What a mess. In Hebrew: בלגן. In Arabic (had to look this one up): فوضى. I've expressed my feelings about the reasons for this kind of violence, the pervasive problems and how they might be addressed--I've said it in this blog, or to you publicly, or spoken with you privately. I don't need to repeat any of that, but I do feel like I need to comment on the only way most of us hear about these things, namely, three American news organizations. They typically do a very poor job covering these sorts of things, either because they have a strong bias (there's plenty to go around when it comes to Israel/Palestine), or because reporters simply seem ignorant about what they are reporting on--they take details that their sources collect and add hype words to make things more dramatic, more offensive, or more palatable. Barns become "bunkers" and 15-year-old boys become "militants." Here are a couple stories from this week that I think are pretty significant which I have not seen reported by the big three American news channels:
Five Egyptian Police Killed in Israel Border Clash
81 House Members Enjoy All Expenses Paid Hiatus in Israel
So, what to do? My suggestion, which may require a bit more work and may cause you to be a little more confused, will at least make you better informed. For your news on this stuff, go elsewhere. Here are four (relatively) reputable news outlets, two Israeli (1) (2), one Palestinian, and one more generally Arab. You will be better informed about the events and, by observing how the same stories are treated differently between the sources, see nuances of the opinions and biases of each, perhaps your own.
Showing posts with label Israeli-Palestinian relations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Israeli-Palestinian relations. Show all posts
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Monday, July 5, 2010
Living in Jerusalem - Living in Bethlehem
Living on both sides of the wall, in Israel as well as Palestine, is a crucial part of gaining understanding about the differences and dynamics between them. I’ve spent nearly equal times living on each side and, like two sides of a coin, even a detailed portrait of one side still means you’re missing half the picture. The additional context one provides to the other is illuminating to several aspects of the situation, both in obvious ways and equally important nuances.
There’s no way to fully grasp these differences apart from doing it yourself, but I’ll do my best to shed some light on one thing from my own perspective, which I think is both interesting and important to know. The first thing that springs to mind are the different manifestations of the military tension between the two sides of the wall. On the Israeli side, the military action, the police barricades, the violence between Jews and Arabs, and religious Jews and secular Jews for that matter, is very much in your face. The tension in Jerusalem is constant, it’s active, it’s visible, it’s recounted in the international media, and sits constantly like a weight on the chest of the city for all to see. Every mall and McDonald's has armed security, every corridor of the Old City has soldiers posted in it during daylight, and it’s not uncommon for the police to literally divide the city in two during times of high tension and holy days, with blimps mounted with cameras monitoring everything from above.
Five miles away as the crow flies however, it is a different story. Once you are in Palestine and far enough away that you no longer see the wall, the area where the protests normally take place, or the Israeli military, the feeling of tension begins to change, and the further from the wall you get, the greater sense it takes on. The ambiance the tension produces on the Palestinian side is characterized by its passivity, its presence is constant, but crafted and groomed in such a way that at a superficial level it’s easily overlooked by visitors and outsiders. The populations of the Palestinian cities are not integrated with Jews, and merely walking down the street with the unabashed Arab life going on, not seeing any Jews walking the same streets, it’s almost as though a weight is lifted. The tensions can be forgotten, at least for periods of time. Contrary to media portrayals, there is a greater sense of safety in Palestine, particularly where there is no Israeli presence, the air is not thick with tension on every street corner, there is no armed security at every restaurant and no one fears violence from their neighbors.
Living in Paidia housing, overlooking a beautiful yellow green wadi lined with homes, there is the same sense of peace as a house in the country in the US. Working at the Paidia center, working with my hands, sharing tea with our neighbors, talking about the weather and exchanging ideas about how best to plant our fruit trees…watching a shepherd pass by with his flock, one escapes to a simpler time, a slower pace of life, before these tensions existed. You are able to forget that just out of sight there is a tremendous barricade and a mechanized army with the latest military technology to defend against the very same people these harmless shepherds and farmers belong to. It’s only the occasional evanescent fighter jet on a training sortie high overhead, with its low deep rumble and the flash of its flares that there is a visible symbol of the occupation.
While in Jerusalem it would be fair to say that the oppression of Palestinians is identifiable by what is done to them and taken from them, in the West Bank it is marked by what is not done for them or given to them. Having lived in both, simply being able to compare the availability of different things is key. As I mentioned in a previous blog, water is an obvious example. It’s no coincidence Israelis have water when Palestinians do not. The water does not run out for those in Jerusalem, and despite it coming from the very same sources, the water runs out regularly for Palestinians. The same issue persists in nearly every area of infrastructure throughout the West Bank. Medicines and medical treatment are another problem since the building of the wall. There are simply just a lot of medications and medical treatments that cannot be had in Palestine. Meanwhile in Jerusalem, any treatment or medicine you could expect to find in the best European country is there. You could die in Bethlehem because you are not allowed to go to a hospital just a couple miles away in Jerusalem where a life saving treatment or medication is available, but you would never know unless you yourself experienced a medical emergency where you could not get treatment, or know of someone with this experience. There is of course the greater problem of travel. Hundreds if not thousands of families have not been able to see each other since the building of the wall because they are either not allowed to cross, or would not be allowed back if they did. These, and numerous other issues which do not reach the high level of publicity like the clashes of violence, form the constant but largely subdermal tension that persists in the daily life in the West Bank.
