Some Memories of Arrival

I gave a talk on Palestine today. To remind myself of some details of the airport, I re-read the start of a journal about my time there. It has rekindled memories of an arrival over four months ago, but I remember the details like it was yesterday, re-reading this. I never finished it for every day, unfortunately, but here is the piece I began writing as soon as we arrived to our home for the night, following the airport. It was written when I was exhausted, so forgive the mistakes. I may post more from this journal in the future, but unfortunately I didn't keep up with it as I should have. I hope it proves interesting, though.

Day 1: ‘Arrival’ Writing commences 2350 on 29/03/15

We have arrived in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. After a slightly nervous morning, being dropped off for an unreal feeling flight at London Gatwick, we are here.

The morning was full of excitement as bags were repeatedly weighed and paranoia about excess charges took precedence to nerves of landing in Israel. A start full of hope from a group of young people committed to changing the world.

Gatwick was as Gatwick always is. The usual hubbub of an airport, slightly soulless yet full of wonder all the same; a place to marvel at the number of destinations the mass of people around you are heading. The emotions among them are mixed: happiness and joy from some, others impatient and terse, children and adults alike.

The only hitch on this end was the delay in the flight. We took off one hour and twenty five minutes late. I’m already thinking better late than never after just a few hours out of Ben Gurion airport. We were what you might expect from a group of people under the age of twenty-five on such a programme. We were full of laughter and excitable chatter, finding amusement in getting to know more about each other, learning how our senses of humour blended.

But there was already a note of tension. For six hours, sitting in a small metal tube with hundreds of other people, we were wary of a word. One word which could mean suspicion directed towards us. For this reason we did not speak of the reason we came in any explicit terms, if at all: Palestine. The name itself remained taboo to us, even though we come as supporters of this oppressed state. I would hope to say it was just to prevent us from running into any difficulties from the Israeli authorities. I doubt our fellow passengers would report us, but we were scared of the ramifications a name could have for us.

The flight was turbulent in places, but which flight isn’t? Through the hubbub, frequent glances out of the window past sleeping members of our party revealed tops of mountains thrusting snowy peaks through the cloud, in contrast to the heat we expect of our destination. We see the Mediterranean bathed in a glorious sunset. You’d think from our reactions that we’d never before seen the sun dwindle from the sky as the Earth keeps turning. However, this image of beauty feels like something to cling to now, and an inspiration to look for the beautiful in our surroundings.

There is always the eager moment on a flight, as you start to descend, where faces press to windows in the hope of stealing a glimpse of light from your destination. Diving down through the cloud, Tel Aviv spread before us, looking for all the world like any other city. Even so, the excitement grew again. Energy was high. We were all ready in our own way to face the challenge of the airport.

We had been briefed about the airport. We had our letters, and our open hearts and honesty. Even so, we knew that some of us were not going to have an easy time getting through. As soon as we left the plane, there were security officials at the top of the stairs. It seems the majority of flyers were able to walk on by without a care, oblivious to the beginnings of knots in this young group’s stomachs, waiting to see what barriers were put in our way.

I never blend in, and I was called upon by the very first official to present my passport and rationalize my being in Israel. I gave the answers I had been running in my head, being honest but not direct. The response was simply a friendly smile and a thanks for my co-operation. It seemed so simple.

Following this was the walk through the shining, modern looking Ben Gurion airport. Signs in Hebrew abound, with no hint of Arabic until you get to immigration. There it is a simple ‘ahlan wa sahlan’, ‘welcome’ amongst the typical French and English and of course Hebrew. We file into lines, Brits left a little agog at the lack of completely structured queues. There are orthodox Jews rubbing shoulders with tourists, and all manner of others in between. Except I saw no headscarves. It felt as if any Islamic presence in that crowd were trying to hide itself, to blend in a get through without any issue. Probably a vain hope, and I hope my suspicions were wrong, and that people remain proud of their identity, even in that difficult context.

I saw first one, then another of my colleagues taken aside, to sit and wait, detained from getting their visas. They are still there now, as far as we are aware. It would not be a surprise if they do not arrive with us, where they belong and deserve to be, until the morning. Then I approached immigration control. I gave the same answers to the same questions previously asked. This time the woman was tougher. More details required. I only told one lie: that I would not be working with Paelstinians. I showed her my letters. Two phonecalls later to her superiors and I too was led away. I suppose in my bearded, long-haired and Iron Maiden t-shirt wearing ways I was singled out as a potential activist. Someone to look into a little further.

