Photos from our journey in Jericho

Our troubled minibus stuck in the desert of Jericho.

Before the wide, asphalt road turned into narrow, winding paths we had the pleasure to be accompanied by to donkey-riding beduins. Their denim jeans and cell phones were a solid proof of the globalised world of today.

The monastery.

The wonderful sight of clouds casting their shadows over the hill tops of the desert. These photos make me shiver everytime I look at them. The scenery was extraordinary.

Narrow paths and deep clefts.

And finally, the story of the persistent seller:

One person must not be forgotten in this adventure; shortly after we had left our minibus a man drove up with a little tractor and started setting up a small booth with fresh orange juice. "Orange juice, Vitamin C!" he kept yelling, but to his great dissappointment we all walked past him without doing business. As persevering as can be, the seller packed together all his equipment, just to drive a few meters ahead of us, set up the booth again and cry out his sales pitch. Again, he would have to pack up without a profit, and the road was now to narrow for his tractor.

Hours later, when we had found our way out of the tangling paths of the desert, he was there again. "Orange juice, Vitamin C!" I believe this is persistence in the most true sense of the word.

Wandering Jericho Desert

Now, what do you do if you are lost in a desert and your guide cannot find the way? You keep on walking, of course!

In 2008, I went with the group for a walk in the desert of Jericho. It was the first time for me to see a desert and I expected piles and piles of sand. Jericho desert, however, is a rocky desert with steep, narrow paths that wind up around deep clefts. We went there in our minibus, passing camels and watching the landscape turning more and more dry and cracked. The minibus, though, was not quite built for such adventures and after a few nerve-racking attempts to go forward - with the result of the wheels spinning and the van sliding backwards down the steep hill - we decided to carry on by foot.

The view was spectacular. As far as your eyes could reach, the orange, dusty landscape transformed itself from hill top to hollow, then hill top again. We headed for a monastery built into the cliffs and when we arrived, we had a little rest.

When it was time to carry on, our guide steered us off the broad road we had walked so far and on to a narrow path. The path ran along the cliff and offered a breathtaking view over clefts at least 30 meters wide and God knows how deep. After a while, small holes started to appear in the path every now and again - not more than a proper stride would overcome easily, but it still allowed you a peep into the deep nothing beneath the very ground of your footsteps. It was a little scary - and amazing!

As we kept on walking, water supplies ran shorter. The sun felt hotter for every minute. Quiet murmurs of when we would reach the destination point started to occur. However, our little trip was no near to be over yet. Our path took us deeper into the rocky desert - and then it stopped! We reached a point where the path simply seemed to end, and we had to decide for ourselves if it would be best to carry on upwards or downwards. In such occations, it is a good and safe approach to have a guide with you. One, who knows his way around. Our guide, however, looked around, scratched the back of his very bald neck and exclaimed: "I do not understand this. It did not look lke this when I was last here - 22 years ago!" Apparently, rocks change too. Who would have imagined?

But we had to continue what was beginning to be an hour-long wander. So some started making their way downwards. The first, insecure steps were taken, and then there was a yelling from the other side of the cleft. A beduin was standing over there, yelling at us with one arm waving to catch our attention and the other arm pointing unmistakingly upwards. So we went up. And - maybe thanks to our new beduin friend - we eventually found our way back to the car that was waiting us with air condition and new water supplies.

Holy sites and adventurous suuq-trips in Bethlehem

The Nativity Church: A church built at the place where Jesus is said to have been born. The church houses several christian denominations, for example Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic.

Bethlehem is a fairly small, but lively town in the West Bank. The atmosphere is good, people are kind and welcoming (as they are, one will discover, pretty much everywhere in Palestine). Bethlehem is an important Christian town, as it is said to be the birthplace of Jesus. Thus, a fair number of - often Christian - tourists make their way to Bethlehem, and the trade from the many small souvenir shops keep the town a busy place, buzzing with energy. And, when you are done exploring the many shops offering you clothes, jewels, local craftswork, and wooden figures of Baby Jesus being born in the stable, the local suuq will be a good place to go. Suuq is Arabic for 'market' and here you can buy anything from fresh fruits and vegetables to meat in all sorts (except pig, of course).

