Part 2: Ramallah and Taybeh, Palestine

Feb. 26, 2018

I couldn’t sleep Sunday night, anxious about going into the occupied West Bank, I guess. It was raining lightly as we had breakfast at Jerusalem’s Zion Hotel down the street, but it quickly cleared to desert mild. John and I packed a single backpack to take with us for 2 days in Palestine and checked the rest of our stuff at the hotel where we would return for one more night before heading to Tel Aviv.

Rami tells us about it now

We met our guide Rami Nazzal outside our hotel. He is a respected and well-known Palestinian journalist and tour consultant. He told us his background as we drove north out of Jerusalem. Rami grew up here, went to college in the U.S., and now lives in East Jerusalem. I estimate Rami is in his late 30s. He worked for Time magazine and is a stringer for the New York Times, Reuters and Der Spiegel. He was warm and engaging. He made it clear he is critical of the governments of both Palestine and Israel for the plight of the Palestinian people.

Entering the West Bank

We drove through the main checkpoint in the separation wall with minimal delay and on toward Ramallah, Rami talking non-stop. Whenever we had a question he said, “I’m going to tell you about that now…”

One of the first things Rami pointed out is how you can tell Israeli houses from Palestinian houses—by the water tanks on the roof. Israelis built a separate infrastructure for housing that is side by side with Palestinians. The Israeli settlers have white tanks on their roofs and get a continuous supply of water. The Palestinians have black tanks. They get water 2-4 days a week, or sometimes not at all. The inequity of water and utility services is among the worst aspects of the occupation.

The Palestinian side of the Apartheid Wall 

The area in Palestine east of the checkpoint is pretty much a lawless zone. Not even simple traffic rules are followed. Cars with Palestinian license plates aren’t allowed across the separation barrier. Only vehicles registered for Israel can travel back and forth. To cross the wall, Palestinians must apply for a special personal registration card, which can take months or years to get. Any legal mark on your record disqualifies you. Most Palestinians don’t have one, so they can never leave.

Rami drove us to a section of the separation wall (also known as the apartheid wall) that was covered with graffiti and blackened by frequent fires. There is a faded mural portrait of Yasser Arafat. We got out of the van and walked past street vendors and burning garbage barrels right up to the 20-foot wall. A section of the razor wire was hanging down leaving a bare spot on top. Rami explained that this was probably a place where ladders were thrown up, contraband tossed over, and then the ladders quickly removed. It takes seconds and requires a fair amount of coordination, but I think: this will be the reality of Trump’s wall, too.

Al-Amari Camp

We drove to just inside the city of Ramallah. Rami escorted us on foot into the Al-Amari refugee camp. It’s a few square blocks of crumbling buildings surrounded by its own wall. It was established in 1949 for Palestinians who left their homes and fled from the new state of Israel—more than 700,000 Palestinians became refugees during the Nakba (the 'disaster,' as the exodus is called). Al-Amari was originally tents which were replaced by concrete-block structures in the late 1950s. Some 6,000 people live here. Rami is known to the residents, but we as strangers would be at risk without him. There are many eyes watching us he said. Rami was greeted and kissed on the cheeks by several people as we walked through the camp. He translated introductions to four men on the street, who told us a little bit about themselves. All of them had been in prison, most for throwing rocks. John noted that there were no rocks around. One guy smiled wryly and said there are plenty when you need them.

Tea and cards

We stopped in at a social hall for older men and had mint tea. A few men were sitting around smoking, gabbing, playing cards. It was dingy and depressing, but there was laughter and camaraderie. Rami talked about the hopelessness of waiting for their right to return to the villages they were driven from. It’s been seventy years.

