My journey to Ramallah
By Avi Davis
web
posted November 18, 2002
Well, OK, I'll admit it. There are probably more attractive destinations
to spend a vacation than Ramallah. This Arab town, surrounded by craggy,
treeless hills in the Judean mountain range has an image of a place in
ferment, seething with resentments, bottled up behind roadblocks and trapped
in an endless cycle of attack and reprisal. The Ramallah of popular imagination
is, of course, a very sinister place. One of the most horrifying episodes
in the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict occurred here: the lynching
of two IDF reserve officers in October 2000 after they made a mistaken
turn and were set upon by a mob. The memory of that brutal slaying remains
so searing that Ramallah and barbarism are two nouns that now seem knotted
together in an inextricable embrace.
So
why go there? It was certainly not an uncommon question. Friends, family,
government press officials and even politicians asked it. Why take such
a risk as this?
There were two good reasons. One, I told them, I would be traveling with
a United Nations escort and would therefore be under safe protection.
Two: Why not? How often does a conservative commentator on the Middle
East get to journey into the very eye of the storm, where tragic episodes
in the story of the Middle East are being written everyday? Why be just
another armchair journalist who thinks he understands the conflict by
reading the reports of others? The fascination of Ramallah is that it
represents hard, cold reality and that is an irresistible attraction to
any journalist.
So on to Ramallah. First, a confession. I did not have an official 'United
Nations escort'. I traveled with an employee of the United Nations, a
native Australian like myself, to whom I had been introduced by my younger
brother. He possessed two things that were essential to the trip. The
first, a knowledge of the town. ( "Ramallah," he commented wistfully,
"once served some of the best sangria and had the best gym in the
country.") The second, a UN van that indispensably bore the letters
"UN" in bold on its paneling. Much like the journalists who
travel about Judea and Samaria with the letters "TV" or "CNN"
taped to their vehicles, these English letters could just as easily be
translated into Arabic as "don't shoot us, we're friendly!"
It works.
From Jerusalem it takes 35 minutes to reach Ramallah, about the same
time it takes me to reach downtown from the Westside of Los Angeles. Barely
beyond the outskirts of town we came upon the Kalandia Checkpoint. Here,
at the shortest entry point into the city, residents must pass through
a rigorous process every day if they wish to enter or leave the town.
As the homicide bombings have become more frequent so have the rigors
of the search process. For returning residents of Ramallah this search
and interrogation can be excruciating, sometimes consuming hours.
The check points have become a major source of contention for the foreign
press who see them as symbols of Israeli oppression. And the truth is,
they do disrupt life. But even as my traveling companion agreed, none
of it would be necessary if terrorism hadn't been adopted as a negotiating
tool by the Palestinian leadership. The Kalandia Checkpoint, at least
at its current level of scrutiny, did not exist prior to September, 2000.
In talking to some of the Israeli soldiers who manned the post, none of
whom take much pleasure in their work, there is a recognition that without
the checkpoints, hundreds of Israelis could be exposed to the murderous
intent of homocide bombers.
We by-passed the checkpoint and took the back route into Ramallah, passing
the hilltop village of Psagot where I was once shown how the houses along
the Jewish town's northern edge stare directly into the bedrooms of their
Arab neighbors.
Several smaller checkpoints needed to be cleared as we displayed our
passports and press credentials. Then we entered Ramallah, driving the
same route taken by the unfortunate young men in October 2000. Soon after
we entered, I noticed how the wreckage left by recent Israeli campaigns
such as Defensive Shield lay scattered by the roadside.
Burned
truck chassis, heaps of rubble, scattered remains of houses were everywhere
along the roadside. My companion pointed out buildings that had been shelled
and I noticed bullet pockmarks everywhere. As we entered the outskirts
of Ramallah, I thought how similar it all looked to some of the South
American townships I had visited 15 years ago. It had an appearance of
desolation and neglect that is the signature stamp of poverty in the Third
World. Unpaved sidewalks, potholed streets, shops with broken awnings,
mangy dogs roaming the streets, all being baked under a hot sun.
Within five minutes we were in the center of town and here there was
a sudden transformation. The narrow streets bustled with life. Young men
with cellphones, teenage girls with Linkin Park t-shirts, some even in
jeans and tank tops. They competed with other women in chadoors and burkahs.
As I drove the ten or so blocks through the center of town, the rush of
activity made me feel as if I could be back in a bustling downtown Melbourne.
What accounted for the superficial image of prosperity? "Aid,"
said my companion bluntly , "millions of it from the United States
and Europe. Almost everyone here lives on welfare from abroad."
