“The Israelis have taken falafel and humus as their food. Does humus exist in Poland? The Israelis have taken our food and call it Israeli food!”
Falafel reminds me of culture, I don’t know why. I ask Dr. Ehab, who used to be a professor before joining this ministry, to define for me Palestinian culture.
“Tolerance and coherence define Palestinian culture.”
In this tolerant environment, I ask him, how come Christians like me can’t smoke during Ramadan?
“This is about respect.”
Did this respect exist in Ramallah ten, twenty years ago?
“Yes.”
Dr. Hanan Ashrawi, I tell him, who knows Ramallah better than both of us, was very surprised to hear that I couldn’t smoke on the street.
This shakes him, for it implies that either he or Hanan is a liar.
He has no clue how to walk out of this little problem and he gets lost. He gets testy. He gets aggressive. He’s upset, very upset. He goes into long monologues about totally unrelated issues, not allowing me to interrupt him, and by the end he lets me know that I know nothing and that the West is nothing but a bunch of arrogant people.
***
Thank God that Hanan’s office arranged for me to meet yet another person, for otherwise this would be a total loss of a day. Moments later, in a café next to the ministry, I get to meet a famous Palestinian singer, whom I’ll call here Nadia. She sits at a table with her good friend, a man named Khaled, a poet from Gaza who is presently staying in Ramallah.
During Ramadan there are a couple of restaurants open for unbelievers in Ramallah, mostly tourists, of course, on the condition that they are served their food away from the public’s eye and that the front entrance of the restaurant looks as if they were closed. It is in a café like this that we sit. And Khaled speaks to me.
“The history of Palestine dates from fourteen thousand years ago, in a place called Tulelat al-Rasul, a place between Jerusalem and Jericho. If you say that Moses came here in 1200 BCE, you have eleven thousand years before Moses. Who was here in those eleven thousand years? Palestinians! Joshua bin Nun occupied Jericho in 1200 BCE, who was there at that time? Palestinians. Of course! In the Torah itself it tells about wars between Israelis and Palestinians and it says, letter by letter, the word Palestinians. The BBC, before 1948, and in every news broadcast, they called this land Palestine and the people they called Palestinians.”
I’m happy somebody is finally able to pinpoint exact dates of Palestinian history. But here’s an entry from the Encyclopædia Britannica on the subject: “In 132 the emperor Hadrian decided to build a Roman colony, Aelia Capitolina, on the site of Jerusalem. . . . The province of Judaea was renamed Syria Palaestina (later simply called Palaestina), and, according to Eusebius of Caeseria (Ecclesiastical History, book IV, chapter 6), no Jew was thenceforth allowed to set foot in Jerusalem or the surrounding district.”
Khaled has written the lyrics for Nadia’s CD. She plays them on her smartphone and I ask her to sing along. The lyrics are in Arabic, and she translates them into English thusly:
The night carries me,
And the Northern Star.
I am stronger and far away,
And I’m not coming back.
I see skies and moons in fire,
And the light coming out of pain.
The night carries me.
“Formally, by passport, I’m an Israeli Palestinian, but I call myself ‘a Palestinian from the occupied lands of 1948.’”
In the eyes of the Israeli government you are an Arab-Israeli, correct?
“Yes.”
Nadia, according to her own words, studied social work at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem for two and a half years. She didn’t finish; she took a break, and then “studied music for five years at the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance, where I got a degree in music, specializing in voice.” She tells me that her music teacher, a German-Jewish woman, was “my mother,” but that after graduating from school she is no longer in touch with her.
Why?
“She is an occupier.”
Nadia’s capacity to throw away a woman she had called “mother” for five years at the very moment she didn’t need her anymore is striking.
I ask her the most important question anybody has ever asked here or ever will: Did you ever fall in love with an Israeli man?
“No. I couldn’t.”
Why not?
“I am a Palestinian. It is the same as a Jew falling in love with a German Nazi officer.”