Painting in the men's club: famous faces

Back out on the street, Rami told us about the “boss” of the camp (now in prison). Large portraits of him hung on the building where he used to live. He oversaw much of the criminal activity and escaped capture many times because he was always warned by a network of people watching everyone who entered and left. The first time the camp boss was confronted by soldiers at his residence, Rami said, he told the soldiers they should stand down, that they didn’t understand the danger they were in. Muzzles of guns appeared at every window, rooftop ledge and hole in the wall. As the soldiers pressed on, warning shots sent them running down an alley to escape. After other failed attempts, the soldiers figured out a way to sneak in from the back over rooftops and managed to seize the boss before others were alerted.

Pretty much the only way to survive in the camp is through crime. Rami said if you see an Israeli license plate, it’s probably a stolen car. We walked through a narrow alley with stripped chassis and badly patched sewer pipes, past a 3-story house where an old woman lived on the first floor with 50 children in the few rooms above. She waved hello. Rami talked softly, windows slid open and shut. Curtains ruffled. The angry eyes of a young man stared at me, then disappeared. Before we left the camp, we met a young woman who ran a general store out of her one-room apartment. Rami said the proceeds financed a playground for the kids in the camp.

Rami drove us to a hill near the gated back entrance of an Israeli settlement. Israeli settlers expropriate more and more of the West Bank each year, and almost all settlements on Palestinian land are built on hilltops following the demolition of existing structures.

Her house is a frequent battleground

We talked to a “middle class” Palestinian woman who had a nice house and yard. She was Palestinian-American and spoke English. Most of her family had moved to the U.S. She stayed here to keep claim to the house.

Bullet hole in her gate

Her street is the scene of regular skirmishes between soldiers, kids from the neighbourhood, and people resisting the settlers. IDF soldiers often uses her roof, because of its strategic location, to shoot at protesters.

Her yard is littered with spent bullet casings every week. She created a “bottle tree” out of empty tear gas canisters left on her roof and sidewalk.

We circled around the top of the hill to the other side and got a view of the surrounding landscape. A new highway cut through the valley connecting recently-built settlements, gleaming on the hilltops with their white water tanks. Rami explained that while Palestinian roads are barely maintained, the Israelis build high speed freeways between their settlements. Palestinians are not allowed to travel on them. These new freeways and settlements divide up the occupied territories and often cut off friends and relatives in adjoining towns.

As we were talking, three soldiers drove up in a jeep and approached us, gripping their automatic rifles. They wanted to know what we were doing with binoculars near the top of a settlement hill. John and I kept our hands in plain view. Rami seemed a bit nervous, but talked confidently to them. They were from the Palestinian National Security Force, stationed here to protect the Israeli settlement. Palestinian soldiers guarding an Israeli settlement on occupied land is one of the tragic ironies of the Oslo Accords. In his engaging way, Rami got the soldiers to talk about their pay and working conditions. They were family men struggling to make a living. They realized we were tourists. We all shook hands and left amicably.

Palestinian soldiers guard an Israeli settlement

A sculpture of stolen bikes

Then we drove into downtown Ramallah, the de facto capital of the occupied West Bank. Ramallah is a bustling city with lots of businesses, but they struggle to stay open because people have little money to spend. We visited Arafat’s tomb, and walked around the downtown core. By now it was mid-afternoon. John and I paid for lunch at Rami’s favourite shawarma café, which was crowded, inexpensive, and really good. Our tour ended when Rami drove us about 20 minutes northeast of Ramallah to the tiny village of Taybeh where we had reservations at the Golden Hotel.

I gave Rami a long, sincere hug. I realized I was beginning to absorb a sense of dread and hopelessness. It was exhausting. John and I were very privileged to get a two-person tour. Rami normally does groups of 8 to 12. He said we were the only Americans he could remember who planned to stay overnight in the West Bank afterward. We would be on our own to get back to Ramallah and cross the checkpoint back into Israel the next day.

Taybeh

Taybeh is a tiny village in the hills northeast of Ramallah. Its inhabitants are mostly Palestinian Christians, which explains why, in a majority Muslim culture, it can have a brewery and winery. We stayed at the Golden Hotel, a large, modern structure closely abutting the main road. It is owned by the family that runs the brewery and winery.