I could also have been invisible for all the attention I attracted. So
familiar are the UN vans that no one gives them a second glance. Traveling
in this bubble was a terrific way to see life in a place that for most
Israelis has become a foreign city - as distant and unapproachable as
Antarctica.
We stopped at a small café near the center of town and entered
it. Here my UN escort was obviously well known and the café owner
greeted him companionably. We drank tea and coffee and he gave me a thoughtful
overview of the situation which was surprisingly even-handed. He took
a familiar UN view of the West Bank as occupied territory and had little
respect for the policies of Sharon, whom sees as a military strategist
and not a politician. But he had far more damning things to say about
Arafat, the sacrifices to which he has needlessly subjected his people
and his delivery of all his diplomatic achievements into the hands of
Hamas and Islamic Jihad.
As he spoke, Arab men came into the café and they exchanged greetings
with us. Outside I heard the name Avi called. I froze. I was not traveling
under that name. Had I been discovered? I looked into the eyes of these
men and wondered if they had come for me. It was the only time in the
entire day I became very nervous (as opposed to just a little nervous).
Recognizing my edginess, they calmed me by telling me that the name called
had been "Abu."
My companion introduced me to them as an Australian journalist and we
fell into conversation. Unsurprisingly, they were supportive of Arafat
(to speak any other way in Ramallah is to risk branding as a collaborator)
but they also spoke with equal vituperation about Israel, Hamas and Islamic
Jihad , whom they felt, ombined, had ruined their lives. After speaking
to them and others I recognized that the Arab rebellion is fast approaching
its breaking point, shattered by internal dissension, exhausted by years
of fruitless war . I also recognized that without a new leadership the
Palestinian dream of independence is years away from realization. Locked
in a political limbo, squeezed between extremism and political incompetence,
these people are likely to be the welfare wards of Europe and America
for years into the future.
We left the cafe and drove to the Mukata. The images on television had
not represented the true scale of destruction. It looked like a lunar
landscape mountainous piles of rubble studded with iron bars and
shattered concrete slabs towering above the street. I saw Arafat's tiny
headquarters isolated in the center of this one time British army camp.
It seemed extraordinarily insignificant in that mass of debris and could
well be seen as a symbol of the rapid decline of Arafat's role and relevance.
It is also clearly what the Israeli army had in mind.
Had it achieved this aim ? The answer is mixed. It seemed that the lone
Israeli tank sitting at the edge of the ruined compound, was more the
target of Palestinian scorn and rejection than the men sitting inside
that isolated building. But equally, the sight of their leader, reduced
to obtaining briefings amidst the rubble of his own compound , could not
have added much to Arafat's prestige. More than likely the destruction
of the Mukata, if not exactly a mistake, might have given Arafat more
reason to play the martyr, a role he relishes and one he has allotted
to his own people. Prior to the destruction, he was doing a fine job of
delegitimizing himself. He probably needed no further push along that
path.
I had come to Ramallah to meet some of the Palestinian representatives
for a documentary on Jenin that I am involved in producing. Appointments
had been set up with Hanan Ashwari, Mustafa Barghouthi and Palestinian
sympathizer, Ha'aretz reporter Amira Haas who actually lives in
Ramallah. All, for one reason or another, had been cancelled. But as we
left Ramallah we passed the houses of some of these representatives.
They were fine middle class homes that would not have looked out of place
in some of Jerusalem's tonier suburbs. Yet they were surrounded on all
sides by half built houses and hovels. How odd, I thought, that amidst
such squalor there could exist such symbols of prosperity.
But contradiction is the nature of the Middle East and for the Arab world
symbolism is as important, if not more so, than facts on the ground. The
Arabs of Ramallah live in a netherworld between tragedy and farce, hemmed
in by forces over which they have little control.
They suffer as victims yet curiously it is a victim-hood born of their
own culture. Schooled in a belief in the priority of symbol over fact
they have historically squandered repeated opportunities to improve their
political, economic and social conditions and then blamed others for their
own poor choices. This perhaps explains how Arafat can regard himself
as a victor in the midst of the Mukata's rubble. It explains his heroic,
rapturous reception in Ramallah after he returned from Camp David in the
summer of 2000 after rejecting the most generous offer the Palestinians
are ever likely to receive for the fulfillment of their national ambitions.
It certainly goes quite some way to explaining the shallow dependence
on international sympathy for a cause that has surrendered its moral basis
to the twisted logic of homicide bombings.
As I left the town, I looked at the dilapidated houses , half built edifices
and rubble and began to see them as metaphors for the collapse of Palestinian
self-understanding. It made me more convinced than ever that if Palestinian
redemption is still a possiblity the very last place to expect it to appear
is in the streets of Ramallah.
Avi Davis is the senior fellow of the Freeman Center for Strategic
Studies in Los Angeles.
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