There are cracks everywhere. Pebbles, stones and rocks all ranging in
size, littering the streets of Palestine. Pavements with lengthy cracks
and potholes you gotta jump over. The dirt, dust and sand play together
in the warm breeze, attaching themselves to any object which crosses
their path. Some areas manage to maintain a somewhat unadulterated
pavement while others, particularly near what some locals comically
refer to, as "The Great Wall of Palestine" where vehicles and
pedestrians will mix freely. The ridges in the roads look as though
cement was left to run and dry with no mention of an attempt to take off
the excess, something which my OCD cannot handle. These are the
inconsistent but lovable streets of Abu Dees, a small village-town in
East Jerusalem.
I’ve never in my life paid so much
attention to the ground I walk upon. However, when I’m faced with living
in a Muslim a country, a place which takes me so easily and gracefully
back to my default setting, my head seems somewhat unable to raise
itself up to pass the gaze of those I'm surrounded by. I like to imagine
that I’m invisible, what I used to do as a young Muslim in England. But
people here, men in particular like to make it painfully clear that I’m
far from invisible. It's understandable that people can see that I'm
not a local; this is a small place and unfamiliar faces tend to stand
out, especially when they make little attempt to fit in to the
surroundings.
When I intend to take a peaceful walk, I
end up engaging in a game of dodge the stares, weaving around groups of
men who remain silent and walking at speed to avoid any unwanted
approaches. When I think about it, England isn't a whole lot different.
However, here it is more concentrated and understandably so, wherever
the forbidden fruit factor is in play. What baffles me most is even with
all of that; I feel safer here, I feel at home here. There is an
element of potential danger where the occupation is concerned, but for
me; I find it to be a magnified mirror image of how I felt when I was
growing up. Here, I am faced with the same emotions I ignored as a child
and can now see where I fit in… I don't really fit in but I've also
come to realise that it isn't really a problem. Not fitting in or
conforming is something I've come to do well, even when all I once
wanted was to be like everybody else.
When we landed in
Tel-Aviv, the pit of my stomach tightened. I knew going through passport
control would be a hassle, I just didn't know how much hassle or if
being honest with them about the purpose of my trip, would cause more
harm than good. We, an Englishman and a Pakistani woman, were addressed
by the man in the booth, let's call him Dave. Dave asked the Englishman
if he was here on a religious trip, practically giving him the answer
required, to which he replied that he was here to see the sights. The
Englishman's visa was issued in under 2 minutes and he was free to leave
the airport. Maybe this was going to be easier than I had thought. Dave
then proceeded to ask me, a British-Pakistani woman, where my parents
were born. No conversation about sightseeing or the hotspots of
Tel-Aviv, just straight into collecting facts I have no control over. I
told him they were born in Kashmir to which he replied, "Ah, disputed
territory" with a knowing smile of the looming familiarity which was now
present between us. I nodded and smiled and he proceeded to point to
the waiting area where I was told to go. He kept my passport, knowing it
is the only thing which could keep me. Thanks Dave.
The
waiting room became something of a community in the 4 hours we ended up
waiting. We spoke to a guy from the US and he told us how he goes
through this every year when he comes to visit friends in Israel, "the
best thing to do is be polite and comply, or they just make you wait
longer." Mental note taken. I was interviewed by a young,
athletic-looking, dark haired man. He was polite and calm and I felt
less nervous when his first question was "how are you?" I gradually felt
like I was talking to a friend, not being interrogated regarding my
visit, which I made clear was pointed towards Palestine not Israel. Many
people, including Palestinians, had told me to avoid telling them I was
volunteering in Palestine, I told him anyway and he took it well. As I
answered question after question regarding my background I noticed him
watching me. I may as well have been on mute because he was staring
directly into my eyes looking for any signs of a lie or abnormal
behaviour. I noticed this and made a point of maintaining eye-contact to
increase my chances of entry. For all I know my nothing-to-hide-here
look may have done the trick.
2 hours later my visa was
issued and I was free to leave the airport. An incredible weight had
been lifted and I was finally free to actually be excited about my trip.
In the 2 weeks from confirmation to my actual flight, I stayed firm in
the very real possibility that I would be denied entry and possibly
detained until the next flight home.
I am finally in Palestine.
I'm
ready to learn, absorb and experience. I'm exactly where I'm meant to
be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. Little did I know, I
had just stepped into a time machine which would magnify every aspect of
my childhood I had worked so hard to get away from; welcome to The
Grounds of Palestine.
