Impressions of Palestine
By Bob Cork
April 11-23, 1999
The first time my habit of smiling and waving at strangers drew a negative
response during our vacation was on the ninth day, as we were walking down
a narrow stone street in the old city of Acre.
The little boy, five or six years old, had been playing with two other
children, but he stopped when I waved, and he said something to me in a
loud voice, without the trace of a smile.
Our personal tour guide, who also happens to be our son, responded sternly
to the boy in fluent Arabic. The boy's look and voice softened, he said
something else to me, and we walked on.
"What was that all about?" I asked Dan.
"He said 'God damn your father.' I told him he was rude and he
should apologize to you, and he did."
I can't say the little boy was the only rude person we met during 13
days passing through airports, restaurants, tourist traps, and security
checkpoints, but he was the only rude Palestinian we met.
After two six-hour flights and a two-hour layover in London we had landed
at Tel Aviv's semi-modern Ben Gurion airport just after dawn Monday morning.
Palm trees, sand, warm air and a dry haze felt like desert as we walked
down rollaway steps to a bus. On the tarmac was a C-130 military transport
that stirred personal memories.
We breezed through security with a quick glance at our passports, and
got through customs with even less effort. Our flight was early, but still
we expected to see Dan as we walked into the lobby area. He wasn't there.
Anticipation turned into parental worry as we waited more than an hour.
Finally Dan showed up with a Palestinian friend who has a Jerusalem
ID and had borrowed another friend's car. Quickly we had our first of many
experiences in a small car rolling fast over narrow, dusty roads that have
no guard rails, even after the terrain rises quickly to rocky, terraced
hills and deep valleys adorned with rows of olive trees.
The driver slowed to maybe twenty miles per hour, swerved left, then
right, to avoid two large stones, and I noticed an Israeli soldier standing
behind a stone. "That was a checkpoint," Dan said. "You
don't stop unless they signal you to."
Welcome to Palestine, where most of the land looks like it did when
Jesus walked and preached here, where you can travel freely only if you
have the right papers, where soldiers seem to be always watching.
Dan had an internship with the Latin Patriarch in Jerusalem and two
days a week taught 20th century Palestinian history to Palestinian high
school students, at the same time developing a curriculum expanded from
his honors thesis at the University of Massachusetts. In June he came home
from Palestine, is now working in Washington at the Center for Policy Analysis
on Palestine, and will start grad school at Georgetown in the fall.
Dan has many friends in the West Bank village of Birzeit, and we have
several friends in nearby Milford, Connecticut, who are originally from
Birzeit and have relatives still there. The priests, sisters, faculty and
students at the Catholic church and school in Birzeit are vibrant, generous
people. The boys play soccer on asphalt, the girls wear pretty dresses
to church, and the priest in charge has a rooster (just outside the guest
room) who has laryngitis long before the sun comes up.
The roads, houses and commercial buildings of Birzeit are made of blocks
the same colors as the hills, and twisting roads follow the terrain. There
are small shops where carpenters build furniture. One merchant hangs the
head of a steer outside and another sells coffee and corn flakes with Arabic
words by familiar cartoon pictures.
I noticed a block house with an outside wood ladder to the second story,
a grape vine so big and old it had grown from the ground and over a trellis
to a second story, a donkey tethered in a garden, and a stray cat, the
first of many we would see in Palestine.
Most cars on the streets are yellow nine-passenger Mercedes-Benz "share
taxis." You put out your hand and the driver stops if he has room.
If he doesn't, you wait a few minutes for the next one. The taxis go to
Ramallah, where you walk two blocks and then climb into another taxi for
the trip to Jerusalem. You're careful to get into one with yellow plates
allow the driver to pass through checkpoints. If you get into a taxi with
green plates, you might still get to Jerusalem, but not legally, and you
pay more for the trip. The most interesting person we met in a taxi was
a lively elderly man who has homes in Ramallah and Brooklyn and splits
his time between them.
