Objectivity gets buried in conflict. I come to you fresh from the University of Jordan Student Union (Deanship of Student Life) where I had the opportunity to listen to a presentation by the Palestinian community on the history and land of Palestine. The occasion exhibited many of the characteristics of daily life in Jordan: it began late, featured repeated offerings of tea and coffee, and had more recitation of dates and statistics than enlightened conversation and debate. Nevertheless, now is as good a time as any to address an issue that profoundly shapes life in Jordan, where over 60% of the inhabitants are of Palestinian descent, and throughout the region.
Firstly I should confess that while I will be as objective as possible in this post, I do not believe that both Palestinians and Israelis can claim equivalent moral high ground or justification for their anguish. I detest conspiracy theories, half-truths, selective histories presented by both sides. Listening to Palestinians talk about the conflict is disappointing and frustrating because of their willingness to move beyond what I feel are legitimate grievances into absurd positions.
I feel there are legitimate camps within both Israel and the Palestinian community, but listening to the average it is very hard to associate one's self with either the Palestinians or Israelis because of the lengths to which they distort reality to favor their position. A passionate advocate divorced from objectivity is often a terrible messenger to with which to confront the undecided.
We began with a history read in English from the 1895 origins of modern Zionism to the current condition of Palestine in 2010. Dates were accurate, but any mention of Israeli suffering was brief, unmentioned, or justified. I don't want to forgive this, I don't think such omissions are necessary to create a compelling Palestinian Case, but I do believe that in limited time advocates will rarely go into a comprehensive explanation.
The mostly Palestinian audience wants to hear the history they are reminded of every time the subject is broached for both sides, the admission of flaws is often rejected for the sake of ideological purity that is impossible in any conflict of this length and complexity. For Palestinians, the entirety of the conflict's history is often lost in this narrative of profound suffering at the hands of an implacable and mighty oppressor.
Following this rehashing of facts, which while true do not constitute truth any more than Confederate history month can mention the truths of state's rights while remaining profoundly inadequate without a discussion of slavery, we watched a short film on the "Wall of Hate" (see also security fence - Israel, apartheid wall - Palestinian, separation wall - relatively neutral). It was similar to the histories: it told truths yet presented them without distance. This distance may be an impossible hope for anyone so profoundly affected by any issue, but I hope I never fall victim to such temptation.
We listened to a CIEE student who had traveled and volunteered in Bethlehem over spring break. He was especially interesting to me because I'm planning to travel in the West Bank and Israel before I return to the States at the end of May. He talked about checkpoints, the organic farm where he volunteered, and the people of Palestine. We then listened to more impassioned and less impartial accounts of travel from an Australian and Colombian of Palestinian descent. They spoke of descrimination and the terrible pressure exerted by Israeli officials and soldiers on Arabs who attempt to communicate with the West Bank.
The Israeli Defense Force and Israel's general posture is to make life in all its facets as unpleasant, difficult, and humiliating as possible for all those of a non-Israeli bent. This can be seen in the settlements that dot and divide the occupied West Bank, the water policies denying agricultural or economic development to Palestinians, and the humiliating routines that stymie life and commerce on a daily basis for thousands of Palestinians at the over 500 checkpoints that dissect the territories.
I believe that is all true and summarizes a great deal of the substance presented at the meeting. The formal event concluded with a ten minute amateur video shot at various crossings from a sympathetic Israeli perspective. It featured some Israeli soldiers and many Palestinians. It was not narrated and appeared about as honest a record of the checkpoint experience as possible. It was disturbing on many levels and confounding until you confront the underlying reasoning that has spawned this status quo.
Israel does not want commerce or communication to occur within the Palestinan population under their control. They have objectives of preserving security for Israelis, but their presence and behavior can not be justified on these grounds. The following is my opinion of the current state of affairs.
"Israel's dissection and repression of the occupied territories cannot be seen as rational unless you believe they see a world without a Palestinian state or Palestinian presence as attainable. Within this context their activites can be seen as sustaining and extending Israel's domination of the West Bank until all other sides abandon their positions in despair. I do not believe this is justifiable, but without legitimate and significant pressure from within Israeli society, from the Palestinians under occupation, the Arab neighbors of Israel, or the West that such a goal is unfortunately at least within the realm of possiblility, though the profound suffering and inhumanity of such a development makes me loath to broach it."
