Alastair Mitchell

Bethlehem.

Today we put on a concert at the Peace Centre in Bethlehem. After several weeks of preparation, the students all played solos either with piano, a duet with their teacher or in the case of the last two, played the Bach double violin concerto with the teachers forming a quartet to accompany them.
When the students were told that we would accompany them in the concert their excitement was very apparent – You will play for us? – as they imagined standing up in front of an audience of friends and family, with us behind in the supporting role. And they enjoyed the occasion too, looking around in the tuttis and catching my eye as we played in unison. Their beaming smiles at the end were a give away as to what they were feeling.
It was particularly good to see this from these two students, as unlike many who attend the conservatory they are from one of the refugee camps in Bethlehem. In their short lives they have seen a lot. They joke about when during the Israeli siege of Bethlehem in 2001 they had two Americans come to live in their flat as human shields, to protect them from the tanks surrounding the camp. Whenever there was an explosion, or some gunfire, these two Americans would shake with fear, and the two girls spend most of the time on the phone to the families back in America – Yes, they’re fine, don’t worry!
They also have a brother. Whilst studying at a university that he had to cross an Israeli checkpoint to get to, he began being asked by the Israelis to become an informer. Of course, each time he refused – even when they showed him pictures they had of his two sisters, and parents. Then, a few days after he refused for the last time the Israeli army entered the camp and arrested him. He was held in prison for a year and a half before he was even charged, then was sentenced to two and half years for organising a meeting at his university in support of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.
You might think that experiences like this would darken the soul, but these people have responded by appreciating everything they have – and I am sure the memories they have of today’s concert will be one of those things for a long time to come.

Bethlehem.

One word that I haven’t used since coming to Palestine until now is ‘overcast’. But today is verging on overcast, and that is because in the last few days there has been the feeling of the approaching winter here in the hills high above the Mediterranean.
Accordingly, people are becoming British about it. Taxi drivers talk of how cold the nights are getting, my local shop owner has begun making the weather a regular part of her small-talk – it’s all very familiar.
It is at nights that the change is first noticeable – I’ve started closing the sliding doors to my balcony at night and am using two sheets on my bed now, though still no duvet. It is in many ways the perfect temperature at the moment, warm but no so hot that you sweat each time you move. But the change from now on will be fast - soon it will be cold during the days as well, and I fear for the day that the rain comes. The grease of the last 7 months’ traffic (it last rained in March) has been thoroughly slow-cooked onto the roads, and at the first sign of water this will make for a dangerous mixture. The driving style I have witnessed so far is certainly not well suited to slippery roads, and it will be interesting to either see that change or witness the resulting carnage.

Bethlehem.

For the last couple of days, there have been slightly longer than usual waits to get through the checkpoint from Bethlehem to Jerusalem. It normally takes between 2 to 5 minutes to get through but recently it has been around a quarter of an hour. This morning, after waiting for about 15 minutes when I got to the booth to show my passport the teenage girl inside the booth was chatting to someone on the phone, in what seemed a personal call.
This was despite the growing queue on both sides of her station. She definitely wasn’t on the phone in connection with anyone waiting because as she would let someone through, she would chat for a few moments before even looking up to see who next was standing in front of her. After the already lengthened wait, these final few added moments of delay, along with the blatant disrespect needed to simply ignore people in that situation, was insulting to everyone there.
Normally when I show my British passport I am allowed through immediately, often without the guard even looking at it closely, but she decided to stare at it for a moment, before muttering something. She then looked up at me, and repeated herself, but as she hadn’t switched on the microphone I couldn’t even hear what she said, still less that she was speaking in Hebrew. When it became obvious I did not understand she immediately shouted her command this time. Now I could hear her at least, but still she was speaking Hebrew – bear in mind this is after inspecting my British passport. It took one of the Palestinians waiting behind me to politely explain that she wanted to see the entry stamp in my passport. Now knowing what was needed, I showed her the stamp and she let me through.
As I sat on the bus waiting for it to leave towards Jerusalem, I replayed the incident in my mind. Why had she been so short tempered, why had she not spoken English? I felt insulted by her – being shouted at is never pleasant, but in those circumstances it is very uncomfortable. Not only this, but her initial disregard for everyone around her showed that she cared nothing for the people waiting.
Then I thought, how absurd of me to complain of how I was treated - all that happened was some teenage girl shouted at me. Maybe she was having a bad day, perhaps her boyfriend had left her – she was ugly, after all. With my British passport, my passage was never in serious doubt. I now realise that I will never know how it must feel to be in that situation when perhaps you won’t be allowed through, or to be in that situation day after day involuntarily – I am a visitor here through my choice and am able to leave.
Today I witnessed a tiny, insignificant moment that made me realise the significance of dignity, and the dangers of trampling on it.