Ramallah is a bustling city with street vendors selling all kinds of
food, with a sidewalk passing by a steep drop-off without a fence to protect
you, out-dated mannequins in store windows, a busy rotary with policemen
directing traffic, a pretty girl with a small child, sitting on the sidewalk
with an outreached hand, and a large Marlboro billboard overhead. Most
men in Palestine smoke.
Monday evening we talked politics with English-speaking, articulate,
opinionated students from Birzeit University, which is now located on a
new campus outside of the village. Many of the students don't have safe
passage to college from their homes in the Gaza Strip. Tuesday evening
we talked politics with a university professor at his beautiful home. The
stories of the students and the faculty are similar, their questions about
America's unequivocal support of Israel are the same.
Tuesday in Jerusalem we ate falafels for breakfast, then took a bus
to the Mount of Olives. Willie took a picture of a man with a camel and
nearly fell prey to his practiced ruse of letting him take her picture.
I yelled ahead to Dan, and he quickly rescued his mother.
We stood where Jesus wept over Jerusalem, and we believe he would still
be weeping today.
We walked down through Gesthemane, and followed the stations of the
cross through the old city to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Dan read
appropriate scripture at stops. It was easy to believe that the narrow
passages are very much like they were when Jesus suffered here.
We bought our first souvenirs in a shop from a gracious man who brought
us Turkish coffee. I accidentally drank too much from the small cup and
tasted the bitter grounds. The man has lived in Jerusalem all his life,
and recently built a new home. Israelis said his permit was out of date,
refused to grant him a new one, and bulldozed his new home. We saw the
pictures and shared his pain.
We had lunch in Americanized West Jerusalem, at a very nice Italian
restaurant. I took pictures for the Italian-Americans I work with, but
I hadn't put my film in right and I lost some good shots.
Wednesday in Jerusalem we met a good friend of Dan's who is a Muslim,
and we visited the Dome of the Rock, then toured more markets in the old
city and in East Jerusalem. We also walked along the top of the wall around
the old city. That wore us out but was something we would not have wanted
to miss.
Thursday we visited Bethlehem, where in addition to the church at the
focal point of Christian interest, we also visited the Shepherd's field,
where the caves in rock were interesting, and we took a taxi to the top
of Herodian, a national park at the site of Herod's summer palace, which
has been excavated and is fascinating. I was struck with the contrast between
the summer palace of power and the shepherd's field where ordinary men
saw a sign that the true king of power had come. From the top of Herodian
we could see the desert that leads to the Dead Sea.
We also visited Hebron, where the markets, void of tourist traps, are
the most natural. We saw a young camel, which had lost its skin, hanging
from a meathook. Willie bought a beautiful black and gold embroidered dress,
and I bought a lambs wool vest. The merchant gave us tea, then dressed
me in local clothing for a picture.
We saw the mosque, where Abraham is supposedly buried, where a Jew from
Brooklyn a few years ago pretended to be an Israeli soldier and used his
machine gun to slaughter 30 Muslims while they were praying and cripple
many more before he was also killed by real Israeli soldiers. Some Jews
said the man was crazy, but others built a monument to honor him as a hero.
A Palestinian who lost his land and dignity and has no civil rights picks
up a stone and he is called a terrorist. There is a double standard in
terminology here.
Nearby we also visited with the family of a young man we met in December
who is finishing a Master's Degree in English at the University of Bridgeport.
His father is a stubborn, strongly patriarchal man who would not let us
decline a dinner invitation for the next night. The food was great and
the hospitality grand.
Before the end of our first week in Palestine we also stayed two nights
in a refugee camp with the family of a young man Dan had met when he was
in Palestine two years ago. The furnishings were simple, clean and dignified.
The food, roasted chicken over rice, with a yogurt sauce on the side, was
wonderful.
