Ishmael's Domain

"You are now entering the West Bank."

The bus sputtered along the empty highway at a modest pace. Our portly tour guide spoke into his microphone in deliberate and carefully constructed phrases designed to elicit high levels of emotion and anxiety. I was doing my best to listen to his "history" of Hebron, but found him sorely lacking the necessary charisma (and context) to properly draw his audience into the narrative. Our guide was a former IDF officer who had decided to, as he would later put it, "hold a mirror up to Israeli society."

I couldn't help but be annoyed by such vague platitudes and the ways in which he peppered his statements with caustic overtures toward his fellow citizen soldiers. I admittedly knew very little of the man's background at the time, but found his barely concealed self-loathing utterly contemptible. And it wasn't because of his views toward his own service in the Israel Defense Force. I perceived a very obvious pseudo-righteousness to his self-appointed role of "mirror-holder." And it was that sliver of insincerity that irked me from the onset.

Stefan was passed out next to me with his headphones on. Seated at the back of the bus, earphones securely intact, and desperately wishing I had thought to bring a nasal clamp to offset the smell of our fellow passengers, I tried to get glimpses of Bethlehem as we rolled toward the occupied city of Hebron.

We awoke at 5:30 to make the trip to Hebron. Liz, Elana, Stefan, Dustin, Chris, and I had been granted seats on the "Breaking the Silence" tour. It took less than sixty seconds before I wanted to embrace the tour's title and relinquish my tongue from its sheath.

The motley collection of internationals accompanying us on this trip into the heart of the West Bank was a veritable Who's Who of Hippies. For the South Park fans reading this, Cartman would not have sprayed down our bus, Cartman would have called in an air strike. My first thought upon entering was that the level of personal hygiene became greatly enhanced by our happy little entourage. The second thought was that the next time I decided to venture into hostile territory with a group of peaceniks, I was bringing the nose clamp and an industrial sized bottle of Febreeze.

"As we draw closer, you will see what the military calls sterilization zones. These zones are designed to provide a neutral buffer between Israeli settlers and Palestinians. Hebron has two such..." the guide drawled on in a laconic voice.

The German doing his best Bob Marley imitation (hair and all) behind me muttered something to an older British woman who replied only with the phrase "...just dreadful."

"Yes, he is," I said quietly, staring out the window.

I began switching through songs on my mp3 player and tried to focus on learning through observation. Whatever our tour guide was going to tell us, I knew already that it was going to be heavily influenced by his own biases, regardless of how tame he claimed them to be. I may be an ignorant hick from the Deep South, but the fact remains that if you run around telling everyone you didn't stick your hand in the cookie jar and repeatedly emphasize that you don't even know anything about the cookie jar, then you probably should clean the crumbs off your shirt.

Running parallel to the bus to my left, the massive security barrier separating Palestinians from Israelis stretched for kilometers along the road. Constructed of the most durable concrete imaginable, its design made it impossible for anyone to cross over. Should someone manage to scale its nearly twelve foot vertical edifice and crawl the upward slope to the top, the drop onto the other side was at least twenty to twenty-five feet. A broken leg was not only a guarantee, but the best one could hope for.

"The sons of Isaac on one side. The sons of Ishmael on the other." I thought to myself.

Having left Tel Aviv for Jerusalem and then from Jerusalem to Hebron, the better part of the morning had been spent in a bus. I was eager to disembark and get a first hand account of life in the West Bank.

We stopped briefly for a restroom break and to pick up a police escort. During the break, Chris glanced at the security detail and couldn't help but guffaw.

"We have an escort...of one," he demurred.

Sure enough, the only thing protecting us was a single Israeli police officer in a white armored vehicle. The man was chatting with our tour guide in a friendly manner, but I could tell by the body language that the officer was annoyed at having to babysit a bunch of hand-wringers and self-righteous finger-pointers. Who could blame him?

As we departed from the restroom stop for Hebron, I informed Stefan of our security apparatus or lack thereof.

"You're kidding?"

