NO SAFE PLACE?

JerusalemOldCitySepia-3It was an ordinary day in the suburb of Jerusalem where I managed a weekly English-language newspaper. I had fallen into the job when the previous editor quit — after his paycheck bounced. Twice. Me too, but I wanted the paper to succeed, and was willing to work for free if we might save it. Most of us kept working without pay. We were optimists in the midst of disaster.

The newspaper was broke. No money to pay anyone, but I loved running a newspaper. It was the most fun I ever had — professionally. I had an editor, a proofreader, and an art director … and a bankrupt publisher. Her money had kept us in business for a year. We hadn’t gotten the advertisers or investors. Not surprising. The Israeli economy was a disaster.

The lira was in free fall. 180% inflation is hard to imagine. The value of your paycheck disappears between breakfast and lunch, so your best bet is to spend every cent immediately, then spend more.

Israel was in turmoil, Years of bad blood between Arabs and Jews, an awful economy, soaring temperatures. The predominantly Arab areas were seething. The Jewish population was none too happy either. It was bad, but when has it been otherwise?

Jerusalem’s diversity is part of what gives it its unique character. The Jewish population is diverse — from secular and anti-religious, to ultra-Orthodox and everything in between. There are also Christians of every stripe, every flavor of Islam. Bahai, Samaritans … and sects I never heard of plus more than a few wannabe Messiahs. I sang along with the Muzein when he called the faithful to prayer. I loved the chanting, loved the traditions, the clothing, the markets, everything. Not everyone loved me.

French Hill, where I worked is a pleasant neighborhood at the northeastern edge of Jerusalem. Good schools. It’s atop a hill so you can catch a breeze, if there is one. In the summer, Jerusalem simmers as the khamsin, super-heated sandy air masses from the Sahara, turns the city into a sauna.

It was August, perhaps the 10th day of an extended khamsin. Almost nobody had air-conditioning in those days. Under normal weather condition in the desert, when you step into shade, the temperature drops 25 or more degrees. The air is so dry it doesn’t hold heat.

During khamsin, heat never eases. The air is thick, hot, sandy. Night is as bad as day. Airless. Fans make it worse. If you can’t get out-of-town, find a pool or get to a beach, your best bet is to close your windows and lie on the tile floor wearing as little as possible trying not to breathe. People get crazy when it’s that hot, even people who are normally friendly to one another.

Trying to keep the newspaper alive, there was no escape for me. Except for my car, which was air-conditioned. It was a Ford Escort with a tiny 1.3 liter engine, but the A/C worked pretty well. Which is why I volunteered to take the pages from the office to the typesetter in Givat Zeev.

Jerusalem sits atop a mountain. There’s a rumor the city has just one road, but it winds a lot. If you keep driving, you’ll get there eventually. Not quite accurate. You can get close — but close can be far.

I’ve no sense of direction at all. When I hear the words “You can’t miss it,” I know I definitely will miss it. This is how I wound up in downtown Ramallah in the middle of a mini-uprising in late August 1983  I didn’t know what was going on, but I was pretty sure I shouldn’t be there. Fight? Uh, no, I don’t think so. Flight? I was lost. Go where? I stopped the car, pulled to the curb and sat there. No idea what to do next.

A few moments later, two Arab gentlemen jumped into the car with me. That’s right, I didn’t lock the doors. If they wanted to break into my car, they might as well use the doors as break the windows.  Was I about to be murdered? Abducted?

“You are lost,” the man in the front seat said.

“Oh, very much,” I agreed. The two men conferred in Arabic. I picked up a couple of words, one of them being “American.”

“Okay,” said the man in the front seat. “You need to leave. Now.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I responded. We swapped places. He took the wheel and drove me back to French Hill.

“You must be more careful,” he chided me. “You mustn’t go into dangerous places.” I thanked him with all my heart. He smiled, and the two of them headed back, on foot, to Ramallah. Offering them a lift didn’t seem quite the thing to do.

