by Mark Thomas
There are many occasions when the UK government’s behaviour makes me hang my head, like selling military equipment to Israel28 or refusing to condemn Israel’s actions in the Security Council of the UN. But I remember the conversation about the banned book fair in the Consulate garden, and the odd sensation I had while discussing it. Initially I thought the swelling feeling was indigestion, but then I realised it was in fact an emotional feeling, one of rightness and belonging. It was, it turns out, a passing moment of national pride. Bloody hell, I thought. This is what patriotism feels like. I had forgotten. One of the fantastic things about individual identity is that some of it is set while much of it changes, but we always have a degree of choice about who we are. So today I’m not going to be English, not a Londoner nor even a South Londoner. Today I am going to be British. Just to give it a go. Who knows, I might be a moderate by the afternoon.
chapter 18
SHEIKH JARRAH
Back in East Jerusalem! And not a moment too soon. Phil and I have had quite enough of each other. We have walked, eaten and slept together for far too long; often in conditions so cramped I’ve seen things even doctors wince at. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not splitting up, but there’s only so many times you can watch someone scrub their smalls in travel wash before the magic starts wearing off. At the start of the ramble, we had been eager to accommodate and compromise, but now everything is annoying: he doesn’t shave, can’t tie his boots correctly and he breathes funny, too.
‘No offence,’ Phil says. ‘But maybe we should start walking with other people.’
‘We just need some time apart,’ I agree.
We have fallen behind with our plans and need to reorganise, so will stay in East Jerusalem for a few days. I can make a new schedule, coordinate the final push south, sort out walkers, translators, beds, route logistics and assessments, and Phil can go anywhere I am not. He can find a bar or go to Tel Aviv; he can do nearly anything as there are a lot of places where I am not.
In truth, reorganising is only one factor in the decision to stay in East Jerusalem. The other is the chance to stay in a hotel. I have fixated on this luxury for the past week now, unable to even utter the word ‘hotel’ without sounding like Barry White. So, Phil might say, ‘I’m looking forward to East Jerusalem,’ and I would respond, ‘Oh, yeah. I’m gonna be in a hoe-tell, that’s right, baby. All. Night. Long. A hoe-tell, baby, like I said I would.’ This would then roll into a tuneless rendition of the great man’s classic, ‘“I’m qualified to satisfy you … In any way you want me too.”’
‘Shut up, shut up,’ Phil would laugh. Although I think I may be imagining his laughter.
The hotel, run by a Palestinian family, is friendly, clean and quirky. Bolted to the corridor wall, right by my room, is a small loudspeaker that constantly pipes out music; not just any old hotel lobby music, oh no, this plays ambient harp music. Relaxation music! Is there any music more infuriating than relaxation music? Never in my dullest dreams have I imagined I might ever have to phone a hotel reception at 2 a.m. and shout, ‘Can you kill the bloody harp, please!’ But despite the New Age tinkling, the place is perfect and I have got exactly what I wanted: privacy. The chance to sit alone in a room each evening, not listening to anyone else’s voice and best of all not hearing my own. The harp is small beer.
The days are spent in cafés and offices with a cast of activists, NGOs, guides and Nava the Israeli fixer; meetings are attended, coffee is drunk, maps are toiled over and a new schedule rises from the ashes of the old.
‘I need to speak to more Israelis,’ I say to Nava over yet more coffee
‘You have the meeting with the commander of the Border Police …’
‘We need the mayor of Jerusalem.’
‘He won’t interview.’
‘Could we ask again?’
‘Mark, don’t you follow the news?’ Nava crossly rattles through her reasoning: ‘The vice-president of the US visits Israel tomorrow. An official visit. In Israel, this is big news. Israel wants to keep building settlements; the US wants Israel to stop, to keep the settlement freeze. So what does the mayor of Jerusalem do? He announces that 1,600 new homes will be built in East Jerusalem. Just before the visit.’
‘This is exactly why I need to talk him.’
