Here I am watching the snow fall in heavy flakes onto Main St. and still I am thinking of my whirlwind trip to Palestine. It has been rougly a month since I left for my trip, yet still it is not enough time to understand all I observed. Many people have asked me questions about culture and politics that I just can’t answer. Had I actually been living with a Palestinian family during the time and not so busy with the concerts we were putting on, I think I could have at least found out more about mosques and Muslisms than what I gained from the curtained bus windows we rode in. From observation and some inquiry, I learned that mosques have calls to prayer five times a day, the earliest being around 4 in the morning. The apartment I lived in for the ten days was not very close to a mosque, but it still woke me up a few times. It is an incredible feeling to be half asleep in the early morning darkness, feeling the still of night hanging on until the sun begins to rise, and the somewhat haunting echo of the prayer call drifting through the apartment.

The routine of the mornings is one thing I miss. After breakfast and a shower, the other women I was living with and I would go out to the main street next to our apartment building to catch a taxivan to downtown. It was always a different driver, always a different song playing on the radio. I loved the bumpy ride through the neighborhoods, stopping here and there as others flagged a ride. The drivers not only drive but make change at the same time, payment being fixed for this particular route. My face was puzzled as I tried to discern if I had the right change the first time I rode causing the two of three French women I roomed with to laugh at my confusion. Arriving at our stop a block away from one of several rotaries downtown, we would begin our 10-minute walk to Al Kamandjati music center. It would usually be nearing 10 am at this time and the streets would be full of life. Mothers with children running errands, older children in school uniform on their way to school or possibly on an early lunch break (not quite sure). Every variety of shop lined the streets, tempting the eyes of potential customers from the narrow sidewalks. One in particular small block of stores always signalled that we were only a few blocks away: one filled with barrels of spices and herbs, next door a store that seemed to make accessories for camel owners from crops to saddles.

Of course there are noticeable differences from the freedoms we are blessed with here in the States versus the situation there. Checkpoints are definitely the most significant one. I can’t imagine having to plan on a trip crossing from one state to the other potentially taking hours, a day, or not happening because the toll booths were closed. Or that you might have to get thoroughly searched each time you passed through a checkpoint because of your ethnicity. Of course, as an American, all I had to do was flash my passport and through I went. Others, namely Palestinians, are required to have documents for why they wish to enter into or out of Israel. Many are given a curfew, limiting them to a day trip. Even with paperwork they can be refused entrance. The most ridiculous scene I witnessed while passing from Bethlehem into Jerusalem. I watched two young women, one with an infant, without any baggage otherwise, have to demonstrate that they had absolutely nothing on their person short of having to remove their scarves. I am quite sure that the pins holding the scarves in place were probably what could have been setting off the metal detector. They had even been saying to a couple ahead of me not to worry and just flash their passports since they weren’t Palestinian, only Palestinians apparently need to go through the metal detectors.

The only other incident of realizing a freedom generally taken for granted while here at home was freedom of speech. It was after a concert and a group of us were dining in a nice restaurant in Ramallah. As the night was wearing on, our party was becoming quite giddy from full meals and some from wines/ales. It was at this point we felt that it was the perfect time to order an arguileh or hookah for all. So some of us immeadiately started to break out singing a rather common Jewish tune but with this twist “Have an arguileh, Have an arguileh,”. Very abruptly we were cut off by wiser and clearer minds in the party to stop or else we may have trouble if others assumed we were Jewish, being a Muslim. I don’t think I could ever be in quite a situation at a restaurant here short of yelling “fire” or “bomb”.

I am sure that I will have more thoughts to share as the time passes. I am especially hoping to have some pictures as well as video clips to post in the future. For any and all that have found some interest in these posts, please share any thoughts.

Peace.

Editors note: read all about Devons Journey here.