Roberta and Hannah spend the next several ten-hour whirlwind days touring Israel—from Safed in the north to the hilltop fortress of Masada and Caesarea in the east, where the sisters marvel over the Roman theater built by Herod; to the south to visit Be’er Sheba, so named for the oath made at the well between the patriarch Abraham and Abimelach (be’er is the Hebrew word for well; schuvu’a, the Hebrew word for oath); and to many sites in between. One day they rent a jeep, just the two of them, and drive to the Judean Desert where they swim in the Dead Sea—known as the lowest point in the world—and squeal in delightful pain when the salt assaults a previously unknown scrape.
Each day they return, exhausted, to their hotel long after the sun sets, with barely the stamina to undress and fall into bed. And, exhausted, they awaken in the morning to greet another day with yet another relative eager to accompany them to another exotic destination.
The hour-long drive from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem becomes as familiar to Roberta as the trip from her home in Santa Monica to Century City, where her law practice is. When there is a respite over tea or coffee or lunch, the conversation inevitably turns to Uncle Samuel’s journal—or Shmuel, as their cousins call him—the very journal that brought them on this 7,552-mile quest.
“It’s so strange,” Hannah comments, “that this man, our uncle, was never ever mentioned growing up. I wonder if Mommy even knew about him.” They’ve raised the topic several times in conversations with Reuben, but with the now familiar gesture of his hand, he waves them away and tells them to have patience. And so they smile and stifle their frustration until, once again, the question resurfaces, only to be rejected with the same admonition for forbearance.
Hannah and Roberta thrill to the pulsating animation of Tel Aviv with its nightlife and its beaches—some gay and, they observe, those nearing Jaffa, predominantly Arab. They exchange condescending glances and raised eyebrows when they pass the Orthodox section with signs specifying the set of rules required for entry to the Separated Beach.
Bathing days for women: Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday.
Bathing days for men: Monday, Wednesday, Friday.
They are pleasantly taken aback to discover countless restaurants catering to “foodies” near and far, with gourmet food that rivals that of Paris or Manhattan or San Francisco. And just as they love Tel Aviv for the diversity of its residents, for its high technology, trendy designer shops, and modernist buildings, they love the composed contrast Jerusalem offers, with its 5,000-year-old history that paints an unforgettable canvas of memories upon their consciousness.
In their first week in Israel, they spend hours in the Old City and the Israel Museum, where they gaze in awe at the Dead Sea Scrolls. They walk the Via Dolorosa and follow Jesus’s poignant journey to his crucifixion. And yes, they visit the Wailing Wall, even Roberta giving due respect to the distance required for women. They take three of Reuben’s youngest grandchildren to the Biblical Zoo, where they pet the friendly animals, including the pygmy goats. They do not visit Yad Vashem; Roberta claims that after her visit to the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC, she’s “seen enough of that horror to last a lifetime.”
On Saturday, several days before their scheduled departure, they accept Reuben and Rivka’s invitation to light the Havdalah candles. Roberta reminds Reuben of his promise to take them to East Jerusalem, the Palestinian section of the city. She wants to see the schools and the hospitals and, particularly, the conditions under which the Palestinians live. She wants, more than anything, to visit the Shuafat refugee camp. She queries him about the Palestinian population of Jerusalem. Reuben tells her that 250,000 Palestinians live within the municipality of Jerusalem and are considered residents, not citizens, of Israel. He claims it was their choice not to accept citizenship as a way of ensuring their identity as Palestinians and because of their belief that the land belongs to them but is only occupied by the Israelis.
Reuben takes a deep breath before speaking. “Look, my dear, dear cousins, what you are asking is not impossible, but only because I am a member of Peace Now would I even consider it—and only because one of my dear friends is a Palestinian who lives at the camp, an important activist at that. Otherwise it would be too dangerous for us to even think of going. You’re Americans, remember, and not very popular with the Palestinians.”
