Yesterday’s flight looked bad and today looked better. So we spent the day at the beach playing in the Mediterranean and recovering from the late night we’d had. It was very pleasant even with the gunship helicopters and military transports that flew over the beach every five minutes or so. There was a lot of activity up and down the coast with helicopters and aircraft coming and going, presumably from Lebanon.

We left Jerusalem on Tuesday evening, which was the same day Condi was in town causing all sorts of traffic jams and mayhem.

There’s one Delta flight per day from Tel-Aviv to Atlanta that departs at 11:40 p.m. We’re flying on pass, which means we show up at the airport and hope there are open seats. There were none Tuesday night so we had to find a hotel in Tel-Aviv, which is about 20 minutes north of Ben Gurion Airport.

Tel-Aviv is a tourist/vacation town located on the Mediterranean. Summer time is when most Israelis are taking there vacations and all the hotels we called didn’t have any rooms available, except one: The Ami Hotel. By the time we had called hotels, rounded up our bags, got a cab and got to Tel-Aviv, it was 2:00 a.m.

When we arrived at the Ami Hotel it was difficult to discern if it was a crack house or a whore house. Maybe both. One thing was for sure: my family was not going to stay in this place. Things got even better when we realized we had no more sheckels (Israeli currency) for paying additional taxi fare to search for hotels up and down the main strip.

It was unclear whether our taxi driver was in a hurry or just a dick when he left me, my wife, two little girls and all our baggage in front of a crack/whore house, speeding off into the night without even giving me the change he owed me.

We went to a hotel across the street from the Ami. It was nicer than the Ami and the front desk guy wasn’t loaded. They didn’t have any rooms available and no, our children could not sit in the lobby while one of us walked up and down the main strip inquiring about room availability at the many hotels that lined the street. So at 2:30 a.m., I found myself standing on a street corner in Tel-Aviv with a pile of luggage and two very tired and cranky little girls while Kacey went across the main strip to check for room availability at the hotels there.

At one of the hotels, Kacey encountered an angel of a woman at the front desk who actually called other hotels to see if they had a room was available. She found one and we hauled our bags several blocks up the street to the Shalom Hotel. It was a meager hotel, but very nice and clean. It was 3 a.m. by the time we got checked in and to bed.

We’re at Ben Gurion Airport, hoping to get seats on the 11:40 p.m. flight to Atlanta. It’s not looking good at the moment, but we’ll give it a shot nonetheless. The worst thing that can happen is that our luggage will be put on a flight will be sent to Peru and we’ll stay the night in Tel Aviv then do this all over again tomorrow.

Meanwhile, it gives me time to sit in the food court where people keep coming up to me and talking to me in Hebrew. I’m not sure why this keeps happening to me. I’ve checked the top of my head to make sure somone didn’t slip a yarmulke up there as a practical joke. I just smile, say “shalom” then confess that I don’t speak Hebrew.

On Sunday, we got a handful of interviews at Hebrew University, but needed to talk to more people. So, we went to the Jewish Quarter of the Old City where Kacey spent yesterday afternoon interviewing Jewish shop owners and every day people she approached. Of course, some people didn’t want to be interviewed, but most were happy to talk about their life in Israel.

The overall all tone here is this: tired. Israelis are tired of constantly being at war. There are tired of having to defend themselves against attacks. They are tired of having to send their young people to war to defend Israel. They want peace. They want to go on with their lives without disruption and fear.

Opinions of how to achieve peace range greatly.

Some saw a two-state solution as the only hope for peace. Others saw no hope for peace; rather, it was an all-or-nothing deal. One side would win and one side would lose. And the losing side could not and would not be Israel.

One woman Kacey interviewed said that the situation wouldn’t end until all the Arabs left Israel.

“Where would they go?” Kacey asked.

“To live in one of the 22 other Arab countries out there.”

Based on our interviews with Palestinians, that’s not going to happen. Their home is here—not in Saudi Arabia, Syria or Egypt.