I met our friend's mother, but not his wife or sisters. The men talk
in one room after dinner, leaning on pads and pillows around the room,
smoking and drinking tea and coffee. The women gather to talk in another
room. The women spoke enough English for Willie to have a wonderful time
with them and our friend's toddler son.
I was left to try to explain American policy to ten men from the camp,
some of them senior citizens, some of them young men. Dan and his friend
were translators, and it was a challenge for Dan to keep up, but he did
very well. I was discouraged by stories I heard and the circumstances I
saw, but encouraged by the sincerity and spirit of men who were teen-agers
in 1948 and are still refugees.
One morning we went with one of the men to the site near his village
where the man hid from bullets when he was 15. The village was destroyed
by Israeli tanks and bulldozers. We saw natural fences of cactus that once
were used to keep livestock from village crops. As I listened to the man
share his story I heard all of Palestine crying.
We rented two cars while in Palestine. The first one lost its brakes
and overheated during the first full day we had it, so we took it back
and canceled the contract. (While I was getting the brakes fixed, the men
who owned a nearby car wash insisted on feeding Willie.)
The second car was a reliable Peugeot. The clerk in the car rental office
helped us make reservations in Tel Aviv for our last night, and we were
able to drop the car off at the airport Friday morning.
Before that night in Tel Aviv, however, we had much more to see. We
started in Jericho, where Palestinian Authority soldiers, after hearing
Dan speak Arabic so well when we stopped to ask directions, asked us to
come into their guard shack and have lunch with them. We laughed and declined.
After visiting old Jericho we stopped and ask them for more directions,
and they asked us to come in for tea. We had to decline again, but we appreciated
the invitation
In Jericho there are popular gambling casinos, owned and operated by
Palestinians. Perhaps native Americans and Palestinians have the same path
to prosperity, building on the greed of foolish men.
Leaving Jericho we followed a hunch, accidentally got on a long rocky
road, went by a large Bedouin tent village, with quite a herd of camels,
and had a difficult time getting back to the main highway.
At Qumran, where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found, I got dizzy watching
an indoor short film taken from a helicopter, so I purposely missed the
chance to walk to the edge of a plateau and look down on the caves. Willie
says I missed the most exciting part of our trip.
Nearby we saw the Dead Sea, but we were short on time, so we did not
go to its shore. We drove on up the road to Tiberias, on the Sea of Galilee.
We were discouraged to see the fertile lands the Israelis own and farm,
because it is obvious the United Nations, in its original partition plan
fifty years ago, wanted to give the best land to the Jews and leave the
bony spine of the West Bank for Palestinians. Its no wonder they rejected
the offer.
Now the Israelis, despite the availability of much more suitable land
for expansion on slopes of their own communities, continue to build ticky-tacky
white condo-like settlements with red roofs on tops of West Bank hills,
connecting them with "access" roads which serve to isolate Palestinian
population centers like reservations. The undeniable purpose of the settlements
is to prevent the establishment of a truly autonomous Palestinian state
In Tiberias we ate St. Peter's fish at a lakeside restaurant, and Willie
was distressed when the fish arrived with its head intact. The waiter cut
the head off and took it with him, to make Willie feel better about eating.
Stray cats pestered us during dinner. Israeli soldiers came by at sunset
and reminded the restaurant owner and other nearby merchants that they
had to close for beginning of the Memorial Day observance.
In Tiberias we also saw Monica's Oriental Night Club. Painted on the
front of the building was a scene of the White House lawn, with Bill Clinton
playing the saxophone and Monica playing the flute. This was also the first
place where we saw tee-shirts for sale that proclaimed "Don't Worry,
America. Israel is Behind You."
The next day we visited Carpernaum and many other north shore sites
of the ministry of Jesus. I was impressed not so much with the churches
built on the sites, but the beautiful valley where I could visualize Jesus
standing on a rock and preaching to thousands.
