Power-Source

This could be an entry about lying, the moral implications of bearing a false-witness to stay present with Palestine, how adeptly or poorly I can lie in the face of another Israeli Airport Officer or the nuances of the latest lie: "my parents booked the round-trip a month ago and forgot to change it--well, it's their money..."

This could be an entry about the uncanny intimacy of being searched by the thin young man wearing disposable gloves and the way his hands moves up and down my body like no one's have in months. While he swabbed the inside of my pants for bomb residues, I was forced to hide my amusement. A voice in my head said "this isn't a game," but another said "yes it is-- it HAS to be a game or you cannot thrive under this pressure..."

This could also be an entry about the microscopic social interactions I had with this team of sleuths. As they took apart my suitcase, a case of characters filled my world. An older lady officer grew impatient with me when she discovered that I had a pair of tiny scissors that I had, truthfully, forgotten about; I smiled and laughed at her like the entitled wanker I was pretending to be. ( "Oh they're so small, I'd forgotten about them." ). My trumpet drew interest, having so many cavities to search. Somehow, a USB drive had fallen into the bell and became lodged there when I inserted the conical stand. We took turns beat on the bell-pipe until a pair of them took it into a back room and returned with the cap of the USB drive. This entry is not about that or how my host easily retrieved it with some IKEA tongs here in Geneva (she's Canadian). Inevitably, there was a cute airport officer. She suggested that I try blowing the device out. Happy to perform, I played her "Under-Bridge Blues". "It is enough--" said the other lady. Too late: her subordinate smiled at me.

I almost made this about the lotion. The Israeli officers opened every pocket and rubbed swab-tipped wands along the insides of my suitcase and items inside, including my computer mouse. If they were looking for gunpowder there, all they found were traces of homus, mishmish, nutella, and lotion. The bottle of lotion I had so absent-mindedly tossed into the bag for the sake of my ashy hands had an Arabic label. I admitted I had bought it "in Bethlehem, that day." Of course, they could not take the chance that Hamas had teleported into my bathroom, slipped something inside my lotion bottle and then walked out my front door while I was eating hubz wa mishmish. I offered to throw the lotion away but instead the cute officer put it in its own, special box bound for Geneva. I day-dreamed some snide 'lubrication' jokes that are not appropriate for the general audience. I thanked her warmly for her consideration.

This entry is about my power-source: the cable and surge-protector that feed the battery on my Asus laptop. Forget, for a moment, Ben Gurion Air Port in Tel Aviv. Pretend, instead, to be a customs officer in Switzerland. Come out of the back in your wheel-chair to greet a young man in a black scarf and hat who has lost a 'computer part'. Take from him the Turkish Airlines receipt and ask him why he is here. Learn that in Tel Aviv they confiscated the power-source and said they would send it on a later flight. Listen to him explain how these security guards had told him they must have a machine check the device for anything someone might have put in there while he was not looking. This poor guy: let him use the telephone so he can get the address of the people he is staying with in Switzerland. Shoot him a glance when he lingers too long on the phone. Say, "this is what they do in Tel Aviv: we have been having problems with them." Smile and wish him well because you already know what David Wildman, my regional supervisor, told me the next day.

"Don't count on getting that power-cord back." He said they often say that and just throw it away. Its a deterrent tactic. Yet, I took it in stride for compassion's sake. First, compassion for my Palestinian brothers and sisters because I know this is what I must endure to stay present with them. I am not entitled to better treatment and this is one more story that brings us closer together, one more reason to tell their story wherever I go in life. It is also compassion for Israeli airport officers who are just executing policy. They are a middle-aged woman who wants to retire, a young man who would much rather pat-down his girlfriend, a young woman who would rather be listening to music then going through my underwear, and others like them. Israel's fears are plausible, if life is a Tom Clancy or Ian Fleming novel. It is even more unlikely that anyone put explosives in my charge-cable, more than in my lotion, but I could imagine that. Israel's policies are evil, even impish, but I am glad that I have transcended the good-guys versus bad-guys paradigm that perpetuates the rationalization violence. Israel needs a tough-love compassion; they are less evil than they are insane.

