Rick Steves Travel as a Political Act

by Rick Steves

  This map, posted in many places around Palestine, illustrates how with each passing decade, Israeli control of the Holy Land is becoming greater, while Palestinian control (the green area) is shrinking.

  I don’t believe an Apartheid state is what Israel wants, and I don’t believe it’s the best option for Israel. But as Israel continues to build settlements that carve up the West Bank, I fear the country may be forcing itself into an ugly and undesirable corner. With a two-state scenario becoming less and less likely, Israel will have to be one state. And if that state is to be Jewish, Israel may ultimately have no option but to become what most Israelis don’t want to be in order to simply be.

  Palestinian Borders: Complex as ABC

  As a visitor, zipping from Palestinian city to city on fine modern freeways, it’s easy to underestimate the complexity of the region and the extent of Israeli control. Palestinians living in the West Bank, while nominally autonomous, feel they’re under Israeli occupation. Palestinian cities are generally Palestinian-run with their own security forces. But these islands of relative independence are surrounded by land and roads controlled by Israeli military.

  Since the 1993 Oslo Peace Accords, the West Bank has been subdivided into pockets of land classified into three zones: Areas A, B, and C.

  Area A (18 percent of the land in the West Bank, with about 55 percent of the people) is made up of islands within the West Bank. It contains most of the Palestinian cities and towns, and is entirely controlled by the Palestinian Authority.

  The West Bank is not as contiguous as simple maps imply. Locals say it’s more like Swiss cheese, with the holes being densely populated islands of Palestinian autonomy surrounded by roads and open land controlled by Israel.

  As you approach any Palestinian city, a bold red sign makes it clear in Hebrew, Arabic, and English: You are leaving the realm of the Israeli military and entering the zone controlled by Palestinian security.

  Area B is filled mostly with infrastructure connecting the islands of autonomy that combine to make Area A. While Area B is technically under Palestine civil authority, it’s effectively controlled by the Israeli military. Palestinian license plates are green and Israeli plates are yellow. When times are good, all cars are allowed. In troubled times, traffic is yellow plates only. If there’s unrest or a problem, Israel can shut down Area B border crossings all over the country and stop all traffic in the West Bank. In minutes, they can isolate and lock down every Palestinian city.

  At checkpoints, stalled and frustrated drivers have plenty of time to ponder political art decorating the walls. People living difficult lives are expert at coping—whether through hero-worship, venting with a spray can, or dark humor.

  Area C, holding most of the West Bank’s uninhabited land, is under complete Israeli authority. While Area C is nominally a part of Palestine, there can be no Palestinian building in Area C without Israeli permission (which is rarely granted). Area C also includes modern Israeli highways that cut through the West Bank, connecting Jewish settlements in Palestine with Israel proper.

  Checkpoints stand sternly at the boundary between Israeli-controlled land and Palestinian territory. Some are manned; others are empty and a simple drive-through; and “flying checkpoints” can pop up unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere. But all checkpoints come with a watchtower reminding everyone that Israel is keeping an eye on things. For Palestinians, the needless wasted time spent sitting at these checkpoints is aggravating and humiliating. Driving by one, I saw two soldiers checking papers one car at a time (holding up traffic in the opposite direction and creating a huge traffic jam in the baking sun). Luckily, by the time I returned, they were gone.

  Although Palestinians still feel that they live at least partly under Israeli occupation, they try to remember what an historic accomplishment it is that the land in Area A is free and self-ruled, and has been since 1993—for the first time after centuries of foreign control.

  The Beauty of Palestine: Olives, Bedouins, and Salty Seas

  After just a couple of days in Palestine, I was really impressed by how much fun it was to simply be there. I sensed a resilience, a welcoming spirit, and a warmth that was striking. While I rarely saw fellow Americans, everywhere I went, I heard over and over, “Welcome to Palestine!” It’s as if people were just thrilled that they have a name for their country…and someone from the outside world was there to see their flags flapping in the West Bank breeze.