“Oh, please, Reuben,” Roberta pleads. “I’ve read so much about the situation, and depending upon who or what one reads, there are so many contradictory perspectives. And then I feel so conflicted between my identification as a Jew and my sense of social justice. I need to see for myself.”
Hannah interrupts, “I had no idea there was a refugee camp in Jerusalem. But don’t you think, in spite of your Palestinian friend, it could be somewhat risky to go there?”
Reuben says that he’s not surprised and that even some Israelis have no idea there is a camp in Jerusalem. He informs them it was established between 1965 and 1966 by the Jordanian regime and the United Nations Relief and Works Agency but falls within the Israeli Jerusalem Municipality’s borders. At its creation, the population was only 1,500, but now it’s approximately 20,000. The statistics vary, he continues, depending upon who has conducted the research. It was built on 203 dunams that Jordan confiscated from their original Palestinian owners, but the Six-Day War intervened, and that put an end to the plan to upgrade the area. He explains that this is only one of many such refugee camps, with others in Jordan, Lebanon, the Gaza Strip and the West Bank with something like 1.4 million people considered refugees.
“Did you know that the Jordanians unilaterally annexed the West Bank and East Jerusalem in 1950?” Reuben asks. Roberta whispers that she didn’t know that. He goes on, “The situation is very complicated all the way back to the way the State of Israel came into existence when they confiscated Palestinian land. All I know for sure is that people are hurt and angry on both sides. There are cycles of violence that beget more violence, with the two sides competing to show who is more of a victim and with corrupt leaders on both sides incapable of reframing the situation in a way that could lead to a different outcome. Everyone suffers.”
Reuben agrees that the Palestinians—in Gaza, the West Bank, and here in East Jerusalem—have been living like dogs in crowded surroundings without some of the basic amenities, like electricity, schools, hospitals, and roads, and they are understandably resentful because the encroaching settlements deprive them of even more land. He states that even their own people have used them as political pawns, in addition to some Israeli politicians. The settlers, because they are by and large Orthodox Jews, believe they are the rightful inhabitants of the land and are supported by the right-wingers and the Orthodox parties, like Shas or Agudat Yisrael or Degel HaTorah. They accept as fact that the land has been bequeathed to them—by God, no less. “On the other hand,” Reuben continues, “where were the Jews to go?”
“As long as you’re aware that it’s not a tourist destination, not Los Angeles or Tel Aviv, I’ll see what I can do,” he promises. “I’ll call Da’oud and find out if he’s disposed to escort us. Otherwise we can’t go. I will not permit it! So, no, Hannah-la, to answer your question, it is not one hundred percent safe. But you should see it with your own eyes.”
Reuben calls Roberta after they return to the hotel to report that Da’oud agreed to a tour of the camp the following day.
That evening, Roberta pens a letter that she hopes will reach her children before they get home themselves.
My dear children,
Aunt Hannah and I are having an incredible time. I, who consider myself a fairly articulate woman with typically too many words to express my feelings, am at a loss to describe our experience in Israel so far. I want to commit to memory each and every little detail of our adventure. As you know, I’ve traveled to many places: Paris, Prague, Costa Rica, Greece, St. Petersburg, Copenhagen, China, Africa, and then some, but there is something about this encounter that leaves me both breathless and wordless.
&n
bsp; Not like your Mom, huh? It’s beyond this place’s ancient history—awesome though it is—and beyond its austere beauty, with its stunning buildings of limestone, called Jerusalem stone. I believe, for me, it has more to do with having found our, if you will, lost tribe, the part of our family that I have been longing to locate—for my “self,” consciously and unconsciously, lo these many years.