They also failed in their endeavour, Monday. I was nervous as they started removing clothes from my bag but they quit too soon. On top of the towel but below everything else, in the middle, was a brown hoody with a book inside: "The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine." This book is not about how Palestine is good and Israel is evil. No. It is a book about the rhetoric and mistaken theology that formed the historical foundations of the conflict, going back to the British Mandate. It is better than inflammatory: it is illuminating. I hope to start and finish it this week so I will not have to smuggle it back again. If I succeed, it could be a power source for my itineration speeches. At the same time, I cannot help but musing that, if it were a chunk of C4 set to detonate when one of those security swabs made contact then, well, about five Israelis would have bit the dust no matter how careful they were. No tactics or technology can replace having cordial relationships: wi'am > warfare.

Yet, with the book was a kofiah (a traditional scarf) that I brought to trade with my colleague for some leggings from Germany. She was so pleased to have it, as much as I am pleased to be warmed from head-to-foot. There is so much to tell from just two days in Geneva but one thing is certain: I needed a hug. No, I need more than just one-- and even more than just hugs. I needed someone to listen to me for a while and commiserate about Israeli security with me... and even to buy me a drink.

Aside from God, a hug and an understanding ear are the greatest power-source I could come in contact with right now. I could not do this dance again in a week's time on anything less than that.

[UPDATE] For the record, the Israelis sent the power-cable. I must admit that I was more eager to see them keep their word than to 'burn' them for being jerks.

Deficit

In January of this year, Gerry the spiritual director challenged me to think about deficit as part of my spiritual journey. I wrote part of a journal entry:

I live in a fortress of solitude. It is not at the North Pole, like Superman’s, but...

In those days, my main employments were shoveling lake-effect snow and brooding about my job-search. That deficit, the lack of purpose, melted into the Mediterranean on my way to the Holy Land. There is no lack of things to do, see, or write about in this context. Even if I must push creative endeavors to the back of the queue, I still have a queue. Why am I writing about deficit?

...when some ‘thing’, an object or relationship or resource or whatever, ceases or never begins to be there ... Deficit is all things that are less, insufficient, misplaced, removed and un-actualized.

I could be writing on Palestine’s behalf but I am not. They try to live abundantly. This is my last journal entry before I leave for Geneva. I will be gone.

“Gerry,” I said, “I think I understand what you mean: deficit can be a vacuum or it can be a space.” He nodded emphatically at this: “...and when it is a vacuum, all manner of things get sucked-in.”

“But when it is a space... then there is a place for, I guess, resonance?”. He was pleased with that.

“Exactly. Resonance. Very good...”

Only in resonance can the beauty of the missing ‘something’ be gleamed. Sometimes the resonance is the beauty to be gleamed, like the inside of a kettle drum or the pregnant pause after your doctor says “we successfully removed the tumor.”

Gerry encouraged me to settle into my deficits last winter and appreciate the present moment for what was there, resonating. Resonance is problematic because it is not always filled with choirs of angels.

The problem is that you can fill your deficits with whatever you want but things may not fit their container. When the jammed pieces of that life crumble and fall out, lesser substances still seep in through your cracks. This brings to mind the time I watched the movie “Office Space” and took a shot every time someone said “TPS reports”.

My use of lesser substances has tapered to nothing; I turn to friends or the news, at least, to fill spaces. Yet, however adeptly I squeeze the poisons out of my system, I must contend with being emptied. Grand Rapids or Bethlehem, a cold bed waits for me every night this December.

Gerry encouraged me to think of deficit not as an absence but as something that has a substance of its own. In the wake of this illumination, my thought life is continually mutating. Gerry, speaking on another matter, said that “perhaps it matters less what thoughts and feelings you have than how you relate to them...”

I realized today that there are two kinds of Faith and I have been enmeshed with one of them. I employ what I call “mustard seed prayers”: mountain tumblers. This audacious Faith gives us the courage to hurtle obstacles, risk failure, and stick like epoxy to our convictions. This is the Faith that empowers us to persevere through dissonances, pressing on toward what we know is right. The other side of Faith is patient it sits on top of the mountain through all weather. This Faith coats us in olive-oil and prevents adversity from lingering with our souls. This is a Faith that breathes inside a vacuum, can stomach stagnating uncertainty, and wait trustingly for conditions to ripen.