I feel the less flagrant nature of oppression in the West Bank make the more blatant manifestations of persecution so potent. The Jews throwing their trash from above on Palestinians in Hebron, and of course the wall itself. In this way, the wall is both curse and blessing as it provides a physical manifestation for the otherwise less flagrantly visible abuses in Palestine that are so easily overlooked by those who do not or would not care to see them. No poetic metaphor could do equal justice to convey the gravity of the problem than actually erecting an eight meter wall covered in razorwire wall that literally divides families, imprisons communities, and exiles, dehumanizes, and humiliates an entire people group. It’s undeniable existence demands acknowledgement of the otherwise silent systemic issues for which the wall serves as a much needed exclamation point.
There’s no way to fully grasp these differences apart from doing it yourself, but I’ll do my best to shed some light on one thing from my own perspective, which I think is both interesting and important to know. The first thing that springs to mind are the different manifestations of the military tension between the two sides of the wall. On the Israeli side, the military action, the police barricades, the violence between Jews and Arabs, and religious Jews and secular Jews for that matter, is very much in your face. The tension in Jerusalem is constant, it’s active, it’s visible, it’s recounted in the international media, and sits constantly like a weight on the chest of the city for all to see. Every mall and McDonald's has armed security, every corridor of the Old City has soldiers posted in it during daylight, and it’s not uncommon for the police to literally divide the city in two during times of high tension and holy days, with blimps mounted with cameras monitoring everything from above.
Five miles away as the crow flies however, it is a different story. Once you are in Palestine and far enough away that you no longer see the wall, the area where the protests normally take place, or the Israeli military, the feeling of tension begins to change, and the further from the wall you get, the greater sense it takes on. The ambiance the tension produces on the Palestinian side is characterized by its passivity, its presence is constant, but crafted and groomed in such a way that at a superficial level it’s easily overlooked by visitors and outsiders. The populations of the Palestinian cities are not integrated with Jews, and merely walking down the street with the unabashed Arab life going on, not seeing any Jews walking the same streets, it’s almost as though a weight is lifted. The tensions can be forgotten, at least for periods of time. Contrary to media portrayals, there is a greater sense of safety in Palestine, particularly where there is no Israeli presence, the air is not thick with tension on every street corner, there is no armed security at every restaurant and no one fears violence from their neighbors.
Living in Paidia housing, overlooking a beautiful yellow green wadi lined with homes, there is the same sense of peace as a house in the country in the US. Working at the Paidia center, working with my hands, sharing tea with our neighbors, talking about the weather and exchanging ideas about how best to plant our fruit trees…watching a shepherd pass by with his flock, one escapes to a simpler time, a slower pace of life, before these tensions existed. You are able to forget that just out of sight there is a tremendous barricade and a mechanized army with the latest military technology to defend against the very same people these harmless shepherds and farmers belong to. It’s only the occasional evanescent fighter jet on a training sortie high overhead, with its low deep rumble and the flash of its flares that there is a visible symbol of the occupation. While in Jerusalem it would be fair to say that the oppression of Palestinians is identifiable by what is done to them and taken from them, in the West Bank it is marked by what is not done for them or given to them. Having lived in both, simply being able to compare the availability of different things is key. As I mentioned in a previous blog, water is an obvious example. It’s no coincidence Israelis have water when Palestinians do not. The water does not run out for those in Jerusalem, and despite it coming from the very same sources, the water runs out regularly for Palestinians. The same issue persists in nearly every area of infrastructure throughout the West Bank. Medicines and medical treatment are another problem since the building of the wall. There are simply just a lot of medications and medical treatments that cannot be had in Palestine. Meanwhile in Jerusalem, any treatment or medicine you could expect to find in the best European country is there. You could die in Bethlehem because you are not allowed to go to a hospital just a couple miles away in Jerusalem where a life saving treatment or medication is available, but you would never know unless you yourself experienced a medical emergency where you could not get treatment, or know of someone with this experience. There is of course the greater problem of travel. Hundreds if not thousands of families have not been able to see each other since the building of the wall because they are either not allowed to cross, or would not be allowed back if they did. These, and numerous other issues which do not reach the high level of publicity like the clashes of violence, form the constant but largely subdermal tension that persists in the daily life in the West Bank.
I feel the less flagrant nature of oppression in the West Bank make the more blatant manifestations of persecution so potent. The Jews throwing their trash from above on Palestinians in Hebron, and of course the wall itself. In this way, the wall is both curse and blessing as it provides a physical manifestation for the otherwise less flagrantly visible abuses in Palestine that are so easily overlooked by those who do not or would not care to see them. No poetic metaphor could do equal justice to convey the gravity of the problem than actually erecting an eight meter wall covered in razorwire wall that literally divides families, imprisons communities, and exiles, dehumanizes, and humiliates an entire people group. It’s undeniable existence demands acknowledgement of the otherwise silent systemic issues for which the wall serves as a much needed exclamation point.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Surgery with a Story
So, I’m having surgery right now in a Palestinian ER, and I’m writing so I don’t have to look down at it. For at least the last fifteen years I’ve had an ingrown toenail on my big toe. I had surgery on my right big toe to correct this problem when I was in the fourth or fifth grade and I’m now finally having it on the other. It’s been a kind of “thorn in the flesh” for me as it has caused me regular pain for all these years. I’ve had a couple opportunities to have this surgery before but I’ve always backed out of I, nerves bearing their partial contribution. The nerves have certainly not disappeared today; it’s something about the surgery involving my nail and a toe, I’d rather have them cut open my stomach frankly. I’ve had a few shots in my foot now and I feel sick to my stomach. So why now, of all times, and why here, of all places? Well, that’s a question I’m asking myself right now actually. But here are the reasons I came to the hospital in the first place. Randomly enough, I’ve always thought I would enjoy rock climbing, but as long as I can remember wanting to, I’ve never really been able with this toe. One of the primary ministries Paidia is operating is a rock climbing wall that we built at one of the very few nice parks located down the road here in Beit Sahour. I’d love to be able to climb it with no pain. The second reason, probably equally little to do with the problem itself is that I seem to have a, possibly masochistic, affinity for rising to the challenges of my fears and accomplishing the most difficult things I can imagine; if not for purely psychological reasons, this is one of them.