We are utterly overwhelmed with our relatives’ generosity of spirit, their diversity of opinions (some you would hate), and their warm acceptance. They are good people. Now, this may sound bizarre, but I will sometimes look at Cousin Reuben and see a familiar gesture that brings to mind memories of my old Zaide Mendel, or even of one of your great uncles, especially Uncle Stewart. Or I see a gesticulation that speaks to me of my mother, your grandmother, Dora—a raised eyebrow or the way she wiggled her foot when she was upset. It was always a dead giveaway and still sends shivers down my spine. This is all unsettling, mysterious, and awe-inspiring at the same time.
Oh, my darling children, there is so much more to tell, but I’ll leave the rest of the travelogue for my return. Reuben has invited us to their place the night before we leave, and Aunt Hannah and I want to make sure, since time is growing short, that we entertain them when we can squeeze it in. He says he has something precious to give to us. It has to be the journal that he wrote about. (About time, I’d say.) Precious indeed. I’ve been waiting impatiently to get my hands on it since our arrival. No, actually before. I think I mentioned that it was originally in Yiddish but that Reuben had it translated into Hebrew for his own comprehension, then into English after he made contact with us. How incredible can this be?
I so look forward to seeing you and the children again (our numbers are paltry in comparison with theirs) and to hug you and to tell you all about every detail of our trip. About your new cousins, the country. Its politics. All. You must put Israel on your travel agenda. Yes, I know you can’t do it now, what with all the expenses of raising children, but still, if there’s any way to arrange it, I’d be happy to help a little. Love to my precious grandchildren. I miss all of you.
Hugs,
Mom
P.S. Tomorrow I visit the Shuafat refugee camp. A bit anxious and eager. Both!!
Chapter 16
THE CAMP
Early the following morning, Roberta paces outside of her hotel, waiting for Da’oud and Reuben to arrive. She eats a hard-boiled egg and a cucumber that she picked up from the hotel buffet. Within two minutes of their appointed time, Da’oud and Reuben arrive, obliging Roberta to quickly down the rest of the snack.
Furious that Roberta has broken her promise not to get into Palestinian-Israeli politics, or any politics for that matter, and just a little worried about the dangers of such an adventure, Hannah decides not to join them. She claims that she needs to begin to pack, to write some postcards, but mostly to recover from the hectic pace of their adventure-packed days.
Da’oud bears a striking resemblance to Reuben, sans red hair. He is a strongly built man who, at first glance, appears a bit intimidating because of his enormous size. He has curly black hair and a somewhat tousled beard that sheathes his face, a bear of a man. Following Reuben’s introductions, Roberta cordially declines Da’oud’s invitation to sit in the front seat. She prefers the anonymity and freedom of the back seat, where she can observe the surroundings while listening to their conversation—not that she can fully comprehend it. The men speak in basic English scattered with Hebrew and Arabic words, which to Roberta’s ears sound strangely similar. Da’oud explains that the root of both languages is Aramaic, so to the unpracticed ear, they sound the same.
Because Da’oud holds a Jerusalem ID, the route to the camp consists of driving on Nablus Road, the main thoroughfare connecting Ramallah to Jerusalem. As they come nearer to the camp, Roberta sees signs—in English, Arabic, and Hebrew—announcing Beit Hanina and Shuafat and the Pisgat Ze’ev settlement, named for Ze’ev Jabotinsky, the early Zionist leader. There is no sign, however, for the camp. At a snail’s pace, they follow a meandering route, passing through a short tunnel and then across the central highway that leads to Jerusalem.
Da’oud passes a building encircled by barbed wire fencing—a small girls’ school, he informs them—and then points to a turquoise UNRWA sign with white writing pronouncing their arrival at the Shuafat refugee camp. When they reach the camp’s military checkpoint, three Israeli security guards, barely older than Roberta’s youngest child, who is twenty-five, greet them frostily. They confer briefly with Da’oud and then wave the car on after he presents his residency card.