This Faith is found in fasting: embracing the deficit.

Deficit is not the woman who disappeared over a hill six months ago: it is the space she vacated and...

I do not miss her.

From time to time, I have to repel the suggestion that I try to date a nice Palestinian woman. If she is a nice lady, her culture will insulate her. Pairs come together through channels of church/mosque and family, often with beautiful results but sometimes not; romance is not necessarily absent but, either way, there is an established social network that brings nice couples together. I am a guest here. I could date another guest, an international, but we turnover every three months with no guarantees of return.

Logically, with limited energy, I would not set my sights further afield but, naturally, that is what I do. It is only speculative unless I meet someone who is a close match to what I really want, what is really missing. Then, that woman can be on the other side of the metaphorical check-point. I can enumerate all the obstacles and fill my empty time with reflection, rhetorical devices, and prayers. I can convert what might be a period of waiting, in deficit, into a situation that demands determination. “Nobody said never...”

...there was an instance...

The same friends who helped me prime my engines back-pedaled and started to pump-up the airbags. I thought they had empowered me to be confident and persistent but they all turned, in accord, from encouragement to comfort. “Be patient ... trust God ... you’re a nice guy...”

I could hardly stand it. Nothing I did had mattered very much. I used to fill the deficit with problems of my own construction, looking for what was wrong with me or what I had done wrong in order to defuse the absurdity of emptiness. Yet, there is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with her. Circumstances are more than sufficient to delay, if not preclude, the whole thing. Halas: there is nothing to be done.

Anyone who has done a large jigsaw puzzle has reached this point. It is time to lift up the puzzle and tuck it into the corner for another day. I released my epoxy grip and slipped-away, back to that vacant bed for an extra long-night of sleep. In the final hours before sunrise, I had a dream sequence:

I thought that I was in California but the flora was Belizean and the architecture was Palestinian. It was as if Bullet-Tree and Beit-Jala had a love-child. I was walking around a court-yard area, admiring the chaté palms and noticing that the stone was still wet and cool. Then, she came to get me...

I don’t know her name...

...she called me inside and we laid down together in the chill of the morning. It took a few minutes to get situated, scooching close together and getting our arms and legs positioned comfortably, but we finally got comfortable. We talked about something trivial as we snuggled each other to sleep: cozy. She was as familiar as she was beautiful but I had never seen her before in my life.

...which was the best part.

Atlas Effect

I refer to it as the Atlas Effect, though I am not always quite sure what I am talking about. It touches on that tension between the individual and the collective, as if those two were the only dimensions.

The idea was born out of Steve Jobs’ death, when over half the internet blossomed with heart-felt tributes and the remainder plucked-up their bows and slings, since there is something fundamentally unbalanced about mourning so fervently for a wealthy white-American when children in the third world suffer and die daily. I live in a third world country territory—so do many of my favorite people.

I appreciate Steve Jobs’ work with Apple. I played “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?” on an Apple II in the early-nineties and listen to iTunes daily. Still, I contended that we were mistaken to think Steve Jobs was the genesis of his own success. ‘He is only the locus of those achievements’, I said, ‘an intersection of other peoples contributions. He had a mother...’ and so on. At the same time, I watched the level of conflicts in Bethlehem rise just as Zoughbi Zoughbi and his mediators rose to the occasion. I saw what he means to Bethlehem (and peace activists worldwide), not to mention his family, and wondered what it would be like if he were in a car accident. What would happen to me if he were gone? Pull the key-stone out of an arch. You cannot just replace him.

I started to cook an entry in my head. It started to get lengthy and I miscarried it. That’s just as well: I can talk about my dead grandfather and the shadow he cast over my Dad some other time. Forget it: the Atlas Effect is our tendency to gravitate toward the magnitude of impact located in one person, forgetting its genesis is elsewhere – in God, in other people, in good fortune. Steve Jobs is the key-stone but we make him the entire arch. Adolf Hitler is a detonator but we make him the whole bomb and all its fall-out.

