Day 1 and Day 2: HaG'vulot shel Ha'Aretz

Table of Contents (so you can skip to what portions you think are the best-- this one got a bit longer than I wanted it to):

I. Overview
II. G'vulot
III. The Borders within Jerusalem (descriptive about Israeli society)
IV. The Israeli Customs, LTD (personal story about my 2.5 hours detained at customs. Has dialogue, the longest content-wise, but the quickest read)

I. Overview
The first two weeks of the program have been "orientation." We haven't done any real work yet, but this is coming this next week. This post is about the culture of limits here that I experienced the first couple of days.

II. G'vulot
"Ma zeh g'vulot?"

"Borders, Barriers, or Limits."

"Tov Me'od."

The first and third statement was given by our Hebrew teacher, Itamar. I could go on about how baller this man is in his hipster glasses, almost-but-just-short-of-buzz cut, skinny jeans with new balance knock offs to curve out his bell bottoms, and beyond-Scruff scruffy beard, but you'll hear more about him, as he will be our group's teacher for our entire time here.

*NOTE Using the "Hebrew vocabulary" tab above, you should be able to translate the title and conversation, and per my initial post, this will help you learn Hebrew/Arabic with me, as the context will provide. But, since it's the first time, I'll give you a hand:

Title: The Limits of the Land; "What is this, g'vulot (what does g'vulot mean)?" "Borders or Limits." "Very good."*

Itamar at the time was talking about the definitions of a g'vul as we stood in a circle at Gan Ha'atzmaut (Independence Park). Just to provide background, Itamar is absolutely transfixed by language and etymology, how the word is put into practice, and even more excited by how language (safah) is, in itself, a g'vul. He asks us about the different types of boundaries prevalent in Jerusalem. We respond: neighborhoods, streets, walls, the green line, the separation wall/security fence, the old city. "Yes!" he exclaims (note: he is ALWAYS so excited... have I mentioned I like him a lot yet?), "yet these boundaries, are they always fixed?"

III. Jerusalem borders?
Earlier that morning, we had walked from our neighborhood of Sha'are Hesed (more on this later) into Rehavya. None of us would have noticed the change, but Itamar spoke up that we were changing neighborhoods. "Most people here like to say they're from Rehavya if they're on the line, because Sha'are Hesed means like you're very religious, and that has its own implications." I remember that struck me as odd. Why fabricate a version of yourself as a person who was a religious Jew dressed like this, when you've clearly fabricated yourself in flannel, wool fingerless gloves and electric blue kicks?

But back to Itamar and his question about borders being fixed.

There are very clear notions of where yes, this border is a border. One example of this is the old city of Jerusalem . It has a border. This border is a very high wall made of Jerusalem rock that surrounds and protects what used to be the old city. Case closed.........

Au contraire.

This very high wall made of Jerusalem rock was actually NOT the same high wall made of Jerusalem rock that protected Jerusalem in the times of King Herod (around 580 BC). See here for how these mighty boundaries have moved as lines shift.

Boundary meter says: walls are a clear boundary that chang through time.

But c'mon! That's a boring border! Get to the politically dubious stuff!

The famed 1967 armistice line is another 'border' within our fair city. Most people know this line by its more colloquial name: the green line (which was named as such because it was drawn on the negotiations map with green ink). What's impeccable about this line is how impermeable it seemed to my American Jewish psyche. On the trips I took back in the day, I wouldn't have even dared to cross this line because my counselors said, "It's dangerous!" "You'll get robbed!" "You'll never find your way back!" I remember thinking that crossing this line must be one hell of a taboo.

But man, was I underwhelmed to finally see that this line that is often held to be so important and so rigid in the Israeli psyche is one of the most porous and invisible boundaries in the city. You cross it and... A) you're still Jewish, B) there's nothing dangerous (except for Jerusalem drivers, which is a region wide thing), and C) somehow all of your belongings are all still with you.

Even more perplexing, is that because the green pen was "so wide" on the negotiations map, the exact line exists as a 600 meter wide section that "bisects" the city in reality.

Boundary meter says: Important, yet invisible and completely nonspecific.

Ok, fine. The green line's pretty fine and dandy. But I want you to get REAL political.