A Jewish CIEE student and friend of mine spoke when questions where solicited. He spoke with great care, but broke the fundamental rule of inquiring if we could not all recognize that there have been injustices on all sides. This is the truth. I will no more associate or approve of suicide bombings and indescriminate rocket fire than the systematic oppression and eviction of a society. The Palestinians unfortunately were not willing to do so. It pains me that a cause I believe has
The CIEE student's words provoked instant and uniformly negative responses from our hosts and surrounding Palestinians. One began by saying that only when two sides have equal position and equal strength can you begin to discuss injustices on both sides. Another protested that the Palestinians are so weak, that they attack from fear, that the rockets are not capable of killing children. He literally said that the rockets may be capable of breaking an arm or a leg, but they are not strong enough to kill a child. Even suicide bombings were defended as killing Arabs as well as Israelis and then all is done from fear.
I want to travel to Palestine. I have no expectations that I will hear objectivity from within either community, but I hope to supplement the opions I hear and the facts I have read with photographs and memories untainted by the hands or minds of others. I think that seeing something so profound and complicated first hand will be an incredibly valuable and potentially life-altering experience. I hope it works out and that I am able to share it with those who will listen.
Just imagine, I could be interning this summer with Russ Feingold, a Jewish (this doesn't matter to me personally, but it could be relevant in this context) senior Democratic member of the Foreign Relations and Intelligence committees. I wonder if he would listen to what I might have to say?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Long Road Traveled
March 27 From Amman, through Aqaba, to Wadi Rum
Early, so early, no wonder I forgot something. A shame it was my prized sunglasses. I have few material addictions. I am mostly hooked on a steady stream of information. My few concessions to material necessity are those I need for health and comfort, good shoes and something to keep the sun out of my eyes. I discovered my error a mere 200 meters from home, but with the doors locked behind me and no one to stir for at least half an hour I kept on, determined to solve my problem at some later stage of my travels. Hopefully before I arrived in the desert canyons of Wadi Rum.
A four hour bus ride brought me to the sunny seaside resort destination of Aqaba, Jordan's sole connection to the waters of the Red Sea. A rapidly evolving mix of the hyper resort and a massive port the city is tailoring itself to suit the sun and dive crowd of upper class Arabs and westerners that can afford it. I had little over an hour to collect some provisions and escape via public bus to the quiet of Wadi Rum.
I first tackled sunglasses at a covered market swamped with cheap clothes and salesmen loudly hawking them to the throngs of residents and tourists. I passed up repeated offers for blue jeans and a t-shirt before catching the eye of a vendor perched next to a rack of gaudy aviators and brand name knock-offs. I found a small collection of sporty shades and bargained down from 5 JD to 3 for the privilege of purchasing them.
At this point I realized the shrinking time between myself and my 1:00 departing bus. I had planned to go to Safeway far from the downtown to secure my vegetables, but decided against it as the distance seemed to span infinity while time slipped towards zero. I glanced around and found a small shop, on of thousands dotting Jordan that offer a relatively identical range of basic fruit and vegetables. I bagged up some cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, bananas, and a few apples before hurrying off to the bus depot, an open scrum of aging minibuses and long-range tourers all open to the first through the door.
I clambered into a bustling bus loaded with what could have been a single expansive Bedouin family plus a few local boys made good and returning to their home for a brief visit. The driver chain smoked the whole way out as half a dozen kids played for the attention and treats of a stoic, noble father. I felt awed by the man, so seemingly self-confident despite the immense burdens that must come from multiple wives and the thriving litter that came of them. He seemed to know himself and his world, even if he didn't know of the larger problems confronting the nervous citizens of modernity.
We blew past the visitors center and chugged into the village of Rum in the heart of a beautifully cloud shrouded cliffs and canyons. I had gazed, fixated for the past twenty minutes as we entered the world of pictures and legends that I had seen in Lawrence of Arabia and countless tourist brochures throughout Jordan. I was lucky to catch a cool clouded introduction to the desert fastnesses of Rum. I clambered around that afternoon, comfortable in long-sleeves without fearing for water or sunscreen.