Meanwhile, I find myself screaming for Palestine, afraid to be a silent German: nothing left to say because I watched it happen and under-estimated my impact. On the deepest level, we are not just an intersection of phenomena. We have an essence: each, a manitou of our own. The Atlas Effect becomes dangerous when the line between manitou and all that someone does is lost. The greater the achievement, or failure, the more weight is placed on that fragile set of endemic attributes. The full radiance of the sun belongs to that person but also the weight of the planets because they matter that much, in their entirety. They become something to be measured with scales instead of painted on the canvas.

At worst, a person could become consumed with the facts of their self as an entity—a narcissist. The whisper of original sin lives in this thought—when a person becomes a god and must answer for every action as if it were intrinsic. Everyone’s manitou is dragging a train of acquired pieces in its wake. I believe that is why Jesus was somewhat evasive about being the Son of God; he shed that train on the mountain (Luke 4) when the devil tempted him. As demons cried-out his name, he shut them up. When the disciples discovered, he asked them to keep it quiet. On trial, according to my understanding, when they asked him whether or not he was the Son of God he said something akin to “You say I am.” He never rebuked them for saying so, because it was true (we’ll talk about Christology later...), but he allowed them to recognize it. Jesus was not keen on publicists... and my thoughts go on, not yet complete...

“And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul/self? Is anything worth more than your soul?” (Matthew 16:26)

The Atlas-effect is about me, too. Three months ago I felt as if I had to tug with great strength against all the anchor-ropes lashed to my essence. Other young adult missionaries sat with me in the depths and loosened my knots; we found buoys.

If I have missed my optimum windows it is because I needed to be who I am now: Catch-22. I did not realize that only I still saw myself as sitting in a bathtub, reading David Sedaris. Only I saw myself for the list of selfish or stupid things I did when my world was smaller. Nobody sees that, now. They see me standing in front of the West Michigan Annual conference defending alternate sexualities. They see me flashing a cheesy grin at the IDF during a protest at Al-Waleja. They say things like “amazing”, “admirable”, “adorable”, “unique”. I’ve heard each more than once, from more than one person. What saves me from Atlas-effect is being able to say, every time, “you and God made me this way. You built the house that sits on my manitou – and it is not a mansion imposed on the landscape. It is a Frank Lloyd Wright house, beautiful for how it blends with what was already there.” One word from the right person might fundamentally change how I see myself – so much that I composed this.

I walked through the front door of Wi'am with a cup of zata yesterday. I wanted to swell to thirty meters tall to give the Apartheid Wall a titanic kick and punch-out the gate blocking the Jerusalem-Hebron Road; I could see Rachel’s Tomb, at last. Then what? More problems. It reminded me of the difference between WILL and CAN—because I CAN go through check-points and see Rachel’s Tomb the long way, with patience. The lesson I learned in Tel Aviv is germinating.

I arrived during the worst possible window: in the middle of the night. They did not let me just pass. Sitting in limbo before my interrogation, I knew there was no story that would guarantee I WOULD reach Bethlehem. I acknowledged that God might have another plan. Still, I considered my doubts without fusing with them because I believed I COULD. Inshallah, I have the capacity to leave and do it again. Circumstances may spite or delay my hopes, because I cannot control other people, but I CAN fuse with my Faith and gain herculean perseverance. Forget the optimum window—give me any window.

So, do not tell me that I WILL because that would be disingenuous. Remind me that I CAN.

For a Few Shekels More...

I was a loser as soon as I saw the bracelet, made of beads in green, white, black, and red: the Palestinian flag. I already had two stretchy bracelets, strung together with the same material that makes cheap socks fit. Because this was Hebron, I managed to get these at a deal: two for fifteen shekels. This guy ‘had’ me. With no one-pieces in my bag, I could not pay him the twelve shekels he had worked me to—down from fifteen but still more than the ten I asked. I took off a bracelet and handed it over...

...I had been in the country for just a few weeks...