What actually got me to lay down on this table probably has more to do with the hospital experience I had. Our secretary called to schedule an appointment for me, and after speaking with them she wrote down the times the doctors are available, no appointment needed. I went in on a Wednesday during the time the doctor was to be in, but as it turned out the dash between Monday and Thursday was meant to mean Monday or Thursday, not Monday through Thursday. In spite of this, before I could leave, or even sit down to wait, the receptionist told me I could just see the general practice physician, who promptly appeared in the doorway and without spending a moment waiting he invited me into his office. Being the only blonde haired person in the clinic I stuck out a bit (not that I mind the attention), so he asked me if I was a volunteer. I told him the work I was doing, how long I had been in the region, about our center, about the park. He told me that his house was right down the street from the park we are working on, and we talked for another ten minutes or so. He seemed in no rush, nothing like the hospital pace I’m used to. He took a look at it and said that they could do the surgery…that day, or whenever I wanted it, and that the surgeon gets in in about an hour. He told me that the surgery would cost 400 sheqels, or a little over $100, that I could pay however much I wanted whenever I was able to. He probably took notice of my surprise and explained to me that they aren’t concerned about the money, the doctors were there to help regardless of the money. I told him I should probably check with my boss to see when I should get it done. After using the phone at the reception desk I returned to his office where the doctor pulled a framed photo from his drawer. He told me it was a picture of his house, and turned it toward me. The picture showed a heap of rubble. He explained that Israeli tanks destroyed it in the last Intifada and pointed to a sole window in one corner of the building that remained standing, he said “that was my bedroom.” He told me that he and his family made it out alive and fled, and that they returned and rebuilt their home where it was. Sometimes I need reminding that so many people here have these remarkable stories. It's not terrorists and fanatics that are the victims, but the average family man, doing the best he can to help his community.
After we finished talking I went to the waiting room to wait for the surgeon who I met shortly after. He suggested, to my relief, that I wait a few days for the surgery. Not that they wouldn’t do it right then and there, but because he felt I should take a round of antibiotics first. A few days passed and here I am. The price and speed at which this whole process has gone have left me little excuse to go through with it, though I admit I am concerned about the results. Pictures to come…
What actually got me to lay down on this table probably has more to do with the hospital experience I had. Our secretary called to schedule an appointment for me, and after speaking with them she wrote down the times the doctors are available, no appointment needed. I went in on a Wednesday during the time the doctor was to be in, but as it turned out the dash between Monday and Thursday was meant to mean Monday or Thursday, not Monday through Thursday. In spite of this, before I could leave, or even sit down to wait, the receptionist told me I could just see the general practice physician, who promptly appeared in the doorway and without spending a moment waiting he invited me into his office. Being the only blonde haired person in the clinic I stuck out a bit (not that I mind the attention), so he asked me if I was a volunteer. I told him the work I was doing, how long I had been in the region, about our center, about the park. He told me that his house was right down the street from the park we are working on, and we talked for another ten minutes or so. He seemed in no rush, nothing like the hospital pace I’m used to. He took a look at it and said that they could do the surgery…that day, or whenever I wanted it, and that the surgeon gets in in about an hour. He told me that the surgery would cost 400 sheqels, or a little over $100, that I could pay however much I wanted whenever I was able to. He probably took notice of my surprise and explained to me that they aren’t concerned about the money, the doctors were there to help regardless of the money. I told him I should probably check with my boss to see when I should get it done. After using the phone at the reception desk I returned to his office where the doctor pulled a framed photo from his drawer. He told me it was a picture of his house, and turned it toward me. The picture showed a heap of rubble. He explained that Israeli tanks destroyed it in the last Intifada and pointed to a sole window in one corner of the building that remained standing, he said “that was my bedroom.” He told me that he and his family made it out alive and fled, and that they returned and rebuilt their home where it was. Sometimes I need reminding that so many people here have these remarkable stories. It's not terrorists and fanatics that are the victims, but the average family man, doing the best he can to help his community.
After we finished talking I went to the waiting room to wait for the surgeon who I met shortly after. He suggested, to my relief, that I wait a few days for the surgery. Not that they wouldn’t do it right then and there, but because he felt I should take a round of antibiotics first. A few days passed and here I am. The price and speed at which this whole process has gone have left me little excuse to go through with it, though I admit I am concerned about the results. Pictures to come…
Monday, October 19, 2009
Escapees and Voluntary Prisoners
It was another Gaza day, but today I had another doctor that I was bringing out in addition to the usual one. This doctor wasn’t coming to treat patients with the Israeli doctors however, he was coming to be admitted at a hospital in Israel for cancer treatment. I was to drop him off at another hospital we work with after letting off our usual Gaza patients at another hospital. So here I was chit chatting on the drive from Gaza to Tel Aviv with two of the most distinguished medical professionals that live in the Gaza Strip. Many of the governments in the Middle East choose the jobs of citizens based on how well they score in school, and in order to be a doctor in Gaza one must score in the top few percent, so these men were also among the smartest and well educated. These two men are some of the few people that, if they wanted to, could get out of the Gaza Strip, make much more money, live in a much nicer place with all the things we daily take for granted, and certainly be far safer. And still they spoke about what they did as though they could do nothing else, to hear them speak and share their story, their compassion and desire to serve their people was very powerful. The doctor coming for treatment was in obvious physical pain toward the end of the drive but we soon made it to the hospital. Like most things in Israel the hospitals have security, but far tighter than most other places, with guard shacks and armed security at every entrance; they usually search the trunk and in the case of Palestinians their bags as well. This doctor was held up for probably 15 minutes while they checked his permission and searched his things, but when I finally dropped him he off unphased, and as very gracious and thankful as ever.
