Didn’t you know? We’re all Arabs here. 3/22/11

I expect there to be a whole lot more security than there turns out to be. I expect an interrogation, a full body search, bag examination with those funny looking wands that detect explosives; after all, I am a Pakistani-American Muslim, flying to Tel Aviv. Flying Turkish Airlines from Istanbul, no less, in the aftermath of the grisly Gaza Freedom Flotilla incident.

Surprisingly, there is none of that. The Turkish Airlines ground staff at LAX have donned rainbow colored silk flower garlands and pass out cookies in celebration of Norooz, the Persian New Year. And the flight from Istanbul may just as well be going to Timbuktu, not Tel Aviv. If relations between Turkey and Israel have soured, there is certainly no evidence of that in the transit lounge.

So I land in Tel Aviv at 2:00 am hoping a bit anxiously for the “welcome service” guy to find me (before I get kidnapped by the Mossad), and luckily, he is right at the airplane door, holding a sign with my name on it. Phew!

He is an earnest-looking, friendly young man, and tells me his name is Nuriel (like Nuri el Maliki, the Iraqi PM, I am about to say, but think the better of it) He whisks me out one door and then another, and after 30 seconds in immigration, we were on our way out of the airport.

Why am I here again, in the land of Eretz Israel, Palestine, whatever? The long journey has given me plenty of time for reflection.

It is a historic time. Something fundamental has changed, since the my last visit to the region almost exactly a year ago. After decades of suppression by dictators, Arab youth have risen, and toppled regimes in Tunisia and Egypt. Blood is being spilled in Libya and Bahrain as the people there demand their own revolutions. NATO planes are enforcing a no fly zone to protect Libyans, and the unrest has spilled over into Syria and Jordan. 4 Syrian protesters have been killed by government forces, today’s paper says.

Amidst the upheaval, there is a palpable sense of new possibilities, of hope. I am here because I want to believe that things have changed, that a solution is somehow possible, somehow just within our grasp, to the six decades long Palestinian-Israeli conflict. I want to meet the same people I met last year, and I am yearning to hear renewed hope in their voices, renewed hope and determination. I am hear to learn, to bear witness.

This land is a strange place.
The moment you set foot here, people want to know where you are from. They want to put you in a box; Muslim, Jew, Christian, other. Once you are put in that box, all your interactions are influenced by the color of the box you are in. It’s a bit disconcerting, coming from America, where you don’t necessarily carry your faith on your sleeve

People here are really good at reading faces. Usually its pretty easy for them, to tell from your face, which box you belong in. But my face can be a bit confusing, and they sometimes have trouble figuring out where to put me, so they ask where I’m from. If I reply that I am from San Diego, they ask where I’m really from.

They keep asking until they are satisfied, until they have figured out in which box I belong.

Then they say something like, ” I knew, because you have Arab eyes.” (even though I am not an Arab). I accept that as a compliment, as a tacit welcome into their community.

The Carlton Hotel is nicer than I remember it. There is dark chocolate and red roses in a bud vase on the coffee table. I gaze out the window and see the blue Mediterranean, so serene.

The sea has borne witness to centuries of conflict. The sea is neither Arab nor Jew. It just is.

The next morning, I meet up with Howard and Natalie in the lobby. They’re a warm, delightful couple from New Jersey, visiting the Middle East for the first time, with the Olive Tree Initiative. What a wonderful introduction to the Middle East, I think to myself.

Howard drives us to Jerusalem and we pick up our guide in Gilo, a settlement in Jerusalem. It is a lovely neighborhood with homes in hewn Jerusalem stone, flowers spilling over the walls. “Our guide has strong opinions” Natalie warns me, “He’s very pro-Israeli”.

Jonathan (Yoni) the guide is young and intelligent, and he has made “Aliyah” from Brooklyn to Israel. We have interesting interactions the whole day. He tells us a story about how he once missed “his chance” with Natalie Portman.

Yoni firmly believes that the land of Israel is from the Jordan river to the Mediterranean sea, and the Israelis have given the Palestinians more than ample opportunities and concessions in return for peace, that the Palestinians have chosen not to accept. Jonathan does not see an “equivalence” between settlement construction in the West Bank and the rise of hatred against the Israeli occupation and violence against settlers. He has taken a class with a renowned professor and conducted research on radical Islam, and believes that a segment of the US Muslim population wants to overturn the US constitution and impose “universalist” shariah laws.

Our interactions are impassioned yet polite.

We tour the old city with Jonathan, staring with King David’s Tomb through the Jewish Quarter and the Christian quarter. We come upon a procession of Christian tourists on the Via Dolorosa, the path Jesus took, carrying the cross upon his back, to crucifixion. The tourists are chanting loudly and we cannot pass them, so we follow. It’s an interesting procession. Three Jews, a Muslim and a bunch of chanting Christians ambling down the Via Dolorosa. Only in Jerusalem.