* * *

My love for tea does not help me. Once, on my way through Bethlehem I was taken aside by a shop-keeper. It was their tradition of hospitality, he said. So, I sat and spoke with him and his neighbor. This time, he was the one who got a two-for-one deal. For the next fifteen minutes, he lamented the way that tourists are funneled into the Nativity Church without visiting the market. He also told me how lucky I was to be American, inflicting soft but persistent waves of guilt upon me. I bought a mug...

* * *

The parents know enough to send the children after you. They are professionals, as Zoughbi warned me, and that starts at a young age. There is nothing unethical about it here, either, which is why I had such a hard time as I left Hebron. “La, shukraan—I already have bracelets...”. A boy of about seven followed me for more than half the market-- and watched me make the deal for the Palestinian bracelet.

* * *

“Look,” he says and closes his fingers together, like he’s grabbing a gnat from the air. It means wait a minute. “Look what you are about to do,” he says and reaches for his calculator. It’s the calculator trick, something to lend credibility to the process of haggling, something to show me he is a professional. He must be just out of high school—or not—offering me jewelry for my mother that costs upwards of 600 shekels, after bringing him down from 800. I reiterated, “why don’t you show me something else—I like these shawls...” He kept making offers on the jewelry... adding and subtracting ear-rings, offering a different pendant of the same price...

* * *

“Because I know you love Palestinians... look what you are about to do...”

* * *

Maybe it is just the lack of service in the United States. In the US, it is not culturally acceptable to intercept a customer on the street. You generally do not tell them “welcome” and shake their hand. In America, a young man does not take a kofiah off the shelf and place it, gingerly, on the top of your head without asking. He usually does not tell you where it was made and point to the hand-stitching. He does not accept a mix of currencies that, you realize later, add-up to a little more than you had agreed. He probably also does not forget who you are by the next week...

“Welcome, my brother! From where are you?”

* * *

He placed an olive branch in my hand as I entered the garden at Gethsemane. After a day of wandering Jerusalem’s Old City, I was so blessed to reach a place of rest. The spirit of contemplation hung thickly on the centuries-old olive trees.

“Here is a branch, pruned from the same olive trees that Jesus prayed at...”

“Shukraan...”

“It is very Holy to us, here, would you please give ten shekels? It is very Holy.”

I felt obligated to give ten shekels. Could I hand back this olive branch, from these sanctified trees, as if it were not worth just ten shekels? As I dug in my change purse, he saw I had another five shekels. “Please, five more shekels. It is very Holy to us here.”

It was very Holy to me too. I was left with no choice. At the same time, I felt offended – as if I had to pay for it to be Holy to me. As if I could only take part in the Holiness because of my money.

* * *

The Hebron Old City is much more of a gauntlet than Bethlehem. It is not as long as the Muslim Quarter in Jerusalem but they see far less tourists, so that there was an atmosphere of urgency. Everyone was catching our eye. An older man had me pegged. “Old keys! Old keys to doors in Hebron!” I spun in my tracks. This is the kind of souvenir I want: something old, authentic, and symbolic. A key unlocks a door. A key means the ‘right to return’ to your home. In other words, I was a loser all over again—having bought the bracelet a minute before. I am embarrassed by what happened next. I eventually came home with the key and an old coin, seventy shekels down. At one point, he took the fifty right out of my hand and said “just a little more”. My fifty was gone, so I did give him twenty more, then took my merchandise and left. All the way home, I retold the story to myself until I felt like I had gained something precious and given an old vendor much-needed cash.

...the sweet scent of delusion...

* * *

*singing to the tune of ‘You Had me at Hello’* Yoooooou lost me at SHALOM ... you should have said Salaaaaaaam; I don’t want to shop at your Israeli store (no no no): it was over from the start... occupation breaks my HEART. You never even had a chance, you know: you lost me at Shalom.”

* * *

“This is a very detailed map but it is all in Arabic.”

“You want to learn Arabic, so maybe you practice,” said the college student who went all the way through the Zoughbi complex, up the stairs, and knocked at my door. I was caught off-guard.

“Naam, indeed. How much do you and your colleagues charge?”