After dropping the doctor off, I returned to the other hospital where I had dropped off the Gaza patients. After all the tests and echocardiograms were finished for the patients I got them loaded up in my van to return back to Gaza. Before getting in, a father with his son of about 15 asked me if he could run to the hospital pharmacy to buy some medicine for his wife. Understanding their need and knowing how expensive things are in Gaza I told them they could go, but I told them to hurry since the other families were already waiting in the van, and I sent Erica our Gaza coordinator to escort them. When they got to the pharmacy in the hospital mall the father told the son to wait outside while he and Erica ran in to get what they needed. When they came out of the pharmacy they immediately noticed the son was not where they left them. The father turned to Erica and asked where he was, and after a moment of looking around them the father said they should split up to look. The father went one way and Erica the other. After almost half an hour of waiting in the van with the other families I called Erica to find out what the trouble was. She told me the situation and I immediately got out and began to look around the hospital myself. I told Erica that if we couldn’t find the son soon we should call the hospital security to search the hospital grounds for him. After another 15 minutes of fruitless searching I told Erica we would need to have security look for him. Erica called the Father on the phone to let him know, to which he replied “No, no, don’t call security, we’ll be at the van in five minutes!” We immediately realized we had been duped, we thought, like Gaza families commonly do, they were shopping and wanted to trick us to buy more time. Erica and I met up at the van again with the other exhausted families to wait, but again ten more minutes passed. Erica called the father again to find out where they were, only this time the line was dead, they had turned off the phone. We immediately got the attention of the security, many of whom I have become well acquainted with in this work, and informed them of the situation. After sweeping the hospital I met back with them where the disappearance originally took place, at the pharmacy. The pharmacy itself is only ten feet or so from an exit to the main street, and it was at that point we realized that there was no security check for people leaving the hospital. We approached the guard at that entrance, the security asked if he had seen the father and son. The guard said he saw them go down to the street and get in a taxi.
We had no choice but to alert the police and the security supervisor at the border that a father and teenage son from Gaza had escaped into Israel. When we brought the other families back to the border we informed the guard about the situation and he put the crossing point on notice as well (the only pedestrian crossing point in and out of Gaza)…That was the last we heard of them.
After dropping the doctor off, I returned to the other hospital where I had dropped off the Gaza patients. After all the tests and echocardiograms were finished for the patients I got them loaded up in my van to return back to Gaza. Before getting in, a father with his son of about 15 asked me if he could run to the hospital pharmacy to buy some medicine for his wife. Understanding their need and knowing how expensive things are in Gaza I told them they could go, but I told them to hurry since the other families were already waiting in the van, and I sent Erica our Gaza coordinator to escort them. When they got to the pharmacy in the hospital mall the father told the son to wait outside while he and Erica ran in to get what they needed. When they came out of the pharmacy they immediately noticed the son was not where they left them. The father turned to Erica and asked where he was, and after a moment of looking around them the father said they should split up to look. The father went one way and Erica the other. After almost half an hour of waiting in the van with the other families I called Erica to find out what the trouble was. She told me the situation and I immediately got out and began to look around the hospital myself. I told Erica that if we couldn’t find the son soon we should call the hospital security to search the hospital grounds for him. After another 15 minutes of fruitless searching I told Erica we would need to have security look for him. Erica called the Father on the phone to let him know, to which he replied “No, no, don’t call security, we’ll be at the van in five minutes!” We immediately realized we had been duped, we thought, like Gaza families commonly do, they were shopping and wanted to trick us to buy more time. Erica and I met up at the van again with the other exhausted families to wait, but again ten more minutes passed. Erica called the father again to find out where they were, only this time the line was dead, they had turned off the phone. We immediately got the attention of the security, many of whom I have become well acquainted with in this work, and informed them of the situation. After sweeping the hospital I met back with them where the disappearance originally took place, at the pharmacy. The pharmacy itself is only ten feet or so from an exit to the main street, and it was at that point we realized that there was no security check for people leaving the hospital. We approached the guard at that entrance, the security asked if he had seen the father and son. The guard said he saw them go down to the street and get in a taxi.
