'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?
Comments (0)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.
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."
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."
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?"
Poor Sderot
"Crybabies."
Fie on anyone who calls them that. The inhabitants of Sderot I mean. "Killed by a rocket?" a friend of mine asked. "You mean this crude welding together of lawnmower spare parts? You're more likely to get stabbed in Tel Aviv over a pack of chewing gum. Statistically speaking."
Make sure to always add a pinch of statistics to any position you take in an argument. With some luck your opponent will think you actually know what the hell you're talking about. If not, they might be disgusted with your resorting to such a crude device and end the conversation there and then. Either way you win. "High five!"
Always open with a provocation. Make sure you got everybody's attention. Clichés go a long way too. Like, the first casualty of war is truth. Statistically speaking. Never wear a helmet. Forget about malaria shots. Like Smokey in the Big Lebowski, it's very fragile. And like Walter, you can't possibly argue with it.
When Dubya came to Ramallah
It's almost noon. Outside the house nothing stirs save the occasional street cat.
Dubya is in town. That's one quiet president, lemme tell you, like he's taken off his shoes and tiptoed past the Qalandia checkpoint to share sweet tea and whispered nothings with Abu Mazen [Mahmoud Abbas].
People haven't talked about much else lately. At the bakery, the shop, cafés, hairdressers, the kids hanging out around the Clock Manara. The word "Bush" hangs in the air like the opening of a thousand cans of coke. "Pshhh. Have you heard?"
Mind you, no one but a cloistered few expects anything substantial to come of it. Some drinks offer but the mere illusion of quenching one's thirst. Too much sugar you see. Addictive, somewhat fattening, but the dryness remains. And yet there bubbles a palpable excitement, like the thrill of a school day suspended by bad weather.
X-mas Lunch
"My uncle used to drink a lot. We're talking way back, when a bottle of Arak set you back a mere Shekel." Ramzi's eyes tell the story with vigor. His hands add to the narrative with exaggerated swigging motions. "He sure liked his Arak. Over the years though, the stuff gradually got more and more expensive attaining, one ominous morning, the threshold of seven Shekels."
Ramzi's son, his wife, and two boys listen appreciatively. A third boy provides futuristic sound effects playing Tetris.
"My uncle was a poor man, and seven Shekels for Arak, despite a clinging fondness for the stuff, proved too big a bite from his budget. So instead, he goes down to the café to sit and play backgammon with his Muslim friends. He starts complaining to them; Arak costs seven Shekels now. That's your fault. You guys are not supposed to drink alcohol. That's for Christians only. For you, it's a sin, so don't. Supply and demand. If you stop drinking, and just stick to tea, the price will go down again and everybody's happy."
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?"
About this blog Ramallah for Real
A young Belgian's tales and observations on daily life in the West Bank as an NGO employee, by Tom Kenis.
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