The road into the camp opens onto an uncared-for square. As Roberta peers out the rear view window, the scene is one of a grimy main road clogged with traffic heading out of the check-point—the one and only gateway to and from the camp, where the residents show their blue Israeli ID to leave for work. The unpaved roads of the camp, the lack of sidewalks, the noise, the garbage and waste that is strewn everywhere distress her. A fowl stench pervades the air, most likely, Da’oud explains, from the exposed sewage. He tells her that the camp is run by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency under the jurisdiction of the Jerusalem Municipality and jokingly refers to it as “Chicago,” because, he explains, of the organized crime and drug trafficking.
“Have you ever been to Chicago?” asks Roberta, just a little miffed at the comparison.
“No, why should I go there when I live here and am witness to it daily?” Da’oud responds. “Look over there at those kids exchanging drugs in broad daylight. It’s routine. Like Chicago, no?” He makes the justification that an infrastructure is all but absent, which leads to shortages of water and electricity and inadequate health care, education, and transportation. “And no employment for these young kids to make a living.”
With growing agitation, he explains that even the local school is located next to a factory that pollutes. He stresses that these conditions pertain not only to the Palestinians living in this camp but to Gaza, as well as the West Bank. He slams his hand down on the dashboard and exhales noisily.
“But all is not darkness here,” he carries on, trying to compose himself. “You’d be interested to know that they built a Women’s Center, founded last year as part of a Community Development Center built, by the way, by the German government. The Germans, not the Americans. And there’s a nursery school and kindergarten and library and some vocational training going on and a summer camp. There are also literacy programs, and, can you believe, they are in the process of building a fitness center for women and a battered women’s shelter?”
Roberta asks about the incidence of family violence in the camp.
“It is a major issue. You’ve got to understand that Palestinian men feel so hopeless about their situation, having no future. This is all they’ve known, so they take out their frustrations on the women and children.”
”So what else is new?” responds Roberta. “I know that very well. We have the same problem confronting us in the States, where there’s poverty and crime, but it doesn’t only happen in pockets of poverty. And not only in Chicago, my friend. You do know that we have shelters for battered women too?”
She questions Da’oud about the nearby luxury structures she notices nestled upon the nearby hillside. He tells her that it is the Pisgat Ze’ev settlement built in 1982. “After the Six-Day War,” he continues, “Israel annexed that land in violation of the Fourth Geneva Convention, and it’s against international law.”
“Well,” Reuben interjects, “some might not agree with that perspective.”
After Da’oud insists, once again, that it violates international law, a stony silence fills the interior of the car.
Roberta asks Da’oud if it’s safe to walk. He says it is, and after parking the car, they walk on the main road with its narrow alleyways. Roberta glimpses families living in recently built but crumbling structures that appear to have been abandoned in the middle of construction, with stairways, doors, and
passageways strewn with wreckage and fallen rocks and bricks. Da’oud shoots Roberta a perplexed glance when she asks how people can live this way. Rather than answer her question, he describes the way in which the Israel government’s discrimination against the residents of East Jerusalem was to encourage them to move out of Jerusalem and into the West Bank. “They don’t want to make life too comfortable for us so they can have it to themselves,” he snarls. “If we leave, they can build even more settlements like Pisgat.”
As they make their way through the dilapidated, narrow alleyways with their falling-apart two-story buildings—consisting of two-room apartments—small dark shops, and motorcycles maneuvering the rock-strewn streets, a middle-aged man gets off of his motorcycle and falls into an impassioned conversation with Da’oud. Da’oud later translates that the man thought the two visitors might be inspectors from the Jerusalem Municipality and wanted them to know how unhealthy the living conditions were. He wanted to take them to his two-room apartment where three families now lived. Where no one had a place to sleep. Where his children caught disease from one another. After calming the intruder and assuring him that no one was a representative of any authority, Da’oud informs them that those who live in the camp can tell under which jurisdiction it falls, that of UNRWA or the Muslim Waqf or the JM, with the Jerusalem site the most underserved. He continues, “But regardless of which authority, all neighborhoods endure horrendous living conditions, filled to capacity dwellings, and substandard basic services.”
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