Marlin & Sally in Jerusalem

Day Trippin'

“I had myself a dream last night, same one I’ve been having since YOU’ve been gone.” (Line from an old song -- can't come up with the group, sorry!)

I’m gathered with an immense multitude of men; some women are mingled in, but mostly men.  We standing ramrod straight in this great green plain (Megiddo?).  We are clustered in groups within groups; the divisions are clearly marked by how we are bunched together.  It’s like a huge school is assembled in a playground.  You have divisions within divisions, high school, middle school, upper elementary, elementary, preschool.  And then within those divisions are the grades and within the grades various clubs and organizations.  You get the picture, right?  But we are not children, but men, grown men, and some women as well, very few, but noticeable, more women in some groups than in others.

Religious leaders – that’s who we are.  We are so many.  We are so dressed up.  We look so official, so important, so serious, and so confused by where we are and by those with whom we are.  We remember our mothers telling us that “you are known by the company you keep,” and no one standing there knew this was the company they were keeping.  If they had, they may have done something about it.  Now it’s too late.

Before us is this great throne -- it’s a throne room.  The throne is golden, of course, but not made of gold, but of a blend of every kind of earthy material imaginable.  It looks like it is made of gold because it reflects golden from the one sitting on the throne and because blended together all the elements in earth give off a golden tint.

The one sitting there is God, of course, I know that immediately.  God sits upon this throne, looking bigger than life, and yet fragile and ancient and smaller than you would expect.  It’s like when you see this movie star and you say, “I thought you were taller.”  I thought God would be bigger, you know, cosmic size.

God speaks and it is not the thunder of a water fall, but the murmur of a slowly moving brook, or the rustling of a light breeze through brittle fall leaves still on the trees but ready to fall, like a fine crystal wind chime.  At the first breath of voice, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and a chill works it’s way down my spine.  God it would seem is bigger than God looks.

“I gave to you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, and you used them to lock one another out.  Therefore …” 

And like with the falling dream, I wake up before I hit the bottom.  Over and over again I say, “It’s only a dream.  It’s only a dream.  It’s only a dream.” But I can’t shake the feeling that it is more like a vision.

But then I’m in the Galilee this week, Jesus old stompin' grounds, and it’s easy to start thinking BIGGER than you are.

I'm Here to Listen

“You are there to listen,” my Palestinian supervisor and friend reminded me as he authorized Sally and me to travel along with a tour group from the States.  “You are there to listen.”

“Hamas will never change.”  This from the lips of one of the Israeli tour guides as the group waited to be led up the Mount of Beatitudes.  He is responding to a question asked by one of our travel mates, a curious gentleman who is continually asking these kind of questions.  I say nothing, because I’m here to listen.

Later as the group sits under some trees listening to Dr. Tim Brown recite Jesus’ teaching from Matthew 5-7, I sit by our two Israeli guides.  We are near enough to just hear Dr. Brown, far enough so that the group cannot hear us.

“So,” I say, “no hope for anything good coming out of Hamas?” 

“No hope,” declares the guide I overheard earlier.  “Hamas will never change,” he repeats.

Our other guide, also an Israeli, snaps his head toward his friend and says,  “We have to give Hamas a chance.”  And away they go.  It is a spirited and informed debate between two men who strongly disagree about something very important to both of them.  I just listen.

As when I listen to Palestinians discuss the issues, I am blown away by the knowledge these two Israelis have about their country.  They know the history of the struggle.  They know the names of all the major players on both sides of the conflict.  They quote people from the past.  They quote people from just yesterday.  They quote former presidents of the United States.  They quote President Bush.  They quote Tony Blair.  I just listen.

As I listen to these two men quoting friend and foe alike, I can faintly hear Tim quoting Matthew’s Jesus.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit …
“Blessed are those who mourn …
“Blessed are the meek …
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness …

I just listen.

That night at dinner two men from the States enter into a discussion over the war in Iraq.  Again, as with Palestinians and Israelis, I am impressed with the grasp these men have of the particulars of this war.  They too disagree.  One thinks we should never have gone to war with Iraq, and that we should cut our losses and get out now – the sooner the better.  The other is a loyal Republican, who believes, as does our President, that democracy is the answer to all world's woes.  “We’re there.  We need to finish what we have started.  History will prove that we were right to go there in the first place.”  They have a spirited debate. 

For a long while, I just listen, and then …

There is a time to be silent and a time to speak.  Knowing when to do which is the struggle, isn’t it? 

