On the road: a photo tour in the USA south about Palestine/Israel, fall 2009–Part 2

Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quakers in Palestine/Israel.

PHOTOS

VIDEO, Deering Golf Course, Miami Florida

October 24, 2009, Saturday, Savannah GA, Amtrak station:

Stuck here in the Savannah train station for more than 2 hours, train delayed because of the usual problems (behind freights) plus an accident, due in at 6:45 this morning, now expected at 9. So: write in my journal for the first time since Tuesday, perhaps the longest hiatus in recent memory, a severe departure from my usual every other day routine while at home and my every day pattern when in Israel-Palestine.

Since Tuesday and Raleigh NC: Hydro for a class at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, Gaza at the Church of the Reconciliation in Chapel Hill, Gaza in Charlotte NC at the University of North Carolina, Gaza in Columbia SC at a university, yesterday Hydro to a class at Armstrong Atlantic State University and last night Gaza in Savannah at the university hosted by the exemplary JT and AS for what may have been my best showing of Gaza yet.

Gaza’s been too long and too wordy so I’ve been savagely cutting the length and the verbiage. While driving from Columbia to Savannah yesterday morning with Dave I edited in the car, one of the many blessings of digital technology. I’m also learning the show, what follows what, and how to speak to and from the images, how better to insert my personal emotions. Unfortunately I’ve had to jump over major sections like Rafah and Beit Hanoun to get to the final scene, Sderot. I think this is a more suitable ending than student workshop photos.

I tried that several times and because the photos do not sufficiently show the reality of siege and post assault trauma they are not an effective ending. I’m also beginning to question just how good they are and how worthy of wider distribution. They look too much like the reasonably competent photos seen around the world from most any location.

A few profiles: JT, at Armstrong Atlantic in Savannah, young, vibrant, vivacious, with a beard, living 2 years in Israel while studying at a small Jerusalem college. He knew about Gamla, knew that Jews had been long in the Golan, raised Christian by a minister father and wife, married possibly to a Jew (he said his step father had brought back a satellite map of the region), completing studies in ancient and recent history, with a specialty of 2nd temple Israel, he gave one of my best intros so far. What a difference this makes to a performance— warming up the audience, establishing the tone. He is also gracious and loving, a dear, in short, and recommended by some of his students for the award of advisor of the year.

He told me and then later, at my urging, the story of his editing a book about the Mid East, which included what he regards to be a fair minded chapter about Palestine/Israel. The publisher said no. No negotiation, no revision, a solid no, no to anything referring to Israel-Palestine.

His student counterpart at Armstrong, AS, short, slightly pudgy, jolly, energetic, committed, is the chair of the local chapter of a humanitarian organization. With JT they’ve been able to inspire students toward activism. She concurred with his observation that campus activism is on the rise. Her wish is for a career in rehabilitation. She has never traveled much further than her home in Savannah.

ZK, living in Charlotte, runs a check cashing business. His family is from Gaza, originally from Al Majdal near Ashkelon. After I’d given him teeksa’s site address I observed him downloading images from my site. We discussed where he was from, how his family had been displaced, and his current economic situation which is not sanguine. His business is housed in a relatively small space in a strip mall shared with two other businesses, mobile phone and travel. While I hung out in his tiny office no customers appeared. Likewise many of the malls are now empty, a result of the deteriorating national and international economy.

Hank, at Carol Woods retirement community, as I’ve mentioned, is irrepressible, a voluble, happy, fit fellow, who is a joy to work with. Unerringly attentive to my needs, he is also becoming a soul mate. We talked about love, eternal devotion, growing old together, etc, all my favorite topics. Man to man. He is 72, 5 years my senior, moving into Carol Woods when 68 with his wife Nancy. He retired from a career in family planning; her career had been as a guidance counselor in the lower Bronx. He now aims at prison ministry, the Alternatives to Violence Program in particular, and she toward local politics.

As I sat or wandered around Carol Woods, often in the common room with my computer work, I noticed the various forms of mobility impairment. People glided by in electric chairs, or hobbled awkwardly with walkers and canes. Who might I become, what will I look like as I continue to deteriorate? Hank is robust, walks fast and straight, as I can—for now.

Hank works with Elders for Peace. He reads for my shows, an inimitable, distinctive, loud, oddly paced locution.

MLS, activist and organizer with the Israel Committee Against Home Demolitions North America and the Coalition for Peace with Justice. A very able host, she arranged many of the presentations, and in her soft voice gave a low key and engaging intro to me. With numerous connections, and a sharp awareness of the situation in Palestine/Israel, she is a valuable asset to the struggle for Palestine rights.

She said of me, after I’d asked her to say something personal in her intro, that I am an engaged person and a good listener. This was a result of the classroom appearance when I and my Hydro show were at our best. At that show, Sarah Shields, the instructor confided to me later, the students asked the appropriate questions, beginning with who am I and how do I know?

October 25, 2009, Sunday, Jacksonville Florida, Y and D’s home, front room off the kitchen:

The train delay turned out to be about 5 hours, from an expected departure time from Savannah of 7 AM to an actual departure around noon. Reason as far as I could learn was that the northbound train had hit an empty car parked on the tracks. Delayed as the tracks were cleared. Then the southbound train, mine, encountered another car parked on the tracks, also empty (one attendant speculated this is done for insurance money), requiring a tow truck, requiring time. Then the system of signal lights delayed further, because the train was off schedule. I plan to write a letter to Amtrak asking for a refund. Or not—$23 and it is not exactly Amtrak’s fault.

Sitting in the relatively comfortable Amtrak Savannah station I now had time to catch up on my journal writing, website management, and even to prepare a new blog entry. I miss this work. On the tour I have no time for it, but this gap in my schedule benefited me unexpectedly. Thank you Amtrak. (The station man offered us all free coffee, a gracious gift, easing the problem considerably. How important hospitality is at moments like this.)

One of my hosts in Jacksonville, Y, explained how he’s affected by the economic situation: as a cardiologist performing a standard stint (I remember) procedure, expecting that some 10% of is patients will be unable to pay, the uninsured, that number has risen to about 20%. His overhead is heavy and consistent, for assistants, supplies, equipment, rent or lease, and malpractice insurance. So, altho he says, we have a cushion, he is affected. How this influences his largess is a question, especially concerning the video project.

We discussed this last evening after my show of Gaza Steadfast at the University of North Florida to a relatively small crowd, about 60 people. He has some good suggestions about revising the show which I’ve recorded in my notes about the show. For the DVD we are tending to a composite show that incorporates Steadfast and Eyewitness Gaza; it might also include elements of my first Gaza show, Gaza Scorched and Squeezed.

Last night’s show went well enough, not quite as exciting as the evening before in Savannah. One criticism was that they already knew what I was showing them, that most of the audience, being Muslim, Arab and even Palestinian (from Jaffa, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem) was the choir. A frequent question—how to broaden the audience? I suspect some had seen the Eyewitness show which I brought here in February 2009 and might have felt Steadfast was too much a repeat of that show. Despite this criticism, many lauded the show, and thanked me for it and my mission. So I felt well appreciated and heard and seen.

Many children were in the audience. At first noticing them I thought this might be a problem because of the violence I include. It wasn’t. Most apparently are very familiar with such scenes. One of the last remarks came from a girl about 7 years old: I loved seeing the children with hijabs [Muslim head coverings] and wearing long gowns and worshipping Allah. Which led to my remark—I hope I was fair and balanced and respectful—that radical Islam, much in evidence in Gaza, might be part of the problem. I told the story of the extremist group that tried to declare a separate zone in Gaza, attacked by Hamas, 25 killed.

The projected image looked soft and pale to me, despite the venue being the art center with a massive projector. I noted this to the center’s director who was helping with the setup but we decided not to try adjustments. At the Savannah venue I’d also noticed a deficient image and we were able to decrease the projector’s intensity. This dramatically improved the image. I find this attention to detail crucial for a good show, as important as the manner of the introducer. Last night Y, good-natured and well meaning as he is, does not yet have a strong stage presence. Makes a huge difference in how people receive the show.

Rather than try to catch up on my days of not writing, I’m simply going to add notes below for possible later expansion.

I’m trying to also catch up on my website and blog maintenance, putting up a new site about the last days of my Israel-Palestine summer trip, and about ready to upload a new blog related to it. The topic is the Kalandia closure on Ramadan that I was caught in. Reviewing and expressing my experiences from the summer creates a time warp. This might actually add power to my editing because it allows germination, gestation, digestion, that might be missing if I edit too soon after the experience.

Of my many correspondents, C proves to be one of the most reliable. He wrote me a few hours ago from Armenia, announcing that P had arrived, met his friends, site saw, and he included some photos. 20 years ago I might have been viciously jealous and hurt of this man with my former wife. Now? Not a wisp of that feeling that I’m aware of. Rather: a good feeling that she is happy, content, becoming well traveled thanks to her good husband and my good friend, C. With a tad of envy that C has P while I, for the moment, have no one—other than whatever audience might be vicariously sharing my adventures.

So be it. This might change. This might not change. Is it a major factor in my life? How much suffering does it cause me? Am I more effective as a solo worker?

I’ve not heard from X since last Thursday when she wrote with gratitude and admiration. M has once again dropped from view, nothing substantial since about mid summer.

October 26, 2009, Monday, New Smyrna Florida, D and D’s home, open back porch:

“In the cool cool cool of the morning, tell her I’ll be there…” On the back porch in the quiet darkness at 7 AM, a slight brightening of the sky as we lurch toward winter solstice, I write. Y and D’s older daughter stood next to me yesterday morning as I wrote my journal, prepared my blog, asked what I was doing. I explained, then asked her, do you like to write? I love to write. Ever considered writing a blog? What’s a blog? I explained. On my next visit, perhaps next fall, she might tell me she now has a blog.

Another decent show last evening, Gaza again, in New Smyrna, to a crowd of about 60, including many Muslims. The imam, WA, originally from Jerusalem, had spread the word thru his mosque and Islamic center of Daytona Beach. And I think most of the audience was pleased with the show. Donations were down but enthusiasm was high, including from that of a man with his two sons who spoke with me after the show. One son had presented a report to his high school class about Gaza, saying, they told me we never knew.

One common theme of the discussion was just this, we never knew. That is,  resembling the holocaust in some ways: an ignorant or denying world, egregious violations of human rights, impunity of the perpetrator of the injustice, who used methods at times resembling those of the Nazis. I’m pleased I chose to include ports of the Israeli leaders responsible for Cast Lead [the vicious and probably criminal assault on Gaza last December and January]. Reading the once again I believe prescient Uri Avnery, he outlines possible responses Israel might make to the Goldstone report’s recommendation that Israel and Hamas conduct credible investigations into their acts during Cast (avnery calls it Molten) Lead, and failing that bring the case to the International Criminal Court in the Hague. In doing this he fingers some of the same people as responsible parties that I do. How prescient am I?

Since the United Church of Christ church had quoted Martin’s favorite song, “Precious Lord,” I began my performance bysinging a short rendition of the song, explaining that this indicated how fearful he was at times, thus how human, and that it tied to the theme of my show, hope and hopelessness. This prelude may have significantly aided the audience reaction. I might use it more often.

I’m not only finally reaching a fairly good edit of this show but as important I’m learning it. I can better anticipate timing, where to linger, where to gallop thru, I can anticipate slides, I repeat myself less but just enough for emphasis, I believe I’ve found a reasonable way to end early, including Beit Hanoun, but the ending still seems weak.

I’m not sure about ending with Sderot. Y raised the possibility of not ending with Sderot because he feels an audience remembers best what it sees last, but with Rachel Corrie. Currently Rachel is a postscript, a coda; perhaps she should once again be the main culminating scene, as in the previous version. A question to struggle with.

About my writing, I found a perfect lesson from Rilke about how to write, it bears directly on my approach in my blog, namely,

Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember.

I miss not be sharing daily or near daily reflections about writing, photographing, and love with someone—at this point, X. No word yet from her since more than one week ago. I also miss the intense dialog M and I had for a few months about one year ago. And the daily arrows of love, passion and disgust between LL and me 2 years ago. As much as I might long for a partner, a lover, I believe I also long for a consistent correspondent. Anne R at times is this. Dan at times is this but never with more than short notes. Y might have been at one time but not recently. Daughters aren’t, one is known for her pithiness. MVB periodically offers deep reflections, as she did recently in her blog about her father.

So be it. I carry on, soldier on, virtually alone.

DH, my host, is a whirlwind, a firebrand, and I think an effective activist. Like me and Anne R she is a one-issue person, Israel-Palestine, and works thru a small local peace organization. She picked me up yesterday in Jacksonville, driving 1.5 hours each way, chatting with me almost the entire way to New Smyrna. She’s been twice to Palestine/Israel, most recently during Cast Lead when she was in Bethlehem and noticed how little noticed the assault seemed to be by the Bethlehemites. She is short, about 46 years old, with D her husband and suffers from an illness that depletes her energy—watching her you’d never guess.

Since I had nearly 2 hours before the show last night and we were all set up (her husband engaging with her passion, helping her, so laudable)I went for one of my rare walks. And discovered: a historic site, where a so-called palace had been attempted by one of the leaders of the earliest manifestation of whites in the area. They built on a shell mound, a midden, perhaps more than rubbish heap, possibly a sacred site to the native people. Apparently dislodged by the local Indians in about 1777, the colony did not last long enough for the palace to be finished, so the site, now sporting a massive foundation that I thought at first might be that of a church, became a fortification and a home. American Indians burned a structure here, and eventually it was abandoned as a living site and now is a tourist site. (Y would be interested, because of her concern for American Indians and shell mounds.)

Walking further, the water, not the beach but a river or estuary system. I plan to examine the area thru Google Earth later. And during this walk I made the first photos of the trip, vegetation mostly, a boat, the historic site, nothing of much importance, just a warm-up.

As before, the K family, Y, his sister Lin, his wife D, were extraordinarily hospitable and generous to me. Like my brother in law, Y gave me a batch of clothing, one blue striped short sleeved shirt in particular which I wore last night for the first time publicly. He also donated generously, and his friend D who attended both the Gaza show and the private Bethlehem show in the K home was also generous. This assures me that I’ll have enough money until I begin earning more in January thru teaching.

About 6 friends of the K’s attended the private show of Bethlehem. All were Palestinian. The lawyer, E, apparently known for his ability to sue, questioned me loudly during the show, objecting for instance to my inclusion thru a quote that some Muslims hate some Christians in Bethlehem. Y and I asked him to hold his remarks till the end. And then during the discussion his point seemed lost or forgotten. Y had said earlier that E might be a major contributor to the DVD project. Perhaps because of my reproval of him during the show, he gave no indication of willingness to support the project. Did I speak too harshly, too soon? Have I driven away a potential contributor?

LINKS:

 ”UN sanctions Goldstone report on Gaza war”

“Focusing on Ft. Hood Killer’s Beliefs Is an Easy Out to Avoid the Deeper Reasons for the Massacre”
By Mark Ames
Nov 6, 2009

 Train delays

 Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet

On the road: a photo tour in the USA south about Palestine/Israel, fall 2009

Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quaker in Palestine/Israel.

Photos

October 14, 2009, Wednesday, Cambridge MA, back computer room:

In my Google mail spam, 2 messages from The Great Mystery:

Please reveal yourself

Please keep this as a top secrete (sic)

Summing up precisely what I’m about.

K said she is willing to review my Gaza slide show, maybe on Saturday. This would set a new precedent: collaboration between father and daughter. I suspect she has the skills needed to help me see the overall structure of my show. As Y had. She also reported that P might be getting more work.

I remain in touch with folks in Gaza about the student exhibition there. And I’ve made a preliminary version from their photo files, aiming at a version that can go on website and by email. Not quite small enough files yet. Much work to accomplish this: finding and transferring the various emails between me, Amal, Sherif, and Ban, sorting them chronologically, and then speckling them thru the photos, after organizing the photos into something coherent.

I awoke this morning at 5 AM, ready to work. I knew if I peed, drank water, and tried to resume sleeping I’d lie awake troubled by all I had to accomplish before Saturday evening when I board the train for North Carolina. Last night hitting my mattress, the other end of a not fully satisfying night of sleep, I remained awake in my the glow of X. She is mysterious, my attraction to her inexplicable, the force connecting us perhaps powerful, if only it is a shared force. Is it?  A key question.

October 16, 2009, Friday, Cambridge MA, back computer room:

A hefty dream last night about residing with a group in a country house while observing others at some distance on mountaintops. I saw a young man ride a horse for the first time, I saw an older woman try to gather others for a walk, I saw all this as I sat high on a peak looking down. The dr may have been motivated by viewing X’s photos yesterday—more about this later.

Editing of the new Gaza show, Gaza Steadfast, proceeds, but with all the social attention I am willing to give I am not totally focused on the process. I’ve begun whittling it down, thinking now I have at least 2 new Gaza shows, and might have to leave out entirely Bureij and Raghda (did I mention she wrote, thanking me for the gallery exhibit invite?), Qattan center and Reem, summer games, etc. Which might be OK since I do not know how I’d link all these either with each other or into the main theme of hope. Ramzy wrote that he and Belal successfully left Gaza, entered Cyprus, and now are Turkey engaged in their grad studies. He’s not sure about returning, inclined to remain out of country for at least a few years.

I managed to run thru my other shows, Hydro, Bethlehem, and Quakers, finding lots I could do with these when I have time (the quotidian factor blocking me?). A revision, not a major overhaul or new show.

So much I could be doing photographically—and so much I wish to do socially. How to most wisely blend the 2?

Edward Weston may have been preoccupied with Tina (and numerous others, he was a gallant) but he managed to continue his photography. How did his social life affect his photographic life? And the reverse? If a woman is interested in me, as some might be, how much of that interest is generated by my photographic life and identity?

Now it is raining, it is cold, snow is falling west of Boston. Winter about to smack us. As I was hot for 3 months this summer, unremittingly, now I enter the cold phase—except for 5 glorious weeks in the south beginning soon.

