This article is about the author\u27s visit to Jerusalem during her sabbatical. She discusses the history of as well as the modern ethnic tensions in the city and what this means for daily life there. Weiss also explores both the Israeli and Arab elements of the city, and provides cases in which both groups are coming together to work and live together peacefully

Weiss, Ellen

English

University of Massachusetts Boston: ScholarWorks at UMass

New England Journal of Public PolicyVolume 14Issue 1 Transitions in Emerging Democracies Article 109-23-1998Snapshots from JerusalemEllen WeissNational Public RadioFollow this and additional works at: http://scholarworks.umb.edu/nejppPart of the Peace and Conflict Studies Commons, Politics and Social Change Commons, and theRegional Sociology CommonsThis Article is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks at UMass Boston. It has been accepted for inclusion in New England Journal ofPublic Policy by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks at UMass Boston. For more information, please contact library.uasc@umb.edu.Recommended CitationWeiss, Ellen (1998) "Snapshots from Jerusalem," New England Journal of Public Policy: Vol. 14: Iss. 1, Article 10.Available at: http://scholarworks.umb.edu/nejpp/vol14/iss1/10Snapshotsfrom JerusalemEllen WeissMy two sons, eight-year-old Daniel and five-year-old Ari, stride through the JaffaGate into the walled Old City of Jerusalem and head down into the souk, theArab market. They love to run through the narrow cobblestone alleyways. They movewith confidence, as though they own the place. Their destination today, Farez's teashop. I first met Farez nineteen years ago, when I spent my junior year in college at theHebrew University. The boy who used to serve me tea is now a man. The hole-in-the-wall tea shop is now the Holy Rock Cafe. Farez took the family's prime real estate onthe Via Dolorosa and expanded, adding indoor seating. We still prefer to sit on the smallstraw stools that line the street. The orange juice is freshly squeezed; the tea is servedwith mint and just a little sugar. A multitude of tourists pass by as they trace the routeJesus walked, carrying his cross from the place of his condemnation to the site of hiscrucifixion and burial. But few stop for a drink. Most tours allow for little shopping inthe Muslim quarter. Business is down. Many of the storefronts are shuttered and closed,not because of a strike or an intifada but because the owners can no longer afford thecity taxes.Farez has lived all his life in Khalandia, a refugee camp near the small Jerusalemairport. He owns two horses and likes to show my boys pictures of them. Farez and hisbrother Khalid keep the shop sparkling clean. They rarely let us pay.Daniel and Ari see few of their friends from school here. Many Israelis we knowwon't go into the Old City: they tell us it's a dangerous place. Maybe Ari and Danielhaven't been here long enough to be afraid.I'm sitting in Ariel Sharon's living room right above one of the busiest thoroughfares inthe Muslim quarter of the Old City. It's easy to spot the foreign minister's home — ahuge Israeli flag hangs down the length of the house, on the part that actually archesover the road. On the roof there's a huge menorah. There are also a half dozen Israelisoldiers stationed outside the house. Arabic music pours out of the shops below thebuilding.I'm here as a guest of Ateret Cohanim, a group of religious Jews that works to re-store and rebuild Jewish life in the Muslim quarter of the Old City. There were Jewishresidents here years ago, they explain, before British restrictions and before Jordanianrule forced them out of the Old City altogether. Since 1967, when Israel recaptured EastJerusalem, Jews in the Old City have lived primarily in the Jewish quarter. For the pastdecade, Ateret Cohanim has been acquiring property in this part of the city, much to thedismay of its Arab neighbors. My guide, Miriam, wearing the long sleeves, long dress,Ellen Weiss, the executive producer of National Public Radio 's All Things Considered,spent seven months of 1998 on sabbatical in Jerusalem with her husband and two youngsons.141New England Journal of Public Policyand hat of an orthodox woman, says that as a Jew there is no place she would rather be.Her home is just a short walk from the Western Wall. She says she was drawn herebecause it's the closest place to God.So how did Ariel Sharon get here? According to Miriam, in the 1980s, when AteretCohanim started buying homes in the Muslim quarter, the group wanted some protec-tion — soldiers to keep them safe from the Arab residents. When their requests wentunanswered by the government, one-time defense minister Ariel Sharon