  Driving through the Palestinian countryside, the vistas feel timeless—I couldn’t help but imagine Abraham, Jesus, or Muhammad traversing these same valleys. One place that stole my heart was a natural preserve for hiking near the village of Battir, west of Bethlehem. A fine trail snaked along terraces that defined this terrain in ancient times. These 3,000-year-old “Biblical Terraces” were lined with stately and graceful olive trees.

  Here in the Holy Land, the land itself is holy to its inhabitants. For Palestinians, the olive tree—a symbol of steadfastness and faith in the future—is a kind of lifeblood for the culture. The tree of poor people, it gives without taking. As they say, “It was planted by our grandfathers for us to eat, and we plant it for our grandchildren to eat.”

  In Palestine, olive trees have been tended by locals for millennia.

  Each autumn, across the land—as they have since ancient times—families gather in the olive groves for the harvest. Children are let out of school for the week so they can work the trees with their parents. Then families take their olives to the communal village press to make oil. The traditional technique survives—though boosted by hardworking machinery—as a busy crew in oil-soaked shirts meets the demand of the harvest season. Rounds of olive paste are pressed into a weeping mass of fresh oil, which after filtering becomes a golden liquid poured into jugs to be taken home.

  Families still come together to harvest olives, just as they have since biblical times.

  Scattered through the Palestinian countryside, like timeless limpets, are the settlements of nomadic Bedouin tribes—filling dusty gullies with their scrappy shacks and goat corrals. Children and sheepdogs follow their flocks of goats and sheep as they search for something to munch on.

  Bedouin settlements pepper the Palestinian countryside.

  While hardscrabble communities still eke out an off-the-grid existence, their way of life is dying. Like nomads everywhere, Bedouins are being driven into a world where people have addresses and send their children to school to learn the prevailing values of that society. With the political tensions between Israel and Palestine (the walls, settlements, freeway construction, and aggressive water politics), I was told that Bedouin camps are now less mobile and stick to land near roads where they can tap into water mains. After so many centuries, more and more Bedouin families are finally settling down in towns and villages. As their ability to roam free is disappearing and their access to water is becoming more limited, they are, by necessity, adapting.

  Bedouin people, while settling down, are retaining as much of their heritage as the modern world allows.

  And yet, these Bedouins are trying to maintain their traditions as much as a nomad with a roof over his head can. Visiting a Bedouin settlement and watching the man of the house roast coffee with a reverence for tradition is mesmerizing. Observing him at work, it was clear to me that the dignity of these people and their closeness to the land is emblematic of Palestinians in general. And tasting his fresh-brewed coffee was like sealing a new friendship.

  The Monastery of St. George is tucked away deep in the Judean Desert.

  Also hiding in folds of the desert are fabled monasteries which, since ancient times, have given hermits the isolation of their dreams. The dramatically set Monastery of St. George, built on cliffs above a natural spring, welcomes pilgrims and tourists alike. For 15 centuries, the faithful have ventured to this remote spot, hiked into the ravine, quenched their thirst, and nourished their souls. Orthodox Christians—whether from Palestine, Greece, Russia, or Ethiopia—enliven
these monasteries today, as they have since the sixth century.

  The Orthodox icons at the Monastery of St. George are a reminder of how the meditation, isolation, and hermetic way of life can all help the monks—and pilgrims—to better understand the message and will of Jesus.

  I ascended the dramatic Wadi Qilt viewpoint for a thrilling panorama over the Judean Desert. Then my ears popped as I dropped below sea level and passed through the ancient city of Jericho. Dating back some 10,000 years, it’s one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities on earth. Locals claim that the thick air that comes with this low altitude—nearly a thousand feet below sea level—makes their bananas, oranges, and dates particularly tasty.

