I woke up with the biggest smile on my face as I let it marinate where I was and just exactly what I was doing here. I got up to the sight of two birds that were nesting on the window ledge, just chilling, and I then headed onto the quiet roof for a beautiful start to the day. I think it took me a few days just to take everything in – it’s all just so overwhelming. Every moment gave a different sensation as I tried to soak up the panoramic view from the roof terrace, the north, east and west sides in clear view. But I remember feeling a little jittery, perhaps because it felt like I was in transit, eager to get to the camp. You can’t help but notice the cute cats and kittens running around, all vying for your attention. I wonder if there has been any research conducted into the behavioural psychology of animals coz I find that animals act so differently when you’re abroad; the dogs in India come to mind but then again, maybe the poor things were just hungry. I think I should rush through this now; I’ve just had a scan over my notes for the coming days and you’re in for a treat. I feel kinda stupid now spending so much time telling you about wildlife and rooftops.
Nevertheless, I sat on the roof for a little while longer, swaying to the chants of a spirit as she absorbed the sun’s rays. Then, yoga took place. Besides my ‘teachers’ involved, none of the others were awake so I fancied my chances of trying it without looking like a complete tool. Plus, I tried to stand as far back as I could. Now, I know what you’re thinking and no, that’s not the reason I stood at the back, it genuinely was to not be seen. But the more I try to convince you, the deeper I dig, I know! Anywho, I struggled to say the least. I’m embarrassed to admit it but I even struggled with the downward facing dog – and don’t laugh coz it’s not funny – I mean, all the blood rushes to your head and it made me dizzy. What’s more, women are so much more flexible than men; a lot of my time was spent breathing heavily, in an awkward attempt to manipulate my arm into a position which at the time didn’t seem humanly possible. It was at this point the others started to wake up and laugh at me, with me, right? I laughed along, hiding the pain, but admittedly, it did make me a lot chirpier for the rest of the day.
A few of us then made our way back towards the Western Wall as that’s where the ‘non-Muslim’ entrance to Al-Aqsa lies, only for us to be turned away. See, what we now know is that the grounds are reserved exclusively for Muslims on Fridays and Saturdays. I’m sure the others then looked at me as if to say, ‘Take that smug look off your face you tw*t’ even though they wouldn’t admit it. Besides, I wouldn’t have noticed anyway as I was too busy gloating. We were told that we could return the following day between the hours of 9am – 11am, something we knew could not materialise. I guess I could’ve made a cheeky attempt to take some of the girls in as my wives and I remember stringing along with that thought for far longer than normal but it was all in jest.
Soon after, we got into our designated groups and just like that, it was time to say goodbye to our fellow companions and to Jerusalem. But then we got to Hebron...and let me tell you, Hebron is where it’s happening. I’m not sure what ‘it’ is but it is most definitely happening. The heart of the West Bank. My heavy bags were starting to take their toll but no sooner had we arrived, our supervisor thought we should take a break. We soon realised this recurring pattern and from his many qualities, one is that the man knows when to take a break. Hebron, or Khalil as it’s known to the locals (for bearing the tomb of Ibraheem A.S who was Khalilullah), gave us a heart-warming reception. Worlds apart from Jerusalem, we casually strolled the streets to encounter almost familiar smiles and echoes of ‘Welcome to Hebron.’ It really felt like we were long lost sons of the city, returning as heroes. I couldn’t help but smile, even if I tried not to. For those few moments, I was diverted from the numbing in my shoulder and I certainly didn’t want to leave.
We arrived at a cafe and found a nice spot in the corner before ordering some coffee, limoon-nana (a lemon and mint, ice cold, orgasmic drink...seriously), and some shisha, henceforth ‘arghila’. It was the time for Salatul Zuhr so I went outside and enquired about the whereabouts of the closest masjid but a boy called Mudha was adamant to personally escort me to the masjid. After submitting to his persistence, we made our way along the street as I tried to keep up with his Arabic, slowly translating the odd word that I knew I had previously read or heard in a sermon somewhere. After my continual non-responsiveness, the puzzled look on his face provoked me to try and explain that I could not speak Arabic. I felt kinda guilty. In defiance of my claims, he continued to speak in Arabic and couldn’t believe that being a Muslim, I was unable to speak the language that lies at the core of Islam. He could only say out loud what he was thinking: “How? How? You’re a Muslim!” – in Arabic of course. As we reached the masjid, I dropped my sunglasses and one of the lenses fell out. As I rushed for the congregation, I looked back to see Mudha still standing there. I didn’t say anything. I simply thanked him and gave him my glasses as he left.