*sigh*

The separation wall/security fence (green for green line, red for built wall/fence, and dotted red for to-be-built wall/fence) is now a visible feature of the Jerusalem skyline. It winds from the Mount of Olives out of sight towards Bethlehem, and then reappears several kilometers north of Hebrew University's Mt. Scopus campus (which is itself a VERY interesting boundary case).

Boundary? Yes. Very much so. It is made of dark grey cement and reaches very high. BUT, according to Human Rights Lawyer Emily Schaeffer (she'll make a cameo again in a future post), the Israeli government states in court that though it seems completely rigid, it is a temporary structure and can be destroyed whenever they wish (see here for an example of this).

Whether or not its temporary is up to debate, and I'm not here to touch on that. I'm here to talk about boundaries. So there, James Price.

The fence/wall's boundary is a line that snakes up and down the hills about 2 to 3 km east of the Old City. This line was one etched in the office of Israeli officials, and, in Jerusalem, does not at all ride along the green line between West and East Jerusalem. There are many many questions about how this line was chosen especially when there was an already dubious line that could have been used as a template. These questions for the most part will remain just that, because while the Israeli Department of Housing and Development states one reason, no one really knows the multitude of reasons why this line was pushed so far east if the intent was indeed security or separation (both of which are very hard to define and quantify).

Nearby where we stand, Itamar points to a fairly wooded yet broken down area of the park. "That is the location of the ancient Mamilla cemetery where many Muslims pre-'48 were buried, including those that are ... it is now the building project for the Museum of Tolerance."

I had heard about this before, but all the things associated with this situation continue to baffle me with its irony.

"The Mufti, Muslim leadership of Jerusalem, has agreed to have the graves moved and that the Museum would be allowed to build on a portion of the land. It is unclear whether the museum developers still wish to take all the land and use it for this purpose."

... Well then... each limit and boundary means both something and nothing at the same time here... depending on the context.

IV. The Israeli Customs LTD
Itamar gives a handout to us that has different catch phrases on it relating to the word g'vul. One catches my eye: Hata'am Hatov G'vul. I ask him what it means. He says, "Ah I love that one. It's like, you use it when people have gone too far. Literally it means, 'the limit of good taste,' so you would use this when you've been pushed to the edge of your limit."

Ah. Yes. I know that feeling.

Just 19 hours before, my plane touched down in Israel. My first course of action off the plane was to find some wifi and snapchat my brother to let him know I made it so that he could pass the info on to my mother and father in turn.

My second was to prepare for Israeli customs, where I knew they would probably ask me some questions about my name and my one-way ticket.

I approach the customs officer with all of the relevant documents in order, and she takes a look at my passport. I try to look pleasant, friendly and... American. She doesn't look up at me. Instead she stares at her computer screen.

"What's your business here?"

"I'm about to start a five month volunteer program."

Silence. Still hasn't looked at me.

"How long do you plan to stay?"

"Well, until the program ends."

She stares at her computer.

"What's your father's name?"

Crap.

"Masood Bhatti."

"And where is he from?"

"Pakistan."

"Muslim?"

Oy.

"Yes. Muslim. But I'm Jewish."

I just realized she hadn't typed a single one of my answers on the computer. Until those last two.

She pauses. She still hasn't looked at me once (I begin to think now that this is a person-at-customs or a her thing and not my unique situation thing... I still think it to be a little bit we--

Just then, she does look up at me. It is a very professional look. With it comes what I perceive as a very well rehearsed line, delivered with only slight zests of politeness and discomfort.

"If you would please go back to that green room over there, you will talk to a special customs officer. I'm going to hold your passport for you as you wait."

Great.

As I head towards the room, I take a note to self: when they ask about your father, casually slip in the fact that he couldn't have been my father without my mother. Who is Jewish. And white.

And, has had AT LEAST as strong of an influence on my life as, say, my father.