stepped in tohelp. By law, former defense ministers are entitled to military protection for the rest oftheir lives. So when Sharon declared the Muslim quarter his primary residence, thesoldiers became a permanent fixture. His living room is large and spacious, but he isnowhere to be seen.Sharon actually lives in southern Israel, and seven Jewish families now live in hisapartment complex.Sounds. Sometimes, Jerusalem can be a tough place to sleep. It's five o'clock in themorning and I am walking around my neighborhood. The first to pray today are theMuslims — their muezzins are calling the faithful to the first of five daily prayers.We live on a hilltop above several Arab neighborhoods, and the sounds of themosques rise up and fill the air. As I walk along my street, the Arabic prayers mix withthose of a group of men. I hear chanting in the synagogue. It's a few weeks before theJewish High Holidays and these men are reciting Selichot, special prayers of repentancesaid every morning for the month leading up to the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur.From a distance I watch the group swaying and singing. It's early, but the sun is alreadyin the sky. That's because Israel returned from daylight saving time two months beforethe rest of the world. The religious political bloc holds enough power over the govern-ment that it was able to "change time," ensuring that its constituents would have ad-equate daylight for this early prayer service. In some synagogues it's customary to blowthe shofar, a ram's horn, as part of these prayers, but not at the synagogue in my neigh-borhood. I'm back home by 5:30, just in time to hear the church bells ringing. They arecoming from the Catholic Church of the Dormition, where Christians believe Mary fellinto eternal rest. I can see the church from my backyard, and I can hear the bells frommy bedroom.The president of our synagogue begins his weekly announcements. It's the Friday nightbefore Yom Kippur. Evening holiday services, he says, will begin at 5:15; morningservices start at 9:15. If you have borrowed prayer books over the last year, he asks thatyou bring them back — and, on Yom Kippur this year, please, no bicycle riding in thesynagogue. No one bats an eyelash. Over the next few days bike shops are open late,people working overtime, getting ready for the most sacred holiday on the Jewish cal-endar.Three nights later, as the crowd pours out of the synagogue following the Kol Nidreservice, Jerusalem is a changed city. The children of Israel have reclaimed the streets.Not a single car is moving. For the next twenty-four hours, bicycles, tricycles, roller142blades, and strollers own the streets. Major traffic routes have been transformed intopedestrian malls crowded with people walking leisurely. Israel is notorious for its highnumber of traffic accidents, but on Yom Kippur, the greatest road hazard is an out-of-control two-wheeler or skater.The next morning, I lie in bed listening to the silence. The early morning horns andengines I am accustomed to hearing have been replaced by bird songs. The uniquenessof the day is expressed in various ways — prayer, fasting, the quiet that blankets thecity — and the fact that Yom Kippur is also bicycle day in Israel.Salim Shawamreh, his wife, and six kids needed a place to live. The plot of land theypurchased didn't look very hospitable — barren, rocky, and on a slope, not a great placeto build a home. Still, Salim applied for a building permit in 1994, when peace was inthe air. He was optimistic and even started to build. In 1997, the political scene hadchanged, and Salim's application was denied. The Israeli civil administration said thatthe land, the hilly, barren, rocky land, was zoned exclusively for agriculture, a designa-tion that was made in 1942 under the British mandate. Accompanying the applicationwas an order to demolish the unfinished home, a step routinely taken by the Israeligovernment to discourage illegal building. The family waited for the bulldozers to ar-rive. A little more than a year later they came, and in less than an hour the house wasdestroyed.It's a warm, sunny afternoon, and a group of Israelis and Palestinians are gatheredaround the rubble of the Shawamreh home. They have come to rebuild the house. Theseare peace activists engaged in civil disobedience — it is illegal to rebuild a demolishedhome. Rabbi Arik Asherman, a leader of Rabbis for Human Rights, tells me that ac-cording to the Jewish calendar, it's two days before the ninth of Av, the day many Jewsmourn the destruction of the first and second temples. He says that for this family, andother families who have had their homes demolished, the sense of loss and mourning isat least as great