A Palestine Travel Diary: Living On The Outside

I hope my Palestine travel diary may help shed some light on what it’s really like to visit there

By Natalie Malan

Palestine travel is nothing new for me. It’s the trip we make every few years to visit my grandmother in the town of Bethlehem and cousins in Ramallah. 

Both towns are situated in the West Bank, the occupied territory that lies behind the Israeli-built wall that separates Israel and Palestine. It’s a holiday I look forward to every time, as I’m very close to my family. But I felt the need to share a bit of firsthand information about Palestine travel to dispel any negative images of the country. I also want to shed light on the treatment that tourists like me are subject to from the state of Israel.

My Palestine Travel Diary: Day 1

I fly into Tel Aviv and am interrogated for a full two hours by multiple soldiers. They could be mistaken for a group of fraternity brothers due to their jock-like mannerisms and youth. I sit in an office and admire the world map above the desk. Further inspection reveals that Israel is directly situated beside Jordan; there is literally zero reference to Palestine in any capacity.

As the soldier goes on, question after question, I don’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted at the depth of interest he seems to show about my life. I am asked about my grandfather’s name and town of birth (I have no idea). I’m asked why and when I moved to the many places I have lived around the world. My motives for the trip are questioned. I laugh, trying to bring humanity into the situation whilst apologizing for my complicated ‘global gypsy’ life. I’m aware he is just doing his job. However, he is not at all amused. I wonder how someone could be so dedicated to really caring so much about asking such useless, stupid questions.

He continues, increasingly rude, testing the limits of my patience with more condescending questions. ”Where in Israel was your father born?” (Um, my father was born in Palestine). “Why did he leave Israel?” (Umm…he was never in Israel). It finally ends. 

The taxi drives us through Jerusalem and across the wall into Bethlehem. It’s winter, and my Aunt’s house is freezing. I wonder why the heaters aren’t working and she confirms that there’s some problem with the electricity. Something related to its control by the Israelis.

Family Time: Day 2

Palestine travel always involves incredible food. Today, I enjoy the smell of rich coffee with cardamom, the sound of Arabic radio, and plates of fresh falafel and hummus. My grandmother is watching Turkish soap operas at full volume. 

My late grandfather used to be one of the guards at the Church of Nativity in Manger Square, the church where Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Today is the 6th of January – and Orthodox Christmas Day. Tourists and festivities abound. It should be a joyous day, but Trump’s recent announcement recognizing Jerusalem as the capital of Israel left an air of fear in the holy town.

My father takes me through the church. As we enter the grotto where Jesus was born, there is a heaviness in the air. The small space is filled with weeping Eastern Europeans and emotional Africans. It is a moment they have probably looked forward to their whole life, seeing the birthplace of Jesus.

In the street, we watch as a diplomatic car speeds by. Apparently, the local head of the church is arriving for the festivities. He sold Palestinian land to the Israelis, and is consequently not at all popular here. I look to my right and notice a mosque as the call to prayer begins, no more than 100m away from the Church of Nativity. I ponder the paradoxes of Palestine travel. 

That evening, our family joins us from Ramallah for dinner at my grandmother’s house in Bethlehem. We exchange gifts, we laugh at who has gained or lost weight, and we eat loads of food. I feel like life has been tough on them. Not only has there been some serious family illnesses, but there is not that same sense of progress that we, the visiting family, experience in our “Western” lives. On the contrary, their lives seem to be fully controlled by the decisions of the Israelis. What permits must be shown, where and when they can travel. Most recently, they have been prohibited from visiting Jerusalem, a “freedom” they previously enjoyed.

Nonetheless, together we are happy, and outside the walls of the house you wouldn’t know there is anything all that bad going on.

Enjoying Jericho: Day 3

On a beautiful, sunny day we decide to visit Jericho, the oldest city in the world, and the lowest point on earth at 258m below sea level. Driving down the winding path in the valley, the rolling hills hold enclaves of Bedouins living in makeshift huts. Israeli soldiers stand stationed at several “checkpoints” through the journey, even though it is 100% on the Palestinian side of the wall. It forces a reminder upon us that we should be fearful and not forget where we are – an occupied state.

When we reach Jericho, with its palm trees and run-down streets, shops and cars What a Wonderful World  by Frank Sinatra blasts through the radio. The irony is not lost on me. 