We had no choice but to alert the police and the security supervisor at the border that a father and teenage son from Gaza had escaped into Israel. When we brought the other families back to the border we informed the guard about the situation and he put the crossing point on notice as well (the only pedestrian crossing point in and out of Gaza)…That was the last we heard of them.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Perspectives
The last few weeks when I have done my Tuesday Gaza runs I’ve brought out one of the Gazan cardiac pediatricians. He has come along to learn from and talk with the head of the cardiology department at the hospital, where the children we bring out are admitted. It’s under this Israeli doctors leadership that all of the Gaza children we sponsor are treated. On the hour drive from Gaza to the hospital, the Gazan doctor recalled to me his boyhood spent in an Arab village outside where the now heavily fortified military border is, long before it was constructed. As we drove he would point out places where Arab villages once stood, where his father’s village and farm were, now demolished. One of my favorite ruins along the road, a lonely, one room stone building, seemingly plopped haphazardly in a rolling field, the doctor informed me was once a mosque. In the calmest way I've ever heard an Arab discuss the subject he told me how stupid he thought the Jews were for how they are treating the Gazan people. That day, the mother of one of the sick children got to see her sister for the first time in a decade. One sister lives in Gaza, the other I believe from the West Bank. When the sister from the West Bank heard that the other would be able to leave Gaza for a day, she traveled to the hospital in Tel Aviv to see her for the few hours she would be there.
After we made it to hospital and all the patients were treated and ready to go back to Gaza, I told the Israeli doctor that I would need to call a contact I have at the border to see if a protest was still going on. That day was the 3 year anniversary of the kidnapping of Gilad Shalit, a Jewish soldier still held hostage by Hamas, and exploited as a powerful gambling chip. When I picked up the families and doctor in the morning, protesters were standing in front of the gates leading into the Gaza border, and as I found out later, were blocking trucks with humanitarian aid (though the only one I saw while at the border, they let through). Walking through the midst of these protesters with a half dozen Gazan’s, children with severe heart problems no less, would not be possible. So as I was seated waiting for a return call to hear if the protesters had dispersed, the Israeli doctor told me that he had been listening to the reports of the protests all day on the radio. He, also remaining about as calm as I’ve heard a Jew talk about Gilad Shalit, expressed his outrage at how unfair and uncompromising the Palestinians Authorities are and how gracious and compromising the Israel government is to them. He told me to imagine being one of Gilad’s parents, or his brother, what it must feel like for them.
After we made it to hospital and all the patients were treated and ready to go back to Gaza, I told the Israeli doctor that I would need to call a contact I have at the border to see if a protest was still going on. That day was the 3 year anniversary of the kidnapping of Gilad Shalit, a Jewish soldier still held hostage by Hamas, and exploited as a powerful gambling chip. When I picked up the families and doctor in the morning, protesters were standing in front of the gates leading into the Gaza border, and as I found out later, were blocking trucks with humanitarian aid (though the only one I saw while at the border, they let through). Walking through the midst of these protesters with a half dozen Gazan’s, children with severe heart problems no less, would not be possible. So as I was seated waiting for a return call to hear if the protesters had dispersed, the Israeli doctor told me that he had been listening to the reports of the protests all day on the radio. He, also remaining about as calm as I’ve heard a Jew talk about Gilad Shalit, expressed his outrage at how unfair and uncompromising the Palestinians Authorities are and how gracious and compromising the Israel government is to them. He told me to imagine being one of Gilad’s parents, or his brother, what it must feel like for them.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Getting through Security
I just spent an hour in a check point coming out of the West Bank. Typically we leave from Jerusalem to circumvent the West Bank entirely on the road to Gaza, but because of the weather (raining) and the difficulty Erica has getting from Bethlehem to Jerusalem (through a checkpoint) early enough, we decided to try a different route. I've had somewhat invasive checks before, on par with airport security, and those are easy enough to laugh off. Usually the most embarrassing thing that happens is that I have to remove my belt going through the metal detector, and have to hold up my pants for 5 minutes while they send it through the X-Ray (yes the belt, no I don’t know why); but this one was bad, downright offensive. Generally anyone with an American I'd gets waved right through checkpoints, not many Californians bent on terrorist acts against the state of Israel I guess (the issue of legislated racial/gender/geographical profiling is for a different blog). As I handed the guard Erica’s ID (Jerusalem residing Palestinian) after mine, the guard’s expression changed, and he squawked something over his walkey talkey and directed us to turn around and get in line for inspection.
We sat in our van for about 15 minutes in a line with 10-20 other vehicles waiting for inspection; taxis, agricultural trucks, empty freight trucks, and a few other unlucky regular motorists, the others had clearly been there quite a bit longer. When a guard instructed the front vehicles to go we sped into a barricaded lot in a stampede of vehicles. We all parked, opened all our doors, trunk, hood, grabbed our bags and headed some 100 feet or so to go through security, while our vehicles were searched, checked for bombs with mirrors, dogs, etc… While I was waiting in line to go through the metal detector and have my backpack and our bag of medical supplies X-rayed, another guard called out for me after looking at our van. I walked up to him and he said in broken English to take the child and infant seats out of the van to be X-rayed as well. That was a new one, kind of frustrating but I complied. I had to take a couple trips because the seats in addition to bags were too cumbersome. When I got to the line they opened my backpack, flipped through the pages of my Bible and rummaged through the rest. Everything was then put on the X-ray. The inspector was very interested in our medical supplies, tubes, feeding syringes, and what not. I explained that we were a medical charity. My laptop had to be sent through alone, opened, and inspected as well. I cringed as my open laptop went back and forth naked under the rubber drapes, no scratches thankfully.
