The Sound of Silence

Brian

A few minutes ago, after a short afternoon nap, I stepped outside the door of my apartment in the Palestinian West Bank city of Ramallah. It was several minutes after sunset, and the city was almost dead silent.

The normal rush of cars and buses that usually zoom past our apartment on their way to Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nablus, and other West Bank destinations were noticeably absent. The joyous shouts of children playing outside our window had disappeared. The sounds of city construction had halted momentarily. And even the wind seemed to be respecting the silence of the moment, for there was no rustle of tree leaves.

Even in the most isolated places, it’s rare to be able to sit and experience true, pure, unadulterated silence. But here, for several minutes, there was no sound in the air. In a world that seems to never stop, it was a moment of tranquil ecstasy.

Except for the birds. The birds were signing! They angered me in a way that animals never have before! How could these birds be so disrespectful of my moment of peace? An unexplainable rage bubbled inside of me. I wanted to curse the birds, yell at them for refusing to acknowledge everything else’s deference to silence. But they paid me no mind; they were never aware that their joy could taint such a blissful silence.

Frustrated at the birds’ blatant disregard for my wishes, I retired inside to make myself a cup of tea.

***

This is Ramadan in Ramallah. The silence was the sound of a fast being broken. It was the sound of Muslim families returning to their homes after a day of no eating and no drinking to eat an Iftar dinner and break their fasts together.

Ramadan is a time for family, prayer, religious observance, charity, and self-reflection. This holiest month of the Islamic calendar is a time to slow down from the bustle of everyday life to focus on the things that should be more important to us humans.

Throughout the month of Ramadan, for about an hour every day, this silence repeats. For me, it is the external manifestation of what Ramadan represents. For just a few moments every evening, if you pause and listen carefully, and cup your hand to your ear, you can hear the true heartbeat of Ramallah – family, hospitality, charity, and peace.

That is, of course, if the birds aren’t singing.

The Audio Culture of the Syrian Presidential Election

Brian

This post is long overdue, especially after Sam's posts on the posters of Mr. Bashar al-Assad around Syria. After attempting to cut corners and rent a cheaper car, our first rental car had air conditioning that didn't work, a dysfunctional radio, and a transmission that barely pulled us up the mountain from Aleppo to Latakia -- not to mention the six times we had to stop to have flat tires repaired. Our replacement rental car was delivered to us while we were visiting Saladin's Castle. Although we had to stop several times to have flats fixed with this car, and although after our trip to the Syrian Desert to visit Palmyra, the car refused to idle [a challenge in Damascus traffic!], it did have a functioning CD player.

This gem was found in that beautiful CD player. The CD was titled "Minhibak," we love you, in Syrian dialect. The last track of the CD was in English, and I'll allow you to imagine a group of four Americans (and Keegan's dad) driving around Syria blasting this music out the window, singing along. Sam, there's no question Bashar has a sense of humor.

Audio File: Bashar, We Love You

More download options here.

Enjoy.

A Tale of Two Cities

Brian

I’m still trying to process it all: military checkpoints, M-16s pointed at me, metal detectors, bustling Arab shopping districts, bulletproof glass, confrontational Americans, tombs of prophets, bullet holes in a mosque, frighteningly empty streets, and an armed military convoy accompanying my bus back to Jerusalem. I experienced all of these yesterday on my journey to Hebron in the West Bank, Palestine.

We decided to go to Hebron on a whim yesterday morning, and although I had my reservations about visiting one of the flashpoints in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Hebron has been relatively calm over the past several years. Plus, it houses the tombs of the patriarchs, where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, and Leah are buried.

Traveling to Hebron was relatively painless. East Jerusalem to Bethlehem, one bus transfer, and in less than two hours, we had arrived in the Palestinian section of Hebron. Immediately, without being asked, we were all handed lemonade concoctions (which tasted more like lemon-flavored sugar water than lemonade), exchanged mobile numbers with several of the men selling sweets and juices on the street, and were invited to one man’s house for dinner. Arab hospitality at its finest. As we wandered through the narrow streets in the market of the old city of Hebron, we were constantly asked in both Arabic and English where we were from. When answering, “America,” everyone replied with a warm and enthusiastic, “Welcome to Hebron!” It was the beginning of what could have been an extraordinary day.

However, as we continued walking through the old city, the city began to quiet. Shops had their doors shut, or were abandoned, perhaps. Within 500 meters, the city we had witnessed on our arrival – vibrant, warm, and inviting – began to drift away. The lively sounds of merchants became distant, the children following us on foot and on bicycle turned around, and the aroma of falafel faded away. We turned a sharp corner and were faced with an Israeli military checkpoint. After passing through the metal detectors, showing our passports, and having our bags inspected, we had arrived at the Tomb of the Patriarchs.

