Israel: Sands from Different Lands

I clean my feet, and there are grains of sand between my toes.

Where did they come from? Are they Israeli or Palestinian?

Insignificant, only annoying little grains that get everywhere, in your shoes, on your clothes, in your bags, and sometimes if you are not careful, in your eyes. Brush them away, and they fall to the ground to rejoin countless others. They disappear, and blow away in the wind.

It does not really matter where they are from, at least not to a wandering tourist, who has the freedom of travel between lands, and who can bring sands to and from different lands. But to the Israeli or the Palestinian it is another story altogether. The reason being, they are divided. Not just by an "Apartheid Wall", or "separation fence" (even the same object has a different name for Palestinians and Israelis), but by the different mentalities, visions, histories and religions. One thing they do share is the land, and perhaps even the shared fate of having to co-exist and worship with one another. No where is this more visible than in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

To a non-believer of any of the world religions of Judaism, Islam or Christianity, the Old City's narrow alleyways, churches, synagogues and mosques perhaps hold little spiritual significance. But navigating the maze of criss-crossing cobble-stone paths and the tight spaces between tourists and hawkers, it is hard to imagine that this little piece of Earth brings together people from the world over. Whether for the women in hijabs, or kipa-wearing children, or for those with rosemary beads around their necks, the devotion and longing for refuge in their respective faiths and gods is pure. I can only admire from afar how men bow before the Wailing Wall, murmuring unintelligible words from the Tora, while white pieces of paper stuffed in every crack in the wall contain the prayers and dreams of individuals. Hopes of good health, wishes of success, desires for religious salvation, prayers for family and friends. Despite all our differences, we are united in our common humanity, and in our common desire for peace. I gently lay my palm on the Wall, and closed my eyes temporarily.

A few meters above, the gilded Dome of the Rock stands above Wailing Wall. Built on the site of Jews' Holy Temple, the Dome is believed to be where Mohammed ascended to heaven. In the confusion below, Via Dolorosa (Way of Sorrows) is said to be the very path that Jesus took with the cros on his shoulder, with along the way various stations (statio) where Jesus was condemned to death, where he encountered his mother Maria, and the points where he fell. Beyond the tall walls of the Old City, is a valley and green hill that is the sacred Mount of Olives, which appears at various points in the Bible. But my friend and I were not so much interested in the happenings and legends of a book written eons ago, but more in writing adventures that would remain in our minds.


Our feet took us beyond the walls of the Old City, and to the other side of Jerusalem. The billboards became scribbles in Arabic, and the faces and clothing of the people around us also changed. At Damascus Gate, we asked around for a sherut (shared taxi) which would take us to the ancient city of Jericho. Problem was, Jericho was situated in the Palestinian Territories. An Israeli soldier had earlier tried to discourage us going there, but of course any Israeli would say that about places where being an Israeli could potentially mean risking one's life by entering. We defied the warning, and boarded a minibus, crowded in between Palestinian Arabs. There is no better way to travel than with the locals.

The minibus escaped the crowd and heat of the city, and was soon cruising down the slopes beyond Jerusalem. The beautiful greenery of the Mount of Olives faded as we navigated toward the Palestinian Territories. Perched idyllically on top of hills, and enjoying a vantage point over the land below, were sturdily built mansions within Israeli settlements. Surrounding them, big fences and gates and barriers to keep out burglars, and Palestinians. The minibus chugged onward, made a turn, and the scenery began to change.

No more well-maintained and well paved roads, no more neatly decorated houses. Instead, the ride became bumpier with each pot-hole the tires jumped beneath us. The houses looked run-down, the streets were filled with uncollected garbage and the white-pollution of lost plastic bags, and randomly a camel or donkey was parked at a roundabout waiting to pick up passengers. Children ran in the streets, defunct tires, coke cans and wild shrubs their playground. Outside the window, a concrete slabs of gray rose in the distance, covered with graffiti and plastered with words of "Free Palestine", in scenes reminiscent of Berlin. What stark contrast.