"Nope. I guess it's a good thing Dustin and I know how to shoot."

Liz leaned over and grinned.

"It's not the Palestinians you have to worry about. It's the settlers. They routinely throw stuff at groups like ours."

"I'd throw things at people like y'all, too."

She shook her head and laughed.

As the sun shimmered through the curtains on my window, I began to catch glimpses of houses on the rolling hills ahead. Traveling along Road 60, we wound our way through the beginnings of a desolate slum. Young children could be seen emerging from behind walls and doorways in the debris-strewn streets. Graffiti, in both Arabic and Hebrew, was splayed across the tattered and abandoned structures lining the entrance into Hebron. I counted numerous Stars of David painted onto homes that had to have belonged to Palestinians. I remembered a conversation with my roommate Dominique a week ago in which he characterized Hebron as "hardcore."

You nailed that one, Dom.

We passed an Israeli checkpoint. A heavily armed IDF guard sat in a chair drinking a bottle of water as Palestinian children played a few meters behind him. He glared at our bus and donned his sunglasses. I would have bet anything that he was quietly lamenting the arrival of yet another caravan of international "stone-throwers."

We eventually came to a stop on a steep incline near the former town center of Hebron. I say former because ever since the second intifada in 2000, when Palestinians launched a violent uprising of suicide bombings, shootings, and mortar attacks against the Israeli populace, the IDF more or less crushed Palestinian livelihood in Hebron. In fact, as we began disembarking, I noted that the pamphlet I'd been given upon departure from Jerusalem was aptly titled "Ghost Town." Aside from the Israeli police officer escorting us and a trio of young IDF soldiers manning a position atop the hillside, there was no sign that anyone actually lived anywhere in the area.

Hebron was one of the most violent places in the West Bank during the intifada and is still a breeding ground for radicals. Historically, it serves as the final resting place of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, and Leah. As we began to filter out of the bus, I was confident that the locals, peering through windows on the hillside houses surrounding us, felt we were nothing more than useful idiots for their cause or for their plight.

"Not all of us." I thought as I began taking in my surroundings.

Our tour guide gathered us near the IDF position and took us further up the hill where we were escorted through a worn metal gate into a decent-sized vineyard. I noticed limes and berries I had never seen before growing along the fencing. On the right side of the vineyard, an old stone wall that appeared to have been around during the time of the Roman Empire, jutted out onto the walkway. Our guide took us through a small enclosure, past a house and an alcove and into a wide open area with three gnarled trees. Beyond the trees was a panoramic view that was positively breathtaking. Our guide informed us that we were literally standing on the very hill where Abraham had once stood overlooking what is now Hebron. Abraham had purchased the land to bury his wife Sarah.

Before us was the entire city and ancient Judea. Rolling hills stretched for as far as the eye could see, covered from top-to-bottom in homes of archaic Middle Eastern design. In the distance, I could make out the Cave of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs, where Abraham and Sarah were buried. It was the most amazing vista I have ever seen. There are simply no words in our language, or perhaps any language, to effectively describe it.

Snatching me out of my awe-filled trance, our guide called for us to gather near one of the trees. He began detailing his time and experience in the IDF and specifically as an officer in Hebron. This was to become a common theme throughout the day. The gist of "Breaking the Silence" is for Israeli citizens, after serving their time in the IDF in the West Bank, to come out and show people what life is like for the Palestinians they occupy and the settlers they protect; to be the "mirror" as he put it.

As the guide continued debasing himself for his actions (actions he refused to specify), an older Palestinian man and his two sons appeared from behind us and approached. They just so happened to stand directly beside me. Our guide introduced him as the tenant of the house and grove we had just traipsed through and then went on to explain that a few years ago, his wife had been pregnant with twins before being beaten by Israeli settlers. His oldest son had found his mother in the kitchen, both of the children dead on the floor.

