Stinky Feet in the Middle East

"How can there be peace when the only way to peace is not peace" "A country is not only what it does, it is also what it tolerates" "Here is a wall at which to weep" "Martyr for God" "Our blood is the same color" "Live love love life"

These are words grafittied on the wall, or barrier, or fence, or whatever politically sour word you choose to call it, on the outskirts of Bethlehem. It is massive, and ugly, looking down on anyone walking by. I have a similar structure near my home; it was designed to insulate highway traffic and give us a more quiet, peaceful setting.

"The wall is screaming," I noted in my journal after leaving the West Bank city. Such an emotional trek exploring Bethlehem, Deisha, and standing at the base of the barrier. We started at the Church of Nativity, where Jesus was born, or ate, or spent some time, or who really knows what. Beautiful, with high arches, uneven steps leading deeper into a musty, claustrophobic spiritual cauldron, ornate chandeliers, and dark corners. Tourists with their cameras, expensive, flashes, poses, to show to their East Asian or French or Italian or American friends that they were here, at this historical church, in the West Bank. I guess you can tell I wasn't so turned on by our time at the church. Perhaps things would have been different if fewer people tried to sell me jewelery, or give me an 'official tour,' or if there wasn't such a phony rush to take every possible picture, or kiss the exact place where Jesus was born. The adventure after the church was quite the opposite.

Leaving the church we decided to explore Bethlehem, or at least what we could find near the church. I took the lead, a potentially grave mistake. We crossed the church's courtyard, passed more tourists, more pictures, more expensive cameras, a small museum, a few pricey restaurants, and headed for the market. The street narrowed, arts and crafts became vegetables, became fish and meat, and tourists became locals. I took us left through this narrow tunnel around this stand, crossed over and back the other way, and made sure to get shamelessly lost.

The market opened up into a crowded city street lined with small shops, vendors, cars honking and trying to waddle through this mess of people. Not a single tourist. Not one. A Stinky Feet victory - lost, potentially unsafe, but no tourists. We were five - Shirel, Wajida, Anushka, Dan, and myself. Some stared, others smiled. A young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, came by pushing a rickety rusted shopping cart. We made eye contact and he immediately threw out a hand for a classic, internationally known, hand-clap finger interlock 'dap' handshake.

It was truly impressive. Here we were, two Americans, an Indian, a Pakistani, and an Israeli, strolling through a part of Bethlehem that was so totally alive with business, culture, music, and food, fifteen minutes from a major tourist attraction, but so authentic. This was a glimpse at life in the West Bank. No soldiers, no molotov cocktails or violently gutted cars. No rockets, no bomb shelters, just life, humming along. Lost as we may have been, we managed to grab a phenomenal lunch at a small shwarma and falafal shack, and get back to the church in one piece. From there we grabbed a taxi to Deisha, one of three refugee camps in Bethlehem.

After a ten minute drive the car pulled over and the driver said "here." No sign, particular building, or any indication that we were in the right spot. We crossed the street and entered a sort of back alley which looked like it would open up. It did. We were absolutely in the right place. An upper-class shanty town, half constructed concrete homes, garbage strewn along the street, Arabic and Hebrew graffiti on every wall, and children. "Welcome welcome" they yelled, or "Hello, how are you?" in perfect English. It was likely the only phrase they knew, because we could not solicit any other words from them. I say "them" and refer to kids that peaked out from behind walls, children that called down to us from behind barred windows, and a few fearless ones who walked right up to us.

I played a little ball with one who was convinced I was Michael Jordan. "Bye Michael!" he yelled while laughing as I walked away.

As we were leaving the camp I met a young boy walking with his two younger brothers, Wayid. Collard shoes, gelled hair, white teeth, stylish but scuffed jeans, and a dirty, bare feet. Although his brothers trailed, he walked shoulder to hip with me. After greeting and exchanging names, we spoke about football. He was rooting for Argentina, but couldn't quite explain why. It didn't matter. Gave him a big hi five, his brothers too, and he was off - to where? It was Tuesday at one thirty, he should have been in school.

We stopped by the wall just before the checkpoint. To most, ugly. To some, vital. The graffiti was powerful, whether it called for Arabs to destroy the Jewish state or called for both sides to tear down the wall. I consider it to be the symbol of apartheid, of struggle, of inequality, of a reluctance to embrace the creativity and ingenuity that would end this conflict.