Fishmonger

Sally and I buy our fish fresh from a small shop on one of the capillaries off Salaah ad-Din Street (happy Leon?).  The fishmonger is around forty I would guess, and tough, from the look of him – street tough maybe, tough.  When we settled into our new apartment a new friend said we should go to this fishmonger for our fish because he is fair – tough but fair, great combination I think.

“We’re your neighbors.  We live on Al-Isfahani Street, above the Baptist Church.”

“Where you from?”

“The United States,” I say. “Michigan,” I add, because he will ask.

He nods, a slow, chin goes up and comes back down nod, with the corners of his mouth going down as the chin goes up – a slow nod and a frown.  “Americans,” he grunts.

“Yes,” I respond.  “Is that alright?”  I figure, “What the heck, I might as well ask.”  And I ask nicely, I might add.

He looks at me and his eyes narrow a bit, and I know he is seeing me for the first time.  He’s interested.  I’ve hooked him.

He stands up straight and wiping his hands on his once-white apron he says, “Yes, that’s alright.  I don’t judge people by where they are from.  I judge them on what they do.  I don’t care if you are from America or Denmark or wherever, I judge you by how you act in my country.”

Sally and I keep silent because we can see that he is just warming up.  “I want to be judged for who I am,” his voice rising.  “I am not Hamas and Hamas does not represent me.  Nobody represents me.  The Palestinian Authority doesn’t represent me, Fatah, nobody represents me.  No religion either,” he adds. “I represent myself.  So you are welcome in my shop.”

“Shukran,” Sally says, “Thank you.”  He nods to her, same slow, deliberate nod as before except the corners of his mouth go in a different direction.  Sally has that affect on most people.  To her he says, “What fish you want?”

As we leave, fish bought and paid for, scaled and wrapped, I reach out my hand.  He hesitates, showing me his dirty hand.  I say, “My father was a shopkeeper too – in Iowa.”  He nods again, an accepting nod, and takes my hand in a very firm grip.  “Okay,” he says.  “Okay,” I say, hoping he hasn’t broken anything.

John Irving wrote:  "Every American should be forced to live outside of the United States for a year or two. Americans should be forced to see how ridiculous they appear to the rest of the world. They should listen to someone else's version of themselves - to anyone else's version! Every country knows more about America than Americans know about themselves. And Americans know absolutely nothing about any other country" (A Prayer for Owen Meany, p 223).

Miss Emma

What follows is my personal journal entry dated  January 4, 2006, the day Sally and I left Michigan to move to Jerusalem.

Leaving day.  Going day.  Sad day.  Glad day.
Day of eager anticipation.  Day of certain uncertainty.  Two kids from small Iowa towns on their way to the city of God to do God knows what for God knows why.  Hoping their going leaves an impression.
How did we get here?
When will we get back?
When we do, who will we be?  Will anyone recognize us?  Like us?
Miss Emma (3-year-old granddaughter) climbed onto my lap this morning “to talk.”  We are down in the basement in a bedroom that was built just for Nana and Popa.  We’re sitting on an antique couch placed at the end of an antique bed – old furniture that has somehow grown better with age.
“Popa is going away for a long time, Emma … Nana too.  Popa won’t see you again until you are much bigger.  This big.”

“You’re going to help people, right Popa?” (We’d had this conversation before.)

“Right Emma.”

“Because God told you to go, right Popa?”

“Right Emma.”  Little tears run down my cheeks and drip onto her hair.  She reaches up to touch them, wipe them from the face of her grandfather.  Are there any little tears?  Does God cry little tears too?  What would make God cry little tears?  For whom would God cry little tears?  For you?  Me?  For God’s chosen people?  Who are God’s chosen people?  For whom would God NOT cry little tears?  Is there a people who are outside the love of God?

Who wipes the little tears from the face of God?  Who even notices these little tears?

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it” (Luke 18:17).

Some time ago, an old thinker wrote something I remember well enough to paraphrase.  “The difference between God and us is that while we grow older, God stays forever young.  We become adults, while the ancient God, the Maker of heaven and earth, forever remains a child.”  So no wonder it takes childlikeness to see the face of God, the tears of God.

Today is my birthday.  If I’m maturing well, then as I am growing older I am also becoming younger, lesser, smaller, more dependent, more open, more curious, imaginative, creative – more like the child I once was, and in so growing, more like the God who is the same -- yesterday, today, and tomorrow -- forever young.

Right my sweet Miss Emma?

Right Popa. 

Miss Emma!

OH, AND THANKS MOM!