Then we drove to Nazareth. Within three blocks we saw the Church of
the Annunciation, a sign for a Seventh-day Adventist Health Education Center,
a tent where Muslims want to build a controversial new mosque, and a large
shark hanging in front of a fish market, a shark that fascinated boys on
their way home from school.
That afternoon and night we spent in Acre, site of the Crusader Fortress
on the Mediterranean. Here we met the rude little boy, but here also we
saw an Israeli flag flying over the minaret of a mosque. It was the night
before Independence Day, and there were Israeli flags nearly everywhere,
except on the UPS truck parked at the side of the road. In the harbor we
saw a cabin cruiser with a transom identifying its port of registration
as Wilmington, Delaware.
We left the modest hotel where we were staying and went to nearby Haifa
for dinner. The waiter was a pleasant young man who told us he is an Israeli
soldier who only makes enough in the army for beer and cigarets, so he
waits tables at night. We did not tell him Dan speaks Arabic, and Dan resisted
the temptation to ask him his about his political views. It might have
been an interesting discussion.
The next morning, Independence Day, we visited the part of the fortress
which became a prison during the British Mandate and was used to house
Israeli underground prisoners who later escaped. Some were killed during
the escape and some executed in the gallows. They are all treated as heros
now and are honored at the site.
We drove south along the beautiful shoreline, and were amazed at the
many beautiful locations on miles and miles of green slopes rising from
fertile fields, slopes that would be perfect for Jewish settlements if
the Israelis cared about immigrant comfort instead of Palestinian oppression.
We spent quite some time walking around Caesarea, the ruins of a Roman
fortress, community and amphitheater. What splendor there must have been
architecturally during that time.
Wednesday night the three sisters of the Birzeit church fixed us a delightful
dinner, and provided gracious company. But soon it was Thursday, time to
say farewell to Dan and his friends and drive to Tel Aviv for a visit to
the old city of Jaffa, an evening walk on the beach, and dinner to celebrate
our 38th anniversary.
Thursday afternoon we took advantage of an early check-in service at
a downtown location, and checked all but our carry-on bags. The woman security
guard asked why we flew British Airways in two stages instead of flying
El Al direct from New York, and I don't think she believed our logic that
it was simply cheaper, but it was.
I thought the question was impertinent, and we resented her further
probes about where we had been, who we saw, where we stayed overnight.
We decided to not spend five hours there on our anniversary, so we did
not mention the West Bank, and we bluffed our way through the other questions.
Deceitful? Probably. But we would do it again. Not one word had been said
to us when we entered the country about what we could or could not do,
so I don't think they had a right to ask us what we had done when it was
time for us to leave.
Friday morning was the only time I was frightened. I had referenced
my directional decisions to the location on the map of what I thought was
the airport. It was actually an Air Force base, so ever time I went right
in Tel Aviv I should have gone left. All the signs were in Hebrew, twice
I was given directions I did not understand, and I was beginning to think
we would miss our plane.
Fortunately, the first "Ben Gurion Airport" sign popped up,
and we made our way to the launching pad with a little time to spare.
During our vacation Willie and I spent more time together than we have
for years, and most of the moments were memorable. I have never seen her
so happy and she was enchanted by the beautiful land we toured and the
wonderful people we met. She was also discouraged by the plight of the
Palestinians.
In retrospect, I have a tough time referring to this land as Israel,
because I do not believe it is a land, in its present divided condition,
that would please either Abraham or God. I cannot call it the Holy Land
because there is nothing holy about oppression, nothing sacred about greed
and arrogant abuse of power.
I don't blame the little boy for cursing me. I'm sure he picked up the
common crude expression from adults, perhaps his own father, and we did
look different than most people who walk down his street.
But as I said, the little boy was the only rude Palestinian we met.
The Christians and Muslims we laughed and talked politics with are decent
people seeking only dignity, civil rights and freedom. If we, as Americans
and Christians, can't support their quest, then I don't see how we can
claim to know the love of the carpenter's son who picked olives on the
hills and rode a donkey into Jerusalem.
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