Crossing

Crossings

Leaving Jordan by land takes a large amount of creativity and luck. Our cab driver arrived at 7:30 am in a friend’s personal car because cabs are not allowed to approach the border of Jordan and Israel.

“Please don’t let the police see you handing money to me. That would not be good,” our cad driver says with a smile. He is wearing a Yankees cap and speaks fondly of Kansas, having spent several years in the state.

In order to cross into Israel from Jordan, we have to exit Jordan with stamps and x-ray checks of our baggage. We then board a charter bus which takes us across the Jordan River into Israel, about a mile altogether. The difference is stark and intense. Large amounts of barbed wire decorate any fence or wall. Young soldiers with large weapons and a maze of check points and barriers force the bus to weave a path towards the border station. Our driver leans out his window at every stop and yells to his fellow drivers in search of tea or Pepsi.

At the Border

A mass of people swarm in front of the first obstacle to enter Israel, handing passports and bags to Israeli soldiers. All luggage must be checked and enters the border crossing separate from its owner. People are then herded into a building through a system quite similar to airport security in the United States; X-ray machines, metal detectors and passport checks. Following the scans, we push our way into a “booth” which shoots jets of air all over your body to create a sort of image that searches for hidden weaponry, as if anything explosive would make it this far. Our photo is also taken at this point for posterity or merely to sit in a database on a hard drive for many years to come. An hour later, the true experience of crossing into Israel begins.

Crossing at the King Hussein Bridge is illegal for Israelis, forcing the Palestinians and Arab nationals to cross at this point. Around ten percent of the people entering are foreign visitors, leaving one to think that this part of the process shall be quick and painless. Not so, as we stand for almost 2 hours waiting to speak with the border agent, who might be 18 but looks as though she should be scooping ice cream on a boardwalk in New Jersey and not wearing a uniform that barely fits her tiny frame. We each rehearse our stories so as not to raise suspicion, forcing us to think we are committing a crime and lying to cover our tracks. We are merely going to see Jerusalem and try to conduct a photojournalism project that will show what living within Jerusalem is really like, yet any mention of a Palestinian territory, Ramallah, Bethlehem, East Jerusalem or anyone with the name Ibrahim or Mohammed would be an intstant red flag causing interrogation by a twenty-something soldier bearing multiple arms and holding the power of entry in his hands. An amazing way to utilize my American tax dollars.

My travel partner’s have recently visited Syria, causing the guard to flag their passports and keep the sacred documents in a tiny office for another 2-3 hours. For what purpose is not known, my assumption after observing the process for 7 hours, is to merely create a sense of power over people and further inflame tensions of those living and visiting Israel. The more difficult the entry, the less likely people are to return. Many of those crossing are visiting Palestinian family members living as refugees in Jordan. The right of return is not granted to thousands of these refugees, so their family must suffer through such humiliation and difficulties in order to visit.

Security or Dehumanization?

What does this process mean, what are its ramifications for the people living through this on a daily basis? It provides security, you may say. The Israelis are keeping their people safe, you might argue. What I witnessed was not security. An 18-year old asking me to fill out a form she hand wrote minutes before stating where I am traveling to and to whom I am visiting is not security. Asking my grandfather’s name is not security. Asking for my cell phone number in the United States and email address is not security. Making a man who just underwent open heart surgery stand in line for 5 hours is not security. Separating families and loved ones for hours of humiliating interrogation is not security. Watching people leave the interrogation room in tears, bewildered and lost, searching for their loved ones waiting on the other side of the checkpoint is not security.

It’s a means of creating a second class citizen. It is one more method of dehumanizing a population whose homeland is occupied and whose presence is no longer desired. When an elderly Palestinian woman has to argue with a teenager sucking on a lollipop and cursing her with immense disrespect in order to enter her homeland something is not right, something is profoundly incorrect. That woman is old enough to have witnessed the creation of Israel, the death of thousands and numerous wars over the land she calls home.

I look at the office where the soldiers take a break from their duties. The young girls flirt with their older superiors, gossiping and carrying on in ways that are universal to their age. It’s a scene played out in every fast food restaurant and retail shop around the world; young adults flirting with their peers and experiencing the first tastes of adulthood. The only difference is that they are soldiers. Their uniforms bear the flags of their country, not the golden arches of their employers. They carry automatic weapons, not spatulas. These young adults make decisions that effect peoples lives and the perceptions of their identity; they do not decide if you get packets of ketchup or mustard in your order. These soldiers have no choice; they must serve their country for a certain period of time when they reach adulthood. What effect does this service have upon their outlook on life, on the role of their country in the Middle East and in the world? What does this service do to their identity and their view of the role they play in the world?