After a while, I leave my companions and head off alone. I want to take in the “street” on my own, soak in the sights and sounds, feel a part of Jerusalem.

In the Jewish quarter I pause in the plaza with the new synagogue. It’s built on the site of an old synagogue that was destroyed in the 1967 war. Next to the shiny new dome of the synagogue, I observe something peculiar. A dilapidated minaret with the crumbling remains of a mosque. The crescent on the minaret is still intact.

In the plaza, a young musician is playing cello. His cello case lies at his feet to catch the small change people drop his way. He plays beautifully. He is studious looking, serious and bespectacled, a little bit sad. I sit awhile and listen to him play.

I arrive at the Western Wall plaza. I look around and try to find someone to ask for directions to the mosque. I see three young IDF soldiers around a coffee table. For some reason I don’t feel like asking them. I see a middle aged man leaning against a bicycle. I ask him instead. Right down this alley and to the right he says. He seems happy I asked. He is an Arab.

I walk down the alley. You can tell immediately that you are in the Arab quarter. It is not as clean. It is more crowded. And there are no young musicians playing cello.

I stop at Marocco restaurant for lunch. It is very close to the mosque entrance. The food is good. I have a shawerma plate and fresh squeezed pomegranate juice. The owner and a young boy serve all the customers themselves. Every few minutes the owner steps out in the alley, accosts passersby, and gives them a sales pitch about his restaurant. He does succeed in getting some people to step inside. He doesn’t seem particularly well do do, judging from his appearance. I would have thought this was a really good spot to have a restaurant, being so close to the entrance of Al-Aqsa, but apparently it is not. I ask the owner why many of the shops around him are shuttered.
“No business”, he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Where are you from”, the soldiers at the mosque entrance ask me. They check my passport. They want to know if I am any relation to the Jerusalem Ansari clan. I shake my head. “Tafaddali” they say, “Welcome”.

I enter the grounds. There are very few people around, maybe only twenty, in a huge mosque. I am surprised why there are so few people here, considering it’s such an important Islamic landmark.

There is stray Muslim cat rummaging in a trashcan and a couple of Muslim pigeons hopping about.

I am stopped twice more by random men who ask where I am from, and the third time one approaches me, I get upset.
“Who are YOU?”, I demand, mighty annoyed.
He says he is a guard. I ask him where his uniform is. He produces something that looks like an ID. I give him a piece of my mind and tell him not to hassle women. He looks a bit sheepish and let’s me go.

I say my prayers in the mosque. How much blood has been spilled for these stones, I think with a heavy heart.

A lot has happened since the first time I was here. I pray. I call out to God. Time passes by.

He does not answer.

There are two little boys running around. Their mother is leaning against a column, lost in the pages of a Quran. The boys are chasing each other throughout the mosque, tumbling on the carpet. One is Muhammad and the other is Ali. Ali has some sort of defect in his eyes. His dark eyes look almost shut like slits and he wears large black rimmed glasses. His disability doesn’t prevent him from any of the rambunctious things little boys do. He looks like a Palestinian Harry Potter.

I feel deeply happy just watching the boys tumbling around. The little boys couldn’t care less that they are doing cartwheels on the most contested patch of land on the planet.

I am staring at the boys and smiling, the Quran in my lap lays forgotten. They get tired and come drop on the carpet next to me. I snap a picture of them. They like that a lot.

“Sawwarna” they say, grinning. “She took our picture”.

it’s time to leave. I have to meet Howard and Natalie at the Western Wall plaza at 3:30. I hurry out of the masjid. On the way out I ask a passerby to take my picture. I want to remember this moment. I don’t know if I will be back. The Dome of the Rock glitters in the background.

Right outside the gates, there is trash piled high in the corner of the alley. An Arab and an Israeli cat are digging through it for scraps, together.

That night we take taxis when returning from dinner. The fare to get to the restaurant was 30 shekels. Natalie, Howard and I ride together. The taxi driver is friendly. “Where are you from” he asks. Then without waiting for an answer he says, ” from The USA; let me guess, California or New York”.

Howard tells him they are from New Jersey.

The taxi driver starts to ruminate on the state of affairs in the world. “God is going to give the punishment in this life to all the evil doers!”, he declares forcefully. “Look at the Arab dictators, they are afraid, they are hiding, afraid for their lives!”

Natalie pipes in,
“We are all Arab in this car” she says smiling.

The taxi driver thinks she’s joking, but she’s serious. He doesn’t know quite what to say. There is complete silence in the taxi, until we reach the hotel.

“How much?” asks Howard.

The fare has gone up.

“That will be 40 shekels”, says the driver.