewilderment that for Palestinians, the concept of actually leaving Ramallah, let alone the West Bank has for the past seven years been somewhat of an academic exercise, unfathomable like dark matter, or a papal endorsement of condoms. A friend of mine, let's call her Fatma, was nigh denied the right to go and obtain an MBA in London for the sole reason of having relatives in Gaza. Estranged ones at that, but that's a different matter altogether.

"Why don't Palestinians get off their behinds and make something of themselves, venture, invest?" an Israeli friend once asked me, "I mean, we came here with absolutely nothing, and actually built a country."

Fatma, British visa, scholarship, and bags of talent in hand was only permitted to embark for the UK after a Herculean campaign waged by friends, and friends' friends, and distant connections of friends' friends, leading all the way up - take that Kevin Bacon - to Ehud Barak himself.

Perhaps only the Minister of Defense knows that MBA doesn't stand for Make Better Arrows. Fair enough. One would be hard-pressed however to call it efficient procedure. Even the P.A. can do that better. Or not. We don't know, for this is one of the many real important things, of real peoples' lives, that aren't in the least security-related, that Palestinians have no control over.

Ay, there's the rub. That's is essentially what's been asked for; the tools to live normal lives and develop, to quote from the Sixth Sense, like regular people. I guess the fancy word for that would be sovereignty. A country.

The only alternative, unpalatable to Israelis, is to end the occupation by letting the occupied vote for the Knesset. Well, that's not the only alternative. The third way, perhaps the most sensible, realistic approach would be the fuzzy limbo that's existed since the Six-day-war. As far as I can see that's worked out absolutely spectacular so far.

I was visited by the census-man the other day, which reminded me of an illustrious population survey held in these parts over two thousand years ago. This was a tumultuous era; a local population scuffled against unfair rule, prophets prophesized good and bad, or marvelous indifference to issues of state and struggle. "Unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's..."

It's Christmas soon. That's the birthday of one cool dude. Just a birthday. The son of Mary is not coming back. Not literally anyway, neither to smite those who according to superstitious Ecclesiastical folklore were responsible for his death, nor to tell people to stop wearing miniature replicas of the Roman torture device that was used to kill him.

If he were here though he would probably, according to my offhand guess ask people to "Chill out, stop and think about what you're doing for five minutes, forgive. Find a way to live together, or separate - I don't care - but make up your frigging minds! You don't wanna see me angry. And I'm not saying that because I happen to know the boss."

His magic tricks might have become a bit rusty, but I hear he's throwing a kick-ass party on the 25th. "Welcome to my crib. Call me Christ, or Messiah, or Lamb-of-God-Alpha-and-Omega-Son-of-God if you're not into the whole brevity thing. But above all, relax. Can I make you a White Russian?"