For the first time, I realised that I was entering a place where I cannot read the language, as the script was in Arabic, and unlike the Romanised alphabets used in all the countries I have been before. Perhaps this, and especially the fact that we were unmistakably two naive tourists who are easy pray to unscrupulous profiteers, heightened my sense of alert, or even distrust of others. But these feelings subsided as we met kind people ready to help, and as the desert opened before us into a vast land and glistening sea before us, that outstretched like a magnificent painting.


Out of nowhere, a town appeared in the middle of the desert, sheltering at the foot of the Judean Mountains, some 250m below the sea level on the ridge of the Jordan Valley. Often said to be the oldest inhabited place of mankind, the history of the settlement dates back to over 11000 years. Indeed, the Old City of Jericho contains the ruined walls and skeletons of structures from thousands of years Before Christ. Despite the archaeological value of the site, it was poorly maintained, and even the fence that was supposed to keep people out of certain excavations were derelict and rusting in the desert sun. The Hisham Palace close by contained beautiful architecture dating from the Umayyad Dynasty (660-770), which chose the site as a hunting lodge. Beautifully carved columns, walls and moziac frescos adorn the floors and ceilings of the palace, but was completely destroyed by a series of severe earthquakes. Today the treasure that lay beneath our feet were covered in a deep layer of sand and neglect, and we had brush away the sand to discover what treasures lay around us.

The groundsman, a friendly Palestinian, spoke of the times before the Second Intifida, when busloads of tourists would visit Jericho and the nearby sacred Monastery of Temptation, where Jesus is said to have fasted for 40 days and nights and withstood the temptation of the Devil. We had to resist the constant nagging and pity-evoking begging of two young children who trailed behind us half way up the mountain. Today, few tourists come, and even the monastery was empty when we arrived.

"All the fault of the Israelis", the man said, bitterness and anger in his voice. I looked around his office and admired the posters with "Welcome to Palestine" written all over them. There was even one glorifying the late Yasser Arafat. "A hero. A good man," was the comment. Outside, the flag of Palestine flew in the wind, the same wind that would blow and blow and make an Israeli flag waver and flutter somewhere in the distance, far, far away. Close by, a bus full of children sang and clapped cheerily, and mischievous me was reminded of the scenes from a Palestinian children's programme which which he had seen earlier on Youtube .



I thought of the almost empty roads we had passed on the way into Jericho, and I thought of the Israeli checkpoint and the Palestinian checkpoint that we had to pass to get this far into Palestine. A hotel and casino on the outskirts of town is today providing space for mosquitos to reside in, as the Israeli tourists who before used to come here to relax now stay away due to the heightened state of security. Shacks dotted the main road, and signs identifying construction and developments projects funded by USAID and the EU could be seen here and there. The driver pointed to a refugee camp, where expelled Palestinians have been living in for 16 years, refugees who had been ousted of their homes and now live on the charity of a complacent international community. Beyond the wall of their camp is another wall, and barriers after barriers, which together prevent millions of Palestinians from a life of normalcy and of prospects of a better future. This is just the West Bank, and Jericho is still a relatively affluent town. The no-go area of Gaza, and surroundings is place where the livelihoods and lives of Israelis and foreigners cannot be fully guaranteed. Contrast this with the white-washed Presidential Compound, belonging to Arafat, which was only one of many he used to retreat to, or the well-to-do Israeli settlements behind high walls in the (occupied) fertile lands.

The sun was beginning to set, and we had to be on our way out of the Palestinian Territories. Curfew would begin in a couple of hours, and the safety of foreigners (trapped) behind the checkpoints of Israeli soldiers becomes ever more risky. We could show our passports, and the young Israeli soldier would friendlily smile at us (or even flirt), before we were on our way, back to Jerusalem, back to the relative peace and security of Israeli territory. But many more are not so lucky, if not privileged.

On my feet and sandals were the sands of Jericho, sands of the Palestinian Territories. Soon they would mingle with the sands of the Land of Israel.

And even sooner, noone would be able to tell which grain of sand is from which different land.