Jayyous is a village of approximately 3,000 Palestinians on the northern West Bank. It is well known among international peace activists in Israel because the "Separation Barrier" constructed by the Israeli government alongside the village is six kilometers east of the Green Line. This barrier, which here is an electrified fence, takes most of the fertile land owned by the Palestinian farmers of Jayyous, whose homes are now on the other side of the fence.

In the past, the gate permitting access through the fence has often been closed, preventing farmers from caring for their crops. There are posted hours when the gate is to be open, although this schedule is not always kept with any degree of precision. Israeli soldiers come in a jeep to open the gate and then they check the farmers as they pass through to reach their fields. The gate is supposed to be opened in the morning, at midday, and again in the evening.

I recently went to Jayyous to visit the Ecumenical Accompaniers who have been living and working in the village both to monitor the farmers’ access to their fields and to help the villagers improve their English.

It is less than a 60-mile drive from Jerusalem to Jayyous, but it took me three hours to make the trip and even longer to return. The journey requires driving north on highway 60, the major road controlled by Israel running north and south through the West Bank, then going west on highway 505, north on highway 506, west on highway 55, and north on highway 574. Jayyous is slightly north of Tel Aviv, and only about 15 miles east. The Israeli city of Herzliya, just north of Tel Aviv, is clearly visible from the bluff that marks the eastern edge of Jayyous.

My trip began by boarding a Palestinian bus a block north of the Old City, in the heart of East Jerusalem. We drove north toward Ramallah, but had to struggle with blocked traffic to leave the metropolitan area. The bus turned around, at one point, and went up a smaller road, seeking a way through. When this brought no relief, the bus climbed a hill, following two ruts made by other vehicles, to another street. But again, the bus was unable to avoid the snarl of cars, trucks, and other buses trying to leave the city.

All Palestinian traffic has to get to a single road going north, so all the connecting roads funnel traffic toward a single exit. It isn’t surprising that the congestion can be horrific, as it was that morning. After an hour the bus had covered the five miles to Kalandia, which is on the outskirts of Ramallah. This is the checkpoint through which Palestinians going to Ramallah must pass.

Palestinians travel around the West Bank by taking a taxi, bus, or servees (pronounced sir-VEES), a van or longer taxi that carries seven to 14 people. These vehicles travel to a checkpoint, where some passengers find another vehicle to take them to their destination. Otherwise they walk through the checkpoint (if they have proper I.D.), and then take a vehicle on the other side.

Kalandia is the major transit area between Jerusalem and the northern West Bank, so it is a place where travelers change vehicles as well as enter Ramallah. It would be hard to imagine the scene at Kalandia without having been there. It is like a large parking lot where vehicles park around the edges, while traffic moves through the middle, dropping passengers in the midst of the traffic flow. The surface of the area is mostly dirt and gravel, so when it rains (as it did during my return) it is muddy. Otherwise, as on my way out, it is dusty.

Vehicles come into Kalandia from the checkpoint, and also enter the central transition area from two other directions. Passengers going to Ramallah walk through the swirling mix of buses, taxis, serveeses, and trucks to the entrance of the checkpoint. Other people, coming out of Ramallah on foot, join those brought to Kalandia by vehicles from Jerusalem and elsewhere, in looking for a vehicle to take them where they want to go. Taxi drivers stand in this mix, smoking and trying to lure passengers to their taxis before they find a servees or bus that will take them to their destination for a lower fare.

In the middle and muddle of it all, vendors have set up stalls, selling fruit, drinks, and cigarettes. Passing through is either a thrilling experience or an ordeal, depending on your state of mind. But I doubt that anyone is unaffected. Kalandia is a place of noise, congestion, and chaos, yet in some form Kalandia is necessary for Palestinians to travel through the West Bank.