The first time I went to the suuq, I was overwhelmed by the hectic atmosphere - and rather disturbed by the flies having a thrill nurturing themselves on the racks of raw meat out in the open (no, it was not kept cool, and no, I will most certainly never buy my meat at a suuq like this). All of the sudden, the whole market place seemed to be in an uproar. Arabic words were flying through the air, and after a short while of confusement I came to realise that I was causing this disturbance. A boy behind me was carrying most of a dead sheep on his back and he was quite keen on me stepping aside so he could get by and drop the beast as soon as possible. Even though I had cost him enough delay - and extra sore muscles later - I did not step to the side. The dead beast on his back was too dramatic a look for me and instinctly I kept running in front of the boy, trying to escape this dreadful scenery. If a had looked any more like a headless chicken, I am afraid I would have been sold at the market myself. It took me another few minutes before I was calm enough to let the poor boy pass and by this time, every person in the market was looking at me, amused and laughing. Or a least, so it seemed.

Having made a complete fool of myself in front of most of the local community, I do not think anybody could have blamed me if I did not go back. But I did. One afternoon, I decided to go buy some plums together with one of the girls from the group. We found are way around in the suuq (this time without scary sheep-incidents but still with the horror of the meat-feasting flies) and with every available gesticulation in the vocabulary of body language we managed to let one of sellers know that we wanted plums. So he kindly handed us one each so we could have a taste of what he had to offer. We had hardly swallowed our first bite before another seller was rushing towards us, uttering an endless stream of loud, Arabic words. He handed us a plum each as well and watched us with excitement as we tasted the difference. His plums were indeed better. Now, you are not much of a seller if you let possible customers go off to another seller, so the first one - of course - gave us a sample of yet another kind of plums. At that time, we did not care much for plums anymore, but with the whole suuq watching us we had to politely accept it and give it a try. In order to escape any more free fruit samples, we made a quick decision and bought half a kilo from each seller. This is the advantage of travelling with a big group of people: you do not have to eat all the plums yourself.

Me inside Nativity Church - this should be the exact spot where Jesus was born.

If the suuq is too much for your nerves, you can your fruit and vegetables in the street. This old woman was sitting in the street every day, and for some reason, she went straight to my heart.

View over Bethlehems streets.

Nuns in the yard of The Nativity Church.

Hebron

Hebron is situated in the West Bank. More than 150.000 Palestinians live here. Furthermore, Hebron house a group of about 500 Jewish settlers (both numbers are likely to have increased since I was there in 2008, though).

When I visited Hebron in 2008, we could not enter the new part of the city - a mobile check point had been put up and the rumours were that this was due to a house demolition carried out by the Israeli military because the people in this house were said to hide a member of Hamas. Like so many other times in this country, you will never be quite sure of what is really going on, though.

In stead, we found our way into the old city so we could see the mosque and the synoagogue that are built just beside each other.

It was a creepy experience - still today, I do not feel like going back. The streets were desolate, empty, with only a few children playing and a few people riding their donkeys. The houses stood there with their white, naked facades and I felt as if they were staring at me with their white, blind eyes.

Hebron has experienced much tension between the Jewish settlers and the Palestinian inhabitants. The city is holy within both religions, since it is said to house the grave of Ibrahim (for Arabs)/Abraham (for Jews). To muslims, Ibrahim's grave is holy because he is considered one of the first muslims. To Jews, Abraham is considered one of the great patriarchs. The clashes between Palestinians and Jews have been very fierce. In 1994, a Jewish settler entered the mosque during a prayer and killed 29 muslims and then committe suicide. Due to the tensions, the presence of Israeli military is massive.

Above: Ibrahim's/Abraham's tomb - seen from inside the mosque.
Below: Inside the mosque, inside and outside the synagogue that is just beside the mosque.

When we visited Hebron, our Palestinian friends from Bethlehem went with us. They had to show their identity papers three times before we could even enter the area, where the mosque and synagogue is. I remember the horror in the face of the young soldier as he saw us - he clearly had no idea of how to handle the situation. At the same time, I could feel our friends' anxiety everytime they had to pass over their identity papers. Not to mention the humiliation. When we were inside the mosque, a small group of 3-4 Jewish men were given a tour there. When we went to see the synagogue, the Palestinians were not allowed to enter along with us.

