When I was younger I went to Jamaica, stayed on this holiday resort compound. It was lovely but cut off from Jamaica. Could have been anywhere and it felt really uncomfortable, life as a posh tourist drinking overproof, overpriced rum, while the locals pressed their noses against the glass and maybe came in to do a bit of cleaning. A cheap holiday in other people’s misery etc.
But I don’t think I’ve ever felt as much a tourist as I did when I arrived in Bethlehem. Not so much when I arrived as when I told them what hotel I was staying at. The look the guys at the bus station gave when I said I was coming here. The looks of the guys outside the hotel as they try to sell schmutters and trinkets.
The hotel was The Walled Off Hotel. Banksy’s hotel. And if the purpose of this place is to make you feel uncomfortable then it succeeds big time. Getting out of the cab and standing outside the hotel, more buttons are pressed than in a button pressing factory. The hotel is on the outskirts of town and within touching distance of the wall. The wall we’ll get round to, but the hotel. The hotel is a temple to money. The name is lit up, there are bell boys outside, there’s a life size statue of a chimpanzee in bell hop dress, holding a suitcase. After coming off the minibus from Ramallah, arriving in Bethlehem bus station, negotiating a cab with the guys at the bus station – all in the dusty, hot heat – the smell of money coming off the hotel is nauseating. And then there’s the wall.
It’s difficult to convey the scale of the wall, the enormity. It’s bloody huge. Apparently, it varies between six and eight metres in height and that’s bloody high, but it feels a lot bigger than even that because – and I know this sounds stupid – it’s so vertical. You stand by the wall and look up and it just keeps going. You take a few steps back and it barely fits in your field of vision. Thick grey lumpy concrete. With a further wire ‘wall’ on top of the concrete.
Every so often, there’s a watchtower. And that’s even higher. Words like “Colditz” come to mind. Whoever had the concrete concession in Bethlehem, they did OK.
The wall is also covered – and I mean covered – in art and graffiti, some of it by Our Hero, some of it by people inspired by him, and some of it by a really nice local who’s got a shop just by the gas station opposite who can do Banksy better than Banksy. Wherever you look, there are kids with balloons and lots of slogans that would warm Roger Waters’ heart, you know, the sort of slogans you see on t-shirts in shops where they sell Che Guevara posters.
Just the other side of the wall is a Palestinian refugee camp. A yard this side, a yard that side. If it’s supposed to make you think, it makes you think. The camp’s been there since 1950 and there are tours…
Meanwhile back inside the hotel, the walls are the size of your credit card. The staff’s favourite phrase is “And shall I put that on your room?” Exclusive Banksy artefacts line the walls and hang from the ceiling. There’s a museum, a gallery and, of course, a shop. Ker and ching. To get to your room, there’s a ‘secret’ door. Next to the door there are some bookshelves, there’s a statue of (I think) Mary. You wave your room key in front of the statue; her nipples light up and the door opens. Something for everyone here.
The rooms are big, plush and expensive feeling. They feel expensive because they are expensive. $180. Full of tasteful artefacts – a leather trunk, a chaise lounge, a 30s standard lamp. It’s very lovely, undeniably very well done and comfortable, all posh pillows and power shower.
************
Bethlehem itself is a bit of a tourist town. There are coachloads of tourists, organised tours, tour guides everywhere. And shops selling Christ-related t-shirts, carvings, shawls and crosses, lots of crosses. The Old City is the usual labyrinthine hubbub, but it’s pristine. The buildings are clean, the stonework is white, it’s dusty but there’s not the usual litter everywhere. It’s interesting but it’s not why I came here. Going for a coffee, that’s much more what we’re looking for.
There’re tourist cafes but, this is more like it. The café is local. Formica tables and plastic chairs. A young lad would be serving if there would be anyone to serve. So I sit down and order a coffee – “Please, with sugar” – and before even the coffee comes…
“You play chess?”
A young lad, early Twenties, good-looking bloke, thick shiny black hair. His English is good, well better than my Arabic, and he’s clearly smart.
“Chess? Yes, go on then. But” I say, “you’ll probably win”. He probably sits there all day, like some trapdoor chess fiend, playing with the tourists. Odds the first game I win, then he’ll suggest making the next game more interesting.
So, after a quick check that the plaster’s still on my ear, I choose white.
He tells me his name is Victor – “Victor? That’s a Palestinian name?” – and, almost inevitably, we launch into a variation of “So what’s it like living here?”
Victor, it turns out, is 23 and a footballer. He was in the national team for his age group when he was 15 but knocked it on the head because “there’s no point, we couldn’t play anyone so there was no point”. Palestine isn’t internationally recognised, so it can’t operate as a recognised place can. No international football. No Olympics. No Eurovision Song Contest.
Some of the people he played with went to California – you can get a visa, and a work visa, but it takes a long tie and it’s expensive. And you don’t always get it first time.
“They work, and they live over there. They don’t make enough money to save, so they don’t get anywhere. It’s just every day, every day”.