We walked up to the entrance of the mosque and shrines, but the military asked us to wait 30 minutes because we were not allowed in the mosque during prayer. As we waited at the small mini-mart opposite the mosque, with military guard towers and checkpoints surrounding us, I had time to contemplate the landscape.

* * *

Now, I can certainly understand the need for such heavy military security in an area like Hebron. After all, this was the city where Arabs massacred 67 Jews in 1929 – and the city where an extremist Jewish settler gunned down 29 Palestinian Muslims while they were praying in 1994 (the evidence of this can still be seen in the form of bullet holes in the mosque). Of all places in the West Bank, tensions here between Jewish settlers and Palestinians are the highest. In most places, settlements are built on a hill, away from Palestinian villages. But here in Hebron, in addition to the settlements on hills around the city, there are several small Jewish settlements in the city itself.

These special circumstances have resulted in a series of rules that restrict where Palestinians and Israeli settlers can travel in Hebron. These restrictions manifest themselves in curfews, in the mandatory and permanent closure of Palestinian shops in the now Israeli-controlled area, checkpoints every few hundred meters, concrete barriers and razor-wire separating the two areas, and armed guard towers on the border overlooking the happenings in the Israeli area.

* * *

In the Tomb of the Patriarchs itself, there is a Muslim entrance and a Jewish entrance. The tombs of Isaac and Rebekah rest in the Muslim area, and the tombs of Jacob and Leah can be found in the Jewish area. The tombs of Abraham and Sarah can be seen from both the Jewish and Muslim side; however, bulletproof glass can be seen between the two viewing areas.

As Christians, we had the luxury of being able to enter both the Muslim and Jewish areas. Other than the clear division of the shrines, and the metal detectors, and the bulletproof glass, and the bullet holes, and the brief military exercise we saw outside the Jewish entrance (Israeli soldiers with their guns drawn, crouched around the corners of the building, and waving other soldiers on indicating that the area was clear), there was nothing abnormal about the worship inside both areas. Muslim and Jewish pilgrims wept at the site of the tombs, Jews were studying the Torah, and Muslims were reading the Qur’an.

After visiting both sides and paying our respects to the prophets, it was around 7:00 p.m., and we decided that it was time to return to Jerusalem. However, because we had not yet walked through the Israeli/Jewish area of Hebron, we decided we would take a stroll there before returning to the Arab area to the bus stop.

During our visit, we had picked up a 14-16 year-old Palestinian boy who had acted as somewhat of a guide, and when we walked through another checkpoint to get to the Israeli-controlled area, the soldier asked for our passports. After briefly glimpsing at them, he asked the boy if he was with us. When we said, “No,” the boy answered the solder in Hebrew, and walked through the checkpoint with us. When I asked the boy if he was allowed to be with us, he answered me in Arabic: “I am forbidden here.” This, of course, made me a little uneasy in such a heavily armed military zone in such a tense area of the West Bank.

The streets in this area were deserted, and it felt like we were walking in a ghost town. Only a few Israelis were walking on the empty road, abandoned stores that used to be owned by Palestinians lined the street on both sides, and military cameras and soldiers monitored our movements.

We approached the next checkpoint a few hundred meters away at the same time as a group of American Jewish students who are volunteering this summer restoring Jewish gravesites. When we were asked for our passports, our Palestinian friend couldn’t produce one. The Americans started shouting at the Israeli soldiers: “Call the police! He’s a local! He knows he’s not supposed to be here! The only reason he would be here is for violence!”

The Israeli soldiers were very professional in their interactions with the boy. He gave them his ID card, but as they interrogated him, the Americans were quite rude to us. They mocked our reasons for visiting Israel and Hebron, and even snarled to my friend who is ethnically Greek, “You don’t look American,” implying in a derogatory way that he might be Palestinian. After we asked them what an American actually looks like – noting that there are dozens of large ethnic groups in the United States – and after the soldiers essentially told them to leave, they continued walking.

We also slowly walked away, but continued to look back at our Palestinian friend to make sure that he was going to be alright. The soldiers searched him, told him to go home, and released him.

We continued our trek up the eerily empty street, looking for a way to make it back to the bus station where we were dropped off in the Arab section. After asking several soldiers, it became clear that in order to make it back to the bus station, we would have to return the way we came – a long walk back down the abandoned street and past many more checkpoints. At this point, after our stressful day in Hebron, all we wanted to do was to get back to Jerusalem – a place whose problems we welcomed compared to those we had just witnessed. The soldiers told us how we could take an Israeli bus back to Jerusalem, and so we waited for the bus to arrive at the stop across the street.

As we stepped onto the bus and found our seats, we thought that the day’s tensions had ended. However, the military convoy that accompanied our bus through the Arab areas of Hebron served as another unpleasant reminder of the harsh realities that people living there face every day. After stopping at several settlements to pick up travelers, we finally made it back to Jerusalem.