I never felt endangered, though probably I had been. It was the end of the times when Arabs and Jews could talk to each other, even be friends. I am sad when I think of friends I had in Bethlehem who asked me to stop visiting them because it put them in danger to have an Israeli in their house. There came a time when I could no longer go shopping in the Old City or Bethlehem, when Jewish children could no longer safely play with Arab children.

I lived there for nine years. There has been so much wrong on all sides for so many years it’s impossible to figure out a solution to which all would agree. I don’t see peace on the horizon. There are not just two sides to this conflict; there are an infinite number of sides. I chose to come home to the U.S. The longer I stayed in Israel, the less I understood.

I arrived in Israel in 1978 believing I had some answers, that I knew something. By 1987 , I knew there were no answers and I knew nothing.

– – –



Categories: History, Israel, Jerusalem, Personal, Reality

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

26 replies

  1. Very well written, thank you for sharing. Sad. I recall in my early 20’s watching TV and there were celebrations about the peace talks. As I watched their joy, I just knew it would not last. I felt sad way back then.
    I sincerely enjoy your writings.

    Like

    • Thank you.

      I was there … I had really just arrived … when the Camp David accord was signed. I watched Carter, Begin and Sadat drive by on their way from the King David hotel to the airport. Everyone — including me — was SO excited at the idea of peace.

      Then Sadat was assassinated. Moshe Dayan died 10 days later (I think he died of a broken heart). Hope died soon thereafter.

      Like

  2. That was a completely engaging story, I could feel it and visual it Marilyn. I have a similar story about being saved by a foreigner but your’s is so compelling I will leave it for another time. Thanks for sharing!

    Like

  3. I just finished reading 1st Samuel and much of 2nd Samuel. Not much has changed. So very, very sad.

    boB

    Like

  4. Great story! Being a Journalist I can understand your hopes, your dreams, your frustration. I’m glad you choose a story of understanding , a positive story about that troubled piece of our world. That tells me a lot about you. Thanks.

    Like

    • Thank you. Yes, I did intentionally choose to present something human. You know, it’s not “just plain folks” that are the problem. Not there, not anywhere. Most “real” people just want to be allowed to live in peace. Raise their kids. Have a decent life. But they don’t have a choice, not even the one I had — to come back here. It was a terribly frustrating place to live but I loved it. It drove me crazy because no one was able to think or act rationally. I hope that we calm down around here. Crazy talk, violence talk, hate speak — that’s where it leads. Not a good place.

      Like

  5. I’ve heard it before but this remains a wonderful, many layered story. It never gets old in the telling. Perhaps — with the passage of time — just a little sadder with its resolution.

    Like

    • I don’t hold out much hope for anything getting better in my lifetime. Maybe someday, but I’ve grown cynical. Too many people — on all sides — have a vested interest in things remaining as they are. Generations of kids taught to hate.

      Like

      • Really don’t mean to be corny here — You’ll always have those memories!! You were fortunate to be there before everything changed.

        Like

        • Yes, I think so too. I had the end of the good years, when Camp David gave everyone a little bit of hope. Then, Sadat was assassinated, Dayan died. And hope of peace slipped away.

          Like

  6. Brilliant. Wonderful. My words fail. But yours don’t. Breathtaking!

    Like

  7. What an amazing story. I hope it’s not true that are no answers at all, but for sure there aren’t any easy ones 🙂

    Like

    • There are plenty of answer. It’s just no one will agree to them. It’s a stalemate … worse than a stalemate because of all the violence … and I don’t see anyone budging.

      Like

Trackbacks

  1. Fight or Flight: | Khana's Web
  2. Daily Prompt: Confrontation or Peace | My Daily Prompt Blog
  3. Opening the Door to Love | Cheri Speak
  4. Which Hill Do You Want To Die On? (Short fiction) | The Jittery Goat
  5. To Fight or Not to FIght | 33 Grams of Blog

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