The man, face aged by time and the sun, looked at us fleetingly and proceeded to meander along the hillside, smoking a cigarette. His eldest son, hair slicked back, face set in stone, glared at us. Our guide stopped in the middle of his speech at the mention of the lost children and seemed to choke up. I was thankful I had my sunglasses on for fear of giving away the dubious expressions cascading across my face. I wasn't positive that the guide was feigning his emotions, but something seemed a bit off for me when he gave a rather dramatic pause and then continued to elaborate on his time in the IDF as if the story he had just told hadn't had any impact on him at all.

We received a call shortly thereafter by our police escort to speed things up.

We maneuvered back through the courtyard and proceeded down the main thoroughfare in the old part of the city of Hebron. Palestinian homes dotting the hillside overlooking the main street had been used during the intifada to shoot down on Israeli settlers. Israeli settlers had responded in a myriad of ways, including the burning of a Palestinian girl's school. Our guide lamented the fact that they had had to shoot back at the Palestinians indiscriminately shooting at Israeli civilians. It was at this juncture that the tour became an exercise in self-control.

As we stood amongst the dilapidated remnants of the old city's town center, our security escort of one soon turned into three plus an armored police carrier. A few cars zipped past us, all occupied by Israeli settlers who eyed us suspiciously. There are only around five hundred Israeli settlers living in Hebron, a city that hosts over 150,000 Palestinians. Over 1,000 IDF and police personnel are assigned to protect the settlers. Palestinians are not allowed to drive in this area of Hebron nor walk along the road of the old town center.

Our guide spent the better part of half an hour telling us stories of his time in Hebron and explaining to the other tourists how a machine gun works. A hole in the side of a door to Dustin's left marked the remnants of a rocket attack from Palestinians. Below us, at the base of the incline, was a roundabout where a group of IDF and Israeli police had gathered. Two bands of wild dogs (the Jets and the Sharks I suppose) were having a turf battle in the background near an observation tower manned by a young Israeli soldier. The entire scene was far more intriguing to behold than our guide.

"I just can't say what right and wrong is anymore. I guess you could say I'm morally cynical," our guide professed.

"And that's the problem right there," I thought.

Right on cue, as if following the director's call for "Action!", an old man wearing his signature yarmulke (skull cap), began ascending toward us. A few of the IDF soldiers near the roundabout turned and looked with mild interest. The man was easily nearing his seventies if not already there. He walked right behind our guide and stopped. Well-dressed but clearly having had to earn much in his life, he fixed everyone with a stare and then proceeded into his biting rebuke.

"The Arabs don't even take care of their goats. They hate us. You need to understand this. The Arabs are cruel people! Get your heads checked. Learn to think," he barked.

A final stare and then he lowered his head and trudged up the slope, past an Israeli police carrier, toward wherever he called home. This encounter would become the focal point of an intense discussion later in the evening between all of us.

And as if the scene couldn't become any more indicative of the great schism, the clarion call to prayer burst through the air from the minarets of the Ibraihimi Mosque. I scanned the Palestinian homes on the hillsides surrounding us as the otherwordly voice sang out to Allah, beckoning the Muslim populace to obedience.

"It sounds so beautiful to me, " Liz remarked.

"In an eerie way, yea. But it mainly sends a chill down my spine," I replied.

We began moving on to the last leg of our tour, passing the collection of IDF soldiers and police gathered at the roundabout. Several of the soldiers couldn't have been any older than eighteen, their heads on a swivel for any sign of trouble from Palestinians or settlers. Our entourage kept toward the back of the group, where our security detachment, now numbering five, patrolled loosely.

Six IDF soldiers sat in some shade, M-16's slung across their laps, red berets fixed firmly. I threw a thumbs up as we walked by. One of the soldiers returned a crooked smile.

"I really want to hang out with those guys," I told Chris.

"Yea, but I'm pretty sure they don't want to hang out with us."

We came to a stop at a forked road, where the main street of the old city diverted toward the Cave of the Patriarchs. An occasional settler would walk outside or snap pictures of us as our guide explained the significance of where we stood. It was here that the last suicide bomber had struck, killing an Israeli couple and wounding others during the final days of the second intifada. Dustin would quip soon thereafter that perhaps that was the mysterious reason that eluded our guide about why Palestinian access had been restricted.

