Lazy Sunday

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting at a cafe in the most touristy spot in downtown Bethlehem: Manger Square. Behind me is a table of young, tattooed Germans asking the waiter where they can buy a helmet for when they ride their motos. To my left are three middle aged Spaniards wearing sunhats that should be illegal and to my right is a Palestinian family. Their daughter's been sitting under the table for about three minutes now. I think she may be trying to tie her brother's shoes together. At my table is a bored-looking American girl with a cup of coffee, an unopened copy of Catch 22 and nothing better to do than write down whatever's happening around her.

Okay, I think that the Germans are actually Dutch.

The Bethlehem Peace Center is directly across the square, where they host speakers and have a spectacularly overpriced bookshop.

...the Dutch people just started speaking French so....I'm doubting that they're Dutch.

On the right side of the square is the Church of the Nativity, with its steady stream of tourists and pilgrims strolling in and out. The doorway still bears bullet holes from the siege of the church by the Israeli Army for 39 days in 2002.  I myself can say I've been kicked out on two separate occasions for talking too loudly. Both times by a monk who was dressed suspiciously like Severus Snape.

Today, the outer walls of the church have massive signs depicting a Palestinian flag emerging from the UN. Over the past day, the number of Palestinian flags around Bethlehem has skyrocketed: lining the streets, in front of shops and on almost every roof of Aida Camp.

Meanwhile, the settlers are also prepping for Abu Mazen's trip to the UN, though in a slightly more...aggressive fashion. This Tuesday, settlers will hold "sovereignty marches" from various settlements to nearby Palestinian towns and cities. The purpose being "to make it clear to the Arabs who the home owners are."

(Riddle solved. One of them is Dutch, the rest are French).

So. The settlers have announced--lest there were any doubts--that they have no qualms using live ammunition against the Palestinians.  But just in case anyone gets cold feet and doesn't want to fire live ammo, there are countless other options. They've been waking up to tear gas cannisters, stun grenades and trained attack dogs under their pillows, courtesy of the IDF fairy, for quite some time now.

The Spanish woman seems pretty cranky. Her salad is much larger than she was expecting.   I think school just let out--the square's been invaded by children.

The only thing that is certain about next week is absolutely nothing. It could lead to a huge economic downturn here. Could be a massive increase in settler violence. Could be that the weather finally starts to cool down. Could be huge Palestinian demonstrations in support of statehood. Could be that I finally get my hookah addiction under control. Could be huge Palestinian demonstrations in anger that the US flexed its veto muscle in the Security Council against them yet again. Could be the third Intifada. Could be I wash my sheets. Could be...

Checking Points: Part Two

I was in southern Jerusalem a little after midnight on Thursday, having just had coffee with a friend visiting from Tel Aviv. She was heading downtown to find a Sherut back home, and I called my favorite Jerusalem driver, who works late and has permission to drive through the checkpoints. (Palestinian)

He picked me up and I quickly hopped into the front seat of the massive, slightly run down looking blue van, grateful to get off the rather icky intersection at which I'd so wisely chosen to wait. Chuck Berry was playing. We swung by his home to drop off a pizza he'd picked up in Hebron for his kids (who were, from the sounds of it, doing all they could to stay awake until this pizza arrived). He emerged from the house with a beige down jacket (it was a surprisingly chilly evening), tossed it onto the backseat, and we headed towards the checkpoint. Chuck Berry was done and now we were listening to "Take My Breath Away" by Berlin. (You do know it. It's the one they play in TopGun).

En route, he explained we'd have to go through the further away checkpoint, as they'd closed down the closer and more convenient one. This checkpoint always has a daytime-feel thanks to its dozens of massive floodlights. When exiting Jerusalem and entering Bethlehem through this checkpoint, there is essentially no checking of anything. Going the other way you are searched and ID's are checked, but cars are able to just drive through without stopping when heading into the West Bank. We, however, began slowing down as we approached, finally coming to a full stop. Z (the driver) honked the horn and waved to a young soldier standing on the other side of the checkpoint.

Confusion.  "Should I get out my passport?"

"What? No, no. You don't need it."

...?

The young man jogged over to the van with a grin on his face and the two men began chit chatting away in Arabic. My driver was offering the soldier the down jacket he'd brought from his house. (Celine Dion "My Heart Will Go On" was now playing). The soldier turned it down as he already had some Underarmor  on (not to mention a bullet proof vest and a automatic weapon strapped to his chest). He poked his head in and asked me where I was from, then informed me that my driver was a really great guy.  They shook hands, he jogged away again, and off we drove.

"......
.....
....
What was that?"  Best I could do at the time.

"I know him.  You know, I drive through this checkpoint all the time, I know him."

The story of their friendship:
Z was one day coming back from Bethlehem, having bought roasted chicken and some milk for dinner that night. There's a rule that milk cannot be transported from the Occupied Territories into Israel.  ("Why no milk?"  I have not even the beginnings of an idea. I'll look into it and get back to you guys). As he was driving through the checkpoint our friendly IDF soldier called him out on the dairy and a major fight ensued. Z demanded that he be allowed to bring the milk. The soldier said no, it wasn't allowed. Would this soldier really prevent Z from bringing milk to his children? The soldier said yes. Z got out of the van and threatened to dump the milk on the soldier's head.

Other soldiers, including the captain, came running. The checkpoint was closed. The captain told Z the same thing. None of the milk would cross the border. This time it was the captain who Z threatened to douse with the milk. The soldier stepped in. Really, just this once, couldn't they let the milk through?

Shockingly enough, the answer was yes. Z got his milk through to his kids, and apparently,  also gained the respect of this soldier, who liked Z's chutzpah.

"Wow. Well, good for you!  Were you guys speaking in Hebrew this whole time?" (That's me again, not really knowing how to respond to this story).

"Of course not. He's Arab from the North."

"He's Arab?  What so he volunteered?"

"I guess so.  I don't know why. But you know what, Beth it's not that I like them. I really hate them. But it's better for me this way--to be friends with them. To have trust. It's better for me, it's better for them."

Make of it what you will. It's past my bedtime.