Not every Palestinian, however, can go where he wants. Those with West Bank I.D.s cannot go to Jerusalem, but they can leave Ramallah to go to other parts of the West Bank. Palestinians with Jerusalem I.D.s can go to Ramallah (although this may change in the future), but the number of Palestinians with Jerusalem I.D.s is a small percentage of the Palestinian population. Those with West Bank I.D.s living north or south of Jerusalem must go around the metropolitan area, rather than through it, to reach cities to the south. For someone with a West Bank I.D. a trip from Ramallah to Bethlehem, a distance of only 20 miles, takes a full half day or more, depending on the congestion at the checkpoints.

At Kalandia I got off the bus that brought me from Jerusalem, and found a servees going to Funduq, which is about 40 miles north of Jerusalem and halfway between Nablus to the east and Jayyous to the west. I was the last passenger to squeeze into the servees, in this case a long taxi with three rows of seats. The two men sitting next to me in the back seat were large, well-built men, as were the three men in front of me. So, we all were sitting with our shoulders a bit pressed in as we drove north up highway 60 through the West Bank.

Israeli Jews who travel this highway would say they are in Judea, for this is the Biblical name of the rolling hills that define the area between Jerusalem to the south and the valleys of Galilee to the north. Moreover, the road signs along the highway, which are in Hebrew and English, give the impression that the traveler is in Israel, as the only places identified are Israeli settlements. There are many of these settlements on both sides of the highway, and Palestinians share the road with Israeli army vehicles and Israeli buses, trucks, and taxis. Among Palestinians, only those driving mass transportation vehicles are permitted to use the Israeli-only roads.

It is easy to distinguish settlements from Palestinian towns and villages. Settlements have security fences around them with guardhouses at the gates. Moreover, the houses in settlements are built in rows, like in a suburb. There are no fences around Palestinian towns and villages, and the houses are both older and located more randomly along the meandering roads that define a village or town.

When we arrived at Funduq, the servees stopped in front of a store and I heard the men near me say "Funduq," for they spoke no English. I could not understand the other words they had said in Arabic. Because I had not been there before, and there was no sign naming the village, I wouldn’t have known where I was without their help. So, saying, "Shukran," which in Arabic means "Thank you," I worked my way out of the back seat of the service and closed its door.

Walking over to a man standing in front of the store, I simply said, "Azzoun," which is the name of the next village I needed to reach in order to make my way to Jayyous. He pointed across the street, so I crossed and stood in front of another store. Soon a servees pulled up carrying a few people, but with two empty seats. When I said "Azzoun" to the driver, he nodded and I got in.

The bus ride to Kalandia had cost three Shekels, and the first servees had cost me 20 Shekels, which I paid before the trip began. But generally, in a servees you get in and then hand money forward, if you are in the back seat, to the passenger in front of you, who hands it to the driver. Not knowing the cost to travel by servees from Funduq to Azzoun, but assuming it would be less than 10 Shekels, I handed forward a 10-Shekel coin. The driver passed back to the passenger in front of me seven Shekels in change, which she handed over her shoulder to me.

After I arrived at Azzoun, I wasn’t sure where to catch the final servees to Jayyous, but after a few minutes three women and two children walked by and then stopped in front of what looked like a rundown bus shelter. I went over and said to one of the women, "Jayyous?" She nodded, and about 10 minutes later a servees stopped and we all climbed in. This time I handed forward a five-Shekel coin, and received back two and a half Shekels. So, I knew I was almost at Jayyous.

Almost to my surprise, using only five Arabic words (Kalandia, Funduq, Azzoun, Jayyous, and Shukran), I had arrived at Jayyous without mishap, after four rides in three hours, because all along the way the Palestinians I met, and had to rely on, had been very willing to help me.

A telephone call to Eva Dueblin-Honegger, a Swiss Ecumenical Accompanier (EA) working in Jayyous, brought her out of her door, so I could find the house along the main street where the EAs live. After a bite of lunch, Eva took me for a walk through the village to the bluff that looks towards the Mediterranean Sea, and then down the hill to the "Separation Barrier" on the eastern side of the village. The gate was open in the late afternoon, so the farmers could return from their fields.