October 18, 2009, Sunday, Washington DC, au bon pain, waiting for the train to Durham:

I’m in DC sitting in an early morning Au Bon Pain on Sunday, after riding the train from Boston overnight, 10 pm to 7 am, delivered to the Boston station by a loving and warm Y. Maintaining our tradition of giving each other send off messages when one is departing, she gave me a card (which I’ve yet to open, maybe on the train further south) and I one to her for her long car ride west. She is a dear, long lasting friend, “till death to us part.”

Just before leaving, having packed all my computer gear, feeling lost and naked, I finally examined the folder of materials she returned to me. In it, numerous promo pieces about the Israel-Palestine project, bw photos made with film of Buddhist walks, my end game or will statements, but no personal notes, thank god. She’s told me going thru that would require more time, and the emotions might overwhelm her, so she’s bringing that folder to calif where she can more serenely examine it.

The train was relatively empty, I slept OK, without dreams that I can now recall, but with visions of X. Which reminds me that probably on each of my various excursions I have one central female focus. One succeeds another. And now, fall 2009, X. In an imagined dialog with her I challenge myself to reveal this penchant of mine: numerous women. How would I explain it to her? How much would she like to know, need to know? How much could I wisely disclose? Why would she want to hear it and what would she do with it?  Similarly when I open my computer for the day’s work, longing for a message from a beloved, who I hope will write varies with the times: now it is X. I do not look for messages from the others. Whereas during other periods I would focus on one of them, crushed to find nothing, elated to find something. Like some others, X has a way of disappearing. I’m getting used to it.  This weekend ME is returning to France from Yemen, and KA is coming home from Israel-Palestine. While X is considering where to live and what to do.

Then this morning, using the train station toilet: DC, the nation’s capital, the nation one of the richest on the globe and in history, the toilets were filled with aging black men, all poor, some of them temporarily residing on a toilet seat. I waited for the handicap access stall to open. It didn’t. I peeked and think I observed a large black man slumped over, leaning against the wall, sitting on the toilet, probably asleep. He is warm, he is safe, and he is close to a toilet. I have to wait for a smaller stall to open.  And then find a way to safeguard my 4 pieces of luggage—not much of a problem compared to those of the men I shared the men’s room with.

How ready am I for this tour? Y asked, others asked, a common question. Answer: as ready as I need to be, not nearly as ready as I should be. As John told Stan and me at dinner the other night, sometimes the less I prepare the more spontaneous and engaging is my presentation. And I recall the words of JVB when I asked him how he preps for a talk—an outline and then give it over to the Holy Spirit.

I might also say, I’m not ready now but I will be by the end of the tour.

Which is how I feel, especially with the new Gaza show. I’m confident the plot will work—the photo workshop—and that the theme will be of interest—hope and hopelessness—and that the photos are compelling. I’m certain I need to shorten it, reorganize it, work better with the sound. All this takes not only time but audience feedback. Y encourages me to alert the audience and invite them into the creative process by confessing, this is the first of many shows, I need your feedback. And forbearance and patience.

The last day home was jammed and somewhat frantic. How can I possibly do all that is needed in preparation? I’m becoming more relaxed about this phase, from experience. Also much more efficient (paying bills, scanning mail). So I know better what might wait till I return (I’m looking forward to the month of December with no teaching, no or only a few gigs, enough money to survive, and plenty of time to edit shows, finish digesting the summer experience, visit family and friends, pursue a possible relationship, read, enjoy the winter holidays, plan a spring New England tour, and do lots of spontaneous photography and writing), what can wait till I have time on the road (like catching up with blogs and sites from the summer, applying for grants, organizing this tour, editing the shows), what might never get done (mounds of readings and videos, fixing certain things), and what is crucial for this trip (verifying train reservations, packing all the right gear, choosing reading material, and calling Lynn to wish her well on her international jaunt with Chuck).

Now to catch up: from Gaza Amal’s good news. The exhibit happened, it appears to be a success, more than 100 people showed up, the excitement was great. Ban wrote later that Amal gave a fine touching speech. I’m promised visuals from the event. I’ve added Amal’s words to my show. When I read them I yelled ecstatically, yes, great, holy mother @#^&*! They did it!

October 19, 2009, Monday, Durham NC, Carol Woods retirement community, MD’s home:

Lots of dreams as I pull into one of my favorite retirement communities, Carol Woods, in what I think is Durham NC (I’m often not sure where exactly I am).

The main dream was one of the first that I recall about X, a dream forecasting good times together. Y and I had greeted each other, X was in on the greeting, Y and I kissed on the lips and then she suggested X and I could as well. We did, not with huge passion, but on my part with recognition that there is some frisson here.

And Jim H, sick and lying nearly comatose, near death, on his bed in a small neatly kept apartment above me in my same building. I was with Y and she struggled to wake him up, give him some hope. But to my eyes he was clearly in his last earthly phase.

The train ride [Boston to DC] went well, but as usual we were caught behind a freight, losing about one hour. Apparently this is typical going south, not so typical going north. Train was about 2/3s full until maybe in Raleigh when the train attendant announced, get ready, 300 people will be coming thru this car. I’d noticed them outside as we pulled in, all ages, all white, or mostly, and to this moment I have no idea who they were.

In DC an elderly black man, probably around my age, sat next to me. His breath smelled heavily of mouth wash, he spoke on the phone with someone owning a tavern in a district where beer could not be sold between 2 am and 7 the next morning but who’d been selling it. I suspected my seatmate might have a drinking problem, his affability a result of the alcohol. He’d mentioned to his phone mate something about having a bender and now needing to get sober. He moved as soon as a single seat opened up. So I sat alone for most of the trip from DC to Durham, 11 AM to about 6:30 PM.

For much of that time I edited Gaza, tightening, loosening, adjusting, sorting, trying get it in shape for showing today, its premiere.

At dinner with my main host in this area, ML, on the board of the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions-USA, and also coordinating director of the local coalition for peace and justice, and her husband, a professor of music at the local university and serious amateur photographer, while she was in the kitchen, I revealed to him, just meeting him, my fascination with and concentration on love, both theoretical and practical. Along with that my penchant for younger women and how I’m slowly and painfully realizing that usually younger women if interested in me are probably only interested because of the mentorship role.

He replied, maybe so, but maybe not. A 60 year old colleague and a 23 year old woman are now a team, very happily. Surprised both. It can happen. As with gambling, that next roll of the dice could produce a winner. And yet, most won’t. Throwing the dice is usually a quick road to ruin.

I’ve met few others who are so involved with Israel-Palestine than ML. She is exemplary. Returning there every year, twice to Gaza, knowing many of the same people as me, working with ICAHD and Sabeel among others, up on AFSC activities, some of them, knowing the Ramallah Friends’ scene, conversing with her was like conversing with an old friend with whom much is shared. Like me she favors lobbying. She and B told me about their local house rep who is a member of their Baptist church and slowly learning more from her about other ways of viewing the situation than that of a strongly pro Israel perspective. B and ML seem happily entwined, each with their separate strong passions (his is photography of the Arctic and Antarctic), but sharing as much as possible.

She also told me about a recent cancellation of a presentation about Palestine/Israel at the senior center that I’d presented at in February, a last minute cancellation because the presentation was thought to be “too political.” To avoid this they booked me into the Carol Woods community room this afternoon. Apparently this venue is less subject to outside pressures.

A full day facing me: Quakers this morning, Gaza this evening, and then tomorrow, Hydropolitics in the morning to a class, and Gaza again in the evening. Three nights with Marilyn, and then a train on Wednesday to Charlotte for a Gaza show.

Unfortunately not all days are as packed. The last week is mostly open. A few days ago I received notice of a new speakers’ service thru Free Gaza, and applied. Maybe they can help Dave and me fill in the blanks.

I also began a new application to the last round of Friends Meeting at Cambridge Special Sources grants. Knowing who’s on the committee, I’m wary of applying on the basis of anything that will seem angry, inflammatory, hateful, or demonizing of Israel. So I’m applying for help with the video project, highlighting the Gaza show, and within that broad topic, concentrating on Quaker-American Friends Service Committee activities there. The last time I applied I was in Israel-Palestine, surprised when it came thru, and doubly surprised to have to meet with a critical group who questioned my receiving that grant. Will something like this happen again?

October 20, 2009, Tuesday, Durham NC, Carol Woods retirement community, MD’s home:

Last night I half dreamed while half awake, of a new structure for the Gaza slide show—4 parts, each related but different. And one would be about bamboo. Of course bamboo plays no role in Gaza that I’m aware of, but the idea of 4 parts might be useful. One might be kill, another survive, another friend, another …?

A rough show last night, Gaza Steadfast, its premiere, to an audience of about 40, mostly people already convinced that Israel was wrong on many of its policies. The problem with the show is that it is too long, twice as long as an audience can tolerate. They were at their limit: maybe 1/5 left part way thru, several called for an end wanting the discussion period to begin, one of the readers, J, lapsed into a lazy I don’t give a shit style, and several suggested paraphrasing rather than reading all the texts. Why I put so much text into this show baffles me.

Having had some success quoting Yusef and Belal in an earlier show about Gaza, I extended the idea to a few others, like Mohammed with his photos of home destruction, and then, wishing to give a fuller flavor of the Goldstone report, quoted from it extensively. My thought now is to viciously carve up the show, shorten it by half, while thinking of a new plan to organize it.

I’m not sure the idea of ending the show with the student photos is wise. They are good but not superior photos and they do not show much suffering. Someone asked about this absence and I replied, I’m not sure why. I noticed the same lack in the work of artists at Windows from Gaza. The artists replied that they have paintings showing the suffering but not in the set exhibited, and they’d like a break from their daily experiences. OK, makes sense, but not a good show. Now what?

I yearn to get back to this editing, and shall devote what remains of the morning to it. I call on my muses—Please dear friends, I need you now. Stay with me and guide my eyes and hands. I know I can count on you. Much gratitude.

Luckily I believe my photos are high quality.

Otherwise the day went superbly: morning visit with local Quakers, some 20 of them, all but one women, showing all of Quakers, which over the years I’ve pared down to a manageable 45 or so minutes. Then in the afternoon at the retirement community, hosted by the irrepressible H, and my new found colleague who shares so many personal connections with me, ML, Bethlehem the Holy. This also has experienced much revision in the heat of showing it to audiences. A good show. Now to make the same of the raw material I have for Gaza Steadfast.

A few bright spots from last night’s show: meeting JS, with family ties to Gaza. He’d never lived there, but has family there. And he seemed deeply impressed with the show, encouraging me to continue with it. And a few others came up afterwards with praise. So I feel there is much potential to this show but I’m not sure how to edit, and how to remain true to my mission of honoring my students.

LINKS:

Carol Woods Retirement Community

“Shades of Checkpoint Charlie at Rafah Crossing”
Haidar Eid writing from the occupied Gaza Strip, Live from Palestine, July 2008

“Israel’s Crimes, America’s Silence”
John Dugard, June 2009

“Israel’s surprising best seller contradicts founding ideology”
Jonathan Cook, The Electronic Intifada, October 2008

The rising of the light: Tel Aviv to Paris to Boston—Palestine & Israel

Excerpts from my journal during a three month summer journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles—written while in Palestine & Israel, posted while in the United States touring the south with new photographs and stories (itinerary)

PHOTOS

Pyrenees, Spain-France

September 13, 2009, Sunday, Tel Aviv airport, sitting on the floor at the Air France gate:

As a Jewish man dons his robe, tassels, and headpiece, brings out his prayer book, and prays in an inconspicuous location for about ten minutes, I start my last journal entry from Israel-Palestine.

Israel

Main event [on September 12, 2009] was meeting the family in the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Sheik Jarrah.  I’d read about this family for months, and wished to meet and perhaps interview and photograph them. Finally, yesterday, when I was considering what to concentrate on for my last hours in Jerusalem, I realized, why of course, walk over to East Jerusalem and look for them.

Photos

They now sleep, eat, visit, discuss with interested parties like me, and generally exist under a tent opposite their home. Why outside and not inside? Israelis evicted them, thru a legal maneuver that has been some 35 years in process. The main theme is Judization of East Jerusalem, moving out “Arabs,” moving in Jews. This has started with some housing and most dramatically with the plethora of huge hotels catering to tourists and all owned by Jews. As Mr. Gawi explained to me, the municipality is attempting to surround East Jerusalem with Jewish settlements and call them neighborhoods.

Israel justifies this particular eviction thru a claim that Jews have owned this land for at least 150 years. Gawi claims that a Muslim holy man is buried near by and that Jews renamed and described him as a Jewish holy man. The neighborhood, Sheik Jarrah, gets its name from this venerated person. He claims further that Jews were granted the right to rent the land around the shrine some 130 years ago for a short period, something like 7 years. After the war of 1948 the UN acquired possession of this land and built a refugee camp here, with the same name, Sheik Jarrah. (It is located a short distance north of the American Hotel.) His father arrived in this area as a refugee, and eventually entered an agreement  with the UN that in exchange for giving up his refugee rights he could either own or rent (I’m not sure which) the land and build a house.

The house is beside an olive grove, and is home to about 7 families. 3 young male settlers live in the house now, occupying it. I dropped in on them, offering a friendly shalom with a question, how is life in this house for you? I’d hoped to open a dialog. Didn’t happen. They claimed to not speak English and would not permit me to photograph them. Gawi told me one is a recent immigrant from Russia, that they can be violent and beat his brother who was then arrested by the Israeli police.

All he wants is housing, his house back if possible. He told me that the Palestinian Authority does nothing, they don’t care, I have a good lawyer, I’m not worried about the court case, I don’t have legal fees, I just need money to buy a house. He mentioned something like $200,000. Our food is take away and costs 300 shekels per meal to feed the family. When I offered him 100 shekels he refused it, reiterating their need for housing. Is anyone raising money for you? Someone said they would but we’ve seen nothing yet.

He appeared calm and tired. It is Ramadan, it is late afternoon, the day is hot. He reclined on a pile of mattresses while his wife sat demurely watching their 5 children who played on bikes, the youngest with a toy gun. A neighbor, living behind the tent, offering her toilet, visited. The man’s father sat alone. All were willing to be photographed, even seeming happily so. I’m sure they’re now used to this. I said, I’ll try not to let people misinterpret your son’s gun.

I’d called Sasha at the International Solidarity Movement earlier to learn if any political event was scheduled for the day. She thought there was, a march starting at the Damascus gate at 8:30 pm, not a good time for me since I’d be preparing for lift off the next morning early from the airport and hoping to bed myself early (I failed.)

ISM can’t do much, he said, can’t raise much money.

He also told me he has money for daily expenses but I was confused about his source of money when he explained that he has a shop and earns money thru it. He also said, I can’t work there with my kids loose like this. They don’t want to go to school, they can’t concentrate on their studies.

I need to do some fact checking on this case. I don’t doubt his version of the story, especially the larger picture of Judization. As I walked over to meet him the thought occurred to me again: this is ultimately a stupid and suicidal policy of Israel. They are playing into all the vicious stereotypes of Jews: sneaky, conniving, corrupt, manipulating. As if all these traits had coalesced into one big nation, the nation and its citizenry now embodying all the reasons people have hated and persecuted Jews for millennia. God forbid, but national implosion would not surprise me, a consequence of national moral deterioration.

France

Then there is the issue of what I didn’t do: didn’t visit the Harem al Sharif or Temple Mount because it was closed, even tho the guidebook claim s it is open on Saturdays during certain hours. Hours not posted as far as I could see, even at the main entrance. Didn’t walk the wet part of the Hezekiah tunnel system because there’d be nothing to photograph without special preparation. I couldn’t carry my gear and it would be dark, best if someone were to meet me at the Siloam pool after I’d entered at the Gihon spring. For another time perhaps. Didn’t go to bed early to get at least 6 hours sleep, talking with dorm mates and finishing web and download work.

But I did reach the Sheik Jarrah neighborhood, I did have a last supper take away at my favorite East Jerusalem restaurant, realizing I could order kibeh at 4:30 pm and eat it secluded from fasting Muslims— in the garden of the Austrian Hospice. I did say goodbye to some residents of the Hospice. I did talk with Neta about providing photos for her report of settlement activity. I did photograph more of the new light rail line as I walked to Sheik Jarrah. And more.

So now, sitting in the airport waiting for my flight, relatively speaking my troubles are over. I’ve passed thru airport security with 3 people asking the same set of questions 3 separate times, I am waiting for boarding, I assume the plane won’t crash and that Katy will be awaiting me, hopefully with Ella. Life is indeed good.

France

September 14, 2009, Monday, Cambridge MA

Home again, after 3 months in Israel-Palestine. To resume much of what I was trying to avoid: earning a living, maintaining the house, being bored. Yet, I enjoy how I earn a living, enjoy living in this house and city, enjoy the routine—up to a point. The same piles of bills, unopened mail, solicitations, and requests stare at me. The same tasks demand completion such as signing up for an internet service (no internet last night, I’m blinded and made mute), dusting the many surfaces continually covered with dust (especially my altar), visiting family, and so forth. All part of my quotidian existence. To pull free from this, while honoring it, to maintain my focus on Israel-Palestine, while not being dominated by it are among the central tasks of my life.

I must not forget to write about the new set of photos I’m making, a variant of hip pocket photography that I’ve long practiced, but this time with the fast DX 50 mm  lens, the equivalent of an 85 mm lens. It frames close, it cuts off portions of faces and bodies, it accentuates certain features of clothing and the background, all new to me. It seems to be its own eye, with its own point of view, distinct from me but related. I am excited by what I’ve done so far and believe I might be onto a new style of photography, for me at least.

Photos

Whether to only minimally alter the photos—light and dark changes— or more massively alter—framing, focus, etc—I’m not sure. Whether to adhere to a strict discipline of this is how the lens saw it, or flex a little and inject myself more thru post production is a question.

