I’ve been of two minds over whether to talk about the occupation in this blog. On the one hand, it’s the sort of politicized topic that inflames passions and may put me at odds with some friends/family who just want to catch up on my confusing life progressions. It also probably won’t change anyone’s preexisting opinion about the issue and it also continues the reduction of the Palestinian people and their lives to that of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. On the other hand, it is a reality, albeit one that I have the privilege – unlike my friends, teachers, and fellow Nablus residents – to largely ignore if I so choose. This weekend, however, was a weird one and I felt that I needed to talk about it.
The West Bank is a weird place. In some ways, it feels like many of the other Arab cities and countries I’ve lived in and shares many of both their positive and negative aspects: the cities are full of the kind of vibrant pedestrianism that much of America seems to have lost (even New York doesn’t have quite the same rate of street produce, clothes, and snack providers as Nablus does and its size is much smaller); you can buy fresh bread and eggplant for a song; people can be both incredibly friendly and helpful towards strangers and extremely aggressive and rude towards them (the ratio of decent human being to total asshole seems to remain more or less constant in every place I’ve been from preschool on); there’s a great cafe culture that combines the joys of a hipster coffee shop with that of a dive bar (though I do miss real dive bars . . .); there are gender relations that are a lot more complicated than they are portrayed in the media or even by the participants in the societies themselves; and there are lots of frustrated young people who are depressed about their economic prospects, disappointed that their college degrees haven’t led to adequate employment, and who fantasize about futures elsewhere (ideally in the US but also in Europe) whom I worry will be even more frustrated when they learn, even once they’ve reached America, how hard it is to climb the social ladder in a fundamentally unequal world. This hope for economic emancipation abroad is, thanks to the domination of American media world-wide, linked to an uncomfortable idealization of white America, with a corresponding acquiescence towards American forms of racism (this topic deserves a blog post of its own, but suffice it to say that I’ve heard the n-word used casually in every Middle Eastern country I’ve lived in).
Along with all the problems faced by Tunisians, Jordanians, Moroccans, and Lebanese (who also have some special issues of their own to contend with) of corruption, neoliberalism, and inequality, Palestinians also have to deal with the steady settler colonization of their land and their lack of any substantial form of self-determination. As a foreigner, I only tangentially experience this occupation, often through its notable absence. In some ways, Israel-Palestine feels like NAFTA on steroids: like with the US and Mexico, economic borders are open but labor ones are closed, but unlike with the US and Mexico, Israel controls both sides of the border, making the West Bank more of an economic fiefdom than an international trading partner.
This means that there are numerous Israeli-manufactured products available in the grocery stores here, in most supermarkets you’re as likely to see packaging in Hebrew as you are in Arabic. One of my teachers discussed the anxiety Palestinian companies feel when competing with high-quality Israeli products (a fact which classical economist readers will argue pushes Palestinian producers to improve their products’ quality while those who worry about structural limitations and Israeli industrial subsidies will worry that this sets an impossible standard to match, forcing the closure or devaluation of domestic industries).
I think it’s easy, with the heady talk of “two state solutions” and the building of walls (as well as labor restrictions) to forget how economically integrated the two territories are. If you want to really get sucked into IR number crunching nerddom, I highly recommend checking out MIT’s Observatory of Economic Complexity (http://atlas.media.mit.edu/en/). It shows that Palestine’s top export destination is Israel, with $803 million dollars of annual exports, an amount that is almost ten times that of its next biggest export destination, Jordan ($83.3 million). It also imports $2.86 billion dollars worth of goods from Israel, a number three times that of the next four importers combined (China, $258 million, Turkey, $257 million, Jordan, $165 million, and Egypt, $121 million). It should be noted that this is a very one-sided economic story. While 59% of Palestine’s imports come from Israel and 82% of its exports go there, only 1.3% of Israel’s imports come from Palestine and 4.4% of its exports go there.