Most of the Palestinian farmers were driving donkey carts as they came to the checkpoint. Each had to stop his vehicle 10 meters from the Army jeep, and then walk to the jeep to show his identification papers. There was no difficulty today, as one by one the farmers came out of the field, stopped, waited, and then walked to the jeep. After receiving permission to pass, each returned to his donkey cart, or tractor, and drove through the gate and up the hill to the village.

The English classes in Jayyous, currently being taught by Eva, are primarily about the Israeli Occupation, what it is doing to the life of the village, and ways of resisting it. Eva described her classes with groups of women, who once they are indoors without men around take off their head scarves and become very animated. The next day I went with her to the home of her landlord, where his wife received us. She was obviously delighted to see Eva, but perhaps less happy to see me. If Eva had come alone, the woman would have invited Eva into the kitchen for tea and perhaps even to help her cut vegetables for supper.

After offering tea, as Palestinian hospitality requires, and urging me to eat an orange from their orchard, she explained in halting English that the price of oranges was so low it would not cover the cost of the water and labor needed to grow and harvest them. When she learned that I was a Christian minister (which Eva explained was like being an "imam," for the village is entirely Muslim and villagers have had only minimal contact with Christians, although this has increased through the EAPPI), she said she had studied religion in a madraseh (Arabic for school) in Jordan (where she was from). "I love all religions," she said, smiling at me, as a granddaughter she was caring for pulled at her skirt to regain her attention.

During my stay in the village, we went to the newly constructed municipal building, were Eva paid the phone bill for the house and had a few copies made on the copy machine. This building was constructed with funds from the Japanese and French governments, as well as the United Nations Development Program (UNDP).

In addition to the loss of land due to the fence, a nearby settlement has taken a large piece of land and is using it as a quarry. This confiscation is being challenged in court, as the landowner has proper ownership papers, but while a decision is pending the settlers are cutting rocks from the quarry. This is a prelude to the building of yet another illegal settlement. From the top of the bluff on the eastern side of the village, the quarry was clearly visible, although the settlement was hidden from view on the other side of the hill.

The following morning I walked with Eva out of the village to another village nearby, and then through the village down into a valley where all we could see were the groves of olive trees on the hillsides. It was a beautiful morning, and there were wildflowers of many colors beneath the olive trees. We met a shepherd herding his sheep down the road and on our return two Palestinian women in the other village gave us some of the sweet peas they had just picked.

In this other village, as in Jayyous, there was a single mosque, and Eva said that the imam of this mosque had once invited her in to his home for tea, which she thought was very unusual, or at least was not what she expected. His family was present (it would be improper for him to entertain her by himself), and one of his daughters spoke some English. In Jayyous the imam has not invited her into his home, but she is very friendly with the man who chants the call to prayer, known as the muezzin. He is a shopkeeper, and when I met him he quickly told me in broken English that he was trained in Saudi Arabia, yet is not paid much for his skills. "But I do for Allah," he said. "It is enough."

Eva told me she was reluctant to walk by herself beyond Jayyous, where she is known, so she was glad to have my company as we enjoyed the olive groves. A couple of the men we passed on that walk did not greet us, reminding me that it is more difficult for a western woman to be alone in Palestinian society than for a western man.

It was difficult for both of us, however, as we returned to Jayyous, to walk past the garbage dump on the outskirts of the village, for the stench was overpowering. Dead sheep lay beside the road, as well as other garbage, and we speculated that only odd "internationals," like us, walked this direction from the village. Farmers walk or drive their donkey carts, or tractors, out the other side of Jayyous to reach their fields, but those leaving this side of the village ride in a truck or a servees. Surely, that is why the garbage is dumped here, where it is convenient to come, but far enough out of the village so the smell does not reach the residents.

Before I left the village to return to Jerusalem, Eva told me that the "Separation Barrier," which from the bluff on the eastern side of the village is clearly visible as it snakes its way across the hills, threatens the entire life of the village. When there is a security alert, the soldiers refuse to open the gate. And these closures, in addition to the land that has been taken for the fence, its attendant roads, the quarry, and the future settlement, have cut deeply into the income that the farmers are able to glean from their remaining fields.