  The road ends where the Jordan River does, at the lowest place on earth (about 1,400 feet below sea level): the fabled Dead Sea. The Jordan continually empties into this inland sea. Because there’s no outlet for the water, and the scalding sun—almost unbearable in the summer—causes constant evaporation, the minerals concentrate. That’s why the water is more than one-third minerals (bromine, magnesium, and iodine).

  The Dead Sea, the lowest place on earth, has a special mystique at twilight.

  Tourists are more than welcome here, and they enjoy bobbing like corks in water that’s about six times as salty as the ocean. A dip rubs salt on cuts you didn’t know you had. Keep the water out of your eyes and float near a shower.

  Dead Sea spas have an impressive brag list. The soothing air is thick—there’s 10 percent more oxygen here than at sea level—and hazy with bromine, a natural tranquilizer. Visitors rub the Dead Sea’s magically curative black mud on their bodies. Many believe the mud’s minerals make their skin younger and more beautiful.

  Palestinians living in the West Bank have no access to waterfront. Israel even adjusted the border to control the entire Dead Sea shoreline. But when tensions are low, Palestinian families who can afford the admission are allowed to enjoy some Israeli Dead Sea resorts.

  Palestinian rooftops are punctuated with countless black water tanks.

  Traveling through the West Bank, you become attuned to meaningful symbols of a divided society. For example, the skylines of Palestinian cities and towns are dotted with black water tanks. While Israeli settlers have running water whenever they like, Israel controls and limits water service in Palestinian-held areas. The black tanks absorb the solar heat to warm the water—and help you identify Palestinian houses.

  This Israeli water pump, in the West Bank, is caged in and surrounded by barbed wire—a reminder of what is the most important natural resource around here.

  Each community has its concerns: They say the first thing an Israeli considers when building a house is a bomb-hardened safe room, and the first thing a Palestinian considers is building a cistern. Along with water tanks and solar panels, Palestinian rooftops also sport satellite dishes to connect to Arab and international satellites, which serve as their window on the world. Palestinians told me that many here keep the TV on at all times. To them, “breaking news” stories aren’t just entertainment, but critical updates about a constantly shifting reality.

  Driving through the West Bank at night was also instructive. In the countryside, there were no streetlights unless I was under an Israeli settlement or military base—in which case, the highway was well-lit, including powerful spotlights facing away from the road, illuminating the land nearby. In the distance, the faint flicker of open fires, lanterns, and makeshift dangle lighting marked off-the-grid Bedouin camps. And I could identify Palestinian towns on the horizon by the proud green lights of their minarets.

  A Synagogue, a Mosque, and Bulletproof Glass: Jews and Muslims Sharing Abraham in Hebron

  Hebron is the West Bank’s biggest city (with over 685,000 people), and is also home to one of the holiest sites in the Holy Land: The Tomb of Abraham, revered by Jews, Muslims, and Christians. According to scripture, Abraham had one son by his wife, Sarah (Isaac, the ancestor of the Israelis), and another son by their Egyptian servant, Hagar (Ismael, from whom the Arabs are descended). That’s why both Jews and Muslims come to the Tomb of Abraham to be close to their great patriarch. While this confluence could have been an opportunity for unity and cooperation, instead it has turned the tomb into a divisive place with an uptight aura.

  Hebron, the biggest city in the West Bank, is a jostle of activity.

  The Tomb of Abraham stands right in the center of town, where Israeli troops are posted in the name of security. In the surrounding streets, Jews live literally atop Muslims as the two communities struggle to be near the shrine of their common patriarch. While the city is mostly Palestinian, a determined and well-protected community of several hundred Israeli settlers has staked out the high ground. The tension between the communities is illustrated by a wire net that protects the Arab food and clothing market from the garbage tossed down by the Jewish residents above. Observing this, I wondered what Abraham would think about the inability of his feuding descendants to live together better.

  In Hebron, the bustling market comes with a net to protect it from falling Israeli garbage.