K (without grand daughter E, which may have been wise, but I miss the little one) met me at the airport. A joy to see her, she is so exquisitely loving, as is Jo, as is Lynn, as are most of my family. She missed me, probably worried about me, and dutifully listened as I recounted a few tales to her, mostly about the Galilee and the Golan and the kibbutz movement as establishing facts on the ground, 3 of the most eye opening sections of the last 2 weeks of my trip. She also confided her nascent interest in meditation. I need something like that, dad, I am anxious. What do you suggest?

So I outlined some of my practice: 5-15 minutes daily, incorporating prayer and visualization, using the altar, a little each day goes a long way. I suggested she consult Y who is an expert in this, teaches it as well. I promised to find her a book and send her the article about effects of meditation.

And if I were to jump out of my flesh and look candidly at Skip Schiel, what would I find? A self satisfied fellow, aging gracefully, missing an active sex and love life, happy in his photographic pursuits, more and more the world traveler. Coming up with some interesting photos and writing (occasionally, but he could be more consistent), tho he should be more parsimonious in what he shares with others. He drives some crazy with his voluminous output.

And leaving Israel, how was that, did any of my worries about leaving manifest in actuality?

Worried I’d sleep thru the 3 AM alarm, I slept for 3 hours, 10 – 1, then awoke and lay abed worried about going back to sleep. So 1 hour later, pondering my worries, 2 AM, I rose, dressed, packed, and left the Austrian Hospice to enter the dark of the Old City. It was surprisingly active. A group of young people entering the Hospice who looked like they’d been aroamin all night, men setting up their shops, cleaning crews, taxi drivers—no dearth of people even at 3 AM on Sunday morning.

Having staged my baggage at the Jerusalem Hotel in East Jerusalem, I simply walked there, now worried about getting in. Sure enough, no one answered the bell for about 15 minutes. Resigned to waiting outside, not sure what to do if the taxi pulled up with my main luggage still inside the hotel, not sure what I’d do if I had to excrete my pent up food wastes, someone finally appeared at the gate, looking puzzled.

Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

Who are you, why are you here? he said, with a note of perturbation in his voice. Didn’t the woman at the desk during the day leave you a note? I said. No note. Can I come in for my luggage? Yes. Can I wait inside for the taxi? No.

Retrieving my luggage, the man intent on some paper behind the desk, I asked if I could leave something for Pauline on the hotel staff from a friend. I conspicuously mentioned, and it’s from the Quakers. People seem to know that term, rather than the AFSC or its longer version, American Friends Service Committee. Oh, Quakers, yes, I know them, you connected with them?

And he warmed, finally allowed me to wait by the restaurant indoors so I could more conveniently repack.

Taxi arrived, gradually filled with mostly Jews (I could tell—they spoke Hebrew or resided in West Jerusalem or wore orthodox clothing), maybe all Jews, I the only gentile, and then the 1 hour fast drive to the airport thru the night. Now only one more hurtle: security.

3 different men asked me the same set of questions, apparently curious or piqued by my presence in Gaza. What did you do in Gaza, why were you in Israel, where did you go, where did you stay, etc. I thought this might lead to more serious questioning but it didn’t. Finding some suspicious objects in my luggage during x-ray they insisted —politely, always politely and professionally, I’m impressed—I opened my luggage.

Are you carrying a scissors in your carry on? Oh yes, I forgot about that. And I moved it to checked luggage. And this lens, let’s have a look. She removed the telephoto lens and brought it somewhere for further scrutiny. Earlier I’d been asked I were carrying weapons. Who’d packed my luggage? Had I left it anywhere out of my sight? (I said nothing about the many days of storage of my ailing black hard plastic rolly luggage in the Palm, “a hot bed of terrorism,” and the Jerusalem Hotel, also suspicious since it’s in East Jerusalem.) And twice I heard them say to others and me, someone might have planted a bomb in your luggage. Which I suppose could be true.

That successfully completed, I had little to do in the 2.5 hours remaining but find a comfy chair, recline, sleep, nibble on my breakfast food, watch fellow travelers, and wait. Worries are over. I do not worry about plane crashes. Not much I can do about those (other than pray and chant).

The Tel Aviv airport is a model of efficiency and civility, oddly enough. Internet is free (a rarity these days in airports), water is a design theme (I ruined the photos because I’d forgotten to change from manual to auto focus), security personnel are all serious but not too, friendly to a point, suspicious but not overly so. (Had I been or appeared Muslim, or even had I been younger, my experience might have been radically different.) The eased security might reflect conditions there generally: the occupation is working and largely invisible.

Now about all I had to endure was the 5 hour flight to Paris, the 1 hour layover in Paris, the 7 hour flight across the Atlantic, having managed my 5 hour transit from fitful truncated sleep in the Hospice to boarding the plane. Total time: door to door was 19 hours.

On Air France the food was excellent, service magnificent, fellow passengers distant, flight relatively smooth, a few decent photos, mostly over the Pyrenees with some snow and then south of Paris, the rural area (wondering if I’d flown over ME’s home), and then capping all the photos, my own neighborhood, Boston harbor, Gloucester in the distance. Once again, as happens on each return, I am grateful for where I live, appreciate its natural beauty, its history, its karma. Grateful that I live here and nowhere else, that I am finally home.

Gloucester and Eastern Point, Massachusetts

September 15, 2009, Tuesday, Cambridge MA, back computer room

Dreaming has returned. Is this primarily because I’m reengaging the quotidian?

Here’s a sample of last night’s plentitudinous dreams:

With a group of about 10 young men we were dancing nude in front of an audience which included numerous women. I felt slightly embarrassed by my paunch but did my best to illustrate how an aging body can move gracefully. We were all oily, whether coated with oil or sweat isn’t now clear to me. I concocted a move of sliding along the wall.

I attended a large Jewish ceremony, arriving late, not sure what it was about. As I sat on one side, bowing with the Buddhist posture, not sure this was appropriate, a woman began leading the group in singing, one side at a time. I noted to someone I was standing with the side first to sing a section of the song, and we seemed weak compared with later subsections of the audience.

Paris

With a friend we were on our way to hear a lecture by Norbert Wiener [the inventer of cybernetics.] My friend told me that he’d died 2 years previously. The fact of his death did not seem to contradict his giving a lecture. To reach the hall we had to slide or leap down a steep muddy hill. Many college men were doing this as if it was easy and normal. I demurred, afraid I’d hurt myself and get my clothes muddy. Man after man plunged, I thought heedlessly, into this abyss. Not me. My partner did, I tried to find another way around to reach the hall, failing.

As I stood at the peak of the hill, puzzling what to do, a young man showed us how he prepared a fish for eating. He used a device that squeezed and cooked the fish simultaneously, he then ate the fish. I asked him, what kind of fish is that? Rather than, how does that device work?

Less than 24 hours after I’d returned home I decided to show last night [September 1, 2009] at the photography collective, White Light, parts of my new hip pocket portrait series using the 50/85 mm. It cuts off the scenes at surprising points, highlighting aspects of face, garment, background and lighting, in ways I’d never think of doing. It is wild mind photography, not using the viewfinder, while imagining what the lens might see. A combination of play and discipline.

This seemed to go over very well last night at White Light. To avoid the pitfalls of printing—and the inherent problems of showing prints on the small magnetic board with the single bright light that we use—I chose to project the images thru Light Room. And, thanks to the good system Freddie provides, they looked splendid—bright, sharp (when actually sharp, since I include some blurry ones as well), lively, colorful, distinctive.

I begin the series with more usual photos of the Old City skyline and the Garden Tomb and one suggestion of Golgotha, and conclude with the series of the family in the Sheik Jarrah neighborhood, evicted from their home by a dubious court decision and backed up by settler violence. About showing the toy gun there were multiple opinions, from don’t, it will be misleading and hard to explain, to don’t worry about it, people will understand it is a toy. Eric suggested painting the barrel tip red because, in the States at least, this is a sign of a toy.

France

A bonus of attending White Light was visiting with M, the short, intense, compassionate physician who works in an emergency room. I’ve always liked him, felt a special affinity between us. At the conclusion of the evening we sat together, he praising my photos, me inquiring about his photography (none recently), medical work and views about the medical industry. He was angry with another photographer at our session who’d “pushed buttons” by claiming those suffering in ER have brought it on themselves. M’s view is that we’re all in this together, that society plays a major role in determining who suffers and how. He also expressed upset at the industry, dominated by the entrepreneurial instinct. He told me, this all changed in the last 20 years while I was in medical school. I’d anticipated general practice, like the country doctor in Smith’s photo series, but when I graduated this was not economically feasible. Now medicine is specialty and production line.

I suggested that he and I both might suffer the consequences of witnessing the suffering of others, secondary trauma. He nodded agreement. How do you meet this? I inquired. I don’t really, except by attending groups like this. I spared him my outline of what I do, including the yoga and meditation I did this morning. And not confiding to him what may be my excessive concern with love.

My home is a mess, hopefully a creative mess. Little by little—and especially because Jan H is due here tomorrow for dinner and I wish to make a profound impression—I’m cleaning up and out. This morning I wash dishes.

The days have been warm in the sun, cool in the evening and morning. Pristine and classic autumnal New England, my favorite time of year. To celebrate I bought a bag of Macintosh apples, my first of the season, fried pancakes this morning using the last of my natural maple syrup, cooked beans and rice yesterday too late to eat so that will be tonight’s special treat.

I’ve finally visited the Garden Tomb—on one of my last days in Jerusalem. This was a significant find. I’d known about it for years, as an alternative burial site for Jesus, as postulated by some Protestant groups (Church of the Holy Sepulcher is dominated by Latin and Eastern Christianity). Contrasting sharply with the burliness of the big church, this is in a garden setting with fewer people, some guides, a tranquility and peacefulness pervading the atmosphere. Feels more tomb and Christ like.

A Brit, a believer, was guiding a group that I attached myself to, and when the tour ended, telling him how excellent I thought his presentation was, I asked some specific questions that he answered by bringing me to different sites. Including the supposed Golgotha hill, place of the skull. Indeed, the two small caves look like eyes, the mouth is now buried by city debris. The site is at the back of the bus station, littered with mounds of human poop. I peed here once when I couldn’t find a toilet. I include photos from this site in the opening of my new slide show about the Old City.

Along the Maine Coast

LINKS:

Israeli forces evict the Hanoun and al-Gawi families from their Sheikh Jarrah homes

Police dismantle Sheikh Jarrah protest tent in east Jerusalem

Airport Security Travelers Rights

Garden Tomb

The rising of the light: between Ramallah and Jerusalem—Palestine & Israel

On the way to Ramallah

New light rail system between West & East Jerusalem, built thru Palestinian regions without permission

Near Kalandia checkpoint between Ramallah & Jerusalem

Kalandia closed

Excerpts from my journal during a three month summer journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles—written while in Palestine & Israel, posted while in the United States touring the south with new photographs and stories (itinerary)

Photos

Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

September 10, 2009, Thursday, ISM office, outside on the patio:

No surprise that I’d eventually dream about blogging and journaling. I was giving a lecture to a group of about 20 young adults. The topic was writing generally, mine in particular, and more specifically how I journaled and blogged from the journal. I was laying out all the issues I face, such as not harming or embarrassing others or myself, how honest to be and when. I was animated, I was lucid, I was at the top of my form and my audience was attentive.

Lion’s Square, Ramallah

I am presently [September 10, 2009] residing in Ramallah at the International Solidarity Movement media office, sleeping on a couch in the mid room, alone at first. So I enjoyed the privacy of the space until: about 1:20 am. Someone rang the bell, someone banged on the door, Was this the Israeli army about to arrest all residents of the ISM media office? I called out, who is it? Snuffing my impulse to say, who the fuck do you think you are coming around here at this hour?

It’s Sasha, sorry, I didn’t realize I’d be coming back tonight. She’d called earlier to ask who was staying overnight, said nothing about returning. She came in, loudly, 2 others I think came with her. They banged around, turned on and off lights, luckily I’d chosen a sleep place away from where they were setting up in the computer room and the other sleeping room. Oddly enough, I was not tremendously disturbed by this racket, just ignored it and fell back to sleep…

From East Jerusalem to Ramallah via the usual no. 18 bus, meeting a very beautiful in many ways young woman who chose to sit next to me. Misa, pronounced mi-sa with a long I and soft a, as if mice-a, is from Jerusalem, studying English literature at Birzeit University. I’d noticed the book she was reading, Hamlet in English. Commented and that began our conversation. She excitedly told me about a research paper she’d written analyzing western media’s accounts of Israel-Palestine, shocked to learn of the discrepancy in attention to the several points of view, i.e., dominated by Israeli positions. She sent the paper to her many western friends who in turn circulated it. I was never too interested in politics until I wrote that paper, she confided to me, but now I’m very attentive.

I encouraged her to continue her studies, remain in Palestine, and stay tuned to the issues. Assuming my now customary role as mentor I validated her intelligence and commitment. I find this easier and easier to do now, knowing the words, knowing the timing. This is a role I gladly assume. So many have done it for me.

Leaving the bus she waited for me with all my gear, offering, can I bring you anywhere?

She’d also told me that until she entered the university she’d never been in Ramallah. When I first came here it was a different world to me, I had no idea of life in Ramallah even tho I’m Palestinian and grew up less than 15 miles away.

She also told me that during the Gaza assault in December and January she wanted to go there, knew this was impossible, then decided to give blood. But the attendants wouldn’t accept her after they tested her blood. You’re not healthy enough. And indeed, physically she is a slight person, so tiny and thin, a wisp.

… a brief hello to Diana [principal of the lower Ramallah Friends School] who, like Salim and a few others, asked about Gaza.

Ramallah Friends School, elementary school campus

I usually respond with despair is deep, fear also. The feeling that one cannot be truly happy, and the fear that either the Israelis will attack again or Hamas will fight other groups within Gaza. Plus the generally tough conditions due to the siege, especially the effect on Ramadan—little money to buy gifts and food that are usually part of the celebrating.

Once again, each time someone mentions Gaza I am brought sharply up against the vast contrast between Gaza and most of the rest of the world. Even here in Ramallah, known as the best of the worst, there is a form of normality. Shops open and seemingly thriving, people looking relatively happy and content in the streets, building construction, a semblance of order at the intersections and elsewhere (Escander the barber complained to me that the city is requiring a fee to exhibit jewelry outside his shop), and some increased mobility around the West Bank. However, Palestinians are still occupied. They are a people without a state. They have limited freedom. The threat now is that they will ignore that fundamental fact and continue simply existing under occupation, without resistance…

September 11, 2009, Friday, ISM office, outside on the patio:

Last day in the occupied territories, unless we count East Jerusalem as part of that sad region. Most all end game details completed, now the shift to Jerusalem and the Austrian Hospice for the final 2 days.

I dreamt that I was making a movie-still photo presentation. I had some family members posing for me (as usual in my dreams, people are often characters in my life but not resembling the real people, only their social form). I set up a camera and explained, this will begin as a still photo (or movie, I forget the sequence) and then become a movie (or a still photo set). I had to carefully frame the shot so movie and still would match. The camera was on a cheap rickety tripod, making focusing and framing hard. As I explained the transition between still and moving I realized to myself I had no idea where the rest of the sequence would go, what the point was, an all too often dilemma for me in my days of film. And even now: shooting in the dark.

AR wrote warm words to my blog about my last sequence of photos which I’ll include:

How do you DO it, Skip.  Your photos are full of surprises.  Like little gift packages with unexpected, unexpectable little presents,

– like the row of blue-garbed watchers in the Druze village, the wire fence there, the three silhouetted characters interacting.  A moment in time.

And what a waterfall shot — slender blue ribbon, golden and gray cliffs.

The deserted Arab house, doorway opening into doorway into light beyond.

Great splashing river shot — the Banias rapids.

The mysterious cliff carvings and cave of Pan.

And that deserted room with the oval image of light on the graffiti covered wall with the round void above crisscrossed by wire mesh.

The distant windmills, the rusty tank, the warning signs by the dangerous mines.

Such gifts are these.

Always, always, words like these implying deep viewing and thinking hearten me greatly. They counterbalance the fact that not too many on my list of 100 or so actually look at the photos or read the blogs. A few like M will be honest about not reading or viewing. The big blow comes when someone writes to be removed from the list. I never know the reason—blogs too long or photos too many, too rambly, too much about my shits and dreams, too worrisome and troubling, badly written, poorly seen, too shallow…who knows? As with attrition in my teaching, I have to understand this is part of the process and doesn’t necessarily indicate I’m a failure.

Last night as I was settling in to some more computer work, finishing most of what I’d set out to do—another subsite, Galilee to the Golan, with accompanying blog—the office phone rang, Neta. She was inviting anyone here in the office to join her and kids at Baladna ice cream shop for treats. Gladly since we’d not met yet on this trip.

There I met Iyad Bornat, one of the key organizers of the Bil’in popular committee orchestrating non-violent demos for some 4 years against the wall’s incursion into their lands. I’ve been reading his weekly email reports and now to be with him and others, mostly Palestinians, was a delight and honor, way more than I’d expected when Neta invited me. He stressed the importance of media, of designing new themes each week to keep the media attentive. When I asked him why stopping the youth from throwing rocks was so difficult, he answered, we try, but when a boy is shot at by a soldier the boy is angry and responds in the only way he knows, with violence.

