One day in Palestine. Nothing’s happened in the best way it
could.
The actual trip went without a problem, except what I
suppose is the typical 20 minute detainment at the airport that all West
Bank-bound travelers sit through: yes, we’re traveling to Hebron; yes, we’re
English teachers; no, we’re not Muslims.
On our way through Jerusalem I caught a sight of the Dome of
the Rock, round and brilliant among the square sandy buildings, the brightest
gem in the crown of Jerusalem. The Damascus Gate, Al-Aqsa mosque, we passed it
all without an introduction, but even a passing nod to those historical giants
was worth the 5,000-mile flight.
Simon and I made each taxi and bus connection with zero trouble,
which was a nice welcome in a country not known for its ease of travel. It’s so
hilly that everything is a scene of small bushes up terraced slopes with crowns
of white stone buildings. No steel, no walls of shiny glass windows. Only hills beyond hills, so rich in texture that
fighting to own it seems almost natural, like a priceless patterned rug left to
two brothers.
The school was easy to find, right on the main drag of
Hebron. Apparently the director is away
in Amman with some of the staff, and our apartment situation wasn’t clear to
the two men sitting in the main office, but a Danish girl named Ditte showed up
and it was decided that we’d stay with her for a day or two. Our first friend.
That night we went to dinner at the Café Hebron with her and
her roommate, another blonde Dane named Sarah working with the same NGO. We’d
finished our hummus and mansaf (lamb and rice) when they asked “Are you guys
tired, or do you want to head to Friends Café and smoke hookah?”
What jetlag? I feel great.
After an hour of smoking and trading stories with the Danes
we did feel a little worn. Also satisfied, and elated. We hit the mattresses
knowing that we’d done it right: friends, food, all without any effort. We felt
even better when we woke up 13 hours later at 1:00pm.
This entire experience still feels like a trip, though. I
don’t own anything I see. I’m walking through an old painting done by some
gifted artist, but I can’t enter into it. We have experienced none of the hostility
famous to the area, haven’t made friends with Palestinians, haven’t formed the
connections that will make this a home. Of course we’ve been here not even two
days. But more than seeing Palestine I want to do life here, I want to be a
part of the success and suffering of a people who are more and more losing their
home to Israeli settlers. What I’m really hungry for is another country that I
can call mine. But it takes time to make good friends with a country.
So, I’ll keep myself full with teaching English, something I
love. I’ll gaze at dark people and old cars and graffiti, fill my ears with
Arabic and calls to prayer, and wait until I can feel a part of life in the
West Bank.