Surreal.

As we moved ahead toward the Cave of the Patriarchs, I looked over at a blonde-haired IDF soldier on our left flank.

"Can you talk with us?" I asked.

"Lo," he replied tersely.

"He probably can, but doesn't want to," Chris reminded me.

This is frustrating.

If anyone was as far removed from the kumbayah crowd comprising our group, it was me. As we maneuvered to an open-air food stand, several Palestinians appeared carrying trinkets and hand-woven bags. Three small boys and a kid in his twenties, likely the older brother of one of the young ones, began pressing us to buy their goods. The Israeli soldiers looked at one another in irritation.

"You buy? It's good, yes?" one of the kids asked me.

"It's very nice. But lo," I replied.

"It good?"

"Ani lo rotseh," I mustered up.

The oldest, who spoke the best English, continued pressing us to purchase his goods, which were primarily comprised of hand-woven Palestinian flags. None of us were enticed to buy them, save for a British man. The IDF kept their distance but one of the soldiers eventually stepped over and escorted one of the young boys toward his home. He was gentle but firm.

I felt bad for the kids, but I knew, as Stefan would soon comment on the bus ride back, that the kids were masters at tugging on the heartstrings of naive tourists. They were asking us to pay them in shekels, dollars, or euros. And while not indicative of all the inhabitants of Hebron, I noticed that these kids were not particularly poor or downtrodden in appearance or behavior.

It may seem cruel or cold, but the fact remains that the only currency of any practical value in the West Bank is the shekel. When the kids were eager to take dollars or euros, I couldn't help but wonder what access they had for exchanging the currency and for what reason. For all I knew, they'd use the money to funnel to Islamic Jihad who would purchase ammunition to shoot at Israeli soldiers and settlers.

Sorry, kid. You set off too many alarm bells.

As the majority of the group bought drinks or took a restroom break at the food stand, I looked over at the dozen or so IDF soldiers around us and felt a strong compunction to approach them.

"I really want to go talk to them."

"I do too," Stefan added. "But I'd rather you do the talking."

"I'm sure it'll be alright." Liz added. "What do you want to ask them?"

"I don't even know. A lot of things."

Unable to suppress the urge any longer, I approached what looked to be the senior commander of our IDF attachment, who was chatting with our original police escort. No longer concerned with asking questions, I suddenly knew what I wanted to say to them. The commander was small in stature, but stocky, and had salt and pepper hair. He was probably a Captain. I have yet to pick up on the ranks.

"Sleeha?" I said as I approached.

The two men turned to look at me quizzically.

"I just want you guys to know that I may be with this group over here, but I support you guys. I know you have a tough job. You're very brave men."

The two men nodded. The police officer smiled and the commander nodded.

"Thank you," they both said.

"Toda."

Liz laughed as I returned to the group. She could tell I felt better.

The Cave of the Patriarchs loomed behind us. Our guide made mention that we were pressed for time and only the Jews among us would have time to enter. Elana and Liz lined up to go inside while Chris, Dustin, Stefan, and I began walking back to the bus. Chris was furious. Seeing the tomb of Abraham was one of the only reasons he had even come on the tour. I wasn't happy with the situation either, but I wasn't about to pretend to be something I wasn't. I quietly promised myself that I would come back; at the very least for research on my thesis.

If our guide had spent less time on himself, we might have had an opportunity to go inside. I pulled out my camera, set it to video, and began filming the structure surrounding the cave. Behind us, a few Palestinian children played or curiously approached the foreigners. Rubble and trash littered the landscape beyond.

"This looks like Fallujah."

Once more the clarion call to prayer rang out of the mosque sitting atop the tomb of Abraham. Its entrancing waves reverberated throughout the valley and the hillsides. An orthodox Jewish pilgrim descended down the steps as Allah's call echoed into the skies.

"Hey mom." I panned the camera one last time over the Cave of the Patriarchs. "I found the war."