These soldiers learn power and elitism at a young age. For some, their positions give them a power that is intoxicating, a position that gives them a sense of purpose to their country and an immediate distaste and distrust of people who are of another race and religion. Such a process instills the belief that, as an Israeli they are superior to the people they are allowing to enter the country. While not every soldier embodies this assessment, you can see the implications in their interactions with the people around them, in how they treat people with a disregard and indifference.

I’ve entered several Middle Eastern countries and developing countries that also bear the burden of securing their people in an unstable environment with violent tendencies. Yet I have never witnessed such a process. Such an attack on identity made be an entire demographic of young people who should be experiencing adulthood, not further inflaming tensions in a country slowly drowning in conflict and hatred.

Sorry to end on a cliché but, I guess we are not in Kansas anymore.

A Little Housekeeping...

Hello from Jerusalem,

I apologize for the gap in entries, but finding an accessible internet connection has been a little challenge.

My intention was to keep the postings short, but I'm finding that these issues can not be addressed or even briefly touched upon without words, so I will try to use subheadings throughout the larger columns to make them easier to digest. And please feel free to leave comments!

Thanks for the patience and enjoy!

Main street in Madaba

Election posters decorate a wall surrounding the St. George's Church in Madaba, Jordan. Election day was marred by demonstrations and small riots with troops from Amman entering the small town of Madaba to restore order. Many tourists and locals refused to enter the streets during the election.

We are all Citizens

We are all Citizens

After a day of sightseeing, my new Jordanian friend invited me into her home for coffee and a traditional lunch. The den was a welcome change from the hotel and possessed the personal touches which make a dwelling a home. Pictures of family decorate the tabletops, paintings occupy the wall and treasures passed about from generation to generation and carefully placed throughout the home.

While sharing coffee my host’s sister, who lives in the Gulf and her nieces stopped over to say hello. Her husband, a local doctor, also came home for a long lunch break. The young daughters speak perfect English and luckily for me, prefer to communicate in this language. My host’s sister also speaks perfect English, yet she, my host and her brother-in-law communicate in Arabic intertwined with the occasional English phrase. The doctor prefers to speak only in Arabic

The den was alive with various dialects, laughter, sharing of You Tube video clips on cell phones, questions of each other’s homelands and comparisons of fashion trends between countries.

“We are all citizens,” says the doctor with a chuckle. I glance about the room and each person here carries a US passport and has such a diverse and interesting story of living in the States. At that moment, the true value of my American passport hits me. Such a simple document has broadened the lives of every person in the room, including myself. I am often reminded of this as I enter a country and have no problems obtaining a Visa and never receive a second glance.

The next day I visit my friend again and her best friend joins us for coffee. She is a second generation Palestinian refugee whose parents fled the 1947 conflict into Jordan and are not able to return to their homeland. Traveling to Israel for her family is difficult and due to her refugee status, she has no passport of any kind. She has applied for Visas to enter her homeland to visit her sister but the 2 hour journey is not a possibility as Israel will not allow her to return. Nor will the United States permit her to enter for a visit.

She shrugs and smiles, “I’d just like to go see my sister, she lives just over there,” and she points towards Israel. I feel a pang of guilt for leaving tomorrow for Jerusalem. “But she comes to see me, so it is OK.”

Those living in exile face this problem often, no papers, no passport and no country to issue the necessary papers to travel freely. I met many Tibetans living in India last summer who have little opportunity, short of marrying a western tourist to explore the world as they also have no passport.

As Americans we should embrace our abilities to travel, to obtain a passport with some simple paperwork, to step on a plane and land in a foreign country. If only for a few days, we should see the world which so many are denied access to because they were born in a certain country or were forced to flee their homeland. Ours is a luxury that is afforded to few and we should utilize this gift to its fullest.

Mt Nebo, Jordan

A Stone

A Stone…

After visiting some ancient ruins from the dawn of documented history, my friend and I drove throughout the hills surrounding Madaba. The vast openness reminds me of the Badlands in South Dakota, but the signs showing the baptism sight of Jesus and the spot where Moses saw the promise land quickly indicate the history of this landscape.

A boy picks up a stone as our car drives by and acts as though he’s going to throw the rock at his friend. He sees us approaching, turns to us and pulls his arm back. I see the stone; it’s large and would do quite a bit of damage. I hold my breath, curiously wondering if he will actually throw it. As time slowed and I quickly assessed the situation the boy seemed to make eye contact and calculate the same assessment. He pulls back and my heart races as I wonder what would happen if he did it, if he just let that stone fly at our windshield. He stops at the last minute and laughs at his friend. I ask my Jordanian friend with the Chicago accent what would have happened if he had thrown the stone at us.

“I would have kicked his ass.” Though she said it with a quick laugh, I have no doubt that she would have done just that, done a quick 180 degree turn and hunted that boy down.

