Going on a Jerusalem Walk-About

I took the long way home today. I just couldn’t bring myself to walk up through the Arab neighborhood that separates me from the Old City. In my mind, it was worth hiking an additional 45 minutes and enduring suffocating exhaust fumes in order to avoid my new neighbors. Occasionally, when walking from point A to point B, I get a nod hello or even an “Ahlan wa Sahlan” from the old men or families walking up and down the hill. In the past couple of days, the greetings have been less hospitable. I can always count on the young boys to snicker and make comments about me after I have passed by them. The other day, a slightly bolder little girl reached out and slapped my arm as I passed. Both of those encounters are tolerable, but today’s interaction really made me reevaluate my decision to live here.

At the bottom of the hill, I passed two older boys. As I walked by they yelled “Son of a Bitch!” I didn’t bother to turn around, but braced myself expecting a rotten egg to the back of my head. I was tempted to go back and explain to them that they had it all wrong. First of all, unless you are old enough to have at one time sat in the studio audience of The Merv Griffin Show, this insult should not be in your lexicon. It has no bite. Maybe if you’re a soap opera star you can still get away with hurling such an epithet, but that’s a big fat maybe. Secondly, it doesn’t even make sense. I did a run-through in my head of how I would explain the etymology of this phrase in Arabic. I couldn’t possibly be a ‘son of a bitch’ because that insult is gender specific. If you want to be taken seriously, then drop the “son of” and just call me a bitch. You wouldn’t be the first.

I also wanted to explain that bitch alone can also be gender neutral. For example, in a prison context one would say: “I’m going to make you my bitch.” These boys should be familiar with the versatility of English words. That way they can hurl insults to a wider audience without having to go to the trouble of actually expanding their vocabulary. Goodness knows that extra curricular study might interfere with their busy schedule of skulking around the neighborhood. Furthermore they should know that bitch (or beeatch for that matter) can be used as a term of endearment, as in: “I want to give a shout out to all my bitches!” So, again, if they really want to malign me they should just yell “bitch!”, but ultimately a successful verbal attack will hinge on the appropriate tone of contempt in their voices. They seem to already have that part pretty well mastered.

Originally I had planned to use this entry as a bit of a rant. I spent the better part of the day thinking how it doesn’t make any sense for these Palestinians to harass Westerners who are living in East Jerusalem because aren’t we all clearly here in solidarity? Don’t they realize that most of the Americans, Germans, Japanese, Swedes, Brits, and Aussies walking around are buying their produce and supporting their shops? Most of the expats that I have met work for religious organizations or NGOs that are here to monitor checkpoint activity, help communities start economic development projects, and to provide assistance to local health organizations. Almost all of the expats that I have met work to get information about the plight of the Palestinians out to the rest of the world. They risk provoking Israeli soldiers at checkpoints and getting tossed out of the country, yet the message that these kids are sending to us is that “you don’t belong here-- you son of a bitch!”

This is what I thought earlier. In fact, I was quite indignant. Then around 4:30pm, I got a cold dousing of reality. On the long way home, I stumbled upon two Israeli soldiers, partially obscured by a wall, standing in a rocky field. The soldiers looked like they were barely twenty years old. They had their guns aimed at the wall and the soldier furthest from me was barking loudly in Hebrew. I couldn’t see what was happening and honestly, I was afraid to look. It felt like I was witnessing something perverse. As I passed I caught a glimpse of an Arab man, only a few years younger than my father, wearing a red and white kefiya and standing in a ditch facing the wall. I couldn’t tell if he was alone, but the soldiers were clearly terrifying him. Two Arab men were walking towards me and as soon as one heard the soldier shouting, he abruptly turned on his heal and almost plowed right into me. He quickly walked back in the direction from which he came. I don’t think I can articulate how unsettling this scene actually was, but as I am typing I can feel my heart start to race and a knot is forming in my stomach.

Since I’ve been here, I have had a few conversations with people about how individuals in both communities cope with militarization and an enveloping sense of insecurity. One Israeli explained that most people don’t talk about the experiences of the Arab population because it is impossible to reconcile the perceived need to have strict security measures with the humanity of “the other”. You can’t continue to see yourself as a decent citizen when you are forced to see people dehumanized by your own security forces. Interestingly, when I listen to people discuss the plight of the Palestinian people, there is little acknowledgement of the existential fear that pervades Israeli society. Their mocking tone implies that the angst experienced by Israelis is self-generated and unnecessary.

Everyone seemingly believes that they are rooting for the ‘good guy’, but the ‘good guy’ really depends entirely on which side of the wall you sit. Acknowledging the experiences of the other side, independent of your own fears and suffering, is bound to evoke empathy. The only problem is that when you start to see the good in the “bad guy”, you lose the moral footing upon which your position stands. So there you have it. It all boils down to the discomfiture generated by cognitive dissonance. It takes a lot more energy, creativity and courage to put down your pompoms and see what is happening to all of the human beings around you. Once eyes are opened though, there’s no going back to the team clubhouse.

So, I get that I am a son of a bitch (sorry Mom). These kids are living a reality that I couldn’t possibly know. If calling me a son of a bitch or slapping my arm as I pass is a way to equalize an asymmetric balance of power, then maybe I need to find a way to cope with their expressed frustration. I can’t come into their community all Miss Mary Sunshine and expect them to be able to disassociate me from the ‘bad guys’ that they have always known. At one point today, I thought “how can their parents let them run around and behave like this?” Perhaps, parenting skills are somewhat impeded by time spent down in a ditch at gunpoint. Next time I think about picking my pompoms back up, I’ll try and remember that.