All (perhaps unnecessary; but hey, I wasn't feeling too hot) snarkiness aside, I'm not very worried. I have in my possession my travel insurance, my acceptance letter from my program, some specifics on my program's actions, and a copy of my soon-to-be apartment's address. If the Israeli intelligence is as in depth as I have heard, I shouldn't have a problem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wait in the "green room" (which actually has an open door and open ceiling to the rest of the customs checkpoint) for about 45 minutes with four others. One of them is a Russian woman who looks pretty annoyed at this whole ordeal. Another is an Australian man who told me he has a couple of Yemenese, Lebanese and Algerian stamps in his passport: "I help run a solar panel industry." A third is an elderly man with white hair, a cart full of bags, and a mocha skin complexion, meaning he could be from anywhere between Morocco and Bangladesh. A final one is a guy that looks absolutely exhausted and unhappy. I can't really tell much about him-- he looks Israeli yet also Arab. Perhaps we have the same problem of looking yet not being Arab. I feel less inclined to speak to him as he seems more content to be left alone, but we exchange wry smiles every once and a while.

"Ehh.... Hasan....ehhh... Bha--"

"Yeah that's me."

"Bring all your stuff with you."

"B'seder."

I enter a room across from a portly, but more-friendly-than-the-customs-lady guy. I hand him all of my documents and point out the relevant information. He asks me the same questions. And then he asks a couple more:

"Where will you be staying?"

"Diskin 5 in Jerusalem."

"Ok. Where do you come from?"

"North Carolina."

"Ok. Why are you here?"

"I'm about to do a five-month volunteer program."

"And what will you do on this program?"

"I will be working with different organizations that work with underserved populations in Jerusalem, while taking Hebrew and Arabic."

Was it a poor choice to include the second language? I don't know, but I said it.

"Is this your first time to Israel?"

"No I've come twice before. Once in 2001 with my synagogue and my mother, and again in 2004 on a summer trip with my summer camp."

"What like Taglit?"

"No it was with Ramah Summer Camp."

"Never heard of it."

"Oh... well it exists."

Was Ramah not a known thing? I guessed maybe Masa'a or Birthright are most of the cases they dealt with.

"Your name. It's not Jewish."

"No it's not. My dad is Muslim and from Pakistan, and he was the one who named me."

"But how are you Jewish?"

"My father and mother are separated and I grew up living with my mother, who was active in a Conservative Jewish synagogue, so I got involved too."

"So your dad is Muslim."

"Yes. But I'm Jewish."

"When was the last time you had contact with your father?"

What?

"Well... He's my father. I spoke to him over skype last week because he and my mom are no longer together."

"Ok. Stayed with him?"

"Uh, like a year ago?"

Two minutes of typing. I'm glad he didn't ask the same question they asked me the first time I went to Israel: Did he give you any packages to take over here?

The reason? I may have laughed out loud at that one. And that would have been bad.

I take a sip of water and hope that I'll make it out of here soon.

Wish granted.

"Ok, go back to the room, if you please."

"Thank you very much."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another hour, another couple of people. The Russian girl is gone, as is the elderly man with the bags. The Australian and the mysterious man and I sit in silence. I look at my i-pod touch to see if I can get wifi. Maybe I can contact my program director and let him know what's going on.

Nope. I am in a dead zone.

I look at myself in my camera vision and realize how disheveled and tired I look. I start to get annoyed for the first time. I need a bed, some food, and a shower. I want to stop answering questions. I want to meet my program mates and directors. I want to check my snapchats and see my brother or my mother write me back.

I want to get on with my life within a land that I had come to love.

Another guy comes in the middle of my angst and attempts my name. He's a lot more successful. But he doesn't hand me my passport back.

"Come with me."

Now, I'm not so happy or confident anymore. The way I present the following part of the story represents how I felt then, and not how I feel now (right now I understand he didn't know who I was, that I had an open ticket and... an Arab-Muslim name raises flags for an Israel that has been attacked by a couple of people in the past that happened to have Arab or Muslim lineage--whatever all this means to them and how this maintains "security" I don't know, especially when Jews and Christians also have committed violence in this area. I just know that I'd hate to be the customs officer pulling over one person or another of a particular lineage in the name of security)

He introduces himself as a special customs investigator.

I high five myself for earning a raise.

He asks me the same questions all the ones before me has. Except he asks some of them like this:

"Have you been to Israel before?"

"Yes, once in 2001 and again in 2004 with my camp."

"What type of camp was this?"