We had been told about a house in Ramla, a small town west of Jerusalem, that was called Open House. The house had been owned by a Palestinian family prior to the war in 1948 at which time they were driven out by Israeli forces along with thousands of other Palestinians who lost their homes.

Years later, the son of the Palestinian man who had built the house in 1936 returned to his home where he was greeted by a young Israeli Jewish girl named Dalia who gave them a tour of the house.

After Dalia’s parents died, she dedicated the house as a place of education and reconciliation. Today, a kindergarten of mixed Arab and Jewish children is run in the Open House.

[The history and moving story of Open House is told in The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East by Sandy Tolan.]

Kacey had contacted the resident director, whose name was Ofer, and asked if she could come interview him.

Ofer was very open to being interviewed and told us that if we could come that evening there would be a houseful of people, both Arab and Jewish Israelis, that she could interview.

They were having a going away party that night for a group of Dutch people who had raised money to come and do some needed repairs on the house. They were leaving to return to Holland that night.

We caught an 8:00 p.m. bus to Ramla from the central bus station in Jerusalem. The journey took about 40 minutes. Most of the other passengers on the bus were young military personnel. At first, it’s a bit frightful to be around so many young people with automatic machine guns. But after a while, you get used to it and don’t really think about it much anymore. After a while, you just get used to seeing Israeli soldiers with machine guns all over the place and stop noticing it any longer. It just becomes the norm.

Open House is a meager brick home. The going away party for the Dutch group was out back on the patio. We sat and talked and ate while the girls played on the small playground equipment.

Kacey got several good interviews with people there before we had to go catch the return bus to Jerusalem.

A couple days later, she met with and interviewed Dalia at our hotel here in Jerusalem.

At dinner Monday evening, Isaac introduced us to a friend of his named Aryeh because he believed he could help us with our project.

Aryeh had been a journalist with the Jerusalem Post and knew all sorts of people, including very important people. Now Aryeh worked for the Anti-Defamation League (ADL) and was quickly eating dinner before having to go across the street to the King David Hotel for a meeting.

The head of the ADL was in town from New York and there would be a flurry of activity. The ADL is a Jewish organization that seeks to combat defamation of Jews. Specifically, according to the ADL Charter of October 1913, “[The ADL’s] ultimate purpose is to secure justice and fair treatment to all citizens alike and to put an end forever to unjust and unfair discrimination against and ridicule of any sect or body of citizens.”

Aryeh was a small energetic man who ate his pasta at warp speed. Between bites, he provided us with some ideas of where we could speak with Israeli Jews. He didn’t seem very interested in our project or perhaps he just became preoccupied with telling stories.

Once upon a time Aryeh had owned a blue and white Suzuki jeep he called “The General Lee”. He called it that because he had a sticker of the Confederate flag on the back and a plastic statue of General Lee mounted on the dashboard.

I thought it a bit odd for someone from the ADL to display such icons of American history. Aryeh was born to Irish parents who converted to Judaism. He grew up in Louisiana. Surely he knew what the Confederate flag and General Lee represented. Perhaps he was just mocking racist rednecks who still proudly waved the Confederate flag as a representation that African-Americans, as a lower race of people, should have remained slaves. If that were the case, however, I didn’t see the connection. It seemed to me that someone from the ADL shouldn’t be anywhere near condoning the symbolism of the Confederate flag nor drive a jeep that was christened “The General Lee”. If it was indeed some sort of mocking of such things, it was at best in the poorest of taste. At worst, he was truly celebrating what the South had stood for—the hypocrisy of which would be staggering.

Aryeh loved The General Lee and was very upset when it was stolen one day.

“I began calling all my contacts in the Palestinian Authority to see if they could find my jeep,” he said.

The jeep was finally tracked down in Hebron. Aryeh was informed that the jeep had already changed hands about a half dozen times and he would need to pay NIS 7,000 (about $1,500) to get it back.