“People usually pay fifty shekels for something like this. It supports our tuition and look how high quality it is.” It was very high quality, indeed. I wanted it shwaya. Yonni: kinda.

“I was only recently a student myself. Could you accept twenty shekels?”

“This is a very detailed map.”

“I know! I really appreciate the quality of this map. Perhaps thirty shekels, then?”
“Yes, I could accept that.”

I reached for my little change-bag. I knew how much was inside, this time. I dumped the whole thing out on the table in front of him.

“It looks like I only have 23 shekels”

“That’s fine, he said,” hiding his disappointment. When he had left, I tossed my empty change-bag aside I gazed with pride at my map—which I could not read, at that point—and reached into my back pocket. There was my wallet, with 140 shekels in it.

“I think I have tricks, too...” I said, chuckling.

* * *

I finally convinced that young guy to sell me a shawl for my mother. Afterwards, he welcomed me to join he and his cousin for tea in the neighboring shop. The post-purchase tea promised to be more authentic, or so I thought. My tea was extremely hot and taking a long time to cool. As it was cooling, his cousin began to talk to me about his collegiate aspirations. In fact, we even talked a little about marriage – missed chances, hopeful prospects. As he finished his tea, he rose and asked me if he could just show me a silk rug.

“Just see how beautiful it is.” It was indeed beautiful. “This is a brand new store—this store has never been here before.” It occurred to me that I had tripped over two young men who had made a significant investment in a business start-up with their uncle. He made me some great offers on those silk rugs.

“How much would you pay for it?”

“I could never give you a fair price because I am too poor. I appreciate your offer, but I have no need for it.”

“For a rich person, I would not lower the price so much...”

“I know, and I appreciate that...”. After a while, he relented and we talked for a while longer. Then, the original dealer came back and they started to tag-team.

Where would I put a silk rug?

* * *

At Al Waleja the Israeli soldiers took a photograph of me in my sunglasses. Brazen as I am, I gave them a thumbs-up and a big smile. I’ve grown a shaggy mop and a scruffy beard, since then, as insurance policies against photo-recognition software. A month ago, I thought getting some nice, wide Palestinian cheap-Os could not hurt. I decided in advance that my goal was ten shekels. My strategy was to scan the market, first, then ask several merchants and haggle with the one who was already closest to ten.

At the end of my scan, I turned around and came to the last shop I had passed. I started examining the sunglass wrack with a shrewd but curious look, or so I imagined. He made his approach. I was braced for anything but what happened.

“Kadesh hatha?”

“Ashera shekel – ten.”

“Ten? Ten shekels?”
“Yes. I charge everyone the same price. It does not matter who you are, to me; everyone is a brother...”

Sold. I was stunned, my expectations defied by this man who chose to play it straight with me just like he would with his own people. I scolded myself, in fact. How could I doubt?

...of course, now the sunglasses are broken...

Check Point Minuets:

I still have not deciphered what they use the first window to do. Today, I walked up and the IDF soldier was busy doing something else. If I dashed through, what a story that would be! On the other hand, my mission is over if I get deported. So, I stood motionless for more than two minutes, timing how long it took for him to look up from his paperwork.

* * *

My first time, no one appeared to be there. Liam and I passed through a long chute of metal bars painted blue, ambled past one empty booth, then crossed to a building that looked like a farm co-op. After another long metal chute and a trip through the metal detector, we walked up to the final booth. The lady in the booth was an IDF soldier in green fatigues, six-point stars embroidered onto the shield-shaped patches on each shoulder. She was slumping low in her chair, leaning back and talking on a cellular phone. As we drew out passports out of our bags, she cast an apathetic glance in our direction and waved us through with a flick of her wrist.

“I’m glad I brought this thing,” I said, pocketing the US passport.

* * *

We had been sitting for at least a half hour before we even heard from Richard, the urologist. These doctors had been to Gaza and back, so that nothing shocked them anymore. Still, not one of them had walked through a Jerusalem check-point until now.

“Friday is always the worst,” said their driver, leaning through the window with a cigarette tucked into the corner of his lip. Along with his aviators, shaved head and polo shirt, the cig made him the archetypical young-Palestinian-driver.