"A Conservative Jewish camp called Ramah."

"Never heard of it."

Huh.

"Did you see any of your father's relatives while you were here back then?"

"Uh, no. None of them live here. Most of my father's relatives are in Pakistan. Some others are in the United States, some others in Dubai, and one I think in the UK.  And besides, I went with my mom, who is Jewish, in 2001 along with the rest of my synagogue, and then again with my camp in 2004. "

"When was the last time you had contact with your father?"

"I spoke to him via skype this last week."

"No. When was the last time you had contact with your father?"

"... Again, I spoke to him via skype this last week."

"No. When was the last time you saw him?"

"Oh, uh. A year and a half ago I think."

"Ok. Contact with your father is when you last saw him."

Well that was a new definition of the word contact.

"So you're Muslim."

"No. I'm technically Muslim by--."

"Answer the question. When I ask I need an answer. I don't need an explanation."

I begin to think about if I had a passport from an Arab/Muslim country with a desire to participate in a social justice program benefitting Israelis and Palestinians.

"I am answering the question. My father is Muslim, which I guess makes me 'Muslim' by lineage in your eyes. But I'm Jewish by practice."

"So you are Muslim."

"No. I am Jewish."

"How is that possible?"

"Because my mother is Jewish, I lived most of my life with her, and I belonged to a synagogue most of my life."

"But your dad is Muslim."

"Yes. He is. But I practice Judaism because I lived most of my life with her and she was active in the synagogue, so I got involved in turn."

"Oh."

Yeah. Oh.

"That seems a little farfetched."

"Do you want me to call my father and mother? I can have them confirm my story, their names and their identities for you."

Silence.

I contemplate whether I should tell him to google my name and my synagogue's name, Beth El, or my time at Colby as co-president. He'd probably come up with some blog posts I've written or the fact that I was a USY leader for my entire high school, and maybe this would have set this matter to rest.

"Achvat Amim, this program you're going on, you know what it means?"

"Yes. Solidarity or harmony between nations or peoples."

Silence.

"Ok."

He returns to his computer.

I begin to ask myself what if I didn't know English or Hebrew. Would I have lasted this long in the conversation? Would they have given me a translator? Would that limit have been the difference between in and out?

And what if I knew Hebrew and was still Muslim? I didn't think my translation of Achvat Amim proved anything, but I guess it did.

"What are you doing on this program?"

"I'm going to be working at a school, Yad B'yad, for Israelis, Palestinians, Christians, Armenians. I'll be working as an English teacher and an after school worker while learning Hebrew and Arabic so I can communicate with the students."

"Yad B'yad. Where is that?"

"It's in Jerusalem."

"I've never heard of it nor the program."

"Well the program is new and both are there. You can look them up."

"Who runs it?"

"Hashomer Hatzair."

"Oh I've heard of them. You know who they are?"

"They are a youth socialist zionist organization."

I'm starting to remember my confidence, and starting to realize I need to be more aggressive with my answers for him to believe me... though I am genuinely wondering with his answer to my question whether or not the way I described the program convinced him I was here to do "good work" in his eyes.

"Ok. Do you know anyone here?"

"Yes. I know many people here."

"How many have you had contact with in the last year?"

"Like 10 or so."

"Ok. What are their phone numbers?"

"I don't have them. I skype with them. I was going to ask them their numbers when I got here, when I got an Israeli phone."

"You have had contact them but don't have their phone numbers?"

"No I don't. Because I communicate with them in a way that doesn't cost me money."

"Ok. Are these Israeli friends?"

I'm actively trying to keep myself from getting angry at that question.

"Yes. They are. In fact, one is an Israeli relative, whose last name I can't remember because, again, I was going to look him up when I got here."

"What are their names?"

"Many of them I only know their first names. A couple of their last names, but I know their first names. If you let me onto facebook, I will give you their last names and can ask them for phone numbers."

Who the hell knew that facebook would come into play in an interrogation room.

 "I can also email my mother to get the name of my relative."

"How can you not know their last names?"

Because I don't carry around all of my international friends' last names in a phone where it will cost me so much money to call them, nor do I type in their last names to facebook when I wish to contact them.