The photo shows a military control post (in the background).

The deserted streets of the old city in Hebron.

A painting on a house wall in Bethlehem:

The white dove of peace

- symbolicly dressed in a bullet proove vest.

A World Upside-Down

I remember watching 'Alice in Wonderland' when I was a little girl. I was freaked out by this twisted univers where nobody seemed to notice that everything was upside-down. When I think back at my first visit to Palestine, I remember being overwhelmed by the huge amount of information. Everywhere I went, I was met with yet another personal story that revealed a new side of the conflict and its many consequences. I was faced with rules, restrictions and living conditions I had never imagined could exist. Back home, I could not stop talking about it, as if I had to pass on the knowledge in order to gain relief from the shock it had given me.

Now, as I am here for my second time, I am no longer surprised by every new piece of information, but I feel more puzzled than ever. I have returned to a place where everything truly is upside-down. Checkpoints and refugee camps are a part of everyday life and speech. The control of peoples' movement is a fact. People quit good jobs that are hard to replace because the short travel of 20 kms from home to work takes them several hours. Everybody knows at least one person who has been to prison or they have been themselves. Often, they kan be held in prison for months or years without being charged for anything – the charges against them being ”classified information”. I am no longer shocked to my core with all the personal stories I hear and new facts I discover. I am deeply mooved by this information, but not surprised. All these restrictions and violations of human rights are horrible, but by and by you somehow get used to the endless ways these violations are carried out.

The screams of disbelief that filled your head at first slowly gets replaced by a silent sigh when you begin to consider the situation as normal. The sigh is a relief to the screams that threatened to burst your head, but it is nonetheless a deceitfull relief. The reality here is not normal and it must not be thought of as normal. It is an unnormality that is forced down on people as the normal state of life. To consider it normal is the first step in accepting an unacceptable situation.

Before I went to Palestine this summer, some people aksed me why I wanted to go back. I have been asked the same question by people here. My presence here will not change anything. But it lets people know that I care. That I support their fight to regain their rights and their freedom. Being here is really the only thing I can do. So – my answer is – how could I not return?

A morning full of excitement

The main streets of Ramallah centre are normally quite lively. Today the usual chaos of pedestrians and street traders mingling through the heavy morning traffic reached a so far unforeseen level as clusters of young people were filling up every free space in the streets. When I reached the office it was clear to me that something was going on.

Normally, the first hour or two at the office will go by in a calm pace, everybody silently agreeing on a certain level of drowsiness. To the scent of freshly brewed coffee people will get ready to launche themselves into the projects of the day and slowly the office will be buzzing with activity. But today was not the day to have a decent, humane wake-up. As soon as people met, they threw themselves over any available phone line, they chatted, cheered, clicked their tongues and clapped their hands. At first, I was lost in a state of complete, but cheerful bewilderment as the reason for the festivity remained a mystery.

It did not take too long, though, for somebody to realise that I was in need of a bit of cultural and linguistic translation. It turned out that today all the results for the graduate students' final test are made public and everybody was eager to find out if they had done well. As soon as the reason was made clear for me, the joyful atmosphere in the office had no need for further translation.

A beautiful evening

Last night, I treated myself with a warm meal for supper. On my first day in Ramallah I did a bit of grocery shopping, and among the obligatories of top-notch home cooking was pasta and tomato sauce. My culinary intentions soon came to an end, though, as I came to realise that my well-equipped kitchen did not house a stove. Day after day, the mogging of my un-cookable pasta left me with an increasing yearning for all sorts of pasta dishes, and yesterday I finally gave in. I went to Pronto's, an Italian restaurant in Ramallah, and to the sound of jazz music I enjoyed a beautiful meal while watching the sun set.

On my stroll back to home, the strong scent of jasmine flowers worked as magic dust in the cool air. You hardly notice these flowers during the day, but at night they send out their wonderful smell and you realise that they are everywhere.