‘Mark! The whole world wants to talk to him. Bibi Netanyahu can’t get an interview with the mayor! You think he will say, “Wait a minute, Bibi, wait a minute Mr Vice-President, I have first to talk to a comedian from Britain”? Mark, the mayor is a little bit too busy right now to talk to you.’
‘Oh, sure, he’ll use that excuse …’
We might not have the mayor or indeed any muncipal official to interview, but we can visit the heart of Israel’s plans for East Jerusalem. Tomorrow, we are going to see Sheikh Jarrah, a Palestinian district elevated, by the fate of twenty-eight homes, to status of international cause célèbre. It is the epicentre of Jewish settlers’ attempts to demographically transform the predominantly Palestinian city of East Jerusalem into an Israeli city, a Jewish city, and they are doing this by removing Palestinians one home at a time.
The rather splendid British Consul General mentioned Sheikh Jarrah when we had walked together: ‘A lot of this is due to the fact that this Occupation should not have been allowed to go on for so long … Humanitarian law isn’t designed to cope with the situation in Sheikh Jarrah, where people expelled from one home then find themselves expelled from another. They end up expelled from the very home in which they find themselves as refugees.’
This is the case for many in Sheikh Jarrah: they had fled the events of 1948, the Nakba (the Catastrophe), arrived in East Jerusalem as refugees, and were given land by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) and the Jordanian Mandate. Here, they had made their homes. Israel, contrary to international law, then annexed the city in 1967, and Israeli settlers set about using the courts to evict the community, claiming Jews had lived there before 1948 and thus the land and homes should ‘return’ to Jewish ownership. One by one, the settlers are evicting the Palestinians using any and every means, leaving the families destitute and making them refugees for the second time.29
Tomorrow’s visit will not be the first time I have been to Sheikh Jarrah: before the ramble started, I had done a recce and on my first ever evening in East Jerusalem had been taken there by Ray Dolphin from the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. Ray covers Jerusalem and the Barrier for the United Nations. He is tall, with swept-back hair and, being Irish, speaks with the appropriate accent. He is also one of those chaps who is in danger of giving the UN a good name.
It had been late, cold and dark when Ray and I had arrived at Sheikh Jarrah. A small group of people, the Ghawi family, had been sitting around a brazier in the street, opposite the home they once lived in. A settler organisation had had the family evicted, arguing that the land had originally belonged to Jews. As soon as this was done, the settlers moved in, while the family erected a tent in the street opposite.
‘The family belongings were thrown out by the settlers when they took over the house,’ said Ray, taking a chair offered by one of the group.
‘Did you not call the police?’ I asked the family as I joined them around the fire. Those that spoke English had chuckled first, others with the translation.
‘It was the police who evicted them,’ Ray said.
‘They helped the settlers take over the house? Wow.’
‘So the family live out here in a tent.’
‘As a protest?’
‘Where else should we go?’ someone said. ‘There is nowhere for us.’
‘But this is winter,’ I spluttered. ‘Have the Israeli social services not got involved?’
The chuckle was hollow this time.
‘Surely they have an obligation to house the family?’
‘No,’ said Ray.
‘What about the children? The Israeli social services must have some provision of care for the children; th
ey must be able to find a shelter or hostel for the mother and children at least?’
These questions were barely met with a shrug. Perplexed and confused, I turned to Ray. ‘What about school, doesn’t the school raise the issue with the authorities about the kids being homeless? Surely the school would intervene in some way to get help, wouldn’t they?’
‘The police did actually come round …’
‘And?’
‘They took down the tent. They said it was illegal.’
‘The tent is illegal!’
‘The tent.’
‘But this is absolutely nuts. How can all these people get thrown out of their home, get no support, no rehousing, no help for the kids and then they are the criminals for living in a tent!’
Ray had leant closer to the brazier and talked to the family in Arabic. Then he sat back and looked at me, saying: ‘I was just explaining this is your first day in East Jerusalem.’ The family had nodded and smiled in an understanding way.