After a delicious lunch at a “resort” in the valley, we decide to visit the local market. We joke that my aunts are buying enough food for the next two months. Jericho is famous for its fruits and vegetables, something to do with the climate of its location below sea level. On the drive back, we take a more scenic route, passing the Mount of Temptation where Jesus apparently stayed for 40 days with no food. The sun is setting over the valley.

That night, my cousin and I visit a cute little bar in Ramallah called Garage. It’s in a space that literally used to be a garage. People are playing chess. Foreign volunteers and workers are on their laptops, and locals are catching up. Wine, good food, and a real sense of community create the atmosphere. We continue on to a house party, where we listen to deep house sets and drink wine. I could be anywhere.

my Palestine travel diary

Papers, Please: Day 4

The next day, hungover, the day starts late into the afternoon. We visit one of the Shisha cafes in Ramallah. My cousins stop and catch up with literally every table of guests. It seems everyone in the town knows each other. As we sit smoking our shisha, we discuss the latest gossip. We also talk about our own dramas, comforted in the similarities of these. The food is delicious, again, and the shisha perfectly made. I’ve yet to eat a meal that was anything but excellent in Palestine.

I take the minibus back to Bethlehem from a desolate car park in the centre of the old city of Ramallah. I’m sitting in the front with the driver. He plays a CD of Fayrouz, one of the most famous Arab singers. Even though I don’t understand what she says, as we drive through the winding roads with the sun setting over the hills I can’t help but feel nostalgic for a lost time. The music takes me back to my childhood, when my father used to play it in the car on our way to pre-school. I see illegal Israeli settlements in the distance.  

Halfway through the journey, the Palestinian police stop us and ask all the passengers for their ID. I notice one of the passengers behind me makes himself as small as possible, putting his hoodie on. I wonder what is going on. It turns out he forgot his papers. He’s taken out of the minibus by the police. The bus driver, sensing my nerves, asks if I’d like some coffee from the shop across the road. I decline, anxious to get home.

Driving from Ramallah to Bethlehem is only around 25 km. But thanks to all the checkpoints, this can take up to 2 hours, depending on how lenient the Israeli soldiers are feeling. This is fully intentional, in order to make Palestine travel as hard as possible. As we pass through the run-down villages, I notice vertical streaks of smoke not too far ahead. The driver confirms this is tear gas. I notice soldiers and a few men running into the olive trees over the hills. No one reacts, but me.

My Palestinian Travel Diary

Bass And Banksy: Day 5

Walking with my father through the town in which he grew up, we stop at each house for Arabic coffee and biscuits. 

We visit Banksy’s ‘Walled Off’ hotel, inspired by the Waldorf Hotel in New York. Leather couches, gold fixtures, and plenty of art meet the eye whilst jazz plays in the lobby. A mere 10m away, the graffitied apartheid wall is visible; an intentionally disturbing site. Besides being a hotel, the Walled Off is also a work of art, in a way.

Today we ordered grilled sea bass from the local store for lunch caught that same morning. We ate this together with green fava beans, salads, tahini, grilled eggplants and sweet potatoes. It was definitely one of my favorite meals during my time here. The food continues to blow my mind.

Later that afternoon, we decide to visit the new development of Rawabi, a project funded by Qatar and wealthy Palestinian businessmen. It’s over an hours’ drive out of Bethlehem. It has recently opened with high-street stores such as Mango, the only one existing in the West Bank. Though still a ghost town, the future of this little city seems promising.

We drive back to Bethlehem and go to the local Knafeh store for the famed Palestinian desert of sweet cheese. Dessert is a big deal over here. My (mostly) plant-based, non-sugar eating self is holding up well, but I am tempted.

My Palestinian Travel Diary

Writing And Working: Day 6

We go for breakfast at Afteem, a famous falafel restaurant. It must be the best I’ve tried. Afteem Al-Yawafi opened this restaurant in 1948, the year of the Palestinian Exodus. He did so after finding refuge in Bethlehem, fleeing from his previously comfortable life in what is now called Israel.  

Later, I am sitting in an empty cafe in the ‘touristy’ area, writing on my laptop. An elderly woman comes and sits at my table. She asks what I am writing about. I say an article about Palestine for Eluxe Magazine. We exchange names and where we come from. She seems happy I am half Palestinian. She proceeds to tell me, without hesitation, that she hates laptops and people typing away. I tell her it is for work; “what can I do?”. It turns out her family owns the restaurant, which explains the forwardness.

Back home, I continue writing in the dark. The power went out and we don’t know why. We wait for some time before it comes back.