One of the others finally got a text from Rich. I asked if they were doing monkey-business with the turn-styles. Suddenly, a pair of IDF soldiers ran out of a booth, past the line of East Jerusalem-bound buses and away toward what I know must be Rachel’s Tomb, though I’ve never seen it. We waited minutes for something significant to happen: sirens, gunfire, more soldiers. Nothing happened.

“Must be lunch-time,” said Bill.

Just as suddenly, the driver climbed into the van without a word, turned over the ignition and started down the road.

“Hold on—“ Gerri started to say but Bill put a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s just moving the van further from the buses so they can get out. I saw him carefully put his cigarette on the retaining wall.”

True to form, the driver parked the van thirty yards toward Jerusalem, exited the vehicle without a word and returned to his still-smoldering cig.

* * *

The light turned green but nothing moved. The gentleman by the turn-style pushed on it a few times: clack clack. The green light turned-off again, then on, then off, then on, then off. Finally, the metal tines began to move again. A soldier mosied over on the cat-walk and watched us as we shuffled toward the opening. Clank. The light was still green. Then it turned red.

“It seems” I muttered with some bitterness, “that the locks and the lights on the gates do not necessarily coordinate.” Immediately, I started to make attributions. Meanwhile, I was standing in line with over forty Palestinians. They were carrying children, grapes, brief-cases, hats, cell-phones—no weapons, though. When I reached the metal detector, I laid my bag on the conveyor and emptied my pockets into a plastic bin. As I approached the metal detector, it began to beep.

“Try to take off your belt,” advised a man behind me, uncinching his own belt.

* * *

When I saw who was in the booth, I relaxed and casually drew out my passport. When I flashed it, a voice crackled from the speaker embedded in bullet-proof glass. “Wait – where is your visa?”

“Oh, my visa—of course,” I said, turning my passport to the page with the aging visa stamp on it. That stamp was hard-earned. I was a little puzzled, though. I wondered why, two days later, the guard who had waved me through without a second-thought was now very concerned with my visa. Did she recognize me or was this just a day to be difficult, with so many Palestinians in-line behind me? It was Friday.

* * *

There was a big plywood board covering the entrance to the chute. I started to turn around but a nearby cab-driver said “La la... you go” and pointed to the humanitarian lane. I stowed by kaffihah. At the first gate, the turn-stile appeared not to move but a guy shook his head and lifted a little on the gate so it would turn. A few meters away, the first guard was smilingly waving people through, as if it were any other day and not the first day of Eid al Adha.

On the other side, I boarded a bus bound for Damascus Gate. I noticed the driver was listening to Muslim prayer music. I think that the extent of my cultural tolerance was tested by this song. The lyrics were repetitive and, at risk of alienating non-musicians, the harmonies were made of tri-tones, quarter-steps and other dissonances that even my modern sensibilities were having trouble appreciating. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I could see the driver mouthing along to the words. That part, I know, was what made the music Holy and Beautiful.

* * *

Whenever people are in line, there are always some who are more desperate to make progress than others. Once, there was a guy who was too courteous to cut ahead of me and, so, took the liberty of nudging me forward to fill the space where someone else might have cut in front of me. There is an interesting balancing act between the need to save face and be a nice person versus trying to gain any advantage in the midst of occupation. I’ve seen a man crowded remorselessly out of line just minutes before everyone parted like the Red Sea for a woman with a sleeping baby.

The line at the final booth was longer than I had expected. Palestinians pass by three windows every time. The one by the wall, which is a joke, the one by the metal detectors and this final one. Just as it was about to be my turn, the man in front of me let a young woman with several children cut ahead of him. The older lady behind me was obviously not happy but she resisted making a big scene about it. Turning to her, I said “tfudhl” which means “please, go ahead.”

“Shookraan” she said, smiling just a little bit. She stepped toward the window and the guard mumbled something in Arabic, even less recognizable in an Israeli accent. She produced a document and pressed it up against the window for him to read. More mumbling. She looked straight ahead: there was an eye-scanner I had never noticed before. Then, she placed her hand on another scanner. After all of that, she picked-up her purse, fished out a pair of sunglasses and headed into the sunlight.