Would you like for Palestinians and Israelis to solve their conflict by dividing the land into two states, Palestine and Israel?
“No. Zionism is racism. As simple as stealing my country, my land, and daring to find excuses for it, trying their best to erase me. Israel has stolen my mother’s dress; they call this dress ‘Israeli.’ They have stolen my food; they call my food ‘Israeli.’”
What on earth is going on today with this falafel thing!
Nadia, who lives in Jerusalem, is an Israeli citizen and carries an Israeli passport, tells me that “life under occupation” is awfully bad and that the Jews “almost killed my daughter.”
What happened?
Well, this is what happened. Nadia was coming back from the West Bank the other day and the occupiers had put a roadblock before the entry into Israel. She was in the first in a line of cars, she recalls, on a very hot August day. She had her baby daughter with her and the baby wanted to be fed, breast-fed that is. Nadia begged the soldiers to allow her to just drive on but they said, “No, it’s a roadblock.” The baby was crying, and she had no choice but to feed the baby in the car.
How this translates into murder, or almost murder, is beyond my capacity to comprehend.
Wait a second: You got free higher education for God knows how many years, right? You, as an Israeli citizen, get medical care, free or for a token payment, you are a famous singer –
“Occupiers have to pay a price for their occupation: they must pay for the occupied’s medical expenses, food, and higher education,” she cuts me off.
I’m not sure which law book decrees that a state, of whatever nature, must pay for five years of music classes, in addition to over two years of social studies to its citizens who are not Jewish (Jews don’t get free university education in Israel), but if this is called Occupation, I’d like to be occupied for the rest of my life.
Nadia, who is a Christian and married to a Muslim, blames the Israelis for another thing. Her children, she tells me, are being brought up Muslim because this is the Israeli law. The Occupiers have dictated that a Christian woman married to a Muslim must raise her kids as Muslim.
Knowing that I’m a German tourist, she feeds me everything she imagines a German like me would have the stomach to digest on this fast day. But I was born here, not in Germany. What she claims to be an Israeli law is actually Islamic law, yet I don’t challenge her. She has spoken to Western journalists before, and if I challenge her she might doubt my Aryan roots.
Her hatred for Israelis is immense, like that of Dr. Ehab. Why Hanan Ashrawi’s office would introduce me to these two is a mystery to me. My guess is that this couple is regarded as “moderate” in the Palestinian society. If these are the moderates, I ask myself, who could the extremists be?
***
Evening soon falls and eating is permitted. I ask Nadia for a nice Palestinian restaurant and she drives me to central Ramallah in her Opel. She points to a building across the street from us and tells me that on the fifth floor there is a restaurant I should try.
I do.
It is an all you can eat place. Price? Eighty-nine shekels, the waiter tells me. It’s a great price but I tell him that this is way too expensive for a man like me. He immediately realizes that I’m actually a Palestinian and he lowers the price to forty-five.
I sit down, starting with a delicious cold chicken soup – this is the first time I realize you can have cold chicken soup – and move
on to the rest of the food. Like every good Muslim I’ve been fasting all day and I need all the food there is on the planet.
I’m getting it all here.
Men, women, and children are packing this place. People, including old ladies in hijab, smoke shisha and cigarettes, as a singer performs wonderful Arabic music. When he reaches high notes, a frequent occurrence, the dining smokers let out huge sounds of approval. They clap, they sing along, and they shout. O they shout!
This is just beautiful.
And if this is Palestinian culture, they should be damn proud of themselves.
***
After having consumed some elaborate food, I go back to Jerusalem.
In the van to Jerusalem, there are more people than seats, but no one says a thing. The price is nevertheless the same.
Two Palestinian ladies with the most gorgeous hijabs are on this van as well. I look at them and wonder how this piece of clothing can make people look so attractive. Yes, I mean it: these ladies are plain beauties.