To fulfil a perfect evening, I stayed up late and watched a few films with my roommate. When the early hours of the morning had finally made the street silent, it was time to go to sleep.

A few facts about the wall

The building of it began in 2002. Some places, it is a fence topped with barbed wire. Other places, it is made of eight meter tall concrete. It is estimated to be at least 700 km long – the official, internationally recognised, border between Israel and Palestine is about 350 km long. It does not take a big mathematical brain to realise that this does not add up. In stead of following the internationally recognised border, the wall seizes big parts of the West Bank as it is build around many Israeli settlements that lie within the Palestinian territory. It cuts off farmers from their land, divides neighbourhoods in two, and leaves the biggest water resources on the Israeli side of the wall. The Internation Court of Justice in The Hague has condemned the wall illegal.

More info on:
http://da.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israels_mur_p%C3%A5_Vestbredden
http://www.danpal.dk/index.php?doc=1248
http://frivillig.drk.dk/sw13021.asp
http://www.dr.dk/Nyheder/Udland/2006/04/22/035632.htm
http://www.berlingske.dk/verden/palaestinensisk-gandhi-metode-bekymrer-israel

The wall - big piles of concrete turning into a barbed wired fence

The wall - in the middle of the street just outside Bethlehem

One of the many watch towers along the wall

Children's drawings on the wall: I want my ball back!

Behind the Wall

On my first trip here we (the group) had gone to Jerusalem for a few days that had turned out to be exciting, turbulent and hard. I could not wait to go back to Bethlehem that had become almost like a home to me. However, when we approached the huge checkpoint between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, my eager to go back was mixed with a distinct feeling of reluctance. I did not want to be put behind those walls. I felt undignified, as if something deep inside of me had been violated.

Another story. During the same trip – but a week or so later – I had to catch a public bus in Jerusalem along with the others from the travel group. In a split second the images of busse blwon apart ran through my head. I got nervous, wondering if the ride would be safe. Very quickly I assured myself that there was nothing to worry about – because the wall was there to keep possible attacks away.

These two feelings, both very strong, provide a good example of the complexity of the situation here. It is so important to be nuanced and I do not believe that you are truly able to decide what you think is right and wrong if you do not listen to all the contrasting feelings inside you.

Probably any person in the world can imagine the horror of a bomb attack. It is much harder to imagine what restrictions in your freedom of movement feel like.

On the one hand, the wall and its checkpoints has hardly affected me during my stay here this summer. On the other hand, its presence penetrates so many aspects of daily life. Many of my colleagues live in Jerusalem or other places outside Ramallah. They never know how long it will take them to get home. Jerusalem is only about 20 km from Ramallah, but on a bad day it can take hours getting there. Checkpoint queues.

I have been in Ramallah for more than two weeks now, but I still haven't made it to Bethlehem to see any of my friends from the last trip. Bethlehem, just like Jerusalem, is only about 20 kms away from Ramallah, but the bus ride will take about 1 ½ hours. Work ends at 5 p.m. and it is not impossible to go to Bethlehem and back in the same evening. But the idea of having to spend as much time in a bus as with my friends has kept me from going. Just the thought of all the hazzle and the extra waiting that is very likely to occur simply wears me out. I only experience the restriction in freedom of movement on a tourist level. Many Palestinians have lost their jobs due to this restriction, if they are not born in Jerusalem they must apply for permittance to go there, and they never know how long it will take them to go from one Palestinian town to another.

Sounds of Ramallah

Days are going by in Ramallah and I am slowly getting used to the pace of the city. I normally wake up around 5 a.m. when the first beams of sunlight make their way through the curtains in my window. There is no trafic, no music, no people in the street. The silence of these early hours is true magic.

Half awake and half asleep I listen to the sounds of Ramallah slowly emerging.
The first person in the street is the boy who sells bread. His nasal voice cuts through the silence like a razor blade and wakes up the whole neighbourhood. Very soon, the traffic follows and adds its noise, the rythm of buzzing engines with honking horns setting the beat.