I stepped to the window and flashed my visa stamp. He waved me through.

* * *

I went on a quest to find the Israeli post-office in West Jerusalem and send mail to far-away places. Just inside the door was a large metal detector and security guard. I recoiled for a moment. He looked at me and smiled. It dawned on me: this is not the same. The post-office that Palestinians use was closed for Eid Al Adha but they would not come here – it is for Israelis. The security guard spoke good English—he was ecstatic to use it, too. “Are you from German?” he said, puzzled at first. I choked a moment (“Min Ameerka, fi Meesheejin” –no, not this time...).

“No, I am from the United States!” I said and smiled at him. He lit-up.
“I love America!” he said and began to chat with me. I could tell that he genuinely did love the idea of America and it touched my heart. He was welcoming me; given the chance, in a different context (in a different world?) I am welcome in Israel. This young guy, this regular Israeli, sitting bored at the post-office in West Jerusalem, was welcoming me to Israel with kinder eyes.

He asked me to take-off my belt and hand him my bag and other things. I obliged. There was almost no hassle at all. I thanked him and went into the lobby to sit because it had been a long day, already.

I expected that to be it. On my way back, I climbed onto the 21 Bus (which I always mistake for the 24) that swings through East Jerusalem and out to Beit Jala. It was standing-room only, something I had not encountered since I left Belize three years ago. Yet, I was having a great time. West Jerusalem had been exactly that: WEST. It felt like a US city drained of English and decked-out in Pro-Israel paraphernalia—which would be great, if I didn’t know what I know: if I was what the post-office guard thought I was. Instead, I was totally digging some Arab music with the young bus driver.

We had to make a stop. For some reason, it was taking longer than usual. The driver exited; two IDF soldiers entered. I won’t pretend this was scary. I already knew what it was going to be: they were going to check every single Palestinian’s paperwork. ‘Two or three other buses with less people on them,’ I thought, ‘had probably already gone by but this one was just full enough to make everyone’s day longer...’

I was standing next to some people from Europe; we all dug for our pass-ports and opened to the visa-stamp page. When the guard reached us, he waved us away dismissively: he didn’t care. A lady shook her head and said something in French. We met eyes and I nodded: this is unfair.

There were no arrests: every Palestinian had their papers. All of them.

* * *

I was already late to meet someone, going through the check-point. Genius at the first booth did not look up at me for two minutes. I trickled into the barn-like structure that is the check-point: there were long lines at two gates. ‘At least two gates are open, this time,’ I chuckled. I spotted my contact in a line as I joined it and waved to her as she went through the turn-style. I noticed that the Palestinian men in line were making jokes and taking off their belts so it would not take as long once they reached the conveyor belt. In Palestine, they are practiced at humor in tense situations. These are the people who were raised with the reality of check-points, carrying papers with them at all times and subjected to the latest ridiculous security devices. Going to pay condolences in Jerusalem is like getting into Area-51.

I took off my belt. It felt good. ...it felt good for two reasons, bear with me. The second reason is that I entertained the notion I was in solidarity with blue-collar Palestinians. As a peace-and-justice nerd, I was geeked-out to stand in line with my belt in one hand and the waist of my pants held firmly in the other.

Then, a stream of garbled Israeli-ized Arabic spilled over the loudspeakers. The lights of the gate went dark. They were closing that gate. The massive line of people slithered back through queuing rails and over to the other, equally massive line. It feels awkwardly intimate to have your belt off with so many other people. Here we were: so many beltless men crammed into line with women in hijaabs. There was nothing to do about it, either. In fact, no one was impressed that I had my belt off with them – they are trying to live their lives. The lights of this gate were flashing on and off, tauntingly (am I seeing things?). One man leaned casually against the gate in hopes it would turn when it was actually unlocked. Garbled Arabic: he stops. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that one ‘shabaab’ was still waiting at the previous gate, in hopes of being first if it was all just a fake-out.

As I came around the bend of the queue, I discovered I could read two out of the three languages on the wall over the door.

[something in Hebrew]...

خروج...

...EXIT