In addition to this economic blow, the "Separation Barrier" exacts an emotional and spiritual price as well. It is humiliating for the farmers to have to get permission from the Israeli government to go onto their own land. Moreover, the farmers have to renew their permits every six months, and permission is often given only to the father in a family, meaning that other members of the family cannot help work the land. This means also that it is difficult for a family to maintain its relationships with the land that has nourished it, perhaps for generations.

When Eva first came to Jayyous, the family that owns the house where the EAs stay took her to their land for a picnic. But they had to travel via a longer route through another gate in the fence, because one of her landlord’s daughters did not have permission to go through the gate just below the village. The extra time and gasoline required for that trip was spent, as an act of hospitality, but the family cannot afford to make such a trip to their land very often. So, the children are not growing up with the same attachment to the land of the family, as their parents.

On my trip back to Jerusalem I was able to board a bus at Funduq going to Ramallah, and the cost was half of what the servees had cost coming north. But going into Ramallah meant that I had to take a servees out from Ramallah to the Kalandia checkpoint, which cost five Shekels. So, I only saved five Shekels (a little over one U.S. dollar).

It began to rain in Ramallah, and that made waiting in line to go through the checkpoint an even more miserable experience than it would be in any event. Imagine 50 men (the women were in a separate line) crowded together, under a leaking tin roof, as the cold wind blew the drips over all of us, pushing to get through an opening no wider than a 3-foot door. I hate to push in a crowd, but it was necessary to make any progress forward. And I was cold and wet, so I pushed. When I passed into the narrow opening, then I had to wait until those in front of me were told to come forward by the Israeli soldiers standing 10 meters ahead.

When it was my turn to go forward, I quickly did, and then the soldier slipped his free hand (the other hand was on his automatic rifle) under my coat to feel my back, which is where Israeli settlers often carry a pistol. Finding nothing, he motioned for me to open my bag, quickly pushed his hand down into it, felt around, and then nodded to indicate that I could go forward. After walking another 10 meters, I showed my passport to a second soldier, who compared my face with the passport photo, and then waved me through. I walked to a metal turnstile, with iron bars allowing travel only in one direction, pushed my way through, and then quickly, as I was now exposed to the steady rainfall, walked out into the Kalandia transit area.

This time I knew I was looking for a bus, which was easier to spot than a servees. As I moved through the crowd, I felt a man’s hand on my arm trying to guide me toward his taxi. Pressing on to the bus, I discovered the first one in line was full, but had not left the area because of the congestion. So I walked to the next Jerusalem bus, entered, paid the driver the fare of three Shekels, and then sat, happy to be in a somewhat warmer and much drier environment.

Back in Jerusalem it was another short walk through the drizzling rain to the local bus station, where I boarded a bus to go up the hill to the top of Mount Scopus. Usually, I walk back to the guesthouse where I am staying, but when it began to pour I was glad I’d taken the bus. It took longer, however, for the bus to fill, than it did for it to drive from the Damascus Gate east and up the hill to Mount Scopus. Finally, after four hours of traveling from Jayyous, I was back home.

As I write this, I wonder what my journey to Jayyous will mean for me after I return home to the United States. What will I remember about my trip and the time I spent in Jayyous?

As I tell family members and friends about this journey, they may feel I was courageous to travel as I did among Palestinians on the West Bank. But I hope telling this story will help others appreciate, as I do, the hospitality and nonviolence of most Palestinians, despite the unrelenting injustice and humiliation they experience due to the Israeli Occupation of the West Bank.

Bob Traer, 3 April 2005

I am writing as a participant in the Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and Israel, which is sponsored by the World Council of Churches. The views expressed above are personal and do not necessarily represent the World Council of Churches. If you wish to publish or disseminate this letter beyond personal friends, please contact the EAPPI Communications Officer (eappi-co@jrol.com) for permission to do so. Thank you.

For photos taken in the Golan Heights, go to http://christian-bible.com/Ethics/photos.jayyous.htm. 

For other Letters from Jerusalem, go to http://christian-bible.com/Ethics/lj.letters.2005.htm. 

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