In the street you hear the sizzle of hot oil from the falafel shop, coffee boiling over the flames of a bunsen burner, and the tunes from Arabic songs mixing with an English version of Medina, and one of Aqua's golden oldies. Ramallah. A giant, musical melting pot.

In a few days, the Palestine Festival will begin. I am looking forward to add new sounds to my experiences in Ramallah.

Handala. A little boy with a big message

(Handala on the wall in Dheisheh Refugee Camp in Bethlehem)

Handala is a ten-year old refugee. He does not show his face to anybody, but only lets people see him from his back. With his hands firmly clasped together on his back he refuses to accept the solution the outside worlds suggest to the solve the conflict in his country. He does not believe in these solutions. He will not face people again, and he will not grow up, until he can return to the homeland he was forced to fled so many years ago.

In 1969, the Palestinian cartoonist Naji Salim al-Ali drew Handala for the first time. Ever since he has been a symbol of resistance towards the occupation, and representing the longing for a free country he has become of a part of the Palestinian identity.
I first heard about him in 2008, when I visited Dheisheh Refugee Camp near Betlehem, one of the many refugee camps that were established from the war that followed the officiel enunciation of the state of Israel.

In the camp is a house for common activities and gatherings. The walls in the never ending stair case leading you up through the narrow, tall building were full of drawings and poems made by the refugees living in Dheisheh.One of these drawings depicted Handala.

The story about Handala is important, but it is so hard to tell. In 1987 Naji Salim al-Ali was assasinated and Handala lost his chance to show his face again, to show his eyes, his identity. The destiny of this little figure is painfully symbolic to the destiny of the Palestinian refugees whose only hope and dream is to return to the home they left when they fled the war. A home that probably no longer exists. It is the story about clinging to hope in a hopeless situation.

Dreams of the sea

(Photo: Sunrise at The Dead Sea)

Imagine this. Your homeland is dusty, rocky, dry. Almost a desert. Only the strongest plants survive the summer that lasts for months and allows no rain to fall. Within less than an hour's drive, you can reach the sea shore. The energy of the waves and the wind blowing through your hair makes you feel alive. Here, you can breathe. Or so you have been told. In the endless mythic stories about a sea that you have never been allowed to visit.

A baking, hot summer is a reality in Palestine. A limitation to water resources is a reality in Palestine. And so is dreaming of the sea. Even though the furthest distance from the West Bank to The Mediterranean Sea is only about 70 km, many Palestinians have never seen it. During the short time I have been here, I have read children's poems about longing for the sea. I have heard stories about children who would go to the roof top of their houses to get a view of the ocean. These children cannot see the ocean anymore. Now, their gaze is blocked by a grey concrete wall. Being in Palestine, it will not take you long to realise that the dream of the sea has become a part of the Palestinian identity as a symbol of the longing for freedom and the end of occupation.

Mufiid, one of my co-workers at PYALARA, told me that not so long ago he went to Turkey with a group of young volunteers from PYALARA. This was his first flight ever. And the first time many of the children saw the sea. They had been thrilled by the sight of it. Gazing at the foamy waves, one of them had asked Mufiid: ”Is this really the sea?”

Imagine young children gazing at the sea, wondering if it always so blue. And try to keep this image in mind next time you go swimming.

Do you know your neighbour?

I once found myself in a desperate need of a hand blender. What seemed to be a very promising soup on Jerusalem artichokes was boiling on my stove, spreading a wonderful smell that reached every corner of my tiny flat. It was time to add the finishing touch, but in my search for the hand blender I realised that I have never owned one. The thought of having to give up my soup and eat porridge or dry bread for dinner instead made me do the almost unthinkable: I knocked on my neighbour's door to ask her if she had a blender I could borrow. I had lived there for more than half a year. This was the first time we met.

Knocking on an unknown neighbour's door to borrow a silly piece of kitchen supplies wasn't easy. I remember going through an inner struggle, considering the do's and dont's that are implicit within the Danish culture. A culture in which people are used to taking the safe approach and minding their own business instead of sharing their thoughts, emotions, and needs. Instead of overtly showing that they do care for the person next door.

