Jesus, the Apartheid Wall, and other things to Pass

On friday morning I woke up squashed (on a small mattress) between an unbalanced Israeli boy, and an adventurous american girl. I turned over and went back to sleep. This was all in preperation for the Adventure of the Weekend. Our small adventuretjies have expanded alarmingly to include people from entirely different continenets and social spheres. This time my NGO crew was comming along!
The plan was to meet at 7 at the central bus station. half 8 saw myself, the above (and previously mentioned) american friend, the UK guy, and a French girl. However, there was also a woman of French heritage who had lived in Israel for the last 25 years, and a Swiss boy who didnt bring his passport, as well as another French boy -this time with an Arabic name. Let me list the risks: it is illigal for Israeli's to go into Palastine. The Israeli woman took her entry certificate out of her french passport, or something of the sort, and hoped that they wouldnt look to hard. She reconed that the worst they could do was not let her in and send her home with her tail between her legs. The Swiss boy, did not realise the issue with HIS passport upuntill we were about to leave Palastine to return to Israel, and Ismail had already been questioned sufficiently at the airport and felt he could deal with it again. We met up with my sister (who is not allowed by rules of her program to go accross the 'border'). We hoped on an Arab bus heading to Bethlehem "Beit Lechem". My UK buddy speaks Arabic so we managed pretty well.
The bus was one that avoids passport controll completely, and so we were in without the expected complications. We walked, without a map, in what we hoped was the direction of the famous church of the Nativity in Beit Lechem. There were many of tourist attractions relating to the birthplace of Jesus. There was the field where the shepards came from to see the new born king, the inn that Mary stayed at, as well as (on a differnt note) David's Well. It was a beatiful city, we saw the view through barbed wire and torn fences. It was quite on a Friday as most Muslims were praying and the Christian perhaps sleeping. We almost caused a national dispute by trying to put cheese and zatar (hyssop) on the traditional breads when we were offered zatar OR cheese. They do not mix in the oven apparently. . .
After being in the beautiful Church, through the Humble door (one is forced to bend upon entering/exiting. its about humbling oneself) we went to find a place to satisfy the stomach. The usual falafel pita emuslion. And Finally, finally we set off to find the Wall.
This one is the Seperation Barrier, or the Apartheid Wall for the not-so-PC. It is the physical barrier between Israeli and Palastinian Authority.
I will add pictures as soon as I can
It was a kind of spiritual, reading the protests, prayers, demands, hopes, threats, promises, expression of the people from the Other Side of the Wall. After walking to the end of it, a silence had falled between us all. No one knew what to say. I heard a sigh or two. Very little eye contact.
However, the other side was hopefull. There was a cute chinese resuarant accross from the Barrier, and its menu was too painted onto the wall. In response to that someone had copied the format and painted a 'menu for peace'. There was also a picture of a dove, and another, my favourite of the wall crumbling and a bright shiney city of peace behind it. There was also a giant sheep?
After a pee stop in the Chinese Restuarant we discovered that we were right at the border controll area. It was at this point that someone mentioned to the Swiss man that he maybe should have brough along his passport. It was, all in all, the most nerve-racking 30minutes of my life. We couldnt even guess which of us (the undocumented Swiss, the Israeli or the frenchman with the arab name) would be arrested first. Then we couldnt find the exit. Then it was suddenly deserted and none of the doors opened. Then someones glasses got caught in the scanner and searching for them undid our whole system of order (twins for distraction, then Israeli, Israeli distracts Arabic-name, whom distracts from the issue of the swiss)
We were at the final checkpoint, the passport one. The woman barely glanced at all of ours. We were through. My FrenchIsraeli who had worked for Medicans Sons Fronteirs proudly said, "I really am without boarders!" And all of us Refugee-NGO workers could breath a sigh of relief.
We did more Churches in East Jerusalem, and then I left the peeps and sought out my South Africans, and a synagogue. It has maybe been too much and I needed grounding. I left them for a few more hours to have shabbat dinner at one of my favourite Israelies, its really nice to be a part of someone elses family for a few hours. And then it was time to head back to the work homies.

