People
here truly believe in God; no one bothers to look at the road, the road makes
room for them, and God protects them, Enshalla. Bicycling here is
like moving through an electron cloud; it is all potentials. You cannot
determine the speed, position and direction of the vehicles simultaneously. Two
way, one way, wrong way streets, alleys, dirt paths, sidewalks. If it were possible
for cars to drop out of the sky, they would.
The
traffic complements a city seemingly uncivil engineered by a mad scientist, a
city hewn from stone carved out of the countryside. The architecture ranges
discordantly from seven story modernist box to squat two story ancient hovel to
four story familial mansions. The mansions have turning staircases, geometric
mutations, and striking windows on the chaos without, as if M.C. Escher was the
architect. No matter, you ride between them, on streets without drains, through
clouds of scents, as cars pass you closely. Move through these mansions and
hovels. Past the mosquito control vehicle that pumps out only clouds of carbon
monoxide.
Wear sunglasses and a helmet when rideing. Children look at you Jack, like you were
from Mars. It might be the only helmet in Ramallah. Had to get it in Jerusalem.
Going
past the Prime Minister’s officw, the children staring at me or was it at
the wild dog that was chasing me, till it tore into my pant leg? Roll on and
kick the dog repeatedly in the nose, with an adrenal furry but the mutt kept
coming. Palestinian dog. See a down hill run before me and speed away.
Greater
Ramallah is a city of hills, Al Tirah, Al Birah, and Ramallah proper. It had
been a small Christian village once, surrounded only by Bedouins, sheep, olives
and figs. 1948 changed all that. In a few days there were over 20,000 refugees
split between three camps: Jalazun, Qalandiyah and Al Am’ari. The Christian
missionary schools that had already been established here because of its
vicinity to Jerusalem immediately began dispensing aid and educating people.
Over time one small children’s school, in an even smaller village near
Ramallah, began to grow into a university. The town and University share the
name Bir Zeit. This would attract people to Ramallah from Tulkarem, Nablus,
Jenin, Qalqiliyah, and Gaza. They came to study and to work. In the process,
Ramallah has become the de facto capital of the PA, and one of the most
western, cultured, Arab cities.
It
is a city of gardens hidden behind walls. The ebullient greens erupt through
the concrete and steel rods, feeding off the fertile soil, sucking on the
omnipresent sun. Brown dust clouds blow over the city throughout the day as you
go down the Jerusalem - Ramallah road that runs through a valley, with boxes
along it, hovels behind it and mansions on the sloping hills alongside. As you
proceed the houses become more sparse; some are ruins, destroyed by bulldozers
and gunfire. The road becomes torn before being cleaved in two by concrete
blocks.
Follow
the curve of a parabola that encroaches ever closer to the end of civilization.
Its trough is Qalandiyah checkpoint. Its baseline is the wall. Make no mistake,
at five meters high, and with a fire-blackened guard tower, it is a wall.
Move
through the crowds of taxi vans that wait and holler to take you back to
Ramallah, Jifna, Bir Zeit, and the Arab villages. Go between the children from
the camps trying to sell you Turkish gum. Past the impromptu bazaar where they
sell household goods, parakeets, clothing, sun glasses, and snacks. Arrive at
the back of the mob, pushing forward to cross Qalandiyah.
The
people who are responsible for all this don’t cross check points on foot. If
they are in the PA, they cross in limos, if they are Israeli they don’t cross
checkpoints at all. You don’t see their children working at Qalandiyah. Still
you see everyone else. Dressed in fatigues, in the hot sun, still water drawing
swarms of mosquitoes. Over 18 and under 60 the common man of Israel stands in
shit.
One
soldier was sitting with a fat old cat that laid lazy on a table. Another saw
my wife’s American passport. He asked : -Where are you from?"
-Kingston,
said my wife.
-Really,
we are in from Tarrytown, the solider said while scratching his grey beard. He
nodded and said:
-Here
on our summer vacation.
Handed
him my passport and said. Queens.
He
smiled
-
That’s okay too.
There
are no lines here; Palestinians don’t do lines. Instead there are mobs of
bodies, each pushing its way forward through the others, each hoping to be the
next one called. For the soldiers there is boredom and there is fear.
After
Qalandiyah the soldiers see only a no man’s land; a desert is what one woman
soldier called Ramallah as she asked my wife why she would ever want to be
there.
If
you have Israeli citizenship it is illegal to be in the West Bank, unless you
live in a settlement. Nothing seems illegal for those who live in settlements.
So all the soldiers have ever seen
is what everyone else has seen on TV, unless they’ve been sent in to arrest
someone. Then all they see is young men and children with rocks and guns or
nothing at all; either madness or empty streets where everyone has cleared out.
In the city, on patrol or here at Qalandiyah the soldiers are afraid and it is
written on their faces.
Does
this person have a bomb on them? Does this person have a piece of a bomb on
them to be put together in Tel Aviv? Will the next bomb that goes off in
Jerusalem…will it have passed by
me? The mistake they make here might not kill them, it could kill their
families. Still you can only feel fear full on for so long before it’s all just
boredom. And the Palestinians are bored too, but not afraid. They are just
angry.
Boredom,
fear, rage. Boredom with fear and rage. We all wait here.
My
preference is to cross by car. A TV car always makes a pretty big splash with
the IDF girls. They always wear a uniform that is one size too tight, with the
shirt open one button past combat specifications. They range from the thin dark
Sephardic types to the round freckled red heads. It’s always the same, first
they frown and ask for the visas. Then they look at us and say:
-United
States? Where?
New
York City.
-The
Big Apple, you’re in TV.
Yes.
Then
they smile, push back their helmet so as to lock eyes with me, nod and say:
-You
should put me on TV no?
My
lower lip trembles:
Well,
uh, gee… yeas was just…
-Sure,
says my coworker nicknamed Friday who can travel because he has an East
Jerusalem ID. Baby! You are so
beautiful that you belong in movies.
Then
there is giggling.
You
are driving through once with another friend who can cross because of his
medical credentials. Also from East Jerusalem. After we were through he said:
-It
is wrong, and maybe a little sick, but the combat boots, the uniforms, the
tough talk, the machine gun, it really is kind of kinky…
dream 3
Emerging
from the jungle, looking out on the Amazon river. A barge floats down it, a
zombie woman stands on it, the flesh dangling off the exposed bones. Her teeth,
yellow and clenched. Her arms are
outstretched, her mouth opens and her tongue, slithering snake like, is an
electric red.
Her barge
is covered in flowers, all colors, orchids, sunflowers, roses, lilies,
rhizomes, every loud color, flowers are piled high behind her. She is on a
parade float going down the Jerico Road in Jerusalem, through buildings Arab
and western, low and high. The flowers are the exploding fireworks behind
her. It is deafening. There are no people on the street.
Click here to enter The Electric Mosque
Click here to enter The Electric Mosque
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