In Denmark, we often blame the long, dark and cold winter for our inverted and slightly cold behaviour towards each other. Maybe there is something to it. The warmth and the unlimited hospitality of the Palestinian people definately seems to be as persistent and reliable as the hot Middle Eastern summer.

Last night I went to buy some water at the local store just beside my home. I never got to buy the water, but was invited to stay and have a cold drink with the owner and his two daughters, Abiir and and Dina. We talked for at least an hour. About my stay in Palestine, about their lives and my life. When it was time to close the store, I was invited to join them for a cup of Arabic coffee at a funfair located on a hill top in Ramallah. We had almost reached the fair, when Djamila, the oldest daughter in the family, called her father on the phone and decided that she would like to meet me too. We went back to the centre to pick up her and her six months' old baby Anass and, unable to make room for more people in the car, it was time to head back to the funfair. Within a few hours I got to know my neighbour in Ramallah better than the one in Denmark.

The Arabic phrase for welcome is 'ahlen wa sahlen'. Literally, 'ahlen' means that you are considered family and 'sahlen' expresses the hope that you will find it comfortable setting foot on the land. I am met with unnummerable 'ahlen wa sahlen's every day - and I truly feel welcome. I feel gratitude simply for being here, in Palestine, recognising both the beauty and the struggle of this country and its people.

One of the many beautiful old houses in Ramallah

Rukab's Ice Cream near Manara in Ramallah center. Popular and famous for its ice cream - and one of the landmarks ensuring me that I am on the right way home to DHIP.

A few words from Ramallah

Aah, asiir limuun: Fresh lemon juice with mint and sugar. It simply does not get any better. The fresh mint, slightly bitter lemon and the sugary twist is the taste of summer and good life.

I have been in Ramallah a few days now and things are good. Everybody is friendly and meets me with curiosity, kindness and polite attempts to understand my Arabic. To say the least, my vocabulary is inadequate and my pronounciation is not always as understable as I would like it to be.

My work at PYALARA is in progress. I will be working together with Ahmed, who has been with the NGO for around ten years, and we will conduct a course in journalism and creative writing in English. At this moment there is a great deal of planning to do, but we are getting there, and Friday we will get started. It will be challenging - and great fun!

Sharing a waterpipe and check point experiences

(Photo: Waiting in line at a check point)

I spent most of my first day in Ramallah resting, grocery shopping and trying to get settled. In the evening, I went out to a cafe with Dennis, who is also staying here for a short while. We met his friends in the cosy back yard of a cafe in downtown Ramallah. To the familiar bubbling sound of waterpipes and with the tobacco's sweet smell in my nose, I listened to their conversation, silently trying to truly understand that I am now here.
One of the girls told us that she has recently been stopped in a check point where her car was pulled apart into pieces and examinated. When she left the check point two hours later, the car was leaking oil.

Just before midnight we were all ready to ge home. I hadn't had a proper sleep for more than 24 hours and I couldn't wait to find my bed. When we came home, we realized that a wedding was being held in the lower part of our building. The festive music was playing, party lights were on and children were playing in the street. It was great – and it didn't stop me from sleeping heavily. However, today I went to the local drug store to get ear plugs – just in case of more wedding party or other unforeseen, noisy, wonderful events.

Arabic welcome in Ramallah

While I was waiting for my bus in Jerusalem the sun came up. By the time I had reached Ramallah, it was full day light, yet still pleasantly cool. Ramallah is located on a hill top, about 800 metres high, and I welcomed the slight breeze of the wind when I walked around trying to find DHIP (Danish House in Palestine).

It was around 7 am, and the town was still quiet, but a few people were out in the street. Whenever I stopped to ask for directions, I was met with friendliness and the wish to help. However, DHIP is not yet well known in Ramallah, and the map I had was not of much use spotting the exact location. As the office at DHIP does not open until 8, I sat down for a rest.

After a few minutes, a young guy came out from the building across me and offered me inside for a cup of Arabic coffee while I was waiting. The Danish part of my mentality was telling me not to intrude, but I decided to leave this part aside and embrace the Arabic hospitality.
So we had coffee. As black as the night, as sweet as love and as strong as death. I once heard a saying about Arabic coffee, and even if I have not remembered it correctly, this description will do just as well. Arabic coffee is heavy stuff.