This makes me think: I like the Palestinians. No, this is not exact. I love the Palestinians. Damn it, it’s true. I might not agree with what they say but as people I just love them. I see them in this van and I realize how close they are to each other, even if this is the first time that they have met. There’s a brotherhood here, warmth, friendship, sense of togetherness. And, oh by God, the Palestinian hijab is plain gorgeous. Really. Turkish women should learn from the Palestinians how to make hijabs.
It is Friday, which means it is Sabbath (in the Jewish calendar the day starts in the evening). Public transportation is not working and the stores are closed.
It takes but minutes to ride from the de facto capital of Palestine to the de facto capital of Israel, and they are two worlds apart. You sense it immediately when you cross from one to the other. Different atmosphere. Different spirit. Different culture. In one country God doesn’t like you to consume food, in the other country He doesn’t like you to buy food. And if you think this difference is not a question of life and death, you better take the first plane out of here.
There is a white guy out there by the name of John Kerry, husband to Teresa Heinz of the world-famous ketchup-maker H. J. Heinz Company, and he is the current American Secretary of State. He has just announced that the Israelis and the Palestinians are to resume peace talks a week later in Washington. After Washington he’s going to come here again and move back and forth between the two neighbors, stay in a posh hotel here and in a posh hotel there, never lacking the capacity to buy or eat on certain days or at certain times, and he’s never going to learn that the Middle East is made of Arieh and Nadia, not of ketchup and mayonnaise.
Kerry, of course, is not the only peace seeker of humanity. Jews who live in the States do this as well. Some are like Irving Moskowitz, while others are on the opposite side. It’s time I get to meet them.
Gate Five
An American Jew loves his old mama so much that he wants to see her homeless.
TOBY, A NICE AMERICAN-RAISED GRANDMA NOW LIVING IN THE GERMAN COLony, invites me to her home to eat the Sabbath meal with her. I never say no to food and I go.
Toby is the mama of an American Jew who is very busy raising money for Adalah (“justice”), a pro-Palestinian human rights organization. I would like him to raise money for me, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. He raises money only for worthy causes, I learn, and Adalah is a worthy cause. What the heck is Adalah? I never heard of Adalah and I’d like to know. If they are that good, maybe I should get myself a seat on their board.
I try to get Toby to explain to me what Adalah is, but Toby doesn’t tell me much. Is it a secret organization? Just the idea that this might be a secret organization makes me very curious to learn more about them. Thank God there was Steve Jobs and he invented the magic iPad, which I have with me.
I check Adalah on Steve’s tablet and I find some intriguing articles about them. According to Haaretz, the most left-leaning daily Israeli paper, Adalah’s legal initiatives include abolishing the Jewish identity of the State of Israel, the abolishment of the Law of Return (which enables diaspora Jews to immigrate to Israel), and the institutionalization of the Right of Return (which will allow “diaspora Palestinians” to immigrate and to claim lands).
In short: millions of Jews out, millions of Palestinians in.
Not bad for an American Jew who has nothing better to do. The only problem is this: if he is successful, his beloved mama will become homeless.
Should I raise this issue with Toby? I don’t know yet. Let me first see how the meal progresses.
Renee, Toby’s good friend, is also sitting at the table. Both observe the Sabbath, eat only kosher, go to the synagogue, and pray daily.
The food at Toby’s table is of the “healthy” variety: natural and tasteless. Usually, for me this is a sign that my host is an intellectual. Is she? Time will tell. Meantime, I try hard to swallow the stuff. The stray cats in my backyard garden, I can guarantee, would bite the hell out of me if I tried to give them this food.
As I struggle with the food, Toby starts a conversation. She asks me which people I have met so far. Should I tell her about Arieh? About Tziporah? Nope. Her baby loves the Palestinians and I tell her of two Palestinians whom I have just met: Nadia and Khaled.
She asks me to tell her what they told me. I tell her.
