Al Quds

I went to Jerusalem yesterday. As it usually does, the entire time there felt like a dream; everything is very surreal in Jerusalem. Surreal and tense. I know I should be in a city that is the capital of two states, but I mostly see tourists. Yesterday was Palm Sunday, so they were all carrying palm tree leaves high over their heads. Packs of tourists, led by a guide in a priest robe, all wearing red scarves tied around their necks, and all holding tall leaves of a palm tree that bob over their heads as they walk.

Standing in the Old City, a man with a long beard wearing a Muslim robe and hat speaks perfect English and tries to lure us into his shop. Somehow, I’m soon standing in front of a mirror and he’s putting a keffiyeh on me. He touches me a little too much in the process, and I think that this man can’t be Muslim. We try to go see the Dome of the Rock, but at the entrance, Jewish policemen tell us it’s closed for tourists. I’ve never been close to it before, and from the stone stairways we stand on I can see its golden dome and blue mosaic walls and I feel some sort of impression from its beauty. I glance to my left, and the Israeli policeman is looking at me.

We visit the City of David, an Israeli archaeological tourist site built on top of the Palestinian neighborhood of Silwan. We walked through the well-maintained façade of the site, somehow almost entirely populated by young Israeli soldiers. A group sat in a row on a bench in front of red potted flowers; they laughed and shoved each other around. One sat alone smelling one of the flowers. A group of Swedish tourists holding bibles spoke about old stones being found in archeological digs.

We left the complex and walked fifty meters down the street to the Palestinian neighborhood. We found the modest Wadi Hilweh information center, run by Palestinians to confront the narrative of the City of David. The center was just a room with walls made of bamboo screens, with photos and maps hanging on them. We learned that they restricted by Israel to build further.

A man named Ahmed, who sat in the doorway as we approached, worked with one crutch to stand and greet us. He told us later that he had been shot in both legs by the Israeli army, while walking with his two children. He was targeted because he worked at the center, and because he often videotapes the actions of the settlers and army.

He sat and told us stories of the settlers who regularly move into Palestinian homes, destroy olive trees and arm themselves with automatic rifles. Any pleas to Israeli court go unheard. The Palestinians are only allowed to build on their houses if they submit to Israeli archaeologists digging beneath their house first. If they find any stones with some archaeological relevance, they will have to give up their home.

“This place has a history that is thousand of years old. Of course they will find these stones they are looking for, and we will lose more homes. So we can’t build.”

A young Palestinian boy came in yelling his name happily. He took Ahmed’s crutch and carried it around the room proudly. Ahmed laughed with a big smile. The boy took the crutch and left it outside. Later, Ahmed had to ask someone to get it for him, still laughing.

I left the center to take the bus to the post office in East Jerusalem, on Salahadin Street. I needed to wait for the bus right outside the City of David complex. I stood in the sun for twenty minutes, watching tourists and soldiers walk in and out, clutching a large bag of books I needed to send home. Some of the Israeli security guards from the complex began to notice me, and came to talk to me. They asked me something in Hebrew, and I told them I didn’t speak Hebrew.

“Where do you need to go?”

“I’m waiting for the bus,” I said.

“What bus? There is no bus here, you need to walk up there,” he pointed up the street towards the Old City. He was tall, and wore a kiippah and sports sunglasses on top of his head.

“I’m waiting for bus 76, does it come here?”

He looked confused. “Are you sure you want that bus? That bus is for Arabs.” He spoke to another security guard in Hebrew, apparently telling him what I said. They both looked at me incredulously. “That bus is dangerous for you.”

I stared at them blankly. I didn’t know what to say. I told them I had been there before, I thought it was okay. We stood in silence for a moment, and I told them I would wait up the road a bit.

Ten minutes later the bus approached. The Palestinian man driving looked at me just as incredulously as the guards. He almost didn’t stop, and when he did he asked where I was going. I told him Salahadin, and he said “Yalla, etla (enter).”

He and all of the bus seemed wary of my presence the whole ride. I wanted to stand and tell them that I wasn’t a settler. I was visiting Silwan, not the City of David. I lived in Palestine and I wanted to see freedom for them. The words sounded stupid in my head and I sat in silence. Later, the bus driver yelled at me for not paying, and I gave him 5 shekels.

Later, after I went to the post office, I walked slowly down the street, outside the walls of the Old City in East Jerusalem. Tourists walked on either side of me, speaking in different languages I didn’t understand. It was warm and the sun reflected off the white Jerusalem stone. I saw a Palestinian boy who was maybe 7 or 8 pick up a stone and raise it over his head as if he was going to throw it at some tourists. He moved in slow motion, so nobody noticed. His hand slowly arced over his head and he maid whooshing sound effects. We made eye contact as I passed him, and he smiled at me, his arm in the air. I smiled back at him.