Victor’s a bit disparaging about the whole California business, but then again, Victor’s visa application was turned down. Rather than tread water and put any money he had into another visa application process, he started his own shop. Not a bad location, just outside the Old City, it sells jeans and t-shirts and all that kind of stuff.
He’s doing alright – better than he’s doing at chess – and has a very Lidl approach to business. Sell cheap, move on. I asked where he got the stock, and that’s when things got a little Palestinian.
They can’t do international e-trade because – and I’ve no idea what this means or how it happens – the PayPal thing is blocked. There’s no port because there’s no access to the sea, and there’s no airport because there’s no airport.
To get stock, he travels overland to Jordan, gets a plane to Turkey – one of the very few countries that accepts a Palestinian passport – and does his shopping. And then he comes back the same way he went. The whole thing takes about a week.
There’s nothing like travelling to make you realise that carrying a British passport really is to hold the golden ticket of life.
Victor’s not hugely fond of the Israelis. Big surprise, huh? “This is our country, why have we got no port? Why have we got no airport? We can’t do business and we can’t make money”. Looking at Victor, you know if he could make money he would make money.
But why is there no airport? The Israelis stop them having an airport?
I ask the question, he smiles and we both light up another cigarette. It’s cool. It’s only the five thousandth of the afternoon (so far). Well, like all good questions, the answer depends on who’s giving the answer. There’s no doubt that the PA has been given lots – and lots – of aid over the years, and this guy knows that as well as anyone but…
“They take the money. They don’t care about us, they just look after themselves”. I tell him what Hotel Bloke in Ramallah called Abbas.
“Abbas motherfucker. Yeah. Abbas motherfucker. They’re all motherfuckers’.
There was only one point I felt a bit uneasy. We were talking about business and restrictions – he talked a lot about business and restrictions – and at one point said
“You’re from England. You’re Christian, right? I’m also Christian…”
I don’t know if I heard what he said after that. I fingered my ear – the plaster was still secure – but in my head I was dressed up like the Haredi in Shabbat chic, big fur hat, black coat…
Should I have said “Listen Victor, we’re mates now. Actually, I’m Jewish, but it’s OK cos I’m one of the nice ones”. At best it would make the situation uncomfortable. This is someone who uses the words “Israeli” and “Jewish” interchangeably. “The Jewish come here and take our land”. I kinda want to say, “Don’t worry about that so much cos the Jewish just took your bishop”. There’s no messing about with labels and identity politics here. At worst? Who knows. It could be like the final scene of “Invasion of The Body Snatchers” (the remake) when Donald Sutherland screams and points at Brooke Adams when she approaches him.
It’s probably time for another cigarette anyway.
We’re mates now, showing each other moves and offering advice, but two games done, and he has to go back to work. For what it’s worth, I won them both. Maybe a joke about the Jews beating the Pales… No, probably not. Instead…
“Victor, listen before you go. Where’s the best falafel place here?”
“Come, I’ll take you there”. He really is a nice lad.
“This car. How much would it cost in your country? Honda Civic, 1992”.
In truth, you’d probably get one in exchange for a bag of cheese’n’onions, but….
“I don’t know. Abut £500 maybe”.
“Here, about ten thousand dollars”
“What?”
“You can’t get cars in. You can’t get anything into Palestine – so everything’s very expensive’.
I tell you what you can get here. Falafel. And the place he took me to looked a bit rough’n’ready, but… Five shekels later and I’m one happy boy.
*************
Meanwhile, back at the Banksy hotel life is slightly less pressured. OK, you have to run the gamut of frankly poor people, but once you’re inside they’re very attentive and you can get a decent and quite generous G&T almost immediately.
“Shall I put it on your room?”
There’s a guided tour of the camp just about to start and, in for a penny. I know I’m going to feel like the worst white boy voyeur tourist, but if we’re going to do this thing… and if they can (somehow) cope with the degradation of the camp, I can cope with a little bit of white boy guilt.
There are two guides, one for the outside walk around the wall bit, one for the inside bit. The inside guy lives inside. On the outside we get the facts, the figures, the details about when it was built, how much concrete, the stories of fighting and the stories of the art on the wall. It’s fantastically depressing and the wall kinda sucks the life out of you. It’s so high and thick and oppressive. The only bloke who’s laughing is the Banksy-alike guy next to the gas station. He’s wearing a cool pair of shades and invites us in. “Just have a look. You don’t have to buy anything, just look”.
I feel, in truth, extraordinarily uneasy. It’s not only the voyeur thing. The guide outside has said, quite openly, that “The Jewish” aren’t welcome.
“The Israelis?” I ask him.
He looks at me like I’m mad. Like… the Israelis are going to come here? Probably not. What Israeli would come here? One with a deathwish maybe. No, he means The Jewish.
“Do you get many Jews coming here. I don’t mean Israelis. I mean, like, tourists. Foreigners”
“I don’t ask anyone if they’re Jewish and no one tells me”.
“What if someone who was Jewish came here?”
He didn’t say anything, so I let it go. Don’t want to sound… too interested.
It seems that the situation is like this. Israelis aren’t banned from going to Palestinian or Arab towns in the West Bank, but they’re advised not to. And if they choose to go one, they’re on their own. The Israeli government don’t step in.