  And it’s all about one complicated and tragic sight: The Tomb of the Patriarchs, an ancient structure capped by a medieval church, which now functions both as a mosque and a synagogue holding the tombs of Abraham and his family. Abraham purchased this burial plot almost 4,000 years ago, as explained in Genesis 23.

  In Hebron, turnstiles and checkpoints are a way of life.

  For centuries, Jews were generally not allowed to worship here. Then, after the Israeli victory in 1967’s Six-Day War, this holy site was shared by Muslims and Jews. But during a Muslim service in 1994, a Jewish settler entered with his gun and killed 29 Palestinian worshippers. Since then, this holy space has been smothered with security and divided—half mosque and half synagogue—with Abraham’s tomb in the middle, granting both communities partial access.

  Sadly, this shrine comes with bulletproof glass and barred windows so that his two sons’ feuding descendants can respect his grave. On one side of the glass, Jews worship in the synagogue, enlivened with singing, studying, and praying among the tombs of their great patriarchs. And the other half is a mosque, where Muslims worship with equal fervor.

  The tomb of the great patriarch Abraham, venerated by both Jews and Muslims, is shared by a synagogue and a mosque—and split by a pane of bulletproof glass.

  Hebron is the place where I feel the most tension in the West Bank. Jews expect access, as do Muslims—and, with a history of massacres on both sides, any trust is fragile. Palestinians can do little but annoy the huge number of Israeli soldiers stationed here—and vice versa. During my visit, I noticed that they were putting down extra carpets in the mosque. When I asked why, I was told that they expected an inspection by Israeli soldiers, and they didn’t know if the soldiers would remove their boots before entering.

  A virtual no-man’s-land with Jewish political art decorating closed buildings divides Hebron’s two communities.

  I sensed a sad and unsettling sentiment of occupiers’ vengeance among these young Israelis, who seemed to have little empathy for the people they were controlling. I thought of the troubling fact that in World War I, the French and Germans were so willing and able to slaughter each other on the Western Front because the vast majority of them had never broken bread with someone from the other side. The society here seems purposefully structured to prevent people from knowing each other. These seemingly likeable young soldiers were fun to chat with. Then, when it was time to go, one of them said, “Time to go bust down a door.” His friends in uniform laughed, and they were off.

  A giant key is a powerful symbol among Palestinians.

  A Stroll Through Balata Refugee Camp

  Refugees are a big issue in the Holy Land. When Jews returned to their ancestral homeland after World War II to create the modern state of Israel, they displaced hundreds of thousands of Palestinians. Many of these families still live in refugee camps in the West Bank. The biggest,
with over 20,000 people, is Balata, just outside the city of Nablus.

  The original ten-foot-by-ten-foot platting—marking where tents were pitched in 1948—survives. Only now the tents are gone, replaced by multistory cinderblock tenements. Exploring these narrow lanes, I tried to imagine living in such tight quarters: being a parent with children and little money…the feeling of desperation and no way out. The density is horrible, and there’s little privacy. It’s a land of silent orgasms.

  The claustrophobic Balata Refugee Camp is home to more than 20,000 Palestinians.

  Walking through the Balata camp, I made a point to remember that throughout the world, there are refugee camps filled with people living this way. When we travel, we draw a tiny line of experience across our globe. But what we experience hints at a much broader reality; even though we see very little, we can learn a lot. From one country to the next, a gated community is a gated community. A happy person with clean running water is a happy person. And a refugee camp—regardless of who lives there and why—is filled with destitution, frustration, and faint but distant hope.

  Wandering the streets of Balata offered a vivid glimpse of life here. Mothers send their sons out for chicken, and they bring home a very fresh bird ready to cook. The boy selects a bird from the cage. The butcher slits its throat, drains it, and tosses the bird into a spinner to remove all its feathers. Then he guts it, washes it, and puts it in a plastic bag. The cost: about $4 a bird. Palestinians call the spinner a ma a’ta—the same word they use for the turnstile they have to go through at various security checkpoints.