Fortunately for myself, I was not kept long. Some details were taken, but in reality it was simple. An extra fifteen minutes of my time. I was more fortunate than those still waiting there: our two fellows, accompanied by a third, behind me in the press wishing entry, so I did not see him led away. Probably the only reason I am not with them is the colour of my skin and the language of my name do not allow the ingrained racial profiling of the Israeli security to view me as more of a threat.

Eventually, all bar three of our twenty-two strong party are through. In a process which seems wrong to me, yet I know how right it is, we leave. Leaving three friends sitting through a night in an airport, waiting for each round of basic questions, antagonized more than any of the rest of us, solely for being born to a disfavoured family. Disfavoured not through any harm actually done, but because of tensions in the region.

The journey then begins. The minibus is modern and comfortable, but UK health and safety would have a fit if they saw the entire aisle crammed with our luggage, jokingly referred to as the wall between left and right, an attempt at humour as the wall we have heard so much about came into view.

After driving down well maintained roads, reminding one of all the world for photos of the United States, except for the increased number of exotic trees, we have already seen the beginnings of tension. We approach a section of the road with barriers. We drive straight through, slowly, past the bored looking young man in military uniform with an M16 hanging over his chest. Continuing up the road, we see flashing lights. A car which might have been in an accident, or something stranger happening to the driver as two police vehicles watch nearby, the beams of their headlights across the road, pointing the car which itself is askew on the road. Our response is simple. The driver turns off the internal lights and we drive between the problem vehicle and the police. It is not our problem. It is not for us to see, or take any part in.

Steadily it becomes apparent that we are following the hated wall. It looks like a sturdy piece of engineering, fully twenty-six feet high, rearing in a vicious net of razor-wire. The stonework is pristine and clean, just like the roads we drive down. The journey is filled with political talk, stifled so long on the plane and in the airport, all of us brimming with unity for those we are to work with. A moderate noise, with only sporadic laughter heard on the bus.

‘Strictly no entry for Israeli citizens. Enter at peril of your own life.’ This was roughly the wording seen on the sign as we approached Qalandia checkpoint. Once more, our lights go out inside the bus. Once more, we drive passed armed soldiers, knowing that we are crossing from Israel into the Occupied Palestinian territories. A silence falls over the bus as we drive through, each lost in his or her thoughts as we glide between. All it took was a simple vehicle crossing that patch of earth, divided by a wall. The physical crossing seems to have no barrier. The cultural one is almost visible.

The quiet is replaced by the vaguest of murmurs and whispering, as sickness grows in the feeling of all those seated around me. As our eyes cast about on the Palestinian side of the wall, it is as if the air has grown thick. Within five seconds of crossing that threshold we see rubble heaped at the side of the road. We look upon the reverse of the wall, splashed with graffiti: messages of peace, calls for freedom, and angry looking murals of anonymous freedom fighters, AK-47s in their hands and faces covered. It is instantly obvious which side is the prison and also which side actually cares.

The journey continues, all of us knowing that we are seeing something significant. The truth we all knew before coming hits us in seconds, and despite the gaudy shop front of ‘Lovely Toys’ or the remarkable sight of ‘Audi Palestine’ as we wind our way to Ramallah, we know that we’ve stepped from a modern country into one teemed with problems. And yet we are supposed to believe that this is all one glorious nation, the chosen land for the chosen people.

The quiet among us adds to the sickness we each feel. However, sitting here now, reflecting, that initial sadness and anger are passing that one side of the wall is so different from the other. I know that this is the daily reality I will see here and yet I know that it will never appear normal or fair, for which I am grateful. One thing has come out of my reflection so far, though. While on the Israeli side of the wall, everything seemed to run smoothly, as if every mind were running in the same direction, and all people fit the mold. Here in Palestine it is already different. The shop fronts are unique, and those running our hostel are all smiles. They know the situation they’re in, and yet there is something which sets them apart from the gleaming cars and pristine motorways seen over the wall. These people live how they can, and they have soul.

As mentioned above, we already have the attitude to look for the beautiful in our surroundings. Myself and a few others have resolved to take to the roof of our building in order to see the sunrise. We will witness the rise of the sun, seeing the light rise on our adventure, hopefully to be joined by our three missing friends.