An awkward Night was spent in Nahlaot-the religious neighbourhood in Jerusalem in the house of a colleague's religious grandmother. (We all had to pretend we were American Jewish girls making Aliya. It was me(jewish), an american who is not really jewish, and the boy from switzerland. I guess it was hardest for him...). The toilet paper had been pre-broken.
Everything was done in a bit of a difficuilt OCD fashion, it is hard to be under others house rules, but we slept and woke up ready for part two...

The Subtitles that got Lost in Translation

On Sunday night, I came home tired and bedraggled. My aunt thought it was time I learned to do ironing. The People of Israel have a knack for timing. It felt good to be back in the calm of Yavne...
At Shul on friday the Rabbi sits, closes his eyes and makes you think back on your week. He says 'deep breath in' and the sound of long pasionate snuffels fills the room. 'Deep breath out'. With each breath you're supposed to run through the week, chronologically, to accept the week and ready yourself to the sabbath most probably. Then everyone sings the same line of a song at different times, and starts up again with the next breath. Its pretty intense

Monday Night brought about that need after a uber productive day in the office, to get out, get drinks, get free. Those of us without homes readily available in South Tel Aviv ended up going to a trendy open-air bar in the middle of Florentine street. <These trendy places are actually in the middle,on this semi-pavement dividing the street>. Myself along with a lovely canadian, my favourite Dutch person, and a French Israeli. The latter two (40) and (29) decided that they were old enough to be my mother. Which worked out for me- because it meant my drinks were then free... I had a really lovely time, but the night was still young. 8:30 saw us arriving outside of a dusty old apartment block. Leave your shoes at the door, and squeeze past the Indian man at the stove, to the lounge of his house, which turned out to be the restuarant where me and most of my people from my NGO were meeting for supper. Best meal I've had this year. When we were warm and happy, spread out on the pillows that were the chairs at the low long table, I looked around me, with a grin on my face, curry and beer in my tummy and the presence of the most incredible group of people throbbing happily in my soul; I noticed something amazing. Despite that I have grown up in the Rainbow nation, with a mosaic of muli-ethnic friends, this here was the most diverse array of people I have Ever been in. The South African, the New Yorker-Brazzilian, the boy from Minnesota and his Israeli girlfriend, the Dutch woman previously mentioned, another from Holland and her Eritrean boyfriend, a 19yr old Israeli with Morrocan heritage, the Israeli rasta man, the Bangladeshian who owned the restarant, the brittish lesbian woman who made Aliya and the man from a teeny tiny village in the UK who worked in Syria and speaks Arabic. The Sudanese woman who grew up in Saudi Arabia, the French-Israeli who's been living in North Africa for the last 10 years, the African-American who married a Jewess from Ohio, and the Swiss who cannot Yodel.

Deep breath in- Tuesday I got quite sick, and did no work, but atleast got visa photo's taken, with my Eritrean client who was planning to relocate to find refugee status in Australia. Wouldnt have known where to go, but I have contacts in the right places it seems. Deep breath out.

Wednesday I begun to make plans, and have a crisis about my weekend. It was now, at the last munute, that the relatives want to see me. Not in my lonesome first stages, but now when I'm crisis-ing about the things I still have to do/experience/see with my last remaining days...
(After discussing my weekend plans with one or two people in the office, as well as the past experiences, my little planned trip to Palastine or Haifa turned into a full out office outing///)

Thursday morning I wake up early to go climbing, my thursday routine with my favourite American. That night went out again for happy hour to the trendy bar in the middle of the street. This time though-to Plan the Weekend. The one colleague however sucked the concept of 'planning' drier than a petriefied prune. It made it almost unexciting. Our receptionist, a 30year old Ecuadorian-Israeli man joined us, and took us for drinks at the most amazing alternative alleyway place. I rode on a bike with my American, the closest I've come near death despite spending most of the weekend crossing the border...

