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.