“Of course, I had to get The General Lee back,” Aryeh said. “So I went to Hebron to buy it back.”

After many hours of coffee and tea and waiting for someone to bring The General Lee, it finally arrived.

“The flag had been torn off the back and the statue of General Lee busted off the dashboard,” Aryeh said. “I couldn’t believe it. Why would they do that? Only his boots remained.”

Isaac tried to console Aryeh that he could probably find another plastic statue of General Lee to mount on the dashboard of The General Lee.

“Maybe on eBay,” he said.

“I don’t know,” Aryeh said. “I got that one at a museum when I was a kid. I doubt it.”

Aryeh was done with his story, done with his pasta and needed to get over to the King David Hotel for the important meeting with the head of the ADL.

On Sunday morning, Kacey telephoned the public relations department at Hebrew University requesting permission to come on campus and interview students for her project. HU’s spokesperson granted the permission and we jumped in a cab to go across town to the campus.

We interviewed a dozen people at HU. Mostly students but some other people too, including the librarian.

The best interviews were a group of four young men with differing opinions of why things were the way they were. At one point, their discussion swung to Hamas and Hezbollah. One of the security guards, who I’d noticed loitering near us where we sat on the grass lawn, came over and spoke to one of the young men.

While the interviews carried on, I went over and told the security guard that we had permission from the public relations department to be on campus conducting interviews.

“It’s okay,” the student said. “I tell him we are open-minded campus and discuss politics openly. No problem.”

But apparently it was a problem.

After the student sat down with the rest of the group. I stayed with the security officer and talked some more. Apparently, it wasn’t okay to have open discussions about politics, especially regarding the Arabs.

“We have lots of Arabs here,” the security guard explained. “No political discussions like that about Hezbollah or Hamas. It could create big problem.”

“Okay, okay. It thing they are done now,” I said. “We were just talking to them about life here and, you know, the situation in Lebanon just came up.”

And how could it not have? Hezbollah rockets being fired into northern Israel where two dozen Israelis, mostly civilians, had been killed during the past two weeks was on everyone’s minds and permeated every discussion we had, especially with Israeli Jews.

We met Isaac because the woman carrying his coffee thought I was his son.

She was carrying his coffee because Isaac is old and walks with a cane. He’s missing his right middle index finger from mid-knuckle down and when I shook his hand, I could feel the nub of knuckle pressing firmly into my palm.

Isaac laughed at the woman’s mistake.

I laughed too and offered for him to just sit with us.

“No, no, I don’t want to interrupt you,” he said. He had picked up his coffee by the saucer beneath the cup. It was quaking in his hands as he barely grasped it with the nub of index finger.

“Really, it’s not a problem,” I said.

He sat.

Isaac was visiting from Florida. He was a Jew and had lived in Jerusalem all his life prior to retiring to Florida. He had served in the Israeli army during the War of Independence in 1948. Before that, he lived under British occupation.

“Now, you see the King David over there?” he asked, pointing over to the King David Hotel across the street from where we sat.

We did.

“Now, that was the central hub of the British administration,” he said. “Listen, before Israel became a state there were underground organizations that were working to uproot and oust the occupying British. One of the tactics used was…” He paused for a second. “Well, it was terrorism against the British occupiers,” he continued. “There’s no other way to describe it.”

“Now,” he said. “They knew that the hub of the British administration was right there in the King David Hotel, so they picked that as a target. They cased the joint and noticed that milk was delivered everyday at 6:00 a.m. A truck would arrive carrying large metal containers of milk and those containers would be unloaded into the kitchen. So the Ergon—that was the name of one of the resistance groups—made a plan to get bombs into the building by faking the milk delivery. One morning, about 20 minutes before the regular delivery, some Ergon members in Arab dress, arrived at the King David with a truck-load of explosives hidden inside milk containers. The containers were unloaded into the kitchen and they drove away. Now, they wanted to limit the number of casualties, so they telephoned the British high commander whose office was located in the the King David and told him that there were explosives in the administrative wing of the hotel and that they had 20 minutes to evacuate. Now, instead of notifying everyone, the commander went to the opposite end of the hotel. When the regular milk truck arrived at 6 a.m., the guys in the kitchen knew that something strange was going on. But it was too late. The explosives hidden inside the milk containers went off. Ninety-six people perished.”