MAD ON!

I went to bed with a mad on.  In the middle of the night I woke up and I still had a mad on.  Sally had her back to me, curled up in the fetal position, sleeping.  I moved in close to her and wrapped my right arm over her, pulling her close.  After about a minute, she reached over and pulled at my arm.  “I can’t breathe,” she announced with exaggerated breathlessness. 

“Sorry,” I say.

“Let it go,” she says.

I didn’t, couldn’t, still got it – mad on.

“International human rights law requires Israel to respect the right of residents of the Occupied Territories to move about freely in the occupied territory. This right is recognized in Article 13 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and in Article 12 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Furthermore, international humanitarian law requires Israel, in its capacity as the occupier, to ensure the safety and well-being of the local residents, and to maintain, as far as possible, normal living conditions” (From B’tselem).

Emma is a sixty-seven year old Palestinian Christian.  In her winter shoes, she stands about 4’ 10.”  She was born and raised in Bethlehem.  In fact, her father was the mayor of Bethlehem for about 15 years.  Now she lives in East Jerusalem.  She is a member of the church Sally and I attend.  She’s the reason I have a mad on.  Actually, she’s not the reason.  She's the victim.  There are a lot of victims, which is the reason I have a mad on.

Last night (Wednesday) we had a Lenten gathering in a church member’s home in Bethlehem.  Bethlehem is a prison, pure and simple, closed in by the Separation Wall on every side.  Bethlehem was a bustling city once, treasured by Christians everywhere as one of the holiest of sites.  Now the birthplace of Jesus it is a virtual ghost town haunted by any number of  spirits, none of them holy.   

To get into Bethlehem you must go through what Israel calls a Terminal.  It is meant to sound official and even normal, like bus terminal or airport terminal.  This Terminal is not normal no matter how hard Israel has tried to make it "look" normal (See photograph below).  It is an evil place, this terminal.  It is for many a symbol of the oppression and degradation that Palestinians live with every day of their lives.  The sign on the Separation Wall by the Bethlehem Terminal is for me a bad joke and I honestly can't tell whether it is intended to be or not.

On our way out of Bethlehem we are following a blue 15-passenger van filled with members of our church, including Emma.  It’s Terminal time.  We idle in our vehicle about 20 yards behind the blue van.  A spotlight from one of the guard towers shines into our four-wheel drive suburban.  We hold our passports in our hands, waiting. 

It’s taking a long time for the blue van to get through.  Finally we see why.  The soldiers have made Emma, 67-year-old, 4’ 10”, widowed grandmother of two -- Emma -- get out of the van.  She stands there in the semi-darkness, with two soldiers hulking over her, asking her questions.  She is so calm about it, but we can see that she is upset, embarrassed, humiliated.  She alone is made to walk through the Terminal.  Several female church members get out and walk with her.  After five minutes, we have driven through Bethlehem Terminal.  It takes Emma and her entourage more than 30 minutes to walk through.

I have a mad on about this.  And no, I’m not going to get over it any time soon.  I’ve also got a sad on for people like Emma who are daily subjected to this kind of treatment, and have been for most, if not all of their lives.  I have a sad on for those soldiers as well who daily lose a part of their heart and soul as they do this kind of thing to people like Emma, and to children too, children not unlike my four-year-old granddaughter Emma.  And they do this as a matter of policy.

And I’m mad about it, and sad about it too.  And I hope maybe you are a little mad and sad as well.  Because it is not right. “Israel’s policy is blatant discrimination based on national origin, in that the restrictions apply only to Palestinians” (IBID, B’tselem.)

The old “saw” says that you should never go to bed angry.  You probably shouldn’t post a blog angry either, but …

They're Cats

The cats are back – Stripes, Specks and Orange Butt.  And they’re fighting.

I’m shaving.  Sally is working on her hair.

“You go this time.”

“Let me see if I have this right.  Jerusalem alley cats, right?”

“Right.”

“Males, right?”

“Right.”

“And you want me to go, right?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why not?  They didn’t listen to me.”

“Okay.”  She goes.  I follow.  I gotta see this.

“Hey,” she yells down to the fighting cats.

No response.

“Honey.”

“Yes.”

“You have to get their attention first.”  I point to a piece of iron lying on our roof deck.

“Oh yeah.  Jerusalem male cats, right?

“Right.”

She sighs, shakes her head, bends down, picks up a small piece of iron, and drops it right into the middle of the three snarling, clawing, squalling cats.  They jump, land, stop, look up and narrow their eyes.