We seem to be the only guests, maybe because it is still winter, and almost chilly. The surrounding pastoral hills are green and covered with sheep and olive trees. John and I walked a few blocks to the brewery to take the tour before they closed for the day. It was quite new and high-tech. We sampled two of about eight different beers they make. Not bad. The young woman who showed us around talked about some of their challenges in marketing and shipping because of restrictions imposed by Israel.

Taybeh brewery

Before dinner we walked around the village past the old orthodox church that is about the only other significant building in town. Beautiful views. The winery is attached to the hotel and is also quite new. The winemaker trained at the program in Davis, California. They use local grapes and are experimenting with a varietal we hadn’t heard of. We got a quick tour, sampled and bought some wine to have with dinner. It was okay, not great.

The winery

When we first arrived at the hotel we were introduced to the whole family that owns it, including the grandmother who oversees the kitchen. After the wine tour, she was leaving for the day and came over to say goodbye. She spoke little English but apparently likes to practice when she has the opportunity with guests. She told us she made a special Lenten maqluba and recommended it for our dinner. This traditional dish translates as “upside down”—layers of eggplant, cauliflower, tomatoes, rice, and spices usually cooked in a dutch oven then flipped out on to a platter and cut into wedges. It was very good, and with olives, local cheese, our wine, and all the regular vegetable dishes and dessert, it was a lovely dinner. We hoped we would be able to thank grandma tomorrow.

There was a dramatic thunderstorm during the night. John got up early to go take photos. The stone streets were very slippery and he took a nasty fall, sustaining a large bruise on this leg and a couple of deep gouges in his arm. He managed to protect his camera, but was a bloody mess when he returned. I bandaged him up as best I could, and didn’t get proper first aid supplies until we got back to Jerusalem that evening.

The hills around Taybeh

After breakfast we arranged for a taxi back to Ramallah. We were supposed to meet a friend of a co-worker of John’s with whom we had been corresponding, but she had a sick kid and couldn’t make it. On a whim we decided to visit the Ramallah Friends School (Quakers) not far from the bus station (John went to a Quaker college in Indiana and knew about this school). It was established in the 1860s as a girls school, then a boys campus was added later, and now it is co-ed, K-12 with about 1400 Palestinian students. The principal rearranged his calendar and we had a long chat in his office about the challenges they face. He referred to Palestine as “the world’s largest open-air prison.” It was the first time I had heard the phrase. I've encountered it many more times since—it's an apt description of Palestinian existence. The principal gave us a tour of the upper campus, a mix of old and new buildings, gardens and sports fields. We peeked in at math classes. All the students eventually learn English. There are many noted graduates whose pictures adorn the walls.

Downtown Ramallah

Back at the central bus station, we managed to board a small bus back to Jerusalem (the driver didn’t speak English and he wasn’t happy that we only had larger bills—the fare was pretty cheap). We went back to the same charred checkpoint in the apartheid wall that we entered through the day before. Rami had told us that it is usual for people to get off the bus, go through the checkpoint on foot and then get back on. But when we got there, most people stayed on the bus—only a couple of young men got off—so we stayed on, too. Soldiers came through and checked everyone’s ID and our visas, but didn’t inspect any bags. Then we drove through the checkpoint and everyone got off—apparently Ramallah buses can’t go into Jerusalem.

There were other buses waiting to take us into the city. The signs were confusing, but a British gentleman guided us to the correct bus. The two men who got off earlier and walked through, were now back on our new bus. We later learned that security procedures can vary depending on the day, potential threats, and the whim of the IDF soldiers. We happened to luck out that there was no additional screening on our bus. Everyone was dropped off near the Damascus Gate to old Jerusalem. We walked to our hotel (not far), stopping at a drug store to get proper bandages and ointments to treat John’s injured arm.