We told Isaac about our project and that we were having problems finding Israeli Jews to interview. He gave us the names of some places he thought we would find people to interview.

We asked if we could interview him.

He smiled and laughed.

“No, I’m just a boring old man who will only talk about the past,” he said.

“The past is very important,” I told him, thinking of the story he had just told us about the King David Hotel.

But he declined to be interviewed and his opinions and stories would go unrecorded.

We arrived in Jerusalem late Friday afternoon, just in time to check into our hotel and walk down to the Western Wall to witness the celebration of the beginning of the Sabbath. The plaza was packed with groups of people, some just tourists like us observing everything, but mostly Jews celebrating. Some were clearly large Jewish tour groups. They were standing in circles singing songs in Hebrew.

To get into the Western Wall plaza, you pass through a metal detector and security check where they search your bags. There are a lot of police and soldiers in the plaza as well. I also noticed that there were young Jewish males who were carrying crude bolt-action rifles along with their backpacks. The Jewish man in front of me on the steps going down to the security checkpoint had a 9mm slipped into the waist-band of his pants.

Meanwhile, a constant stream of Orthodox Jews passed through the plaza on the way to the Western Wall to pray. They were easily recognizable because they wore black suits and large black hats. Some of them wore large, round furry hats.

Emma noticed this right away and inquired about this seemingly unsensible fashion choice for such a climate.

“Why do they wear furry hats when it is so hot?”

Indeed, it must have been uncomfortable along with the long black overcoats they were wearing.

“It’s their tradition,” Kacey explained.

Emma contemplated the furry hats a bit longer. She began giggling.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Those hats are funny.”

Down on the plaza, there were signs posted that informed visitors that smoking, use of cellphones and taking of pictures were prohibited on the plaza.

Kacey wanted to film of course, so we went up a set of stairs leading out of the plaza and she filmed from there.

“You can’t film this,” I told her. I could read one of the posted signs right from where we were sitting.

“It says that you can’t take pictures ‘on the plaza’,” she said. “We’re not on the plaza any longer. I’m going with a very literal interpretation.”

She kept filming until one of the officers came up the steps wagging his finger at her and telling her “No picture, no picture.”

She put the camera away.

“Told you so,” I said.

“Well, I got a few minutes of footage anyway.”

We left the Western Wall and walked up through the Muslim Quarter of the Old City.

The sun had gone down the shops were reopening for the evening. One of the shops we stopped in was run by a Palestinian from Hebron. We told him about our project and he agreed to be interviewed. Like most of the Palestinians we’ve interviewed, he was eager to pour forth his story and his opinions, especially about the war in Lebanon. For the most part his view of the current situation was quite similar to the Arab view I put forth in an earlier blog entry (see: Burning, Burning, Burning). He added, however, that he believed that America was purposefully using Israel to do its dirty work against Hezbollah with the hope of dragging Iran into the conflict.

“I think American people are very good,” he said, smiling at me. “But your government is making tragedy for Lebanese people.”

We woke at 4 a.m. to begin the journey from Amman back to Ramallah.

We took a cab to the Allenby Bridge (King Hussein) Crossing, where Linda was separated from us to go with the rest of the Palestinians who are segregated from the rest of the foreigners crossing the border.

After paying the Jordanian exit tax and getting an exit visa, we sat in the waiting area where we waited for the bus that would take us to the crossing.

We waited and waited. We were attacked by tiny flies that had invaded the waiting area. Meanwhile the day grew hotter.