“You boys are taking the joy out of my mornings,” she says.

I can tell that they are not sure what to say to this feminine response to their warring.

“We’re cats,” says Specks.

“I know what you are,” she says.  “What I don’t know is why you are making such a racket.  Were you enjoying yourselves just now?

They look at each other.  “We’re cats,” Orange Butt repeats.

“Yes, you’re cats.  And you’re male, and so you have testosterone issues, and it’s spring, and you’ve each marked your territory.  I understand all of that.   Do you NOT realize that your fighting is having a negative affect on the whole neighborhood?  Or is it that you just don’t give a rat’s …?”  Sal was raised on the farm.  Personally, I thought mentioning rats might get them thinking about a common enemy, but …

“Well,” says Stripes, “we’re cats.”

Turning to me as she is turning to leave, Sally says, “They’re cats.  They have tiny, little cat brains.  They can’t think through what they do.  They can’t change what they are.  They do what they do because they are what they are.  They’re cats.  Okay?”

The three felines blink their eyes a few times as their tiny, little cat brains process this bit of information.  They’re not quite sure how to take this.  I see in their eyes that their brains go on tilt.  They shake their cat heads to clear their cat brains and then they resume their yelping, screeching, clawing, biting fighting.

Well, okay, what do you expect?  They’re cats.

Oh yeah, we’re not!  I expect the Maker of cats expects a little more from us.  You know, this “made in the image” thing.

Purim

The story of Purim is told in the Biblical book of Esther.  Purim is to be celebrated on the 14th of Adar, which is normally March.  Purim remembers the rescue of Jews from extermination.  Purim was Tuesday of last week.  From the point of view of a casual observer Purim is like Mardi Gras and Halloween rolled into one.  You see the strangest sights during Purim.  Like, for example, the Hasidic Jew all dressed in beautiful black -- black slacks with pencil thin charcoal stripes, long finely tailored matching black coat, and of course, the black hat.  There is nothing odd about seeing an Orthodox Jew walking in the Old City.  However, this particular Jewish fellow, about my age I would guess, had a pair of red horns sticking up from his hat, and a long red tail protruding out the back of his fine coat.  He was carrying a nearly emptied bottle of Chives Royal in his right hand, and he was quite literally howling at the moon – a brilliant full moon to boot.  And no, I did not take a picture.  I would not take a picture.  I hesitate even telling you about him, as it seems unfair, removing him from his context, baring him to the world.  According to the Talmud, a person is required to drink until he cannot tell the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordecai,” though opinions differ as to exactly how drunk that is.  I expect the man we encountered was pushing the limits a bit.

To be fair, Purim is one of the least of the Jewish Holy Days.  Many Jews don’t celebrate Purim at all, and are quite embarrassed by the way others do.  The Book of Esther is somewhat suspect as well.  No mention of God in the Book, and there is all that killing, and all that merry making, and there’s that connection between the two that is difficult to explain away, although the best of Jewish scholarship has tried.  Almost.  Almost.  The Book goes to great lengths to point out the great restraint exercised by the Jews.  There is the killing, but no looting, no taking of the spoils.

During Purim week, you also see children in an array of costumes and colors.  It’s fun to see them like this, smiling and happy.  It’s what you wish for all the children of this land, and beyond to all lands.  Adults let their hair down as well, but not their guard. 

And here’s the rest of the story.  While Israeli Jews look forward with great joy to feasts and festivals like Purim and Pesah (Passover), Palestinians dread them coming.  Checkpoints are fortified to the extent that it takes a Palestinian up to three times longer to get to work during the mornings of Purim week, and of course, just as long to get home at night.  Many Palestinians from the East side of Jerusalem work on the West side of Jerusalem, and during festival week they are not allowed to come to work.  Maybe they are paid anyway – probably not.

And I’m told the soldiers are especially “mean” during these times.  I don’t know how “mean” is defined.  I only use the word because a Palestinian friend used this word as she described the soldiers to me.  Maybe they have reason to be especially “mean” during the Festivals.  Maybe they hate missing all that good food and all that good drink.  I know I would.

Tuesday of this past week of Purim the Israeli army, showing great restraint, of course, surrounded the Jericho Prison, bulldozed the place to rubble, killed two men, and captured today’s version of Haman, a man named Ahmed Sa’adat.  Tomorrow there will be another Haman to capture or kill.  It seems, from an Israeli perspective, there is no end to the Hamans of the world.  And, if I were Jewish and had experienced what the Jews have in their history, maybe I’d understand.  But I’m not, and I don’t, although I do try.