After praying, I returned to the cafe to find more youths waiting outside. The word had quickly spread that I was a Muslim from ‘Britannia’ and they greeted me with loving smiles, bound by religion; this is somewhat of a recurring theme that runs like a thread of gold through my time in Palestine. Believe me, I’d heard many stories from others who had passed through the land and my expectations were high, so to surpass them, in my eyes was incredible. I went inside the cafe to rejoin my companions when shortly after, Mudha, my guide to the masjid, approached us. He handed me my glasses, rotating them in the process to indicate that he had fixed them for me. The sunovagun made me blush. I was slightly angry at myself for not being able to tell him that they were his but I just gestured to him saying “hadya”, meaning gift. He looked at the cafe owner who said a few words that bore the resonance of approval and Mudha thanked me and went back outside. It was day two and I had given my sunglasses away, in a place where the sun is a frequent visitor – coz I’m cool like that. In the cafe, we briefly discussed the different projects we’d be allocated, these being in addition to our school classes. If all went to plan, we’d all have a project in the camp we’d be residing in and one project outside. The details of these projects will later surface.
I became increasingly nervous as the reality of our presence and purpose started to sink in but needless to say, I was also very excited; we all were. We made our way to catch a ‘servees’ – a shared taxi service to our camp, which is about 3 miles south of Hebron, so it took us about 15-20 minutes to get there. As we arrived at the camp, it was impossible to ignore the monstrous watchtower that imposed itself directly outside the camp. I looked around to see another watchtower on top of a hill, perfectly situated to intimidate the Palestinians as well as gain an advantageous vantage point to watch over large parts of the land. The occupation was starting to feel more and more tangible and as we entered the camp, a desolate petrol station was situated to the left of us. We were later told that the soldiers simply ‘took over’ the petrol station once they established the bordering area as a base. Let me just make it clear from the outset and quash the myth that there are two sides in the ongoing conflict; following posts will remove all ambiguity but there is simply one side and that is the side of Israel, the occupier. The Palestinians are occupied and this is the simple truth.
We drove into the camp, that stretches about half a mile and established in 1949, to be greeted by a colourful sign to the left of us, which read ‘Ahlan wa sahlan fil mukhayyam al Fawwar’ – Welcome to camp Al Fawwar. I can’t really explain why but the ‘graffiti’ on the walls in Palestine is so humbling. Each piece tells a story, compelling one to contemplate about who the writer might have been, what they were thinking at the time, the emotion with which they left their mark on the wall. This is even more relevant when I later talk about ‘the’ wall.
We dismounted the 'servees' after arriving at the grounds of a community centre where we were greeted by the son of the principal of the boys’ school who welcomed us and showed us where we’d be staying. The grounds are otherwise used to provide lessons in Maths and IT among other things and held three offices, a large kitchen, a large classroom which we would later use to plan our lessons into the night, as well as two other rooms one to store our luggage and one in which we slept. We found a mattress each and got comfortable very quickly. I then rushed to the masjid, as the time for Asr was fast approaching. The camp has four masaajid but I primarily attended the one closest to where we were staying, a few minutes walking distance. After salah, I sat for a lecture and was surprised by how much I understood. After the talk, I stood to leave but there was no way they were going to allow me to leave so easily. One of the guys ushered me back down and started speaking to me in Arabic and the rest of the people present quickly formed a circle. This is not a forum that allows me to say some of the things that were said to me but they were certainly very welcoming, tearful almost after learning that I had come all the way from Britain on a voluntary basis – I insisted that it was nothing but this didn’t hinder the kisses on the forehead and their charming smiles. I was bowled over.
This was our coordinator’s second time at the camp so we later took to the street to meet people and reunite him with familiar faces. I was constantly mistaken for the group interpreter but on that note, it was a massive help having Peter, an Arabic speaker, with us. It dictated that he was to have a lot of the limelight from hereon forth and that was fine by me :) The camp is quite conservative so you won’t find many women casually walking the streets but there were children, lots of children! Lots of endearingly rowdy children. There was a funeral taking place at the time so we observed silence in respect as we walked past but the streets are reminiscent of an Indian village as life goes on as normal, even in the event of a funeral. Echoes of ‘WWE’ and ‘John Cena’ and ‘Barcelona’ or ‘Real Madrid’ loomed among us from all sides as they lay the foundations of common ground. We smiled in acknowledgement and shook hands all round. They asked us our names and I was soon reciting verses of the Quran as they demanded proof of my allegiance.
We headed back to where we’d be staying as the principal of the boys’ school was ready to see us. He was a tall, well built man who welcomed us into his office with his incredibly hoarse voice, which sounded like 40 cigarettes a day for the past 40 years were paying dividends, not that this was necessarily the case. He also spoke in a brusque manner, befitting of a principal of an excitable boys’ school but maybe it was more to do with his thought processes as he sought the appropriate words to translate his thoughts. He gave us some insightful history regarding the camp and the school, cultivating the soil which would allow us to flourish during our time at the school. I can only hope it will be fruitful.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
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