You don’t have to be a Marxist to grant materialism this much ground: when one’s material assets become “limited,” life is revealed to be deathly elementary. For most of the day one’s thoughts become not simplistic, but simple; tastes become not base, but basic. Emotions like shame, love or rage are left blunt and raw. Under the sun, on the job, with precious little change in hand, these things show themselves to be true.

I don’t pretend that my modest routine here in the West Bank gives me any insight into the lives of my friends who are permanent residents, but I do my best to extrapolate.

Little things matter. There is more to the occupation than political subjugation, night raids and the metastasis of settlements. Yes, a nostril full of tear gas will ruin your day (trust me) but sometimes I wonder how much these grand struggles bother a regular Palestinian compared to the more mundane, humiliating features imposed by the Israelis, I’m thinking of the restrictions on travel, the absurd farming regulations, and the sabotage of business. Then there is the general incompetency of the Palestinian Authority in outmaneuvering this oppression from its postmodern HQ up north.

The original doesn't serve ice cream.

Take Bethlehem, a city that welcomes busloads of chalky tourists every day. From inside my regular falafel bistro I watch them file up and down Manger Street, eyes fixed ahead of them toward the tour guide’s baton. Americans, Europeans, South Koreans—rinse and repeat. They’re led from the bus station two hundred steps to the Church of the Nativity and then back. They don’t see a particle of the Old City; they don’t try any restaurants or food stands; they don’t even visit any shops to buy cheap tat.

Not one of the translucent foreigners meets my gaze, because none of them ever turn their heads away from the spires at the top of the hill. Yesterday the boy serving me my falafel summed up the sheer monotony: “Bus to the Church; Church to the bus. Again, and again, and again.”

The problem here isn’t just the frivolousness of tourism, which is endemic. The fact is that the effects of the occupation cripple what could be a major source of income for the PA, not to mention Bethlehem’s business sector. The stranglehold from Tel Aviv—having successfully convinced most Christians that the real show is within Israel’s borders—and the negligence of Ramallah both undermine this juicy opportunity to do what everyone else does with their historical relics and cash in.

Sometimes these foreigners are blatantly told not to mingle with the Arabs, let alone grant them business. Yesterday on the main street I overheard a conversation between a tourist and a Palestinian kid selling some scarves from his shop. The would-be customer stammered for a bit before the kid leveled with him and asked him why he was so nervous. As it happens, it was because his tourist troupe had been told by their guide, as well as shopkeepers in Tel Aviv, not to patronize the Arabs—that the Palestinians get awful violent if one doesn’t make a purchase in their shops. Judging by the aforementioned marches up and down Manger Street, I am willing to assume that was not an anomaly. (If you’re looking for a happy ending amidst this post I can tell you that the gentlemen above did end up taking some fine scarves home.)

Of course the impetus is on the Palestinian Authority to deal with this state of affairs and get a grip on the tourism business. And while golden boy Prime Minister Salam Fayyad has worked wonders for the past two years, Ramallah really hasn’t got its shit together in that department. The tourism ministry rattles off a lot of management-speak while each day nearly every single tourist walks right through one of the holiest cities in Christianity without giving the PA a dime. And that’s Bethlehem, not Nablus or Hebron. Bethlehem should be easy.

Labels: Bethlehem, Israel, manger street, occupation, Palestine, palestinian authority, West Bank

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** UPDATE: And there's cats ***

First, a personal update.

All over the West Bank, and certainly here in the Bethlehem governorate, it is not only the peak of wedding season but also election season. All day both toasts and ballot results pipe through bullhorns, and applause ripple through different ends of town, converging somewhere around my flat. And I’m assuming the thumping bass and snaking horns I hear at this moment are coming from a wedding reception down the road rather than the Ministry of Commerce.

Both events clog up the roads and set off strings of car horns. The aftermath of weddings in particular result in convoys of cars beeping in near-harmony, which creates a sonic affect not unlike “De Natura Sonoris No. 2.” Things get slightly more melodic when the call to prayer creeps into the soundscape.

Finally, each night one is jolted by the cracks of crude fireworks. Every night so far. As an American abroad I might have felt privileged to see such displays on July 4, in the Middle East, of all places. But I’ve always shared the view of Aimee Mann—they’re “a waste of gunpowder and sky.”

From the roof, a view of some electoral commotion.

I hear all of these things without the muzzle of a window’s glass, since my only source of cool air is the open air on the roof or whatever the wind sends through my open shutters down below. The noise is one thing; globs of sweat are another (which I’d like to avoid). I’m really quite alright with all of it, so long as the bugs continue to keep their distance.

In the past few days we've seen Israel reneg on its body transfer of 84 Palestinian fighters, one hundreed of the "flytilla" folks herded into the holding pen, and slowdowns in talks between Fatah and Hamas.

It seems I'll actually have to run at the moment—not much of a post so far. There are apparently some clashes happening between protestors and Israeli soldiers at a checkpoint between Ramallah and Jerusalem. So perhaps tomorrow I can get a bit further in measuring up the scene here.

Labels: aimee mann, Bethlehem, fireworks, Palestine, penderecki, summer, West Bank

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