They are planning a major event at the end of Ramadan, a secret, he told us. We only say to the media, come on this day, something very important will happen. We are tired now during Ramadan, and so our energies are not fully active. (Which reminds me that when in Gaza hearing some residents speculate that Israel would attack during Ramadan, this gains credence when realizing the Gazan defenders would not be fully functioning during Ramadan, and thus, the region might be more susceptible to attack.)…

I wrote a letter to Wafa’a [who I’d met in Gaza at Popeye’s internet café, the only woman I ever saw there, and who invited me to visit her in her home in Khan Yunis, and later phoned me crestfallen that I’d not visited], attaching 3 photos. I’m still not sure what motivates her interest in me. I wrote:

i owe you a big apology. you were so kind to invite me to visit your home and i never came. i will try to explain. first i had no idea who you were and wanted to check with amal and ibrahem. they said you are great. then i was busy, and then the fighting broke out between hamas and that radical group. amal thought i should not travel very far alone. i tried to find someone from the office to go with me to your home, maybe mosab who i think you know, but we never could arrange it.

so i did not come. and i know i missed a terrific opportunity to get to know you better.

if you like writing in english i am happy to be your pen pal. i write all the time and enjoy all sorts of correspondence. unfortunately i can not write or speak much arabic.

i am attaching 3 of my photos from Gaza. i hope they please you. i hope they might persuade you to forgive me.

you are a good and strong person and deserve a better life. i believe you will make a good journalist. let us pray for that. i promise that the next time i visit Gaza i will visit you, if you wish.

fondly and happy ramadan, your american friend,

I strolled thru the jammed streets of Ramallah last night to join with revelers. This season, Ramadan, might be compared with the western world’s Christmas. Lots of gifts, lots of joy, especially after Iftar [the daily meal that breaks the daily fast].

The slow pace allowed me the repose needed to compose the latest subsite and blog. I find this an excellent way to digest my recent experience, make sure it’s stored and not stealable, and that others can experience it if they wish. Perhaps I’ll have time to make one more entry before leaving for the states…

September 12, 2009, Saturday, Jerusalem’s Old City, Austrian Hospice, outside in a garden:

The last full day of this trip [September 12, 2009], and what more appropriate place for it than Jerusalem, the city of love, the city of strife. As the sounds of early morning old city emerge—tractors, quiet talking, fans and other machines humming, earlier the muezzin—I write, wondering what I’ve done and why.

Two dreams I can recall: I was caring for an infant, like the young Ella. She’d sleep, wake, cry, sleep, wake, cry, etc. I was in charge while consulting with her mother—who must have been my wife but resembled no wife or partner I’ve had. We were to go fishing, eat fish, and this seemed to settle her somewhat.

In the 2nd, clearer, I was walking with Y, a clearly personified Y, when we noticed Jim Harney walking in the distance alone. He was returning from a teaching job. He wore no shoes, and might have wished to walk alone. We knew he was in the end stages of his cancer and thought this solo walking might have been part of his way to deal with that tragedy. He looked to be suffering. Hesitantly we came up to him, greeted him, and asked if he’d like us to accompany him the rest of the way home. He joked, must be munching time, meaning lunching time. He’d been fasting.

Confused, I asked Y what she thought we should do. She said firmly; let’s walk with him.

Kalandia checkpoint

… I packed up in Ramallah, set out for what I thought would be an uneventful trip into the big city. Not to be. It was Friday, I expected little activity along the road. Riding in a shared taxi with 6 others, me with my heavy backpack loaded with the computer and some camera equipment, my shoulder bag with its heavy Nikon and wide angle lens, plus two plastic bags of food and gear that wouldn’t fit in the first two bags (I don’t think the regular no. 18 bus was running because of holy day) as we neared Kalandia checkpoint the traffic grew thicker: buses, serveeces, taxis, private cars, all parked along the road. Then I saw: a huge crowd of people slowly congregating in front of the checkpoint. Now what?

Closed. As usual on Fridays the Israelis were prohibiting worshippers from entering Jerusalem to pray at the Al Aqsa mosque. Like many, perhaps without the religious investment, I grew despondent. How long would we be stuck here? Should I return to Ramallah and wait it out, till after prayer time around noon? Or find a quiet shady place to read? Well, I could photograph, start there. So I wandered around with my 4 pieces of luggage trying to make decent photos while considering how I might get thru. Two tracks of thinking simultaneously: my craft and sullen art of photography, practice it well, now’s the opportunity; and my own survival and agenda. I had no schedule so I was not overly worried.

A young woman asked me, can you speak English? Thinking she might expect me to explain what was going on. Yes. Well, you shouldn’t be here with all the women, men stand over there. And she pointed out where I’d just been standing, where the soldier had told me that if I went to the other side, where the women happened to be standing, I’d find a way in.

I noticed security personnel without the usual military or border patrol uniforms were speaking with the crowd, and occasionally lifting someone over the barricade, children, elderlies. Maybe they’d do this for me if I could somehow reach them. But how, the crowd was thick?

The crowd was also unusually patient. No shouting, little visible anger, mostly deep frustration.

Could this become a riot? What if someone threw a chair at a soldier, how would the military respond? There were hundreds of security people, some perched on concrete barricades, others grouped ominously. Some spoke civilly with people, even when one woman tried to breach the barrier and was pushed back.

Lots of photos, for this I’m grateful but I still don’t know if I can pass or must wait. And what is the Israeli rationale for preventing passage? What about others coming from other regions of the West Bank? Are they also blocked?

Different information: the officer that told me the gate was on the women’s side, the right. Those going thru on the left, the men’s side, were humanitarian cases, he explained. Media seemed to have some flexibility, inside and outside the perimeters. Someone told me if I just walked along the road to the left I’d find a way thru. And finally, speaking with a friendly Palestinian traffic officer—with a nearly impossible job since people and vehicles mixed freely—I learned that the vehicles we saw slowly inching forward could get thru, not thru Kalandia but on some other route. Maybe, I suggested to him, I could ride with someone. Not a bad idea, he responded. The first driver, in a car with white diplomat plates, shook his head no. Most cars were already full. Then, after about 5 tries (persistence pays off, sumud): eureka, someone with space and willingness to take me. A woman crawled in as well and off we went.

On a route I wasn’t familiar with we passed one checkpoint without being stopped, then, nearing Jerusalem, another where a soldier examined our papers, asked to see my visa, and let us thru. In. Ramallah to Jerusalem required about 3 hours.

The man, my benefactor, living near a-Ram, with a t-shirt shop in the Jewish quarter, usually needs about 20 minutes for this ride. Expressing wonderment he said, I’m not sure why they (the worshippers) do this every Friday, they know they aren’t allowed in but they come to Kalandia anyway.

He dropped the woman off at the entrance of the underground parking garage, and invited me to see his shop near the Jaffa Gate. I was headed for the Hospice but since I had time and felt I owed him as much friendliness as I could muster, I said OK. When I mentioned needing a post office he said, I know one in the Jewish quarter that is never crowded. You can wait hours in the main post office, trust me. His store has a variety of mostly silly t-shirts and baseball caps, the best were the ones with crude sex jokes, like the one about poor Mr. Dick leading a hard life: a head that can’t think, hanging out with two nuts, etc. This raw humor appeals to me. Also, inadvertent humor when I discovered an Aussie style hat in camouflage with the words, Israeli army, and thought, what if I came home with one of these?

He was instantaneously busy with numerous potential customers. He was affable, helpful, not pushy, fluent in Arabic, Hebrew and English. Too bad, I thought, that his many talents are devoted to selling such memorabilia. He preferred that I not photograph him but I made a few of the store. And then departed, with instructions to the post office.

This brought me to the Jewish quarter and sections I’d never seen before. Mailing the last of my backed up files on DVDs, feeling safer than on any previous trip, I dropped my gear at the Hospice, signed in, and set off for more exploration…

The Old City streets swarmed with people, mostly worshippers, tourists and workers. The worshippers were either Muslims on their way to or from the Al Aqsa mosque—I was caught in their traffic twice—or Jews going to Shabbat services on Friday evening. The two holy periods coincided: mosque around 1 pm, Shabbat around 7. Today is off day for Jews, on day for Muslims. Tomorrow is off day for Christians.

Old City of Jerusalem, Friday afternoon

I grew weary of the crowds, the press, the noise, the excitement, and needed refuge. Thank god the Austrian Hospice provides that. Prominent but hidden away, with 4 floors of private rooms and dorms, plus common spaces like the café and gardens, I hear much German spoken here. The age mix is fairly large, compared with the Palm, young to old, few backpackers in the crowd. At 18 euros or 35$ or 140 shekels, compared with 50 shekels for the Palm, it is roughly 3 times more expensive. But I needed it…

LINKS:

“Imagining Israel-Palestine Peace: Why International Law Matters with Professor Richard Falk”

“U.S. Rejects U.N. Proposal to Compel War Crimes Probes of Gaza Conflict”

International Solidarity Movement

“Bilin continues its battle in the courts”

The rising of the light: Jericho to Jerusalem—Palestine & Israel

Jericho

West Jerusalem

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

September 9, 2009, Tuesday, Wednesday, East Jerusalem, New Palm Hostel, common room

One dream as if behind a veil, very pleasant: a woman I didn’t know and I decided to find a place and a way to kiss. I had to stand on something like a stool to reach her. We succeeded, it was grand, I was happy. Who was she?

From Jericho to Jerusalem, a short distance geographically, an immense distance socially and culturally, also climatically and politically. I’m sure I was the only one in the Jericho hostel so it was as if I had nearly an entire house to myself. The manager slept in a small room off the main room on the ground floor. He awoke when I left. He did not look happy, I never saw him smile (I learned the day before that he lost his thumb while butchering.). It was about 9 AM, Palestine time, 10 AM Israeli time—the difference because each entity chooses a different date on which to begin wintertime. Time to explore the city by car and head for Tel Al Sultan, the oldest part of Jericho, ride the cable car, maybe eat that grand feast of a buffet promised by the owner of the tourist center next to the Tel.

Not sure where I was when driving thru Jericho, a common condition, I saw a group of Japanese tourists (they use umbrellas for the sun so they’re either Japanese, Chinese or Korean) emerging from a building, thought, this must be something worth seeing, stopped, parked, inquired when I saw gushing water in pools, is this Elijah’s Spring? It is. Want to see the spring? the attendant asked. How much? 20 shekels ($5). No thanks. And I settled for an outdoor exploration of the springs and pools—the main spring must have been inside the building. But what is a spring to photograph? Not usually of much note.

The water had been channeled into 1/2 m wide streams, winding around, with some pools, not nearly as elegant as the Banias springs compound. This was interlaced with pipes and valves and construction materials and debris, not a pretty site, but important. This is the reason the city founders chose this location: in the midst of what seems nearly a desert, less than 2 km from the Dead Sea, one of the lowest points on earth (260 meters below sea level I believe), this became a city. A city? How large? Not sure. Not a city in the contemporary sense, but a stable habitation site. Water set the stage. And now I repeated a discovery that someone had made more than 10,000 yrs ago.

Elisha’s Spring (in the building to the right)

Another lucky find (after I’d gone inside another building to photograph a maze of pipes, valves and husky sounding pumps, governing the water supply of this entire region, including the multifaceted agriculture which thrives here) was the technician measuring chlorine content of the processed spring water. I conclude that altho we call this spring water it is not pure in its original state, it needs disinfection. As the technician (in training in Ramallah, he was proud to point out) explained, too much chlorine can also be harmful. After all, it is a poison.

Then the cable car, something I’ve longed to try ever since knowing about it when here with the delegation in 2003. 55 shekels wait about 15 minutes at the base for the damned thing to move—not many riders today, Ramadan, as someone explained—and up up up, offering terrific views of the area. But thru distorting plastic so I’m not sure how good these photos will look. Not exactly the top of the Mt of Temptation (another earth feature for the story of Jesus: 40 days somewhere near here, reportedly, resisting the advances of the evil one. Was Jesus on top of a mountain, down a slope, did he fast from water and food, how were the nights, what season was this, cold, hot, rainy? More questions that the bible is not helpful for.), but near enough, maybe 2/3 the way, the Greek Orthodox monastery nearby, another steep walk, but not for me. Hot up here and a piercing unrelenting sun. I’ll show the monastery thru my heavy telephoto lens—let my lens do the walking.

Qarantal, the Greek Orthodox monastery on the Mt of Temptation

The attendant at this terminus was elderly, alone, and welcomed me with some questions in faulty English, and then he offered me a small plastic container of cold water and later a single date. He confirmed that crowds flock here during much of the year, but not during Ramadan. I feel for him, just sitting all day alone, not much to do, watching people, if there are people. Maybe thinking about the region’s history, his small role in it.

Roman aqueduct

Enough here, ride down, more photos showing the Tel, the hills, fields, houses, and way off in the hazy distance, the Jordan River and valley, barely discernable.

The way out from the lower cable car station requires transit thru a mélange of gift shops. Tricky and unfair. I’m not happy with this routing. A few idle bored shopkeepers—gatekeepers—implored me to buy their glass, their olive wood, their this and their that. But I persisted, bulling my way thru the stacks and shelves and piles, to me what is mostly junk, yet to some others, treasures, and to these mostly men their livelihood. How can I be so crass?

The ancient city is beside the cable car base, relatively small, mostly hills of sand and clay, but buried within and gradually being excavated lies the first continuously inhabited city of the world, 10,000 yrs, Jericho, The City of the Moon. Why this is called Tel Al Sultan escapes me. I love sites like these: the remains of people, loves suffered, lives lost, battles fought, children raised, ceremonies enacted, myths constructed and denied, stories lived and then forgotten, buried in the blowing sands, stones, hunks of clay. Unfortunately, as with Elijah’s Spring, there is not much to see, thus not much to show photographically.

Tel El Sultan (old Jericho)

I struggled, poised between imagination and reality, the imagined life here, what this was and is and means, and the reality of sand and clay in mounds with occasional dug out sections, and lots of explanatory panels. Even peering at the panels, trying to make sense of the layers of civilization, all colored in for quick visualization, I was lost. Early Middle Bronze, to Late Middle Bronze, over Iron Age, etc. Didn’t mean much to me without careful study—which in the heat and press of time I was not willing to do. For the photos maybe the light will help, with its dramatic shadows. I look forward to grappling with this problem in postproduction, an inherent weakness of photography: unable to show what once was.

Finally the main restaurant and tourist center where I’d been the night before. Too late to hook into their wifi system, I need to return this rented car and drop off my heavy black hard plastic ailing wheeled luggage. But I’ll stop in to refill my water bottle and brush my teeth (the night before I’d left my toiletry bag in the car, too lazy to retrieve it when I realized my loss, and not wishing to plow thru the gobs of children outside in the cool evening of Ramadan). Asking where I might refill with safe drinking water (even tho I’d seen a young man filling his bottle from a fountain in the parking lot, presumably supplying spring water, I’m suspicious of any uncertified water) a man directed me to a small kiosk inside the main center. Greeted by a smiling gent named Elias, he filled my bottle, and asked me the inevitable question, where are you from?

Telling him, he then launched into a sad and sweet story of having a sweetheart in New York City who is a lawyer and wishes to marry him if they can find a way for him to leave Jericho. They met here at this emporium. His hopes are vast, his chances of emigration probably minimal. The story remains sad and sweet.

He might have noticed how resonant I was with this tale of love. He gave me a free glass of lemonade.

I’m ready to leave Jericho, content with myself for persisting this long on my 2-week journey tracing water. Jericho might make a fitting conclusion to a new show. Altho, to be complete—this might be for my next visit—I should continue the sojourn to the Dead Sea and into the Negev, all the way to Eliat and the Red Sea. What a journey. I wonder if anyone has accomplished this.

Uphill to Jerusalem. Stopping periodically to photograph the limestone hills and then the cut olive groves. Who did this and why? Settlers, the state, the Palestinians themselves? The long winding road home. What is home? The Palm Hostel? East Jerusalem? Ramallah? Cambridge? Driving thru Jerusalem was a problem. I had to thread my way thru torturous traffic. Jerusalem is easily the most complicated city to drive in I’ve yet experienced.

Destroyed olive grove

Alongside the Jericho road to Jerusalem

Not established during the automobile craze, or anticipating ever being a large city, and affected deeply by the topography, Jerusalem is not made for autos. Entering was easy enough, well-signed, clear exits, into the central city. And then what? First the Palm in East Jerusalem, just head for Damascus Gate. And surprisingly I found a parking spot  outside the hostel so I could unload my luggage for temporary storage. And then…oh my god, oh sweet Jesus, please direct me thru these winding, unmarked, jammed, narrow streets. Back and forth. Trying to pull off the road for a few moments of relaxed map reading, I found myself in a forbidden area—the American Consulate and a staff member warning me away. Then the mis-directions, one man telling me I was almost at King David Street (my target for Avis) but turn right. I did and found myself on Agron Street, not King David. Did I mishear or was he confused?

After about 30 minutes of this nerve wrenching, confusing travel I found Avis. They thought I could escape paying my parking ticket (which I seem to have lost anyway). The government will just send a bill to your home address. In the USA? Yes, they said, winking. Which I take to mean, how can they collect? So I’ve enacted a personal sanction on Israel, denying them 100 shekels, which is not theirs rightfully since I am a dumb tourist and didn’t know the rules (explained in Hebrew).

Unload my gear and lug it back to the Palm thru the streets of downtown West Jerusalem. Not a bad route because first I passed several huge building projects, several on the remains of old Arab buildings, and then the light rail tracks running right past Jaffa Gate. I hadn’t realized this would be the route, or that I’d be so close (I also photographed driving in, trying to navigate, steer, watch for signs of the railroad, and photograph, all at once—a wonder I didn’t crash.). So all was well, all was well. As I’d prayed it would be. So far.

Light rail system thru West & East Jerusalem

Mitigating my anguish: the cool air. At last, a respite from the heat I’ve been experiencing nearly continuously since entering Gaza more than 6 weeks ago—and before that, when I entered the region nearly 3 months earlier. Cool and breezy, another full moon romantic evening. Wish you were here with me, Y, X, ME, B, KA, M, L1, R, and numerous others, one at a time.

At the Palm Hostel I met Hisham, by now an old friend and colleague, looking his usual sickly self. Poor guy, a heart attack apparently when younger, impeding his mobility and language. He’s planning to travel to Ramallah today and I might go with him to ISM. While we chatted my phone rang: a woman who announced herself as the one I’d met in a restaurant in Gaza. At first I thought this was Assa, YB’s friend, but this woman’s English was rougher than Assa’s. And then I realized, W, from Popeye, the strong divorced needy woman, about the only woman I ever saw in the male only Popeye Internet cafe. She’d invited me to visit her in her home in Khan Yunis, I’d been suspicious, checked her out thru Amal, caused a stir in the office when they heard this story not from me, and then, intending to visit her with another of my friends, the battle between Hamas and a rival happened and independent travel became difficult.