The plan was to sleep. And to meet up at 7am at the bus station for Adventure Part 1.
I spooned between the most awkward guy I have ever met, and my American friendie and got not a wink of sleep. Respirate, Exhale, droool. 2 weeks left

Istanbul. Can only be seen to be believed.

Turkey
the land of sleezy mustached men, architecualraly phenomenal mosques, dramatically clashing sounds, and fresh bread. We cant eat the bread, because its Pesach.

How I finally became a Tourist when I tripped over my Roots

Everyone mentioned how I’m growing quite a tumtum. My mom thinks I’m pregnant (she’s always had amusingly high expectations of my romantic life), my granpa thinks I eat too much. I told them about 6shekel falafels.

On April the 1^st my mother, father, gran and grandpa touched down, in the land of milk and honey. On the morning they arrived I bought fruit and cookies to stock up their rooms, welcomed them, and left an hour later for work. Spent the day as per usual at work, ran home right after to have supper with them and fell fitfully asleep. The rest of the week went pretty much the same. I don’t get any work done, I don’t get any sleep, and I don’t get any time with the family. Its been wonderful! I have been getting along with them alright as I don’t have enough time with them for the usual disputes, and rushing around everywhere is what I do best. Plus every day is an extra 6 hours long. Especially as their second half of the wek was spent in Jerusalem so I commuted like a beast, another of the things I love best.

Flashbacks of the week include me finishing up a letter on my little laptop with a South Sudanese baby asleep at my breast pretty much. Next flash is standing in the middle of Rothschild Boulevard with my grandfather to wait for the traffic light to go from green to red to green…  and then running down to my bus station in south tel aviv, crossing Levinsky park- the park where all the African refugees with no homes sleep where one might forget which country they’re in as everyone around is a northern African until a Hassidic jew, beard to his waist with black hat, black coat and fringes rides past on a bicycle, flash back to the land of Israel.

My favourite part of the whole thing was being able to stay in Tel Aviv, spend the nights there, walk to and fro in the vibiest city. Makes me think I should have escaped the comfort of a home life in Yavne and ate tinned beans in Tel Aviv for my whole Israel experience. We also made the most of residing in the centre of Jerusalem. On the last day there with the famjam, we dropped my grandparents in their snazzy hotel, my parents in their crummy motel (after riding the train to the end of the line, and showing them some of the nightlife sights), and went off to the house of the other gap-yah people on my sisters program, mainly to get a cup'a'tea and retrieve some things. However, after discussing Easter, pesach, Israel etc a group of 5 of us somehow ended up walking the short but spritual walk towards to old city, the plan was to sing Easter songs, at the Western Wall. It was late, we were in high spirits from exhuastion. Altogether I think we managed to be truly blasphemous, not intentionally but perhaps because of the company. We sung infrom of the Orthodox as the homie we were with didnt know better, and our service included reading stories about a Palastinian taxi driver, from a pamphlet picked up in Bethlehem. We ate oranges, and pee'd in the bused on the way home. All in all it was an experience I've tried very hard to forget about.
We left for Turkey the next morning
**

In the meanwhile, things are looking legit for Ghana. As opposed to when  I left the first time for Israel when no one believed I would/could/was going to do it up until I boarded the plane, for Ghana everyone has now accepted that that’s where I’m heading. However, this time perhaps all the doubt is on myside. I haven’t yet been to the embassy, paid for my ticket, or taken my shots. I’m again nervous that it might not happen. But ofcourse, I will pull through in the end. I hope. I hope. The world is waiting.

Last month, a world survey was

conducted by the UN. The only

question asked was: "Would

you please give your honest

opinion about solutions to the food

shortage in the rest of the world."

The survey was a huge failure...

In Africa they didn't know what "food" meant.

In Eastern Europe they didn't know

what "honest" meant.

In Western Europe they didn't know

what "shortage" meant.

In China they didn't know what "opinion" meant.

In the Middle East they didn't know

what "solution" meant.