Nor do I, a multi-cultural American, expect any of their last names, or names or numbers in general, to hold any weight on my behalf outside of my contacts list, let alone a room where I could be denied entry to a country.

But I don't say that yet, for fear it'd be too long of an explanation.

"I just don't. I know only a few of the first and last names. The program directors are included in that."

"Write them down."

"Ok."

I write Daniel Roth, Karen Isaacs (the two program directors), Miki Joelson, and Liav Peretz.

"And you know or have none of these numbers?"

"Why would I remember or have any of these numbers when I don't have any use for them? I'm telling you. You allow me onto facebook and email and I will get their numbers for you within 5 minutes. Also, the two program directors' emails are right there if you want to contact them. They both have smartphones."

Silence.

"These aren't Israelis."

My God.

"The first two aren't native Israelis but they made Aliyah. The second two are."

"No they're not."

"Look them up man. They are."

Silence. Typing.

"Oh. They are."

Yeah. They are.

"Their last names don't sound Israeli."

"Yeah, well they are all Israeli citizens."

I realize in that moment that this guy is doing his job very well. Making sure, at any and every point, to offer me opportunities to slip up and give him a reason to deny me entry. This is, at the very root, the role of a person who is stationed at the border and screening all people who are about to come in.

I wonder half jokingly and half angrily if he would care if I had Palestinian friends, some of which were nicer, happier, and more peaceful than other Israelis I had met while in Israel before.

"Ok. You can return to the green room."

Ok. I'll return to the green room.

"Thank you very much."

I should have asked him what will happen, but maybe it was a good thing I didn't. I was already starting to get a little unruly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I go back to the green room. I am the last one there. I put on my headphones, change into shorts (said a flippant sorry to Ben Gurion airport for exposing my boxers and hairy legs to everyone). I blast Schoolboy Q, and then Kendrick Lamar, and then Eminem, and then Pusha T. I do yoga stretches, push ups, and pull ups on the door frame. I drink and drink and drink from my water bottle whenever I'm not doing either.

My brother, if watching this scene, would categorize me as "pissed off." He probably would have thrown in a few expletives.

And, frankly I was. I hadn't felt this angry since I was called a stone-throwing Palestinian at synagogue, or an American infidel at school, or pulled aside in airport security when I was 13, an era more colloquially known as post-9/11.

Conflicts and violence breed fear. And I was feared here in a state I had found love, community and a sense of home back in 2004 with Ramah Seminar.

Ironically, I originally wanted to come BACK to Israel to start to reduce the fear through peaceful means and social justice work, and Achvat Amim was to serve as the method to my madness. Wasn't this, the act of educating , what it meant to love the land?

That was the moment, heart rate up while doing vinyasas and body weight exercises, that I had reached Hata'am Hatov G'vul.

Another hour has passed before I realize it. I am midway through my fourth set of pull-ups when the first man comes to me and smiles. He hands me a passport and a stamped visa for three months.

"Welcome to Israel."

I manage a forced smile. "Todah rabah (thank you very much)."

I turn and walk by the station where I first saw the customs woman, this time making extra sure to break through the gates so that the barriers knew they had been opened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I anticipate these scenes and accounts will not be the last of the blurry lines and ambiguous borders that I see and experience. As a person who has lived away from the USA for upwards of two years. I also know that limits and barriers are part of every society and culture worldwide, and when you get down to living somewhere, you must understand how to live with them.

Still, I've seen and experienced a taste of ha'gvulot shel ha'aretz (the limits/borders/barriers of 'the land'), and I know how crazy and angry you can get if you are the subject of g'vulot that limit your fundamental right to be who you are, or affix you into a particular character before even asking you a question about who you are. It affected me especially because I do have a love for this place, and to be treated this way left me shaken as to if it genuinely loved me back.

I've also heard that here you people will judge and you have to prove to them that they are wrong, tangibly. I'm thinking, with each barrier set before me, I'll start to figure out how to navigate better through these face value judgments from all sides of the coin, and per my mission to start to break down these judgments into prolonged understanding and relationships, I'm hoping this will only work to my advantage, because I will continue to work as much as I am able for this love.

(Stay tuned: a Palestinian farmer does the same thing to others on our program)