After sipping the coffee and talking about all sorts of daily life stuff, my new friend showed me around Ramallah, constantly borrowing me his phone and making sure I had enough to drink as the heat of the day began to kick in. After quite a few tours around in the main streets of the city, we finally found DHIP.

(Photo: The bazaar in the old city, East Jerusalem)

Getting a black card

The flights from Copenhagen-Zürich and Zürich-Tel Aviv went smoothly. In Ben Gurion Airport, though, there was a bit of a hazzle. I was sent through the passport check fairly quickly and thought that it would all there was to explaining what my purpose for coming to Israel and Palestine was. When they send you further on they give you a card - I discovered at least two colours; some had been given a red one, but the print om my card was black. When I handed it to the lady in the next checking post, she told me that they had to ask me some questions - so in less than in about half a minute, I was introduced to no less than three different women and finally having to answer the same questions I had been asked by the first one: Why have I come here, have I been here before, do I know anybody here, how long will my stay last, am I absolutely sure that I don't know anybody here, where will I be going first - where will I be staying, can I show them my hostel booking confirmation....

The lady pointed our to me that I seemed a bit shaky; it was not until then I realized that my hands were shaking like and old lady's. No wonder. I was beginning to worry that I had not prepared myself well enough in case she would begin a real interrogation. But finally, I passed through.

The whole situation probably didn't last any longer than five minutes, but it felt like forever. Even though I had planned to stay an hour or two in the airport so I would not have to wait so long for my bus once in Jerusalem, I couldn't get out of the airport fast enough.
Driving from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem I glanced out the window, once again overwhelmed by the beauty of the night: twinkling stars – thousands of them in sight, but their light is over powered by the immense darkness that make sky and ground almost melt together. Tiny, white lights are spread out on the enourmous hill tops in the horizon, revealing the curvy formations of this incredible landscape. Despite unpleasant questions in the airport, it felt good being back.

(The photo is from The Western Wall.)

Getting in the mood

Sit down. Feel the sun burning in your face. Close your eyes and imagine the smell of strong, sweet arabic coffee mixed with all sorts of fresh spices.

And let this music take you away:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BArymog9wTU&feature=PlayList&p=F4898A052239FEF3&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=33

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKvrD3oWE0k&feature=PlayList&p=F4898A052239FEF3&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=5

On my first trip to Palestine I watched a concert with this band in The International Center of Betlehem. They play songs from many different countries in The Middle East, and the music always gets me in a good mood.

A list of films I can highly recommend:

Lemon Tree (Danish title: Citronlunden)

Waltz with Bashir

Ma Salama Jamil (Danish title: Gå med fred, Jamil)

Fra Haifa til Nørrebro

Buzz of butterflies

Busy, narrow streets, dazzling heat, the sounds of traffic mixing with church bells and calls for prayer from the minarets. Oh yes. I have butterflies in my stomach. Tomorrow, I am going to Palestine and Israel and I constantly find myself breathless with excitement. It will be my second time there. My first trip to the area was arranged by Logumkloster Folk Highschool and I went with a group of other young Danes.This time, I will be on my own.

So far, my plans are to work for a Palestinian Youth Association called PYALARA: Palestinian Youth Association for Leadership and Rights Activation. In this organisation they introduce young Palestinians to different media in order to give them journalistic skills and a channel for expressing themselves. At this point, I am not quite sure what my jobs or projects will be like, so more about this later.

I will be staying in Ramallah. Ramallah is one of the biggest cities in The West Bank and is located about 15 km north of Jerusalem. I have been in Ramallah before but on a one day trip only, and I can't wait to come back and make this hectic, chaotic – and most likely amazing – city my new, temporary home.

Welcome to my blog

When I decided to do this blog, I twisted my brain to figure out a title that would encompass all that I would like this blog to be about. A limitation to the amount of letters used in the title did not make this project any easier - everybody who knows me will agree that I am in no way good at expressing myself shortly. Finally, I decided that a title is never so important that it should keep a story from being told. So here you have it: My blog. No title. Welcome!