Even as I write this, I am still trying to digest all that happened. The importance of the religious site to different groups, the security, the Palestinians’ and Israelis’ separation, the antagonism by fellow Americans, the stark contrast between the two areas of the city. All of these are parts of the larger Israeli-Palestinian conflict. And this visit to Hebron reiterated just how complicated and difficult this conflict will be to solve. We can talk all we want about a political solution to the conflict, but even as optimistic as I tend to be, after a day in Hebron, real peace seems so far away.

Istanbul to Jerusalem

Brian Phelps

This summer, I have been traveling with Keegan from Istanbul to Jerusalem – following the route of the first crusades. Along the way, Keegan, two others, and I have been attempting to create a documentary/travelogue of sorts on the modern day legacy of the crusades – whether the history of the crusades is still alive and meaningful for the people who live here or whether it is a dead history whose images are conjured by religious and national leaders for political gain.

I write from Damascus, Syria, and I will attempt to summarize the Turkey portion of our trip in this post, write about Syria in subsequent posts, and in the future, post more regularly. However, it has been tough to post frequently when moving from place to place every few days. Not being able to settle in one town or city for very long has made communication difficult. My apologies to our friends and to the readers for not posting yet.

* * * *

Many of my friends have traveled to or lived in Turkey, and while I have been to many countries in the Middle East, this was my first visit to Turkey. Naturally, they had told me stories about how wonderful Turkey is, how welcoming its people are, and how beautiful its sights are. My expectations were exceeded within the first week.

Turkey is a perfect introduction to the Middle East, and for the purposes of our trip – following the route of the first crusaders – it was apropos for us to enter the region in Istanbul, which was at one time Constantinople, considered by many to be the greatest city in the world. By many measures, Istanbul is half Asian/Middle Eastern and half European. Geographically, the city itself rests on two continents – separated by the Bosphorus Strait.

From the moment I arrived in Istanbul, I could see both the European and Middle Eastern influences on the city. My first experience with Istanbul outside the airport was with the traffic. Turkish traffic exhibits all of the usual Middle Eastern signs: drivers ignore traffic lights, lane markings seem to only be painted on the roads for decoration, and any living pedestrian will tell you that cars have the right-of-way (in fact, the right of way goes to the biggest and heaviest vehicle on the road). However, my fare had all the signs of a twenty-minute cab ride in London.

As I stepped out of my taxi, as I was searching for the small backpacker hostel where my three friends and I had agreed to meet, the call to prayer serenely echoed across the skyline filled with minarets. For Muslims, it announced the high-noon time to pray. However, for me, it served as a reminder that I was marching around the city in the heat of the day with a 40 pound backpack, trying to navigate unsigned streets with an inadequate guidebook, and ask directions in a language I did not speak.

I did eventually find my hostel, and very soon after arrival, I was offered a beer at the hostel’s streetside café. As I looked up and down the street, I noticed several bars and several convenience stores that sold beer. And I couldn’t help but notice the already-intoxicated Kiwis a couple of tables down from me. [These were the same Kiwis who later that night would be singing on the rooftop bar with their pants on their heads. While embarrassed for them, I couldn’t help but think: “Thank God they’re not Americans.”] In Istanbul – and almost everywhere I visited in Turkey – beer and alcohol were available almost everywhere. Nowhere else is this more evident than Istiqlal Cadessi, a long cobblestone street filled with clubs, smoky pubs, discos, and swanky rooftop bars. This is the place where Turks come to party.

To me, this should seem normal for a big city. Except, I was in a country where 97% of the population considers themselves Muslim, and Islam forbids the consumption of alcohol. This dichotomy between my greeting to Istanbul from the muezzin in the Blue Mosque and my goodnight lullaby from D.J. Koray was somewhat jarring. And for me, it epitomizes the intentional secularism of Turkey in a way that perhaps goes even further than what some European nations would be comfortable with.

Although there are many people who choose to be religiously conservative, there are also many people who do not consider themselves practicing Muslims. But, in Turkey, most people tend not to pry into others’ religious practices or judge others harshly for what they decide to do. Religion nowadays, for most of the people who we spoke with, is a private matter – between the believer and his or her god. This is a country with a deep Islamic history topped with a unique flavor of European secularism as well.

But Turks don't see this as two opposing forces. Turks are a proud people, and they see the secularism, the Ottomon-style mosques, and their hospitality as distinctly Turkish. There is no contradiction when on a weekend, the most happening clubs are closing up just as the morning call to prayer begins to sound. Turks, some who are of Kurdish or Arab origins, see themselves as distinctly Turkish, and are proud of the liberalism and tolerance that allows people of different backgrounds and beliefs to integrate into Turkish society.

I could go on with some fun (and some stereotypical) examples of the different European and Middle Eastern flairs in Istanbul and Turkey. I will talk about the uncomfortable hospitality we were shown by many of the people we met along the way, but I promise to incorporate that into another post. And perhaps, that post will be a bit shorter.

For now, it’s on to Syria, a place that I expect to be very different...