After going through security everyone was then corralled through a one way door into an outdoor pen to wait, about 20 Palestinian young men, myself, and Erica. The guards had apparently collected everyone’s cell phones to prevent anyone from making calls, they never asked me though. I was then called back to the van again. A guard had noticed there was a small blue container, mostly empty, in the back of our van, she asked me to take that to be X-rayed. After I was about half way to the security building she called me back again. I went back, and now she wanted to know what I had assumed they would ask about first, the 3 foot tall highly explosive tank of oxygen we keep stowed in our van. She said “what is this?” I replied, “oxygen.” She called over another guard that apparently spoke better English, he asked what it was, and I told him “oxygen” at which point he translated to the other guard “oxygeen.” To the X-Ray of course. I knew it didn’t really matter what I said was in it, I could have said it was full of Israeli flags and ‘free Gilad Shalit’ bumper stickers and they would still have X-rayed it. I loaded up the little blue container, and then the big tank of oxygen onto the X-ray machine. As it went through I explained to a teenage female guard doing her very best to sound intimidating what the canister contained and why we had it. Typically the best strategy for getting through checkpoints without being hassled and interrogated is to give the facts but acting like a dumb American that doesn’t speak a word of Hebrew; throwing in a California accent or a “Yee-haw!” for good measure always helps. I was then sent back out to the pen, leaving the oxygen tan inside, no doubt to have some superior officer decide what to do with the thing.
It began pouring rain while we were in the pen, again everyone’s doors were wide open, and everyone began shouting at the guards to let us out to close our vehicles up. After maybe 30 seconds of downpour we were allowed to go close our doors and come back. We spent another half an hour waiting, most of the men spent it smoking, drinking coffee, often both. It reminded me of the kids that got detention in high school, keeping mostly quiet, but telling jokes and goofing off as much as they could get away with. There was quite a lot of tension, not so much out of fear of the border guards but because of the guards’ perceived incompetence for taking so long. While I don’t doubt the quality of the training the IDF inductees undergo, the closest thing that it reminds me of back home is high school PE class. Israel’s military service is compulsory for every citizen, male or female, for two years typically ages 18-19, unless you are an Orthodox Jew studying Torah, or volunteer for humanitarian service. Because of this, there are soldiers everywhere, and their attitude toward their military service seems to be mixed in the same stereotypes found in high school gym class. You have the girls that dress out, but prefer to talk and don’t participate, the overweight ones with skin tight uniforms, you have some guys that are a little too gung ho and take their position very seriously, and almost across the board they act like normal teenagers when they aren’t tending to some immediate work. I pass them every day waiting at the bus stops to go home, and it’s all so reminiscent of high school. The primary difference is that many of these young adults are armed with m4 assault rifles, complete with extended ammo clips and scopes, even strapped over the shoulder they practically drag on the ground with some of the 5’ tall 100lb girls.
Anyway, we were given back our oxygen tank, and after a few minutes more a guard began a roll call of IDs and passports, the lone blue US passport sitting at the top. A guard called out “Justin,” to which all the Palestinians repeated loudly so everyone could hear. It was like being called to get up from time out. Once called to get the passport you were free to go, and one by one everyone darted off to their vehicle and pulled out. I took much longer, having to reassemble everything, and load everything back up in the van, through the rain mind you.
I left feeling a little disgruntled and violated, and soggy socks didn’t help anything. All this took place while the Gaza patients were waiting for us at the border with the freezing wind and pouring rain, luckily a couple border taxis allowed our patients to sit in their cars while they waited for us.
What is necessary, what is justifiable, what is off limits, what is private, what is excessive? These questions require a great deal of input by analysts, lawyers, government representatives, in meetings, committees, and courtrooms, but there is a lot of necessary perspective which can only be gained once you have yourself been the object if interest, anything less is a fundamental handicap in discerning these questions.
We sat in our van for about 15 minutes in a line with 10-20 other vehicles waiting for inspection; taxis, agricultural trucks, empty freight trucks, and a few other unlucky regular motorists, the others had clearly been there quite a bit longer. When a guard instructed the front vehicles to go we sped into a barricaded lot in a stampede of vehicles. We all parked, opened all our doors, trunk, hood, grabbed our bags and headed some 100 feet or so to go through security, while our vehicles were searched, checked for bombs with mirrors, dogs, etc… While I was waiting in line to go through the metal detector and have my backpack and our bag of medical supplies X-rayed, another guard called out for me after looking at our van. I walked up to him and he said in broken English to take the child and infant seats out of the van to be X-rayed as well. That was a new one, kind of frustrating but I complied. I had to take a couple trips because the seats in addition to bags were too cumbersome. When I got to the line they opened my backpack, flipped through the pages of my Bible and rummaged through the rest. Everything was then put on the X-ray. The inspector was very interested in our medical supplies, tubes, feeding syringes, and what not. I explained that we were a medical charity. My laptop had to be sent through alone, opened, and inspected as well. I cringed as my open laptop went back and forth naked under the rubber drapes, no scratches thankfully.
After going through security everyone was then corralled through a one way door into an outdoor pen to wait, about 20 Palestinian young men, myself, and Erica. The guards had apparently collected everyone’s cell phones to prevent anyone from making calls, they never asked me though. I was then called back to the van again. A guard had noticed there was a small blue container, mostly empty, in the back of our van, she asked me to take that to be X-rayed. After I was about half way to the security building she called me back again. I went back, and now she wanted to know what I had assumed they would ask about first, the 3 foot tall highly explosive tank of oxygen we keep stowed in our van. She said “what is this?” I replied, “oxygen.” She called over another guard that apparently spoke better English, he asked what it was, and I told him “oxygen” at which point he translated to the other guard “oxygeen.” To the X-Ray of course. I knew it didn’t really matter what I said was in it, I could have said it was full of Israeli flags and ‘free Gilad Shalit’ bumper stickers and they would still have X-rayed it. I loaded up the little blue container, and then the big tank of oxygen onto the X-ray machine. As it went through I explained to a teenage female guard doing her very best to sound intimidating what the canister contained and why we had it. Typically the best strategy for getting through checkpoints without being hassled and interrogated is to give the facts but acting like a dumb American that doesn’t speak a word of Hebrew; throwing in a California accent or a “Yee-haw!” for good measure always helps. I was then sent back out to the pen, leaving the oxygen tan inside, no doubt to have some superior officer decide what to do with the thing.