I should write her all this, and send here a photo as a gift. I feel very bad now that I’d not visited her, or even called her to say goodbye. So how can I make it up to her? When I told her where I was she sounded envious. She is trapped in Gaza, can hardly get to Egypt; Jerusalem would be, at this moment, impossible. Oh, the trauma, the heartbreak, the pain.

ME has sent me 3 articles in the past few weeks, most unusual for her, while avoiding writing much about where and how she is. An article in French about a woman giving cameras to women in poverty in the States. A set of photos unrelated to this article with her top choices. And then a few days ago, a report about the physical and psychological effects of meditation. I had the first article translated by an automatic online device and was able to understand most of it. I replied mentioning Shooting Back which is a similar project, both Shooting Back in the States and in Palestine, same name, separate, similar idea. I’d earlier written her about the photos expressing my preferences. And now the meditation article that I forwarded to meditators in my circle like Elaine and Louise.

E from Israel has commented several times about my references to my “lady friends.” And wrote yesterday that she and her husband periodically fall in love with others and usually confide this new development to their spouse. Or if they try to keep it secret, the new love feeling is apparent. Ah ha, I replied, maybe had I known this when married or partnered those relationships might have survived. In other words, building in some stretching room.

The New Palm. Now I think I realize why they’ve renamed it the New Palm: it has a new hotel adjacent to the old hostel. I will skip over the details of arriving here and the rudeness I’ve encountered, only mention meeting Hisham, and the good Internet access thru wifi they offer. Free, fast, sturdy, reliable. About the first in my last 2 weeks. Last night, once I thought Ramadan eating time had arrived—I usually listen for the muezzin but didn’t hear him last night—I found the streets and Old City thronged with merry makers, lights, food. The nearby restaurant I usually patronize had moved much of its operation outdoors. Chicken and rice with soup, no bread or salad, 30 shekels, compared with 50 at the Jericho tourist center. I ate sitting on a stoop outside, watching people, no room at tables. A walk thru the Old City, stopping at the Damascus gate to photograph the lights and crowd, and then asking at the Austrian Hospice where I have a 2 night reservation later in the dorm if I could view the dorm. No, people live there, a lame excuse. But yes, wireless.

Damascus Gate, Old City Jerusalem, during Ramadan

To bed, to bed, earlier than usual, I was tired last night. Maybe relieved of hidden worries from the car trip. In a stuffy dirty dorm room shared with, it turned out, I didn’t know at first, 2 other men. Slept well enough, and now writing and about to do email and wait for Hisham for our trip to Ramallah.

LINKS:

Elisha’s Spring (historic photos and writing)

Jericho

“Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize,” by Glenn Greenwald, October 9, 2009

“Why does Obama get a prize whilst Bush gets shoes,” by Friends of Freedom & Justice—Bil’in

“Israel won, but could have gone deeper,” by Haviv Rettig Gur, January 20, 2009, about the assault on Gaza in December and January 2009

The rising of the light: The Galilee to the lower Jordan River valley

Tsfat, Israel

Jordan River valley, West Bank, Palestine

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

September 8, 2009, Tuesday, Jericho, Sami Guest House, my room

Tsfat

Last night I met Ike, the former president, in a dream. He was elderly but virile, strong, handsome, forthright. He told me a story that occasionally was interrupted by people walking thru and making comments. Nobody but me noticed who he was. He and I were also working on something, like clearing out a garden. I wanted to tell him I’d just met or dreamt about FDR, who like him seemed to be well preserved.

In another dream I rode a train to Michigan, an unusual sort of train with doors and windows that opened simultaneously. Many passengers got off at a certain station in Michigan, maybe Ann Arbor—no sign of Ann Arbor Anne.

And in the climactic dream it was winter, I was outside photographing with others. Water was the theme. I grumbled about how difficult wearing heavy clothes made photographing. Nearby two thin plastic strands descended from high above, and on each strand men dangled. They were like window cleaners but there was no building with windows to be cleaned. While photographing I noticed that my lens, the normal, had clouded up. I couldn’t clean it. This frustrated me and I thought it would ruin any photos I’d make.

Roman ampitheater, Beit Shean

Before I left the Beit Shean guesthouse and after I’d exploited the renewed and solid internet connection thru the café—I could have sat there all day doing my web work—I re-explored the Roman ruins, going into rooms, sitting on benches, noticing how different the light was from the evening before. I drove into the second Roman ruins site, the national park, but decided I’d had enough of this topic.

From my window, Beit Shean

“Down in the valley” for sure. From Beit Shean to Jericho means tracing more of the vanishing Jordan River: wadis that might carry water in a good wet season to the Jordan but now look eternally dry, pipes and pools whose missions are a mystery to me, extensive fields heavily irrigated, rolling dry hills, and hot air, not as humid as I’d expected.

The scene reminds me of several places in the United States I’ve visited: South Dakota and especially the Bad Lands. Lands in this region, in places, are truly bad, in the sense of barren and tortured. I hope a few of my photos show this. Also California, those heaving brown hills near the San Francisco Bay area. And maybe Wyoming with the abandoned buildings, endless roads, hills and valleys. A ghost town-like appearance.

Valley

Fences. Large long winding fences, some marked “electrical fence” which means motion detecting, not electrified. Sometimes 2 sets of fences. What is inside? Probably lands confiscated from Palestinians by Israeli Jews. I tried entering the settlements in this region which are fenced and gated, but decided not even to ask. One route to a bridge (as shown on the map, maybe not in reality) was also behind a fence. So my contact with the river, if there was a river to be contacted, was zero.

Gate to former river/border crossing, Jordan River valley

I’d seen this region in 2003, from the air as I flew home from my first foray into this topic. And then a second time with the Steps of the Magi alternative tour, busing thru here to Jerusalem. But this time was as if the first time because I could stop at my leisure to explore more fully.

I’ve mentioned that this travel mode reminds me of other trips, I’ll list some: South Africa with Y and South Africa with Tom when we rented cars; New Orleans to Chicago during my off period from the Middle Passage Pilgrimage when I drove the pagoda car along the Mississippi River to explore that region in the winter of 1998; the Great Plains excursion of 1982 when I used the family car to penetrate the mid land thought to be too flat for photography and I discovered more of the history of our continent—American Indians and a new theme for my work; and several trips I made in my pickup truck, Cimarron, especially west to Colorado in the summer of 1961 or 62. That trip was probably the first of this series of car explorations to photograph. I’ve had 40 plus years to develop my methodology.

Finally arriving in Jericho, after wondering where I’d land for the day, I quickly found housing at the Sami Youth Hostel. Luckily it was heavily advertised along the entrance road, clearly marked so I could find it. When I first saw a sign I stopped to phone, making sure it existed—a “youth hostel” in Jericho?—and then the price and finally the location.

I seem to the only resident. I asked, when is your busy season? not wanting to embarrass the young man with the husky voice who seemed to be the manager. It’s Ramadan, he explained, and everyone stays at home. Which doesn’t explain why others like myself not observing Ramadan might not be here. I think summer heat is the answer. This place might be stuffed with residents in the winter when people flock to Jericho for its warm winter weather. The room is air conditioned, the electricity so far has not gone off, I avoid mid day heat outside—altho I tried a walk yesterday around 4 pm just to be outside and sample the weather, I retreated to the room after an hour’s walking—and all this for a mere 100 shekels (mere compared with the prices of some previous overnight spots).

Jericho sprawls. And entrances are often blocked by Israel. The ditches remain, those ditches that I first encountered in 2003 when our delegation attempted passages thru the 2 checkpoints, denied at both. So we parked our bus behind palm trees and scurried across the ditches to meet a representative of the PLO. On this attempt to enter Jericho the first road I tried in the north of town, clearly marked Jericho, had a roadblock. The second brought me to a checkpoint and the soldier wouldn’t allow entrance, even after I flashed my USA passport. Noticing a busload of Palestinians behind me heading for the same checkpoint I assume this is passage for residents of Jericho. He directed me, right and right and right again. And this finally brought me to an entry road, the main road, with one Palestinian waving me thru, greeting me with welcome to Jericho. Driving past the International Hotel where the Palestinian section of the Steps of the Magi walk began in 2004, I swiftly found the Sami Guesthouse.

Israeli settlement/colony, West Bank, Jordan River valley

The new reality of Palestine slowly seeped into me as I drove south. First a checkpoint just south of Beit Shean, not stopped, reminded me that I was leaving Israel for the West Bank, nominally the West Bank, nominally Palestine. However, the abundance of settlements suggests something else—more infiltration of Jewish Israelis, more land theft, and this among the most arable lands in the region. Huge groves of date palms and banana trees, other fruit and olive trees, cultivated fields with brown slash on them, pipes, valves, and ponds, all this suggests Jews are here to stay. Because of the relative inaccessibility of this part of the West Bank I believe few visitors ever see it, and thus are not aware of another manifestation of the settlement movement.

We could classify the settlements into at least 4 categories: the best known settlements of the West Bank mountain spine from Jenin to Hebron, East Jerusalem and its “neighborhoods” like French Hill that do not resemble conventional settlements, the kibbutzim in the Galilee and Golan that I’ve recently visited, and now the settlements, colonies, illegally stolen lands of the river valley. There may be other types as well, related to Bedouins and the Negev, but I have no experience with these.

My final days’ plan is finally taking clearer shape. I’ve decided not to visit Ofer and his wife who live in or near Modi’in, meeting him thru Couch Surfers, because I realized yesterday when studying the map that he is on the other side of Jerusalem, requiring a long drive. So tonight I will reside in the Palm Hostel in East Jerusalem, one of my favorite spots for sleeping. Before that I’ll drop off the car in Wes Jerusalem at Avis office (braving Jerusalem traffic and drivers). After first leaving my large heavy black plastic hard cased ailing wheeled luggage at the Palm. Then to Ramallah for 2 days at the ISM media office, backing up files, getting my hair cut, paying for the final month of rent at the school, picking up my stored stuff from the school, saying byes, etc. And finally the old city of Jerusalem, residing at the Austrian Hospice for my final 2 days, departing early for the airport on Sunday. All god willing, inshallah.

~~Good news from my gut. The first solid output in about 4 days. My stomach feels relatively normal. I’m eating freely again.~~

Jereicho checkpoint (Palestinian)

Returning to the theme of Palestinian reality, first the checkpoint, then the sharp contrast between Israeli and Palestinian areas along Rt 90, the main road thru here. I’d been wearing my white t-shirt with the Hebrew lettering, slowly growing aware that this might not be appropriate for some of these regions. At a rest stop where I ate lunch with about 30 Israeli soldiers, that t-shirt fit right in. I changed it before entering Jericho, back to my yellow Quaker Fellowship of the Arts t-shirt. Next, the issue of Ramadan, people are fasting all day, even in this hot area. When yesterday in Jericho I mistakenly opened a door to what I thought might be the Internet café, I woke a man slumbering on a couch in a barbershop. Remaining indoors and maybe sleeping are ways to grapple with the Ramadan fast.

What about my shorts? Manager said, not a problem. Maybe because of the presence of tourists in Jericho. I refrain from drinking or eating in public during the daylight hours. Also Palestine is now on winter time, one hour later than Israel summer time which changes in a month of so. And I say shukron not toda for thank you and greet people with marhaba or salaam elekum not shalom. I’m noticed more in Jericho than anywhere in Israel. The kids again, keefalek, how are you? Drag out the old mubsut and montaz, happy and excellent.

A minor adventure last evening. I was hungry, I trusted my stomach, I wished to dine at the elegant restaurant near the terminal of the cable car which runs up the Mount of Temptation. Not sure how to find it, carrying a map from the guidebook, I set off at dusk, hoping not only for food but for photos. No photos, eventually food. Lost but aiming at the mountain, circling around, I found the place, just in time as they were closing. Without rushing I wolfed down roast chicken and rice, pickles and olives, flat bread. And was served the traditional Ramadan pancake sweet as a bonus, no charge. All for 50 shekels plus tip, a bargain.

I met the owner, a jovial character speaking excellent English. He told me business is good, come back tomorrow for the open buffet, 60 shekels for all you can eat, starts at 11. I might try it. He also told me the restaurant had two wireless networks I could use, sitting in my car since they were about to close. Another man helped me access with the codes, I connected, we chatted while I sat in the car showing him and another man leaning over him my most recent blog entries, stopping at the image of Raghda, wondering how they perceived her.

The man explained that he was from Tubas in the northern West Bank, taught computer use in Jericho, also managed the computer network at the restaurant and tourist shop and did the accounting. Like many he was impressed that I’d been in Gaza, really, one month? We discussed all those who’d like to emigrate from Gaza. And you, I asked, what would you like to do? No clear answer. He explained to me that leaving Palestine required one be older than 45, married, and have children, if I understood him correctly.

The Internet connection soon faded, as it often does, so I did little. But may try again this morning.

Now one question remained: would I be able to find my way to the guesthouse in the dark?

Happily I did. Then a strange feeling came over me last night as I sat alone in this lonely hostel: eroticism. Was this temptation anything like the temptation of Christ? Is there some earth force in Jericho that affects human beings? We are at the lowest point on earth, 260 m below sea level, in an earthquake zone. I’ll check my feelings throughout my stay in Jericho.

My room, gazing

LINKS:

Itsapartheid video contest

“Israel, Colonial States and Racism” by Michel Warschawski, Alternative Information Center

Southeast US Tour: The Rising of the Light, Photographs by Skip Schiel from Israel and the Occupied Territories of Palestine

FALL 2009 SOUTHEAST PHOTOGRAPHIC PRESENTATION TOUR
(Oct 19-Nov 15, emphasis on Florida & the Gulf Coast)

Skip Schiel has been documenting the Palestinian and Israeli reality through photographs and journal postings since 2003 – work with a better feel for the detailed texture of life in Gaza and the West Bank than any appearing in US media. Schiel spends time where most journalists dare not tread, amidst ordinary Palestinians, sharing in the dangers and frustrations of their lives.

His work has been invaluable for my own. As a writer for a Buddhist publication whose parents were victims of the Holocaust, I try to convey a view of the conflict that differs from the US media’s, which obfuscates the injustices and sufferings inflicted on the Palestinians by Israel. Through his portraits of Palestinian men, women, and children striving to maintain ordinary routines despite harassment and attacks by Israel’s military, Skip reveals to us the true face of Palestinians.

—Annette Herskovits, Consulting Editor, Turning Wheel, the Journal of the Buddhist Peace Fellowship

Jenin, July 2009

TENTATIVE ITINERARY: click here
(useful to look at for possible dates for your location)

MULTIMEDIA PRESENTATIONS
Featuring photos, audio & thoughtful narration by Skip Schiel, updated from his recent 3 month trip during the summer of 2009

Eyewitness Gaza (2009)

Skip Schiel, a frequent visitor to Gaza, was there in January 2008 and the summer of 2009, before and after the devastation of Operation Cast Lead, the Israeli assault on Gaza in December 2008-January 2009.   While there, he was witness to the effects of the Israeli siege on Gaza as well as the aftermath of Operation Cast Lead.   While in Gaza, Schiel worked with the American Friends Service Committee youth program, teaching and photographing, also at Al Aqsa University where he led a photographic workshop.

The Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel (2009)

Israel-Palestine has scant water resources, but now with the current strife water is a dramatic mirror of power relationships. Through an examination of water in various settings—small Palestinian villages & the Gaza strip—along with large cities shared by Israeli Jews & Arabs—Haifa & Jerusalem—Schiel portrays a very difficult to visualize topic.

Bethlehem the Holy

Bethlehem is rapidly becoming Imprisoned Bethlehem, surrounded on all sides by an 8-meter (23 foot) high concrete wall, with checkpoint access restricted. Thus, Christians (the population shrinking from some 30% 40 years ago to 2%) and Muslims within Palestine can rarely leave or enter Bethlehem. Nearby Israeli settlements confiscate Palestinian lands while the local economy, heavily reliant on tourism, languishes under ghetto-like restrictions. Schiel explored this situation from November through Christmas 2008 as well as during the summer of 2009 while he lived in the Aida refugee camp.

Quakers in Palestine & Israel (Or John Woolman in the Land of Troubles)

What do Quakers, the Religious Society of Friends, have to do with Israel-Palestine? By following some of the activities in the Ramallah Friends School & the American Friends Service Committee’s work in Gaza & the West Bank (& with references to its efforts in Israel), Schiel shows how this numerically small but often effective group has made a difference in this land of troubles.

Other Presentations Available: click here

PHOTOGRAPHY EXHIBITS
Available for Exhibition

Gaza is Home to One & One-half Million Human Beings: How Do They Live?

Photos of possibilities: how people live, suffer, stay strong and determined—sumud, in Arabic, steadfast.

The Living Waters of Israel-Palestine

A print version of the Hydropolitics slide show.

MORE ABOUT SKIP SCHIEL
website
blog

TO BRING SKIP SCHIEL TO PRESENT TO YOUR CHURCH, SCHOOL OR CIVIC GROUP/FOR MORE INFO

Contact: David Matos, Mideast Peace Coordinator, Carolina Peace Resource Center
Email: aiken_peace@yahoo.com
Phone: 803-215-3263

Gaza City, August 2009

The Rising of the Light, Summer in Israel and the Occupied Territories of Palestine: a report (June 17 – September 15, 2009)

El Mina, port of Gaza City, main port of the Gaza Strip
(click for enlargement)

Fish market
(click for enlargement)

This is not the last in my series of dispatches about my recent journey to Palestine and Israel. I am home in Cambridge Massachusetts, and this is the moment to write and post a report (before I become enmeshed in my quotidian existence).