Where does the violence stem from? At what point does the action of causing destruction become inherent? We have all participated in some degree of violence during our lifetime, even mimicking the larger acts of war. I remember spending hours playing war games in the woods behind my church as a child. At church! At what point does a society embrace violence as a means of problem solving and at what age does a child distinguish between the playful act of throwing a stone at his friend and hurling a rock at the windshield of a speeding vehicle? What elements within that child’s environment cause him to act violently towards the presence of strangers? Is he taught by his elders; does he mimic the images seen on television; is violence emphasized during his religious interactions and education? Are the violent tendencies merely the ramifications of living in a certain type of environment, with little opportunity of advancement for a sustainable future?

I pondered these questions as we drove through the Muslim villages outside Madaba and into the Christian sections of the town. For centuries man has resorted to violent acts in the name of his god. Can religious communities continue to coexist in this era of emerging fundamentalism? Or will nationalism remain a stronger tie than religion to help keep peace between such differing religious communities? I will continue to revisit this theme throughout the project, as I search for a deeper understanding of the elements which make this ability to coexist possible, or not. I do not expect to find answers, merely a better understanding.

Election Day

Election Day
Quiet and calm nestle within the streets of Madaba as the town awakes for Election Day. The nation has a two day holiday, yes-two whole days off in order to vote, and Jordanians are approaching their duties with diligence and a degree of excitement. I wander the streets for the visitor’s center, hidden well from the visitors and after several failed attempts; I head back towards the haven of my hotel. A car speeds by and honks repeatedly as an arm waves frantically from the window. I look around and realize the flailing arm and erratic horn serve to gain my attention. The car whips to the side of the road and my driver from the airport jumps out of the car and dodges the traffic to cross the street. He greets me with a warm smile and shakes my hand. His excitement is contagious and I can’t help but laugh with him for a moment.

“Today is very busy, very busy with election!” He exclaims.

He clutches both cell phones in his hand and I point to the mobile devices. He says that the election is today and his cousin is involved. I am unsure if his cousin is running for office, or merely involved in the process, but after several more moments runs back across traffic to his car and drives off in a fury.

As I head back to the hotel, I notice the streets are waking for the day. A soldier and a man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth are working to snap a deadlock on the exchange office, one on each arm of the massive bolt cutters, pushing furiously and laughing at one another. A van speeds by covered with election posters and the words freedom written on the windows.

While preparing for a trip to the pool, (I find it hard to avoid working on something, so I use jet lag as an excuse for engaging in the art of relaxation) I hear shouting, as though from a large group, coming from the window. I see nothing, and just assume it’s a common occurrence.

Several hours later, a new friend from Jordan (complete with a Chicago accent) tells me of the demonstrations happening throughout the town due to the elections. Throughout the day we hear sirens and helicopters and I fight the journalistic urges to enter the streets and photograph the process. We notice people on the rooftops pointing, so we also make our way to a higher vantage point to see tanks filled with soldiers making their way up the main street into the city.

Here I am, one day in Jordan and riots and demonstrations are occurring just down the road. Do I photograph? Do I participate in this Election Day process? The journalist in me says yes, the practical side-which weighs the calculated risks of such situations says no- much to my professor’s dismay, I’m sure. Not knowing the language, not knowing the climate of the local political and religious sects and simply not knowing my way around town make this an illogical choice.

Curious, I ask my local friend what is the source of these demonstrations. She heard that the government was trying to interfere in the election process and many of the young men from the rural villages were protesting this interference. I pause and think of all the issues we have in America when it comes to voting- disenfranchisement, vote caging, unsecured electronic voting machines, etc., and how calm our streets remain on Election Day.

Should our streets be calm when the government interferes with our ability to vote? Should we cause a riot, make a scene, force the government to send in troops to quell the dissatisfaction at our own election process? I am not condoning rioting, but merely saying a strong voice of opposition is needed at times, particularly when our ability to vote is at stake. Would this balance our democracy, help force more of our votes to count? Or should we engage in more active civil disobedience to achieve such means; particularly when our media is unable or unwilling to help us voice our dissent? Maybe civil disobedience would be effective if the people had a stronger voice. And where do we derive such strength in voice?

Amidst the chaos of the day, the evening returns the town of Madaba to normalcy. As the sun set and both the political and actual temperature cooled and the streets came back to life. A car pulled away from the hotel covered in flowers and carrying a bride and groom towards their celebration of union. Tourists entered the streets to dine at the local restaurants, people launched fireworks in honor of several weddings and an almost full moon rose over Madaba.


News on the election day in Jordan: http://english.aljazeera.net/NR/exeres/C27980A9-903A-43DA-B334-12CF4191B11D.htm

Moon Over Madaba

Moon over Madaba

Jordan remains a country of beauty and relative calm nestled between two of the most volatile regions in the Middle East. Landing in Amman, one is fully aware of their surroundings, as men holding Blackwater signs and drivers looking for groups of western tourists await their new arrivals. I pause to look out the vast windows of the airport and ponder the proximity of such pain and despair which I read about in the paper. Over a few hills to the East lies Baghdad, to the West lies Israel.