In the evening, we visit old friends in Beit Jala, a village not far from Bethlehem. We sit with them in their beautiful house on the top of a hill overlooking the highways across the wall on the Israeli side. I talk with the husband of my Aunt’s best friend. He is a construction consultant. I ask him why USAID funds infrastructure projects for water and sewage in Palestine, although US foreign policy is against support of the state of Palestine. Would it not be in their interest to suffocate the landlocked of the West Bank by means of resource starvation? He states that keeping the Palestinians at least a tiny bit satisfied is a means of keeping them less likely to rise up against Israeli oppression.

I post on Instagram, selective of what kind of experience I want to paint of my times here. Beautiful scenery, and references to the mystery of the holy land seem better than showing images of the wall, the war, the tear gas, and the soldiers. There is no point to wallow, it feels. Though that’s easy to say as an outsider. I guess I see it all differently, I see beauty and want to preserve it.

Palestinian olive tree

Jerusalem: Day 7

Palestine travel should always involve a trip to Jerusalem, and that’s where we go today. We pass through the border control between Bethlehem and Jerusalem. The Israeli soldiers are apparently vastly irritated. They change the booth for the passport line several times. Our line runs to each, frantically, ridiculously. We finally get through and catch the “service” bus to the old city with other Arabs.

In the old city, we enter through the Damascus gate, and into what appears to be the Arab quarters. We arrive at a security check before entering the Western wall, the Jewish quarter. I ask the security guard where the Western Wall is and I say it’s my first time here. He answers cheerfully, surprising me, almost singing “welcome to Israel!” followed by some textbook introduction, like a scout minus the hat and necktie.

We get to the wall and observe the kissing of the wall and praying into Torahs on the women’s side of what appears to be an open air synagogue. 

I want to see the mosque, which is now in sight, but it’s not clear how to reach it. We end up at two different gates but apparently only “Muslims” can go through these. We cover our hair with scarves and say we’re Muslims. That isn’t enough. The Israeli soldiers manning the gate ask us to recite “Al Fatah”, one of the most known verses in the Quran.

I happen to know it, and proceed to recite it. I pass the checkpoint into the mosque. But soon, I am greeted by Arab Israeli police who, again, ask me to recite it. They seem somewhat unsatisfied with my rendition and don’t let me through.

After a delicious meal in the old city, we take the bus to Ramallah to meet some friends. At the border of Qalandiya, the Checkpoint Charlie of the Israel-Palestine dispute, an Israeli soldier gets on the bus and checks everyone’s papers. It seems he’s just taking the piss, being as cranky and as nasty as possible. I am starting to understand the instructions from the Israeli government are to never, ever treat an Arab with humanity, and to purposefully delay them in any way possible at all times.

wailing wall

Bethlehem: Day 8

Day 8 of my Palestine travel diary was all about visiting the birthplace of Jesus.

My Italian-Lebanese friend who is doing an Arabic language exchange in the nearby village of Nablus and I decide to go for a walk around Bethlehem. We sit in a famous ice-cream shop near the Church of Nativity with a great view of the settlements and the Palestinian villages. We drink coffee and talk about the ironies of the place.

It’s a Friday, and we had just walked through the main square where hundreds of men stood, leaning on cars, against walls, and standing in the open air. They listened to the Friday prayers recited by the mu’addhin in the loudspeaker. We later learn that as the mosque is too small to house all the followers, they gather around the square. We were the only women in that space of what could have been around two hundred men. I felt uncomfortable. Not for being a woman in a sea of men, but for having to witness what should have been a very personal, intimate moment of prayer.

Lunch is at home with the family. It’s our last day so the tradition is Mansaf, a traditionally Jordanian dish eaten throughout the Levant consisting of lamb cooked in yoghurt. I sit in the living room with grandmother, aunts, uncles and children. We talk about old memories, we laugh, and make light fun of each other.

Going Home, But Forever Outside

My Palestine travel diary is coming to an end.

Returning to Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv, it’s again like one big college town. Millennials are working the border patrols and the cafes – there’s a lot of dreadlocks, tattoos and flirtation. It sounds like fun, but I feel like a complete outsider. I don’t speak Hebrew and I’m not Jewish so I know I am completely unwelcome; a perennial outsider. Whilst they laugh and joke with each other, without a care in the world, I start to worry just how long it’s going to take for me to get through the border control and finally out of this place.  

But I’m grateful that I can. And wish I could say the same for my family members, stuck inside.

Do you have a Palestine travel story of your own? We’d love to hear it in the comments, below!

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