So, while the party raged in West Jerusalem and in parts of the Old City, the war raged in Jericho.  And, of course, the Palestinians raged in the West Bank and Gaza.

And me?  I wanted to find a bottle of Chives Royal and get so drunk that I could not tell the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordecai.”  But I don’t have to get drunk for that.

Jerusalem Cats

It’s a little past sunrise, 5:45 or so, and I hear this bloodcurdling roar.  It’s Sunday and I’m on the rooftop that is our front lawn.  I’m hanging out a few towels.  I’m very domesticated.

I know immediately what this dreadful noise is – cat, alley cat to be exact, Jerusalem alley cat, which is the toughest alley cat in the universe, bar none.  I walk over to the waist high wall surrounding our rooftop terrace, and look down into the little courtyard below.  Sure enough, there they are, three of them, squared off and ready to do a little damage to one another.  One is gray with black stripes from tip of nose to tip of tail; one is gray with specks of black thrown in to make him look a little better; and one is white with three black boots and a little orange splash on his right hip.  Every muscle taut, the three cats stand frozen in a triangle, heads in, tails out.  Their backs are arched, but not as much as you see in caricatures.  And the gray with the black stripes is growling a low throaty warning.  My first thought is: If a little alley cat can make a roar that loud and that fearsome, what must a lion sound like?

“Hey,” I yell.
“Back off,” snarls the gray with black stripes.
“What?” I say.
“This is none of your concern,” he doesn’t even bother to look up at me.

I take a small piece of iron that is lying on our roof – don’t ask – and I toss it down at them.  Relax cat lovers I don’t try to hit them, but I get close.

Like synchronized swimmers they all jump in the air at the same time and they all land at the same time.  Now I have their attention.

They look up.  I smile and wave. 

“What is your problem?” Stripes wants to know.
“You are my problem,” I say.  “You boys are disturbing the peace.”
“Where you from?” Asks Orange Butt.
“Canada,” I say.
“Which part?”
“Michigan.”

Like bobbing head cats in the back window of a 60s Chevy, they all nod at the same time.  Jerusalem cats are tough, but not too smart.

“What’s this fight about?” I ask.
“Territory,” announces Specks.
“Territory?”
“Yes, this is my turf, my land.”

Back to the triangle, the backs back up, the growling and snarling and spitting.  I throw another piece of iron down near them.  “I’ve got a lot of iron up here boys.”

Knowing that we have an attention span issue here, I quickly go on.  “Can’t you share?  I mean you have the yard, the alleyway there.  Seems like you could all live together.”

“You a Quaker?”  Orange Butt.
“No.  Calvinist.”
“Then what’s your problem?  This is a ‘just war.’  You know, Augustine.” Stripes is the theologian in the bunch I guess.

I hate it when cats talk religion, especially when it’s my religion they are talking.  I grab a fist full of iron, hold it up for them to see, and say, “Okay, then, let’s have at it.”

They scatter.  I like having the high ground, the big guns.

As I walk back into our apartment, I get to thinking about the Book.  I can’t remember any mention of cats in the Book – lions but no cats.  And there is this one Lion.  The Book of Revelation speaks of this Lion – the Lion of the Tribe of Judah (5:5).  And the Lion becomes a Lamb (5:6), talk about mixing metaphors.  The Lion becomes a Lamb who takes the high road of sacrifice over violence, and thus receives power from on high – He is worthy.

Strange cat, that Lion.  I don’t think he’d survive in this place.

The White Dove Sings

I know, the dove is not white, except if you look really closely you can see some white, right?  I’m reaching out to the twenty-somethings who will recognize this title from a great song from their youth – and yes, you were young once.

Every morning, around 6 o’clock – and yes, Grand Valley students, there is 6 o’clock in the morning too – I get out of bed and I write for a couple of hours.  Sally sleeps for about a half-hour or so longer in the room next to our living room study.  When she gets up she comes into where I am and with her hands on my shoulders watches the words form on the screen in front of us.  She says nothing, knowing that I am in the middle of a thought.  It’s a kindness I appreciate.

I say, “Did you hear her?”

“Yes,” she says.

Our dove sings -- our personal Jerusalem dove – gray and black and white, and all ours, at least we are the only ones who have claimed her as far as we know.  She sings her morning song and we receive her solo as a small gift.  Is there any such thing as a small gift, a little drink of water to a thirsty woman, a tiny piece of bread to a hungry child?