It began pouring rain while we were in the pen, again everyone’s doors were wide open, and everyone began shouting at the guards to let us out to close our vehicles up. After maybe 30 seconds of downpour we were allowed to go close our doors and come back. We spent another half an hour waiting, most of the men spent it smoking, drinking coffee, often both. It reminded me of the kids that got detention in high school, keeping mostly quiet, but telling jokes and goofing off as much as they could get away with. There was quite a lot of tension, not so much out of fear of the border guards but because of the guards’ perceived incompetence for taking so long. While I don’t doubt the quality of the training the IDF inductees undergo, the closest thing that it reminds me of back home is high school PE class. Israel’s military service is compulsory for every citizen, male or female, for two years typically ages 18-19, unless you are an Orthodox Jew studying Torah, or volunteer for humanitarian service. Because of this, there are soldiers everywhere, and their attitude toward their military service seems to be mixed in the same stereotypes found in high school gym class. You have the girls that dress out, but prefer to talk and don’t participate, the overweight ones with skin tight uniforms, you have some guys that are a little too gung ho and take their position very seriously, and almost across the board they act like normal teenagers when they aren’t tending to some immediate work. I pass them every day waiting at the bus stops to go home, and it’s all so reminiscent of high school. The primary difference is that many of these young adults are armed with m4 assault rifles, complete with extended ammo clips and scopes, even strapped over the shoulder they practically drag on the ground with some of the 5’ tall 100lb girls.
Anyway, we were given back our oxygen tank, and after a few minutes more a guard began a roll call of IDs and passports, the lone blue US passport sitting at the top. A guard called out “Justin,” to which all the Palestinians repeated loudly so everyone could hear. It was like being called to get up from time out. Once called to get the passport you were free to go, and one by one everyone darted off to their vehicle and pulled out. I took much longer, having to reassemble everything, and load everything back up in the van, through the rain mind you.
I left feeling a little disgruntled and violated, and soggy socks didn’t help anything. All this took place while the Gaza patients were waiting for us at the border with the freezing wind and pouring rain, luckily a couple border taxis allowed our patients to sit in their cars while they waited for us.
What is necessary, what is justifiable, what is off limits, what is private, what is excessive? These questions require a great deal of input by analysts, lawyers, government representatives, in meetings, committees, and courtrooms, but there is a lot of necessary perspective which can only be gained once you have yourself been the object if interest, anything less is a fundamental handicap in discerning these questions.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A Day in the Life
I haven’t had time to update the blog in a while, given how busy I am I hope that you understand. Here is a snapshot of today:
Today after the 8:30 morning meeting I drove from Jerusalem to Gaza with Erica our Gaza coordinator to pick up several patients for the first time in about two weeks. The border had been closed to medical cases because of a bureaucratic stand-off, the details of which are hardly entertaining blog content. Out of a possible 7 children I was told that 5 had obtained all the necessary permissions, 1 to be taken by ambulance, and 4 to be picked up by yours truly; 2 for follow ups, 1 for heart catheterization, and 1 for urgent surgery. I was also told that some Israeli medical students would be meeting me at the border to tag along in order to make the entire process somehow more complicated. Because the border requires all people going through the border to shut off their cell phones, and because of the hoops everyone must jump through to get out, discerning when and if anyone gets across it is extremely unpredictable. After w
aiting approximately half an hour we had collected 3 of the 4 patients, but the one left in security was the most urgent case. In order to ensure that the 3 kids that made it out were able to be treated I left for Tel Aviv with just 3 of the 4 children expected to get out, and gave Erica’s cell phone number to one of the taxi drivers who sit at the border in case the 4th child made it out. I squeezed two of the medical students in the van as well and they provided some welcome company on the road to the hospital. They were both fresh from American and Canada and were very interested to hear about our work. They have been living in Be’er Sheba, one of the primary targets of the Hamas rockets, and frankly I was surprised at the lack of bitterness toward the Gazan people. I thought it was perhaps because they had not lived there long, but they have lived there long enough to suffer a bit of shell shock after this latest war, and joked about how they jump at anything that sounds similar to the incoming rocket warning siren.
For some reason Israelis have become nervous about people from Gaza, possibly because of the daily rockets and bombings, so it’s routine that whenever I pull up in the van to hospital entry security with Gazans security likes to run our papers, check the bags, look at the van, check for nervous eyes, etc. All the guards recognize me at this point and I‘m able to joke with them about giving me a hard time every time I bring anyone to the hospital, a smile goes a long way, and seeing men armed with fully automatic assault rifles is something you get used to; I think it’s possible them knowing I'm from California has granted me a charisma they’re curious about as well. After everything cleared and the guard handed me back all the paperwork I said “thanks” and as I pulled away hung my arm out the window and held out a peace sign, the guard instinctively called back “peace!” as I drove into the lot.