I’ve been surprised at how expensive basic goods are here, given how cheap my rent is. In Tunis, it was not uncommon to break a 1 dinar coin (itself worth about 50 cents) when shopping in the market or the corner store. In Nablus, you’d be hard pressed to find anything costing less than 2 shekels (about 60 cents). For that price you can buy a cup of cheap tea in Nablus; in Tunis you’d buy a croissant and a coffee. And yes, Palestinians do use Israeli currency in the West Bank which means that they, like the Greeks, are trapped to a currency they don’t control. It’s also a constant reminder of who is in control, although thankfully the Israeli money has pictures of famous scientists and poets on it rather than political figures (African Americans, of course, still have to look at famous slave owners whenever they want to buy most goods in cash . . .)
It always seems ironic that, for all their dreams of traveling to rich, racist, white economic powerhouses (like the US or Europe), none of my Palestinian friends have talked about dreams of working in Israel. Perhaps it doesn’t seem politically possible (though I wonder if it’s really any easier to get a US visa than it is to get an Israeli work permit) or perhaps they believe that they will be able to live happier, less constrained lives in countries where they are not the historical object of scorn (sort of like all the Tunisians I talked to who had decided to pin their hopes on emigrating to Quebec rather than France because they saw it as less racist and discriminatory towards Francophone Muslim immigrants).
The geographic segmentation of the West Bank is perhaps what most outsiders are familiar with when they think of the occupation, however. It’s always jarring to leave Nablus, a city covered in Palestinian flags, Arabic street signs, and posters of Palestinian leaders and enter a highway guarded by Israeli soldiers and watchtowers, flanked with settler bus stops (many of which will take them to Jerusalem much faster than any Palestinian can go), and dotted with Israeli flags and Hebrew streets signs along the way (in these signs, the Arabic name, always second, is usually a transliteration of the Hebrew rather than the actual Arabic place name – so “al-quds,” the Arabic name for Jerusalem gets written as “اورشليم” (oorushaleem) in Arabic). It’s always easy to spot a settlement when traveling between cities, they look like cheap American apartment blocks, the sort of thing you’d find in the exurbs of most major American cities (although they still look better built than the cinder-block standard of most Palestinian towns), and they are always greener than the areas around them (presumably due to high water use, a disparity that has stung in a week where our apartment’s water level dropped to a trickle).
Yet all of this, at least of the white boy outsider, feels more or less separate from the Arab-Palestinian world of Nablus. It’s something that doesn’t seem to breach the city walls much (though rarely a week goes by that I don’t hear some sort of fighter jet fly overhead). This is not the case with Hebron. Hebron has been historically important to Jews, Christians, and Muslims because it is believed that Abraham and his family are buried there.
It has also been a site of ongoing tension. While there had long been a population of Sephardi Jews in the city, the influx of new Zionist immigrants into the city and countryside raised tensions culminating in the Hebron Massacre of 1929 (part of the larger 1929 Western Wall riots in which members of both communities attacked one another in an outpouring of tension between them). Between this and the violence of the 1939 Great Arab Revolt, most of the Jewish community ultimately fled the city. In 1967, following the Israeli capture of the West Bank, the city came under Israeli military control and settlers began moving in. Unlike in the reset of the West Bank, these settlements are in the heart of the city, meaning settlers and Palestinians were living check by jowl. This was even true in the Tomb of the Patriarchs, where both Jews and Muslims (Christians too) prayed. On February 14, 1994 a Jewish extremist opened fire on Muslim worshipers during Friday prayers, killing 29. Since then, the tomb is separated by a barrier that allows each side to access Abraham’s cenotaph but not each other (cenotaph, by the way, is one of those fancy SAT words that you inadvertently learn in grad school. It means “empty tomb” because the bodies themselves are buried in a sealed cave below ground. There’s a shaft where you can look down into the cave but you can’t enter it).