Photos

Blog

Print version of the report

Dear God, when I am wrong, please make me willing to see my mistake. And when I am right – please make me tolerable to live with.

—Desmund Tutu, his prayer as paraphrased by Uri Avnery

I begin with gratitude: gratitude to all those who have supported my 5th journey to The Land of Discord and Possibility. Those who have noticed, commented, prayed, criticized, contributed money, offered leads, taken action; and especially those who have followed my voluminous dispatches thru my website and blog. Without you I am enfeebled, a stay-at-home elderly recluse, retired to the land of imagining what I might have done, if-only-I-had-the-time. Gratitude to the Palestinians and Israelis who expedited my photography, providing leads, background, context, introductions, insights, analysis, friendship, housing, food, and, yes, love. And gratitude for the simple good fortune to live such a free spirited life—thanks to community, family, some mysterious, congenital, rebellious quirk, and muses.

Jerusalem Old City

Sheik Jarrah neighborhood in East Jerusalem, nominally Palestinian, formerly the home of the Hanoun and al-Ghawi families

Across the street, this man and his family, brutally evicted from their home, live under a tent across from his former home, now lived in by extreme Jewish Israeli settlers
(more photos)

Half way thru my recent three-month journey of discovery, I wondered, what had I discovered? In mid August while in Gaza, I listed all that I’d not photographed: Canada Park in Israel which erased an Arab village; the route and story of water from the headwaters of the Jordan River to where it disappears between the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea; non violent resistance, in Bil’in where I’d been several times earlier and finally to Nil’in which I’d read so much about; Quakers, but how to photograph more than the Quaker Palestine Youth Program in Gaza when the Ramallah Friends School is on vacation; and most vitally—an urge I’ve felt for several years—Israel itself, Jaffa, Tel Aviv, the Mediterranean Coast, West Jerusalem, the Golan and Galilee, visiting friends, pretending to be an Israeli, feeling what they might feel, immersed in the possible cognitive dissonance of living on a land expropriated from native people.

Here I felt some resonance with my own experience in the United States—living on land stolen from American Indians, profiting from labor supplied largely by captured Africans. Yes, I had some first hand experience living a possible lie, captured by a self-serving narrative. But how to do this in Israel-Palestine?

After this dismal accounting, all that I’d hope to photograph and hadn’t yet even visited, I made another list (remembering how Rachel Corrie loved making lists), this time of what I’d at least partially achieved: 2 weeks in Bethlehem exploring its Aida refugee camp while coaching a young novice photography teacher at Al Rowwad Cultural Center in the camp; 2 weeks in Jenin, investigating its refugee camp and the wondrous Freedom Theater, while teaching photography to high school age youth at the Jenin Creative Cultural Center; several stories about hydropolitics, including a spectacular trip to one of Ramallah’s own water sources, Ein Samia village about 20 km north of Ramallah; the Popular Education  Festival in Ramallah of the Quaker Palestine Youth Program; construction by hand of a series of stone walls at the Ramallah Friends School (not as exciting as photographing the children but stones were present, children were not); the new light rail system in greater Jerusalem snapping up Palestinian land in East Jerusalem; Gaza, from finally getting a permit, living there for one month while photographing the aftermath of the vicious and possibly criminal Israeli assault to teaching photography thru the American Friends Service Committee and Al Aqsa University; exploring the coastal region from Gaza north to near Haifa, with a stop in Sderot (the Israeli town suffering extensive trauma from rockets fired by Gazan militants); two weeks in the Golan Heights and the Galilee, a long held dream to trace water; and Jerusalem’s Old City and environs, culminating in my final day’s journey when I strolled thru the Old City making hip pocket photos with my new 85 mm lens. Adding to this unexpected achievement, I discovered the family I’d read about in the Sheik Jarrah neighborhood of East Jerusalem who had been brutally evicted from their home.

The platform built for the Pope’s summer 2009 visit to Bethlehem, occupied Palestinian territories—Israel prohibited its use
(more photos)

I felt better, but not complete. Will I ever feel complete. Will I ever feel I’ve finished this project? What drives me besides a possibly inscrutable compulsion?

Perhaps, perhaps: the outrage I feel at such blatant exploitation of the holocaust and victimhood by some Jews and many supporters of Israel, the complicity of my government and my country’s media, the drive for justice, the upset I feel when with others who might be aware of this conflict but do nothing. As Martin Luther King, Jr stated, Our lives begin to end the moment we become silent about things that matter.

Also motivating me: the need to practice compassionate listening and viewing, to open my heart to a variety of perspectives and experiences, to discover opinions and facts new to me, visit new areas, meet new people, and endlessly develop my skills to photograph in that unique Mediterranean light.

Three examples of discoveries: first, in Sderot, trauma is virtually universal among the entire population. Despite the relatively low number of casualties and the relatively high degree of security, one exploding rocket multiples fear. Second, in Gaza, most people do not trust being happy. Why? Because they suspect their happiness will be short-lived. Either Israel will attack again, or Hamas will go to battle with Fatah or other political factions, or the siege will never end, or the world will continue ignoring their suffering. Third, conditions of occupation are easing in the West Bank, meaning travel is freer, checkpoints less restrictive. But as Palestinians point out, Israel could tighten restrictions in a flash, and one danger of eased conditions is encouraging people to ignore the fact that they remain occupied, without a nation of their own. They are not free.

Thru my lens, I try to open my mouth—shout loud and clear—and hope others might notice and activate as they feel the call, if they feel the call. Many calls, choose one, get to work. Again as Martin said, A man who hasn’t found something he is willing to die for is not fit to live. Harsh words from this dear gentle person of non-violence, but true. A prophet’s words are often grating, exactly because they are true. They challenge us.

Gaza City port, El Mina
(more photos)

I’m home in Cambridge Massachusetts for one month, preparing new shows. On October 17 I depart for the southeast region of the United States, a 4-5 week tour with new perspectives, experiences, discoveries, questions (latest schedule here, when available). If you’re anywhere between North Carolina and Florida, the East Coast and the Deep South and would like to organize a show, please contact David Matos at aiken_peace (at) yahoo.com, 803-215-3263 for information and to book. For the first two weeks of December I hope to be touring New England with a revised version of Bethlehem the Holy, in time for the Christmas season. I hope to see some of you on the road.

One additional note: thanks to a benefactor and many encouraging people I’m embarking on transforming one of my Gaza shows into a video, not simply a conversion from slide show to video but an entire production based on a slide show. We hope to complete this project by September 2010. I’ll let you know and may ask for your support.

Raw sewage flowing into the main fishing port, spreading to the beaches

Dates about to be harvested

As I finish my report I learned that the Obama administration instructed its ambassador to the United Nations, Susan Rice, to block further effective action of the Goldstone report which investigated possible war crimes committed by Israel and Hamas during the violence of December-January 2009 in Gaza.

Goldstone Report of the United Nations Fact Finding Mission on the Gaza Conflict

One rebuttal

In the distance, not so far away, Ashkelon, once home to many refugees now in Gaza

The rising of the light: Around the Sea of Galilee from the north, then east and down the lower Jordan River valley

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

September 6, 2009, Sunday, Tiberias, in the Aviv hostel, my dorm room

I made a partial circuit around Lake Kinneret yesterday [September 6, 2009], from the northwest shore to the western shore. The altitude here in Tiberias feels lower, the climate hotter. The shore was steep on the eastern side of the road and gently sloped down to the water on the western. I spotted many groves of date palms (dates now being harvested, one boy roadside selling large stalks of dates) and some of bananas, plus other fruit trees. No olives that I noticed. The terrain seems a mix of sand near the water and I believe basalt in the hills, but this I observed only from a distance. Water seems plentiful, much of it devoted to irrigation. I pulled off the main road to photograph pipes and valves—too many pipes and valves to hold an audience, what to do?

I found many sites to photograph from, looking down at the huge expanse of lake. Many swimming beaches, and, being Saturday, Shabbat, filled with swimmers and campers. For lunch I stopped at a partially excavated tel (adjacent to the Gal water park, said to be the largest in Israel) and ate under a spreading eucalyptus tree. This tree, originally from Australia, proliferates thru out the region. I noticed its strong odor, its peeling bark, and remember that it is uses an excessive amount of water.

Hordes of tourists swarmed the main Christian sites on the northern shore, I felt lucky to have visited these sites earlier, either not during summer or during midweek.

Capernaum (Latin or Catholic version) parking lot

A few stops along the way:

The Orthodox version of Capernaum attracted only 2 busloads, Japanese, and seemed to have no historical sites attached to it, nor a church. I’m not sure how it justified itself, other than being a vague Orthodox presence.

Kursi national park, with its partially reconstructed Byzantine church, this site said to be where Jesus exorcized evil spirits from a man. The spirits then entered pigs driving them to commit suicide into the sea. Out of reach of my legs and lungs because of the heat was a spot higher in the hills which may have been the actual exorcism place.

Byzantine church, Kursi National Park

This site reminded me of the power of water, mountain and desert in the Jesus story. Most every part of the story is fixed to a specific site, or type of site, so terrain plays a major role in the narrative, and thus, by visiting the sites, helps reify what otherwise might be imagination—and what may be an act of imagination yet. Good fiction, an untruth pointing to a truth.

Kibbutz Ein Gev, featuring food, raising its own St Peter’s fish in ponds and beef in a factory setting. I said hello to lady cows, trying to not spook them so I could make a decent photo as they gobbled their lunch, hay. They stood in what looked like pools of excrement. Many tourists here at the restaurant, I photographed the buses lined up, most of their engines idling, spilling their evil spirits into the atmosphere, but keeping the tourists who would soon finish lunch and enter the buses cool and happy. Hundreds of tourists left the main building which housed a series of restaurants, I had to wait a few minutes for them to clear out. Lucky I did, because as I strolled thru the restaurant I was able to photograph fish in various states of dismemberment and consumption. I believe I surprised the lunchers by my request to photograph their fish.

Ein Gev was established by German and Czech pioneers in 1937, the first permanent settlement on the eastern shore, and thus under siege until “liberated” in 1967.  The surrounding area was either Syrian (says the guidebook) or Jordanian (says my reading of history). I found indicators of this period: a guard tower and a bunker, which I photographed.

Ein Gen

Receding shore line at Ein Gen

Yardenit, the exit point of the Jordan river and the current baptism center, south side of lake, hidden by hydrological apparatus. I’m not sure what occurs here, whether water enters pipes here or mechanisms control the flow. I suspect the former. I parked, wandered around, made a few photos, but none show any dramatic departure of water from the sea to the river. The river looked about the same as when it entered, maybe 4 m across, 1 or 2 deep. In the distance downriver I noticed white clothed figures, presumably pilgrims receiving blessings from the water as they are baptized. I plan to return to this site this morning to photograph more.

Yardenit

And the river entry point on the north shore, which I’d seen before, but this time I went to the west side of the river, far upstream from the actual entry point and noticed fishers, swimmers, rafters, no pilgrims, or at least no one of the usual pilgrim type. Perhaps these people are also pilgrims, with a different object of worship—pleasure.

Jordan River entering Sea of Galilee

I feel that finally I’ve extended my photographic coverage of water with a more thorough treatment of the Sea, I feel less satisfied about the River. Maybe today, as I trace its route downstream, I will find better access. Further north the main site for me has been the Banias with its temple surprise.

Another surprise, delightful as always: 2 messages from ME, but cryptic. In one she linked me to an article about poverty in the USA, in French, apologizing for the French. In the other a set a photos from Paris Monde, with her top choice indicated. I wrote back my choices, and remembered to her that another article she’d sent me, from Antonio Tabucchi about beauty, either coincided or spurred my photo assignment to the class in Gaza to photograph what is beautiful to them. I am very happy to be back in relatively good touch with her.

Also KA who continues to fascinate me. Closer to my age, Jewish late coming, happily married, with her thriving business, we have communicated regularly… I like her very much, her energy and chutzpah, and wonder how we might develop if not for her happy marriage. She demonstrates to me that I am not hopelessly fixated on younger women like ME and X (who’s not written for months, very curious).

Another personal note: my stomach ailment is easing; tho thru much of yesterday my stomach was sore, feeling bloated. Skipping dinner at the Kerei Deshe hostel during Shabbat eve was a major omission from my life, but I had a small lunch yesterday and a big shuwarma last night. This morning my stomach feels fine.

Checking the guidebook for housing in or near Tiberias I learned there is much that is cheap and accessible. My first choice turned to be wise, the Aviv hotel and hostel, along the main road so I had no trouble finding it, costing 70 shekels and another 30 for breakfast. The dorm room has 3 beds, one already occupied by a young German man who’d been studying medicine for one month in Tel Aviv and will soon return to Germany to complete his training. His name is Darius.

A sturdy, handsome man with a girl friend who he’d called just before we went out to eat; he is a quick and short-term friend in the holy land. He walked from Nazareth to Tiberias, hitching for the last few km because of the heat. For the adventure, he explained, but never again, too hot. I drank 9 liters of water yesterday and carried a heavy backpack.

Very German thought I, testing one’s powers.

He chose Tel Aviv for his studies not for political reasons but first because he wanted to study outside Germany, and second in a different sort of country. He’d read little about the situation until planning his visit. Germans, he told me, suffer great guilt about the holocaust and know little other than the Israel Jewish side thru the media. The government stands with Israel. There is little pro Palestine rights activity, altho I suspect because of his relatively slight political interests he might be overlooking a sector of Germans.

Luckily we had two adjoining rooms so when he returned as I was drifting off to sleep, having turned off the air conditioner because I couldn’t find a way to control its temperature, and opened the window on the slowly cooling night air, he asked about the AC. He decided to sleep in the 2nd room, with the TV and AC on.

He borrowed my computer when I set it up at the companion hotel, also Aviv, which had free wireless. He wanted to check his email for Couch Surfer invites. This reminded me that I’d not much used this service or Hospitality Club, mainly because it would require too much travel organization, tying me down to an itinerary. Otherwise I’d use it as I did initially. And might later. I could try it for the last few days of my visit.

My turn came to use the internet. A large religious group was clearing out of the hotel, there for Shabbat, and so I settled into what I thought would be a late into the evening revision of my blog…

Elizabeth at Friends of the Earth Middle East gave me a list of suggested sites to visit in this general region: Emek Hefer, Bakal-Gharbiya, Old Gesher, Peace Island, Alumot Dam, Yardenit, Naharyim, and Beit Shean—all water-related—but as far as I know I’ve found none of them. Maybe the last one today. The names confuse me. Much better for my photography and insights if I could travel with a knowledgeable hydrological guide, like someone from Friends of the Earth. Maybe another time. I am an innocent wandering it the vast hydro desert.

September 5, 2009, Saturday, near Capernaum, in Tagbha, at the Kary Deshe Guest House, in the hallway where I have electricity (and won’t disturb my two roommates)

A few dreams: in one “Y” and I were visiting M and her new boy friend, mainly to meet him. Y and I concurred he was an odd one, sullen and depressed, not sure what M saw in him. To his credit he was young, strong, handsome, I think a recent soldier. He was virtually voiceless, ignored us. Our dog, tho, played happily with his dog.

In another I was driving alone a small van in an area where picking up passengers was accepted, even encouraged. Seeing an elderly couple waiting at an intersection with others, having room only for 3 passengers, I picked them up and one other.

Agricultural water, Beit Shean border crossing

Yesterday a short walking tour of Tsfat, mostly from where I’d parked near the main shopping district, up to what I think is the Citadel, and down to the artists’ colony and then the synagogue section. Tho high, the air felt hot and muggy. I sweated mightily. I also picked up a 100 shekel parking ticket when I’d not noticed this was a for-fee parking area, and not sure how to use the machines.

The Citadel was at what I suppose is the highest point in town, on a flat ledge, with an attempt at making it into a park. But it looked desolate, little used, inhospitable, and potentially dangerous because of its isolation. There were Arabic looking ruins (arches), and it may also have been the site of the Crusader fortress I’d read about somewhere. It offered views, but because of trees and haze, I doubt much shows. Furthermore, I lost the photos from this little jaunt because of that recurring corrupt file problem.

The problem surfaced when I spotted a young man walking in front of me wearing a large kippah and sporting dreadlocks—the proverbial Orthodox Jew—and with a t-shirt advertising Caterpillar. Would have been perfect. But the camera wouldn’t record, and then I saw the heart stopping-error message: FOR, meaning this card is not formatted. I switched cards, the camera then recorded, the man was long gone. Was this an act of god, protecting that man?

I could put together an exhibit of the photos that I didn’t make because of various technical and mental reasons.

Then down to the artists’ colony—Tsfat prides itself on being artist-friendly, and it seems to be, and counter cultural with its blend of Orthodox Jewry, art, and new age spirituality, most all of this perhaps stemming from its kabalistic origins. Some of the leading rabbis of kabala worked and died here. Originating here, the movement spread to Spain during its progressive centuries before Isabella and Ferdinand stupidly expelled Jews and Arabs. A highlight of the colony was the old mosque converted into the “General Art Gallery.”

Nearly all the art was abstract and I wondered, if we placed a random selection of some of this with a random selection of art from Windows from Gaza could people distinguish a different? And if not, what does this suggest about the power and meaning of this art?

To me, generally bored by all abstract art (unless it’s my photography), this is a sure sign of impotence. Virtually nothing here about the history of founding this country, the presence of Arabs, the occupation, and little about being Jewish—that I could see. Were I Jewish I might have reveled in depictions of my people.

One corridor in the synagogue section resembled the corridor in Hebron thru parts of the Old City, those parts with wire mesh overhead to protect Hebron’s stalwart Palestinians from the garbage and shit thrown down by Jewish settlers. So I made a photo of this and hope I can pair it with similar photos from Hebron.

I stopped at several tourist stations reciting in English a very lucid and compelling version of the Jewish narrative. At the time of partition Jews made up some 15% Tsfat, altho they’d been here for millennia, coexisting with Arabs. Then the war, the heroic Jews prevailed, driving the Arabs out, or forcing Arab leadership to order the Arabs to flee. The fighting was fierce, especially in the Citadel area, with its steep slopes and muddy terrain. But a night attack destroyed the Arab’s stronghold. So goes the narrative, paraphrasing. I’m sure had the Arabs won they’d produce a similar story about their magnificent victories. Why not? Winners create history.