“Would they keep hold of Jewish? Sure. If they have a Jewish person, they can exchange them for Palestinian prisoners the Israelis have got”
That’s actually what he said. This would seriously not be a good place for an ear plaster to fall off.
I don’t know why I went in, but I went in. Was I scared? I cannot tell you how scared, how nervous. I’d have been a rubbish spy in the war, the game would have been up right away.
“Hey, you. You with the plaster on your ear and the blue nail varnish…”
Or maybe it would be like in The Great Escape and one of them would say “Shabbat shalom” to me and I’d reply “Shabbat shalom” back.
The camp – Aida Camp – was, sadly, like you’d expect. It was fantastically grim. I went to the “Jungle” camp in Calais and it’s not like that. The buildings are solid, it’s not like a “camp” – all tents and lean-tos. But then again, it has been here since 1950. But it’s grim. Unbelievably grim. The buildings are grim concrete. The “streets” are narrow alleys. A few roads around the perimeter where cars can go, but not much. There’s no green. No grass, precious few trees. No water to speak of – the people there exist on about three litres a day. For everything. It smells of bad sanitation. And all around is the wall. High. Grey concrete. Oppressive. It’s unbelievably grim.
The camp is almost circular. The only bit that doesn’t fit is a (relatively) small kink where the wall comes in. This is because Rachel’s Tomb – a sacred, Holy site – is situated there and the kink in the wall allows for Israelis to come and visit, whereas if it were inside the wall… well, you get the idea. They might come and visit, but they might not leave so easily.
The camp’s been there since 1950. Think about that for a minute. Since 1950. That’s… how many generations? People living here, people living in. these conditions, having kids here… growing up here. It doesn’t bear thinking about – but it’s got to be thought about.
Whose fault is it that the camp is there? Why are the refugees still there? Well, like everything else here, the answer depends on who you ask.
Some Palestinians see it as the fault of the Israelis. They kicked us out of our homes and that’s why we’re here. There’s a lot of talk about “the right of return”. The right to go to the villages / places they were kicked out of in 1948. Across one of the streets in the camp is a large key – a kind of statue that goes across the road – that symbolises the keys the houses that were stolen. (And, in fairness, their houses were stolen from them, though I must admit, I do think 70 years is a long time to sit and wait)
Some Israelis see it as the fault of the ruling Palestinian Authority, the thinking that goes “They’ve had billions in UN aid over the years, millions in aid from Israel. These people could have been rehoused a thousand times. There’s a whole city that’s been built out of UN aid that the PA won’t allow to be used because it suits their political aims to keep these people in degredation. The longer the refugees stay refugees, the easier it is to show the world what bastards the Israelis are. (And, in fairness, that’s working because the world does see the Israelis as bastards)
Whatever… whoever… It is, as ever, the people on the ground who suffer. You’d have to be a really cold, hard bastard not to feel absolutely for these people. They’ve got nothing. No hope, no water, no nothing.
Did I feel uncomfortable there? Absolutely. As a human being, it was horrible. The whole “white tourist voyeur” thing, it’s horrible. Did I feel scared? As a Jew? In truth, very. I couldn’t wait to get out. I was fingering my ear manically, probably looked like a madman. I hate ideas like “You look Jewish” because, you know, I look like me. But I probably do look Jewish. And if there are such things as Jewish mannerisms, I’ve got them. We were inside the camp for 45 minutes and every minute I felt self-conscious and a bit scared.
We were taken to the top of one of the buildings – four storeys high – climbing up unfinished walls and unfinished staircases, so that we could see the extent of the camp, what was outside, the wall surrounding it and the sheer oppression.
I asked the guide, a nice bloke in his mid-to-late Twenties, what he saw as the future.
“Do you have hope?”
“You’ve always got to have hope”
He spoke good English, was educated and bright and very knowledgeable. Well, this was his job.
“I was born here but I’ve got to have hope. In the past, a long time in the past, we all lived together. A hundred years ago, we all lived together. We all went to the beach together. We all got on with it”.
The light was fading and we had to descend the building using the torches on our phones and when he said “OK, l’ll walk you back to the gate”, I could have bought him a bagel.
**********
The tour of the refugee camp done, we walked back, still alongside the wall but this time on the right side. The blokes selling schmutters and trinkets tried to grab us, probably thinking we’d be a bit vulnerable, burdened by the weight of white man’s guilt.
Guilt schmilt. There’s no time for guilt, not when there’s G&Ts to be had at the Walled Off.
Tonight, there were some really good local musicians playing live in the bar. The food at the hotel was good and the red wine they chose to with it, excellent. No, not being sarcastic. That’s all true. And the incongruity, the button-pressing never lets up. The windows on the ground floor are really quite big, so as you’re eating your food and drinking your decent red and listening to local musicians, all you can see through the windows is the wall.
The next morning, as coffee was being drunk and freshly squeezed orange juice was being freshly squeezed, there was only one topic of conversation.
“If I buy that original Banksy in the shop, what do you think it would go for at home?”