In South America they didn't know

what "please" meant, and

In the USA they didn't know what "the rest of

the world" meant.

6 Shekel Falafels and the South Sudanese

March 19

I wish work wasn’t so hectic, and life threatening to other people, and stressful, and busy. Although if that was the case, I’d probably never leave. . . I’m already getting that nostalgic fondness, when I look around my bus station, or my office in the quite hours of the early morning/late night.

I mean what will I do without 6shekel falafel? We (me, and pretty much the entire staff respectively) go there every day and every day the man who works there forgets who we are. However, after we made a huge fuss of introducing ourselves, he finally remembered!! Acknowledgement, the greatest prize of all.

And what of the crazy kids who come into the office, run to the kitchen and steal the juice, sometimes even pour it on the office manager (my boss…). We’ve taken to grabbing them, maybe an ear, throwing them out of the office. Because after all, the police don’t care if we throw around a few refugee kids.

But that brings me to the serious stuff, on a scary note.

The interviews that the legal team and all who can help, like me, have been up to our eyeballs in. The South Sudanese issue. April the 1^st is their deportation date. It’s a scary scary thing when figures have faces, and faces have stories. And the ‘700 Infiltrators’ are each clients, allocated to one of us, where we hear their story and write it down in the most impressive looking document but which, fancy lingo and references and statistic aside is a letter to say ‘dear government, I have a story, I have a reason for being in this country and not wanting to go back, all I’m asking is that you hear my story before you decide’.

Its crazy how we rejoice over the bad stories, over the people who’s actual lives will be threatened if they were to be sent back, because they are the ones who have a chance. Those who will be merely subjected to trying to bring up their children in a country with no food, no work, no healthcare, and bad memories of war and terror have no chance. They are seen as ‘infiltrators’, a security threat.

                                                  *********************************

April the 1^st

Best April Fools Day ever, in our meeting that morning instead of the soft mournful voices I’de been expecting we were playful, foolish. Everyone was too relieved. On the last week day before the deportation date just before the office closed up for the night we got a phonecall with the news that deportation had been postponed, paused. A petition from the organisations had caused the courts to stop the ministry of interior and make them THINK. This is all the pause is for, they are willing to reconsider, and not just chuck a bunch of people out. However, one plane had left already, people were scared, who could blame them.

But that weekend turned out to be an amazing one. The demonstration was cancelled, and the deadline on the applications postponed and so when me and my friend from the office left we needed sleep, but more importantly – stress relief. And so we set out for a good meal. We looked hither and yon unsure of what we wanted until I bumped into one of my co-workers clients who is a good buddy of mine. He sometimes just comes into the office to chat, I have no idea what he does all day, and he often helps us out with translation (he’s Eritrean and can speak Tigrinya but also English). And right where I bumped into him was a restaurant that we would never have seen had he not pointed it out. It was owned by his friend ‘Jon’ who came up to us, eating some kind of amazing grain that was going to be our dinner. That’s the thing about travelling, there is no way to find the good places until someone tells you where to go. Best meal ever, and cheapest. It was an Ethiopian place, and although we’ve eaten Indjura before (the sourdoughpancake under the saucy stuff) the gorgeous waitress/hostess/friend of Jon took a piece of our food before we did, to show us how to eat it. It was so great, to be babied so. Wordless communication “here, this is how you do it”. However I think it might be more of a tradition thing, at least in that restaurant, because every time they bought more food they had some first. <When I sent my sister and her friend there the next day, the hostess people properly joined them for the meal and even taught them a bit of Amheric> but we just spoken English with Jon, who now calls me every few days to ask why I haven’t come back and why I sent my sister instead. . .

That weekend we finished work in the trendy lesbiansit coffeeshop, I busted the usual mission to J-town, woke early to go to shul on Saturday morning, walked the whole of Jerusalem on Shabbat, walked the whole of Tel Aviv on Saturday Night, went to my friends 40th birthday party, and wellcomed my parents and grandparents who arrived on Sunday morning:

This begins the point where my two lives converge..