So much for Tsfat. I recharged my phone with about 55 shekels, phoned the Deshe guesthouse to check availability, just slipped in since yesterday was Shabbat, today the weekend, and this is a busy time and a popular place. And I felt secure knowing for a change where I’d sleep this night. A short drive thru the mountains brought me “home.”

What to do about the parking ticket? Ask Avis if they can argue that I’m a tourist and didn’t know the rules? Ask what would happen if I didn’t pay? (The government might come to Avis who has my credit card number and I may not escape paying, with a hefty fine added.) Pay where and how?

A man I asked about the procedure explained how to buy a parking permit, easy, and how to pay, equally easy, the bank or post office. But do jurisdictions overlap so I can pay in Jerusalem? Someday also in Ramallah?

My stomach seems to have settled. No accidents yesterday, or humdila (thank god) during the night. One small thunderously loud fart this morning as I sat on the john and emitted a slight bit of goo. I skipped dinner last night, thinking, if my stomach still ails and I eat as if it is OK, I could suffer all night long. Last night was Shabbat and I’m told they offered special food, including wine. Plus I missed dining with the many Jews here, more than I’ve seen eating together in a long while.

Kids play happily, often taking rides on the luggage carts in the hallways. I hear happy sounds continually here. Also babies bawling. The beach was crowded with swimmers and sitters as I went for my cooling swim in the late afternoon. Unlike my last visit here, I shared my small room with two others, Thierry from Luxemburg who immediately explained to me how small and where his country is, as if I didn’t know, and a German man with a handsome reddish beard, a born again Christian, wearing his cross conspicuously around his neck (maybe similar to how Crusaders paraded their swords?). When I mentioned it, and asked, traveling thru the land of Jesus?, he answered yes, are you a believer?

Well friend, do you have a moment? I quickly summarized the Christian portion of my belief: Jesus was a great teacher, one among many, but not divine. I’m part of the Quaker community and we have all kinds, including Jewish Buddhist atheistic Quakers (thinking of DA) He’d asked me, to check my belief quotient, do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?

He explained that he’d been lost and now was found, hit bottom, not knowing who he was, where he was headed. And then, miraculously, god came to him and with him his son. So, like me with Martin, this good natured and well-meaning fellow has a personal relationship with Jesus. Unfortunately, he wanted to tell me all about it, like many born against, and I had to deflect his passion.

Too bad we couldn’t have a more meaningful conversation. He’s a bit like M with her strong Buddhism, possibly hard to live with. Unlike her however he seemed unwilling to hear me out. M is very good at listening, it is her profession.

Eastern shore, Sea of Galilee

Today: head south, after first north, and explore the eastern shore of the big lake. Not sure where to place my head for the night. Also, first avail myself of the Internet connection here (tho costly, $5 for one hr, $10 for 24, which shall it be?) and upload my latest subsite and blog entries. I worked feverishly last evening, for about 3 hours straight, preparing a potpourri from the first 3 days of this section of my journey. From Tel Aviv to Capernaum, more or less. Hopefully I will put up its sequel soon.

While doing this—and it confirms the important of constantly reviewing and using my photos and words—I discovered I’d not downloaded from the camera to the computer about 40 photos from end of Beny to the beginning of Caesarea. Vital photos. Searching thru my memory cards, I found the next one up for reuse contained the missing images. I only hope this is the only occurrence of this oversight. Had I not checked I’d have written over the images.

~~It is 7:15 am, people are slowly leaving their rooms and entering the halls, I hear their sounds, pleasing family sounds—a good place for a bomber to attack, I wonder if this threat once dominated experience at such guest houses and vacation spots—, so it’s probably about time to complete this entry and eat breakfast. Will I eat heartily or daintily? What will my stomach tell me?~~

Not sure yesterday morning what to do, where to stay, another night in the Tsfat guest house or move on, I ran into the old woman’s son who’d directed me thru the labyrinthine network of small Tsfat roads to the guest house the night before. He told me another section of the Beit Shalom guesthouse was across the road and operating. In fact, he expected a large group that evening. When I told him I was out of shekels for my phone he pointed me to the house phone, for shekels. Regrettably it didn’t work. He went somewhere to get something to fix it, I waited, he did not return, I decided to chance it and leave Tsfat. Good decision. We never said goodbye.

I also realized probably the reason I couldn’t contact anyone the day before was because my phone was out of shekels. I heard announcements but most were in Hebrew, and the few I understood said I’d made an error in dialing, try again. Chock one up to my ignorance and lack of awareness.

September 7, 2009, Monday, Beit She’an, in the Guest House, my room

A few dreams, one about fish. With others, maybe my family, we decided to stop to buy fresh fish. They delegated me as the buyer. I spoke with a man—we were in a country without English as the first language—with very good English, a “fish butcher,” as he cut the fish I’d ordered. He explained what he was doing. I mistakenly sliced my own big piece, not realizing he was cutting exactly what I’d ordered. A mix-up that didn’t seem to upset him. When he finished and turned to serve another customer I was confused about where my order was, not sure who or when to ask.

In a possibly related dream I was with George C, looking at photos of his wedding that Chris J had made. Very good, one in particular, that seemed to show about 5 people, including George himself at a lectern, apparently all asleep.

And the most remarkable dream of all: it was sunrise, because of the way the light worked, pools of water were brilliantly lit with a soft blue glowing light. I realized this as I slept and, tho still tired, decided to get up to make the photo from my window. I actually did wake up and rise from bed, thinking the dream was presaging what I should be photographing. It was still night. Only a dream. Later, in real life, when I was up and the sun was rising—my window faces east, over the valley, about 3 floors up—there were the pools! Not as gorgeously lit as in my dream, but good enough to try a photo or two. I should have used my telephoto lens but it was in the car and I felt too lazy (also enjoying being naked for a change) to retrieve it.

And now a twist on the story that I’d not dreamt—the sun in the sky, reflecting in the pool. So another photo to try to show this magnificent moment.

Yesterday I moved slightly further south, into the valley of the Jordan. Frequently I recalled that in 2003, my first trip here, I’d flown home over this same area, and because the sky was clear and the plane window unclouded [winter time], I could photograph the earth from above. Same region, same misleading terrain, the river looking wide—in fact, narrow, in fact, in places, not visible because covered with grasses.

No dunking pilgrims at Yardenit, the river site for immersion, said not to be the site of Jesus’ baptism, which I believe is further north, now too close to Jordan to be safe. This might disappoint Jan H who’s written regularly as we set our assignation for shortly after I return home. She’d hoped I could show white robed pilgrims in the water. I only saw what looked like carp swimming madly in the dipping area. I visited the tourist center, found some spectacular black and white photos on display by Gali Tibbon, a woman living in Jerusalem. I’ll probably use them, giving her full credit. I suspect they are much better than the ones I’d make, since I’d probably not have time to ask permission for best access. The area has been developed specifically for immersions, with a large restaurant, a walk way for observing immersions, several fenced off areas in the water for these events, and a few displays about what this means. Which is? The power of water to cleanse, purify, make whole, allow one to begin again. I suspect the German man I met at the Deshe guest house, the born again Christian, who’d hit bottom, would begin to surface if dipping into these waters, believed by some to be holy.

Yardenit

Nearby I found a grove of eucalyptus trees with a marker honoring a woman who’d walked thru the grove as a youth. They were planted in 1912 at one of the first kibbutzim to help dry the swamp. Little did those planters realize the trees would become a liability during the era of drought and general water shortage.

There are many early kibbutzim in the area, south of the lake, near the river. And as I explored them from afar, thru fences (tho I suspect most are now open), noticing the guard houses and towers, some damaged from shelling, I realized the kibbutz movement was not only agricultural in intent but political. They were an early form of the settlement, establishing facts on the ground, claiming the land, not only agriculturally, but for the building of the nation. I’d love to read a history of the kibbutz, to learn its role in the founding of the state.

In this same vein, I also visited Old Gesher, another early kibbutz, now along the frontier with Jordan. As I pulled in, not sure what I was observing, I first saw a large fairly modern building pockmarked by shelling and rifle fire. Signs in Hebrew probably explained what this was. Close by, under some trees for shade, a group of about 5 lounging soldiers with rifles. Signs indicated this is a firing zone, do not enter! About 100 meters from here was the visitor center and more soldiers. At first I thought I was at the Beit Shean border crossing, but no, as I tenderly brought out my camera and began walking (using the Lou Jones technique for asking permission to photography, step by step, with full awareness of anyone’s body language), no one seemed to notice. I learned the soldiers, probably new to their position, were on an educational excursion. The government seems to do much of this, educational preparatory trips for new soldiers. Strengthens their motivation to “keep their nation safe.”

Motion detecting fence at Old Gesher

The attendant explained that the center was closed, and to enter I’d have to make prior arrangements and join with a group. Too bad, I missed the audio video event, The Naharayim Experience. Which might be about the founding of this early kibbutz. It had been on the list Elizabeth of FoEME provided me of water resources to explore on this trip.

I could title one of my presentations: What the hell is this? I find myself uttering that phrase regularly as I see something that might be this, or might be that, but I’m not sure. At times I find out, at others, I don’t. So the words remain: What the hell is this?

Where the Jordan exits the Sea of Galilee

I stopped several times along highway 90 to photograph the river and valley, often at some peril to me. Trucks whizzing by, two of them carrying tanks, speeding cars, buses, narrow road, narrow shoulders, hot and generally difficult to stop to make photos. I might be in more danger during this leg of my 3 month journey than at some other points.

No surprise: the river was hard to find, either shrunken to a pitiful trickle or disappeared entirely beneath grasses. Even driving off road to find the elusive river usually proved futile. At one spot I thought I saw the water disappear into a pipe.

End of the Jordan River?

This attempt to find the river culminated at the Beit Shean border crossing, where at first, finding a dried up channel, thinking it was the river bed, I photographed what I thought was the river. All under the eye of a security guard. I mistakenly thought this was the crossing we’d used on my first trip in 2003, which in fact is further south, by Jericho. How mixed up I can be, hardly an astute observer and witness. And then, in the restaurant perhaps surprising guests when I asked, where’s the river?, I discovered I’d not be able to see the river because people are not allowed to walk on the bridge, and the river cannot be seen under the grasses.

Earlier often I could see what must have been historic river routes, channels, even a few striations, indicating better times for the Jordan River. But not today during a lengthy water crisis.

At about 3 pm I began thinking about where I’d stay the night, my usual pattern: the book listed nothing for Beit Shean, the nearest town. It suggested some fine sounding spots further south, Ein Gedi for one, which I’d long hoped to visit along the Dead Sea shore. But this requires a long drive. So I opted to simply drive thru Beit Shean, hoping I’d spot something I could afford. And just as I arrived there it was: the Beit She’an guest house, a huge building of stone on the main road, but surely, I thought, too expensive, something like $100 plus.

Inquiring, I learned I could book a single room, no dorms here, for 275 NIS, under $100 (more precisely, using 4 shekels to the dollar, $70 include breakfast. Dinner would be 70 shekels, too high.) I realized this morning that I’m spending money as if it is endless, neglecting the fact that I have only savings to live on until Jan next year. I might suffer later for my prodigality. Time to put on the spending breaks, begin worrying. (This trip has been unusually worry-free for me, no sleepless nights. Yet.)

The guesthouse is part of the Israel Youth Hostel Association, (IYHA), www.iyha.org.il. It has “62 high quality rooms…air conditioned with en-suite bathrooms and showers, refrigerator, TV, and a coffee corner.” Plus a pool and conference rooms. A fine place for one of my shows. I should ask Dave if he’d like to organize an Israeli tour for me.

Last evening, as the sun settled for the night, the air cooling mercifully (it is not getting hotter as I proceed southward and lower into the earth, nearer the notoriously hot and humid Jericho. In fact, cooler last night that previous nights.), I ate a low quality falafel (they’re much better in Palestine), and discovered Roman ruins. A good time to visit: the sun was not glaring, the air was cool, no one else was touring, and so perhaps this magical hour will help me construct a few good photos.

Roman ruins, Beit Shean

At a small shopping mall, as I explored, I noticed a baby clothes shop with the name, mish mish. Very odd, thought I, since this is the Arabic word for apricot. Inquiring, I learned that it’s also Hebrew for apricot. Yet another testament to the closeness of these two “separate” people—warring cousins.

Date palms near the Jordan River

For the first time I remember on this 3 month journey, except for the Tel Aviv bus station and possibly the Jerusalem bus station, I had to pass security to enter. A young smiling black man did his duty, checking my bag, but not requiring I disgorge all my metal so I could pass the metal detector without setting it off.

Anne has been most reliable as a loving appreciating correspondent. She is tracking me. She seems now to read everything I write, and soon after I post it. I’d sent to my list my most recent blog yesterday morning, the longest yet, some 5000 words, with an apology, long and not carefully edited, and by evening she’d read it and commented in her usual deep and compassionate way. As I wrote her, you are the best. Love, me. She even calls me Skipper, which only my sister Elaine uses, a true signifier of deep relationship.

Jan is also surprisingly responsive. I’m enjoying our regular but brief communiqués, mostly about when to meet. My home, Wednesday after I arrive on Sunday, 6 pm for dinner, she brings the dessert.

LINKS:

History of kibbutzim

History of the Galilee

Israel Youth Hostel Association

“Joel Kovel on Naomi Klein and Durban,” August 28, 2009

Israel Still Strangles the Palestinian Economy, by Sam Bahour, Wall Street Journal Op-ed, August 20, 2009

The rising of the light: The Northern Galilee & the Golan

Northwest shore of the Sea of Galilee (aka, Lake Kinneret)

Israeli intelligence center, Golan Heights

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

September 3, 2009, Saturday, Thursday, Yehudiya camp ground, Golan Heights, Israel, under an oak tree overlooking a wadi

This may be the first time I’ve written my journal on a computer while “camping.” That later, first the traditional dream journal:

I met a woman (recurring theme) who initially was attractive. Tall and thin, fairly good looking, either in surmising without the aid of others or told by others, I realized she had big psychological problems. She admitted, this is not my real body; my eating habits are not healthy. I decided to stay away from her—a bad bet, a high maintenance person.

Earlier I’d dreamt about roller skating, learning there were 3 types of wheels, soft, hard, and harder. The soft were noiseless and allowed jumping. Boys taught me this.

And finally, the last dream of the night, Y or her surrogate phoned me, weeping, to ask if I’d come to her. We were in a last phase of an active relationship and I decided to honor her request.

Golan

So much for the dreams, what are the conditions of my dreaming? Slept in my car (as I’d anticipated doing at least one night), in a reasonably fine campground (but not well kept), sharing it with 2 couples camping together in separate tents and another group of 3 young men in one large tent, in central Golan (hills all around, I plan a hike later this morning), after a dinner of food I picked up in one of the central towns of the region, Katzrin, eating it on a bench near the kiosk, and paying 15 NIS or so for the accommodation (15 extra for hiking, all proceeds to the agency maintaining the park system).

One irony of this stopover was writing the first draft of my proposal to Friends General Conference gathering [the large, fun, workshop-oriented annual gathering of Quakers in North America] for another round of The question of Palestine/Israel [which I’d led in 2008]. Most ironic: sitting in a campground shared with Israelis, hearing them banter and laugh just a few meters from me, in the heart of the Golan Heights, army vehicles, including tanks on flatbeds, numerous jeeps, numerous soldiers with numerous M-16’s present, writing a workshop proposal about this region and its many issues for next year’s gathering. I decided to propose that I’d concentrate on Gaza and the Golan, along with Bethlehem and hydropolitics. I’m in the middle of gathering material for the Golan section of whatever photo presentations I put together from this trip.

~~The sun has just risen majestically over the hills opposite me, and will soon stream into my face. I’ll put on my well worn, almost in shreds baseball cap from Popular Achievement. Yesterday to avoid the late afternoon sun I found a spot to park along the small road north of the campground, beneath a tree, appreciating its shade. I now make my 2nd cup of “Nescafe,” as instant is known, despite the many brands.~~

The night grew chilly, one of the coolest. No surprise, we’re at a higher elevation. Driving from the northwest shore of the Galilean sea where I resided last night in the hostel—seems so far away, geographically and comfort wise—the ascent at times was sharp. The car labored. Looking for a gas station I stopped in the new town of Had Nes, filled with newly completed homes and homes under construction. Founded in 1986 it is another fact on the ground, equivalent to the settlements. It will establish residency and sovereignty rights for Israel, hard to dislodge. As Haifa illustrates a less well known aspect of Israeli control, what I call Occupation with the velvet glove, allowing Palestinian citizens of Israel fewer rights than those extended to the Jews, the Golan shows another form of control: creating new towns, and with that developing museums and other historical resources that prove that Jews have lived in this region for millennia. If their length of habitation is true—and I don’t doubt it at this point with my limited, newly acquired knowledge—it gives credence to their claim of at least shared ownership with Syrians. I must check histories to verify this.

Court yard of Karei Deshe guest house, near Capernaum, on the Sea of Galilee

Dislodging these communities seems as far fetched as removing the settlements in the West Bank. (I also fail to understand why anyone would wish to live in such a rural area. But that is just my Chicago background speaking. Of course, many wish to move to the country and this resettlement in the Golan might be one manifestation of that wish. They don’t need cities as I do.)

One startling display in a museum in Katzrin showed the saga of Gamla, a town in central Golan that the Romans eventually, after much bloodshed, conquered, leading to the death of some 5000 people, some by fighting, some when fleeing over and down precipices. A sort of Masada without the suicide. Josephus, the Jewish chronicler, is a fascinating figure. We know much about that period thru his writings; apparently he was the leader of Jewish resistance to the Romans at that time, and ordered the hill top town of Gamla to be fortified, anticipating a Roman assault. The Jews built a wall and tower, but these did not protect them. The Roman juggernaut ran over them. I might visit Gamla on this journey.

