On Sunday, I awoke from my floor mattress to the sound of goats, sheep, and roosters. We joined our host family for a quick breakfast before packing up the car with three months’ worth of our luggage and heading out. Because it was a school day, we missed saying goodbye to all the children. Perhaps it was easier to leave without the kids and teens begging us to stay and asking why we were leaving. As sad as we were when saying goodbye to the adults of the village and promising to come back and keep in touch, they understood why we were leaving.
Despite living here for three months. Despite the ways we had been welcomed into the families here. Despite our deep love for the land and the people here, the adults understood that this is not our home. That many of us had family, friends, pets, and jobs that we left behind for three months. They understood that our parents wanted us ‘home’. Back to Western life and Western safety. They understood that, despite making this village our home for the last three months, that it was not our home. That we must eventually return to our ‘real lives’.
Just two hours later, after leaving my heart behind with the dusty hills and hospitable Palestinians, I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport. Despite not crossing any borders or even changing currency, I was suddenly in an entirely different world. I tried to push the Arabic out of my head as I donned a hostage pin and put on my Jewish star necklace. Here amidst the large orthodox families and youth groups, I had to pretend that Palestine did not exist. That the West Bank didn’t exist, it was merely the desert of Judea and Samaria.
I tried to hide my nerves as I passed through the various levels of Israeli border security. When describing my time here to the officer, I made sure not to lie, simply to omit some of my activities. I spoke of the beauty and magic of the old city. I described the various falafel sandwiches I had eaten in the last three months. I spoke of the beauty of the sea and showed the woman the tan I had achieved while in the land. Satisfied with my answers, I moved on to the next level of security.
Here, I described my Jewish upbringing. I mustered all my Hebrew to talk about my Jewish day schools and synagogues where I learned to love Eretz Yisrael and speak the language of my people. I described the family vacations of my childhood, where we visited the holy land. I must have been very convincing, because they did not even ask me if I had travelled to the West Bank or spoke any Arabic.
As simply as I had arrived, I departed with no issues. Nothing about a white, Jew’s presence in Israel raised any red flags, and thus, armed with my privilege, I embarked on the plane. Waiting to board, I reflected on the shocking ease of my travels. Israel’s border seemed to have no record of my arrest. They never bothered to Google my name. They never questioned my motives. I took off my Zionist regalia and threw them in the trash. People stared as I trashed my necklace, but I did not care. Fuck this place and these people, I thought.
I boarded the plane and in a bit over an hour, found myself in Cyprus. A small island country I had not heard of before, Cyprus is apparently a hotspot for Israeli tourism. Get me out of this place, I thought. A few days later, I was again boarding a plan, this time to Jordan. As I boarded the plane, I felt happy knowing that I would finally be in a place without Israelis. This was all I wanted after spending three months witnessing the Jewish supremacy of Israeli culture.
Arriving to Amman felt like a different world. I realized that I had never been to the Arab world before (not counting Palestine, of course). Here, there was a sense of freedom not present in Palestine. As people walked and talked and visited cafes, there was an ease about them. Here, there was no ever-present fear in the back of peoples’ mind. Here, there was no occupation. No fear that the army might come at any minute and wreak havoc on one’s life. It felt spectacular to witness.
In Amman, the calls for a free Palestine are loud and proud. It feels so different from Palestine, where outside of large cities, it is dangerous to wave the flag. In Jordan, much of the population is from Palestine. Many people here fled during the Nakba, the Naksa, or just because of the everyday situation of ethnic cleansing and erasure. But despite leaving their land, they have not forgotten their heritage. Here, souvenir shops are filled with pro Palestine merchandise. Murals calling for a free Palestine dot the streets.
Here, I meet many Palestinians. They wear necklaces and thobes that showcase their identity as refugees in Jordan. While many of the Palestinians here work in low paying jobs such as cleaners, servers, and taxi drivers, many others work at universities or for NGOs. They speak freely about the situation in Palestine, about the corruption of the Palestinian Authority, and about their desires to return to their homeland. I’m shocked at how these words flow freely from their mouths. Here, there is little fear of spies who will tell on you to Israel.