“Perhaps you met fanatic Muslims with no education.”
I tell her that Nadia is no Muslim, not to mention fanatic Muslim, and that she has quite a few years of higher education.
“This cannot be the truth. They don’t talk like this in Ramallah.”
Should I tell her that Nadia is actually from Jerusalem, and an Israeli citizen? Toby would have a heart attack, and so I add no details.
As another portion of food is brought in I learn that both these ladies are of high academic achievements, and it appears to me that they are not used to having their opinions challenged. When I tell Toby what Dr. Ehab said to me, and she again says that “This cannot be the truth,” I snap.
Toby, I say, intellectuals who refuse to acknowledge facts are worse than idiots.
I can’t believe my lips have just uttered these words. Toby can’t believe it either and reminds me that I’m just a guest here.
I should get the hint and shut up. But I don’t.
I’m a recovering intellectual, Toby. I come from where you come from, the university, and I think no idea or evidence should be abandoned before it is expressed and examined. That’s what we have been taught in academia, haven’t we?
What’s a “recovering intellectual”?
Toby doesn’t get it, but Renee is laughing, hard. She has never heard this phrase either, she tells me, but she thinks it’s really, really great.
Toby still doesn’t get it.
Renee tries to explain to her: “It is like ‘recovering alcoholic.’”
Toby: “In Ramallah people don’t talk like this! What you say is a generalization. You are generalizing!”
Why “In Ramallah people don’t talk like this!” is not a generalization, I don’t know. It’s a waste of time to argue with her, but I can’t resist asking her one more question.
Toby, when is the last time you visited Ramallah?
“Never.”
As I leave Toby’s home I think to myself: Did people like her exist in the Israel of my time? How come I don’t remember them?
Gate Six
An Israeli soldier detains President Barack Obama.
THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF ISRAEL, MY IPAD TELLS ME, HAS JUST ISSUED an exciting announcement. “President Shimon Peres,” it says, will host at his residence “an Iftar dinner to break the Ramadan fast. The dinner will be attended by leading Muslim figures from within Israel, including imams, community leaders, ambassadors, heads of municipalities, national service volunteers and social activists.
“President Peres will deliver a speech at the dinner during which he will convey a greeti
ng for Ramadan to Muslims in Israel and across the world. During his speech President Peres will address the resumption of peace talks between Israel and the Palestinians.”
Naturally, a man like me must mingle with leading Muslim figures and foreign ambassadors.
I get to the president’s residence as soon as I can.
As you walk into the president’s residence and pass into the security check-in room, just below the air-conditioning unit, there are pictures of Obama and Peres hanging on the wall. You can see them walking together, looking up at something together, or standing next to a car together. I wonder if Obama hangs the same pictures on the walls of the White House.
I pass through this room and go to join the leading Muslim figures in attendance. The end of fast for today, an official says to members of the press, is 7:41 p.m. This reminds me of Orthodox Jews counting the moments till the end of the fast on Yom Kippur. Of course, this is the residence of Israel’s president and we are talking Ramadan here, not Yom Kippur.
Press people have seats designated to them. All others are welcomed to sit at tables to be served a presidential dinner.
I look around and wonder which table I should sneak to, without anybody telling me to get up. To my left is a table with old people; to my right is a table with army commanders – or at least this is what I think they are: a group of healthy-looking men wearing uniforms with pieces of shiny metal on their shoulders.
Should I sit with the muscled men or with the wise?
A huge dilemma.
Nope. Don’t ask me why I think old men are wise; this is something I was taught when I was a baby and somehow it has never left my brain.
Interfering with my thought process is a sudden, new development: a Qadi decrees, we are told, that Iftar in Jerusalem is at 7:49 p.m. Wow.
This Qadi must be from Meah Shearim. They like it holier.
At 7:49, the time permitted to eat, I make up my mind to sit with the commanders. Wise is good, but mighty is better.
Catch The Jew! Page 8