Her singing is a gentle yet powerful reminder to us that in the midst of all the noise of city life – the blaring horns, the car alarms ringing, the shouts from below as the city awakens -- the dove sings.  She’s an alto, if you’re wondering, her voice low, mellow – soft, and yes, sweet.

I can see why she is a symbol of peace, can’t you?  It’s the voice, the sound she makes, and it’s her stubbornness too.  She sings her throaty, rich song every morning, wired in her DNA to give her voice to her world.  Even if hers is an audience of one, still she sings.

Even though her song is so often drowned out by the noise about her, still she sings.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere.  “Did you hear her?”

We Know

In 2001, Rahavan Ze’evi, Israel’s Minister of Tourism, was murdered by a group representing the PFLP, Popular Front for Liberation of Palestine.  The killing was in response to the killing of Abu Ali Mustafa, the financial secretary of the PFLP.  The so called mastermind of the Ze’evi operation was Ahmed Sa’adat, a key leader in the PFLP.  The suspected killers, along with Sa’adat, took refuge then in Yasser Arafat’s compound in Ramallah.  Similar to Tuesday night, the Israeli army surrounded Arafat’s headquarters and demanded the men they believed to be responsible for the assassination of Ze’evi. Of course, Arafat refused.  Things got ugly and it looked as if the Israeli army was going to take the men by force.  There was even fear that the Israelis might use this as an opportunity to capture or assassinate Arafat.  Real or imagined, this fear did exist.  Officials from the United Kingdom and the United States brokered a deal where by the suspected assassins would be held in the Jericho prison under the supervision of UK and US monitors.  They would be guarded by the PA, Palestinian Authority, the role of the  monitors was to see to it that the men served their sentences in a way consistent with the way convicted murderers should.  They were tried, by the way, in what is termed a “kangaroo court” in Arafat’s office.  Four or five of the men (I’m not clear on the exact number) were found guilty, one was declared innocent.  He was incarcerated in Jericho Prison along with the others, however, because if not, he would have likely been murdered by the Israelis.  This happens on a regular basis so the threat is not one to be taken lightly.

For the past year, the UK and US monitors have been complaining about the freedoms enjoyed by the six men (I am sure of that number.  I’m simply not sure who is being held for what.)  I don’t know all the details of the men’s freedoms, but you can probably guess, and you would probably be pretty close.  The monitors also felt increasingly unsafe themselves.  The monitors advised the PA that if things did not change they were pulling out.  Tuesday they did just that.  Suspiciously, fifteen to twenty minutes later the Israeli army moved in.  Is it collusion between the Brits, the Yanks and the Israelis?  Did the Brits and the Yanks, in affect, hand over the six men to their enemies, the Israelis?  And the timing could not be more suspect with Israeli elections two weeks away and the man favored by the West, Ehud Olmert, falling some in the polls because he is being portrayed as not tough enough.  The latest Israeli poll (yesterday) shows that Olmert is doing much better now.  The Israeli polsters termed the bounce as "The Jericho Seige Effect."

Here are some responses from Palestinians.

“You f------ Americans, go home!”  From a middle-age man on Salaah ad-Din Street – late Tuesday afternoon as the Jericho Seige is happening and Sally and I are walking home.

“Israel does what she wants, when she wants, where she wants, and to whomever she wants, and no one can stop them.  They strip down our army guys to their underwear and parade them in front of the cameras like that.  It is humiliating to us to have those guards and PA security forces treated like that.  Imagine how you would feel if your son was watching TV and saw you like that.”   (A colleague noting that many taken prisoner by the Israelis, and treated so poorly, humiliated really, were PA security forces and Jericho prison guards.)

“The rule-of-law only applies to us.  Israel talks and talks and talks about upholding the rule-of-law, but Israel breaks the law everyday at the checkpoints and in the settlements and building that wall.  Who is upholding rule-of-law as concerns Israel?  Rule-of-law is a ruse.”  (Palestinian Christian at a prayer gathering Wednesday evening.)

“I blame our government (the PA).  The State Department (I took him to mean the U.S. State Dept.) has documented their concerns.  I'm sure they have a written record of when they did what.  Our government knew those men were being well treated and they knew the monitors were pulling out.  They’re lying to us.”  (Shopkeeper near Nablus Road.)

“You are welcome here.  The people are not the government.  We know this.  We are sorry when people treat you badly because of what your government does.  People feel they have no control, you know?  People feel everyone is against us, you know?  People are frustrated, you know?  You are welcome here.” (Shopkeeper near our apartment.)

We know.