as what Jews feel for the temple. Too many people are trying to teardown peace; these Jews and Arabs want to build it up.The remains of the old house are hauled out by the volunteers. A hand brigade passesbucket after bucket of rubble. The Shawamreh family serves everyone soft drinks inplastic cups. The scene is friendly and warm; conversation flows in Hebrew, Arabic, andEnglish. Across the way, on the opposite hilltop, another group is gathering. This onearrives in jeeps and armed vehicles. The army and the civil administration have come towatch the building. In three days, after the Shawamreh house is rebuilt, they will comeand knock it down again.It's Thursday night and Ramallah is hopping. As we turn off the dark, bumpy road thatleads into town, the streets are suddenly filled with people, the traffic is bumper tobumper, and the neon lights make this place look more like Vegas than the West Bank.This is the only Palestinian-controlled city with a real night life.There's already a crowd at Flamingos. At one table, students from Bir Zeit Univer-sity; at another some staff from the UN and other international organizations; around143New England Journal ofPublic Policythe bar there's a group of Israelis from Jerusalem. Tonight they are all here for jazz. Thedress is casual, jeans and T-shirts for men and women. There's a pool table, everyone issmoking, and Flamingos may also be the only place in Ramallah where you can getnachos. Bassam Nasir is a jazz DJ, the only one in town. He's got two shows a week onone of the Ramallah radio stations. Like many Palestinians who lived abroad, he movedback here after this city and others were put under Palestinian control. He's hoping todo a live broadcast tonight.The band has arrived — the journey from Tel Aviv and Jerusalem took a little longerthan expected. Arnie Laurence, the sax player, heads up the five-piece ensemble madeup of Israelis, Jews from abroad, and a Palestinian. A couple of young musicians study-ing at the conservatory in Ramallah join in. The music is great— jazz classics andsome improvisation. The crowd moves with the rhythm — everyone's having a goodtime. Amy Mardrosian, the manager, had the dream to bring jazz to Ramallah. "With allthat's going on in this country, it's nice to know that once a week you can come to someplace and relax." In many places around the world, Flamingos would be just an ordinaryrestaurant. But here, it is the ordinary that is so extraordinary.Living in Jerusalem, I often make a daily calculation. Are the need and conveniencegreater than or less than the risk? Many factors can affect this calculation. Am I takingmy kids? Has Hamas just issued a blanket threat against Israeli civilians? Has the Israeliarmy recently succeeded in destroying a bomb-making factory and arrested any terror-ists? This helps me decide where to shop, whether or not to take the bus, and just inwhich direction I should drive when I leave the city.Sometimes the equation is done on the spot. One morning I am looking for cayenne.The spice stall in Mahane Yehuda, the big open-air market in predominantly JewishJerusalem, is filled with wonderful aromas and brightly colored powders. Another shop-per helps me — I don't know how to say cayenne in Hebrew. Suddenly her attention isdrawn out of the stall into the alleyway lined with fruit and vegetable stands. She isstaring at the dogs —- big German shepherds walking slowly through the market. Thedogs are in uniform, special forces. She explains that they are bomb sniffers. The mar-ket is filled with shoppers carrying their overstuffed bags. They are civilians, but condi-tioned to look out for abandoned bags, for suspicious people, for a car in the wrongplace. They are always on guard because in this city, the shopper can just as easily be-come the bombing victim. I do the math, settle for paprika, and walk out of the market.This morning, Israeli radio announces that gas mask distribution centers will be opento the public today. This is followed by the weather forecast. I wonder, Where do tem-porary visitors get gas masks? I know our apartment building has a bomb shelter— it'sstandard, just like a mailbox. We and the other residents use it for storage. The shelterat my son's kindergarten has been turned into a classroom. Children's artwork adornsthe thick concrete walls, and there are lots of toys scattered on the floor.The only calculation I'm making now is the distance between Israel and Iraq. -'a*144

Snapshots from Jerusalem

https://scholarworks.umb.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1428&context=nejpp

Snapshots from Jerusalem

Abstract

Similar works

Full text

Available Versions

University of Massachusetts Boston: ScholarWorks at UMass