Upon piling out of the elevator at the hospital with all the Gazan’s I was stopped at the entry to the pediatric cardiology department by one of the workers, very unusual… I didn’t find out why until about 15 minutes later, after watching a few people rush in and out. Yesterday, amongst the chaos of my own tasks at the hospital, I witnessed Maureen a 3-year-old from Tanzania having her chest sutures removed (one of the final things done before a patient’s release). I said a quick hello to her mother Sweetie, before I ran off to finish my work for the day. I have had several conversations with Sweetie in the hospital rooms, hallways and outside the ICU, and I’ve always been sure to say hello to bashful little Maureen. Sweetie has been here with her daughter, who has had 3 heart surgeries now, since December through Save a Child’s Heart. I found out that she was a Christian, and gave her my Gideon’s New Testament so she would be have the Scriptures handy in a pocket size to carry with her, and I was able to connect her with a local Christian congregation in Tel Aviv so that she was able to attend a much needed worship service. Today was a different story for Maureen, in the morning she had a temperature so as a precaution she was brought to the hospital to have some tests run. Suddenly, in the middle of being checked Maureen’s breathing and heart stopped. The technician immediately called (not exaggerating) the entire children’s ward staff and doctors and every machine they had to the small check-up room. This was why I was stopped at the entrance to the department, the workers didn’t want the 6 Gazans I had in tow to witness this frenzy going on around the corner. When I got the all clear I brought the Gazan patients into a waiting area and watched machine after machine being wheeled out of the check-up room, followed by Maureen. With 20 or so of the best pediatric doctors and nurses in the world surrounding her she was successfully resuscitated after a few minutes, and as she was wheeled by I was never happier to hear a child cry. It’s unknown whether or not she has suffered brain damage, I’ll get an update the next time I go to this hospital.
After making sure the nurses were ready for the kids and waiting for the panic to settle down it was well past lunch time but after a minute of debating whether or not to get food or wait longer with the patients we received a call from the taxi driver that the 4th child had made it across, and back we went to Gaza. Thankfully this took place without incident, we picked up the mother and child, welcomed them, strapped them in, and back we went again to Tel Aviv.
Back at the hospital now two of the three patients brought earlier had finished their check-ups and the third was being worked on, which gave us thirty minutes or so to eat lunch. Now 3:30, I was ready to stuff my face with something huge in a hurry, McDonald’s fit the bill. I order a small combo to the tune of 42 sheqels (a little more than 10 US dollars (no that’s not a typo)). After shoving the food down we returned to collect the two families that came for follow up in order to take them home to Gaza only to find the hallway empty. Not knowing where Gazan’s are in a city like Tel Aviv was a big security booboo, but we quickly tracked them down quickly, and I joked with the doctor about her losing my patients. We found them, called out “Yalla” (the Arabic catch all for, “let’s go,” “come here,” “are you ready,” etc), had a bit of a laugh about them eluding us, and piled back into the van.
The sun was setting as I drove in the middle of the Israeli rush hour, now the third time to Gaza today. It’s no surprise that the traffic thins the closer you get to the border, though even the bumper to bumper tedium isn’t so bad if you can just enjoy the beautiful countryside along the way, especially at sunset when the rolling hills turn golden on one side of the highway, and dunes with desert blooms chasing the sun on the other. We made it to the border once again, unloaded our happy little patients and their mothers, shook their hands and made sure they got through the security gate. Our day was finally done and we were prepared to head to Jerusalem when, wouldn’t you know it, I got a knock on my driver’s window…
I let Erica do the talking (she’s fluent in Arabic). This fellow had gotten out of Gaza and was looking for a ride to Jerusalem. While hitchhikers are very common in Israel, Gazan’s getting permission to go to Jerusalem are not at all. We asked him what he was doing, to which he replied he was going for peace talks. Erica and I were very skeptical of the possibility and needed to check him out before unintentionally aiding an international criminal, but sure enough, he produced the paperwork. He was granted a travel visa to be in Israel for more than a month, and was permitted to travel almost everywhere in Israel; both the length of time and the areas he had permission to were shocking to me frankly. He gave us a business card which titles him a Political Commissar under the Palestinian National Authority – The Chairman of Supreme Committee for Negotiation and Peace Process Suppert (sic).
Call me superstitious if you like, but it’s not every day that The Chairman of the Supreme Committee for Negotiation and Peace Process Support of the Palestinian Authority ask for a ride from a random van that so happens to be occupied by two people at the bleeding edge of this work, who also happen to be going exactly where he needs to go, and from the Gaza border no less. So, after being scolded by a frustrated taxi driver for stealing his customer we headed back for Jerusalem.
I stopped to load myself up on some coffee for another long drive at a restaurant and coffee shop about 5 minutes from the border. There are two spins for how you can be surprised at this place, either that such a nice place could exist in such close proximity to the Gaza strip granted the constantly falling rockets, or that such a ravaged place as the Gaza strip could exist in such close proximity to a fine dining restaurant. For the price of a McDonalds meal you can get essentially a 3 course meal, I seriously hope no one in Hamas hears about this place, not that I wouldn’t like them to enjoy it, but because they’d probably want to blow it up. This place is one that gives me that unexpectedly normal feeling, it shouldn’t feel normal there, but it does. You never know what will give you some perspective in this place, in this case it was a restaurant.
We made it back to Jerusalem around 7:30, dropped off our new friend, ate some dinner which was waiting for us, and got to work on things needed to get done around Jerusalem. I imagine we’ll try to make contact with the political commissar sometime during his stay, perhaps have him over for dinner. We can always use more friends on both sides.
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