‘These are all perfectly reasonable questions,’ said Ray, ‘and you are right to ask them. But you’re reacting the way you would do at home in England. This, however, is Israel. It all seems mad at first but it makes perfect sense if you remember the Israelis modus operandi to achieve, “Maximum land with minimum Arabs”. That’s what they want: “Maximum land with minimum Arabs”. Understand that and the madness does at least have a purpose to it.’
So how does this apply to Sheikh Jarrah? Well, the settlers have plans to build a 200-home settlement on the site of the neighbourhood, and the second part of that equation means the Arabs have to go. It’s all part of creating an ‘undivided Jerusalem’, and preventing East Jerusalem from becoming the capital of a future Palestinian state.
It’s the morning of our visit to Sheikh Jarrah. Phil has had a shave and I’ve stopped singing Barry White. The ambient harp music is playing again, but you can’t have everything.
Phil’s on good form and is full of stories about Tel Aviv. ‘Oh, man,’ he says, ‘compared to this place it’s like another country …’
‘I think it might actually be that.’
‘And guess what? That demographics professor …’
‘Professor Soffer?’
‘Yes, well, he was right. The place is full of croissants and small dogs. There are loads of bakeries and loads of small dogs. Hundreds of them! It’s like being in the south of France but less polite.’
The walk from the hotel to the occupied houses takes twenty minutes, starting in the quieter streets, passing low stone homes and gardens, onto the road by the foreign consulates where drivers test their horns in the early traffic, then down the sloping road that leads to the Old City and turning left at a car dealer’s forecourt. There we enter the street I had come to with Ray Dolphin only four months ago. The neighbourhood is waking up, birds chirrup from gardens and an old man emerges through an iron gate overhung with palms and cordylines, framed in pointed greenery. At the far end of the street a handful of women sit in the shade of a fig tree, on a roughly fashioned wooden bench.
‘I guess that’s the settlers, then.’ Phil gestures to a building that is draped in Israeli flags: one hangs down the side of the wall, two stick out from the first floor balcony, one flies from the roof and a string of blue and white bunting flaps gently on the parapet.
‘How do you do it, Holmes? Was it the flags?’
‘If you look closely up on the roof, Watson,’ says Phil in a plummy tone, ‘you’ll see a twenty-foot sculpture of a nine-branched candleholder.’
‘Ahhh, the giant Jewish candles on the roof.’
‘Indeed.’
‘That’s a fuck-off birthday cake.’
With the massive menorah on its roof, the occupied home has the appearance of a religious squat: green tarpaulin sheets hang over the wrought-iron balcony; the windows are blacked out and barred; there’s a lean-to made from a patchwork of assorted materials; the fencing is irregular and broken; and the metal gates are locked with fist-sized padlocks. It would be fair to say the settlers aren’t much interested in blending in.
It seems calm out here, however, and in other circumstances it would be a fine thing to sit under a fig tree or enjoy the lazy morning sun. The women at the bench nod as we approach but, just as I start to introduce myself, something happens back up the street near the car dealer. Things are about to heat up, and quickly, too.
We turn to stare as a large group of Israelis enters the street from the main road. They have hit the street as a coordinated pack, sticking to the middle of the road and striding quickly. A core group is flanked by armed security, who are all guns, wraparound shades and earpieces. In the middle of the phalanx are two settlers, walking on either side of a politician of some sort, talking to him and attempting to appear casual. The politician sticks out a mile. I don’t know who he is as I’ve never seen him before in my life, and have no proof of his profession other than the fact that he is in the middle, he’s in a suit and has the brisk swagger of a man who expects gratitude and thinks he shits wisdom. He’s a politician.
The group have planned exactly where they are going and arrive abruptly at a house not far from where we are standing. A wail goes up from the group, this is the al-Kurd family home. The security guards with their machine guns fan out and enter the garden doorway. The Israeli politician turns to his yarmulke-wearing escorts and, nodding at the Palestinian colours painted on the outside wall, says in Hebrew, ‘If this is ours, why is this flag here?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer but strides into the al-Kurd family’s property.
‘Phil!’ I call as I dash towards the group, who are disappearing into the garden.
