Across the Brooklyn Bridge

My trip to the West Bank in the Occupied Territories last month has affected me in many ways. I came back changed in ways I'm not even sure I realize yet. Many of my views on how I see things in my life have changed. Some have remained the same but this trip to the West Bank, seeing my father, meeting new family, exploring a side of my background that I had never been in touch with, going through what I went through in Israel which was a nightmare and which I would never hope on anyone visiting that country...not even my worst enemy. Seeing how I was treated...and viewed by Israelis almost everywhere I went. With very few exceptions, my encounters with the Israelis on my travel there left me with the impression that they are the meanest, rudest people I'd ever met. Many there look at anyone who looks middle eastern as if they were garbage. It is as if it is practically permissible and acceptable to treat Arabs as shit. Hey, like, what are they going to do about it? Besides, they are all uneducated violent animals. They are to be viewed and treated as such.

As I said earlier, there were some exceptions along the way. There was Robert the cab driver who drove through Israel to where I would then hop into brother in law's cab waiting on the other end of a concrete barrier on a hilly back road which would then get us around the West Bank. I liked Robert. I think I may have overpaid him for the cab ride but I don't mind. I didn't know whether to trust him or not. I suspected he may be a security agent of some sort who would ask me questions under the guise of 'friendly cab driver' and then report it back to someone else. It's not as if I had anything to hide but Israel is a country that makes you paranoid by default.

I liked Robert. He was friendly and in my heart of hearts, I think Robert was sincere and what he shared with us as we conversed in the cab.

Graciela was an Argentine Jewish woman who we met in a cab while travelling through Taba, Egypt. George and I were feeling somewhat lost amidst the chaos of who was going where and what taxi should one get in and worrying that you weren't going to get ripped off by the cab driver who appeared didn't speak any English. Graciela spoke English with a spanish accent although to me it sounded German. She was an attractive older woman, probably in her 50's, travelling with her son to Casa del Mar Resort in Taba. We were discussing whether we would go to the Dead Sea whilst on this trip or if it wasn't worth the effort.
Two young attractive girls chimed in that it was too hot there and you're walking around barefoot on rocks which isn't very fun. Graciela interjected, "That is not true. Go. It is wonderful there. I live 20 minutes from there. It is wonderful."

When I told them that I was there visiting my father who lives in Ramallah, a serious look fell over the two young women and they began speaking Hebrew in serious hushed tones to each other. Graciela pulled out a pad and pen, wrote down her telephone number and handed it to us. "Here," she said. "Call me if you need help or want to ask me anything."

"Wow," I thought. I was stunned by the fact that I had met a nice person in Israel who didn't hate me by the very nature that my father is a Palestinian and thus by default I am too.

There was Serg, the hotel manager in Eilat. Serg gave us a hotel room after we had originally been told by the front clerk, "No, there are no rooms available here" without even having looked in her computer to see if in fact there might have been. We asked her, "Can you suggest another hotel around here. We dont' know where to go."
Without batting a lash, her reply was simply, "No." That was it. Just 'no.'

I approached Serg who was on the other side of the counter. "Excuse me, we're tourists here. Can you suggest a place we can stay since there are no rooms here?"

"Who told you there were no rooms here?" he asked.
"The woman working on that side of the counter. I believe her name is Vicki."
Serg began to yell at Vicki in Hebrew. He apologized to us and had her check us in. If Vicki wasn't racist, then she was just plain stupid. She hands me the key to a room which, upon opening the door, I discovered has a sleeping occupant inside.

There was also Rinat.

Posted by Alif on Wednesday, September 15, 2004 at 3:38 PM | Permalink