Our plan was to cross the border and take a bus to Jericho where we’d meet up with Linda’s friend, Rami, and wait there for her.

Things weren’t looking good though. The Jordanian officer at the entry gate told Linda to go with us and just show her British passport. Linda didn’t think that would work and when we finally got to the passport window, that’s when the officer there sent Linda packing over to the Palestinian area. It wasn’t his fault. He said that the Jordanians would let here through, but as soon as she showed up on the Israeli side, they would send her back.

Finally our bus arrived and we took the short trip to the border crossing. When you arrive at checkpoint on the Israeli side, everyone gets off the bus and lines up for passports checks. If you have no stamps in your passport (as we did), the officer looks at you suspiciously.

“Do you have another passport?”

“No,” I said.

“Why no stamps?”

“The stamps we received were on separate pieces of paper.”

He flipped back through each page of my passport again looking for stamps that were not there.

He didn’t seem content with the fact that there were no stamps in my passport, but handed it back and told me to have a nice day.

That was just the checkpoint. When you get to the arrival gate, you hand your passport over with your baggage. Your baggage goes on a conveyor belt to be x-rayed and checked for bombs. After they check your passports, you go through a metal detector and any bags you’re carrying go through an x-ray machine.

When we came through the metal detector, the officer on the other side asked what the purpose of our visit was.

“Tourism,” I said.

“Are you aware of the situation here?” she asked, referring to ongoing rocket attacks by Hezbollah in northern Israel.

“Yes, we are aware,” I told her.

“You are brave tourists I think,” she said.

I smiled at her. Maybe we were. Or maybe we were just foolish. Either way, we needed to go to Israel.

If you were a Palestinian, you went into this large detector device that blasted you with air while sensors looked for trace residue of bomb-making material.

If you were American, they ushered you past the ominous device and on to Passport Control where you fill out paperwork and get your visa.

If you’re Palestinian you go to one area. All other nationalities go to other booths.

“Where are you going?” the officer at the booth asked.

“Jerusalem.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“With a friend.”

“What’s the friend’s name?”

“Um, we only know her first name,” Kacey said then explained how we’d never met her but had been given her name by Rabbi David Zaslow who we knew in the States.

“Are you Jewish?” she asked.

“No.”

She stamped our passports and sent us on our way to go pickup our baggage.

If you’re Palestinian, you wait in one area why they manually search your bags.

All other nationalities went directly to the conveyor belts to pickup luggage.

Outside, we caught a bus to Jericho where we met up with Rami and waited for Linda.

She wasn’t far behind us, but only because the Jordanians had moved her quickly through the processing on their side of the border because they knew she was traveling with us.

We saw some the sites in Jericho, but tired quickly from the heat. Most everything was closed too. On Wednesday, Israeli Defense Forces invaded Nablus. Nine Palestinans were killed during the invasion, one of whom was a from Jericho. The shops were closed in memory of him and in protest of his killing. Every once in a while we were passed by a truck full of young men waving posters of the martyered young man and blaring music.

We began the long, hot drive from Jericho to Ramallah, which consists of miles and miles of nothing but barren hills. Every once in a while, we’d pass a small shack with a corrugated roof and walls made from abandoned automobile doors and hoods. Sometimes there were people herding goats and you’d wonder how they were all (man and goat alike) surviving amidst so much emptiness and heat.

We went through five checkpoints along the way. Apparently the sun had cooked any interest out of the Israeli soldiers at the checkpoints. We handed them all four of our American passports, which they’d just leaf through then hand back and send us on our way.

We arrived in the evening at the City Palace Inn Hotel in Ramallah, which is where we are now hanging out and arranging for a place to stay in Jerusalem. Linda is translating the last few interviews from Arabic to English.

We’re leaving for Jerusalem today and Linda is heading back to Nablus. Nablus has been closed for the past few days, following the invasion of Nablus on Wednesday.