‘I’m there!’ calls Phil from behind me and I hear him running too. We have no idea of who has just arrived at that house, but it’s too early for the post and it sure ain’t Ocado. All I know is that the politician thinks highly enough of himself for me to be interested.
By the entrance to the home now stand two guards who eat way too much protein and need to cut out the supplement shakes. I can feel that Phil is still next to me as we slip past them and through the entrance. Inside, the garden bristles with men, guns and media opportunities. The press pack is small and so is the garden, so they form a line descending in importance from the politician, who stands at the bungalow door. There is the photographer, the cameraman and lastly a radio reporter. Oh, and then me and Phil.
The door is covered in graffiti and the windows are barred. This is the al-Kurd family home, and right next to it, a small tent. The story here is that the Palestinian family had built a two-room extension on to it – the part of the house the politician is currently inspecting – for their son and his growing family. The courts, however, declared the two rooms illegal as it had no building permit, and then evicted the occupants and sealed the extension. In December 2009, a settler got in, occupied the extension and has stayed there ever since, like some weird colonialist cuckoo living on the other side of the wall, inches from the family who built it. The tent was put up so the al-Kurds could guard against more settlers occupying their rooms.
Nudging up next to the radio reporter, I whisper, ‘Who is this guy?’
‘The deputy mayor of Jerusalem, David Hadari.’
‘The deputy mayor!’
‘One of them, yes.’
‘What’s he here for?’
‘Ask him.’
‘You can be sure I will,’ I say happily. He might not be the mayor, but he is a deputy mayor, and he has just walked into one of the city’s biggest controversies.
Phil winks that the camera is rolling. David Hadari has wire glasses, red cheeks and a yarmulke in a faded black colour to match his hair, which matches his suit. It transpires he is from the political party, Jewish Home (they used to be called the National Religious Party, which will give you a hint as to which end of the spectrum they sit). He’s not far right, but not far from it either.
‘I’m here to express our rights and sovereignty in Jerusalem,’ h
e starts as the radio reporter waits next to him. ‘Some very courageous and idealistic settlers came here to strengthen Jerusalem and we are very proud of them.’
It is an understatement to say his manner is unfortunate. He has a small man’s habit of sticking his chin in the air, either compensating for lack of height or inviting someone to punch it. As a politician, he has yet to master a simple, standard smile and appears to either gloat or smirk like a sidekick.
‘Why is it important for Israel to have East and West Jerusalem?’ I ask, slipping in next to him, aware that people from the street are beginning to come into the garden.
‘This is my home, this is my house,’ he says, sounding shocked that I even asked, though quite clearly it isn’t his home at all. ‘This is my city; it belongs to me and all of my country.’
‘But there are Palestinians that live here.’
‘No, no …’
‘So you dispute that Palestinians live here?’
‘It belongs to us. It was Jewish land before 1948; it was the first land Jewish people ever bought in Jerusalem.’
‘OK, so if Israelis can claim homes that were occupied by Jews before 1948 in East Jerusalem, can Palestinian families come to West Jerusalem and get houses that used to belong to them?’
‘Excuse me.’ He holds up his arm indicating the conversation is about to end. ‘It is our country. It is our city. It belongs to us. That’s it.’
He has finished, so he pauses, possibly waiting for someone to fetch a hook to pull his chin down. As he moves to leave, the deputy mayor is deftly blocked by the Israeli radio reporter. ‘What are you saying to these people, these Arabs?’ the reporter begins, pointing to the small and now teeming garden. ‘Look how they are. Look how they live.’
‘I am saying …’ starts Deputy Mayor David Hadari, but he is drowned out with shouts and denunciations from a clutch of Palestinian women next to him. ‘I am saying,’ he starts again, but the next-door neighbour is now leaning over the wall by the rose bushes, shouting into his ear. Raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony, David Hadari leans into the mic. ‘I am saying that we are in one whole united city’ – news of that unity has yet to reach this particular garden, but he continues – ‘Jerusalem is part of the Jewish state and belongs to Israel …’
