Faisal Hostel now, Tel Aviv tonight...tomorrow?
For those people who I'm close to I will call you and you probably konw the intricacies of my life. But for my own desire to document my thoughts and experiences more, and to let a few people know what I'm up to I write in LJ. This also saves me time in explaining a few things to many people individually.
While at the Tabasco I did end up sharing that bottle of three dollar wine. My friends evolved rapidly and I felt at home. I didn't see the city as much because of people, but people are of weighty importance.
I pronounced her name Maria. Indian Christian from Bombay, we shared conversation, culture and liquor together, never a bed. As quickly as our lives entwined and emotions intermingled, our paths broke sharply. Whether she'll write or we'll meet, remains unknown until that future day.
Both she and another were kicked out, and I left too. The other expelled hosteler pointed out "why live in a place where the owner believes he is king, there are better hostels." I agreed, and didn't fancy a night in the same dormitory as the girl who placed her woes all on me. I left her a letter and an address. I took my back-pack and hiked through the Muslim quarter to the Faisal, where I've stayed the last few days.
Yesterday I did the photographer thing, and took three rolls. Hopefully some of the pictures will be good. I went to church after church, after Dome Of The Rock. I hiked the Mount of Olives, and went in Marie's Tomb. I ended up sitting with four Palestinian men at the lookout from the mountain: one map salesman and tour guide, one cab driver, and a few who did basically the same. We drank Turkish coffee and discussed politics and social realities. The man whom I talked with most had three brothers killed by the IDF. He spoke of rice as staple food for the huge, impoverished Palestinian families in the West Bank. He spoke of the four hours it takes many to cross checkpoints to get to work. He himself travels five hours from Bethlehem to Mount of Olives along a continuous maze of detours to avoid the wall and checkpoints -- to travel to a place within eye site just to work.
At one point an Israeli reporter shows up to be filmed with the Old City as background. The man I had talked with made it clear the reporter was unwelcome. The piggishly Zionist reporter remarked that there is no Palestinian army to act upon that sentiment, and to go home. "Go home? This is my home". "It's also my home now."
I wasn't sure if the reporter was going to be thrown off the wall he had been reporting over by my new friend. He wasn't. My new friend retreated and shut up. He submitted, with every ounce of his will being to fight.
Later that night I talked with my other Palestinian friend that I met at the Red Cross. We talked for a number of hours about the situation, about many aspects of the political scene. Conversing with him was tremendously encouraging because of his level of political consciousness. So much so that I may try to stay in communication after I leave. The Palestinians I talked with about thier struggle is powerful and to the point; politics is not a luxury of casual contemplation and talk, it is what they live, and what affects how they will live. With this fact, my head has been filling with thoughts that this place is not the hopeless political graveyard that some think it to be, and if only there were a leadership ready to lead there would be a mass of militants ready to follow. I still know next to nothing, I still have not seen Palestinian life. I have never felt the setbacks and difficulty, the huge burden of organizing. Yet I can't help wondering is there is a strong basis for that very thing.
One question for those who read to here and know about the hunger strike in prison: what is your impression of the results? Do you think the strike was successful or not?
While at the Tabasco I did end up sharing that bottle of three dollar wine. My friends evolved rapidly and I felt at home. I didn't see the city as much because of people, but people are of weighty importance.
I pronounced her name Maria. Indian Christian from Bombay, we shared conversation, culture and liquor together, never a bed. As quickly as our lives entwined and emotions intermingled, our paths broke sharply. Whether she'll write or we'll meet, remains unknown until that future day.
Both she and another were kicked out, and I left too. The other expelled hosteler pointed out "why live in a place where the owner believes he is king, there are better hostels." I agreed, and didn't fancy a night in the same dormitory as the girl who placed her woes all on me. I left her a letter and an address. I took my back-pack and hiked through the Muslim quarter to the Faisal, where I've stayed the last few days.
Yesterday I did the photographer thing, and took three rolls. Hopefully some of the pictures will be good. I went to church after church, after Dome Of The Rock. I hiked the Mount of Olives, and went in Marie's Tomb. I ended up sitting with four Palestinian men at the lookout from the mountain: one map salesman and tour guide, one cab driver, and a few who did basically the same. We drank Turkish coffee and discussed politics and social realities. The man whom I talked with most had three brothers killed by the IDF. He spoke of rice as staple food for the huge, impoverished Palestinian families in the West Bank. He spoke of the four hours it takes many to cross checkpoints to get to work. He himself travels five hours from Bethlehem to Mount of Olives along a continuous maze of detours to avoid the wall and checkpoints -- to travel to a place within eye site just to work.
At one point an Israeli reporter shows up to be filmed with the Old City as background. The man I had talked with made it clear the reporter was unwelcome. The piggishly Zionist reporter remarked that there is no Palestinian army to act upon that sentiment, and to go home. "Go home? This is my home". "It's also my home now."
I wasn't sure if the reporter was going to be thrown off the wall he had been reporting over by my new friend. He wasn't. My new friend retreated and shut up. He submitted, with every ounce of his will being to fight.
Later that night I talked with my other Palestinian friend that I met at the Red Cross. We talked for a number of hours about the situation, about many aspects of the political scene. Conversing with him was tremendously encouraging because of his level of political consciousness. So much so that I may try to stay in communication after I leave. The Palestinians I talked with about thier struggle is powerful and to the point; politics is not a luxury of casual contemplation and talk, it is what they live, and what affects how they will live. With this fact, my head has been filling with thoughts that this place is not the hopeless political graveyard that some think it to be, and if only there were a leadership ready to lead there would be a mass of militants ready to follow. I still know next to nothing, I still have not seen Palestinian life. I have never felt the setbacks and difficulty, the huge burden of organizing. Yet I can't help wondering is there is a strong basis for that very thing.
One question for those who read to here and know about the hunger strike in prison: what is your impression of the results? Do you think the strike was successful or not?