I had plopped my lot in with the Rum Rest House, an old institution catering to the crowd of climbers and voyagers unwilling or undesirous of the 70 to 100 JD a night experience of guided remote luxurious Bedoin campgrounds accessible only by 4x4 or camel. For 6 JD I had myself a tent, mattress, and bedding for two nights without the breakfast and dinner that mad been quoted to me over the phone. As these had added over 10 JD to the price tag I was delighted for the freedom.
I tackled a small ridge right behind the Rest House and scrambled happily over the red granite and tumbled terrain as the day passed into evening. I was hailed by a Bedouin encampment as I began to hike back from the other end of my wanderings. I took the opportunity to scrape the surface of this simultaneously hospitable and secret society and passed a half an hour sipping "Bedouin Whiskey", a sweet hot tea, with a young man and his younger brother who were just beginning to join their father in the management of his tourist campground and tour operation. I spit out my repetoire of Arabic explaining my doings in Jordan and talking about my family in America. It was a wonderful experience, but sad to see the cigarettes and smoky fire that blighted the tent with their vapors.
I hiked along the desert floor between Jebel Rum and Jebel Um al Ashreen, two of the grandest edifices in Wadi Rum, their massive flanks scored by wind and rain with gashes and chasms for the days to come. I walked the streets of Rum as the sun's light disappeared, seeing the collection of cinder block houses that many of the Bedouin split their time between when not out ordering collections of tourists in the desert. The small school and army bararcks were the biggest buildings to the town though the skyline was dominated by a radio or cell tower and the small minaret of the local mosque. The light was gone from the sky as I turned for home beginning to ponder the source of dinner.
A mistake! I should have eaten in the light of day. I found the Rest House closed for the night and turned to the several small shops of Rum to get some heartier provisions. I came back with canned vegetables, hummus, baba ganoush, and white beans in tomato sauce. I then begged a can opener from my fellow campers and spent five minutes under the stars hacking into my prizes with a Swiss Army Knife. Escaping injury on the ragged edges I dug in, using a plastic hummus tub from lunch as a bowl and pieces of carrot and cucumber as spoons. My sole kitchen implement was a all-purpose knife left over from the Dead to Red team provisions. It was invaluable as I sliced into a cold but cheery repast ahead of a cold night made roasting by my layers of spandex ski wear.
Early, so early, no wonder I forgot something. A shame it was my prized sunglasses. I have few material addictions. I am mostly hooked on a steady stream of information. My few concessions to material necessity are those I need for health and comfort, good shoes and something to keep the sun out of my eyes. I discovered my error a mere 200 meters from home, but with the doors locked behind me and no one to stir for at least half an hour I kept on, determined to solve my problem at some later stage of my travels. Hopefully before I arrived in the desert canyons of Wadi Rum.
Sunglasses, Who Mentioned Sunglasses?
I first tackled sunglasses at a covered market swamped with cheap clothes and salesmen loudly hawking them to the throngs of residents and tourists. I passed up repeated offers for blue jeans and a t-shirt before catching the eye of a vendor perched next to a rack of gaudy aviators and brand name knock-offs. I found a small collection of sporty shades and bargained down from 5 JD to 3 for the privilege of purchasing them.
At this point I realized the shrinking time between myself and my 1:00 departing bus. I had planned to go to Safeway far from the downtown to secure my vegetables, but decided against it as the distance seemed to span infinity while time slipped towards zero. I glanced around and found a small shop, on of thousands dotting Jordan that offer a relatively identical range of basic fruit and vegetables. I bagged up some cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, bananas, and a few apples before hurrying off to the bus depot, an open scrum of aging minibuses and long-range tourers all open to the first through the door.
I clambered into a bustling bus loaded with what could have been a single expansive Bedouin family plus a few local boys made good and returning to their home for a brief visit. The driver chain smoked the whole way out as half a dozen kids played for the attention and treats of a stoic, noble father. I felt awed by the man, so seemingly self-confident despite the immense burdens that must come from multiple wives and the thriving litter that came of them. He seemed to know himself and his world, even if he didn't know of the larger problems confronting the nervous citizens of modernity.
I had plopped my lot in with the Rum Rest House, an old institution catering to the crowd of climbers and voyagers unwilling or undesirous of the 70 to 100 JD a night experience of guided remote luxurious Bedoin campgrounds accessible only by 4x4 or camel. For 6 JD I had myself a tent, mattress, and bedding for two nights without the breakfast and dinner that mad been quoted to me over the phone. As these had added over 10 JD to the price tag I was delighted for the freedom.
