Middle Eastern Travels: Day-trips in the West Bank

Stressed by the big city, a traveller takes a wee jaunt to <strong>Hebron</strong>

Feature by Ally McLeod | 04 Mar 2011

Like so many places in Palestine, Hebron’s history is one of loss, conquest, claim and counter-claim. The most recent source of ‘tensions’ is probably the return of the Jews to the city after the 1967 war in the form of the settlements in and around Hebron. Over 160,000 Palestinians and 500-800 Jews live there and the city contains the Tomb of the Patriarchs, a site holy to Judaism, Christianity and Islam, where it is believed Abraham and his family are buried.

In 1995 an American-born Israeli settler and doctor named Baruch Goldstein picked up his army-issue rifle, put on his reservist uniform, walked into the Ibrahimi Mosque and killed 29 and injured 125 Muslims who were praying at the Tomb of Abraham. The survivors overpowered him and beat him to death. The West Bank erupted in riots and 26 Palestinians and 9 Israeli soldiers were killed in the suppression. Goldstein’s gravesite became a shrine for extremists and lies in a nearby settlement. Attacks and discrimination continue from both sides, with frequent reports of Israel Defense Forces observation but non-involvement. This is after centuries of pogroms, expulsions and slaughters that have punctuated the coexistence in Hebron. To use that nauseating weasel word, ‘tensions’ remain high.

I left the mosque and the temple site and walked towards the nearest guard post that let me into the residential part of the colony. I gave over my passport and with a few cursory questions I was waved though into the main street of the settlement. Except there’s no one there. Shuhada Street is in a vegetative state so deep you can’t tell the difference between its life and death.

It’s built for hustle and bustle but in a more open way than the cloistered Ottoman-style-and-built main road of the souk running parallel to it over the barbed wire and barricades. The absence and silence are creepy. I found myself trying to control my footfalls so I don’t offend anyone, but the only people around are the occasional pair of guards. I know there must be life here. I know there must be something important here or it wouldn’t be so hard getting in. But there’s nothing here on this waiting street.

Shuttered, arched double doors are closed and locked across long blocks of businesses. Above them are hundreds of tenement flats; some windows are empty and some show the traces of former families, but very few are broken. There aren’t enough kids making a racket and a nuisance or disenfranchised young men demanding rights and breaking glass. There’s unusually little litter in the street, instead accumulating in the vacant courtyards and alleys of Shuhada Street.

Nobody seems to know what this street is, but everybody seems to know whose it is. Every so often you can see a sign explaining that the Jewish community bought a particular patch of land and all that sits on it, which is lying unused, and they demand it returned to them. A beautiful building surrounded by children’s playgrounds houses the Museum of Jewish Hebron. A cemetery lies on the street as it goes up the hill holding the graves of the 67 Jewish victims of a massacre by Arab neighbours in 1929. It also holds a memorial donated by a British Christian group that lays blame at the British Mandate of Palestine soldiers who stood by as the slaughter was perpetrated. Before the cemetery, on a row of blast walls, are painted signs of pro-Israeli international sentiment, along with a urging to 'Always Keep the Weather With You'.

I sat down by the far wall of the cemetery and drank the yoghurt and ate the flatbread I’d bought from a nearby shop while watching lizards scuttle along the wall. Good choice. Great day trip.

To navigate the streets you need to walk past an army outpost every couple of hundred of metres. Every soldier took my passport with polite scepticism, a nod and an “Okay”. Every headscarved mother with a pram and flock of kids following behind regarded me with nothing more or less than stony-faced wariness. The tour group at the museum just gave my torn jeans and dusty shirt some dirty looks. The only smiles that I got in my entire time behind those walls that day were from two Arab guys, laughing at the way I was sauntering around looking like a tramp, and from a young officer who greeted me and asked for my passport as I stared at a hopscotch grid in front of a barbed wire and concrete barricade. 

“You’re from the UK?”
“Mm. Scotland.” In the Middle East I’ve found I get a better reception with this, even if they can’t put it on a map.
“Why are you here?”
I shrugged. “Tourism.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why? Nothing happens here!” he laughed.

I bit my tongue as my spine disappeared and the ill-advised and witty response got swallowed. “Mm. Well, it’s different and different is always good.” Even then I didn’t know if this meant anything at all.

He seemed to appreciate it though. “Yeah, yeah. Well, have a good time.” He handed my passport back with a wide grin of amusement.

“Thanks. You too.” I returned the grin, accepted my passport and sauntered off with what I hoped was nonchalance.

Unfortunately, my meandering was alarming as the next soldier felt the need to stop me in the middle of the street. “Are you okay? You look drunk. Are you drunk?”
“No. Just – “ I’m overwhelmed by the appalling, dizzying, nauseating sadness of this place! How aren’t you?! “ – a bit too much sun.” I walked on. Straight.

Later that night when I returned to Jerusalem, I considered getting around an obstruction of tour groups by going through the rooftop exit of a Yeshiva. I stood at a small bridge into it before concluding that it would be rude and unappreciated so I walked away. I was then called upon by a voice from the dark.

“I’m sorry, I can’t speak Hebrew”.
Pause. “Passport.” Young. Beret. Civvies. Glasses. Body armour. Pistol drawn.
“I’m sorry, but are you police or army or what?”
“Yes. Passport.” I handed it over. “British?”
“Yes.” No nationalistic quibbling.
“Why are you here?” I explained how I was trying to quickly get to the Arab quarter to watch the Brazil – North Korea game. “Hm. Well, you looked very suspicious. Are you drunk?
“No,” – 1. No, I’m not. 2. That’s not illegal here. 3. The people you’re most afraid of aren’t known for their drunkenness. “ – no, I’m not”
“Well, you looked suspicious. You looked drunk. Would you like some help?” The pistol was still drawn.
“Mm. No, thanks.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.” I walked away, hating myself for not asking for ID and wondering if inebriation was a standard excuse for inspection.

But in Hebron that afternoon I was still just absorbed by the sadness I felt for the situation of that place. I couldn’t understand why anyone would fight to live there, never mind believe right, obligation and ordination to dwell there. Before and after I could rationalise, presume and suppose any number of reasons, and I know it’s probably quite childish to even bother myself with the question. But on that day, any answer eluded me, utterly.

I searched the quiet streets for a while longer and padded around the Talmudic study hall above the Tomb of Abraham and his family. I saw the staircase to the holy sites, which was a symbol of cruel segregation against the Jews but turned into a symbol of their endurance and zeal. Then I got out of there to go back to Jerusalem, which had begun to feel like a barrel of laughs.

I walked back down the souk to find a minibus back. I stopped to get a slushie from an honest-to-God Slush Puppy machine. A son manning the family stall gave me a free bread ring in a show of hospitable bravado in front of his pal. I bought a half-decent falafel and debated the respective merits of Barcelona and Real Madrid with the stand owners.

I felt better and the perverse part of me told me I should feel bad because I could so easily feel better. A daft drink. A moment of kindness. Decent food. Meaningless, fervent laughs and chat. Universal things that bring us back and there’s a reason they’re there on the street next to the sadness.

I went to a single part of the Old Town of Hebron and a single settlement for just one afternoon. I didn’t ask any questions behind the wall and I will claim no special knowledge or understanding of the place. This is what I saw, what I heard and what I felt only. I felt hopeless and sad and was laughing again before I left Hebron. I imagine tomorrow will be like that for the next tourist, too.