I decided against visiting a Talmudic period synagogue since it would cost more money and I’ve seen so many ruins, photographed so many rocks, and find myself less interested in Jewish history than that of other groups. Which is a shame I suppose, but honest to my background and inclinations.

What else did I visit and think about yesterday, coming north from the lake?

Leaving the hostel I explored a Canaanite site high on a hill near the hostel, and palace ruins generated by an earthquake just outside the hostel. Unlike North America, nearly every region has its own long term history, sometimes matching in time that of the North American continent, Canaanites here some 4000 years ago, which is nothing compared to the 20,000 year history of American Indians—as far back as, quoting Wikipedia, the Pleistocene, ca. 1.5 million years ago [with] traces of the earliest migration of Homo erectus out of Africa.

Tel Kinneret, Cannonite town site overlooking Lake Kinneret

Crossing the Jordan River as it enters the lake, too far from the lake to actually see the entry—I wonder if access to this confluence point is possible. The river at this point is about 4 meters wide, swiftly flowing, and I’m not sure how deep. A rather nondescript bridge marks the river, with some signs, mostly in Hebrew, and to the north side a ramp and flat area that might be where people immerse themselves as if Jesus baptized by John. The surrounding region is flat, with many planted fields, suggesting rich earth, maybe deposits of earlier fuller Jordan River waters.

Galilean hills

I learned that the sidewalk extending from the Church of Loaves and Fishes to the orthodox version of Capernaum (here also apparently 2 sites claimed to be holy in the same way) was constructed for the Pope’s visit in 2000. Because construction started only one month before his visit, it was finally completed in 2002. A hefty sweaty woman laboring over the path on a hot day kindly provided this information after I’d stopped to photograph the hill or Mountain of Beatitudes directly across from Capernaum. I thought this a likely spot where Jesus might have given his early, profound and enduring sermon.

Jordan River as it enters the Sea of Galilee

In Katzrin where I visited an archeological museum , I found more commercial facilities than I’ve yet seen on this Golan adventure. I finally found a replacement bulb for my flashlight, thanks to the diligence of a woman staffing the small hardware store. (Just in time for camping.) Then I tried a new food treat, French schnitzel. Apparently schnitzel means chicken (or other meat) fried in breadcrumbs, a sure sign of Jewish culture. The outdoor café offered about 10 forms of schnitzel. (I chose French because I seem to love everything French. I might have tried Polish or Chinese, etc.)

Many soldiers joined me as I ate, none speaking to me. Had they inquired about my trip, why I’m here and what I’m learning, I might have been tempted to ask them about the destroyed Arab villages, the mined areas, the explosions I keep hearing, the transport of tanks. What is all this about? But no one invited me into a conversation.

Earlier as I whizzed thru the landscape I noticed fleetingly what looked like an old rounded building remnant. Stopping I read the signs: do not enter—dangerous—mines! Glad they wrote in English and bothered to post the area. I might otherwise have explored. 2 rows of barbed wire fences sealed off the area. I did my best to show what may have been the ruins of an Arab village. This might contrast with the more idyllic photos I’m trying to make of the landscape. As I photographed, another one of those flatbed trucks roared by carrying a tank. Passing in the opposite direction, a large military tanker truck.

All this reminded me of recent history, the 1970s and the war that Israel almost lost.

Golan, site of a destroyed Syrian village

On this leg of my journey, driving, camping, I’m also reminded of 2 other similar trips: in 1982, across the Great Plains, solo, discovering that American Indians live (leading to my work with Lakota Sioux Indians), and in 1990, across the country with Y, our first long journey together, filled with joy, filled with argument. (She claims now that the trip hinted to her our basic incompatibility. Well, in this way I guess it was useful to her. But it was also a way to know the land better, our nation’s history, and ourselves.)

~~I blow heaps of snot from my nose, an after affect of my cold. Annoying but not debilitating. With this, a mild case of sore back, maybe the car seat I slept in last night. Which was actually more comfortable than sleeping on the train.~~

Offline I wrote ME from the hostel, then buying one hour of Internet access for $5 I sent the letter and did other web tasks. Surprisingly she has been one of the more responsive of my friends, relatively well tuned to this segment of my journey. Yet, she’s written virtually nothing about her own journey. So I asked again, what are you doing in Yemen? I forgot to mention to her how her reference to beauty helped inspire a photographic assignment to both my Gaza groups and a suggestion I hoped to make about reading Frederick Law Olmsted’s account of life in the south, since she wrote about her surprise when reading about slavery in the United States.

~~As I complete this entry the nature reserve staff has emerged from their homes, driven here, opened up the café, entrance station, and perhaps the information center. The region comes to life.~~

September 4, 2009, Friday, Tsfat, northern Galilee, Israel, Beit Shalom Guest House, in the dining room

With diarrhea. How did this happen, in Israel of all places, when I’ve been spared for nearly my entire 3 months, even in Jenin and Gaza? I think it was the water I accidentally drank yesterday that I thought I’d poured from my bottled water but instead may have been what I loaded up with further north in the Galilee. I’d run out of water, stopped in a roadside restaurant off some high winding highway, asked for a  refill for my 2 small bottles, carried them to the car. After the man who’d done this exclaimed, oh no, you can’t drink that. I thought you wanted it for your car, I bought a large bottle, drank from that, and then, when preparing for a hike, emptied one of those suspicious bottles, refilled with bottled water, and left the first filled with what I think I drank from later. I’d mixed the two up. And now I suffer. Or so it seems. It will give me a “taste” of bad water, helping me appreciate the “good.”

But this is minor, a small setback in an otherwise mostly healthy 3 months (except for my mild cold, which transformed into some 5 days of sticky gooey nose blowing, tailing off today. Legs are fine, tho sore; back is fine, tho occasionally stiff and sore; brain seems fully functioning; all other parts as far as I know in tip top condition.)

To the vital dream journal: with “Y” (I put her name in quotes because once again it was someone playing the part of Y, she didn’t look exactly like the real Y but I knew she fit the character description) we were discussing how to share living. We decided—no surprise—to go halves, half the time at my place, half at hers, but unlike my actual experience with Y we planned to live together continually, just switching locations. I wonder now how this might have worked in reality for us. I don’t recall ever discussing it with her.

A very funny water related dream (good night for dreaming, and I’m so grateful the shits did not begin during my sleep): something about various pools of water, one which would never be filled again, the other only partially filled. As I discussed this with others—the context may have been a university like Harvard—two huge boats resembling fish pulled up underwater and surfaced. Some older men emerged and we then talked about something, as if their vehicles were ordinary. The boats resembled dragons or mythical sea creatures. No one seemed to notice how odd they were and that they carried people.

This section of my dream stream included a tour, maybe of the pools. At the conclusion I thanked the man who’d toured us, Frank someone, and while doing this a young pretty small woman thanked me for attending and expressed her wish that I’d return for more visits. She may have been the same woman I’d danced with earlier, in some sort of group circle dance. Altho I thought she was with the man giving the tour, she seemed to be flirting with me—maybe truly interested in more visits with me.

A story from yesterday that was of great importance to me, virtually none to the universe, was how I found housing for the night. A saga with humorous and absurd parts. Once again I wasn’t sure where I’d land for the night, thinking maybe Tsfat since it sounded so intriguing in my guidebook. It seemed far away, unreachable. I’d been in the northern Golan exploring the Banias river source (this is exciting, more later, the universal part of the day’s story) and decided to aim for the nearest large town, Kiryat Shmona. Checking the guidebook, no listing for the town. I drove thru hoping to discover something off the highway. Nothing. Getting late, me tired and sweaty, hungry also because I’d eaten little since breakfast (paralleling the Ramadan fast, short form), I realized another fairly sizeable town was nearby, Rosh Pina. It was on neither of the two maps I carried. It was in the guidebook. I selected a reasonably priced and appealing sounding place, Hotel Mizpe Hayamin, read in the book it would be 300 shekels and up, which is higher than my usual budget but circumstances did not allow much choice, phoned and learned 300 and yes available, so I struggled to find the place, using their spoken directions.

Arriving, I thought of Harbin Hot Springs in California, very elegant, in lush surroundings, a spa and veggie restaurant included, all of which I’d bypass just for the 300 shekel bed, shower, maybe internet connection. A porter, young and handsome, greeted me with a dolly to carry in my luggage. Wow, what service, never seen anything like this. At the desk I read the invoice: 425 dollars.

DOLLARS! 425 DOLLARS! That’s half again what I paid for an entire month of luxurious housing in Ramallah and decent housing in Gaza.

They apologized. Sorry, we know it’s listed as shekels in your Lonely Planet guidebook, a big mistake which later editions corrected. Out of my range, I said, surprisingly calm. It was about 7 pm and I had no housing. Would you like us to find you a less expensive alternative? Sure. How about … and they suggested something more in my range: for 150 dollars. Well, OK, why not, a so-called bed and breakfast. Again out of my range, but the hour was late, I was tired, dirty, sore, hungry, and growing less calm and more frustrated.

The wife of the owner happened to be in the lobby of the Mizpe Hayamin hotel. She greeted me, gave me directions, and off I went, thinking OK, expensive but at least I won’t have to sleep in the car a second night, this time perhaps by the side of the road. Before leaving I asked the friendly porter, what sort of people stay here, it’s so expensive?

$425 is nothing, he replied, some rooms cost upwards of $1000 a night. The Israeli president was recently here, Shimon Peres, and his chief of staff, Gabi Ashkenazi. And rich Israelis, and lots of Europeans and Americans. Tips must be good, I offered. He smiled.

The story does not end here. I’m still without housing. Thinking about the B and B, its price, I decided too much. How would I justify this to my funders? Now what? Tsfat is not so far away, I’ll head for it, that was my earlier plan anyway, now at least I’ll be in a good spot for next day’s exploration. Checking my trusty guidebook, I found several candidates, including the Beit Binyamin hostel, the Ascent Institute of Tsfat, and the Beit Shalom guesthouse. I called each, using what I thought was the proper area code of 06. Each time I heard a recorded announcement that I’d made a mistake in dialing. I couldn’t reach any of them.

Head for Tsfat anyway (aka, Safed, Zefad,Ttzfat, Sfat), read from a sign what the correct code is, try that. At a roundabout I noticed about 5 signs for hotels, 06 preceded each number. I tried. Nothing, same recording. So I meandered, hoping once again for something to appear out of the mist that would welcome me home for one night at a price I could afford. Soon I found myself high on a winding street opposite the Carmel hotel which was in the guidebook, mid range housing. I rang the bell of this ancient building, peering thru the window at what looked like a hotel lobby, empty. No one answered. I tried the phone number, no answer.

Then somehow I saw a different area code, 04, maybe on a sign. Phoning the Beit Shalom guesthouse (I liked the name, House of Peace) I reached a recording in English and Hebrew that gave an alternate number. Phoning this mobile number I finally reached someone with decent English who confirmed availability and suggested 200 shekels. This is higher than I usually pay (from about 20 for the camp ground to about 100 for the Sea of Galilee hostel) but now I’m out of energy and time, it’s 8 pm.

I will skip the details of my struggle to find this place, but I managed, thanks to the friendly patient voice on the other end, the son of the woman who runs the place, and my mobile phone. Without it and him I’d never have found a home for the night.

Temple complex to the Greek god of nature, Pan, source of the Banias River

So much for that little adventure. Now for the real thing, the Banias River area, also called the Hermon Stream, the Banias National Reserve. The Banias is one of the main tributaries of the Jordan River, eventually flowing into Kinneret Lake (aka Sea of Galilee), then the lower Jordan, now mostly a trickle of sewage, ending sacrilegiously in the Dead Sea and either evaporating or seeping into an aquifer, polluting it. The headwaters are springs, and despite the late summer season and the drought were flowing copiously. As they had during the Hellenic period of Palestinian history. The Greeks built a temple to Pan, the god of nature, and sacrificed animals into a large cave. At the bottom of the cave were some of the springs forming the Banias. So they knew, those smart Greeks, about the connection between the sacred and the earthly, with water as a vehicle. They built other temples here as well, one about sacrificial dancing goats.

I’m slightly confused about watercourses here, reading an ambiguous statement in the park pamphlet. Either (quoting the pamphlet) the Hermon Stream receives its water from the southern slopes of Mt Hermon and the northern Golan. Its catchment basin is small—only about 150 sq km. Its main tributaries, the Sa’ar Stream (Wadi Hashba), the Si’on Stream (Wadi Asal), and the Guvet Stream, contribute about 20% of the annual flow of the Hermon Stream, which amounts to approx 125 mcm of water (1/4 of the water of the Jordan). Most of the water emerges as springs at the base of the Banias Cave…

Does this mean the Hermon Stream’s origins are the 3 streams mentioned which then become springs, or the streams are separate from the springs?

Banias River

According to Wikipedia: Whereas previously the Jordan River rose from the malaria-infested Hula marshes, it now rises from this spring and two others at the base of Mount Hermon. The flow of the spring has decreased greatly in modern times. The water no longer gushes forth from the cave, but only seeps from the bedrock below it.

The area is lush with fig trees, willows, and other emblems of a happy earth. Someone created pools to briefly hold the springs as they course downward toward their eventual destination and demise in the Dead Sea. I wonder what sort of temple the Greeks might have built at the Dead Sea had they realized the connection between the springs and the sea. Many visitors here, contrasting with some of the other historic and nature sites I’ve visited. This is part of a large complex which includes the palace of King Agrippa II, the grandson and successor to Herod , a cardo or main street, synagogue, shrine to a Muslim holy man, and other remnants of local history. Most of these at least partially reflect the Banias. Now we tourists come to pay homage to the waters, or at least that’s what motivated me to visit.

Maybe not all of us. Among the visitors yesterday was a group of about 30 young men, all in fatigue pants, some in boots, huffing and puffing up and down hills and thru the ruins shouting to each other, and then by the falls photographing each other. 4 women with rifles seemed to be leading them. I learned they were new army soldiers, filled with health, as my informant put it—heaps of youthful energy. May it continue to go into exercise and excursions such as this rather than maintaining the occupation.

Earlier at the Yehudiya Nature Reserve and campground, I’d hiked to the Sheik Hussein ruin (knowing nothing about its history, who inhabited it, when it was founded, who last lived here, why they left, altho I can guess some parts of this story), and then further to the Zavatin waterfall in the black gorge. A hike of about 3 hours for me, with all  my stops to photograph. The ruins are huge, with many buildings made of basalt stones not mortared. Some buildings had mortar. Several had window frames, no roofs survived. In the fields, piles of rocks everywhere suggested attempts to clear fields for cultivation. No cellar holes that I saw. Possible effects of war in wide-open walls.

Sheik Hussein village ruins

The gorge is deep with precipitous walls, showing the effects of water on basalt. Volcanoes some 3 million years ago deposited the basalt, and at times, when slowly cooling, created the signature hexagonal rock structures. The contrast between the ruins and the falls is vast, one showing human effects, the other nature’s effects, but both proving the truth of the Buddhist teaching: impermanence, all is temporary, nothing remains the same. This too shall pass.

~~Including my intestinal condition which at this point is still unknown. So I’m going easy on the eating, nothing that will require much work from my stomach, and I’m cautious with my gas, preparing to dispel it while sitting on the john, to test my condition. Should I eat the hard-boiled eggs I just cooked, and drink a second cup of coffee? Big questions of the morning. Along with how I will find an Internet connection?~~

Finding the Banias was a major coup for me, since I’d read about it for so long, wondered how it looked, and with no idea—never heard this part of the story—about the connection with sacred sites. I suppose I could devote more time to finding other Jordan River sources, but shall content myself with this one—this one big dramatic one.

I had one minor camera scare yesterday when in reviewing my most recent photos I noticed the thumbnails looked fuzzy and the cameras zoom function wouldn’t work. Oh shit, another corrupted file problem?! And this set contains my Banias photos.

Zavatin River falls

Removing and reinserting the card cleared up the problem. They downloaded successfully and in the review they all looked OK. Apparently just a little trick the camera played on me to keep my alert.

Weather has been hot and feels muggy at times, despite the altitude of the northern Golan.

I wandered very far north yesterday, to a few km north of Mas’ada, thinking I might reach or at least see Mt Hermon. The road became narrower and rougher, I was passing thru Druze villages, stopping in one to photograph children at school running races (was this El Rom or Mas’ada or somewhere else? Druze it was from the women’s clothing, the Arabic writing, and the mosques.), running out of water, and not sure where I’d stay for the night. I turned around and headed west out of Mas’ada down a steep road alongside a stream which I couldn’t see well, discovering the Banias reserve (near the Dan reserve which Beny had suggested I visit), thru Kiryat Shmona, a very large town, and to where I am writing now.

Mas’ada, a Druze village in the northern Golan

A short note about this guesthouse in Tsfat: I’m the only resident, paying 200 NIS. On my floor, the 2nd, are 4 bedrooms, each with about 2-3 beds and a separate toilet, a middle shared room which combines dining and cooking, a fridge which I guess I can raid at will, a porch that encircles the interior on at least 2 sides, with many tables suggesting at one time this guest house may have been more used, an upper story that I think I read about in the book with more rooms and a veranda or patio. Where the woman I met last night resides is a mystery to me. Also who is the younger woman on the phone last night, who disappeared, and the photos on the wall, suggesting family, one large portrait of a man looking very traditionally Israeli.

This building is opposite another with the same name. Are they associated? We are on a narrow street with old and new buildings. I hope to explore the neighborhood more fully later today.

Druze villages near the border with Syria

LINKS:

Banias area

Tel Kinneret, the Canaanite site

A more detailed report of excavations at Tel Kinneret

“Sea of Galilee Dropping; Bathers and Fish in Danger,” by Gil Ronen, May 30, 2008

Jordan River sources

The photography of Gali Tibbon