Quite a surreal drive into the little town of Madaba, Bedouin tents scattered amongst the arid landscape with flocks of sheep and groves of olive trees woven through the desert landscape and street signs with arrows pointing towards Iraq. My driver proudly tell me of his family in Ohio and how he hopes to obtain a visa soon to return for a visit. He lived in Ohio for sometime, but returned to care for his family farm. Pride fills his voice as he tells of the olive trees and livestock that his brother is now caring for just outside of town. The Jordanian flag hangs from his mirror and posters of politicians are taped to his rear window. Local music plays from a cassette tape as we travel the roads into Madaba.

As we enter town, I reminded of such vast differences in our world. At home, the local parks and recreation department is tearing down a wonderful little spot of woods and natural habitat near my home to fill the land with playing fields and parking lots. A multi-million dollar project to “better the community.” I look out the window and see young boys kicking a worn and tattered soccer ball through a dusty patch of empty space between three story concrete buildings, laughing and playing amongst the debris and rocks that litter their ‘field.’ Their joy and love of the sport is no different than in the States, only the surroundings. Does a community need such millions dollar structures for its children to play and engage in the act of being a child? Instead of building such a structure for children to play, might we just provide the simple tools needed so everyone could play, a round ball and a pair of shoes?

Calls to prayer fill the air as I sip on Arabic coffee and watch the moon rise over the hotel. The call is distinct and beautiful, a strong reminder the vast distance which lies between me and my home.

Taking you on a little journey...

This shall be the first of many entries regarding the cultural interactions that occur while traveling throughout the world. My intention is two fold, as many deliberate actions have several differing but equal purposes. Often times I am asked about the places I travel; is it safe, are the people friendly, what does the country look like, would you return? I intend to place the reader in the situations I encounter in the hopes of expanding his or her own perception of the world beyond their daily lives. Secondly, I hope to create a dialogue that will spread amongst the viewers of this site and the people they interact with on a daily basis. The latter being the more important element of the intentions, though one does not exist without the other’s presence. A dialogue that goes beyond what the mass media claims is reality. A dialogue that may create a feeling of human empathy that bears no cultural biases or prejudices. A dialogue that may broaden or reverse the preconceived notions that people harbor. Notions gained from a mass media which has evolved from its origin as a “watchdog of the government” into, at times, a mouth piece for the motivations of partisan politics filled with exhaustible talking points which stifle healthy dialogue and debate. For without a realistic, empathetic and passionate dialogue about the world beyond our borders and within, we can not maintain the complex and amazing machinery that is our democracy.

As the author of this column, I promise to not bog the reader down with trifling statements of mundane activities; what I ordered from a samosa stand in Nepal; how I rode a camel around the great pyramids of Giza, and how the bed I slept in last night had questionable microscopic critters living within its fibers. I promise to tell you of the conversation I had with the owner of the samosa stand who fled his homeland in the Himalayans to avoid a civil war, or the woman I shared a beer with by a pool in Jordan who remains a Palestinian refugee after decades of living in displacement, or the camel handler wearing a Las Vegas Police Department sweatshirt who asked if I could be his second wife in order to come to America and visit. I promise to keep the entries short and digestible (present entry excluded, of course) and I will show you with images of the world I am witnessing. I will work towards leaving blatant political statements out of this blog as well, though that is not an absolute statement. Many of you are aware of my political leanings and there is no need to muddle the heart of this column with politics. My politics will be apparent in my actions, in my subjects and the things I choose to write about and that which I leave out.
“It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own, to think that one can avoid such subjects. Everyone writes of them in one guise or another, it is simply a question of which side one takes and what approach one follows. ” ~ G. Orwell

As the reader, I ask that you comment on what you read, to myself, to your neighbor or your colleagues standing around the water cooler. I ask that you elevate and initiate a dialogue with your friends and family that questions our role as Americans, both at home and abroad, and question that which you perceive to be true. A dialogue that is mutual and well intended, without the deviation into partisan bickering which happens so often in our country. For in questioning our own reality and bearing witness to the realities of others, the tools that democracy affords us; freedoms of choice, speech and the power to demand better of our government, may be utilized to their fullest to truly make the world in which we live a sustainable place for raising the next generation, and the ones to follow.

I ask that you spend some time with these writings and forward them to your circle of friends and loved ones. The subscription button on the sidebar will send an email to your mailbox each time this column is updated, making life a little simpler. My intention is to see how far and wide we can spread a little conversation. Turn off the television, step away from the internet (after reading this, of course) and engage those around you in the art of conversation!

And if nothing else, you may learn something, or see something that you had no idea existed. And remember that questioning your world, your reality and at times your identity is a healthy and positive action.