I tackled a small ridge right behind the Rest House and scrambled happily over the red granite and tumbled terrain as the day passed into evening. I was hailed by a Bedouin encampment as I began to hike back from the other end of my wanderings. I took the opportunity to scrape the surface of this simultaneously hospitable and secret society and passed a half an hour sipping "Bedouin Whiskey", a sweet hot tea, with a young man and his younger brother who were just beginning to join their father in the management of his tourist campground and tour operation. I spit out my repetoire of Arabic explaining my doings in Jordan and talking about my family in America. It was a wonderful experience, but sad to see the cigarettes and smoky fire that blighted the tent with their vapors.
Nearby Nabetean Ruins
Moving on Up to the West Side
March 26
Mecca Street, Amman
I continued on, determined to make a thorough examination of Amman's upper crust. I had all day to look for the office and check out City and Mecca Malls. It was lucky the trip had been called off, I wandered the vicinity for hours and never came across a sign of Cycling Jordan. Unruffled, I still enjoyed framing the luxury around me for the camera and making my way through such opulence while listening to Jon Krakuer's Into the Wild.
I wound up in City Mall and perused the deserted gleaming monument to western consumption. Friday starts slow and ends early in the Muslim world. I was surrounded for the first hour by the staff of the stores and the security personnel determined to prevent any indoor photography. I wandered into Amman's Carrefour, an outpost of the massive French international "hypermarket" chain.
Mecca Street, Amman
Military HQ Still Under Waranty
Two early days in a row. Friday, my first of the break, began at the crack of dawn as I ate a lonely breakfast and hurried out of the house on my way to Cycling Jordan's Amman office in the west of the city. I had scoped the route and surroundings on the computer, but my only experience in the area was through the windows of a car on the way to the Royal Automobile Museum.
Just Looking at Mouthwatering Baklava
West Amman and Mecca Street in particular are the site of Amman's great wealthy buildup over the course of the last quarter century. Chiq restaurants, office palaces, magnificent car showrooms, and two massive malls dominate the scene. But just removed from the central corridor one can find traces of poverty, small fires and feces the traces of the homeless. This is the home of many nouveau riche from Palestine and Iraq, but it also hosts the spillover of many construction sites, both laborers and their materials.
Have Faith, Will Travel
I struck out on foot and caught a cab. At 7:20 I was on Mecca Street, navigating from memory towards the landmarks I thought would find me the back street office. I turned on my mobile as I walked and discovered that my haste and expense had been in vain; weather had made biking an impossibility near Azraq. The trip was canceled, and my spring break lost its primer.
Welcome to Jordan
I continued on, determined to make a thorough examination of Amman's upper crust. I had all day to look for the office and check out City and Mecca Malls. It was lucky the trip had been called off, I wandered the vicinity for hours and never came across a sign of Cycling Jordan. Unruffled, I still enjoyed framing the luxury around me for the camera and making my way through such opulence while listening to Jon Krakuer's Into the Wild.
I wound up in City Mall and perused the deserted gleaming monument to western consumption. Friday starts slow and ends early in the Muslim world. I was surrounded for the first hour by the staff of the stores and the security personnel determined to prevent any indoor photography. I wandered into Amman's Carrefour, an outpost of the massive French international "hypermarket" chain.
Laying the Foundations for the Next Generation
I perused the cookbook section, examined laptops, and investigated every isle in the massive grocery store, lingering in the spices and produce section ruing the fact that memory would have to suffice as I took in the new vocabulary. I returned on foot and over the course of several hours and hilly miles. I got back for lunch and was thankful for the extra time as I wrapped up my application for Senator Kohl and prepped my back for another six o'clock departure to Jett's office on the morrow. It was late when I finally sank into bed and slipped off to sleep.
The Run up to Spring Break March 10-26
How does an environmentalist, non-spender, studious kid spend his spring break in far away Jordan? I missed the flotilla of groups going to Egypt or Turkey, the bunches of friends packing off to Syria and the Levant. I didn't get my act together until a few weeks before the best chance for travel I would encounter, the 10 day Easter break that splits my semester. The trouble is not merely my lack of attention to the preparations of my peers, but also my differing tastes in adventure.