All this leaves the city with a prison-like feeling. To enter the tomb, visitors need to go through Israeli-manned security checkpoints. I was told that, as a foreigner, I could visit the Jewish-half of the tomb complex, though not on Saturday (which is when we were there). It was eerie to be able to hear the Jewish worshipers through the partition, an effect similar to hearing the call to prayer while standing with Jewish worshipers at the Western Wall, knowing that Muslims would soon be gathering to pray on the other side.
I was glad that non-Muslims were allowed to visit (actually, I was told that there is a Christian worshiping part too, though the internet says otherwise . . .). Besides the quiet joy of being in a spiritually peaceful place (however unfortunately tinged with reminders of violence, including both the aforementioned barriers and poorly-patched bullet holes), it has lovely art-deco-era ceiling frescoes (which remind me of similar European-inspired early-20th-century ceiling work in the Bardo museum in Tunisia), a beautiful marble mihrab (prayer leader niche), and, best of all, an elegantly carved wooden minbar (prayer stairs akin to an Islamic pulpit) built under Salahaddin (who reconquered the city from the crusaders in the 11th century). Having a local friend show us around helped too and we had lots of smiles and greetings from worshipers who were happy for our visit.
In fact, the whole city has this edgy-tension-mixed-with-welcoming-people vibe. In the old city, shop keepers are happy to talk to you about their anti-occupation work and groups of activisty tour groups were not an uncommon site (indeed, I think I saw more white people in 2 hours in Hebron than 2 months in the rest of the West Bank). This all took place on old city streets that sit in the shadow of settler apartments. The road parallel to the main old city road is now occupied by settlers and concrete barriers have been placed at all the major intersections to block traffic. In addition, because the settlers who live above the Palestinian street throw their garbage out the window onto the street below, a fence canopy has been set up to catch the garbage and keep it from falling on the street. One teenager took us up to the roof of his house, one of the last remaining Arab-owned ones on the main strip. He told us that his father had refused to sell the house and his family had been assaulted numerous times, one of them resulting in his pregnant mother miscarrying. Even if one refused to take him at his word, it was hard to ignore the presence of barbed wire, sandbags, and a guard tower on the roof adjacent to his. Across the street we could see a group of Israeli soldiers manning another guard position on the opposite rooftop. This mixture of concrete roadblocks, fences, barbed wire, police checkpoints, and guard towers makes the whole old city feel like it was under siege.
Weirdest of all was the fact that, as foreigners, we were allowed to enter the settlement in the old city. Access to these streets are restricted for Palestinians who don’t still live there (there are still some families living in houses in the closed-off street), though our friend who has an East Jerusalem ID was allowed in as well (there are three types of IDs for Palestinians: Blue for Palestinians with Israeli citizenship, Green for those in the West Bank and Gaza Strip and a separate (white?) card for those from East Jerusalem). Upon entering, the street signs suddenly changed into Hebrew and English, with park benches and trees provided for by rich American donors. Young Jewish children played soccer in a playground while off-duty soldiers lounged on the grass. In other words, it was surreal. It’s weird to see playing children and realize that they will grow up with their only idea of “home” being a colonial enclave, where soldiers and walls are there to protect you rather than arrest you and keep you out, where, someday, the idea of throwing garbage on people in the street below will become perhaps second-nature. I suppose it’s not so different than parts of Saigon, Calcutta, and Batavia 100 years ago, or, more recently, Johannesburg, Derry, and Hyde Park, Chicago (I feel like Americans should win an award for concrete-saving since our walls seem to be just as efficient despite their invisibility . . .)
I posted my general photos of Hebron on Facebook but felt weird showing the pictures of the settlement there. I didn’t really want “likes” or comments on them. I’m going to post them here to give a bit of a sense of the place. I didn’t really feel comfortable taking pictures of people so you’ll have to squint into the margins. Truthfully, I wasn’t really comfortable doing anything there.
On the brighter side of things, I had some of the best hummus in my life in Hebron. It was the only hummus that rivals Abu Shokri’s in Jerusalem. Hebron, come for the conflict, stay for the hummus.