The checkpoint was terrible. Ugly, barbed wire, looked like a prison. The dying potted plants and tourist posters depicting Nazareth as a paradise tacked on the orange wall make it all the less bearable. Sadly, those words come from someone who will never truly pass through the checkpoint, never begin to understand what it represents, or empathize with those who are forced to wait hours each day just to get to their menial job and put the bare minimum amount of food on their family's dinner table.

I live in Yafo, a predominantly Arab city a few minutes south of Tel Aviv. Similar to Brooklyn, Yafo is an up and coming trendy spot for young wealthy Jews, entrepreneurs, and boasts a gorgeous coastline and a generic 'old-city.' My flat is in a new compound, five minutes in from the coast (where one can tour the old city, eat at a gratuitously expensive sea side restaurant, or lounge in a cafe overlooking the water), on the border between expensive cafes and hustle bustle city life. I shop at an Arab market where I rarely understand what I am buying, but always enjoy the surprise. Fresh pita every morning, the best Hummus and Mesabacha in the Middle East from a small restaurant called Abu Nassan. Open six days a week, Abu Nassan has seats for roughly 15 people, but is always preparing food for at least forty. They have no official open hours. When they have food, they serve it. If they run out of Peta or hummus, they close. I was once on line with about ten people and out came one of the older men who worked there saying in Arabic, Hebrew, then English, "We're out of hummus, my sorries, my sorries. You'll have to come back tomorrow." And we did. People left without hesitation, we all knew the food would be there tomorrow, and it would be fresh, and warm, and delicious.

The four other SCB Fellows live together in Jerusalem. In many respects I live alone. My flat is quiet, large sliding doors that are always open inviting a cool breeze. A roof overlooking Yafo, part of the water, and Tel Aviv in the near distance. Its a good energy, clean, cozy apartment. I could not ask for anything nicer.

I often hear the Adhan while reading, or eating, from three nearby Minarets. I find the call comforting, even inviting. I am fascinated by Islam, even the extremism.

Quickly about work with the Peres Center for Peace. Young, vibrant, motivated staff, doing incredible work. Whether it is team building with small Palestinian and Israeli children, or bringing a group of 45 Palestinian businessmen to a convention in Jerusalem, the work is powerful, and vital in the struggle to create a lasting peace in the region. Although I do not contribute much, and my day to day tasks are generally small research projects, filing, typical intern right-of-passage busy work, I have had the privilege of meeting Arab and Jewish individuals who are committed to bringing peace to the Middle East, and attending the grassroots activities that lay the foundation for a future of coexistance. It is an honor to be at the Peres Center.

I have done my best to dive into the conflict throughout the past five weeks. Reading the news every day, reading testimonies published by human rights groups, books on the 48 war, on the origins of US-Israeli relations, all of it. Drinking as much of the stuff as I can get a hold of. I find it frightening that you can find brilliant, credible intellects and scholars that support completely different approaches to ending the conflict, and create opposing histories of the nation. What to believe, who to read, how to argue, piece together, understand. I had an Arab-Israeli coworker tell me the other day to 'go home, don't worry about us. This is our problem. Why bother yourself with this nonsense, you have a comfortable safe home. Don't stress. Let us deal with this."

How do I respond to that?

I say its an honor to be at the Peres Center, it is also an honor to be here, working in Israel, as an SCB Fellow. Proof that there are many people out there, students and adults alike, who have decided to bother themselves with this conflict. To act, to observe, to learn, to spread messages and call for more support.

I, as well as the other SCB Fellows, are here in what seems to be a historical moment. The Flotilla, culminating intolerance for the blockade, and looming war with Iran. A melting pot of emotions, politics, and discomfort, for all of us, myself included.

I am about to leave the Jerusalem flat for Tel Aviv. It was yet another wild shabbos, with delicious home cooking thanks to Shirel, drinks, laughter, and emotional breakdowns. Its thrilling to be here, alone and with the other fellows.

I have my sights set on Egypt, Jordan, and Lebanon. Who ever said 'one step at a time' was flat out false. A no name bum status nudnick who probably had a lousy life. I whole heartedly disagree. Skipping steps, jumping down entire stairwells, or riding banisters is a much better way to go about life.

All is well. Moderately safe, clean, and healthy. My feet have been black for a few weeks but that hasn't been an issue.

I miss home very much. Only when you leave behind the routine, the values, challenges, comforts, good space, parents, brothers, emotions, drama, indescribably immature inside jokes and stories, do you begin to appreciate it.

Thoughts and emotions frequently tap into my joining the Army. Particularly here, in a culture where boys and girls carry fully automatic weapons every where they go.

Much much more to come


Lots of love from he who hast ferociously stinky feet

Onward!