I like absorbing a place, or at least that's how I describe it to myself. I've loved my time in Amman, even as it sometimes leaves me drained and overwhelmed. My trip to Ajlun was spiritual healing as much as a day's jaunt to the countryside. I love the outdoors, the spaces and views without the crowded doings of man intruding on my mind. Yet when I hike, bike, walk, or climb alone, I always do so to the accompaniment of an audiobook or podcast. I don't lose absorb myself so much in nature as I surround myself with nature while enjoying a relatively distraction-free time with a good book or clever lecture.
I finally awoke to the approaching break and my utter lack of thought given to any independent travel on the weekends and my inexperience with the workings of greater Jordan. While my peers had been to Syria, Jerash, Aqaba, and beyond in rushed weekend jaunts, I had been in Amman preparing applications, studying Arabic, and making excursions only to a few city sights. My sole times outside the city had been within the folds of CIEE's management.
I spent days pouring over my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide to the Kingdom. I had briefly considered a larger adventure, but frugality, and desire for a more sustained experience in either Istanbul, Damascus, or Cairo left me focused on the sights of Jordan. Wadi Rum was an obvious candidate, Dana Nature Reserve emerged as a central element, Wadi Mujib's canyons flitted in and out but were ultimately discarded because of price and impracticality. A sudden message from Cycling Jordan added a Friday sortie to the eastern Wetlands of Azraq to the start of my vacation.
I like absorbing a place, or at least that's how I describe it to myself. I've loved my time in Amman, even as it sometimes leaves me drained and overwhelmed. My trip to Ajlun was spiritual healing as much as a day's jaunt to the countryside. I love the outdoors, the spaces and views without the crowded doings of man intruding on my mind. Yet when I hike, bike, walk, or climb alone, I always do so to the accompaniment of an audiobook or podcast. I don't lose absorb myself so much in nature as I surround myself with nature while enjoying a relatively distraction-free time with a good book or clever lecture.
I finally awoke to the approaching break and my utter lack of thought given to any independent travel on the weekends and my inexperience with the workings of greater Jordan. While my peers had been to Syria, Jerash, Aqaba, and beyond in rushed weekend jaunts, I had been in Amman preparing applications, studying Arabic, and making excursions only to a few city sights. My sole times outside the city had been within the folds of CIEE's management.
I spent days pouring over my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide to the Kingdom. I had briefly considered a larger adventure, but frugality, and desire for a more sustained experience in either Istanbul, Damascus, or Cairo left me focused on the sights of Jordan. Wadi Rum was an obvious candidate, Dana Nature Reserve emerged as a central element, Wadi Mujib's canyons flitted in and out but were ultimately discarded because of price and impracticality. A sudden message from Cycling Jordan added a Friday sortie to the eastern Wetlands of Azraq to the start of my vacation.
The cliffs of Rum at sunset
Plans came together, without a team of friends or peers to assist or accompany me. I would traveling alone, an oddity anywhere but especially in the tightly bound society of Jordan and the carefully scripted tour experience of the nation's tourism. I would take public transit, sleep in the cheapest rooms I could find, and spend my days in the wild's of Jordan on hikes and scrambles through two of its most renowned natural places.
12 km hike from Dana Village
I eschewed the typical guided 4x4 or camel trek to a lonely but luxurious, and ruinous, Bedoin desert camp. I don't want the emissions, the aches, or the expense. I called the Rum Rest House and was assured that tents would be available without a reservation. I couldn't get into my preferred Dana Hotel but was able to book two nights in a room and one in a tent with the Dana Tower Hotel. The two are played against each other in guide books with obvious preference stated for the collectively owned Dana Hotel against the "ugly" and privately owned Tower. I bought my one way ticket to Aqaba and managed to accomplish all my preparations as I scrambled to complete internship applications with my congressmen and a few D.C. think tanks.
The view from Karak
I went to bed on Thursday night excited for my first bike ride in Jordan and a trip to the otherwise remote and unlikely Azraq reserve. The place is a small tragedy within the larger story of water shortage in the Kingdom. 10% its former size and a shade of its former glory for migrating birds, Azraq is now kept on artificial life support with few hopes for improvement. My spring break had begun!
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