Some people ask me what I think about Jordan. I begin to gush about what I see. I tell them that the people are kind and hospitable, just like Palestine. That the land here is also beautiful. I tell them about the sense of freedom I feel in the air here. The ease in which Arabs move here. The magic of witnessing freedom in the Arab world. People seem surprised by my response. Here in a large, hot, busy, and somewhat grimy city, people do not expect ajaneb to praise this place.
One woman acknowledges the ease with which Palestinians can settle in the Arab world. Especially in Jordan, the language, culture, and food are extremely similar to Palestine. It is an easy home away from home. After she acknowledges this, I feel obligated to mention that this of course is not the home of Palestinians. That those who live here must contend with what it means to be a refugee. To long for a life and land that was stolen from them and their parents and grandparents.
I try to imagine what it is like to see your homeland from across an arbitrary border. To see the lights of the homeland at night in the distance and know you cannot visit. To look across the Dead Sea and see those who have colonized your land and dispossessed you of it. So close, and yet so far.
In Jordan, I am excited to practice my Arabic. Unlike the Arabs I met in Cyprus who were from North Africa, here the dialect is Levantine. In Jordan, everyone seems to know some English. They speak to me in English and I answer back in Arabic. I wonder how everyone has learned my language. Then I remember that in a country that does not struggle against occupation and apartheid, the schools likely teach English and are well funded. Here, the school week is not shortened due to lack of funds from the Palestinian Authority.
I think of the Palestinians who live here and then I think of the Palestinians who live in Masafer Yatta. Here, shepherds own many sheep and can take them out without fear of settler violence or theft. But here is also not there. Here, homeland has been traded for safety. I meet many internationals here who wish to see a free Palestine. They wear pro-Palestine shirts and keffiyehs and have Palestine stickers adorning their laptop. I am shocked at the contrast between activists here and in Palestine. I think of all the shirts I left at home, for fear of having them seen by Israeli authority figures.
I meet a few groups of international advocates who are in the country to support Palestine. Because of the current iteration of genocide in Gaza, their organizations do not want them to travel there. So instead, they come to Jordan. They ask me about my experience in Masafer Yatta and how I managed to make it in and out without trouble. I shyly explain that I am Jewish.
I try to pretend like I am on vacation like the few other tourists I see here. But my immense privilege continues to creep into my thoughts. Less than a week ago, I was in an active war zone. The day before my arrival, I was detained in the field by Israeli soldiers. And now I sit at a cafe smoking shisha and drinking coffee as though none of this happened. As though none of the people who housed and fed me for three months exist anymore. As though their freedom is now inconsequential to me.
I exchange voice notes over Whatsapp with those in Palestine. We say how much we miss each other. They tell me about the continued violence and demolitions they face. I tell them of my vacation plans in Jordan. They seem happy for me and wish me safe travels. But I feel immense guilt and shame. How is it that I can have so many more rights than those who I spent the last three months with? What is so special about me that I am granted freedom of movement while they are not?
I find no answers to these questions because there are no satisfactory answers. All humans deserve these inalienable rights. This is what I learned in school and growing up in North America. That all humans are created equal. That we all deserve the right to pursue happiness and life and liberty. And yet, the same country, which was founded on these principles, is responsible for funding and supporting the terrorist regime of Israel. The irony hits me hard.
As I resume my normal life, I question what I will do to remember, honour, and support the people of Masafer Yatta. What will I do from here that can make a difference there? How can I carry on watching Netflix and ordering food delivery to my home as though I did not spend the last three months witnessing inhumane atrocities? I end this blog not with answers, but with more questions.
It is an unsatisfactory ending, but I suppose that is to be expected. What is satisfying about witnessing war crimes happen in my name? I try not to be seized with despair, but to use what I’ve witnessed to move myself and others to urgent action. The things I have seen are things I would not wish even on my enemies. They are cruelties that no living being should endure. I resolve to fight harder, to dedicate myself more, to seize any opportunity to support Palestinian liberation. This is the best I can do, I suppose. I invite you all to do the same.